Samuel Rawet ( 1929-1984) Contista judaico brasileiro/Brazilian Jewish Short-Story Writer– “O profeta”/”The Prophet” — conto de importȃncia histórica/short-story of historical importance

       

Samuel Rawet

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Aclamado como um pioneiro da moderna literatura judaico-brasileira, Samuel Rawet escreveu contos e romances que exploraram temas de alienação e deslocamento. Nascido perto de Varsóvia, na Polónia, Rawet fez do Brasil, país católico romano, o seu lar adoptivo, mas a sua escrita revela um forte sentido de alteridade dentro desta sociedade mais ampla. Rawet mudou-se para o Brasil aos sete anos. Engenheiro formado, morou no Rio de Janeiro até 1957, quando se mudou para a nova capital nacional, Brasília, para ajudar a projetar e construir sua infraestrutura. Sua vida foi isolada; o escritor morava sozinho e raramente viajava. Sua primeira coletânea de contos, Contos do Imigrante, é considerada um marco. As histórias de Rawet não apenas introduzem temas da experiência judaica no Brasil, mas também usam esses temas para desafiar a ideia comum do Brasil, ou mesmo de toda a América Latina, como uma entidade cultural única. Como observou seu tradutor inglês Nelson H. Vieira, ” Rawet” questiona o comportamento demonstrado em relação a alguns ‘outros étnicos’, que não refletem a cultura predominantemente cristã do Brasil e seus costumes tradicionais. Em outras palavras, no nível estrutural profundo, as histórias de Rawet abordam as dificuldades de conciliar as crenças e a cultura judaicas com as normas nacionalistas e culturais brasileiras.”

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Toda as ilusões perdidas, só lhe restara mesmo aquele gesto. Suspenso já o passadiço, e tendo soado o último apito, o vapor levantaria a âncora. Olhou de novo os guindastes meneando fardos, os montes de minérios. Lá embaixo correrias e fugas estranhas. Pescoçoa estirados em gritos para os que o rodeavam no parapeito do convés. Lenços. De longe o buzinar de automóveis a denunciar a vida que continuava na cidade que estava agora abandonando. Pouco lhe importavam os olhares zombeteiros de alguns. Em outra ocasião sentir-se-ia magoa­ do. Compreendera que a barba branca e o capotáo além do joelho compunham urna figura estranha para eles. Acostumara-se. Agora mesmo ririam da magra figura toda negra, exceto o rosto, a barba e as mios mais brancas ainda. Ninguém ousava, entretanto, o desafio com os olhos que impunham respeito e confiavam um certo ar majestoso ao conjunto. Relutou com os punhos trançados na remora a fuga de seu interior da serenidade que até ali o trouxera. Ao apito surdo teve consciência plena da solidei-o em que mergulhava. O retomo, única saída que encontrara, afigurava-se lhe vazio e inconsequente. Pensou, no momento de hesitação, ter agido como criança. A ideia que se fora agigantando nos últimos tempos e que culminara com a sua presença no convés tinha receio de vela esboroada no instante de dúvida O medo da solidão aterrava-o mais pela experiencia a querida no contacto diário coma morte. Em tempo ainda de em o passadio, por favor, de em!…

A figura gorda da mulher a seu lado girou ao ouvi ou ao julgar ouvir, as palavras do velho.  

       -O senhor falou comigo?

Inútil. A barreira da língua, sabia-o, não ilhe permitiria mais nada. O rosto da mulher desfigurou-se com a negativa e os olhos de súplica do velho. Com exceção o recurso mesmo seria a mímica e isso! hei acentuar a inutilidade que o dominava. S6 então percebeu que murmurara a frase, e envergonhado fechou os olhos.

    -Minha mulher, meus filhos, meu genro.

Aturdido mirava o grupo que ia abrasando e beijado, grupo estranho (mesmo o irmão e os primos, na fossem as fotografias remetidas antes ser-lhe-iam estranhos, também), e as lágrimas que então rolaram não e de ternura, mas gratidão. Os mais velhos conheceram-no. quando crianças. O próprio irmão havia trinta anos e pouco mais que um adolescente. Aqui se casara, tive filhos e filhas, e casara a filha também. Nem recolhido as molas macias do carro que o genro guiava cessaram de correr as lágrimas. As perguntas em assalto respondiam com gestos, meias-palavras, ou então com o silencio. O corpo magro, mas rijo, que apesar da idade produzira trabalho, e garantira sua vida, oscilava com as hei situações do tráfego, e a vista nenhuma vez procurou paisagem. Mas parecia concentrar-se como que respondendo a avalanche de ternura. O que! hei ia por dentro seria impossível transmitir no contacto superficial que iniciava agora. Deduziu que seus silêncios eram constrangedores. Os silêncios que se sucedi aquesto ­ rio sobre si mesmo, sobre o que mais terrível experimentara. Esquecer o acontecido, nunca. Mas como amesquinhá-lo, tirar-lhe a essência do horror ante urna mesa bem-posta, ou um chá tomado entre finas almofadas e macias poltronas? Os olhos ávidos e inquiridores que O rodeavam não teriam ouvido e visto bastante para também se horrorizarem e com ele participar dos silêncios? Um mundo só. Supunha encontrar aquém-mar 0 conforto dos que como ele haviam sofrido, mas que0 acaso pusera, marginalmente, a salvo do pior. E conscientes disso partilhariam com ele em humildade o en­contro. Vislumbrou, porém, um ligeiro engano-o apartamento ocupado pelo irmão ficava no último andar do prédio. A varanda aberta para o mar recebia a noite o choque das ondas com mais furor que de dia. Ali gostava de sentar-se (voltando da sinagoga após a prece noturna) com o sobrinho-neto no colo a balbuciarem ambas as coisas não sabidas. Os dedos da criança embarcavam-se na barba e as vezes tenteavam com forca urna ou outra mecha. Esfregava então seu nariz duro ao. arredondado e cartilaginoso e riam ambos um riso solto e sem intenções. Entretinham-se até a hora em que o irmão voltava e iam jantas.

Nas primeiras semanas houve alvoroce o e muitas casas a percorrer, muitas mesas em que comer, e em todas revoltava-o o apecto de coisa curiosa que assurgia. Com o tempo, arrefecidos os entusiasmos e a curiosidade, ficara só com o irmão. Falar mesmo só com este ou a mulher. Os outros quase não o entendiam, nem os sobrinhos, muito menos o genro, por quem principiava a não trair antipatia.

          Aí vem o “Profeta”!

Mal abrira a porta, a frase e o riso debochado de genro surpreenderam-no. Fez como se não tivesse no do o constrangimento dos outros. Atrasara-se no caminho da sinagoga e eles já o esperavam a mesa. De ré! céu, percebeu o olhar de censura do irmão e o risco do de um dos pequenos. Só Paulo (assim batizaram neto, que em realidade se chamava Pinkos) agitou as más num blá-blá como a reclamar a brincadeira perdida. Mudo, depositou o chapéu no cabide, ficando só coma preta de seda. Da lingua nada havia ainda aprendido. Mas, observador, se bem que não arriscasse, consegue por associação gravar alguma coisa. E o “profeta” que o riso moleque lhe pespegara a entrada, ia-se tornando familiar. Seu significado não o atingia. Pouco improva, no entanto. A palavra nunca andava sem um o irónico, urna ruga de riso. No banheiro (lavava as mãos recordou as inúmeras vezes em que os mesmos sons foram pronunciados a sua frente. E Iigou cenas. Do fundo boiou a lembrança de coisa análoga no templo.

O engano esbozado no primeiro dia acentuava-se. A sensação de que o mundo deles era bem outro, de que não participaram em nada do que fora (para ele) a noite horrível, ia se transformando lentamente em objeto con. ciente. Eram-lhe enfadonhos os jantares reunidos no. quais ficava a margem. Quando as crianças dormiam outros casais vinham conversar, apalermava-se com a toda palestra, as piadas concupiscentes, as cifras sem jogadas, a propósito de tudo, e, a vezes, sem nenhum.

      A guerra o despojara de todas as ilusãos anteriores e afirmara-lhe a precariedade do que antes era sólido. Só ficara intacta sua fé em Deus e na religião, tão arraiga­ da, que mesmo nos transes mais amargos conseguira expulsar. (Já o tentara, reconhecia, em vão.) Nem bem se passara um ano e tinha a sua frente numa monótona repetirão o que julgava terminado. A situação parasitária do genro despertou-lhe ódio, e, a muito custo, dormitou-o. Vira outras mãos em outros acenos. E as unhas não tratadas e os anéis, e o corpo roliço e o riso estúpido e a inutilidade concentravam a revolta que era geral. Quantas vezes (meia-noite ia longe) deixava-se esquecer na varanda com o cigarro aceso a ouvir numa fala bilíngue risadas canalhas (para ele) entre um cartear e outro.

–  Então é isso?

Os outros julgariam caduquice. Ele bem sabia que não. O monólogo fora-lhe útil quando pensava endoidar. Hoje era hábito. Quando só, descarregava a tensão urna que outra frase sem nexo senão para ele. Recordava-se que um dia (no início, logo) esborrara em meio a alguma conversa um tênue protesto, dera um sinal fraco de revolta, e talvez seu indicador cortasse o ar em acenos carregados de intenções. O mesmo na sinagoga quando a displicência da maioria tumultuara urna prece.

– Esses gordos senhores da vida e da fartura nada tem a fazer aqui – murmurara algum dia para si mesmo. Talvez daí profeta. (Descobrira, depois, o significado.)

Pensou em alterar um pouco aquela ordem e principiou a narrar o que havia negado antes. Mas agora não parecia interessar-lhes. Por condescendência (não compreendiam o que de sacrifício isso representava para ele ouviram-no de as primeiras veres e não faltaram lágrima nos olhos das mulheres. Depois, botou-lhes aborreci-me tão, enfado, pensou descobrir censuras em alguns olhar e adivinhou frases como estas: “Que quer com tudo só? Por que nos atormenta com coisas que não nos d’ rem respeito?” Havia rugas de remorso quando reco davam alguém que ilhes dizia respeito, sim. Mas era rápidas. Sumiam como um vinco em boneco de borracha. Não tardou que as manifestações se tornassem abetas, se bem que mascaradas.

      -O senhor sofre com isso. Porque insiste tanto calou. E mais que isso, emudeceu. Pouca veres Ilhe ouviram a palavra, e não repararam que se ia colocam numa situação marginal. Só Pinkos (ele assim lo chamaba) continuava a transitar sua barba, esfregar o nariz, contar histórias intermináveis com seus olhos redondo. Inutilidade.

O mar trazia lembranças tristes e lançava incógnitas. Solidão sobre solidão. Interrogava-se as veres, sobre sua capacidade de resistir a um meio que não e mais o seu. Chiados de ondas. Um dedo pequeno me grulhado em sua boca e um riso ao choque. Riso sacudi do. Poderá condenar? Não, se fosse gozo após a tormenta. Não, não poderia nem condenar a si mesmo se por qualquer motivo aderisse, apesar da idade. Mas os ou três? Cegos e surdos na insensibilidade e autossuficiência! Erguia-se então. Caminhava pelos cómodos, perscrutando no conforto um contraste que sabia de antemão não existir. Aliciava argumentos contra si mesmo inutilmente. E do fundo um gosto amargo, decepcionante. Os dias se acumulavam na rotina ele há era penosa a estado os sábados na sinagoga. O livro de orações aberto (desnecessário, de cor murmurava todas as preces) fechava os olhos as intrigas e se punha de lado, sempre de lado. No caminho admirava as cores vistosa das vitrinas, os arranha-céus se perdendo na volta do pescar o .incessante arrastar de automóveis. E nisso tudo lhe pesava a solidão, o estado de espírito que não encontrara afinidade. Soube ser recente a fortuna do irmão.

Numa pausa contara-lhe os anos de! uta e subúrbio, e triunfante, em gestos largos, concluía pela segurança atual. Mais que alaotaras sensações essa ecoou fundo. Concluiu ser impossível a afinidade, pois as experiencias eram opostas. A sua, amarga. A outra, vitoriosa. E no mesmo intervalo de tempo!? Deus, meu Deus! As noites de insônia sucederam-se. Tentou concluir que um sentimento de veja carregava-lhe o ódio. Impossível. Honesto consigo mesmo entreviu sem forcas essa conclusão. E suportou o oposto, mais difícil. As formas na penumbra do quarto (dormia com o neto) compunham cenas que não esperava rever. Madrugadas horríveis e ossadas. Rostos.de angústia e preces evolando das cinzas humanas. As feições da mulher apertando o xale no último instante, onde os olhos, onde os olhos que mudos traíram o grito animal? Risada canalha. Carteado. Cifras. Olha o “profeta” aí! E caras de gozo gargalhando do capote suspenso na cadeira. Impossível.

Gritos amontoados deram-lhe a notícia da saída. Olhou o cais. Lentamente a faixa d’água aumentava aos acenos finais. Retesou todas as fibras do corpo. Quando voltassem da estação de águas encontrariam a esta sobre a mesa. E seriam inúteis os protestos, porque tardios. Aproveitara a duas semanas de ausência. O suporte de turista (depois pensavam em tomá-lo pernente) facilitara-lhe o plano. O dinheiro que possessgotou-se a compra da passagem. Regresso. A empegada estranhou um pouco ao vê-lo sair com a mala. juntou o fato afigura excêntrica que no início! Ihle dirá um pouco de medo. Planos? Não os tinha. La a nas em busca da companhia de semelhantes, semelhe-te, sim. Talvez do fim. As energias que o gesto e agiu esgotaram-no, e a fraqueza trouxera hesitações. E te o irremediável os olhos frustrados dilataram-se na sia de travar o pranto. Miúda, já, a figuras acenando. O fundo montanhoso, azulando num céu de meio dia. Blocos verdes de ilhotas e espumas nos sulcos dos lanchãoes. (Há sempre gaivota. Mas não conseguiu lá.) Novamente os punhos cerrando e trançando, as te porás apoiadas nos brazos, e a figura negra, em for de gancho, trepidando em lágrimas.

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All illusions lost all, all he had left was that gesture. With the bridge already suspended, and the last whistle having sounded, the steamer would raise the anchor. He looked again at the cranes moving bales, the piles of ore. Down there, strange runs and escapes. His neck stretched out in yelling to those around him on the deck railing. Scarves. From afar, the honking of cars denouncing the life that continued in the city that he was now abandoning. He didn’t care much about the mocking looks of some people. Another time he would feel hurt. He understood that the white beard and the overcoat above the knee made for a strange figure for them. He got used to it. Right now, they would laugh at the thin figure, all black, except for the whiter face, beard and hands. However, no one dared the challenge the eyes that commanded respect and gave a certain majestic air to the whole. With his fists tightened and braided in remorse, he resisted escaping from his inner serenity, that had brought him there. At the dull whistle he was fully aware of the solidity he was diving into. The return, the only way out he had found, seemed empty and inconsequential. He thought, in the moment of hesitation, that he had acted like a child. The idea that had been growing in recent times and that had culminated in his presence on deck was a fear of a shattered sail in the moment of doubt. The fear of loneliness terrified him more because of his experience in daily contact with death. There’s still time to get to the walkway, please, get to it!… The fat figure of the woman at his side turned as she heard, or thought she heard, the old man’s words.

            -Did you speak to me?

            Useless. The language barrier, he knew, would not allow him anything else. The woman’s face was disfigured by the old man’s denial and pleading eyes. With the exception of the resource itself would be mime and that! I will accentuate the uselessness that dominated him. He then realized that he had mumbled the phrase, and in shame he closed his eyes.

    -My wife, my children, my son-in-law.

In the first weeks there was excitement and many houses to visit, many tables to eat at, and in all of them he was revolted by the appearance of some curious thing that appeared. Over time, as his enthusiasm and curiosity cooled, he was left alone with his brother. Talk only to this person or the woman. The others hardly understood him, not even his nephews, much less his son-in-law, for whom he began to show no antipathy.

Here comes the “Prophet”!

As soon as he opened the door, his son-in-law’s mocking laugh and statement surprised him. He acted as if he didn’t care about other people’s embarrassment. He was late on the way to the synagogue and they were already waiting for him at the table. Back up! Heaven, he noticed his brother’s look of reproach and the risk of one of the little ones. Only Paulo (that’s how they named his grandson, who was actually called Pinkos) made a fuss about it, as if to complain about the lost joke. Mute, placed his hat on the hanger, keeping only the black the silk kippah. He had not yet learned anything about language. But, as an observer, although he didn’t take any risks, he manages, by association, to record something. And the “prophet” that the kid’s laughter had spit out at him at the entrance, was becoming familiar. The kid had caught him at the entrance; it was becoming familiar. Its meaning didn’t reach him. It was hardly surprising, however. The word was never without an ironic edge, a laugh line. In the bathroom (he was washing his hands) he remembered the countless times he the same sounds were uttered in front of him. And he saw scenes. From the background floated the memory of a similar thing in the temple.

The deception outlined on the first day became more accentuated. The feeling that their world was very different, that they had not participated in anything in what had been (for him) the horrible night, slowly transforming into a conscious object. aware. Diners at dinner were boring to him, the limit of what he could take. When the children were asleep, other couples came to talk, they were amazed by all the talk, the concupiscent jokes, the numbers without plays, about everything, and, sometimes, about none.

The war had stripped him of all previous illusions and confirmed the precariousness of what was once solid. Only his faith in God and religion remained intact, so deep-rooted that even in the most bitter moments he didn’t manage to expel it. (He had already tried, he admitted, in vain.) Barely a year had passed, and he had in front of him a monotonous repeat of what he thought was finished. His son-in-law’s parasitic situation aroused hatred in him and, at great cost, put him to sleep. Turn other hands in other waves. And the untreated nails and the rings, and the plump body and the stupid laughter and uselessness concentrated the general revolt. How many times (midnight was long gone) would he let himself forget on the balcony, with a lit cigarette listening to scoundrel laughter (for him) in bilingual speech between one card game and another.

–  Then that’s it?

Others would judge it as obsolete. He knew better than that. The monologue had been useful when he was thinking about going crazy. Today it was habit. When alone, he released the tension with just another phrase, meaningless except for him. He remembered that one day (at the beginning, of course) he had blurted out a faint protest in the middle of some conversation, he had given a weak sign of revolt, and perhaps his index finger cut the air in waves full of intentions. The same in the synagogue, when the negligence of the majority had disrupted a prayer.

– These fat lords of life and plenty have nothing to do here – he had once muttered to himself. Maybe hence prophet. (I later discovered the meaning.)

He thought about changing that order a little and began to narrate what he had previously denied. But now it didn’t seem to interest them. Out of condescension (they didn’t understand what a sacrifice this represented for him), they heard it the first time they saw it and there was no shortage of tears in the women’s eyes. like these: “What do you want with everything alone? Why do you torment us with things that don’t give us any respect?” There were wrinkles of remorse when they recognized someone who concerned them, yes. But they were quick. They disappeared like a crease on a doll. It wasn’t long before the demonstrations became loud, albeit masked.

– You suffer from this. Why do you insist so much? And more than that, he was silent. Shortly after one am, they heard the word, and didn’t notice that they were putting themselves in a marginal situation. Only Pinkos (as he would call it) continued to groom his beard, rub his nose, tell endless stories with his round eyes. Uselessness.

The sea brought back sad memories and raised questions. Loneliness about loneliness. He often questioned himself about his ability to resist an environment that was no longer his own. Waves hiss. A small finger stuck in his mouth and a shocked laugh. Shaking laughter. Can you convict? No, if it was joy after the storm. No, he couldn’t even condemn himself, if for any reason he joined, despite his age. But the others? Blind and deaf in insensitivity and self-sufficiency! Then he stood up. I walked through the rooms, peering into the comfort of a contrast that I knew in advance didn’t exist. He vainly encouraged arguments against himself. And underneath, a bitter, disappointing taste. The days accumulated into a routine. and it was painful to spend Saturdays in the synagogue. The open prayer book (unnecessary, he mumbled all the prayers by heart) closed his eyes to the intrigues and set himself aside, always aside. On the way, I admired the eye-catching colors of the shop windows, the skyscrapers getting lost in the fishing lane and the incessant dragging of cars. And in all, this he was weighed down by loneliness, by a state of mind that he had not found affinity with. He learned that his brother’s fortune was recent.

During a pause, he told her the years in suburbia, and triumphantly, in broad gestures, concluded for current security. More than shouting sensations, this one echoed deep. He concluded that affinity was impossible, as the experiences were opposite. Yours, bitter. The other, victorious. And in the same time frame!? God my God! Sleepless nights followed one another. He tried to conclude that a feeling of seeing was carrying his hatred. Impossible. Being honest with himself, he saw this conclusion without force. And he endured the opposite, more difficult. The shapes in the dim light of the room (he slept with his grandson) composed scenes that he did not expect to see again. Horrible, bony mornings. Faces of anguish and prayers rising from the human ashes. The woman’s features tightening her shawl at the last moment, where the eyes, where the mute eyes betrayed the animal scream? Bastard laugh. Carded. Figures. Look at the “prophet” there! And happy faces laughing from the coat suspended on the chair. Impossible.

        Loud yelling gave him the news of his departure. He looked at the pier. Slowly the strip of water increased into the waves. It tensed every fiber in the body. When they returned from the water, they would find it on the table. And the protests would be useless, because they are too late. He had made the most of his two weeks away. The tourist support (later they thought about making it permanent) made his plan easier. The money he had was used up to buy the ticket. Return. The waitress was a little surprised when she saw him leave with the suitcase. put together. The fact appears eccentric than at the beginning! I say a I’m little scared. Plans? I didn’t have them. There you go in search of the company of others, similar to you, yes. Maybe from the end. The energies that the gesture and action had exhausted him, and the weakness had brought hesitations. And the hopelessly frustrated eyes widened in an effort to stop crying. Girl, the shapes lighting up. The mountainous background, blue in a midday sky. Green blocks of islets and foam in the wakes of the boats. (There is always a seagull. But he didn’t make it there.) Once again, his fists clenched and braided, he placed them on his arms, and the black figure, like a hook, trembled in tears.)

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Marjorie Agosín — Poeta y profesora distinguida judío-chilena-norteamericana/Chilean-American Jewish Poet and Distinguished Professor — “Busqué un huerto de huesos” y otros poemas/”I Sought A Garden of Bones” and Other Poems –Entrada dedicada a los víctimas en Israel, el 7 de octubre/Post dedicated to the victims in Israel on October 7

Marjorie Agosín

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Amazon

Marjorie Agosín, una poeta, profesora en Wellesley College, novelista, ensayista y activista de los derechos humanos chilena-estadounidense, ha gozado de una carrera distinguida escribiendo sobre temas importantes y vigentes como el exilio, la memoria, la experiencia judía y el poder del lenguaje. También ha hecho mucho para divulgar y hacer hincapié en las escritoras latinoamericanas en colecciones bilingües. Marjorie Agosín, una escritora y pensadora incansable, tiene un amplio alcance y tiene algo que ofrecerles a lectores de todas edades y de todos los ámbitos de la vida, desde los académicos que estudian las culturas y literaturas judías y latinoamericanas hast los lectores jóvenes que han disfrutado de las historias de Celeste Marconi en la aclamada novela para adultos jóvenes, I Lived on Butterfly Hill.

Allison Ridley

Marjorie Agosín, a Chilean-American poet, professor en Wellesley College, novelist, essayist, and human rights activist, has enjoyed a distinguished career writing on important and timely topics such as exile, memory, the Jewish experience, and the power of language. She has also done much to disseminate and highlight Latin American women writers in bilingual collections of their work. A tireless writer and thinker, Marjorie Agosín is wide-ranging and has something to offer readers of all ages and from all walks of life, from academics who study Jewish and Latin American cultures and literatures to young readers who have enjoyed Celeste Marconi’s stories in the acclaimed young adult novel, I Lived on Butterfly Hill.

Allison Ridley

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Compiled and edited by Celeste Kostopulos-Cooperman

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Esta entrada es dedicada a los víctimas en Israel el 7 de octubre./This post is dedicated to the October 7 victims in Israel.

Vengo s buscar estos

huesos,

se parecían a la piel vencida

de los animales difuntos.

Pero los quiero

para mi huerto.

Para amarrarlos

junto a los rosales.

Le digo

que son mis huesos,

los huesos de mi hijo,

Julián,

quiero que conozcan

la lluvia

los sueños

de la paz,

por eso, señor, me los

vengo a llevar

aquí en las faldas,

esos huesos quiero

yo

porque

ya dejaron de ser suyos

porque esa vida jamás

fue suya.

Porque Ud. sólo supo hablar de los rostros de la muerte

porque no tiene nada que ver con la vida.

Deme mis huesos, mi capitán.

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I’ve come seeking these

bones, and though they call to mind the defeated

flesh of dead animals,

I want them for my garden,

to string them up

beside the rose bushes.

I’m telling you

they are my bones,

the bones of my son,

Julián,

and I want them to know

the rain,

the dreams

of peace,

therefore, señor, I’ve come here

to carry off these bones

I love

in the pleats of my skirt,

because

they have ceased

being yours.

because that life never

was yours

Because you only knew how to talk about death’s faces

because you and life have nothing in common.

Give me my bones, my captain.

Translation by Richard Schaaf

De:/From: Hacia la ciudad espléndida / Toward the Splendid City

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I.

Supo ella seducir al destino,

vaticinar la hora de hora de la huida

en 1939, vestida con el traje

de noche y la dicha

en los umbrales del temeroso

puerto de Hamburgo,

navegó,

resuelta a la vida,

hasta las mares del sur.

En 1938 los ventanales

de su casa de agua y piedra

resistieron el inmensurable

horror de aquella noche

de los cristales rojos.

Ella, mi abuela

me enseñó a reconocer el paisaje de peligro,

las trizaduras del miedo

el rostro impenetrable

de las mujeres que huyen,

acusadas,

audaces en su deseo de vivir.

II.

Helena Broder,

fabricó un universo

de papeles, frágiles embarcaciones

de poemas clandestinos y

apuntes por hacerse,

direcciones discretas,

livianas de equipaje,

como un ángel

frágil y delicado,

aunque lista para embarcarse nuevamente.

Sobreviví junto a ella

y agradecí el obsequio de su presencia.

I.

She knew how to seduce her destiny,

Predict the time of flight

in 1939, dressed in garments

of night and happiness

at the threshold of a fearful

Hamburg Harbor

resolved to live,

she sailed to Southern seas.

In 1938, the windows

of her house of water and stone

resisted the extreme

horror of that night

of broken crystals.

She, my grandmother,

taught me to recognize

the landscape of danger,

the shards of fear,

the impenetrable faces

of women,

fleeing,

accused,

audacious in their will to live.

II.

Helena Broder,

created a domain

of papers, fragile vessels,

clandestine poems and

notes to be made,

discreet addresses.

With little baggage,

like a frail and ancient

angel,

she arrived,

although ready to embark again.

I survived next to her

and I was thankful for the gift of her presence.

Translations by Laura Nakazawa

De:/From: Helena Broder, Angel de la memoria / Helena Broder, The Angel of Memory

_________________________________________

Madre mía

sé que me llamas

y que tus yemas

cubren esas heridas, abiertas

muertas y resucitadas

una y otra vez.

Cuando vendada

me llevan a los

cuartos del

delirio.

En tu voz

nueva,

iluminada,

que oigo

tras los golpes

desangrados

como los árboles

de un patio de

verdugos.

Madre mía

yo duermo entre

tus brazos

y me asusto

entre los puñales

pero

tú me recoges

desde un fondo

lleno de dagas y serpientes.

_________________________________

Mother

I knew you are calling me

and that your fingertips

are covering those wounds, open

dead and re-opened

over and over again.

When I am blindfolded

they carry me to the

rooms of

delirium.

It is your voice

new,

luminous,

that I hear

after the bloodletting

blows

like trees

in a

patio of

assassins.

Mother

I sleep in

your arms

and feel frightened

by the knives

but

you gather me up

from the abyss

filled with daggers and serpents.

Translated by Cola Franzen

De:/From: Las zonas del dolor / Zones of Pain

________________________________________

Aquel mudo y hablado desierto

guardó sus cuerpos:

cabezas decapitadas,

manos arqueadas por una soga gris.

El desierto preservó sus vidas.

Por muchos años fue como la nieve eterna,

cuidadosa de lo que se oculta

bajo la tierra.

En la hipnótica aridez,

los muertos aún vivían

para contarte la historia.

*Campo de muerte en el norte de Chile

___________________________________________________

That mute yet mentioned desert

protected the decapitated heads,

hands encircled by a gray rope.

that desert preserved their lives.

for many years it was like an eternal snow,

caring for what hides

beneath the earth.

in the hypnotic dryness,

the dead lingered

to tell you the story.

*Death camp in the north of Chile

Translated by Celeste Kostopulos-Cooperman

De: From: Lluvia en el desierto / Rain in the Desert

___________________________________

Abismada y llena de pesadumbres

aladas,

la sangre se extiende,

danza y recorre el

delantal de humo,

se traslada hasta el

comienzo de mis

piernas y

enloquecida no me obedece,

sólo rueda destemplada

invade los colores

de mi piel

Me trastorna de

carmesí

y entre el pavor del silencio,

entre la lejanía del

espanto,

se apodera de mis muertos y de mis vivos,

marchita se despide

robándome a un niño

muerto

perdido entre los coágulos de marcas envenenadas.

_______________________________________________

Somber and full of winged

nightmares,

blood spreads out,

dances and overruns the

apron of smoke,

moves to the

edge of my legs and

maddened does not obey me,

but flows untimely

invades the colors of my skin

deranges me with

crimson

and between the horror of silence

the distance of

terror,

takes possession of my dead and my living ones,

faded takes leave

robbing me of a child

dead

lost among venomous tides.

Translated by Cola Franzen

D:/From Las zonas del dolor / Zones of Pain

____________________________________________________

_____________________________________________________________________+

Samuel Glusberg (Enrique Espinosa)(1898-1987)–Cuentista y editor judío-argentino/Argentine Jewish Short-story Writer and Editor–“Mate Amargo”/”Bitter Mate” –cuento de importancia histórica/short-story of historical importance

Samuel Glusberg/Enrique Espinoza

_______________________________

ESPINOZA, ENRIQUE (seudónimo de Samuel Glusberg; 1898–1987), autor, editor y periodista argentino. Su seudónimo combina los nombres de Heinrich Heine y Baruch Spinoza. Nacido en Kishinev, Espinoza llegó a la Argentina a los siete años. Fundó y editó las revistas literarias Cuadernos Americanos (1919) y Babel (1921-1951), primero en Buenos Aires y luego en Santiago de Chile, donde se instaló en 1935 por motivos políticos y de salud, y también fundó la editorial Babel, que lanzó libros de nuevos escritores argentinos. En 1945 realizó un simposio sobre “La Cuestión Judía” entre destacados intelectuales latinoamericanos, publicado en Babel 26. Fue cofundador y primer secretario de la Asociación Argentina de Escritores, y miembro de los movimientos de vanguardia en la literatura y el letras. Sus cuentos y artículos tratan la identidad judía, la inmigración, el antisemitismo y el Holocausto, así como sobre cuestiones sociales éticas y universales. Sus contemporáneos lo vieron como la mezcla intelectual perfecto de cosmopolitismo y judaísmo. Sus cuentos más conocidos aparecieron en La levita gris: cuentos judíos de ambiente porteño (1924); y Rut y Noemí (1934). Sus ensayos se recopilaron en De un lado y del otro (1956), Heine, el ángel y el león (1953) y Spinoza, Ángel y paloma (1978).

_______________________________________

ESPINOZA, ENRIQUE (pseudonym of Samuel Glusberg ; 1898–1987), Argentine author, publisher, and, journalist. His pseudonym combines the names of Henrich Heine and Baruch Spinoza. Born in Kishinev, Espinoza arrived in Argentina at the age of seven. He founded and edited the literary reviews Cuadernos Americanos (1919) and Babel (1921–51), first in Buenos Aires and later in Santiago de Chile, where he settled in 1935 for health and political reasons, and also founded the Babel publishing house, which launched books by new Argentinian writers. In 1945 he conducted a symposium on “the Jewish Question” among prominent Latin American intellectuals, published in Babel 26. He was co-founder and first secretary of the Argentine Writers’ Association, and a member of avant-garde movements in literature and the arts. His short stories and articles deal with Jewish identity, immigration, antisemitism, and the Holocaust, as well as ethical and universal social issues. His contemporaries saw him as the perfect intellectual blend of cosmopolitanism and Jewishness. His best-known stories appeared in La levita gris: cuentos judíos de ambiente porteño (1924); and Ruth y Noemí (1934). His essays were collected in De un lado y otro (1956), Heine, el ángel y el león (1953), and Spinoza, ángel y paloma (1978).

De:/By: Enrique Espinosa. La levita gris: cuentos de ambiente porteño. Buenos Aires: BABEL, 1924.

El final de este cuento describe “La Semana Trágica”, el progrom contra los judío y otros obreros en 1919./The end of this story describes the “Tragic Week. the pogrom against Jews and other workers in 1919.

_______________________________________________

“Mate amargo”

A Leopoldo Lugones

     El asesinato de su primer varoncito en el pogrom de Kishinev, más el nacimiento anormal de la segunda criatura, a causa de los trastornos durante la matanza sufrió la madre, fueron causas harto suficientes para que Abraham Petacóvsky, dejando su oficio de melamed (preceptor de hebreo), se decidieron a emigrar de Rusia. Dirigiéndose en principio a los Estado Unidos (la América por excelencia de los judos de ayer y yanquis de hoy). Pero, ya en Hamburgo, vióse por razones diplomáticas—según bromeó después-a cambiar de rumbo. Y en los primeros días de noviembre del año 1905, con su mujer y las dos nenas, a Buenos Aires.

         Abraham Petacóvsky era un judío pequeño, simpático, con el aire inteligente y dulce de las personas amables. Sus ojillos claros, amortiguaban hasta la palidez cadavérico, el rostro alargado por una barba irregular y negra. La nariz, de punto estilo hebraico, parecía caerse en la boca de gruesos labios irónicos. Aunque no contaba más de treinta años, su aspecto er el de un viejo. Por eso, tal vez, sus parientes de Buenos aires llamáronlo tío Petacovsky, contra la voluntad de Jane Guitel, su esposa, una mujer fidelísma, tan devota como fea, pero de mucho orgullo. De tanto, que no obstante haber pasado con el tío Patovsky años difíciles, lamentaba siempre el tiempo antiguo en nuestra Rusia.Y resignada en sus veintisiete años escasos, fincaba toda su esperanza en las dos criaturas que habían sobrevivido a los horrores del pogrom: Elisa, de siete años, y Beile, uno apenas.

         No se arrepintió el tío Petacóvsky de su arribo a la Argentina. Buenos Aires, la ciudad acerca de la cual había tenido tan peregrinos en el buque, resultó muy agrado. Esperándolo en el viejo Hotel de Inmigrantes dos cercanos parientes de la mujer y algunos amigos. Gracias a ellos- a quienes ya debía parte del pasaje- logró instalarse en seguida bajo techo seguro. Fue una pieza sub-alquilada a cierta familia criolla en el antiguo barrio de Corrales. Para instalarse allá, tanto el tío Petacóvsky como su mujer tuvieron que dejar al lado escrúpulos religiosos: resolverse a vivir entre goim.

         Jana Guitel, por cierto, resistióse un poco.

         ¡Dios mío!, – clamaba ¿Cómo voy a cocinar mi pescado relleno junto a la olla con puerco de una cristiana?

         Pero cuando vio la cocina de tablas frente a la pieza clavada rente a pieza, como garita de centinela junta a una celda, no tardó en conformarse. Y la adaptación vino rápida, por cuanto la facilitaron los dueños de la casa en el respeto a los extraños costumbres de los judíos, y en el generoso interés por ellos.

         La misma discreta curiosidad que los criollos mostraban por la forma rara que la rusa salaba la carne al sol, y el tío Petacóvsky guardaba el sábado, lo sentían los recién llegados por las manifestaciones de la vida argentina. De aquí que a los pocos días ya todos se entendieron por gestos, Jane Guitel fuera rebautizada con la traducción de Guillermina, por su segundo nombre y el apelativo doña en lugar del primero.

         Por su parte, el tío Petacóvsky aprendía a tomar mate sin azúcar, con los hijos de la patrona: dos buenos y honrados muchachos argentinos. Y aunque como gringo legítimo, les daba las gracias después de cada mate, no suspendía hasta el séptimo, pues encontraba el mate sin azúcar las mismas virtudes estomacales que su mujer atribuía al té con limón.

         Después del mate amargo, las alpargatas criollas constituyeron el descubrimiento más al gusto del tío Petacóvsky. Desde la primera mañana que salió a vender cuadros, las encontró insustituibles.

         Sin ellas- juraba- jamás habría podido con esa endiablado oficio- tan judío errante, sin embargo- que le proporcionaron sus parientes.

         Las alpargatas criollas y el mate amargo fueron los primeros síntomas de la adaptación del tío Petacovsky, pero la prueba definitiva la evidenció dos meses más tarde, concurriendo al entierro del general Mitre. Aquella imponente manifestación de duelo lo conmovió hasta las lágrimas, y durante muchos años la recordó como la expresión más alta de una multitud acongojada por la muerte de un patriarca.

         A fuer de israelita piadoso, el tío Petacóvsky sabía de grandes hombres y de grandes duelos.

         Ya dijimos que el buen hombre comenzó su vida de porteño ofreciendo cuadros por las calles de Buenos Aires. Pero no sabemos si el lector por haber visto alguna vez una figura de talmudista metido entre dos parejas de estampas evangélicas sospechó que nos referimos a cuadros religiosos. Sin embargo, la cosa, además de pintoresca, es importante y hasta tiene su historia.

         Vender estampas de santos, era en 1906 un negocio recién iniciado por los judíos de Buenos Aires. Hasta entonces, los israelitas que no vinieron para trabajar en las colonias agrícolas de Entre Ríos o Santa Fe, se dedicaron a vender a plazos: muebles, joyas, trajes, pieles… Todo, menos cuadros. El tío Petacóvsky fue tal vez el número uno de los que salieron a vender estampas a plazos. Y es cierto que no resultó que el más afortunado (no hay ahora ninguna marca de cuadros Petacóvsky) fue en su tiempo más el más eficaz.

         Dueño de un innato gusto eclesiástico, el tío Petacvsky sabía recomendar sus láminas. En su rara lengua judaica-criolla hallaba el modo de hacer en pocas palabras el elogio de cualquiera. Unas, por el tenue azul de sus ojos de una virgen; otras, por el gesto derrotado de un apóstol. A cada cual por lo más impresionante…

         Nadie come el tío Petacoóvsky para explicar las virtudes de un San Juan Evangelista. Equivocaba, tal vez, desmemoriado, un San José con un san Antonio. Pero jamás olvidaba señalar un detalle del color, un rasgo patético capaz de entusiasmar a una María.

         De lo que se lamentaba con frecuencia era de la escasez de su léxico. A cada instante veíase obligado a juegos de mímica moviendo manos, cara y hombros a un mismo tiempo…  con todo, sus ventas nunca fracasaron porque no lo entendieran o porque él extendiera los recibos con nombres de Josefa o Magdalena, en caracteres hebraicos, sino por falta de religiosidad de las gentes.

         Él, que era tan profundamente religioso hasta cumplir- no obstante, su oficio- con las oraciones cotidianas y el sábado sagrado, no se explicaba cómo habiendo tantas iglesias en Buenos Aires, eran tan pocos los creyentes. Por eso, cuando a fuerza de recorrer la ciudad, comprobó que en la Boca era donde se congregaba mayor número de fieles, trató de formar su clientela entre ellos. Y, en efecto, le fue mejor.

Después de trabajar un año junto al Riachuelo, saliendo a vender casi todos los días menos los sábados y los domingos- el tío Petacóvsky pudo crear su clientela y dedicarse solo a la cobranza y entrega de los cuadros que le encargaban directamente. Entonces saldó las deudas con sus parientes, obtuvo otra pieza en la misma casa de la calle Caseros, y planteó el negocio por realizar con los hijos de la patrona: negocio que consistía en asociarse a ellos para armar los marcos de las estampas y confeccionar los cuadros por cuenta propia.

         Todo pudo realizarse al espíritu emprendedor del tío Petacóvsky. Los dos muchachos criollos, que no fueron desde niños otra cosa que jornaleros en una carpintería mecánica, viéronse convertidos en pequeños industriales. Entretanto, el tío Petacóvsky dejó de ser vendedor ambulante, para dirigir el taller.

         A su nombre, o más bien a nombre de la fábrica de cuadros Petacóvsky-Bermúdez, trabajaban varios corredores judíos. Además, muchos otros, colegas del devoto oficio, compraban allí sus cuadras para difundir por toda la República.

Cerca de tres años trabajaron los hermanos Bermúdez en sociedad con el tío Petacóvsky. Como fuera bien desde un principio, lo hacían con gusto y sin honorario determinado. A las seis de la mañana ya estaban los tres en el taller, y se desayunan con amargos y galleta. Luego, mientras los mozos preparaban las estampas encargadas, el tío Petacóvsky, que ya borroneaba en castellano, hacía las facturas y tomaba nota de las láminas que era necesario llevar al centro.

         A la venta de estampas evangélicas los fabricantes habían agregado, siempre por la iniciativa del tío Petacóvsky, marinas, paisajes, frutas… y, en gran cantidad escenas del teatro shakesperiano: Otelo, Hamlet, Romeo y Julieta… A las ocho, cuando doña Guillermina, o Jane Guitel, despachaba a Elisa para la escuela, el tío Petacóvsky íbase de compras en el centro. A pesar de que lo hacía casi todas las mañanas, los hermanos Bermúdez nunca dejaban de bromear en las despedidas.

         -Tío Petaca- le gritaban, no olvide de traerme una paisanita, y prefiero rubia, ¿eh?… Tío Petaca…

         Pero el aludido no se enojaba. Con una comisura de ironía y superioridad en los labios, contestaba: -Está boino, pero no olviden los noive San Antonios para San Pedro.

         Y salía riéndose, mientras los mozos, remedándole, gritaban:

         Cabayo bien, Tío Petarca…

         A Jane Guitel, desde luego, no le agradaban estas bromas. Cada mañana las oía y cada noche se las reprochaba al marido, rogándole que se mudaran antes de evitar “tanta confianza”.

         -Una cosa- protestaba la mujer- es el comercio y otra la amistad. No me gusta que tengas tanta confianza con ellos. ¿Acaso han fumado ustedes en la misma pipa?…

         En realidad, lo que Jane Guitel concluía preguntando a su marido no era precisamente si había fumado en la misma pipa con sus socios, sino muy otra cosa. Pero, a qué repetirlo… Lo que molestaba a la mujer, sobre todo, era que los Bermúdez llamaron Tío Petaca a su marido. Desde que Elisa iba al colegio, doña Guillermina averiguaba por ella el significado de cualquier palabra. Y aunque la chiquilla solo cursaba el tercer grado, sabía ya expresarse correctamente en castellano, hasta el punto de no querer hablar el idish no con su propia madre.

         Pasaron, no obstante, dos años más. Por fin, a principios de 1910, Jane Guitel pudo realizar su propuesto de abandonar la calle Caseros. Una vez en claro el balance definitivo, la sociedad Petacóvsky-Bermúdez quedó disuelta, sin que por ello los socios quebraban su amistad. Después de tres años, cada uno se retiraba con cerca de diez mil pesos. Los hermanos, con sus partes, decidieron reconstruir la vieja casa familiar y establecer en ella una carpintería mecánica. Mientras el típ Petacóvsky, qua a cambio de su parte de la maquinaria conservaba un resto de la antigua clientela boquense, instalábase en una cómoda casa de la calle Almirante Brown.

Sabido es: de cien judíos que llegan a juntar algunos miles de pesos, noventa y nueve gustan instalarse como verdaderos ricos. De ahí que el tío Petacóvsky, que no era la excepción, comprara piano a la pequeña Elisa, y con motivo del nacimiento de un hijo argentino, celebrara la circuncisión en una digna fiesta a la manera clásica. Era justo. Desde el asesinato de primogénito, en Rusia, el tío Petacóvsky esperaba tamaño acontecimiento.

         Igual que Jane Guitle, él había soñado siempre un hijo varón que a su muerte dijera el Kádish de recuerdo, esa noble oración del huérfano judío, que el mismo Enrique Heine recordaba en su tumba de lana.

                           Nadie ha de cantarme musa

                           Nadie “kádish” me dirá

                                    Sin cantos y sin plegarias

                                    Mi aniversario fatal…

Pero dejemos la poesía y los poetas. No por tener kádish, [1]el tío Petacóvsky

echóse muerto. Al contrario, el feliz avenimiento en vísperas del centenario de 1819, le sugirió un negocio patriótico. Y con la misma fe y el mismo entusiasmo que el anterior, el tío Petacóvsky lo llevó a término. Tratábase en realidad del mismo negocio, Sólo que ahora en vea de estampas de santos, serían relatos de héroes, y en lugar de escenas shakesperianas, alegorías patrióticas.

         Los hermanos Bermúdez, que seguián siendo sus amigos, lo informaron acerca de la historia patria, pero con un criterio de federales que el tío sospechó lleno de parcialidad. No era que él estuviese en contra de nadie, sino que le faltaban pruebas de la gloria de Rosas…

         Como bien andariego, el tío Petacóvsky había aprendido su historia nacional en las calles de Buenos Aires. Así juzgaba como héroes de primera fila a todos que daban nombres a todos aquellos que daban nombres a las calles y las plazas principales. Y si bien este curioso entendimiento de aprender había sido ya metodizado por los pedagogistas, él, que allá en Rusia, fuera pedagogo en el original sentido de la palabra, lo ignoraba sabiamente. No por ignorar su denominación científica: visoaudmotor, (perdón), el metido dióle mejor resultado. Respeto de Sarmiento- verbigratia domine– que entonces prestaba su nombre glorioso a una humilde callejuela de la Boca, el tío Petacóvsky habíase formado un concepto pobrísimo. Y no de ser escritor -¿Qué judío no admira a un hombre que escribió libros?- había privado su colección de una figura tribunicia.

         Por suerte, esta falla inefable método lo salvó de la corriente pedagógica. Al no dar tampoco, en lugar visible, en el monumento a Rivadavia, resolvió no guiarse por el sentido didáctico… y comprar ejemplos ilustrados de todos los patriotas. Aquellos que conocía y aquellos que no conocía. Y todo quedó resuelto.

[1] Por extension, los judíos llaman así a sus hijos varones.

            Antes del primero de mayo- día señalado para inaugura su nuevo comercio, el tío Petacóvsky descargaba en su casa cerca de un millón de láminas entre estampas para cuadros, retratos, alegorías patrióticas, copias de monumentos y tarjetas postales. Varios viajantes se encargaron de las provincias y el tío Petacóvsky de la capital. Durante seis meses las cosas anduvieron a todo trapo. Mas, no obstante, esa actividad y las proporciones que alcanzaban las fiestas de centenario en toda la República, el negocio fracasó.

         Cuando a fines de 1910- hechas las liquidaciones en el interior del país- realizó el recuento de la mercadería sobrante, aprendieron más de seiscientas mil cartulinas. En resumen: había perdido en una aventura de seis meses sus ganancias de cinco años.

         Naturalmente, este primer fracaso enturbió el humor del tío Petacóvsky . Como en verdad no tenía pasta de comerciante, se sintió derrotado. Y si bien a los pocos meses ya soñaba otro negocio a propósito del Carnaval, sus parientes, entre burlas, negándole crédito para realizarse. ¿Quién no desconfía del hombre que fracasó una vez?

         En esa desconfianza, más que en la pérdida de su dinero, sintió el tío Petacóvsky su desgracia. Para ayudarse, sin recurrir a nadie, mudóse a una casa más económica, vendió el piano y aplazó el ingreso de su hija en la Escuela Normal. Pero nada de esto fue remedio. Sólo una nueva desgracio- ¿vendrán por eso seguidas” – le cur del anterior. Fue nada menos que la muerte de Beile, la menor de las hijitas.

         Este lamentable suceso hizo también olvidar a sus relaciones el fracaso del centenario. Por una parte, de sus parientes, y por otra los amigos, con esa solidaridad en el dolor tan característicos de los judíos, compitieron en ayudar al infeliz. Y otra vez gracias a ellos el tío Petacóvsky pudo volver a su oficio de corredor. Ahora ya no solo de cuadros, sino también de muebles, telas, joyas, pieles…

         Durante cinco nuevos años, el tío Petacóvsky trabajó para rehacer su clientela. Canas costábale ya el maldito oficio, venido a menos por la competencia de las grandes tiendas y alza enorme los precios con motivo de la guerra.

         Pero hasta mediar el año 1916 no pudo abandonarlo. Sólo entonces, una circunstancia lo sacó de él. El caso puede resumirse de esta manera:

         El menor de los hermanos Bermúdez, Carlos, lo recomendó al gerente de una fábrica de cigarrillos, y éste adquiróle, como objetos de propaganda para el centenario para el centenario de la Independencia, el sobrante de estampas patrióticas.

         Mil quinientos pesos recibió el tío Petacóvsky por sus láminas. Con ese dinero en el bolsillo sintióse optimista. En seguida liquidó su clientela- ya padecía el reumatismo- y se puso a la tarea de buscar un negocio en el centro. El quid era un comercio con puerta a la calle. Que los clientes lo fueron a buscar a él. No al revés, como hasta entonces. Ya le asqueaba hacer el marchante.

         De nuevo burlándose los parientes de sus proyectos. Mientras uno, aludiendo a su afición por el mate, lo aconsejaban una plantación de yerba en Misiones, otros le sugerían una fábrica de mates…

         Mas el tío Petachóvsky, contra el parecer de todos en general, y de Jane Guitel en particular, compró una pequeña librería cerca de Mercado de Abasto.

         Con el nuevo negocio, la vida del tío Petacóvsky se transformó por completo. Ya no recorría la ciudad. Vestido a gusto, con amplio guardapolvo de brin, y tocado con oscuro solideo, pasábase las mañanas leyendo y mateando junto al mostrador, a espera de clientes. Elisa, su hija, que ya estaba hecha una simpática criollita de dieciocho años, le cebaba el amargo por intermedio de Daniel; mientras arreglaba la casa antes de que Jane Guitel volviera del mercado.

         Después del almuerzo, el tío Petacóvsky hacía su siesta. A las cuatro ya estaba otra vez en su puesto y Elisa volvía a cebarle mate hasta la noche.

         Ahora bien: de rendir la venta diaria un poco más dinero que el indispensable para el pan y la yerba, es posible que todos vivieran tranquilos. Pero como después de un año ilusiones, se vio que esto no acaecía, las disputas renovaron.

         -De no querer tú – increpábale Jan Guitle- reformar el mundo y hacer que tantos israelitas hacen en Buenos Aires, estaríamos bien.

         A lo que el hombre contestaba:

         -Es que cuando a uno no le va, todo es inútil.

         Y si Jane Guitel lo instaba a vender del tenducho, el reargüía con agrio humor:

         -Seguro estoy que de meterme a fabricar mortajas, la gente dejaría de morirse. ¡Es lo mismo!

         Tales discusiones reproduciéndose en el mismo tono, casi todos los días. Desde la muerte de su hijita, Jane Guitel estaba enferma y frecuentes crises de nervios le debilitaban. El tío Petacóvsky, al tanto de ella, trataba siempre de calmarla con alguna ocurrencia. Y si doña Guillermina, como la llamaba por broma en esas ocasiones, se resistía, él invocaba los aforismos de Scholem Aleijem, su escritor predilecto: “Reír es saludable, los médicos aconsejan reírse, o “Cuando tengas la olla vacía, llénala de risa”.

         Pero lo cierto es que a pesar de Scholem Aleijem, el tío Petacóvsky se había contagiado de la tristeza de su mujer. Ya no era el alegre tío Petaca de la fábrica de cuadros. Nada le quedaba del entusiasmo y del humor de aquella época. Si aún reía, era para esconder sus lágrimas… Porque como él mismo decía: “Cuando los negocios van mal, se puede ser humorista, pero nunca profeta”. Y él ya no trataba en serio de nada.

         Había ensayado, al reabrirse las escuelas, la compra y venta de libros viejos, con algún resultado. Pero al llegar las vacaciones- ya conocido como cambalachero- nadie entraba sino para vender libros usados.

         En tanto los días pasaban monótonos, aburridos, iguales. El hombre, siembre con su amargo y los libros, y la mujer con su eterna loa del tiempo antiguo y su constante protesta contra el actual.

         ¡Dios mío! – se quejaba al marido- ¡lo que has llegado a ser en América: un cambalachero! – Y lloraba.

         En vano, el tío Petacóvsky intentaba defender la condición intelectual de su oficio y fingir grandes esperanzas para la temporada próxima.

         -Y verás- le decía- cuando empiezan las clases, cómo van a salir todos estos grandes sabios y poetas. Entonces hasta es probable que encuentre un comprador de todo el negocio, y me quedo solo con los textos de medicina para que más trade Daniel estudie de doctor.

         La mujer no dejaba de mortificarlo. Menos soñadora que él, calculaba el porvenir de su hija. Y en momentos de amargura, los insultos estallaban en su boca: ¡Cambalachero!… ¡Cambalachero!… ¡Dios mío!, quién se casará con la hija de un cambalachero!…

Primero, un chisme en la familia la enteró de que Elisa era festejada por Carlos Bermúdez. No quiso creerlo. Luego, alguien que los vio juntos, le confirmó el chisme. Y vinieron las primeras sospechas. Por último, la misma chica instada por la sinceridad del padre, confesó sus relaciones con el ex-socio… Y aquí fue la ruina de Jerusalem… Jane Guitel puso el grito en el cielo. ¿Cómo una hija suya iba a casarse con un goi? ¿Podría olvidar, acaso, la ingrata, que un bisabuelo de ellos (Dios lo tenga en la gloria) fue gran rabino en Kishinev, y que todos sus parientes fueron santos y puros judíos? ¿Dónde había dejado la vergüenza esa muchacha?…

         Y, en su desesperación, acusaba de todo, por milésima vez, a su marido y sus negocios.

         Ahí tienes a tus grandes amigos de mate (¡Dios quiera envenenarlos!) Ahí están las consecuencias de tus negocios con ellos (¡Un rayo los fulmine!) Todo por culpa tuya…

         Y, vencido por los nervios, se echaba a llorar como en Iom Kipur- el día del perdón.

         A todo esto, el tío Petacóvsky, que a pesar del mate no había dejado de ser un buen judío, la calmaba, asegurándole que Dios mediante, el casamiento no llegaría realizarse.

         Aunque por otras razones, él también era contrario al matrimonio de Elisa con Bermúdez. Sostenía al respeto a la antigua fórmula de nacionalistas: “No podemos dejar de ser judíos mientras los otros no dejen de ser cristianos…” y como en verdad ni él se creía un hombre libre, ni tenía por tal a Bermúdez, hacía lo posible por inculcar a Elisa su filosofía

Mira – le decía una tarde mientras la muchacha le cebaba mate – Si te

 prohíbo el casamiento con Carlos, no es por capricho. Tú sabes cuánto lo aprecio. Pero ustedes son distintos: han nacidos en países opuestos, han recibido diversa educación, han rezado a distintos dioses, tienen desiguales recuerdos. En resumen: ni él ha dejado de ser cristiano, ni tu judía.

         Otra vez agregaba:

-Es imposible. No se van a entender. En la primera pelea- y son

inevitables las primeras peleas- te juro que tú le gritarás cabeza de goi, y él, a manera de insulto, te llamará judía… Y puede que hasta se burle de cómo tu padre dice “noive”.

         Mas, tan inútiles fueron las sinceras razones del tío Petacóvsky como los desmayos frecuentes de Jane Guitel. La muchacha, ganada por amor, huyó a los pocos meses con su novio a Rosario.

         La fuga de Elisa acabó por romper los nervios de la madre. Dos semanas se pasó llorando, casi sin probar alimento. Nada ni nadie pudo tranquilizarla. Al fin, por consejo médico, tuvieron que internarla en el San Roque donde al poco tiempo moría, acrecentando el escándalo que la escapada produjo en la colectividad.

         Con la muerte de Jane Guitel, la muchacha volvió al hogar. Y tras de ella vino Bermúdez. Como si los dos fueran los causantes directos de esa muerte, lloraron lágrimas amargas sobre la tumba de la pobre mujer

         El mismo Bermúdez, antes tan inflexible, renunciaba a Elisa y consentía que ella se quedara del hermanito. Pero el tío Petacóvsky tuvo la honradez de perdonarlos y autorizar el casamiento a condición de que vivieran felices y para siempre en Rosario.

         Después de hacerles notar a qué precio habían conseguido la unión, el tío Petacóvsky, contra el parecer de todos, resolvió seguir en su cambalache solo con su Daniel.

         -Yo mismo – dijo, me encargaré de hacerlo hombre. Pierdan cuidado, no nos moriremos de hambre.

         Y no hubo manera de disuadirlo.

         Abandonado durante tantos meses, el negocio se había convertido del todo en un boliche de viejo, sin otra mercadería que libros y folletos españoles que se ven en todos los cambalaches. Pero Jane Guitel ya no podía manifestar escrúpulos, y Elisa estaba casada y lejos, el tío Petacóvsky se dedicó de lleno a sus librotes, dispuesto a ganarse el pan para su hijo. Ya no vivía sino por él y para él. Todas las mañanas se levantaba temprano y después de preparar el mate, despertaba a Daniel. Ambos desayunábanse  y en seguida iban a la sinagoga, donde el chico decía kádish en memoria de la madre. A las ocho, ya estaban las dos en la acera de la escuela, mientras Daniel entraba a su clase, el tío Petacóvsky se volvió a abrir el boliche, que ya no cerraba hasta la noche. Y así lograron mantenerse durante seis largos meses.

         Cuando las vacaciones escolares el mismo tenducho dejó de producir para las reducidas necesidades de la casa, el tío Petacvsky reunió uno cuantos muchachos judíos para enseñarles el hebreo. De esa manera, con la vuelta a su primitivo oficio, afrontó la penosa situación. Y a cualquier otro sacrificio estaba dispuesto, con tal de ver algún día hecho hombre a su Daniel.

Corrían los primeros días del año 1919. Una gran huelga de metalúrgicos habíase generalizado en Buenos Aires y las noticias más inverosímiles acerca de una revolución maximalista, propagándose de un extremo a otro de la ciudad. De la ciudad. La tarde del 10 se enero, el tío Petacóvsky estaba como siempre, sentado junto a sus libros, tomando mate. Había despachado a los chicos temprano, por se víspera de sábado, y porque en el barrio reinaba cierta intranquilidad.

         La calle Corrientes, tan concurrida siempre, ofrecía un aspecto extraño, debido a la interrupción del tráfico y a la presencia de gendarmes armados a máuser.

         A eso de las ocho y media, un grupo de jóvenes bien vestidos hizo interrupción en la acera del boliche, vitoreando a la patria. Atraído por los gritos, el tío Petacóvsky, que seguía tomando mate, asomó la cara detrás de la vidriera, todo temeroso, porque, hacia un momento, Daniel había salido a decir su kádish.

         Uno del grupo, que divisó el rostro amedrentado del tío Petacóvsky , llamó la atención de todos sobre el boliche, los mozos detuvironse frente a; escaparate.

-¡Libros maximalistas! –  señaló a gritos el más próximo.  ¡Libros maximalistas!

Ahí está el ruso detrás – objetó otro.

         -¡Qué hipocrata, con mate, para despistar!…

         Y un tercero:

-Pero le vamos a dar libros de “chivos”…

Y, adelantándose, disparó su revolver contra las barbas de un Tolstoi que aparecía en la cubierta de un volumen rojo. Los acompañantes, espoleados por el ejemplo, lo imitaron. En un momento cayeron, todos los libros de autores barbudos que había en el escaparate. Y en verdad, la puntera de los jóvenes habría sido cómico, de no faltar una vez y costarle con eso la vida del tío Petacóvsky.

         Ahora el buen hombre debe hallarse en el cielo, junto a los santos, héroes y artistas que por su industria hicieron soñar a tanta gente en Buenos Aires. Y es cierto que la divina justicia es menos lenta y más segura que la humana, ella de concederle, como a los elegidos, una gracia a su elección. Entonces. Buen seguro, como aquel Bonchi calla de I. L, Peretz (poetizado en el idioma de Maupassant en Bonchi el silencieux– que en circunstancias idénticas pidiera a los ángeles pan con manteca- el tío Petacóvsky les ha de pedirles mate amargo para la eternidad.

__________________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________

“BITTER MATE”

for Leopoldo Lugones

The murder of his first-born in the Kishinev pogrom and the ab-

normal birth of his second child, caused by the excitement which

the mother sóóuffered then, were good enough reasons for Abraham

Petacovsky’s deciding to emigrate and to give up his position as melamed

[Hebrew teacher]. At first, he thought of going to the United States. But once

in Hamburg he found himself obliged, for diplomatic reasons, as he afterwards

jested, to change his plans As a result, in November, 1905, he arrived

at Buenos Aires with his wife and their two babies.

Abraham Petacovsky was a friendly little Jew, with an air of in

intelligence and sweetness. His small clear eyes made his face, lengthened

by a black and irregular beard, seem deathly pale typically Jewish, his

nose seemed to precipitate itself down toward his mouth with its thick,

ironic lips. Although he was only about thirty, his appearance was that

of an old man. It was due to this that his relatives in Buenos Aires called

him Uncle Petacovsky, despite the protests of Jane Guitcl, his wife. She

was a faithful woman, as devoted as she was ugly, but with much pride.

Although she had passed many trying years with Uncle Petacovsky, she

would continually refer to the “good old times in our Russia.” Not quite

twenty-seven, she was already resigned to Fate, and rested all her hopes

on the two children who had lived through the horrors of the pogrom.

They were Elisa, seven, and Beile, one.

Uncle Petacovsky never regretted his choice of Argentine. Buenos

Aires, the city about which he had heard varying reports on the boat,

turned out to be much to his liking.

Waiting for him in the old Immigrants’ Hotel were two of his wife’s

relatives, and some friends. With the help of these people, to whom he

was already indebted for some of the passage money, he succeeded in

finding a place in which to live. It was a room, sublet to a Creole family,

and was in the old suburb of Los Carrales. To live there Uncle

Petacovsky, as well as his wife, had to set aside certain religious scruples

and make up their minds to live with goyim.

Jane Guitel, of course, offered a little resistance.

“My God,” she cried, “how can I possibly cook my gefilte fish right

next to the Christian woman’s pork stew?”

But when she saw the wooden cooking pantry perched in the front

of the room like a sentry-box near a jail, she finally yielded. The owners

of the apartment made every effort to help the newcomers and showed

great respect for the strange Jewish customs. The new arrivals soon felt

at home.

Even as the Creoles were politely curious about the strange way the

Russian woman salted her meat out-of-doors and about Uncle Petacovsky’s

habit of keeping the Sabbath, so did the immigrants reveal a similar

curiosity about the ways of their Argentine neighbors. After a few days

they understood each other by gestures. Jane Guitel was renamed Dona

Guillermina. As for Uncle Petacovsky, he learned to take mate [Argen-

tine herb used for making tea] without sugar and drink it with the

sons of the landlady, two good, industrious Argentine boys. Although

like a real gringo he thanked them after each cup of mate, he never

stopped drinking until after the seventh cup, for he found that mate

without sugar had the same medicinal virtues which his wife attributed

to tea with lemon.

Next to bitter mate, the discovery which gave Uncle Petacovsky the

greatest pleasure was the Creole sandals [alpargatas]. From the very first

morning he went out to sell pictures he found them invaluable.

“Without them,” he would say, “I never would have been able to go

on with that accursed peddling,” a business so characteristic of the

wandering Jew, which his relatives had given him.

The use of alpargatas and bitter mate were the first signs of the

adaptation of Uncle Petacovsky to Argentine life. Definite proof of this

was shown two months later when he went to see the funeral of General

Mitre. That imposing manifestation of popular sorrow moved him to

tears. For many years he recalled the event as the highest expression of

an anguished multitude at the death of a patriarch. As a pious Israelite,

Uncle Petacovsky knew about great men and great mournings.

We have already said that the good man began his life as a resident

of Buenos Aires by hawking pictures through the streets. But we do not

know if the reader, because he may once have seen a man of Talmudic

appearance sandwiched between two pairs of religious engravings, has

realized we were referring to religious pictures. This, besides being quaint,

is important and has its history.

Selling prints of saints was in 1906 a business but lately initiated by

the Jews of Buenos Aires. Until then the Israelites who did not go to

work on the farming colonies of Entre Rios or Santa Fe devoted them-

selves to selling on the instalment plan: furniture, jewelry, furs, and so on,

— everything except pictures. Uncle Petacovsky was perhaps the very

first to sell engravings on the instalment plan. And he was in his way an

efficient salesman.

Possessed of an inborn ecclesiastical sense. Uncle Petacovsky knew just

how to hawk his pictures. In his strange Judeo-Creole speech he found a

way to praise in a few words every one of his pictures. Some for the deh-

cate blue of the Virgin’s eyes, others for the downcast mien of an apostle.

Each was recommended for its most impressive characteristic. No one

could explain the virtues of Saint John the Evangelist better than Uncle

Petacovsky. Sometimes, forgetful, he would confuse a Saint Joseph with a

San Antonio. But never did he fail to point out some aspect of color, some

pathetic touch, which could move a Maria to tears.

He often lamented his limited vocabulary. He was constantly forced

to resort to pantomime, to use his hands, his face, and his shoulders, all at

one and the same time. Yet he never failed to make a sale because some-

one had not understood him or because he wrote out receipts for a

Joseph or a Magdalena in Hebrew letters. He failed because of the lack religion among the people.

Despite his work, he, who was so religious and said his daily prayers

and kept the Sabbath, could not understand why with so many churches

in Buenos Aires there were so few believers. With this in mind, he

searched through the whole city and found that it was in La Boca that

the greatest number of the faithful congregated. He tried to form his

clients from among them and, to tell the truth, his business improved.

After working for a year near Riachuelo, where he went out to sell

his pictures almost every day except Saturday and Sunday, Uncle Peta-

covsky acquired a steady clientele. He could devote his time to collecting

and delivering pictures which people ordered directly from him. It was

then that he settled his debts with his relatives and rented another room

in the same house on Caseros Street. He conceived the plan of a business

to be carried on with the sons of his landlady. This consisted of manufac-

turing the frames for the pictures which Uncle Petacovsky sold.

Thanks to Uncle Petacovsky ’s enterprising spirit, the plan proved a

success. The two Creole boys, who had only been workers in an electri-

cal wood-working shop, found themselves suddenly transformed into

petty industrialists. In the meantime, Uncle Petacovsky stopped peddling

in order to take charge of the shop.

In his name, or rather, m the name of the Petacovsky-Bermudez

“Without them,” he would say, “I never would have been able to go

on with that accursed peddling,” a business so characteristic of the

wandering Jew, which his relatives had given him.

The use of alpargatas and bitter mate were the first signs of the

adaptation of Uncle Petacovsky to Argentine life. Definite proof of this

was shown two months later when he went to see the funeral of General

Mitre. That imposing manifestation of popular sorrow moved him to

tears. For many years he recalled the event as the highest expression of

an anguished multitude at the death of a patriarch. As a pious Israelite,

Uncle Petacovsky knew about great men and great mournings.

We have already said that the good man began his life as a resident

of Buenos Aires by hawking pictures through the streets. But we do not

know if the reader, because he may once have seen a man of Talmudic

appearance sandwiched between two pairs of religious engravings, has

realized we were referring to religious pictures. This, besides being quaint,

is important and has its history.

Selling prints of saints was in 1906 a business but lately initiated by

the Jews of Buenos Aires. Until then the Israelites who did not go to

work on the farming colonies of Entre Rios or Santa Fe devoted them-

selves to selling on the installment plan: furniture, jewelry, furs, and so on,

— everything except pictures. Uncle Petacovsky was perhaps the very

first to sell engravings on the installment plan. And he was in his way an

efficient salesman.

Possessed of an inborn ecclesiastic sense. Uncle Petacovsky knew just

how to boost his pictures. In his strange Judeo-Creole speech he found a

way to praise in a few words every one of his pictures. Some for the deli-

cate blue of the Virgin’s eyes, others for the downcast mien of an apostle.

Each was recommended for its most impressive characteristic. No one

could explain the virtues of Saint John the Evangelist better than Uncle

Petacovsky. Sometimes, forgetful, he would confuse a Saint Joseph with a

San Antonio. But never did he fail to point out some aspect of color, some

pathetic touch, which could move a Maria to tears.

Despite his work, he, who was so religious and said his daily prayers

and kept the Sabbath, could not understand why with so many churches

in Buenos Aires there were so few believers. With this in mind, he

searched through the whole city and found that it was in La Boca that

the greatest number of the faithful congregated. He tried to form his

clients from among them and, to tell the truth, his business improved.

After working for a year near Riachuelo, where he went out to sell

his pictures almost every day except Saturday and Sunday, Uncle Peta-

covsky acquired a steady clientele. He could devote his time to collecting

and delivering pictures which people ordered directly from him. It was

then that he settled his debts with his relatives and rented another room

in the same house on Caseros Street. He conceived the plan of a business

to be carried on with the sons of his landlady. This consisted of manufacturing

the frames for the pictures which Uncle Petacovsky sold.

Thanks to Uncle Petacovsky ’s enterprising spirit, the plan proved a

success. The two Creole boys, who had only been workers in an electri-

cal wood-working shop, found themselves suddenly transformed into

petty industrialists. In the meantime Uncle Petacovsky stopped peddling

in order to take charge of the shop.

In his name, or rather, in the name of the Petacovsky-Bermudez

Company, worked various Jewish peddlers. Many others bought pictures

from the company, and went out to sell them throughout the Republic.

The Bermudez brothers worked with Uncle Petacovsky for nearly

three years. Since from the start they had liked the work, they labored

happily without setting any definite hours for themselves. At six in the

morning the three would be at the factory and they would breakfast on

“amargos” and “galleta” [onions and biscuits]. Then, while the boys

prepared the orders. Uncle Petacovsky, who learned how to scribble in

Castihan, would make out the bills and note the number of engravings

it was necessary to buy at the dealer’s.

In addion to selling evangelical pictures, they added, through the

initiative of Uncle Petacovsky, seascapes, landscapes, still-lifes, and a great

number of scenes from the Shakespearean theatre, Othello, Hamlet,

Romeo and Juliet. At eight o’clock when Dona Guillermina (or Jane

Guitel) sent Elisa to school. Uncle Petacovsky went shopping in the art

market. He did this almost every morning, yet the Bermudez brothers

never failed to make some parting wtsecrack when he left.

“Tio Petaca,” they would yell, “don’t forget to bring me a nice little

peasant girl.” “Tio Petaca, I like a blonde one. What do you say, Tio

Petaca?”

But he never got angry. With a blend of irony and condescension, he

would answer, “All right, but don’t forget the nine San Antonios for San

Pedro.” And he would depart laughing, while the boys would mock him,

“Have a good time, Tio Petaca.”

From the beginning, Jane Guitel did not like these jests. She heard

them every morning, and every night she reproached her husband for

permitting them. She begged him to put a stop to them at once, so as to

avoid “so much intimacy.”

“Business is one thing,” his wife would protest, “friendship is another.

I don’t hke you to place so much confidence in them. Have you, by any

chance, smoked the same pipe together?”

In reality, what Jane Guitel was inferring when she asked her hus-

band this question was not exactly whether he had smoked the same pi pe,

but quite another thing. But why go over that? What above all ^Isc

bothered the woman was that the Bermudez brothers kept calling her

husband “Tio Petaca.” Since Elisa had started going to school. Dona

Guillermina had been finding out through her the meaning of every

strange word. Although the girl was only in the third grade, she could

speak Spanish correctly. She even went so far as to want to speak Spanish

with her own mother.

Two more years passed. At last, at the beginning of 1910, Jane Guitel

could realize her wish of moving away from Caseros Street. Once the

decision was made, the firm of Petacovsky-Bermudez split up without the

partners breaking off their friendship. After three years’ work, each re-

tired with nearly 10,000 pesos. The Bermudez brothers decided to rebuild

the old family house with their share and to establish a woodworking

shop there. As for Uncle Petacovsky, he kept what remained of the old

clientele of La Boca as his share of the business.

It is well-known that ninety-nine out of one hundred Jews who man-

age to get together some thousand pesos like to show off their riches and

live like really wealthy people. Uncle Petacovsky, no exception to this rule,

furnished his house lavishly and bought a piano for little Elisa. When an

Argentine son was born to him, he held a big feast in classic style on the

day of the circumcision. It was no more than right. Ever since the murder

of his first-born in Russia, Uncle Petacovsky had been looking forward

to such an event. Like Jane Guitel, he had always dreamed of a male

child who at his death would say the Kaddish of recall, the mourner’s

prayer … the Kaddish, that noble prayer of the Jewish orphan, which

Heinrich Heine himself remembered on his wool-draped deathbed:

“No one will sing mass for me;

No one will say Kaddish for me,

Nor celebrate with songs and prayers.

My death anniversary.”

But enough of poetry and poets. Now that he did have a a Kaddish (by

extension the Jews thus call a male child). Uncle Petacovsky did not die.

Quite otherwise. The celebration of the unknown Argentine soldier on

the eve of the centenary of 1810 suggested a patriotic enterprise to him.

And with the same faith and enthusiasm as of old. Uncle Petacovsky car-

ried out his idea. It was really the same old business. But now, instead of

saints’ pictures, there would be pictures of heroes, and, in place of Shakes-

pearean scenes, patriotic allegories.

The Bermudez brothers, who were still his friends, told him the

history of their country, but with the stress placed so on the side of the

Federalists that Uncle Petacovsky suspected that their information was

biased and one-sided. It wasn’t that he was against anybody, but that

proof of the glory of Rosas (Argentine dictator) was lacking.

Good peddler that he was, Uncle Petacovsky had learned his national

history in the streets of Buenos Aires. Thus he judged as heroes of the

first order, all those whose names adorned the principal squares and

streets. This curious way of learning history had already been used by

the pedagogue, although he who had been a teacher in the true sense

of the word back in Russia was not unaware of it.

But even though he did not know the scientific term for this ap-

proach — visioaudiomotor — the method gave him the best results. As for

Sarmiento (verbi gratia domine) — who at that time had an alley of La

Boca named after him. Uncle Petacovsky had formed a very low opinion

of him. If he had not known that he was an author,— and what Jew

ever failed to admire a man who writes books? — he would have left out

of his collection a truly great figure.

This exception to his hitherto unchallengeable system saved him from

the “pedagogic” method. When he did not come in contact with a

patriot in a visible place, he resolved not to allow himself to be guided

by the empirical method. He bought illustrated samples of all the patriots,

those he knew as well as those he did not know, and thus solved his

problem.

A few days before May 1st, the day chosen to start his new business.

Uncle Petacovsky had nearly a million engravings of all kinds. The sale

began promptly. Various peddlers took charge of the provinces and

Uncle Petacovsky of the capital. For six months things went at full blast.

But despite the great hustle and the centennial celebrations throughout

the Republic, the enterprise proved a failure.

Toward the end of the season, an inventory was made of the goods sold

in the interior of the country, and of the merchandise left over. Six hun-

dred thousand pictures remained. In his six months’ venture he had lost

his earnings of five years.

This first failure naturally disturbed the good nature of Uncle Peta-

covsky. As he lacked the nature of a businessman, he felt upset. And

even though a few months later he thought of some business which

would take advantage of Carnival time, his relatives, mocking him, re-

fused to give him credit Who trusts a man who has once failed?

Uncle Petacovsky suffered more from this lack of confidence than

from the loss of his money. He moved to cheaper quarters, sold his

piano, and put off registering his child in Normal School But none of

these things helped, as a new misfortune (how many more, O Lord?)

made him forget the previous one. It was nothing less than the death

of Beile, the younger of his two daughters.

This sad event made his relatives forget his failure in the centenary.

On the one hand, his relatives, and, on the other, his friends, with that

solidarity in mourning so characteristic of the Jew, comneted in helping

the unfortunate man. And thanks to them, once again he was able to

become a peddler. Now he sold not only pictures, but also furnishings,

clothes, jewelry and furs.

For five years Uncle Petacovsky worked to regain his clientele. His

accursed business gave him grey house. Indeed, what with the compete

tion of the big stores and the great rise in prices because of the war it

all came to nothing. But until the middle of 1916 he could not leave it.

Then only a happy circomstance took him out of it. The event can be

summed up in the following way:

The younger of the Bermudez brothers, Charles, recommended him

to the manager of a cigarette factory, and this man bought from him,

as propaganda for the Independence centenary, the patriotic pictures that

he still had left.

Uncle Petacovsky got 1500 pesos for his pictures. With this money in

his pocket he felt more cheerful. Promptly he gave up his clientele, as

he now suffered from rheumatism. He set to work looking for a store

he could open in the heart of the city. He did not care whether it was

a cigar store or some other kind of tiny shop. What he wanted was a

store with a door on the ma street. Let the customers look for him.

Not the other way round, as had hitherto been the case. He was sick and

tired of peddling.

Again his relatives laughed at his plans. While some, alluding to his

fondness for mate advised him to buy a mate plantation, others advised

him to open a mate factory. But Uncle Petacovsky, against the advice of

the world in general and of Jane Guitel in particular, bought a tiny

bookstore near the food market.

The new business completely changed the life of Uncle Petacovsky.

He no longer made the rounds of the city. Dressing as he pleased, in a

thick sail-cloth dust-cloak and a small, silk skull cap, he would spend

the mornings reading and drinking mate near the counter, while wait-

ing for customers. His daughter, Elisa, who by now had become like a

friendly little Creole of eighteen years, would prepare the bitter drink

and send it to him by her brother Daniel while she tidied up the house

before Jane Guitel returned from the market.

After his lunch. Uncle Petacovsky would take his siesta. At four

o’clock he would be at his post again, and Elisa would again prepare

mate for him to last until night.

Now, if the daily sales had provided a little more than the money

necessary for bread and yerba mate, it is probable that they would all

have lived happily ever after. But since, after a year of vain dreams, it

was clear that this was not happening, the quarrels at home started,

again.

“If you didn’t want to reform the world, but did what so many Jews

in Buenos Aires are doing, we’d be ail right,’’ Jane Guitel would scold.

To which he would answer:

“It’s simply that when I’m not fit for a thing, it’s no use ’’

And if Jane Guitcl pressed him to sell the store, he would retort

with bitter sarcasm:

“1 am sure that if I set out to manufacture shrouds, people would

stop dying. It’s the same thing.”

Such arguments were almost daily repeated in the same tone. Since

the death of her little girl, Jane Gmtel had been sick, and frequent ner-

vous attacks weakened her. Aware of this Uncle Petacovsky would try

to calm her by telling her of some event of the day. And if Dona Gml-

lermina, as he would jokingly call her on these occasions, resisted, he in-

voked the aphorisms of Sholem Alechem, his favorite author;

“Laughter is healthful; doctors advise people to laugh.” Or “When

the pot IS empty, fill it with laughter.”

The truth was, despite his Sholem Aleichem, Uncle Petacovsky had

become infected with the melancholy of his wife. He was no longer the

jovial “Tio Petaca” of his picture-frame factory. None of the enthusiasm

and good humor of that period remained with him. If he still laughed,

it was only to hide his tears. For as he himself said:

“When business is bad, one can be a humorist, but never a prophet.”

And he certainly did not try to be a humorist.

When school reopened he tried, with some success, to buy and sell

old books. But when vacation came, because he was already known as

a second-hand dealer, no one entered except to sell used books. In the

meantime, the long days, all alike, passed by tediously. The man, always

with his bitter mate; the woman with her incessant harping on the good

old times and constant protest against the present.

“My God,” she would complain to her husband, “see what you’ve

made of yourself in America, a second-hand dealer.” And she would cry.

In vain did Uncle Petacovsky try to defend the intellectual aspect

of his work and promise great results for the following season.

“You’ll see,” he would say to her, “as soon as classes begin, all these

great wise men and poets hidden in my books will leave the store. Why,

it’s even possible that by then I’ll find a buyer for the whole business

and I’ll keep only the medical books so that later on Daniel may study

to be a doctor.”

The woman never stopped nagging. By no means the dreamer that

he was, she was looking forward to the future of her daughter. In her

bitter moments, insults were always on her tongue.

“Second-hand man! My God, who will want to marry the daughter

of a second-hand dealer!” Jane Guitel found out who wanted to marry

her daughter much before she expected. Gossip had it that Elisa was

being courted by Carlos Bermudez. She would not believe it. Then some-

one who had seen them together confirmed the malicious rumors. Her

suspicion was aroused. At last, prevailed upon by her father, the girl

confessed her intimacy with his ex-partner. There was the deuce to pay.

Jane Guitel shrieked to high heaven. Her daughter to marry a goy! Was

It possible that the ungrateful wretch had forgotten that her great-grand-

father (may he rest in peace) was the chief rabbi of Kishinev, and that

all her relatives were pure and holy Jews? Where was the girl’s modesty?

In her despair she blamed her husband’s business for the thousandth

ume.

“So that’s what comes of your great tea-drinking friends! (Would

that God had poisoned them!) Here’s the result of your dealings with

them’ (If only a streak of lightning would blast them’) It’s all your

fault.”

And, overcome by her excitement, she began to cry as if it were the

Day of Atonement.

Uncle Petacovsky, who despite his mate had not stopped being a

good Jew, tried to calm her, assuring her that with God’s grace the mar-

riage would never take place.

He was against the marriage for other reasons. He respected the an-

cient code of the nationalist Jews: “We cannot cease being Jews while

others do not cease being Christians.” And, in truth, since he believed

that neither he nor Bermudez could be said to have free will, he did

everything in his power to inculcate Elisa with his philosophy.

“Look,” he said to her one night, while the girl was making mate,

“if I forbid you to marry Carlos, it is not a whim. You know how much

I respect him. But you are different; you were born in different coun-

tries; you have been brought up in different ways. You have prayed to

different Gods and you have different histones. Above all, he is still a

Chnstian and you are still a Jew.”

At another time he said:

“It is impossible. You won’t get along. In your first arguments, and

first arguments are inevitable, I can swear you will yell at him, ‘You

goyishc kopf’ (Genule head) and by way of insult he will call you a

‘lousy Jew.’ And he might even make fun of how your father says: novo, “

“neuve.”

The honest logic of Uncle Pctacovsky was as futile as the frequent

fainting spells of Jane Guitel. A few months later, the girl, deeply in

love, eloped with her sweetheart to Rosario.

Elisa’s elopement gave her mother a nervous breakdown. She cried

for two weeks, hardly taking a bit of food. Nothing could pacify her.

At last, under doctor’s orders, she was sent to “San Roque,” where she

died shortly afterward, aggravating the scandal made in the community

by the escapade.

The death of Jane Guitel brought the girl home. With her came

Bermudez. The couple acted as if they had been the direct cause of

her death and they wept bitter tears over the grave of the poor woman.

Bermudez himself, who before had been so inflexible, now renounced

Elisa and consented to her remaimng behind to take care of the little

boy. But Uncle Pctacovsky was honorable enough to forgive them and

to sanction the marriage on condition that they live together happily and

forever in Rosario.

After making them realize at what a price they had married. Uncle

Petacovsky, against everybody’s judgment, determined to go on with his

second-hand book store with his son Daniel.

“I alone,” he said, “will see to it that Daniel becomes a man. Don’t

worry. We won’t die of hunger.” And there was no way to make him

change his mind.

Neglected for so many months, his was now a run-down shop with

little merchandise except for such Spanish books and pamphlets as are

to be found in all second-hand book stores. Now that Jane Guitel could

no longer reproach him, and Elisa was married and far away. Uncle

Petacovsky gave himself over whole-heartedly to his books, determined in

this way to provide for his son. Now he lived wholly for his son’s sake.

He rose early every morning and, after preparing the mate, he woke

Daniel. After breakfast they went to the synagogue, where the son said

Kaddtsh in memory of his mother. At eight o’clock both would be out-

side the school and while Daniel went to his class Uncle Petacovsky went

to open the shop, which he now kept open until nightfall.

In this way they lived through six long months.

When vacation came, the miserable little store failed to produce

enough for the small necessities of the house; so Uncle Pctacovsky

brought together several Jewish boys to teach them Hebrew. Thus, re-

turning to his first profession, he faced his difficult situation. And he

was prepared for any other sacrifices in the hope of seeing Daniel a

grown-up man some day.

Unfortunately, Uncle Petacovsky was not going to realize even this

dream. We snail soon see why.

The first few days of 1919 went by. A great strike of metal mine

workers had broken out in Buenos Aires and the most incredible report

of a communist uprising was spread from one end of the city to the

other. On the afternoon of January l0th, Uncle Petacovsky was seated

as usual near his books, sipping mate. He had sent the boys home a

little earlier because it was the Sabbath eve and because there was a cer-

tain restlessness in the neighborhood. Corrientes Street, usually crowded,

now looked strange on account of the halt in traffic and the presence

of policemen bearing rifles.

About five-thirty o’clock a group of well-dressed young men started

shouting outside the shop — “Hurrahs for the republic.” Attracted by the

shouts. Uncle Petacovsky who kept on sipping his mat, looked out the

window, fearful, because only just a moment ago Daniel had left to say

Kaddish.

One of the mob, seeing Uncle Petacovsky’s frightened face, called

the attention of the others to the shop, and the youths came in and

stopped before the counter.

“Marxist books’” the nearest one shouted. “Marxist books’”

“There’s the Russian over there!” put in another.

“What a hypocrite, trying to fool us with his mate!”

And a third. “We’ll teach him to carry books with goat-like men on the covers!”

And stepping forward, he aimed his revolver at the beard of Tolstoy,

whose picture was on the cover of a red volume. His comrades, spurred

on by his example, imitated him. In an instant, amidst laughter, all the

books of bearded authors in the show case tumbled down. And, to tell

the truth, the sport of the youths would have been great fun, had not

one shot gone wrong and cost Uncle Petacovsky his life.

Now the good old man must be in Heaven together with the saints,

heroes, and artists who, through his industry, inspired so many people.

And if it be true that divine justice is less slow and more sure than

human justice, it must certainly have granted him that which he craved

most as he entered Heaven, just as the chosen ones have always been

favored. Then surely, even as Perez’ Bontche Shweig, who in identical

circumstances had asked the angels for bread and butter, — so Uncle Peta-

covsky was entitled to ask for mate amargo forever.

Translation by Stephen A. Sadow

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Noemí Cohen — Socióloga judío-argentina, radicada en España/Argentine Jewish Sociologist and Novelist, living in Spain — “La partida”- una historia judía de Alepo, Siria/”The Departure”-a Jewish story about Alepo, Syria — de la novela “Cuando la luz se va”/From the novel “When the Light Departs”

Noemí Cohen

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Noemí Cohen es escritora argentina (Buenos Aires, 1956). Reside en Madrid. Es abogada y escritora. Exiliada en México durante la dictadura militar. Tras su retorno a Argentina, sus actividades profesionales la llevaron a vivir varios años en Washington. Asesoró en temas sociales a diversos gobiernos, fue funcionaria de la Organización de Estados Americanos (OEA( y consultora de la Organización Internacional del Trabajo (OIT), y del Banco Interamericano de Desarrollo (BID). Fue directora de Relaciones Internacionales de la Biblioteca Nacional de Argentina entre 2003 y 2006. Fue columnista del periódico Miradas al Sur. Noemí Cohen publicado las novelas Mientras la luz se va (2005), La esperanza que no alcanza (201) y Los celebrantes (2022).

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Noemí Cohen is an Argentine writer (Buenos Aires, 1956). She lives in Madrid. She is a lawyer and writer. She was exiled in Mexico during the military dictatorship. After her return to Argentina, her professional activities led her to spend several years in Washington. She advised various governments on social issues, was an official of the Organization of American States (OAS) and a consultant to the International Labor Organization (ILO), and the Inter-American Development Bank (IDB). She was director of International Relations of the National Library of Argentina between 2003 and 2006. She was a columnist for the newspaper Miradas al Sur. Noemí Cohen has published the novels Mientras la luz se va (2005), La esperanza que no alcanza (2013) and Los celebrantes (2022)

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De/From: Cuando la luz se va. Buenos Aires: Editorial Losada, 2005.

“La partida”

La tarde en que Sara le dijo que el día siguiente irían juntos a una tienda en el otro extremo de la Ciudad Vieja a comprar telas para bordar, supo que su madre había aceptado el pedido del primo Jaime; una vida cambiaría y nada podía decir. Desde pequeña, escuchó historias y pareceres sobre el primo que vivía solo desde hacía quince años en la Argentina, un lugar lejano cuyo nombre no podía pronunciar y en donde, se decía en la familia, nadie era pobre. También se decía que el primo era buen mozo, rubio y trabajador; pero era imposible que ella recordara algo, apenas tenía unos meses de haber nacido, cuando él que tenía veinte años, dejó la casa familiar y se fue primero a Francia y luego a Sudamérica.

           Sara era viuda y tenía cinco hijos, tres de ellos mujeres, todos nacidos en Alepo. Ella era de Alejandría, había podido ir a la escuela, donde aprendió a leer y escribir y hasta algo de francés. En cambio, sus hijas, un poco por la costumbre del lugar y otro poco por la miseria, no sabían leer y sólo los varones fueron al colegio y hablaban francés. Las chicas se dedicaron a ayudarla en la casa y Elena además aprendió a tallar bronce; hacía armoniosos diseños que luego eran vendidas por el primo Faud en su bazar, al lado de la Sinagoga del shuk.

           Cuando Elena comenzó a trabajar, cincelaba en bronce dibujos con símbolos judíos; tenía un gran sentido de la proporción de las formas, pero era analfabeta, y aún no se le había ocurrido que podía dejar de serlo. Años después, ese deseo se transformaría en una obsesión, pero eso es otra historia. En cambio, conoció muy pronto los símbolos de los otros porque los dueños de los bazares vecinos al de Faud pidieron piezas decoradas con diseños islámicos y las representaciones cristianas para vender a cualquier que pasara por las calles del shuk y no sólo a los judíos que salían de la sinagoga.

           Al decorar las piezas de bronce con tan diferentes signos, aprendió el sentido de la armonía, supo el arte de combinar las formas, aprendizaje que le permitiría transitar la vida con la placidez de quien sabe que todo es mutable, aceptó algunas virtudes que hacen bueno a quien las tiene. Aunque también aprendió, viendo a su tío Faud negociar con los otros comerciantes, que no siempre eran virtuosas las relaciones con los extraños y menos aún en cuestiones de comercio.

           Sara había criado a sus hijos en la tradición y la ética sefardíes; les enseñó a ser solidarios y honestos, a distinguir lo puro de lo impuro, lo limpio de lo no limpio y, por sobre todas las cosas, les habló de la recta razón que guía las acciones de una buena persona. Principios sencillos de aplicar, ayudan distinguir el bien del mal en las cosas concretas de la vida diaria y hacían previsibles las conductas. Transmitió esa herencia de verdades absolutas como si fuera parte de la naturaleza, como los hábitos de comida o higiene; no comer cerdo o no mezclar la carne y leche, descansar por el sábado, lavarse las manos antes de comer y, para las mujeres, ir todos los viernes al hamman; era el orden de su mundo y no se le ocurría que sus hijos lo pensaran distinto.

           Al día siguiente de anuncio de la aceptación del pedido de mano, madre e hija comenzaron las caminatas por los barrios de la Ciudad Vieja donde vivían los judíos; en sus callecitas transitadas por camellos y mulas, pobladas por los gritos de los vendedores de habas, de aceitunas o de menta fresca, por las cinco llamados sonidos del almuecín que salían de los minaretes, únicas construcciones sobresalientes en esa laberíntica ciudadela. Subían y bajaban por esos paisajes angostos y polvorientos, debían conseguir todo lo necesario para prepara el ajuar y organizar la partida de Alepo. Elena no sabía que habría de viajar a un mundo tan distinto del suyo. “Alepo, La Blanche”, le decían los franceses a la ciudad, tal vez por sus casas blancas con balcones de piedras talladas en estilo andaluz, o tal vez por vestigios de un nombre que significaba de leche en arameo, herencia de una leyenda que señala a ese sitio como el lugar donde detuvo a ese sitio como el lugar donde se detuvo Abraham para alimentar a su rebaño o tal vez la otra, que cuenta sobre los antiguos de la

La primera salida fue para la casa de Marcos, el hermano mayor de Jaime, a buscar el giro postal enviado desde la Argentina. Les convidaron un té con hojas de menta, muy azucarada, propiciatorio de las dulzuras que le vendrían a la pequeña, según dijeron los parientes, quienes, a pesar de su pobreza, también habían preparado una bandeja de trufas, un manjar de lujo guardado en el sótano para una ocasión que mereciera celebrarse con tal exquisitez. Entre bendiciones y vaticinios de una prole numerosa de hijos varones, aconsejaron a su madre dónde comprar mejor las telas y objetos diversos que serían para el ajuar

           Una mañana salieron temprano para ir hasta la avenida principal; en la tienda de un primo segundo compraron la seda blanca para hacer tres camisones y una bata, seda de color curdo para otro, una pieza de lino blanco para confeccionar seis juegos de sábanas y cuatro manteles, lino muy fino color salmón para dos camisones, muchos metros de puntilla blanca, y una pieza color natural de encaje de Bruselas. Otro día fueron hasta el shuk, para ir al negocio de otro primo, donde compraron tres alfombras. A Elena, la que más le gustó fue una que además del tradicional borde de diseños geométricos multicolores sobre un fondo marrón, tenía un centro de rombos recortados en azul y rojo oscuro. Era la más cara y también la que le parecía más linda; pensó en ponerla arriba de un diván de su futura casa. Con las otras dos, cubriría los colchones en los dormitorios; aún no sabía que en el otro lado del mundo las alfombras eran sólo usadas en el piso. Esa alfombra que tanto le gustó tendría el extraño destino trashumante de algunos objetos y sería llevada de ciudad en ciudad, con la impronta de algo portador de buena suerte.     

         La salida más importante fue ir a la joyería. Deslumbrada, encargó dos anillos de oro, uno con un rubí y el otro con una aguamarina y los aros haciendo juego. Eligió también una pulsera de oro con un ancho broche central en el que se unían cadenas muy finitas y donde se podían agregar otras más que quedaban sostenidas por ese centro. Esa pulsera sería su adorno permanente y fascinaría años después a sus nietas. La verían condimentar las comidas mientras ese oro en movimiento parecería un llamado a la gloria de los sabores inminentes. Como a toda mujer oriental, a Elena le gustaban los brillos y si eran joyas más aún, pero dada la pobreza en la que vivía, sólo le era posible mirarlas en las vitrinas de los negocios, donde quedaban petrificadas como un niño hambriento ante una vidriera de dulces. Con el transcurrir de la vida, su deseo se realizaba con frecuencia, pero las vitrinas de las joyerías le siguieron produciendo siempre ese mismo efecto de encantamiento. Ese día fue distinto, eligió a su gusto mientras sonreía pensado en el ruidito de sus pendientes y en el efecto del brillo en medio de su pelo rojo. Mientras, recordaba los dichos de las mujeres de su familia: si un hombre quiere a su mujer debe regalarle joyas, sobre todo oros, muchos oros, porque él es el protector contra los males. Le gustaba repetir para llamar a la buena suerte: Tocando oro y mirando la luna”.

           En cuatro semanas, debía tomar el vapor hacia Marsella, desde donde embarcaría hacia la Argentina. Ese nombre era un sonido sin significado; en cambio, la intrigaba Jaime. Pensaba en él todo el tiempo mientras bordaba las prendas del ajuar disfrutando del rumor de la costura y del contacto del encaje y la seda en sus manos jóvenes estropeadas por el cincel, aún torpes para los trabajos más delicados.

           Por la tarde, las mujeres de la familia y las vecinas sacaban sus sillas bajas al patio de la casa grande; repitiendo gestos y dichos que habían visto en sus madres y sus abuelas, se reunían alrededor de la novia para ayudarle en la costura del ajuar. Ella cosía, acompañada en silencio las risas y cuchicheos mientras trataba de encontrarle un rostro a su futuro marido de quien no tenía siquiera una foto. Sentía una mezcla de nostalgia anticipada y alivio; ya no iba a tener tardes de algarabía como ésas, pero se iba a casar con un hombre rico que la esperaba para cuidarla y darle todo lo necesario. El amor llegaba después, repetían desde siempre los dichos familiares, sentencia inapelable para consolar a las niñas ante las bodas arregladas con desconocidos y el miedo de la soledad prematura

           No sabía nada de hombres, pero desde pequeña aprendió que el deber de la mujer era cuidar a su marido, cocinarle y darle hijos varones, también alguna mujer. Aunque hacía largo tiempo que Jaime vivía entre los otros, ella pensaba seguramente que era un buen hombre, como los de su familia, a pesar de algunos muy festejador de mujeres u otros entusiastas jugadores de cartas. Ayudaría a ese hombre si había desviado; le habían enseñado que sólo a través de la mujer bendiciones de Dios son concedidas a una casa, y el hogar es bendito cuando la mujer atiende a los destinos de la familia y que el hombre también será bendito y vivirá el doble de los años cuando ame y honre a su esposa.

           A sur madres y a sus tías les gustaba repetir que los hombres no podían estar solos. ¿Cómo lavar, planchar o cocinar? Sólo aprendieron a ir al negocio, donde hablaban y, gracias a las palabras, cobraban dinero, Era necesario que tuvieran una mujer al lado para ser buenos, limpios y felices. Si ellas les decían a que ellos les gustaba, les hacían ricas comidas y algunas otras cosas, ellos después cumplían con la voluntad de sus mujeres. Había aprendido a hacer algunas comidas; conocía el placer del sabor al morder la masa crocante de un quipe, la textura aterciopelada del hummus o la dulzura húmeda y crujiente de una baclawa, pero no sabía cuáles serían esas cosas que provocaban risas y murmullos en las tías y en mamá mientras se juntaban en el patio de la casa grande, cuchicheando con complicidad mientras cocinaban para las fiestas, como luego también lo hicieron para preparar el ajuar.

           Se iba sola y muy lejos a casarse con un desconocido. Nadie le preguntó si estaba de acuerdo; sólo tuvo permiso para elegir alguna joya, un adorno para su futura casa o una alfombra. Elena creyó que debía hacer algunas preguntas antes de partir, porque cuando estuviera lejos ninguna de las mujeres de la familia podría responderle y, entonces, se atrevió a susurrar que necesitaba sabe cómo era eso de cumplir con el marido para conseguir después todo lo deseado.

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“The Departure”

The afternoon in which Sara told her that the next day they would go together to a shop at the other end of the Old City to buy cloth to embroider, she knew that her mother had accepted the request from Cousin Jaime; her life would change, and she couldn’t say anything. From when she was little, she heard stories and opinions about the cousin who lived alone in Argentina for fifteen years, a faraway place whose name she couldn’t pronounce and where, within they family they said no one was poor.  It was also said that the cousin was a good man, blond, a hard worker However, it was impossible that she remembers anything about him, she was barely a few months old, when he, at twenty, left the family home and went first to France and then to South America.

           Sara was a widow with five children, three of them women, all of them born in Alepo. She was from Alexandria, had been able to go to school, where she learned to read and write and even some French. On the other hand, her daughters, in part because of the customs of the place and another part because of poverty, didn’t know how to read and only the boys went to school and spoke French. The girls dedicated themselves to help her at home, and Elena learned how to engrave bronze; harmonious designs that were then sold by Cousin Faud in his Bazar, at the side of the Synagogue of the shuk

           When Elena began to work, she engraved bronze pictures with Jewish symbols; she had a fine sense of the proportion of the forms, but she was illiterate, and it had never occurred to her that she could begin to stop being so. Years later, this desire would be transformed into an obsession, but that’s another story. Instead, the quickly learned the symbols of the others, as the owners of the bazars neighboring Faud’s asked for pieces decorated with Islamic designs and Christian representations to sell to anyone who passed through the streets of the shuk and the not only to the Jews leaving the synagogue.    

           Decorating the pieces of bronze with such different signs, she learned a sense of harmony, she learned the art of combining forms, an apprenticeship that allow her to go through life with the calmness of somebody who knows that everything is mutable. She took on some virtues that do well for whoever has them. Although she also knew, watching her cousin Faud negotiate with the other merchants, who were not always virtuous in their dealings with strangers, even less when dealing with business.

           Sara had raised her children in the Sephardic tradition and ethics; she taught them to be caring and honest, to distinguish the pure from the impure, and most of all, she spoke to them of the upright reason that guides the actions of a good person. Simple principles to apply, they help in distinguishing the good from the evil in the concrete things of daily life that guide the actions of a good person and made conduct to be expected. She transmitted that inheritance of absolute truths as if it was part of nature, like the habits of food and hygiene, to not eat pork or mix meat and milk, rest during the Sabbath, wash hands before eating, and for the women, to go every Friday to the hamman; it was the order of her world and it never occurred to her that her children might think differently.

           The first outing was to Marcos’ house, Jaime’s older brother, to seek the postal order sent from Argentina. They invited them to have tea with mint leaves, heavily sugared, propitiatory to the sweets that would come to the little one, according to what her relatives said, who, despite their poverty, also had prepared a tray of truffles, a luxury food kept in the basement for an occasion that merited that was worthy of a celebration with such a delicacy. Between prayers and predictions from numerous offspring of boys, the advised her mother where to better buy the cloths and various objects that would be for the dowry.

          One morning, they left early to go as far as the principal avenue; in the store of a second cousin, they bought the while silk to make three nightgowns and a bathroom, Kurdish-colored silk for another, a piece of white linen to sew into six pairs of sheets and four tablecloths, salmon-colored fine linen, and a piece of natural-colored Belgian lace. Another day, they went as far as the shuk, to negotiate with another cousin, where they bought three rugs. Elena liked best the one that went beyond the traditional borders of geometric design of multi-color geometrical designs on a maroon base, it had a center of uneven diamonds in blued and dark red. It was the most expensive and it also was the prettiest, she intended to put it above a couch in her future home. With the other two, she would cover the mattresses in the bedrooms; she did yet know that in the other side of the side of the world, rugs were used only on the floor. That rug that she liked so much, would have the strange human nomadic destiny that some objects do, and would be carried from city to city with the imprint of something that carries good luck.

           The most important trip was to the jewelry store. Dazzled, she ordered two gold rings, one with a ruby and the other with an aquamarine and earrings to match, she also chose a gold bracelet with a wide central clasp in which brought together very fine chains and where she could add others that were held by the center. That bracelet with be her permanent adornment and years later would fascinate here granddaughters. They would see her season the dinners while that gold in movement seemed a call to the glory of the imminent flavors. Like all Eastern women, Elena loved sparkles, and if they were jewels, so much the better, but given the poverty in which she lived, it was only possible for her to look at them through store windows, where they remained petrified, like a hungry child before a store window of candy. With the passing of life, her desire was frequently fulfilled, but the jewelry store windows always produced in her the same feeling of enchantment. That day was different. She chose as she pleased, while she smiled thinking about the little sounds of her pendants and the effect of the shine in the middle of her red hair. Meanwhile, she remembered the sayings of the women of her family. If a man loves a woman, he ought to give her jewels, especially gold ones, lots of gold one, because he is the protector against evil. She liked to repeat to call for good luck: Touching gold and looking at the moon.

          In four weeks, she had to take the steamship to Marseille, from which she would embark for Argentina. That name was a sound without meaning; in contrast, Jaime intrigued her. She thought about him all the time, while she sewed the clothing for the dowry, taking advantage of the sounds of the sewing and the contact with the lace in her young hands, damaged by the chisel, still awkward for contact of the lace, still clumsy for the most delicate jobs.

           In the evening, the women of the family and neighbors, took out their low chairs to the patio of the great house; repitiendo gestures and saying that they had seen in their mothers and their grandmothers gather around bride to help her with the sewing of the dowry. She sewed, accompanied in silence the laugher, and whispering, while she tried to find the find a face for her of her future husband of whom she didn’t even have a photo. She felt a mixture anticipated nostalgia and relief; she still wasn’t ready. She still wasn’t ready to have an afternoon of rejoicing, like those, but she was going to marry a rich man who was waiting to take care of her and give her everything necessary. Love comes later, the family sayings repeated from time immemorial, a unappealable maxim to console the girls before arranged marriages with unknown men and the fear of premature solitude.

          She knew nothing about men, but since she was a little girl, she learned that the responsibility of her husband, cook for him ad give him male children, also a girl. Although Jaime had lived a long time among others, she thought that surely, he was a good man, like those of her family, despite some who played around with women or others who played cards too much. She would help that man is he had strayed; they had taught her that only through the woman are God’s benedictions conceded to a home, and it is blessed when the woman attended to the future of the family and the man will also be blessed and will live twice the number of years when he loves and honors his wife.

         Her mothers and her aunts liked to repeat that men can’t live alone. Wash, iron or cook? The only learned to go to business, where they talked. And thanks to their words, earned money. It was necessary that they had a woman at their side in order to be good, clean and happy. If they said to them what they wanted to hear, made them delicious dinners and some other things, they will then go along with the will of their wives. She had learned to make some meals; she knew the pleasure of taste, when biting into the crispy dough of a quipe, the velvety texture of hummus or the damp and crunchy sweetness of baklava, but she didn’t know what those things that provoked laughter and murmurs among the aunts and mama, could be, when they got together on the patio of the big house, gossiping with complicity while they were cooking for parties, and then they did so while preparing the dowry.

           She was going alone and very far to marry and unknown man. No one asked her if she agreed; she only had permission to choose a jewel, an adornment for her future house or a rug. Elena believed that she should ask some questions before leaving, because when she was far away, none of the women of the family could answer her and then, she dared to sigh that she needed to know about how to fulfill her husband, so to obtain all that was later wished for.

Translation by Stephen A. Sadow

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Libros de Noemí Cohen/Books by Noemí Cohen

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Vilma Faingezicht — Escritora y artista judío-costarricense/Costa Rican Jewish Writer and Artist — “Y los ángeles tenían alitas blancas”/”And the Angles Had Little White Wings” — Un cuento sobre chicos y antisemitismo/A story about children and Antisemitism

Vilma Faingezicht

Vilma Faingezecht nace en Costa Rica, hija de inmigrantes judíos oriundos de Polonia.  Sus padres llegan a estas tierras en el año 1946, luego de sobrevivir a la Segunda Guerra Mundial.Cursa la escuela primaria en Alajuela, en la Escuela Bernardo Soto y en San José, en la Escuela Estados Unidos del Brasil.   Posteriormente, en el Colegio Superior de Señoritas, realiza sus estudios de secundaria.Vive algunos años en Israel, México y Puerto Rico.  Regresa a San José después de conocer y explorar muchos caminos.De nuevo en casa, continúa completando sus diferentes estudios :Historia, Diseño, Decoración y Artes Plásticas .Se dedica por muchos años a presentar exposiciones de pintura , tanto en el país como en el exterior.  Es licenciada en filosofía por la Universidad Autónoma de Centroamérica. Es fundadora y directora del Museo de la Comunidad Judía de Costa Rica. La Revista Nacional de Cultura publica y premia uno de sus primeros cuentos en el año 1992.Entre sus publicaciones contamos con tres libros de cuentos :EN TIERRAS  AJENAS….EN ESOS CAMINOS, CUENTOS DE LA NIÑA JUDIA.

Adaptado de: Asociación Costarricense de Escritoras

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Viilma Faingezicht was born in Costa Rica, the daughter of Jewish immigrants from Poland. His parents arrived in these lands in 1946, after surviving World War II. He attended primary school in Alajuela, at the Bernardo Soto School, and in San José, at the United States of Brazil School. Later, at the Colegio Superior de Señoritas, he completed his secondary studies. He lived for a few years in Israel, Mexico and Puerto Rico. He returns to San José after knowing and exploring many paths. Back home, he continues to complete his different studies: History, Design, Decoration and Plastic Arts. For many years he has dedicated himself to presenting painting exhibitions, both in the country and abroad. Exterior. She has a degree in philosophy from the Autonomous University of Central America. She is the founder and director of the Museum of the Jewish Community of Costa Rica. The National Magazine of Culture publishes and rewards one of her first stories in 1992. Among her publications we have three story books: EN TIERRAS AJENAS….EN ESOS CAMINOS, TALES OF THE JEWISH GIRL

Adapted from: Costa Rican Writers Association

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Y los ángeles tenían alitas blancas

Y los ángeles llevaban flores…

Pero yo no pertenecía a nada.

Las chiquitas escogidas se vestían de jardineras, con delantales de organdí y canastas de flores. Todo era blanco y amarillo, colores sagrados en momentos sublimes.

Las alas de los angelitos sobresalían entre la multitud: angelitos blancos, angelitos bellos; yo también quería tener alas y volar, volar por los aires con mis alas blancas. ¡Ser un angelito! ¡Tener alas y flores!

Los chiquitos buenos eran los escogidos y se convertían en ángeles que irradiaban candor. Las chiquitas vestidas de jardineras iban colmadas de flores, como Diosas rumbo al altar.

Pero yo no podía ser nada.

Si por lo menos hubiera podido ir de jardinera. ¿Qué tenía de malo andar repleta de flores? Las flores son de todos, no sólo de los católicos. Algún día me iba a apoderar de todas esas flores, flores blancas y amarillas. ¡Quería tener mi cabeza cubierta de flores! Y quizá algunas alas también; ¿por qué no? 

Los ángeles también son de todos.

¡Angelitos blancos, angelitos lindos! Yo quería ser un ángel.

Y las ollas rebosantes de uvas aguardaban su fermento… Se acercaba la Pascua y ese año el vino tendría que ser casero. Sin vino no hay Pascua. 

“…y recordarás la salida de Egipto como si tú mismo hubieras sido esclavo en tierras del faraón…” 

Ahora éramos libres; antes fuimos esclavos ¡Había que recordar y celebrar ese acontecimiento! Los niños judíos celebrábamos, estábamos en un mundo libre; pero asimismo católico.

Un mundo colmado de ángeles.

Eran dos pascuas diferentes; una con cuatro copas de vino y otra que se celebraba con ángeles… Pero yo no tomaba vino… Yo quería ser un ángel.

Mayo era el mes de las flores. En mayo brotaban los lirios. Flores para la Virgen pedían siempre en la escuela… Y la maestra quería tanto a las chiquitas que llevaban flores… Flores blancas para la Virgen, lirios blancos, mayo florido.

¡Mayo florido, mes de los lirios!

La tierra regada, olorosa y fresca.

Alegría de pájaros en las arboledas.

Mayo florido, mayo, mayo…

…y yo quería que la maestra me quisiera a mí mucho…

…las niñas judías no le llevan flores a la Virgen.

Las niñas judías hacen otras cosas; las niñas judías no se ponen medallas con santos en la camiseta, las niñas judías no se persignan cuando pasan por las iglesias.

Las niñas judías, las niñas judías…

Las niñas judías no van a la clase de religión, las niñas judías se quedan afuera… y la maestra las manda a limpiar la capilla.

Ahí, ahí es donde está la Virgen, con los lirios, los lirios blancos, los lirios de mayo. Las niñas judías no sabíamos a qué mundo pertenecíamos.

Mayo florido, mes de la Virgen, mayo florido; ¿por qué también viene el Diablo? Palmas benditas, Ave María Purísima, el Diablo los ase a todos. 3 de mayo, todos los años; 3 de mayo, el Diablo los agarra a todos. Las niñas judías necesitan agua bendita, las niñas judías de igual modo quieren sus palmas benditas.

Pero, ¿por qué el Diablo sí era para todos?

Si yo lo que anhelaba era ser un ángel con las alas blancas y flotar por las suaves nubes. Una jardinera con vestido de organdí y cubierto de flores. Un ángel como el de los cromos, con una sonrisa y mejillas rosa.

Las niñas judías queríamos ser todo, pero no éramos nada. Había que rezar en la noche, pero no entendíamos nada… “¡Shma Israel!” Pero por si acaso: “Padre nuestro, que estás en el cielo…”

El año nuevo se celebraba siempre en setiembre, era Rosh Hashana. Los judíos teníamos el año nuevo en setiembre, nadie entendía nada; además, había dos años nuevos. El de los judíos era maravilloso; teníamos siempre vestidos nuevos; nos vestíamos de seda de pies a cabeza, con lazos en el pelo y zapatos nuevos. El hecho de desfilar por las calles con la ropa nueva era casi como ser una de las jardineras. Mas la alegría duraba poco; el tiempo pasaba veloz y de pronto ya era diciembre. “…pastores venid, pastores llegad, a adorar al Niño, a adorar al Niño que ha nacido ya…”

Había nacido un niño y a todos los niños les traía juguetes. Las calles estaban repletas de juguetes y de manzanas rojas; todos los chiquitos estaban felices con ese niño que había nacido. A todos les traía juguetes…

Pero un día alguien me dijo: 

—No seas tonta; ¿no ves que a los “polacos” ese niño no les trae nada?

Y entonces todo estaba dicho; los “polacos” no éramos católicos y los católicos no eran “polacos”. ¡Éramos diferentes!

…y a los “polacos” el Niño no les trae juguetes.

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And the Angels had Little White Wings

And the angles were carrying flowers…

But I didn’t belong to anything.

The chosen little girls were dressed as gardeners with smocks of organdy and baskets of flowers. Everything was white and yellow, sacred colors in sublime moments.

The wings of the little angels stood out among the multitude: little white angels, beautiful little and angles: I too wanted to have wings and fly, fly though the air with my white wings. To be a little angel! To have wings and flowers!

The good little boys were the chosen ones, and they became angels that radiated purity. The little girls, dressed as gardeners were filled with flowers, like Goddesses at the altar.

But I couldn’t be anything.

If I could at least have been a gardener. What was wrong with going about full of flowers? The flowers belong to everyone, not only the Catholics. Someday I’m going to take over all those flowers, white and yellow flowers. I wanted to cover my head with flowers! And perhaps some wings too. Why not?

Angels belong to everyone,

Little white angels, pretty little angels! I wanted to be an angel!

And the brimming pots of grapes awaited fermentation… Easter was coming, and this year the wine would have to be homemade. Without wine, there was no Easter.

“…and you will remember the leaving of Egypt as if you had been a slave in Pharoah’s land…”

Now we were free before we were slaves. It was necessary to remember and celebrate this event! The Jewish children celebrated, we were in a free world, but at the same time Catholic.

A world filled with angels.

There were two different holidays, one with four cups of wine and the other celebrated with angels…But I didn’t drink wine… I wanted to be an angel!

May was the month of flowers. In May the lilies bloomed. Flowers for the Virgin were always requested for the school…  And the teacher loved so much the little girls who carried flowers… White flowers for the Virgin, white lilies, May in flower.

Flowery May, month of lilies!

The earth irrigated, fragrant and fresh.

The joy of birds in the groves.

Flowery May, May, May…

…and I wanted the teacher to love me a lot…

…the Jewish children don’t bring flowers to the Virgin.

The Jewish girls do other things; the Jewish girls don’t put medal with saints on their undershirts; the Jewish girls don’t cross themselves when they pass by churches.

The Jewish girls, the Jewish girls…

The Jewish girls don’t go to religion class, the Jewish girls stay outside… and the teacher sends them to clean the chapel.

There, there is where the Virgin is, with the lilies, the white lilies, the lilies of May. We, the Jewish girls don’t know to which world we belong.

Flowery May, month of the Virgin, flowery May> Why does the Devil come too? Blessed palms fronds. Hail Mary, the Devil roasts everyone. May 3, every year, May 3, the Devil grabs everyone. The Jewish girls need holy water, the Jewish girls in the same way want their blessed palm fronds.

But, why is the Devil really for everyone!

If I what I wanted was to be an angel with white wings and to float through soft clouds. A gardener with a dress of organdy and covered with flowers. An angel, like the on the stickers, with a smile and red cheeks.

The Jewish girls we want to be everything, but we weren’t anything. It was necessary to pray at night, but we didn’t understand anything. “Shemá Israel! But perhaps: “Our Father who is in Heaven…”

The new year is always celebrated in September, it was Rosch HaShonah. We Jews have our new year in September, nobody understands anything, moreover, there are two new years. The Jewish one was marvelous, we always had new cloths, we dressed in silk from head to toe, with bows on our hair and new shoes. The act of parading on the streets with new cloths was almost like being one of the gardeners. But the joy was short-lived; time passed quickly and soon it was September already… “come shepherds, arrive shepherds, to adore the Child, to adore the Child, who has just been born…”

A child was born, and all the children brought him toys. The streets were full of toys and red apples; all the little kids were happy about this child that had been born. They all got toys…

But one day someone said to me:

“Don’t be silly: don’t you see that this child doesn’t bring anything to the “Polish?”

And then everything was said, we “Polish” weren’t Catholics, and the Catholics weren’t “Polish.” We were different!

…and the Child didn’t bring toys to the “Polish.”

Translated by Stephen A. Sadow

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Libros de Vilma Faingezicht/Books by Vilma Faingezicht

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El museo de la comunidad judía de Costa Rica– Vilma Faingezicht–Fundadora/ The Museum of the Jewish Community of Costa Rica — Vilma Faingezicht — Founder

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“Buena Tierra” — Bolivia como un refugio judío del Holocausto — Bolivia as Jewish Refuge from the Holocaust– 1935-1945

“Buena Tierra” — La experiencia judía en Bolivia 1935-1945 — en La Paz y en la colonia “Buena Tierra”

“Buena Tierra”– The Jewish Experience in Bolivia 1935-1945 — in La Paz y in the farm “Tierra Buena”

La finca de Buena Tierra/The Buena Tierra Farm

La experiencia de los refugiados judíos en Bolivia estuvo indeleblemente influenciada por Maurice Hochschild, un acaudalado judío alemán propietario de una mina en Bolivia que tenía una buena relación con el presidente boliviano. Cuando el gobierno boliviano alentó la inmigración a mediados de la década de 1930 para impulsar la economía, Hochschild facilitó visas para que refugiados judíos alemanes y austriacos llegaran a Bolivia. También fundó la Sociedad de Protección a los Inmigrantes Israelitas (SOPRO), o La Sociedad para la Protección de los Migrantes Israelitas. La mayoría de los judíos se establecieron en La Paz, la capital, y JDC* apoyó los hogares infantiles de SOPRO y otras instituciones comunales en La Paz.

En 1940, para contrarrestar la creciente propaganda antisemita de que los inmigrantes judíos no contribuían al bienestar del estado y para asegurar que Bolivia no cerraría sus puertas a la futura inmigración judía, Hochschild se asoció con la Sociedad Colonizadora de Bolivia (SOCOBO) para desarrollar proyectos agrícolas en áreas rurales para demostrar la autosuficiencia de estos refugiados judíos.

Hochschild se puso en contacto con JDC y Agro-Joint para obtener fondos para reubicar a los judíos como campesinos y capacitarlos para cultivar los campos. De 1939 a 1942, JDC, junto con SOCOBO y Hochschild, contribuyeron $160,000 para sostener los asentamientos agrícolas.

Desafortunadamente, los nuevos agricultores enfrentaron una serie de desafíos en sus empresas agrícolas: la topografía montañosa, lo que significaba que no podían usar tractores; la muerte de los caminos a los mercados apropiados para los cultivos como la piña, el café y el cacao; y el clima subtropical. Ninguna de las granjas llega a ser completamente autosuficiente; todos fueron subvencionados por SOCOBO y Hochschild.

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The Jewish refugee experience in Bolivia was indelibly influenced by Maurice Hochschild, a wealthy German Jewish mine owner in Bolivia who had a good relationship with the Bolivian president. When the Bolivian government encouraged immigration in the mid-1930s to spur the economy, Hochschild facilitated visas for German and Austrian Jewish refugees to arrive in Bolivia. He also founded the Sociedad de Proteccion a los Immigrantes Israelitas (SOPRO), or The Society for Protection of Jewish Migrants. The majority of Jews settled in La Paz, the capital, and JDC* supported SOPRO Children Homes and other communal institutions in La Paz.

In 1940, to counter rising anti-Semitic propaganda that Jewish immigrants were not contributing to the welfare of the state and to ensure that Bolivia would not close its doors to future Jewish immigration, Hochschild partnered with the Sociedad Colonizadora de Bolivia (SOCOBO) to develop agricultural projects in rural areas to demonstrate these Jewish refugees self-sufficiency.

Hochschild contacted JDC and Agro-Joint for funds to relocate Jews as peasant farmers and train them to cultivate the fields. From 1939-1942, JDC, along with SOCOBO and Hochschild, contributed $160,000 to sustain the agricultural settlements.

Unfortunately, the new farmers encountered a host of challenges in their agricultural enterprises: the mountainous topography, which meant that they could not use tractors; the dearth of roads to appropriate markets for the crops such as pineapple coffee, and cacao; and the sub-tropical climate. None of the farms ever become entirely self-sufficient; they were all subsidized by SOCOBO and Hochschild.

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La organización judía The Joint Distribution Committee (JDC or “The Joint”) ayudaba en la salvación de muchos miles de personas antes, durante y después del Holocaust y luego los refugiados/The Jewish organization The Joint Distribution Committee (JDC or “The Joint”) helped save many thousands people before, during and after the Holocaust

Refugiados transformados en granjeros/Refugees transformed into farmers

Hombres descascarando el maíz/Men shucking corn

Taller de carpintería/Woodworking shop

Una muchacha sobre un burro en Buena Tierra/A girl on a burro en Bella Tierra

Tomando el té/Drinking tea

Competiciones de deportes/Sports competitions local people

Um asilo de JDC para la gente mayor en La Paz/A JDC Home for the Aged in La Paz

Shofar de Rosch HaShona/Shofar for Rosh HaShonah

El museo de Buena Tierra en La Paz/BuenaTierra Museum in La Paz

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