Luis Krausz
Luis S. Krausz nasceu em São Paulo, em 1961, em uma família judia de imigrantes. Obteve mestrado em Estudos Clássicos pela Universidade da Pensilvânia e é doutor em Literatura Judaica Moderna pela Universidade de São Paulo, onde leciona Literatura Judaica e Hebraica. Krausz traduz literatura alemã e hebraica para o português e é vencedor de diversos prêmios literários no Brasil, incluindo o Prêmio Benvirá por Deserto, seu segundo romance — obra que também foi finalista do Prêmio Jabuti. Em 2016, seu romance Bazaar Paraná conquistou o segundo lugar no Prêmio Jabuti, e sua obra mais recente, Outro lugar, venceu o Prêmio CEPE em 2017.
“A prosa de Luis Krausz é fluente, clara, com longas passagens de cunho proustiano.”
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Luis S. Krausz was born into an émigré Jewish family in São Paulo in 1961. He earned a Master’s degree in Classical Studies at the University of Pennsylvania and holds a PhD in Modern Jewish Literature from the Universidade de São Paulo, where he teaches Jewish and Hebrew Literature. Krausz translates German and Hebrew Literature into Portuguese, and he is the recipient of several literary prizes in Brazil, including the Benvirá Prize for Deserto, his second novel, also shortlisted for the Jabuti Prize. In 2016, his novel Bazaar Paraná, took second place in the Jabuti Prize, and his latest work, Outro lugar, won the CEPE Prize in 2017.
“Luis Krausz’s prose is fluent, clear, with long, Proustian passages.”
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Luid S. Krausz. Desterro: memórias em ruinas. Sâo Paulo: Tordesillas, 2022, 89-95.
Bom Retiro, Melhor Retiro
Certa vez, num sábado de manhã, meu pai anunciou uma expedição a Bom Retiro. Iríamos em busca de pão preto e de kasha•, iguarias cujo nome meu pai glorificava e enaltecia como o fizeram os nossos antepassados. Depois, que voltávamos de semelhantes expedições, a cheira do kasha cozinhando lentamente na grande panela de alumínio Rochedo, sobre o fogão de perninhas, escapava da cozinha pela porta entreaberta e se espalhava pela casa: uma cheira vulgar e penetrante, uma cheira de desalento e necessidade, e quando o cereal cinzento aparecia sobre a mesa do almoço, fumegante, eu me sentia insultado e ofendido. Mas meu pai comia aquilo com carne de panela, a moda egípcia, e molho, e engalia cerveja entre uma garfada e outra. Assim, quando ele anunciou que iríamos ao Bom Retiro para comprar kasha, um presságio ruim atravessou meu estomago. Era urna manhã de sol, de calor, e no rádio do carro, não sei por que, meu pai sintonizou urna esta9ao que transmitia em alemão, e tocava velhos Schlager. * Nunca tínhamos ouvido aquela estação de rádio, nem voltei a ouvi-la depois daquele dia. Talvez devesse servir como urna forma de antídoto para aquela visita ao bairro judeu? As calçadas cheias de gente não me pareciam muito diferentes das outras cal9adas do centro da cidade, mas eu sabia que, em algum ponto daquele trajeto, tínhamos cruzado urna fronteira invisível, pois a cada tanto minha mãe apontava pela janela, para este e para aquele lado, e no meio da multidão, como que eleitos por algum destino especial, destacavam-se os homens de capotes pretos, chapéus e barbas, cuja alvura parecia vinda de outro mundo, e urna expressão horrenda acompanhava a palavra “ortodoxo”, que esvoaçava celeste para aquele lado da cabine calorenta do nosso carro, acompanhando os gestos nervosos de minha mãe e interrompendo a transmissão da voz de velhinha bem-humorada da apresentadora do programa de Schlager da rádio alemã. Era como se fantasmas estivessem vagando pelas calçadas naquela manhã de sol, seguidas por crian9as que não se davam conta do macabro da situa9ao. Eu não sabia que eram sábios piedosos, isolados e incapazes de falar a língua do lugar em que viviam. E a voz da velhinha bondosa, que falava alemão pelo rádio, era como a da dona da casa do pão de gengibre, a doce senhorinha cujo forno clava a luz as luxuriantes bolachas amanteigadas que eram vendidas na mercearia do português, cuidadosamente arrumadas em fileiras de oito, em saquinhos transparentes e crocantes, fechados com rotulos de cartolina, com letras góticas e com desenhos coloridos da Branca de Neve e dos Sete Anões, moedas grossas açucaradas que estalavam nos dentes, desciam para o estomago aos cacos, para se dissolverem, numa felicidade untuosa, uma felicidade que subia pelo peito e fazia meu rosto reluzir. Mas nossa viagem ao Bom Retiro era em busca de outras especialidades, e assim que dessemos do carro para entrar na mercearia apinhada, me vi diante de um colossal barril cheio de herring.* As matronas judias ainda se davam o trabalho de comprar os peixes inteiros, desossá-los, cortá-los em filés, temperá-los. Consideravam urna vergonha comprar comida pronta. O barril emanava um cheiro forte de mar e trazia aquele gueto em pedaços a memória de outras terras, como se não houvesse nada de novo sob o sol. A vista dos peixes boiando na salmoura proporcionava algum conforto a minha mae, porque seu olhar se demorou ali antes de entrar no lufa-lufa da mercearia. As coisas, lá, evidentemente, nunca eram só o que eram. O barril de arenques era também uma alceia na paisagem pantanosa da Galícia Oriental; seu cheiro era o de peixe salgado misturado a neblina das noites frias, dos casebres onde famílias de muitos membros se aqueciam debaixo de sacos grossos de plumas.
Havia também outro barril grande, com pepinos em conserva, que imediatamente atraiu a atenção de meu pai, e antes que ele pudesse arrancar minha mãe do fascínio heliotrópico que mantinha seus olhos pregados no barril de herring, urna moça ofereceu a meu pai um daqueles pepinos reluzentes, pingando de salmoura. Para meu alívio, ele recusou com um sorriso educado.
Finalmente, quando partimos de lá, levávamos pacotes de kasha, de papel pardo amarrado com barbante, pães, e herrings envoltos em jornal. As nervuras dos arenques deixavam marcas no papel de embrulho, como se ele fosse um sudário. Meu pai desligou a rádio alemã. Urna parte dos herrings seria levada a casa de minha avó materna, no domingo, quando a visitávamos no apartamento pequeno e frio na rua dos Pinheiros, bem em frente a avenida Brasil. Um clima de suspense que nunca cedia pairava no ar, ali.
A atmosfera desolada do apartamento já se abatía sobre ele como urna pena quando entravamos no carro a caminho da rua dos Pinheiros. Era como se estivéssemos partindo para uma visita aos mortos. Minha irmã e eu tínhamos de vestir roupas engomadas e duras e calçar botinas engraxadas para, quando a avó apertasse nossas bochechas com seus dedos ossudos, nos sentíssemos dentro de uma armadura, pois nada aterrorizava mais minha mãe do que a possibilidade de ser acusada de desleixo. Meu tio agarrava nossas cabecitas e beijava nossas bochechas. Aos poucos urna expressão aborrecida ia distorcendo as faces do meu pai e, no amargor dos cigarros, ele buscava descanso para algum sofrimento que não tinha nome. De quando em quando, meu tio mais velho emitia um tipo de grunhido, um som produzido pela glote que Ilhe saía pelo nariz ao expirar, como se quisesse expulsar algum caroços respiratórias. Ninguém parecia incomodar-se com isso: seus ruídos pareciam tao naturais quanto os estalos do pendulo do carrilhão envidraçado, atrás da poltrona sem braços, mumificada numa capa branca que ia até o chão, sobre a qual meu tio Boris observava tudo. O pendulo prateado mastigava as horas, raivoso, com a lembrança de tempos melhores. Meus tios fingiam não ilhe dar atenção e observavam o jogo na televisão. Meus primos e eu, enquanto isso, nos púnhamos debaixo da mesa e brincávamos que éramos os moradores de urna cidade tomada pela lava de urna grande erupção e que ali era o nosso refúgio.
Depois, meu tio Boris desapareceu. Aos poucos seu tornou claro que ele namorava urna schíckse,• e que se juntara com ela, vivendo em abominação. Minha avó, e com ela meus tios, o desprezavam por isso e ele recolheu-se a sua vergonha e não se deixara mais ver. Meus tios, de tempos em tempos, o encontravam, em segredo. Depois que ele desapareceu, seu nome continuava a manifestar-se naquelas tardes de domingo, voava de um lado a outro da sala, como um grande inseto enlouquecido, e se chocava com vidro da janela, coma parede, como ominoso carrilhão. Depois se cansavam desse jogo de peteca. A sala era estreita demais e logo se instalava apatia iresignada e melancólica de quem se entrega ao destino de braços cruzados.
Voltávamos bem tarde para casa.
* Trigo-sarraceno, em russo e em iídiche.
*Arenque em salmoura em iídiche
* Músicas populares alemãs.
* Gentia em íidishe
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Bom Retiro, Melhor Retiro
Once, on a Saturday morning, my father announced an expedition to Bom Retiro. We were going in search of black bread and kasha, delicacies whose name my father glorified and extolled as our ancestors had done. After we returned from such expeditions, the smell of kasha slowly cooking in the large Rochedo aluminum pot on the stove with its little legs escaped from the kitchen through the half-open door and spread throughout the house: a vulgar and penetrating smell, a smell of despondency and need, and when the grey cereal appeared on the lunch table, steaming, I felt insulted and offended. But my father ate it with pot roast, Egyptian style, and sauce, and gulped down beer between bites. So, when he announced that we were going to Bom Retiro to buy kasha, a bad premonition crossed my stomach. It was a sunny, warm morning, and on the car radio, I don’t know why, my father tuned into a station broadcasting in German, playing old Schlager records. * We had never heard that radio station before, nor did I hear it again after that day. Perhaps it should serve as a kind of antidote to that visit to the Jewish quarter? The sidewalks full of people didn’t seem very different from the other sidewalks in the city center, but I knew that, at some point along that route, we had crossed an invisible border, because every now and then my mother would point out the window, this way and that, and in the middle of the crowd, as if chosen by some special destiny, stood out the men in black overcoats, hats, and beards, whose whiteness seemed to come from another world, and a horrendous expression accompanied the word “Orthodox,” which fluttered celestially towards that side of the hot cabin of our car, following the nervous gestures of my mother and interrupting the broadcast of the cheerful, elderly voice of the German radio Schlager show host. It was as if ghosts were wandering the sidewalks that sunny morning, followed by children who didn’t grasp the macabre nature of the situation. I didn’t know they were pious sages, isolated and unable to speak the language of the place where they lived. And the kind old lady’s voice, speaking German on the radio, was like that of the gingerbread-house woman—the sweet little lady whose oven brought forth the rich, buttery cookies sold at the Portuguese grocer’s: carefully arranged in rows of eight inside crisp, clear bags sealed with cardstock labels featuring Gothic lettering and colorful illustrations of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs—thick, sugary discs that crunched between one’s teeth and slid down to the stomach in shards, only to dissolve into a buttery bliss, a happiness that rose through my chest and made my face glow. But our trip to Bom Retiro was in search of other specialties, and as soon as we stepped out of the car and into the crowded grocery store, I found myself facing a colossal barrel filled with herring. Jewish matrons still took the trouble to buy the fish whole, debone them, and cut them into. fillets, seasoning them. They considered buying ready-made food a disgrace. The barrel gave off a strong scent of the sea, bringing memories of other lands to that ghetto—as if there were nothing new under the sun. The sight of the fish floating in brine offered my mother some comfort; her gaze would linger there before she stepped into the bustle of the grocery store.
Things there were, of course, never merely what they seemed. The herring barrel was also a village in the marshy landscape of Eastern Galicia; its scent was that of salted fish mingled with the mist of cold nights and the hovels where large families kept warm beneath thick feather quilts.
There was also another large barrel, this one containing pickled cucumbers, which immediately caught my father’s eye; before he could tear my mother away from the heliotropic fascination that kept her gaze fixed on the herring barrel, a young woman offered him one of those glistening pickles, dripping with brine. To my relief, he declined with a polite smile.
Finally, when we left, we carried packages of kasha wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, loaves of bread, and herrings wrapped in newspaper. The ridges of the herrings left marks on the wrapping paper, as if it were a burial shroud. My father turned off the German radio. Some of the herrings would be taken to my maternal grandmother’s house on Sunday, when we visited her in her small, cold apartment on Rua dos Pinheiros, right across from Avenida Brasil. An unyielding sense of suspense hung in the air there. Sometimes, the many cries silenced over the years would suddenly erupt in the waxed-floor room, without carpets, on the bare white walls of the rented apartment, which couldn’t be marred by nails or pictures, on the furniture, covered in white slipcovers, waiting for the day when we could finally see its hungry stomach, whose color I didn’t know. And then my Uncle Boris, always sitting in the corner armchair, dressed in his shiny suits, his heavy glasses with thick dark green lenses and a cigar between his fingers, would shout in Yiddish, infuriating my mother and uncles, making my grandmother wring her hands, sometimes bringing tears to her eyes. After a few moments, everything would calm down. My grandmother would bring the crystal glasses from the kitchen and place them at the end of the table, on the part covered by a small tablecloth, along with the little bottles of guaraná and lemon-lime soda—drinks that were forbidden in our house—and the plate with the somewhat sad, round cookies she made, decorated in the middle with a small piece of sticky guava paste, and one of my uncles would turn on the television with its slender legs and wooden cabinet, always gleaming, which sat in a corner of the room, and the sports commentator would recount the plays of the football game. A few more sighs and everyone would resign themselves. For my father, those visits on Sunday afternoons were just another obligation that soured his life. It cast a long shadow over the weekend.
The desolate atmosphere of the apartment already weighed down on him like a feather when we got into the car on our way to Rua dos Pinheiros. It was as if we were going to visit the dead. My sister and I had to wear stiff, starched clothes and polished boots so that, when Grandma pinched our cheeks with her bony fingers, we would feel like we were inside armor, for nothing terrified my mother more than the possibility of being accused of slovenliness. My uncle would grab our little heads and kiss our cheeks. Gradually, a look of annoyance would distort my father’s face, and in the bitterness of his cigarettes, he sought relief from some nameless suffering. From time to time, my eldest uncle would let out a sort of grunt—a sound produced in the glottis and expelled through his nose as he exhaled, as if trying to dislodge some obstruction in his airways. No one seemed bothered by it; his noises seemed as natural as the ticking of the pendulum in the glass-fronted grandfather clock behind the armless chair—which was mummified in a white floor-length cover and from which Uncle Boris observed everything. The silver pendulum chewed on the hours, furious, haunted by memories of better times. My uncles pretended not to notice him, focusing instead on the game on television. Meanwhile, my cousins and I would crawl under the table and play at being the inhabitants of a city engulfed by lava from a massive eruption, with that space serving as our refuge.
Then, Uncle Boris disappeared. It gradually became clear that he was courting shiksa* and had moved in with her, living in a state of abomination. My grandmother—and my uncles along with her—despised him for this; he retreated into his shame and was never seen again. My uncles would meet him in secret from time to time. Even after he vanished, his name continued to surface on those Sunday afternoons, flitting back and forth across the room like a frenzied giant insect, crashing against the windowpane, the wall, and that ominous grandfather clock. Eventually, they would tire of this game of shuttlecock. The room was too narrow, and a resigned, melancholy apathy soon set in—the kind felt by those who surrender to their fate with folded arms.
We would return home very late.
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* Buckwheat, in Russian and Yiddish.
* Brined herring, in Yiddish.
* German folk songs.
* Gentile woman, in Yiddish.
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