José Lévy (1978-) es un artista dominicano de ascendencia judía sefardí que ha estado exponiendo la complejidad de la sociedad dominicana a través de su arte. El arte de Lévy cuenta la historia del Caribe y su gente, a menudo ignorada por los principales medios de comunicación. Busca crear una sociedad más inclusiva dando voz a quienes están marginados. Después de graduarse de la escuela secundaria, Lévy dedicó su talento a estudiar en profundidad la cultura dominicana y a conectarla con parte de su historia judía sefardí. Según Lévy, “podría ser fácil para mí explorar las diferentes formas de arte, especialmente las que recibimos de Europa o Estados Unidos. Sin embargo, mi experiencia como judío sefardí dominicano y el sentimiento de pérdida cultural debido al borrado de La historia sefardí nos recuerda que necesitamos crear artes que reflejen nuestra cultura para la generación futura”. Su arte fusiona la historia de los antepasados judíos de Lévy y la sociedad dominicana actual. Su trabajo ha sido exhibido en lugares de todo el Caribe, América Latina y Estados Unidos.
“A través de mis pinturas busco una catarsis como todo artista serio; reflejar cosas que entiendo están mal en la sociedad, como la corrupción, la violencia, el Estado cuasi podrido de la sociedad dominicana, entre otros tipos de cosas.” – El Caribe, 2018
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José Lévy (1978- ) is a Dominican artist of Jewish Sephardic descent who has been exposing the complexity of Dominican society through his art. Lévy’s art tells the story of the Caribbean and its people, often overlooked by mainstream media. He seeks to create a more inclusive society by giving a voice to those who are marginalized. After graduating high school, Lévy dedicated his talents to studying Dominican culture in depth and connecting it to part of his Sephardi Jewish history. According to Lévy, “it could be easy for me to explore the different forms of arts, especially those we receive from Europe or the United States. However, my experience as a Dominican Sephardic Jew and the sense of cultural loss due to the erasure of the Sephardi history reminds us that we need to create arts that reflect our culture for the future generation.” His art merges the history of Lévy’s Jewish ancestors and the present Dominican society. His work has been exhibited in venues throughout the Caribbean, Latin America, and the United States.
“Through my paintings I look for catharsis like every serious artist; reflect things that I understand are bad in society, such as corruption, violence, the quasi-rotten state of Dominican society, among other types of things.” – El Caribe, 2018
La historia de los judíos en Venezuela es de larga data: comenzó muy probablemente a mediados del siglo xvi, cuando habrían llegado varios grupos de judeoconversos en la expedición del conquistador Pedro Malaver de Silva. Algunos creen que la primera sinagoga fue fundada en 1710 y, desde el siglo XIX, el país posee el cementerio judío más antiguo de América. El músico Reynaldo Hahn, la periodista y promotora del arte Sofía Ímber, el escritor Moisés Naím, la cineasta Margot Benacerraf, el dramaturgo Isaac Chocrón, la escritora Elisa Lerner o el médico Baruj Benacerraf, entre tantos otros, han contribuido a la fundamental presencia de la cultura judía en la sociedad venezolana, de la cual forma parte VascoSzinetar (Caracas, 1948), ampliamente conocido por sus ya célebres series fotográficas, CheektoCheek y Frente al espejo, en las que, desde los años ochenta del siglo pasado, se ha fotografiado a sí mismo con personajes de la talla de Jorge Luis Borges, Gabriel García Márquez and Mario Vargas Llosa ejecutando, sotto voce, uno de los pilares de su obra: reconstruir su vida y el mundo con imágenes significativas.
Adaptado de: Centro Sefarad Israel 2023
Esta tradición sigue hasta el presente por la obra de los escritores y artistas venezolanos judíos citados abajo. También, las sinagogas forman parte de la cultura del país. Para ver la obra de ellos, haz clic a sus entradas.
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The history of the Jews in Venezuela is long-standing: it most likely began in the mid-16th century, when several groups of Jewish converts arrived on the expedition of the conquistador Pedro Malaver de Silva. Some believe that the first synagogue was founded in 1710 and, since the 19th century, the country has had the oldest Jewish cemetery in America.The musician Reynaldo Hahn, the journalist and art promoter Sofía Ímber, the writer Moisés Naím, the filmmaker Margot Benacerraf, the playwright Isaac Chocrón, the writer Elisa Lerner or the doctor Baruj Benacerraf, among many others, have contributed to the fundamental presence of Jewish culture in Venezuelan society, of which Vasco Szinetar (Caracas, 1948) is a part, widely known for his now famous photographic series, CheektoCheek and In Frente al espejo, in which, since the eighties of the last century, he has photographed himself with people of the stature of Jorge Luis Borges, Gabriel García Márquez and Mario Vargas Llosa, executing, sottovoce, one of the pillars of his work: reconstructing his life and the world with meaningful images.
Adapted from: Sefarad Israel Center 2023
This tradition continues to the present through the work of the Venezuelan Jewish writers and artists cited below. Also, synagogues are part of the country’s culture. Please click to their blog posts.
Karina Lerman es poeta, psicoanalista, maestra de idioma hebreo y docente universitaria. Artista visual. Editó Las hijas de Lot por Griselda García Editora (2018) y en México por Diván Negro ediciones (2022). Perlas, por El jardín de las delicias (2022). Enfrascados, poemario para las infancias (2023). Seleccionada para la Antología Cómo decir, por Editorial Ruinas Circulares (2019). Primera mención del premio Adolfo Bioy Casares (2019) con su poemario Cayupán. Reeditado en Chile por Editorial Navaja (2024). Con el texto Y narrarás a tus hijos por el Centro Ana Frank de Argentina (2021). Su textos Desmalvinizados y su texto por los 40 años de democracia argentina, han sido seleccionados por la Universidad de La Matanza (Argentina) para integrar sendas antologías (2023 y 2024). Seleccionada para integrar la antología del premio R. Reches, Ruinas Circulares. Argentina (2023). Ha participado en el festival de poesía de la ciudad de Fusagasugá (Colombia, 2022) dedicado al apoyo de los pueblos originarios. Compiladora de la Antología digital Enhebradas, de una poiesis psicoanalítica en tiempos de pandemia (2021), la Antología solidaria Mujeres en voz (Marzo de 2022). La antología poética digital De pérdidas y duelo. Cartografía de los cuerpos (2023) y Costuras de la palabra (2023). La antología poética al ídish La lengua en filigrana (2023). Becaria de LABA (laboratorio de arte y cultura judía en Buenos Aires, 2023). Coordina el ciclo de lecturas en diálogo poético Las flores de Circe. Dicta talleres de lecturas entramadas y análisis de textos poéticos. Escribe reseñas y artículos para medios de difusión literarios y psicoanalíticos de Argentina y países latinoamericanos. Ha sido traducida al mapuzungún, griego, inglés e idish. Contacto:
Karina Lerman is a poet, psychoanalyst, Hebrew language teacher and university professor. Visual artist. He edited Las hijas de Lot by Griselda García Editora (2018) and in Mexico by Diván Negro editions (2022). Perlas, for El jardín de las delicias (2022), Enfrascados, a collection of poems for children (2023). Selected for the Anthology Cómo decir, by Editorial Ruinas Circulares (2019). First mention of the Adolfo Bioy Casares award (2019) with his collection of poems Cayupán. Republished in Chile by Editorial Navaja (2024). With the text And You Will Narrate to your children by the Anne Frank Center in Argentina (2021). Her texts Desmalvinizados and her text for the 40 years of Argentine democracy have been selected by the University of La Matanza (Argentina) to be two anthologies (2023 and 2024). Selected to integrate the R. Reches award anthology, Circular Ruins. Argentina (2023). She has participated in the poetry festival of the city of Fusagasugá (Colombia, 2022) dedicated to the support of indigenous peoples. Compiler of the digital Anthology Enhebradas, de una poiesis psicoanalítica en tiempos de pandemia (2021), the Solidarity Anthology Mujeres en voz (March 2022). The digital poetic anthology De pérdidas y duelo. Cartografía de los cuerpos ( (2023) and Costuras de la palabra (2023). The Yiddish poetic anthology La lengua en filigrana (2023). Scholarship holder from LABA (laboratory of Jewish art and culture in Buenos Aires, 2023). Coordinates the cycle of readings in poetic dialogue Las flores de Circe. She teaches workshops on structured readings and analysis of poetic texts. She writes reviews and articles for literary and psychoanalytic media in Argentina and Latin American countries. Her work has been translated into Mapuzungun, Greek, English and Yiddish. Contact:
Cerca de la parte baja del funicular que sube hasta el Monte Petřín se encuentra el monumento a las víctimas del comunismo en el cual se contempla un conjunto escultórico de varias figuras humanas bajando por unas escaleras. A medida que avanzan, les van faltando partes del cuerpo.
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FLOWER OF PETRIN
Near the lower part of the funicular that goes up to Mount Petřín is the monument to the victims of communism in which a sculptural group of several human figures can be seen descending stairs. As they advance, they are missing body parts.
Ah, la terrible descarga en las fosas de los vivos con los muertos
BLANCO
donde un fogonazo quemó miríada de pétalos,
y si acaso algún apellido
buscara
alivianar
su cifra
como un hilo de agua
entre las piedras.
BLANCO
tersura de una marca indeleble sobre el azul aterciopelado, paz en los ojos.
Mi notación sobre la hoja
que se marchita a la luz del crimen cuando las flores se hielan.
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4.
Ah, the terrible discharge
into the graves of the living
with the dead
WHITE
where an explosion
burns a myriad
of petals,
and if, perhaps some last name
might seek to lighten
its cipher
like a thread of water
among rocks.
WHITE
smoothness of an indelible
mark on the velveted
blue, peace in
the eyes.
My notation on the leaf
that dries up in the sun
of the crime when the flowers freeze.
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5.
ELLA ES UNA GARZA ENCORVADA
a la luz del alba:
Somnolienta,
entrecierra los ojos sin poder (dormir) sin poder restituirse del olvido.
Le leo verso tras verso (hace más de una década) al poeta quien le hace saber de su hambre, de su casa natal en un pueblito de Praga y de un árbol de castaño de indias. Un insecto devora la curvatura (de su sueño).
La memoria del hueco la seguirá adonde vaya.
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5.
SHE IS ACURVED HERON
in the light of dawn:
drowsy,
she squints without being able to (sleep) without being able to recover from oblivion.
I read the verse after verse (more than a decade ago) to the poet who lets her know of her hunger, of her birthplace in a small town of Prague and of a horse chestnut. An insect devours the curvature (of her dream.)
The memory of the void will follow her wherever she goes.
________________________
6.
¿ERAS VOS, MADRE,
poniendo a prueba los hilos de la fe?
Había llovido y la luz del atardecer en agua cielo se derramaba.
(Sollozo de estambre junto al río contra toda esperanza).
Acaso, ¿era ese el destino?
Las ropas al silencio de las últimas ramas en el fiero arrastre de un
aliento guardado para el final: Enie bat…
Y el amor era el bautismo en madre, esa irrupción de lo perdido.
Azul de celajes el poema,
quedamente,
una flor de Petrín por cada muerto.
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6.
WAS IT YOU, MOTHER,
putting to test threads of faith?
It had rained and the light of evening in watery sky was fading
(Sobbing of stamen together with the river against all hope.)
Perhaps that was the destiny?
The clothing on the silent last branches fiercely drags
a spirit kept for the end:
ani bat
And the love was a baptism in mother, that irruption of the lost.
Blue of sunset cloudscapes the poem,
gently,
a flower of Petrin for each of the dead.
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7.
Y EL LIBRO en su forma
más anochecida
de apagarse: durmiente
como la ahogada de regreso a la orilla,
¿nombrarlo, madre, acaso,
podrías?
Barranco luz de nadie
no lejos de la mano que te hubo escrito: una flor s
e convertía en ramillete
y la palabra buscando echar raíz:
pistilo ovario pétalo estigma
aquel sol negro enredado en la crecida.
__________________
7.
AND THE BOOK in its most
dusky form
fading out: asleep
like the drowned woman returning from the shore,
name it, mother, perhaps,
could you?
Ravine nobody’s light
not far from the hand that
had written to you: a flower
turns into a bouquet and the
word seeking to take root:
pistil ovary petal, stigma
that black sun tangled in the crest.
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8.
Y DESPUÉS, la plegaria inclinaba
un argumento sobre sí
donde mis manos
sin territorio
ensayaban
su aleluya en un Shemá
o un consuelo sin
horizontes.
_________________
8.
AND AFTER, the prayer pursing
an argument about itself
where my hands
without place
were practicing
its hallelujah in a Shema
or a consolation without
horizons.
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9.
La plegaria que se alza
EN ESTE ENSALMO que ya es grieta,
se resquebraja
y se desoye.
Insisto en conservar la incertidumbre
(algo ha de haber
en el ritmo jadeante del verbo
como una tierra indómita,
de un corazón desbocado).
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9.
The prayer that rises
IN THIS INCANTATION is already a crack,
falls apart
and is disregarded.
I insist on conserving the uncertainty
(something should be
in the panting rhythm of the verb
like an indomitable land
of a flowing heart).
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10.
Y EN ESTE ACTO de leve desprendimiento ante un río
monosílabo
se suelta el escozor
por los mil matices de un bosque de abedules.
DIGO
como si diera cuchilladas
en la vida: esta zona difusa de lo judío como ajeno
y lo no judío como propio.
DIGO
circuncidando la letra desgraciada
en la raíz del hueso
que mueve las páginas de una biblia en otro mundo.
DIGO
como si la semilla de amapola
ya no fuera el sustento en lo oculto de la pena.
DIGO
fruto verbal como el rastro de baba
que deja a su paso el caracol
ante la ausencia de cordura.
¿hubo una vez una música
que no devenga en último reducto
contra la muerte?
DIGO
como lánguidos vestidos de alfabetos,
tesoros sin habla entre las noches.
DIGO
la hendidura del luto
es un nervio inútil entre espejos tapados.
DIGO, y madre que cruza en el limbo
la frontera cuando la escarcha
apresura sus pasos,
y su última canción
de arca rota
y poco ya
para decir.
____________________________
10.
AND IN THIS ACT of slight
release before a river
monosyllable
grief breaks loose
a thousand hues of a birch woods.
ISAY
as if there were slashes
In life of Jewishness as foreign.
and the not Jewish as close by.
ISAY
circumcising the disgraced letter
in the root of the bone
that moves the pages of a bible in another world.
ISAY
as if the poppy seed
was no longer the sustenance in the occult of the pain
Nascida em 1911, em Ucrânia, Elisa Lispector passou por uma longa jornada antes de publicar seu primeiro romance, Além da fronteira (1945). Ainda criança, vagou pela terra natal destruída pela guerrilha, de aldeia em aldeia, com a família, que fugia da perseguição antissemita instaurada após a Revolução Comunista de 1917. Aos nove anos, chega ao Brasil com pai, mãe e duas irmãs: Ethel, de três anos, e Clarice, recém-nascida. Depois de cinco duros anos em Maceió, a família se muda para Recife, onde consegue uma situação econômica mais estável. Lá, fica até 1937, quando segue para o Rio de Janeiro. Essa penosa odisseia familiar é retratada em No exílio (1948). Aos 26 anos, Elisa Lispector chega ao Rio de Janeiro, tendo se formado na Escola Normal, estudado no conservatório musical e lecionado para crianças em Recife. Entra concursada no serviço público federal e desempenha funções importantes, inclusive no exterior, secretariando delegações governamentais. Chegou a representar o Brasil em uma reunião da Organização Internacional do Trabalho, no Peru, para estudar os problemas da mão-de-obra feminina na América Latina. No Rio, ainda estuda sociologia na Escola Nacional de Filosofia e crítica de arte na Fundação Brasileira de Teatro. Sua aparição na literatura se dá nos anos 1940, em momento de maturidade intelectual e sob influência do existencialismo. Sua obra trata do enigma do ser. Refugia-se e se descobre na solidão e na comunicação impossível com o outro. Aspira à vida, sabendo que esta se encaminha inevitavelmente para a morte. Seus personagens descobrem corajosamente que é em seu íntimo e não no mundo das relações humanas que se deve procurar respostas para indagações sobre a vida. Elisa Lispector foi a primeira pessoa a receber, com o romance O muro de pedras (1963), o prêmio José Lins do Rego, destinado a autores de romances inéditos. Com o mesmo romance, ganhou o prêmio Coelho Neto da Academia Brasileira de Letras em 1964. Já reconhecida pela crítica como romancista de talento, estreia como contista e publica Sangue no sol (1970), lnventdrio (1977) e O tigre de bengala (1985), com o qual recebeu o prêmio Luísa Cláudio de Souza, do Pen Clube. A autora ainda colaborou com jornais e revistas literárias e publicou os romances Ronda solitária (1954), A última porta (1975) e Corpo a corpo (1983).
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Born in 1911, in Ukraine, Elisa Lispector went through a long journey before publishing her first novel, Além da Fronteira (1945). As a child, he wandered around his homeland destroyed by the guerrillas, from village to village, with his family, who were fleeing the anti-Semitic persecution following the 1917 Communist Revolution. At the age of nine, he arrived in Brazil with his father, mother and two sisters: Ethel, three years old, and Clarice, newborn. After five hard years in Maceió, the family moved to Recife, where they achieve a more stable economic situation. There, he stayed until 1937, when he went to Rio de Janeiro. This painful family odyssey is portrayed in O Exilio (1948). At the age of 26, Elisa Lispector arrives in Rio de Janeiro, having graduated from the Teachers School, studied at the music conservatory and taught children in Recife. She entered the federal public service and performed important functions, including abroad, serving as secretary to government delegations. She represented Brazil at a meeting of the International Labor Organization, in Peru, to study the problems of female labor in Latin America. In Rio, he studied sociology at the National School of Philosophy and art criticism at the Brazilian Theater Foundation. Her first writings took place in the 1940s, at a time of intellectual maturity and under the influence of existentialism. Her work deals with the enigma of being. She takes refuge and discovers himself in solitude and in impossible communication with others. She aspires to life, knowing that it inevitably leads to death. Her characters courageously discover that it is within themselves and not in the world of human relationships that one must look for answers to questions about life. Elisa Lispector was the first person to receive, with her novel O muro de pedras (1963), the José Lins do Rego award, intended for authors of unpublished novels. With the same novel, she won the Coelho Neto prize from the Brazilian Academy of Letters in 1964. Already recognized by critics as a talented novelist, he debuted as a short story writer and published Sangue no sol (1970), lnventdrio (1977) and O tigre de bengala (1985 ), with which he received the Luísa Cláudio de Souza award, from Pen Club. The author also collaborated with newspapers and literary magazines and published the novels Ronda solitaria (1954), A última porta (1975) and Corpo a corpo (1983).
“(…) Este dia vos será por memória, e celebrá-lo-eis por festa a Jehovah; entre vossas gerações o celebrareis por estatuto perpétuo…
Marim estendeu uma toalha branca sobre a mesinha redonda colocada no centro do quarto, dispôs sobre a mesa copos, pires, um prato de matzot e outro com batatas cozidas, sal e um pouco de raiz amarga.
Pinkhas, sentado a um canto, aguardava, absorto, vendo a mulher ir e vir sem entusiasmo, sem harmonia nos movimentos.
– Não pude arranjar nada que servisse de korbanot nem de kharosset. Só consegui raiz amarga para o maror. Aves, vinho, nozes … penso que ninguém mais se lembra o que isso vem a ser. Falava com voz arrastada.
– Chega o que obtiveste – respondeu Pinkhas, levantando-se e dirigindo-se para o lavatório. -Korbanot há muito, já, deveriam ter sido abolidos. Há milênios os judeus não mais imolam animais em oferenda a Deus. Hoje – acrescentou sombrio -, homens matam homens, para alegria do negro Satã. E se não há kharosset, também não faz mal. Maror por si só lembrará toda a amargura do cativeiro. Sentemo-nos à mesa. Comecemos o seder. – Dizendo isso, pôs na cabeça o solidéu, subitamente tomado de ira. Marim fitava-o calada, os movimentos cortados. Então ele dominou-se, e à raiva sobreveio uma lassidão muito grande. Agora também ele sentia-se como um seixo ao sabor da corrente, sem vontade, sem impulso. Aproximou-se da mesa, ajeitou dois travesseiros pequenos ao encosto da cadeira, à guisa de almofadas, sentou-se e começou a folhear a Hagadá.
– Papá, por que você se senta sobre os travesseiros? – perguntou Lizza.
Ele ergueu-se a meio, parecendo só então haver percebido o que tinha feito. Olhou, em seguida, serenamente para a menina e respondeu com voz lenta e segura:
– Os reis sentam-se sobre almofadas, e nós somos um povo de reis. Um povo livre. Um dia fomos escravizados pelo faraó, no Egito, mas nos libertamos. Um judeu não é escravo, e não escraviza a outrem.
– Papá, conta como foi no Egito.
Ternura branda invadiu o coração de Pinkhas, ante o olhar suplicante da filha. Tornou a ajeitar o barrete num gesto de quem está com o pensamento longe, e começou:
– Por longos anos viveram os judeus no Egito. Cresceram e se multiplicaram. Então, os egípcios temeram que o povo estranho se multiplicasse mais ainda, e porque o temeu, escravizou-o. É sempre assim -prosseguiu falando agora consigo mesmo. – Porque não nos conhecem suficientemente, temem-nos, e porque nos temem, hostilizam-nos. Assim foi no Egito, e assim tem sido em todos os Egitos por onde temos andado. Lá, aproveitaram-nos para o pastoreio – tarefa que um egípcio considerava indigna para si. Mas, quando aprendeu o ofício e viu que não lhe maculava as mãos, começou a perseguir-nos. Assim tem continuado a ser. Aqui exploram o nosso tino para os negócios, ali tomam-nos o ouro ganho com o nosso labor; acolá tiram partido de nosso amor ao saber. Depois acusam-nos de que “ameaçamos”, “açambarcamos”. Esta a maneira pela qual o mundo se conduz.
Lizza ouvia, confusa. Não compreendia o sentido de certas palavras, mas contristou-a o semblante do pai, repentinamente tão grave e compungido. Fitava-o nos olhos, e uma angústia tão funda estampou-se-lhe na fisionomia que Pinkhas afastou os negros pensamentos, e, para aliviar a tensão, procurou mostrar-se alegre. Até antecipou as perguntas e respostas do Ma Nischtana, as quatro perguntas rituais sobre a significação da Páscoa, de que a menina tanto gostava.
O pai lia, agora, a Hagadá, e a mãe fixava a chama da vela com o pensamento distante. Ethel continha-se para fechar a boca, com medo de que seu hálito apagasse a vela, comprimindo bem as mãozinhas contra o rosto. Lizza olhava de um para outro, e para dentro de si mesma, e sentia pesarem sobre eles as penas do cativeiro no Egito, a ira do rei mau. E numa retrospectiva desde o Egito longínquo e tenebroso até o quartinho frio e escuro no qual eles estavam encerrados, como numa prisão, deparava com um mundo temível e estranho. Pogroms, assassínios, medo, fugas, crueldades. Sua mente infantil estava conturbada.
Marim continuava concentrada em seus pensamentos, enquanto Pinkhas orava, e embora a cerimónia fosse de júbilo, o menear da cabeça e a entonação de sua voz diziam que as penas do povo de Israel não haviam acabado. O cativeiro
não terminara com a fuga do Egito, não. Os judeus continuavam a fugir de toda parte. Em toda parte, subsistiam os grilhões e se derramava sangue. Toda a história dos judeus, através dos séculos, vinha tinta de sangue.
A chama tremulou debilmente, prestes a extinguir-se; então Pinkhas guardou, pressuroso, o livro de oração, murmurou o tradicional “Leschaná Habaá Biruschalayim” -no ano próximo em Jerusalém -dividiu os matzot, repartiu as batatas, já frias, molhando cada porção em água e sal, e eles comeram em silêncio e sem fome. Depois deitaram-se, todos, sobre o mesmo estrado armado sobre caixotes de querosene e dormiram mais uma noite. sem sonhos.
Só Ethel acordou no dia seguinte maravilhada, dizendo que o pai havia comprado um kalatshi muito, muito grande, mostrou abrindo os bracinhos quanto pôde.
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93-95
O navio apoximava-se dos trópicos. A temperatura, amena; as noites, homp1das, estreladas.
Pmkhas não tinha sono. Subia ao tombadilho, cruzava as mãos atrás e passeava da popa à proa, e desta àquela. Às vezes parava, debruçava-se sobre a amurada do navio, perscrutava as águas profundas e negras do mar e experimentava uma sensação até então desconhecida. Diante da amplidão do céu e do mar a perder de vista, sentia-se integrado num plano mais extenso e imponderável da vida.
No porão, o calor e o ar viciado sufocavam. Marim dormitava, após um dia de náuseas e mal-estar. Ethel e Nina também dormiam. Só Lizza não conseguia conciliar o sono. Virava-se constantemente de um lado para outro, cansada, enervada. Pressentia o navio cortando as águas escuras, seu trajeto marcado pelo balançar cadenciado com que o navio se inclinava para um lado e outro, como o carpir de uma mulher velha, sem forças nem conseqüências, num ermo sem fim. E quando uma ratazana enorme e lerda, os pequeninos olhos fuzilando por entre o pêlo cinzento e repelente, passou sobre o travesseiro, roçando-lhe o rosto, toda a sua tensão nervosa explodiu em asco e revolta.
tou do leito e galgou a escada para fora do porão. Sabia o pai lá fora, procurou-o e, reunindo-se-lhe, com ele deu de andar acima e abaixo, ensimesmada como Pinkhas.
A brisa fresca, lavando-lhe a face, foi-lhe restituindo, gradativamente, a serenidade. Aos poucos, começou a tomar interesse pelo que lhe ia à volta.
Da primeira classe vinham os sons da Viúva alegre, de Lehar. Como era bonito. Deteve-se junto à escada, fascinada pelo deslumbramento das luzes, dos sons e a beleza e o encanto das damas e cavalheiros que passeavam, conversando, rindo, e fumando de delgadas e brilhantes piteiras.
Pinkhas também havia parado, e olhavam, ambos, para aquele mundo tão diferente do porão da terceira classe, um mundo feliz e descuidado, onde os adultos recreavam-se como crianças despreocupadas.
A um dado momento, alta e loura, trajando decotado vestido de lantejoulas, longos braços à mostra, a mulher reparou na menina, voltou e reapareceu com as mãos cheias de bombons. Estendeu-os a Lizza, sorrindo muito e proferindo palavras untuosas. Devia estar dizendo amabilidades, pensou a menina, e fitava-a com espanto e admiração, não querendo aproximar-se e não tendo ânimo para retroceder. A dama insistia, sorria sempre e estendia ainda mais os braços nus, longos e finos. Então Lizza subiu alguns degraus até a dama alta e esguia e colheu seu sorriso arqueado bem de perto e o punhado de bombons raros e tentadores. Mas no momento em que fazia, olhou de esguelha para o pai, e viu-lhe olhar triste, os lábios crispados. Agradeceu, confusamente, desceu a escada, e agora não sabia que fazer com aquilo. Sentia haver interposto uma barreira entre ela e o pai. Num movimento brusco, correu até o parapeito do navio e jogou os bombons no mar. fazia, olhou de esguelha para o pai, e viu-lhe olhar triste, os lábios crispados. Agradeceu, confusamente, desceu a escada, e agora não sabia que fazer com aquilo. Sentia haver interposto uma barreira entre ela e o pai. Num movimento brusco, correu até o parapeito do navio e jogou os bombons no mar.
“Agora”, pensou, “tão simples aproximar-me do pai.” Entretanto, permanecia atoleimada, os pés fincados no mesmo lugar, sentindo haver algo errado, mas não sabendo o quê. Aliás, era tão difícil compreender uma porção de tantas outras coisas. Muitas pessoas não estavam em seus devidos lugares, e sempre aconteciam coisas que não deveriam suceder. Dentro de si mesma esbarrava constantemente numa quantidade de obstáculos e contradições. Olhar para dentro de si própria era como perder-se numa caverna sem fim.
A esses pensamentos, sentiu um desamparo muito grande, um nó a a-Vamos, Lizzutschka, já é tarde. É hora de dormir. Desceram.
O navio virava rumo à aurora, as estrelas, esmaecendo; operar-lhe a garganta, e uma vontade tão grande, mas tão grande de chorar, ou de morrer.
Saiu de sua abstração ao sentir a mão do pai sobre a sua cabeça.
Frio, e um silêncio desolador sobre o oceano inteiro.
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69-71
“(…) This day will be a memorial to you, and you will celebrate it as a feast to Jehovah; among your generations you will celebrate it as a perpetual statute…
Marim spread a white tablecloth over the small round table placed in the center of the room, placed glasses, saucers, a plate of matzot and another with boiled potatoes, salt and a little bitter root on the table.
Pinkhas, sitting in a corner, waited, absorbed, watching the woman come and go without enthusiasm, without harmony in her movements.
– I couldn’t find anything that would serve as a korbanot or a kharosset. I only got bitter root for maror. Birds, wine, nuts… I don’t think anyone remembers what that is anymore. He spoke in a slurred voice.
– Enough what you got – Pinkhas replied, getting up and heading towards the washbasin. -Korbanot should have been abolished a long time ago. For millennia, Jews have no longer sacrificed animals as an offering to God. Today – he added gloomily -, men kill men, to the joy of the black Satan. And if there is no kharosset, it doesn’t hurt either. Maror alone will remind you of all the bitterness of captivity. Let’s sit at the table. Let’s begin the seder. – Saying this, he put the skullcap on his head, suddenly overcome with anger. Marim stared at him silently, her movements slow. Then he controlled himself, and a great lassitude came over his anger. Now he too felt like a pebble in the current, without will, without impulse. He approached the table, placed two small pillows on the back of the chair as cushions, sat down and began leafing through the Haggadah.
– Daddy, why do you sit on the pillows? – Lizza asked.
He stood up halfway, only then seeming to have realized what he had done. He then looked serenely at the girl and replied in a slow and confident voice:
– Kings sit on cushions, and we are a people of kings. A free people. One day we were enslaved by Pharaoh, in Egypt, but we freed ourselves. A Jew is not a slave, and does not enslave others.
– Daddy, tell me what it was like in Egypt.
Soft tenderness invaded Pinkhas’s heart, at his daughter’s pleading look. He adjusted his cap again in a gesture of someone who is thinking far away, and began:
– For many years the Jews lived in Egypt. They grew and multiplied. Then, the Egyptians feared that the strange people would multiply even more, and because they feared them, they enslaved them. It’s always like this – he continued talking to himself now. – Because they don’t know us well enough, they fear us, and because they fear us, they antagonize us. So it was in Egypt, and so it has been in all the Egypts where we have been. There, they used them for herding – a task that an Egyptian considered unworthy for him. But when he learned the trade and saw that it didn’t stain his hands, he began to persecute us. This is how it has continued to be. Here they exploit our business acumen, there they take the gold gained from our labor; there they take advantage of our love of knowledge. Then they accuse us of “threatening”, “stealing”. This is the way the world leads itself.
Lizza listened, confused. She didn’t understand the meaning of certain words, but her father’s face, suddenly so serious and sad, saddened her. He looked into his eyes, and such deep anguish spread across his face that Pinkhas pushed away his dark thoughts and, to relieve the tension, tried to appear happy. She even anticipated the questions and answers of Ma Nischtana, the four ritual questions about the meaning of Easter, which the girl loved so much.
The father was now reading the Haggadah, and the mother was staring at the candle flame with distant thoughts. Ethel stopped herself from closing her mouth, afraid that her breath would blow out the candle, pressing her little hands tightly against her face. Lizza looked from one to the other, and within herself, and felt the pains of captivity in Egypt, the wrath of the evil king, weighing on them. And looking back from distant, dark Egypt to the cold, dark little room in which they were locked up, as if in a prison, I came across a fearsome and strange world. Pogroms, murders, fear, escapes, cruelty. His childish mind was troubled.
Marim continued to concentrate on her thoughts, while Pinkhas prayed, and although the ceremony was one of joy, the shaking of her head and the intonation of her voice said that the sufferings of the people of Israel were not over. The captivity
it didn’t end with the escape from Egypt, no. Jews continued to flee everywhere. Everywhere, shackles remained and blood was spilled. The entire history of the Jews, throughout the centuries, was stained with blood.
The flame flickered weakly, about to go out; then Pinkhas hurriedly put away the prayer book, muttered the traditional “Leschaná Habaá Biruschalayim” -next year in Jerusalem -divided the matzot, divided the potatoes, already cold, dipping each portion in water and salt, and they ate in silence and not hungry. Then they all lay down on the same platform built on crates of kerosene and slept another night. no dreams.
Only Ethel woke up the next day amazed, saying that her father had bought a very, very big kalatshi, showing it by opening her little arms as much as she could.
Only Ethel woke up the next day amazed, saying that her father had bought a very, very large kalatshi, showing it by opening her little arms as much as she could.
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93-95
The ship was approaching the tropics. The temperature, love at; the nights, blessed, starry.
Pmkhas was not sleepy. He went up to the deck, folded his hands behind him and walked from stern to bow, and from there to that. Sometimes he would stop, lean over the ship’s rail, peer into the deep, black waters of the sea and experience a previously unknown sensation. Faced with the vastness of the sky and the sea as far as the eye could see, he felt integrated into a more extensive and imponderable plan of life.
In the basement, the heat and stale air suffocated. Marim was dozing after a day of nausea and discomfort. Ethel and Nina were also asleep. Only Lizza couldn’t sleep. She constantly turned from side to side, tired, nervous. I could feel the ship cutting through the dark waters, its path marked by the rhythmic swaying with which the ship tilted from one side to the other, like the mourning of an old woman, without strength or consequences, in an endless wilderness. And when a huge, sluggish rat, its tiny eyes glaring through its gray, repellent fur, passed over his pillow, brushing his face, all his nervous tension exploded into disgust and revolt.
I got out of bed and climbed the stairs out of the basement. She knew her father was out there, she looked for him and, joining him, walked up and down with him, as self-absorbed as Pinkhas.
The cool breeze, washing his face, gradually restored his serenity. Little by little, he began to take interest in what was going on around him.
From first class came the sounds of Lehar’s Merry Widow. How beautiful it was. She stopped by the stairs, fascinated by the dazzling lights, the sounds and the beauty and charm of the ladies and gentlemen who strolled around, talking, laughing, and smoking from thin, shiny cigarette holders.
Pinkhas had also stopped, and they were both looking at that world so different from the third class hold, a happy and careless world, where adults enjoyed themselves like carefree children.
At a given moment, tall and blonde, wearing a low-cut sequin dress, long arms exposed, the woman noticed the girl, came back and reappeared with her hands full of chocolates. He handed them to Lizza, smiling a lot and saying unctuous words. She must have been saying pleasantries, the girl thought, and she was looking at her with astonishment and admiration, not wanting to get any closer and not having the courage to back away. The lady insisted, always smiling and extending her long, thin, naked arms even further. Then Lizza climbed a few steps to the tall, slender lady and took a close look at her arching smile and a handful of rare and tempting chocolates. But as she did so, she glanced at his father, and saw him looking sad, his lips pursed. She thanked her, confused, went down the stairs, and now she didn’t know what to do with it. She felt that a barrier had been placed between her and her father. In a sudden movement, she ran to the ship’s railing and threw the sweets into the sea.
“Now”, she thought, “it’s so simple to get closer to my father.” However, she remained numb, her feet planted in the same place, feeling something was wrong, but not knowing what. In fact, it was so difficult to understand a lot of other things. Many people were not in their proper places, and things always happened that should not have happened. Within herself, she constantly encountered a number of obstacles and contradictions. Looking inside herself was like getting lost in an endless cave.
At these thoughts, he felt a great helplessness, a knot a-Come on, Lizzutschka, it’s already late. It’s time to sleep. They went down.
The ship turned toward dawn, the stars fading; operate on his throat, and such a great, great desire to cry, or to die.
She came out of her thoughts when she felt her father’s hand on his head.
Cold, and a desolate silence covered the entire ocean.
Susana Beibe, artista argentina, realizó su formación en pintura y escultura. Trabaja escultura en cemento, piedra, cerámica, metal y elementos no convencionales. Además realiza relieves con técnicas mixtas utilizando todos los derivados del papel.Estudió en la Escuela Nacional de Cerámica y su formación en escultura y dibujo la realizo con los maestros: Leo Tavella, Aurelio Macchi y Leo Vinci. Algunos de sus esculturas monumentales están emplazadas en el Centro Cultural San Martín, Plaza Seca, Buenos Aires, Parque Lenín, La Habana, Cuba. Museo Metropolitano, Buenos Aires. Invitada a dar seminarios sobre creatividad en España y Canada. Realizó el proyecto “Jugando en la Vereda” para la lX Bienal de La Habana, muestra colateral. Ganadora del proyecto del Monumento a la Humanidad por la Argentina a realizar por la Humanitad Foundation, United Kingdom. Susana Beibe integró numerosas exposiciones colectivas en salones nacionales y municipales y realizó muestras individuales en espacios públicos y privados, a nivel nacional e internacional. Sus obras se encuentran en colecciones institucionales y privadas de Argentina y el exterior.
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Serie Cabezas
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Susana Beibe, Argentine artist, completed her training in painting and sculpture. He works sculpture in cement, stone, ceramics, metal and unconventional elements. He also makes reliefs with mixed techniques using all derivatives of paper. He studied at the National School of Ceramics and his training in sculpture and drawing was done with the masters: Leo Tavella, Aurelio Macchi and Leo Vinci. Some of his monumental sculptures are located in the San Martín Cultural Center, Plaza Seca, Buenos Aires, Parque Lenín, Havana, Cuba. Metropolitan Museum, Buenos Aires. Invited to give seminars on creativity in Spain and Canada. He carried out the project “Jugando en la Vereda” for the 10th Havana Biennial, collateral exhibition. Winner of the Monument to Humanity for Argentina project to be carried out by the Humanitad Foundation, United Kingdom. Susana Beibe participated in numerous group exhibitions in national and municipal exhibitions and held individual exhibitions in public and private spaces, nationally and internationally. His works are found in institutional and private collections in Argentina and abroad.
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Durante sus vasta trayectoria como artista plástica y pintora, el arte de Susana habla por su colorido y su aproximación al mercado, siendo a la vez conmovedor y aplicable a todo tipo de espacios.
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Throughout her vast career as a visual artist and painter, Susana’s art speaks for its color and its approach to the market, being both moving and applicable to all types of spaces.
