excepts from the novel that deals with the Conquest of Latin America and the Jews

Ricardo Lindo

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Ricardo Lindo en San Salvador, El Salvador, en 1947 en el seno de una familia judía de poetas e intelectuales, la trayectoria del escritor, poeta y crítico de arte Ricardo Lindo incluye una amplia lista de libros que revelan sus variados intereses y habilidades literarias. Entre sus poemarios publicados se destacan los libros Jardines, Rara Avis, Las monedas bajo la lluvia y El señor de la casa del tiempo. Sus trabajos de crítica incluyen un estudio poético sobre la pintura de El Salvador y el libro El esplendor de la arcilla, cuyo tema es el teatro popular en El Salvador. Y en narrativa, entre otros, Cuentos del mar, una colección de cuentos infantiles, y Lo que dice el Río Lempa, el libro de relatos mencionado antes, publicado en 1990 y Tierra, 1998.Toda esta obra en conjunción con su labor editorial al frente de la revista ARS, Segunda Época, en la cual viene fungiendo como director desde 1991. Murió en 2016.

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Ricardo Lindo in San Salvador, El Salvador, in 1947 within a Jewish family of poets and intellectuals, the career of the writer, poet and art critic Ricardo Lindo includes an extensive list of books that reveal his varied interests and literary skills. Among his published collections of poems, the books Gardens, Rara Avis, The Coins Under the Rain and The Lord of the House of Time stand out. His works of criticism include a poetic study on the painting of El Salvador and the book The Splendor of Clay, whose theme is popular theater in El Salvador. And in narrative, among others, Cuentos del mar, a collection of children’s stories, and Lo que dice el Río Lempa, the book of stories mentioned above, published in 1990 and Tierra, 1998. All this work in conjunction with his editorial work at front of the ARS magazine, Segunda Época, in which he has served as director since 1991. He died in 2016.

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“Tierra”

Aún reservaba la tierra otras bondades al curandero Otzilén. Se acercaban a él los muchachos deseosos de avanzar en la senda del conocimiento, y él habló entonces de las esferas que giran en la bóveda celeste, de la vida que late en las profundidades del Océano, y acabado el capítulo de la ciencia, habló también de su infancia en Tulum, y de los peces voladores, y de las ciudades sagradas, abandonadas en la selva desde siglos atrás por una inexplicable decisión de las deidades En sus conversaciones, don Pablo se refirió a la Gehena. Otzilén preguntó qué era eso. El cura se remontó a los tiempos antiguos, partiendo de los presentes. Habló de la ciudadela de Jerusalem, a cuyos pies se abría un pequeño valle calcinado por el sol, el valle de Hebrón. En ese lugar, en otro tiempo, se quemaban niños ante Moloch, dios pagano y abyecto, y era llamado Gehena el pequeñito valle, que más tarde, símbolo del Infierno, creció en la imaginación de los cristianos hasta convertirse en un magno espacio intemporal de suplicios por fuego. Y se extendió Pablo de Alcántara, hablando de la ciudadela amurallada de Jerusalem (que quiere decir “Id en paz”) de sus torres cercando las gigantes puertas, cada una recibiendo su nombre según los tratantes que comerciaban en el barrio aledaño: Puerta de los Caballos, Puerta de las Ovejas, y también por la cercanía de las fuentes de agua, materia preciosa en tierras desérticas. Puerta de las Aguas. Habló de los templos de la Ciudad Santa, cuyas agujas y cuyas cúpulas sobrepasaban la altura de los altos muros que la rodeaban, y eran visibles desde lejos. La iglesia hecha erigir por la madre de Constantino sobre la tumba de Cristo, la Gran Sinagoga, noble casa cuadrada con una estrella de seis puntas en la frente, los minaretes de las mezquitas, levantando sus espigados cuellos como camellos episcopales, el Domo de la Roca, cúpula cubierta de láminas de oro. Pero la pequefta Gehena no era nada comparable al formidable precipicio que se cortaba a pique al pie del Alcázar de Segovia, una de cuyas torres estaba destinada a despeñadero de judíos. Otzilén, ante la vivacidad de las descripciones de Jerusalem, preguntó a don Pablo si la había visitado. No era ese el caso. Pero era el clérigo de familia de judíos conversos, y muchas veces oyó a sus mayores relatos sobre la Ciudad Santa, y participó, de niño en las lamentaciones que acompañaban las efemérides de la destrucción del Templo, en cuartos cubiertos de ceniza. El cristianismo de don Pablo era, no obstante, verdadero, y no fingido como el de otros de sus congéneres, que optaron por cambiar de religión para permanecer en España.

Y recordó don Pablo el edicto de expulsión, que forzaba a los hebreos a cambiar de fe o a partir, y a Isaac Abarbanel, tesorero de sus Católicas Majestades, rogando a los Reyes revocar el edicto, y ofreciendo treinta mil monedas de plata por cada israelita. El Gran Inquisidor Torquemada arrojó al suelo su crucifijo pectoral, gritando al Rey Fernando que, si ellos vendieron al Cristo por treinta monedas, vendiese él ese crucifijo por las treinta mil monedas de Abarbanel. Y doscientos cincuenta mil judíos debieron abandonar la tierra que fuera de sus padres, de sus abuelos, de los abuelos de sus abuelos, sin llevarse más pertenencias de las que cupieran en un saco de viaje. Los que quedaron, fueron llamados marranos, y tal fue el caso de los padres de don Pablo. Pero a cuantos de sus parientes vio partir a un futuro incierto, como arrancándose el alma, a cuantos vecinos, y aunque él era muy pequeño entonces, supo que la vida había cambiado para siempre. Su padre, médico de oficio, debió dejar su profesión. Su madre horneaba pan, así que pusieron una pequeña panadería, para vender doradas hogazas a los cristianos, y en secreto, en la noche anterior a la pascua hebrea, ella cocinó los panes rituales, para que, en alcobas escondidas, a la luz de los cirios, los hijos de Abraham diesen gracias a Jehová por la inmensidad de sus dones. Ocasionalmente, uno de los asistentes a la fiesta judía dejaba de ir. Era víctima de una denuncia anónima, y su cuerpo, convertido en antorcha viviente, alumbraba con llamas siniestras, acompañadas de gritos desgarradores, la Gran Plaza. Pero él creyó en Jesús, y supo deslindar a la Inquisición de las palabras deEvangelio, y asumió voluntariamente las aguas del bautismo, y más tarde, tendido por tierra, recibió el carisma que lo consagraba sacerdote del crucificado. Tan distinto era, al cabo, un Dios perdonador de aquel otro, justiciero implacable, que tronaba en tantas páginas del Antiguo Testamento.

Añadió unas palabras de amor, don Pablo, para la seca Extremadura de su infancia, y se refirió a un bosque de otoño, al Norte, donde iba con sus padres y hermanos arecoger nueces, y recordó a su padre recitando, en hebreo, los versos de Shlomó Ibn Gabirol:

Con tinta de sus lluvias y rocíos,

con pluma de sus rayos luminosos,

y la mano de sus nubes, escribió el Otoño

en el jardín una carta de púrpura y añil.

Calló el clérigo. Otzilén, con cierto soma, le hizo ver que los españoles dieron el nombre de aftil al jiquilite, la planta de tinte azul. A punto seguido, le preguntó por qué eran odiados los de su raza. Don Pablo de Alcántara dijo que ningún grupo humano acepta que otro tengadiferentes costumbres, y que ve como defecto cuanto es, simplemente, distinto. Pero hizo mención de numerosos congéneres suyos que se enriquecieron a costa de otros, de préstamos cargados de intereses sanguinarios, que eran cobrados sin piedad, de avaros banqueros desfalleciendo de hambre sobre cofres de oro, en casas miserables donde se ahorraba hasta la sal.

Otzilén lo interrogó de nuevo. ¿Se llamaba, el cura, como decía? El nada respondió. Frunció el ceño, mirando a las nubes, y a ellas volvió también la mirada el hechicero. Después musitó don Pablo: -Shlomó, es decir, Salomón. Y tomó su camino, caviloso. Supo así, Otzilén, la razón de la simpatía que despertaba el clérigo en los indígenas, y viceversa. Él era, como ellos, el hijo de una raza maldita, despertándose en la Gehena de los males y las zozobras.

*****

The land still reserved other benefits for the healer Otzilén. The boys eager to advance on the path of knowledge approached him, and he then spoke of the spheres that rotate in the celestial vault, of the life that beats in the depths of the Ocean, and finishing the chapter on science, he also spoke of his childhood in Tulum, and of the flying fish, and of the sacred cities, abandoned in the jungle centuries ago by an inexplicable decision of the deities. And he talked about that. In his conversations, Don Pablo referred to Gehenna. Otzilén asked what it was that. The priest went back to ancient times, starting from the present. He spoke of the citadel of Jerusalem, at the foot of which opened a small valley scorched by the sun, the valley of Hebron. In that place, in another time, children were burned before Moloch, a pagan and abject god, and the little valley was called Gehenna, which later, a symbol of Hell, grew in the imagination of Christians until it became a great timeless space of torture by fire. And Pablo de Alcántara expanded, speaking of the walled citadel of Jerusalem (which means “Go in peace”) of its towers surrounding the giant gates, each one receiving its name according to the traders who traded in the surrounding neighborhood: Gate of the Horses, Puerta de las Ovejas, and also because of the proximity of water sources, a precious material in desert lands. Gate of the Waters. He spoke of the temples of the Holy City, whose spiers and domes surpassed the height of the high walls that surrounded it, and were visible from afar. The church built by Constantine’s mother over the tomb of Christ, the Great Synagogue, a noble square house with a six-pointed star on its forehead, the minarets of the mosques, raising their lanky necks like episcopal camels, the Dome of the Rock, dome covered in gold sheets. But little Gehenna was nothing comparable to the formidable precipice that was cut at the foot of the Alcázar of Segovia, one of whose towers was destined as a cliff for Jews. Otzilén, given the vividness of the descriptions of Jerusalem, asked Don Pablo if he had visited it. That was not the case. But he was a clergyman from a family of converted Jews, and many times he heard his elders tell stories about the Holy City, and he participated, as a child, in the lamentations that accompanied the anniversaries of the destruction of the Temple, in rooms covered in ashes. Don Pablo’s Christianity was, however, true, and not feigned like that of other of his peers, who chose to change their religion to remain in Spain. os adoratorios de tiniebla, adonde entraban únicamente los sacerdotes, y se extendió el hechicero refiriendo prodigios de Tenochtitlán, ciudad en la que estuvo unos días solo, treinta y tantos años atrás. Mas recordaba al Rey avanzando en la canoa real por los canales de la ciudad espléndida, como un sol erizado no de llamas, sino de plumas preciosas, entretejidas con arte insuperable.

Uno de los jóvenes hacía, en eso, una pregunta, y él contestaba con una respuesta que le sorprendía a él mismo. Él sabía cosas que él ignoraba que supiera. Más tarde se lo contó a don Pablo, y éste subrayó sus palabras con otras del Talmud:

-He aprendido de mis maestros. He aprendido de mis compañeros de estudio.

Pero he aprendido mucho más de mis discípulos.

Otzilén dejó pasar una pausa reflexiva y añadió:

-El haber sido amado por muchos me ha enseñado mucho. Y lo primero, a refrenar mi lengua. Si uno ama sólo a alguien o a algo, ofende fácilmente a los demás sin fijarse. Si uno ama al Amor, aprende que la mejor ciencia de la vida es dejar ser a los demás. y rió el brujo, y su risa volvió a ser cristalina, un manantial surgiendo de una peña. Don Pablo sonrió. Ese hechicero al que viera con temor, con respeto, con admiración, pero siempre con afecto, era hoy un poco su discípulo, o no el de él, sino el de una sabiduría heredada de un Dios severo, duro, que impuso diez leyes de piedra sobre un monte cuarenta veces santo.

—Otzilén no soy yo quien te habla. Otzilén, soy el monte Hebrón, y la nieve sobre el Hebrón. Otzilén, la tierra es apenas nuestra infancia, y la vida toda, que no puede ser sin amor. es únicamente ese Amor al cual vamos.

– ¿y tú quién eres, Pablo de Alcántara?

-Soy la oveja de cien buenos pastores. ¿Y tú?

-Yo soy mi raza, y ambos pensaron que sus respuestas eran intercambiables.

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The land still reserved other benefits for the healer Otzilén. Boys approached him, eager to advance on the path of knowledge, and he then spoke of the spheres that rotate in the celestial vault, of the life that beats in the depths of the Ocean, and finishing the chapter on science, he also spoke of his childhood in Tulum , and the flying fish, and the sacred cities, abandoned in the jungle centuries ago by an inexplicable decision of the deities. In his conversations, Don Pablo referred to Gehenna. Otzilén asked what it was that. The priest went back to ancient times, starting from the present. He spoke of the citadel of Jerusalem, at the foot of which opened a small valley scorched by the sun, the valley of Hebron. In that place, in another time, children were burned before Moloch, a pagan and abject god, and the little valley was called Gehenna, which later, a symbol of Hell, grew in the imagination of Christians until it became a great timeless space of torture by fire. And Pablo de Alcántara expanded, speaking of the walled citadel of Jerusalem (which means “Go in peace”) of its towers surrounding the giant gates, each one receiving its name according to the traders who traded in the surrounding neighborhood: Gate of the Horses, Puerta de las Ovejas, and also because of the proximity of water sources, a precious material in desert lands. Gate of the Waters. He spoke of the temples of the Holy City, whose spiers and domes surpassed the height of the high walls that surrounded it, and were visible from afar. The church built by Constantine’s mother over the tomb of Christ, the Great Synagogue, a noble square house with a six-pointed star on its forehead, the minarets of the mosques, raising their lanky necks like episcopal camels, the Dome of the Rock, dome covered in gold sheets. But little Gehenna was nothing comparable to the formidable precipice that was cut at the foot of the Alcázar of Segovia, one of whose towers was destined as a cliff for Jews. Otzilén, given the vividness of the descriptions of Jerusalem, asked Don Pablo if he had visited it. That was not the case. But he was a clergyman from a family of converted Jews, and many times he heard his elders tell stories about the Holy City, and he participated, as a child, in the lamentations that accompanied the anniversaries of the destruction of the Temple, in rooms covered in ashes. Don Pablo’s Christianity was, however, true, and not feigned like that of other of his peers, who chose to change their religion to remain in Spain.

And Don Pablo remembered the edict of expulsion, which forced the Hebrews to change their faith or leave, and Isaac Abarbanel, treasurer of their Catholic Majesties, begging the Kings to revoke the edict, and offering thirty thousand silver coins for each Israelite. The Grand Inquisitor Torquemada threw his pectoral crucifix to the ground, shouting to King Ferdinand that, if they sold Christ for thirty coins, he should sell that crucifix for Abarbanel’s thirty thousand coins. And two hundred and fifty thousand Jews had to leave the land that belonged to their parents, their grandparents, their grandparents’ grandparents, without taking more belongings than would fit in a traveling bag. Those who remained were called Marranos, and such was the case of Don Pablo’s parents. But he saw how many of his relatives he saw leaving for an uncertain future, as if tearing out his soul, how many neighbors, and although he was very small then, he knew that life had changed forever. His father, a doctor by trade, had to leave his profession. Her mother baked bread, so they started a small bakery, to sell golden loaves to Christians, and secretly, on the night before the Hebrew Passover, she baked the ritual breads, so that, in hidden alcoves, in the light of the candles, the children of Abraham gave thanks to Jehovah for the immensity of his gifts. Occasionally, one of the Jewish partygoers would stop coming. He was the victim of an anonymous complaint, and his body, turned into a living torch, illuminated the Great Plaza with sinister flames, accompanied by heartbreaking screams.

But he believed in Jesus and knew how to separate the Inquisition from the words of Gospel, and voluntarily assumed the waters of baptism, and later, lying by earth, received the charisma that consecrated him priest of the crucified. So different, after all, was a forgiving God from that other, implacable justice, who thundered in so many pages of the Old Testament. He added a few words of love, Don Pablo, for the dry Extremadura of his childhood, and he referred to an autumn forest, to the North, where he went with his parents and brothers to collecting nuts, and he remembered his father reciting, in Hebrew, the verses of Shlomo Ibn Gabirol:

With ink from its rains and dews,

with a feather of its luminous rays,

and the hand of its clouds, wrote Autumn,

in the garden a letter of purple and indigo.

The clergyman was silent. Otzilén, with a certain soma, made him see that the Spaniards gave the aphtil name for jiquilite, the blue dye plant. Next, he asked him why his race was hated. Don Pablo de Alcántara said that no human group accepts that another has different customs, and that sees as a defect everything that is simply different. But He mentioned numerous of his fellow men who became rich at the expense of others, of loans loaded with bloody interest, which were collected without mercy, of avaricious bankers fainting from hunger over chests of gold, in miserable houses where even salt was saved.

Otzilén questioned him again. Was his name, the priest, as he said? He answered nothing. He frowned, looking at the clouds, and the man turned his gaze to them too, magician. Then Don Pablo whispered: -Shlomó, that is, Solomon. And he took his way, brooding Thus, Otzilén, he knew the reason for the sympathy that the cleric aroused in the indigenous, and vice versa. He was, like them, the son of a cursed race, awakening in the Gehenna of evils and distress.

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Anita Brenner (1905-1974) — Escritora y promotora judío-mexicana/Mexican Jewish Writer and Advocate– “Constructora de puentes artísticas y culturas entre México y Estados Unidos”/”Builder of Artistic and Cultural Bridges between Mexico and the United States”

Anita Brenner

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Periodista, historiadora, antropóloga, crítica de arte y escritora creativa, Anita Brenner fue una de las intérpretes más comprensivas y perspicaces de México. Nacida en una familia de inmigrantes judíos en México unos años antes de la Revolución Mexicana, maduró hasta convertirse en una liberal independiente que defendió a México, a los trabajadores y a todos aquellos que eran tratados injustamente, cualquiera que fuera su origen o nacionalidad. Sus extensos escritos, especialmente Your Mexican Holiday y The Wind that Swept Mexico, introdujeron a los lectores estadounidenses en la riqueza de la cultura y la historia mexicanas:.

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Journalist, historian, anthropologist, art critic and creative writer, Anita Brenner was one of Mexico’s most sympathetic and discerning interpreters. Born to a Jewish immigrant family in Mexico a few years before the Mexican Revolution, she matured into an independent liberal who defended Mexico, workers and all those who were treated unfairly, whatever their origin or nationality. Her extensive writing, especially Your Mexican Holiday and The Wind that Swept Mexico introduced American readers to the wealth of Mexican culture and history.

Estos fragmentos vienen de: Susannah Joel Glusker. Anita Brenner: A Mind of her Own. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 1996. pp. 32-39, 150-4.

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Diego Rivera

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Los fragmentos incluidos aquí vienen de: Susannah Joel Glusker. Anita Brenner: A Mind of her Own. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 1996. pp. 32-39, 150-4.

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Aún bastante joven, Anita Brenner se convierte en una escritora:

EN EL VERANO DE 1923 Anita regresó a San Antonio y convenció a su padre para que la dejara ir a la escuela en la Ciudad de México. Isidore Brenner consultó al rabino Ephraim Frisch, quien le aseguró que estaría a salvo.

El Dr. J. L. Weinberger, quien dirigió la oficina de B’nai B’rith en México, se mantuvo en contacto y no informó ningún problema. La lucha armada de los dirigentes revolucionarios había terminado. Álvaro Obregón era presidente. otros (Carranza, Villa y Zapata) estaban muertos. La Universidad de México. estaba en sesión.

Anita llegó a la Ciudad de México en septiembre de 1923. Tenía dieciocho años. Pasaría los siguientes cuatro años asistiendo a la escuela, trabajando para mantenerse y comenzando una carrera. Su primer trabajo fue enseñar inglés en la Escuela Normal de San Ángel, una escuela misionera presbiteriana. Sus 2 años incluían alojamiento y comida. En ese momento se establecieron muchos patrones para el futuro. Su vida social cambió dramáticamente. Pasó de sentirse fuera de lugar a sentirse orgullosa de ser parte de un grupo excepcional de personas, algunas de las cuales luego serían consideradas los artistas e intelectuales más importantes de México.

Todo se juntó rápidamente. La carta de presentación del rabino Frisch a Weinberger le dio a Anita su entrada al mundo de los escritores, artistas e intelectuales como Paca o (Panchita), miembro del grupo de intelectuales. Visitar a Panchita fue muy divertido, en contraste con la vida solemne en la escuela misionera. Frances vivía en un apartamento con vistas a un patio compartido y sus vecinos eran amigos y colegas, incluidos Carleton Beals, Bertram y Ella Wolfe.

Frances llevó a Anita a tomar el té a la YMHA (Asociación Hebrea de Hombres Jóvenes). Carleton la llevó a bailar al Salón México y todos fueron a Sanborns (la Casa de los Azulejos), “el único lugar donde se podía tomar un café decente” y donde la gente iba a las citas. Anita rebosaba emoción en una larga carta dirigida a su amigo Jerry Aron en Austin.

Está bastante de moda, sobre todo a la hora del té. Pero en el desayuno es diferente. Usted descansa mientras come, y gente interesante que conoce (o debería conocer) se acerca y habla (oh, libros, política, teatro y chismes) mientras fuma y toma café. Está Goopta, un revolucionario hindú que enseña sánscrito en la universidad y también en las escuelas públicas, que es famoso, intrigante y encantador. Están los Wolfe, comunistas, lectores ávidos, satisfactorios y encantadores, sobre todo la dama. Hay muchos otros: todos los que tienen algún tipo de derecho al intelectualismo (?) están más o menos ligados a él. Artistas, escultores, escritores, socialistas, músicos, poetas intelectuales, pero no la imitación que tenemos nosotros, Jerry. No son nada sorprendentes. Que el amor es libre es una cuestión tan aceptada que a nadie se le ocurre molestarse en afirmarlo. Todos hablan el mismo idioma, es decir, todos se entienden, lo aprueben o no. Por supuesto que lo disfruto. Sin esnobismo, prejuicios de ningún tipo, raciales, monetarios, aparentes. En cuanto a la raza, no podría haberla. Hay demasiados tonos de piel y /1.ag representados. En cuanto a lo monetario, bueno, prácticamente todos tienen sus “nombramientos”, que significa una hora o dos de trabajo en las escuelas públicas, lo que significa mucha política y una posibilidad azarosa de recibir un pago. Todo el mundo siempre está pidiendo prestado a los demás, lo cual es bastante reconfortante como en casa, ¿sabes? Pero es tan real, tan fácil, tan libre y nada agitado, que tengo ganas de tener alas vivas, poner mi máquina de escribir bajo el brazo e ir al cielo o a algún lugar más tranquilo para realizar una obra maestra.

Anita se vio arrastrada a un mundo de personas e ideas. Renunció a su trabajo en la escuela de la misión para protestar por el despido de una maestra estadounidense por salir con un mexicano; Más tarde ficcionalizó el evento en un cuento. El trabajo que encontró a continuación, con Weinberger en B’nai B’rith, incluía recibir barcos que traían inmigrantes judíos a Veracruz; llevar registros del número, ocupaciones y necesidades de las personas que llegaron; redacción de informes; y ayudar a asentar a los inmigrantes en una nueva cultura.

Anita comenzó a escribir para su publicación. Los primeros artículos establecieron su patrón de vida: escribir positivamente sobre México. Su primer artículo, “El judío en México” en The Nation en 1924, fue una respuesta a las críticas estadounidenses a México como un lugar inadecuado para que se establecieran los judíos. Maurice Hexter, jefe del Comité Judío Estadounidense, consideraba que México no estaba seguro, incluso si el conflicto armado de la Revolución de 1910 hubiera terminado. Consideraba que México era demasiado diferente culturalmente de la cultura europea. Los judíos necesitaban abandonar Europa y Estados Unidos había cerrado sus puertas a una nueva inmigración. Anita sintió que México era apropiado. Escribió una serie de artículos para el Jewish Morning Journal, envió numerosos despachos a la Agencia Telegráfica Judía y ficción al Menorah Journal. En todos ellos presentó a México con entusiasmo, describiendo el estilo de vida de los judíos europeos y los acontecimientos sociales y culturales de la comunidad, así como las actividades económicas, contrarrestando eficazmente la mala prensa que había en los Estados Unidos. Anita se identificó como judía. No practicó su religión dentro de una tradición ortodoxa, ni se unió a ningún movimiento sionista, pero estaba comprometida, como periodista independiente, a ayudar a los judíos a escapar de los pogromos en Europa y defender a México.

La contradicción de que una joven contribuyera a la construcción de una nueva sociedad mientras su familia enfrentaba la posibilidad de perder su tierra no parecía preocupar a Anita. Muchos artistas y (como Diego Rivera, José Clemente, Orozco, Daniel Alfaro Siqueiros, Atonieta Rivas Mercado y las familias Marín y Asúnsulo) se encontraban en una situación similar. Ellos también pertenecían a la clase media y alta educada. Anita conocía los problemas de los ricos, pero eso no atenuó su entusiasmo por crear una nueva sociedad.

Diego Rivera

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Anoche vino Diego (Rivera) a mecanografiar un artículo: “El arte de la revolución” y de allí derivó una larga y emocionante discusión, en el curso de la cual me convertí activamente en un revolucionario, puesto que (ya que) estás a favor o en contra y la pasividad es negación… El valor de la conversación para mí es una razón para trabajar…

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En 1933, el problema era el antisemitismo en México… especialmente después de que la Ley Johnson restringiera la inmigración a los Estados Unidos en 1924. Algunos inmigrantes llegaron con la idea de cruzar la frontera hacia los Estados Unidos. El peligro era ser atrapado y deportado a Europa. Muchos judíos inmigrantes trabajaron como vendedores ambulantes en la Ciudad de México y otras ciudades importantes. También viajaron a pequeñas comunidades rurales en busca de clientes con planes de pago a plazos. A medida que aumentaron los ingresos, alquilaron puestos en los mercados públicos. El siguiente paso fue alquilar una tienda y luego establecer sus propias pequeñas plantas de fabricación. A los propietarios de grandes almacenes les molestaba la competencia, especialmente la pérdida de clientes, que preferían tratar con amables vendedores ambulantes en casa que enfrentarse a taciturnos empleados de la ciudad. Se sintieron más cómodos haciendo preguntas, realizando pagos y esperando futuras visitas. Los comerciantes europeos establecidos eligieron el momento para financiar una campaña xenófoba contra judíos y orientales. Apoyaron al congresista Ángel Ladrón de Guevara, quien organizó manifestaciones y lanzó una campaña de prensa. Logró expulsar a judíos y orientales del centro comercial Lagunilla de la Ciudad de México y estaba trabajando para expulsarlos de México.

Anita se puso a trabajar. Telegrafió a La Nación para documentar la necesidad de una entrevista con el presidente Abelardo Rodríguez y Ángel Ladrón de Guevara. La Nación respondió con telegramas presionando para obtener información. Anita publicó los hechos sobre la campaña antisemita y la declaración del presidente Rodríguez en las portadas de la prensa local. La Nación publicó entrevistas así como un comunicado del presidente para frenar efectivamente la campaña. Los judíos no serían expulsados de México. Su nacionalidad no sería revocada; estaban a salvo.

Anita había iniciado su carrera como periodista en los años veinte escribiendo sobre México. Su papel de defensa de la comunidad judía de México fue un puente entre su pasado y su futuro, escribiendo en defensa de las personas en problemas. Su identificación con el pueblo judío está estrechamente relacionada con sus luchas como radical independiente: ella era una judía independiente y una radical independiente.

Traducción por Stephen A. Sadow

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The selections included here come from: Susannah Joel Glusker. Anita Brenner: A Mind of her Own. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 1996. pp. 32-39, 150-4.

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Still quite young Anita Brenner becomes a writer:

IN THE SUMMER OF 1923 Anita returned to San Antonio and persuaded her father to let her go to school in Mexico City. Isidore Brenner consulted Rabbi Ephraim Frisch, who reassured him that she would be safe.

Dr. J. L. Weinberger, who headed the B’nai B’rith office in Mexico kept in touch and did not report any problems. The armed struggle n the revolutionary leaders was over. Alvaro Obregon was president. others-Carranza, Villa, and Zapata-were dead. The University of Mexico. was in session.

Anita arrived in Mexico City in September 1923. She was eighteen years She would spend the following four years going to school, working to support herself, and launching a career. Her first job was teaching English at the Escuela Normal de San Angel, a Presbyterian mission school. Her 2es included room and board. Many patterns for the future were set at time. Her social life shifted dramatically. She moved from feeling out of place to feeling proud to be part of an exceptional group of people, some of whom would later be considered Mexico’s most important artists and intellectuals.

It all came together quickly. Rabbi Frisch’s letter of introduction to Weinberger gave Anita her entree to the world of writers, artists, and intellectuals as Paca, or (Panchita), a member of the group of intellectuals. Visiting with Panchita was great fun, in contrast to thsolemn life at the mission school. Frances lived in an apartment overlooking a shared courtyard, and her neighbors were friends and colleagues, including Carleton Beals and Bertram and Ella Wolfe.

Frances took Anita to the YMHA (Young Men’s Hebrew Association) for tea. Carleton took her dancing to the Salon Mexico, and they all went to Sanborns (the House of Tiles), “the only place where one could get decent coffee” and where people went to rendezvous. Anita bubbled with excitement in a long letter to her friend Jerry Aron in Austin.

It is quite fashionable, particularly tea-time. But at breakfast it is different. You lounge through your meal, and interesting people whom you know-or ought to know, drop along and talk-oh, books and politics and the theatre and gossip-over the cigarettes and the coffee. There is Goopta, a Hindu revolutionist, who teaches Sanskrit in the University and also teaches in the public schools, who is famous and intriguing and delightful. There are the Wolfes, com munists, avid readers, satisfying and quite charming, particularly the lady. There are lots of others-everybody who has any sort of claim to intellectual-ism (?) is sort of loosely bound into it. Artists, sculptors, writers, socialists, musicians, poets-intelligentzia, but not the imitation of it that we have, Jerry. They are not a bit startling. That love is free is a matter so accepted that no one ever thinks to bother to state so. They all speak the same language, that is, all understand each other, whether they approve or not. Of course I bask in it No snobbishness, prejudice of any sort racial, monetary, apparent. As to racial, there couldn’t be. There are too many shades of skin and /1.ag represented. As to monetary-well, practically all of them have their “nombramientos” [contracts] which means an hour or two of work at the government schools, which means much politics and a haphazard chance of being paid. Everybody is always borrowing from everybody else which is quite comfortingly like home, you know. But it is so real, so easy, so unconstrained and not at all hectic, that I feel like living wings, putting my typewriter under my arm and going to heaven or to some quieter place to achieve a masterpiece.

Anita was swept up into a world of people and ideas. She resigned from her job at the mission school to protest the firing of an American teacher for dating a Mexican; she later fictionalized the event in a short story. The job she found next, with Weinberger at B’nai B’rith, included meeting boats bringing Jewish immigrants to Veracruz; keeping records on the number, occupations, and needs of people who arrived; writing reports; and helping to settle the immigrants into a new culture.

Anita began to write for publication. The earliest articles established her lifelong pattern: writing positively about Mexico. Her first article, “The Jew in Mexico” in The Nation in 1924, was a response to U.S. criticism of Mexico as an inappropriate place for Jews to settle. Maurice Hexter, head of the American Jewish Committee, felt that Mexico was not safe, even if the armed conflict of the 1910 Revolution was over. He considered Mexico too culturally dissimilar from European culture. Jews needed to leave Europe, and the United States had closed its doors to new immigration. Anita felt that Mexico was appropriate. She wrote a series of articles for the Jewish Morning Journal, sent numerous dispatches to the Jewish Telegraphic Agency, and sent fiction to the Menorah Journal. In them all, she presented Mexico enthusiastically, describing the life style of European Jews and the community’s social and cultural events as well as economic activities, effectively countering the bad press had in the states. Anita identified as a Jew. She did not practice her religion within an orthodox tradition, nor did she join a Zionist movement, but she was committed , as an independent journalist, to helping Jews excape pogroms in Europe and defending Mexico.

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The contradiction of a young woman contributing to building a new society while her family faced the possibility of losing their land did not seem to concern Anita. Many artists and (such as Diego Rivera, José Clemente, Orozco, Daniel Alfaro Siqueiros, Atonieta Rivas Mercado, and the Marin and Asunsulo families) were in a similar situation. They too belonged to the educated upper- and middle-class. Anita knew of the problems of the wealthy., but that did not temper her enthusiasm for creating a new society.

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Diego Rivera

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Last night Diego (Rivera) came over to get an article typed– “Art of the Revolution” and derived therefrom a long and thrilling discussion, in the course of which I I became actively a revolutionist, puesto que (since) you are either for or against and passivity is negation… The value of the conversation for me a reason to work…

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In 1933, the issue was anti-Semitism in Mexico... especially after the Johnson Act restricted immigration to the United States in 1924. Some immigrants came with the idea of getting across the border into the United States. The danger was getting caught and being deported back to Europe. Many immigrant Jews worked as peddlers in Mexico City and other major cities. They also traveled to small rural communities in search of installment-plan clients. As revenues increased, they rented stalls in public markets. The next step was to rent a shop and then to establish their own small manufacturing plants.’ Large department-store owners resented the competition, especially the loss of clients, who preferred dealing with friendly peddlers at home to facing taciturn city clerks. They felt more comfortable asking questions, making payments, and looking forward to future visits. Established European merchants chose the moment to fund a xenophobic campaign against Jews and Orientals. They supported Congressman Angel Ladron de Guevara who organized demonstrations and launched a press campaign. He succeeded in getting Jews and Orientals expelled from the Lagunilla market center of Mexico City and was working on expelling them from Mexico.

Anita went to work. She cabled The Nation to document the need for an interview with President Abelardo Rodriguez and Angel Ladron de Guevara. The Nation responded with telegrams pressuring for information. Anita got the facts about the anti-Semitic campaign and President Rodriquez’s statement on the front pages of the local press. The Nation published interviews as well as a statement from the president to effectively stop the campaign. Jews would not be expelled from Mexico. Their nationality would not be revoked; they were safe.

Anita had initiated her career as a journalist in the twenties writing about Mexico. Her role defending the Jewish community of Mexico was a bridge from her past to her future, writing in defense of people in trouble. Her identification with the Jewish people is closely related to her struggles in independent radical-she was an independent Jew and an independent radical.

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Natalia Timerman–Romancista judaica brasileira/Brazilian Jewish Novelist –“As pequenas chances”/”The Little Chances” — fragmento de a romance sobre a morte de seu pai/excerpt from the novel about her father’s death

Natalia Timerman

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Natalia Timerman (São Paulo, 1981) é uma médica psiquiatra, psicoterapeuta, crítica literária, pesquisadora e escritora brasileira. Possui graduação em medicina pela Universidade Federal de São Paulo, mestrado em psicologia clínica pela Universidade de São Paulo e especialização em escrita pelo Instituto Vera Cruz. Trabalhou como psiquiatra no Centro Hospitalar do Sistema Penitenciário por mais de uma década. É colunista da UNIVERSA e colaboradora da revista Quatro Cinco Um e da revista CULT. Seu livro de estreia foi Desterros, elogiado por humanizar o sistema carcerário de São Paulo. A obra trouxe ao público a vivência de funcionários e detentos que passaram pelo Centro Hospitalar do Sistema Penitenciário. Seu segundo livro é uma coletânea de contos de ficção, Rachaduras, obra finalista do 62.º Prêmio Jabuti, publicada pela editora Quelônio. No livro, a autora observa a cidade e as neuroses cotidianas no ambiente urbano. Muitos dos temas em Rachaduras lidam com a maternidade e as contradições de ser mãe. Em 2021, publicou o seu primeiro romance pela editora Todavia, Copo Vazio, um dos mais vendidos de 2021, livro que trabalha com a dificuldade de estabelecer relacionamentos afetivos verdadeiros na era de aplicativos e redes sociais. Em 2022, publicou, ao lado da psicanalista Bel Tatit, Os óculos de Lucas, seu primeiro livro de literatura infantil pelo selo Brinque-Book. Em 2023, publicou seu romance, As pequenas chances, pela editora Todavia. A obra tem inspiração autobiográfica e foi inspirada na experiência da autora com a morte do pai, o médico infectologista e escritor Artur Timerman o luto vivido e sua relação com o judaísmo.

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Natalia Timerman (São Paulo, 1981) is a Brazilian psychiatrist, psychotherapist, literary critic, researcher and writer. He has a degree in medicine from the Federal University of São Paulo, a master’s degree in clinical psychology from the University of São Paulo and a specialization in writing from the Vera Cruz Institute. He worked as a psychiatrist at the Penitentiary System Hospital Center for more than a decade. She is a columnist for UNIVERSA and a contributor to the magazines Quatro Cinco Um and CULT. Her debut book was Desterros, praised for humanizing São Paulo’s prison system. The work brought to the public the experience of employees and inmates who passed through the Hospital Center of the Penitentiary System. His second book is a collection of fiction short stories, Rachaduras, a finalist for the 62nd Jabuti Prize, published by Quelônio. In the book, the author observes the city and everyday neuroses in the urban environment. Rachaduras deals with motherhood and the contradictions of being a mother. In 2021, she published her first novel with Todavia, Copo Vazio, one of the best sellers of 2021, a book that deals with the difficulty of establishing true emotional relationships in the era of apps and social networks. In 2022, she published, alongside psychoanalyst Bel Tatit, her first book of children’s literature Os óculos de Lucas, under the Brinque-Book label. In 2023, she published the novel, As Pequenas Chances, with Todavia. The work was inspired by the author’s experience with the death of her father, the infectious disease doctor and writer Artur Timerman, the grief she experienced and her relationship with Judaism.

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Artur e Natalia Timerman

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Demoro alguns segundos para entender de onde aquele rosto me é familiar, em um contexto tão diferente, o aeroporto, e já passados tantos anos de quando o havia visto pela última vez, no hospital, um dia antes da morte do meu pai. Devo ter sorrido; ele também sorri e se aproxima de mim um pouco mais, um tanto mudado, mas só depois penso que ele me reconheceu mais rápido, o que é estranho, ou deveria ser, pois os médicos têm milhares de pacientes, e os pacientes e seus familiares, apenas um médico em cada situação. Ainda que meu pai fosse médico e eu também; durante aqueles dias, éramos pacientes, ou melhor, meu pai era o paciente do dr. Felipe, médico de cuidados paliativos, e eu, apenas a filha de um homem com uma doença terminal.

É claro que ele não se lembra do meu nome, penso, postada diante dele na fila do café, surpresa com aquele encontro; penso em dizê-lo eu mesma, evitando algum constrangimento, se é que seria constrangedor um médico se esquecer do nome da filha do seu paciente tantos anos depois. Mas não digo nada; sorrio de volta — ou antes, ou ao mesmo tempo —, um sorriso triste, porque esse encontro, essa presença, remete de imediato àqueles dias, já passados faz tanto tempo, mas a morte não passa, ela continua, continua, continua.

O contato com o dr. Felipe nas últimas semanas de vida do meu pai foi tão constante que, nos dias seguintes à sua morte, tive diversas vezes o ímpeto de ligar para ele de novo, como se seu paciente ainda existisse, ou como se falar com o médico pudesse fazer que o paciente continuasse ou voltasse a existir, resolvesse o engano, porque no início (e até hoje, em alguns momentos, quando olho com atenção alguma foto do meu pai, seu rosto tão conhecido, o gesto congelado na imagem, que poderia do lado de fora da foto continuar a se mover, falar, viver) tive a forte impressão de que aquilo era algum tipo de equívoco — morrer, meu pai morrer, palavras que não combinam, que até hoje tenho dificuldade de ver juntas.

Ou como se o dr. Felipe pudesse agora cuidar não da dor do meu pai, que já não existia, mas da minha, da minha dor de não haver mais a dor e a vida do meu pai. Alô, Felipe (eu o chamava pelo nome, nunca consegui chamá-lo de doutor, talvez porque eu mesma odeie ser chamada de doutora), aqui é a Natalia, filha do Artur, bom dia, tudo bem?; então, Felipe, o Artur já não existe, mas eu ainda existo, você poderia me ajudar?; aliás, por acaso ainda sou filha dele?; como é ser filha de alguém que já não está?; não sinto dor, ou melhor, sinto muita, mas não aquela dor insuportável que meu pai sentiu nos últimos meses, aquela para a qual você prescreveu morfina e pregabalina e doses impensáveis de dipirona e depois, como nada disso adiantasse, patches de fentanil; não, minha dor é outra, também insuportável, mas vem em ondas, e, quando vem, é como se me estrangulasse, tirasse meu prumo, e tomo consciência da aberração do meu corpo, de ter um corpo, em um mundo no qual meu pai não existe mais, e percebo meus braços vazios, que o calor do abraço do meu pai já não está, nunca mais estará, e meus braços pendem, murchos, levando meus ombros para baixo, e minha cabeça olha para o chão, onde alguns dias atrás enterramos meu pai, eu ajudei a enterrá-lo, joguei três pás de terra por sobre seu caixão e depois finquei a pá na terra revolvida para que outra pessoa a tomasse e cumprisse o mesmo ritual, como manda o judaísmo, e eu, que nunca fui judia, quer dizer, que desde a adolescência ignorei a religião da minha família, me vi de repente cumprindo cada ritual com um alívio impensável alguns meses antes, como se tudo que eu quisesse ou precisasse naquele momento fosse que simplesmente me dissessem como me portar ou o que fazer, que me dessem uma lista de tarefas para existir.

Meu pai morreu num sábado de manhã, às 9h43, no Shabat. E então fomos para casa enquanto o corpo dele ficava na morgue do hospital, esperando ser levado para o cemitério na manhã do dia seguinte, pois durante o Shabat se deve descansar, esta é uma das leis máximas do judaísmo: não fazer esforços, não dirigir carros, não velar corpos ou transportar caixões.

Foi um dia estranho. Meu pai havia morrido, e cada coisa continuava no lugar. Na rua, na praça cheia de árvores na frente de casa, onde os meninos brincam, tudo permanecia do mesmo jeito, se movimentando, as árvores, os pássaros, os barulhos, os carros no asfalto, tudo igual, mas havia um silêncio por trás das coisas. A morte é um silêncio, atrás de cada som há esse silêncio, o telefone que nunca mais vai tocar, sua voz calada, nunca mais a singela mensagem Na/Posso ligar?, e eu nunca mais vou poder ligar direto em vez de responder que sim, pode, pai, porque você não pode mais ligar, eu não posso mais falar com você, e no entanto, tudo como se continuasse.

Gabi veio para minha casa. Minha irmã é engenheira naval, uma profissão que precisa de mar para ser exercida, e há muitos anos não mora mais em São Paulo. Ela sempre ficava na casa do nosso pai quando estava na cidade, mas agora não, agora não mais, não há mais casa do nosso pai, aliás, ainda havia, naquele dia, mas sem nosso pai, que é o mesmo que não haver mais casa dele. Minha irmã passou o dia deitada em silêncio, mal comeu, mal bebeu, mal podia andar.

Ao sairmos do hospital, deixando para trás o corpo, pegamos suas malas. Gabi tinha vindo direto de viagem e, desde que chegara, não arredara pé do quarto do nosso pai, que número era?, já não me lembro, nem em que andar, décimo, sexto? Ela não tinha forças para carregar as malas, ela quase não tinha forças para carregar a si mesma.

Tinha sido assim no enterro e na cerimônia um pouco antes. Minha irmã não conseguia ficar de pé. Alguém veio me perguntar se ela havia tomado algum remédio, já não lembro quem, algum amigo dela. Não havia, simplesmente a força se esvaíra do seu corpo. Ao lado do meu pai até o último instante — Gabi estava com ele quando o coração parou de bater; foi ela quem, de pé junto do leito, enquanto uma enfermeira lhe dava banho, percebeu que ele havia parado de respirar —, ao lado do meu pai ela estava firme. E nos telefonou com uma voz doce, calma, papai descansou, mas assim que saímos de perto dele, assim que nos pediram que levássemos todas as coisas do quarto do hospital pois viriam retirar o corpo, ela desmoronou.

Gabi também cumpriu os rituais judaicos. Não sei quanto ao meu irmão; ela e eu, tudo que nos orientavam a seguir, seguíamos. E aquilo fazia sentido, pela primeira vez me senti amparada pela religião, não por Deus, mas pelos meus antepassados, que conheciam a dor que eu sentia e haviam inventado rituais que tentavam acolhê-la, amenizá-la, circunscrevê-la. O mero fato de que havia regras para a Shivá, a primeira semana de luto, que se inicia depois do enterro, parecia me dizer que a dor, por mais excruciante que fosse, por mais que bagunçasse o sentido de tudo, era conhecida e, de alguma forma, natural.

Foi necessário segurar minha irmã pelo braço para que ela conseguisse ficar de pé diante do rabino, na pequena reza antes do enterro. Havia tanta gente no espaço que o caixão do meu pai ficou no salão de rezas (era uma sinagoga? Não sei, essas horas passadas no cemitério estão todas um pouco borradas), e não nas salinhas do cemitério judaico destinadas aos velórios. Ficamos sentados nas cadeiras da frente — minha irmã, eu, meu irmão, a mulher do meu pai, a filha dela. Um terrível privilégio, esse lugar da frente: bem diante da dor, o lugar da dor. Gabi ficou sentada quase o tempo todo; eu me levantava, ia beber água, sentia uma sede terrível, pegava água para minha irmã, ou alguém aparecia com um copo cheio para cada uma, e eu andava para lá e para cá, perdida.

Eu recebia abraços e, tonta de um cansaço antigo, descobria só depois de separados os troncos quem havia abraçado. Às vezes os rostos eram desconhecidos, mas os abraços me pareciam bons, quentes, um lugar onde eu queria simplesmente dormir. Ou via o rosto de alguém que me lembrava de uma época da minha vida, da vida do meu pai, o cara com quem ele trabalhou durante toda a minha infância, mais magro, muito mais velho, menor que a imagem que eu tinha dele, e então, ao abraçá-lo, chorava de novo, e mais, enquanto o sentia triste, porém rijo, como se estivesse me segurando e amparando meu choro.

Havia quem começasse a chorar já ao me ver, algumas amigas que gostavam muito do meu pai e que misturavam seu choro ao meu quando nos abraçávamos. Esses eram os melhores abraços, eu me sentia um pouco fora de mim, como se parte minha estivesse com elas, e isso me proporcionava algum tipo de alívio, elas sentindo no meu lugar, me oferecendo um descanso do insuportável.

Havia também os abraços protocolares. Não eram ruins; cumpriam seu papel, e cumprir papéis preenche espaços vazios, em geral um pouco estranhos, tanto mais naquela situação. Havia quem abraçasse demais, não sei por quê, e isso não tinha a ver com a intimidade prévia nem com algum critério, se pudessem existir critérios de abraço; eram abraços que pediam mais do que davam, e naquela hora eu simplesmente não tinha nada a oferecer. Havia quem me abraçasse com os olhos, de longe, por não conseguir se aproximar muito, seja pela falta de espaço, seja porque não houvesse caminho. Havia tantas partes da minha vida ali, no enterro do meu pai, na presença de tanta gente e do tempo espalhado naquelas pessoas, mas aquilo era um absurdo, havia algo que não se encaixava, tantos amigos de épocas diferentes da vida do meu pai, seria tão óbvio que justo ele estivesse ali, mas não: aquilo estava acontecendo justo porque ele não estava mais.

Ari, o mais velho dos cinco filhos de Jacó e Feyga (mais conhecida como Fani) — dos quais Artur, meu pai, era o terceiro —, veio me perguntar se eu queria discursar na cerimônia. Algum dos familiares próximos teria de dizer algo sobre o morto, fazer um pequeno discurso sobre a vida e as ações de quem morreu, da mesma forma que o patriarca Abraão fez pela esposa Sara, vim a saber bem depois. Percebi que não, eu não queria falar nada, mas disse que sim, pois é o que meu pai faria. Meu pai falaria. Não me lembro da ordem da cerimônia, não me lembro exatamente do que eu disse para as pessoas que lotavam o recinto sentadas e em pé — nunca vi um enterro tão cheio, comentou o rabino, talvez tentando nos consolar de alguma maneira; lembro-me, já de pé, diante de todo mundo, de respirar fundo algumas vezes e ser invadida pela sensação de que não conseguiria; de que, se abrisse a boca, só poderia ser para chorar. Mas então meus irmãos, ambos, se levantaram ao mesmo tempo — Gabi se ergueu sozinha nesse momento — e se postaram um de cada lado meu, sem dizer nada, sem que isso tivesse sido combinado. Assim, com eles junto a mim, foi possível falar. Eu disse algo como: se meu pai pudesse escolher qualquer coisa, escolheria a vida dele, a própria vida que ele tinha levado, enquanto escutava os narizes fungando no salão.

O enterro e a cerimônia que o antecede são um teatro. Eu sabia que as pessoas me observavam, observavam a mim, meu irmão e minha irmã chorando, observavam a companheira do meu pai atônita, e isso me dava certa sensação de farsa, a dor que eu comunicava não era a mesma que eu sentia, há um abismo entre ambas, mas as cerimônias são um teatro necessário, pois por trás delas não há nada, é isto a morte, nada, e isso não é possível suportar.

Timerman, Natalia. As pequenas chances.Todavia. Kindle Edition.

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It takes me a few seconds to realize where I know that face, in such a different context, the airport, and so many years since I’d last seen it, at the hospital, the day before my father’s death. I must have smiled; he smiles too and comes a bit closer, somewhat changed, but it’s only later that I think he recognized me first, which is odd, or should be, because doctors see thousands of patients, but patients and their families, just one doctor for each situation. Even though my dad was a doctor and so am I, during that time we were patients, or rather my dad was Dr. Felipe’s patient, his palliative care physician, and I, just the daughter of a terminally ill man.

Of course he won’t remember my name, I think, standing in front of him in line for coffee, surprised to have run into him; I think about just going ahead and saying it, to avoid any embarrassment, if a doctor forgetting the name of his patient’s daughter after all those years could be embarrassing. But I don’t say anything; I smile back—or first, or at the same time—a sad smile, because this meeting, this presence, brings me right back to that time, so long ago. But death doesn’t pass, it continues, on and on and on.

My contact with Dr. Felipe during the final weeks of my father’s life was so constant that, in the days following his death, several times I had the urge to call him up, as if his patient still existed, or as if talking to his doctor could make a patient keep on living or come back to life, to figure out this misunderstanding, because in the beginning (and even today, at times, when I look closely at pictures of my dad, his face so familiar, his gestures frozen in time, like someone who, outside that photo, might carry on moving, speaking, living) I had the strong feeling that this was all some kind of mistake—dying, my dad dying, words that don’t go together, that I struggle to see together to this day.

Or as if Dr. Felipe might now treat not my father’s pain, which no longer existed, but mine, my own pain because my father’s pain and life no longer existed. Hello, Felipe (I called him by his first name, I could never call him doctor, maybe because I hate when people call me doctor), it’s Natalia, Artur’s daughter, hello, how are you?; well, Felipe, Artur is no longer alive, but I am, do you think you could help me out? actually, am I even still his daughter? what’s it like being the daughter of someone who’s no longer here? I don’t feel pain, or rather I feel a lot of pain, but not the unbearable pain my father felt those last few months, the one you prescribed morphine and pregabalin for, and unthinkable doses of dipyrone and then, when none of that worked, fentanyl patches; no, my pain is different, it’s also unbearable, but it comes in waves, and when it comes, it’s like it’s strangling me, it robs me of my wits, and I become aware of the absurdity of my body, of having a body, in a world where my father is no more, and I realize my arms are empty, that the warmth of my father’s embrace is gone, it will never be there again, and my arms hang, withered, bringing my shoulders down with them, and my head looks to the ground, where we buried my dad days ago, I helped bury him, I tossed three shovelfuls of earth on his coffin and then stuck the shovel in the turned earth so that someone else could take it and perform the same ritual, as required by Judaism, and I, who was never Jewish, I mean, who’d ignored my family’s religion since I was a teenager, suddenly I found myself performing each ritual with a relief that was unthinkable a few months ago, as if all I wanted or needed at that moment was to simply be told how to behave or what to do, to be given a list of tasks in order to exist.

My father died on a Saturday morning at 9:43 am, on Shabbat. And then we went home while his body lay in the hospital morgue, waiting to be taken to the cemetery the next morning, because during Shabbat one must rest, this is one of the highest laws of Judaism: no exerting yourself, no driving cars, no mourning or transporting coffins.

It was a strange day. My father had died, but everything was still in its place. Out on the street, in the leafy square in front of my house where the boys play, everything remained the same, in motion, the trees, the birds, the noises, the cars on the asphalt, everything the same, but there was a silence behind everything. Death is a silence, behind every sound there is this silence, the telephone that will never ring again, his silenced voice, never again the simple message Na, Can I call you?, and I will never be able to just call him instead of answering Yes, Dad, you can call, because you can’t call anymore, I can’t talk to you anymore, and yet, everything continues as if we still could.

Gabi came over to my place. My sister is a naval engineer, a profession that requires the sea, and she hasn’t lived in São Paulo for many years. She would always stay at our dad’s house when she was in town, but not now, not anymore, our dad’s house no longer exists, well, it still does, actually, but without our dad, which is the same as it no longer being his house. My sister spent the day lying down, in silence, she barely ate, she barely drank, she could barely walk.

When we left the hospital, leaving the body behind, we went to pick up her suitcases. Gabi had come straight to the hospital from a trip and since she’d arrived, she hadn’t left our father’s room, what number was it? I don’t remember, not even which floor, tenth, sixth? She didn’t have the strength to carry her suitcases, she almost didn’t have the strength to carry herself.

She was like that at the burial and at the ceremony shortly before. My sister was unable to stand. Someone came up to ask me if she’d taken anything, I don’t remember who, a friend of hers. She hadn’t, the strength had simply drained from her body. By my father’s side until the last moment—Gabi was the one with him when his heart stopped beating; she was the one who, standing at his bedside, while a nurse bathed him, noticed he’d stopped breathing—she stood firm beside my father. And she called us and said, in a sweet, calm voice, Dad’s gone, but as soon as we left his side, as soon as they asked us to take all his things from the hospital room because they were going to come and remove the body, she collapsed.

Gabi also performed Jewish rites. I don’t know about my brother, but Gabi and I, everything we were told to do, we did. And it all made sense, for the first time I felt bolstered by religion, not by God, but by my ancestors, who knew the pain I felt and had come up with rituals that attempted to embrace it, alleviate it, circumscribe it. The mere fact that there were rules for Shiva, the first week of mourning that begins after burial, seemed to tell me that the pain, no matter how excruciating, no matter how much it messed up the meaning of everything, was familiar and, somehow, natural.

I had to hold my sister up by the arm so she could stand in front of the rabbi, during the small prayer service before the burial. There were so many people inside that space that my father’s coffin was left in the prayer room (was it a synagogue? I don’t know, those hours spent at the cemetery are all a bit blurry), and not in the small rooms at the Jewish cemetery intended for funerals. We sat in the front row—my sister, me, my brother, my father’s wife, her daughter. A terrible privilege, a place at the front: right in front of the pain, at the place of pain. Gabi stayed seated almost the whole time; I would get up, go get a drink of water, I was terribly thirsty, getwater for my sister, or someone would come with a full glass for each of us, and I paced back and forth, lost.

People came up to hug me and, dazed from an old tiredness, I’d only realize who it was after I took a step back. Sometimes the faces were unfamiliar, but the hugs felt good, warm, a place where I just wanted to curl up and sleep. Or I would see the face of somebody who reminded me of a certain time in my life, in my father’s life, the guy he worked with throughout my childhood, thinner, much older now, smaller than the image I had of him, and then, when I embraced him, I cried again, and harder, and I could feel that he was sad, but tough, like he was holding me up and sustaining my tears.

There were the ones who burst into tears when they saw me, some friends who really liked my dad and whose tears mixed with mine when we hugged. Those were the best hugs, I felt a little outside of myself, as if part of me was with them, and that provided me with some relief, they were feeling in my place, offering me a break from the unbearable.

There were also ceremonial hugs. They weren’t bad; they served their purpose, and serving purposes fills empty spaces, generally a little strange, especially in that situation. There were the ones who hugged too much, I don’t know why, and this had nothing to do with prior intimacy or any criteria, if there could be criteria for hugging; They were hugs that asked for more than they gave, and at that time I simply had nothing to offer. There were those who hugged me with their eyes, from afar, because they couldn’t come any closer, either because there wasn’t enough room or because there was no way to get to me. There were so many parts of my life there, at my father’s funeral, in the presence of so many people and time spent on those people, but that was absurd, there was something that didn’t sit right, so many friends from different times of my father’s life, it would be so obvious for him to be there himself, but no: this was taking place because he was no longer with us.

Ari, the eldest of the five children of Jacob and Feyga (better known as Fani)—of whom Artur, my father, was the third—came to ask me if I wanted to speak. One of the immediate family members would have to say something about the deceased, give a short speech about the life and actions of the person who died, the same way the patriarch Abraham did for his wife Sara, I found out much later. I realized that no, I didn’t want to say anything, but I said yes, because that’s what my father would have done. My father would have spoken. I don’t remember the order of the ceremony, I don’t remember exactly what I said to the people who filled the room, sitting and standing—I’ve never seen such a crowded funeral, said the rabbi, perhaps in an attempt to console us in some way; I remember, standing there in front of everybody, taking a few deep breaths and being overcome by the feeling that I wasn’t going to make it; that if I opened my mouth only tears would come. But then my siblings, both of them, got up at the same time—Gabi got up on her own then—and stood on either side of me, without saying a word, without it having been arranged beforehand. And then, with them standing next to me, I was able to speak. I said something like: if my father could have chosen anything, he would have chosen life, the very life he led, as I heard sniffling noses fill the room.

The burial and the ceremony that precedes it are a theater. I knew people were watching me, they were watching me, my brother and my sister crying, they were watching my father’s partner, paralyzed, and that gave a certain feeling of farce, the pain I was communicating wasn’t the same as what I was feeling, there’s an abyss between the two, but ceremonies are a necessary theater, because behind them there’s nothing, that is death, nothing, and that’s something impossible to bear.

Timerman, Natalia. As pequenas chances. Todavia. Kindle Edition.

Translated by Zoe Perry

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Jacques Sterenberg–Artista visual judío-peruano-chileno-israelí/Peruvian Chilean Israelí Artist — “Mujeres, hombres y la tierra”/”Women, Men and and the Land”

Jacques Sterenberg

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Jacques Sterenberg –Website-Contact

Jacques Sterenberg nació en 1959 en Lima, Perú. Como hijo de madre chilena, su nacimiento fue inscrito en el Consulado de Chile en Lima y a los tres años llegó a vivir a nuestro país. Es Licenciado en Artes Plásticas por la Universidad de Chile. Durante su formación fue invitado a participar en la muestra “Arte & Textos, Provincia Señalada”(1983) realizada Santiago, Chile. En 1994 se trasladó a Israel tras obtener una beca para artistas otorgada por el Jerusalem Post. En ese mismo país, en el cual se radicó, tomó cursos de impresión y pintura industrial, así como también de diseño gráfico computacional. Además, vivió y trabajó en Estados Unidos entre 1998 y 1999, posteriormente volvió a Tel Aviv. Su estadía en el extranjero permitió la internacionalización de su carrera, durante la cual ha exhibido sus obras en Israel, Estados Unidos, Alemania, Francia, Hungría, España y Holanda, destacándose sus exposiciones individuales “To the Moon and Back” (2015-2014) en Menashe Art Gallery, Israel, y “Los dos juntos y cada uno por separado” (2017) en Granot Factories, Israel; además fue parte de “Art Beyond Boundaries” (2016-2017) que transitó por diversas ciudades de Estados Unidos. No obstante, Sterenberg ha mantenido siempre contacto con Chile, esto se refleja en su participación en muestras colectivas de la Galería Artium, los años 2012 y 2015, y en la exposición “Eduardo Torres & Jacques Sterenberg”(2011) en Galería Trece, todas en Santiago. Entre los reconocimientos obtenidos en el desarrollo de su carrera, destaca el primer lugar en el concurso “Postal Card Inter Ministerial Committee For Outstanding Artists “(1996), en Tel Aviv, Israel.

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Jacques Sterenberg was born in 1959 in Lima, Peru. As the son of a Chilean mother, his birth was registered at the Chilean Consulate in Lima and at the age of three he came to live in our country. He has a degree in Plastic Arts from the University of Chile. During his training he was invited to participate in the exhibition Arte & Textos, Provincia Indicada (1983) held in Santiago, Chile. In 1994 he moved to Israel after obtaining an artist scholarship from the Jerusalem Post. In that same country, where he settled, he took courses in industrial printing and painting, as well as computer graphic design. In addition, he lived and worked in the United States between 1998 and 1999, later returning to Tel Aviv. His stay abroad allowed the internationalization of his career, during which he has exhibited his works in Israel, the United States, Germany, France, Hungary, Spain and Holland, highlighting his individual exhibitions “To the Moon and Back”(2015-2014) in Menashe Art Gallery, Israel, and “Both Together and Each Separately” (2017) at Granot Factories, Israel; He was also part of “Art Beyond Boundaries” (2016-2017) that traveled through various cities in the United States. However, Sterenberg has always maintained contact with Chile, this is reflected in his participation in group exhibitions at the Artium Gallery, in 2012 and 2015, and in the exhibition “Eduardo Torres & Jacques Sterenberg” (2011) at Galería Trece, all in Santiago. Among the many recognitions achieved in his career, the first place in the “Postal Card Inter Ministerial Committee For Outstanding Artists” competition (1996) in Tel Aviv, Israel stands out.

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Sterenberg desarrolla sus pinturas utilizando una paleta cromática intensa, en la que predominan los colores primarios, los cuales contrasta entre sí y complementa con el uso de escalas de grises para desarrollar matices “antinaturales” en sus paisajes y retratos. Estos últimos se caracterizan por el minimalismo de los rasgos y expresiones hieráticas de los personajes que protagonizan las obras.

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Sterenberg develops his paintings using an intense color palette, in which primary colors predominate, which he contrasts with each other and complements with the use of gray scales to develop “unnatural” nuances in his landscapes and portraits. The latter are characterized by the minimalism of the hieratic features and expressions of the characters who star in the works.

Adaptado de “Museo de Bellas Artes de Chile“/Adapted from “Museum of Fine Arts of Chile”

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Sin palabras/Without words

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Óleos de Jacques Sterenberg/Oil Paintings by Jacques Sterenberg

Paisajes/Landscapes

Dibujos/Drawings

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“La lengua en filigrana”/”Language /Language in Filigree”–Una antología judío-argentina de poesía y traducciones del español al Idish/An Argentine Jewish Anthology Poems and Translations from Spanish to Yiddish — These poems are also translated into English

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Traducciones del español al idish, con otras al inglés/

Translations from Spanish into Yiddish, with others into English
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Karina Lerman

Crear el libro:

La idea del libro pensado al modo de una antología -como una especie de tejido viviente surgió en plena época de cuarentena. En esos tiempos de tanta incertidumbre y aturdimiento intenté conectarme con algo más personal y placentero que me llevó al estudio de un curso: prácticas y poéticas de la judeidad, a cargo de la coordinación de Susana Skura y equipo dentro de un programa de extensión universitaria de la UBA(Argentina). Una exquisita labor a través de la cual el idish, como pieza sensible, brillaba en todas sus expresiones artísticas (teatro, literatura, material archivístico, música etc). Allí, sin saberlo, la docente de música idish Yasmin Garfunkel sería la traductora oficial de este proyecto que llevó 3 años. Proyecto transitado con muchos bemoles, altibajos, desesperanza; y gracias a la apuesta y tozudez personal y la valentía y amorosidad de la traductora pudo llevarse a cabo y ver la luz. La idea de la convocatoria era pesquisar, no sólo autoras judías, sino poéticas que tuvieran un recorrido vital relacionado con la judeidad; no necesariamente con el idish en su especificidad, pero sí cierta historia afectiva y de pensamiento para con ello. Fue precioso convocarlas y dialogar con cada una: largas charlas, grandes emociones recordando cuestiones personales que las reconectaban con la lengua del idish (si bien la mayoría no habla ni lee en idish). Así, se sumaron autoras de diversas latitudes (Argentina, México, Venezuela). Demás aclarar que durante el proceso de la antología dos autoras fallecieron; pero fue muy conmovedor encontrarse con la empatía de los familiares para colaborar y participar. A quienes también agradezco.Agrego que pueden contactarme a kariler1214@gmail.com para acercarse a la antología que es de carácter digital y gratuito.

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Karina Lerman

Creating a book:

The idea of the book thought of as an anthology – as a kind of living tissue – emerged
in the middle of quarantine time. In these times of so much uncertainty and
daze I tried to connect with something more personal and pleasant that led me to
study of a course: practices and poetics of Jewishness, in charge of the coordination of
Susana Skura and team within a UBA university extension program (Argentina). An exquisite work through which Yiddish, as a sensitive piece, shone in all its artistic expressions (theater, literature, archival material, music, etc.). There, without knowing this, Yiddish music teacher Yasmin Garfunkel would be the official translator of this project that took 3 years. Project traveled with many flats, ups and downs, hopelessness; and thanks to the commitment and personal stubbornness and the bravery and love of the translator was able to be carried out and see the light. the idea of the call was to research, not only Jewish authors, but also poetic ones who had a vital journey related to Jewishness; not necessarily with Yiddish in their specificity, but a certain emotional and thought history towards it. It was beautiful to contact them and dialogue with each one: long talks, great emotions remembering personal issues that reconnected them with the Yiddish language (although most did not speak or read in Yiddish). Thus, authors from different latitudes joined in (Argentina, Mexico,Venezuela). Two authors died during the anthology process; but it was very moving to find the empathy of the family members to collaborate and participate. To whom I also thank. I add that you can contact me at kariler1214@gmail.com to get closer to the anthology which is digital and free.

Karina Lerman, Curadora de/Curator of La lengua en fllgrana

Karina Lerman. Poeta, psicoanalista, maestra de idioma hebreo y docente universitaria. Artista visual. Editó Las hijas de Lot (2018), Perlas, (2022) y la antología Cómo decir, (2019). Primera mención del premio Adolfo Bioy Casares (2019) con su poemario Cayupán. Y narrarás a tus hijos por el Centro Ana Frank de Argentina. Compiladora y curadora de la antología digital Enhebradas, de una poiesis psicoanalítica en tiempos de pandemia (2021, 2023); la Antología Mujeres en voz (2022). La antología poética digital De pérdidas y duelo. Cartografía de los cuerpos, (2023) y Costuras de la palabra (2023). La antología al idish La lengua en filigrana (2023). Ha sido traducida al mapuzungún, griego e idish.

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Karina Lerman. Poet, psychoanalyst, Hebrew language teacher and university professor. Visual artist. She edited Las hijas de Lot (2018), Perlas (2022) and the anthology Cómo decir, (2019). First mention of the Adolfo Bioy Casares award (2019) with her collection of poems Cayupán. Y narrarás a tus hijos for the Anne Frank Center in Argentina. Compiler and curator of the anthology Enhebradas: de una poiesis psicoanalítica en tiempos de pandemia, (2021, 2023); the anthologies Y narrarás a tus hijos (2022), Mujeres en voz, (2023) and De pérdidas y duelo. Cartografía de los cuerpos (2023)and Costuras de la palabra (2023). The Yiddish anthology La lengua en filigrana (2023). Her work been translated into Mapuzungun, Greek and Yiddish.

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Poemas y traducciones/Poems and translations

Raquel Jaduszliwer

Esta es una hoja. No, esta no es una hoja del árbol del madero

de todos los naufragios, del árbol fidedigno de los salvatajes.

No, esta es la primera hoja

del diario del año de la peste, aquí está escrita

la creación del mundo. Día primero: aquí se está.

El aislamiento se sostiene en alto

nítido como una proclama: cada hombre una isla.

Más tarde

cada especie mostrará sus añicos. El presente se escapa

el futuro se teme, el pasado es una narración.

Sus estampas más tenues refulgen por la noche

a la hora del miedo tienen la coloratura

de la voz de las madres. Y así

se nos recrea un fuego, una fogata.

Y cómo reconforta saber que estamos juntos

cantando todos a su alrededor:

“Arum dem faier mir zingen lider…”

oh, he aquí un recuerdo

cantaba madre, mi padre era un portento.

Generación de huérfanos, a nada le temían

así solían juntarse para elevar sus voces.¹

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This is a leaf. No, this is not a leaf from of the wooden tree

from all the shipwrecks, from the tree worthy of the rescues.

No, this is the first leaf

of the diary of the plague year, here is written

the creation of the world. First day: Here it is.

Isolation is extolled,

clearly a as a proclamation: Every man an island.

Later

every species will show its bits and pieces. The present escapes

the future is feared, the past is a narration.

Their most tenuous outlines glow through the night

at the hour of fear, they have the coloratura

of the voices of the mothers. And so

a fire is recreated for us, a bonfire.

And how comforting that we are together,

all of us singing around it:

“Arum dem faier mir zingen lider…”

mother sang,

oh, here is a memory,

mother was singing, my father was a marvel.

Generation of orphans, they fear nothing,

so they go on coming together to raise their voices.

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דאָס איז אַ בלאַט. נײן, דאָס איז נישט קײן בלאַט פֿונעם שװאַרצהאָלץ־בױם

שיפֿבראָכן, פֿונעם באַגלײבטן בױם פֿון די רע

נײן, דאָס איז דער ערשטער בלאַט

פֿונעם טאָגבוך פֿונעם יאָר פֿון דער מגפֿה, דאָ שטײט געשריבן

די װעלט-באַשאַפֿונג. ערשטער טאָג׃ דאָ שטײט מען

די איזאָלירונג האַלט זיך אין דער הײך

.אַזױ שאַרף-קלאָר װי אַ פּראָקלאַמאַציע: יעדער מאַן – אַן אינדזל

שפּעטער

װעט יעדער זגאַל אַרויסװײַזן זײַנע שטיקלעך. די איצטיקײט אַנטלױפֿט

.די צוקונפֿט שרעקט, דער עבר איז אַ מעשׂה

זײערע שװאַכסטע שטאַמפּן גלאַנצן בײַ נאַכט

אין דער שעה פֿון דער מורא קריגן זײ די קאָלאָראַטור

פֿון די מאַמעס קולות. און אָט אַזױ

.װערט פֿאַר אונדז װידעראַמאָל באַשאַפֿן אַ פֿײַער, אַ שײַטער

און װי דערמוטיקט פֿילט מען זיך װיסנדיק אַז מיר זענען צוזאַמען

:זינגענדיק אַלע אַרום אים

„אַרום דעם פֿײַער מיר זינגען לידער”

אױ, אָט איז אַן אָנדענק

.מײַן מאַמע פֿלעגט זינגען, מײַן טאַטע איז געװען אַ עילוי

אַ דור פֿון יתּומים, זײ האָבן פֿאַר גאָרנישט קײן מורא ניט געהאַט

.אַזױ פֿלעגן זײ זיך פֿאַרזאַמלען כּדי צו זינגען אויף אַ קול

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Karina Lerman

לעבן Toda la vida^[1]

Hasta el cuello – estamos-

dice la vecina

y se mortifican las cosas,

lo que limpia,

lo que reclama.

¿Habrá letra para rato

en el aliento de los mares?

Escucho el temblor del shofar,

la máquina de escribir

colgada en el tendal, y la boca

abierta del canto en el templo.

Mi padre ajusta el cuello

del abrigo

para salir a la revuelta,

para que empiece a contar

las astillas de los vidrios rotos,

los escombros del hambre.

¿Y los ojos?, los ojos

se nublan, se resecan

se impregnan del olor a viejo,

de camisa manchada.

Quisiera escuchar la frase de perdón

(del perdón bajo las sobras).

Nada. Ninguno. Hasta que nadie

nos recuerda.

Busco el código morse

entre/tanto

la gramática a tientas

-a ciegas-

^[1] Poema correspondiente a la serie: Poema para Octubre (Editorial Ruinas Circulares. Bs As, 2020. Antología poética Cómo decir).

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^1]^לעבן ^Lifetime

Up to our neck—we are-

says the neighbor,

and things bring humiliation,

that which cleans,

that which demands.

Will there be for a while a letter

in the breath of the seas?

I hear the sound of the Shofar,

the typewriter

hung on the canopy, and the mouth

open with the song in the temple.

My father adjusts the collar

of his overcoat

to go out into the commotion

so that he may begin to count

the fragments of the broken windows,

the rubble of hunger.

And the eyes? The eyes cloud over, dry up

soaked with the smell of age,

of the stained shirt.

He would have lived to hear the words of pardon

(pardon of what is left.)

Nothing. Not one. Until nobody

remembers us.

I seek Morse code

between/so much

grammar in the dark

–blindly–

^[1] Poem from the series: Poema para Octubre (Editorial Ruinas Circulares. Bs As, 2020. Antología poética Cómo decir).

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איבערן קאָפּ -זענען מיר-

זאָגט די שכנטע

,און די זאַכן לײַדן אָן

,דאָס װאָס מע רײניקט

.דאָס װאָס מע פֿאָדערט

צי װעט מען געפינען גענוג אותיות

?אין דעם אָטעם פֿון די ימים

,איך הער דעם ציטער פֿונעם שופֿר

די שרײַבן-מאַשין

װאָס הענגט אויף אַ גרעט־שטריק

און דאָס אָפֿן מויל זינגענדיק אין דער שול

דער טאַטע טוט אָן זײַן היטל

?אויפֿ זײַן קאָפּ

כּדי אָנטײלצונעמען אין דער מהומה

כּדי אָנצוהײבן איבערצײלן

,די סקאַבקעס פונעם צעבראָכענעם גלאַס

.דאס אַש־און־פּאָרעך פונעם הונגער

?און די אויגן? די אויגן

,פֿאַרנעפּלען זיך און טריקענען זיך אויס

,זײער ריח איז דאָס פון עפעס וואָס עלטערט זיך

אַ פֿאַרפֿלעקטן העמד

איך וואָלט געוואָלט הערן דעם זאַץ פֿון מחילה

(.די מחילה אונטער די רעשטלעך

גאָרנישט. קײנער. ביז מע געדענקט

אונדז נישט מער

.איך זוך דעם מאָרזע-שליסל

דער/ װײַל

.די גראַמאַטיק קוים

___________________________________________

Laura Fuksman

Mikvah^{^[1]}

Ahora

que lejos

existe otro país

ni celeste ni amarillo

donde el fado nos envuelve

como una gran manta

desde el desayuno

hasta el murmullo de la noche

Ahora

que ya vimos como nuestra casa

se craquelaba

caía como granos de arena

en medio de la tormenta

y la tierra rugía

tallando tremenda cicatriz

bajo nuestros pies

Ahora

que las estaciones pasaron

y como los espinillos

perdimos nuestras púas

las risas volvieron

y se adelantó la primavera

Ahora

que nos preguntamos

cuál es la patria del perro

la aspereza de su lengua

aunque sabemos que su lamida

es tan húmeda como la humana

Ahora

que el tiempo se entreveró

fuimos hermanos en la siesta

adolescentes de campamentos

amantes sin cuerpo compartiendo

la pastillita de la felicidad

Ahora

que conozco tu primer mirada del día

bajo la ceja bella y quebrada

y puedo definir

con absoluta precisión

el momento en que tu respiración se aploma

en esa cadencia rítmica

entregada al sueño del que por fin

no te sacuden los tifones

Ahora

que me invitás burlón

a sacarme las medias

y con la mikvah del arroyo

volvieron los planes

las persianas abiertas

todo es rojo y abundante

como las flores del membrillero japonés

y las manzanas que pasean en el morral

Ahora

que pasaron los días

que la voz del interior indica

que nada ha cambiado

ahora que todo

todo lo que sigue intacto ahí

es cargado a tu cuenta

^[1] Mikvah: es el espacio donde se realizan los baños de purificación que prescribe el judaísmo. La mikvah no puede estar llena con agua estancada, sino que tiene que ser agua corriente. La palabra hace uso de las mismas raíces en hebreo que la palabra “esperanza.”

Poema inédito.

______________________________________

Mikvah

Now

so far away

another country exists

not sky blue or yellow

where the Portuguese Fado music shrouds us

like a great blanket

from breakfast

to the murmur of the night

Now

that we still live in our house

it crackles

falling like grains of sand

in a storm

and the land roars

carving an awful scar

below our feet

Now

that the seasons passed

and like espinillo flowering trees

we lose our thorns

the laughter returns

and Spring continued

Now

that we ask ourselves

what is the homeland of the dog

the roughness of its tongue

although we know its lick

is as damp as the human’s

Now

that time could be glimpsed

we were brothers in the siesta

adolescents in camps

lovers without their bodies sharing

the small pills of happiness

Now

that I know the first gaze of the morning

under the beautiful and broken eyebrow

and I can define

with absolute precision

the moment that your breathing becomes assured

in each rhythmic cadence

given over to the sleep that finally

is not shaken by hurricanes

Now

that you invite me teasing

and on taking my stockings off

with the mikvah of the arroyo

the plans return

and blinds open

all is red and abundant

with the flowers of the Japanese quince tree

and the apples that stroll in the backpack

Now

that the days passed

that the voice of the inside indicates

that nothing has changed

now that everything

everything that remains intact there

________________________________

אַ צינד

װעלכעס איז דעם הונטס הײמלאַנד

אַפֿילו װען מיר װײסן אַז זײַן לעק

איז אַזוי פֿײַכט װי דער מענטשלעכער

װען די צײַטן האָבן זיך פֿאַרפּלאָנטערט

האָבן מיר זיך פֿאַרברידערט בשעת דעם מיטאָג רו

אַצינדיוגנטלעכע אין לאַגערן

אַצינד

געליבטע אָן אַ קערפּער טײלנדיק זיך

װען איך קען שוין דעם ערשטן בליק פֿון דײַן טאָג

אונטער דײַן שײנער און אויסגעבויגענער ברעם

די רגע װען דײַן אָטעם באַרוּיִקט זיך

אין יענער ריטמישער קאַדענץ

איבערגעגעבן דעם שלאָף

פֿון װעלכן סוף

אַצינד

װען דו פֿאַרבעטסט מיך אויסלאַכנדיק

אויסצוטאָן די זאָקן

און מיט דער מקװה פֿונעם טײַכל

האָבן זיך אומגעקערט די פּלענער

די לאָדן (שטײען) אָפֿן

אַלץ איז רויט און בשפֿעדיק

און די עפּל װאָס שפּאַצירן אינעם רוקנזאַ

אַצינד

װען די טעג זענען אַריבער

און דאָס אינערלעכע קול באַשטעטיקט

אַז גאָרניט האָט זיך ניט געענדערט

אַצינד װען אַלץ

אַלץ װאָס געפֿינט זיך דאָרט בשלמותדיק

װערט פֿאַררעכנט אויף דײַן חשבון

^[1]Mikvah is the space where the purification baths prescribed by Judaism are carried out. The mikvah cannot be filled with stagnant water but must be running water. The word uses the same roots in Hebrew as the word “hope.”

Unpublished poem.

_________________________________

Celina Feuerstein

hoy pienso en idish^[1]

en el té mit limene

que papá

tomaba en vaso

y en najes en oi vei

en a mejaie

colándose en su castellano

en cada sílaba su acento en cada frase

Jane Jane Jane

llama a mamá

suena dulce su voz

como gotitas que caen leves

en un charco

meidele

qué pasó

vos is gueshen?

te moriste papá

le digo suave

y le pido que me cuente

dónde está

cómo es allá

allá es liviano

sonríe

es como luz

y canta arum dem faier

alrededor del fuego

mir zingen lider

canta y canta

las horas pasan y él sigue

cantando

debe ser cierto que es liviano

su música flota

y me envuelve

está tan viva su muerte

que lo abrazo

meidele dice

meidele

y se va

_______________________________________

Today I’m thinking in Yiddish^[1]

in the tea mit limene

that papa

drank from a glass

and in naches in oi vei

in a mechaie

slipping into his Spanish

in every syllable his accent in every phrase

Chane Chane Chane

he calls to mama

his sweet voice sounds

like droplets that fall lightly

into a puddle

meidele

what happened

vos is gueshen?

you died, papa

I tell him softly

and I ask him to tell me

where he is

how it is there

it’s mild

he smiles

it is like light

and he sings arum dem faier

around the fire

mir zingen líder

he sings and sings

the hours pass and he continues

singing

it must be certain

that he is light

his music floats

and envelopes me

his death is so alive

that I hug him

meidele he says

meidele

and he goes away.

_____________________________________

הײַנט טראַכט איך אויף ייִדיש

אין דעם טײ מיט לימענע

װאָס מײַן טאַטע

האָט געטרונקען אין אַ גלאָז

און איך טראַכט אין „נחת“, אין „אין-װײ“

אין „אַ מחיה“

װי די װערטער פֿראַנאַדיען זיך אין זײן שפּאַניש

אין יעדער זילב, זײַן טראָפּ אין יעדע פֿראַזע

חנה, חנה, חנה

עס רופֿט די מאַמע

עס קלינגט זיס זײַן שטימע

װי קלײנע טראָפּנס װאָס פֿאַלן שטילערהײט

אין אַ בלאָטיק־װאַסער

מײדעלע

?װאָס אַיז געשען

דו ביסט געשטאָרבן

זאָג איך אים רויק

און איך בעט בײַ אים ער זאָל מיר דערצײלן

װוּ ער איז

װי אַזוי איז עס דאָרטן

דאָרטן איז לײַכט

ער שמײַכלט

ער איז פּונקט װי די ליכט

און זינגט אַרום דעם פֿײַער

מיר זינגען לידער

זינגט און זינגט

די שעהען גײען אַװעק

און ער זעצט פֿאָר זינגען

עס דאַרף זײַן אמת אַז עס איז לײַכט

זײַן מוזיק שװעבט

רינגלט מיך אַרום

זײַן טויט איז אַזוי לעבעדיק

אַז איך נעם אים אַרום

מײדעלע זאָגט ער

מײדעלע

און ער גײט אַװעק.

____________________________________________________________

Presentación de la antología/Presentation of the Anthology

________________________________

Miembros del equipo/Members of the team

Las poetas/The Poets

Raquel Jaduszliwer nació en San Fernando, Pcia. de Buenos Aires.Psicoanalista. Reside en Buenos Aires. En poesía publicó poemarios entre2012 y 2023. Integró diversas antologías. Publicó una nouvelle. Obtuvo varios premios nacionales e internacionales.

Karina Lerman Vea arriba.

Laura Fuksman nació en Buenos Aires. Es médica clínica y terapeuta corporal. Coordina Encuentros de Movimiento y Experimentación Corporal y Laboratorio de Recursos Expresivos. Publicó diversos poemarios entre los años 2016-2021. Participó en antologías.

Celina Feuerstein nació en Buenos Aires. Es Licenciada en Psicología.Trabaja como psicoanalista. Poeta. Tiene textos en verso y prosa poética. Publicó poemarios entre 2018 y 2022. Sus poemas se publicaron en antologías.

_______________________

Raquel Jaduszliwer was born in San Fernando, Province of Buenos Aires. Psychoanalyst. She resides in Buenos Aires. She published books of poetry between 2012 and 2023. Her poems appear in several anthologies. She published a novel. She has won several national and international awards.

Karina Lerman See above.

Laura Fuksman was born in Buenos Aires. She is a clinical doctor and body therapist at Body Movement and Experimentation and Expressive Resources Laboratory. She published several collections of poems between the years 2016-2021. Her work is found in anthologies.

Celina Feuerstein was born in Buenos Aires. She has a degree in Psychology. He works as a psychoanalyst. Poet, with texts in verse and poetic prose. He published poetry collections between 2018 and 2022. Her poems were published in anthologies.

__________________________

Jefa de los traductores al idish/Head of the translators into Yiddish

Yasmin Garfunkel es cantante, docente e investigadora especializada en el idioma y cultura ídish. Como cantante ha realizado conciertos en Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro, Ciudad de México y Tel Aviv. Junto a Federico Garber en el piano, con quien conforma el dúo “Garfunkel Gaber”, ha recibido premios del Instituto de Música Judaica de Brasil en el marco del Kleztival, y en el concurso “Idisher Idol”, llevado a cabo en la ciudad de México. Colabora con la banda klezmer Peretz Garcik dirigida por Julián Brenlle. Como docente ha brindado talleres de canciones en ídish en la Universidad de Tel Aviv, para alumnos de la Universidad de Columbia de Nueva York y del Comité Central Israelita del Uruguay

__________________________

Yasmin Garfunkel is a singer, teacher and researcher specialized in the Yiddish language and culture. As a singer he has performed concerts in Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro, Mexico City and Tel Aviv. Together with Federico Garber on the piano, with whom he forms the duo “Garfunkel Gaber”, she has received awards from the Institute of Jewish Music of Brazil within the framework of the Kleztival, and in the “Idisher Idol” contests, held in the city of Mexico. she collaborates with the klezmer band Peretz Garcik directed by Julián Brenlle. As a teacher, she has offered Yiddish song workshops at Tel Aviv University, for students at Columbia University in New York and the Central Jewish Committee of Uruguay.

Month: May 2024

Ricardo Lindo (1947-2016) Novelista y poeta judío-salvadoreño/Salvadoran Jewish novelist and poet — “Tierra”/”Land” — fragmentos de la novela sobre la Conquista de América Latina y los judíos/excepts from the novel that deals with the Conquest of Latin America and the Jews

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Natalia Timerman–Romancista judaica brasileira/Brazilian Jewish Novelist –“As pequenas chances”/”The Little Chances” — fragmento de a romance sobre a morte de seu pai/excerpt from the novel about her father’s death

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Jacques Sterenberg–Artista visual judío-peruano-chileno-israelí/Peruvian Chilean Israelí Artist — “Mujeres, hombres y la tierra”/”Women, Men and and the Land”

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“La lengua en filigrana”/”Language /Language in Filigree”–Una antología judío-argentina de poesía y traducciones del español al Idish/An Argentine Jewish Anthology Poems and Translations from Spanish to Yiddish — These poems are also translated into English

Raquel Jaduszliwer

Colaboración en las traducciones./Collaborators with the Yiddish translations:

Clara Greif, Nejama Barad ,Silvia Bialik

English Translations by Stephen A. Sadow

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Raquel Jaduszliwer

Colaboración en las traducciones./Collaborators with the Yiddish translations:

Clara Greif, Nejama Barad ,Silvia Bialik

English Translations by Stephen A. Sadow

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