Sara Levi Calderón no es su verdadero nombre, pues ella viene de una familia ashkenazí muy reconocida en México. Es su nombre de pluma con el cual publicó hace 30 años, su libro, una relato que incluye poesía erótica y describe un amor prohibido entre dos mujeres, siendo una de ellas parte de la Comunidad judía de México. Debido a este amor, “Sara” es desterrada de su casa por sus propios hijos; desheredada por sus padres; y expulsada de su comunidad por sus amigos y parientes. La aparición del libro y la condición de lesbiana de una “hija de familia” fue un shock para la comunidad judía de la época. “La homofobia era terrible. No supe cómo defenderme, no supe cómo explicárselo a mis hijos. Estaba aterrada por el escándalo, me sentí señalada- y dejé el país. // Se casó a los 18 años con un hombre, quien fue excelente marido y buen padre . La mujer, que tiene otras expectativas, vive insatisfecha y termina divorciándose. Un buen día, se enamora por primera vez en la vida “algo de lo cual no me creía capaz”. El objeto de su amor es una mujer que todo el mundo a su alrededor ama… hasta que se descubre el lazo que las une. “La Comunidad no me perdona que haya yo herido a mis padres y a mis hijos “ y lo lamenta. Sin embargo, tenía que elegir entre perder el amor y morir; o aceptarlo y seguir con vida”. “Desde hace 35 años que vivo con esta persona, la amo con todo mi ser”, concluye la novelista. vuelve a tomar la pluma con la obra “Vida y peripecies de una buena hija de familia”. Adaptado de Enlace Judío
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Sara Levi Calderón is not her real name, as she comes from a well-known Ashkenazi family in Mexico. It is the pen name she used to publish her book 30 years ago, a story that includes erotic poetry and describes a forbidden love between two women, one of whom is part of the Jewish community in Mexico. Because of this love, “Sara” is banished from her home by her own children, disinherited by her parents, and expelled from her community by her friends and relatives. The publication of the book and the lesbian identity of a “daughter of a family” shocked the Jewish community at the time. “The homophobia was terrible. I didn’t know how to defend myself, I didn’t know how to explain it to my children. I was terrified of the scandal, I felt singled out—and I left the country. // She married at 18 to a man who was an excellent husband and a good father. The woman, who had different expectations, lived unsatisfied and ended up divorcing. One day, she fell in love for the first time in her life, “something I didn’t think I was capable of.” The object of her love was a woman whom everyone around her loved… until the bond between them was discovered. “The community doesn’t forgive me for having hurt my parents and my children,” and she regrets it. However, she had to choose between losing love and dying; or accepting it and continuing to live.” “I have lived with this person for 35 years, I love her with all my being,” the novelist concludes. She returns to writing with the work “Life and Adventures of a Good Daughter of a Family.” Adapted from Enlace Judío
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Dos mujeres/Two mujeres
Una menta?
Genovesa me ofreció una menta. Sin recato la tomé con mi boca. Sentí el contacto desconocido de sus dedos en mi lengua: un rayo luminoso se abrió camino por mi cerebro. Ella me miró atónita sin quitar la mano. Hice un avance hacia su boca entreabierta por la sorpresa. Temblé, temblamos, con el corazón enloquecido metí mi lengua en su boca, circundé sus dientes: sabía a flor nueva. Nuestras miradas se desprendieron como dos pájaros en fuga. Nos perdimos en el espejo frente a la cama. Alrededor de nosotras miles de ojos rellenos de azul y mar, gusanos y despojos. En medio dos mujeres, una hincada frente a la otra; alrededor de ellas un panteón de ojos. Caíamos en un silencio inhóspito. Gulp, vi mis profundos interiores. Negras entrañas enrojecían, pequeñas estrías se marcaron en mis ojos. Genovesa seguía clavada en el espejo. Su vista se había poblado de nardos.
Todo duró un instante que a mí me pareció una eternidad. Ella salió lentamente del entramado de refracciones.
Parecía una doliente milenaria. Me reconocí en ella como aquella joven mujer que había sido hacía no mucho tiempo. Tomé su mano que reposaba sobre el edredón beige. Las dos veníamos de dos experiencias tan diferentes, pero en algo nos parecíamos.
—No es fácil hacer añicos a los fantasmas genitores —le dije—. Lo nuestro significa romper con los símbolos más antiguos: símbolos aprendidos desde antes de nacer. —Bajó la cabeza y acomodó el edredón sobre sus piernas.
—Sí —dijo suavemente—, tiene que ver con algo muy antiguo. —Al verme retraída me pasó la mano por la mejilla. Me preguntó si a mí también me preocupaba.
—Sí —le dije. Mi afirmación pareció tranquilizarla. Poco a poco nuestras formaciones graníticas se fueron disolviendo y el deseo volvió a ser transparente.
Pronto supe que la entrega de su cuerpo era lenta. Había que acariciarla con la mirada, eliminar la tristeza que encubría su voluptuosidad. Tal quehacer se asemejaba a la delicada factura de una acuarela japonesa. Lamí su cuello, su boca…
Afuera, una lluvia fina golpeaba las ventanas. La música de Alain Barrière nos acompañaba en la entrada de un territorio nuevo.
«Dos mujeres», pensé con todo mi deseo a flor de cada poro. Mi boca se detuvo en su cuello. Bajé por su vientre, retuve sus caderas. Ella acercó sus senos a mis senos, a mi cara, a mi boca; lamió con su lengua mi cuello. Volvimos a las bocas reconociendo nuestras lenguas. Las palpitaciones de mis sienes se transportaban a mi sexo. Los caballos, oh Dios, galopan a la velocidad del viento, de sus hocicos brotan llamaradas al rojo vivo. Nuestros cuerpos danzan.
—Qué fuerte siento contigo —susurró.
—Deseo hacerte mía: volverme tuya —musité a su oído.
Mi lengua perturbada recorre sus senos, sus pezones inflamados, su vientre liso, se interna en su vulva: está hecha de musgo fresco. Destellos plateados caen sobre un mar plumbago. Me siento fuerte, ilimitada.
—Le temo al vértigo —dijo.
La tierra se vuelve líquida. Nos detenemos la una de la otra. Reconoce su sabor a través de mi boca… Los leños regurgitan secamente mientras nuestras voces se dicen coplas. Una voz urbana clama: te amo. Esa voz es mía y de nadie más.
Para quien quiera un poco de vida…
Cuando desperté la vi acostada a mi lado. Era muy bella. Me gustaba que solo tuviera veinticinco años y que estuviera allí, en mi cama, tranquilamente dormida. Movió la boca como si fuera a decir algo, pero solo era un movimiento del sueño. Deseé que nunca terminara el puente de Muertos. «Es ella a quien he estado esperando toda mi vida», pensé. Pero que fuera una mujer no era cualquier cosa. Recordé a Morena que nunca quería hablar conmigo de su querida prima, pero que finalmente me la presentó y luego le dejó una nota diciéndole que me llamara cuando ella partiera. Qué diferentes eran la una de la otra. Con Morena yo tenía el papel de protectora. Genovesa, a pesar de sus catorce años menos que yo, podía mostrarme caminos que yo anhelaba recorrer.
Abrió los ojos. Noté que algo la afligía. Ya habían pasado tres días y no quería que terminaran las vacaciones. ¿Qué va a pasar después? No había que preocuparse antes de tiempo…
—Me gustas —le dije.
Me pasó la mano por la nuca y el hombro. Qué delicia de manos. Se las miró detenidamente como si no fueran suyas.
—Parecen de pintora.
— ¿Y cómo son las manos de pintora?
—No lo sé, pero las tuyas son muy sensibles.
Me pidió que le mostrara las mías. Me dijo que no sabía de qué podían ser, pero que definitivamente no eran de socióloga. Me preguntó qué me gustaría ser.
—Escritora.
— ¿De veras? Qué guardado te lo tenías.
—Te lo juro, toda mi vida lo he deseado. Me he metido a estudiar teatro, creación dramática, sociología, etcétera. Todo, para un día poder escribir. Pero ya se me pasó el tiempo.
—Decídete: deja de hacer otras cosas y ponte a escribir —me urgió.
—Voy a escribir una historia de amor.
— ¿Sí? ¿Alguna muy importante en tu vida?
La besé y le dije que la nuestra era la historia de amor más importante de mi vida. Me preguntó que cómo podía saberlo si apenas la conocía. Así es el amor, pega como un destello de luz y sabes que esa persona es la esperada. Es la ventaja de tener más años.
—A mí me falta vivir, conocer —dijo. No sabía qué quería en su vida. Le preocupaba terriblemente que su gran historia de amor fuera con una mujer—. No es lo más común —sonrió. Además, yo era madre de dos hijos e hija de padres muy conocidos.
— ¿Debo negarme a vivir lo que tanto he anhelado? Seguro terminaré siendo una vieja amargada. Mis hijos pronto se van a casar, ¿y yo qué? ¿Voy a casarme con alguien a quien no quiero? Qué injusto para mí.
—Para mí también sería injusto no vivir lo que estoy viviendo —dijo.
Pasó su mano sobre mis senos. Era la primera vez que se atrevía. Su boca se abrió levemente y pude ver su lengua húmeda. Saqué mi lengua pidiendo la suya. El gesto la enloqueció y me agarró de la cintura, me hizo subir sobre ella. Nos besamos hasta agotar la respiración.
El brinco del siniestro
Los espejos devolvían nuestras imágenes desnudas. Un rayo de sol, como lengua de gato, entraba por la rendija de la ventana. Genovesa parecía animal joven que ha desechado la tensión mediante juegos amorosos. Abrió un ojo, luego el otro. Se sobresaltó al verme mirándola. Para que recordara quién era yo la besé suavemente. Se agarró de mí como una gata mimosa. Nos dimos el primer beso de la mañana. Abrazadas giramos de un lado al otro de la cama. Pronto, nos encontramos sobre el tapete africano. Frente a la chimenea nos detuvimos a ver los leños carbonizados de la noche anterior. Nos hicimos el amor sin ninguna otra finalidad que dejarnos sentir. Rotos los límites sugerí que saliéramos a la terraza. Aceptó diciendo que el jardín era bello.
Saqué de la covacha un par de colchones amarillo chillante y los puse sobre el piso de ladrillo. Ella volvió a entretenerse con las flores.
—Están más abiertas, están más felices —dijo. Jugamos con las palabras: más abiertas, más felices. Las pusimos, las antepusimos, las propusimos: las tornamos y las alternamos.
—Las posibilidades son muchas —dijo plácidamente recostada sobre el colchón. Cerró los ojos. El sol daba directo en su cara.
Se sentó a verme. Pasó un dedo sobre mi boca, la delineó. Con la punta de mi lengua toqué su dedo. ¡Ay! Mi boca se hizo una cueva, su dedo necesitaba conocer sus escondites: entrar y descubrir y salir y volver… La volteé boca abajo. Lamí su espalda, acaricié su cintura pronunciada, sus nalgas.
—Tus manos parecen palomas —dijo.
Un viento recio hizo que los sauces llorones se cimbraran. Volteó desesperada a buscar mi boca. Nos besamos. Acarició la curvatura de mi espalda, sentí duros sus pezones bajo mi boca que hacía una débil presión sobre ellos. Sus caderas subían y bajaban, abrí con mi rodilla sus piernas, acoplamos ritmos, pasó su mano por mis senos, su mano volvió a mi cintura, me hizo girar para montarse sobre mí, su mata de pelo cubría mi cara, a través de ese enjambre dorado veía las nubes aborregadas viajar veloces. Puse mis dedos en su clítoris, con mi muslo ayudé a mi mano. Ella acariciaba mi brazo y susurraba: más, más, más: el susurro acabó en gemido: en un grito, en una risa. Se abrió un placer indescriptible.
El sol se escondió bajo una nube. Ansiosa, ella buscó mi vagina. El sol no tardó en salir para que no sintiéramos frío. Una luz iridiscente me traspasó. Ella entraba y salía de mí rítmicamente. El mundo de todos los principios… En medio de toda esta euforia escuché un ruido extraño. Vi miles de conchas marinas romperse. Corrí a asomarme a la calle. Alejandro se estaba brincando la reja. Desesperada corrí a avisarle a Genovesa… No entendía nada. La tomé de la mano y tal como estaba la escondí en la covacha. Me puse la bata que había dejado sobre la cama. Alejandro ya estaba tocando furioso la puerta de mi recámara que por suerte tenía echado el cerrojo. Ay, el corazón. Le abrí con la resolución de…
Como amo por su casa entró mirándome de soslayo. « ¿Cómo se atreve?», pensé. Abrió la puerta del baño y se asomó al vestidor. Volvió a la recámara. Giró la llave del ropero antiguo, percibió los siete jarrones de rosas. Me volteó a ver. Deseé tener las agallas para sacarlo a patadas. En medio de ese odio trastabilló y sin querer oprimió el mecanismo de carrusel. Se escuchó un alarde de cornetas y trombones. Gritó como rata atrapada.
—¿Qué es esto? ¿Una casa de locos?
Me atraganté de terror al verlo salir a la terraza.
—¿Conque sí, eh? —dijo mirando el colchón amarillo—: aquí hay gato encerrado — agregó.
Un destello surgió de sus lentes negros. Determinado se dirigió a la covacha. Tomó la perilla de la puerta. No quise decirle: «Adentro hay alimañas». Uf, soltó la perilla.
—Ahorita mismo te me vassss —silbé aplomada.
Entré a mi recámara por un par de piedras milenarias y llevándolas a lo alto de mi cabeza lo amenacé con romperle la crisma. Maldiciendo se dio la media vuelta. Bajé tras él para abrirle el candado. Le pedí las llaves de mi casa y di tal portazo que lo supuse clavado en la banqueta. Subí corriendo a sacar a Genovesa de la covacha. Estaba encorvada y lívida.
— ¿Ya se fue? —preguntó seca.
Algo se había roto en ella. No entendió qué tipo de mujer era yo. Cómo era posible que ese hombre tuviera las llaves de mi casa y no hubiera tomado ninguna medida. Traté de explicarle que él, ese hombre, se había brincado la reja, que lo del candado y la cadena eran la medida. No le interesaban mis explicaciones. Preguntó cuándo regresaban los demás miembros de mi familia.
—Posiblemente hoy en la noche —le dije.
—Pues es tiempo de que me vaya.
El mundo se me vino abajo. Me pidió que la acompañara al vestidor. Sentada en la alfombra vi cómo guardaba su ropa en el maletín café. Parecía una niña enfurruñada.
—Debe haber algo que te convenza de quedarte: no puedes irte así. No sería justo para la historia —le dije.
— ¿Para la historia?
Le aseguré que su huida era un pretexto para no enfrentar lo que había sucedido entre nosotras. Dejó la maleta y vino a sentarse a mi lado. Me miró y supe que iba por buen camino…
— ¿Tú crees que de eso se trata? Metí mi mano por su camisa blanca. Me detuvo la mano…
Genovesa offered me a mint. Without hesitation, I took it in my mouth. I felt the unfamiliar touch of her fingers on my tongue: a luminous ray shot through my brain. She stared at me, astonished, without removing her hand. I moved closer to her mouth, slightly open in surprise. I trembled, we both trembled, my heart racing, I thrust my tongue into her mouth, circling her teeth: she tasted of a new flower. Our gazes separated like two birds in flight. We lost ourselves in the mirror opposite the bed. Around us, thousands of eyes filled with blue and sea, worms and remains. In the middle, two women, one kneeling before the other; around them, a pantheon of eyes. We fell into an inhospitable silence. Gulp, I saw my deepest recesses. Black entrails reddened, small striae appeared in my eyes. Genovesa remained fixed on the mirror. Her gaze had filled with tuberoses. It all lasted an instant that felt like an eternity to me. She slowly emerged from the labyrinth of refractions.
She looked like an ancient mourner. I recognized myself in her as that young woman I had been not so long ago. I took her hand, which rested on the beige comforter. We both came from such different experiences, yet we were alike in some way.
“It’s not easy to shatter the ghosts of our ancestors,” I told her. “What we’re doing means breaking with the most ancient symbols: symbols learned even before birth.” She lowered her head and adjusted the comforter on her legs.
“Yes,” she said softly, “it has to do with something very old.” Seeing me withdrawn, she ran her hand along my cheek. She asked if I was worried about it too.
“Yes,” I said. My affirmation seemed to reassure her. Little by little, our granite-like formations dissolved, and desire became transparent once more.
I soon knew that the surrender of her body was slow. I had to caress her with my gaze, dispel the sadness that concealed her voluptuousness. Such a task resembled the delicate execution of a Japanese watercolor. I licked her neck, her mouth…
Outside, a fine rain tapped against the windows. The music of Alain Barrière accompanied us as we entered a new territory.
“Two women,” I thought, all my desire surfacing from every pore. My mouth lingered on her neck. I moved down her belly, held her hips. She brought her breasts to mine, to my face, to my mouth; she licked my neck with her tongue. We returned to our mouths, recognizing each other’s tongues. The throbbing in my temples traveled to my sex. The horses, oh God, gallop at the speed of the wind, red-hot flames erupting from their muzzles. Our bodies dance.
“How strong I feel with you,” she whispered.
“I want to make you mine: to become yours,” I murmured in her ear.
My troubled tongue explores her breasts, her swollen nipples, her smooth belly, delves into her vulva: it is made of fresh moss. Silver flashes fall upon a plumbago sea. I feel strong, boundless.
“I’m afraid of vertigo,” she said.
The earth turns liquid. We stop, each of us. She recognizes her taste through my mouth… The logs regurgitate dryly as our voices sing verses to each other. An urban voice cries out: I love you. That voice is mine and no one else’s.
For those who crave a little life…
When I woke up, I saw her lying beside me. She was very beautiful. I liked that she was only twenty-five and that she was there, in my bed, peacefully asleep. Her mouth moved as if she were going to say something, but it was just a movement of sleep. I wished the Day of the Dead would never end. “She’s the one I’ve been waiting for all my life,” I thought. But the fact that she was a woman wasn’t just any old thing. I remembered Morena, who never wanted to talk to me about her beloved cousin, but who finally introduced us and then left her a note telling her to call me when she left. How different they were from each other. With Morena, I played the role of protector. Genovesa, despite being fourteen years younger than me, could show me paths I longed to explore.
She opened her eyes. I noticed that something was troubling her. Three days had already passed, and she didn’t want the vacation to end. What would happen next? There was no need to worry prematurely…
“I like you,” I told her.
She ran her hand over the back of my neck and shoulder. What delightful hands. She examined them closely, as if they weren’t her own.
“They look like a painter’s.”
“And what are a painter’s hands like?”
“I don’t know, but yours are very sensitive.”
She asked me to show her mine. She said she didn’t know what they could be from, but they definitely weren’t a sociologist. She asked me what I’d like to be.
“A writer.”
“Really? You’ve kept that a secret.”
“I swear, I’ve wanted it my whole life. I’ve studied theater, playwriting, sociology, and so on. Everything, so that one day I could write. But my time has passed.”
“Make up your mind: stop doing other things and start writing,” she urged.
“I’m going to write a love story.”
“Really?” “Someone very important in your life?”
I kissed her and told her that ours was the most important love story of my life. She asked me how I could know that when I barely knew her. That’s how love is; it hits like a flash of light, and you know that person is the one you’ve been waiting for. That’s the advantage of being older.
“I still have to live, to get to know,” she said. She didn’t know what she wanted in her life. She was terribly worried that her great love story was with a woman. “It’s not the most common thing,” she smiled. Besides, I was a mother of two and the daughter of very well-known parents.
“Should I deny myself the life I’ve longed for so much? I’m sure I’ll end up a bitter old woman. My children will soon be married, and what about me? Am I going to marry someone I don’t love? How unfair to me.”
“It would be unfair to me too not to live what I’m living,” she said.
She ran her hand over my breasts. It was the first time she had dared. Her mouth opened slightly, and I could see her moist tongue. I stuck out my tongue, begging for hers. The gesture drove her wild, and she grabbed my waist, pulling me on top of her. We kissed until we were breathless.
The leap of the sinister
The mirrors reflected our naked images. A ray of sunlight, like a cat’s tongue, entered through the crack in the window. Genovesa looked like a young animal that had released its tension through amorous games. She opened one eye, then the other. She startled when she saw me looking at her. To remind her who I was, I kissed her gently. She clung to me like a cuddly cat. We shared our first kiss of the morning. Embraced, we turned from one side of the bed to the other. Soon, we found ourselves on the African rug. In front of the fireplace, we paused to look at the charred logs from the night before. We made love with no other purpose than to let ourselves feel. Having broken all boundaries, I suggested we go out onto the terrace. She agreed, saying the garden was beautiful.
I took a couple of bright yellow mattresses from the shed and laid them on the brick floor. She went back to playing with the flowers.
“They’re more open, they’re happier,” she said. We played with words: more open, happier. We placed them, we put them before, we proposed them: we turned them and alternated them.
“The possibilities are many,” she said peacefully, reclining on the mattress. She closed her eyes. The sun shone directly on her face.
She sat down to watch me. She ran a finger over my mouth, traced its outline. With the tip of my tongue, I touched her finger. Oh! My mouth became a cave, her finger needed to know its hiding places: to enter and discover and leave and return… I turned her face down. I licked her back, caressed her pronounced waist, her buttocks.
“Your hands are like doves,” she said.
A strong wind made the weeping willows sway. She turned desperately to find my mouth. We kissed. She caressed the curve of my back, I felt her nipples harden beneath my mouth, which applied gentle pressure to them. Her hips rose and fell, I parted her legs with my knee, we synchronized our rhythms, she ran her hand over my breasts, then back to my waist, turning me around.
The sun hid behind a cloud. Eagerly, she sought my vagina. The sun soon reappeared so we wouldn’t feel the cold. An iridescent light pierced me. She entered and withdrew from me rhythmically. The world of all beginnings… In the midst of all this euphoria, I heard a strange noise. I saw thousands of seashells shatter. I ran to look out into the street. Alejandro was jumping over the fence. Desperate, I ran to warn Genovesa… I didn’t understand anything. I took her hand and, just as she was, hid her in the shed. I put on the robe I had left on the bed. Alejandro was already furiously banging on my bedroom door, which luckily was locked. Oh, my heart. I opened it with the resolve of…
As if he owned the place, he entered, glancing at me sideways. “How dare he?” I thought. He opened the bathroom door and peeked into the dressing room. He went back to the bedroom. He turned the key to the antique wardrobe, noticed the seven vases of roses. He turned to look at me. I wished I had the guts to kick him out in the midst of that hatred, he stumbled and accidentally pressed the carousel mechanism. A cacophony of trumpets and trombones was heard. He screamed like a trapped rat.
“What is this? A madhouse?”
I choked with terror when I saw him go out onto the terrace.
“So, huh?” he said, looking at the yellow mattress. “There’s something fishy going on here,” he added.
A glint appeared in his dark glasses. Determined, he went to the storage room. He grabbed the doorknob. I didn’t want to tell him, “There are vermin in there.” Ugh, he let go of the knob.
“You’re getting out of here right now,” I whistled steadily. I went into my room to grab a couple of ancient stones and, holding them high on my head, threatened to crack his skull. Cursing, he turned away. I went downstairs after him to unlock the door. I demanded the keys to my house and slammed the door so hard I thought he was pinned to the sidewalk. I ran upstairs to get Genovesa out of the shed. She was hunched over and pale.
“Is he gone already?” she asked curtly. Something had broken inside her. She didn’t understand what kind of woman I was. How was it possible that this man had the keys to my house and hadn’t taken any precautions? I tried to explain that he, this man, had jumped the fence, that the padlock and chain were the only measure. She wasn’t interested in my explanations. She asked when the rest of my family would be back.
“Possibly tonight,” I told her.
“Well, it’s time for me to go.” My world collapsed. She asked me to accompany her to the dressing room. Sitting on the rug, I watched her pack her clothes into her brown suitcase. She looked like a sulking child.
“There must be something that convinces you to stay: you can’t just leave like this. It wouldn’t be fair to history,” I told her.
“To history?” I assured her that her running away was just an excuse to avoid facing what had happened between us. She put down her suitcase and came to sit beside me. She looked at me, and I knew I was on the right track…
“Do you think that’s what it’s about?” I reached inside her white shirt. She stopped my hand…
Autora brasileña de origen judío-ucraniano, Clarice Lispector (1920-1977) llegó con su familia a Brasil cuando apenas contaba con dos años de edad. Estudió Derecho en la Facultad Nacional y trabajó, aunque de manera un tanto esporádica, como periodista para varios medios. Aunque ya había publicado varios cuentos y relatos con anterioridad, Lispector comenzó su carrera literaria a los 21 años con Cerca del corazón salvaje, obra que recibió el Premio Graça Aranha. A partir de ese momento, continuó escribiendo y colaborando con varios medios, pese a que sus constantes viajes —su marido era diplomático— le hicieron desarrollar su obra de manera inconstante. Tras separarse de su marido en 1950, Lispector volvió al ámbito periodístico y comenzó a destacar gracias a sus libros de relatos. En 1963 publicó La pasión según G.H., su novela más aclamada. Después de sobrevivir a un incendio en su casa que le produjo graves secuelas físicas, Lispector sufrió de depresión y su estado dio paso a una nueva etapa con obras como Un aprendizaje, Agua viva o La hora de la estrella, novela que fue llevada al cine en 1985. También comenzó a escribir relatos infantiles y siguió con su pasión por los cuentos cortos. Clarice Lispector murió de cáncer em 1977.
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Brazilian author of Jewish-Ukrainian origin, Clarice Lispector (1920-1977) left with her family in Brazil when she was only two years old. He studied Derecho at the National Faculty and worked, although somewhat sporadically, as a journalist for various media. Though she had published several stories and reports in the earlier, Lispector began her literary career at 21 years old with Cerca del Corazón Salvaje, a work that received the Graça Aranha Prize. From that moment on, she continued writing and collaborating with various media, despite her constant travels — her husband was a diplomat — which allowed her to develop her work in an inconsistent manner. After separating from her husband in 1950, Lispector returned to the journalistic sphere and began to stand out thanks to her books of reports. In 1963 She published La Pasión según G.H., her most acclaimed novel. After surviving a fire in her house that produced serious physical consequences, Lispector suffered from depression and his condition took him to a new stage with works such as An Apprenticeship, Agua Viva and The Hour of the Star, a novel that was shown in the cinema in 1985. She also began to write children’s stories and continued with his passion for the short accounts. Clarice Lispector died of cancer in 1977.
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“Amor”
Um pouco cansada, com as compras deformando o novo saco de tricô, Ana subiu no bonde. Depositou o volume no colo e o bonde começou a andar. Recostou-se então no banco procurando conforto, num suspiro de meia satisfação.
Os filhos de Ana eram bons, uma coisa verdadeira e sumarenta. Cresciam, tomavam banho, exigiam para si, malcriados, instantes cada vez mais completos. A cozinha era enfim espaçosa, o fogão enguiçado dava estouros. O calor era forte no apartamento que estavam aos poucos pagando. Mas o vento batendo nas cortinas que ela mesma cortara lembrava-lhe que se quisesse podia parar e enxugar a testa, olhando o calmo horizonte. Como um lavrador. Ela plantara as sementes que tinha na mão, não outras, mas essas apenas. E cresciam árvores. Crescia sua rápida conversa com o cobrador de luz, crescia a água enchendo o tanque, cresciam seus filhos, crescia a mesa com comidas, o marido chegando com os jornais e sorrindo de fome, o canto importuno das empregadas do edifício. Ana dava a tudo, tranquilamente, sua mão pequena e forte, sua corrente de vida.
Certa hora da tarde era mais perigosa. Certa hora da tarde as árvores que plantara riam dela. Quando nada mais precisava de sua força, inquietava-se. No entanto sentia-se mais sólida do que nunca, seu corpo engrossara um pouco e era de se ver o modo como cortava blusas para os meninos, a grande tesoura dando estalidos na fazenda. Todo o seu desejo vagamente artístico encaminhara-se há muito no sentido de tornar os dias realizados e belos; com o tempo, seu gosto pelo decorativo se desenvolvera e suplantara a íntima desordem. Parecia ter descoberto que tudo era passível de aperfeiçoamento, a cada coisa se emprestaria uma aparência harmoniosa; a vida podia ser feita pela mão do homem.
No fundo, Ana sempre tivera necessidade de sentir a raiz firme das coisas. E isso um lar perplexamente lhe dera. Por caminhos tortos, viera a cair num destino de mulher, com a surpresa de nele caber como se o tivesse inventado. O homem com quem casara era um homem verdadeiro, os filhos que tivera eram filhos verdadeiros. Sua juventude anterior parecia-lhe estranha como uma doença de vida. Dela havia aos poucos emergido para descobrir que também sem a felicidade se vivia: abolindo-a, encontrara uma legião de pessoas, antes invisíveis, que viviam como quem trabalha — com persistência, continuidade, alegria. que sucedera a Ana antes de ter o lar estava para sempre fora de seu alcance: uma exaltação perturbada que tantas vezes se confundira com felicidade insuportável. Criara em troca algo enfim compreensível, uma vida de adulto. Assim ela o quisera e o escolhera.
Sua precaução reduzia-se a tomar cuidado na hora perigosa da tarde, quando a casa estava vazia sem precisar mais dela, o sol alto, cada membro da família distribuído nas suas funções. Olhando os móveis limpos, seu coração se apertava um pouco em espanto. Mas na sua vida não havia lugar para que sentisse ternura pelo seu espanto – ela o abafava com a mesma habilidade que as lides em casa lhe haviam transmitido. Saía então para fazer compras ou levar objetos para consertar, cuidando do lar e da família à revelia deles. Quando voltasse era o fim da tarde e as crianças vindas do colégio exigiam-na. Assim chegaria a noite, com sua tranquila vibração.
De manhã acordaria aureolada pelos calmos deveres. Encontrava os móveis de novo empoeirados e sujos, como se voltassem arrependidos. Quanto a ela mesma, fazia obscuramente parte das raízes negras e suaves do mundo. E alimentava anonimamente a vida. Estava bom assim. Assim ela o quisera e escolhera.
O bonde vacilava nos trilhos, entrava em ruas largas. Logo um vento mais úmido soprava anunciando, mais que o fim da tarde, o fim do vento mais úmido soprava anunciando, mais que o fim da tarde, o fim da hora instável. Ana respirou profundamente e uma grande aceitação deu a seu rosto um ar de mulher.
O bonde se arrastava, em seguida estacava. Até Humaitá tinha tempo de descansar. Foi então que olhou para o homem parado no ponto.
A diferença entre ele e os outros é que ele estava realmente parado. De pé, suas mãos se mantinham avançadas. Era um cego.
O que havia mais que fizesse Ana se aprumar em desconfiança? Alguma coisa intranqüila estava sucedendo. Então ela viu: o cego mascava chicles… Um homem cego mascava chicles. Ana ainda teve tempo de pensar por um segundo que os irmãos viriam jantar — o coração batia-lhe violento, espaçado. Inclinada, olhava o cego profundamente, como se olha o que não nos vê. Ele mascava goma na escuridão. Sem sofrimento, com os olhos abertos. O movimento da mastigação fazia-o parecer sorrir e de repente deixar de sorrir, sorrir e deixar de sorrir — como se ele a tivesse insultado, Ana olhava-o. E quem a visse teria a impressão de uma mulher com ódio. Mas continuava a olhá-lo, cada vez mais inclinada — o bonde deu uma arrancada súbita jogando-a desprevenida para trás, o pesado saco de tricô despencou-se do colo, ruiu no chão — Ana deu um grito, o condutor deu ordem de parada antes de saber do que se tratava — o bonde estacou, os passageiros olharam assustados. Incapaz de se mover para apanhar suas compras, Ana se aprumava pálida. Uma expressão de rosto, há muito não usada, ressurgia-lhe com dificuldade, ainda incerta, incompreensível. O moleque dos jornais ria entregando-lhe o volume. Mas os ovos se haviam quebrado no embrulho de jornal. Gemas amarelas e viscosas pingavam entre os fios da rede. O cego interrompera a mastigação e avançava as mãos inseguras, tentando inutilmente pegar o que acontecia. O embrulho dos ovos foi jogado fora da rede e, entre os sorrisos dos passageiros e o sinal do XXX
Poucos instantes depois já não a olhavam mais.
O bonde se sacudia nos trilhos e o cego mascando goma ficara atrás para sempre. Mas o mal estava feito. A rede de tricô era áspera entre os dedos, não íntima como quando a tricotara. A rede perdera o sentido e estar num bonde era um fio partido; não sabia o que fazer com as compras no colo. E como uma estranha música, o mundo recomeçava ao redor. O mal estava feito. Por quê? Teria esquecido de que havia cegos? A piedade a sufocava Ana respirava pesadamente. Mesmo as coisas que existiam antes do acontecimento estavam agora de sobreaviso, tinham um ar mais hostil, perecível… O mundo se tornara de novo um mal-estar. Vários anos ruíam, as gemas amarelas escorriam. Expulsa de seus próprios dias, parecia-lhe que as pessoas da rua eram periclitantes, que se mantinham por um mínimo equilíbrio à tona da escuridão — e por um momento a falta de sentido deixava-as tão livres que elas não sabiam para onde ir. Perceber uma ausência de lei foi tão súbito que Ana se agarrou ao banco da frente, como se pudesse cair do bonde, como se as coisas pudessem ser revertidas com a mesma calma com que não o eram.
O que chamava de crise viera afinal. E sua marca era o prazer intenso com que olhava agora as coisas, sofrendo espantada. O calor se tornara mais abafado, tudo tinha ganho uma força e vozes mais altas. Na Rua Voluntários da Pátria parecia prestes a rebentar uma revolução, as grades dos esgotos estavam secas, o ar empoeirado. Um cego mascando chicles mergulhara o mundo em escura sofreguidão. Em cada pessoa forte havia a ausência de piedade pelo cego e as pessoas assustavam-na com o vigor que possuíam. Junto dela havia uma senhora de azul, com um rosto. Desviou o olhar, depressa. Na calçada, uma mulher deu um empurrão no filho! Dois namorados entrelaçavam os dedos sorrindo… E o cego? Ana caíra numa bondade extremamente dolorosa. Ela apaziguara tão bem a vida, cuidara tanto para que esta não explodisse. Mantinha tudo em serena compreensão, separava uma pessoa das outras, as roupas eram claramente feitas para serem usadas e podia-se escolher pelo jornal o filme da noite – tudo feito de modo a que um dia se seguisse ao outro. E um cego mascando goma despedaçava tudo isso. E através da piedade aparecia a Ana uma vida cheia de náusea doce, até a boca. Só então percebeu que há muito passara do seu ponto de descida. Na fraqueza em que estava, tudo a atingia com um susto; desceu do bonde com pernas débeis, olhou em torno de si, segurando a rede suja de ovo.
Por um momento não conseguia orientar-se. Parecia ter saltado no meio da noite. Era uma rua comprida, com muros altos, amarelos. Seu coração batia de medo, ela procurava inutilmente reconhecer os arredores, enquanto a vida que descobrira continuava a pulsar e um vento mais morno e mais misterioso rodeava-lhe o rosto. Ficou parada olhando о muro. Enfim pôde localizar-se. Andando um pouco mais ao longo de uma sebe, atravessou os portões do Jardim Botânico. Andava pesadamente pela alameda central, entre os coqueiros. Não havia ninguém no Jardim. Depositou os embrulhos na terra, sentou-se no banco de um atalho e ali ficou muito tempo. A vastidão parecia acalmá-la, o silêncio regulava sua respiração. Ela adormecia dentro de si. De longe via a aléia onde a tarde era clara e redonda. Mas a penumbra dos ramos cobria o atalho.
Ao seu redor havia ruídos serenos, cheiro de árvores, pequenas surpresas entre os cipós. Todo o Jardim triturado pelos instantes já mais apressados da tarde. De onde vinha o meio sonho pelo qual estava rodeada? Como por um zunido de abelhas e aves. Tudo era estranho, suave demais, grande demais. Um movimento leve e íntimo a sobressaltou — voltou-se rápida. Nada parecia se ter movido. Mas na aléia central estava imóvel um poderoso gato. Seus pêlos eram macios. Em novo andar silencioso, desapareceu. Inquieta, olhou em torno. Os ramos se balançavam, as sombras vacilavam no chão. Um pardal ciscava na terra. E de repente, com malestar, pareceu-lhe ter caído numa emboscada. Fazia-se no Jardim um trabalho secreto do qual ela começava a se aperceber. Nas árvores as frutas eram pretas, doces como mel. Havia no chão caroços secos cheios de circunvoluções, como pequenos cérebros apodrecidos. O banco estava manchado de sucos roxos. Com suavidade intensa rumorejavam as águas. No tronco da árvore pregavam-se as luxuosas patas de uma aranha. A crueza do mundo era tranqüila. O assassinato era profundo. E a morte não era o que pensávamos. Ao mesmo tempo que imaginário — era um mundo de se comer com os dentes, um mundo de volumosas dálias e tulipas. Os troncos estar, pareceu-lhe ter caído numa emboscada. Fazia-se no Jardim um trabalho secreto do qual ela começava a se aperceber.
Nas árvores as frutas eram pretas, doces como mel. Havia no chão caroços secos cheios de circunvoluções, como pequenos cérebros apodrecidos. O banco estava manchado de sucos roxos. Com suavidade intensa rumorejavam as águas. No tronco da árvore pregavam-se as luxuosas patas de uma aranha. A crueza do mundo era tranqüila. O assassinato era profundo. E a morte não era o que pensávamos.
Ao mesmo tempo que imaginário — era um mundo de se comer com os dentes, um mundo de volumosas dálias e tulipas. Os troncos eram percorridos por parasitas folhudas, o abraço era macio, colado. Como a repulsa que precedesse uma entrega — era fascinante, a mulher tinha nojo, e era fascinante.
As árvores estavam carregadas, o mundo era tão rico que apodrecia. Quando Ana pensou que havia crianças e homens grandes com fome, a náusea subiu-lhe à garganta, como se ela estivesse grávida e abandonada. A moral do Jardim era outra. Agora que o cego a guiara até ele, estremecia nos primeiros passos de um mundo faiscante, sombrio, onde vitórias-régias boiavam monstruosas. As pequenas flores espalhadas na relva não lhe pareciam amarelas ou rosadas, mas cor de mau ouro e escarlates. A decomposição era profunda, perfumada…
Mas todas as pesadas coisas, ela via com a cabeça rodeada por um enxame de insetos enviados pela vida mais fina do mundo. A brisa se insinuava entre as flores. Ana mais adivinhava que sentia o seu cheiro adocicado… O Jardim era tão bonito que ela teve medo do Inferno. Era quase noite agora e tudo parecia cheio, pesado, um esquilo voou na sombra. Sob os pés a terra estava fofa, Ana aspirava-a com delícia. Era fascinante, e ela sentia nojo.
Mas quando se lembrou das crianças, diante das quais se tornara culpada, ergueu-se com uma exclamação de dor. Agarrou o embrulho, avançou pelo atalho obscuro, atingiu a alameda. Quase corria – e via о Jardim em torno de si, com sua impersonalidade soberba. Sacudiu os portões fechados, sacudia-os segurando a madeira áspera. O vigia apareceu espantado de não a ter visto.
Enquanto não chegou à porta do edifício, parecia à beira de um desastre. Correu com a rede até o elevador, sua alma batia-lhe no peito – o que sucedia? A piedade pelo cego era tão violenta como uma ânsia, mas o mundo lhe parecia seu, sujo, perecível, seu. Abriu a porta de casa. A sala era grande, quadrada, as maçanetas brilhavam limpas, os vidros da janela brilhavam, a lâmpada brilhava — que nova terra era essa? E por um instante a vida sadia que levara até agora pareceu-lhe um modo moralmente louco de viver. O menino que se aproximou correndo era um ser de pernas compridas e rosto igual ao seu, que corria e a abraçava. Apertou-o com força, com espanto. Protegia-se tremula. Porque a vida era periclitante. Ela amava o mundo, amava o que fora criado — amava com noção. Do mesmo modo como sempre fora fascinada pelas ostras, com aquele vago sentimento de asco que a aproximação da verdade Ihe provocava, avisando-a. Abraçou o filho, quase a ponto de machucá-lo. Como se soubesse de um mal — o cego ou o belo Jardim Botânicо? – agarrava-se a ele, a quem queria acima de tudo. Fora atingida pelo demônio da fé. A vida é horrível, disse-lhe baixo, faminta. O que faria se seguisse o chamado do cego? Iria sozinha… Havia lugares pobres e ricos que precisavam dela. Ela precisava deles..
Tenho medo, disse. Sentia as costelas delicadas da criança entre os braços, ouviu o seu choro assustado. Mamãe, chamou o menino. Afastou-o, olhou aquele rosto, seu coração crispou-se. Não deixe mamãe te esquecer, disse-lhe. A criança mal sentiu o abraço se afrouxar, escapou e correu até a porta do quarto, de onde olhou-a mais segura. Era o pior olhar que jamais recebera. O sangue subiu-lhe ao rosto, esquentando-o.
Deixou-se cair numa cadeira com os dedos ainda presos na rede. De que tinha vergonha? Não havia como fugir. Os dias que ela forjara haviam-se rompido na crosta e a água escapava.
Estava diante da ostra. E não havia como não olhá-la. De que tinha vergonha? E que já não era mais piedade, não era só piedade: seu coração se enchera com a pior vontade de viver. Já não sabia se estava do lado do cego ou das espessas plantas. O homem pouco a pouco se distanciara e em tortura ela parecia ter passado para o lados que lhe haviam ferido os olhos.
O Jardim Botânico, tranquilo e alto, Ihe revelava. Com horror descobria que pertencia à parte forte do mundo — e que nome se deveria dar a sua misericórdia violenta? Seria obrigada a beijar um leproso, pois nunca seria apenas sua irmã. Um cego me levou ao pior de mim mesma, pensou espantada. Sentia-se banida porque nenhum pobre beberia água nas suas mãos ardentes. Ah! era mais fácil ser um santo que uma pessoa! Por Deus, pois não fora verdadeira apieda este sentimento que se iria a uma igreja. Estou com medo, disse sozinha na sala. Levantou-se e foi para a cozinha ajudar a empregada a preparar o jantar.
Mas a vida arrepiava-a, como um frio. Ouvia o sino da escola, longe e constante. O pequeno horror da poeira ligando em fios a parte inferior do fogão, onde descobriu a pequena aranha. Carregando a jarra para mudar a água – havia o horror da flor se entregando lânguida e asquerosa às suas mãos. O mesmo trabalho secreto se fazia ali na cozinha. Perto da lata de lixo, esmagou com o pé a formiga. O pequeno assassinato da formiga. O mínimo corpo tremia. As gotas d’água caíam na água parada do tanque. Os besouros de verão.
O horror dos besouros inexpressivos. Ao redor havia uma vida silenciosa, lenta, insistente. Horror, horror. Andava de um lado para outro na cozinha, cortando os bifes, mexendo o creme. Em torno da cabeça, em ronda, em torno da luz, os mosquitos de uma noite cálida. Uma noite em que a piedade era tão crua como o amor ruim. Entre os dois seios escorria o suor. A fé ade que sondara no seu coração as águas mais profundas? Mas era uma piedade de leão.
Humilhada, sabia que o cego preferiria um amor mais pobre. Е, estremecendo, também sabia por quê. A vida do Jardim Botânico chamava-a como um lobisomem é chamado pelo luar. Oh! mas ela amava o cego! pensou com os olhos molhados. No entanto não era com quebrantava, o calor do forno ardia nos seus olhos.
Depois o marido veio, vieram os irmãos e suas mulheres, vieram os filhos dos irmãos.
Jantaram com as janelas todas abertas, no nono andar. Um avião estremecia, ameaçando no calor do céu. Apesar de ter usado poucos ovos, o jantar estava bom. Também suas crianças ficaram acordadas, brincando no tapete com as outras. Era verão, seria inútil obrigá-las a dormir. Ana estava um pouco pálida e ria suavemente com os outros.
Depois do jantar, enfim, a primeira brisa mais fresca entrou pelas janelas. Eles rodeavam a mesa, a família. Cansados do dia, felizes em não discordar, tão dispostos a não ver defeitos. Riam-se de tudo, com o coração bom e humano. As crianças cresciam admiravelmente em torno deles. E como a uma borboleta, Ana prendeu o instante entre os dedos antes que ele nunca mais fosse seu.
Depois, quando todos foram embora e as crianças já estavam deitadas, ela era uma mulher bruta que olhava pela janela. A cidade estava adormecida e quente. O que o cego desencadeara caberia nos seus dias? Quantos anos levaria até envelhecer de novo?
Qualquer movimento seu e pisaria numa das crianças. Mas com uma maldade de
Depois, quando todos foram embora e as crianças já estavam deitadas, ela era uma mulher bruta que olhava pela janela. A cidade estava adormecida e quente. O que o cego desencadeara caberia nos seus dias? Quantos anos levaria até envelhecer de novo?
Qualquer movimento seu e pisaria numa das crianças. Mas com uma maldade de amante, parecia aceitar que da flor saísse o mosquito, que as vitóriasrégias boiassem no escuro do lago. O cego pendia entre os frutos do Jardim Botânico.
Se fora um estouro do fogão, o fogo já teria pegado em toda a casa! pensou correndo para a cozinha e deparando com o seu marido diante do café derramado.
– O que foi?! gritou vibrando toda.
Ele se assustou com o medo da mulher. E de repente riu entendendo: – Não foi nada, disse, sou um desajeitado. Ele parecia cansado, com olheiras. Mas diante do estranho rosto de Ana, espiou-a com maior atenção.
Depois, quando todos foram embora e as crianças já estavam deitadas, ela era uma mulher bruta que olhava pela janela. A cidade estava adormecida e quente. O que o cego desencadeara caberia nos seus dias? Quantos anos levaria até envelhecer de novo? Qualquer movimento seu e pisaria numa das crianças. Mas com uma maldade de amante, parecia aceitar que da flor saísse o mosquito, que as vitórias-régias boiassem no escuro do lago. O cego pendia entre os frutos do Jardim Botânico.
Se fora um estouro do fogão, o fogo já teria pegado em toda a casa! pensou correndo para a cozinha e deparando com o seu marido diante do café derramado.
– O que foi?! gritou vibrando toda.
Ele se assustou com o medo da mulher. E de repente riu entendendo:
– Não foi nada, disse, sou um desajeitado. Ele parecia cansado, com olheiras.
Mas diante do estranho rosto de Ana, espiou-a com maior atenção. Depois atraiu-a a si, em rápido afago.
– Não quero que lhe aconteça nada, nunca! disse ela.
– Deixe que pelo menos me aconteça o fogão dar um estouro, respondeu ele sorrindo.
Ela continuou sem força nos seus braços. Hoje de tarde alguma coisa tranqüila se rebentara, e na casa toda havia um tom humorístico, triste. É hora de dormir, disse ele, é tarde. Num gesto que não era seu, mas que pareceu natural, segurou a mão da mulher, levando-a consigo sem olhar para trás, afastando-a do perigo de viver.
Acabara-se a vertigem de bondade.
E, se atravessara o amor e o seu inferno, penteava-se agora diante do espelho, por um instante sem nenhum mundo no coração. Antes de se deitar, como se apagasse uma vela, soprou a pequena flama do dia.
A little tired, the groceries stretching out her new knit sack, Ana boarded the tram.
She placed the bundle in her lap and the tram began to move. She then settled back in her seat trying to get comfortable, with a half-contented sigh.
Ana’s children were good, something true and succulent. They were growing up, taking their baths, demanding for themselves, misbehaved, ever more complete moments. The kitchen was after all spacious, the faulty stove gave off small explosions. The heat was stifling in the apartment they were paying off bit by bit. But the wind whipping the curtains she herself had cut to measure reminded her that if she wanted she could stop and wipe her brow, gazing at the calm horizon. Like a farmhand. She had sown the seeds she had in her hand, no others, but these alone. And trees were growing. Her brief conversation with the electric bill collector was growing, the water in the laundry sink was growing, her children were growing, the table with food was growing, her husband coming home with the newspapers and smiling with hunger, the tiresome singing of the maids in the building. Ana gave to everything, tranquilly, her small, strong hand, her stream of life.
A certain hour of the afternoon was more dangerous. A certain hour of the afternoon the trees she had planted would laugh at her. When nothing else needed her strength, she got worried. Yet she felt more solid than ever, her body had filled out a bit and it was a sight to see her cut the fabric for the boys’ shirts, the large scissors snapping on the cloth. All her vaguely artistic desire had long since been directed toward making the days fulfilled and beautiful; over time, her taste for the decorative had developed and supplanted her inner disorder. She seemed to have discovered that everything could be perfected, to each thing she could lend a harmonious appearance; life could be wrought by the hand of man.
Deep down, Ana had always needed to feel the firm root of things. And this is what a home bewilderingly had given her. Through winding paths, she had fallen into a woman’s fate, with the surprise of fitting into it as if she had invented it. The man she’d married was a real man, the children she’d had were real children. Her former youth seemed as strange to her as one of life’s illnesses. She had gradually emerged from it to discover that one could also live without happiness: abolishing it, she had found a legion of people, previously invisible, who lived the way a person works – with persistence, continuity, joy. What had happened to Ana before she had a home was forever out of reach: a restless exaltation so often mistaken for unbearable happiness. In exchange she had created something at last comprehensible, an adult life. That was what she had wanted and chosen.
The only thing she worried about was being careful during that dangerous hour of the afternoon, when the house was empty and needed nothing more from her, the sun high, the family members scattered to their duties. As she looked at the clean furniture, her heart would contract slightly in astonishment. But there was no room in her life for feeling tender toward her astonishment – she’d smother it with the same skill the household chores had given her. Then she’d go do the shopping or get something repaired, caring for her home and family in their absence. When she returned it would be the end of the afternoon and the children home from school needed her. In this way night would fall, with its peaceful vibration. In the morning she’d awake haloed by her calm duties. She’d find the furniture dusty and dirty again, as if repentantly come home. As for herself, she obscurely participated in the gentle black roots of the world. And nourished life anonymously. That was what she had wanted and chosen.
The tram went swaying along the tracks, heading down broad avenues. Soon a more humid breeze blew announcing, more than the end of the afternoon, the end of the unstable hour. Ana breathed deeply and a great acceptance gave her face a womanly air.
The tram would slow, then come to a halt. There was time to relax before Humaita. That was when she looked at the man standing at the tram stop.
The difference between him and the others was that he really was stopped. Standing there, his hands reaching in front of him. He was blind.
What else could have made Ana sit up warily? Something uneasy was happening. Then she saw: the blind man was chewing gum . . . A blind man was chewing gum.
Ana still had a second to think about how her brothers were coming for dinner – her heart beat violently, at intervals. Leaning forward, she stared intently at the blind man, the way we stare at things that don’t see us. He was chewing gum in the dark. Without suffering, eyes open. The chewing motion made it look like he was smiling and then suddenly not smiling, smiling and not smiling – as if he had insulted her, Ana stared at him. And whoever saw her would have the impression of a woman filled with hatred. But she kept staring at him, leaning further and further forward – the tram suddenly lurched throwing her unexpectedly backward, the heavy knit sack tumbled from her lap, crashed to the floor – Ana screamed, the conductor gave the order to stop before he knew what was happening – the tram ground to a halt, the passengers looked around frightened.
Unable to move to pick up her groceries, Ana sat up, pale. A facial expression, long unused, had reemerged with difficulty, still tentative, incomprehensible. The paperboy laughed while returning her bundle. But the eggs had broken inside their newspaper wrapping. Viscous, yellow yolks dripped through the mesh. The blind man had interrupted his chewing and was reaching out his uncertain hands, trying in vain to grasp what was happening. The package of eggs had been thrown from the bag and, amid the passengers’ smiles and the conductor’s signal, the tram lurched back into motion.
A few seconds later nobody was looking at her. The tram rumbled along the tracks and the blind man chewing gum stayed behind forever. But the damage was done.
The knit mesh was rough between her fingers, not intimate as when she had knit it. The mesh had lost its meaning and being on a tram was a snapped thread; she didn’t know what to do with the groceries on her lap. And like a strange song, the world started up again all around. The damage was done. Why? could she have forgotten there were blind people? Compassion was suffocating her, Ana breathed heavily. Even the things that existed before this event were now wary, had a more hostile, perishable aspect . . . The world had become once again a distress. Several years were crashing down, the yellow yolks were running. Expelled from her own days, it seemed to her that the people on the street were in peril, kept afloat on the surface of the darkness by a minimal balance – and for a moment the lack of meaning left them so free they didn’t know where to go. The perception of an absence of law happened so suddenly that Ana clutched the seat in front of her, as if she might fall off the tram, as if things could be reverted with the same calm they no longer held.
What she called a crisis had finally come. And its sign was the intense pleasure with which she now looked at things, suffering in alarm. The heat had become more stifling, everything had gained strength and louder voices. On the Rua Voluntarios da Patria a revolution seemed about to break out, the sewer grates were dry, the air dusty. A blind man chewing gum had plunged the world into dark voraciousness. In every strong person there was an absence of compassion for the blind man and people frightened her with the vigor they possessed. Next to her was a lady in blue, with a face. She averted her gaze, quickly. On the sidewalk, a woman shoved her son! Two lovers interlaced their fingers smiling . . . And the blind man? Ana had fallen into an excruciating benevolence.
She had pacified life so well, taken such care for it not to explode. She had kept it all in serene comprehension, separated each person from the rest, clothes were clearly made to be worn and you could choose the evening movie from the newspaper – everything wrought in such a way that one day followed another. And a blind man chewing gum was shattering it all to pieces. And through this compassion there appeared to Ana a life full of sweet nausea, rising to her mouth.
Only then did she realize she was long past her stop. In her weak state everything was hitting her with a jolt; she left the tram weak in the knees, looked around, clutching the eggstained mesh. For a moment she couldn’t get her bearings. She seemed to have stepped off into the middle of the night.
It was a long street, with high, yellow walls. Her heart pounding with fear, she sought in vain to recognize her surroundings, while the life she had discovered kept pulsating and a warmer, more mysterious wind whirled round her face. She stood there looking at the wall. At last she figured out where she was. Walking a little further along a hedge, she passed through the gates of the Botanical Garden.
She trudged down the central promenade, between the coconut palms. There was no one in the Garden. She put her packages on the ground, sat on a bench along a path and stayed there a long while.
The vastness seemed to calm her, the silence regulated her breathing. She was falling asleep inside herself.
From a distance she saw the avenue of palms where the afternoon was bright and full.
But the shade of the branches covered the path.
All around were serene noises, scent of trees, little surprises among the vines. The whole Garden crushed by the ever faster instants of the afternoon. From where did that half-dream come that encircled her? Like a droning of bees and birds. Everything was strange, too gentle, too big.
A light, intimate movement startled her – she spun around. Nothing seemed to have moved. But motionless in the central avenue stood a powerful cat. Its fur was soft. Resuming its silent walk, it disappeared.
Worried, she looked around. The branches were swaying, the shadows wavering on the ground. A sparrow was pecking at the dirt. And suddenly, in distress, she seemed to have fallen into an ambush. There was a secret labor underway in the Garden that she was starting to perceive.
In the trees the fruits were black, sweet like honey. On the ground were dried pits full of circumvolutions, like little rotting brains. The bench was stained with purple juices. With intense gentleness the waters murmured. Clinging to the tree trunk were the luxuriant limbs of a spider. The cruelty of the world was tranquil. The murder was deep. And death was not what we thought.
While imaginary – it was a world to sink one’s teeth into, a world of voluminous dahlias and tulips. The trunks were crisscrossed by leafy parasites, their embrace was soft, sticky. Like the revulsion that precedes a surrender – it was fascinating, the woman was nauseated, and it was fascinating.
The trees were laden, the world was so rich it was rotting. When Ana thought how there were children and grown men going hungry, the nausea rose to her throat, as if she were pregnant and abandoned. The moral of the Garden was something else. Now that the blind man had led her to it, she trembled upon the first steps of a sparkling, shadowy world, where giant water lilies floated monstrous. The little flowers scattered through the grass didn’t look yellow or rosy to her, but the color of bad gold and scarlet. The decomposition was deep, perfumed . . . But all the heavy things, she saw with her head encircled by a swarm of insects, sent by the most exquisite life in the world. The breeze insinuated itself among the flowers. Ana sensed rather than smelled its sweetish scent . . . The Garden was so pretty that she was afraid of Hell.
It was nearly evening now and everything seemed full, heavy, a squirrel leaped in the shadows. Beneath her feet the earth was soft, Ana inhaled it with delight. It was fascinating, and she felt nauseated.
But when she remembered the children, toward whom she was now guilty, she stood with a cry of pain. She grabbed her bag, went down the dark path, reached the promenade. She was nearly running – and she saw the Garden all around, with its haughty impersonality. She rattled the locked gates, rattled them gripping the rough wood. The guard appeared, shocked not to have seen her.
Until she reached the door of her building, she seemed on the verge of a disaster. She ran to the elevator clutching the mesh sack, her soul pounding in her chest – what was happening? Her compassion for the blind man was as violent as an agony, but the world seemed to be hers, dirty, perishable, hers. She opened her front door. The living room was large, square, the doorknobs were gleaming spotlessly, the windowpanes gleaming, the lamp gleaming – what new land was this? And for an instant the wholesome life she had led up till now seemed like a morally insane way to live. The boy who ran to her was a being with long legs and a face just like hers, who ran up and hugged her. She clutched him tightly, in alarm. She protected herself trembling. Because life was in peril. She loved the world, loved what had been created – she loved with nausea. The same way she’d always been fascinated by oysters, with that vaguely sick feeling she always got when nearing the truth, warning her. She embraced her son, nearly to the point of hurting him. As if she had learned of an evil – the blind man or the lovely Botanical Garden? – she clung to him, whom she loved more than anything. She had been touched by the demon of faith. Life is horrible, she said to him softly, ravenous. What would she do if she heeded the call of the blind man? She would go alone . . . There were places poor and rich that needed her. She needed them . . . I’m scared, she said. She felt the child’s delicate ribs between her arms, heard his frightened sobbing. Mama, the boy called. She held him away from her, looked at that face, her heart cringed. Don’t let Mama forget you, she told him. As soon as the child felt her embrace loosen, he broke free and fled to the bedroom door, looking at her from greater safety. It was the worst look she had ever received. The blood rushed to her face, warming it.
She let herself fall into a chair, her fingers still gripping the mesh sack. What was she ashamed of?
There was no escape. The days she had forged had ruptured the crust and the water was pouring out. She was facing the oyster. And there was no way not to look at it. What was she ashamed of? That it was no longer compassion, it wasn’t just compassion: her heart had filled with the worst desire to live.
She no longer knew whether she was on the side of the blind man or the dense plants. The man had gradually receded into the distance and in torture she seemed to have gone over to the side of whoever had wounded his eyes. The Botanical Garden, tranquil and tall, was revealing this to her. In horror she was discovering that she belonged to the strong part of the world – and what name should she give her violent mercy? She would have to kiss the leper, since she would never be just his sister. A blind man led me to the worst in myself, she thought in alarm. She felt banished because no pauper would drink water from her ardent hands. Ah! it was easier to be a saint than a person! By God, hadn’t it been real, the compassion that had fathomed the deepest waters of her heart? But it was the compassion of a lion.
Humiliated, she knew the blind man would prefer a poorer love. And, trembling, she also knew why. The life of the Botanical Garden was calling her as a werewolf is called by the moonlight. Oh! but she loved the blind man! she thought with moist eyes. Yet this wasn’t the feeling you’d go to church with. I’m scared, she said alone in the living room. She got up and went to the kitchen to help the maid with dinner.
But life made her shiver, like a chill. She heard the school bell, distant and constant. The little horror of the dust threading together the underside of the oven, where she discovered the little spider. Carrying the vase to change its water – there was the horror of the flower surrendering languid and sickening to her hands. The same secret labor was underway there in the kitchen. Near the trash can, she crushed the ant with her foot. The little murder of the ant. The tiny body trembled. The water droplets were dripping into the stagnant water in the laundry sink. The summer beetles. The horror of the inexpressive beetles. All around was a silent, slow, persistent life. Horror, horror. She paced back and forth across the kitchen, slicing the steaks, stirring the sauce. Round her head, circling, round the light, the mosquitoes of a sweltering night. A night on which compassion was raw as bad love. Between her two breasts sweat slid down. Faith was breaking her, the heat of the stove stung her eyes.
Then her husband arrived, her brothers and their wives arrived, her brothers’ children arrived.
They ate dinner with all the windows open, on the ninth floor. An airplane went shuddering past, threatening in the heat of the sky. Though made with few eggs, the dinner was good. Her children stayed up too, playing on the rug with the others. It was summer, it would be pointless to send them to bed. Ana was a little pale and laughed softly with the others.
After dinner, at last, the first cooler breeze came in through the windows. They sat around the table, the family. Worn out from the day, glad not to disagree, so ready not to find fault. They laughed at everything, with kind and human hearts. The children were growing up admirably around them. And as if it were a butterfly, Ana caught the instant between her fingers before it was never hers again.
Later, when everyone had gone and the children were already in bed, she was a brute woman looking out the window. The city was asleep and hot. Would whatever the blind man had unleashed fit into her days? How many years would it take for her to grow old again? The slightest movement and she’d trample one of the children. But with a lover’s mischief, she seemed to accept that out of the flower emerged the mosquito, that the giant water lilies floated on the darkness of the lake. The blind man dangled among the fruits of the Botanical Garden.
If that was the oven exploding, the whole house would already be on fire! she thought rushing into the kitchen and finding her husband in front of the spilled coffee.
“What happened?!” she screamed vibrating all over.
He jumped at his wife’s fright. And suddenly laughed in comprehension:
“It was nothing,” he said, “I’m just clumsy.” He looked tired, bags under his eyes.
But encountering Ana’s strange face, he peered at her with greater attention. Then he drew her close, in a swift caress.
“I don’t want anything to happen to you, ever!” she said.
“At least let the oven explode at me,” he answered smiling.
She stayed limp in his arms. This afternoon something tranquil had burst, and a humorous, sad tone was hanging over the house. “Time for bed,” he said, “it’s late.” In a gesture that wasn’t his, but that seemed natural, he held his wife’s hand, taking her along without looking back, removing her from the danger of living.
The dizziness of benevolence was over.
And, if she had passed through love and its hell, she was now combing her hair before the mirror, for an instant with no world at all in her heart. Before going to bed, as if putting out a candle, she blew out the little flame of the day.
Liliana Mizrahi, nacida en Buenos Aires, Argentina en 1943. Desde 2004, colabora con la página Mujeres sin Fronteras, escribiendo una columna mensual. Desde 2006 es columnista de radio. Ha publicado notas periodísticas en Tiempo Argentino, La Razón y Página 12. Y en Revistas: El Porteño, Para Ti, Claudia, Viva y otras. Premio Coca-Cola para las Artes y las Ciencias, mención en poesía, 1983. Recibió en 1988, la Beca Nacional de Poesía otorgada por el Fondo Nacional de las Artes. Mención de Honor en Poesía del Fondo Nacional de las Artes, 1995. Fue finalista del concurso de poesía del diario La Nación 1995. Sus poemas fueron traducidos al francés, al inglés y al hebreo.
Obras:
La Mujer Transgresora, Las Mujeres y La Culpa, Mujeres en Plena Revuelta, Madres en Desuso, Libro De Humor, Ilustrado, Los Mágicos Juegos, Bautismos y Fundaciones, Hembras del Ave del Paraíso, Quién me Mató Madre
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Liliana Mizrahi was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina, in 1943. Since 2004, she has contributed to the website “Mujeres sin Fronteras,” writing a monthly column. Since 2006, she has been a radio columnist. She has published articles in Tiempo Argentino, La Razón, and Página 12, and in magazines such as El Porteño, Para Ti, Claudia, Viva, and others. She received the Coca-Cola Award for the Arts and Sciences, with a mention in poetry, 1983. In 1988, Mizrahi received the National Poetry Fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts. She gained and Honorable Mention in Poetry from the National Endowment for the Arts, 1995. She was a Finalist in the 1995 La Nación newspaper poetry contest. Her poems have been translated into French, English, and Hebrew. Works:
La Mujer Transgresora, Las Mujeres y La Culpa, Mujeres en Plena Revuelta, Madres en Desuso, Libro De Humor, Ilustrado, Los Mágicos Juegos, Bautismos y Fundaciones, Hembras del Ave del Paraíso, Quién me Mató Madre
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El cantar de los cantares, una ética del amor*
¿A quién llamar?
¿A quién llamar en el camino
tan alto y tan
desierto?
JACOBO FIJMAN, El canto del cisne
Ser una escritora judía y sefaradí es una experiencia compleja. Implica, al menos para mí, asumir exigencias, reconocer ambigüedades y recorrer laberintos.
A veces, el pasado oriental de mis abuelos y de mis padres se me escapa de las manos. Damasco o Estambul se convierten en la oscura memoria de un origen que funda la precoz conciencia de ser una extraña. A veces, también desespero de la tierra prometida.
Mis ensayos tratan de la mujer y la transgresión, del amor y la soledad. Intentan descifrar.
Las mujeres y la culpa a afectividad que se nutre de voces ancestrales que me incitan a la ruptura de mandatos: el silencio, la pasividad, la secundariedad o el sometimiento.
Mi necesidad de ser una mujer transgresora se realimenta todos los días, cada mañana, cuando los varones rezan:
“Gracias Dios mío, por no haberme hecho mujer”.
A esa hora, me convierto en Lilith, en Eva, en Débora o en Judith. Y pienso: no convirtamos este universo en un gran destierro. No amputemos más cuerpos ni más geografías. Tratemos de achicar el repertorio de estereotipos y prejuicios.
Los varones ortodoxos repiten esta oración desde la presunción de que han sido liberados de una situación precaria.
No quiero tener más en contra de mí a mis propios judíos y tampoco a los hombres de otros pueblos que en nombre de las mismas ideas persiguen y denigran.
Esa doble servidumbre; la dependencia de las fuerzas hostiles del mundo que nos rodea y de los propios hermanos que paradojalmente forman una extraña coalición.
Sé también de mis propios prejuicios y estereotipos contra los que lucho por constituirme la mujer de Lot; Sara, la estéril o la que engaña al enemigo; soy Ester y soy Rebeca. Busqué a estas mujeres para apropiarme de ellas, no para ser una destinataria fatídica de versiones heredadas.
El discurso bíblico me constituye, aunque me cueste reconocerlo; habla a través de mí y de cada uno de nosotros. Entiendo entonces que se trata de conocerse y reconocerse en las propias resistencias y dificultades. Tengo que sostener el coraje de balbucear, fundar silencios y romper viejos condicionamientos. Mis ensayos también se aproximan al tema del cambio.
El pueblo judío, en su larga historia, ha atravesado por transformaciones que significaron verdaderas mutaciones y acerca de las cuales la literatura bíblica, por suerte, ha dejado constancia. Cambio, para mí, es metamorfosis. Mutación de valores. Incursión en lo desconocido; comprometerse con hechos futuros que no son previsibles y enfrentar sus consecuencias. Este encuentro de escritores judíos me sorprende sumergida literariamente en el tema del amor.
Elegí entonces una pareja: la Sulamita y el rey Salomón. Elegí un poema: “El cantar de los cantares”. Y los elijo porque sobre la base de la transgresión que ellos dramatizan se constituye una ética del amor basada en la libertad y la autonomía de ambos, quizás por primera vez en la literatura amorosa universal.
El cantar de los cantares. Me pregunto: ¿no será que una de las claves del amor, y que creo vislumbrar en la Sulamita y Salomón, es comprender a tiempo que todos los vínculos están hechos para deshacerse?
Entonces pienso en su opuesto: la separación, en el mundo de las almas, no existe. Dice Salomón en el Eclesiastés:
“Para todas las cosas hay sazón
y todo lo que se quiere debajo del cielo tiene su tiempo:
“Tiempo de nacer y tiempo de morir.
“Tiempo de abrazar
y tiempo de alejarse de abrazar. “
Tiempo de amar y tiempo de aborrecer. una ética del amor basada en la libertad y la autonomía de ambos, quizás por primera vez en la literatura amorosa universal.
“Tiempo de guerra y tiempo de paz.” Esta sagrada pareja, tan polémica para la ortodoxia religiosa, nutre esta extraña paradoja en la que estoy meditando. No afirmo. Interrogo.
Me aproximo a un tema y por ahora lo dejo abierto. Pienso que el amor es cosa de gente decidida a entregarse, no un deporte cruel donde uno intenta vencer al otro. Toda posesión, además de insuficiente, es inútil.
Esta pareja bíblica contiene en su esencia los elementos fundantes de lo que para mí es una concepción ética del amor: el reconocimiento y la aceptación del otro como de un profundo misterio.
Este texto expresa, entre otras cosas, mi aspiración al diálogo, apertura al extraño. En el diálogo se modela el espacio de una interioridad recíproca. En la palabra, en el silencio, el amor se convierte en hogar imaginario de la vida interior de la pareja. La tensión del diálogo en “El cantar…” no es dramática sino lírica y amorosamente cultivada. La temática erótica, en este poema, queda fuertemente unida a la ausencia:
“Corre, amado mío”, dice la Sulamita.
El rey huye de la fusión: “En el lecho, entre sueños, por la noche busqué al amado y no le hallé”. Aun en la fugacidad de la presencia no temen la incertidumbre. Paradojalmente, lo inasible del amante se convierte en plenitud de certezas.
El texto bíblico nuevamente confirma y realimenta mis ensayos. Nuevamente me constituye y habla. No podría estar pensando en una ética del amor que no se apoyara en una concepción de la soledad como plenitud del conocimiento y del encuentro con uno mismo. “El amor consiste en que dos soledades mutuamente se protejan, se limiten y se reverencien”, dice Rilke.
Me nutre la polémica lectura que se puede hacer de esta obra. Julia Kristeva, en el ensayo “Una santa locura”, ella y él, plantea la convergencia de una mentalidad judía religiosa, ideología guardiana de su identidad, una estética pagana y algunos signos del esoterismo y las religiones y algunos signos del esoterismo y las religiones encarnadas. El Cantar se convierte en sagrado en cuanto contiene deseo y Dios. Se trata entonces de aprender a verlos juntos como parte de la aventura amorosa bíblica.
Se ha legitimado lo imposible. La transgresión se ha convertido en ley de amor. La verdad es poesía. A través de la transgresión me reconcilio con lo que para mí es lo mejor del judaísmo y encuentro en éste un espacio alentador para mi propio despliegue.
Me adueño y recreo la tradición a través de la conquista, cada mañana, de mi propia libertad. Como una vieja oración a rezar, cuyas palabras se deletrean con exactitud, pienso: que este discurso bíblico que hoy nos convoca sirva para unir, para olvidar y para aprender a abrirnos y amar de nuevo, lo desconocido, lo extraño.
* Presentado por primera vez en el Segundo Diálogo de Escritores Judeo Argentinos y Latinoamericanos, Buenos Aires, 1988.
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The Song of Songs, an Ethics of Love*
Who to Call?
Who to Call on the Road
so High and So
deserted?
JACOBO FIJMAN, Swan Song
Being a Jewish and Sephardic writer is a complex experience. It involves, at least for me, assuming demands, recognizing ambiguities, and navigating labyrinths.
Sometimes, the Eastern past of my grandparents and parents slips through my fingers. Damascus or Istanbul become the dark memory of an origin that grounds the precocious awareness of being a stranger. Sometimes, I also despair of the Promised Land.
My essays deal with women and transgression, with love and loneliness. They attempt to decipher.
Women and the guilt of an affectivity that feeds on ancestral voices that incite me to break mandates: silence, passivity, secondary importance, or submission.
My need to be a transgressive woman is rekindled every day, every morning, when the Orthodox men pray:
“Thank you, my God, for not having made me a woman.”
At that hour, I become Lilith, Eve, Deborah, or Judith. And I think: let’s not turn this universe into a great exile. Let’s not amputate more bodies or more geographies. Let’s try to narrow down the repertoire of stereotypes and prejudices.
The men repeat this prayer from the presumption that they have been liberated from a precarious situation.
I no longer want to have my own Jews against me, nor the men of other peoples who, in the name of the same ideas, persecute and denigrate me.
That double servitude: the dependence on the hostile forces of the world around us and on our own brothers who, paradoxically, form a strange coalition.
I also know of my own prejudices and stereotypes, against which I struggle to become Lot’s wife; Sarah, the barren one; or the one who deceives the enemy; I am Esther and I am Rebekah. I sought out these women to make them my own, not to be a fateful recipient of inherited versions.
The biblical discourse constitutes me, even if I find it hard to recognize it; it speaks through me and through each of us. I understand then that it’s about knowing and recognizing oneself in one’s own resistances and difficulties. I must maintain the courage to stammer, to establish silences, and to break old conditioning. My essays also approach the theme of change.
The Jewish people, in their long history, have undergone transformations that represented true mutations and about which biblical literature, fortunately, has left a record.
Change, for me, is metamorphosis. A mutation of values. A foray into the unknown; committing to future events that are not foreseeable and facing their consequences. This meeting of Jewish writers surprises me, literarily immersed in the theme of love.
I then chose a couple: the Shulamite and King Solomon. I chose a poem: “The Song of Songs.” And I chose them because, based on the transgression they dramatize, an ethic of love is constructed based on the freedom and autonomy of both, perhaps for the first time in universal love literature.
The Song of Songs. I wonder: could it be that one of the keys to love, which I think I glimpse in the Shulamite and Solomon, is understanding in time that all bonds are made to be broken?
Then I think of its opposite: separation, in the world of souls, does not exist. Solomon says in Ecclesiastes:
“To everything there is a season,
and a time to every purpose under heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die.
A time to embrace,
and a time to turn away from embracing.”
A time to love, and a time to hate. An ethic of love based on the freedom and autonomy of both, perhaps for the first time in universal love literature.
“A time of war and a time of peace.” This sacred couple, so controversial for religious orthodoxy, nourishes this strange paradox I am meditating on. I don’t affirm; I question.
I am approaching a theme and for now I leave it open. I think love is a matter of people determined to surrender, not a cruel sport where one tries to defeat the other. All possession, besides being insufficient, is useless.
This biblical couple contains in its essence the founding elements of what for me is an ethical conception of love: the recognition and acceptance of the other as a profound mystery. This text expresses, among other things, my aspiration for dialogue, openness to the stranger. In dialogue, the space of reciprocal interiority is modeled. In words, in silence, love becomes the imaginary home of the couple’s inner life. The tension of the dialogue in “The Song of Songs…” is not dramatic but lyrical and lovingly cultivated. The erotic theme in this poem is strongly linked to absence:
“Run, my beloved,” says the Shulamite.
The king flees from fusion: “On my bed, between dreams, at night I sought my beloved and did not find him.” Even in the fleetingness of presence, they do not fear uncertainty. Paradoxically, the elusiveness of the lover becomes a plenitude of certainty.
The biblical text once again confirms and nourishes my essays. Once again it constitutes and speaks to me. I could not be thinking about an ethics of love that did not rest on a conception of solitude as the plenitude of knowledge and the encounter with oneself. “Love consists in two solitudes mutually protecting, limiting, and revering one another,” says Rilke.
I am nourished by the polemical interpretation that can be made of this work. Julia Kristeva, in her essay “A Holy Madness, She and He,” raises the convergence of a religious Jewish mentality, an ideology that guards its identity, a pagan aesthetic, and some signs of esotericism and incarnated religions. The Song becomes sacred insofar as it contains desire and God. It is then a matter of learning to see them together as part of the biblical love adventure.
The impossible has been legitimized. Transgression has become the law of love. Truth is poetry. Through transgression, I reconcile myself with what for me is the best of Judaism and find in it an encouraging space for my own unfolding.
I take ownership of and recreate tradition through the conquest, each morning, of my own freedom. Like an old prayer to be recited, whose words are spelled out precisely, I think: may this biblical discourse that calls us together today serve to unite, to forget, and to learn to open ourselves and love again, the unknown, the strange.
* First Presented at the Second Dialogue of Jewish-Argentine and Latin American Writers, Buenos Aires, 1988.
Nascida em 1958 na Porto Alegre, no Brasil, Cíntia Moscovich é escritora, jornalista e mestre em Teoria Literária, tendo exercido atividades de professora, tradutora, consultora literária, revisora e assessora de imprensa. Dentre vários prêmios literários conquistados, destaca-se o primeiro lugar no Concurso de Contos Guimarães Rosa, instituído em Paris. Em 1996, publicou sua primeira obra individual, “O reino das cebolas”. Um dos contos que integram a coletânea foi traduzido para o inglês e faz parte de uma antologia que reúne escritores judeus de língua portuguesa. Em 1998, ela lançou a novela “Duas iguais – Manual de amores e equívocos assemelhados”, que recebeu o Prêmio Açorianos de Literatura em 1999. Em 2000, também pela lançou o livro de contos “Anotações durante o incêndio, que reúne onze textos de temáticas diversas, com destaque ao judaísmo e à condição feminina, merecendo outra vez o Prêmio Açorianos de Literatura. Em 2004, publicou a coletânea de contos “Arquitetura do arco-íris”, livro que lhe valeu o terceiro lugar em contos no prêmio Jabuti. Em 2006, lançou o romance “Por que sou gorda, mamãe?”,. Em 2007, lançou seu sexto livro individual, o romance infanto-juvenil “Mais ou menos normal”. Em 1998, lançou a novela “Duas iguais – Manual de amores e equívocos assemelhados”, que recebeu o Prêmio Açorianos de Literatura. Em 2000, também lançou o livro de contos “Anotações durante o incêndio”, que reúne textos de temáticas diversas, com destaque ao judaísmo e à condição feminina. Em 2013, “Essa coisa brilhante que é a chuva” foi a vencedora do Prêmo Clarice Lispector, concedido pela Fundação Bilbioteca Nacional. ___________________________
Born in 1958 in Porto Alegre, Brazil, Cíntia Moscovich is a writer, journalist, and holds a master’s degree in Literary Theory. She has worked as a teacher, translator, literary consultant, proofreader, and press officer. Among her numerous literary awards, she won first place in the Guimarães Rosa Short Story Competition, held in Paris. In 1996, she published her first solo work, “The Kingdom of Onions.” One of the short stories in the collection was translated into English and is part of an anthology featuring Portuguese-speaking Jewish writers. In 1998, she published the novel “Duas iguales – Manual de amores e equívocos similares,” which received the Açorianos Literature Prize. in 1999. In 2000, she also released the short story collection “Notes During the Fire,” which brings together eleven texts on diverse themes, highlighting Judaism and the female condition, and which again earned her the Açorianos Literature Prize. In 2004, she published the short story collection “Architecture of the Rainbow,”. which earned her third place in the Jabuti Prize for short stories. In 2006, she released the novel “Why Am I Fat, Mom?”. In 2007, she released her sixth solo book, the children’s novel “More or Less Normal.” In 1998, she published the novel “Duas iguales – Manual de amores e equívocos similares,” which received the Açorianos Literature Prize. In 2000, she also released the short story collection “Notes During the Fire,” which brings together texts on diverse themes, highlighting Judaism and the female condition. In 2004, she published the short story collection “Architecture of the Rainbow.” In 2006, she released the novel “Why Am I Fat, Mommy?” In 2013, “This Bright Thing That Is the Rain” won the Clarice Lispector Prize, awarded by the National Library Foundation.
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Um gênio.
Aos dez anos de idade, única filha de um casal descendente de imigrantes judeus, nascida depois de muitas e várias tentativas — portanto cheia de mimos, denguices, babados e brinquedos e tudo quanto me desse na telha —, logo de mim, a unigênita, o pai queria que eu fosse nada mais nada menos do que isso — uma criança genial.
Assim: tinha de saber de cor as estrofes iniciais d’Os Lusíadas (“Cesse tudo o que a Musa antiga canta,/ Que outro valor mais alto se alevanta”), ouvir calada e atenta — e ainda por cima gostar — a todas as árias de todas as óperas que tínhamos em casa — principalmente Una furtiva lacrima, no vozeirão de Enrico Caruso, e a Casta Diva, gravada por Maria Callas —, espremer os pés em sapatilhas nas classes de balé, assistir às terríveis aulas de piano e de inglês de dona Vivi, além das lições de francês com madame Vichy.
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—Shein vi di levone.
Bomita como lua, título de uma antiga canção que imigrara junto com a família de Bessarábia. Música que, segundo ele, fora composto para mim, filha linda. E mesmo os anos passando, nunca esqueci daqueles abraços que tinham o perfume almiscarado úmido da espuma de barba.
Coisa boa da vida.
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De tudo que eu cumpria como rutina diária, o que me propiciava mais divertimento, além de brincar, eram coisas de fazer de conta: na escola, tinha adoração pelas aulas de português e pelas peças de teatro, e, em casa passava horas deitada de barriga para baixo, as pernas dobradas, os pés se balançando, queixo apoiado nas mãos. Eu adorava ler. Piano, balé, inglês, francês—coisas porque pai dizia, a gente tinha de ser cultivada—tudo isso eram pedágios caríssimos para aquelas horas em a vida, pero, preto no branco, era puro desfrute. Meus país nunca fixarem nenhum esforção, nenhuma ameaça, nada: eu era naturalmente l, fato que, imagino, também me dava munição suficiente para engendrar situações para as aulas de teatro.
Passei a nutrir dois secretos desejos: eu queria escrever e trabalhar como atriz—Quimeras que a ninguém revelei talvez porque, no fundo, achava que que aquilo ainda ia acabar mal.
O erro máximo se deu quando um dia, na mesa do almoço, se conversava sobre escolher ima profissão—num futuro remoto, portanto. Se eu me tivesse calado, teriam me incluído no rol dos sábios. Mas eu falei:
– -Quando eu crescer, quero ser escritora e atriz.
O rosto do pai ficou vermelho—depois quase verde. A mãe acho melhor tirar os pratos da mesa, quase se esquecia do cafezinho, tinha deixado para coar: saiu de fininho tilintando louças e talheres.
O patriarca rimbombou:
–Atriz? Escritora? Tanto dinheiro em estudos e livros para ser atriz e escritora?
Tentei dizer a ele que eu gostava de teatro e gostava de contar histórias: queria a carreira de uma grande atriz dramática e escrever como Monteiro Lobato.
—Atriz dramática? Escritora? –o pai ia ter um troço. Encheu um copo com água e tomou dois pequemos goles: acalmava-se o algo parecido.
A mãe, agora trazendo o bule de café e as xícaras para a mesa, ousou intrometer-se:
–Mas não é você quer que ela recite poemas de cor e que goste de ópera? Porque ela não pode ser artista.
Bingo, mãe. O pai fez um movimento afirmativa, que tanto podia significar que ele aceitava o cafezinho recém passado quanto a culpa no cartório que realmente tinha. Deu sequência a conversa, num tom até ameno:
–Entendo que você goste de teatro é de literatura, todos nós gostamos. Mas como é que você pretende sobrevivir com teatro ou literatura?
É, eu sabia que queria um futuro para mim bom—que incluía não ter de passar forme como elas tinham passado quando eles tinham passado quando as famílias chegaram ao Brasil. Tentei amenizar era tão bonito ser uma personagem, que nem aquelas que nem aquelas que ele e a mãe viam no Teatro São Pedro; além do mais eu achava que tinha nascida para ser escritora e não me importava em não ser rica. Ele fez “ach” de desprezo com a mãe. Eu desafiei: e quem sabe eu fosse que nem Scholem Aleichem, de quem ele gostava tanto? Como Erico Verisssimo? E eu se fosse uma Bibi Ferreira ou uma Julie Andrews?
–Tudo muito bonito, mas não crio filha para ser atriz, dessas que bebem e fumam outras coisas que nem é bom falar. –O caldo m tinha engrossado. –Além do mais, você não nasceu para ser escritora, ao menos até que prove o contrário. —E lembrou que ele não era nenhum Procópio Ferreira para ter filha atriz.
—Você vai ter um dê e um erre antes do nome “doutora”. Depois do diploma na minha mão, decide-se o resto—decretou, cravando-me uma um olhar impositivo. E sem medir a raiva, já siando da mesa: —Se você está pensando em ser isso ai –e havia uma intenção satânica no isso ai—então tenho que vai a vai viver de nariz quebrado (um perdedor) …
Passai a considerar a possibilidade de ser médica. Além de, claro, seguir as carreiras de atriz é escritora.
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Nossa família tinha uns pequenos de roupas para senhoras e gestantes. Nada demais, nenhum empregado, apenas um negócio que nos mantinha num bom patamar de vida, fato que possibilitava o monte de aulas para sem ser uma pessoa cultivada.
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MUITO DESPOIS, EM A ESCOLA
Perto das dez da manhã, o exiliar de disciplina bateu na nossa sala de aula, chamavam-me na direção. Engoli em seco e, bravamente, trilhe se o caminho pelo corredor silencioso.
Os dois já se reuniam lá com dona Malvina. O pai de terno gravata, e a mãe tinha feito um coque no cabelo, vestido um tailleur é o color de pérolas com fecho de brilhantes; senti que ela havia colocado Cabochard, preciosa reservada para os dias de festa. A cerimónia do momento era tão grande eu a loja estava fechada—que, então estaria atendendo? E a loja só era ocasiões muitíssimo especais.
Foi a diretora a iniciar a conversa:
–Chamei-os aqui porque tenho algo importante a dizer.
O pai mexeu-se cadeira, odiava obviedades. A diretora continuou:
A filha de vocês es mui criativa.
O pai adorava que me elogiassem. Dona Malvina prosseguiu:
–Tenho aqui comigo uma redação feita por ela sobre a amizade. Desculpem-me, mas tenho de saber se algum de vocês ajudou a escrevê-la.
O pai e a mãe se entreolharam. Responderam que não: quando ela precisava de ajuda, era em matemática, nunca para escrever. A diretora ficou feliz com a reposta:
–Foi o que imagine—abriu uma pasta e, de dentro de ela retirou minha relação—É impressionante.
O pai deu um salto, arrancando o papel da diretora; a mãe se pendurou para lero que estava escrito. Dona Malvina foi didática:
Faz menções a O Pequeno Principe de Saint Exupéry, mas também demonstra que aluna tem ideias próprias. Muito singulares e profundas.
A mãe es distraiu por um momento:
–Já sei por sumiu um pacote de açúcar da dispensa—logo depois se corrigiu:–Ah, mas não tem importância.
O peito do pai se encheu, estufado. A diretora lançou a minha sorte:
–Talvez seja precipitado—refletiu. E daí salvou a pátria:–Pelo que ela tem ela tem demonstrado nos trabalhos anteriores e principalmente nesse, acho que tem vocação para ser escritora.
Ima chuva de estrelas dentro de mim. Dona Malvina arrematou:
–At onde eu soube, ela quer se formar em medicina. E também atriz e escritora Parabéns. O futuro depende de incentivo. Parabéns.
O pai não sabia mais o que fazer. E ali, na sala da diretora, em meio á cerimonia do momento, ele me abraçou muito forte, tão forte que me levantou do chão. E ouvi ele sendo a pai mais feliz do mundo:
Shein a di levone
A bonito-do pai tinha uma futura pela frente.
Saímos os três abraçados.
Naquela noite, o pai abriu um vinho português que estava guardado fazia tempo. Serviu-me num cálice um tantinho com água e açúcar.
—Lechaim—levantou em saudação a taça no ar.
Foi a primeira que pude fazer um brinde com os adultos. Eu era feliz ali mesmo, nem precisava de um futuro….
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A genius
At ten years old, the only child of a couple descended from Jewish immigrants, born after many, many attempts—and therefore showered with pampering, indulgences, frills, toys, and everything else I could imagine—my father, an only child, wanted me to be nothing more, nothing less than that—a genius.
Therefore: I had to know by heart the first stanzas of The Lusiadas (“Cease all that the ancient Muse sings, / For another, higher value, arises”), listen silently and attentively—and even appreciate—every aria from every opera we had at home—especially “Una furtiva Lacrima” sung by Enrico Caruso, and La Casta Diva, recorded by Maria Callas—put my feet in ballet slippers, attend Dona Vivi’s terrible piano and English lessons, and take French lessons from Madame Vichy.
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—Shein saw di levone.
“Beautiful as the moon,” the title of an old song he had immigrated with his family from Bessarabia. A song he said he had composed for me, his beautiful daughter. And even as the years passed, I never forgot those hugs that carried the moist, musky scent of shaving foam. A good thing in life. . .
Of all the daily routines I performed, what gave me the most fun, besides playing, were intended activities: at school, I adored Portuguese lessons and plays, and at home, I spent hours lying on my stomach, legs bent, feet dangling, chin resting on my hands. I loved reading. Piano, ballet, English, French—things because my father said we had to be cultivated—all of these were very expensive tolls for those hours in life, but, in black and white, it was pure enjoyment. My parents never made any effort, any threat, nothing: I was naturally like that, a fact that, I imagine, also gave me enough ammunition to concoct situations for drama classes.
I began to harbor two secret desires: I wanted to write and work as an actress—fantasies that I revealed to no one perhaps because, deep down, I thought it would still end badly. The biggest mistake came when one day, at the lunch table, we were talking about choosing a profession—in the distant future, that is. If I had kept quiet, they would have included me among the wise. But I said: “When I grow up, I want to be a writer and an actress.” The father’s face turned red—then almost green. The mother, I think I’d better clear the dishes from the table; she’d almost forgotten the coffee, she’d left it brewing. She quietly left, clinking dishes and cutlery. The patriarch boomed out: “Actress? Writer? So much money for studies and books to be an actress and a writer?” I tried to tell him that I liked theater and storytelling: I wanted a career as a great dramatic actress and to write like Monteiro Lobato. The dramatic actress? A writer?” Her father was going to have a fit. He filled a glass with water and took two small sips: something like that calmed him down. Her mother, now bringing the coffee pot and cups to the table, dared to interject: “But don’t you want her to recite poems by heart and like opera? Because she can’t be an artist.” Bingo, Mom. The father nodded, which could have meant either accepting the freshly brewed coffee or the guilt he truly felt. He continued the conversation, in a mild tone: –“I understand that you like theater and literature, we all do. But how do you intend to survive with theater or literature?” Yes, I knew I wanted a good future for myself—one that included not having to go hungry like they had, when their families arrived in Brazil. I tried to soften the blow: it was so beautiful to be a character, like the ones he and his mother saw at the São Pedro Theater; Besides, I thought I was born to be a writer and didn’t care about not being rich. He made a dismissive “ah” at his mother. I challenged: what if I were like Scholem Aleichem, whom he liked so much? Like Erico Verisssimo? What if I were a Bibi Ferreira or a Julie Andrews? “It’s all very nice, but I’m not raising a daughter to be an actress, the kind who drinks and smokes other things that aren’t even worth talking about.” The situation had become more difficult. “Besides, you weren’t born to be a writer, at least not until you prove otherwise.” And he remembered her that he wasn’t Procópio Ferreira to have an actress daughter.
“You’ll have a d and an r before the name ‘doctor.’ After the diploma is in my hand, the rest will be decided,” he decreed, fixing me with an authoritative look. And without measuring his anger, he already left the table: “If you’re thinking of being that—and there was a satanic intention in that—then I’ll have to go and live with a broken nose (a loser)… Start considering the possibility of being a doctor. Besides, of course, pursuing careers as an actress and a writer.”
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Our family had a few small women’s and maternity clothing stores. Nothing special, no employees, just a business that kept us at a good level A fact that made it possible to take a lot of classes without being a cultured person.
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MUCH LATER ON AT SCHOOL
Around ten in the morning, the disciplinary officer knocked on our classroom; they called me to the principal. I swallowed hard and bravely made my way down the silent hallway. The two of them were already there with Dona Malvina. The father wore a suit and tie, and the mother had tied her hair in a bun, wearing a pearl-colored suit with a diamond clasp; I sensed she had put on Cabochard, a precious jewel reserved for special occasions. The ceremony of the moment was so grand that the store was closed—so who would be open? And the store only closed for very special occasions. It was the principal who initiated the conversation: “I called you here because I have something important to say: The father shifted in his chair; he hated to be obvious. The principal continued: “Your daughter is very creative.” My father loved to be praised. Dona Malvina continued: “I have here with me an essay she wrote about friendship. Excuse me, but I need to know if any of you helped her write it.” Her father and mother looked at each other. They answered no: when she needed help, it was with math, never with writing. The principal was pleased with the answer.That’s what I imagined,” she opened a folder and took out my report. “It’s impressive.” The father jumped, snatching the paper from the principal; the mother clung to it to read what was written. Dona Malvina was didactic: “It mentions Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince, but it also shows that the student has her own ideas. Very unique and profound.” The mother was distracted for a moment: “I already know why a packet of sugar is missing from the pantry,” she corrected herself immediately. “Ah, but it doesn’t matter.” The father’s chest swelled, puffed out. The principal cast my lot: “Maybe I’m being hasty,” she reflected. And then she saved the day: “From what she’s demonstrated in her previous works, and especially in this one, I think she has a vocation to be a writer.” “A shower of stars inside me.” Dona Malvina concluded: –As far as I know, she wants to graduate in medicine. And also as an actress and writer. Congratulations. The future depends on encouragement. Congratulations. My father didn’t know what else to do. And there, in the principal’s office, in the midst of the ceremony, he hugged me tightly, so tightly that he lifted me off the floor. And I heard him being the happiest father in the world: Shein a di levone My father’s beautiful daughter had a future ahead of her. The three of us left, arms around each other. That night, my father opened a bottle of Portuguese wine that had been stored for a long time. He poured me a small amount of water and sugar in a glass. —Lechaim—he raised the glass in the air in greeting. It was the first time I was able to make a toast with the adults. I was happy right there, I didn’t even need a future…
Liliana Heker nació en Buenos Aires, en 1943. Es Cuentista, novelista y ensayista. Fundó y fue responsable, con Abelardo Castillo, de dos de las revistas de literatura de mayor repercusión en la letras argentinas y latinoamericanas: El Escarabajo de Oro (1961-1974), yEl Ornitorrinco (1977-1986), donde publicó ensayos y sostuvo polémicas que trascendieron la circunstancia que las motivó. Sus cuatro primeros libros de cuentos se reúnen en el volumen Cuentos (editorial Punto de lectura). Publicó las novelas Zona de clivaje y El fin de la historia, y los libros de no ficción Las hermanas de Shakespeare y Diálogos sobre la vida y la muerte. Su último libro de cuentos es La muerte de Dios. Obtuvo, entre otras distinciones, la Mención Única del Concurso de Casa de las Américas, el Primer Premio Municipal de Novela, el Premio Konex de Platino, el Premio a la Trayectoria Letras de Oro de la Fundación Honorarte, el Premio Esteban Echeverría a la trayectoria, otorgado por Gente de Letras. Entre 2005 y 2011 se desempeñó como directora del Fondo Nacional de las Artes. Desde 1978 coordina talleres de narrativa en los que se han formado varios de los mejores nuevos narradores de la literatura argentina.
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Liliana Heker was born in Buenos Aires in 1943, he is a short story writer, novelist, and essayist. He founded and edited, with Abelardo Castillo, two of the most influential literary magazines in Argentine and Latin American literature: El Escarabajo de Oro (1961–1974) and El Ornitorrinco (1977–1986), where he published essays and engaged in controversies that transcended the circumstances that motivated them. His first four collections of short stories are collected in the volume Cuentos (Punto de lectura). She published the novels Zona de Clivaje and El fin de la historia (The End of History), and the nonfiction books Las hermana de Shakespeare (Shakespeare’s Sisters) and Diálogos sobre la vida y la muerte (Dialogues on Life and Death). Her latest collection of short stories is La muerte de Dios (The Death of God).Among other awards, she has received the Sole Mention in the Casa de las Américas Competition, the First Municipal Novel Prize, the Platinum Konex Award, the Letras de Oro Lifetime Achievement Award from the Honorarte Foundation, and the Esteban Echeverría Lifetime Achievement Award from Gente de Letras. From 2005 to 2011, she served as director of the National Arts Fund. Since 1978, she has coordinated narrative workshops that have trained several of the best new storytellers in Argentine literature.
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“UNA MUCHACHA Y SU DIOS”
Ser judía —irá aprendiendo— es muchas cosas a la vez, todas ilógicas. La prohibición de usar la medalla del hombrecito es sólo una. Poco después de ese episodio se entera de que tampoco podrá ir al colegio al que una vez se escapó sólo por averiguar a dónde iban las niñas del sombrerito azul que tanto anhelaba, y en el que vio unas maestras como novias negras que la estremecieron de pavor y de deseo. Otra catástrofe ocurre en su quinto día de clase. Marianita entró directo a primero superior porque sabe todo, le cuenta su mamá a cualquiera que se le cruza. Pero es mentira, no sabe todo: ignora las claves de un mundo en que los demás parecen manejarse como peces en el agua. Sólo ella boquea. Literalmente boquea: ha vomitado todas las mañanas en el momento de salir para el colegio. En su quinto día de clase, la maestra formula una orden que la deja helada: Pónganse de pie los niños que no son católicos. ¿Hay un aura de desconcierto a su alrededor? ¿O es sólo ella la que siente que, por primera vez, va a tener que hacer pública una situación que no termina de entender? A su derecha, se ha puesto de pie una chica muy gorda y de apellido impronunciable a quien ella considera una perfecta tarada. Eso empeora las cosas: no quiere ser parte de un clan despreciable. Con disimulo echa una mirada hacia atrás. Ve de pie junto a su banco a la chica que más le gusta: es flaca, tiene pecas en la nariz y conoce los doce trabajos de Hércules. También ve de pie a un chico que se llama Fernández. ¿Puede un judío llamarse Fernández? Empieza a sospechar que ser judío debe ser aun más complicado de lo que ella creía. Va a tener que pensar en eso. Ahora no tiene tiempo: la maestra está terminando de hacer un anuncio importante: los martes y viernes en la tercera hora los niños católicos se quedarán en el aula para la clase de Religión. Los niños no católicos se trasladarán al aula de primero inferior B para la clase de Moral. El martes siguiente, a la tercera hora, empieza para ella un nuevo calvario.
Lo que más la inquieta es la indefinición, esa zona amorfa y gelatinosa a la que son arrojados los niños que no estudian Religión. La religión es algo. Mariana no conoce del todo sus reglas pero confía en su perfecta definición. En ella entran Dios, los santos, la Virgen María y el Niño Jesús. No está segura de si Dios y el Niño Jesús son la misma persona y tampoco puede establecer una relación muy clara entre el Niño Jesús (también llamado Niño Dios para complicar las cosas), que suele estar en un pesebre, sobre un jergón —cómo le gusta la palabra “jergón”; Heidi también, en la cabaña de su abuelo, duerme en un jergón—, rodeado de cabritas y de burros, y el hombre de pelo largo, siempre muy serio y a veces en la cruz de recuerdo tan doloroso para ella. Los niños que van a Religión deben aprender todas esas cosas y también la vida de los santos —nada le resulta tan tentador como las historias y la expresión “vida de santos” promete historias innumerables— y el misterioso catecismo, que estudian (fuera del colegio) los niños de siete años que van a tomar la comunión. ¡La comunión! ¡He aquí un escamoteo realmente cruel! ¿Puede existir algo más encantador que ese traje de novia con el que las niñas católicas se pasean por las calles el 8 de diciembre? Y acá se presenta otro de los enigmas que Mariana no está en condiciones de resolver: ¿es lo mismo ser católico que ser cristiano? ¿Y es lo mismo “Padre” que “Dios”? Es un hecho que el Padre Nuestro que estás en los cielos es Dios pero ¿qué tiene en común con el cura de la parroquia que, cada tanto, viene al aula a hablarles? Los niños católicos lo llaman “Padre”, ella no. ¿Y cómo debería llamarlo?: ¿Señor? De cualquier manera, el cura de la parroquia parece ignorarla. Da por hecho que en el mundo no hay otra cosa que niños católicos y los invita a la fiesta de la parroquia y les dice cómo deben comportarse para ser buenos cristianos y ganarse el cielo. Eso no la tienta de ninguna manera, le parece que el cura está diciendo una perfecta mentira: nadie es bueno del modo en que él dice que hay que serlo, ni siquiera él mismo. No le gustan los curas, parecen fallutos. A su mamá sí le gustan: dice que hablan lindo y que saben muchas cosas. Su mamá es bastante difícil de entender. Por una parte dice que es judía y por otra parte dice que le gusta cómo hablan los curas y que, cuando era soltera, para Semana Santa, se iba a escondidas al cine a ver la Pasión y muerte de Nuestro Señor Jesucristo. Es una historia tan terrible, le dice. A su mamá le gustan todas las historias terribles, por eso canta las cosas que canta. Pero a mis hermanas no les contaba que iba a ver la Pasión y muerte (le dice): iban a pensar que soy una renegada. Aunque también le dice que ser un renegado es lo peor que una persona puede ser. No es fácil, con una persona como su mamá, saber qué es ser judío. Y con su papá menos. Nunca le explican nada. Dicen que son judíos, y que ella tiene que ir a Moral, y listo. Y ése es su calvario: la moral no es nada. Al menos, nadie sabe qué es; ni siquiera la maestra de Moral que les tocó, que en realidad no esmaestra de Moral sino de primero inferior B. Desde el primer día Mariana pensó que a esa maestra la habían puesto ahí porque a alguien tenían que poner, si no, ¿qué iban a hacer con los niños judíos y con el niño que no tiene apellido judío pero igual va a Moral? —un chico le dijo en secreto que los padres son comunistas, ella no sabe si ser comunista es bueno o malo, lo que le gusta es que el chico sea tan dulce y que conozca el cuento del Príncipe Feliz—. A las clases de Moral van niños de todos los grados y se ve bien claro que la maestra no sabe qué hacer con esa mezcolanza. A veces les lee cuentos, que son lo mejor de la moral. El sastrecillo valiente, les lee un día, y a ella le da en el centro mismo del corazón el modo en que el sastrecillo, que es pequeño y debilucho, pudo vencer al gigante nada más que con inteligencia y picardía. Pero no siempre pasan cosas tan agradables en las clases de Moral. Una vez les hacen hacer una composición sobre el ahorro. Y ella, que ama hacer composiciones casi más que cualquier otra cosa en el mundo, acerca del ahorro sólo puede mentir, de la primera a la última palabra. Y mentir de manera fea, diciendo cosas en las que otros creen pero ella no, que es la peor manera de mentir. Sobre todo cuando se hacen composiciones. No sabe por qué, pero le parece que en una composición una tiene que descubrir la verdad. Si le piden que escriba sobre la primavera, ella se pone a pensar y pensar qué es eso de la primavera, no pura florcita y puro trino, como dicen los libros de lectura: tiene que descubrir la primavera, para eso están las cosas escritas. Pero ¿qué descubrimiento se puede hacer sobre el ahorro? Por cuestiones como ésa siente que mandarla a Moral es lo mismo que tirarla a la basura. La religión es algo, pero la moral no es nada. Y a ella, las cosas que no son nada le dan asco.
Con el tiempo aprenderá a reírse. Sentada en el banco junto a la pecosa que le gusta tanto —las dos son buenas en matemáticas, las dos hacen composiciones hermosas, las dos leen a Salgari— aprenderá que la moral es buena para reírse de los otros y no hacer nada. Nadie la calificará, nadie le exigirá ninguna cosa. Llegará a entender sin dramatismo que las clases de Moral son un mero pretexto para mantener alejados a los niños judíos de las clases de Religión. ¿Es que los judíos carecen de religión? Sus conocimientos al respecto son un poco confusos. Algunos de sus compañeros de Moral parecen saber mucho sobre el tema y es como si formaran parte de una secta, pero a ella no le gustan las sectas así que no habla con ellos del tema, y la pecosa sabe tan poco como ella acerca de la cuestión judía. ¿Qué sabe ella? Que una vez al año toda la familia se reúne a cenar en la casa de sus abuelos y festejan el Pesaj. Eso es divertido y la comida es riquísima; el único inconveniente es que, para empezar a comer, tienen que esperar a que su abuelo y el más chico de sus primos varones digan un montón de cosas que nadie entiende. Pero después comen y se ríen mucho y eso le encanta. Otra fiesta que le gusta es el Iom Kipur. Ese día, todas las hermanas de su mamá ayunan para que les perdonen sus pecados y se pasan el día entero sentadas en el shil, pero su mamá no ayuna: dice que, a ella, estar todo el día con el estómago vacío le da languidez y que si no toma unos mates a la mañana se siente mal. Lo que sí, almuerzo liviano, dice su mamá. Y en lugar de pasarse todo el día en el shil, a la tarde se pone lindísima y a ella también la pone lindísima, y entonces sí se van al shil para que todos las vean. Lucía no quiere ir así que siempre, antes de salir, se descompone y vomita. Su papá, en el Iom Kipur, come y vive como si tal cosa. Del Dios de los judíos nadie le habló nunca así que ella da por hecho que es un tema de la religión, y la religión es para los católicos. En un tiempo, cuando se enteró de que la tierra era redonda e imaginó al cielo como la parte superior de la esfera (que ella sólo podía ver desde abajo) veía a Dios vestido de amarillo y con un poncho de gaucho, sentado con las piernas cruzadas sobre la superficie de la esfera, pero no pensó demasiado en él ni le atribuyó más poder que el de mantenerse sentado sin caerse en un lugar tan incómodo. Su mamá siempre dice que hay un Dios, y ahí se le termina el comentario. Su papá, de Dios no habla nunca. Lucía le leyó unos poemas muy hermosos de un poeta que se llama León Felipe. A ella le gustaron mucho, sobre todo uno que dice ¡Qué lástima que yo no pueda cantar a la usanza de este tiempo lo mismo que los poetas de hoy cantan! Lucía le dijo que León Felipe es panteísta. Qué es ser panteísta, le preguntó ella. Es creer que Dios es todas las cosas, le dijo Lucía. Ella desde entonces trata de imaginar que Dios es las plantas, y los gatos, y las nubes en el cielo. Es lindo eso, le da como alegría, pero no lo entiende del todo. ¡Dios está azul!, dice otro poema lindísimo. Le encanta decir “Dios está azul”, pero nada más que eso. Ahora ya no vomita cuando va al colegio, y aprendió cómo ser buena alumna sin tomarse demasiado trabajo. No piensa en Dios. Si lo encuentra en los libros acepta con naturalidad que sus personajes amados crean en él, del mismo modo que acepta que viajen en diligencia o se lancen al abordaje con el kriss entre los dientes. Nada más que eso. Un ser impreciso y ajeno.
Being Jewish—she will gradually learn—is many things at once, all illogical. The prohibition against wearing the little man medal is just one. Shortly after that episode, she learns that she will no longer be able to go to the school. She once ran away from just to find out where the little girls with the little blue hats she so longed for went, and where she saw teachers who were like black brides who thrilled her with fear and desire. Another catastrophe occurs on her fifth day of school. Marianita went straight to the first grade because she knows everything, her mother tells anyone she meets. But it’s a lie; she doesn’t know everything: she ignores the keys to a world in which others seem to navigate like fish in water. Only she gasps. Literally gasps. She has vomited every morning before leaving for school. On her fifth day of school, the teacher gives her an order that leaves her frozen: Children who aren’t Catholic, stand up.
Is there an aura of bewilderment around her? Or is it just her who feels that, for the first time, she’s going to have to go public with a situation she doesn’t fully understand? To her right, a very fat girl with an unpronounceable last name, whom she considers a complete idiot, has stood up. That makes things worse: she doesn’t want to be part of a despicable clan. She surreptitiously glances behind her. She sees the girl she likes most standing next to her desk: she’s skinny, has freckles on her nose, and knows the twelve labors of Hercules. She also sees a boy named Fernández standing there. Can a Jew be named Fernández? She’s beginning to suspect that being Jewish must be even more complicated than she thought. She’s going to have to think about that. She doesn’t have time now: the teacher is finishing up an important announcement: on Tuesdays and Fridays, during third period, the Catholic children will stay in their classroom for Religion class. The non-Catholic children will be moved to the lower B classroom for Morals class. The following Tuesday, at the third hour, a new ordeal begins for her.
What worries her most is the lack of definition, that amorphous, gelatinous zone into which students who don’t study religion are thrown. Religion is something. Mariana doesn’t fully understand its rules, but she trusts its perfect definition. It includes God, the saints, the Virgin Mary, and the Baby Jesus. She’s not sure if God and the Baby Jesus are the same person, and she can’t establish a very clear relationship between the Baby Jesus (also called the Baby Jesus to complicate things), who is usually in a manger, on a mattress—how she loves the word “mattress”; Heidi, too, in her grandfather’s cabin, sleeps on a mattress—surrounded by goats and donkeys, and the long-haired man, always very serious and sometimes on the cross, a memory so painful for her. Children who go to Religion must learn all these things, as well as the lives of the saints—nothing is as tempting to her as stories, and the expression “lives of saints” promises countless stories—and the mysterious catechism, which seven-year-olds who are about to take Communion study (outside of school). Communion! Here’s a truly cruel trick! Could anything be more charming than that wedding dress Catholic girls wear when parading through the streets on December 8th? And here arises another of the enigmas Mariana is in no position to solve: is being Catholic the same as being Christian? And is “Father” the same as “God”? It’s a fact that Our Father who art in heaven is God, but what does he have in common with the parish priest who, from time to time, comes to the classroom to speak to them? The Catholic children call him “Father,” she doesn’t. And what should she call him? Lord? In any case, the parish priest seems to ignore her. He assumes there is nothing in the world but Catholic children and invites them to the parish festival and tells them how they should behave to be good Christians and earn heaven. This doesn’t tempt her in the least; it seems to her that the priest is telling a perfect lie: no one is good the way he says they should be, not even himself. She doesn’t like priests; they seem like fools. Her mother does like them: she says they speak beautifully and know a lot of things. Her mother is quite difficult to understand. On the one hand, she says she is Jewish, and on the other hand, she says she likes the way priests talk and that, when she was single, during Holy Week, she would secretly go to the movies to see The Passion and Death of Our Lord Jesus Christ. It’s such a terrible story, she tells him. Her mom likes all terrible stories, that’s why she sings the things she sings. But I didn’t tell my sisters I was going to see The Passion and Death (she tells her): they would think I was a renegade. Her mother he also tells him that being a renegade is the worst thing a person can be. It’s not easy, with a person like her mom, to know what it means to be Jewish. And even less so with her dad. They never explain anything to her. They say they’re Jewish, and that she has to go to Moral, and that’s it. And that’s her ordeal: Moral is nothing. At least, nobody knows what it is; Not even the Moral Studies teacher they were assigned, who in fact isn’t a Moral Studies teacher but rather a Lower B teacher. From the first day, Mariana thought that that teacher had been put there because they had to put someone there; otherwise, what would they do with the Jewish children and with the boy who doesn’t have a Jewish last name but still goes to Moral Studies? A boy secretly told her that his parents are communists; she doesn’t know if being a communist is good or bad; what she likes is that the boy is so sweet and that he knows the story of the Happy Prince. Children from all grades attend Moral Studies classes, and it’s clear to see that the teacher doesn’t know what to do with that mishmash. Sometimes she reads them stories, which are the best of Moral Studies. She reads “The Brave Little Tailor” to them one day, and it hits her right in the center of her heart how the little tailor, who is small and weak, was able to defeat the giant with nothing more than intelligence and cunning. But such pleasant things don’t always happen in Moral Studies classes. Once they were asked to write a composition about thrift. And she, who loves writing compositions almost more than anything else in the world, can only lie about thrift, from the first word to the last. And she can lie badly, saying things that others believe but she doesn’t, which is the worst kind of lying. Especially when writing compositions. She doesn’t know why, but it seems to her that in a composition one has to discover the truth. If they ask her to write about spring, she starts to think and think about what spring is, not just a little flower and a little song, as the reading books say: she has to discover spring, that’s what written things are for. But what discovery can be made about thrift? For reasons like that, she feels that sending it to Moral is the same as throwing it away. Religion is something, but morality is nothing. And things that are nothing disgust her.
In time, she’ll learn to laugh. Sitting on the bench next to the freckled girl she likes so much—they’re both good at math, they both write beautiful compositions, they both read Salgari—she’ll learn that morality is good for laughing at others and doing nothing. No one will grade her, no one will demand anything of her. She’ll come to understand, without any drama, that Moral Studies classes are a mere pretext to keep Jewish children away from Religion classes. Do Jews lack religion? Her knowledge on the subject is a bit confusing. Some of her classmates in Moral Studies seem to know a lot about the subject, and it’s as if they were part of a cult, but she doesn’t like cults, so she doesn’t talk to them about it, and the freckled girl knows as little as she does about the Jewish question. What does she know? That once a year the whole family gets together for dinner at her grandparents’ house and celebrates Passover. It’s fun, and the food is delicious. The only drawback is that, to start eating, they have to wait for their grandfather and the youngest of their male cousins to say a bunch of things that no one understands. But afterward, they eat and laugh a lot, and she loves it. Another holiday she likes is Yom Kippur. On that day, all of her mother’s sisters fast to be forgiven for their sins and spend the entire day sitting in the shil, but her mother doesn’t fast: she says that being on an empty stomach all day makes her feel languid, and if she doesn’t have some mate in the morning, she feels sick. What she does have is a light lunch, says her mother. And instead of spending the entire day in the shil, in the afternoon she looks gorgeous, and he makes her gorgeous too, and then they go to the shil so everyone can see them. Lucía doesn’t want to go, so she always gets sick and vomits before leaving. Her father, on Yom Kippur, eats and lives as if nothing had happened.
No one ever spoke to her about the God of the Jews, so she assumes it’s a religious topic, and religion is for Catholics. Once upon a time, when she learned the Earth was round and imagined the sky as the top of the sphere (which she could only see from below), she saw God dressed in yellow and wearing a gaucho poncho, sitting cross-legged on the surface of the sphere, but she didn’t think much about him or attribute to him any power other than that of staying seated without falling over in such an uncomfortable spot. Her mother always says there is a God, and that’s the end of her commentary. Her father never speaks about God. Lucía read her some very beautiful poems by a poet named León Felipe. She liked them a lot, especially one that says, “What a pity I can’t sing in the style of our time, the same things that today’s poets sing!” Lucía told her that León Felipe is a pantheist. “What does it mean to be a pantheist?” she asked. It’s believing that God is all things, Lucía told her. Since then, she’s tried to imagine that God is the plants, the cats, and the clouds in the sky. That’s beautiful, it gives her a kind of joy, but she doesn’t fully understand it. “God is blue!” says another beautiful poem. She loves to say, “God is blue,” but nothing more than that. Now she doesn’t vomit when she goes to school, and she’s learned how to be a good student without going to too much trouble. She doesn’t think about God. If she finds him in books, she naturally accepts that her beloved characters believe in him, just as she accepts that they travel by stagecoach or jump into the sea with the Kriss between their teeth. Nothing more than that. An imprecise and alien being.
Being Jewish—she will gradually learn—is many things at once, all illogical. The prohibition against wearing the little man medal is just one. Shortly after that episode, she learns that she will no longer be able to go to the school she once ran away from just to find out where the little girls with the little blue hats she so longed for went, and where she saw teachers who were like black brides who thrilled her with fear and desire. Another catastrophe occurs on her fifth day of school. Marianita goes straight to the first grade because she knows everything, her mother tells anyone she meets. But it’s a lie; she doesn’t know everything: she ignores the keys to a world in which others seem to navigate like fish in water. Only she gasps. Literally gasps. She has vomited every morning before leaving for school. On her fifth day of school, the teacher gives her an order that leaves her frozen: Children who aren’t Catholic, stand up.
Is there an aura of bewilderment around her? Or is it just her who feels that, for the first time, she’s going to have to go public with a situation she doesn’t fully understand? To her right, a very fat girl with an unpronounceable last name, whom she considers a complete idiot, has stood up. That makes things worse: she doesn’t want to be part of a despicable clan. She surreptitiously glances behind her. She sees the girl she likes most standing next to her desk: she’s skinny, has freckles on her nose, and knows the twelve labors of Hercules. She also sees a boy named Fernandez standing there. Can a Jew be named Fernandez? She’s beginning to suspect that being Jewish must be even more complicated than she thought. She’s going to have to think about that. She doesn’t have time now: the teacher is finishing up an important announcement: on Tuesdays and Fridays, during third period, the Catholic children will stay in their classroom for Religion class. The non-Catholic children will be moved to the lower B classroom for Morals class. The following Tuesday, at the third hour, a new ordeal begins for her.
What worries her most is the lack of definition, that amorphous, gelatinous zone into
which children who don’t study religion are thrown. Religion is something. Mariana doesn’t fully understand its rules, but she trusts its perfect definition. It includes God, the saints, the Virgin Mary, and the Baby Jesus. She’s not sure if God and the Baby Jesus are the same person, and she can’t establish a very clear relationship between the Baby Jesus (also called the Baby Jesus to complicate things), who is usually in a manger, on a mattress—how she loves the word “mattress”; Heidi, too, in her grandfather’s cabin, sleeps on a mattress—surrounded by goats and donkeys, and the long-haired man, always very serious and sometimes on the cross, a memory so painful for her. Children who go to Religion must learn all these things, as well as the lives of the saints—nothing is as tempting to her as stories, and the expression “lives of saints” promises countless stories—and the mysterious catechism, which seven-year-olds who are about to take Communion study (outside of school). Communion! Here’s a truly cruel trick! Could anything be more charming than that wedding dress Catholic girls wear when parading through the streets on December 8th? And here arises another of the enigmas Mariana is in no position to solve: is being Catholic the same as being Christian? And is “Father” the same as “God”? It’s a fact that Our Father who art in heaven is God, but what does he have in common with the parish priest who, from time to time, comes to the classroom to speak to them? The Catholic children call him “Father,” she doesn’t. And what should she call him? Lord? In any case, the parish priest seems to ignore her. She assumes there is nothing in the world but Catholic children and invites them to the parish festival and tells them how they should behave to be good Christians and earn heaven. This doesn’t tempt her in the least; it seems to her that the priest is telling a perfect lie: no one is good the way he says they should be, not even himself. She doesn’t like priests; they seem like fools. Her mother does like them: she says they speak beautifully and know a lot of things. Her mother is quite difficult to understand. On the one hand, she says she is Jewish, and on the other hand, she says she likes the way priests talk and that, when she was single, during Holy Week, she would secretly go to the movies to see The Passion and Death of Our Lord Jesus Christ. It’s such a terrible story, she tells him. Her mom likes all terrible stories, that’s why she sings the things she sings. But I didn’t tell my sisters I was going to see The Passion and Death (she tells him): they would think I was a renegade. Although she also tells him that being a renegade is the worst thing a person can be. It’s not easy, with a person like her mom, to know what it means to be Jewish. And even less so with her dad. They never explain anything to her. They say they’re Jewish, and that she has to go to Moral, and that’s it. And that’s her ordeal: Moral is nothing. At least, nobody knows what it is; Not even the Moral Studies teacher they were assigned, who in fact isn’t a Moral Studies teacher but rather a Lower B teacher. From the first day, Mariana thought that that teacher had been put there because they had to put someone there; otherwise, what would they do with the Jewish children and with the boy who doesn’t have a Jewish last name but still goes to Moral Studies? A boy secretly told her that his parents are communists; she doesn’t know if being a communist is good or bad; what she likes is that the boy is so sweet and that he knows the story of the Happy Prince. Children from all grades attend Moral Studies classes, and it’s clear to see that the teacher doesn’t know what to do with that mishmash. Sometimes she reads them stories, which are the best of Moral Studies. The Brave Little Tailor reads to them one day, and it hits her right in the center of her heart how the little tailor, who is small and weak, was able to defeat the giant with nothing more than intelligence and cunning. But such pleasant things don’t always happen in Moral Studies classes. Once they were asked to write a composition about thrift. And she, who loves writing compositions almost more than anything else in the world, can only lie about thrift, from the first word to the last. And she can lie badly, saying things that others believe but she doesn’t, which is the worst kind of lying. Especially when writing compositions. She doesn’t know why, but it seems to her that in a composition one has to discover the truth. If they ask her to write about spring, she starts to think and think about what spring is, not just a little flower and a little song, as the reading books say: she has to discover spring, that’s what written things are for. But what discovery can be made about thrift? For reasons like that, she feels that sending it to Moral is the same as throwing it away. Religion is something, but morality is nothing. And things that are nothing disgust her.
In time, she’ll learn to laugh. Sitting on the bench next to the freckled girl she likes so much—they’re both good at math, they both write beautiful compositions, they both read Salgari—she’ll learn that morality is good for laughing at others and doing nothing. No one will grade her, no one will demand anything of her. She’ll come to understand, without any drama, that Moral Studies classes are a mere pretext to keep Jewish children away from Religion classes. Do Jews lack religion? Her knowledge on the subject is a bit confusing. Some of her classmates in Moral Studies seem to know a lot about the subject, and it’s as if they were part of a cult, but she doesn’t like cults, so she doesn’t talk to them about it, and the freckled girl knows as little as she does about the Jewish question. What does she know? That once a year the whole family gets together for dinner at her grandparents’ house and celebrates Passover. It’s fun, and the food is delicious. The only drawback is that, to start eating, they have to wait for their grandfather and the youngest of their male cousins to say a bunch of things that no one understands. But afterward, they eat and laugh a lot, and she loves it. Another holiday she likes is Yom Kippur. On that day, all of her mother’s sisters fast to be forgiven for their sins and spend the entire day sitting in the shil, but her mother doesn’t fast: she says that being on an empty stomach all day makes her feel languid, and if she doesn’t have some mate in the morning, she feels sick. What she does have is a light lunch, says her mother. And instead of spending the entire day in the shil, in the afternoon she looks gorgeous, and he makes her gorgeous too, and then they go to the shil so everyone can see them. Lucía doesn’t want to go, so she always gets sick and vomits before leaving. Her father, on Yom Kippur, eats and lives as if nothing had happened.
No one ever spoke to her about the God of the Jews, so she assumes it’s a religious topic, and religion is for Catholics. Once upon a time, when she learned the Earth was round and imagined the sky as the top of the sphere (which she could only see from below), she saw God dressed in yellow and wearing a gaucho poncho, sitting cross-legged on the surface of the sphere, but she didn’t think much about him or attribute to him any power other than that of staying seated without falling over in such an uncomfortable spot. Her mother always says there is a God, and that’s the end of her commentary. Her father never speaks about God. Lucía read her some very beautiful poems by a poet named León Felipe. She liked them a lot, especially one that says, “What a pity I can’t sing in the style of our time, the same things that today’s poets sing!” Lucía told her that León Felipe is a pantheist. “What does it mean to be a pantheist?” she asked. It’s believing that God is all things, Lucía told her. Since then, she’s tried to imagine that God is the plants, the cats, and the clouds in the sky. That’s beautiful, it gives her a kind of joy, but she doesn’t fully understand it. “God is blue!” says another beautiful poem. She loves to say, “God is blue,” but nothing more than that. Now she doesn’t vomit when she goes to school, and she’s learned how to be a good student without going to too much trouble. She doesn’t think about God. If she finds him in books, she naturally accepts that her beloved characters believe in him, just as she accepts that they travel by stagecoach or jump into the sea with the Kriss between their teeth. Nothing more than that. An imprecise and alien being.
Desde muy joven escribí poesía, a menudo con desesperación. Poner en palabras el dolor fue, durante mucho tiempo, una forma sutil de autosanación. Algunos de esos poemas dieron forma a los seis libros que figuran más abajo. En años recientes, me he volcado al relato. Diario de un cuéntenik se basa tanto en personajes reales —personas que conocí trabajando— como en mi imaginación.
He vivido, con suerte diversa, del comercio. Hoy me dedico al tratamiento de rezagos electrónicos y al comercio electrónico. Me gusta pensar que soy un cuéntenik tecnológico, pero cuéntenik al fin.
Se ha publicado recientemente Vulnerables, 2024, un libro que explora, entre otras cosas, la presencia de seres visibles e invisibles que habitan mi barrio: San Telmo, donde vivo desde hace años, en la ciudad de Buenos Aires. Ese libro y El después es ahora, 2021, fueron publicado por A Capella.
Actualmente estoy desarrollando Un judío amateur, un libro que combina ensayo, memoria personal y reflexión sobre la identidad judía.
Nací en Bahía Blanca en 1957. Estudié Matemática en la Universidad de Buenos Aires y fui presidente, durante ocho años, de la Asociación Argentina del Juego de Go.
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Jorge Santkovsky:
I wrote more poetry than anything else, often out of desperation. To express pain in words resulted in a subtle form of self-cleansing. A number of those poems were embodied in the five books of poetry that I mention below. A while ago, I made an incursion into the short-story, Diario de un cuéntenik is based as much on people I met while working as in my imagination. Many other stories, on varied themes, still remain unpublished. They are waiting, patiently, to see the light.
It is from commerce that I have lived my entire life, with varied luck, I should say. Right now, I’m comfortable dedicating myself to the handling of remaindered electronic devices and to internet sales. I like to think that I am a technological cuentenik, but a proud cuentenik in the end.
These days I find myself writing about the magic of visible and invisible beings that inhabit the neighborhood of San Telmo, old neighborhood where I live in Buenos Aires. Vulnerables, a book that explores, among other things, the presence of visible and invisible beings that inhabit my neighborhood: San Telmo, where I have lived for years, in the city of Buenos Aires, has recently been published. That book and The After is Now 2021 were published by A Capella.
I was born in Bahía Blanca in 1957 and moved to Buenos Aires in 1976.
I took courses in mathematics at the University of Buenos Aires.
For eight years, I was president of the Argentine Association for the Game of Go.
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Saludos para todos
Hasta ahora los parientes fallecidos de mi familia materna son menos que los miembros vivos que habitan en mi ciudad natal. La misma ciudad donde mis abuelos formaron la familia a la que, con orgullo, pertenezco. Hubo quien observó que no hay que descuidarse y si los jóvenes siguen emigrando podría afectar la sagrada ecuación. Sería una desagradable sorpresa ser menos los vivos que los que descansan en el cementerio. Como no está permitida la cremación dentro del judaísmo la cuenta es sencilla de hacer. Entregarse a la tierra, es el modo de purificar el alma. Dice la tradición de que no es prudente desafiar al destino.
No hay modo de retener a los jóvenes que piensan buscar nuevos horizontes. Somos descendientes de los más audaces, de aquellos que sobrevivieron a las persecuciones gracias a su temeridad de emigrar a estas nobles tierras. No entendían el idioma local, pero en donde se decía que se tiraba una semilla y se cosechaba dinero. Es cierto que no tenían mucho que perder en sus países de origen, quedarse era soportar hambre y violencia. El espíritu intrépido se mantiene en la sangre, aunque cambie el escenario y lo que está ocurriendo era lo esperable. Lamento decirlo, pero en algún momento los temores se cumplirán y serán menos los vivos que moran en la sureña ciudad que los que descansan en el camposanto.
Mareado por estas reflexiones voy a visitar las tumbas de mis familiares fallecidos. Mi primo se ofreció para acompañarme, él se autodefine como un visitador serial de cementerios. Me cuenta que la traducción al hebreo es beit jaim, la casa de la vida. Para él siempre es un buen momento visitarlos. Es de aquellos parientes que hay en toda familia que se dedica a homenajear la memoria de los ancestros.
Mi prima, cuando se enteró, con total naturalidad, me envío saludos para todos. Yo no dije nada para no ofenderla.
Los cementerios judíos son bien mantenidos mientras quedan deudos en la ciudad que se ocupan de ellos. En aquellos pueblos donde casi no habitan miembros de la comunidad, los pocos que quedan tienen las llaves por si algún pariente lejano siente necesidad de bucear en su pasado. O para recibir algún curioso amante del necro turismo.
La tierra escasea y las ciudades crecen para donde encuentran espacio. Lo peor para un cementerio es quedar en medio de un poblado porque aumentan los riesgos de los saqueadores que nunca faltan. O de los emprendedores que necesitan terrenos para sus inversiones.
Este cementerio ha quedado alejado de las rutas de acceso a la ciudad, nada pasa cerca de ese camino de tierra. Sus vecinos son hornos de ladrillos seguramente sin habilitación legal. Y un nutrido basural clandestino sin control municipal. Con bolsas de plástico que arrastradas por el viento que terminan atrapadas en los cercos de los campos vecinos. Este penoso paisaje me recordó que en varios pasajes de la biblia se habla de un basurero publico ubicado en el sur de Jerusalén. En este lugar, no solo se arrojaban los cadáveres de los criminales y animales sacrificados, sino también los desechos de la ciudad.
La asociación entre Gehena, que era el nombre del basurero, y la condenación eterna se debía principalmente a las llamas que ardían constantemente para consumir los desechos. Una imagen de destrucción y muerte. Además, el hedor y la putrefacción que emanaban de este lugar añadían una sensación de horror y desolación que se llegó a asociar con un tormento eterno. De ahí surgió la idea del infierno para los pecadores.
Un basural cerca del cementerio, es como convocar a un infierno cercano. Algo debería hacer la comunidad al respecto porque es un espectáculo decepcionante. Pero, a la vez, nada mal para un cementerio al que le conviene pasar desapercibido.
Cuando llegamos vimos que en el antiguo portón había un cartel de cerrado. Nos sorprendió porque en el calendario hebreo no había ninguna conmemoración religiosa.
Debía ser necesariamente algo temporal.
No tenía yo otra fecha para visitarlo y estaba de paso en la ciudad, así que esperamos pacientemente la vuelta el encargado. Cuando llegó ni siquiera intentó una disculpa por nuestro tiempo perdido. Con soltura nos informó que necesitaba salir para aprovechar una oferta. Quedo claro que se manejaba a su antojo. La familiaridad con nuestros familiares fallecidos le daba ciertos permisos. Manejarse sin disimular su poca empatía era uno de ellos.
Acto seguido nos alertó que al vernos adentro otros se animarían a entrar. No vimos ningún auto por kilómetros, nos pareció raro el comentario, pero al rato se confirmó que tenía razón. El hombre, nos guste o no, conocía los gajes de su oficio.
Momentos después otros deudos estaban recorriendo el sector nuevo del cementerio. Todo esto sin hacer contacto visual con nosotros. En el cementerio rige un principio de privacidad del dolor.
El terreno no es muy grande y muchos de mis antepasados están en el lado más antiguo. Todas las tumbas miran a Jerusalén, la ciudad sagrada. Esto se debe a la creencia de que, en el momento adecuado, los muertos no dudaran hacia dónde dirigirse para su resurrección.
Me propuse tomar en serio el pedido de saludar y decidí pasar por donde están los restos de cada uno de mis parientes y observarlos con nuevos ojos ahora que yo también tengo la edad en que la muerte es una posibilidad cierta. Frente a ellos, es natural que surja un dialogo íntimo y silencioso.
Casi todos fallecieron antes de la era de la fotografía digital, así que imagino la dificultad de buscar entre álbumes de fotos una que pudiera ser apta para el recuerdo. Para perpetuar el rostro por generaciones. Algunas de esas fotografías, lamento, no han hecho honor a los rostros de mis seres queridos. Con ayuda de mi memoria fui sacando conclusiones de cómo vivieron, de que legado dejaron en el espíritu de sus parientes.
Mientras recorríamos las tumbas fui reviviendo emociones y preguntas de diferentes etapas de mi vida. En especial frente a la tumba de mi mama, donde siempre vuelvo a sentirme ese niño vulnerable de 10 años que tuvo que decir unas palabras, en su carácter de primogénito, en la ceremonia del entierro. Es inexplicable desde la razón, pero comprensible desde las emociones: el tiempo parece no haber pasado en ciertos instantes.
Pensé en mandar a hacer una placa con alguno de los tantos poemas que hice sobre ella. Falleció muy joven y esos versos me permiten tenerla presente a falta de otros recuerdos de momentos felices. Pero luego pensé que nadie hacia nada parecido y no quiero llamar la atención.
Acompañado por mi primo, sentía que nada malo podía pasarme. Cuando éramos chicos me llevó a descubrir lugares alejados de la severa mirada adulta, mucho más pudorosa que la nuestra.
Fue en la infancia que nos dijeron que las tumbas mirando al paredón entrando por la derecha habían hecho cosas malas. Nos prohibieron andar curioseando por ahí, no vaya a ser cosa que nos contagiemos.
Decían que eran mujeres de mala vida, usureros o ladrones. Incluso de suicidas, porque parece ser que a ningún ser humano le está permitido ser artífice de su propia muerte.
Sorprende que los marginados de la sociedad aceptaran estar de espaldas mirando a la pared. ¿Si vivieron al margen de la ley, porque no buscar otro lugar donde dejar sus restos? Es evidente que temían más a la otra vida que a los castigos en esta. O, bien, que sabían cómo lidiar con las cosas terrenas, pero ignoraban como manejarse en otros mundos. Estar de espaldas contra el muro es lo que les ocurre a los delincuentes cuando son capturados. Solo son liberados si tienen buenos abogados, no importa su culpabilidad. ¿Habrá abogados en lo que nos espera luego de la muerte física?
La verdad es que, aunque ocultos tras el muro, miran en la misma dirección que las otras tumbas, por lo tanto, una vez que llegue el Mesías y comience la resurrección, tal vez después de todo el resto, podrán llegar a Jerusalén. Eso no ocurriría enterrados en el cementerio de los gentiles. Querían asegurarse, por lo que descuento, pagarían bien caro ese curioso privilegio.
Nos animamos a ver cómo eran las tumbas de aquellos repudiados por la sociedad. Siempre me intrigaron y teníamos tiempo disponible. No hay nada tan seductor como ver algo prohibido. Las otras oportunidades en que visite el cementerio, aunque ya adulto, las había visto desde prudente distancia.
Ahora que nuestros mayores descansan del lado “bueno” del cementerio, no creo que se molestaran por nuestra ocurrencia. Ya no tenemos de quien ocultarnos. La “prohibición” era una de los tantos rituales que se generan en cualquier sacrosanto. Como salir por un sendero diferente del que se entró, o la prohibición de visitar a otros familiares fallecidos cuando se asiste a un entierro. Todas supersticiones que no están en la Tora ni el Talmud pero que la gente cree a pie juntillas que en algún lado está escrito y eso lo convierte en palabra santa.
Me anime a fotografiar las tumbas de los impuros. Las placas que dejaron sus deudos son tan amorosas o falsas como las que deja cualquiera de nosotros. Son tumbas indistinguibles de los miembros más probos de la comunidad.
¿Velaran sus parientes por ellos? Imagino que algunos de sus descendientes aun hoy usufructúan sus mal habidos bienes. Da para pensar, que posiblemente, se cambiaron el apellido para no dejar nada librado a las asociaciones obvias.
Pero, lo más importante, ¿dónde se entierran hoy los corruptos, los estafadores, los ladrones de guante blanco?
Registro que la última placa es de los años 70, son muchos años sin ninguna oveja negra a la que hay que enterrar de espalda. Algo debe de haber pasado para que la sensatez termine esta vergonzante tradición.
Veamos cada caso. Los usureros, a menudo, son ahora respetables banqueros. La mirada sobre los suicidas ha cambiado mucho. La condena ha dejado su lugar a la compasión. De las mujeres de mala vida no habría mucho para decir en los tiempos de la cancelación y del empoderamiento femenino. La costumbre, bastante absurda, por cierto, desapareció por el propio paso del tiempo.
A la vuelta nos esperaba mi prima. Ella es de aquellas personas que no le gusta hablar de la muerte ni de los muertos. En su fuero íntimo cree que nunca va a morir. Sueña con vivir eternamente. No es que no lo sepa simplemente no está dispuesta a aceptarlo. No quiere pensar que tendrá algún día que abandonar este mundo. Se aferra a sus pequeños hábitos, a sus cuidados, a su esperanza. Pero las palabras se escapan a veces de su celda y pregunta cosas como esta: “¿cómo estaban todos?”. Fuera de ese contexto estas palabras no se comprenden. Ante eso, como corresponde hacer con las personas que uno ama solo hay que hacer silencio. Tengo la certeza de que a la muerte no le importa lo que pensemos. La muerte es invicta. Habla cuando tiene que hablar y nada la puede hacer callar.
No hay duda que todos tenemos un cementerio flotando a nuestro alrededor, consientes o no, vivimos pensando en nuestros muertos. Nadie es del todo ajeno a estos pensamientos.
Pero, algo es seguro, mal o bien, en el cementerio estaban todos. Nadie se va de allí por sus propios medios.
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Greetings to All
So far, the deceased relatives of my maternal family are fewer than the living members who live in my hometown. The same city where my grandparents formed the family to which I proudly belong. There were those who observed that we must not be careless, and if young people continue to emigrate, it could affect the sacred equation. It would be an unpleasant surprise to have fewer living relatives than those resting in the cemetery. Since cremation is not permitted within Judaism, the calculation is simple. Surrendering oneself to the land is the way to purify the soul. Tradition says that it is unwise to defy fate.
There is no way to retain young people who think of seeking new horizons. We are descendants of the boldest, those who survived persecution thanks to their temerity in emigrating to these noble lands. They did not understand the local language, but where it was said that if you sow a seed, you will reap money. It’s true that they didn’t have much to lose in their countries of origin; staying meant enduring hunger and violence. The intrepid spirit remains in their blood, even when the landscape changes, and what’s happening was only to be expected. I’m sorry to say, but at some point these fears will come true, and fewer of the living will dwell in the southern city than those who rest in the cemetery.
Dizzy with these thoughts, I go to visit the graves of my deceased relatives. My cousin offered to accompany me; she describes herself as a serial cemetery visitor. She tells me that the Hebrew translation is beit chaim, the house of life. For her, it’s always a good time to visit them. She’s one of those relatives in every family who dedicates himself to honoring the memory of their ancestors.
When my cousin found out, she naturally sent me her greetings to everyone. I didn’t say anything so as not to offend her.
Jewish cemeteries are well maintained as long as there are mourners in the city who care for them. In those villages where almost no community members live, the few who remain hold the keys in case a distant relative feels the need to delve into their past. Or to welcome a curious lover of necrotourism.
Land is scarce, and cities grow wherever they can find space. The worst thing for a cemetery is to be in the middle of a town because it increases the risk of looters, who are always present. Or of entrepreneurs who need land for their investments.
This cemetery has been left far from the access routes to the city; nothing happens near that dirt road. Its neighbors are brick kilns, probably without legal authorization. And a large clandestine garbage dump without municipal control. Plastic bags, blown by the wind, end up caught in the fences of neighboring fields. This sad landscape reminded me that several passages in the Bible speak of a public garbage dump located south of Jerusalem. In this place, not only the corpses of criminals and sacrificed animals were dumped, but also the city’s waste.
The association between Gehenna, the name of the garbage dump, and eternal damnation was primarily due to the flames that constantly burned to consume the waste. An image of destruction and death. Furthermore, the stench and putrefaction emanating from this place added a sense of horror and desolation that came to be associated with eternal torment. From this arose the idea of hell for sinners.
A garbage dump near the cemetery is like summoning a nearby hell. The community should do something about it because it’s a disappointing sight. But, at the same time, not bad for a cemetery that wants to go unnoticed.
When we arrived, we saw that there was a closed sign on the old gate. We were surprised because the Hebrew calendar didn’t include any religious commemoration.
It must necessarily be temporary.
I didn’t have another time to visit and was passing through the city, so we waited patiently for the caretaker to return. When he arrived, he didn’t even attempt to apologize for our lost time. He casually informed us that he needed to leave to take advantage of an offer. It was clear he had his way. His familiarity with our deceased relatives gave him certain permissions. Being able to do so without hiding his lack of empathy was one of them.
He then warned us that seeing us inside would encourage others to enter. We didn’t see any cars for miles; we thought the comment was odd, but it soon became clear that he was right. The man, like it or not, knew the ins and outs of his job.
Moments later, other mourners were touring the new section of the cemetery. All of this without making eye contact with us. The cemetery is governed by a principle of privacy in grief.
The plot isn’t very large, and many of my ancestors are on the older side. All the graves face Jerusalem, the holy city.
Feminine practice. The custom, quite absurd, by the way, disappeared with the passage of time.
My cousin was waiting for us on our return. She’s one of those people who doesn’t like to talk about death or the dead. Deep down, she believes she’ll never die. She dreams of living forever. It’s not that she doesn’t know it, she’s just not willing to accept it. She doesn’t want to think that one day she’ll have to leave this world. She clings to her little habits, her cares, her hope. But sometimes the words escape from her cell, and she asks things like this: “How was everyone?” Outside of that context, these words are incomprehensible. Faced with this, as is appropriate with the people one loves, one must simply remain silent. I am certain that death doesn’t care what we think. Death is undefeated. It speaks when it must speak, and nothing can silence it.
There’s no doubt that we all have a cemetery floating around us, whether we realize it or not, we live thinking about our dead. No one is completely immune to these thoughts.
But one thing is certain, whether good or bad, everyone was in the cemetery. No one leaves on their own.
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Libros de Jorge Santovsky/Books by Jorge Santovsky
“Revelaciones“ por la Editorial Huesos de Jibia 2010- Ciudad de Buenos Aires
“Revelaciones acerca de otras criaturas” por la Editorial Huesos de Jibia 2011
“Breves “por la editorial Colectivo Semilla 2013 de la ciudad de Bahía Blanca
“El sonido de la atención” Editorial Huesos de Jibia 2014 Ciudad de Buenos Aires
“La incomodidad” Editorial Huesos de Jibia 2015 Ciudad de Buenos Aires
Narrative: “Diario de un cuentenik” de la editorial Leviatán 2020
Federico Andahazi nació en Buenos Aires, Argentina en 1963. Se graduó como licenciado en psicología en la Universidad de Buenos Aires. En 1996 obtuvo el Primer Premio de Cuentos de la Segunda Bienal de Arte Joven por Almas misericordiosas, y el Primer Premio del Concurso Anual Literario «Desde la Gente» por su cuento “El sueño de los justos”. En 1996 su novela El anatomista fue finalista del Premio Planeta Argentina y recibió el primer premio de la Fundación Amalia Lacroze de Fortabat. En verano de 2005 el diario Clarín publicó el folletín Mapas del fin del mundo. En 2006 Andahazi recibió el Premio Planeta por su novela El conquistador. También ha publicado no ficción: Pecar como Dios manda, Historia sexual de los argentinos I (2008), Argentina con pecado concebida.Historia sexual de los argentinos II (2009),12 Pecadores y pecadoras. Historia sexual de los argentinos III (2010) y El equilibrista (2017).
Federico Andahazi was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina in 1963. He graduated with a degree in psychology from the University of Buenos Aires. In 1996 he won First Prize for Short Stories at the Second Biennial of Young Art for Merciful Souls, and First Prize in the Annual Literary Contest “Desde la Gente” for his short story “El sueño de los justos”. In 1996 his novel El anatomista was a finalist for the Premio Planeta Argentina and received first prize from the Amalia Lacroze de Fortabat Foundation. In the summer of 2005 the newspaper Clarín published the serial Mapas del fin del mundo (Maps of the End of the World). In 2006 Andahazi received the Premio Planeta for his novel El conquistador (The Conqueror). He has also published non-fiction: Pecar como Dios manda, Historia sexual de los argentinos I (2008), Argentina con pecado concebida.Historia sexual de los argentinos II (2009),12 Pecadores y pecadoras. Historia sexual de los argentinos III (2010) y El equilibrista (2017).
Eliseo Fainzilber abrió los ojos y se encandiló con el resplandor del amanecer. Tenía el cuerpo entumecido y el cuello rígido, dolorido. Le costó recordar dónde estaba y cómo había llegado hasta ese lugar. Se llevó la mano a la nuca y descubrió que debajo de la cabeza había dos libros envueltos en un suéter enrollado a manera de almohada. Los desenvolvió y leyó los títulos con los párpados entrecerrados para atenuar la claridad temprana del verano. Se trataba de una edición de la Ética de Aristóteles y otra del Libro VI de Diógenes Laercio. En este último volumen, el historiador griego daba testimonio de la vida de su tocayo de Sínope. Habían sido las últimas lecturas de Eliseo antes de que se durmiera bajo la lánguida luz de un farol. Según pudo reconstruir, esos restos mnémicos fueron la arcilla con la que modeló su curioso sueño griego. Habría contribuido —conjeturó— el inesperado hecho de haber dormido bajo las estrellas, igual que el viejo vagabundo del ágora. Fainzilber transitaba ese límite difuso, perturbador, entre el sueño y el despertar; no podía distinguir todavía de qué lado de la frontera se encontraba. Tendido como estaba, se incorporó sobre los codos; sintió que se le rompía el espinazo. Tenía la columna vertebral tan arqueada como las tablas vencidas del banco en el que amaneció. Miró hacia un costado y vio el puente de hierro sobre las vías de la estación Coghlan. Le costó reconocer, en ese alegre y colorido paisaje estival, el escenario sombrío en el que se había dormido la noche anterior. Sobre el andén, unas pocas personas esperaban el tren. Sintió vergüenza de solo imaginar que alguien pudiera reconocerlo. No tardó en descubrir, sin embargo, que era virtualmente invisible. De hecho, nadie le dirigía la mirada ni le prestaba la menor atención. Más aún, nadie se había sentado en el sector del banco que quedaba libre. La gente mantenía una prudente distancia hecha de aprensión e indiferencia. Bajó los pies, se enderezó, se apoyó en el respaldo y movió la cabeza de izquierda a derecha y de arriba abajo; las vértebras del cuello crepitaron como ramas al quebrarse. Repuesto de un breve mareo, hizo un rápido inventario de sus pertenencias. Tenía los dos libros, el suéter de hilo azul y el llavero prendido al cinturón. Metió la mano en el bolsillo trasero del pantalón y comprobó que conservaba la billetera con las tarjetas de crédito, los documentos y unos pocos billetes. En el bolsillo delantero derecho guardaba el celular. Lo sacó, miró la pantalla y pulsó el botón de inicio. La batería estaba muerta y no tenía el cargador. Al menos, se consoló, no le faltaba nada de lo poco que se había podido llevar después de que su mujer lo invitara a abandonar la casa el día anterior. El sueño, del que Eliseo no acababa de liberarse del todo, le había provocado más angustia que el recuerdo de la discusión conyugal. Ni siquiera el hecho de haber pasado la noche fuera de su casa le causó más pesadumbre que la asociación onírica con Diógenes, el homeless más célebre de todos los tiempos. Miró hacia el andén opuesto y se encontró con los ojos inquisidores de un viejo huésped de la estación que, igual que él, acababa de despertarse en otro asiento. Cruzaron miradas de un lado al otro de las vías. El hombre lo saludó con una inclinación de cabeza. Eliseo Fainzilber bajó la vista perturbado y hasta cierto punto agraviado. Temió que alguien pudiera pensar que ese vagabundo y él fueran lo mismo. No, él no era uno de ellos. Más aún, ni siquiera era usuario del tren. Hacía muchos años que no tomaba el transporte público; de hecho, manejaba un Land Rover Discovery y, de haber podido manotear las llaves antes de salir de la casa, habría dormido en la mullida butaca del auto con aire acondicionado y música tenue. Tenía la boca pastosa y una sed desértica. Se ordenó el pelo con las manos, se desperezó con discreción, ocultó un bostezo profundo detrás del puño y finalmente se levantó. Así, vertical, se sintió uno más entre la gente decente e, incluso, algo superior. Con el suéter sobre los hombros y los libros bajo el brazo, se dispuso a abandonar la estación. Volvió a mirar al hombre que aún remoloneaba desaliñado sobre el banco del andén contrario, como si quisiera hacerle notar el abismo, mucho más profundo que el foso de las vías, que existía entre ellos. La camisa Ralph Lauren, aunque arrugada, el abrigo Lacoste sobre los hombros y las lecturas clásicas marcaban el contraste con los harapos de su circunstancial vecino de enfrente. Lo miró con un desprecio involuntario, acaso para que quedara claro que no eran colegas. El hombre le contestó con una sonrisa cómplice y burlona como si así le dijera: “Ya nos volveremos a ver”. Eliseo Fainzilber se dio media vuelta, bajó la escalera y apuró el paso hacia la calle. En la avenida Monroe entró en una farmacia y tomó un cepillo de dientes, dentífrico, un desodorante, una botella de agua mineral, ibuprofeno y chicles. Sintió que el sencillo acto de comprar lo redimía de su nueva condición nómade, que suponía transitoria. Cuando llegó a la caja entregó la tarjeta de crédito con un pase de prestidigitación de los dedos índice y mayor. La cajera ingresó el código y esperó. El display marcó error. Volvió a oprimir las teclas y, otra vez, la misma leyenda. Le devolvió la tarjeta y, sin mirarlo, le dijo: —No está habilitada. —¿Cómo? —No está habilitada, señor. Eliseo Fainzilber sacudió la cabeza y le entregó una segunda tarjeta. La mujer repitió la operación y una vez más, como si fueran las tres únicas palabras que conociera, le dijo: —No está habilitada. La gente que estaba en la fila se impacientaba. El hombre le dio entonces una tercera tarjeta. Lo mismo. Las tres tarjetas estaban inhabilitadas. En un movimiento rápido, como si quisiera pasar del oprobio a la ostentación, sacó todos los billetes del bolsillo y los contó sobre el mostrador. No le alcanzaba. Dejó los chicles y los analgésicos, pagó y salió de la farmacia como una exhalación. Mientras se cepillaba los dientes en el baño de un bar, recordó que la titular de las tarjetas y, de hecho, también de las cuentas bancarias era Martina, su mujer. Golpeó el borde del lavatorio con el puño. Estaba furioso con el banco, con la farmacia, con la cajera y con el vagabundo de la estación. Aquella indignación general no la incluía, sin embargo, a Martina. El dolor en los nudillos y el hilo de sangre en la loza cuarteada le hicieron ver que, en realidad, se estaba castigando a sí mismo. No sabía cuánto podía durarle el enojo a Martina o si alguna vez lo iba a perdonar, pero él no podía pasar mucho más tiempo en la calle. Apenas le quedaba plata para el café y la medialuna que acababa de pedir. Por otra parte, necesitaba bañarse, afeitarse y cambiarse. Era la primera vez en varios años que no iba a trabajar un día de semana. Sentado en una mesa junto a la ventana del bar, con la mirada perdida en el frente del hospital Pirovano, Eliseo debió reconocer algo que no había querido ver durante los últimos tiempos: que toda su vida giraba alrededor de Martina. El negocio familiar que él había administrado hasta ese día le pertenecía a la familia de ella. La casa en la que convivían también era de Martina desde antes de conocerse. El Land Rover que manejaba, y que había elegido él a pesar de la oposición de su mujer, estaba a nombre de la sociedad de la otra empresa de Martina. Mientras estiraba el magro desayuno, Eliseo había podido darle un poco de carga al celular gracias a la buena voluntad del encargado del bar. Lo primero que se le ocurrió fue llamar a Leopoldo y Alejandra, sus amigos de toda la vida. Pero recordó que eran amigos de toda la vida, sí, pero de su mujer. Más aún, a Leopoldo y Alejandra los había presentado Martina antes de que Eliseo llegara a su vida. Era obvio que iban a ponerse del lado de ella. A sus propios amigos los había dejado de ver hacía mucho tiempo. Además de la humillación que significaría acudir a ellos derrotado y solo, tampoco tenía la certeza de que pudieran o quisieran ayudarlo. De cualquier modo, las dudas le duraron muy poco; cuando encendió el teléfono recibió una notificación inapelable: la línea había sido dada de baja. Eliseo cerró los ojos y asintió en silencio, resignado ante la evidencia. La titular de la línea era, quién si no, Martina Paz. Jaque mate. No tenía ningún casillero a donde moverse. De la noche a la mañana se había convertido en Diógenes, el admirado personaje de sus lecturas, cuyo destino tanto temía. El sueño se le había manifestado como un oráculo: igual que el filósofo callejero, Eliseo Fainzilber estaba librado a la intemperie del ágora. O, dicho de otra forma, se había quedado en la calle, solo y sin un centavo.
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Psychodrom
Eliseo Fainzilber opened his eyes and was dazzled by the glow of dawn. His body felt numb, and his neck was stiff and aching. He struggled to remember where he was or how he had gotten there. He placed his hand on the back of his neck and discovered two books wrapped in a sweater rolled up like a pillow beneath his head. He unwrapped them and read the titles with his eyelids half closed to attenuate the early summer light. They were an edition of Aristotle’s Ethics and another of Book VI by Diogenes Laertius. In the latter volume, the Greek historian gave an account of the life of his namesake from Sinope. These had been Eliseo’s last readings before he fell asleep under the languid light of a lantern. As far as he could reconstruct, these mnemonic remnants were the clay from which he modeled his curious Greek dream. It had been a factor, he conjectured, in the unexpected fact of having slept under the stars, like the old vagabond in the agora. Fainzilber was traversing that diffuse, disturbing boundary between sleep and awakening; he couldn’t yet distinguish which side of the border he was on. Lying as he was, he propped himself up on his elbows; he felt his spine break. His spine was as arched as the sagging planks of the bench where he’d woken up. He looked to one side and saw the iron bridge over the tracks at Coghlan Station. It was hard for him to recognize, in that cheerful and colorful summer landscape, the gloomy scene where he had fallen asleep the night before. On the platform, a few people were waiting for the train. He felt ashamed to even imagine that anyone could recognize him. He soon discovered, however, that he was virtually invisible. In fact, no one even looked at him or paid the slightest attention. What’s more, no one had sat down in the vacant section of the bench. People maintained a prudent distance, woven of apprehension and indifference. He put his feet up, straightened, leaned back, and shook his head from left to right and up and down; the vertebrae in his neck crackled like snapping branches. Recovering from a brief bout of dizziness, he quickly took stock of his belongings. He had his two books, his blue thread sweater, and the key ring attached to his belt. He reached into his back pocket and checked that he still had his wallet with his credit cards, ID cards, and a few bills. His cell phone was in his front right pocket. He took it out, looked at the screen, and pressed the start button. The battery was dead, and he didn’t have a charger. At least, he consoled himself, he wasn’t missing any of the little he’d been able to take with him after his wife had invited him to leave the house the day before. The dream, from which Elisha had not yet completely shaken off, had caused him more anguish than the memory of the marital argument. Not even the fact that he had spent the night away from home caused him more grief than the dreamlike association with Diogenes, the most famous homeless man of all time. He looked toward the opposite platform and met the inquisitive eyes of an old station guest who, like him, had just arrived. waking up in a different seat. They exchanged glances across the tracks. The man nodded to him. Eliseo Fainzilber looked down, disturbed and somewhat offended. He feared someone might think he and this homeless man were one and the same. No, he wasn’t one of them. In fact, he wasn’t even a train passenger. It had been many years since he had taken public transport; in fact, he drove a Land Rover Discovery, and if he’d been able to grab the keys before leaving the house, he would have slept in the soft seat of the car with air conditioning and soft music playing. His mouth was pasty and he was desperately thirsty. He smoothed his hair with his hands, stretched discreetly, hid a deep yawn behind his fist, and finally stood up. Thus, upright, he felt like one of the decent people, and even somewhat superior. With his sweater over his shoulders and his books under his arm, he prepared to leave the station. He looked again at the man still loitering disheveled on the bench on the opposite platform, as if he wanted to point out the chasm, much deeper than the trench between them. The Ralph Lauren shirt, though wrinkled, the Lacoste coat draped over his shoulders, and the classical reading material marked the contrast with the rags of his casual neighbor across the street. He looked at him with involuntary contempt, perhaps to make it clear they weren’t friends. The man answered with a knowing, mocking smile as if to say, “We’ll see each other again.” Eliseo Fainzilber turned around, went down the stairs, and hurried toward the street. On Monroe Avenue, he entered a pharmacy and grabbed a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, a bottle of mineral water, ibuprofen, and gum. He felt that the simple act of shopping redeemed him from his new nomadic condition, which he assumed was temporary. When he got to the checkout, he handed over his credit card with a sleight of hand with his index and middle fingers. The cashier entered the code and waited. The display showed an error. He pressed the keys again, and again, the same message appeared. He handed the card back and, without looking at him, said, “It’s not enabled.” “What?” “It’s not enabled, sir.” Eliseo Fainzilber shook his head and handed him a second card. The woman repeated the operation and once again, as if they were the only three words she knew, said, “It’s not enabled.” The people in line were getting impatient. The man then gave her a third card. The same thing. All three cards were disabled. In a swift movement, as if he wanted to go from disgrace to ostentation, he took all the bills out of his pocket and counted them on the counter. He didn’t have enough. He put down his gum and painkillers, paid, and left the pharmacy in a flash. While brushing his teeth in the bathroom of a bar, he remembered that the owner of the cards, and in fact, also of the bank accounts, was Martina, his wife. He slammed his fist on the edge of the sink. He was furious with the bank, the pharmacy, the cashier, and the homeless man at the station. This general indignation didn’t extend to Martina, however. The pain in his knuckles and the trickle of blood on the cracked tiles made him realize that, in reality, he was punishing himself. He didn’t know how long his anger at Martina would last or if she would ever forgive him, but he couldn’t spend much longer on the streets. He barely had enough money for the coffee and croissant he’d just ordered. On top of that, he needed to shower shave, and change. It was the first time in several years that he hadn’t been going to work on a weekday. Sitting at a table by the window of the Standing at the bar, his gaze fixed on the front of Pirovano Hospital, Eliseo must have recognized something he hadn’t wanted to see in recent times: that his entire life revolved around Martina. The family business he had managed until that day belonged to her family. The house they lived in also belonged to Martina, since before they met. The Land Rover he drove, which he had chosen despite his wife’s opposition, was registered in the name of Martina’s other company. While he stretched out his meager breakfast, Eliseo had been able to charge his cell phone a little thanks to the goodwill of the bar manager. The first thing that came to his mind was to call Leopoldo and Alejandra, his lifelong friends. But he remembered they were lifelong friends, yes, but his wife’s. What’s more, Martina had introduced Leopoldo and Alejandra to him before Eliseo came into his life. It was obvious they were going to side with her. He had stopped seeing his own friends a long time ago. Besides the humiliation of going to them defeated and alone, he also had no certainty that they could or would help him. In any case, his doubts lasted very little; when he turned on the phone, he received an irrevocable notification: the line had been disconnected. Eliseo closed his eyes and nodded silently, resigned to the evidence. The owner of the line was, who else, Martina Paz. Checkmate. He had no place to move. Overnight, he had become Diogenes, the admired figure in his readings, whose fate he so feared. The dream had manifested itself to him like an oracle: like the street philosopher, Eliseo Fainzilber was left to the elements of the agora. Or, to put it another way, he had been left on the street, alone and penniless.
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Libros de Federico Andahasi/Books by Federico Andahasi
Myriam Moscona (1955) es poeta y periodista. Es autor de nueve libros, entre ellos Vísperas 1996), El que nada (México, 2006) y De par en par ( México, 2009). Su libro De frente y de perfil (DDF, México, 1996), presenta retratos literarios de 75 poetas mexicanos, con fotografías de Rogelio Cuéllar. Tela de sevoya (2012) y León de Lidia (2024) es una narración híbrida que entrelaza la memoria y la ficción; el telón de fondo del libro es el idioma familiar de Moscona, el ladino o el judeoespañol. Su secuencia de libro, Ivory Black (Negro marfil)”, traducido del español por Jen Hofer, recibió el Premio Harold Morton Landon 2012 de la Academia de Poetas Americanos. Moscona ha recibido numerosos premios, entre ellos el Premio de Poesía Aguascalientes y el Premio Nacional de Traducción de Poesía; Ella es beneficiaria del Sistema Nacional de Creadores de Arte, y recibió una beca de la Fundación Guggenheim. Selecciones de su trabajo también se han traducido al alemán, italiano, francés, hebreo, árabe, ruso, búlgaro, chino y sueco.
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Myriam Moscona (1955) is a poet and journalist. She is the author of nine books, including Vísperas (1996), El que nada (Mexico, 2006) and De par en par (Mexico, 2009). Her book De frente y de perfil ( Mexico, 1996), presents literary portraits of 75 Mexican poets, with photographs by Rogelio Cuéllar. Tela de sevoya (2012) and León de Lidia (2024) are hybrid narratives that intertwine memory and fiction; the book’s backdrop is Moscona’s familiar language, Ladino or Judeo-Spanish. Her book sequence, Ivory Black (Negro marfil),” translated from Spanish by Jen Hofer, received the 2012 Harold Morton Landon Award from the Academy of American Poets. Moscona has received numerous awards, including the Aguascalientes Poetry Prize and the National Poetry Translation Prize; she is a beneficiary of the National System of Art Creators, and received a Guggenheim Foundation Fellowship. Selections of her work have also been translated into German, Italian, French, Hebrew, Arabic, Russian, Bulgarian, Chinese, and Swedish.
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“Tela de cebolla”
DISTANCIA DE FOCO
¿Todos los abuelos de la tierra hablarán con esos giros tan extraños? Esther Benaroya creció envuelta en ese español entreverado con palabras de otros mundos. El judeo-español no fue la lengua de sus estudios pero sí la que escuchó de sus padres y abuelos. Más adelante vino a hablarla lejos, “adonde arrapan al güerko: Meksiko? Meksiko era para mozotros, en la karta, solo un payis ke de la banda izkyedra le enkolgava una lingua larga kon el nombre de la Basha Kalifornia”. Al poco tiempo de su llegada, Esther Benaroya, la abuela paterna, decide ir a Sears Roebuck, aquella tienda departamental, abierta ante sus ojos alterados por luz de neón. Necesita comprar pasadores para aplacarse los rizos. Sube las escaleras eléctricas con un temor que nadie parece distinguir. Se encamina al segundo piso y, muy segura de lo que busca, aborda a una dependienta: “senyorita, kero merkar unas firketas para los kaveyos”. “¿Unas qué?” “trokas, firketas”. La empleada no alcanza a comprender. Desde hace algunas semanas, se aprendió la palabra “chingada” y luego “chingadera” pero ella prefiere el diminutivo: “chingaderika”. Así pues, se corrige: “kero unas chingaderikas, bre”. La empleada se sonroja y va disparada en busca del gerente. Esther Benaroya sale con un empaque de cartón lleno de pasadores con punta engomada. La hace feliz desesperar a la gente. Ya se la dicho que la palabra “chingadera” es una majadería en ese país, pero ella no se inmuta. Es su forma de decir “agora avlo vuestro espanyol komo lo avlash vosotros en la Espanya i en Meksiko”. Unos se escandalizan, otros la ignoran o se carcajean ante sus chifladuras. Antes de llegar a México, sólo podía decir que era un país lejano donde se usaban chapeos de charro y se comía picante en forma exagerada. “Dize el marido miyo ke los mushos le kedan kemando dospues de estas komidas de foegos” Al desembarcar en estas tierras pensó por un momento que todos los mexicanos eran de sangre judía. Todos hablaban español, esa lengua de los sefardís de Turquía y de Bulgaria. “Ama aki lo avlan malo, malo… no saven dezir las kozas kon su muzika de orijín”.
MOLINO DE VIENTO
En mi otra vida, la que recuerdo sólo en fragmentos, la que irrumpe a media mañana con mensajes de otros mundos, en esa vida, digo, me he visto al lado de un hombre que me recibe de frente y sin ningún miramiento comienza a desnudarse. Me ofrece todo lo que se quita. “Te regalo esta ropa vieja” –me dice. “Úsala aunque esté gastada”. Cuando me pruebo los pantalones siento cómo se me escurren del cuerpo, no hay forma de ceñirlos a mi cintura. “Usa otra parte de ti para apretarlos”, me dice pausadamente. Capto sus indicaciones. Llevo una trenza larga. Con un instrumento que él pone en mis manos, la corto de tajo. La trenza me sirve para tejer un cinturón y atarme la ropa al cuerpo. Es un hombre de mediana estatura. Ojos grandes, brillosos. Conozco su cara, sus gestos. Lo veo mirarme y siento un impulso casi incontrolable de abrazarlo. Hay algo que me detiene. Me tomo la cabeza con las manos, cierro los ojos cuando irrumpe su voz al leerme estas líneas de un libro en caracteres cirílicos: Quiero darte un consejo. Nunca pronostiques una muerte trágica en lo que escribes porque la fuerza de las palabras es tal, que ella, con su poder de evocación, te conducirá a esa muerte vaticinada. Yo he llegado a esta edad porque siempre he eludido hacer predicciones sobre mí mismo. Algo me hace explotar en llanto. Cuando vuelvo en mí, lo busco. Ya no está. Sólo aparece cuando lo olvido. ¿Lo olvido?
DISTANCIA DE FOCO
Muerto en su cama, en México, a sus cuarenta y siete años. Me prometió un cochecito de cuerda que se desliza por la pared y nunca me lo dio. Me regaló una muñeca con chaleco rojo a cuadros y pelo crespo. No me gustan las muñecas aunque ésta sabe decir algunas frases con una voz aguda y fea, pero ¡sabe hablar! Expulsa las palabras desde un disco interno, allí pego la oreja, sobre sus pechos duros, de plástico. Sus palabras y las de mi padre muerto son igual de falsas. Un rostro con líneas borrosas, apenas las distingo. Mi padre es de Plovdiv, una ciudad en las montañas de Bulgaria. Sé poco de él. Sé que de niño lo llevaron a vivir a Estambul, en su casa se hablaba ladino, volvió a Plovdiv ya en su juventud. Cuando comenzó la Segunda Guerra, a los judíos de Bulgaria se les impidió circular libremente por las calles; podían hacerlo dos o tres horas al día y volver al toque de queda, siempre a una hora convenida. Debían usar esa estrella amarilla pegada a su ropa. No en las mangas, como en Europa Central, sino arriba del pecho en un lugar muy visible para diferenciarse de los otros. Sus casas y negocios también debían distinguirse con claridad. Un ideólogo antisemita de Bulgaria de nombre Alexsander Belev (a quien le llamaban “el rey judío”), amigo cercano del representante de la Gestapo en su país, había pasado una temporada en la Alemania nazi para estudiar las leyes antisemitas. Era un convencido del exterminio judío, vivía ansioso de colaborar con ese “noble propósito” y desde el Ministerio del Interior se encargó de preparar la nueva política judía del Estado Búlgaro que mantenía en esos momentos excelentes relaciones con los nazis. Empezó a fertilizar el terreno para preparar los convoyes con buenos resultados, aunque a última hora se frustró su plan: el tren fue detenido y la gente que iba a ser entregada en los campos de concentración fue puesta en libertad. De uno de esos vagones, vagones, incrédulo, agradecido, descendió en 1943 mi padre, con sus ojos grandes, envuelto en un abrigo gastado, casi al incio de la primavera.
DEL DIARIO DE VIAJE
Algunos pasajeros del avión se parecen a mi familia materna. Boca ancha y el corte de huesos de la cara. Mientras se escuchan los avisos de aterrizaje pienso en aquellas cosas que debieran hacerse a solas. Ahora, en este tiempo, a esta edad, llegar a Bulgaria por primera vez. Hacer el recuento, pensar en las decenas de generaciones que vivieron en este país y hablaron el judezmo. Las palabras son frágiles y la memoria que tengo de ellas está rodeada de calor. Llega el avión a Sofia, rasgada por una lluvia delgada, constante. Hay algo que hace fricción. Es la memoria: el eslabón abierto de una larga cadena. Esa abertura que me une y me separa es la que me ha traído aquí. Ande topes una senyal, alevanta la kara. Eso hago en la sinagoga de la ciudad levantada en 1909. Subo la mirada a la lámpara más grande en los Balcanes: tiene 460 luces que equivalen a 460 plegarias. La influencia árabe, la sillería, las columnas verdes, los contrastes de tono. “This is the life”, dice el cuidador. “Our style is colorful, is warmer”. En el fondo, arriba del tabernáculo, hay una inscripción en hebreo. “Conoce frente a quién estás parado”. (Haga lo que haga, sé que Dios me mira, incluso en el baño me observa como un cíclope y yo le pido perdón. Suelto frente al tabernáculo un tembloroso “guay de mi-no”. Así, como me enseñó la abuela). A la salida, enciendo dos velas sobre un pequeño estanque de aceite. Una por ella y otra por él, como en los viejos tiempos. Doy la vuelta en la esquina, veo el nombre de la calle Ekzarh Yosif. Casi el de mi abuelo. Sonrío. ¿Mencioné a las dos madres? Ahora espero a una mujer mayor, reducida a un metro cincuenta. “En la chikez fui una mujer de alturas”, me dice cerrándome un ojo después de saludarme en la lengua que me hace evocar un título del escritor israelí de origen rumano Aharon Appelfeld: La herencia desnuda. Eso se aproxima al calor del judeo-español en sus capas cubrientes. Y luego la mujer con su voz nasal, venida de Pasarjik, a cien kilómetros de Sofia. Allí pasó su infancia. Yo, en cambio, en mi herencia desnuda, más allá de la lengua, en los cuerpos que rodean mi chikez, papá y mamá, traigo, digo, la necesidad de inventarles biografías porque los perdí de vista, por eso vine, porque me dijeron que aquí podría descubrir la forma de atar los cabos sueltos.
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FOCAL DISTANCE
Do all grandparents on Earth speak with such strange twists of phrase? Esther Benaroya grew up surrounded by that Spanish interspersed with words from other worlds. Judeo-Spanish wasn’t the language of her studies, but it was the one she heard from her parents and grandparents. Later, she came to speak it far away, “where they catch the güerko: Meksiko? Meksiko was for us, in the karta, only a peasant who from the left-wing gang would utter a long language called Basha Kalifornia.” Shortly after her arrival, Esther Benaroya, her paternal grandmother, decides to go to Sears Roebuck, that department store, opened before her neon-lit eyes. She needs to buy hairpins to tame her curls. She takes the escalator with a fear that no one seems to recognize. She heads up to the second floor and, very sure of what she’s looking for, approaches a saleswoman: “Lady, I want some firketas for the kids.” “Some what?” “Trucks, firketas.” The clerk doesn’t understand. A few weeks ago, she learned the word “chingada” and then “chingadera,” but she prefers the diminutive: “chingaderika.” So she corrects herself: “I want some chingaderikas, bre.” The clerk blushes and rushes off to find the manager. Esther Benaroya comes out with a cardboard box full of glue-tipped bobby pins. It makes her happy to drive people crazy. I’ve already told you that the word “chingadera” is a swear word in that country, but she doesn’t flinch. It’s her way of saying, “Now I have your Spanish, just like you have it in Spain and in Mexico.” Some are shocked, others ignore her or laugh at her antics. Before arriving in Mexico, all she could say was that it was a faraway country where people wore charro hats and ate spicy food to excess. “My husband says his muscles are burning after eating these fires.” Upon landing in these lands, she thought for a moment that all Mexicans were of Jewish blood. They all spoke Spanish, the language of the Sephardim of Turkey and Bulgaria. “My dear, they speak badly here, badly… they can’t sing their songs with their traditional music.”
WINDMILL
In my other life, the one I remember only in fragments, the one that bursts in mid-morning with messages from other worlds, in that life, I say, I have found myself next to a man who greets me head-on and without any consideration begins to undress. He offers me everything he takes off. “I’m giving you these old clothes,” he tells me. “Wear them even if they’re worn out.” When I try on the pants, I feel them slipping from my body; there’s no way to cinch them around my waist. “Use another part of you to tighten them,” he tells me slowly. I take his instructions. I have a long braid. With an instrument he places in my hands, I cut it short. I use the braid to weave a belt and tie the clothes to my body. He is a man of medium height. Large, shiny eyes. I know his face, his gestures. I see him looking at me and I feel an almost uncontrollable urge to hug him. There’s something that stops me. I hold my head in my hands and close my eyes as his voice breaks in, reading me these lines from a book in Cyrillic script: I want to give you some advice. Never predict a tragic death in what you write, because the power of words is such that, with their evocative power, they will lead you to that predicted death. I’ve reached this age because I’ve always avoided making predictions about myself. Something makes me burst into tears. When I come to, I look for it. It’s gone. It only appears when I forget it. Do I forget it?
FOCAL DISTANCE
Dead in his bed, in Mexico, at forty-seven years old. He promised me a wind-up car that slides along the wall and never gave it to me. He gave me a doll with a red checked vest and curly hair. I don’t like dolls, although this one can say a few phrases in a high-pitched, ugly voice, but it can talk! It ejects words from an internal disk; I press my ear to it, against its hard, plastic breasts. Its words and those of my dead father are equally false. A face with blurred lines, I can barely distinguish them. My father is from Plovdiv, a city in the mountains of Bulgaria. I know little about him. I know that as a child he was taken to live in Istanbul; Ladino was spoken in his house; he returned to Plovdiv in his youth. When World War II began, Bulgarian Jews were prevented from moving freely in the streets; they could do so for two or three hours a day and return at curfew, always at an agreed-upon time. They had to wear that yellow star attached to their clothing. Not on the sleeves, as in Central Europe, but above the chest in a highly visible place to distinguish them from others. Their homes and businesses also had to be clearly distinguished. An anti-Semitic ideologue from Bulgaria named Alexsander Belev (who was nicknamed “the Jewish king”), a close friend of the Gestapo representative in his country, had spent time in Nazi Germany studying anti-Semitic laws. He was convinced of the need to exterminate the Jews, eager to collaborate with that “noble purpose,” and from the Ministry of the Interior, he was in charge of preparing the new Jewish policy of the Bulgarian state, which at the time maintained excellent relations with the Nazis. He began to lay the groundwork for the convoys with good results, although at the last minute his plan was thwarted: the train was stopped, and the people who were to be handed over to the concentration camps were released. From one of those wagons, wagons, incredulous, grateful, my father descended in 1943, with his big eyes, wrapped in a worn coat, almost at the beginning of spring.
FROM THE TRAVEL DIARY
Some of the plane’s passengers resemble my maternal family. Wide mouths and the cut bones of their faces. As the landing announcements are heard, I think about those things that should be done alone. Now, at this time, at this age, arriving in Bulgaria for the first time. Taking stock, thinking about the dozens of generations who lived in this country and spoke Judezmo. Words are fragile, and the memory I have of them is surrounded by heat. The plane arrives in Sofia, torn by a light, constant rain. There’s something that creates friction. It’s memory: the open link in a long chain. That opening that unites and separates me is what brought me here. And when you touch a sign, raise your kara. That’s what I do in the city’s synagogue, built in 1909. I raise my gaze to the largest lamp in the Balkans: it has 460 lights, equivalent to 460 prayers. The Arabic influence, the ashlar, the green columns, the contrasting tones. “This is life,” says the caretaker. “Our style is colorful, it’s warmer.” In the background, above the tabernacle, there’s an inscription in Hebrew: “Know before whom you stand.” (Whatever I do, I know God is watching me; even in the bathroom, He watches me like a Cyclops, and I ask for His forgiveness. I let out a shaky “Woah de mi-no” in front of the tabernacle. Just like Grandma taught me.) On the way out, I light two candles over a small pool of oil. One for her and one for him, just like in the old days. I turn the corner and see the name of Ekzarh Yosif Street. Almost my grandfather’s name. I smile. Did I mention the two mothers? Now I’m waiting for an elderly woman, reduced to about five feet five inches. “As a child, I was a woman of heights,” she tells me, winking after greeting me in a language that evokes a title by the Romanian-born Israeli writer Aharon Appelfeld: The Naked Inheritance. That approximates the warmth of Judeo-Spanish in its covering layers. And then the woman with her nasal voice, from Pasarjik, a hundred kilometers from Sofia. That’s where she spent her childhood. I, on the other hand, in my naked heritage, beyond language, in the bodies that surround my child, my father and mother, I bring, I say, the need to invent biographies for them because I’ve lost sight of them, that’s why I came, because they told me that here I could discover the way to tie up the loose ends.
Noemi Jaffe é escritora, professora de literatura e de escrita e crítica literária. Doutorou- se em Literatura Brasileira pela USP. Publicou “O que os cegos estão sonhando” (Ed. 34-2012), “A verdadeira história do alfabeto” (Companhia das Letras – 2012), vencedor do Prêmio Brasília de Literatura em 2014, “Irisz: as orquídeas”(Companhia das Letras – 2015), “Não está mais aqui quem falou”(Companhia das Letras – 2017), “O que ela sussurra”, “Lili: Novela de um luto” (Companhia das Letras – 2021), “Escrita em movimento: sete princípios do fazer literário” (Companhia das Letras – 2023), entre outros. Desde 2016, mantém o Centro Cultural Literário Escrevedeira, em parceria com Luciana Gerbovic e João Bandeira
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Noemi Jaffe is a writer, professor of literature and writing and literary criticism. Doutorou- se em Literatura Brasileira pela USP. He published “O que os cegos estão sonhando” (Ed. 34-2012), “A Verdadeira História do Alfabeto” (Companhia das Letras – 2012), winner of the Prêmio Brasilia de Literatura in 2014, “Irisz: as orquídeas” (Companhia das Letras – 2015), “Não esta mais aqui quem falou” (Companhia das Letras – 2017), “O que ela sussurra”, “Lili: Novela de um luto” (Companhia das Letras – 2021), “Written in movement: seven principles of making literature” (Companhia das Letras – 2023), among others. Since 2016, we have maintained the Centro Cultural Literário Escrevedeira, in partnership with Luciana Gerbovic and João Bandeira.
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Lili — Una novela de luto
Elderly eighty plus year old woman in a hospital bed.
Quando ela estava morta, eu beijei seu rosto, suas mãos, seu colo. Apertava seu pulso, abraçava seu corpo, chamava: mãe, mãe. Levantava sua mão e a deixava cair. No dia anterior, quando ela ainda não estava morta, mas quase, eu aproximava meu ouvido do seu peito e ouvia a respiração. Era diferente. É diferente estar quase morta de estar morta mesmo. É diferente, e só sei disso agora que ela morreu. Se quando ela estava quase morta eu esperava que ela morresse, agora é como se eu a quisesse quase morta para sempre, só para ouvir sua respiração, a bochecha quente, os dedos da mão se mexendo mesmo que por reflexo, um ronco baixo no peito, o tremor nas pálpebras. Nunca tinha ficado perto de uma pessoa morta e descoberta. Apenas do meu pai, mas um lençol o cobria, sobre o qual tracei com o dedo o contorno do seu nariz, gesto que repeti com a minha mãe depois que a cobriram. Fui a única a permanecer com ela, ela morta. Fiz isso porque eu precisava, e por que precisava não sei dizer. Para estar mais com ela. O homem do chevra kadisha me censurou. Disse que quem estava lá não era mais ela. Com que rapidez se aceita que a morte subtrai a pessoa, que a morte esvazia o que chamam de alma da pessoa. Resisti: é o corpo da minha mãe. Era ela ou não era ela? Na hora, para mim, era. O corpo da minha mãe morta é minha mãe. Tive a ousadia de abrir os olhos dela, e por trás das pálpebras lá estava o olho inteiro, da mesma cor, o mesmo olhar, ainda que ninguém olhasse por trás dele. Não foi masoquismo, um prazer mórbido. Foi tão simples como uma despedida de amor ou a dificuldade da separação. Nas últimas semanas ela adormecia com frequência enquanto conversávamos e numa dessas vezes ela acordou sobressaltada, gemendo, e eu e a Leda perguntamos o que foi?, e ela respondeu: a dor da separação. Ela sabia que ia morrer e, apesar de sempre ter afirmado — e era verdade — não ter medo da morte, no final estava com medo, com muito medo. Ela pedia beijos sem fim, não queria largar o abraço e pedia mais e mais beijos. No penúltimo dia antes de morrer, aproximei minha bochecha da sua boca e pedi beijos, e ela, semi-inconsciente, fez um bico com os lábios, chegando a dar um estalo. Também apertou minha mão e fez que sim e que não com a cabeça. Por tanto tempo tive pressa pela morte dela, mas nos últimos dias eu só queria que demorasse para sempre. Uma pessoa pode ser só o calor da mão. Isso basta para que uma mãe seja mãe e para que eu seja filha. Ver o corpo morto e aceitar: mãe, você está morta. Existe uma aceitação incontornável a um corpo morto. Não vou prendê-lo, me agarrar a ele, impedir que seja embrulhado, ensacado, encaixotado e transportado por alguém que não conheço — e a quem agradeço de coração — para dentro de uma geladeira. Deve ser assim. É horrível e deve ser assim. Dever, aqui, quer dizer muitas coisas: é uma atribuição da maturidade realista, uma aceitação do ritual necessário de conformação à natureza (esse corpo vai se degradar) e à comunidade os mortos devem ser enterrados) e uma demonstração de sanidade (não sou louca, não devo me agarrar ao corpo). E existe ainda uma aceitação existencial, que oscila: aceito, não aceito: ela não existe mais. Minha mãe — o olhar, o sorriso, o beijo e o abraço — não existe mais. Quando penso nela, penso no olhar, no sorriso que ela abria quando reconhecia que eu tinha chegado, no abraço e nos beijos inumeráveis, sobre os quais ela dizia que “tudo era muito pouco”. Nos últimos meses, ela se transformou em puro carinho. Tudo nela emanava um amor infantil, que acariciava com o olhar. Era como ser olhada por um cervo filhote, ser abraçada por um leão, ser beijada por um amante que recebe amada. Sua mão grossa e quente apertava meu tronco e minhas mãos. Falávamos pouco. Ela adormecia, e muitas vezes dormi em seu ombro, ouvindo sua respiração lenta, me sentindo aconchegada. Ela era mãe. Ela se tornou mãe. Ela se reduziu a mãe. Ela era feliz porque tinha as três filhas, e nós três éramos o mundo todo, a vida toda para ela. Nada mais importava além de poder nos ver e beijar e abraçar.
When she was dead, I kissed her face, her hands, her lap. I squeezed her wrist, hugged her body, called out: mother, mother. I lifted her hand and let it fall. The day before, when she wasn’t dead yet, but almost dead, I would put my ear close to her chest and listen to her breathing. It was different. Being almost dead is different from being really dead. It’s different, and I only know that now that she’s dead. If when she was almost dead I expected her to die, now it’s as if I wanted her almost dead forever, just to hear her breathing, her warm cheek, her fingers moving even if it was reflexive, a low rumble in her chest, the trembling of her eyelids. I had never been close to a dead person who was uncovered. Only my father, but a sheet covered him, on which I traced the outline of his nose with my finger, a gesture I repeated with my mother after they covered her. I was the only one to stay with her, when she was dead. I did it because I needed to, and why I needed to, I don’t know. To be with her more. The man in the chevra kadisha scolded me. He said that the person there was no longer her. How quickly one accepts that death takes away a person, that death empties what they call a person’s soul. I resisted: it was my mother’s body. Was it her or wasn’t it her? At the time, for me, it was. My dead mother’s body is my mother. I had the audacity to open her eyes, and behind her eyelids there was the whole eye, the same color, the same look, even though no one was looking behind it. It wasn’t masochism, a morbid pleasure. It was as simple as a farewell to a lover or the difficulty of separation. In the last few weeks she had often fallen asleep while we were talking, and one of those times she woke up startled, moaning, and Leda and I asked her what it was?, and she answered: the pain of separation. She knew she was going to die, and although she had always said — and it was true — that she wasn’t afraid of death, in the end she was afraid, very afraid. She asked for endless kisses, she didn’t want to let go of the hug and she asked for more and more kisses. On the second-to-last day before she died, I brought my cheek close to her mouth and asked for kisses, and she, semi-conscious, pouted her lips and even smacked them. She also squeezed my hand and nodded yes and no. For so long I was in a hurry for her death, but in the last few days I just wanted it to take forever. A person can be just the warmth of a hand. That’s enough for a mother to be a mother and for me to be a daughter. Seeing the dead body and accepting: mother, you’re dead. There is an inescapable acceptance of a dead body. I’m not going to hold it back, cling to it, stop it from being wrapped, bagged, boxed and transported by someone I don’t know — and to whom I thank from the bottom of my heart — into a refrigerator. It must be like that. It’s horrible and it must be like that. Duty, here, means many things: it is an attribution of realistic maturity, an acceptance of the necessary ritual of conforming to nature (this body will degrade) and to the community (the dead must be buried), and a demonstration of sanity (I am not crazy, I must not cling to the body). And there is also an existential acceptance, which oscillates: I accept, I do not accept: she no longer exists. My mother — her gaze, her smile, her kiss and her hug — no longer exists. When I think of her, I think of the gaze, the smile she gave when she recognized that I had arrived, of the hug and the countless kisses, about which she said that “everything was too little”. In the last few months, she transformed into pure affection. Everything about her emanated a childlike love, which she caressed with her gaze. It was like being looked at by a baby deer, being embraced by a lion, being kissed by a lover who receives his beloved. Her thick, warm hand squeezed my torso and my hands. We spoke little. She fell asleep, and I often slept on her shoulder, listening to her slow breathing, feeling warm. She was a mother. She became a mother. She reduced herself to being a mother. She was happy because she had three daughters, and the three of us were her whole world, her whole life. Nothing else mattered except being able to see each other and kiss and hug each other.
Jaffe, Noemi. Lili . Companhia das Letras. Kindle Edition. 2021.
Jaime Sarusky Miller (1931-2013), son of Jewish immigrants to Cuba, was a Cuban writer and journalist. In 1954 he traveled to Paris where he continued his university studies at the Sorbonne, where he earned his doctorate. Upon his return to Cuba in 1959, he began his professional journalistic work as editor and chief rotogravure editor of the newspaper Cuba (1965), head of the supplement and the cultural page of Granma (1967) and journalist for Bohemia (1971). He also collaborated with Lunes de Revolución, the magazine Casa de las Américas, INRA, Unión, Izvestia, Margen (France), Neue Deutsche Literatur (GDR), Nuevo Amanecer (Nicaragua). In 1965, he participated as a delegate in the International Congress of Writers held in Weimar, Germany. Since 1984, he worked as an editor for the magazine Revolución y Cultura. In 1987, he participated in the Lahti Biennial, Finland, with a text about contemporary Cuban narrative works. He was invited to give lectures on the Scandinavian community in Cuba at Stockholm University. In 1996, that year, he was invited by the Jewish Community Relations Council of San Francisco, California, to give a lecture on the Jewish community in Cuba. His work, The Adventure of the Swedes in Cuba, was presented at the Universities of Stockholm and Gothenburg. At institutions in Gothenburg and Copenhagen, he presented an overview of the Jewish community in Cuba, as he had done the previous year at institutions in New York. In 2011, the 20th Havana International Book Fair was dedicated to him.
Esta novela se basa en la realidad. William Walker (1824-1860)fue aventurero norteamericana y por unos años el presidente de Nicaragua. Se llamaba el Hombre de la Providencia.
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This novel is based on historical events. William Walker (1824-1860) was an American adventurer, who, for several years was president of Nicaragua. He called himself the Man of Providence.
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Un hombre de suerte
Al tal William W. Providence lo conocí en una situación disparatada, cuando estuve en su campamento de Limón Agrio tratando de cobrarle una cuenta. Nunca antes había oído hablar de él, ni sabía nada de sus andanzas por México. Eso me lo contó el teniente Rawson después, al hacer un alto a la orilla del lago, frente al volcán, y el whisky le soltó la lengua. Sobre aquel mar plateado, mientras evocaba las hazañas propias y los incontables gestos temerarios de su jefe, Rawson parecía otro hombre, muy distinto al que entró días antes en la cantina. Yo lo observaba y detrás a los dos volcanes que emergían del islote como torres casi gemelas, y creía haber perdido toda noción del tiempo.
Hacía poco que habíamos celebrado el cumpleaños de la Abuela, y ya confirmábamos mi padre y yo que no se trataba de fantasmas, como se comentaba en la fiesta y murmuraban las comadres del pueblo. En su ranchito de Rosales, una noche sin luna, el viejo Abundio Arce creyó oír ruidos entre las matas de plátano y el corral, y aunque el silencio despejó sus temores, a la mañana siguiente comprobó desconsolado que varias gallinas y sus dos cerdos habían desaparecido. Algunos vecinos decían haber visto extraños soldados merodeando al amparo de la oscuridad, y el conductor de una de las diligencias que recorrían la Ruta del Tránsito hasta podía describirlos: atuendo estrafalario de los sombreros a las botas, piel blanca y una jerga como el inglés.
Confieso que la primera vez que nos hablaron de ellos, ni mi padre ni yo le concedimos demasiada importancia al asunto. Creímos que tales rumores venían ya cargados por excesos de la imaginación de la gente. Pero corno dice él, a los hombres nos cuesta mucho mirar el peligro de frente, y cuando por fin nos decidimos a hacerlo, ya estamos con un pie en el precipicio. Quizás por eso no quisimos ver nada anormal en el tipo que llegó aquella noche a la cantina con la mirada huidiza y una barba naciente salpicada por la lluvia. Estábamos habituados a una clientela de viajeros taciturnos y a menudo insolentes, siempre con prisa, vestidos a la buena de Dios y poco interesados en ocultar las navajas, revólveres y dagas que les abultaban la cintura o sobresalían por el pliegue de sus bolsillos.
Las Brisas del Lago era tal vez la cantina más abigarrada y pintoresca del país, y nosotros, los taberneros más discretos del mundo. Por allí, por el camino del oro, desfilaba la gente más loca, aventurera y delirante que había pisado la región desde los tiempos de la Conquista.
Por suerte o por desgracia, estábamos a mitad de camino del trayecto de la Ruta del Tránsito. Un enjambre de vapores, bergantines y clippers zarpaba regularmente de Nueva York o de Nueva Orleáns rumbo a San Juan del Este, en la costa caribeña, donde los pasajeros abordaban un bongo o un vaporcito que navegaba río arriba hasta San Ernesto, en la ribera oriental del lago. Entonces se embarcaban en naves de amplios salones y cómodos camarotes, que al cabo de unas horas la otra ribera, en el bullicioso laberinto del puerto de La Santa. Los loros y las cotorras sorprendían al viajero con sualgarabía, “Hey, California, gold” “Hey, California”, las: mujeres ofrecían canastas con mantas tejidas, petales bordados, abanicos, quesos, tamales y tortillas, entre otros artículos y objetos; aturdía a los pasajeros el griterío de cochereros, encargadores y muleros que se disputaban bolsas, baúles, y valijitas; y por fin, en los carruajes y diligencias de la Compañia del Tránsito, al trote de cuatro caballos que lucían bordas y colleras de cascabeles, emprendían el viaje hasta San Juan del Oeste -diecinueve kilómetros de huecos, polvo y canícula donde tendrían que esperar el vapor, clipper o bergantín que cubría la ruta a San Francisco. En esas horas o días, se mezclaban con los que regresaban y tenían así como un anticipo de su propio destino. En aquella turba se confundían fracasados, los que aspiraban a rehacer su vida en el este o enel sur de la Unión y los que ya no tendrían que buscar por los enriquecidos con un golpe de suerte o le audacia, vivían la fiebre del oro en una euforia permanente. Estos eran los menos. claro está, pues podían contarse con los dedos de una mano, entre Lodos los que pasaron alguna vez por la cantina.
El recién llegado vació de golpe un vaso de whisky, y acercándose a la ventana como si buscara el fresco de la noche, se pasó la mano por la frente. Era la señal convenida, sin duda, porque de inmediato entraron cuatro individuos que inmovilizaron a los escasos parroquianos levantando apenas sus rifles. El agua chorreaba todavía de sus anchos sombreros de fieltro, aunque de sus botas enfangadas sobresalían cuchillos de matarife. El hombre de la señal se acercó al mostrador y le dijo a mi padre que quería hablar a solas con él. Su acento era típico de la costa oeste, bien que se acostumbró su oído a escucharlo en el tiempo de sus andanzas por aquellos parajes. Mi padre lo miró de arriba abajo y sin decir palabra se dirigió a la puerta lateral que daba al almacén. Yo, haciéndome el distraído, los seguí.
-Hey, you!… -gritó uno de ellos acercándose-. Where are you going? Stay there!
-He’s my father–le respondí sin titubear-. What’s wrong with…?
El hombre no me dejó terminar:
-Oh, you speak English! -exclamó divertido. Y volviéndose hacia el otro–It’s ok, Mac.
Sonreí tímidamente. El hombre me dio una palmadita en el brazo.
-What’s your name, kid?
-Ricardo -dije-. Ricardo Vidal.
-Mine is Rawson. Lieutenant Rawson -precisó él-. Come on, Dick.
Cerró la puerta a sus espaldas y, mientras se quitaba el sombrero y lo sacudía, dijo que no teníamos nada que temer. Él y sus hombres eran soldados que venían de Norteamérica con un sólo propósito: liberamos de los conservadores porque ese Partido, como todos sabían, había violado los más elementales principios democráticos y ahora debía rendir cuenta de sus abusos. Pero no venía a hablar de política, sino de negocios, necesitaba-indicó con un gesto las cajas y barriles que se apilaban en un rincón- avituallar a su tropa, unos doscientos efectivos, y levantarle el ánimo con algunas garrafas de aguardiente o de whisky. ¿Siempre llueve tanto por aquí?
Eso fue todo. Los de California y Texas, y dos soldados con las escarapelas rojas del Partido Liberal en sus sombreros desteñidos, empezaron a cargar las provisiones en tres mulas: barriles de manteca y galletas, garrafas de ron y de whisky, harina…
-Bien, señor Vidal, no le quito más tiempo -dijo el teniente cuando la carga estuvo lista-. Tendré muy en cuenta sus servicios.
Mi padre lo miró fríamente.
-Son cincuenta y seis pesos, señor.
-Puede pasar· a cobrar al campamento -replicó él con una sonrisa maligna.
Miré a mi padre. Estaba rojo de cólera, el puño cerrado. Pensé en Schultz.
-Ahora mismo -dijo, disponiéndose a salir.
-¡Yo voy! –grité, dando un salto hacia la puerta. Y antes quemi padre pudiera impedírmelo, corrí detrás de los muleros que ya se perdían en la oscuridad doblados bajo el peso de la lluvia.
Fue así como lo conocí, sin poder imaginarme que iba a tenerlopegado a mí mientras durara aquella estúpida aventura. Desde lo alto de la cuesta miré hacia la cantina, un puntico en noche apenas iluminado por la luz del farol que colgaba sobre el anuncio. Después de todo, gracias a Dios que estaba vivo porque Rawson no era Schultz y esta vez ni siquiera tendría tiempo de huir. Lo había hecho años atrás no sé ni cómo, en un pueblo minero de California, cuando lo picó la fiebre del oro y estuvo trabajando en una mina a pesar de que el capataz. Sadsmile Schultz, no se cansaba de humillarlo llamándole “greaser” y cosas así. Mi padre simulaba no entenderlo hasta que un domingo, mientras bebía en la cantina del pueblo para sentirse menos solo, Schultz, bonacho como una cuba, le gritó delante de todo el mundo que se pusiera en cuatro patas y ladrara como un perro. Fue lo último que dijo en su vida. Mi padre, que nunca había matado una mosca, le cortó la yugular de un navajazo y no paró de comer hasta que estuvo en la goleta que lo llevó de San Francisco a Panamá y de Panamá a San Juan del Oeste. Sólo cuando se vio en La Victoria, la hacienda de la abuela doña Lilia, se sintió realmente seguro.
Me había rezagado y tuve que comer cuesta abajo para alcanzar a los muleros. En el llano la marcha fue haciéndose cada vez más lenta y fatigosa, con las mulas atascándose y resbalan do en los lodazales, y los hombres dando tumbos y tratando de entrar en calor a puro fuego de aguardiente.
Nos tomó casi dos horas divisar a lo lejos los primeros ranchos de Limón Agrio. El teniente respondió con una contraseña el alto de los centinelas y, cuando vine a ver; ya estaban descargando sus bestias en la casucha que servía de cocina. Algunas sombras cuchicheaban bajo los árboles. Los soldados fumaban y se pasaban de mano en mano sus canecas. Rawson se había desmontado dando órdenes y al pasar junto a mí me dijo en inglés que esperara, que iba a ver si el Presidente todavía estaba despierto. Yo me quedé pensando qué haría un hombre tan importante extraviado por aquellos parajes y en tan extraña compañía. Lo vi perderse tras el portón de la casona que alguna vez debió haber sido del patrón de la hacienda, porque a pesar de su evidente deterioro, aún conservaba el aliento de fortaleza con que su propietario la edificó.
Recostado al tronco de un aguacate esperé casi toda la no che, cabeceando y sin poder pegar los ojos bajo una densa nube de mosquitos. Sentí en el hombro la mano de un soldado y una voz que me decía en inglés que lo siguiera. Entramos al salón de la vieja residencia, el polvo y las telarañas flotando a la luz de un candil, y allí, junto a un tabique que acentuaba las penumbras y detrás de una mesa de madera, más que ver escuché la voz del hombre que me observaba desde su oscura, desconocida máscara. A su lado estaba Rawson, tieso como un palo.
-Aquí lo tiene, Presidente -dijo el teniente en inglés. Entonces se volvió hacia mí y me anunció que el coronel
William W Providence había tomado la decisión de pagarnos la cuenta tan pronto se posesionará de Granada, la capital. Además, añadió, prerrúaría generosamente mis servicios si los acompañaba en calidad de intérprete. ¿yo no sería conservador, verdad? Vi la mirada de Rawson, su mirada cómplice, y me di cuenta de que aquello no era una invitación sino una orden, aun antes de que el hombre se volviera hacia él para dar por concluido el encuentro.
-Take care of him, will you? -dijo.
Afuera me esperaba la frialdad de una mañana cenicienta gravitando sobre el ajetreo de la tropa, que por lo visto había recibido la orden de levantar el campamento. Dos columnas de conservadores armados habían sido detectadas cerca y al parecer se dirigían al puerto lacustre de La Santa. Pude tomar una jícara de café, y antes de que despuntara el sol ya estaba nuestro camino, alejándome cada vez más de mi casa. Aunque Rawson me trataba con amabilidad, y nunca volvió a mencionar la entrevista, yo sabía que era su rehén. “Take care of him” quería decir en realidad, “hazte cargo de este tipo y no lo pierda de vista”. Pensaba en eso mientras contemplaba los volcanes a torres de vigilia del lago, y él, después de rellenar de la cantimplora, me contaba entre carcajadas cómo ha aprendido “this fucking language” persiguiendo bandidos y “señoritas” en México, “bello país, by the way”, requisando ganado, cobrando impuestos y domando indias cerreras. Eran tiempos inolvidables y ésos se los debía al Presidente, cuando todavía no lo era, sino coronel. Lo había conocido en San Francisco cuando todavía no era jefe, jefe militar, sino periodista, y ya soñaba con colonizar esas tierras salvajes de la frontera con México. Y aquel día de abril habían vuelto a encontrarse en su oficina o del Industrial Adviser, como la primera vez, pero ahora frente a un mapa de la América Central. Para empezar, la República de Granada, mi país, aparecía enmarcada en un círculo rojo, una presa remota, pero al alcance de la mano, según le explicaba el propio Providence apuntando con una pluma de de ganso hacia la pared. Un territorio rico en recursos naturales, una situación geográfica envidiable -alzó la pluma, uniendo deun gesto las costas del Atlántico y del Pacífico-, y una población que los recibiría con los brazos abiertos. Brian Coleman, un hombre de toda su confianza con el que sostenía una amistad íntima, acababa de regresar de allí y lo sabía muy bien. Con cien hombres armados y dispuestos a todo, la campaña duraría a lo sumo tres semanas. Tal vez menos.
-Do you follow me?
Se quedó mirándolo. Rawson no sabía qué decirle, en realidad no podía ocultar su sorpresa. Había ido a platicar sobre el nuevo proyecto de colonización de Sonora y la Baja California, que Providence, dos años antes, uniera en un solo estado, del que no tardó en proclamarse presidente. Y ahora, así, de pronto…
Presidente, en Sonora y la Baja California, bajo sus órdenes, pasé los mejores momentos de mi vida. Tuvimos que abandonar el país, es cie1to, en una retirada táctica, pero siempre pensando en volver. Le confieso que todavía siento la nostalgia de esas tierras, que fueron nuestras y lo serían de nuevo si… Pero ante todo soy un soldado a sus órdenes, de manera que si usted dice México otra vez, Panamá, Cuba, Nicaragua, Presidente, it’s ok with me. Just tell me when.
Todavía recordaba cómo el coronel, con la mano extendida, se había acercado a él exclamando que no esperaba menos de un valiente. Yahora, a miles de kilómetros de distancia, miraba hacia el lago como si quisiera rescatar, en los destellos de aquella error me superlicie bmñida, la fascinación del momento preciso que lo había conducido a estas tierras. De pronto, para mi sorpresa, se volvió hacia mí y me puso una mano en el hombro.
-Listen, you’re a smart kid –dijo–. Jugando limpio, saldrás ganando…Tú y tu familia. Así que no tricks, ¿ok?
Claro que lo sabía. Rawson tenía una manera de hacerse entender con frases que eran al mismo tiempo amenazadoras y corteses. No parecía un simple aventurero. La Ruta del Tránsi to estaba llena de ese tipo de gente. No sé si consideró mi silen cio como un asentimiento pero él pareció darse por satisfecho. Sacudió la cantimplora, comprobó haciendo una mueca que no quedaba una gota de whisky y, con una voz de mando, se puso de pie.
En dos minutos, toda la tropa estaba de nuevo en movimiento. Avanzábamos por una zona boscosa, de pinos esmirriados y matorrales polvorientos, cuando se escuchó a poca distancia el chirrido de una carreta de bueyes. Rawson dio el alto levantando la mano, indicó a sus lugartenientes que lo siguieran y des apareció tras los pinos. Poco después se oyeron una voz de protesta y una maldición en inglés. Al reanudarse los chirridos, Rawson salió del bosque. Lo seguía una carreta que cargaba carne y cueros y que guiaba uno de sus jinetes. La columna emprendió nuevamente la marcha sin hacer el menor comenta Rawson se me acercó. En su voz creí notar un tono de disculpa ode cinismo, tal vez.
La guerra es la guerra, muchacho –dijo–. Si quieres triunfar,tienes que comer. Ysi quieres come…
No pude contenerme.
-Tienes que robar o reprimir o…
Él se encogió ligeramente de hombros.
-Le propuse comprarle la carga –dijo–. No aceptó.
A pesar de conocer muy bien ese tipo de compras, no dije nada.Tenía que andar como sobre una cuerda floja si quería salir ileso del lío en que me habían metido. Precisamente por ello no grité de alegría cuando reconocí al viejo Nicasio, arriero de la zona a quien yo había visto a menudo en la cantina con su hilera de mulos.
Horas antes tuve la corazonada de que andaba con suerte. Atrás quedaron los pinares y avanzábamos por una suave planicie de hierbas ralas y arbustos dispersos. Ese paisaje de pronto me resultó familiar. Quizás habíamos dado un rodeo y nos acercábamos por el oeste a Colina, que en toda la región era el pueblo más próximo al nuestro. Efectivamente. Poco después del mediodía cruzábamos el riachuelo que da acceso al caserío, con sus ranchos y sus casitas de caña y adobe y la pequeñaiglesia en cuyo campanario se alza una cruz de hierro que, se gún los vecinos, sirve de pararrayos en los días de tormenta.
No tardamos en averiguar que los conservadores se habían desplazado esa misma mañana de Rivas, donde vivaqueaba el grueso de su ejército, hacia La Santa. Rawson mandó a uno de sus hombres a avisar al Presidente, que por lo visto aguardaba sus noticias en las afueras del pueblo. En la placita, a un costa do de la iglesia, los hombres habían ido formando, y entretanto Rawson, a gritos, mezclando improperios en inglés y español, parecía estar preparándose para asaltar un cuartel. Era evidente que deseaba impresionar a los vecinos, muchos de los cuales se habían encerrado en sus casas, en tanto otros observaban indiferentes el trajín de una tropa tan abigarrada que cada vez le resultaba más difícil mantener la formación, pese a sus esfuerzos y a los de sus improvisados sargentos. Fue entonces cuando vi a Nicasio arreando sus mulas por un costado de la plaza, ajeno al tumulto, la algarabía y todo lo que no fuera el paso cansino de su recua. Iba a pasar junto a mí de un momento a otro. Miré hacia el teniente, embargado completamente en sus maniobras, y yo, que trataba de dominar mi nerviosismo, murmuré:
-Psht… Nicasio… Nicasio…
El viejo volvió la cabeza hacia mí, sorprendido. Yo hice un leve gesto con la mano.
-Soy Ricardo, el hijo de Eulogio Vidal, el cantinero de Ro sales. ¿Me recuerda?
Se quedó mirándome, inmóvil, y farfulló algo entre dientes. De pronto, noté en sus ojitos rasgados y en la comisura de sus labios un amago de sonrisa. Me había reconocido vagamente.
-Avísele a mi padre que estoy retenido -murmuré, casi deletreando las palabras-. A mi padre, Eulogio Vidal. Dígale que vamos para La Santa… ¿Me entiende?
Él miró a un lado y al otro, receloso, movió ligeramente la cabeza, me dio la espalda y arreó de nuevo sus mulas. En el centro de la plaza, incansable, Rawson seguía vociferando inútilmente.
__________________________________________
I met William W. Providence in a strange situation, when I was at his camp in Limón Agrio trying to collect a bill. I had never heard of him before, nor did I know anything about his adventures in Mexico. Lieutenant Rawson told me this later, as we stopped on the lakeshore, facing the volcano, and the whiskey loosened his tongue. Over that silvery sea, as he recalled his own exploits and the countless reckless gestures of his leader, Rawson seemed like a complete man, very different from the one who had entered the saloon days before. I watched him and, behind him, the two volcanoes that emerged from the islet like almost twin towers, and I thought I’d lost all sense of time. We had recently celebrated Grandmother’s birthday, and my father and I were already confirming that these weren’t ghosts, as was being discussed at the party and the town gossips whispered. At his little ranch in Rosales, one moonless night, old Abundio Arce thought he heard noises among the banana trees and the corral, and although the silence allayed his fears, the next morning he discovered, disconsolate, that several chickens and his two pigs had disappeared. Some neighbors reported seeing strange soldiers lurking under cover of darkness, and the driver of one of the stagecoaches traveling along the Ruta del Tránsito could even describe them: outlandish attire from hats to boots, white skin, and a slang reminiscent of English.
I confess that the first time we heard about them, neither my father nor I attached much importance to the matter. We believed such rumors were already loaded with the excesses of people’s imagination. But as he says, it’s hard for us men to face danger head-on, and when we finally decide to do so, we’re already with one foot on the precipice. Perhaps that’s why we didn’t want to see anything unusual in the man who arrived at the bar that night, his gaze shifty and his beard flecked by the rain. We were accustomed to a clientele of taciturn and often insolent travelers, always in a hurry, dressed in a pinch, and with little interest in hiding the knives, revolvers, and daggers that bulged at their waists or protruded from the folds of their pockets.
Las Brisas del Lago was perhaps the most colorful and picturesque bar in the country, and we were the most discreet innkeepers in the world. Through there, along the gold road, paraded the craziest, most adventurous, and most delirious people who had set foot in the region since the days of the Conquest.
Fortunately or unfortunately, we were halfway along the Ruta del Tránsito. A swarm of steamers, brigantines, and clippers regularly set sail from New York or New Orleans for San Juan del Este, on the Caribbean coast, where passengers boarded a bongo or small steamer that sailed upriver to San Ernesto, on the eastern shore of the lake. They then boarded vessels with spacious lounges and comfortable cabins, which a few hours later reached the other shore, in the bustling labyrinth of La Santa harbor. Parrots and parakeets surprised travelers with their clamor, “Hey, California, gold!” “Hey, California!” Women offered baskets with woven blankets, embroidered petals, fans, cheeses, tamales, and tortillas, among other items and objects; the passengers were stunned by the shouts of coachmen, foremen, and mule drivers vying for bags, trunks, and suitcases; and finally, in the carriages and stagecoaches of the Company of Transit, at the trot of four horses that wore borders and collars of bells, they began the journey to San Juan del Oeste – nineteen kilometers of holes, dust and heat where they would have to wait for the steamer, clipper or brig that covered the route to San Francisco. In those hours or days, they mingled with those returning, thus getting a taste of their own destiny. Mixed in with that crowd were losers, those who aspired to rebuild their lives in the east or south of the Union, and those who would no longer have to seek out those who had become rich through a stroke of luck or daring. They lived the gold rush in a state of constant euphoria. These were the minority, of course, since they could be counted on the fingers of one hand, among all those who had ever passed through the saloon.
The newcomer drained a glass of whiskey in one fell swoop, and approaching the window as if seeking the cool night air, he rubbed his hand across his forehead. It was undoubtedly the agreed-upon signal, because four individuals immediately entered, immobilizing the few patrons by barely raising their rifles. Water was still dripping from their wide-brimmed felt hats, although butcher’s knives protruded from their muddy boots. The signalman approached the counter and told my father he wanted to speak with him alone. His accent was typical of the West Coast, although his ears had grown accustomed to hearing it during his travels through those parts. My father looked him up and down and without saying a word headed for the side door leading to the warehouse. I, pretending to be distracted, followed them.
“Hey, you!” one of them yelled as he approached. “Where are you going? Stay there!”
“He’s my father,” I answered without hesitation. “What’s wrong with…?”
The man didn’t let me finish:
“Oh, you speak English!” he exclaimed, amused. And turning to the other, “It’s okay, Mac.”
I smiled shyly. The man patted me on the arm.
“What’s your name, kid?”
” Ricardo,” I said. “Ricardo Vidal.”
“Mine is Rawson. Lieutenant Rawson,” he clarified. “Come on, Dick.”
He closed the door behind him and, taking off his hat and shaking it, said we had nothing to fear. He and his men were soldiers who had come from America with one purpose: to free us from the Conservatives because that Party, as everyone knew, had violated the most basic democratic principles and now had to be held accountable for its abuses. But he didn’t come to talk politics, but business. He needed”—he gestured to the crates and barrels stacked in a corner—”to provision his troops, some two hundred strong, and lift their spirits with a few flagons of brandy or whiskey. Does it always rain so much around here?”
That was all. The Californians and Texans, and two soldiers with the red rosettes of the Liberal Party on their ragged hats, began loading the provisions onto three mules: barrels of butter and biscuits, jugs of rum and whiskey, flour…
“Good, Mr. Vidal, I won’t take up any more of your time,” said the lieutenant when the load was ready. “I’ll take your services seriously.”
My father looked at him coldly.
“That’s fifty-six pesos, sir.”
“You can go collect at the camp,” he replied with a malicious smile.
I looked at my father. He was red with anger, his fist clenched. I thought of Schultz.
“Right now,” he said, preparing to leave.
“I’m going!” I shouted, leaping toward the door. And before my father could stop me, I ran after the mule drivers who were already disappearing into the darkness, bent under the weight of the rain.
That’s how I met him, never imagining that I’d have him glued to me for the duration of that stupid adventure. From the top of the hill, I looked toward the saloon, a tiny dot in the night, barely illuminated by the light from the lantern hanging over the sign. After all, thank God he was alive because Rawson wasn’t Schultz, and this time he wouldn’t even have time to flee. He’d done it years before, I don’t know how, in a mining town in California, when he’d been bitten by gold fever and had to work in a mine even though the foreman, Sadsmile Schultz, never tired of humiliating him by calling him a “greaser” and things like that. My father pretended not to understand until one Sunday, while he was drinking in the town saloon to feel less lonely, Schultz, as good-natured as a skunk, yelled at him in front of everyone to get on all fours and bark like a dog. It was the last thing he ever said. My father, who had never killed a fly, cut his jugular vein with a knife and didn’t stop to eat until he was on the schooner that took him from San Francisco to Panama and from Panama to San Juan del Oeste. Only when he found himself at La Victoria, Grandma Doña Lilia’s hacienda, did he feel truly safe.
I had fallen behind and had to eat downhill to catch up with the muleteers. On the plains, the march was It became increasingly slow and tiring, with the mules getting stuck and slipping in the mud, and the men stumbling and trying to keep warm by the fire of aguardiente.
It took us almost two hours to make out the first huts of Limón Agrio in the distance. The lieutenant responded with a password to the sentries’ halt, and when I came to look, they were already unloading their beasts in the shack that served as a kitchen. A few shadows whispered under the trees. The soldiers smoked and passed their cans around. Rawson had dismounted, giving orders, and as he passed me, he told me in English to wait, that he was going to see if the President was still awake. I was left wondering what such an important man would do, lost in those parts and in such strange company. I watched him disappear behind the gate of the mansion that must have once belonged to the hacienda’s owner, because despite its obvious deterioration, it still retained the air of strength with which its owner had built it.
Leaning against the trunk of an avocado tree, I waited almost the entire night, nodding and unable to close my eyes under a dense cloud of mosquitoes. I felt a soldier’s hand on my shoulder and a voice telling me in English to follow him. We entered the living room of the old residence, dust and cobwebs floating in the light of a candle, and there, next to a partition that accentuated the darkness and behind a wooden table, I heard more than saw the voice of the man watching me from behind his dark, unfamiliar mask. Beside him stood Rawson, stiff as a stick.
“Here you are, President,” the lieutenant said in English. Then he turned to me and announced that Colonel William W. Providence had decided to pay our bill as soon as he took possession of Granada, the capital. Furthermore, he added, he would generously honor my services if I accompanied them as an interpreter. I wasn’t a Conservative, was I? I saw Rawson’s look, his knowing look, and I realized that this wasn’t an invitation but an order, even before the man turned to him to conclude the meeting.
“Take care of him, will you?” he said.
Outside, the coldness of an ashen morning awaited me, hanging over the hustle and bustle of the troops, who had apparently received the order to break camp. Two columns of armed Conservatives had been spotted nearby and were apparently heading for the lake port of La Santa. I was able to have a cup of coffee, and before dawn, I was on my way, moving further and further away from my house. Although Rawson treated me kindly, and never mentioned the interview again, I knew I was his hostage. Take care of him, actually saying, “Take care of this guy and don’t lose sight of him.” I was thinking about that while I gazed at the volcanoes like watchtowers across the lake, and he, after refilling his canteen, told me, laughing, how he learned “this fucking language” chasing bandits and “señorítas” in Mexico, “beautiful country, by the way,” requisitioning cattle, collecting taxes, and taming wild Indians. Those were unforgettable times, and I owed them to the President, when he wasn’t yet a President, but a colonel. I had met him in San Francisco when he wasn’t yet a chief, a military leader, but a journalist, and he was already dreaming of colonizing those wild lands on the border with Mexico. And that April day they had met again in his office, or at the Industrial Adviser, like the first time, but now in front of a map of Central America. To begin with, the Republic of Grenada, my country, appeared framed in a red circle, a remote prey, but within reach. Hand in hand, as Providence himself explained, pointing a goose feather toward the wall. A territory rich in natural resources, an enviable geographical location—he raised the feather, joining the Atlantic and Pacific coasts with a gesture—and a population that would welcome them with open arms. Brian Coleman, a man he trusted completely and with whom he maintained a close friendship, had just returned from there and knew it very well. With one hundred armed men ready for anything, the campaign would last at most three weeks. Maybe less.
“Do you follow me?”
He stared at him. Rawson didn’t know what to say; in fact, he couldn’t hide his surprise. He had come to talk about the new colonization project in Sonora and Baja California, which Providence, two years earlier, had united into a single state, of which he promptly declared himself president. And now, like this, all of a sudden…
“Do you know what I told him, kid?” he smiled, taking another sip of whiskey, while a band flew overhead.
“Mr. President, in Sonora and Baja California, under your command, I spent the best moments of my life. We had to abandon the country, it’s true, in a tactical retreat, but always thinking about returning. I confess that I still feel nostalgia for those lands, which were ours and would be again if… But above all, I am a soldier under your command, so if you say Mexico again, Panama, Cuba, Nicaragua, Mr. President, it’s okay with me. Just tell me when.
He still remembered how the colonel, with his hand outstretched, had approached him, exclaiming that he expected nothing less from a brave man. Now, thousands of miles away, he looked toward the lake as if he wanted to recapture, in the glimmering light of that enormous, saturated surface, the fascination of the precise moment that had brought him to these lands. Suddenly, to my surprise, he turned toward me and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Listen, you’re a smart kid,” he said. “Playing fair, you’ll win… You and your family. So, no tricks, okay?”
Of course I knew it. Rawson had a way of making himself understood with phrases that were simultaneously threatening and courteous. He didn’t seem like a simple adventurer. The Transit Route was full of that kind of people. I don’t know if he took my silence as assent, but he seemed satisfied. He shook his canteen, checked with a grimace that there was not a drop of whiskey left, and, with a commanding voice, stood up.
Within two minutes, the entire troop was on the move again. We were advancing through a wooded area of stunted pines and dusty scrub when the squeal of an oxcart was heard in the distance. Rawson halted with a raised hand, signaled to his lieutenants to follow him, and disappeared behind the pines. Shortly afterward, a voice of protest and a curse in English were heard. As the screeching resumed, Rawson emerged from the woods. He was followed by a wagon loaded with meat and hides, driven by one of his riders. The column He set off again without making the slightest comment. Wilson approached me. I thought I detected a tone of discretion or cynicism in his voice, perhaps.
“War is war, boy,” he said. “If you want to You have to eat. And if you want to eat.
You can’t contain me.
“You have to steal or put them down or…”
He shrugged slightly.
“I offered to buy the load,” he said. “He didn’t accept.”
Despite being very familiar with this type of purchase, I didn’t say anything. I had to walk a tightrope if I wanted to escape unscathed from the mess they’d gotten me into. Precisely for this reason, I didn’t shout with joy when I recognized old Nicasio, a local muleteer whom I had often seen at the cantina with his string of mules.
Hours before, I had a feeling I was in luck. The pine forests were left behind, and we were advancing across a gentle plain of sparse grass and scattered bushes. That landscape suddenly seemed familiar to me. Perhaps we had made a detour and were approaching Colina from the west, which in the entire region was the nearest town to ours. Indeed. Shortly after noon, we crossed the stream that leads to the hamlet, with its shacks and small houses made of cane and adobe, and the small church, whose bell tower holds an iron cross that, according to the locals, serves as a lightning rod on stormy days.
We soon learned that the Conservatives had moved that same morning from Rivas, where the bulk of their army was bivouacked, toward La Santa. Rawson sent one of his men to warn the President, who was apparently awaiting news on the outskirts of town. In the small square, to one side of the church, the men had been forming up, and meanwhile Rawson, shouting, mixing insults in English and Spanish, seemed to be preparing to storm a barracks. It was evident that he wanted to impress the locals, many of whom had shut themselves in their houses, while others watched indifferently the bustle of the troops so motley that each time. It was harder for him to maintain formation, despite his own efforts and those of his improvised sergeants. It was then that I saw Nicasio driving his mules along one side of the plaza, oblivious to the tumult, the hubbub, and everything except the weary gait of his pack. He was about to pass me at any moment. I looked toward the lieutenant, completely absorbed in his maneuvers, and I, trying to control my nervousness, muttered:
“Psht… Nicasio… Nicasio…”
The old man turned his head toward me, surprised. I made a slight gesture with my hand.
“I’m Ricardo, the son of Eulogio Vidal, the bartender at Rosales. Do you remember me?”
He stared at me, motionless, and mumbled something under his breath. Suddenly, I noticed in his slanted eyes and at the corner of his lips the hint of a smile. He had vaguely recognized me.
“Tell my father I’m being held,” I murmured, almost spelling out the words. “Tell my father, Eulogio Vidal. Tell him we’re going to La Santa… Do you understand?”
He looked from side to side, suspicious, shook his head slightly, turned his back on me, and snorted again. In the center of the plaza, Rawson continued to shout uselessly.
Perla Suez nació en Córdoba en 1947. Es escritora, profesora en Letras Modernas, egresada de la Universidad Nacional de Córdoba, Argentina. Fue becaria del Gobierno Francés y del Gobierno de Canadá. En 1997 recibió la Mención especial del Premio Mundial de Literatura Infantil y juvenil José Martí. En 2001, finalista del Premio Internacional de Novela Rómulo Gallegos con su novela Letargo. Sus novelas para adultos se han traducido al inglés por The University of New México Press, Estados Unidos. Otras Publicaciones: Memorias de Vladimir; El árbol de los flecos, cuentos, 1995; Dimitri en la tormenta, novela juvenil; El viaje de un cuis muy gris, cuento; Blum, Cuentos; Tumba Tumba Retumba. Poetas de América, Antología bilingüe, selección, prólogo y notas de la autora, , 2001. Ahora que todo parece haber cambiado, cuento, en Antología Nuevos Cuentos Argentinos, 2001. Tradujo del francés la novela Una llama en la oscuridad de François David.
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Perla Suez was born in Córdoba in 1947. She is a writer and professor of Modern Literature, a graduate of the National University of Córdoba, Argentina. She was a scholarship recipient of the French and Canadian governments. In July 2001, she was a finalist for the Rómulo Gallegos International Novel Prize with her novel Letargo (Lethargo). Her novels for adults have been translated into English by The University of New Mexico Press, USA. Other publications include Memoirs of Vladimir, a novel, Ed. Colihue, Buenos Aires; The Tree of Fringe, short stories, 1995; Dimitri in the Storm, young adult novel, ; The Journey of a Very Gray Guinea Pig, short story; Blum, Short Stories, Tombo, Tombo Rumbo. Poets of the Americas, bilingual anthology, selection, prologue and notes by the author, 2001. Se translated François David’s novel A Flame in the Darkness from French.
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“En la arrocera”
“El ocultar las cosas es lo que las hace pudrirse…”
John Dos Passos
Vasili y Ana Finz llegaron a Villa Clara con los inmigrantes que trajo el Barón Hirsch, a fines del siglo pasado. Finz se inició en el trabajo de la tierra como aguador de arrozal y aprendió el oficio de arrocero. Al nacer Lucien, Ana murió de eclampsia durante el puerperio. Finz arrendaba siete hectáreas con una casa de adobe y un galpón. Un ama de leche amamantó al chico hasta que cumplió un año y después, los otros hijos de Finz se ocuparon de criarlo. El muchacho creció en la arrocera, con la seguridad que le habían dado su padre y especialmente Max, el hermano mayor. Cuando Lucien no podía conciliar el sueño, Max le hablaba de los cardos que a esa hora cerraban su flor morada, de los terraplenes donde cultivaban el arroz, de las mojarras del arroyo y tarareaba, moviendo la cabeza, a, el canto del cosaco: ayaya, yaya, yayaya…
Lucien miraba el cielo sin luna y pensaba que dentro de esa oscuridad estaba su madre. Max le contaba, también, la historia del emperador que se paseaba desnudo creyendo lucir un rico traje y una calma profunda invadía al niño y quedaba dormido. Con las faenas de la tierra los brazos de Lucien se hicieron poderosos. Lucien, hay que dar vuelta el pan de tierra, hasta que quede esponjoso, le decía el padre. Los Finz se protegían del sol bajo la sombra de un eucalipto, y almorzaban alguna cosa frugal, tendidos sobre el pasto. Apenas echaban un sueño y seguían trabajando. Con la entrada del sol comían con fruición, y bebían apenas una copa de vino, y hablaban de algún asunto baladí. Después, se iban a descansar. Lucien prefería caminar un rato, antes de que el sueño lo venciera. En el verano se escuchaba la enérgica voz de Vasili que llamaba a los hijos y les advertía: Va a venir la lagarta militar. Busquen a González, que cure de palabra a la lagarta. Pronto el arroz maduraba y se podían escuchar los gritos del muchacho que llamaba al padre y a sus hermanos, para que vieran la floración. ¡Noé, Max, vengan a ver las espigas!
Cuando la cosecha era buena, los arroceros de las colonias vecinas se congregaban en torno a la casa de los Finz. Un tropel de músicos con acordeones a piano y timbales hacía sonar los primeros compases del cosachok. Max era el primero que se paraba en medio del corro de muchachos y con el pecho desnudo, abierto de brazos, daba un salto impetuoso y empezaba la danza en cuclillas golpeando el suelo con las herraduras de las botas. Después, hacía un giro en el aire, caía de nuevo en cuclillas, y continuaba bailando con gracia y desenfado. Viejos respetables, judíos rusos, se plegaban a la danza cosaca y con pasos poderosos, como si se dejaran llevar por un placer irrepetible, cantaban, yaya yayaya… Lucien contemplaba todo, con la cabeza llena de ruido. Llovía desde hacía una semana y los caminos estaban anegados y el arroyo Malo desbordaba; ni siquiera los caballos podían cruzar hasta la otra orilla. Lucien caminó de la mano de su padre: no tenía más de once años.
“Escucha el pampero, Lucien, dijo usted, con la cabeza inclinada, queriendo que yo escuchara el sonido preliminar del viento. Vasili tenía la vista fija en la arrocera. ¿Va a despejar, padre?, le pregunté yo. Usted me dijo que iba a despejar. La arrocera era una ciénaga. El agua nos llegaba rodillas. Una madera podrida y una yarará enroscada cruzaron ante mis ojos; una rata muerta y un nubarrón flotaban en el agua que continuaba su empuje furioso por encima de los terraplenes. Vasili, usted dijo que estuvo toda la noche contemplando la lluvia que caía y dijo haberse levantado de la ruina más de una vez. Pero había muchas cosas que usted no dijo…” Así como la lagarta militar terminó el grano en unas horas; así como la lluvia lo pudrió todo, así también los Finz, no eran gente que se diera por vencida. Preparen todo que mañana nos vamos. ¿Pero adónde?, preguntó Max. A arrendar el campo que me ofrecieron en Carlos Casares. Probaremos sembrar trigo. Carlos Casares también está inundado, dijo Noé. No querés sacrificarte, dijo Vasili, la voz ronca, la mirada clavada en Noé. Lucien recordó que la palabra de su padre era sagrada. “Vuelvo a verlo a usted padre, absorto, refugiado en el silencio, caminando despacio por el borde del canal. La cosecha está perdida, dice. El sol se ha escondido, la arrocera está fangosa huele a vómito. No hay viento. La tarde cae apacible. Escucho el graznido de una tijereta que cruza el aire y hay moscardones azul eléctrico que zumban por todos lados. Veo la negritud del cielo a lo lejos, escucho a los perros que lloran, y a usted padre, que murmura, y qué puedo hacer yo… Durante más de tres horas recorrimos la arrocera anegada. ¿Cómo está el nivel del agua en la varilla?, preguntó usted a Max. ¡Mierda, sigue subiendo…!,dijo él. ¡No hable así, está perdiendo la decencia!, dijo. Max le gritó, ¡Cree que sigo siendo ese niño a quien usted obligaba a acostarse al sol sobre una chapa de zinc caliente porque se negaba a obedecerle. Humillarse y sufrir, es lo único que le gusta! ¡Basta! Dígame que mis esfuerzos no fueron en vano…, dijo Vasili. Y se alejó de la arrocera. El lamento de una lechuza perturbó la tarde que caía. Miré hacia el cielo y tuve miedo lo vi todo rojo, todo sangre. Vayamos a descansar y volveremos en cuanto baje el agua, dijo Noé. ¿Dónde está Lucien?, preguntó Max. Pero yo que era un niño que había escuchado todo, me roalejé sin decir nada. Sólo volví la cabeza, cuando sentí los brazos de Max que me envolvían, ¡Ei, Lucien, respirá hondo y chupate el viento para adentro y subite a mis hombros, voy a llevarte a babuchas! Y me subí a sus hombros y nos fuimos trotando hasta casa.” “Mirá Lucien por allí va a venir el Mesías trayendo paz y justicia, dijo usted. Y yo que era un niño temeroso de Dios, creí verlo llegar, montado en su alazán blanco. Su cara delgada y su barba larga desaparecieron en cuanto abrí los ojos: Me quedé insomne, padre.” Lucien caminaba por la arrocera, cuando escuchó que alguien cantaba una balada en el dialecto de los abuelos y la sintió como una amenaza: …Voy de viaje en trineo,/ a través de la estepa nevada,/ los lobos me pisan los talones… La tierra retumbaba en sus oídos. Oyó un rumor sordo. Apuró el paso. Era seguro que la tormenta haría estragos en el semental. Al llegar a su casa escuchó que el viento empezaba a agitar con violencia los árboles. Max no había vuelto y tuvieron que esperar que la tormenta y la Lluvia.
No tardó en darse cuenta de que Max estaba muerto y se arrojó sollozando sobre su cadáver. Lucien se ahogaba y Noé no podía pronunciar más que sonidos entrecortados. Cerraron el ataúd y lo cubrieron con una tela negra que tenía una estrella de David en el centro, y lo velaron en el comedor de la casa. Lucien estuvo aferrado al cajón, mudo, sin poder llorar, hasta que Vera, la mujer de Noé, lo tomó de la mano y lo sacó de allí. Los colonos, vestidos de luto riguroso, permanecían agrupados en la puerta de la casa de los Finz, con las caras rudas, llenas de estupor, hablando de él como si viviera. Una mujer robusta y vieja irrumpió en el velorio y se abrió paso entre la gente. Dijo que había sido maestra de sexto grado del muchacho. Cuando ella vio el ataúd, un leve gemido salió de su garganta, miró a un colono que estaba a su lado y le dijo que Max era un niño rápido para los números y enseguida se fue. Lo enterraron en el cementerio de la colonia, según la Ley de Moisés. Vasili rezó con fervor frente a la tumba del hijoy nombró a su padre, la voz apesadumbrada.
Lucien se quedó mirando los cipreses: la sombra de sus ramas temblaba en el suelo. Vio una isoca que salía de una tumba y pensó que también en ese lugar los gusanos se hacían amos de los muertos.
Vasili and Ana Finz arrived in Villa Clara with the immigrants brought by Baron Hirsch at the end of the last century. Finz began working the land as a rice paddy water carrier and learned the trade of a rice farmer. When Lucien was born, Ana died of eclampsia during the postpartum period. Finz rented seven hectares with an adobe house and a shed. A wet nurse breastfed the boy until he was one year old, and after that, Finz’s other children took care of him. The boy grew up in the rice farm, with the security given to him by his father and especially Max, his older brother. When Lucien couldn’t sleep, Max would talk to him about the thistles that were blooming purple at that hour, about the banks where they grew rice, about the breams in the stream, and he would hum, nodding his head, to the Cossack’s song: “Ayaya, yaya, yayaya…”
Lucien would look at the moonless sky and think that his mother was in that darkness. Max would also tell him the story of the emperor who walked around naked, believing he was wearing a rich suit, and a deep calm would come over the boy, and he would fall asleep. With the work on the land, Lucien’s arms grew powerful. “Lucien, you have to turn the earth breadover until it’s fluffy,” his father would tell him. The Finzes would shelter from the sun under the shade of a eucalyptus tree and eat something light, lying on the grass. They would barely sleep before they continued working. As the sun set, they ate heartily, drank only a glass of wine, and talked about some trivial matter. Afterward, they went to rest. Lucien preferred to walk for a while, before sleep overcame him. In the summer, Vasili’s energetic voice could be heard calling his children and warning them: The military lizard is coming. Find Gonzalez, and he will cure the lizard with words. Soon the rice was ripening, and the boy’s cries could be heard calling his father and brothers to see the blossoming. “Noah, Max, come see the ears of grain!”
When the harvest was good, rice farmers from the neighboring settlements would gather around the Finz house. A troop of musicians with piano accordions and kettledrums would play the first strains of the Cossack dance. Max would be the first to stand in the middle of the circle of boys, bare-chested, arms wide open, leap violently, and begin the squatting dance, striking the ground with his horseshoe boots. Then he would spin in the air, land on his haunches again, and continue dancing with grace and ease. Respectable old men, Russian Jews, would join in the Cossack dance, and with powerful steps, as if carried away by a unique pleasure, they would sing, “Yaya yayaya…” Lucien watched it all, his head full of noise. It had been raining for a week, and the roads were flooded, and the Bad Creek was overflowing; not even the horses could cross to the other bank. Lucien walked hand in hand with his father: he was no more than eleven years old. “Listen to the pampero, Lucien,” you said, your head bowed, wanting me to hear the preliminary sound of the wind. Vasili had his eyes fixed on the rice field. “Is it going to clear, Father?” I asked him. You told me it was going to clear. The rice field was a swamp. The water reached our knees. A rotten piece of wood and a coiled rattlesnake crossed before my eyes; a dead rat and a storm cloud floated in the water that continued its furious push over the banks. Vasili, you said you spent all night watching the falling rain and said you had risen from the ruin more than once. But there were many things you didn’t say…” Just as the military lizard finished the grain in a few hours; just as the rain rotted everything, so too did the Finzes; they were not people to give up. Get everything ready, because tomorrow we’re leaving. But where? Max asked. To rent the field they offered me in Carlos Casares. We’ll try planting wheat. Carlos Casares is flooded too, Noé said. You don’t want to sacrifice yourself, Vasili said, his voice hoarse, his gaze fixed on Noé. Lucien remembered that his father’s word was sacred. “I see you again, Father, absorbed, sheltered in silence, walking slowly along the edge of the canal. The harvest is lost, you say. The sun has set, the rice field is muddy, it smells of vomit. There’s no wind. The afternoon falls peacefully. I hear the squawk of an earwig crossing the air and there are electric-blue horseflies buzzing everywhere. I see the blackness of the sky in the distance, I hear the dogs crying, and you, Father, muttering, and what can I do… For more than three hours we walked around the flooded rice field. How’s the water level on the dipstick? you asked Max. “Shit, it keeps rising…!” he said. “Don’t talk like that, you’re losing your decency!” he said. Max shouted at him, “Do you think I’m still that child you forced to lie in the sun on a hot zinc sheet because he refused to obey you? Humiliating yourself and suffering, that’s the only thing that he likes! Enough! Tell me my efforts weren’t in vain…, said Vasili. And he walked away from the rice paddy. The cry of an owl disturbed the waning afternoon. I looked up at the sky and was afraid. I saw it all red, all blood. “Let’s go rest and we’ll come back as soon as the water goes down,” said Noah. “Where’s Lucien?” asked Max. But I, being a child who had heard everything, walked away without saying anything. I only turned my head when I felt Max’s arms wrap around me. “Hey, Lucien, take a deep breath and suck the wind in and climb onto my shoulders, I’ll carry you in slippers!” And I climbed onto his shoulders, and we trotted home. “Look, Lucien, the Messiah is coming over there bringing peace and justice,” you said. And I, being a God-fearing child, thought I saw him arriving, riding on his white chestnut horse. His thin face and long beard disappeared as soon as I opened my eyes: “I was sleepless, Father.” Lucien was walking through the rice field when he heard someone singing a ballad in his grandparents’ dialect and felt it as a threat: “…I’m going on a sleigh ride, / across the snowy steppe, / the wolves are on my heels…” The earth rumbled in his ears. He heard a dull rumble. He quickened his pace. The storm was sure to wreak havoc on the stallion. When he reached his house, he heard the wind begin to violently shake the trees. Max hadn’t returned, and they had to wait for the storm and the Rain.
It didn’t take long for him to realize that Max was dead and he threw himself sobbing over his body. Lucien was choking, and Noah could only utter broken sounds. They closed the coffin and covered it with a black cloth with a Star of David in the center, and they held a wake in the dining room. from the house. Lucien clung to the coffin, mute, unable to cry, until Vera, Noé’s wife, took him by the hand and pulled him out. The colonists, dressed in strict mourning, remained grouped at the door of the Finz house, their faces grim and full of astonishment. A robust, elderly woman burst into the wake and pushed her way through the crowd. She said she had been the boy’s sixth-grade teacher. When she saw the coffin, a soft moan escaped her throat. She looked at a settler at her side and told him that Max was a child with quick numbers, then left immediately. He was buried in the colony cemetery, according to the Law of Moses. Vasili prayed fervently in front of his son’s grave and named his own father, his voice heavy with sorrow.
Lucien stared at the cypress trees: the shadow of their branches trembled on the ground. He saw an isochka emerging from a grave and thought that in that place, too, worms took over the dead.
Bernardo Kucinski, ou B. Kucinski, nasceu em 1937 na cidade de São Paulo, Brasil. Formou-se em Física (1968) e doutorou-se em Ciências da Comunicação (1991) pela Universidade de São Paulo (USP), onde foi professor titular do Departamento de Jornalismo e Editoração da Escola de Comunicações e Artes (ECA). Entre 2003 e 2005, atuou como assessor da Presidência da República do Brasil durante o governo Lula da Silva. É autor de obras sobre política, economia e jornalismo, como Abertura: a história de uma crise (1982), A ditadura da dívida (1987), O que são Multinacionais (1991) e Jornalismo na era virtual (2005).
Sua estreia no campo literário ocorreu apenas aos 74 anos com o livro K.: relato de uma busca. Além deste, B. Kucinski também é autor de outras obras que abordam episódios traumáticos da história brasileira, como Você vai voltar pra mim e outros contos (2014), Júlia: nos campos conflagrados do senhor (2020) e O congresso dos desaparecidos: drama em prosa (2023). Também dedicou algumas páginas a contos que refletem questões contemporâneas, como Pretérito imperfeito (2017) e A Nova Ordem (2019).
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Bernardo Kucinski, or B. Kucinski, was born in 1937 in the city of São Paulo, Brazil. He graduated in Physics (1968) and earned a doctorate in Communication Sciences (1991) from the University of São Paulo (USP), where he was a full professor in the Department of Journalism and Publishing at the School of Communication and Arts (ECA). Between 2003 and 2005, he served as an advisor to the Presidency of the Republic of Brazil during the administration of Lula da Silva. He is the author of works on politics, economics, and journalism, such as Abertura: a história de uma crise A ditadura da dívida, O que são Multinacionais, and Jornalismo na era virtual.
His debut in the literary field occurred only at the age of 74 with the book K.: relato de uma busca [K.: Chronicle of a Search]. In addition to this, B. Kucinski is also the author of other works that deal with traumatic episodes in Brazilian history, such as Você vai voltar pra mim e outros contos , Júlia: nos campos conflagrados do senhor J, and O congresso dos desaparecidos: drama em prosa. He also wrote stories that reflect on contemporary issues, such as Pretérito imperfeito and A Nova Ordem.
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De:/From: K. do Bernardo Kucinski. Sao Paulo: Expressão Popular, 2011.
Sorvedouro de pessoas — capitulo 1
A tragédia já avançara inexorável quando, naquela manhã de domingo, K. sentiu pela primeira vez a angústia que logo o tomaria por completo. Há dez dias a filha não telefona. Depois, ele culparia a ausência dos ritos de família, ainda mais necessários em tempos difíceis, o telefonar uma vez por dia, o almoço aos domingos. A filha não afinava com sua segunda mulher.
E como não perceber o tumulto dos novos tempos, ele, escolado em política? Quem sabe teria sido diferente se, em vez dos amigos escritores do iídiche, * essa língua morta que só poucos velhos ainda falam, prestasse mais atenção ao que acontecia no país naquele momento? Quem sabe? Que importa o iídiche?
* O iídiche é falado pelos judeus da Europa Oriental e teve seu apogeu no início do século xx, quando se consolidou sua literatura; sofreu rápido declínio devido ao Holocausto e à adoção do hebraico pelos fundadores do Esta- do de Israel.
Nada. Uma língua-cadáver, isso sim, que eles pranteavam nessas reuniões semanais, em vez de cuidar dos vivos.
Associava o domingo à filha desde quando lhe trazia regalos no dia da feira. Súbito, lembrou rumores da véspera, no Bom Retiro; dois estudantes judeus da medicina teriam desaparecido, um deles, dizia-se, de família rica. Coisa da política, disseram, da ditadura, não tinha a ver com antissemitismo. Também sumiram outros, não judeus, por isso a Federação decidira não se meter. Esse era o boato, talvez nem fosse verdade; pois não diziam quem eram os rapazes.
Foi o rumor que o fez inquieto, não foi o domingo. Passou o dia discando um número de telefone que a filha lhe dera para urgências, mas o toque ecoava solitário. Sem resposta, nem à uma da madrugada, quando ela deveria estar de volta mesmo que tivesse ido ao cinema, de que tanto gostava, decidiu procurá-la no dia seguinte na universidade.
Naquela noite sonhou ele menino, os cossacos invadindo a sapataria do pai para que lhes costurasse as polainas das botinas. Despertou cedo, sobressaltado. Os cossacos, lembrou-se, haviam chegado justo no Tisha Beav, * o dia de todas as desgraças do povo judeu, o dia da destruição do primeiro templo e do segundo, e também o da expulsão da Espanha.
Sem saber o que temer, mas já temendo, e sem acordar a mulher, tirou o Austin da garagem e dirigiu rumo ao campus da universidade, distante na planície, do outro lado do emaranhado de arranha-céus. Conduzia devagar, demorando-se ao atravessar o centro, como se não quisesse chegar nunca; ossentimentos alternando-se entre a certeza de encontrá-la trabalhando normalmente e o medo do seu contrário. Por fim, atingiu o Conjunto das Químicas, onde estivera uma única vez, havia anos, quando a filha defendera seu doutorado perante um grupo de professores de semblantes severos, alguns deles formados ainda na Alemanha.
* Literalmente, o nono dia do mês de Av do calendário judaico, considerado maldito.
Ela não veio hoje, disseram as amigas. Hesitantes, olhavam de soslaio umas para as outras. Depois, como se temessem a indiscrição das paredes, puxaram K. para conversar no jardim. Então revelaram que havia onze dias que ela não aparecia. Sim, com certeza, onze dias, contando dois finais de semana. Ela, que nunca deixara de dar uma única aula. Falavam aos sussurros, sem completar as frases, como se cada palavra escondesse mil outras de sentidos proibidos.
Insatisfeito, agitado, K. queria ouvir outras pessoas — quem sabe os superiores da filha tinham alguma informação? Se ela tivesse sofrido um acidente e estivesse hospitalizada decerto teriam contatado a universidade. As amigas alarmam-se. Não faça isso. Por enquanto, não. Para dissuadi-lo, moderaram a fala, pode ser que ela tenha viajado, se afastado por alguns dias por precaução. Desconhecidos andaram perguntando por ela, sabe? Há gente estranha no campus. Anotam chapas de carros. Eles estão dentro da reitoria. Eles quem? Não souberam responder.
Persuadido a não procurar as autoridades universitárias, K. dirigiu em agonia do campus até um número da rua Padre Chico, que a filha lhe dera havia tempos, com a recomendação de só a procurar nesse endereço se acontecesse algo muito grave e ela não atendesse ao telefone. Um absurdo ele não questionado isso de só visitar se for grave, de só telefonar se for urgente. Onde ele estava com a cabeça, meu Deus?
Era um sobradinho geminado, dando diretamente para a rua, espremido entre uma dezena do mesmo tipo. Ao pé da porta, folhetos e jornais empoeirados denunciavam ausência prolongada dos moradores. Ninguém atendeu seus apertos inquisitivos de campainha.
Pronto, estava instalada a tragédia. O que fazer? Os dois filhos, longe, no exterior. A segunda esposa, uma inútil. As amigas da universidade em pânico. O velho sentiu-se esmagado. O corpo fraco, vazio, como se fosse desabar. A mente em estupor. De repente, tudo perdia sentido. Um fato único impunha-se, cancelando o que dele não fosse parte; fazendo tu- do o mais obsoleto. O fato concreto de sua filha querida estar sumida há onze dias, talvez mais. Sentiu-se muito só.
Passou a listar hipóteses. Quem sabe um acidente, ou uma doença grave que ela não quisesse revelar. A pior era a prisão pelos serviços secretos. O Estado não tem rosto nem sentimentos, é opaco e perverso. Sua única fresta é a corrupção. Mas às vezes até essa se fecha por razões superiores. E então o Estado se torna maligno em dobro, pela crueldade e por ser inatingível. Isso ele sabia muito bem.
K. rememorou cenas recentes, o nervosismo da filha, suas evasivas, isso de chegar correndo e sair correndo, do endereço só em último caso e com a recomendação de não passá-lo a ninguém. Atarantado, deu-se conta da enormidade do autoengano em que vivera, ludibriado pela própria filha, talvez mettida em aventuras perigosíssimas sem ele desconfiar, distraído que fora pela devoção ao iídiche, pelo encanto fácil das sessões literárias.
Ah, e o erro de ter se casado com aquela judia alemã só porque ela sabia cozinhar batatas. Malditos os amigos que o convenceram a se casar de novo. Malditos sejam todos. Ele, que nunca blasfemava, que tolerante aceitava as pessoas como elas eram, viu-se descontrolado, praguejando. Pressentiu o pior.
Pelo telefone, o amigo escritor, também advogado, orientou-o a dar queixa na Delegacia de Desaparecidos, embora advertindo que de nada adiantaria, era uma obrigação formal de pai. Ditou-lhe o endereço, na Brigadeiro Tobias, sede central da polícia. K. perguntou se ele ouvira falar do sumiço de dois alunos judeus da medicina. Sim. Era verdade. Já fora procurado por uma das famílias. E o que ele ia fazer? Nada. Nas prisões de motivação política, os tribunais estavam proibidos de aceitar pedidos de habeas corpus. Não há nada que um advogado possa fazer. Nada. Esta é a situação.
Na polícia fizeram ao velho poucas perguntas. A maioridos desaparecidos eram adolescentes que fugiam de pais b bados e padrastos que espancavam. K. explicou que a filha era professora da universidade em grau de doutora, era independente e morava só. Tinha seu próprio carro; não seria alguma coisa política?
Não quis se abrir com o delegado, apenas insinuou. Por isso também não lhe deu o endereço da Padre Chico, deu o seu como sendo o dela e o da loja como se fosse o seu. Sem perceber, K. retomava hábitos adormecidos da juventude conspiratória na Polônia. O delegado de plantão não gostou da conversa. Em casos políticos, estava proibido de se meter. Mas, condoído, registrou a queixa. Ele que esperasse e não falasse mais em política.
Procurar? Não, a polícia tinha mais o que fazer; uma professora universitária, de quase trinta anos, adulta e vacinada. Ele que esperasse, uma circular com a fotografia chegaria a todas as delegacias. Se ele não fosse avisado em cinco dias, podia tentar o Instituto Médico Legal, para onde encaminha- vam corpos não identificados de vítimas de atropelamentos e outros acidentes. Disse isso constrangido.
Assim começou a saga do velho pai, cada dia mais aflito, mais mal dormido. No vigésimo dia, depois de mais uma incursão inútil ao campus e à casa da Padre Chico, recorreu aos amigos do círculo literário; os mesmos que por descontrole havia amaldiçoado. Quem sabe conheciam alguém que conhecesse alguém outro, na polícia, no Exército, no sni, seja onde for dentro daquele sistema que engolia pessoas sem deixar traços. Com exceção do advogado, eram uns pobretões que não conheciam ninguém importante. O advogado mencionou vagamente um líder da comunidade do Rio que tinha acesso aos generais. Tentaria saber mais.
K. passou a contabilizar a duração da ausência da filha, outro preceito dos tempos da juventude. E não passava um dia sem que tentasse algo pela filha. Já não fazia outra coisa. Para dormir, passou a tomar soporíferos. Quando se completaram vinte e cinco dias, reuniu coragem e foi ao Instituto Médico Legal.
Falou da inexplicável ausência da filha, sem mencionar política. Mostrou sua foto de formatura, solene. Depois mostrou outra, diferente, ela magra e de olhar sofrido. Não, os funcionários não associavam aquele rosto a nenhum dos pouvos cadáveres femininos, todos negros ou pardos. Quase todos, indigentes. Para dizer a verdade, deve fazer mais de ano que não chega aqui um corpo não identificado de mulher branca.
K. saiu do iml aliviado; mantinha-se a esperança de encontra–la viva. Mas as fotografias do álbum dos indigentes e desconhecidos o deprimiram. Nem na época da guerra na Polônia deparara com rostos tão maltratados e olhos tão arregalados de pavor.
Foi então que, obcecado, passou a abordar fregueses que vinham pagar a prestação na loja, vizinhos da avenida, e até desconhecidos. A todos contava a história da filha. E sua fosquinha também sumiu, ele enfatizava. A maioria ouvia até o fim em silêncio, depois davam-lhe eventualmente uma tapinha nas costas encurvadas e diziam: eu sinto muito. Alguns poucos o interrompiam já no início, alegando hora marcada no médico, ou um pretexto parecido como se ouvir já os colocasse em perigo.
No trigésimo dia do sumiço da filha, K. leu no Estado de S. Paulo uma notícia que se referia, embora de modo discreto, a desaparecidos políticos. O arcebispo havia convocado uma reunião com “familiares de desaparecidos políticos”.
Estava escrito assim mesmo: “familiares de desaparecidos políticos”.
K. nunca entrara num templo católico, tal o estranha- mento nele provocado pela penumbra silenciosa das igrejas e pelas imagens de santos, que vislumbrava por entre vãos de porta. Tinha pelo catolicismo repulsa atávica, à qual somava desprezo pelas práticas religiosas todas, inclusive as do seu próprio povo. Na verdade, não era das pessoas e suas crenças que ele não gostava, era dos sacerdotes, fossem padres, rabinos ou bispos; ele os tinha como hipócritas. Mas, naquela tarde, nada disso importava. Uma autoridade importante, um arcebispo, ia falar sobre as estranhas desaparições.
Ao entrar no salão central da Cúria Metropolitana, K. sentiu o quanto o sumiço da filha já o havia mudado. Foi com simpatia que contemplou a imagem barroca da Virgem Maria situada no saguão, e outras de santos que desconhecia, postadas nos cantos. Quando chegou, a reunião já começara. Havia sessenta pessoas ou mais nas cadeiras bem mais numerosas dispostas no salão. Quatro senhores sisudos que pareciam advogados coordenavam o encontro, sentados em forma de meialua de frente para o público; uma freira escrevia num grande caderno.
Falava uma senhora de muita idade, talvez passando dos noventa, franzina, miúda, de óculos na ponta do nariz e cabelos brancos; seu marido voltava do exílio por Uruguaiana, chegou até um ponto de encontro pré-combinado, do lado de cá da fronteira, e desapareceu por completo, sem deixar vestígio, como se tivesse evaporado ou anjos o tivessem alçado aos céus. Um dos filhos tentou rastrear seus passos, foi a todos os hospitais, delegacias, estações de ônibus de Uruguaiana e nada, nenhum sinal. O filho, ao lado, corroborava o relato.
Depois falou outra senhora, de seus cinquenta anos, que se apresentou como esposa de um ex-deputado federal. Dois policiais vieram à sua casa, pedindo que o marido os acompanhasse à delegacia para prestar alguns esclarecimentos. Ele foi tranquilo, pois embora seu mandato de deputado tivesse sido cassado pelos militares, levava vida normal, tinha escritório de advocacia. Desde então, havia oito meses, nunca mais o viram. Na delegacia disseram que ele ficou apenas quinze minutos e foi liberado. Mas como? Como poderia ter desaparecido assim por completo? Essa senhora, muito elegante, estava acompanhada de quatro filhos.
Mais relatos de sumiços; todos queriam falar. E queriam ouvir. Queriam entender. Talvez do conjunto de casos surgis- se uma explicação, uma lógica, principalmente uma solução, uma maneira de pôr fim ao pesadelo. Uma jovem de não mais que vinte anos pediu para falar em nome de um grupo sentado à sua volta, “familiares dos desaparecidos do Araguaia”, disse ela. K. pela primeira vez ouvia alguém falar do Araguaia; ficou sabendo que muitos rapazes tinham sido presos pelas Forças Armadas no meio da floresta amazônica e executados lá mesmo.
O que trazia aquele grupo à reunião era algo insólito. O Exército alegava que nada disso tinha acontecido, apesar de um dos presos, apenas um, ter escapado e testemunhado tudo. Os familiares queriam enterrar seus mortos — que eles já sabiam mortos, mais de cinquenta, diziam, sabiam até a região aproximada em que foram executados, mas os militares insistiam que não havia corpo nenhum para entregar.
Um rapaz encontrou-se com a esposa no Conjunto Nacional para almoçarem juntos e os dois nunca mais foram vistos. À medida que falava, a mãe do rapaz mostrava aos vizinhos de assento as fotos do filho, da nora e do netinho. Um senhor levantou-se, disse que viera de Goiânia especialmente para a reunião. Seus dois filhos, um de vinte anos e o outro de apenas dezasseis, foram desaparecidos. Esse senhor gaguejava, parecia em estado catatônico. Foi o primeiro a usar a expressão “foram desaparecidos”. Também trazia fotos dos filhos. Depois dele, K. tomou coragem e contou a sua história. Já havia caído a noite e os relatos prosseguiam. Variavam cenários, detalhes, circunstâncias, mas todos os vinte e dois casos computados naquela reunião tinham uma característica comum assombrosa: as pessoas desapareciam sem deixar vestígios. Era como se volatilizassem. O mesmo com os jovens do Araguaia, embora este já se soubesse estarem mortos. A freira anotava caso por caso. Também recolhia as fotos trazidas pelos familiares.
K. tudo ouvia, espantado. Até os nazistas que reduziam suas vítimas a cinzas registavam os mortos. Cada um tinha um número, tatuado no braço. A cada morte, davam baixa num livro. É verdade que nos primeiros dias da invasão houve chacinas e depois também. Enfileiravam todos os judeus de uma aldeia ao lado de uma vala, fuzilavam, jogavam cal em cima, depois terra e pronto. Mas os goim* de cada lugar sabiam que os seus judeus estavam enterrados naquele buraco, sabiam quantos eram e quem era cada um. Não havia a agonia da incerteza; eram execuções em massa, não era um sumidouro de pessoas.
The tragedy had already advanced inexorably when, on that Sunday morning, K. felt for the first time the anguish that would soon overwhelm him completely. His daughter had not called for ten days. Later, he would blame the lack of family rituals, which were all the more necessary in difficult times, the phone calls once a day, the Sunday lunch. His daughter was not on good terms with his second wife.
And how could he not notice the turmoil of the new times, he, schooled in politics? Who knows if it would have been different if, instead of his friends who wrote Yiddish, * this dead language that only a few old people still speak, he had paid more attention to what was happening in the country at that moment? Who knows? What does Yiddish matter?
* Yiddish is spoken by the Jews of Eastern Europe and had its heyday at the beginning of the 20th century, when its literature was consolidated; it suffered a rapid decline due to the Holocaust and the adoption of Hebrew by the founders of the State of Israel.
Nothing. A corpse language, that’s what they mourned in these weekly meetings, instead of caring for the living.
He had associated Sunday with his daughter ever since he brought her gifts on market day. Suddenly, he remembered rumors from the day before, in Bom Retiro; two Jewish medical students had disappeared, one of them, it was said, from a wealthy family. A political thing, they said, a dictatorship thing, it had nothing to do with anti-Semitism. Others, non-Jews, had also disappeared, which is why the Federation had decided not to get involved. That was the rumor, perhaps it wasn’t even true; since they didn’t say who the boys were.
It was the rumor that made him restless, not Sunday. He spent the day dialing a phone number his daughter had given him for emergencies, but the ringing echoed alone. With no answer, not even at one in the morning, when she should have been back even though she had gone to the movies, which she liked so much, he decided to look for her the next day at the university. That night, as a boy, he dreamed of the Cossacks invading his father’s shoe shop so that he could sew them boot gaiters. He woke up early, startled. The Cossacks, he remembered, had arrived precisely on Tisha Beav, * the day of all the misfortunes of the Jewish people, the day of the destruction of the first and second temples, and also of the expulsion from Spain.
* Literally, the ninth day of the month of Av in the Jewish calendar, considered cursed.
Not knowing what to fear, but already fearing it, and without waking his wife, he took the Austin out of the garage and drove towards the university campus, far away on the plain, on the other side of the tangle of skyscrapers. He drove slowly, taking his time crossing the center, as if he never wanted to arrive; the feelings alternating between the certainty of finding her working normally and the fof the opposite. Finally, she reached the Chemistry Complex, where she had only been once, years ago, when her daughter had defended her doctorate in front of a group of stern-looking professors, some of whom had graduated in Germany.
She didn’t come today, her friends said. They glanced at each other hesitantly. Then, as if fearing the walls’ indiscretion, they pulled K. aside to talk in the garden. Then they revealed that she had not shown up for eleven days. Yes, of course, eleven days, counting two weekends. She, who had never missed a single class. They spoke in whispers, without finishing their sentences, as if each word concealed a thousand other words with forbidden meanings.
Dissatisfied and agitated, K. wanted to hear from other people — perhaps his daughter’s superiors had some information? If she had had an accident and was hospitalized, they would certainly have contacted the university. Her friends were alarmed. Don’t do that. Not yet. To dissuade him, they moderated their speech, maybe she had traveled, gone away for a few days as a precaution. Strangers have been asking about her, you know? There are strange people on campus. They write down license plates. They are inside the rectory. Who are they? They didn’t know how to answer.
Persuaded not to seek out the university authorities, K. drove in agony from the campus to a number on Padre Chico Street, which his daughter had given him some time ago, with the recommendation that he only call her at that address if something very serious happened and she didn’t answer the phone. It was absurd that he hadn’t questioned this about only visiting if it was serious, only calling if it was urgent. What was he thinking, my God?
It was a small semi-detached house, facing directly onto the street, squeezed in between a dozen of the same type. At the foot of the door, dusty pamphlets and newspapers denounced the prolonged absence of the residents. No one answered his inquisitive calls to the doorbell.
There you have it, the tragedy had set in. What to do? His two sons, far away, abroad. His second wife, a useless woman. His friends from university were in a panic. The old man felt crushed. His body was weak, empty, as if it were about to collapse. His mind was in a stupor. Suddenly, everything lost its meaning. A single fact imposed itself, canceling out everything that was not part of it; making everything obsolete. The concrete fact that his beloved daughter had been missing for eleven days, maybe more. He felt very alone.
He began to list hypotheses. Maybe an accident, or a serious illness that she did not want to reveal. The worst was arrest by the secret services. The State has no face or feelings, it is opaque and perverse. Its only crack is corruption. But sometimes even that closes for higher reasons. And then the State becomes doubly evil, through its cruelty and its untouchability. He knew that very well.
K. recalled recent scenes, his daughter’s nervousness, her evasions, her rushing in and out, only giving out the address as a last resort and with the recommendation not to give it to anyone. In a daze, he realized the enormity of the self-deception he had lived in, tricked by his own daughter, perhaps getting involved in extremely dangerous adventures without him suspecting, distracted as he had been by his devotion to Yiddish, by the easy charm of literary sessions.
Oh, and the mistake of having married that German Jew just because she knew how to cook potatoes. Damn the friends who convinced him to marry again. Damn them all. He, who never swore, who tolerantly accepted people as they were, found himself out of control, cursing. He sensed the worst. Over the phone, his writer friend, also a lawyer, advised him to file a complaint with the Missing Persons Police Station, although he warned him that it would be useless; it was a formal obligation as a father. He gave him the address, on Brigadeiro Tobias, the police headquarters. K. asked if he had heard about the disappearance of two Jewish medical students. Yes. It was true. One of the families had already looked for him. And what was he going to do? Nothing. In politically motivated arrests, the courts were forbidden from accepting habeas corpus petitions. There was nothing a lawyer could do. Nothing. That was the situation.
The police asked the old man few questions. Most of the missing people were teenagers who were running away from drunken fathers and stepfathers who beat them. K. explained that his daughter was a university professor with a doctorate degree, was independent and lived alone. She had her own car; couldn’t it be something political?
He didn’t want to open up to the police chief, he just hinted. That’s why he didn’t give her Padre Chico’s address either, he gave his as hers and the store’s as his own. Without realizing it, K. was returning to the dormant habits of his conspiratorial youth in Poland. The police chief on duty didn’t like the conversation. He was forbidden from getting involved in political matters. But, feeling sorry for him, he filed the complaint. He should wait and not talk about politics anymore.
Look for her? No, the police had better things to do: a university professor, almost thirty years old, an adult and vaccinated. He should wait, a circular with her photograph would reach all the police stations. If he wasn’t notified within five days, he could try the Forensic Medical Institute, where they sent unidentified bodies of victims of run-overs and other accidents. He said this embarrassed.
That’s how the old father’s saga began, each day more distressed, more sleepless. On the twentieth day, after yet another useless foray into the campus and into Padre Chico’s house, he turned to his friends from the literary circle; the same ones he had cursed out of sheer control. Maybe they knew someone who knew someone else, in the police, the Army, the SNI, wherever in that system that swallowed people up without leaving a trace. With the exception of the lawyer, they were poor people who didn’t know anyone important. The lawyer vaguely mentioned a community leader from Rio who had access to the generals. He would try to find out more.
K. began to count the length of his daughter’s absence, another precept from his youth. And not a day went by without him trying something for his daughter. He didn’t do anything else anymore. To sleep, he started taking sleeping pills. When twenty-five days had passed, he gathered his courage and went to the Forensic Medical Institute.
He spoke of his daughter’s inexplicable absence, without mentioning politics. He showed her graduation photo, solemn. Then he showed her another, different one, of her thin and with a suffering look. No, the employees did not associate that face with any of the few female corpses, all black or mixed-race. Almost all of them were homeless. To tell the truth, it must have been over a year since an unidentified white woman had arrived here.
K. left the hospital relieved; he still hoped to find her alive. But the photographs in the album of homeless and unknown people depressed him. Not even during the war in Poland had he come across such battered faces and eyes so wide with fear.
It was then that, obsessed, he began to approach customers who came to pay their installments at the store, neighbors on the avenue, and even strangers. He told them all the story of his daughter. And her little face had also disappeared, he emphasized. Most of them listened to him until the end in silence, then occasionally patted him on the hunched back and said: I’m so sorry. A few people interrupted him right from the start, claiming an appointment with the doctor, or some other excuse, as if listening would put them in danger.
On the thirtieth day after his daughter’s disappearance, K. read a news story in the Estado de S. Paulo that referred, although discreetly, to political disappearances. The archbishop had called a meeting with “relatives of political disappearances. It was written exactly like that: “relatives of political disappearances.”
K. had never entered a Catholic church, so strange was it to him because of the silent darkness of the churches and the images of saints that he glimpsed through the doorways. He had an atavistic repulsion towards Catholicism, to which he added a contempt for all religious practices, including those of his own people. In truth, it was not the people and their beliefs that he disliked, but the priests, whether priests, rabbis or bishops; he considered them hypocrites. But that afternoon, none of that mattered. An important authority, an archbishop, was going to speak about the strange disappearances.
As he entered the central hall of the Metropolitan Curia, K. felt how much his daughter’s disappearance had already changed him. He gazed with sympathy at the baroque image of the Virgin Mary in the lobby, and at other saints he did not recognize, placed in the corners. When he arrived, the meeting had already begun. There were sixty or more people in the many more chairs arranged in the hall. Four serious gentlemen who looked like lawyers were coordinating the meeting, seated in a half-moon shape facing the audience; a nun was writing in a large notebook.
A very elderly woman was speaking, perhaps in her nineties, frail, petite, with glasses on the tip of her nose and white hair; her husband was returning from exile in Uruguaiana, arrived at a prearranged meeting point on this side of the border, and disappeared completely, without a trace, as if he had evaporated or angels had lifted him to heaven. One of his sons tried to track his steps, went to all the hospitals, police stations, and bus stations in Uruguaiana, but found nothing, not a trace. His son, next to him, corroborated the story.
Then another woman spoke, in her fifties, who introduced herself as the wife of a former federal deputy. Two police officers came to her house, asking her husband to accompany them to the police station to provide some information. He was calm, because although his mandate as deputy had been revoked by the military, he led a normal life and had a law office. They had not seen him since then, for eight months. At the police station they said he had only stayed for fifteen minutes and was released. But how? How could he have disappeared like that completely? This very elegant lady was accompanied by her four children.
More reports of disappearances; everyone wanted to talk. And they wanted to listen. They wanted to understand. Perhaps from the set of cases an explanation, a logic, and above all a solution, a way to put an end to the nightmare, would emerge. A young woman of no more than twenty asked to speak on behalf of a group sitting around her, “relatives of the missing people from Araguaia,” she said. K. was hearing someone talk about Araguaia for the first time; He learned that many young men had been arrested by the Armed Forces in the middle of the Amazon rainforest and executed there.
What had brought that group to the meeting was something unusual. The Army claimed that none of this had happened, even though one of the prisoners, just one, had escaped and witnessed everything. The family members wanted to bury their dead—who they already knew were dead, more than fifty, they said, and even knew the approximate region where they had been executed—but the military insisted that there were no bodies to hand over.
A young man met his wife at Conjunto Nacional to have lunch together and the two were never seen again. As he spoke, the young man’s mother showed the neighbors photos of her son, daughter-in-law and grandson. A man stood up and said that he had come from Goiânia especially for the meeting. His two sons, one twenty years old and the other only sixteen, had disappeared. This man stuttered and seemed catatonic. He was the first to use the expression “they had disappeared.” She also brought photos of her children. After him, K. gathered up the courage and told his story. Night had already fallen, and the stories continued. They varied scenarios, details, circumstances, but all twenty-two cases recorded at that meeting had a common, astonishing characteristic: the people disappeared without a trace. It was as if they had evaporated. The same with the young people from Araguaia, although it was already known that they were dead. The nun wrote down each case. She also collected the photos brought by the relatives. K. listened to everything, astonished. Even the Nazis who reduced their victims to ashes recorded the dead. Each one had a number tattooed on their arm. Each death was recorded in a book. It is true that in the first days of the invasion there were massacres and later too. They lined up all the Jews of a village next to a ditch, shot them, threw lime on them, then earth and that was it. But the goyim of each place knew that their Jews were buried in that hole, they knew how many there were and who each one was. There was no agony of uncertainty; these were mass executions, not a sinkhole for people
Livros de Bernardo Kucinski/Books by Bernardo Kucinski
Robert Schopflocher nació en una familia judía alemana asimilada. Después de que los nazis tomaron el poder, fue excluido de asistir a la escuela primaria humanística en Fürth y en su lugar asistió a un internado judío. En abril de 1937, su familia huyó a Argentina. Allí, Schopflocher asistió a la Escuela Pestalozzi fundada por August Siemsen. He publicado varios artículos en la revista del exilio La Otra Alemania editada por Siemsen. Sin embargo, por motivos económicos no pudo iniciar una carrera como periodista o autor. Después de completar sus estudios de agronomía, Schopflocher trabajó como administrador agrícola y comerciante de importaciones. Escribió varios libros de texto y obras especializadas sobre temas agrícolas. A partir de la década de 1980 también comenzó a escribir literatura: ensayos, críticas, cuentos y poemas, todos escritos inicialmente en español. El autor tenía más de setenta años cuando empezó a escribir en alemán. El impulso para esto provino de sus experiencias al traducir sus propios escritos al alemán. Al hacerlo, Schopflocher tuvo la impresión de que estaba eliminando un “Schicht” (“capa”) y revelando el “in der Muttersprache abgelagerte[n] Urtext” (“texto original depositado en mi lengua materna”, ed. trad, cita basado en Dirk Niefanger/Gunnar Och, Robert Schopflocher, der Erzähler [El narrador], 2018) A partir de ese momento, escribió sus historias y novelas en alemán. En ensayos y conferencias, se comprometió con su bilingüismo como escritor. Roberto Schopflocher fue miembro honorario del Centro PEN de Escritores de Habla Alemana en el Extranjero. En 2008 la ciudad de Fürth le otorgó el premio Jakob Wassermann.
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Robert Schopflocher was born into an assimilated German-Jewish family. After the Nazis seized power, he was excluded from attending the humanistic grammar school in Fürth and instead attended a Jewish boarding school. In April 1937, his family fled to Argentina. There, Schopflocher attended the Pestalozzi School founded by August Siemsen. He published several articles in the exile magazine La otra Alemania edited by Siemsen. Yet, due to economic reasons, he was unable to begin a career as a journalist or author.
After completing his studies in Agronomy, Schopflocher worked as an agricultural administrator and import merchant. He wrote several textbooks and specialist works on agricultural topics. From the 1980s onwards, he also began to write literature – essays, criticism, stories and poems, all initially written in Spanish. The author was into his seventies before he began to write in German. The impetus for this came from his experiences of translating his own writings into German. By doing so, Schopflocher had the impression that he was removing a “Schicht” (“layer”) and revealing the „in der Muttersprache abgelagerte[n] Urtext“ (“original text deposited in my mother tongue”, ed. trans, Quotation based on Dirk Niefanger/Gunnar Och, Robert Schopflocher, der Erzähler [The Story-Teller], 2018) From that point on, he wrote his stories and novels in German. In essays and lectures, he engaged with his bilingualism as a writer.
Roberto Schopflocher was an honorary member of the PEN Centre of German-Speaking Writers Abroad. In 2008, the city of Fürth awarded him the Jakob Wassermann Prize.
Reencuentros La historia de un perdedor
Lo reconocí de inmediato, por más que alcancé a verlo tan sólo de espaldas. Y eso que habían pasado varios años sin que nuestros caminos se cruzaran: prácticamente, desde que fracaso nuestro negocio, el único que habíamos emprendido juntos. Quizá por lo nerviosas brusquedad de sus movimientos o por esas orejas salientes, motivos de tantas burlas de escuela, el hecho fue que lo supe de inmediato: no podía otro que Marcos Silberman, Marquitos para sus allegados. La cola de sol resignados ciudadanos avanzaba lentamente.
*
Más de una vez mamá me lo había advertido: el chico aquél es un tiro al aire y, acórdate de mis palabras, va a terminar mal. Nunca me enteré en qué fundaba sus presagios, acompañado por una mirada lanzada al cielo y un suspiro, de ésos que sólo ella sabía emitir.
Marquitos ero un hijo de nuestros vecinos, el más grande de los tres. Un chico lleno de ideas fascinantes. Sentía una profunda admiración por quien era para mí como ese hermano mayor, que yo no tenía. Debo aclarar que ser vecino significaba mucho en nuestra colonia, casi tanto como ser pariente. A veces, más.
A primera vista, nuestras casas se parecían. Las mismas galerías. Imp de sus costados cerrado por enredaderas de flores olorosas: olorosas: madreselvas, jazmines, glicinas. Las mismas cocinas con dos hornallas, alimentadas a marlos y carbón de leña. Idénticas casillas de retrete, a treinta pasos detrás, el fondo del patio, en cuyo entro algunos paraísos, aplacaban con su sombra el fuego de las siestas estivales; de noche, nuestras gallinas dormían en sus ramas. Cortinas de crochet delante de las pequeñas ventanas; en la pared, las fotos de viejos barbudos de bajo del vidrio bombé en marco ovalado. Con el correr de los años descubrí las diferencias. En la casa de los Silberman había más libros que en la nuestra. Hileras de libros. En cambio, nosotros algunos adornos adicionales; un centro de mesa de vidrio prensado en forma de cisne; dos óleos; paisajes suizos con montañas nevadas, alegres cabañas y algunos cervatillos. Desde luego, cada familia poseía su propia historia, su propio lenguaje secreto y hasta sus propios chistes. Ahí se notaban las mayores diferencias entre los Silberman y nosotros, los Burdanek.
*
Poco antes de tocarle el turno, Marcos se dio vuelta y me descubrió: ¡Qué casualidad! Lo era de verdad, pues tragarme colas no formaba parte de mis costumbres. Mi tiempo vale oro. Me abrazó. Efusivamente, diría yo. Qué es tu vida, quise saber. Y entonces, en lugar de conformarme con cualquier contestación anodina, puso cara de misterio. Más tarde te cuento, me prometió. Lo miré con mayor detención. Registré el paño lustroso de su traje, la camisa de cuello gastado, el portfolio raído y deformado. A qué tanto misterio, me dije algo fastidiado. Seguramente correteaba los artículos plásticos que—recordé—fabricaba su suegro, un engreído emigrante alemán, que tenía bien corto de riendas a ese yerno bohemio en sus severos ojos. De algo hay que vivir, solía vivir decir mi finado padre, de algo decente en lo posible. La última vez que tropecé con mi amigo fue en un negocio de muebles de jardín sobre la Panamericana, al cual; mi mujer me había arrastrado para conseguir un juego de sillones de hierro, que consideraba de imperiosa necesidad para nuestra quita el club del campo. Fue varios años después de haber perdido nuestre asesoría; yo estaba organizando mi shopping-center. Recurro a las etapas de mis negocios para medir el tiempo. Así como otros emplean el crecimiento de sus hijos a modo de cronómetro. Cada uno tiene su método.
Entonces fui testigo de la derrota de mi amigo como vendedor de enanos de terracota, aquellos hombrecillos de gorro rojo que sonreían bondadosos detrás de barbas blancas y que en otros tiempos vigilaban los helechos en los patios y jugaban a las escondidas en la sombra de los jardines de la gente de “clase Media, más bien baja”, como suele expresarse Yolanda, mi mujer.
La escena que me tocó presenciar en aquella
oportunidad fue bastante bochornosa. Doy gracias a Dios de que el anonadado Marquitos no se percatara de mi presencia. Lo vi inquieto en un rincón, sus catálogos y listas de precios en el regazo. El dueño del negocio lo había plantado para atender a un caballero, quien con culto susurro manifestaba su interés por uno de esos curiosos enanos, figurillas divertidos, expresión de arte popular, que estaban llegando del Lejano Oriente. El comerciante simulaba no entender; uno nunca sabe si no está tratando con algún inspector disfrazado, a la pesca de una coima. Por ese señor de compartimento educado, casi se diría tímido, más bien se parecía al gerente de una antigua casa exportadora de cereales. Hasta podría ser inglés. O catedrático. No se inmutó ante el trato elusivo recibido. Ponderó el ingenio oriental y el humor popular de un tal Rabelais, quien según se explicaba, no sabía de falsos pudores. Citó la mitología de Los Antiguos y el Kamasutra, para terminar con las pinturas eróticas en los muros de las villas de Pompeya.
El comerciante, convencido por fin de la legitimidad del cliente, lo condujo al rincón más apartado del salón de ventas, pasando por los toboganes y hamacas, sombrillas y colchonetas inflables, hasta llegar a unos enanos de aspecto inocente. De lejos reconocí el estilo: engendros de plástico reforzado, que portaban delantales de vinílica imitación cuero. El vendedor alzó el delantal de uno ellos con gesto dramático, dejando al descubierto un falo obscenamente gigante.
El respetable caballero parecía satisfecho; elogió la excelente muestra del arte oriental, como si fuese experto en la materia. Y ordenó que cargasen la figura en el coche, cuidando de que no se le quebrara nada. Sin chistar pagó el precio exigido.
¿Se dio cuenta? –se dirigió el comerciante a Marcos, una vez que el cliente dejó el local. –¿Por qué no se les ocurren ideas nuevas a los industriales nacionales?
La verdad, somos unos atrasados – admitió Marquitos con aparente contrición — ¡Lo que son los orientales!
Alcancé a observar la cara burlona de mi amigo.
–Viera el éxito que tienen esos enanitos pornográficos. Hay clientes que se los llevan de a dos o de a tres. Y parece mentira la clase de gente que viene. Algunos se las dan de sabios, se interesan por los aspectos antropológicos del asunto; me dan cátedra sobre mitología, hablan con tono doctoral de Creta, de la Mesopotamia, de los dioses la fertilidad. Se dan aire de profesores para justificar la compra de esa basura. Y me piden que tenga cuidado para a no se les quiebre nada. Créame: yo los fajo que es un gusto; cobro mi impuesto a la lujuria.
El hombre paró de hablar. Con una sonrisa de simpatía miraba ese infeliz corredor de enanos pasados de moda. Rictus que, en realidad, no era más que un tic nervioso; tal vez la consecuencia del trato demasiado íntimo con tantos gnomos.
Y entonces sucedió algo que no olvidaré por el resto de mi vida. El semblante de Marcos parecía iluminarse por dentro; era como si de repente se volviese transparente, dejando al descubierto su verdadera personalidad, oculta detrás de la máscara de humilde viajante:
–Lo que es importante es satisfacer los deseos de los seres humanos, para que vivan más felices y reine la paz sobre la Tierra – dijo como pensando en voz alta. Era patente que no se refería esos vulgares adefesios.
El comerciante no respondió; se limitó a seguir mirándolo con se engañosa pseudosonrisa.
Evoqué la ceremonia nupcial en el shil, la pequeña sinagoga de nuestra colonia. Con asombrosa nitidez me llegaron esos detalles minúsculos, que, analizados en la retrospectiva, parecían presagiar los futuros acontecimientos. El leve tufo a sótano sin ventilar y la lumbre amarillenta que irradiaban los cirios, bajo el palio, se confundían en la luz ácida de los Sol de Noche. Un clima irreal que me sacudió. Cuando observé a Anita, que tomaba del brazo de su padre que se dirigía al palio, acudió a mi memoria una frase de Rabí Moshe Lieb: <<Nuestro camino en este mundo es como el filo de una navaja: de un lado está el mundo ilusorio y de aquel, el otro mundo. El camino de la vita está entre los dos>>. No se crea que yo soy un conocedor de la Cábala. Nada de eso: había escuchado la cita años atrás de boca del abuelo de Marquitos. Fue en una de las tertulias que durante las noches de invierno se celebran en la casa de los Silberman. Mi piadoso abuelo Leiva, enemigo de todo lo que olía de misticismo, había reprochado a su compañero. ¡Citar semejantes herejías en presencia de los niños! Hay que saberse, que mi abuela se aferraba al Shuljan Aruj, compendio que regula la vida de los judíos conforme con la Ley de Moisés, tal como fue codificada por los talmudistas. Como era lógico, contaba con el apoyo incondicional de nuestro shoijet, mientras que el gerente de la cooperativa integraba un dúo apóstata con el maestro de hebreo. Ninguno de los dos pertenecía al círculo íntimo de los viejos, y eso sólo por ser de otra generación. El maestro detestaba la rigidez de las leyes rabínicas que, según él, estaban asfixiando las fuerzas vitales de los judíos, a los que únicamente el retorno a las fuentes vivas en la vieja-nueva patria podrían redimir. Y según el gerente, todas las religiones no eran más que opio para los pueblos. Recuerdo como los dos instaron a mi abuelo para que diera cumplimento a las leyes de la Torá, lapidando sin más trámite a todas las adúlteras que conocía. El abuelo de Marcos se abstenía de intervenir en semejantes disputas. Según supe años más tarde, prefería enfrascarse en el estudio del Hemet yamin e ilustrarse así sobre c cómo segur una vida conforme con la Cábala. A decir la verdad: nunca llegué a comprender los argumentos esgrimidos por los bebedores de té. Pero recuerdo la música de sus voces: la estridencia belicosa de mi irritable abuelo y el profundo cántico tranquilizador de Reb Abraham.
*
El servicio en el temple estaba a cargo de Reb Duvid, nuestro shoijet, cuyo fantasma se empeñó en saludarme mientras yo manejaba el coche. Un hombrecillo enjuto, el rostro pálido enmarcado por una barba rala, de nariz larga y filosa, que transmitía una impresión de frágil espiritualidad. En mis recuerdos sigue canturreando las siete bendiciones de práctica. La novia da sus siete vueltas en turno al grupo reunido bajo el palio. Rodeos como lo exige la costumbre. Como siete son los días de la semana y siete vueltas ce la correa alrededor del antebrazo para fijar la cápsula de las filacterias. Siete, nos explicaba el abuelo de Marquitos, pese a las protestas de su propia mujer: el valor de letra zeta, zaín, que conduce a z’man, el tiempo, con cuyas fibras está tejida nuestra identidad. El maestro de hebreo, ese truculente burlador, tenía preparada una explicación irreverente para las siete vueltas de la novia. :as da, pontificaba, para que la concurrencia se convenza de que la niña no está embarazada. La entrega del anillo, luego, y la antiquísima fórmula consagratoria, pronunciada por el novio. Creo que fui uno de los pocos que advirtieron el pequeño incidente que se produjo cuando Anita procuró levantar el velo para llevar el cáliz a sus labios. El tul, préstamo de la madre de Marcos, se enredó, y cuando Werner ayudó a subirlo se rasgó.
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Reunions The story of a loser
I recognized him immediately, even though I only managed to see him from behind. And that was after several years without our paths crossing: practically, since our business failed, the only one we had undertaken together. Perhaps because of the nervous abruptness of his movements or because of those protruding ears, the reason for so many school jokes, the fact was that I knew immediately: it could be none other than Marcos Silberman, Marquitos to his friends. The queue of resigned citizens moved slowly.
*
More than once my mother had warned me: that boy is a shot in the air and, remember my words, he is going to end badly. I never found out what she based her predictions on, accompanied by a look thrown to the sky and a sigh, one of those that only she knew how to emit. Marquitos was a son of our neighbors, the oldest of the three. A boy full of fascinating ideas. I felt a deep admiration for someone who was like that older brother to me, the one I didn’t have. I must clarify that being a neighbor meant a lot in our neighborhood, almost as much as being a relative. Sometimes, more. At first glance, our houses looked alike. The same verandas. The sides of the houses were closed by climbing plants of fragrant flowers: fragrant: honeysuckle, jasmine, wisteria. The same kitchens with two burners, fed by cornflowers and charcoal. Identical toilet stalls, thirty steps behind, the back of the patio, in whose interior some paradise trees soothed with their shade the fire of summer siestas; at night, our chickens slept in their branches. Crochet curtains in front of the small windows; on the wall, photos of bearded old men under the domed glass in an oval frame. As the years went by, I discovered the differences. In the Silberman house there were more books than in ours. Rows of books. On the other hand, we had some additional decorations; a pressed glass centrepiece in the shape of a swan; two oil paintings; Swiss landscapes with snow-capped mountains, cheerful cottages and a few fawns. Of course, each family had its own story, its own secret language and even its own jokes. That was where the biggest differences between the Silbermans and us, the Burdaneks, were evident.
* Shortly before it was his turn, Marcos turned around and discovered me: What a coincidence! It really was, because swallowing colas was not part of my customs. My time is money. He hugged me. Effusively, I would say. What is your life like, I wanted to know. And then, instead of settling for any bland answer, he put on a mysterious face. I’ll tell you later, he promised. I looked at him more closely. I checked the shiny cloth of his suit, the shirt with the worn collar, the worn and deformed briefcase. Why so much mystery, I said to myself, somewhat annoyed. Surely he was running around the plastic articles that—I remembered—his father-in-law made, a conceited German immigrant, who kept that bohemian son-in-law on a tight leash in his severe eyes. You have to live off something, my late father used to say, something decent if possible. The last time I ran into my friend was in a garden furniture store on the Panamericana, where my wife had dragged me to get a set of iron chairs, which she considered imperative for our country club sale. It was several years after we lost our consultancy; I was organizing my shopping center. I use the stages of my businesses to measure time, just as others use the growth of their children as a stopwatch. Each one has his own method. Then I witnessed the defeat of my friend as a seller of terracotta dwarfs, those little men with red hats who smiled kindly behind white beards and who in other times watched over the ferns in the patios and played hide-and-seek in the shade of the gardens of people from the “middle class, rather lower class,” as Yolanda, my wife, often says. The scene I witnessed on that occasion was quite embarrassing. I thank God that the stunned Marquitos did not notice my presence. I saw him fidgeting in a corner, his catalogues and price lists on his lap. The owner of the shop had left him to attend to a gentleman who, in a cultured whisper, expressed his interest in one of those curious dwarfs, funny little figures, an expression of popular art, that were arriving from the Far East. The merchant pretended not to understand; one never knows if one is not dealing with some disguised inspector, fishing for a bribe. From this gentleman with a polite manner, one could almost say shy, he looked more like the manager of an old grain exporting house. He could even be English. Or a professor. He did not flinch at the evasive treatment he received. He pondered the oriental wit and popular humour of a certain Rabelais, who, as he explained, knew nothing of false modesty. He quoted the mythology of the Ancients and the Kama Sutra, ending with the erotic paintings on the walls of the villas of Pompeii. The merchant, finally convinced of the legitimacy of the client, led him to the most remote corner of the sales room, past the slides and hammocks, umbrellas and inflatable mattresses, until he reached some innocent-looking dwarves. From a distance I recognized their style: reinforced plastic creatures, wearing imitation leather vinyl aprons.
The seller lifted the apron of one of them with a dramatic gesture, revealing an obscenely gigantic phallus. The respectable gentleman seemed satisfied; he praised the excellent example of oriental art, as if he were an expert in the matter. And he ordered the figure to be loaded onto the cart, taking care not to break anything. Without a murmur he paid the price demanded. Did you notice? – the merchant addressed Marcos, once the client left the shop. –Why don’t the national industrialists come up with new ideas? The truth is, we are backward – admitted Marquitos with apparent contrition – What the orientals are! I managed to observe my friend’s mocking face. –Look at the success those pornographic dwarves have. There are clients who take them in twos or threes. And it seems incredible the kind of people who come. Some of them think of themselves as wise, they are interested in the anthropological aspects of the matter; They lecture me on mythology, they talk in a doctoral tone about Crete, Mesopotamia, the gods of fertility. They give themselves the air of professors to justify the purchase of this rubbish. And they ask me to be careful not to break anything. Believe me: I’ll beat them up for pleasure; I collect my tax on lust. The man stopped talking. With a sympathetic smile he looked at this unhappy corridor of old-fashioned dwarves. A grimace that, in reality, was nothing more than a nervous tic; perhaps the consequence of dealing too intimately with so many gnomes. And then something happened that I will not forget for the rest of my life. Marcos’s face seemed to light up from within; it was as if he suddenly became transparent, revealing his true personality, hidden behind the mask of a humble traveller: –What is important is to satisfy the desires of human beings, so that they live happier and peace reigns on Earth – he said as if thinking out loud. It was obvious that he was not referring to these vulgar monstrosities. The merchant did not reply, but simply continued to look at him with his deceptive pseudo-smile.
I recalled the wedding ceremony in the shil, the small synagogue in our colony. These tiny details came to me with astonishing clarity, and, in retrospect, seemed to foreshadow future events. The faint smell of an unventilated cellar and the yellowish light radiating from the candles under the canopy blended in with the acid light of the Sol de Noche. An unreal atmosphere that shook me. When I watched Anita, who took her father’s arm as he walked towards the canopy, a phrase from Rabbi Moshe Lieb came to mind: <>. Don’t think that I am a connoisseur of the Kabbalah. Not at all: I had heard the quote years ago from Marquitos’ grandfather. It was at one of the winter evening gatherings held at the Silbermans’ house. My pious grandfather Leiva, an enemy of everything that smacked of mysticism, had reproached his companion. Quoting such heresies in the presence of children! You have to know that my grandmother clung to the Shuljan Aruj, a compendium that regulates the life of the Jews in accordance with the Law of Moses, as it was codified by the Talmudists. Naturally, she had the unconditional support of our shoijet, while the manager of the cooperative was part of an apostate duo with the Hebrew teacher. Neither of them belonged to the inner circle of the old people, and that was only because they were from another generation. The teacher detested the rigidity of the rabbinical laws which, according to him, were suffocating the vital forces of the Jews, , who could only be redeemed by a return to the living sources in the old-new homeland. And according to the manager, all religions were nothing more than opium for the people. I remember how the two urged my grandfather to comply with the laws of the Torah, stoning without further ado all the adulteresses he met. Mark’s grandfather abstained from intervening in such disputes. As I learned years later, he preferred to immerse himself in the study of Hemet Yamin and thereby educate himself on how to lead a life in accordance with Kabbalah. To tell the truth, I never understood the arguments put forward by the tea drinkers. But I remember the music of their voices: the bellicose stridence of my irritable grandfather and the deep, soothing chant of Reb Abraham.
* The service at the temple was conducted by Reb Duvid, our shoichet, whose ghost insisted on greeting me as I drove the car. A thin little man, his pale face framed by a sparse beard, with a long, sharp nose, who conveyed an impression of fragile spirituality. In my memories he continues to hum the seven blessings of practice. The bride takes seven turns in the group gathered under the canopy. Turns as custom demands. As there are seven days in the week and seven turns of the strap around the forearm to secure the capsule of the phylacteries. Seven, Marquitos’ grandfather explained to us, despite the protests of his own wife: the value of the letter zeta, zain, which leads to z’man, time, with whose fibers our identity is woven. The Hebrew teacher, that truculent mocker, had prepared an irreverent explanation for the seven turns of the bride. :as da, he pontificated, so that the audience would be convinced that the girl was not pregnant. Then the delivery of the ring, and the ancient consecratory formula, pronounced by the groom. I think I was one of the few who noticed the little incident that occurred when Anita tried to lift the veil to bring the chalice to her lips. The tulle, borrowed from Marcos’ mother, got tangled, and when Werner helped her to raise it, it tore.
Alicia Dujovne Ortiz nació en Buenos Aires en 1939 en el seno de una familia de intelectuales de izquierda. Su madre, católica , Alicia Ortiz, fue una escritora feminista y comunista, y su padre, judío, Carlos Dujovne, un dirigente del PC argentino que cursó estudios en Moscú y fue miembro de la Internacional Sindical Roja. En 1978 A.D.O. se instaló en Francia, huyendo de la dictadura militar implantada en su país. En efecto, como redactora cultural del diario La Opinión, intervenido por el ejército y cuyo director, Jacobo Timerman, fue torturado en una cárcel clandestina, su situación estaba particularmente comprometida. Gracias a una pequeña beca de la Embajada de Francia, viajó a París con su hija de trece años. Al poco tiempo firmó su primer contrato de edición con el Mercure de France y comenzó a colaborar en los diarios Les Nouvelles Littéraires y Le Monde. Más tarde le siguieron editoriales como Gallimard, Grasset o La Découverte en las que publicó unos veinte libros. Su obra suma en total treinta y cinco volúmenes, algunos de ellos editados solo en castellano y otros, solo en francés. En castellano publicó las novelas La procesión va por dentro, Marea, 2019, La más agraciada y La Madama, Planeta, 2015 y 2013, Un corazón tan recio, La muñeca rusa, Las perlas rojas, Anita cubierta de arena,Mireya, El árbol de la gitana, Alfaguara, 2011, 2009, 2005, 2004, 1998 y 1991, El agujero en la tierra, Monte Avila, Caracas, 1982, El buzón de la esquina, Calicanto, 1980, así como las biografías y crónicas Cronista de dos mundos y Milagro, Marea, 2021 y 2017, Quién mató a Diego Duarte, Crónicas de la basura, Aguilar, 2011, El camarada Carlos, Eva Perón, La biografía (best-seller internacional), Alfaguara, 2008 y 1995, Dora Maar, Prisionera de la mirada, Vaso Roto, México, 2003, Al que se va, Zorzal, 2002, Maradona soy yo, Emecé, 1992, y Maria Elena Walsh, Júcar, Madrid, 1980. Varios de sus libros han sido traducidos a más de veinte idiomas. Recibió el Premio Konex de Platino, la Mission Stendhal del gobierno francés o la beca de creación de la John Simon Guggenheim’Fondation. Es miembro del PEF (Parlement des Ecrivaines Francophones). Acaba de terminar Aguardiente, tercera novela de autoficción de una obra basada en el tema del exilio que llevará el título general de Andanzas e incluye El árbol de la gitana y Las perlas rojas. Ha retomado la pintura, abandonada desde hace “apenas” sesenta años, y prepara una exposición en la Embajada argentina en París. Tiene, además de una hija, dos nietas y dos bisnietos.
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Alicia Dujovne Ortiz was born in Buenos Aires in 1939 to a family of left-wing intellectuals. Her Catholic mother, Alicia Ortiz, was a feminist and communist writer, and her Jewish father, Carlos Dujovne, was a leader of the Argentine Communist Party who studied in Moscow and was a member of the Red International of Trade Unions. In 1978, A.D.O. moved to France, fleeing the military dictatorship in her country. Indeed, as a cultural editor for the newspaper La Opinión, which was taken over by the army and whose director, Jacobo Timerman, was tortured in a clandestine prison, her situation was particularly compromised. Thanks to a small grant from the French Embassy, she travelled to Paris with her thirteen-year-old daughter. Shortly afterwards she signed her first publishing contract with Mercure de France and began to collaborate with the newspapers Les Nouvelles Littéraires and Le Monde. Later, publishers such as Gallimard, Grasset and La Découverte followed suit, with whom she published around twenty books. Her work totals thirty-five volumes, some of which were published only in Spanish and others only in French. In Spanish she published the novels The Procession Goes Inside, Marea, 2019; The Most Graceful and The Madama, Planeta, 2015 and 2013; A Heart So Strong, The Russian Doll, The Red Pearls, Anita Covered in Sand, Mireya, The Gypsy Tree, Alfaguara, 2011, 2009, 2005, 2004, 1998 and 1991; The Hole in the Earth, Monte Avila, Caracas, 1982; The Corner Mailbox, Calicanto, 1980; as well as the biographies and chronicles Chronicler of Two Worlds and Miracle, Marea, 2021 and 2017; Who Killed Diego Duarte? Chronicles of the Garbage, Aguilar, 2011; Comrade Carlos, Eva Perón, The Biography (international best-seller), Alfaguara, 2008 and 1995, Dora Maar, Prisionera de la mirada (Prisoner of the Look), Vaso Roto (Mexico City), 2003, Al que se va (Al Who Goes), Zorzal (2002), Maradona soy yo (Maradona I Am), Emecé (1992), and Maria Elena Walsh (Maria Elena Walsh), Júcar (Madrid), 1980. Several of her books have been translated into more than twenty languages. She received the Konex Platinum Prize, the Mission Stendhal from the French government, and the creation grant from the John Simon Guggenheim Foundation. She is a member of the PEF (Parlement des Ecrivaines Francophones). She has just finished La procesión va por dentro, Marea, 2019: La más agraciada y La Madama, Planeta, 2015 y 2013, Un corazón tan recio, La muñeca rusa, Las perlas rojas, Anita cubierta de arena,Mireya, El árbol de la gitana, Alfaguara, 2011, 2009, 2005, 2004, 1998 y 1991: El agujero en la tierra, Monte Avila, Caracas, 1982, El buzón de la esquina, Calicanto, 1980, as well as biografías y crónicas Cronista de dos mundos y Milagro, Marea, 2021 y 2017, Quién mató a Diego Duarte, Crónicas de la basura, Aguilar, 2011, El camarada Carlos, Eva Perón. La Aguardiente (Brand New), the third autofiction novel in a work based on the theme of exile that bears the general title Andanzas (Andanzas) and includes El árbol de la gitana (The Gypsy Tree) and Las perlas rojas (Red Pearls). She has taken up painting again, having abandoned it “barely” sixty years ago, and is preparing an exhibition at the Argentine Embassy in Paris. In addition to a daughter, she has two granddaughters and two great-grandsons
De: Alicia Dujovne Ortiz. Andanzas: Trilogía autobiográfica. EQUIDISTANCIAS. Kindle Edition.
Colonia Carmel
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Inesperadamente, Samuel se le acercó: —Entonces, vámonos. A ella la excitación la hizo ponerse de pie. Sin darse cuenta pateó unas hojas y preguntó con voz estrangulada: — ¿En serio lo decís? ¿Te irías? —¿Qué se puede perder? Volvió a sentarse, enfurruñada. — La respuesta no es ésa. Si uno se va al fin del mundo, a las colonias agrarias del Barón de Hirsch, no será para encogerse de hombros con semejante amargura. —Cada uno reacciona como puede, Sárele. Apenada, ella le insufló ánimos con un cariño un poco seco, acariciándole la mejilla con la palma abierta, en forma vertical, como si lo afeitara. Mientras lo hacía volvió a la carga: —¿Sabés cuánto recibirá cada colono, Samuel? Trescientas hectáreas. —Serán treinta. —Te digo que trescientas. Y le contó de nuevo lo que el novio sabía de memoria: que había ido a Kishinev para escuchar la conferencia del emisario del barón, ese barón francés que los quería salvar de los pogroms. Y que trescientas hectáreas en la Argentina no eran nada, porque la pampa aquélla era una estepa inacabable. Y repetía las palabras “llanura” e “infinita” con tales gestos de grandeza, que Samuel la besó para impedir que se volara. A veces creemos besar al dueño de unos labios, cuando en realidad estamos besando una idea. En los labios de Sara, él besó a la Argentina, y ni siquiera, tal como ella lo temía, fue un beso esperanzado, sino movido por un recuerdo de plumas blancas. Para los judíos de Besarabia, el día en que asesinaron a Alejandro II se convirtió en un día de plumas blancas. Samuel de ese pogrom no recordaba muertos ni sangre, recordaba colchones abiertos y manos de cosacos que se metían por los tajos de los colchones para buscar el dinero judío, y un gran cuchillo que despanzurraba su propio colchoncito, y una nieve de plumas revoloteando por la casa. Se estremeció: —Pero a mí que no me den trescientas hectáreas, Sárele. ¿Qué voy a hacer con tanta tierra? —Aprenderemos. Trabajaremos con la hoz y el arado y nos liberaremos de la condena intelectual. —¿Como querés que me libere de la condena intelectual? Y entonces ella, completamente harta: —¡Ay, Samuel, Samuel! Ahora me vas a salir con que has vivido siglos pisando no tierra sino Libro, recorriendo no caminos sino palabras alineadas, hebreas, arameas, hasta sánscritas, me vas a salir con que tenés sangre gitana y que los gitanos vinieron de la India y que vos por eso estudiás sánscrito, y que ni los judíos ni los gitanos necesitamos tierra. iPero es que yo no puedo más, Samuel, no puedo más, y despertate, que la vida no es eso! —¿No te parece que alguien va rehaciendo un dibujo? —murmuró él sin escucharla—. Hablaremos español, nosotros que vinimos de Jazaria…lehuda Halevy cuenta que cuando el ministro judío del califa de Córdoba se enteró de que existía un reino judío a orillas del mar Caspio … —Mirá, Samuel, si no te despertás, yo me voy sola. Samuel levantó el vaso de té con mango de plata que la chusma cristiana, por azar, no se había llevado, miró al trasluz el líquido rojizo con su kinoto almibarado en el fondo y pronunció —¿qué remedio cabía? —el discurso impetuoso que Sara y los demás futuros inmigrantes esperaban del maestro de escuela, pero que dos padres y dos madres escucharon de lejos, como en un sueño: —El Barón de Hirsch… nunca más un pogrom … una colonia que nos espera en la provincia de Entre Ríos … los judíos nacidos en la Argentina precisarán maestros… basta de leyendas… al fin podré decirles que Moisés aprovechó la marea baja para cruzar el Mar Rojo … Argentina, tierra de promisión … todos los hombres de buena voluntad … brazos abiertos … generaciones creciendo como el trigo… un campo para sembrar ideas … Pestalozzi … mis ideales de enseñanza … colaborar con el crecimiento de una nueva Nación, qué regalo de la Historia. El samovar seguía proclamando, incansable, “algo se prepara”, pero ya nadie era capaz de oír su resplandor. ¿Los jasidim? Enmohecidos. No era que las leyendas se hubiesen acabado: habían sido reemplazadas por otras que exhibían textos distintos. Definitivamente instalados sobre sus cuatro sillas, los padres de Sara y de Samuel optaban por callarse. La redención por el trabajo de la tierra no les decía mucho. ¿Y de su propio dolor, podían hablar? Hay cosas que no ganan con salir a la superficie, como el quinoto que brilla tentador en el fondo del vaso y que, fuera del té, es un frutito arrugado de color pardo. Lo único que atinó a expresar el viejo Akiba fue: —Y bueno, cada generación se cuenta un cuento. Pero Sara y Samuel no lo escucharon. No podían. Para lograr marcharse, tenían que pensar que las dos madres de cabeceo resignado, y Akiba, y Brun el encuadernador, cuya familia encuadernaba libros con la misma constancia con que los Dujovne eran maestros de escuela, ambos petisos, retacones, con los hombros llovidos y sendos rollos de grasa en la nuca, estaban completamente lelos. De haber pensado que no, que seguían cuerdos, tanto que ni siquiera lagrimeaban, de repente neutrales, observando la escena como si no les concerniera, con una gentileza de vaca que se para sola en la actitud requerida para que el carnicero la ultime con limpieza, Sara y Samuel nunca hubieran juntado fuerzas para llenar sus bolsos y amontonar sus ropas en un atado al que se anuda y desanuda cientos de veces. La realidad se desconoce hasta no haber elegido lo que se habrá de llevar a la otra tierra. No hay momento más grave, salvo el de morirse, y en ambos se hacen testamentos. —¡No te vas a llevar esa gorrita agujereada! —Sárele, ¿cómo voy a dejar esta gorrita? —Si no sos capaz de desprenderte de una gorra, quedate en Rusia. ¿Entonces qué llevaron? ¿Qué envolvieron en trapos con una ambición de dignidad visible en los remiendos? ¿Qué metieron en canastas despeluzadas y en el bolsón del tío que navegó por el Mar Negro? ¿Edredones de plumas? El calor de la Argentina los tornó inútiles y se volvieron almohadas. ¿El samovar? Para tomar mate no se necesita más que una pava. Eso sí, cargaron con infinidad de paquetitos. La pobreza acumula. Solo el rico se desplaza con una sola valija fácil de llevar. El pobre arrastra bártulos siempre bamboleantes y fardos anudados a los que abraza como si fueran niños. Pero lo necesita. No sabría partir con poca cosa. Así, al confortar sus espaldas con la tibieza de un bulto, se siente acompañado. Se vistieron de velorio, él con el hongo en la cabeza, ella con el pañuelo y, de inmediato, se encontraron extraños. Como vestidos con ropa ajena. La crispación del hombro o la cadera hacía chingar la falda o la chaqueta. Se las habían puesto cientos de veces, pero lo que ahora las hacía diferentes era la actitud de los cuerpos con el adiós adentro: nadie se para del mismo modo cuando se va para siempre. Al marcharse perdían su familia, su país y su nombre. Nadie más los llamaría Dujovne con el matiz exacto de la e, esa e entre dos aguas, de origen tártaro, que se desliza entre la e y la y, mientras la lengua, casi pegada al paladar, deja pasar el aire. Lo sabían tan bien que ya apartaban de sus rostros, como espantándose una mosca, la tentativa de explicar cómo se pronunciaba el apellido, admitiendo de Desde aquel rio pardo, Buenos Aires se confundía con la pampa. —Llegamos —les dijeron. ¿Adónde? Aquello era lo menos parecido a un lugar de llegada. Algo había, sí, ¡pero tan chato! Juntos trotaron en manada, floja la pierna, arrugado el ropón, hasta el Hotel de Inmigrantes. Por las ventanas aparecía una ciudad con techos de pizarra, igual que en París, con ventanas de rejas, igual que en Madrid, y con cúpulas verdes rodeadas de matronas aladas, igual que en Roma. De allí los embarcaron rumbo a Concepción del Uruguay y, al fin, apareció un pueblito llamado Villa Domínguez donde unos hombres con botas, pantalón abullonado, chaqueta corta y sombrero negro los miraron de lado. —¡Cosacos! —exclamó Sara. Los recién llegados se volvieron hacia Samuel. Era el maestro, ya había tenido que aprender un poco de español. No muy seguro de sí, les explicó que a esos cosacos los llamaban gauchos, que el parecido se limitaba a la ropa, y quizás a la cara, se alisó las barbas, el ropón, se acomodó el honguito, se agachó a besar la tierra, se le cayó el honguito y, con labio terroso, articuló: —¿Cómo estáis, amigos? Un jolgorio sacudió el folclórico montón. Samuel creyó oír una palabra conocida y se frotó la oreja. Sí, era idisch. —¡Gauchos judíos! —gritó, abalanzándose a besarlos en la boca para horror de algún auténtico nativo que contemplaba la escena con una sorna parecida al rencor. Todo de beige, con cuello palomita, el administrador de la Jewish Colonisation, israelita francés, se adelantó a darles la bienvenida revoleando el bastón. Tenía los modales adecuados como para que aquellos rusos se sintieran más petisos y malentrazados que nunca. Los hicieron subir a un coche vivaracho que se llamaba sulky, la pampa abrió la boca, se los tragó, y los gauchos verdaderos, con un asombro creciente al ver que los apócrifos conducían el sulky de pie, se quedaron mirando con sus ojos oblicuos la polvareda rosa. ¿Pero sería posible una tierra tan plana? ¿Tan sin árboles? ¿Tan verde, sin embargo, y tan olorosa a vaca que el viento parecía contener los espíritus de un ganado sin fin? Samuel, con amplio gesto, le mostró a su mujer el horizonte circular y señaló un punto: —¿No ves algo brillante, como de agua, allá, entre la tierra y el cielo? —Será un espejismo. Esto es un desierto —cuando el nivel del entusiasmo subía en el marido, en la esposa bajaba. Ocasión demasiado servida en bandeja como para que un maestro de Biblia no se sintiese obligado a contestar: —Y aquí levantaremos nuestras tiendas. jAh, Sárele, Sárele! En este vacío sin límites, la mirada comprende … Iba a decir: “A D.os”. Pero se avergonzó y dijo: “La redondez de la Tierra”. Y llegaron a casa. La casa estaba en medio de la vastedad. No habían abandonado la vastedad para entrar en un pueblo amontonado que permitiese olvidarla por las noches, no: había vastedad por adelante, vastedad por detrás y, en el centro, la casa, de ladrillos rojos y ventanas verdes con tela de malla contra las moscas. El piso, de tierra. Como Samuel lo miró con ese gesto amargo que se le iba dibujando en la boca, el nivel de entusiasmo en ella subió con rapidez: —Juntaremos bosta de vaca para encerarlo bien, con el tiempo se forma una costra dura y brillante como roble de Eslavonia. Piso de madera no habría pero sí mesas, roperos, camas, sillas, platos y hasta dos perros que ya tenían nombre: Pleve y Stolipin. Era una broma del Barón esperarlos con perros que se llamaban como los dos ministros antisemitas del Zar. El horno y el retrete quedaban afuera. A varias cuadras de distancia, la escuela, solitaria en medio de un camino enmarcado por una doble hilera de alambres que se juntaban en el horizonte, allí donde a Samuel le pareció ver el brillo de una laguna. Sobre los postes se demoraba un pájaro grande, inmóvil, negro, a veces ronco. El polvo y el viento formaban conos inmensos que remolineaban como trompos. Y forzando la vista, entonces sí podía verse a la distancia la copa de algún árbol, el molino de viento de alguna casa judía, que si no ¿de dónde saldrían los alumnos en esa pampa desolada de Colonia Carmel? Cuando el samovar estuvo instalado sobre la mesa y los edredones de plumas, ignorando su destino de transformarse en almohadas, se estiraron con un ¡ah! de delicia sobre las camas nuevas, Samuel y Sara se miraron perdidos. Les sobraba lugar. Alrededor de sus cuerpos encontraban sitio de más. Por falta de costumbre andaban rígidos, con los codos pegados a las caderas cuando, por el contrario, para poblar ese tamaño habrían tenido que moverlos como aspas de molino y ocupar el espacio a fuerza de ademanes, porque toda la Tierra es redonda, sí, Sárele, pero la pampa es muchísimo más redonda que el resto de la Tierra. Colonia Carmel era un sitio que lanzaba las casas al voleo, apuntando a lo lejos en un intento por atrapar aquella franja de nada que parecía retroceder a cada paso. Avanzaban un poco: el horizonte retrocedía otro. Seguían avanzando, exasperados, enloquecidos, preguntándose cuándo terminaría de estirarse aquel elástico de tierra. Suerte que nunca aprendieron a montar, de lo contrario, ¡qué susto para ellos, comprender que ni a galope tendido se alcanzaba el final! —¿Qué me anda haciendo con ese sobretodazo, don Samuel? Aligérese, hombre, el sombrero quédeselo si quiere pero póngase bombacha, calce alpargata, ¡no me va a salir a manear la vaca con esa ropa de velorio! —¡Manear la vaca! —murmuraba el maestro—. En Kurilovich la vaca se viene a parar sola para que uno la ordeñe. La vaca vive con la gente, adentro de la casa, por poco no te conversa mientras tomás el té. ¿Dónde se ha visto en nuestro pueblo que una vaca espere a que el tarro esté lleno para encajarle una patada? Se la quedaba mirando. Era una vaca. Pero no era una vaca. Tenía una expresión furiosa y testaruda. Vaca salvaje, sin amor, americana, de tierra solitaria. —¿Y los caballos? —seguía—. Todo caballo ruso te conoce la hora en que debe ponerse junto a la vara para que le coloquen los arneses. Acá, entre que salís a campearlo, lo enlazás y lo uncís al sulky, ya te olvidaste adónde ibas. Sin contar con que apenas te siente el peso, bufa como un demonio y sale disparado hasta que, cuadras más allá, te agarra ese tranquito cortón, criollo, que tanto me recuerda, ahora que pienso, al del caballo bashkir, solo que aquél es más chiquito y más cubierto de pelo … —¡
Unexpectedly, Samuel approached him: “Then let’s go.” Excitement made her stand up. Without realizing it, he kicked some leaves and asked in a strangled voice: – Are you serious? Would you leave? —What can be lost? She sat down again, sulking. —The answer is not that. If one goes to the end of the world, to the agrarian colonies of Baron Hirsch, it will not be to shrug one’s shoulders with such bitterness. —Everyone reacts as they can, Sárele. Distressed, she encouraged him with a somewhat dry affection, caressing his cheek with her open palm, vertically, as if she were shaving him. As he did so he returned to the charge: —Do you know how much each settler will receive, Samuel? Three hundred hectares. —There will be thirty. —I tell you three hundred. And he told him again what the groom knew by heart: that he had gone to Kishinev to listen to the lecture of the baron’s emissary, that French baron who wanted to save them from the pogroms. And that three hundred hectares in Argentina were nothing, because that pampa was an endless steppe. And she repeated the words “plain” and “infinite” with such gestures of grandeur that Samuel kissed her to prevent her from flying away. Sometimes we think we are kissing the owner of a lip, when in reality we are kissing an idea. On Sara’s lips, he kissed Argentina, and it was not even a kiss of hope, as she feared, but one moved by a memory of white feathers. For the Jews of Bessarabia, the day Alexander II was assassinated became a day of white feathers. Samuel did not remember deaths or blood from that pogrom, he remembered open mattresses and Cossack hands reaching into the slits of the mattresses to look for Jewish money, and a large knife ripping open his own mattress, and a snow of feathers fluttering around the house. He shuddered: “But don’t give me three hundred hectares, Sarele. What am I going to do with so much land?” “We will learn.” We will work with the sickle and the plough and we will free ourselves from intellectual condemnation. —How do you expect me to free myself from intellectual condemnation? And then she, completely fed up: —Oh, Samuel, Samuel! Now you are going to tell me that you have lived centuries treading not on land but on Book, walking not on roads but on aligned words, Hebrew, Aramaic, even Sanskrit, you are going to tell me that you have gypsy blood and that the gypsies came from India and that is why you study Sanskrit, and that neither Jews nor gypsies need land. But I can’t take it anymore, Samuel, I can’t take it anymore, and wake up, because life is not like that! —Don’t you think that someone is redoing a drawing? —he murmured without listening to her. We will speak Spanish, we who came from Khazaria… Yehuda Halevy tells how when the Jewish minister of the Caliph of Cordoba found out that there was a Jewish kingdom on the shores of the Caspian Sea… —Look, Samuel, if you don’t wake up, I’ll go alone. Samuel picked up the silver-handled tea glass that the Christian rabble had by chance not taken, looked at the reddish liquid with its syrupy kumquat at the bottom and gave —what choice? — the impetuous speech that Sara and the other future immigrants expected from the schoolteacher, but that two fathers and two mothers heard from afar, as if in a dream: —Baron de Hirsch… never again a pogrom… a colony awaits us in the province of Entre Ríos… the Jews born in Argentina will need teachers… enough of legends… I will finally be able to tell them that Moses took advantage of the low tide to cross the Red Sea… Argentina, promised land… all men of good will… open arms… generations growing like wheat… a field to sow ideas… Pestalozzi… my teaching ideals… to collaborate with the growth of a new Nation, what a gift of History. The samovar continued to proclaim, tirelessly, “something is being prepared,” but no one was able to hear its glow any longer. The Hasidim? Moldy. It was not that the legends had ended: they had been replaced by others that displayed different texts. Definitely installed on their four chairs, the parents of Sara and Samuel chose to remain silent. Redemption through the work of the land did not mean much to them. And of their own pain, could they speak? There are things that don’t gain from coming to the surface, like the quinoto that shines temptingly at the bottom of the glass and that, outside of the tea, is a wrinkled brown fruit. The only thing that old Akiba managed to say was: “Well, every generation tells itself a story.” But Sara and Samuel didn’t listen to him. They couldn’t. In order to get away, they had to think that the two mothers with their resigned nods, and Akiba, and Brun the bookbinder, whose family bound books with the same constancy with which the Dujovnes were school teachers, both short, short, with sloping shoulders and rolls of fat on the back of their necks, were completely stupid. If they had thought that they weren’t, that they were still sane, so much so that they weren’t even crying, suddenly neutral, observing the scene as if it didn’t concern them, with the gentleness of a cow that stands up on its own in the attitude required for the butcher to finish it off cleanly, Sara and Samuel would never have gathered the strength to fill their bags and pile their clothes into a bundle that is tied and untied hundreds of times. The reality is unknown until one has chosen what to take to the other land. There is no more serious moment, except that of dying, and in both cases one makes wills. —You are not going to take that little cap with holes in it! —Sarele, how am I going to leave this cap? —If you are not capable of giving up a cap, stay in Russia. So what did they take? What did they wrap in rags with an ambition for dignity visible in the patches? What did they put in lint-free baskets and in the bag of the uncle who sailed across the Black Sea? Down comforters? The heat of Argentina made them useless and they became pillows. The samovar? To drink mate you only need a kettle. Of course, they carried an infinite number of little packages. Poverty accumulates. Only the rich travel with a single, easy-to-carry suitcase. The poor man drags his always swaying belongings and knotted bundles that he hugs as if they were children. But he needs it. He wouldn’t know how to leave with little. So, by comforting his back with the warmth of a bundle, he feels accompanied. They dressed for funerals, he with the bowler hat on his head, she with the scarf, and immediately they found themselves strangers. As if they were dressed in other people’s clothes. The tenseness of the shoulder or the hip made the skirt or the jacket twitch. They had worn them hundreds of times, but what made them different now was the attitude of the bodies with the goodbye inside: no one stands the same way when they leave forever. When they left, they lost their family, their country and their name. No one else would call them Dujovne with the exact nuance of the e, that e between two waters, of Tatar origin, that slides between the e and the y, while the tongue, almost stuck to the palate, lets the air pass through. They knew it so well that they were already pushing away from their faces, as if shooing away a fly, the attempt to explain how to pronounce the surname, admitting that Desde eso rio pardo, Buenos Aires was confused with the pampas. “We arrived,” they said. Where? That was the least similar to a place of arrival. There was something, yes, but so flat! Together they trotted in a herd, their legs limp, their robes wrinkled, to the Hotel de Inmigrantes. Through the windows a city appeared with slate roofs, just like in Paris, with barred windows, just like in Madrid, and with green domes surrounded by winged matrons, just like in Rome. From there they were put on board for Concepción del Uruguay and, finally, a small town called Villa Domínguez appeared where some men in boots, puffed pants, short jackets and black hats looked at them sideways. “Cossacks!” exclaimed Sara. The new arrivals turned to Samuel. He was the teacher, he had already had to learn a little Spanish. Not very sure of himself, he explained to them that these Cossacks were called gauchos, that the resemblance was limited to their clothes, and perhaps to their faces. He smoothed his beard, his robe, adjusted his hat, bent down to kiss the ground, the hat fell off and, with an earthy lip, he said: “How are you, friends?” A cheer shook the folkloric crowd. Samuel thought he heard a familiar word and rubbed his ear. Yes, it was Yiddish. “Jewish gauchos!” he shouted, rushing to kiss them on the mouth to the horror of some genuine natives who watched the scene with a sarcasm that seemed resentful. All in beige, with a turtleneck, the administrator of Jewish Colonisation, a French Israelite, came forward to welcome them, waving his cane. He had the right manners to make the Russians feel shorter and more ill-fated than ever. They were made to climb into a lively car called a sulky, the pampas opened their mouths and swallowed them up, and the real gauchos, with increasing astonishment at seeing the apocryphal gauchos driving the sulky standing up, stood gazing with their slanted eyes at the pink dust. But could such a flat land be possible? So treeless? So green, however, and so smelling of cow that the wind seemed to contain the spirits of an endless herd? Samuel, with a broad gesture, showed his wife the circular horizon and pointed to a spot: “Don’t you see something shining, like water, over there, between the earth and the sky?” “It must be a mirage. This is a desert.” When the level of enthusiasm rose in the husband, in the wife it fell. The opportunity was too well served for a Bible teacher not to feel obliged to answer: “And here we will pitch our tents.” Ah, Sarele, Sarele! In this boundless emptiness, the gaze understands… She was going to say: “To God.” But she was embarrassed and said: “The roundness of the Earth.” And they arrived home. The house was in the middle of the vastness. They had not left the vastness to enter a crowded town that would allow them to forget it at night, no: there was vastness in front, vastness behind, and in the center, the house, made of red bricks and green windows with mesh screens to keep out the flies. The floor was made of dirt. As Samuel looked at him with that bitter frown forming on his mouth, her enthusiasm level rose rapidly: “We’ll gather cow dung to wax it well, over time it forms a hard, shiny crust like Slavonian oak.” There would be no wooden floor, but there were tables, wardrobes, beds, chairs, plates, and even two dogs that already had names: Pleve and Stolipin. It was a joke of the Baron to wait for them with dogs named after the Tsar’s two anti-Semitic ministers. Several blocks away, the school, solitary in the middle of a road framed by a double row of wires that met on the horizon, where Samuel thought he saw the shine of a lagoon. On the posts a large, motionless, black bird lingered, sometimes hoarse. The dust and the wind formed immense cones that swirled like tops. And if you strained your eyes, you could see in the distance the top of some tree, the windmill of some Jewish house, otherwise where would the students come from in that desolate plain of Colonia Carmel? When the samovar was set on the table and the feather duvets, unaware of their destiny to be transformed into pillows, stretched out with an ah! of delight on the new beds, Samuel and Sara looked at each other, lost. They had plenty of room. They found more than enough space around their bodies. Out of habit they walked stiffly, with their elbows glued to their hips, when, on the contrary, to populate that size they would have had to move them like windmill blades and occupy the space by force of gestures, because the whole Earth is round, yes, Sárele, but the pampas are much rounder than the rest of the Earth. Colonia Carmel was a place that threw out houses at random, aiming far away in an attempt to catch that strip of nothingness that seemed to recede with each step. They advanced a little: the horizon receded another. They continued advancing, exasperated, maddened, wondering when that elastic piece of land would finish stretching. Luckily they never learned to ride, otherwise, what a fright for them, realizing that even at full gallop you couldn’t reach the end! “What are you doing to me with that big overcoat, Don Samuel? Lighten up, man, keep the hat if you want, but put on baggy pants, wear sandals, you’re not going to go out and handle the cow in those funeral clothes!” “Handle the cow!” murmured the master. “In Kurilovich the cow comes to stop by itself so you can milk it. The cow lives with people, inside the house, it almost talks to you while you drink tea. Where have you ever seen in our town a cow wait for the can to be full before kicking it?” He kept looking at it. It was a cow. But it wasn’t a cow. It had a furious and stubborn expression. A wild cow, without love, American, from a solitary land.” “And the horses?” he continued. Every Russian horse knows the hour when he must be brought to the pole to be harnessed. Here, between the time you go out to camp him, lasso him and hitch him to the sulky, you forget where you were going. Not to mention that as soon as he feels your weight, he snorts like a demon and takes off until, as you square up, you get that short, Creole gait that reminds me so much, now that I think about it, of the Bashkir horse, only that one is smaller and covered with more hair…
Hernan Rodríguez Fisse nació en Santiago de Chile en 1950, siendo su padre nacido en Edirne y su madre en Estambul. Ambas familias descienden de judíos exiliados de España en 1492. Emigraron a Chile en 1949. Es Licenciado en Administración Pública por la Universidad de Chile y Postgraduado en Periodismo por la Universidad Católica de Chile. Tiene un Magíster en Ciencias Políticas y un Doctorado en Relaciones Internacionales. Es profesor de negocios internacionales y negociación empresarial y resolución de conflictos en la Universidad de Chile, Universidad de Santiago y Universidad Federico Santa María. Es Director y Editor de la revista de arte, ciencia y literatura Zejel y Colaborador permanente de las revistas El Amaneser de Estambul, Aki Yerushalayim de Israel, Foro de México. Ha sido líder de la comunidad sefardí de Santiago durante los últimos treinta años y en la actualidad enseña ‘djudezmo’ a los miembros.
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Hernan Rodríguez Fisse was born in Santiago de Chile in 1950, his father being born in Edirne and his mother in Istanbul. Both families descend from Jews exiled from Spain in 1492. They emigrated to Chile in 1949. He has a degree in Public Administration from Universidad de Chile and a graduate degree in Journalism from Catholic University of Chile. He has a Master of Arts in Political Science and a Doctor in International Relations. He teaches international business and business negotiation and conflict resolution at the Universidad de Chile, Universidad de Santiago, and Universidad Federico Santa Maria. He is Director and Editor of the Art, Science and Literature magazine Zejel and a permanent Collaborator of the magazines El Amaneser of Istanbul, Aki Yerushalayim of Israel, Foro of Mexico. He has been a leader of the Sephardic community of Santiago for the past thirty years and at present teaches ‘djudezmo’ to the
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La obra ganadora de la 26ª versión del Premio Revista de Libros, en la categoría biografías y memorias, organizado por CMPC y El Mercurio, corresponde a un bello retrato de una familia de inmigrantes provenientes de Turquía a comienzos de los años 30. Jacques Rodríguez –turco sefardita– es el protagonista de esta historia de viajeros, inmigrantes, trabajadores y entusiastas; una vuelta por el mundo que arranca en Estambul, sigue por París y termina en Valparaíso, Santiago y Osorno, arraigándose definitivamente en Chile.
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The prize-winning work of the 26th version of the Revista de Libros Award, in the biographies and memoirs category, organized by CMPC and El Mercurio, corresponds to a beautiful portrait of a family of immigrants from Turkey in the early 1930s. Jacques Rodríguez – Sephardic Turk – is the protagonist of this story of travelers, immigrants, workers and enthusiasts; a tour of the world that starts in Istanbul, continues through Paris and ends in Valparaíso, Santiago and Osorno, definitively taking root in Chile.
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Las camisas y corbatas que Jacques vendía en la tienda eran de la marca Wings y estaban fabricadas por una empresa nacional de propiedad de dos socios, los señores Luis Nun y Max German, cuyas oficinas estaban ubicadas en la calle Salas 344 de Santiago. Los pedidos eran tomados por vendedores viajeros, quienes visitaban todas las tiendas y casas comerciales del país viendo lo que faltaba. Lo mismo ocurría con la ropa destinada a la venta. Cuando algún producto se agotaba, la tienda enviaba un telegrama a la fábrica o al proveedor, especificando el detalle de los despachos que requería. El vendedor viajero era quien se encargaba de visitar todas las casas comerciales y de revisar los stocks, y ganaba un porcentaje de las ventas totales. Al día siguiente del cumpleaños de Jacques, en agosto de 1939, Luis Nun, uno de los propietarios de la fábrica de camisas Wings, visitó la tienda de Osorno, y después de reunirse con los dueños de La Femme Chic saludó personalmente a cada uno de los vendedores. Al momento de estrechar su mano, Jacques sintió que le depositó un pequeño papel muy doblado y le guiñó el ojo, sin que nadie de los presentes se diera cuenta. Al retirarse, Jacques se fue a un costado del local para abrir el papel y leyó: «Lo espero a almorzar en el Jockey Club». Muy extrañado concurrió a la cita, con la misma sensación de cuando trabajaba en la Casa Rosemblitt de Santiago, antes de llegar a Osorno. Fue así como el dueño de las camisas Wings le ofreció el trabajo de vendedor viajero de la zona entre Rancagua y Puerto Montt, y la representación de su marca. Le pagarían una comisión del diez por ciento por las ventas a todas las casas comerciales. Además le permitían incluir otras marcas, siempre que no fueran competencia directa, es decir, ni camisas ni corbatas. Con este nuevo trabajo Jacques podría aumentar sus ingresos de manera significativa, aunque el sueldo no incluía el pago de viáticos y debía financiar los hoteles, el transporte y la comida por su propia cuenta. Si bien esto último implicaba un gran riesgo —porque involucraba gastos antes de las primeras pagas—, Jacques quedó muy entusiasmado con la oferta y le daría su respuesta a don Luis en un plazo máximo de treinta días, vía telegrama. Durante ese tiempo Jacques conversó con cada uno de los vendedores viajeros que llegaron a la tienda, entre los cuales estaba Rafael Conforti, quien representaba a Tejidos Caffarena. Conforti le explicó que el trabajo no era fácil por el tiempo que se estaba fuera de casa, que sumado equivalía a unos seis meses al año. Él hacía un mínimo de cinco giras al año recorriendo los negocios de Rancagua, San Fernando, Curicó, Talca, Linares, Chillán, Concepción, Los Ángeles, Temuco, Valdivia, Osorno y Puerto Montt. Le enfatizó que era fundamental tener varias marcas para incrementar sus ingresos; él, por ejemplo, le vendía a La Femme Chic solo los productos Caffarena, pero también tenía los calzados Guante y las telas Yarur, entre las marcas más importantes que ofrecía entre sus clientes. Luego de mucho meditar, Jacques tomó la decisión y mandó a Santiago el siguiente telegrama: «Acepto trabajo ofrecido. Siempre y cuando obtenga otras muestras. Agradezco contactos con firmas comerciales». Dos semanas después le llegó la respuesta: «Impermeables Búfalo necesita vendedor viajero».
Jacques se puso en contacto con aquellas firmas a las que podría ofrecer sus servicios de vendedor viajero por el sur. Se reunió con León Cherniavsky, quien le entregó la representación de los impermeables Búfalo, que tenían un popular eslogan que daban por radio: «Cuando llueve todos se mojan, menos los que usan impermeables Búfalo». Don León, delante de Jacques, llamó a la fábrica de casacas de Grossman y Cía. y le dijo al dueño que tenía al mejor vendedor para el sur, así que le recomendó entregarle muestras, ya que en enero iniciaría su primera gira. Apenas cortó se comunicó con otro amigo, de apellido Mireman, y le pidió que preparara su mejor muestrario de pañuelos para el nuevo vendedor estrella. Al día siguiente, mientras retiraba las muestras, Jacques le comentó a Grossman que le gustaría vender también ropa interior masculina y calcetines, por lo que lo contactó con los dueños de las fábricas de camisetas y calzoncillos Smart y calcetines Peruggi. En ambas obtuvo la representación, así que reunió más de seis marcas y siete productos diferentes, tal como se lo había recomendado Conforti. Preparó, con mapa en mano, su primera gira nacional entre Rancagua y Puerto Montt.
Tras el descanso del feriado, llegó a la fábrica de camisas Wings, donde le tenían preparado un completo muestrario con diferentes diseños, incluyendo uno de cuello paloma que se usaba con «humitas». Los colores y diseños de las corbatas eran muy combinables y le adjuntaron una lista con los precios de cada artículo. Le hicieron entrega, además, de un bloc para anotar los pedidos, hecho con tres copias y calcos, ya que debía dejar una para el cliente, otra para solicitar los despachos y la tercera para él a modo de respaldo. Hizo lo mismo con cada una de las marcas de la cual era representante y, al llegar a retirar las casacas, el señor Grossman le informó que lo había visitado el dueño de la fábrica de paraguas Cosmos, quien era su amigo, y le había dejado un muestrario, por si le interesaba llevárselo, respetando la comisión del diez por ciento de las ventas. Jacques aceptó, pero cuando le entregaron los impermeables Búfalo, se arrepintió de haber aceptado los paraguas, ya que la cantidad de mercadería superaba lo imaginado. Sumó en total cuatro valijas y dos baúles, más la maleta donde pondría su ropa. Su pasaje en el tren hasta Osorno tenía fecha para el 6 de enero de 1940 y le había costado doscientos cuatro pesos. Llamó de inmediato a su amigo Julio Recordón Burnier para reservar una habitación en su hotel. Este le ofreció ir a buscarlo a la estación, y tras contarle Jacques la cantidad de muestras que llevaba consigo calcularon que tendrían que hacer por lo menos dos viajes con su Buick. Jacques estaba agradecido y emocionado por el ofrecimiento de su amigo sureño. En el Hotel Burnier le facilitaron uno de los salones de reuniones para su trabajo. Se instaló en el cubículo de la telefonista y fue llamando, uno por uno, a todos los dueños o encargados de compras en los locales que vendían ropa de hombre, a quienes citó en distintos horarios. La gran mayoría concurrió a su improvisado «salón de ventas», donde exhibía sus muestrarios mientras un mozo del hotel les ofrecía café con galletas o un pisco sour, si era la hora del aperitivo. Toda su gestión comercial fue una verdadera revolución, ya que, hasta ese momento, lo habitual era que el vendedor viajero se presentara en el local con sus maletas, sin ninguna privacidad. Al cuarto día de trabajo, el total de ventas hizo que Jacques vislumbrara un futuro muy positivo.
Al quinto día hizo un análisis con las muestras de mayor venta y partió con ellas, en tren, hasta Puerto Montt, recorriendo más liviano los ciento treinta kilómetros de distancia. En 1940 Puerto Montt no tenía infraestructura hotelera, ni siquiera algo parecido al Burnier. Jacques se alojó dos noches en una residencial e hizo las ventas al estilo tradicional, visitando local por local. Puerto Varas tenía un antiguo hotel llamado Bellavista, y allí se quedó, pero como eran pocas las tiendas en la ciudad, prefirió visitarlas personalmente. Con el dueño de la Casa Kauak inició una larga amistad y jugaba con él al dominó, al mediodía o por la tarde, una vez que cerraba la tienda, contemplando el volcán Osorno y su nieve eterna. En Temuco se alojó en el Hotel La Frontera, cuyo dueño era Julio Recordón Borel, padre de su amigo del mismo nombre. Allí le dieron facilidades similares a las del Hotel Burnier, permitiéndole usar un salón para recibir a los clientes. La estrategia de Jacques fue visitar personalmente todos los locales de venta de ropa masculina e invitar a los propietarios o encargados al hotel para una exhibición de la mercadería. En esta ciudad existían numerosos inmigrantes provenientes de ciudades que pertenecieron al Imperio Otomano, como Monastir, Salónica, y la mayoría de ellos hablaban en castellano antiguo, por lo que Jacques fue muy bien recibido —incluso lo invitaban a cenar a sus casas— y aseguró sus ventas en la zona. Informado de que en Valdivia tendría el mismo problema que en Puerto Montt respecto a la falta de hoteles, decidió viajar desde Temuco con menos muestras, y durmió en una modesta residencial donde amaneció con el cuerpo picado de pulgas. La amistad con un señor Ergas, dueño de la principal tienda de la calle Picarte en Valdivia, le permitiría en el futuro alojarse en su residencia. Asimismo, el dueño de la Casa Taboada lo invitaba a cenar a su casa cada vez que cerraban un negocio. Valdivia, con su río que cruzaba la ciudad, le recordaba Estambul con su Bósforo. Quedó maravillado con la ciudad y aprovechó de pasear en un pequeño vapor por Niebla, Mancera y Corral. Escuchó que los alemanes pronunciaban faldivia y los chilenos le decían que era «la perla del Calle-Calle». Después de Viña del Mar y Puerto Varas, Valdivia se convertiría en su tercera ciudad favorita. Años después se haría cliente frecuente de los mazapanes que allí se fabricaban y de la tortilla de erizos que preparaban en el Club Español. Concepción fue desde un principio una gran incógnita para Jacques, pues no sabía cómo funcionaba su comercio tras el terremoto del año anterior. Llegó al Claris Hotel en la calle Caupolicán, pero como no estaban los dueños, no le dieron ninguna facilidad para exhibir la mercadería. Sus ventas no serían muy auspiciosas, ya que solo le compraron sus mercancías en dos negocios de la ciudad: La Sastrería Inglesa, en la calle Aníbal Pinto, y Casa García, en Barros Arana. Años después, Concepción se convertiría en la mejor plaza comercial del sur de Chile. En la vecina ciudad de Los Ángeles logró vender mucho más que en la capital regional; recién se había construido el Hotel Mariscal Alcázar y recurrió a sus clubes sociales para almorzar y cenar. En Chillán observó que la reconstrucción avanzaba a paso acelerado, pero como el daño había sido tan grande, la preocupación principal de su población era obtener alimentos antes que comprar ropa.
Luego de treinta y cinco días de intenso trabajo, Jacques regresó a Santiago con la certeza de que debía introducir algunos cambios en su próxima gira, la cual comenzaría en abril. La principal modificación consistiría en dividir su periplo en tres etapas. En un primer viaje cubriría desde Puerto Montt a Temuco y regresaría a Santiago. Luego partiría para vender en Concepción, Los Ángeles y Chillán. Y finalmente se concentraría en las ciudades más cercanas a la capital, llegando solo hasta Linares. Tenía claro que esto significaba un aumento en el gasto de transporte, pero no sería tan agotador al hacerlo de un modo más eficiente, aprovechando la venida a Santiago para visitar las fábricas y apurar los pedidos de sus clientes. Los encargados de los despachos se convirtieron en sus fieles aliados, gracias a los generosos obsequios que Jacques les ofrecía.
Su segunda gira de ventas fue mucho más exitosa gracias a sus mejoras y obtuvo muy buenas comisiones. Trabajar viajando era lo que más disfrutaba Jacques, pues calzaba muy bien con su personalidad, y lo tenía muy entusiasmado. Su buen gusto lo ayudó a mejorar, poco a poco, los muestrarios según sus conocimientos del cliente sureño. Y se concentró además en los artículos de mayor rotación, dejando de lado los de muy baja venta. Se dio cuenta de que las camisas y corbatas que él usaba tenían mayores ventas y aprovechó entonces su porte para exhibir sus propios artículos. Pero el entusiasmo que sentía Jacques por su trabajo se opacaba al enterarse de lo que ocurría en Europa en medio de la Segunda Guerra Mundial. Una foto del diario le informaba que las tropas alemanas desfilaban bajo el Arco de Triunfo en París el 14 de junio de 1940. Un terrible nudo se apoderó de su garganta.
Transcurrido menos de un año desde que tuvieron su primera salida, Jacques adquirió en la Joyería París un anillo de compromiso y le pidió matrimonio. Amelia le dijo que sí y fijaron como fecha el mes de septiembre de 1942 para realizar la boda, determinando, además, que sería en una sencilla ceremonia en el Registro Civil, de modo que cada uno pudiera mantener sus respectivas creencias religiosas: ella era católica, él, judío. Asumieron que cada uno profesara su fe libremente, con respeto y sin interferencias, y acordaron que los hijos serían judíos. Se retrataron juntos en el mismo estudio fotográfico de aquella primera vez
No habían pasado ni tres días cuando una carta de su hermano David se cruzó con la suya. Llegó al domicilio de Ernesto. «Tenemos boda en Estambul. Me voy a casar con Fortunée Fisse Cohen, prima de las mellizas Cohen que tú conocías. Estamos de novios hace bastante tiempo, pero como me han llamado al Ejército tres veces, porque no se sabía si Turquía participaría de la guerra, hemos estado postergando la fecha del matrimonio. Será el 22 de marzo de 1942, en la sinagoga Apollon, si es que no se presenta ningún inconveniente. Estoy contento con mi novia, es muy dulce, cariñosa y por supuesto muy linda. Es la tercera de cinco hermanas y tiene un solo hermano, que es el mayor. El padre es dueño de un negocio en el Bazar de las Especias de Estambul, por lo que los aliños no faltarán en nuestras comidas».
El 8 de septiembre, en la oficina del Registro Civil de la comuna de Santiago, se efectuó la ceremonia de matrimonio entre Jacques y Amelia. Ernesto fue el testigo de boda de Jacques, y de Amelia fue su hermano Carlos. Por la noche realizaron una sencilla fiesta en el Hotel Crillón, de la calle Ahumada, y partieron a las Termas de Jahuel a disfrutar de su luna de miel
De equipar el nuevo hogar se encargó Amelia, quien a partir de la boda se hizo cargo de administrar todo el ingreso familiar, dejando en poder de Jacques solo lo indispensable para sus giras. Dos años después serían los primeros clientes que abrieron una cuenta corriente bipersonal a nombre de ambos en el recién inaugurado Banco Israelita, que estaba en la calle San Antonio esquina Moneda.
En marzo del mismo año, un especialista confirmó el embarazo de Amelia. . . El 3 de octubre de 1943 nació un robusto varón en la Clínica Central de la calle San Isidro, a quien llamaron David, dejando muy contenta a la familia en Estambul. A la semana de nacido, el primogénito fue circuncidado por un rabino, de acuerdo a los preceptos de la religión judía. Pronto comenzarían a llamarlo Davico, para diferenciarlo del tío. La foto del recién nacido, con sus datos escritos al reverso en letra verde, fueron enviados por correo hasta Turquía. Jacques estaba dichoso, era padre y a su vez convertía en abuelos a los suyos. La generación de los nacidos en Chile había comenzado. La decisión del inmigrante, de quedarse en Chile, daba su primer fruto.
Abrasha Rotenberg nació en Ucrania, así que su visión de la vida allí, como de su vida después en Berlín o en Buenos Aires, es nostálgica. Nació en una aldea, Teofipol, fue trasladado a Moscú a los ocho años, en su familia se alternaban fanáticos comunistas y anticomunistas. “En la casa de mi abuelo se hablaba en voz baja, en la de mis tíos se hablaba con alegría, porque éstos creían que Stalin iba a sacarnos de la indigencia, que se iba a instaurar el hombre nuevo”. Luego tuve “la enorme experiencia de vivir en una ciudad modelo de Stalin que se llamaba Magnitogorsk, la primera o la segunda ciudad más contaminada del mundo. Cuando se hizo la revolución en lo que fue luego la Unión Soviética, esa era una revolución contra natura. Rusia era un país agrícola ganadero, que todavía tenía resabios del medioevo. Stalin quiso en diez o veinte años transformar esa Rusia agrícola, también algo ganadera, en una Rusia industrial. Proceso muy difícil. Pero Magnitogorsk era el símbolo de eso. Vivíamos en barracas, una vida horrible.Pero que a mi madre le dio el derecho de obtener una visa para Moscú. Y ahí tuve una maravillosa experiencia, porque vivía en una casa colectiva frente al Kremlin.Eso me dio ocasión para asistir de niño a los maravillosos espectáculos que había allí. Gente de todos los colores, todos en fila para visitar la tumba de Lenin”. Después de “la Ucrania ambienta” allí parecía haber oro, pero no había. “El hambre era muy duro, el hambre no te deja pensar. Comíamos patatas, siempre patatas, o verdura. Jamás en los ocho años que viví en la URSS comí carne, ni un trozo de carne”. Pero la madre se las arregló para viajar a Berlín. Allí el adolescente alcanzó a ver cómo Hitler armaba su ejército. Pero ni Lenin ni Stalin fueron capaces de transformar el país que heredaron… Luego vino Nueva York. Y después vino Argentina, alternada con una época en Israel, quizá su momento más feliz, cuando se estaba haciendo, en 1952, el Estado de Israel. Después vino Buenos Aires, y allí asentó Abrasha su peripecia de mal asiento, hasta que Videla y los suyos acabaron con su carrera de periodista(escritor, periodista, empresario) y abrazó un exilio que aquí, en España, duró 37 años, hasta que la vida lo devolvió a la que ahora es su tierra, después de haber conocido, y padecido, y disfrutado, tantas que le fueron esquivas o propicias. Buenos Aires era, cuando mi padre llegó allí, el futuro… Eran los años cuarenta. Y a mí me contaron que las calles de Buenos Aires no eran de adoquines, eran trozos de oro. Era una leyenda falsa. Ser un extranjero judío en la Argentina no era fácil. Yo vivía lo que era ser judío, porque digamos, no se hablaba. Me hice amigo de todos porque aprendí castellano rápido, por la radio”. Abrasha se hizo argentino. “Fue el azar, el azar, el azar. A los 14 años empecé a trabajar en un aserradero y me pagué las vacaciones. Cuando se estableció el Estado de Israel, en la Argentina, en el 48, necesitaban personal y como yo había estudiado hebreo, me contrataron. De ahí conseguí una beca para la Universidad de Jerusalén. Yo estudiaba economía y me fui a estudiar. En Buenos Aires, de nuevo, conoció a la mujer de su vida, Dina, chilena, cantante, “ella tenía dieciocho años, yo tenía veintitrés. Setenta años juntos”. Se le quiebra la voz al Abrasha que venía contando su vida como si fuera a caballo por la Pampa, pero llega hasta su época como periodista, al frente, con Jacobo Timerman, de La Opinión, masacrada por Videla. “Fue terrible”.
Adaptada de: Juan Cruz, “La historia insólito de Abrasha Rotenberg.” El Periódico de España. Madrid 29 de MAYO de 2023.
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La diversidad en el judaísmo ofrece un espacio fértil para la reflexión crítica, donde la objetividad se convierte no solo en un ejercicio necesario, sino en un puente hacia el equilibrio entre los extremos. Este proceso nos permite vivir nuestra identidad de manera más coherente y auténtica, alineando nuestras raíces culturales con la realidad contemporánea, sin perder de vista la esencia de lo que somos». Abrasha Rotenberg
Diversity in Judaism offers a fertile space for critical reflection, where objectivity becomes not only a necessary exercise, but a bridge to balance between extremes. This process allows us to live our identity in a more coherent and authentic way, aligning our cultural roots with contemporary reality, without losing sight of the essence of who we are. Abrasha Rotenberg
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Abrasha Rotenberg
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Abrasha Rotenberg was born in Ukraine, so his vision of life there, as well as her life later in Berlin or Buenos Aires, is nostalgic. He was born in a village, Teofipol, he was moved to Moscow at the age of eight, his family alternated between communist and anti-communist fanatics. He writes, “In my grandfather’s house we spoke in a low voice, in my uncles’ house we spoke happily, because they believed that Stalin was going to take us out of poverty, that the new man was going to be established.” Then I had “the enormous experience of living in a Stalin model city called Magnitogorsk, the first or second most polluted city in the world. When the revolution happen in what later became the Soviet Union, it was a revolution against nature. Russia was a country of agriculture and livestock, which still had traces of the Middle Ages. In ten or twenty years, Stalin wanted to transform that Russia, into an industrial Russia. A very difficult process. But Magnitogorsk was the symbol of that. We lived in barracks, a horrible life. But that gave my mother the right to obtain a visa to Moscow. And there I had a wonderful experience, because I lived in a collective house opposite the Kremlin. That gave me the opportunity to attend, as a child, the wonderful shows that took place. People of all colors, all lined up to visit Lenin’s grave. After “the Ukrainian ambiance.” there seemed to be gold there, but there wasn’t. “Hunger was very hard, hunger doesn’t let you think. We ate potatoes, always potatoes, or vegetables. Never in the eight years I lived in the USSR did I eat meat, not even a piece of meat.” But the mother managed to travel to Berlin. There the teenager managed to see how Hitler assembled his army. But neither Lenin nor Stalin were able to transform the country they inherited… Then came New York. And then came Argentina, alternating with a period in Israel, perhaps his happiest moment, when the State of Israel was being created in 1952. Then came Buenos Aires, and there Abrasha settled into his uneasy adventure, until Videla and his people ended his career as a journalist (writer, journalist, businessman) and he embraced an exile that lasted 37 years in Spain, until life brought him back to what is now his land, after having known, and suffered, and enjoyed, so many things that were elusive or propitious to him. “Buenos Aires was, when my father arrived there, the future… It was the 1940s. And I was told that the streets of Buenos Aires were not made of cobblestones, they were pieces of gold. It was a false legend. Being a Jewish foreigner in Argentina was not easy. I lived what it was like to be Jewish, because, let’s say, they were not spoken. I became friends with everyone because I learned Spanish quickly, from the radio.” Abrasha became Argentine. “It was chance, chance, chance. At 14 I started working in a sawmill and I paid for my own vacations. When the State of Israel was established in Argentina in 1948, they needed staff and since I had studied Hebrew, they hired me. From there I got a scholarship to the University of Jerusalem. I was studying economics and I went to study. In Buenos Aires, he met the woman of his life, Dina, a Chilean singer, “she was eighteen, I was twenty-three. Seventy years together.” Abrasha’s voice breaks as he recounts his life as if he were riding a horse across the Pampas, but he goes back to his time as a journalist, at the front, with Jacobo Timerman, of La Opinión, massacred by Videla. “It was terrible.”
Adapted from: Juan Cruz, “La historia insólito de Abrasha Rotenberg. El Periódico de España. Madrid 29 MAY 2023
De: Rotenberg, Abrasha. La amenaza (Spanish Edition) . Pampia Grupo Editor. Kindle Edition.
“La amenaza”
—Este hombre miente siempre, pero a veces se le escapa una verdad. Dale una última chance —dijo dirigiéndose al Perro como si fuera su consejero. —Voy a hacerte una pregunta y tu futuro depende de tu respuesta —me advirtió el Perro—. Recordá la despedida de los Eichenberger y decime si hubo algo más que te llamó la atención. Yo sé que lo recordás, pero temés confesarlo porque puede comprometerte o porque se trata de un tema delicado. Si no lo confesás, tu vida corre peligro. Si lo confesás, podemos llegar a un acuerdo y te vas a ir en paz.
—No sé de qué estás hablando. No recuerdo nada que pueda comprometerme. Todo lo que sé ya te lo dije.
—Hay demasiado casualidades en tu relato. Te las ingeniaste para vincularte con el Juez, con la señora Edwina Eichenberger, conmigo y mi familia, con Rudy y sus amigos y estabas desesperado para que te invitemos a nuestra casa porque querías conocer a mi padre, el General. En realidad, fingías tu interés por mi hermana para ocultar tu verdadero objetivo, que no era mi hermana sino mi padre, yo, Rudy y nuestros amigos. ¿Casualidades? Confesá la verdad antes de que yo te la arranque. Repito: ¿qué más te llamó la atención en esa despedida?
—No recuerdo nada más. ¿Querés que invente algo para satisfacerte? El Perro hizo un gesto a Charles Atlas y yo sentí que estaba perdido.
—Llevalo al río —ordenó con un tono de voz que denotaba indiferencia—. Nunca nos contará la verdad. Si se ahoga terminarán los problemas. Repentinamente Charles Atlas me inmovilizó con sus poderosas garras y con la ayuda del Alfeñique me arrancó de la silla y como si fuera una pluma me dejó inmóvil y de pie, sin soltarme.
—No sé nadar —grité desesperado, dirigiéndome al rostro feroz del Perro.
—No te creo. Vos sabés nadar. Ahora vamos a saber si sos un mentiroso o decís la verdad.
—¿Qué querés saber? ¿Algo del equipaje? ¿Eran muchas valijas…? El Perro no me respondió. Charles Atlas y el Alfeñique comenzaron a arrastrarme en dirección al río y yo seguí gritando: —¿Qué estás haciendo? Van a matarme. —¿Qué estoy haciendo?
Hago patria. Matar a un judío es hacer patria. Podías haberte salvado, pero… —agregó con indiferencia, como si hubiera decidido aplastar una cucaracha con el pie. Entre Charles Atlas y el Alfeñique me llevaron hasta las orillas del río y avanzaron unos metros dentro del agua. Yo estaba asustado porque la respiración, pero ¿por cuánto tiempo? El pecho comenzaba a dolerme y en unos segundos tendría que abrir la boca y permitir que el agua me inundara. Era el fin. Me había resignado a aceptar mi destino, pero, cuando ya estaba al borde de la resistencia, los secuaces comenzaron a subirme a la superficie. Confundido y mareado empecé a toser, a vomitar el agua y, con dificultades, a respirar. Unos segundos más tarde (que me parecieron interminables) sentí que había vuelto a la vida y como ya nada me importaba grité con todas mis fuerzas:
—¿Qué quieren de mí? Les conté todo lo que sé. Déjense de inventar historias de espionaje. Tengo dieciséis años…
En ese momento, los dos Charles me ayudaron a ponerme de pie y a caminar en dirección al Perro. Me sentaron en una silla, empapado y exhausto. No tenía fuerzas para hablar y me dominaba la sensación de que ya nada me importaba, ni siquiera morir. Al rato se acercó el Perro y con el rostro ceñudo y una violencia contenida me advirtió:
—¿Vas a contar la verdad o la próxima te dejamos bajo el agua para siempre?
Mi corazón latía acelerado, no podía controlar la fatiga de mi cuerpo ni la libertad de mi lengua. Estaba resignado a aceptar mi destino, a someterme a la decisión de un grupo de alienados que, no lo dudo, estaban convencidos de que yo los espiaba porque era parte de una conjura secreta.
—Les voy a decir toda la verdad y si no me creen hagan conmigo lo que quieran. No tengo vergüenza en confesarlo: por primera vez en mi vida me enamoré. No importa si era la persona inadecuada, pero yo me enamoré.
¿Alguno de ustedes se enamoró alguna vez? Si les ocurrió saben que se trata de una locura, de una enfermedad que te condiciona. Todo el día y toda la noche pensás en esa muchacha y harías cualquier barbaridad para estar cerca de ella. Yo me convertí en un mentiroso para estar cerca de ella, yo… En ese momento se me quebró la voz. Traté de contenerme y contener las lágrimas que se asomaban. Hice un enorme esfuerzo para no llorar y me mantuve en silencio mientras mis verdugos me observaban. Escuché que King Kong comentó:
—Este tipo está completamente loco. Luego vi cómo el Perro y su gente se alejaron unos metros y tuve la impresión de que conversaban sobre mí o tal vez discutían. Estaba tan agotado que ni siquiera me interesó observarlos. Al rato me pareció que el cónclave había terminado y observé que se encaminaban hacia mí. Era evidente que algo habían decidido, pero ya nada me afectaba.
—¿Querés tomar algo? —preguntó el Perro en un tono sorprendentemente amable.
—Un vaso de agua— respondí.
—Recién tuviste todo un río para beber ¿y me pedís agua? ¿Quién te entiende? —exclamó el Perro y lanzó una carcajada. —Es un chico delicado. Solo bebe agua en vasos. —Aportó su ironía el bello Dorian Gray.
—Traé una copa de vino, así se reanima —ordenó el Perro y King Kong fue a buscarla. Dorian Gray tomó la palabra:
—Te hicimos una broma pesada porque a veces, sin mala intención, nos descontrolamos. El Perro tiene una educación militar y en el ejército este tipo humor agresivo es bastante habitual. No le temen a la violencia ni al dolor. Te pido que nos disculpes. —¿Una broma pesada…? ¿Nada más? El Perro se me acercó y tuve conciencia de que debería haberme callado. Mis reproches le molestaron.
—¿Qué querés saber?
—Quiero saber por qué fui castigado.
—Ponete de pie —ordenó. Aunque yo sentía que me faltaban fuerzas obedecí en silencio. Estábamos frente a frente y él, debo confesarlo, me intimidaba. —Creo que sos un gran farsante y un hábil manipulador. No puedo demostrarlo, pero estoy convencido de que nos engañás, que nos estuviste espiando para los tuyos, que sos un hipócrita. Todos tus pecados poco importan frente al crimen que cargás sobre tu conciencia, un crimen imprescriptible que debes asumir: sos un judío asesino, un miembro del pueblo deicida que crucificó a nuestro Señor y yo soy tu enemigo, un enemigo altruista que va a permitir que seas por unos instantes un cristiano virtuoso. ¿Qué ordenó Jesús en el Sermón de la Montaña? “Al que te hiriere en una mejilla, ofrécele también la otra”. Siendo judío ahora tenés la oportunidad de comportarte como un buen cristiano. Sin darme tiempo de entender sus palabras recibí una violenta cachetada en la otra mejilla, la que me hizo trastabillar y caer, muy adolorido y con la nariz nuevamente sangrando. Desde el suelo pude observar el rostro de cada uno de los presentes. Hice un gesto de incredulidad y pregunté ¿por qué? sin obtener respuesta. Los dos lacayos me ayudaron a ponerme de pie y me acomodaron en la silla. El Perro seguía frente a mí. Temí que me siguiera golpeando. —Escuchá con atención lo que te voy a decir: si vuelvo a verte alguna vez, sea donde sea, date por muerto. No se trata de una amenaza sino de una sentencia postergada. ¿Entendiste? Una sentencia postergada. Decidí callar. El Perro se encaminó hacia la casona y los demás lo siguieron en silencio, excepto Charles Atlas que me acercó su pañuelo para que me tapara la nariz que continuaba sangrando.
—¿Sabés por qué me quedo con vos?— preguntó y yo comencé a preocuparme.
—No lo sé —respondí angustiado temiendo que mi martirio continuara. —Porque me di cuenta de que sos un tipo honesto. No dudo que te da vergüenza ser judío. Te entiendo, te entiendo muy bien porque a mí me sucedería lo mismo. También yo soy un hombre honesto. La frase me dolió más que la cachetada. ¿Era yo un judío vergonzante? Me quedé en silencio sin responderle. Charles Atlas continuó:
—Escuchá este consejo que te doy porque te aprecio: desaparecé de inmediato y jamás vuelvas a este pueblo. El Perro nunca habla en vano. Otra vez mi cara se había hinchado, tenía la nariz partida y un labio me sangraba.
—Te agradezco el consejo. Lo voy a seguir, pero recordá que me prometieron una copa de vino. Otra vez será.
—Que no haya otra vez, te lo digo por tu bien. Hizo un gesto de despedida con la mano y agregó:
—Te regalo mi pañuelo. Me quedé sentado en la oscuridad y con la mente vacía. Sin poder contenerme me desplomé y comencé a llorar. Estaba solo, dañado por fuera, dolorido por dentro y dominado por un miedo tardío. Podían haberme matado. Cuando logré controlar mi llanto, lentamente me puse de pie. Con gran dificultad empecé a caminar hacia el hotel en medio de la noche cargada de sonidos. Mis temores comenzaron a disiparse. ¿De dónde había sacado fuerzas para aguantar, fingir y callar?
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“The Threat”
From: Rotenberg, Abrasha. La amenaza (Spanish Edition) . Pampia Grupo Editor. Kindle Edition.
“This man always lies, but sometimes he lets the truth slip out. Give him one last chance,” he said, addressing the Dog as if he were his advisor.
“”I’m going to ask you a question and your future depends on your answer,” the Dog warned me. “Remember the farewell to the Eichenbergers and tell me if there was anything else that caught your attention. I know you remember it but you’re afraid to confess it because it could compromise you or because it’s a delicate subject. If you don’t confess it, your life is in danger. If you confess it, we can come to an agreement, and you’ll go in peace.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t remember anything that could compromise me. Everything I know I’ve already told you.”
“There are too many coincidences in your story. You managed to get in touch with the Judge, with Mrs. Edwina Eichenberger, with me and my family, with Rudy and his friends and you were desperate for us to invite you to our house because you wanted to meet my father, the General. In fact, you were pretending to be interested in my sister to hide your real objective, which was not my sister but my father, me, Rudy and our friends. Coincidences? Tell the truth before I tear it out of you. I repeat: what else caught your attention in that farewell?”
“I don’t remember anything else. Do you want me to invent something to satisfy you?” The Dog gestured to Charles Atlas and I felt that I was lost.
“Take him to the river,” he ordered in a tone of voice that denoted indifference. “He will never tell us the truth. If he drowns, the problems will end.”
Suddenly Charles Atlas immobilized me with his powerful claws and with the help of the Weakling he pulled me out of the chair and as if I were a feather he left me motionless and standing, without letting go.
“I don’t know how to swim,” I shouted desperately, addressing the Dog’s ferocious face.
“I don’t believe you. You know how to swim. Now we’re going to find out if you’re a liar or telling the truth.” “What do you want to know? Something about the luggage? Were there many suitcases…?” The Dog didn’t answer me. Charles Atlas and The Weakling began to drag me towards the river, and I continued shouting:
“What are you doing? They’re going to kill me.”
“What am I doing?” I’m serving my country. Killing a Jew is serving my country. You could have saved yourself, but…,” he added indifferently, as if he had decided to crush a cockroach with his foot. Charles Atlas and the Weakling took me to the banks of the river and advanced a few meters into the water. I was scared because I was breathing, but for how long? My chest was starting to hurt and in a few seconds I would have to open my mouth and allow the water to flood over me. It was the end. I had resigned myself to accepting my fate, but, when I was already at the edge of resistance, the henchmen began to pull me to the surface. Confused and dizzy, I began to cough, vomit the water and, with difficulty, breathe. A few seconds later (which seemed endless) I felt like I had come back to life and as nothing mattered to me anymore I shouted with all my strength:
“What do you want from me? I told you everything I know. Stop making up spy stories. I’m sixteen years old…” At that moment, the two Charleses helped me to stand up and walk towards the Dog. They sat me on a chair, soaked and exhausted. I had no strength to speak, and I was overcome by the feeling that nothing mattered to me anymore, not even dying. After a while the Dog came over and with a scowl on his face and restrained violence, he warned me:
“Are you going to tell the truth or next time we’ll leave you underwater forever?” My heart was beating fast, I couldn’t control the fatigue of my body or the freedom of my tongue. I was resigned to accept my fate, to submit to the decision of a group of lunatics who, I have no doubt, were convinced that I was spying on them because I was part of a secret conspiracy.
“I’m going to tell you the whole truth and if you don’t believe me, do with me what you want. I’m not ashamed to confess it: for the first time in my life, I fell in love. It doesn’t matter if it was the wrong person, but I fell in love. Have any of you ever fallen in love? If it happened to you, you know that it’s madness, an illness that conditions you. All day and all night you think about that girl and you would do anything to be near her. I became a liar to be near her, I…” At that moment my voice broke. I tried to hold back the tears that were coming. I made a I made a huge effort not to cry and remained silent while my executioners watched me. I heard King Kong comment:
“This guy is completely crazy.” Then I saw the Dog and his buddies move away a few meters and I had the impression that they were talking about me or maybe arguing. I was so exhausted that I didn’t even care to watch them. After a while it seemed to me that the conclave was over, and I saw that they were heading towards me. It was obvious that they had decided something, but nothing affected me anymore.
“Do you want to drink something?” asked the Dog in a surprisingly friendly tone.
“A glass of water,” I answered.
“You just had a whole river to drink, and you ask me for water? Who understands you?” exclaimed the Dog and burst out laughing. “He’s a delicate boy. He only drinks water in glasses.” The beautiful Dorian Gray added his irony.
“Bring a glass of wine, that will cheer him up,” ordered the Dog and King Kong went to get it. Dorian Gray spoke up:
“We played a practical joke on you because sometimes, without any bad intentions, we lose control. The Dog has a military education, and in the army this type of aggressive humor is quite common. They are not afraid of violence or pain. I beg your pardon. A practical joke…? Nothing more?” The Dog came up to me and I realized that I should have kept quiet. My reproaches annoyed him.
“What do you want to know?”
“I want to know why I was punished.”
“Stand up,” he ordered. Although I felt that I lacked strength, I obeyed silently. We were face to face and he, I must confess, intimidated me. “I think you are a great fraud and a skilled manipulator. I cannot prove it, but I am convinced that you are deceiving us, that you were spying on us for your own people, that you are a hypocrite.” All your sins matter little compared to the crime you carry on your conscience, an imprescriptible crime that you must assume: you are a murderous Jew, a member of the deicide people who crucified our Lord and I am your enemy, an altruistic enemy who will allow you to be a virtuous Christian for a few moments. What did Jesus command in the Sermon on the Mount? “To him who strikes you on one cheek, offer the other also.” Being a Jew, you now have the opportunity to behave like a good Christian. Before I had time to understand his words, I received a violent slap on the other cheek, which made me stumble and fall, very sore and with my nose bleeding again. From the ground I could see the face of each one of those present. I made a gesture of disbelief and asked why? without getting an answer. The two lackeys helped me to stand up and placed me in the chair. The Dog was still in front of me. I feared that he would continue hitting me.
“Listen carefully to what I’m going to tell you: if I ever see you again, wherever it may be, consider yourself dead. This is not a threat but a delayed sentence. Do you understand? A delayed sentence.” I decided to remain silent. The Dog headed towards the mansion and the others followed him in silence, except Charles.
Atlas offered me his handkerchief to cover my nose, which continued to bleed. “Do you know why I’m staying with you?” he asked and I started to worry.
“I don’t know,” I responded, anguished, fearing that my martyrdom would continue. —Because I realized that you are an honest guy. I have no doubt that you are ashamed to be Jewish. I understand you, I understand you very well because the same thing would happen to me. I am also an honest man. The phrase hurt me more than the slap. Was I a shameful Jew? I remained silent without answering him. Charles Atlas continued: “Listen to this advice that I give you because I appreciate you: disappear immediately and never return to this town. The Dog never speaks in vain.
My face was swollen again, my nose was broken, and my lip was bleeding. “I thank you for the advice. I’m going to follow it, but remember that they promised me a glass of wine. Another time.”
“Don’t let it happen again, I’m telling you for your own good.” He waved his hand and added: “I’m giving you my handkerchief.”
I sat in the dark with an empty mind. Unable to contain myself, I collapsed and began to cry. He was alone, damaged on the outside, hurt on the inside and dominated by a belated fear. They could have killed me. When I managed to control my crying, I slowly stood up. With great difficulty I began to walk towards the hotel in the middle of the night full of sounds. My fears began to dissipate. Where had I gotten the strength to endure, pretend and remain silent?
Translated by Stephen A. Sadow
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Otros libros de Abrasha Rotenberg/Other books by Abrasha Rotenberg
Mario Szichman nació en Buenos Aires en 1945, llegó a Caracas en 1967. Regresó a su ciudad natal en 1971 y, en 1975, volvió a Venezuela para quedarse por cinco años más. Se enamoró de Venezuela y su compromiso con el país estuvo vivo su muerte. En 1980, tras ganar el Premio de Literatura Ediciones del Norte de New Hampshire, Estados Unidos, por su novela A las 20:25 la señora entró en la inmortalidad, viajó a Estados Unidos, junto con su esposa Laura Corbalán. Se residenciaron en Nueva York, allí trabajó para la Associated Press y como corresponsal del periódico Tal Cual. Su obra: sus novelas históricas, seis de ellas reunidas en dos series: “La trilogía del mar dulce” formada por La verdadera crónica falsa, Los judíos del Mar Dulce y A las 20:25 la señora entró en la inmortalidad, novelas querelatan las peripecias de una familia judía que trata de reinventarse a fin de ser aceptada en la sociedad argentina y “La trilogía de la patria boba”, conformada por Los Papeles de Miranda, Las dos muertes del general Simón Bolívar y Los años de la guerra a muerte, novelas que narran las peripecias de los próceres de la independencia venezolana. Luego escribió La región vacía, sobre los atentados a las torres gemelas, cuya trama tiene como soporte una serie de crónicas que estuvo escribiendo a partir de los acontecimientos ocurridos el 9 de septiembre de 2001.
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Mario Szichman was born in Buenos Aires in 1945, arrived in Caracas in 1967. He returned to his hometown in 1971 and, in 1975, returned to Venezuela to stay for five more years. He fell in love with Venezuela and his commitment to the country was alive his death. In 1980, after winning the Northern New Hampshire Editions Literature Prize, United States, for her novel At 20:25 the lady entered immortality, traveled to the United States, along with his wife Laura Corbalán. They resided in New York, where he worked for the Associated Press and as a correspondent for the newspaper Tal Cual. Her work: her historical novels, six of them brought together in two series: “The Sweet Sea Trilogy” formed by The True False Chronicle, The Jews of the Sweet Sea and At 20:25 the lady entered into immortality, novels that relate the vicissitudes of a Jewish family that tries to reinvent itself in order to be accepted in Argentine society and “The trilogy of the silly homeland”, made up of Los Papeles de Miranda, The two deaths of General Simón Bolívar and The years of the war a death, novels that narrate the adventures of the heroes of Venezuelan independence. Then he wrote The Empty Region, about the attacks on the Twin Towers, whose plot is supported by a series of chronicles that he was writing based on the events of September 9, 2001.
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Inmigrantes llegando a Buenos Aires/Immigrants arriving at Buenos Aires
A LAS 20:25 LA SEÑORA ENTRÓ EN LA INMORTALIDAD
El trabajo de Jaime era agotador. Para hacer confluir a los Gutiérrez Anselmi en los Pechoff y borrara la parentela del mapa antes del desembarco en Buenos Aires, debía imitar a las arañas, rehacer incesantemente la historia familiar del principio al fin, e impedir que otras propuestas se filtraran por los resquicios.
A diferencia de los goim, que podían darse el lujo de parcelar los recuerdos y olvidar varios parientes sin abandonar su identidad, los Pechoff estaban abrumados e parientes útiles solamente para armar una réplica y que después perduraban sin motivo, y de antecesores que, en vez de relevarse en la cadena de las generaciones, eran nivelados por un pogrom en la misma fosa común.
Para Jaime, todo vino mal barajado desde el principio.
Los archivos de su ciudad habían sido quemados de la gente de Pilsudky. En vez de cédulas de identidad, los habitantes de Volinin recibieron el pasaporte Nansen, un caprichoso documento del cual, dos testigos mediante, se escamoteaban los datos que cada persona necesita ocultar.
En el caso de los Pechoff, además de los desertores convertidos en sostén único de madre viuda, hubo cambios de edades y deformación de apellidos.
En la memoria de Dora, Jaime figuraba como el “benjamín”. Pero el pasaporte Nansen atributa ese rol a Itzik. Para evitar celos, acordaron tratar a Jaime y a Itzik como mellizos, cuando trastornos, ya que el petiso recibió una paliza de un vecino, harto de la insistencia en copiar las modales ampulosos de Jaime con sólo la mitad de su estatura.
Por otra parte, cada Pechoff escribía el apellido a su manera. Salmen firmaba Petjof, Dora Petkoff y Natalio, Jaime e Itzik: Pechof, Entre el apellido de Salmen y el de Dora transcurrieron veinticuatro horas y un incidente político. Salmen fue atendido por un nacionalista que polaquizaba los apellidos guiándose por la fonética. El funcionario fue cambiado esa misma noche por un barón borracho que obsequió a Dora una efe de más para hacerse inolvidable. Los pasaportes de Natalio, Jaime e Itzik se sellaron a la semana siguiente. En el interín, la ciudad fue tomada por los bolcheviques y el nacionalista volvió a su puesto y rusificó a los tres hermanos encubriendo así sus arrebatos patrióticos.
Pero el problema más grave era que los Pechof tenían sus recuerdos sin terminar.
La culpa era de la época indecisa que les tocó vivir. Caudillos menores circulaban por el Este de Europa ganando batallas que nunca se insertaron en los libros.
Durante una de esas escaramuzas, los soldados de Kolchak cayeron sobre la aldea donde vivían los Pechof. Sus habitantes ignoraban que la marcha triunfal de Kolchak era en realidad una fuga luego de una serie de descalabros causados por el jefe guerrillero Chapaiev. Kolchak prolongó el engaño usando modales de vencedor. Mandó arriar la bandera roja que tenía pintados la hoz y el martillo en pinceladas chorreantes de cal, y ordenó izar en su lugar al comisario político. Después, se inició la cacería de bolcheviques y judíos.
Los Pechoff, que tenían la experiencia de de otros pogromos, aguadaron a que los soldados mataron a treinta ídn, violaron a la idiota del pueblo, y pusieron al rabino a bailar un cosachok entre los escombros del shil, antes de asomar la nariz.
Pero, estos antisemitas eran a la moderna. Habían sido formados en academias militares del imperio austrohúngaro y, después de quemar con ladrillos al rojo vivo el sexo de todo poblador con patillas enruladas, encerraron a los sobrevivientes en los sótanos y clausuraron las trampas de acceso para que murieran de hambre.
Los Pechof metieron en un carro de baúles y cinco hijos huyeron hacia Gdinia. Allí subieron el paquebote Titania y llegaron a Buenos Aires después de hacer escala en Liverpool and Río de Janeiro.
El Titania recalcó frente al Hotel de Inmigrantes, balanceando en horizonte de edificios frises, barcos de cascos oxidados, grúas y árboles.
El zaide Pechof se inquietó porque el puerto plagiaba la rada de Gdinia. Le habían hablado tanto de Buenos Aires, que esperaba algo meno plausible.
Las sopechas crecieron cuando el changador les habló en placo y en el hotel fueron saludados por idn.
El zaide informó sus mujer con amargura:
–Un mes para esto. Noj a mul en Polonia.
—Hasta cuándo con tus manías? —lo interrogó la bobe.
–-Pero si seguimos en Polonia todos hablan igual. ¿No es que en otro país se habla distinto?
–Él que nos selló los pápeles, hablaba distinto—recordó la bobe.
–Porque era de la aduana. También él que nos selló en Gdinia hablaba distinto. Es lo mismo en todas las aduanas.
–Yo de aquí no me muevo. Que sea lo que Dios quiera—anunció la bobe.
—No falta que hace. Ellos te van a mover.
–Que prueben. Al que me toque, le voy a dar un setz.
Al otro día, empezó la Semana Trágica y dispararon sin dudas.
Mientras la policía ametrallaba a los obreros de Vasena, los guardias blancos rodearon el Hotel de Inmigrantes. Legaron los faetones Daimler y en tranvías acorazados con puertas corcel. Bajaron un cañón Madsen y lo apuntaron hacia la fachada. Los comendaba un hombre flaquito, con sombrero rancho y un tic nervioso que dinamizaba el cuerpo.
Cerco del mediodía, llegó un carro atmosférico y obstruyó la entrada del hotel. Conectaron una manguera y escribieron en letra marrón: Judíos a Rusia. El hombre flaquito hizo sonar un silbato y se levantó el asedio en esfera de refuerzos.
Los Pechof volvieron a cargar en el carro con dos baúles y los hijos y enfilaron hacia el interior por caminos bamboleantes.
El zeide quería retornar al pueblo siguiendo en reverso las huellas de la destrucción. Bastaba encontrar el primer muerto para orientarse. No importaba la forma del cadáver, El pogrom se irradiaba por simpatía y dejaba su marca hasta en los muertos naturales. A veces era una cicatriz recuperando el color y la costra de sangre en una cara, o el gesto con que un cuerpo se arrinconaba en el ataúd.
Tres días después, surgió un paisaje no presentido; tierras pantanosas, casa de forma rara recostadas contra árboles muy altos, ropillas de caballos grises contorneando al jefe como el agua en un sumidero, y, por fin, animales que coincidan en el perfil con las de monedas recibidas a cambio de los zlotys y sólo imaginables en las pampas argentinas
El zaide se bajó del carro y apartando una vaca, besó la tierra.
Inmigrantes llegando a Buenos Aires/Immigrants arriving at Buenos Aires
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“At 8:25 pm the Lady enters Immortality”
Jaime’s job was exhausting. To make the Gutiérrez Anselmi family merge with the Pechoffs and wipe the family off the map before landing in Buenos Aires, he had to imitate the spiders, redoing the family history from beginning to end incessantly, and preventing other proposals from filtering through the cracks.
Unlike the goyim, who could afford to divide up memories and forget various relatives without abandoning their identity, the Pechofs were overwhelmed by relatives who were useful only to put together a replica and who then persisted without reason, and by ancestors who, instead of being replaced in the chain of generations, were leveled by a pogrom in the same common grave.
For Jaime, everything was wrong from the beginning.
The archives of his city had been burned by Pilsudky’s people. Instead of identity cards, the inhabitants of Volinin received the Nansen passport, a whimsical document from which, through two witnesses, the data that each person needs to hide were hidden.
In the case of the Pechoffs, in addition to the deserters becoming the sole support of their widowed mother, there were changes in age and deformation of surnames.
In Dora’s memory, Jaime was listed as the “youngest.” But the Nansen passport attributes that role to Itzik. To avoid jealousy, they agreed to treat Jaime and Itzik as twins, when trouble broke out, since the short boy was beaten by a neighbor, fed up with the insistence on copying Jaime’s pompous manners at only half his height.
On the other hand, each Pechoff wrote his surname in his own way. Salmen signed Petjof, Dora Petkoff and Natalio, Jaime and Itzik: Pechof. Between Salmen’s surname and Dora’s twenty-four hours and a political incident passed. Salmen was assisted by a nationalist who Polishized surnames based on phonetics. The official was replaced that same night by a drunken baron who gave Dora an extra F to make himself unforgettable. The passports of Natalio, Jaime and Itzik were stamped the following week. In the meantime, the city was taken by the Bolsheviks and the nationalist returned to his post and Russified the three brothers, thus covering up his patriotic outbursts.
But the most serious problem was that the Pechofs had their memories mixed up.
The fault lay with the indecisive times they lived in. Minor warlords roamed around Eastern Europe, winning battles that were never recorded in the books.
During one such skirmish, Kolchak’s soldiers fell upon the village where the Pechofs lived. The inhabitants were unaware that Kolchak’s triumphal march was actually a breakout after a series of setbacks caused by the partisan leader Chapaiev. Kolchak continued the deception by using the manners of a victor. He had the red flag, which had the hammer and sickle painted on it in dripping whitewash, lowered and ordered the political commissar to be raised in its place. Then the hunt for Bolsheviks and Jews began.
The Pechofs, who had experience of other pogroms, waited until the soldiers had killed thirty idn, raped the village idiot, and made the rabbi dance a Cosachok among the rubble of the shil, before sticking their noses out.
But these anti-Semites were modern. They had been trained in military academies of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and, after burning the genitals of every inhabitant with curly sideburns with red-hot bricks, they locked the survivors in the cellars and closed the access traps so that they would die of hunger.
The Pechofs packed a trunk and five children fled to Gdinia. There they boarded the Titania and reached Buenos Aires after stopping in Liverpool and Rio de Janeiro.
The Titania anchored in front of the Immigrants’ Hotel, swinging against the horizon of Frisian buildings, rusty-hulled ships, cranes and trees.
Zaide Pechof was worried because the port copied the Gdinia harbor. He had heard so much about Buenos Aires that he expected something less plausible.
The suspicions grew when the porter spoke to them in Placo and at the hotel they were greeted by IDN.
Zaide informed his wife bitterly:
–One month for this. Noj a mul in Poland.
–How long with your manias? —the fool asked him.
–But if we stay in Poland everyone speaks the same. Isn’t it that in another country they speak differently?
–The one who stamped our papers spoke differently—the fool recalled.
–Because he was from customs. He who stamped us in Gdinia also spoke differently. It’s the same in all customs.
–I’m not moving from here. Let God’s will be done- announced the fool.
–There’s no need. They’re going to move you.
–Let them try. Whoever I get, I’ll give them a setz.
The next day, the Tragic Week began and they shot without hesitation.
While the police machine-gunned the Vasena workers, the white guards surrounded the Immigrant Hotel. Daimler phaetons and armored trams with steed doors arrived. They lowered a Madsen cannon and aimed it at the facade. They were led by a skinny man, with a ranch hat and a nervous tic that energized his body.
Around noon, an atmospheric car arrived and blocked the entrance to the hotel. They connected a hose and wrote in brown letters: Jews to Russia. The skinny man blew a whistle and the siege was lifted by reinforcements.
The Pechofs loaded the cart again with two trunks and their children and headed inland along unsteady roads.The zeide wanted to return to the town, following in reverse the traces of destruction. It was enough to find the first dead person to get oriented. The shape of the corpse did not matter, The pogrom radiated out of sympathy and left its mark even on the natural dead. Sometimes it was a scar regaining color and a crust of blood on a face, or the gesture with which a body was cornered in the coffin.
Three days later, an unforeseen landscape emerged; swampy lands, strangely shaped houses leaning against very tall trees, coats of gray horses contouring around the leader like water in a sinkhole, and, finally, animals that match in profile with those of coins received in exchange for zlotys and only imaginable in the Argentine pampas The zaide got out of the car and, pushing aside a cow, kissed the ground.
Miryam Gover De Nasatsky se graduó como profesora enLetras en la Universidad Nacional del Litoral, Argentina. Docente e investigadora. Con una beca del Fondo Nacional de las Artes editó La Bibliografía de Alberto Gerchunoff. Conjuntamente con la Lic. Ana Weinstein dio a conocer los dos tomos del libro Escritores judeoargentinos: bibliografía 1900-1987. Además, con Ana Weinstein y Roberto Nasatsky, relevaron las distintas facetas de la actividad musical en Trayectorias musicales judeo-argentinas. Ha presentado ponencias en congresos internacionales y colabora en varias revistas literarias argentinas. Entre sus obras están dos poemarios Persistentes vibraciones (1999) y Resonancias de Auschwitz (2011); y tres novelas históricas, La pasión de un visionario—Theodor Herzl (2004) y Desde la cima:Reminiscencias de David Ben-Gurión (2008) y Hacia la libertad (2015)
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Miryam Gover de Nasatsky graduated with a degree in education from the National University of the Littoral, Argentina. She is a teacher and researcher. With a fellowship from the National Fund for the Arts, she edited the Bibliografía de Alberto Gerchunoff. With Ana Weinstein, she published the two volumes of Escritores judeo-argentinos: bibliografía 1900-1987. Also, with Ana Weinstein and Roberto Nasatsky, she described the diversity of musical activity in Trayectorias musicales judeo-argentinas. Miryam Gover de Nasatsky has presented papers at international conferences. She is a contributor to various Argentinean literary magazines. Gover de Nasatsky is the author of two books of poems, Persistentes vibraciones (1999) and Resonancias de Auschwitz (2011); and two historical novels, La pasión de un visionario—Theodor Herzl (2004) and Desde la cima: Reminiscencias de David Ben-Gurión (2008) and Hacia la libertad (2015.)
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DENSA PENUMBRA
En Amertástica cambiaban rápidamente no sólo las costumres y su sistema político sino también las ciudades y la vegetación. Miles de hectáreas boscosas devastadas por el fuego estaban arrasando los árboles y arbustos autóctonos – leí en un día de ese tiempo. No podían combatir el incendio que había estado fuera de control cuando aparentaba estar sofocado. La guardia de cenizas recorría constantemente el lugar con el fin de apagar nuevos focos.
Todo parecía conjurarse contra esta región situada en el hemisferio sur, a pesar de sus habitantes tan alegres, trabajadores y clientes. La sequía que afecta el territorio y el viento provenientede la cordillera de los Andes influyeron para que el fuego se hicieran inmanejable- era la explicación dada por los técnicos.
Un periódico local describía la lucha contra las llamas desde el aire, por medio de un helicóptero el cual arrojaba baldes de agua que se evaporaba antes de llegar al suelo y, desde la tierra, porun viejo camión. Éste sólo tenía tracción trasera y resbalaba en el mismo lugar sobre la arenosa estepa patagónica.
Huían distintas especies de animales y bandadas de pájaros. Faltaba personal especializado, recursos y agua. El humo producido se sumó a la neblina existente, aunque provenía de una zona lejana y casi olvidada. Por suerte, los circuitos turísticos de la región no se vieron afectados y todos continuaron disfrutan do de ellos.
Un empresario japonés, cuyo nombre no pude descifrar, ya estaba interesado en dichas tierras libres de árboles que tanto lugar ocupan. Las consideraba propicias para un nuevo emprendimiento industrial. Por Lo visto, no todo está perdido -decían los pobladores -quizás allí consigamos trabajo. Sería un nuevo diseño para el país. La evolución era permanente pero no lograban recobrar la claridad, había que adaptarse a la densa penumbra. Este fenómeno evitaba percibir el estado en que se encontraban las ciudades cubiertas de suciedad, excremento canino y basura. Por supuesto, había camiones recolectores pero nunca terminaban de limpiar porque, a medida que levantaban los desperdicios, otros aparecían de inmediato. La palabra contaminación no asustaba a nadie aunque podía verse afectada el agua del río y la fauna ictícola.
Se iba gestando una peligrosa concentración de productos químicos perjudiciales para La salud humana como el fósforo– según opinaban los entendidos. Sólo era cuestión de hacer cumplir las ordenanzas que prevén tal estado de cosas.
Una solución fue no bañarse en el río; otra, no abastecer de agua a algunos barrios que la estaban solicitando desde hacía años. De todas maneras, se incrementaba la expectativa de vida a pesar de que tal situación amenazaba con producir consecuencias nocivas para la salud.
–Los macro-negocios no suelen tener en cuenta el impacto ambiental– aseguraba una sicóloga social anee el proyecto de construir quinientos complejos urbanísticos privados, en una isla del Delta. Los riesgos quedan relativizados ante la perspectiva de contar con un gran parque de diversiones al estilo Disney. Es una buena táctica para revalorizar zonas y llamar la atención sobre ellas a hombres de negocios.
A medida que me compenetraba acerca de la vida de este territorio tan particular, con sus proyectos, dificultades y soluciones, más me intrigaba la espesa capa que lo envolvía. Tenía sus ventajas porque atenuaba los efectos del agujero de ozono pero siempre es preferible la transparencia y, sobre todo, poder distinguir los objetos. Faltaba la lucidez que iluminara el camino y que permitiera orientarse en la ventolera electoral con compañas proselitistas a las que se dedicaban los supuestos futuros próceres. Visibilidad escasa– advertía todos los días el pronóstico. Por eso trataban de resaltar los méritos de quienes integraban las listas.
No quise guiarme por las noticias engañosas y entrevisté a sobrevivientes de la época quienes estaban confiados en que pronto se develaría el misterio de la comarca. Creían en predicadores que habían augurado un futuro mejor donde las leyes no se modificaran según la conveniencia de cada uno. Los más ancianos conservaban vestigios de un pasado feliz en el que no se escuchaban cantos truenos y los gobernantes eran inocentes. Toda época pasada fue mejor -reperían con sabiduría- la memoria conserva los recuerdos gratificantes. Por supuesto, no mencio naron la pastosa niebla en aumento la cual producía la sensación de que el tiempo no transcurría.
Siempre se habían superado las crisis y ésta, seguramente, era una más en la larga litca desde la época de la colonia. La historia fue repitiendo un juego de alternancia entre políticas esratizantes y privatizantes según los intereses de turno. Por suerte, Amertástica contaba con excelentes recursos naturales. El problema consistía en las fallas de la administración y en esa amenaza latente que producía hechos inexplicables. Empezaba a entender lo que sostenía un economista: -La crisis es un estado coyuntural de escasa importancia.
Hacía falta una cuota de entusiasmo aunque después viniera el desconcierto que, poco a poco, invadió rodas las activida des. Se insinuaba una tormenta. Los pobladores no la percibían ya que estaban muy entretenidos llenando planillas urgentes y adquiriendo objetos importados de codos los colores. Sí, un fenómeno curioso era la presencia de miles de contenedores; por suerte, de dimensiones considerables que podían detectarse a pesar del aire enrarecido. Un gran logro de la moderna globalización. Tal distracción permitía dejar de lado las hipótesis pesimista que generaba la paralización parlamentaria.
Proyectos empantanados –leí en uno de los principales matutinos debido a que no lograban una estrategia conjunta los distintos bloques que formaban la cámara. No se ponían de acuerdo: unos querían derogar leyes recientemente aprobadas o aprovechar la ausencia de colegas para estblecer nuevas condiciones. De esta forma, no podían sesionar.
Se trabaron varias propuestas consideradas fundamentales por el Ejecutivo —aclaraba el mismo periódico. Era necesario superar las diferencias para no perder el espíritu democrático. Había reuniones muy difíciles ya que la oposición pedía demasiadas explicaciones y los otros no tenían respuestas precisas ==Solamente sabemos lo que informan los medios– se excusaban. Por ejemplo, era difícil desenmascarar a los culpables de tantos atentados. Siempre tenían a mano los identikits, por las dudas, pero se confundían porque había muchos parecidos. No era fácil: a veces, terminaban desconfiado de las víctimas.
–Los jueces no son detectives–aclaraba con un aire didáctico un famoso legislador.
—La fundamental era no violar el secreto de sumario- recordaba los políticos comrpehensivos.
Incertidumbre e niebla, dos constates, se apoderaron de los habitantes quienes realizaban sus tareas como autómatas. Así se les fueron atrofiando los sentidos y la capacidad de pensar. Pero no precisaban ejercitar esa última facultad, todo estaba bastante resuelto. Los problemas que surgían eran normales; no nos olvidamos que el ser humano es limitado.
Amertástica no podía ser eterna. Después de revisar los archivos queda en mi imaginación la sensación de lo que pudo ser y el recuerdo de los pobladores con sus esperanzas y proyectos. Quizá algún día se realice su segunda fundación.
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DENSE PENUMBRA
In Amertástica, not only the customs and political system but also the cities and vegetation changed rapidly. Thousands of forested hectares devastated by fire were destroying native trees and shrubs – I read on one day at that time. They could not fight the fire that had been out of control when it appeared to be out. The ash guard constantly toured the place in order to extinguish new outbreaks.
Everything seemed to conspire against this region located in the southern hemisphere, despite its cheerful, hard-working and customer-oriented inhabitants. The drought that affects the territory and the wind coming from the Andes mountain range influenced the fire to become unmanageable – was the explanation given by the technicians.
A local newspaper described the fight against the flames from the air, by means of a helicopter which dropped buckets of water that evaporated before reaching the ground, and, from the ground, by an old truck. This one only had rear-wheel drive and was slipping in the same place on the sandy Patagonian steppe.
Different species of animals and flocks of birds were fleeing. There was a lack of specialized personnel, resources and water. The smoke produced added to the existing fog, although it came from a distant and almost forgotten area. Luckily, the region’s tourist circuits were not affected and everyone continued to enjoy them.
A Japanese businessman, whose name I could not decipher, was already interested in these tree-free lands that occupy so much space. He considered them conducive to a new industrial venture. Apparently, not everything is lost – the residents said – maybe we will find work there. It would be a new design for the country. The evolution was permanent but they could not regain clarity, they had to adapt to the dense darkness. This phenomenon prevented us from perceiving the state of the cities covered in dirt, dog excrement and garbage. Of course, there were collection trucks but they never finished cleaning because, as they picked up the waste, others immediately appeared. The word pollution did not scare anyone, although the river water and the fish fauna could be affected.
One solution was not to bathe in the river; another, not supplying water to some neighborhoods that had been requesting it for years. In any case, life expectancy increased despite the fact that such a situation threatened to produce harmful consequences for health.
“Macro-businesses do not usually take into account the environmental impact,” said a social psychologist behind the project to build five hundred private urban complexes on an island in the Delta. The risks are relativized by the prospect of having a large Disney-style amusement park. It is a good tactic to revalue areas and draw attention to them to businessmen.
“Macro-businesses do not usually take into account the environmental impact,” said a social psychologist behind the project to build five hundred private urban complexes on an island in the Delta. The risks are relativized by the prospect of having a large Disney-style amusement park. It is a good tactic to revalue areas and draw attention to them to businessmen.
The more I learned about the life of this very particular territory, with its projects, difficulties and solutions, the more intrigued I was by the thick layer that enveloped it. It had its advantages because it attenuated the effects of the ozone hole, but transparency and, above all, being able to distinguish objects is always preferable. There was a lack of lucidity that would illuminate the path and allow one to orient oneself in the electoral turmoil with proselytizing campaigns to which the supposed future heroes were dedicated. Poor visibility– the forecast warned every day. That is why they tried to highlight the merits of those who made up the lists.
I did not want to be guided by misleading news and I interviewed survivors of the time who were confident that the mystery of the region would soon be revealed. They believed in preachers who had predicted a better future where laws would not be modified according to each person’s convenience. The oldest preserved vestiges of a happy past in which thunderous songs were not heard and the rulers were innocent. Every past era was better – they repeated with wisdom – memory preserves gratifying memories. Of course, they did not mention the thick, rising fog which made it feel like time was not passing.
Crises had always been overcome and this, surely, was one more in the long litca since colonial times. History was repeating a game of alternating between eratizing and privatizing policies according to the current interests. Luckily, Amertástica had excellent natural resources. The problem consisted of the administration’s failures and that latent threat that produced inexplicable events. I was beginning to understand what an economist was saying: -The crisis is a conjunctural state of little importance.
A certain amount of enthusiasm was needed, although later came the confusion that, little by little, invaded all the activities. A storm was brewing. The residents did not notice it since they were very busy filling out urgent forms and acquiring imported objects of all colors. Yes, a curious phenomenon was the presence of thousands of containers; luckily, of considerable dimensions that could be detected despite the thin air. A great achievement of modern globalization. Such distraction allowed us to put aside the pessimistic hypotheses generated by the parliamentary paralysis.
Projects bogged down – I read in one of the main morning newspapers because the different blocks that made up the chamber could not achieve a joint strategy. They could not agree: some wanted to repeal recently approved laws or take advantage of the absence of colleagues to establish new conditions. In this way, they could not meet.
Several proposals considered fundamental by the Executive were blocked, the same newspaper clarified. It was necessary to overcome differences so as not to lose the democratic spirit. There were very difficult meetings since the opposition asked for too many explanations and the others did not have precise answers –We only know what the media reports– they made excuses. For example, it was difficult to unmask those responsible for so many attacks. They always had the identikits on hand, just in case, but they got confused because there were so many similarities. It wasn’t easy: sometimes, they ended up distrustful of the victims.
“Judges are not detectives,” a famous legislator clarified with a didactic air.
“The fundamental thing was not to violate the secrecy of the summary,” the sympathetic politicians recalled.
Uncertainty and fog, two constants, took over the inhabitants who carried out their tasks like automatons. Thus their senses and ability to think began to atrophy. But they did not need to exercise that last faculty, everything was quite resolved. The problems that arose were normal; We do not forget that the human being is limited.
Amertastica could not be eternal. After reviewing the archives, the feeling of what could have been and the memory of the residents with their hopes and projects remains in my imagination. Perhaps one day its second founding will take place.
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PÁNICO BURSÁTIL
Las medidas extremas tomadas por las autoridades de Amertástica para evitar una corrida bancaria produjo el efecto contrario. La causa más evidente fue que los inversores sospe chaban que lo peor aún permanecía encubierto y que la salud patrimonial del mercado estaba muy debilitada.
-Atravesamos una circunstancia adversa- explicó el Primer Magistrado.
-Evitaremos la bancarrota de las instituciones y controlaremos la situación del sector financiero- aseguró un tecnócrata de re nombre.
Así, dieron a conocer drásticas decisiones que incluían créditos de emergencia, rescate de empresas en quiebra e incentivos para productores medianos.
La velocidad y la virulencia con que se sucedían los hechos era impresionante. Con el fin de evitar el fuerte impacto, los establecimientos comerciales se interconectaron para ayudarse entre sí, pero la posibilidad de un estallido parecía inminente.
Los integrantes del gobierno no se ponían de acuerdo y se peleaban por imponer una línea de acción que salvara el propio beneficio. Aunque lo disimulaban muy bien, sólo favorecían a determinadas empresas que les concernían en particular.
Seamos pragmáticos- era la consigna de los economistas más especializados en transacciones de riesgo.
Los ciudadanos estaban atónitos. Habían pasado privaciones hasta conseguir algún crédito que les permitiera subsistir. Sin embargo, sentían que todo tambaleaba porque ya no podríanpagar ni los altos impuestos ni los intereses que habían subido drásticamente en contra de las cláusulas establecidas.
-En un período tan difícil como el actual, lo importante es no perder la confianza en las autoridades- alentaba un financista ilusionado en obtener alguna ganancia. Y agregó:
-Tengan paciencia. Estamos implementando una batería de re cursos que nos salvará de la hecatombe.
Pero el deterioro de las condiciones socio-económicas fue en aumento al mismo tiempo que la incertidumbre. Pocos hecho habían logrado trastornar tanto a los sufridos habitantes. Todo esperaban algún milagro o una simple señal que los orientara frente a la desolación que invadía sus corazones. Les parecía que un ser extraño los había mutilado. Ya no eran personas, no podían pensar.
Después de varios meses de desesperanza e impotencia, poco a poco, como autómatas, abandonaron sus viviendas y, en una larga caravana, en coche o a pie, se trasladaron a un país vecino donde era posible vivir sin sobresaltos.
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STOCK MARKET PANIC
The extreme measures taken by the Amertástica authorities to avoid a bank run produced the opposite effect. The most obvious cause was that investors suspected that the worst was still under wraps and that the financial health of the market was very weak.
-We are going through an adverse circumstance- explained the First Magistrate.
“We will avoid the bankruptcy of institutions and control the situation in the financial sector,” said a renowned technocrat.
Thus, they announced drastic decisions that included emergency loans, rescue of bankrupt companies and incentives for medium-sized producers.
The speed and virulence with which the events occurred was impressive. In order to avoid the strong impact, commercial establishments interconnected to help each other, but the possibility of an explosion seemed imminentThe members of the government could not agree and fought to impose a line of action that would save their own benefit. Although they hid it very well, they only favored certain companies that concerned them in particular.
Let’s be pragmatic – was the slogan of the economists most specialized in risky transactions.
The citizens were stunned. They had gone through hardships until they obtained some credit that would allow them to survive. However, they felt that everything was faltering because they could no longer pay the high taxes or the interests that had risen drastically against the established clauses.
“In a period as difficult as the current one, the important thing is not to lose trust in the authorities,” encouraged a financier excited to make some profit. And he added:
-Be patient. We are implementing a battery of resources that will save us from the catastrophe.
But the deterioration of socio-economic conditions increased at the same time as uncertainty. Few events had managed to upset the suffering inhabitants so much. Everyone was waiting for some miracle or a simple sign that would guide them in the face of the desolation that invaded their hearts. It seemed to them that a strange being had mutilated them. They were no longer people, they could not think.
After several months of hopelessness and helplessness, little by little, like automatons, they abandoned their homes and, in a long caravan, by car or on foot, they moved to a neighboring country where it was possible to live without problems.
La historia de los judíos en Venezuela es de larga data: comenzó muy probablemente a mediados del siglo xvi, cuando habrían llegado varios grupos de judeoconversos en la expedición del conquistador Pedro Malaver de Silva. Algunos creen que la primera sinagoga fue fundada en 1710 y, desde el siglo XIX, el país posee el cementerio judío más antiguo de América. El músico Reynaldo Hahn, la periodista y promotora del arte Sofía Ímber, el escritor Moisés Naím, la cineasta Margot Benacerraf, el dramaturgo Isaac Chocrón, la escritora Elisa Lerner o el médico Baruj Benacerraf, entre tantos otros, han contribuido a la fundamental presencia de la cultura judía en la sociedad venezolana, de la cual forma parte VascoSzinetar (Caracas, 1948), ampliamente conocido por sus ya célebres series fotográficas, CheektoCheek y Frente al espejo, en las que, desde los años ochenta del siglo pasado, se ha fotografiado a sí mismo con personajes de la talla de Jorge Luis Borges, Gabriel García Márquez and Mario Vargas Llosa ejecutando, sotto voce, uno de los pilares de su obra: reconstruir su vida y el mundo con imágenes significativas.
Adaptado de: Centro Sefarad Israel 2023
Esta tradición sigue hasta el presente por la obra de los escritores y artistas venezolanos judíos citados abajo. También, las sinagogas forman parte de la cultura del país. Para ver la obra de ellos, haz clic a sus entradas.
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The history of the Jews in Venezuela is long-standing: it most likely began in the mid-16th century, when several groups of Jewish converts arrived on the expedition of the conquistador Pedro Malaver de Silva. Some believe that the first synagogue was founded in 1710 and, since the 19th century, the country has had the oldest Jewish cemetery in America.The musician Reynaldo Hahn, the journalist and art promoter Sofía Ímber, the writer Moisés Naím, the filmmaker Margot Benacerraf, the playwright Isaac Chocrón, the writer Elisa Lerner or the doctor Baruj Benacerraf, among many others, have contributed to the fundamental presence of Jewish culture in Venezuelan society, of which Vasco Szinetar (Caracas, 1948) is a part, widely known for his now famous photographic series, CheektoCheek and In Frente al espejo, in which, since the eighties of the last century, he has photographed himself with people of the stature of Jorge Luis Borges, Gabriel García Márquez and Mario Vargas Llosa, executing, sottovoce, one of the pillars of his work: reconstructing his life and the world with meaningful images.
Adapted from: Sefarad Israel Center 2023
This tradition continues to the present through the work of the Venezuelan Jewish writers and artists cited below. Also, synagogues are part of the country’s culture. Please click to their blog posts.
Nascida em 1911, em Ucrânia, Elisa Lispector passou por uma longa jornada antes de publicar seu primeiro romance, Além da fronteira (1945). Ainda criança, vagou pela terra natal destruída pela guerrilha, de aldeia em aldeia, com a família, que fugia da perseguição antissemita instaurada após a Revolução Comunista de 1917. Aos nove anos, chega ao Brasil com pai, mãe e duas irmãs: Ethel, de três anos, e Clarice, recém-nascida. Depois de cinco duros anos em Maceió, a família se muda para Recife, onde consegue uma situação econômica mais estável. Lá, fica até 1937, quando segue para o Rio de Janeiro. Essa penosa odisseia familiar é retratada em No exílio (1948). Aos 26 anos, Elisa Lispector chega ao Rio de Janeiro, tendo se formado na Escola Normal, estudado no conservatório musical e lecionado para crianças em Recife. Entra concursada no serviço público federal e desempenha funções importantes, inclusive no exterior, secretariando delegações governamentais. Chegou a representar o Brasil em uma reunião da Organização Internacional do Trabalho, no Peru, para estudar os problemas da mão-de-obra feminina na América Latina. No Rio, ainda estuda sociologia na Escola Nacional de Filosofia e crítica de arte na Fundação Brasileira de Teatro. Sua aparição na literatura se dá nos anos 1940, em momento de maturidade intelectual e sob influência do existencialismo. Sua obra trata do enigma do ser. Refugia-se e se descobre na solidão e na comunicação impossível com o outro. Aspira à vida, sabendo que esta se encaminha inevitavelmente para a morte. Seus personagens descobrem corajosamente que é em seu íntimo e não no mundo das relações humanas que se deve procurar respostas para indagações sobre a vida. Elisa Lispector foi a primeira pessoa a receber, com o romance O muro de pedras (1963), o prêmio José Lins do Rego, destinado a autores de romances inéditos. Com o mesmo romance, ganhou o prêmio Coelho Neto da Academia Brasileira de Letras em 1964. Já reconhecida pela crítica como romancista de talento, estreia como contista e publica Sangue no sol (1970), lnventdrio (1977) e O tigre de bengala (1985), com o qual recebeu o prêmio Luísa Cláudio de Souza, do Pen Clube. A autora ainda colaborou com jornais e revistas literárias e publicou os romances Ronda solitária (1954), A última porta (1975) e Corpo a corpo (1983).
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Born in 1911, in Ukraine, Elisa Lispector went through a long journey before publishing her first novel, Além da Fronteira (1945). As a child, he wandered around his homeland destroyed by the guerrillas, from village to village, with his family, who were fleeing the anti-Semitic persecution following the 1917 Communist Revolution. At the age of nine, he arrived in Brazil with his father, mother and two sisters: Ethel, three years old, and Clarice, newborn. After five hard years in Maceió, the family moved to Recife, where they achieve a more stable economic situation. There, he stayed until 1937, when he went to Rio de Janeiro. This painful family odyssey is portrayed in O Exilio (1948). At the age of 26, Elisa Lispector arrives in Rio de Janeiro, having graduated from the Teachers School, studied at the music conservatory and taught children in Recife. She entered the federal public service and performed important functions, including abroad, serving as secretary to government delegations. She represented Brazil at a meeting of the International Labor Organization, in Peru, to study the problems of female labor in Latin America. In Rio, he studied sociology at the National School of Philosophy and art criticism at the Brazilian Theater Foundation. Her first writings took place in the 1940s, at a time of intellectual maturity and under the influence of existentialism. Her work deals with the enigma of being. She takes refuge and discovers himself in solitude and in impossible communication with others. She aspires to life, knowing that it inevitably leads to death. Her characters courageously discover that it is within themselves and not in the world of human relationships that one must look for answers to questions about life. Elisa Lispector was the first person to receive, with her novel O muro de pedras (1963), the José Lins do Rego award, intended for authors of unpublished novels. With the same novel, she won the Coelho Neto prize from the Brazilian Academy of Letters in 1964. Already recognized by critics as a talented novelist, he debuted as a short story writer and published Sangue no sol (1970), lnventdrio (1977) and O tigre de bengala (1985 ), with which he received the Luísa Cláudio de Souza award, from Pen Club. The author also collaborated with newspapers and literary magazines and published the novels Ronda solitaria (1954), A última porta (1975) and Corpo a corpo (1983).
“(…) Este dia vos será por memória, e celebrá-lo-eis por festa a Jehovah; entre vossas gerações o celebrareis por estatuto perpétuo…
Marim estendeu uma toalha branca sobre a mesinha redonda colocada no centro do quarto, dispôs sobre a mesa copos, pires, um prato de matzot e outro com batatas cozidas, sal e um pouco de raiz amarga.
Pinkhas, sentado a um canto, aguardava, absorto, vendo a mulher ir e vir sem entusiasmo, sem harmonia nos movimentos.
– Não pude arranjar nada que servisse de korbanot nem de kharosset. Só consegui raiz amarga para o maror. Aves, vinho, nozes … penso que ninguém mais se lembra o que isso vem a ser. Falava com voz arrastada.
– Chega o que obtiveste – respondeu Pinkhas, levantando-se e dirigindo-se para o lavatório. -Korbanot há muito, já, deveriam ter sido abolidos. Há milênios os judeus não mais imolam animais em oferenda a Deus. Hoje – acrescentou sombrio -, homens matam homens, para alegria do negro Satã. E se não há kharosset, também não faz mal. Maror por si só lembrará toda a amargura do cativeiro. Sentemo-nos à mesa. Comecemos o seder. – Dizendo isso, pôs na cabeça o solidéu, subitamente tomado de ira. Marim fitava-o calada, os movimentos cortados. Então ele dominou-se, e à raiva sobreveio uma lassidão muito grande. Agora também ele sentia-se como um seixo ao sabor da corrente, sem vontade, sem impulso. Aproximou-se da mesa, ajeitou dois travesseiros pequenos ao encosto da cadeira, à guisa de almofadas, sentou-se e começou a folhear a Hagadá.
– Papá, por que você se senta sobre os travesseiros? – perguntou Lizza.
Ele ergueu-se a meio, parecendo só então haver percebido o que tinha feito. Olhou, em seguida, serenamente para a menina e respondeu com voz lenta e segura:
– Os reis sentam-se sobre almofadas, e nós somos um povo de reis. Um povo livre. Um dia fomos escravizados pelo faraó, no Egito, mas nos libertamos. Um judeu não é escravo, e não escraviza a outrem.
– Papá, conta como foi no Egito.
Ternura branda invadiu o coração de Pinkhas, ante o olhar suplicante da filha. Tornou a ajeitar o barrete num gesto de quem está com o pensamento longe, e começou:
– Por longos anos viveram os judeus no Egito. Cresceram e se multiplicaram. Então, os egípcios temeram que o povo estranho se multiplicasse mais ainda, e porque o temeu, escravizou-o. É sempre assim -prosseguiu falando agora consigo mesmo. – Porque não nos conhecem suficientemente, temem-nos, e porque nos temem, hostilizam-nos. Assim foi no Egito, e assim tem sido em todos os Egitos por onde temos andado. Lá, aproveitaram-nos para o pastoreio – tarefa que um egípcio considerava indigna para si. Mas, quando aprendeu o ofício e viu que não lhe maculava as mãos, começou a perseguir-nos. Assim tem continuado a ser. Aqui exploram o nosso tino para os negócios, ali tomam-nos o ouro ganho com o nosso labor; acolá tiram partido de nosso amor ao saber. Depois acusam-nos de que “ameaçamos”, “açambarcamos”. Esta a maneira pela qual o mundo se conduz.
Lizza ouvia, confusa. Não compreendia o sentido de certas palavras, mas contristou-a o semblante do pai, repentinamente tão grave e compungido. Fitava-o nos olhos, e uma angústia tão funda estampou-se-lhe na fisionomia que Pinkhas afastou os negros pensamentos, e, para aliviar a tensão, procurou mostrar-se alegre. Até antecipou as perguntas e respostas do Ma Nischtana, as quatro perguntas rituais sobre a significação da Páscoa, de que a menina tanto gostava.
O pai lia, agora, a Hagadá, e a mãe fixava a chama da vela com o pensamento distante. Ethel continha-se para fechar a boca, com medo de que seu hálito apagasse a vela, comprimindo bem as mãozinhas contra o rosto. Lizza olhava de um para outro, e para dentro de si mesma, e sentia pesarem sobre eles as penas do cativeiro no Egito, a ira do rei mau. E numa retrospectiva desde o Egito longínquo e tenebroso até o quartinho frio e escuro no qual eles estavam encerrados, como numa prisão, deparava com um mundo temível e estranho. Pogroms, assassínios, medo, fugas, crueldades. Sua mente infantil estava conturbada.
Marim continuava concentrada em seus pensamentos, enquanto Pinkhas orava, e embora a cerimónia fosse de júbilo, o menear da cabeça e a entonação de sua voz diziam que as penas do povo de Israel não haviam acabado. O cativeiro
não terminara com a fuga do Egito, não. Os judeus continuavam a fugir de toda parte. Em toda parte, subsistiam os grilhões e se derramava sangue. Toda a história dos judeus, através dos séculos, vinha tinta de sangue.
A chama tremulou debilmente, prestes a extinguir-se; então Pinkhas guardou, pressuroso, o livro de oração, murmurou o tradicional “Leschaná Habaá Biruschalayim” -no ano próximo em Jerusalém -dividiu os matzot, repartiu as batatas, já frias, molhando cada porção em água e sal, e eles comeram em silêncio e sem fome. Depois deitaram-se, todos, sobre o mesmo estrado armado sobre caixotes de querosene e dormiram mais uma noite. sem sonhos.
Só Ethel acordou no dia seguinte maravilhada, dizendo que o pai havia comprado um kalatshi muito, muito grande, mostrou abrindo os bracinhos quanto pôde.
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93-95
O navio apoximava-se dos trópicos. A temperatura, amena; as noites, homp1das, estreladas.
Pmkhas não tinha sono. Subia ao tombadilho, cruzava as mãos atrás e passeava da popa à proa, e desta àquela. Às vezes parava, debruçava-se sobre a amurada do navio, perscrutava as águas profundas e negras do mar e experimentava uma sensação até então desconhecida. Diante da amplidão do céu e do mar a perder de vista, sentia-se integrado num plano mais extenso e imponderável da vida.
No porão, o calor e o ar viciado sufocavam. Marim dormitava, após um dia de náuseas e mal-estar. Ethel e Nina também dormiam. Só Lizza não conseguia conciliar o sono. Virava-se constantemente de um lado para outro, cansada, enervada. Pressentia o navio cortando as águas escuras, seu trajeto marcado pelo balançar cadenciado com que o navio se inclinava para um lado e outro, como o carpir de uma mulher velha, sem forças nem conseqüências, num ermo sem fim. E quando uma ratazana enorme e lerda, os pequeninos olhos fuzilando por entre o pêlo cinzento e repelente, passou sobre o travesseiro, roçando-lhe o rosto, toda a sua tensão nervosa explodiu em asco e revolta.
tou do leito e galgou a escada para fora do porão. Sabia o pai lá fora, procurou-o e, reunindo-se-lhe, com ele deu de andar acima e abaixo, ensimesmada como Pinkhas.
A brisa fresca, lavando-lhe a face, foi-lhe restituindo, gradativamente, a serenidade. Aos poucos, começou a tomar interesse pelo que lhe ia à volta.
Da primeira classe vinham os sons da Viúva alegre, de Lehar. Como era bonito. Deteve-se junto à escada, fascinada pelo deslumbramento das luzes, dos sons e a beleza e o encanto das damas e cavalheiros que passeavam, conversando, rindo, e fumando de delgadas e brilhantes piteiras.
Pinkhas também havia parado, e olhavam, ambos, para aquele mundo tão diferente do porão da terceira classe, um mundo feliz e descuidado, onde os adultos recreavam-se como crianças despreocupadas.
A um dado momento, alta e loura, trajando decotado vestido de lantejoulas, longos braços à mostra, a mulher reparou na menina, voltou e reapareceu com as mãos cheias de bombons. Estendeu-os a Lizza, sorrindo muito e proferindo palavras untuosas. Devia estar dizendo amabilidades, pensou a menina, e fitava-a com espanto e admiração, não querendo aproximar-se e não tendo ânimo para retroceder. A dama insistia, sorria sempre e estendia ainda mais os braços nus, longos e finos. Então Lizza subiu alguns degraus até a dama alta e esguia e colheu seu sorriso arqueado bem de perto e o punhado de bombons raros e tentadores. Mas no momento em que fazia, olhou de esguelha para o pai, e viu-lhe olhar triste, os lábios crispados. Agradeceu, confusamente, desceu a escada, e agora não sabia que fazer com aquilo. Sentia haver interposto uma barreira entre ela e o pai. Num movimento brusco, correu até o parapeito do navio e jogou os bombons no mar. fazia, olhou de esguelha para o pai, e viu-lhe olhar triste, os lábios crispados. Agradeceu, confusamente, desceu a escada, e agora não sabia que fazer com aquilo. Sentia haver interposto uma barreira entre ela e o pai. Num movimento brusco, correu até o parapeito do navio e jogou os bombons no mar.
“Agora”, pensou, “tão simples aproximar-me do pai.” Entretanto, permanecia atoleimada, os pés fincados no mesmo lugar, sentindo haver algo errado, mas não sabendo o quê. Aliás, era tão difícil compreender uma porção de tantas outras coisas. Muitas pessoas não estavam em seus devidos lugares, e sempre aconteciam coisas que não deveriam suceder. Dentro de si mesma esbarrava constantemente numa quantidade de obstáculos e contradições. Olhar para dentro de si própria era como perder-se numa caverna sem fim.
A esses pensamentos, sentiu um desamparo muito grande, um nó a a-Vamos, Lizzutschka, já é tarde. É hora de dormir. Desceram.
O navio virava rumo à aurora, as estrelas, esmaecendo; operar-lhe a garganta, e uma vontade tão grande, mas tão grande de chorar, ou de morrer.
Saiu de sua abstração ao sentir a mão do pai sobre a sua cabeça.
Frio, e um silêncio desolador sobre o oceano inteiro.
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69-71
“(…) This day will be a memorial to you, and you will celebrate it as a feast to Jehovah; among your generations you will celebrate it as a perpetual statute…
Marim spread a white tablecloth over the small round table placed in the center of the room, placed glasses, saucers, a plate of matzot and another with boiled potatoes, salt and a little bitter root on the table.
Pinkhas, sitting in a corner, waited, absorbed, watching the woman come and go without enthusiasm, without harmony in her movements.
– I couldn’t find anything that would serve as a korbanot or a kharosset. I only got bitter root for maror. Birds, wine, nuts… I don’t think anyone remembers what that is anymore. He spoke in a slurred voice.
– Enough what you got – Pinkhas replied, getting up and heading towards the washbasin. -Korbanot should have been abolished a long time ago. For millennia, Jews have no longer sacrificed animals as an offering to God. Today – he added gloomily -, men kill men, to the joy of the black Satan. And if there is no kharosset, it doesn’t hurt either. Maror alone will remind you of all the bitterness of captivity. Let’s sit at the table. Let’s begin the seder. – Saying this, he put the skullcap on his head, suddenly overcome with anger. Marim stared at him silently, her movements slow. Then he controlled himself, and a great lassitude came over his anger. Now he too felt like a pebble in the current, without will, without impulse. He approached the table, placed two small pillows on the back of the chair as cushions, sat down and began leafing through the Haggadah.
– Daddy, why do you sit on the pillows? – Lizza asked.
He stood up halfway, only then seeming to have realized what he had done. He then looked serenely at the girl and replied in a slow and confident voice:
– Kings sit on cushions, and we are a people of kings. A free people. One day we were enslaved by Pharaoh, in Egypt, but we freed ourselves. A Jew is not a slave, and does not enslave others.
– Daddy, tell me what it was like in Egypt.
Soft tenderness invaded Pinkhas’s heart, at his daughter’s pleading look. He adjusted his cap again in a gesture of someone who is thinking far away, and began:
– For many years the Jews lived in Egypt. They grew and multiplied. Then, the Egyptians feared that the strange people would multiply even more, and because they feared them, they enslaved them. It’s always like this – he continued talking to himself now. – Because they don’t know us well enough, they fear us, and because they fear us, they antagonize us. So it was in Egypt, and so it has been in all the Egypts where we have been. There, they used them for herding – a task that an Egyptian considered unworthy for him. But when he learned the trade and saw that it didn’t stain his hands, he began to persecute us. This is how it has continued to be. Here they exploit our business acumen, there they take the gold gained from our labor; there they take advantage of our love of knowledge. Then they accuse us of “threatening”, “stealing”. This is the way the world leads itself.
Lizza listened, confused. She didn’t understand the meaning of certain words, but her father’s face, suddenly so serious and sad, saddened her. He looked into his eyes, and such deep anguish spread across his face that Pinkhas pushed away his dark thoughts and, to relieve the tension, tried to appear happy. She even anticipated the questions and answers of Ma Nischtana, the four ritual questions about the meaning of Easter, which the girl loved so much.
The father was now reading the Haggadah, and the mother was staring at the candle flame with distant thoughts. Ethel stopped herself from closing her mouth, afraid that her breath would blow out the candle, pressing her little hands tightly against her face. Lizza looked from one to the other, and within herself, and felt the pains of captivity in Egypt, the wrath of the evil king, weighing on them. And looking back from distant, dark Egypt to the cold, dark little room in which they were locked up, as if in a prison, I came across a fearsome and strange world. Pogroms, murders, fear, escapes, cruelty. His childish mind was troubled.
Marim continued to concentrate on her thoughts, while Pinkhas prayed, and although the ceremony was one of joy, the shaking of her head and the intonation of her voice said that the sufferings of the people of Israel were not over. The captivity
it didn’t end with the escape from Egypt, no. Jews continued to flee everywhere. Everywhere, shackles remained and blood was spilled. The entire history of the Jews, throughout the centuries, was stained with blood.
The flame flickered weakly, about to go out; then Pinkhas hurriedly put away the prayer book, muttered the traditional “Leschaná Habaá Biruschalayim” -next year in Jerusalem -divided the matzot, divided the potatoes, already cold, dipping each portion in water and salt, and they ate in silence and not hungry. Then they all lay down on the same platform built on crates of kerosene and slept another night. no dreams.
Only Ethel woke up the next day amazed, saying that her father had bought a very, very big kalatshi, showing it by opening her little arms as much as she could.
Only Ethel woke up the next day amazed, saying that her father had bought a very, very large kalatshi, showing it by opening her little arms as much as she could.
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93-95
The ship was approaching the tropics. The temperature, love at; the nights, blessed, starry.
Pmkhas was not sleepy. He went up to the deck, folded his hands behind him and walked from stern to bow, and from there to that. Sometimes he would stop, lean over the ship’s rail, peer into the deep, black waters of the sea and experience a previously unknown sensation. Faced with the vastness of the sky and the sea as far as the eye could see, he felt integrated into a more extensive and imponderable plan of life.
In the basement, the heat and stale air suffocated. Marim was dozing after a day of nausea and discomfort. Ethel and Nina were also asleep. Only Lizza couldn’t sleep. She constantly turned from side to side, tired, nervous. I could feel the ship cutting through the dark waters, its path marked by the rhythmic swaying with which the ship tilted from one side to the other, like the mourning of an old woman, without strength or consequences, in an endless wilderness. And when a huge, sluggish rat, its tiny eyes glaring through its gray, repellent fur, passed over his pillow, brushing his face, all his nervous tension exploded into disgust and revolt.
I got out of bed and climbed the stairs out of the basement. She knew her father was out there, she looked for him and, joining him, walked up and down with him, as self-absorbed as Pinkhas.
The cool breeze, washing his face, gradually restored his serenity. Little by little, he began to take interest in what was going on around him.
From first class came the sounds of Lehar’s Merry Widow. How beautiful it was. She stopped by the stairs, fascinated by the dazzling lights, the sounds and the beauty and charm of the ladies and gentlemen who strolled around, talking, laughing, and smoking from thin, shiny cigarette holders.
Pinkhas had also stopped, and they were both looking at that world so different from the third class hold, a happy and careless world, where adults enjoyed themselves like carefree children.
At a given moment, tall and blonde, wearing a low-cut sequin dress, long arms exposed, the woman noticed the girl, came back and reappeared with her hands full of chocolates. He handed them to Lizza, smiling a lot and saying unctuous words. She must have been saying pleasantries, the girl thought, and she was looking at her with astonishment and admiration, not wanting to get any closer and not having the courage to back away. The lady insisted, always smiling and extending her long, thin, naked arms even further. Then Lizza climbed a few steps to the tall, slender lady and took a close look at her arching smile and a handful of rare and tempting chocolates. But as she did so, she glanced at his father, and saw him looking sad, his lips pursed. She thanked her, confused, went down the stairs, and now she didn’t know what to do with it. She felt that a barrier had been placed between her and her father. In a sudden movement, she ran to the ship’s railing and threw the sweets into the sea.
“Now”, she thought, “it’s so simple to get closer to my father.” However, she remained numb, her feet planted in the same place, feeling something was wrong, but not knowing what. In fact, it was so difficult to understand a lot of other things. Many people were not in their proper places, and things always happened that should not have happened. Within herself, she constantly encountered a number of obstacles and contradictions. Looking inside herself was like getting lost in an endless cave.
At these thoughts, he felt a great helplessness, a knot a-Come on, Lizzutschka, it’s already late. It’s time to sleep. They went down.
The ship turned toward dawn, the stars fading; operate on his throat, and such a great, great desire to cry, or to die.
She came out of her thoughts when she felt her father’s hand on his head.
Cold, and a desolate silence covered the entire ocean.
Ricardo Lindo en San Salvador, El Salvador, en 1947 en el seno de una familia judía de poetas e intelectuales, la trayectoria del escritor, poeta y crítico de arte Ricardo Lindo incluye una amplia lista de libros que revelan sus variados intereses y habilidades literarias. Entre sus poemarios publicados se destacan los libros Jardines, Rara Avis, Las monedas bajo la lluvia y El señor de la casa del tiempo. Sus trabajos de crítica incluyen un estudio poético sobre la pintura de El Salvador y el libro El esplendor de la arcilla, cuyo tema es el teatro popular en El Salvador. Y en narrativa, entre otros, Cuentos del mar, una colección de cuentos infantiles, y Lo que dice el Río Lempa, el libro de relatos mencionado antes, publicado en 1990 y Tierra, 1998.Toda esta obra en conjunción con su labor editorial al frente de la revista ARS, Segunda Época, en la cual viene fungiendo como director desde 1991. Murió en 2016.
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Ricardo Lindo in San Salvador, El Salvador, in 1947 within a Jewish family of poets and intellectuals, the career of the writer, poet and art critic Ricardo Lindo includes an extensive list of books that reveal his varied interests and literary skills. Among his published collections of poems, the books Gardens, Rara Avis, The Coins Under the Rain and The Lord of the House of Time stand out. His works of criticism include a poetic study on the painting of El Salvador and the book The Splendor of Clay, whose theme is popular theater in El Salvador. And in narrative, among others, Cuentos del mar, a collection of children’s stories, and Lo que dice el Río Lempa, the book of stories mentioned above, published in 1990 and Tierra, 1998. All this work in conjunction with his editorial work at front of the ARS magazine, Segunda Época, in which he has served as director since 1991. He died in 2016.
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“Tierra”
Aún reservaba la tierra otras bondades al curandero Otzilén. Se acercaban a él los muchachos deseosos de avanzar en la senda del conocimiento, y él habló entonces de las esferas que giran en la bóveda celeste, de la vida que late en las profundidades del Océano, y acabado el capítulo de la ciencia, habló también de su infancia en Tulum, y de los peces voladores, y de las ciudades sagradas, abandonadas en la selva desde siglos atrás por una inexplicable decisión de las deidades En sus conversaciones, don Pablo se refirió a la Gehena. Otzilén preguntó qué era eso. El cura se remontó a los tiempos antiguos, partiendo de los presentes. Habló de la ciudadela de Jerusalem, a cuyos pies se abría un pequeño valle calcinado por el sol, el valle de Hebrón. En ese lugar, en otro tiempo, se quemaban niños ante Moloch, dios pagano y abyecto, y era llamado Gehena el pequeñito valle, que más tarde, símbolo del Infierno, creció en la imaginación de los cristianos hasta convertirse en un magno espacio intemporal de suplicios por fuego. Y se extendió Pablo de Alcántara, hablando de la ciudadela amurallada de Jerusalem (que quiere decir “Id en paz”) de sus torres cercando las gigantes puertas, cada una recibiendo su nombre según los tratantes que comerciaban en el barrio aledaño: Puerta de los Caballos, Puerta de las Ovejas, y también por la cercanía de las fuentes de agua, materia preciosa en tierras desérticas. Puerta de las Aguas. Habló de los templos de la Ciudad Santa, cuyas agujas y cuyas cúpulas sobrepasaban la altura de los altos muros que la rodeaban, y eran visibles desde lejos. La iglesia hecha erigir por la madre de Constantino sobre la tumba de Cristo, la Gran Sinagoga, noble casa cuadrada con una estrella de seis puntas en la frente, los minaretes de las mezquitas, levantando sus espigados cuellos como camellos episcopales, el Domo de la Roca, cúpula cubierta de láminas de oro. Pero la pequefta Gehena no era nada comparable al formidable precipicio que se cortaba a pique al pie del Alcázar de Segovia, una de cuyas torres estaba destinada a despeñadero de judíos. Otzilén, ante la vivacidad de las descripciones de Jerusalem, preguntó a don Pablo si la había visitado. No era ese el caso. Pero era el clérigo de familia de judíos conversos, y muchas veces oyó a sus mayores relatos sobre la Ciudad Santa, y participó, de niño en las lamentaciones que acompañaban las efemérides de la destrucción del Templo, en cuartos cubiertos de ceniza. El cristianismo de don Pablo era, no obstante, verdadero, y no fingido como el de otros de sus congéneres, que optaron por cambiar de religión para permanecer en España.
Y recordó don Pablo el edicto de expulsión, que forzaba a los hebreos a cambiar de fe o a partir, y a Isaac Abarbanel, tesorero de sus Católicas Majestades, rogando a los Reyes revocar el edicto, y ofreciendo treinta mil monedas de plata por cada israelita. El Gran Inquisidor Torquemada arrojó al suelo su crucifijo pectoral, gritando al Rey Fernando que, si ellos vendieron al Cristo por treinta monedas, vendiese él ese crucifijo por las treinta mil monedas de Abarbanel. Y doscientos cincuenta mil judíos debieron abandonar la tierra que fuera de sus padres, de sus abuelos, de los abuelos de sus abuelos, sin llevarse más pertenencias de las que cupieran en un saco de viaje. Los que quedaron, fueron llamados marranos, y tal fue el caso de los padres de don Pablo. Pero a cuantos de sus parientes vio partir a un futuro incierto, como arrancándose el alma, a cuantos vecinos, y aunque él era muy pequeño entonces, supo que la vida había cambiado para siempre. Su padre, médico de oficio, debió dejar su profesión. Su madre horneaba pan, así que pusieron una pequeña panadería, para vender doradas hogazas a los cristianos, y en secreto, en la noche anterior a la pascua hebrea, ella cocinó los panes rituales, para que, en alcobas escondidas, a la luz de los cirios, los hijos de Abraham diesen gracias a Jehová por la inmensidad de sus dones. Ocasionalmente, uno de los asistentes a la fiesta judía dejaba de ir. Era víctima de una denuncia anónima, y su cuerpo, convertido en antorcha viviente, alumbraba con llamas siniestras, acompañadas de gritos desgarradores, la Gran Plaza. Pero él creyó en Jesús, y supo deslindar a la Inquisición de las palabras deEvangelio, y asumió voluntariamente las aguas del bautismo, y más tarde, tendido por tierra, recibió el carisma que lo consagraba sacerdote del crucificado. Tan distinto era, al cabo, un Dios perdonador de aquel otro, justiciero implacable, que tronaba en tantas páginas del Antiguo Testamento.
Añadió unas palabras de amor, don Pablo, para la seca Extremadura de su infancia, y se refirió a un bosque de otoño, al Norte, donde iba con sus padres y hermanos arecoger nueces, y recordó a su padre recitando, en hebreo, los versos de Shlomó Ibn Gabirol:
Con tinta de sus lluvias y rocíos,
con pluma de sus rayos luminosos,
y la mano de sus nubes, escribió el Otoño
en el jardín una carta de púrpura y añil.
Calló el clérigo. Otzilén, con cierto soma, le hizo ver que los españoles dieron el nombre de aftil al jiquilite, la planta de tinte azul. A punto seguido, le preguntó por qué eran odiados los de su raza. Don Pablo de Alcántara dijo que ningún grupo humano acepta que otro tengadiferentes costumbres, y que ve como defecto cuanto es, simplemente, distinto. Pero hizo mención de numerosos congéneres suyos que se enriquecieron a costa de otros, de préstamos cargados de intereses sanguinarios, que eran cobrados sin piedad, de avaros banqueros desfalleciendo de hambre sobre cofres de oro, en casas miserables donde se ahorraba hasta la sal.
Otzilén lo interrogó de nuevo. ¿Se llamaba, el cura, como decía? El nada respondió. Frunció el ceño, mirando a las nubes, y a ellas volvió también la mirada el hechicero. Después musitó don Pablo: -Shlomó, es decir, Salomón. Y tomó su camino, caviloso. Supo así, Otzilén, la razón de la simpatía que despertaba el clérigo en los indígenas, y viceversa. Él era, como ellos, el hijo de una raza maldita, despertándose en la Gehena de los males y las zozobras.
*****
The land still reserved other benefits for the healer Otzilén. The boys eager to advance on the path of knowledge approached him, and he then spoke of the spheres that rotate in the celestial vault, of the life that beats in the depths of the Ocean, and finishing the chapter on science, he also spoke of his childhood in Tulum, and of the flying fish, and of the sacred cities, abandoned in the jungle centuries ago by an inexplicable decision of the deities. And he talked about that. In his conversations, Don Pablo referred to Gehenna. Otzilén asked what it was that. The priest went back to ancient times, starting from the present. He spoke of the citadel of Jerusalem, at the foot of which opened a small valley scorched by the sun, the valley of Hebron. In that place, in another time, children were burned before Moloch, a pagan and abject god, and the little valley was called Gehenna, which later, a symbol of Hell, grew in the imagination of Christians until it became a great timeless space of torture by fire. And Pablo de Alcántara expanded, speaking of the walled citadel of Jerusalem (which means “Go in peace”) of its towers surrounding the giant gates, each one receiving its name according to the traders who traded in the surrounding neighborhood: Gate of the Horses, Puerta de las Ovejas, and also because of the proximity of water sources, a precious material in desert lands. Gate of the Waters. He spoke of the temples of the Holy City, whose spiers and domes surpassed the height of the high walls that surrounded it, and were visible from afar. The church built by Constantine’s mother over the tomb of Christ, the Great Synagogue, a noble square house with a six-pointed star on its forehead, the minarets of the mosques, raising their lanky necks like episcopal camels, the Dome of the Rock, dome covered in gold sheets. But little Gehenna was nothing comparable to the formidable precipice that was cut at the foot of the Alcázar of Segovia, one of whose towers was destined as a cliff for Jews. Otzilén, given the vividness of the descriptions of Jerusalem, asked Don Pablo if he had visited it. That was not the case. But he was a clergyman from a family of converted Jews, and many times he heard his elders tell stories about the Holy City, and he participated, as a child, in the lamentations that accompanied the anniversaries of the destruction of the Temple, in rooms covered in ashes. Don Pablo’s Christianity was, however, true, and not feigned like that of other of his peers, who chose to change their religion to remain in Spain. os adoratorios de tiniebla, adonde entraban únicamente los sacerdotes, y se extendió el hechicero refiriendo prodigios de Tenochtitlán, ciudad en la que estuvo unos días solo, treinta y tantos años atrás. Mas recordaba al Rey avanzando en la canoa real por los canales de la ciudad espléndida, como un sol erizado no de llamas, sino de plumas preciosas, entretejidas con arte insuperable.
Uno de los jóvenes hacía, en eso, una pregunta, y él contestaba con una respuesta que le sorprendía a él mismo. Él sabía cosas que él ignoraba que supiera. Más tarde se lo contó a don Pablo, y éste subrayó sus palabras con otras del Talmud:
-He aprendido de mis maestros. He aprendido de mis compañeros de estudio.
Pero he aprendido mucho más de mis discípulos.
Otzilén dejó pasar una pausa reflexiva y añadió:
-El haber sido amado por muchos me ha enseñado mucho. Y lo primero, a refrenar mi lengua. Si uno ama sólo a alguien o a algo, ofende fácilmente a los demás sin fijarse. Si uno ama al Amor, aprende que la mejor ciencia de la vida es dejar ser a los demás. y rió el brujo, y su risa volvió a ser cristalina, un manantial surgiendo de una peña. Don Pablo sonrió. Ese hechicero al que viera con temor, con respeto, con admiración, pero siempre con afecto, era hoy un poco su discípulo, o no el de él, sino el de una sabiduría heredada de un Dios severo, duro, que impuso diez leyes de piedra sobre un monte cuarenta veces santo.
—Otzilén no soy yo quien te habla. Otzilén, soy el monte Hebrón, y la nieve sobre el Hebrón. Otzilén, la tierra es apenas nuestra infancia, y la vida toda, que no puede ser sin amor. es únicamente ese Amor al cual vamos.
– ¿y tú quién eres, Pablo de Alcántara?
-Soy la oveja de cien buenos pastores. ¿Y tú?
-Yo soy mi raza, y ambos pensaron que sus respuestas eran intercambiables.
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The land still reserved other benefits for the healer Otzilén. Boys approached him, eager to advance on the path of knowledge, and he then spoke of the spheres that rotate in the celestial vault, of the life that beats in the depths of the Ocean, and finishing the chapter on science, he also spoke of his childhood in Tulum , and the flying fish, and the sacred cities, abandoned in the jungle centuries ago by an inexplicable decision of the deities. In his conversations, Don Pablo referred to Gehenna. Otzilén asked what it was that. The priest went back to ancient times, starting from the present. He spoke of the citadel of Jerusalem, at the foot of which opened a small valley scorched by the sun, the valley of Hebron. In that place, in another time, children were burned before Moloch, a pagan and abject god, and the little valley was called Gehenna, which later, a symbol of Hell, grew in the imagination of Christians until it became a great timeless space of torture by fire. And Pablo de Alcántara expanded, speaking of the walled citadel of Jerusalem (which means “Go in peace”) of its towers surrounding the giant gates, each one receiving its name according to the traders who traded in the surrounding neighborhood: Gate of the Horses, Puerta de las Ovejas, and also because of the proximity of water sources, a precious material in desert lands. Gate of the Waters. He spoke of the temples of the Holy City, whose spiers and domes surpassed the height of the high walls that surrounded it, and were visible from afar. The church built by Constantine’s mother over the tomb of Christ, the Great Synagogue, a noble square house with a six-pointed star on its forehead, the minarets of the mosques, raising their lanky necks like episcopal camels, the Dome of the Rock, dome covered in gold sheets. But little Gehenna was nothing comparable to the formidable precipice that was cut at the foot of the Alcázar of Segovia, one of whose towers was destined as a cliff for Jews. Otzilén, given the vividness of the descriptions of Jerusalem, asked Don Pablo if he had visited it. That was not the case. But he was a clergyman from a family of converted Jews, and many times he heard his elders tell stories about the Holy City, and he participated, as a child, in the lamentations that accompanied the anniversaries of the destruction of the Temple, in rooms covered in ashes. Don Pablo’s Christianity was, however, true, and not feigned like that of other of his peers, who chose to change their religion to remain in Spain.
And Don Pablo remembered the edict of expulsion, which forced the Hebrews to change their faith or leave, and Isaac Abarbanel, treasurer of their Catholic Majesties, begging the Kings to revoke the edict, and offering thirty thousand silver coins for each Israelite. The Grand Inquisitor Torquemada threw his pectoral crucifix to the ground, shouting to King Ferdinand that, if they sold Christ for thirty coins, he should sell that crucifix for Abarbanel’s thirty thousand coins. And two hundred and fifty thousand Jews had to leave the land that belonged to their parents, their grandparents, their grandparents’ grandparents, without taking more belongings than would fit in a traveling bag. Those who remained were called Marranos, and such was the case of Don Pablo’s parents. But he saw how many of his relatives he saw leaving for an uncertain future, as if tearing out his soul, how many neighbors, and although he was very small then, he knew that life had changed forever. His father, a doctor by trade, had to leave his profession. Her mother baked bread, so they started a small bakery, to sell golden loaves to Christians, and secretly, on the night before the Hebrew Passover, she baked the ritual breads, so that, in hidden alcoves, in the light of the candles, the children of Abraham gave thanks to Jehovah for the immensity of his gifts. Occasionally, one of the Jewish partygoers would stop coming. He was the victim of an anonymous complaint, and his body, turned into a living torch, illuminated the Great Plaza with sinister flames, accompanied by heartbreaking screams.
But he believed in Jesus and knew how to separate the Inquisition from the words of Gospel, and voluntarily assumed the waters of baptism, and later, lying by earth, received the charisma that consecrated him priest of the crucified. So different, after all, was a forgiving God from that other, implacable justice, who thundered in so many pages of the Old Testament. He added a few words of love, Don Pablo, for the dry Extremadura of his childhood, and he referred to an autumn forest, to the North, where he went with his parents and brothers to collecting nuts, and he remembered his father reciting, in Hebrew, the verses of Shlomo Ibn Gabirol:
With ink from its rains and dews,
with a feather of its luminous rays,
and the hand of its clouds, wrote Autumn,
in the garden a letter of purple and indigo.
The clergyman was silent. Otzilén, with a certain soma, made him see that the Spaniards gave the aphtil name for jiquilite, the blue dye plant. Next, he asked him why his race was hated. Don Pablo de Alcántara said that no human group accepts that another has different customs, and that sees as a defect everything that is simply different. But He mentioned numerous of his fellow men who became rich at the expense of others, of loans loaded with bloody interest, which were collected without mercy, of avaricious bankers fainting from hunger over chests of gold, in miserable houses where even salt was saved.
Otzilén questioned him again. Was his name, the priest, as he said? He answered nothing. He frowned, looking at the clouds, and the man turned his gaze to them too, magician. Then Don Pablo whispered: -Shlomó, that is, Solomon. And he took his way, brooding Thus, Otzilén, he knew the reason for the sympathy that the cleric aroused in the indigenous, and vice versa. He was, like them, the son of a cursed race, awakening in the Gehenna of evils and distress.
Natalia Timerman (São Paulo, 1981) é uma médicapsiquiatra, psicoterapeuta, crítica literária, pesquisadora e escritorabrasileira. Possui graduação em medicina pela Universidade Federal de São Paulo, mestrado em psicologia clínica pela Universidade de São Paulo e especialização em escrita pelo Instituto Vera Cruz. Trabalhou como psiquiatra no Centro Hospitalar do Sistema Penitenciário por mais de uma década. É colunista da UNIVERSA e colaboradora da revista Quatro Cinco Um e da revista CULT. Seu livro de estreia foi Desterros, elogiado por humanizar o sistema carcerário de São Paulo. A obra trouxe ao público a vivência de funcionários e detentos que passaram pelo Centro Hospitalar do Sistema Penitenciário. Seu segundo livro é uma coletânea de contos de ficção, Rachaduras, obra finalista do 62.º Prêmio Jabuti, publicada pela editora Quelônio. No livro, a autora observa a cidade e as neuroses cotidianas no ambiente urbano. Muitos dos temas em Rachaduras lidam com a maternidade e as contradições de ser mãe. Em 2021, publicou o seu primeiro romance pela editora Todavia, Copo Vazio, um dos mais vendidos de 2021, livro que trabalha com a dificuldade de estabelecer relacionamentos afetivos verdadeiros na era de aplicativos e redes sociais. Em 2022, publicou, ao lado da psicanalista Bel Tatit, Os óculos de Lucas, seu primeiro livro de literatura infantil pelo selo Brinque-Book. Em 2023, publicou seu romance, As pequenas chances, pela editora Todavia. A obra tem inspiração autobiográfica e foi inspirada na experiência da autora com a morte do pai, o médico infectologista e escritor Artur Timerman o luto vivido e sua relação com o judaísmo.
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Natalia Timerman (São Paulo, 1981) is a Brazilian psychiatrist, psychotherapist, literary critic, researcher and writer. He has a degree in medicine from the Federal University of São Paulo, a master’s degree in clinical psychology from the University of São Paulo and a specialization in writing from the Vera Cruz Institute. He worked as a psychiatrist at the Penitentiary System Hospital Center for more than a decade. She is a columnist for UNIVERSA and a contributor to the magazines Quatro Cinco Um and CULT. Her debut book was Desterros, praised for humanizing São Paulo’s prison system. The work brought to the public the experience of employees and inmates who passed through the Hospital Center of the Penitentiary System. His second book is a collection of fiction short stories, Rachaduras, a finalist for the 62nd Jabuti Prize, published by Quelônio. In the book, the author observes the city and everyday neuroses in the urban environment. Rachaduras deals with motherhood and the contradictions of being a mother. In 2021, she published her first novel with Todavia, Copo Vazio, one of the best sellers of 2021, a book that deals with the difficulty of establishing true emotional relationships in the era of apps and social networks. In 2022, she published, alongside psychoanalyst Bel Tatit, her first book of children’s literature Os óculos de Lucas, under the Brinque-Book label. In 2023, she published the novel, As Pequenas Chances, with Todavia. The work was inspired by the author’s experience with the death of her father, the infectious disease doctor and writer Artur Timerman, the grief she experienced and her relationship with Judaism.
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Artur e Natalia Timerman
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Demoro alguns segundos para entender de onde aquele rosto me é familiar, em um contexto tão diferente, o aeroporto, e já passados tantos anos de quando o havia visto pela última vez, no hospital, um dia antes da morte do meu pai. Devo ter sorrido; ele também sorri e se aproxima de mim um pouco mais, um tanto mudado, mas só depois penso que ele me reconheceu mais rápido, o que é estranho, ou deveria ser, pois os médicos têm milhares de pacientes, e os pacientes e seus familiares, apenas um médico em cada situação. Ainda que meu pai fosse médico e eu também; durante aqueles dias, éramos pacientes, ou melhor, meu pai era o paciente do dr. Felipe, médico de cuidados paliativos, e eu, apenas a filha de um homem com uma doença terminal.
É claro que ele não se lembra do meu nome, penso, postada diante dele na fila do café, surpresa com aquele encontro; penso em dizê-lo eu mesma, evitando algum constrangimento, se é que seria constrangedor um médico se esquecer do nome da filha do seu paciente tantos anos depois. Mas não digo nada; sorrio de volta — ou antes, ou ao mesmo tempo —, um sorriso triste, porque esse encontro, essa presença, remete de imediato àqueles dias, já passados faz tanto tempo, mas a morte não passa, ela continua, continua, continua.
O contato com o dr. Felipe nas últimas semanas de vida do meu pai foi tão constante que, nos dias seguintes à sua morte, tive diversas vezes o ímpeto de ligar para ele de novo, como se seu paciente ainda existisse, ou como se falar com o médico pudesse fazer que o paciente continuasse ou voltasse a existir, resolvesse o engano, porque no início (e até hoje, em alguns momentos, quando olho com atenção alguma foto do meu pai, seu rosto tão conhecido, o gesto congelado na imagem, que poderia do lado de fora da foto continuar a se mover, falar, viver) tive a forte impressão de que aquilo era algum tipo de equívoco — morrer, meu pai morrer, palavras que não combinam, que até hoje tenho dificuldade de ver juntas.
Ou como se o dr. Felipe pudesse agora cuidar não da dor do meu pai, que já não existia, mas da minha, da minha dor de não haver mais a dor e a vida do meu pai. Alô, Felipe (eu o chamava pelo nome, nunca consegui chamá-lo de doutor, talvez porque eu mesma odeie ser chamada de doutora), aqui é a Natalia, filha do Artur, bom dia, tudo bem?; então, Felipe, o Artur já não existe, mas eu ainda existo, você poderia me ajudar?; aliás, por acaso ainda sou filha dele?; como é ser filha de alguém que já não está?; não sinto dor, ou melhor, sinto muita, mas não aquela dor insuportável que meu pai sentiu nos últimos meses, aquela para a qual você prescreveu morfina e pregabalina e doses impensáveis de dipirona e depois, como nada disso adiantasse, patches de fentanil; não, minha dor é outra, também insuportável, mas vem em ondas, e, quando vem, é como se me estrangulasse, tirasse meu prumo, e tomo consciência da aberração do meu corpo, de ter um corpo, em um mundo no qual meu pai não existe mais, e percebo meus braços vazios, que o calor do abraço do meu pai já não está, nunca mais estará, e meus braços pendem, murchos, levando meus ombros para baixo, e minha cabeça olha para o chão, onde alguns dias atrás enterramos meu pai, eu ajudei a enterrá-lo, joguei três pás de terra por sobre seu caixão e depois finquei a pá na terra revolvida para que outra pessoa a tomasse e cumprisse o mesmo ritual, como manda o judaísmo, e eu, que nunca fui judia, quer dizer, que desde a adolescência ignorei a religião da minha família, me vi de repente cumprindo cada ritual com um alívio impensável alguns meses antes, como se tudo que eu quisesse ou precisasse naquele momento fosse que simplesmente me dissessem como me portar ou o que fazer, que me dessem uma lista de tarefas para existir.
Meu pai morreu num sábado de manhã, às 9h43, no Shabat. E então fomos para casa enquanto o corpo dele ficava na morgue do hospital, esperando ser levado para o cemitério na manhã do dia seguinte, pois durante o Shabat se deve descansar, esta é uma das leis máximas do judaísmo: não fazer esforços, não dirigir carros, não velar corpos ou transportar caixões.
Foi um dia estranho. Meu pai havia morrido, e cada coisa continuava no lugar. Na rua, na praça cheia de árvores na frente de casa, onde os meninos brincam, tudo permanecia do mesmo jeito, se movimentando, as árvores, os pássaros, os barulhos, os carros no asfalto, tudo igual, mas havia um silêncio por trás das coisas. A morte é um silêncio, atrás de cada som há esse silêncio, o telefone que nunca mais vai tocar, sua voz calada, nunca mais a singela mensagem Na/Posso ligar?, e eu nunca mais vou poder ligar direto em vez de responder que sim, pode, pai, porque você não pode mais ligar, eu não posso mais falar com você, e no entanto, tudo como se continuasse.
Gabi veio para minha casa. Minha irmã é engenheira naval, uma profissão que precisa de mar para ser exercida, e há muitos anos não mora mais em São Paulo. Ela sempre ficava na casa do nosso pai quando estava na cidade, mas agora não, agora não mais, não há mais casa do nosso pai, aliás, ainda havia, naquele dia, mas sem nosso pai, que é o mesmo que não haver mais casa dele. Minha irmã passou o dia deitada em silêncio, mal comeu, mal bebeu, mal podia andar.
Ao sairmos do hospital, deixando para trás o corpo, pegamos suas malas. Gabi tinha vindo direto de viagem e, desde que chegara, não arredara pé do quarto do nosso pai, que número era?, já não me lembro, nem em que andar, décimo, sexto? Ela não tinha forças para carregar as malas, ela quase não tinha forças para carregar a si mesma.
Tinha sido assim no enterro e na cerimônia um pouco antes. Minha irmã não conseguia ficar de pé. Alguém veio me perguntar se ela havia tomado algum remédio, já não lembro quem, algum amigo dela. Não havia, simplesmente a força se esvaíra do seu corpo. Ao lado do meu pai até o último instante — Gabi estava com ele quando o coração parou de bater; foi ela quem, de pé junto do leito, enquanto uma enfermeira lhe dava banho, percebeu que ele havia parado de respirar —, ao lado do meu pai ela estava firme. E nos telefonou com uma voz doce, calma, papai descansou, mas assim que saímos de perto dele, assim que nos pediram que levássemos todas as coisas do quarto do hospital pois viriam retirar o corpo, ela desmoronou.
Gabi também cumpriu os rituais judaicos. Não sei quanto ao meu irmão; ela e eu, tudo que nos orientavam a seguir, seguíamos. E aquilo fazia sentido, pela primeira vez me senti amparada pela religião, não por Deus, mas pelos meus antepassados, que conheciam a dor que eu sentia e haviam inventado rituais que tentavam acolhê-la, amenizá-la, circunscrevê-la. O mero fato de que havia regras para a Shivá, a primeira semana de luto, que se inicia depois do enterro, parecia me dizer que a dor, por mais excruciante que fosse, por mais que bagunçasse o sentido de tudo, era conhecida e, de alguma forma, natural.
Foi necessário segurar minha irmã pelo braço para que ela conseguisse ficar de pé diante do rabino, na pequena reza antes do enterro. Havia tanta gente no espaço que o caixão do meu pai ficou no salão de rezas (era uma sinagoga? Não sei, essas horas passadas no cemitério estão todas um pouco borradas), e não nas salinhas do cemitério judaico destinadas aos velórios. Ficamos sentados nas cadeiras da frente — minha irmã, eu, meu irmão, a mulher do meu pai, a filha dela. Um terrível privilégio, esse lugar da frente: bem diante da dor, o lugar da dor. Gabi ficou sentada quase o tempo todo; eu me levantava, ia beber água, sentia uma sede terrível, pegava água para minha irmã, ou alguém aparecia com um copo cheio para cada uma, e eu andava para lá e para cá, perdida.
Eu recebia abraços e, tonta de um cansaço antigo, descobria só depois de separados os troncos quem havia abraçado. Às vezes os rostos eram desconhecidos, mas os abraços me pareciam bons, quentes, um lugar onde eu queria simplesmente dormir. Ou via o rosto de alguém que me lembrava de uma época da minha vida, da vida do meu pai, o cara com quem ele trabalhou durante toda a minha infância, mais magro, muito mais velho, menor que a imagem que eu tinha dele, e então, ao abraçá-lo, chorava de novo, e mais, enquanto o sentia triste, porém rijo, como se estivesse me segurando e amparando meu choro.
Havia quem começasse a chorar já ao me ver, algumas amigas que gostavam muito do meu pai e que misturavam seu choro ao meu quando nos abraçávamos. Esses eram os melhores abraços, eu me sentia um pouco fora de mim, como se parte minha estivesse com elas, e isso me proporcionava algum tipo de alívio, elas sentindo no meu lugar, me oferecendo um descanso do insuportável.
Havia também os abraços protocolares. Não eram ruins; cumpriam seu papel, e cumprir papéis preenche espaços vazios, em geral um pouco estranhos, tanto mais naquela situação. Havia quem abraçasse demais, não sei por quê, e isso não tinha a ver com a intimidade prévia nem com algum critério, se pudessem existir critérios de abraço; eram abraços que pediam mais do que davam, e naquela hora eu simplesmente não tinha nada a oferecer. Havia quem me abraçasse com os olhos, de longe, por não conseguir se aproximar muito, seja pela falta de espaço, seja porque não houvesse caminho. Havia tantas partes da minha vida ali, no enterro do meu pai, na presença de tanta gente e do tempo espalhado naquelas pessoas, mas aquilo era um absurdo, havia algo que não se encaixava, tantos amigos de épocas diferentes da vida do meu pai, seria tão óbvio que justo ele estivesse ali, mas não: aquilo estava acontecendo justo porque ele não estava mais.
2
Ari, o mais velho dos cinco filhos de Jacó e Feyga (mais conhecida como Fani) — dos quais Artur, meu pai, era o terceiro —, veio me perguntar se eu queria discursar na cerimônia. Algum dos familiares próximos teria de dizer algo sobre o morto, fazer um pequeno discurso sobre a vida e as ações de quem morreu, da mesma forma que o patriarca Abraão fez pela esposa Sara, vim a saber bem depois. Percebi que não, eu não queria falar nada, mas disse que sim, pois é o que meu pai faria. Meu pai falaria. Não me lembro da ordem da cerimônia, não me lembro exatamente do que eu disse para as pessoas que lotavam o recinto sentadas e em pé — nunca vi um enterro tão cheio, comentou o rabino, talvez tentando nos consolar de alguma maneira; lembro-me, já de pé, diante de todo mundo, de respirar fundo algumas vezes e ser invadida pela sensação de que não conseguiria; de que, se abrisse a boca, só poderia ser para chorar. Mas então meus irmãos, ambos, se levantaram ao mesmo tempo — Gabi se ergueu sozinha nesse momento — e se postaram um de cada lado meu, sem dizer nada, sem que isso tivesse sido combinado. Assim, com eles junto a mim, foi possível falar. Eu disse algo como: se meu pai pudesse escolher qualquer coisa, escolheria a vida dele, a própria vida que ele tinha levado, enquanto escutava os narizes fungando no salão.
O enterro e a cerimônia que o antecede são um teatro. Eu sabia que as pessoas me observavam, observavam a mim, meu irmão e minha irmã chorando, observavam a companheira do meu pai atônita, e isso me dava certa sensação de farsa, a dor que eu comunicava não era a mesma que eu sentia, há um abismo entre ambas, mas as cerimônias são um teatro necessário, pois por trás delas não há nada, é isto a morte, nada, e isso não é possível suportar.
Timerman, Natalia. As pequenas chances.Todavia. Kindle Edition.
It takes me a few seconds to realize where I know that face, in such a different context, the airport, and so many years since I’d last seen it, at the hospital, the day before my father’s death. I must have smiled; he smiles too and comes a bit closer, somewhat changed, but it’s only later that I think he recognized me first, which is odd, or should be, because doctors see thousands of patients, but patients and their families, just one doctor for each situation. Even though my dad was a doctor and so am I, during that time we were patients, or rather my dad was Dr. Felipe’s patient, his palliative care physician, and I, just the daughter of a terminally ill man.
Of course he won’t remember my name, I think, standing in front of him in line for coffee, surprised to have run into him; I think about just going ahead and saying it, to avoid any embarrassment, if a doctor forgetting the name of his patient’s daughter after all those years could be embarrassing. But I don’t say anything; I smile back—or first, or at the same time—a sad smile, because this meeting, this presence, brings me right back to that time, so long ago. But death doesn’t pass, it continues, on and on and on.
My contact with Dr. Felipe during the final weeks of my father’s life was so constant that, in the days following his death, several times I had the urge to call him up, as if his patient still existed, or as if talking to his doctor could make a patient keep on living or come back to life, to figure out this misunderstanding, because in the beginning (and even today, at times, when I look closely at pictures of my dad, his face so familiar, his gestures frozen in time, like someone who, outside that photo, might carry on moving, speaking, living) I had the strong feeling that this was all some kind of mistake—dying, my dad dying, words that don’t go together, that I struggle to see together to this day.
Or as if Dr. Felipe might now treat not my father’s pain, which no longer existed, but mine, my own pain because my father’s pain and life no longer existed. Hello, Felipe (I called him by his first name, I could never call him doctor, maybe because I hate when people call me doctor), it’s Natalia, Artur’s daughter, hello, how are you?; well, Felipe, Artur is no longer alive, but I am, do you think you could help me out? actually, am I even still his daughter? what’s it like being the daughter of someone who’s no longer here? I don’t feel pain, or rather I feel a lot of pain, but not the unbearable pain my father felt those last few months, the one you prescribed morphine and pregabalin for, and unthinkable doses of dipyrone and then, when none of that worked, fentanyl patches; no, my pain is different, it’s also unbearable, but it comes in waves, and when it comes, it’s like it’s strangling me, it robs me of my wits, and I become aware of the absurdity of my body, of having a body, in a world where my father is no more, and I realize my arms are empty, that the warmth of my father’s embrace is gone, it will never be there again, and my arms hang, withered, bringing my shoulders down with them, and my head looks to the ground, where we buried my dad days ago, I helped bury him, I tossed three shovelfuls of earth on his coffin and then stuck the shovel in the turned earth so that someone else could take it and perform the same ritual, as required by Judaism, and I, who was never Jewish, I mean, who’d ignored my family’s religion since I was a teenager, suddenly I found myself performing each ritual with a relief that was unthinkable a few months ago, as if all I wanted or needed at that moment was to simply be told how to behave or what to do, to be given a list of tasks in order to exist.
My father died on a Saturday morning at 9:43 am, on Shabbat. And then we went home while his body lay in the hospital morgue, waiting to be taken to the cemetery the next morning, because during Shabbat one must rest, this is one of the highest laws of Judaism: no exerting yourself, no driving cars, no mourning or transporting coffins.
It was a strange day. My father had died, but everything was still in its place. Out on the street, in the leafy square in front of my house where the boys play, everything remained the same, in motion, the trees, the birds, the noises, the cars on the asphalt, everything the same, but there was a silence behind everything. Death is a silence, behind every sound there is this silence, the telephone that will never ring again, his silenced voice, never again the simple message Na, Can I call you?, and I will never be able to just call him instead of answering Yes, Dad, you can call, because you can’t call anymore, I can’t talk to you anymore, and yet, everything continues as if we still could.
Gabi came over to my place. My sister is a naval engineer, a profession that requires the sea, and she hasn’t lived in São Paulo for many years. She would always stay at our dad’s house when she was in town, but not now, not anymore, our dad’s house no longer exists, well, it still does, actually, but without our dad, which is the same as it no longer being his house. My sister spent the day lying down, in silence, she barely ate, she barely drank, she could barely walk.
When we left the hospital, leaving the body behind, we went to pick up her suitcases. Gabi had come straight to the hospital from a trip and since she’d arrived, she hadn’t left our father’s room, what number was it? I don’t remember, not even which floor, tenth, sixth? She didn’t have the strength to carry her suitcases, she almost didn’t have the strength to carry herself.
She was like that at the burial and at the ceremony shortly before. My sister was unable to stand. Someone came up to ask me if she’d taken anything, I don’t remember who, a friend of hers. She hadn’t, the strength had simply drained from her body. By my father’s side until the last moment—Gabi was the one with him when his heart stopped beating; she was the one who, standing at his bedside, while a nurse bathed him, noticed he’d stopped breathing—she stood firm beside my father. And she called us and said, in a sweet, calm voice, Dad’s gone, but as soon as we left his side, as soon as they asked us to take all his things from the hospital room because they were going to come and remove the body, she collapsed.
Gabi also performed Jewish rites. I don’t know about my brother, but Gabi and I, everything we were told to do, we did. And it all made sense, for the first time I felt bolstered by religion, not by God, but by my ancestors, who knew the pain I felt and had come up with rituals that attempted to embrace it, alleviate it, circumscribe it. The mere fact that there were rules for Shiva, the first week of mourning that begins after burial, seemed to tell me that the pain, no matter how excruciating, no matter how much it messed up the meaning of everything, was familiar and, somehow, natural.
I had to hold my sister up by the arm so she could stand in front of the rabbi, during the small prayer service before the burial. There were so many people inside that space that my father’s coffin was left in the prayer room (was it a synagogue? I don’t know, those hours spent at the cemetery are all a bit blurry), and not in the small rooms at the Jewish cemetery intended for funerals. We sat in the front row—my sister, me, my brother, my father’s wife, her daughter. A terrible privilege, a place at the front: right in front of the pain, at the place of pain. Gabi stayed seated almost the whole time; I would get up, go get a drink of water, I was terribly thirsty, getwater for my sister, or someone would come with a full glass for each of us, and I paced back and forth, lost.
People came up to hug me and, dazed from an old tiredness, I’d only realize who it was after I took a step back. Sometimes the faces were unfamiliar, but the hugs felt good, warm, a place where I just wanted to curl up and sleep. Or I would see the face of somebody who reminded me of a certain time in my life, in my father’s life, the guy he worked with throughout my childhood, thinner, much older now, smaller than the image I had of him, and then, when I embraced him, I cried again, and harder, and I could feel that he was sad, but tough, like he was holding me up and sustaining my tears.
There were the ones who burst into tears when they saw me, some friends who really liked my dad and whose tears mixed with mine when we hugged. Those were the best hugs, I felt a little outside of myself, as if part of me was with them, and that provided me with some relief, they were feeling in my place, offering me a break from the unbearable.
There were also ceremonial hugs. They weren’t bad; they served their purpose, and serving purposes fills empty spaces, generally a little strange, especially in that situation. There were the ones who hugged too much, I don’t know why, and this had nothing to do with prior intimacy or any criteria, if there could be criteria for hugging; They were hugs that asked for more than they gave, and at that time I simply had nothing to offer. There were those who hugged me with their eyes, from afar, because they couldn’t come any closer, either because there wasn’t enough room or because there was no way to get to me. There were so many parts of my life there, at my father’s funeral, in the presence of so many people and time spent on those people, but that was absurd, there was something that didn’t sit right, so many friends from different times of my father’s life, it would be so obvious for him to be there himself, but no: this was taking place because he was no longer with us.
2
Ari, the eldest of the five children of Jacob and Feyga (better known as Fani)—of whom Artur, my father, was the third—came to ask me if I wanted to speak. One of the immediate family members would have to say something about the deceased, give a short speech about the life and actions of the person who died, the same way the patriarch Abraham did for his wife Sara, I found out much later. I realized that no, I didn’t want to say anything, but I said yes, because that’s what my father would have done. My father would have spoken. I don’t remember the order of the ceremony, I don’t remember exactly what I said to the people who filled the room, sitting and standing—I’ve never seen such a crowded funeral, said the rabbi, perhaps in an attempt to console us in some way; I remember, standing there in front of everybody, taking a few deep breaths and being overcome by the feeling that I wasn’t going to make it; that if I opened my mouth only tears would come. But then my siblings, both of them, got up at the same time—Gabi got up on her own then—and stood on either side of me, without saying a word, without it having been arranged beforehand. And then, with them standing next to me, I was able to speak. I said something like: if my father could have chosen anything, he would have chosen life, the very life he led, as I heard sniffling noses fill the room.
The burial and the ceremony that precedes it are a theater. I knew people were watching me, they were watching me, my brother and my sister crying, they were watching my father’s partner, paralyzed, and that gave a certain feeling of farce, the pain I was communicating wasn’t the same as what I was feeling, there’s an abyss between the two, but ceremonies are a necessary theater, because behind them there’s nothing, that is death, nothing, and that’s something impossible to bear.
Timerman, Natalia. As pequenas chances. Todavia. Kindle Edition.
Daniela Roitstein nació en Buenos Aries. “Escritora, editora, comunicadora. Profesora de estudios hebreos y judaicos. Me especializo en comunicación escrita y redes sociales. Soy autora de la novela Escote hombre publicada en Chile, y obtuve premios literarios en Argentina y Australia, tanto en textos de no ficción como de ficción. Soy cofundadora y directora de Editorial Furtiva. He traducido textos del inglés al español. Soy Licenciada en Derecho por la UB de Buenos Aires, y Postgrado en Comunicación y Periodismo. de la Universidad Hebrea de Jerusalén. Hablo hebreo e inglés con fluidez. Comunicación y Periodismo de la Universidad Hebrea de Jerusalén. Hablo hebreo e inglés con fluidez”. Desde su página de Facebook.
Daniela Roitstein was born in Buenos Aires. “Writer, editor, communicator. Professor of Hebrew and Judaic studies. I specialize in written communication and social networks. I am the author of the novel Escote masculino published in Chile, and I was awarded literary prizes in Argentina and Australia, both in non-fiction and fiction texts. I am co-founder and director of Editorial Furtiva. I have translated texts from English to Spanish. I have a Law degree from the UB in Buenos Aires, and a Postgraduate Degree in Communication and Journalism from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. I am fluent in Hebrew and English.” From her Facebook page.
Después del incendio fui una vez a la sinagoga. Era viernes a la noche, había salido la primera estrella y un impulso entre atávico y moderno me llevó al templo de mi juventud.
En medio de la crisis económica había resurgido en Buenos Aires una tendencia a la religiosidad practicante.
El Antiguo Testamento es una fascinación para mí. Sé que Eva nació de la costilla de Adán, que Caín mató a Abel y que Esav se perdió por un plato de lentejas. Pero, además de los relatos básicos, me atrapan los personajes menores. Del relato de Job, por ejemplo –el sufriente sin motivo, el conejillo de Indias de Dios– mi preferido es Elihú: un personaje que aparece apenas perfilado, joven testigo del sufrimiento de Job que acude silencioso al drama. Elihú, que escucha atento y calla. El que cuando ve que las palabras de los Sabios no prosperan y que Job las rebate con argumentos que los deja mudos, se convierte en orador incisivo. Nace. Puedo imaginarlo con su túnica larga y una mirada avivada de color azul como el Mediterráneo. Es él quien le reprocha a Job «¿piensas ser más justo que Dios?», dejando en claro que ve lo que otros ignoran: el mayor pecado del supuesto justo es su soberbia. Elihú conoce a Job. Sabe de él. Cuando Job afirma: «Había hecho yo un pacto con mis ojos y no miraba a ninguna doncella», ¿qué habrá pensado Elihú? ¡Una mentira y una injuria para el género masculino, mi queridísimo Job! ¡Una invitación a que te despreciemos, por hacerles creer a nuestras mujeres que semejantes pactos son siquiera factibles!
Job me era indiferente. A quien yo admiraba era a Elihú.
Eso, junto con ciertos recuerdos de infancia, hicieron el resto del camino.
El frío había guardado a los judíos de Belgrano en el calor de sus casas calefaccionadas y no éramos muchos los feligreses. Me senté bien al fondo, en una fila de sillas azules en la que no había nadie más. Siempre olía a recién pintado allí. La alfombra, también azul, obraba maravillas para contrarrestar la frialdad que generaba el gran tamaño del lugar. Era desconcertante que solo se llenara de verdad en las Altas Fiestas. Para esas fechas yo iba al templo que solían ir mis abuelos, el de la calle Cosio, donde nadie rezaba mucho, pero tampoco simulaba hacerlo. Indescifrables hilos unían las palabras sagradas que los viejos decían a destiempo, mientras las viejas intercambiaban recetas de strudel de manzana y el dato de la pescadería en la que molían mejor el pescado, la cebolla y la zanahoria para el guefilte fish. Cosio era el útero, Belgrano el corazón. Yo, quemadas mis cosas, necesitaba recuperar mi ritmo cardiaco, sentirme vivo. Me llevaron mis piernas hasta la fila donde me sentaba cuando llegaba tarde, aunque esta vez eran recién las siete y media y éramos pocos. Era temprano pero tarde, muy tarde; en algún lugar era muy tarde para mí. Tomé el libro de rezos. Mis manos sudaban sin motivo. Me las sequé en los costados de mi Levi’s 501, el más clásico de la marca, que adquirí en la primera compra grande que hice con Laura para reaprovisionarme. Vestirme con un 501 era reafirmar lo existente, saber que el cielo no había caído. Para arriba me había puesto una Lacoste rosa, regalo de Norita: No te hubieras molestado, Norita/«Pero necesitás ropa, Ignacio, y además la compré en oferta»/Esa frase se esperaría que la diga yo, Norita/Se sonríe, cómplice, y me abraza.
Sonaron los acordes anunciando la entrada del rabino; en los últimos años la gente tomó la costumbre de ponerse de pie para recibirlo, como si fuera el Santo Padre. Yo no, siempre me incomodaron las jerarquías. Me quedé sentado y me sentí pequeño viendo desde mi última fila las espaldas de toda la congregación de pie frente al altar. dio miedo y yo apuraba mis pasos torpes para no detenerme demasiado frente a él. ¿Qué ven que yo no veo? ¿Qué miran? ¿Será qué me estoy perdiendo el fin del mundo? La espera de Oelze, artista de la década del treinta que mi abuelo admiraba a pesar de su origen alemán, que pendía majestuoso sobre la cómoda de estilo de la casa, se quemó con todas mis otras cosas. Mi mamá quiso dármelo cuando murió mi padre. Recuerdo un detalle del cuadro en el que una mujer y un hombre parecieran estar desertando de la escena. Si siguieran caminando tropezarían el uno con el otro, pero el misterio de los cuadros reside, justamente, en su quietud. De chico pensaba que el hombre lo sabía todo y por eso huía. ¿Y ella? Entendía algo que los demás solo alcanzaban a atisbar. Huía a conciencia.
Sobrecogido me hundí en la silla azul. Por instinto me toqué la cabeza confirmando que todo –pelos y kipá– estaba en su lugar. Con ese gesto, una mujer sentada a cierta distancia de mí creyó que la estaba saludando y me sonrió con una familiaridad que me incomodó. No lograba ubicarla en ningún compartimento de mi memoria. Con su mano derecha, con breves sacudidas espasmódicas de su palma, bajito y apenas por encima de su ombligo, me saludó, como una adolescente contenta. Agucé la vista mientras hacía una mueca, mezcla de sonrisa y estornudo reprimido, un enjambre de movimientos con mi cabeza, ojos y manos para disimular el olvido con un saludo cordial. La que me saludaba no era una visión del famoso cuadro sino una mujer entre robusta y contundente vestida de verde, con cartera verde, zapatos verdes y un pequeño pañuelo alrededor del cuello. El pelo negro lacio y corto, y anillos verdes, pulseras verdes y uñas muy largas. Maquillaje en los párpados del mismo color. ¿De dónde la conocía? Seguí el servicio religioso en una especie de trance, ya que por algún motivo que yo a conciencia ignoraba, la aparición me había encendido una reserva de energía de la que carecía desde el incendio. Me ponía de pie y sentía su mirada en mis omóplatos. Me volvía a sentar y veía su sonrisa, pero la sonrisa seductora era ahora como de abuela, de amiga de mi madre, como diciendo «cuánto has cambiado». O «no cambiaste nada». Lo mismo da: una sonrisa de alguien que no me ve hace mucho tiempo.
Poco a poco, la sinagoga se fue llenando, la gente ocupó los asientos de siempre, como si fueran entradas de cine numeradas. Allá la que tiene una hija bulímica, pero lo esconde. Más a la izquierda, de traje a rayas y zapatos lustrados en la calle Florida, el dueño de la importadora de televisores. A su lado, el del quebrado Banco Patricios, impasible, seguido de una rubia envuelta en una remera de color plata que le marca rollos desagradables. A todos, todos, los conocía más o menos bien, en sus miserias y glorias. Pero la mujer de verde se me escapaba del fichero. Cuando abrieron las puertas del arca donde están guardadas las Torot, disponiéndonos a cantar la plegaria Aleinu, en la página ciento cuarenta seis de nuestros sidurim, y quedaron a la vista las sagradas escrituras en rollos vestidos de hilos dorados y plateados, se elevó mi espíritu. Quien no ha visto nunca la recámara de la sinagoga abierta de par en par, mostrando los rollos de los cinco libros de Moisés engalanados, no ha visto nada aún. El Pueblo del Libro ataviaba a su obra magna con corona y vestido de reina. Y en el interior, la palabra. Los allí presentes estiramos nuestros brazos en símbolo de respeto, besando de lejos el texto, reverenciando en ese beso la tradición y, por qué no, una cierta magia. Era el momento de pedir, esa era la costumbre en mi familia. Resultaba un poco pagano, como si reverenciáramos al becerro de oro, pero funcionaba. Cerré mis ojos y me conecté con una parte de mí que solo se me revelaba en esas circunstancias. Lo normal hubiera sido pedir algo cercano a: Dios, dame fuerzas, ayudame a salir adelante, a no deprimirme y a recuperar todas mis cosas. Pero en lugar de ello, pedí: Dios, me siento mal pero no abatido, solo quiero saber quién soy ahora. No permitas que recupere mis viejas cosas.
En el balanceo natural de quienes están rezando, mis pies se despegaban del suelo medio centímetro hacia adelante, hacia atrás, hacia adelante, hacia atrás, de forma automática y sin ninguna intención de mi parte de sumarme a los pájaros danzantes. Era solo una inercia del cuerpo que resultaba bastante ventajosa.
After the fire I went to the synagogue once. It was Friday night, the first star had risen and an impulse somewhere between atavistic and modern took me to the temple of my youth.
Amid the economic crisis, a tendency toward practicing religiosity had reemerged in Buenos Aires.
The Old Testament is a fascination for me. I know that Eve was born from Adam’s rib, that Cain killed Abel and that Esau was lost over a plate of lentils. But, in addition to the basic stories, the minor characters captivate me. From the story of Job, for example – the sufferer without reason, God’s guinea pig – my favorite is Elihu: a character who appears barely outlined, a young witness of Job’s suffering who comes silently to the drama. Elihu, who listens attentively and remains silent. He who, when he sees that the words of the Wise Men do not prosper and that Job refutes them with arguments that leave them mute, becomes an incisive speaker. Born. I can imagine him with his long robe and a lively look of blue like the Mediterranean. It is he who reproaches Job “do you think you are more just than God?”, making it clear that he sees what others ignore: the greatest sin of the supposedly righteous is his pride. Elihu meets Job. He know about him. When Job states: “I had made a covenant with my eyes and looked at no maiden,” what must Elihu have thought? A lie and an insult to the male gender, my dearest Job! An invitation for us to despise you, for making our women believe that such pacts are even feasible!
I was indifferent to Job. The one I admired was Elihu.
That, along with certain childhood memories, made it the rest of the way.
The cold had kept the Jews of Belgrano in the warmth of their heated houses and there were not many of us parishioners. I sat at the back, in a row of blue chairs where there was no one else. It always smelled freshly painted there. The carpet, also blue, worked wonders to counteract the coldness generated by the large size of the place. It was disconcerting that it only really filled up on the High Holidays. Around that time, I went to the temple that my grandparents used to go to, the one on Cosio Street, where no one prayed much, but they didn’t pretend to do so either. Indecipherable threads united the sacred words that the old men said at the wrong time, while the old women exchanged recipes for apple strudel and the information about the fishmonger where they best ground the fish, onion and carrot for the guefilte fish. Cosio was the womb, Belgrano the heart. With my things burned, I needed to get my heart rate back, to feel alive. My legs carried me to the row where I sat when I was late, although this time it was only seven thirty and there were few of us. It was early but late, very late; somewhere it was too late for me. I took the prayer book. My hands were sweating for no reason. I dried them on the sides of my Levi’s 501, the brand’s most classic, which I acquired on the first big purchase I made with Laura to restock. Dressing in a 501 was reaffirming what existed, knowing that the sky had not fallen. Upstairs I had worn a pink Lacoste, a gift from Norita: You wouldn’t have bothered, Norita/”But you need clothes, Ignacio, and I also bought them on sale”/That phrase would be expected from me, Norita/He smiles, complicit, and hugs me.
The chords sounded announcing the rabbi’s entrance; In recent years people have taken to standing up to receive him, as if he were the Holy Father. Not me, hierarchies always bothered me. I stayed seated and felt small watching from my last row the backs of the entire congregation standing in front of the altar. It was scary and I hurried my clumsy steps so as not to stop too long in front of him. What do you see that I don’t see? What are they looking at? Am I missing the end of the world? The wait for Oelze, an artist from the 1930s that my grandfather admired despite his German origin, who hung majestically over the style chest of drawers in the house, burned up with all my other things. My mother wanted to give it to me when my father died. I remember a detail of the painting in which a woman and a man seemed to be leaving the scene. If they continued walking, they would trip over each other, but the mystery of the paintings lies precisely in their stillness. As a child I thought that man knew everything and that’s why I ran away. And she? She understood something that others could only glimpse. I consciously fled.
Overwhelmed I sank into the blue chair. Instinctively I touched my head confirming that everything – hair and kippah – was in place. With that gesture, a woman sitting at a distance from me thought I was greeting her and smiled at me with a familiarity that made me uncomfortable. I couldn’t locate it in any compartment of my memory. With her right hand, with brief spasmodic shakes of her palm, low and barely above her navel, she greeted me, like a happy teenager. I squinted as I made a grimace, a mixture of a smile and a repressed sneeze, a swarm of movements with my head, eyes, and hands to hide the forgetfulness with a cordial greeting. The one who greeted me was not a vision of the famous painting, but a robust and forceful woman dressed in green, with a green purse, green shoes, and a small scarf around her neck. Short straight black hair, and green rings, green bracelets, and very long nails. Makeup on the eyelids of the same color. Where did you know her from? I followed the religious service in a kind of trance, since for some reason that I was consciously unaware of, the apparition had ignited a reserve of energy in me that I had lacked since the fire. I would stand up and feel her gaze on my shoulder blades. I would sit down again and see her smile, but the seductive smile was now like that of a grandmother, of my mother’s friend, as if to say, “how much you have changed.” Or “you didn’t change anything.” It doesn’t matter: a smile from someone who hasn’t seen me in a long time.
Little by little, the synagogue filled up, people occupied the usual seats, as if they were numbered movie tickets. There is the one who has a bulimic daughter but hides it. Further to the left, in a striped suit and polished shoes on Florida Street, the owner of the television importer. At his side, the man from the bankrupt Banco Patricios, impassive, followed by a blonde wrapped in a silver T-shirt that gives him unpleasant impressions. They knew everyone, everyone, more or less well, in their miseries and glories. But the woman in green escaped my file. When they opened the doors of the ark where the Torot are kept, preparing to sing the Aleinu prayer, on page one hundred and forty-six of our siddurim, and the sacred scriptures came into view in scrolls dressed in gold and silver threads, my spirit was lifted. . . He who has never seen the chamber of the synagogue wide open, showing the scrolls of the five books of Moses decorated, has not seen anything yet. The People of the Book adorned their magnum opus with a crown and a queen’s dress. And inside, the word. Those present stretched out our arms as a symbol of respect, kissing the text from afar, reverence in that kiss the tradition and, why not, a certain magic. It was time to ask, that was the custom in my family. It was a bit pagan, like we were worshiping the golden calf, but it worked. I closed my eyes and connected with a part of me that was only revealed to me in those circumstances. The normal thing would have been to ask for something close to: God, give me strength, help me move forward, not get depressed and get all my things back. But instead, I asked: God, I feel bad but not down, I just want to know who I am now. Don’t let me get my old things back.
In the natural balance of those who are praying, my feet left the ground half a centimeter forward, backward, forward, backward, automatically and without any intention on my part to join the dancing birds. It was just an inertia of the body that was quite advantageous.
Max Dickmann nació de padres judíos inmigrantes en 1902 en Buenos Aires, Fue escritor argentino, periodista, novelista. Premio literario municipal por Madre América, 1935; Gente,1936; Los Frutos amargos, novela, 1942; Esta generación perdida, novela, 1945; También traducciones de John dos Passos, William Faulkner, PC Wren, Elmer Rice y Robert Sherwood. Miembro: Sociedad Argentina de Escritores, PEN Club.
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Max Dickmann; was born of Jewish immigrant parents in Buenos Aires in. 1902. He was an Argentine writer, journalist, novelist. He won the Buenos Aires Municipal Literary Prize for Madre América, 1935; Gente, 1936; Los frutos amargos, novel, 1942; La generación perdida, novel, 1945; Also, he translated books by John dos Passos, William Faulkner, Elmer Rice and Robert Sherwood. He was a Member of Argentine Society of Writers and PEN Club.
A diferencia de la gran mayoría de los escritores judíos de la Argentina de las décadas de 1930 a 1940, Max Dickmann no escribió para un público judío. Sus novelas fueron éxitos de ventas en todo el país y fueron populares entre todo tipo de persona. Lo que no se sabe es dónde aprendió tanto sobre la gente del río.
Unlike most Jewish writers in Argentina in the ’30s to ’40s, Max Dickmann did not write for a Jewish audience. His novels were best sellers throughout the country, popular with all sorts of people. What is not known is where he learned so much about the people of the river.
De:/From: Max Dickmann. Madre América. Buenos Aires: Santiago Rueda Editores, 1935.
“La carta”
Gabriel hizo un esfuerzo y consiguió sacar una pierna del barro que la aprisionaba, mientras la otra se le hundía con burbujeó, hasta la rodilla. El agua borrosa recalentaba por el sol de mediodía. Un alto juncal cerraba el horizonte a los pocos metros. El Mabensí flotaba cerca con proa llena de roncos finos, largos, verdosos, con un trajo oblicuo de la hoz en el extremo.
Esa hoz de juncos con crostas de barro, había costado a Gabriel toda una mañana de penoso chapoteo, haciendo desesperados esfuerzos para no hundirse, tirando de sus piernas como si quisiera sacarlas de un cepo, mientras las burbujas de barro se adhirieron a su piel, como sanguijuelas. Temía la espalda ardiendo, después de tres horas de sol, de un sol que brillaba en el agua como en un espejo, en medio de un silencio hosco a todo ruido, como si las manos de silencio ahogaron las gargantas del sonido.
Chapoteó en el agua que se arremolinaba en torno a sus piernas y alcanzó la borda del Mabensí. Cayeron adentro con ruido sordo, la hoz y el ancho cinturón de cuero. Bajo el casco, el agua era fresca. Lentamente, como para no sorprender el lanchón semidormido. Gabriel fue izándose hasta quedar sentado en la borda. Ahora sus pies flotaban como dos informes trozos de barro desleído, que hubieron ido subiendo desde el lecho del río, tiñendo el agua de concéntricos círculos terrosos. Hubo un rápido sonido acuoso y en torno al Mebensí flotaron luminosas burbujas.
Adentro, las tablas estaban recalentadas y el hilo de agua que se colaba en el fondo se secaba con rapidez. Gabriel fue remando lentamente agua en contra, bordeando el juncal y los matorrales de la costa baja, sobre la que caía el follaje verdinegro de un arbolado. A lo lejos, entre cielo y hoja, había de tortora espadaña y paja colorada.
La proa levantaba del Mabensí resbala en el agua sin ruido. Atrás, el remo gorgoteaba y la onda se dilataba hasta meterse en los pajonales. Hubo un corto aleteo y el silencio se rasgó en trizas cuando cantó el mirlo negro. El eco tableteó a lo lejos. Después todo volvió a ser un solo y blando zumbido en el que se oía el roncar de las moscas bravas en el agua de las charcas.
El riacho fue ensanchándose entre barrancas, en las que los juncos habían sido cortados a ras del agua.
El verde jugoso de la cortadera con sus hojas aserradas brillaba como gotas de esmeralda.
Gabriel enfiló el Mabensí en dirección de una barrera de álamos entre los que florecían algunas viejas sauces. La barranca se abría en un angosto tajo en la desembocadura de un arroyo.
En el agua quieta los tallos tiernos del irupé rodeaban las inmensas bandejas vere amarillentas y su flor carmesí. La sombra del follaje caía entre lampos de sol sobre la cabeza y los brazos desnudos de Gabriel.
Sintió sobre la piel un leve frescor, un honda bienestar que penetraba todo el cuerpo, como si de la sombra fuera descolgándose un invisible chorro de agua fresca,
Mascó con avidez, tirando en el fondo del lanchón, las anchas rebanadas de pan y carne que le había preparadp Camelia muy de mañana, rezongando porque él le decía siempre que era poco y que ella quería matarlo de hambre. Cerró los ojos y esperó que la rama que tapaba a un rayo de sol volviera a echarle sombra en la cara,
Camelia rajaba el largo trozo de pan con un cuchillo sin filo. Las manotas afanadas y la ancha boca llena de palabrotas y de sarcásticos risitas. “Para llevarte todo esto más que volvás a comer…¿o es que creés que voy a estarme preparándote estas viandas?…¡No, señor”…, y se plantaba frente a él con las manos en las caderas y los ojos bizcos tratando de mirar en la misma dirección. Alrededor de ella, los perros olisqueaban batiendo la cola. Por la angosta puerta de la cocina entraba el fresco de la mañana con el piar de los pollos y el cloque de las gallinas. Gabriel agarraba a Camila por los brazos y le daba afectuosos estrujones, que ella recibía con íntima satisfacción, que se empeñaba en disimular con todo género de protestas. Entonces el pan volvía a dividirse en rebanadas y gruesas lonjas de carne fría de la noche anterior cubrían la miga de manchas sanguinolentas. “Tres, cuatro, cinco; ¿te alcanzará con esto? – preguntaba Camelia con voz amable—y si no te alcanza a aguantarte el hambre, vení a comer aquí en lugar de andar vagando por los arroyos como si buscara a alguien” …
La cara de Gabriel volvió a quedar en sombra. Arriba dos hojas tiernas brillaban como cristales verdosos sobre los que cayera el sol. El resto del follaje se inmovilizaba en una quietud paralitica bajo el cielo pálido. Los sauces pendían sobre el agua vigilados por los álamos erguidos. El Mabensí se contorneó pesadamente y el agua chapoteó entre su borda y la barranca. La marea socavaba la tierra desarraigando los juncos que no encontraban suficiente apoyo en el barro arenoso, e iban poco a poco acostándose como gajos sin fuerza.
Gabriel se sentó y afirmó el bichero en unas estacas que había entre los yuyos. Le pareció oír el chapoteo de un remo y el arrastre de una chalana en el agua quita de algún arroyo. Venía el sonido como dando tumbos en la maleza y caía como un eco ahogado y lejano. Por instantes el silencio lo cubría todo; un silencio de espera, que palpitaba como un inmenso cuerpo vivo agazapado entre los árboles o suspendido de los doseles de ramas que bajaban hasta el agua. De ese lado la sombra se algareaba hasta la mitad del riacho; del otro la barraca se resacaba el sol. Contra esa pared de tierra, ramas y follaje, rebotaba ahora un largo silbado el golpeteo rítmico de un remo. Entre los juncos asomó la proa de una chalana cargada de troncos y estacones. Gabriel la reconoció en seguida. Silbó con los dedos en la boca y gritó parándose en la popa del Mabensí.
–¡Nazareno!
–¿Quién va? – preguntó una voz muy carca.
La embarcación desembocó en el riacho a espaldas de Gabriel. En pocas remadas se colocó en el medio del cauce y fue arrimándose hasta el Mabensí.
Gabriel vio que Nazareno tenía el sombrero echado sobre los ojos.
–Buena sombra te buscas, para esconderte – dijo el otro cuando se acercó.
–Y vos qué haces al sol, ¿secarte más todavía? – sonrió Gabriel
–¿Cómo qué hago? Me lo preguntas todavía, no ves que llevo estos carajos…
–¿Adónde?
–Adonde iba a ser sino a lo de Basualdo.
Nazareno se sentó en el fondo de la chalana. Al quitarse el sombrero la frente apareció húmeda y negra de pelos, como pegados por el sudor. Se olisqueó las manos y encongiendo la nariz: –estos cercos de thuya dejan un olor a resina que voltea – dijo, al tiempo que des un repasador a cuadros y se ponía a comer unos tomates grandes como puños.
Gabriel lo vio tragar durante un rato. Después sacó una botella y limpiando el gollete con el puño de la camisa, bebió haciendo gorgoritos. La nuez subía bajaba por el por el cuello flaco a cada trago. Volvió a pasarle el brazo por la boca y alargando la botella a Gabriel, dijo:
–Tres tragos solamente; mira que todo lo que tengo para hoy.
Gabriel puso un dedo donde le señaló Nazareno. Tragó un vino agrio y tibio que le volvió hasta la garganta en largos eructos.
–Has cortado bastante—dijo Nazareno, apuntando a los juncos–, pero muy amarillos.
–Es lo mejor que había; pero con cuatro días de sol estarán como ls buenos. Para cortar negro y verde hay que meterse en el barro hasta la barriga.
–Che—-¿y te da algo el tío por los manojos?
–Si saca veinte centavos por cada uno…. Qué querés que me dé… –encogiéndose de hombros.
-Que te dure la vocación, entonces –sonrió el otro—Y ya que de juncos se trata, dime Gabrielito… –bajando la voz– ¿no te ha dado la bizca nada a mí, eh?’’’ –y guiñó un ojo.
Gabriel hizo como que buscaba algo en los bolsillos del pantalón, después en el fondo del Mabensí y hasta debajo del asiento. Nazareno lo miraba moverse, suspenso el aliento y los ojos fijos en los manos,
–Nada, che…; hoy no se acordaba de vos—respondió Gabriel con sorna.
–¡Puñetas! ¿Y para eso revisas todo y me tienes esperando? –protestó el otro, acostándose en el fondo de la canoa.
Gabriel largó una carcajada y le tiró un manotón. Nazareno se tapó los ojos con el chamburgo y fingió dormir. Después de un rato dijo:
–Crece con ganas hoy este puñetero ríó…, y yo debo ir aguas arriba.
–Trajiste hoy “Es mi ilusión”, porque esperabas carta de Camelia.
–Que me lleve el diablo si he penado de ella.que con ésta me parece que voy volando… y cargo menos, dos cosas dignas de tenerse en cuenta.
–Sí … es mejor que el Mabensí –reflexionó Gabriel.
****************
Nazareno agarró el remo y sentándose en la popa empujó la chalana río abajo. Gabriel lo siguió.
*******************
Camelia miraba comer a Gabriel, apoyando en un de los troncos de la enramada. Tenía la cabeza inclinaba sobre un hombro y decía en voz muy baja.
–Se te ha perdido en el fondo de un bolsillo o en el Mabensí, y vos decís no lo has visto.
Gabriel sacudió la cabeza a la izquierda a la derecha. Tenía la boca llena de unos fideos duros y fritos, que apenas podía tragar.
–No, no te creo. Ya me diste lo mismo muchas veces—protestó—ella.
Hubo una nueva negativa y el ruido de una cuchara que caía en el plato.
–¿Hay otra cosa mejor, para comer? –preguntó –con la boca llena…Estos fideos de ayer son incomibles.
–¿Y qué ha de haber? Lo de siempre y un poco menos—respondió Camelia sin moverse.
–Si querés yo te escribo una carta una carta en lugar de Nazareno, y le dejó un lugar abajo la firma para el beso.
Camelia pateó con fastidio.
–Si yo sé que lo tenés guardada.
–Ya no se acuerda más de vos, anda detrás de otra, así que para qué te va a escribir.
–¡Sos un cochino si decís eso de Nazareno!
Los ojos gris plomo de la muchacha se pusieron horriblemente bizcos.
–¿Querés que lo sigamos un día para saber adónde va?
–A él no le sigue nadie… Y además no sé con qué lo vas a seguir. Con el Mabensí, acaso –ríó ella, despectiva.
–Con la chalana “Es mi ilusión”. –Gabriel guiñó un ojo maliciosamente.
Gabriel struggled and managed to remove one leg from the mud that imprisoned it, while the other sank with bubbling, up to his knee. The muddy water was warmed by the midday sun. A tall reed bed closed off the horizon a few meters away. The Mabensí floated nearby with a prow full of thin, long, greenish logs, with an sharp growth of reeds around the end of the boat.
That growth of reeds with mud crusts had cost Gabriel a whole morning of painful splashing, making desperate efforts not to sink, pulling at his legs, as if he wanted to free them from a trap, while the mud bubbled up. They adhered to his skin, like leeches. He feared is back would be sun burnt, after three hours of sun, a sun that shone on the water as in a mirror, in the midst of a sullen quiet, as if the hands of silence drowned out the throats of sound.
He splashed through the water that swirled around his legs and reached the side of the boat called the Mabensí. The sickle and the wide leather belt fell inside with a thud. Under the hull, the water was cool. Slowly, so as not to surprise the half-asleep boat. Gabriel hoisted himself up until he was sitting on the rail. Now his feet floated like two shapeless pieces of melted mud that had risen from the river bed, coloring the water with concentric earthy circles. There was a quick watery sound and luminous bubbles floated around the Mebensi.
Inside, the boards were overheated and the trickle of water that seeped into the bottom dried quickly. Gabriel slowly rowed against the water, skirting the reeds and bushes of the low coast, on which the black-green foliage of a tree fell. In the distance, between sky and leaf, there were cattails and red straw.
The raised bow of the Mabensí slips in the water without sound. Behind, the oar gurgled and the wave expanded until it entered the grasslands. There was a short flutter of wings and the silence was torn to shreds as the blackbird sang. The echo clattered in the distance. Then everything returned to a single, soft hum in which you could hear the snoring of wild flies in the water of the ponds.
The stream widened to a ravine, in which the reeds had been cut flush to the water.
The juicy green of the Cortadera with its serrated leaves shone like emerald drops.
Gabriel headed the Mabensí in the direction of a barrier of poplars among which some old willows were flowering. The ravine opened into a narrow gap at the mouth of a stream.
In the still water the tender stems of the irupé surrounded the immense yellowish vere trays and their crimson flower. The shadow of the foliage fell between patches of sun on Gabriel’s head and bare arms.
He felt a slight freshness on his skin, a deep well-being that penetrated his entire body, as if an invisible stream of fresh water were coming down from the shadow.
He munched greedily, throwing into the bottom of the boat the wide slices of bread and meat that Camelia had prepared for him very early in the morning, grumbling because he always told her that it was not enough and that she wanted to starve him to death. He closed his eyes and waited for the branch that was blocking a ray of sunlight to cast shadows on his face again.
Camelia was slicing the long piece of bread with a dull knife. Her busy hands and the wide mouth full of dirty words and sarcastic giggles. “Taking all of this away, it would be better if you eat here….or do you think I’m going on preparing these meals for you?…No, sir”…, and she stood in front of him with her hands on her hips and her cross-eyed eyes trying to look in the same direction. Around her, the dogs sniffed, wagging their tails. The cool morning air came in through the narrow kitchen door with the chirping of the chickens and the cluck of the hens. Gabriel grabbed Camila by the arms and gave her affectionate squeezes, which she received with intimate satisfaction, which she insisted on hiding with all kinds of protests. Then the bread was divided into slices again, and thick slices of last night’s cold meat covered the crumbs with bloody stains. “Three four five; Will this be enough for you? – Camelia asked in a kind voice – and if you can’t hold back your hunger, come eat here instead of wandering through the streams as if you were looking for someone…”
Gabriel’s face fell into the shadows again. Above, two tender leaves shone like greenish crystals on which the sun had fallen. The rest of the foliage froze in paralytic stillness under the pale sky. The willows hung over the water, watched by the upright poplars. The Mabensí rolled heavily, and the water splashed between its gunwale and the gulley. The tide undermined the earth, uprooting the reeds that did not find sufficient support in the sandy mud, and little by little they lay down like weak branches.
Gabriel sat down and secured the boat hook to some stakes between the weeds. He thought he heard the splash of an oar and the dragging of a barge in the shallow water of some stream. The sound came as if stumbling through the undergrowth and fell like a muffled and distant echo. For moments silence covered everything; a silence of waiting, which palpitated like an immense living body crouched among the trees or suspended from the canopies of branches that descended to the water. On that side the shadow stretched to the middle of the stream; on the other, the hut basked in the sun. Against that wall of earth, branches and foliage, a long whistling sound now bounced, the rhythmic tapping of an oar. The bow of a barge loaded with logs and stakes appeared among the reeds. Gabriel recognized it immediately. He whistled with his fingers in his mouth and shouted, standing on the stern of the Mabensí.
–Nazareno!
–Who’s there? – asked a very deep voice.
The boat passed into the stream, behind Gabriel. In a few strokes, he placed himself in the middle of the channel and moved closer to the Mabensí.
Gabriel saw that Nazareno had his hat pulled over his eyes.
“You’re looking for a good shadow to hide yourself in,” he said as the a other fellow came near.
–And what are you doing in the sun, drying yourself even more? – smilingly Gabriel
–What am I doing? You’re asking me; don’t you see that I’m carrying this shit…
–Where to?
–Where, if not to Basualdo’s.
Nazareno sat at the bottom of the barge. When he took off his hat, his forehead appeared wet and with black hair, stuck together by sweat. He sniffed his hands and crunched up his nose: “These thuya hedges leave a smell of resin that is overwhelming,” he said, while he took out a checkered cloth and began to eat some tomatoes as big as fists.
Gabriel watched him swallow for a while. After taking out a bottle and wiping the neck with the cuff of his shirt, Nazareno drank, gurgling. His Adam’s apple went up and down his thin neck with each swallow. He put his arm over his mouth again and, handing the bottle to Gabriel, said:
–Three swigs only; Look at everything I have today.
Gabriel put a finger where Nazareno pointed. He swallowed the warm, sour wine that returned to his throat in long belches.
”You have cut enough,” said Nazareno, pointing to the reeds, “but very yellow.”
–It’s the best there was; but with four days of sun they will be just as good. To cut black and green you have to get up to your belly in the mud.
–Che–and does the old man give you something for the bunches? –
-If he gives me twenty cents for each one… –What do you want him to give me … –shrugging his shoulders.
–“May your efforts work out, then,” the other smiled. “And since it’s about reeds, tell me Gabrielito…” – lowering his voice – “hasn’t the cross-eyed given you something at all, eh?” – and he winked. eye.
Gabriel pretended to be looking for something in his pants pockets, then in the hull of the Mabensí and even under the seat. Nazareno watched him move, his breath suspended and his eyes fixed on his hands,
–Nothing, che…; “She didn’t remember you today,” Gabriel replied sarcastically.
–Damn! And that’s why you check everything and keep me waiting? –the other protested, lying down in the bottom of the boat.
Gabriel laughed sarcastically and shook his hand. Nazareno covered his eyes with his hat and pretended to sleep. After a while he said
–This bloody river is growing with spirit today…, and I have to go upstream.
–You brought “It’s My Dream” today because you were expecting a letter from Camelia.
–The devil take me if I have thought of her. With this one it seems like I’m flying… and it weighs less, two things worth taking into account.
–Yes… it is better than the Mabensí –Gabriel reflected.
****************
Nazareno grabbed the oar and, sitting on the stern, pushed the barge down the river. Gabriel followed him.
******************
Camelia watched Gabriel eat, leaning on one of the trunks of the bower. He had his head tilted on one shoulder and said in a very low voice.
–It was lost at the bottom of a pocket or in the Mabensí, and you say you haven’t seen it.
Gabriel shook his head left and right. My mouth was full of hard, fried noodles that I could barely swallow.
–No, I don’t believe you. “You already gave me the same bull many times,” she protested.
There was another rejection and the sound of a spoon falling onto the plate.
–Is there anything better to eat? –he asked –with his mouth full…These noodles from yesterday are inedible.
–What should there be? The usual and a little less—Camelia responded without moving.
–If you want, I’ll write you a letter, a letter in Nazarene’s place, and leave a place below for the signature for the kiss.
Camelia stamped her feet in annoyance.
–Yes, I know that you have it.
–He doesn’t remember you anymore, he’s after someone else, so why would he write to you.
–You’re a pig if you say that about the Nazarene!
The girl’s lead gray eyes went horribly cross-eyed.
–Do you want us to follow him one day to find out where he is going?
–With the barge “It’s My Dream.” –Gabriel winked maliciously.
–No one catches him… And besides, I don’t know what you’re going to catch him with. With the Mabensí, perhaps –-he laughed, contemptuously.
Nací en la Ciudad de México en 1954. El arte me ha acompañado a lo largo de mi vida: la palabra escrita, la fotografía, la pintura—y el tango. Mi pasión es la narrativa.
Fundé con Gumercinda Camino, La Gramática de la Fantasía (1984), el primer taller en México de cuento infantil, dirigido por Guillermo Samperio.
Un Asalto Mayúsculo (VN 1985), cuento para niños, obtuvo el Premio Ezra Jack Keats (Nueva York, 1986). Se encuentra en la biblioteca de la ONU.
Publiqué “Antianuncios y Recetario para ser feliz” (revista Comercio) y cuento corto (revistas El Cuento y Cronopio).
Participé en los talleres de los escritores Agustín Monsreal, Ricardo Diazmuñoz, Elena Poniatowska, Ricardo Garibay y recientemente José Kozer.
Vida Propia (novela, Miguel Ángel Porrúa, 2000) fue finalista en el V Premio Nacional de Novela. La escritora Esther Seligson comentó: “Novela obligada en la mesa de noche de cualquier persona que se considere feminista.”
Quién es otro (cuento, El Búho, 2002) obtuvo el primer lugar del Premio Nacional de Literatura y Artes.
Publiqué Lilith, la Otra Carta de Dios (narrativa poética, Miguel Ángel Porrúa, 2002).
Desde 2010 publico y participo en la edición del San Diego Poetry Annual.
Escribí las letras de las canciones infantiles de Las Nubes Panzonas (CD grabado en 2012). La canción “A ti mi lingua florida” (en ladino) fue catalogada en la colección de música sefaradí de la Biblioteca Nacional en Jerusalén.
Improbables (Editorial Acapulco, 2017, cuento corto), fue co-autorado con pinturas de Marianela de la Hoz.
En este blog, desde 2018, hago entregas mensuales de Harinas de Otro Costal, (minificciones al grano, ediciones En El Horno).
Aquí también entrego selecciones de Otros Peligros Circulares (poesía, 2021, por publicar), y antiguos y nuevos textos.
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I am Vicky Nizri.
I was born in Mexico City in 1954. Art has accompanied me throughout my life: the written word, photography, painting — and tango. My passion is narrative.
With Gumercinda Camino, I founded La Gramatica de la Fantasía (1984), the first children’s story workshop in Mexico, directed by Guillermo Samperio.
Un Asalto Mayúsculo (VN 1985), a children’s story, won the Ezra Jack Keats Award (New York, 1986). It is in the UN library.
I published Antianuncios y Recetario para ser Feliz (Comercio magazine) and short story (El Cuento and Cronopio magazines).
I participated in the workshops of the writers Agustín Monsreal, Ricardo Diazmuñoz, Elena Poniatowska, Ricardo Garibay and recently José Kozer.
Vida Propia (novel, Miguel Ángel Porrúa, 2000) was a finalist in the V National Novel Prize. Writer Esther Seligson commented: “A must-have novel on the nightstand of anyone who considers himself a feminist.”
Quién es otro (short story, El Búho, 2002) won first place in the Premio Nacional de Literatura y Artes.
I published Lilith, la Otra Carta de Dios (poetic narrative, Miguel Ángel Porrúa, 2002).
Since 2010 I have published and participated in the edition of the San Diego Poetry Annual.
I wrote the lyrics for the children’s songs of Las Nubes Panzonas (CD recorded in 2012). The song “A ti mi lingua florida” (in Ladino) was cataloged in the Sephardic music collection of the National Library in Jerusalem.
Improbables (Editorial Acapulco, 2017, short story), was co-authored with paintings by Marianela de la Hoz. In this blog, since 2018, I make monthly deliveries of Harinas de Otro Costal, (mini-fictions to the grain, En El Horno editions).
Here I also deliver selections from Otros Peligros Circulares (poetry, 2021, to be published), and old and new texts.
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“Vida propia:
Basada en la vida de Esther Shoenfeld”
por Vicky Nizri
De:/From: Vicky Nizri. Vida propia: Basada en the vida de Esther Shoenfeld. CDMX: Miguel Ángel Porrúa, 2000. Kindle.
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-Ben, kerida, kero charlar con vos.
Enreda sus brazos por mis hombros, me acerca, me toma la mano, suspira, acaricia mi pelo como cuando niña, mis mejillas, suspira. Sin darse cuenta tararea, calladito, por adentro. Me acaricia, suspira:
–Esterika –dice, por fin, luego de una pausa-, el Sr. Komenfeld me demandó la tu mano.
El tono me deja fosil.
–No te uvligo, ¡has be jalila! Yo pensó ke es mazal bono para ti, ma tú dirásh.
Con voz fragmentada, desarticulada toda:
-Pero Papá qué me está usted diciendo.
-Max es hombre trabajador y mucho, muy honrado, ¿acaso no buscas un joven que no demandara dote? Aíde, aí lo tenésh.
-No, papá, por favor, no me haga usted eso. Quiero regresar a casa. No me deje aquí sola, papá, ¿y mis hermanos, mis estudios? ¿y lo que hablamos en el barco?, yo creſ que lo considera.
-Allí, te dio kon esto de studiar, ya me perforaste el meoyo; aranka tiralanyas de quekavesa i pone las patchás en la tierra. Ya tengo culpa por prestar oſdos a tanta bobada.
Se me demora el aliento. Por fracción de segundos qued desfallecida. Quiero recurrir a la memoria, esta seca, deshabitada. Mi vida, mi pasado, han desaparecido, no me pertenecen. En ese cascarón hueco no hay nada, no solo retazo pensamiento, ni una palabra brújula. Cuando todo se calla, el silencio vocifera zumbidos perpetuos, ensordece. Estoy ensordecida. La garganta \, calzada de fluidos amargos, asesina las palabras. Quedo muda. Temblando por el miedo de faltarle respeto, logro concentrar un pensamiento, atemorizada lo transmito:
-Mentira, papá, a usted nunca le ha interesado mis cosas. Jamás me ha escuchado, no conoce la más menuda de mis emociones. Usted se conforma con que yo sea igualita a las de mi pueblo. Con eso tiene de sobra.
Guardo silencio.
Vengo de una raza de mujeres condenadas a movimientos circulares donde no hay lugar para las alas, para el vuelo hacia otros universos. Prohibido avanzar o retroceder la línea marcada. Mujeres dóciles, quietas, obedientes, pero sobre todo inconclusas, dadas a perderse en ellos, a reflejar a la luz de ellas, astros relucientes; mujeres incapaces de apropiarse de nada, ni siquiera de sus pensamientos. Incubradoras de un solo anhelo: ser poseídas, denotadas así, aún más, su condición de esclavas. Mujeres cuyo cometido es llenar y rellenarse las entrañas; hacedoras de hijos, transmisoras del germen.
-No, papá, no me obligue a seguir los pasos de mi madre, de la nona, de las guardianas. Sáleme de estar procesión de sonámbulas.
–Faz komo kerásh – y mi padre se pone serio, ya te lo dije: no te obligo a nada, pero llegando a casa olvídate de la escuela. Es ora de bushkar marido i bash a kontentarse con el mazal ke te tope.
-Papá, usted no comprende, si me deja aquí me muero.
–Pensás kel tu padre ba desharte onde vos akonteshka entuerto? No estás sola, el tío Beny va a ver por ti como si fuera su hija. Alma mía, comprende, yo sé lo que te digo, al lado de Max, nada te va a mankar, vas a tener vida buena y abundante. ¿A kuálo tornar a Temuko, kerida? Pero piénsalo inteligentemente, recuerda que tío Beny y tu padre sólo buscamos tu bien, de otro modo no teníamos por que haber venido hasta México.
Papá me abraza, me besa, cada quien a su cuarto. Arde la garganta de contener la ira. Este destino que me anuncia me naufraga. Quiero hablar con alguien, con mamá. Sentada sobre la cama revivo la mañana de nuestra despedida. La memoria regresa con sorprendentes brillos. Su llanto, su turbación, esa extraña manera en que fue cariñosa, el álbum de fotografías. Ella lo sabía todo, por eso nada me consola al señor Konenfeld como se salda una cabeza de ganado. ¡Qué engaño!, y ese tal señor Konenfeld con su cara de pollo desplumado, también es cómplice de este plan maldito. Pienso también en la conversación con émi padre en el barco: “Pide lo ke te kersh alma mía” y yo confiada que este viaje es un privilegio otorgado por primogenitura. Es una trampa, una astucia urdida por expertos mercaderes. Zurcido invisible. Golpeo y muerdo la almohada, mi piel escupe un sudor envenenado; mi cuerpo una secreción antigua, asiento de añosos caldos. Laten las sienes con fuerza inaudita, los ojos se nublan, quedo ciega. Todo es culpa de esa luna que sangra cada veintiocho días, que me pesa conciencia sierpe; luna hembra, estúpida luna, nos ha embaucado. Ha caído en una treta conocido a fuego manso. Una más de sus maniobras comerciales, timadores de ingenuos. Amabilidades y atenciones cargadas de propósito: una buena venta. Con razón el señor Max no se despega, él es el cliente interesado. Ese hombre recluido en su caparazón de lana gris, estrangulado por la negrura de su luto, al igual de los demás, forma parte del engaño. No puedo creer que algo así me suceda, no quiero; pero esta vaquilla no se va a dejar poner el cencerro así no más. Por qué me tenía que pasar esto, por qué yo. Es un castigo. Claro, no puede ser otra cosa. Así son los designios divinos, basta con desear algo con toda el alma para que suceda lo contrario, bien merecido lo tengo que desearlo tanto, universidad, amor, amigos; por renegar de los rezos y rechazar mi condición femenina, por cuestionarme y cuestionarlos. Sabía muy bien que Dios no pasaría por alto de lo espejo, ha lanzado contra mí su castigo: esa es mi suerte sierpe, no puedo escaparla; estoy vendida. Tal vez, si ofrezco un sacrificio, algo grande a cambio de mi libertad, quizá así, por obra de su merced, quede a salvo del destino. Guardo en el baúl la luz de tanto sueño inútil, hasta el último pespunte de anhelos malogrados. Esa luz conformada de recuerdos, de nostalgias, de ojos y bocas y manos y gargantas. Queda “El Porvenir” en el pasado, confitado “Porvenir” flotando en la periferia de mi pueblo, de mi casa de mi niñez clara.
Me paro frente a la ventana, miro hacia arriba, una extraña decanta:
-Eres Tú, Dios, el responsable de lo que me ha sucedido. Tú les enseñaste a vender mujeres, es Tu ley la que obedecen estos hombres disfrazados de justos, pueblo de elegidos, ¿elegidos?, si acaso ellos, lo dudo. ¡Tú me vendiste! Entonces ésta era la sorpresa que me aguardaba, para eso triné en las mañanas nuevos cantos, ¿En qué momento se nos escurren las cosas, leche tibia entre las manos?, adónde se van los sueños que se pierden?
¿Vas a castigarme por irreverente? ¿Qué vas a hacerme ahora?, ¿desmenuzar mi cuerpo con polilla?, ¿dejarme ciega, muda? Anda, ¡hazlo! Que de nada me han servido ni los ojos ni mi boca. No me importa. Me has expulsado ya tantas veces del paraíso: soy Eva, serpiente en quien recae el dolor de la raza humana, y Edith, la curiosa piedra salada. Jamás escuché que Adán haya recibido castigo alguno por méritos propios; o que a Lot le hayas hecho algo cuando ofreció a sus hijas vírgenes, inocentes. ¿Qué leyes rigen este pueblo de elegidos? ¿Qué va a pasarme da mí? Dios mío, por el amor de Dios no me hagas esto.
Dejo de temblar, me paro firme, el dolor se ha transformado en una extraña sensación de triunfo.
-Así que se trata de un negocio entre hombres y no tengo escapatoria; muy bien, no te olvides que yo también sé negociar, y voy a ver por mis conveniencias. Al buen sol hay que abrirle la puerta y el señor Konenfeld es una magnífica oportunidad. ¿No es cierto, Dios?
Los sentimientos dan cauce a las palabras y puedo continuar mi diálogo más diáfano.
-¿Tal vez has olvidad la clase de futuro que me espera en Temuco? ¿Ignoras que sin dote me casarán con el primero que se asome?, con un tonto que me llenará de hijos y me encarcelará en la pequeña existencia de mi pequeño pueblo. ¿Ignoras que a los diecinueve años ya no soy una moza y pronto me convertiré en vergüenza para mis padres, un peso? Yo también voy a sacar provecho de las oportunidades, Dios. Si no me subo en este tren, acabaré siendo una infeliz solterona dedicada a labores sin provecho y sin mañana.
Cierro los ojos con fuerza y deseo que la furia de Dios azote sobre mí y corte de golpe la pena.
Abro la ventana, un olor azul de diciembre me lastima, miro al cielo, hay tránsito de nubes, chocan unas contra otras:
– ¿Te olvida, Dios, ¿del trabajo que papá y mamá todavía tienen por delante con sus siete hijos?, siete escuelas, dotes, matrimonios que negociar. Después de todo, no amo tanto mi tierra no los bosques, ni también la escarcha no los volcanes ni el viento helado, ni tampoco me hace falta el silencio de praderas. Mejor si ya no me asoma a la nieve a mi ventana y mis hermanos no arrebatan mi pan y mamá no me obliga a las interminables faenas de la casa,
Con la tristeza vuelve el llanto. Trato de convencerme:
No es un castigo, no es un castigo. Quedo en México por mi propio bien, por mi propio bien. Soy malazuda, malazuda, malazuda. Lo repito tantas veces como las fuerzas la permiten. Sólo así logro aplacar la rabia. Comprendo que no hay otro camino, que se acabarán por siempre las carencias, que ahora estaré en posición de ayudar a mi familia. Sí, ésta es mi oportunidad. Casada con un hombre rico aseguraré beneficios incalculables; una entradita mensual, un negocio, dotes, buenos partidos para mis hermanas. Con el apoyo de tío Beny y de Max sacaré a papá de pobre. Casada con un hombre prominente y educado, me educaré, conoceré el mundo. Qué importa si el señor Konenfeld es callado, si viste de oscuro y nunca sonríe. Cambiará con los años, espero. A su lado habrá abundancia, nada nos faltará nada.
Anestesiada por la ilusión, atraída como insecto alrededor de un foco que deslumbra, me entristece reconocer que en mi boda no estarán mi familia ni amigos, la fiesta será linda, no lo dudo, pero sin los míos, los míos. Buenos, no se puede todo en esta vida, les mandaré por correo las fotos; ya me imagino la cara que pondrá Susana Alaballi cuando las vea; se dotará de envidia. En poco tiempo visitaré mi pueblo, convertida en Doña Esther Negrín de Konenfeld. Con ese pensamiento me introduzco en la cama. Caigo, caigo profunda en el encandilamiento del sueño.
Temuco, Chile en la época de la novela/Temuco, Chile at the time of the novel
Colonia Roma, Ciudad México, en la época de la novela/Colonia Roma, Mexico City, at the time of the novel
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“Vida propia: Basada en la vida de Esther Shoenfeld”
By
Vicky Nizri
X, I
-Ben, kerida, kero charlar con vos.
He puts his arms over my shoulder, approaches me, takes my hand, sighs, caresses my hair as when I was a little girl, my cheeks, he sighs. Without realizing it, he hums, very quietly, inside. He caresses me, sighs.
–Esterika, he says, finally, after a pause, “
el Sr. Komenfeld me demandó la tu mano.
His tone left me like a fossil.
-No te uvligo, ¡has be jalila! Yo pensó ke es mazal bono para ti, ma tú dirásh.
With a fragmented voice, everything in bits:
-But Papa, what are you saying to me?
-Max is a hard-working man and very, very honorable. ¿Were you looking for a man who wouldn’t ask for a dowry? Aíde, aí lo tenésh.
-No, papa, please don’t do that to me I want to go home. Don’t leave me here alone, And what about my brothers and sisters, my studies? And what we talked about in the ship? I believed that you were considering them?
-Allí, te dio kon esto de studiar, ya me perforaste el meoyo; aranka tiralanyas de quekavesa i pone las patchás en la tierra. It’s my fault for listening to such nonsense.
My breath slows, For a fraction of a second. I felt feel faint. My life, my past have disappeared. They don’t belong to me. In this empty shell, there is nothing, not even a bit of thought nor a guiding word. When everything quiets down, the silence shouts out unending buzzing; it is deafening. I am deaf. My throat, full of bitter fluid, murders the words. I remain mute. Trembling in fear of showing him a lack of respect, I succeed in composing a thought, terrified, I say it:
-That’s a lie, papa. You have never been interested in my things. You have never listened to me. You don’t know the smallest bit of my emotions. You think that I am the same as the others in my town. That’s more than enough for you.
I am silent.
I come from a race of women condemned to circular movements where there is no place for wings, for the flight toward other universes. Prohibited to advance or pull back from the marked line. Docile, quiet, obedient women, but above all incomplete, given to lose themselves, to reflect their light, shining stars: women uncapable of taking advantage of anything, not even their thought, incubators of only one wish: to be possessed, denoted so, even more, their condition as slaves. Women whose job it is to fill and refill the guts, maker of sons, transmitter of the seed.
–No, papa, don’t forcé me to follow in my mother’s footsteps, of nona, of the gaurdians. Let me out of this procession of sleepwalkers.
–Faz komo kerásh -and my father became serious. -I already told you that I don’t oblige you to do anything, but coming home, forget school.Es ora de bushkar marido i bash a kontentarse con el mazal ke te tope.
-Papa, you don’t understand, I’ll die, if you leave me here.
–Pensás kel tu padre ba desharte onde vos akonteshka entuerto? You aren’t alone. Uncle Beny will watch you as if you were his own daughter. My Soul, understand, I know what I’m saying to you, with Max, nada te va a mankar. You will have a good and abundant life. ¿A kuálo tornar a Temuko, kerida? But think about it intelligently, remember that Uncle Beny and your father are looking out for benefit. We didn’t have another reason to have come to Mexico.
My breasts beat with intense force, my eyes fog over, I am blind. It is all the fault of that moon that bleeds every twenty-eight days, that weighs on me as a serpent consciousness, female moon, stupid moon, has duped us. It has fallen into a trap, known for docile fire. One more of the commercial maneuvers, trickers of the ingenuous. I can’t believe that something like that is happening to me. Acts of kindness and affection effected for a reason: a good sale. With good reason, Mr. Max didn’t pull away; he is the interested client. That man, shut up in that shell of gray wool, strangle by the blackness of his grief, just like the rest of them, part of the trick. I can’t believe that something like this is happening to me, I don’t want it, but on this little cow will not put on the cowbell, just like that. Why does this have to happen to me. Why me? It’s a punishment. Of course, it can’t be anything else. It’s God’s will, enough about desiring something with all your soul so that the opposite happen, well-deserved, I want it all so much: university, love, amigos, to renege on the prayers and reject my feminine condition. I know very well that God would not ignore what happened with the mirror. He has thrown toward me his punishment. That is my severe punishment. I can’ escape it; I am sold. Perhaps, if I offer a sacrifice, something great in exchange for my freedom, perhaps then, through the work of your mercy, I will be safe from fate. I keep in the trunk the light of so much useless dream, until the last stitch of failed desires. That light made up of memories, nostalgia, eyes and mouths and hands and throats. “El Porvenir” remains in the past, a preserved “Future” floating on the periphery of my town, of my clear childhood home.
I stand in front of the window, look up, a strange decantation:
-You, God, are responsible for what has happened to me. You taught them to sell women, it is Your law that these men obey, disguised as just, a people of the chosen, chosen? If anything, I doubt it. You sold me! So this was the surprise that awaited me, for that I trilled new songs in the mornings, At what moment do things slip away from us, warm milk between our hands? Where do the dreams that are lost go? Are you going to punish me for being irreverent? What are you going to do to me now? Shred my body with moths? Leave me blind, mute? Come on, do it! That neither my eyes nor my mouth have been of any use to me. I don’t mind. You have already expelled me from paradise so many times: I am Eve, the serpent on whom the pain of the human race falls, and Edith, the curious salty stone. I have never heard that Adam received any punishment for his own merits; or that you did something to Lot when he offered his virgin, innocent daughters. What laws govern this chosen town? What is going to happen to me? Oh my God, for the love of God don’t do this to me.
I stop shaking, I stand firm, the pain has transformed into a strange sensation of triumph.
-So this is a business between men and I have no escape; very good, don’t forget that I also know how to negotiate, and I’m going to see what suits me best. You have to open the door to the good sun and Mr. Konenfeld is a magnificent opportunity. Isn’t that true, God? Feelings give channel to words and I can continue my clearest dialogue.
-Perhaps you have forgotten the kind of future that awaits me in Temuco? Do you not know that without a dowry they will marry me to the first person who appears? To a fool who will fill me with children and imprison me in the small existence of my small town. Do you not know that at nineteen I am no longer a girl and will soon become an embarrassment to my parents, a burden? I’m also going to take advantage of opportunities, God. If I don’t get on this train, I will end up being an unhappy spinster dedicated to work without profit and without tomorrow.
I close my eyes tightly and wish that the fury of God would strike me and cut off the pain.
I open the window, a blue smell of December hurts me, I look at the sky, there are clouds passing by, they collide against each other:
– Have you forgotten, God, the work that dad and mom still have ahead of them with their seven children? Seven schools, dowries, marriages to negotiate. After all, I don’t love my land so much, not the forests, nor the frost, the volcanoes, nor the icy wind, nor do I need the silence of the meadows. Better if the snow no longer looks out my window and my brothers don’t snatch my bread and mom doesn’t force me to do endless chores around the house.
With sadness the crying returns.
I try to convince myself:
It’s not a punishment, it’s not a punishment. I stay in Mexico for my own good, for my own good. I’m bad, bad, bad. I repeat it as many times as my strength allows. Only in this way can I calm my anger. I understand that there is no other way, that lack will forever end, that now I will be in a position to help my family. Yes, this is my chance. Married to a rich man I will ensure incalculable benefits; a monthly income, a business, dowries, good matches for my sisters. With the support of Uncle Beny and Max I will get dad out of poverty. Married to a prominent and educated man, I will educate myself, I will see the world. What does it matter if Mr. Konenfeld is quiet, if he dresses in dark clothes and never smiles. It will change over the years, I hope. At his side there will be abundance, we will lack nothing.
Anesthetized by the illusion, attracted like an insect around a dazzling spotlight, it saddens me to recognize that my family and friends will not be at my wedding, the party will be nice, I don’t doubt it, but without mine, mine. Well, you can’t do everything in this life, I’ll send you the photos by email; I can already imagine the face that Susana Alaballi will make when she sees them; will be endowed with envy. In a short time I will visit my town, becoming Doña Esther Negrín de Konenfeld. With that thought I get into bed. I fall, I fall deep into the daze of sleep
Licenciado en Derecho y Ciencia Política. Milton C. Henríquez ha sido diputado a la Asamblea Nacional de Panamá, ministro de Gobierno (Interior y Justicia) y embajador ante el Reino de España, entre otros muchos cargos. En diferentes momentos, ha sido consultor o asesor del presidente de la República, del presidente de la Asamblea Nacional y de la presidente de la Corte Suprema de Justicia de Panamá. Ha dirigido revistas, periódicos informativos de radio y de televisión. Ha dirigido y ha asesorado campañas electorales y ha sido profesor en escuela secundaria y en universidades en Panamá y en España. En 2023, participó en la inauguración de la “Brandeis University Initiative on the Jews of the Americas (JOTA)”. Ha publicado varios ensayos Su primera novela Los cuadernosdelirantes de Pedrarias .fue publicada en Panamá en 2018.
Graduate in Law and Political Science, Milton C. Henríquez has been a deputy to the National Assembly of Panama, Minister of Government (Interior and Justice) and ambassador to the Kingdom of Spain, among many other positions. At different times, he has been a consultant or adviser to the President of the Republic, the President of the National Assembly and the President of the Supreme Court of Justice of Panama. He has directed magazines, informative newspapers on radio and television. He has directed and advised electoral campaigns and has been a teacher in secondary schools and in universities in Panama and Spain. In 2023, he participated in the inauguration of the “Brandeis University Initiative on the Jews of the Americas (JOTA).” He has published several essays. His first novel Los Cuadernos delirantes de Pedrarias was published in Panama in 2018.
Yo pensé que me dijo “pardiez”. o sea, la exclamación de “¡por Dios!” en español antiguo, pero cuando le pregunté alarmado: ¿Qué insensatez dije?”, soltó una carcajada y respondió:
–¡Ninguna! Al contrario, acaba usted de toparse con el huerto.
Ante mi cara de absoluta perplejidad, continuó: —PaRDéS, en hebreo, significa “huerto”. Pero también se refiere a un método de lectura de los textos sagrados. La palabra se construye con las cuatro consonantes iniciales de las palabras Peshat, Remez, Derash y Sod, y usted lo acaba de aplicar ante la descripción de Pedrarias sobre le ritual del ataúd. Me pidió que investigara al regresar, qué significaba cada palabra y el método PaRDéS, pero quería continuar la sesión.
—Como le mencioné, hace unas semanas hemos pasado los Yamim Noraim, y las grandes festividades de Rosh Hashaná y Yom Kipur. No las llaman fiestas porque no son fiestas de Año Nuevo con las que de seguro usted celebra; a lo sumo son comidas festivas o hasta banquetes en Rosh Hashaná, y una cena especial al terminar el ayuno de rezos y recogimiento espiritual, de humilde sometimiento a al Creador y centrado en la misericordia y el perdón. Yo asentí con respeto para indicar que comprendía.
–El mes que empieza ahora, de acuerdo con el ciclo agrícola en Israel, se inicia con la plantación de las semillas. Si llevamos esto a un plan espiritual, sería el período de la siembra de los nuevos propósitos que asumimos luego de la introspección y el perdón del mes anterior, en el cual habíamos limpiado el terreno espiritual de las malas hierbas y otros contaminantes a través de la expiación.
–¿Y qué tan completa es esa limpieza? — pregunté.
–Tan completo como es capaz un ser humano. Pero quiero hacerle recordar otra peculiaridad de Rosh Jodesh Jeshván que mencioné hace un momento y no sé si fui claro. Esta cabeza del mes ¡es bicéfala! En ese momento pensé: “Esto ya está rayado en lo ridículo”. Pero como el rabino estaba bastante divertido con esto y yo estaba allí buscando entender los delirios de Pedrarias, no me iba a hacer ver como el más racional en ese punto.
–¿Y qué le quiero decir con esto? Pues bien, como lo mencioné antes, este Rosh Jodesh, o día inicial de nuevo mes, no solo es de dos días ¡sino que empieza en el último día del mes anterior y termina al final del primer día de este mes! “¡Ahora sí la botaron!”. Pensé, pero seguí escuchando en silencio. –
-¿Y qué deberíamos entender de esto? Pues nos indica que hay una simbiosis entre el período de limpieza con el de siembra; nos dice que de nada vale lo primero, o sea, limpiar el terreno, si en el nuevo año sembramos las mismas semillas que nos llevaron a pecar el año anterior. Me miro ca los ojos, fijamente, redujo su intensidad emocional a niveles usuales y señaló de forma muy pausada
–Siento que antes de poder sembrar nuevos conocimientos en mi mente en su mente y su corazón, mediante el descubrimiento que usted está por hacer, debemos asegurarnos de que esa tierra espiritual sobre la cual van a ser cultivados. Así como las propias semillas de conocimientos que serán insertadas, no contengan impurezas. Considero indispensable, por lo tanto, que usted lleve a cabo una terapia de perdón.
Me intrigó ese concepto, pero le insistí que yo no era judío ni seguía sus festividades y que nada de eso lo había visto en las Leyes noájidas. El jajám HaLevi sonrió de forma comprensiva y me explicó:
–Si bien para la época del período de Yanim Noraim que acaba de pasar, yo no pensaba que usted iba a estar espiritual ni intelectualmente en donde está en este momento, tampoco es cierto que no le estoy pidiendo un rito religioso ajeno a sus creencias. Lo que deseo que haga es un proceso místico de depuración espiritual. Este es indispensable para poder recibir, sin hacerse daño, la verdad que es posible para que usted vaya a encontrar en sus investigaciones y meditaciones.
El rabino HaLevy continuó su argumentación mientras yo trataba de comprender lo que acaba de decir. “¡Entonces sí había algo muy valioso en ese cuaderno viejo!”, me dije, y de una vez me re-enfoque en las palabras del rabino.
–Mire don Pablo, Kabbalah significa literalmente, el acto de recibir, y no haberse purificado mediante el proceso de del perdón, podría ser peligroso para su alma, porque puede recibir cosas equivocadas o dejar de captar perlas de conocimiento verdadero.
Cuestioné, todavía un poco dudoso, si esta terapia sería lo últimos antes de entrar la investigación; el jajám HaLevy guardó uno de esos silencios eternos dentro de una mirada fija y penetrante a mis ojos, y luego de unos segundos me preguntó qué pensaba yo. Sonreí con picardía y le dije:
–De seguro no será lo último. Pero está bien, lo voy a hacer y le pido perdón por mi resistencia; no estoy acostumbrado a no estar en control. Con una expresión provocadora preguntó el rabino Ha Levy: –¿Ha pensado usted en ser presidente? Presidente de la República, quise decir.
–¿Ser presidente?–
-¡Pero si yo los hago!–
El jajám Ha Levy me clavó una de esas largas e inexpresivas miradas y continuó:
–Como le dije hace un momento Kabbalah es literalmente “recibir”; no se puede recibir en una vasija cerrada. Controlar supone que uno sabe todo, que se cierra a lo demás. Controlando todo no se logra recibir la verdad; solo al liberarse del control del ego es uno capaz de recibirla.
–Agradezco la explicación y le aseguro que pondré mi mayor esfuerzo en seguir sus instrucciones—dije con total seguridad.
–Se las daré en su momento, pero antes quiero sugerirle el nombre de la persona que vive entre España y Francia, que podría reunirse con usted mientras esté en Europa para guiarle en proceso de depuración en el que está. Le confirmé al rabino que me interesaba mucho la idea.
-Es una dama de familia cristiana, pero es cabalista. Además, aunque es francesa, es experta en es castellano antiguo y en ladino; ha publicado varios libros de estos temas, siendo de mayor impacto uno llamado Rabí Cervantes cabalista. Luchó en la Segunda Guerra Mundial dentro de la Resistencia Francesa contra los nazis; abogó porque España aboliera el Decreto de la Expulsión de 1492 contra los judíos y es una profunda conocedora de la verdad que nos unifica a todos. El jajám HaLevy me informó que su nombre era Marianne Perrin pero prefería usar su nom de plume: Dominique Queshott. Él ya la había contactado y ella se mostró dispuesta a recibirme, pero estaba perdiendo la vista y le costaba mucho trasladarse. Tendría que ir yo hasta Carboneras en Andalucía o trasladarla y alojarla en Madrid.
Acepté de buen grado y agradecí al rabino por esto. Me advirtió, sin embargo, que no debía abusar de la buena disposición de la señora Perrin no tampoco descuidar a mi esposa y el tiempo de familia. Acordé que así sería.
“Pardés!” said Haham HaLevy. I thought he told me “pardiez”. that is, the exclamation “By God!” in old Spanish, but when I asked him alarmed: What nonsense did I say? ”, he gave a hearty laugh and replied:
–None! On the contrary, you have just come across the orchard.
Before my face of utter perplexity, he continued:
–PaRdéS, in Hebrew, means “orchard”. But it also refers to a method of reading sacred texts. The word is built with the four initial consonants of the words Peshat, Remez, Derash and Sod, and you have just applied it to Pedrarias’ description of the coffin ritual.
He asked me to investigate when I returned, what each word meant and the PaRDéS method, but I wanted to continue the session.
–As I mentioned, a few weeks ago we celebrated the, Yomim HaNaorim and the great festivals of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. They are not called parties because they are not like the New Year’s parties with which you surely celebrate; at most, there are festive meals or even banquets on Rosh Hashanah, and a special dinner at the end of the fast of prayers and spiritual absorption, of humble submission to the Creator and focused on mercy and forgiveness.
I nodded respectfully to indicate that I understood.
–The month that begins now, according to the agricultural cycle in Israel, begins with the planting of the seeds. If we take this to the level of a spiritual plan, it would be the period of planting the new purposes that we assume after the introspection and forgiveness of the previous month, in which we had cleaned through atonement the spiritual terrain of weeds and other contaminants .
–And how complete is that cleaning? — I asked.
–As complete as a human being is capable of. But I want to remind you of another peculiarity of Rosh Chodesh Cheshvan that I mentioned a moment ago and I don’t know if I was clear. This head of the month is two-headed! At that moment I thought: “This is already bordering on ridiculous.” But since the rabbi was quite amused about this point, and I was there seeking to understand Pedrarias’s delusions, I wasn’t going to make myself sound like the more rational on that point.
–And what do I want to say with this? Well, as I mentioned before, this Rosh Chodesh, or beginning day of a new month, is not only two days long, but it begins on the last day of the month before, and ends at the end of the first day of this month!
“Now they really blew it!” I thought, but kept listening in silence.
–And what should we understand from this? Well, it tells us that there is a symbiosis between the cleaning period with the sowing period; It tells us that the first act is worthless, that is, clearing the ground, if in the new year, we sow the same seeds that led us to sin the previous year.
He looked me straight in the eye, reduced his emotional intensity to usual levels and pointed very slowly.
–I feel that before we can sow the new knowledge that is in my mind, into your mind and into your heart, through the discovery that you are about to make, we must make sure of the spiritual soil on which they are going to be cultivated. And also, that the seeds of knowledge that will be planted, do not contain impurities. Therefore, I consider it essential that you carry out a forgiveness therapy.
I was intrigued by that concept, but I insisted that I was not a Jew nor did I follow their festivals, and that I had not seen anything like that in the Noahide Laws. Haham HaLevi smiled sympathetically and explained to me:
–Although at the time of the Yanim Noraim period that just passed I did not think that you were going to be spiritually or intellectually where you are at this moment, I’m not asking you to carry out a religious rite alien to your beliefs. What I want you to do is a mystical process of spiritual cleansing. This is essential for your to be able to receive, without hurting yourself, the truth that for you can find in your investigations and meditations.
Rabbi HaLevy continued his argument while I tried to understand what he just said. “So there was something very valuable in that old notebook!” I said to myself, and then at once I refocused on the rabbi’s words.
–Look Don Pablo, Kabbalah literally means the act of receiving, and not having been purified through the forgiveness process could be dangerous for your soul, because you can receive wrong things or stop capturing pearls of true knowledge.
I questioned, still a little doubtful, if this therapy would be the last step before entering the investigation; the jajam HaLevy kept one of those eternal silences with a fixed and penetrating look at my eyes, and after a few seconds he asked me what I thought. I smiled mischievously and said:
I smiled mischievously and said: –Surely it won’t be the last. But that’s okay, I’m going to do it and I apologize for my resistance; I’m not used to not being in control. With a provocative expression, Rabbi Ha Levy asked: “Have you thought about being president?
President of the Republic,? I wanted to say.
–Be president?
–Yes, have!
Haham Ha Levy gave me one of those long, blank stares and continued:
–As I told you a moment ago, Kabbalah is literally “receive”; it cannot be received by a closed vessel. To control supposes that one knows everything, that one is closed to the rest. by controlling everything, it is not possible to receive the truth; only by freeing oneself from the control of the ego is one able to receive it.
“I appreciate the explanation and I assure you that I will do my best to follow your instructions,” I said confidently.
–I will give them to you at the time, but first I want to suggest the name of the person who lives between Spain and France, who could meet with you while you are in Europe to guide you in your purification process. I confirmed to the rabbi that I was very interested in the idea.
–She is a lady from a Christian family, but she is a Kabbalist. In addition, although she is French, she is an expert in Old Castilian and Ladino; She has published several books on these topics, the one with the most impact being Rabbi Cervantes, Kabbalist. She fought in World War II within the French Resistance against the Nazis; she advocated for Spain to abolish the Expulsion Decree of 1492 against the Jews and is a profound connoisseur of the truth that unifies us all. Haham HaLevy informed me that her name was Marianne Perrin but that she preferred to use her nom de plume: Dominique Queshott. He had already contacted her, and she was willing to meet with me, but she was losing her sight, and it was very difficult for her to travel. I would have to go to Carboneras in Andalusia or move her and lodge her in Madrid. I gladly agreed and thanked the rabbi for this. He warned me, however, not to abuse Mrs. Perrin’s good disposition, nor to neglect my wife and my family time. I agreed that it would be like that.
De: Cyntha Rimsky. La Puerta en el muro. La novela: Santiago de Chile, Sangría, 2009.
Poco después de la dictadura en Chile, una chilena se encuentra en ex Yugoslavia:
La cara interior de la puerta está tapiada por una gran bandera de la ex Yugoslavia. En vez de medalla, el hombre pegó sobre la tela recortes de periódicos. Me dejó guiar por la fotografía de la reunión en que el traidor selló la paz, la del criminal de guerra con un grupo de soldados, la del bombardeo de Dubrovnik, la fotografía de la matanza de civiles en Mostar y la de él mismo, soldado entre los bárbaros. El hombre que se comprometió de palabra ante la bandera de Yugoslavia a dar la vida por su país, que creyó a su Presidente cuando anunció por cadena nacional que el país estaba en peligro, que luchó en el ejército serbio, que en medio de una guerra se dio cuenta de que su Presidente había mentido y, en vez de participar en una guerra, estaba participando en un genocidio; el hombre que desertó y abandonó a sus amigos, muchos de los que murieron en la línea de fuego, me narra los últimos años de su recortes de periódicos, la imagen enmarcada de su santo. Todos los días, entre la medianoche y las dos de la tarde, este hombre contempla al hombre que comete traición.
“Hasta la religión cree en el arrepentimiento”, pienso mirando al santo a los ojos.
El hombre que perdió el honor dos veces, al combatir y al desertar, me enseña las arrugadas palabras del dictamen legal que acusa su cobardía. La sentencia a pasar ocho años en una celda y el dictamen de la junta médica que atribuye su deserción a una locura temporal. No aparecen narradas las visitas que madre hace diariamente a la celda para abrir la cama donde no duerme la conciencia.
–Vuelve a trabajar como abogado.
–¿Y pido justicia con la mano que empuñé el fusil?
–Podríamos arrendar una casa deshabitada en Perast y ofrecer alojamiento a los turistas, o abrir un restaurante que sirva comida y bebida todo el año, no como hacen aquí. –Eres buena para esas cosas. Cuento el hombre que en este viaje aprendí a conocer el principio racional de las cosas, a conservar repollos en agua con sal, a ahorrar dinero para el combustible use usaremos en invierno, a abrir las ventanas y dejar escapar el humo, a regar un tostado con aceite de oliva, a cuidar de un perro, a armar un hogar con una cortina y un mantel, a conservar la comida en potes plásticos.
–Yo puedo hacer eso—replica sorprendido
—No es difícil—le digo.
–¿Estás seguro?
–Si es lo que es lo que quiero, podré hacerlo. ¡Y eso quiero! – exclama.
–Tendrás que llevar sólo lo necesario—le digo. El hombre contempla la bandera del país que ya no existe, los recortes de periódico con las fotografías de los asesinos, la imagen enmarcada del santo, los dibujos animados que emiten después de las noticias, la jarra con jugo en polvo, los libros de derecho, filosofía y ética que no volvió a leer desde la guerra. Le hablo de los libros del esposo de Moira, de las estanterías del Café Literario, del jugo de chirimoyas, del bar de abajo, de las peleas de mi vecina y su esposo, el río Mapocho, del parque Forestal, de mi amiga cuyo hijo se arrojó a la línea férrea después de pasar la tarde en una calle desconocida sin que nadie se acercara a escuchar sus dudas. Pero el hombre que pasa las noches en vela, contemplando el error del mundo no necesita palabras, sino los compasivos cuidados que proporciona una fe que ya no tengo.
Frontera Montenegro/Croacia….Dubrovnik. A la entrada de la ciudad un gran mapa da a conocer los lugares que resultaron destruidos durante el bombardeo a Croacia. Los achurados indican si la bomba cayó sobre un monumento histórico, una calle, una casa, un cuarto de la casa; si destruyó los cimentos, el techo, el techo y los muros o sólo los muros. Desde el cuarto del hombre que desertó la guerrano es posible ver los marcos rotos de las ventanas, los fragmentos de vidrio, la pata de la silla, el plato ennegrecido, la lana del colchón.
Split. Está lloviendo, no reconozco por qué calles ando. ¿Diez de Julio, Coquimbo, Maipú, San Diego? Al final de un pasaje penumbroso creo distinguir una tienda que vende pañuelos bordados, trozos de género, vestidos de terciopelo, un abrigo de astracán, colchones de cuna, almohadas ennegrecidas. En el mostrado distingo a un viejo solitario, me cruzo con una joven que camina con una novela en la mano. Una madre, su hija y su nieta salen de la pastelería. Aspiro el aroma de los bullicios de espinacas, papa y quesillo. Tengo la sensación de que desde mi llegada una mano me guía hacia lo que el viaje me tiene reservado.
Las doce.
Doblo el mapa y lo guardo, atravieso una plaza, me cruzo con un grupo de universitarios. Parecen aliviados de haber abandonado el estudio para salir al mundo, algunos desaparecen en un bar que vende cervezas del litro como en el barrio universitario de República, en Santiago. La mano invisible me conduce hasta un edificio neoclásico de impresionante fachada que confundo con un hospital, que confundo con una oficina pública. Las letras esculpidas me advierten que estoy ante la Facultad de Derecho de Split, donde estudió el hombre junto al que me senté en el bar de Kotor hasta que abandoné la ciudad por la puerta abierta en el muro. De la escala de mármol paso un espacioso vestíbulo. En las paredes hay anuncios que no comprendo. Las baldosas son blancas y negras como la terraza de la casa donde ya no viven Moira y su esposo. Me siento en los escalones que conducen al segundo piso y las salas de clases, contemplo el lugar al que el hombre que dejé en Kotor acudió diariamente antes que lo enviaran a cumplir con su palabra. La escalera que subió y bajó, la oscura pieza donde sacó fotocopias, los avisos que publican las notas que lo hicieron pasar de curso, la secretaria que no quiso ayudarle a retirar su diploma. Desde aquí no se alcanza a distinguir el cuarto donde el hombre y yo pasamos la noche en vela ante la palabra que hubimos de cumplir y no cumplimos.
From: Cyntha Rimsky. La puerta en el muro. Santiago de Chile, Sangría, 2009.
Shortly after the end of the Chilean dictatorship, a Chilean woman finds herself in the former Yugoslavia:
The interior face of the door is covered up by a large flag of the former Yugoslavia. Instead of a medal, the man pinned newspaper clippings on the fabric. I let myself be guided toward the photograph of the meeting in which the traitor sealed the peace, that of a war criminal with a group of soldiers, that of the bombarding of Dubrovnik, the photograph of the murder of civilians in Mostar and the one of himself, a soldier among the barbarians.
The man pledged his word before the flag of Yugoslavia to give his life for his country, who believed his President when he announced on a national channel that the country was in danger, that he fought on the Serbian army, that in the midst of the war he came to the conclusion that his President had lied and, instead of participating in a war, he was participating in a genocide: the man who deserted and abandoned his friends, many of whom died in the line of fire, narrated to me the last few years of his newspaper clippings, the framed of his saint. Every day, between midnight and two in the afternoon, this man contemplates the man who commits treason.
“Even religion believes in repentance,” I think, looking at the saint’s eyes.
The man who lost his honor twice, by fighting and by deserting, shows me the wrinkled words of the legal ruling that charges his cowardliness. The sentence to eight years in a cell and the statement of the medical group that attributes his desertion to a temporary madness. The visits that his mother make daily to the cell to open the bed where the conscience doesn’t sleep are not mentioned.
“Go back to work as a lawyer.”
“And I ask for justice with the hand that held the rifle?”
“We could rent an uninhabited house in Perast and offer accommodations for tourists or open a restaurant the serves foot and drink all year long, not like they do here.”
“You are good at such things. “ I
tell the man that during this trip I learned to know the rational principal, to conserve cabbage in water with salt, to save money for fuel we will use in winter, to open the windows and let the smoke escape, to dampen a piece of toast with olive oil, to take care of a dog, to make up a home with a curtain and a tablecloth, to conserve food in plastic pots.
“I can do that,” he replies, surprised. “It’s not difficult,” I tell him.
“Are you sure?”
“If that’s what I want, I will be able to do it. And I want that!” he exclaims.
“You will have to carry only what is necessary, “ I tell him.
The man contemplates the flag of the country that no longer exists, the newspaper clippings with the photographs, the framed image of the saint, the comics that are put out after the news, the jar of powdered juice, the books of law, philosophy, and ethics that he hasn’t read since the war began. I tell him about Moira’s husband’s books, of the shelves in the Literary Café, the custard apple juice, the bar downstairs, the arguments between my neighbor and her husband, the Mapocho River, the Forrestal Park, of my friend whose son threw himself against the iron wire, after spending the afternoon on an unknown street without anyone coming by to hear his doubts. But the man who spends his nights awake, contemplating the error of the world doesn’t need words, only the compassionate caring that provides a faith that I no longer have.
The Frontier: Montenegro/Croatia…
Dubrovnik. At the entrance of the city, a large map shows the places that were destroyed during the bombing of Croatia. The markers indicate if the bomb fell in a historical monument, a street, a room of a house, if it destroyed the foundation, the roof and the walls or only the walls, From the room of the man who deserted the war, it’s not possible to see the broken window frames, the shards of glass, the foot of the chair, the blackened plate, the wool of the mattress. Split. It’s raining, I don’t recognize the streets where I walk. Diez de Julio, Coquimbo, Maipú, San Diego? At the end of a shadowy, I think I distinguish a store that sells embroidered handkerchiefs, bits of woven cloths, velvet dresses, an astrakhan overcoat, baby mattresses, blackened pillows. At the counter, I distinguish an old lonely old man, I bump into a teenage girl who is walking with a novel in her hand. A mother, her daughter and her granddaughter leave the bakery. I breath in the aroma of those buns of spinach, potato, and flan. I have the sensation that since my arrival, a hand guides me toward what the trip has in store for me.
Twelve o’clock.
I fold the map and I put it away, I cross a plaza, pass a group of university students. They seem relieved to have abandoned studying to go out unto the world, some disappear into a bar that sells beer by the liter as in the República university neighborhood in Santiago. The invisible hand directs me to a neoclassical building with an impressive facade that I confuse with a hospital, that I confuse with a public office building. The sculpted letters let me know that I a m in front of the Law School of Split, where the man studied with whom I sat next to in the Kotor bar until I abandoned the city through the open door in the wall.
From the marble stairs, I passed a spacious vestibule. On the walls are announcements that I don’t understand. The tiles are black and white with the like the terrace of the house where Moira and her husband no longer live. I sit on the steps that lead to the second floor and the classrooms. I contemplate the place where the man I left in Kotor arrived daily before they sent him to keep his word. The stairs that he climbed and descended, the dark room where he made photocopies, the notices that publish the grades that let him pass the program, the secretary who didn’t want to help him pick up his diploma. From here, it’s not possible to make out the room where the man and I spent the night awake because of the word that had to reach but we didn’t reach it.
Pablo A. Freinkel (Bahía Blanca, Argentina, 1957). Licenciado en Bioquímica. Periodista y escritor. Sus artículos y notas se han dado a conocer en Buenos Aires, New York y Jerusalem; y en medios online nacionales y extranjeros. Es autor de cuatro libros: Diccionario Biográfico Bahiense, el ensayo Metafísica y Holocausto, y las novelas El día que Sigmund Freud asesinó a Moisés y Los destinos sagrados. Escribió el guión del documental Matthias Sindelar: un gol por la vida. Ha dictado conferencias sobre Spinoza, Maimónides y literatura judía argentina actual, en diferentes instituciones del país. Escribió las novelas El lector de Spinoza y La casa de Caín.
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Pablo A. Freinkel (Bahía Blanca, Argentina,) who has a degree in biochemistry. He is a journalist and writer. His articles and notes have been published in Buenos Aires, New York and Jerusalem, in Argentine and international online media. Freinkel is the author of four books: Diccionario Biográfico Bahiense, Metafísica y Holocausto, and the novel El día que Sigmund Freud asesinó a Moisés and Los destinos sagrados. He wrote the script for Matthias Sindelar: un gol por la vida. He has lectured on Spinoza, Maimonides and on contemporary Argentine-Jewish literature throughout Argentina. His recent novels El lector de Spinoza is in press and La casa de Caín.
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“Zinger“
Hallé en el apartado de avisos fúnebres del periódico en línea que leía la siguiente necrológica:
“Con la desaparición física de Marga Dalla Ponte, a causa de una cruel enfermedad, el arte nacional pierde a una de sus más señeras representantes. Como docente ofreció clases magistrales, condujo talleres, promovió a nuevos valores con generosidad y el interés puesto en revalidar títulos para nuestro país en el complejo mundo de las experiencias visuales. Retirada de las aulas y las exposiciones desde hacía años, fue escasa la cantidad de gente que se convocó a despedir sus restos. Descanse en paz, maestra y amiga”.
A continuación, se leía el siguiente texto:
“Zelda Inger participa el fallecimiento de su dilecta amiga, puntal indeclinable en épocas de triste memoria, y ruega una oración a su amada memoria”.
Tenía pendiente una visita a Eugenia de Pritzker para comunicarle, entre otros puntos, que me disponía a dar por concluida la tarea de ordenar los archivos de don David, ya que en las nuevas condiciones me resultaba poco menos que imposible atender esta contingencia. Asimismo, me proponía exponerle algunos asuntos que la involucraban de manera directa. … La encontré, como era habitual, sentada en la cocina, apenas distraída su concentración en el televisor encendido.
-Me alegra que el cuadro te haya sido útil y remunerativo- dijo con cierto toque rencoroso no bien me vio entrar.
-Se equivoca. La idea no fue venderlo, todo lo contrario. Nos pareció una manera de honrarlo a tantos años de su primera y única exhibición. Sin contar la carga trágica que transmite, es muy bello. Habla muy bien de su creador, de sus habilidades… Por otra parte, es suyo y puedo restituírselo cuando lo desee.
No contestó, se limitó a entregarme una larga mirada no exenta de atención.
-¿Me permite contarle una historia que no por breve no deja de ser dramática?- Hizo un ademán con la mano como si el asunto careciera de importancia-. Habla de una joven llamada Zelda que deseaba dedicar su vida al arte pero encontró la férrea oposición de su padre, quien tenía otros planes no sólo para ella sino también para el resto de sus hijos. Sin embargo, al principio toleró sus aspiraciones de convertirse en una artista, seguramente con el convencimiento de que cuando creciera abandonaría esos disparates y retornaría al buen camino. Fue todo en vano.
-Ignoro a quién te referís –esbozó como protesta-. Nunca conocí a esas personas.
Continué sin reparar en su interrupción:
-Esta diferencia alcanzó su desenlace cuando estalló la Guerra de los Seis Días entre el joven Estado de Israel contra poderosos ejércitos de los países vecinos. Las primeras jornadas estuvieron marcadas por la incertidumbre, la angustia… Revivieron los fantasmas que apenas treinta años antes condujeron a los campos de concentración, al exterminio de nuestros hermanos, a la horrible visión de contemplar a los judíos arrojados al mar, como azuzaban los enemigos. Seguramente en el alma sensible de Zelda se desató una tormenta de sentimientos. Desesperación, temor extremo, congoja… Entonces recurrió a la única herramienta de que disponía, que le permitía expresarse con entera libertad. Encerrada en su cuarto, en veinticuatro horas de trabajo intenso, febril, surgió la mujer del retrato, esa mujer que personificaba el horror vivido por nuestro pueblo a lo largo del siglo XX. Me imagino que el título emergió como una epifania y, es cierto, tuvo toda la intención de provocar, incitar una respuesta emocional: “Nuestra Señora de Auschwitz”.
El rostro de Eugenia se ensombrecía cada vez más. Ya no reflejaba ironía o desprecio, sino una combinación de ira y pesar.
-Fue entonces cuando Zelda dijo: “Media Humanidad se apiada por la crucifixión de un judío y muy pocos por la masacre de tantos millones”.
Sus ojos se abrieron desmesuradamente por la sorpresa. No obstante, se obstinaba en mantenerse callada. Empecé a dudar de la certeza de mis argumentos. Un punto de exasperación tiñó el rostro de la mujer; un instante después descargó su rencor.
-No entiendo por qué me contás esta fábula, me resulta por completo extraña –dijo con acritud e intentando minimizar su impacto.
-Por favor, Eugenia, déjeme terminar y después le explico. La respuesta fue un silencio beligerante que no significaba aceptación sino condescendencia.
-A pesar de la realización de la obra –proseguí-, el objetivo de manifestar su mensaje no se hubiese cumplido sin haber logrado exponerla al público. Es entonces cuando aparece Reina Benazar, la prima de la madre de Zelda, propietaria de una galería de arte. Sin consultar con nadie, tomó la decisión de llevarle una fotografía del retrato -imagen que pude contemplar- y esperar su juicio. Supongo que la pintura la conmovió y aceptó de inmediato ponerla a la consideración del público. Presentó una única objeción: el título. Probablemente evaluó que era mejor no provocar y si bien Israel había logrado imponerse en la guerra, subsistían sentimientos negativos. Reina fue quien propuso “La dama de la Shoá”. Para una artista novel que tenía ante sí la magnífica oportunidad de mostrar un trabajo de su autoría, tal sugerencia no generó ningún litigio. Estaba obnubilada con la posibilidad de efectuar su primera muestra, por lo tanto no deseaba arruinar la oferta. Estoy convencido de que ella hoy se plantaría y lucharía por imponer sus principios. Entonces, medio siglo atrás, joven e inexperta acató la determinación que le imponían con el fin de no perder una ocasión propicia.
-Al enterarse de la propuesta de Reina y, peor todavía, la respuesta positiva que recibió, la declaración de guerra quedó ratificada. El doctor Ingerbrock no aceptó ni una ni la otra y prohibió a su hija todo movimiento tendiente a ese fin. En pocas palabras, Zelda se sintió inflamada por el viento de la rebeldía y dejó atrás el hogar familiar. Se impuso un ostracismo feroz con el propósito de castigar la intransigencia de la que era víctima, aunque con este proceder castigaba con el mismo golpe a su madre y hermanos.
De esta manera, sola en el mundo, lejos de sus vínculos más cercanos, se hizo presente la imperiosa necesidad de un techo que la cobijara y, por qué no, de un cálido abrazo que la contuviera. La réplica a esta inquietud me la proporcionó la participación necrológica que Zelda Inger publicó con motivo del fallecimiento de Magda Dalla Ponte donde califica a su amiga de, trataré de mencionar la cita textual, “puntal indeclinable en épocas de triste memoria”. Me pregunté cuál podría ser esa desgraciada circunstancia y cuál el lazo que vinculara a dos mujeres tan diferentes que de hecho ni siquiera tenían contacto en la actualidad. La respuesta, entonces, debía estar en el pasado de ambas y en lo que una vez compartieron. La pintura, el arte, la insatisfacción por los códigos patriarcales… Marga entonces fue más que la maestra, la consejera. Fue quien la recibió cuando abandonó la casa paterna. ..
-Resta ahora considerar la llegada de un nuevo personaje: David Pritzker. –Eugenia me miró fijamente, anhelante por saber con qué testimonio avalaría mis deducciones-. David y Cecilia se conocieron por intermedio de los hermanos de ella. Aunque era mayor, David, estudiante de abogacía, sentía una afinidad ideológica con los otros dos debido al sionismo, el socialismo, el nuevo Estado judío. Eran comunes las discusiones pero al final la sangre no llegaba al río, como se dice. Ella se mantenía al margen de esas cuestiones terrenales imbuida en sus afanes artísticos. Sin embargo, entre ambos comenzó a crecer una afectividad que trascendía la política, el afán de arreglar el mundo.
“David se enteró de la novedad por Israel y Moisés, devastados por la ausencia de su hermana. Supongo que hasta se ofreció a mediar entre padre e hija para considerar su regreso. Sin embargo, ninguno de los dos estuvo dispuesto a resignar sus posiciones. No tengo dudas que el enamorado futuro abogado movió cielo y tierra hasta que finalmente obtuvo el dato, ignoro quién se lo proveyó si bien puedo suponer que el soplo vino de alguien muy próximo a ellos, que la dueña de sus suspiros se hospedaba en casa de Marga. A pesar de sus reiterados pedidos para que la jovencita desistiera de su actitud, no se rindió. Así, las visitas se hicieron habituales, siempre bajo la supervisión de la inquisitiva y desconfiada chaperona, y la exigencia de discreción absoluta si él deseaba continuar con ellas.
Por primera vez en mi ya extenso monólogo advertí una distensión en los apretados rasgos del rostro de la anciana. Había tocado una fibra muy íntima; supongo que los recuerdos habrán caído en cascada sobre su atribulado espíritu.
-Hay ocasiones en que actuamos de manera impulsiva y entonces resulta muy difícil volver atrás –dijo en voz baja, casi como un pensamiento hacia su interior. Era la resquebrajadura que esperaba en la coraza, una concesión que abría nuevos e inesperados caminos.
Aguardé a que ese nuevo estado se consolidara, una evolución que se desplegara en forma natural. La mujer me miró desde una nueva perspectiva, casi diría liberada de una prisión que ella misma había tejido alrededor suyo, representada por una nueva luz en sus ojos, más diáfana.
-¿Cómo supiste el gesto de Marga? –Toda traza de rencor había desaparecido; ahora había serenidad en su voz, como si se hubiese desprendido de un peso cargado desde siempre.
-Por el texto de la necrológica de su fallecimiento. Confió en que ocultando su verdadera identidad tras nombres que no son los usuales en usted esquivaría la atención de los indiscretos que nunca faltan. El tiempo oculta todo, pero los detalles siempre están allí y cuando menos se los espera, regresan.
-No tuve en cuenta la fina percepción de Marcos Opatoshu. –No hubo cinismo ni malicia en esas palabras, fue un aserto pronunciado al pasar.
-Por fin, David recibió su título y fue entonces cuando le propuso matrimonio. Frente a esta realidad se disipaba cualquier otra consideración. Si no aceptaba, su vida transcurriría siempre oculta y quizá sin ninguna otra posibilidad de constituir una familia; la otra, volver a casa y rogar el perdón del padre vaya a saber a qué precio. De esta manera, el pretendiente obtuvo el consentimiento con una condición de hierro. La ceremonia sería discreta, restringida a unos pocos invitados de su familia. Seguramente, el novio pensó que se presentaba una excelente ocasión para limar todas las asperezas e iniciar su vida en común sin deudas. A pesar de los requerimientos planteados, aceptó. Sin dudas, no era la boda que ninguno de los esperaban celebrar algún día, pero, como se dice, era lo que había.
Una breve pausa dio pábulo a que ella se hiciera cargo del curso del relato.
-Nos casamos en un shill pequeño de la periferia, con una jupá[1] encima nuestro y el número exacto de hombres para conformar un minián[2]. Estoy segura de que David aleccionó a su familia para que no pregunten nada acerca de la ausencia de la mía, cosa que siempre le agradecí si bien él jamás me hizo comentario alguno. Al terminar la ceremonia, nos dirigimos a una sala pequeña donde hicimos un lejaim[3]. “Un par de días antes nos casamos por civil y otra vez David se encargó de los detalles. Y ahí terminó todo.
-¿Cuándo decidió cambiarse el nombre Cecilia o Zelda por Eugenia?
-En el momento de redactar la ketubah[4]. Fue una especie de homenaje a una tía postiza que siempre apoyó mi vocación. Murió antes del comienzo de este desastre.
-En ese documento deben asentarse los nombres de los padres del novio y de la novia, así como los testigos.
-No sé. De los detalles se encargó David. Creo que habló con un rabino amigo. Por otra parte, mi padrino fue un gran amigo suyo. Segismundo, el librero.
-También es mi amigo.
–Ahora comprendí su reticencia a abundar en detalles sobre la cuestión.
-Lo sé. Siempre le agradecí su discreción. Es una buena persona.
Un descanso marcó el final de ese capítulo que debió haber sido muy amargo en su vida. Fue un silencio breve, cargado de emotividad, sin resentimientos. Se la veía agitada, intranquila, quizá ansiosa por llegar al final de estas memorias.
-¿Se siente bien, Cecilia? ¿Quiere que dejemos acá? –A propósito la llamé por su nombre real. Ella se dio cuenta y sentí que me lo agradecía con sus ojos húmedos por la emoción. Finalmente había marcado el límite con ese pasado inpiadoso.
-No, querido. Sigamos. Tal vez esta confesión ejerza un efecto sanador, después de todo. Por favor, alcanzame un vaso de agua. Realicé su pedido. Bebió a pequeños sorbos, como degustando la frescura y el sabor del líquido.
-¿Cómo siguieron adelante? –dije una vez que me aseguré de que había recuperado sus condiciones.
-Alquilamos un pequeño departamento alejado del centro. Yo permanecía encerrada la mayor parte del día por temor a que alguien me reconociera. David empezó a trabajar como apoderado de una cooperativa de créditos y también en La Voz Israelita en una vacante temporal, ad honorem. Era lo que más le gustaba. Tiempo después, la vacante se hizo permanente y reforzó nuestra economía. Pudimos mudarnos aquí con la esperanza de recibir a los hijos que vendrían en un lugar propio. Sin embargo, nunca llegaron. Luego de tantos años, sigo creyendo que fue el castigo a mi soberbia. Pero en ese momento estaba como ciega. Supe del fallecimiento de mi padre y le negué mi último homenaje; también partió mi mamá, a la que siempre reproché su pasividad, su desinterés en defender mi causa, insignificante causa egoísta.
-Creo que ya debe dejar de responsabilizarse por todo, perdonarse. –La interrumpí para evitar la cadena de pesados eslabones de la propia recriminación.
-Fue tan difícil, Marcos. Y el pobre David a mi lado, soportando los embates de mis enojos. No dudo que te habrá llamado la atención la dureza con que te conté pormenores de la relación de David con Zelda.
–Cierto, así fue-. Nunca existió nada de eso. Fue un recurso tonto para poner distancia una vez más entre ese diabólico personaje que una vez fui y yo como soy en la actualidad. Pero, como dicen, el personaje se comió a la persona. ..
-Voy a pensarlo –concluyó con una nota de duda en el tono. .. Finalmente había marcado el límite con ese pasado impiadoso.
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[1]Hebreo: abarcante. Palio nupcial bajo el cual se colocan los novios y sus padrinos. Representa la divina presencia que está sobre ellos para convertirlos en uno. [2]Hebreo: cifra, número. Es un número mínimo de diez varones judíos mayores de 13 años, requerido para la realización de ciertos rituales, el cumplimiento de preceptos, o la lectura de oraciones. Representa el número de personas que Abraham quería salvar como última opción, cuando Dios le reveló que destruiría Sodoma y Gomorra.[3]Hebreo: por la vida. Nombre que se le da al brindis judío. [4]Hebreo: escrito. Es el acta o contrato matrimonial en el que se declara que el matrimonio se ha celebrado de común acuerdo y se detallan los derechos y obligaciones de la pareja. Figuran los nombres de los novios y de sus padres, en hebreo y en español, de los testigos de boda y la fecha de la ceremonia (en el calendario hebreo y, en algunos casos, en ambos calendarios).
I found in the funeral notices section of the online newspaper that it read the following obituary:
“With the physical disappearance of Marga Dalla Ponte, due to a cruel illness, national art loses one of its most distinguished representatives. As a teacher, he offered master classes, conducted workshops, and promoted new values with generosity and interest in revalidating titles for our country in the complex world of visual experiences. Withdrawn from classrooms and exhibitions for years, the number of people who were summoned to say goodbye to his remains was scarce. Rest in peace, teacher and friend.
The following text was then read: “Zelda Inger participates in the death of her dear friend, an indeclinable mainstay in times of sad memory, and asks a prayer to her beloved memory.” —-
I had a visit to Eugenia de Pritzker pending to inform her, among other things, that I was about to conclude the task of ordering Don David’s files, since in the new conditions it was almost impossible for me to deal with this contingency. Likewise, I proposed to present to her some issues that directly involved her. …
I found her, as usual, sitting in the kitchen, her concentration barely distracted by the television on. “I’m glad that the painting has been useful and remunerative for you,” he said with a certain spiteful touch as soon as he saw me enter.
-You are wrong. The idea was not to sell it, quite the opposite. We thought it was a way to honor him so many years after his first and only exhibition. Without counting the tragic charge that it transmits, it is very beautiful. It speaks highly of its creator, of his skills… On the other hand, it’s yours and I can return it to you whenever you want. She didn’t answer, shr just gave me a long look, not without attention.
-Allow me to tell you a story that, not because it is brief, is still dramatic?- She made a gesture with his hand as if the matter were unimportant-. It tells of a young woman named Zelda who wanted to dedicate her life to art but met with fierce opposition from her father, who had other plans not only for her but also for the rest of his children. However, at first he tolerated her aspirations to become an artist, surely in the belief that when she grew up she would abandon such nonsense and return to the right path. It was all in vain. “I don’t know who you’re referring to,” he outlined in protest. I never met those people. I continued without noticing his interruption:
-This difference reached its outcome when the Six Day War broke out between the young State of Israel against powerful armies from neighboring countries. The first days were marked by uncertainty, anguish… The ghosts that barely thirty years before had led to the concentration camps, to the extermination of our brothers, to the horrible vision of contemplating the Jews thrown into the sea, as the enemies urged on, revived. Surely in Zelda’s sensitive soul a storm of feelings was unleashed. Despair, extreme fear, anguish… Then he resorted to the only tool at his disposal, which allowed him to express himself with complete freedom. Locked in her room, in twenty-four hours of intense, feverish work, the woman in the portrait emerged, that woman who personified the horror experienced by our people throughout the 20th century. I imagine that the title emerged as an epiphany and, it is true, it was fully intended to provoke, to incite an emotional response: “Our Lady of Auschwitz”. Eugenia’s face darkened more and more. It no longer reflected irony or contempt, but a combination of anger and regret. -It was then that Zelda said: “Half Humanity takes pity for the crucifixion of a Jew and very few for the massacre of so many millions.” His eyes widened in surprise. However, she persisted in keeping quiet. I began to doubt the accuracy of my arguments.
A point of exasperation suffused the woman’s face; an instant later she vented her grudge. “I don’t understand why you are telling me this fable, it seems completely strange to me,” she said bitterly, trying to minimize its impact.
-Please, Eugenia, let me finish and I’ll explain later. The answer was a belligerent silence that did not signify acceptance but condescension. -Despite the realization of the work –I continued-, the objective of expressing its message would not have been fulfilled without having managed to expose it to the public. It is then that Reina Benazar, the cousin of Zelda’s mother, who owns an art gallery, appears. Without consulting anyone, she made the decision to take him a photograph of the portrait – an image that I was able to see – and await its trial. I guess the painting moved her and she immediately agreed to put it up for public consideration. She raised only one objection: the title. She probably assessed that it was better not to be provocative, and although Israel had managed to prevail in the war, negative sentiments persisted. Reina was the one who proposed “The Lady of the Shoah”. For a new artist, who had before her the magnificent opportunity to show a work of her own, such a suggestion did not generate any dispute. She was obsessed with the possibility of having her first showing, so she didn’t want to ruin the offer. I am convinced that she would stand up today and fight to impose her principles. Then, half a century ago, young and inexperienced, she complied with the restriction imposed on her in order to not to miss a propitious opportunity.
Upon learning of Reina’s proposal and, even worse, the positive response she received, the declaration of war was ratified. Dr. Ingerbrock did not accept either one or the other and forbade his daughter any movement towards that end. In short, Zelda felt inflamed by the winds of rebellion and left the family home behind. A fierce ostracism was imposed with the purpose of punishing her intransigence. She was a victim, but although with this action, she punished her mother and brothers with the same blow. In this way, alone in the world, far from her closest ties, the urgent need for a roof that sheltered her and, why not, a warm hug that contained her, became present. The reply to this concern was provided to me by the obituary article that Zelda Inger published on the occasion of the death of Magda Dalla Ponte where she described her friend as, I will try to mention the direct quote, “an indeclinable mainstay in times of sad memory.”
I wondered what this unfortunate circumstance could be and what was the bond that linked two women so different who, in fact, weren’t even have contact at that moment. The answer, then, must lie in their past and in what they once shared. Painting, art, dissatisfaction with patriarchal codes…
Marga then was more than the teacher, the counselor. She was the one who received her when she left the parental home. ..
-Now it remains to consider the arrival of a new character: David Pritzker. Eugenia looked at me fixedly, anxious to know what testimony she would use to support my deductions. David and Cecilia met through her brothers. Although he was older, David, a law student, felt an ideological affinity with the other two because of Zionism, socialism, the new Jewish state. Arguments were common but in the end the blood did not reach the river, as they say. She stayed away from those earthly issues, and was imbued with artistic pursuits.
However, between the two began to grow an affectivity that transcended politics, the desire to fix the world. “David learned of the news from Israel and Moses, devastated by the absence of their sister. I suppose he even offered to mediate between father and daughter to consider his return. However, neither of them was willing to resign their positions.
I have no doubt that the enamored future lawyer moved heaven and earth until he finally obtained the information, I do not know who provided it to him, although I can assume that the tip came from someone very close to them, that the owner of his sighs was staying at Marga’s house. Despite his repeated requests for the young woman to give up her attitude, she did not give up. Thus, the visits became habitual, always under the supervision of the inquisitive and distrustful chaperone, and the requirement of absolute discretion if he wished to continue with them. For the first time in my already lengthy monologue I noticed a relaxation in the tight features of the old woman’s face. It had struck a very intimate chord; I suppose the memories must have cascaded over his troubled spirit.the woman persisted in keeping unaffected.
Eugenia looked at me fixedly, anxious to know what testimony she would use to support my deductions. David and Cecilia met through her brothers. Although he was older, David, a law student, felt an ideological affinity with the other two because of Zionism, socialism, the new Jewish state. Arguments were common but in the end the blood did not reach the river, as they say. She stayed away from those earthly issues imbued with her artistic pursuits. However, between the two began to grow an affectivity that transcended politics, the desire to fix the world. David learned of the news from Israel and Moses, devastated by the absence of their sister. I suppose he even offered to mediate between father and daughter to consider his return. However, neither of them was willing to resign their positions. I have no doubt that the enamored future lawyer moved heaven and earth until he finally obtained the information, I do not know who provided it to him, although I can assume that the tip came from someone very close to them, that the owner of his sighs was staying at Marga’s house. Despite his repeated requests for the young woman to change her attitude, she did not give up. Thus, the visits became habitual, always under the supervision of the inquisitive and distrustful chaperone, and the requirement of absolute discretion if he wished to continue with them.
For the first time in my already lengthy monologue I noticed a relaxation in the tight features of the old woman’s face. It had struck a very intimate chord. I suppose that the memories had come down in a cascade over her troubled spirit.
-There are times when we act impulsively and then it’s very difficult to go back,” she said quietly, almost like an inward thought.
It was the crack tin the armor that I was waiting for, a concession that opened new and unexpected paths.
I waited for this new state to consolidate, an evolution that unfolded naturally. The woman looked at me from a new perspective, I would almost say released from a prison that she herself had woven around her, represented by a new, more diaphanous light in her eyes.
-How did you know about Marga’s gesture? –All trace of rancor had disappeared; now there was serenity in his voice, as if a weight that had always been loaded down had been shed.
-From the text of the obituary of her death. She trusted that by hiding your true identity behind names that are not your usual ones, you would avoid the attention of the indiscreet people who are never absent. Time hides everything, but the details are always there and when you least expect them, they come back.
-I did not take into account the fine perception of Marcos Opatoshu. –There was no cynicism or malice in those words, it was an assertion pronounced in passing
-Finally, David received his title and that’s when he proposed to her. Faced with this reality, any other consideration dissipated. If she did not accept, her life would always be spent in hiding and perhaps without any other possibility of starting a family; the other, to go home and beg the father’s forgiveness at who knows what price. In this way, the suitor obtained consent with an iron condition. The ceremony would be low-key, restricted to a few of her family guests. Surely, the groom thought that this was an excellent opportunity to iron out all the rough edges and start their life together debt-free. Despite the requirements raised, he accepted. Undoubtedly, it was not the wedding that any of them expected to celebrate one day, but, as they say, it was what it was.
A brief pause prompted her to take charge of the course of the story.
-We got married in a small shill on the outskirts, with a chuppah (1) above us and the exact number of men to make up a minyan (2). I am sure that David taught his family not to ask anything about my absence, which I always thanked him for, although he never made any comment to me. At the end of the ceremony, we went to a small room where we made a lechaim. (3)
-A couple of days before, we had gotten married civilly and once again David took care of the details. And there it all ended.
-When did you decide to change your name Cecilia or Zelda to Eugenia?
-At the time of writing the ketubah.(4) It was a kind of tribute to a false aunt who always supported my vocation. He died before the start of this disaster. -This document must include the names of the parents of the groom and the bride, as well as the witnesses. -I don’t know. David took care of the details. I think he spoke to a friendly rabbi. On the other hand, my godfather was a great friend of his, Segismundo, the bookseller.
-He is also my friend. I now understand your reluctance to go into detail on the matter.
-I know. I always appreciated his discretion. He is a good person.
This was a break marked the end of that chapter that must have been very bitter in her life. It was a brief silence, charged with emotion, without resentment. She looked agitated, restless, perhaps anxious to get to the end of these memories.
-Are you feeling well, Cecilia? Do you want us to stop here? I purposely called her by her real name. She noticed that, and I felt her thank me with her eyes moist with emotion. ..She had finally drawn the line with that unforgiving past. ..
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[1]Hebrew: encompassing. Bridal canopy under which the bride and groom and their godparents are placed. It represents the divine presence that is over them to make them one. [2]Hebrew: figure, number. It is a minimum number of ten Jewish men over the age of 13, required for the performance of certain rituals, the fulfillment of precepts, or the reading of prayers. It represents the number of people that Abraham wanted to save as a last option, when God revealed to him that he would destroy Sodom and Gomorrah.[3]Hebrew: for life. Name given to the Jewish toast. [4]Hebrew: written. It is the marriage certificate or contract in which it is declared that the marriage has been celebrated by mutual agreement and the rights and obligations of the couple are detailed. The names of the bride and groom and their parents, in Hebrew and Spanish, of the wedding witnesses and the date of the ceremony (in the Hebrew calendar and, in some cases, in both calendars) appear.
Marcos Ribak, más conocido como Andrés Rivera fue un escritor y periodista argentino. Hijo de inmigrantes obreros, nació en el barrio porteño de Villa Crespo. Moisés Rybak, desde Polonia, donde era un comunista perseguido; en Buenos Aires llegó a ser dirigente del gremio del vestido. Rivera fue obrero textil antes de dedicarse al periodismo y la literatura. Participó en el movimiento obrero argentino y, como su padre, militó en el Partido Comunista (PC). Trabajó en la redacción de la revista Plática (1953-1957) y debutó en la ficción con la novela El precio (1956), muy cercana a la estética del realismo social, al igual que la siguiente, Los que no mueren, y tres libros de cuentos, Sol de sábado, Cita y El yugo y la marcha. En 1964 Rivera fue expulsado del PC y su visión del mundo experimentó una transformación, que se reflejó en su obra como su libro de relatos Ajuste de cuentas, aparecido en 1972, al que seguirá un silencio de 10 años: en 1982 publica el volumen de cuentos Una lectura de la historia y la novela Nada que perder. Dos años después aparece En esta dulce tierra, con la que obtendrá su primer premio, al que posteriormente le seguirán importantes distinciones entre las que cabe destacar el Nacional de Literatura y el Konex.
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Marcos Ribak, better known as Andrés Rivera, was an Argentine writer and journalist. The son of worker immigrants, he was born in the Buenos Aires neighborhood of Villa Crespo. Moisés Rybak, from Poland, where he was a persecuted communist; in Buenos Aires he became a leader of the dress guild. Rivera was a textile worker before dedicating himself to journalism and literature. He participated in the Argentine labor movement and, like his father, was a member of the Communist Party (PC). He worked in the writing of the magazine Plática (1953-1957) and debuted in fiction with the novel El precio (1956), very close to the aesthetics of social realism, like the following, Those who do not die, and three books of stories, Sol de sábado, Cita and El yugo y la marcha. In 1964 Rivera was expelled from the PC and his vision of the world underwent a transformation, which was reflected in his work such as his book of short stories Ajuste de cuentos, published in 1972, which was followed by a silence of 10 years: in 1982 he published the volume of stories A reading of the story and the novel Nada que perder. Two years later En esta dulce tierra appears, with which he won his first prize, which was later followed by important distinctions, including the National Literature Award and the Konex Award.
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El corrector
Ella y yo trabajábamos en una editorial de capitales europeos, y que se preciaba de haber publicado la primera Biblia que usaron los jesuitas en tierras de México. A la hora del almuerzo, ella y yo nos quedábamos solos. Los otros correctores, la cartógrafa (¿era una sola?), las tipiadoras, las mujeres de dedos velocísimos de la oficina de cobranzas, las secretarias de los gerentes salían a ocupar sus mesas en los bodegones que abundaban por los alrededores de la empresa y, sentados, pedían ensaladas ligeras y Coca-Cola. Ella, a esa hora, extraía, de su bolso, revistas en las que aparecían figuras ululantes con nombres que, probablemente, castigaban algo más que mi ignorancia de hombre cercano a las edades de la vejez. Ella, a esa hora, escupía, en una caja de cartón depositada al pie de su escritorio, un chicle que masticó durante toda la mañana y suplantaba el chicle por un sándwich triple de miga, jamón cocido y queso. También cruzaba las piernas y un zapato se balanceaba en la punta del pie de la pierna cruzada sobre la otra. Ese viernes, ella llevaba puesto un walkman. Yo no miré su cara en el mediodía de ese viernes de un julio huérfano de alegría: miré un fino hilo de metal que brillaba un poco más arriba de la leve tapa de su cabeza, y después miré su cabeza, y miré su largo y lacio pelo rubio. Dejé de suprimir gerundios aborrecibles en el original de una novela que llevaba vendidos quince mil ejemplares de su primera edición, antes de que la novela y los gerundios que sobrevivirían a las infecundas expurgaciones de la corrección se publicaran, y cuyo autor, la cotización más alta de la narrativa nacional, es un hombre que ama el vino y el boxeo, y aprecia las bromas inteligentes, y caminé hasta el escritorio de ella. Y cuando llegué hasta el escritorio de ella, miré, por encima de la cabeza de ella, y de la corta antena de su walkman, el cielo de ese mediodía de viernes. Miré, por las anchas ventanas de la sala vacía y silenciosa, el cielo gris, y algún techo desolado, y unas sábanas puestas a secar que batían el aire frío y violento. Me agaché, y agachado, me arrastré debajo de su escritorio, y allí, en una tibieza polvorienta, hincado, le acaricié el empeine del pie, el talón y los dedos del pie, por encima de la seda negra de la media. Ese ablandamiento de una elasticidad tensa y fría duró lo que ella quiso que durase. La calcé y, después, me puse de pie, y frente a ella, le pregunté, en voz baja, si la había molestado. Ella me miró. Y sus labios, empastados con manteca y queso de máquina, me prometieron un invierno interminable. -Hacelo otra vez -dijo, y le brillaron los dientes empastados, ellos también, todavía, con miga, manteca y queso de máquina.
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The Corrector
She and I were working in a publishing house in one of the European capitals that prided itself fin publishing the first Bible that the Jesuits used in Mexican lands. At lunch time, she and I stayed by ourselves. The other copy editors, the map editor (was there only one?), the typists, the women with extremely fast fingers from the business office, the bosses’ secretaries left to occupy their tables in the nearby cheap restaurants that were in abundance around the business, and seated, ordered light salads and Coca-Cola. She, at that time, extracted, from her bag, ululating figures with names, that probably, suggested something beyond that my ignorance of a man approaching old age. She, at that hour, was spitting, into a cardboard box set at the foot of her desk, a piece of gum that she chewed all morning long and replaced the gum with a triple sandwich of cheap bread, cooked ham and machine-cut cheese. She also crossed her legs and a shoe on the point of the foot of the leg crossed over the other. That Friday, she had on a Walkman. I didn’t look at her face at noon of that Friday of July, an orphaned happiness: I looked at a fine wire if metal that shined a little bit above the light top of her head, and then I looked at her head, and I looked at her long and straight blond hair. I stopped excising abhorrent gerunds in the original of a novel that had sold fifteen thousand copies of its first edition, before the novel and the gerunds that survived the sterile expurgations of the correction were published, and whose author, the most highly rated of the national narrative, is a man who love wine and boxing and appreciated intelligent jokes, and I walked up to her desk. And when I arrived at her desk, I looked above her head and the short antenna of her Walkman, the sky of that Friday midday. I looked through the wide window of the empty and silent room, at the gray sky, and some desolate roof, and some sheets put out to dry that flapped in the cold and violent wind. I bent down, and bent down, I pulled myself below her desk. And there, in the dusty warmth, I caressed the instep of her foot, her heel and her toes, on the black silk of her stocking. That softening of a tight and cold elasticity lasted for as long as she wanted it to last. I put her shoe on and then, I stood up in front of her, I asked her, in a low voice, if I had bothered her. She looked at me. And her lips, covered with butter and cheap cheese, promised me an interminable winter. “Do it again,” she said, and her covered teeth shined, they too, still with bread, butter, and machine-cut cheese.
Translation by Stephen A. Sadow
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La mecedora
El neurólogo dice esto: dos años atrás, me leyó las conclusiones del informe añadido a una polisomnografía nocturna a la que, le consta, me sometí desdeñoso y resignado. El neurólogo que se parece, demasiado, a un caballero inglés -algo así como un jugador de polo vestido, de los hombros a los tobillos, con una bata blanca, y rubio, atildado, de estatura y edad medianas y ojos fríos y claros-, me pregunta, no muy ansioso, como fatigado, si recuerdo algo de aquella lectura. Me alzo de hombros y miro sus ojos claros y fríos, su cabello rubio y el nudo irreprochable de su corbata, y su devoción por el Martín Fierro, de la que me hizo partícipe, en una lejana tarde de verano, cuando se abandonó, displicente e inescrutable, a la celebración de los silencios de la pampa. El neurólogo dice -y el tono de su voz es algo más fuerte que un susurro- que el informe elaborado a partir de esa polisomnografía nocturna (a la que me entregué, repite, dócil y abstraído), corresponde a una persona normal, salvo por una observación que él, el neurólogo, omitió mencionar en mi última visita, por razones obvias. Yo miro el humo del cigarrillo que sube, leve y lento, y blanquísimo, hacia una ventana por la que entra la luz de la tarde. ¿Es una luz de otoño? ¿Mansa? ¿Dónde se refugió la luz del verano, mientras yo, por razones obvias, encendía un cigarrillo? El neurólogo dice, sin ningún énfasis, tal vez retraído: la observación que acompaña a la polisomnógrafía nocturna indica que yo, persona sana, vivo una tristeza profunda. ¿Entiendo esa observación, incluida en el informe que acompaña a la polisomnógrafía nocturna? ¿Es mansa la luz del otoño? ¿Hacia dónde huyó la luz del verano? ¿Le digo, al neurólogo, que lo que yo deba entender de la observación que aparece en el informe agregado a la polisomnografía nocturna ha dejado de importarme? ¿Le digo que alguien escribió: la vejez, única enfermedad que me conozco, será breve, será cruel, ¿será letal? ¿Y que escribió, también, que prefería olvidar las diez o doce imágenes que conservaba de su infancia? Enciendo otro cigarrillo. El neurólogo, las manos cruzadas sobre su escritorio, contempla el cenicero, y dice que no demore mi próxima visita, que vuelva cuando yo lo desee. Me pongo de pie, y le pregunto al neurólogo si hay alguna otra cosa que yo deba saber. El neurólogo que es, casi, un caballero inglés, sea lo que sea un caballero inglés, me abre la puerta de su consultorio. Cuando llego a casa, prendo la luz de una lámpara de pie, siento a Tristeza Profunda en la mecedora, y la mecedora se mueve de atrás para delante, lenta y en calma, y pasea a Tristeza Profunda por el silencio que ocupa la pieza de paredes pintadas a la cal.
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In the Rocking Chair
The neurologist says this: two years ago, he read to me the conclusions of the report added to a nocturnal polysomnograph to which, told him, I reacted disdainful and resigned. The neurologist who looks, to much so, like a British gentleman-something like a polo player, dressed, from his shoulders to his heels, with a white lab coat, and blond, sharp, of middle stature and age and cold and clear eyes- asks me, not very anxious, but fatigued, if I remember something of that lecture. I shrug my shoulders, and I look at his clear and cold eyes, hi s blond hair and the irreproachable knot of his tie. And his devotion for Martin Fierro, of which he made me a participant, on a far-off winter afternoon, when he abandoned, peevish and inscrutable, the celebration of the silences of the pampas. The neurologist said – and his tone of voice was something stronger than a whisper- that the study made from that night-time polysomnography (the one he gave to me, he repeats, docile and distracted) corresponds to a normal person, except for an observation that he, the neurologist, omitted to mention during my last visit for obvious reasons. I look at the smoke from the cigarette that rises, light and slow, and very white, toward a window through which the afternoon light enters. Is it an autumn light? Gentle?,” Where did the summer light take refuge, while I, for obvious reasons, lit a cigarette? The neurologist says, without any emphasis, perhaps restrained: the observation that accompanies the nocturnal polysomnography indicates that I, a healthy person, live in a profound sadness. Do I understand that observation, included in the report that accompanies the nocturnal polysomnography? Is the autumn light gentle? Do I say to the neurologist that what I ought to understand from the observation that appears in the report added to the nocturnal polysomnography no longer is important to me? Do I say that someone wrote: old age, the only illness that I know, will be brief, will be cruel, will be lethal” Amd who also wrote, that he would prefer to forget the ten or twelve images that he has of his childhood? I light another cigarette. I stand up, and I ask the neurologist is if there is anything else I ought to know. The neurologist who is, almost, an English gentleman, whatever an English gentleman may be, opens the door of his office. When I arrive at home, I turn on the light of a standing lamp, I feel the Profound Sadness in the rocking chair, and the rocking chair moves from back to front, slowly and in calmness, andshows the Profound Sadness to the silence that occupies the room with the walls painted with lime.
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).
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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.
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“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.
Reina Roffe es narradora y ensayista argentina nacida en Buenos Aires de padres sefardíes. Ha sido distinguida con la beca Fulbright y con la Antorchas de Literatura. Recibió el primer galardón en el concurso Pondal Ríos por su primera obra, y el Premio Internacional de Novela Corta otorgado por la Municipalidad de San Francisco, Argentina. En Italia, han aparecido los libros L’onda che si infrange y Uccelli rari ed esotici, Cinque racconti di donne straordinarie y en Estados Unidos el volumen que agrupa The Reef y Exotic Birds. Numerosas antologías europeas y estadounidenses albergan cuentos suyos. Su obra incluye las novelas Llamado al Puf, Monte de Venus, La rompiente, El cielo dividido, El otro amor de Federico. Lorca en Buenos Aires y el libro de relatos Aves exóticas. Cinco cuentos con mujeres raras.Entre otros ensayos, ha publicado Juan Rulfo: Autobiografía armada (Corregidor, 1973; Montesinos, 1992) y el libro de entrevistas Conversaciones americanas. Es autora de la biografía Juan Rulfo. Las mañas del zorro (Espasa, 2003) y de Juan Rulfo: Biografía no autorizada(Fórcola, 2012), con prólogo de Blas Matamoro.
DE: Omnibus, no. 48
Reina Roffe is an Argentinian narrator and essayist born in Buenos Aires to Sephardic parents. She has been honored by a Fulbright scholarship and with the Antorchas de Literatura. She received first prize in the Pondal Ríos contest for his first work, and the International Short Novel Award granted by the Municipality of San Francisco, Argentina. In Italy, the books L’onda che si infrange and Uccelli rare ed esotici, Cinque racconti di donne straordinarie have appeared, and in the United States the volume that groups The Reef and Exotic Birds. Numerous European and American anthologies contain his short stories. His work includes the novels Llamado al Puf, Monte de Venus, La rompiente, El cielo dividido, El otro amor de Federico. Lorca in Buenos Aires and the book of stories Aves exóticas, that include five stories with rare women. Among other essays, he has published Juan Rulfo: Armed Autobiography (Corregidor, 1973; Montesinos, 1992) and the interview book American Conversations. She is the author of the biography Juan Rulfo. The Tricks of the Fox (Espasa, 2003) and Juan Rulfo: Unauthorized biography (Fórcola, 2012), with a prologue by Blas Matamoro.
En el viento, al pasar, la caricia que vaga sin destino ni objeto,
la caricia perdida ¿quién la recogerá?
La caricia perdida.
Alfonsina Storni.
Tres veces al día, y no dos, me ocupo de aliviar mi enfermedad. El oftalmólogo me había dicho: “Por la mañana y por la noche límpiese los ojos, párpado superior e inferior”. Antes de irme, le pregunté: ¿De dónde es usted?, ya que él no me preguntaba de dónde era yo; “De Siria”, respondió con su acento árabe en la España ya babélica en la que vivimos extranjeros de 2 diferentes procedencias. Y me diagnosticó conjuntivitis crónica. Todo lo que ahora tengo es crónico: gastritis crónica, conjuntivitis crónica… soy una clónica del dolor y la enfermedad. “La higiene ocular es muy importante. Cada día se limpia usted los párpados y pestañas para quitar cualquier resto de legañas con toallitas especiales. Aquí le pongo el nombre”, y anotó. “O bien”, dijo, “puede usar un gel que también es para lo mismo. Pongo todo en la receta. Hasta aquí instrucciones sobre la higiene ocular externa. Para la interna, se echa en cada ojo solución fisiológica. Esto que le digo, siempre. Y para evitar orzuelos se aplica, durante una semana, esta pomada que le indico aquí“. Él aprendió a decir “legaña”, le fue más fácil que a mí, precisamente porque su lengua nativa no es el castellano; yo no me acostumbro. Espontáneamente me sale lagaña, como lo he dicho toda mi vida en la Argentina de mi infancia. Eso había dicho el oculista, con sus tropiezos y su acento voluptuoso como salido de las Mil y una noches de amor: Para siempre, todos los días, varias veces al día, cuidar mucho la higiene de los ojos. Palabras como maceradas en una bola de hierbas aromáticas, sonaban envolventes, arrulladoras. Pero, inmediatamente, volvió a mis oídos esa fea palabra, crónica, que no se refería a un relato de sucesos ni de testimonios, sino a lo que me he ido convirtiendo: una mujer que padece enfermedades de larga duración y las arrastra de década en década, un lastre crónico. Ayer tenía arena en los ojos, muy rojo por dentro, una gran molestia y leía cualquier cosa. Cualquier cosa leo desde que tengo presbicia; “Para que entienda”, me había dicho otro oculista como si yo no fuera capaz de entender, “lo que usted tiene es vista cansada”. Y problemas de visión: de cerca, de media, de larga distancia. Ahora ya de todas las distancias. Al pasar por el quiosco de periódicos, leí un titular: “Temporada de insectos aplastados en el paraíso”. Quedé perpleja. Volví sobre mis pasos. Decía: “Témpora de insectos aplastados en el parabrisas”. Me reí como una loca. Mamá también se reía sola, a veces. Tendría mi edad, quizás incluso algunos años menos que yo ahora, cuando empezó a tener estas irregularidades o faltas. En nosotras, todo se transforma en irregular y deriva en faltas o fallos. No le alcanzaban los brazos para alejar la revista y siempre recurría a quien tuviera más a mano, con la finalidad de que le prestara el servicio de sus ojos y le leyera la letra pequeña, fuese en los envases de productos alimenticios o en prospectos, esas cosas aberrantes para la vista cansada. A mí me fastidiaba verla abrir los ojos, como si por abrirlos, pudiera ampliar su visión. Tantas cosas que critiqué en ella. Casi las mismas criticables en mí ahora. No escupas al cielo, te caerá en la cara. Tres veces, no dos, me limpio los ojos. Ya no siento la arena del desierto en ellos, y parece que, por esta vez, el orzuelo no brotará. Y la caricia perdida, rodará… rodará… Pues mañana, señor oculista sirio, esto habrá pasado un poco, nunca del todo porque es crónico, ya sabemos, y no tendré que volver a su consulta. La caricia sazonada con hierbas aromáticas de sus palabras, ¿quién la recoger?
In the wind, as it passes, the caress that wanders without destination or purpose,
the lost caress, who will pick it up?
The lost caress.
Alfonsina Storni.
Three times a day, and not twice, I take care of alleviating my illness. The ophthalmologist had told me: “In the morning and at night, wipe your eyes, upper and lower eyelids.” Before leaving, I asked him: Where are you from?, since he did not ask me where I was from; “From Syria”, he responded with his Arabic accent in the already Babbelic Spain in which foreigners from different origins live. And he diagnosed me with chronic conjunctivitis. Everything I now have is chronic: chronic gastritis, chronic conjunctivitis… I am a clone of pain and disease. “Eye hygiene is very important. Every day you clean your eyelids and eyelashes to remove any remaining rheum with special wipes. Here I put the name “, and scored. “Or,” he said, “you can use a gel that’s also for the same thing. I put everything in the recipe. So far instructions on external eye hygiene. For the internal one, physiological solution is poured into each eye. This I tell you, always. And to avoid styes, this ointment that I indicate here is applied for a week. He learned to say “legaña”, it was easier for him than for me, precisely because his native language is not Spanish; I don’t get used to it. Lagaña comes out spontaneously, as I have said all my life in the Argentina of my childhood. That’s what the eye doctor had said, with his stumbling blocks and his voluptuous accent as if he had come out of the Thousand and One Nights of Love: Forever, every day, several times a day, take great care of eye hygiene. Words like macerated in a ball of aromatic herbs, sounded enveloping, lulling. But, immediately, that ugly word, chronicle, returned to my ears, which did not refer to an account of events or testimonies, but to what I have gradually become: a woman who suffers from long-term illnesses and drags them from decade to decade. decade, a chronic burden. Yesterday he had sand in his eyes, very red inside, a great nuisance and he would read anything. Anything I read since I have presbyopia; “So that you understand,” another eye doctor had told me as if I were not capable of understanding, “what you have is tired eyesight”. And vision problems: close, medium, long distance. Now from all distances. Passing the newsstand, I read a headline: “Squashed Bug Season in Paradise.” I was perplexed. I retraced my steps. It read: “Squashed Insect Season On Windshield.” I laughed like crazy. Mom laughed to herself, too, sometimes. He would have been my age, perhaps even a few years younger than me now, when he began to have these irregularities or faults. In us, everything becomes irregular and leads to faults or failures. Her arms did not reach her to move the magazine away and she always resorted to whoever was closest to hand, in order to have them serve her eyes and read the fine print, whether it was on the packaging of food products or on brochures, those aberrant things for the tired eye. It annoyed me to see her open her eyes, as if by opening them, she could expand her vision. So many things that I criticized in it. Almost the same critics in me now. Don’t spit at the sky, it will fall on your face. Three times, not twice, I wipe my eyes. I no longer feel the desert sand on them, and it seems that this time the stye will not break out. And the lost caress, it will roll… it will roll… Well tomorrow, Mr. Syrian oculist, this will have passed a bit, never completely because it is chronic, we already know, and I won’t have to go back to your office. The caress seasoned with aromatic herbs of his words, who will pick it up?
Alicia Migdal es escritora, traductora, profesora de Literatura y crítica de cine. Trabajó en las editoriales Arca y Biblioteca Ayacucho y, como periodista cultural, en diferentes medios de Montevideo. Publicó el libro de prosa poética Mascarones en 1981 y el poemario Historias de cuerpos en 1986. A La casa de enfrente (1988) le siguieron Historia quieta (1993), que ganó el Premio Bartolomé Hidalgo y se tradujo al francés, y Muchachas de verano en días de marzo (1999). En 2010 recibió el Premio Nacional de Narrativa del Ministerio de Educación y Cultura por En un idioma extranjero (2008), que reunía sus últimas tres obras y una inédita, Abstracto.
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Alicia Migdal is a writer, translator, professor of Literature and film critic. She worked at Arca and Biblioteca Ayacucho publishing houses and, as a cultural journalist, in different media outlets in Montevideo. She published the book of poetic prose Mascarones in 1981 and the collection of poems Historias de cuerpos in 1986. La casa de frente (1988) was followed by Historia quieta (1993), which won the Bartolomé Hidalgo Prize and was translated into French, and Muchachas de veranoen días de marzo (1999). In 2010 she received the National Narrative Award from the Ministry of Education and Culture for En un idioma extranjero (2008), which brought together her last three works and an unpublished one, Abstracto.
Migdal, Alicia. El mar desde la orilla, Montevideo: Criatura Editora, 2019, pp. 7 – 13.
“El mar desde la orilla”
El desconocido esperaba en el pasillo, arriba, donde termina la escalera. Estaba de pie en el umbral, como en los miedos. Me acerqué y me levantó en vilo con su cuchillo, en una intimidad inesperada. No podía ver su cara, pero seguía mirando su familiar silueta. Había quedado una copa en la mesa del jardín, y llovía sobre la copa. Y aquí estoy, ahora, como si pudiera hablar. Como si se pudiera hablar y ser comprendida, y no ser la apestada. El heautontimorumenos.
Yo, obligada a los espacios pequeños, desarrollé la habilidad, a veces la trampa, de mirar fijo hacia adentro, mirar fijo hacia donde no están las cosas. Hablar, quiero hacerlo con muy poca gente, pero no sé quiénes son. Yo miro todo lo que puedo; a veces no puedo sostener la mirada sobre los otros y me pierdo de mí al retirarla de ellos. Y tengo la voz enronquecida de tanto no hablar. Es entonces que acerco mi cara al celular y hablo. Pregunto allí cuál es la dosis cotidiana de palabras que hay que emitir para no perder la voz. Si hay una medida. Cuánto debería hablar una persona, por día, de manera concentrada, o no, para que la voz se sostenga. Sin embargo, hubo veces en que acerqué gozosamente mi boca al micrófono. Escuché el aire que se condensaba y envolvía mi cara. Había personas frente a mí, a veces en la oscuridad de una sala. Probaba el sonido; levantaba el papel escrito y leía hacia la oscuridad o hacia el inasible conjunto. Cada palabra, el ritmo de una a otra, su autonomía entre el micrófono y mi garganta, entre el micrófono y la penumbra, hacía entonces que el texto saliera de mi cuerpo.
Cuando la gente está sola y no espera, o cree que no espera, los sueños en la noche o cerca de la hora de despertar son sueños de sosiego equívoco, escenas que no pueden sumarse al día, pasajes por casas y calles que no se encuentran en ninguna parte, solo allí, en el sueño autor de representaciones, que en su teatro sobre el viento armado, sombras suele vestir de bulto bello. Pero como la costumbre de soñar de noche no depende de los soñantes, y las apariencias parecen completar, con su sustancia, algunas ausencias de lo diurno y de lo largo, esos sueños son sosiego y son equivocación y, como las hojas de los árboles, no pueden separarse sin destruir la noción de follaje.
Sola por Buenos Aires, a los catorce años, en una confitería de Corrientes y San Martín, por los mismos meses en que Eichmann era juzgado y estaba a punto de ser ahorcado en Jerusalén después de su existencia clandestina en el Sur de Borges y de Perón. (Faltaba mucho para que yo leyera lo siguiente: se sabe que a los judíos les estaba prohibido escrutar el futuro. La Torá y la plegaria los instruían, en cambio, en la rememoración. Esto los liberaba del encantamiento del futuro). Sentada en la confitería con un libro, como si yo fuera mi madre antes de mí, cuando ella paseaba por Buenos Aires con sus primos y después nos contaba, con esa habilidad que tenía, años después nos permitía imaginar ese relato mínimo, ella con sus trajecitos y su juventud con primos hermosos en esa ciudad clásica (en el recuerdo es clásica, el pasado siempre es clásico, persistente, entero, igual a sí mismo). Yo en esa confitería, entonces, el vertiginoso olor de la nafta de esa ciudad invadiendo mi vida, una chiquilina seria con un libro, observando a la gente en esa confitería clásica de Buenos Aires, como si ya fuera yo, una futura yo que se pensaba a sí misma en esa libertad suave y pequeña, estar sola unas horas en una ciudad demasiado grande y en un Centro demasiado lejano de mi casa, adonde había que llegar por tren, por subte, por colectivo, lo que volvía más lejano y libre mi futuro en la confitería, con un libro, observando la vida de los otros en la que yo no estaba incluida. (Uno de aquellos días me trastornó un caballo atropellado en plena calle en plena ciudad). Era joven y tenía esa sensación de pasado, de que había algo atrás, incrustado, para pensar en él. Me gustaba el pasado. Era algo que me rodeaba. No sabría describir su contenido, lo que yo creía entonces que era el pasado. Probablemente estuviera relacionado con la idea o la certidumbre de la dimensión del tiempo, del tiempo en realidad, sin más, eso del tiempo, lo que se vive y lo que se sabe sin necesidad de saberlo. Era esa asimetría tal vez la que creaba en mí la sensación de tener un pasado, de ser yo por eso. Muchos años después iba a decir que había tenido madre, esa madre, pero no iba a recordar cómo era la sensación de haber tenido madre, de manera natural e incuestionable. No iba a recordar muy bien cómo era eso. Iba a recordarme en la tierra donde ahorcaron a Eichmann (no tantos años antes, apenas veinticinco), pintándome los labios de rojo intenso y sintiendo vivamente mi cuerpo en el calor imposible que pujaba del desierto, con mi madre muerta a unas pocas cuadras, en el cementerio calcinante. Vivimos amodorrados unos años. Estábamos dormidos, pero no lo sabíamos. The very music of the name has gone.
Pero ahora pienso que debería echarme en el suelo, detrás del mostrador en el almacén de la esquina, mientras el dueño, su padre, el hijo, el mozo, trabajan, cocinan y venden los alimentos y las bebidas, y los hombres y mujeres del bar miran los partidos de fútbol. O pedirle al matrimonio de la casona de a la vuelta, los que abren el garaje todos los días para vender sus antigüedades, que me dejen pasar las tardes del fin de semana con ellos, solamente sentada en su living tomando un té. No sería necesario hablar ni contarnos nada para explicar mi presencia, las cosas existentes en el garaje serían la justificación de nuestra reunión de desconocidos, las cosas como el broche de esmeraldas falsas de la abuela de la mujer serían en sí mismas una razón para que yo me estuviera allí, con ellos y sin ellos, con ellos como presencia material que podría asegurarme, tal vez, la persistencia de mi presencia material en este mundo que se agranda a medida que lo pienso.
Porque además ella se parece a Sylvia Plath, si Sylvia hubiera doblado sus años de vida; es alegre y tiene la despreocupación natural, cuando acepta un precio o deja reservado algún objeto, de quien ha tenido todo desde siempre y no necesita asegurarse a cada paso la fidelidad del otro; es alegre y serena, no hay angustia en la manera que tiene de venderme el broche de su abuela ni de descolgar un bronce con tulipas. Ahí, en el garaje, creía que podía hablar, aceptando el silencio de mi visita. Creía que tenía tiempo. Vivía como si lo creyera y se trataba en verdad de la pérdida del tiempo, y yo sin saberlo. Me miro ahora desde afuera y no sé lo que veo, así, en ese garaje.
A lo mejor por eso me ponía escollos por delante, por ejemplo un sillón molestando el paso, para sentir el alivio de sacarlo del camino. Ensuciaba para poder limpiar. Trataba de acordarme de no llegar a mi casa. Le pedía a mi gata que me obligara a entrar al escritorio, a la mesa, la máquina, para acompañarme a mirar con ella por esa ventana desde la que acecha a los pichones. La mayoría de la gente no se cae cuando va caminando confiada por la calle, confiada de nada, solo de su verticalidad. La mayoría no es asesinada, no sale en los informativos, no es noticia pública alcanzada por una historia; la mayoría vive. Una cicatriz en la pierna anula a la anterior. Está, pero no se ve más. Una se olvida de cómo curar heridas, como si cada una fuera la primera. El hielo, el agua con jabón, la gasa sobre la raspadura que se parece al manotón sobre la magnolia. El orden de la cura. A cero con cada lastimadura. (Una mujer quería tanto a su gata que no la dejaba morir. La gata enflaqueció, se consumió y, no obstante tanto amor o a causa de tanto amor, ella no podía dejarla ir. Me lo contaba al sol en la azotea, como suave advertencia, creo, mientras acariciaba a la mía, que era de la misma raza que aquella gata).
Migdal, Alicia. El mar desde la orilla, Montevideo: Criatura Editora, 2019, pp. 7 – 13
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“The Sea from the Shore”
The unknown man was waiting in the hallway, above, where the staircase ends. He was standing in the threshold, as in the fears. He approached me, and he put me on tinder hooks with his knife, in an unexpected intimacy. I couldn’t see his face, but I continued watching his familiar silhouette. He had left a glass on the garden table. And here I am now, as if I could speak. As if I could speak and be understood, and not be the pariah.The heautontimorumenos.
I, obligated to the small spaces, developed the ability, at times the trap, to look fixedly toward the inside, to look fixedly toward where the things are not. Speaking, I want to do it with very few people, but I don’t know who they are. I look at everything I can; at times I can’t maintain my on other people, and I lose myself moving it away from them. And I have the hoarse from so much not speaking. It is then that I bring my face close to the phone and I speak, I ask there what daily dose of words is necessary to emit to not lose my voice. If there is a way. How much should a person speak, each day, in a concentrated manner, or not, so that the voice be sustained, Nevertheless, there were times in which I approached my mouth pleasurably to microphone. I heard the air that was condensing and surrounding my face. There were people in front of me, at times in the darkness of a room. I checked the sound, raised the written paper, and read toward the darkness or toward the indefinite group. Each word, the rhythm from one to the other, its autonomy between the microphone and my throat, between the microphone and the shadows, it then made the text leave my body.
When people are alone and don’t wait, or believe that they don’t wait, the dreams in the night or near the hour for awakening are dreams of equivocal calm, scenes that can’t become part of the day, trips through house and streets that are not found anywhere, only there, the dream author of representations, that in its theater over the armed wind, shadows continue to dress in beautiful packaging. But as the custom of sleeping at night doesn’t depend on the sleepers, and the appearances seem to complete, with their substance, somethings absent from the daytime, and at length, those dreams are calm, and they are mistaken and like the leaves on the trees, can’t be separated without destroying the notion of foliage.
Alone in Buenos Aires, at fourteen years old, in a cafeteria on Corrientes and San Martín, during the same months in which Eichmann was judged and was about to be hanged in Jerusalem, after his clandestine existence in the South of Borges and Perón. (It was a long time before I read the following: it’s known that for the Jews it’s prohibited to study the future, the Torah and the prayers instructed them, however, in the remembrance of the past. This frees the enchantment of the future). Seated in the cafeteria with a book, as if I were my mother before mi, when she walked with her cousins and later told us, with that ability that she had, years later, years later, it permitted us to imagine that minimal story, she with little suits and her youth with beautiful cousins in that classical city, the past is always classic, persistent, complete, equal to itself.) I, in that cafeteria, then, the vertiginous smell of gasoline invading my life, a serious little girl with a book, observing the people in that classic cafeteria in Buenos Aires, as if I were still me, a future me who thought of herself with a in that soft and small liberty, being alone for a few hours in a city that is too big and in a Center too far from her house, to which she had to arrive by train, by subway, that which my future return from further away, in the cafeteria, with a book, observing the life of the others in which I am not included. (One if those days I was upset by a horse knocked over in the middle of the street in the middle of the city.) I was young and had this feeling of the past, that there was something behind, embedded, to think about. I liked the past. It was something that surrounded me. I wouldn’t know how to describe its content, what I thought then was the past. Probably, it was related to the idea or the certainty of the dimension of time, of time, without anything else, that of time, that which one lives and what one knows without the necessity to know it. I t was that asymmetry perhaps that created in me the sensation of having a past, of being me because of it. Many years later, I used to say that I had had a mother, that mother, but I wasn’t going to remember how that was. I was going to remember myself in the land where the hanged Eichmann (not so many years before, hardly twenty-five,) painting my lips in an intense red and feeling intensely in my body in the impossible heat that pushed from the desert, with my mother dead a few blocks away, in the scorching hot cemetery. We lived drowsy for some years. We were asleep, but we didn’t know it. The very music of the name has gone.
But now I think that I ought to throw myself on the floor, behind the counter in the grocery store on the corner, while the owner, the son, work, cook, and sell the foodstuff and the drinks, and the men and women of the bar watch the football games. Or ask the married couple of the large house around the corner, those who open the garage every day to sell their antiques, who let spend the weekend afternoons with them, only sitting in their living room, having tea. It wouldn’t be necessary to speak or tell us anything to explain my presence, the things existent in the garage would be the justification for our meeting of people who didn’t know each other, the tings like the broach with false emeralds of the grandmother of the woman would be in themselves a reason for me to be there, with them or without them, with them like material presence that could assure me, perhaps, of my material persistence in this world that gets larger as I think of it.
Because she also looked like Sylvia Plath, if Sylvia had doubled her years of life; she is happy and has the natural insouciance, when she accepts a price or reserves some object, which she had always had doesn’t need to reassure herself at each step the honesty of the other; she is happy and serene, there is no anguish in the way that she has to sell me her grandmother’s broach or to take down a bronze with tulips. There, in the garage, I believed that I could speak, accepting the silence of my visit. I believed that I had time. She lived as if she believed it and it really dealt with the loss of time, and I without knowing it. She looks at me now from afar and I don’t know what I see, like this, in that garage.
Perhaps for that I put obstacles in front, for example an armchair inhibiting the way, to feel the relief of taking it out of the way. I dirtied to be able to clean up. I tried to remember to not arrive at my house. I asked my cat to oblige me to enter the study, at the table, the typewriter, in order to accompany me to watch with her through that window from which she checks out the pigeons. The majority of people don’t fall when the confidently go in the street, confident of nothing, only their verticality. The majority is not murdered, doesn’t appear in the news, is not a public notice caught up in a story, the majority lives. A scar on a leg nullifies an earlier one. It’s there but no longer seen. One forgets how to cure wounds, as if each one was the first. Ice, water with soap, the gauze over the scrape that seems like a slap on the magnolia. The order of the cure. To zero with every wound. (A woman loved her cat so much that she wouldn’t let it die. The cat got thin, exhausted and, nevertheless, so much love or because of so much love, she couldn’t let it go. I he told me in the sun on the rooftop terrace, with a mild warning, I believe, while I caressed mine, which was of the same breed as that cat.)
Carolina Esses nació en Buenos Aires en 1974. Poeta, novelista y Licenciada en Letras (UBA). Publicó las novelas La melancolía de los perros (Bajo la luna, 2020) y Un buen judío (Bajo la luna, 2017), los poemarios Versiones del paraíso (Del Dock, 2016) y Temporada de invierno (Bajo la luna, 2009, en versión en inglés de Allison De Freese Entre Ríos Books, Seattle). Sus poemas han sido traducidos al inglés y al francés en diferentes antologías. También es autora de literatura infantil. Durante varios años colaboró con la revista Ñ y ahora reseña libros en el suplemento “ideas” de La Nación. Desde 2007 trabaja para las Bibliotecas Municipales.
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Carolina Esses was born in Buenos Aires in 1974. Poet, novelist and Bachelor of Letters (UBA). she published the novels La melancolía de los perros (Bajo la luna, 2020) Un buen judío (Bajo la luna, 2017), the poetry books Versiones del paraíso (Del Dock, 2016) and Temporada de invierno (Bajo la luna, 2009 , in English version by Allison De Freese Entre Ríos Books, Seattle,. Her poems have been translated into English and French in different anthologies. She is also the author of children’s literature. For several years she collaborated with the magazine Ñ and now reviews books in the “ideas” supplement of La Nación. Since 2007 she has been working for the City Libraries.
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De: Carolina Esses. Un buen judío. Buenos Aires: Bajo la luna, 1917. pp. 57-66.
Natalia ama a los Halim. Entre ellos no tiene que decir ninguna frase políticamente correcta, no tiene que hacer como fuese lo mismo respetar o no el Shabat. Porque si bien en el día a día se ocupa de mostrar su faceta más moderada dentro suyo, está convencida de que la única opción válida para la sobrevivencia del judaísmo es el respeto de los preceptos. En el templo se ocupa de que ningún judío se siente excluido. Por eso evita hablar de temas sensibles. No se refiere—al menos no en el primer acercamiento—a la importancia, para los varones, de usar tefilín todos los días, no habla de la falta de no comer kasher. Da clases de hebreo, coordina grupos de reflexión, distribuye las donaciones, hace de nexo entre la gente y el rabino, facilita los trámites para que las parejas puedan tener un buen casamiento judío.No espera que la gente golpee la puerta del templo, sale a recorrer Once, Villa Crespo, Palermo. Sabe que muchos de los religiosos con nueve o diez hijos a cuestas jamás admitirían la dificultad que implica vestir, alimentar la familia. Ella se ocupa de visitarlos y observar qué le falta al más chico, si es tiempo de comprar zapatos para los más grandes. Busca a los jóvenes. Los invita a descubrir sus raíces judías. Y una vez que se sienten parte de la comunidad, empieza el verdadero retorno, el camino de regreso, la teshuvá.
Los Halim, Emilia e Isaac tienen siete hijos en edades que van de los cuatro a los quince. De alguna manera, que todavía Natalia no puede explicar, Emilia logró lo que muy pocas judías ortodoxas: siguió estudiando, aún después de casado, hasta recibirse en antropología. Una vez que el título estuvo colgado en la pared del living la sucesión de niños parece no tener fin. Es el tiempo de los hijos, decía Emilia. O: puse mi profesión en pausa, ya la voy a retomar. Si en lugar de Emilia hubiese sido cualquier mujer quien le dijera así—alguna que recurriera en busca de consejo–, ella se hubiese sentido la obligación de reprenderla. Criar hijos judíos es una tarea ardua, le habría dicho, requiere de una cantidad de esfuerzo. Incluso se hubiese extendido en una cantidad de explicaciones, hubiese recurrido algún y la mujer se habría ido con algo de culpa, convencida de que sus aspiraciones personales no podrían jamás ocupar más que un segundo, tercer plano. Pero frente a Emilia jamás se sentiría autorizada a hablar de elecciones. Y no era que Emilia le fuese a recriminar nada. Jamás le habría dicho: vos ni siquiera terminaste la carrera. Jamás la obligaría a repasar sus faltas. Pero a veces, cuando en la conversación salía el tema de Rafael, el hermano de Isaac –cómo le estaba yendo a Nueva Orleans, cómo se habían adaptado los hijos, en qué templo trabajaba–, cuando Emilia le mostraba los artículos que publicaba en Israel Today, cuando le contaba el vacío que le hacían allá los religiosos—porque la transformación que Rafael quería infundirle al judaísmo tenía que ser el seno de las comunidades más ortodoxas, en el ojo de la tormenta—y la manera en que intentaba de resistir, Natalia volvía sobre cada uno de sus errores; los ponía uno sobre otro hasta formar la gran masa de lo irremediable.
Por más amigas que fueran, Emilia parecía no haberse dado cuenta. Insistía: podrías haber sido una buena esposa. Podría: tendría que haberlo conocido quince, veinte años atrás, respondía ella. ¿Podría haber sido una buena esposa? Quién sabe. Los planteos de Rafael Halim parecían disparatados. Si él había sido uno de los rabinos más importantes de la comunidad, si había sido quien le había explicado la importancia de ver más allá de las mizvot, de entenderlas, para poder practicarlas, la nuestra es una religión de la acción, le decía, del hacer, de la práctica. Porque Natalia no había nacido en una familia observante. Había estudiado en el colegio hebreo, había celebrado su Bat Mitzvá, a veces iba al templo en Iom Kippur o Pesaj. No mucho más. Después de conocer a Emilia, de asistir a las reuniones a las que la invitaba, no habría manera de detener su fervor religioso. Eran encuentros donde había música, algo para comer, donde escuchaban las palabras del rab: de Rafael.
¿Quién hubiese podido hacer oídos sordos? Emilia fue testigo: bastaron un par de semanas para que Natalia empezara a colaborar en las tareas del templo. Su energía era tal que pasó de asistir a logística de los grupos a dirigir los rezos de las mujeres y, después, a coordinar los grupos de madrijim. Era una hormiga laborosa, siempre dispuesta a un poco más. Con el correr de los meses, su manera de vestir, su forma de moverse empezaron a cambiar. Los jeans, los vestidos livianos fueron reemplazados por remeras de manga larga, polleras por debajo de la rodilla, medias de nylon, zapatos cerrados. También los libros que llevaba en el bolso. Ya casi no leía los apuntes que ella misma vendía en la facultad. Sus compañeros empezaron a preguntarle preguntas absurdas; le decían, ¿no tenés calor? o ¿es verdad que para tener relaciones los ortodoxos usan una sábana que tiene un agujero? Ella no se ruborizaba; les respondía con altura, les hablaba de Maimónides, segura de estar un paso por delante de ellos.
Dejó el trabajo en la facultad primero, los estudios después. El templo y Rafael—porque Rafael todavía era el templo, porque todavía no ha decidido tirarlo todo por la borda—ocupaban todos sus rezos, todos sus pensamientos…
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Era curioso: a pesar de ser casi hermanas, Emilia no se hubiese dado cuenta. Por eso Natalia empieza a hablar. Acepta, no sin culpa, el segundo vaso de vino que su amiga le ofrece—no le parece lo mejor, estar tomando vino mientras su padre se debate entre la vida y la muerte—y empieza a hablar. Lo hace como puede, como le va saliendo. Tantas veces ha revivido cada una de las escenas que va a contar que siente que no es ella la protagonista sino alguna otra, una mujer, mucho más decidida y mejor plantada en la vida.
Fueron cinco noches, dice, las que pasó con Rafael. Cinco noches en las que a pesar de no entenderlo, de no dar crédito a lo que confiaba, lo cobijó. lo amparó porque estaba perdido, porque tenía que ayudarlo a encontrar el camino de regreso, porque ya no había de evitar lo que hacía años se había empezado a gestar entre ellos. Dejó que la abrazara, que la besara, se dejó llevar a dónde Rafael la quisiera llevar. Por primera vez en mucho tiempo no pensó. Era Rafael Halim, el hermano de Isaac. Su maestro. A pesar de haberse afeitado, de estar quebrando los preceptos que él mismo la había impulsado a respetar. . .
Todo ha cambiado. Rafael no aparece por el templo. No llama, pasa un mes y Natalia se da cuenta de que estar con él ha sido un grave error. Lo peor. Se da cuenta cuando se viste, cuando se baña. Lo sabe y quiere que el tiempo retroceda. Recorre como nunca las calles, atiende a los viejos, habla con vehemencia en los grupos, logra que dos, tres jóvenes regresen al camino del Buen Judío. Pero está desesperada. No puede decirle a nadie lo que sospecha porque no sabe qué va a hacer después. Tiene otro semblante: la piel está luminosa, los ojos brillan. No tiene dudas. Lleva varias semanas de retraso. Sus pechos son mucho más firmes, si se los rozan, le duelan… A pesar del cansancio que la lleva a dormirse en los colectivos, en el subte, a meterse en la cama apenas llega del templo. Está convencida de que una vez hecho lo que va a hacer ya nunca se verá así. Pero no hay otra manera de saldar del error. Se ocupó de todo. Se reunió con el médico—un hombre amable, de barba y camisa blanca, que bien podría haber sido cualquier de los que se cruza a diario en el templo–: tómese unos días, piénselo bien, le había dicho y Natalia, que últimamente ha vuelto una persona obediente, respetuosa de los protocolos ajenos, se tomó unos días. A que Rafael la llamara.
Natalia habla y es como si retomara un relato iniciado mucho tiempo atrás. De a ratos sonríe, Busca la mirada de Emilia. Por momentos parece estar un poco más allá de la escena: del living salpicado de juguetes, de la mirada atenta de la otra. Le cuenta que esperó. Como pudo. Pero esperó…
La tarde en la que finalmente Rafael llamó, se cumplían dos semanas más: después había explicado el médico, todo se complicaba bastante. Le pareció que temblaba la voz: quería verla, dijo, tenían que hablar. Le dio la dirección de un bar. Las ramas de los paraísos se abrazaban sobre la calle, formaban un túnel de ramas y pequeños frutos contra el cielo blanco. Había elegido una de las mesas de atrás, lejos de la ventana. Parecía otro. Flaco. Desaliñado. Tenía un suéter azul, una bufanda enroscada alrededor del cuello. Natalia se alegró: un kipá le cubría la cabeza. Cuando abrió la puerta del bar, cuando se dejó ver, por un segundo, por una milésima de segundo, creyó que se había dado cuenta. Si era imposible disimularlo, si estaba escrito en todo su cuerpo. Los ojos, la piel, la manera de andar. Rafael sonrió. Pero no la abrazó. No caminó a su encuentro. Se levantó y después de darle un beso rápido en la mejilla, volvió a concentrarse en su café. Tenía mucho que decirle. Le estaban pasando tantas cosas. Le preguntó cómo estaba ella. Estaba bien. Le preguntó: cómo fueron esos días. Habían estado bien. ¿El templo? Bien, dijo Natalia y estaba dispuesto a no decirle mucho más, cuando se encontró contándole sobre el entusiasmo de los chicos que viajaban a Israel, la ayuda de Ethel Naim en los grupos de mujeres, sobre el nuevo rab, sobre las chicas en la clase de hebreo, se encontró riéndose con él. ¿Y vos?, se animó a preguntar. Rafael no respondió enseguida. Necesitaba estar solo, dijo finalmente. Y después: ya te debés de haber enterado: me voy con mi familia a Estados Unidos. Mientras lo escuchaba, Natalia lo vio transformarse nuevamente en el querido por todos, lo imaginó detrás de un estrado, gigante, enorme, inalcanzable. Se acomodó el pañuelo azul, siguió con el índice el dibujo de la tela sobre la frente, aunque no quedaba claro muy bien, si este hombre ya no respetaba los mismos preceptos que ella. Se alejó de la escena. Dejó de estar ahí. Tengo que reunirme con unas mujeres en Flores, dijo. Y él no preguntó mucho más. Si Rafael sabía o no lo que vivía dentro de ella, ya no tenía importancia. Perdón, mi amor, dijo, pero Natalia ya no lo escuchó o si lo escuchó simplemente vio las palabras desarticulándose, enredarse entre las ramas de los paraísos, perderse en el aire quieto de la tarde y desaparecer.
Lo que Natalia acaba de decir ocupaba tanto espacio que, por un rato, ninguna habla. Emilia lleva los vasos a la cocina, camina hasta la ventana y observa durante unos minutos lo que sucede afuera.
–Estaba tan linda, tendrías que haberme visto, estaba radiante.
–Estabas esperando un hijo –dice Emilia y sonríe.
Se acerca, la besa en la mejilla, la toma de la mano, cierra los ojos.
Las amigas se quedan un rato así, abrazadas, hasta que en un momento Emilia se desprende, pregunta:
From: Carolina Esses. Un buen judío. Buenos Aires: Bajo la luna, 1917. pp. 57-66.
“A Good Jew”
Natalia loves the Halims. Among them, she doesn’t have to say anything that is politically correct pretend that it was the same to respect the the Shabbat or not. Especially because, although day to day, she showed her more moderate side to herself, she was convinced that the only valid option for the survival of Judaism is the respect of the laws. In the temple, she takes the responsibility that no Jew feels excluded. For that reason, she avoids speaking about sensitive topics. She doesn’t refer to—at least at the first get-together—about the importance for the men to put on tefillin every day, she doesn’t speak of the offense of not eating Kosher food. She gives Hebrew classes, coordinates groups for reflection, distributes the donations, makes the connection between people and the rabbi, facilitates the formalities so that couples can have a good Jewish wedding.
She doesn’t wait for people to knock on the temple door, she went out to go around Once, Villa Crespo, Palermo. She knows que many of the religious people with nine or ten children in their homes would never admit the difficulties, implied by clothing and feeding the family. She takes the responsibility to visit them and observe what youngest needs, if its time to buy shoes for the older ones. She searched for the boys. She invited them to discover their Jewish roots. And once they feel part of the community, the true return begins, the tshuvah.
The Halims, Emilia and Isaac have seven children at ages that go from four to fifteen. In a way that Natalia can’t explain, Emilia achieved what few Orthodox Jewish did: she kept studying, even after her marriage, until she graduated with a degree in anthropology. Once the degree was hung on the wall in the living room, the succession of children seemed to be endless. It is the time of the children, Emily said. Or: I put my profession on hold, I will take it up again. If in place of Emilia, another woman had said that to her—someone who would resort to her for advice—she would have felt the obligation to reprimand her. To bring up children is an arduous task, she would have told her, it requires enormous effort. She even would have gone on with a great number of explanations, would have scolded her, and the woman would have left with some guilt, convinced that her personal aspiration would never be able to occupy more than a second or third position. But in front of Emilia, she felt authorized to speak of choices. And it wasn’t that Emilia would never criticize her. She would never have said to her: you never even finished your studies. She would never oblige her to re-examine her weaknesses. But at times, when in the conversation, they dealt with the theme of Rafael, Isaac’s brother—how he was going to New Orleans, how the children had adjusted, in which temple he was working–, when Emilia showed her the articles that he published in Israel Today, when she told her about the emptiness of the religious people there—because the transformation that Rafael wanted to infuse in Judaism had to be in the heart of the most orthodox communities, in the eye of the storm—and the manner in which he intended to resist, Natalia went over every one of her errors; she placed them one after another until forming the great mass of the irreparable.
Despite being as close as sisters, Emilia wouldn’t have understood. She insisted: you could have been a good wife. You could have, you must have known him fifteen, twenty years ago, she responded. Could I have been a good wife? Who knows? Rafael Halim’s plans seemed so ridiculous. If he had been one of the most important of the community rabbis, if he had been the one to explain to her the importance of seeing beyond the mitzvot, to understand them, to be able to practice them, ours is a religion of action, she was told, of doing, of practice. Because Natalia had not been born in an observant family. She had studied in a Hebrew high school, she had celebrated her Bat Mitzvah, once in a while, she went to temple for Yom Kippur or Passover. Not much more. After meeting Emilia, attending the meetings to which she invited her, there was no way to stop her religious fervor. There were meetings where there was music, something to eat, where she heard the words of the rab: of Rafael.
Who could have had deaf ears? Emilia was witness. Natalia began to collaborate in the temple chores. Her energy was such that the went from helping with the logistics of the groups to directing the women’s prayers and, later to coordinating groups of madrichim, teachers. She was a laborious ant; always ready for a little more. With the months passing, her manner of dress, her manner of moving began to change. The jeans, the light dresses were replaced with long sleeved tee-shirts, skirts below the knee, nylon stockings, closed shoes, Also, the books she carried in her bag, she hardly read any longer the notes that she herself sold at school. Her friends asked her absurd questions; they said to her, “aren’t you warm?” or is it true that to have relations, the Orthodox use a sheet that has a hole?” She didn’t blush; she responded to them with pride, she spoke to them of Maimonides, sure of being one step ahead of them.
She left her job at the university first, her studies later. The temple and Rafael—because Rafael was still the temple, as he had not yet decided to throw everything overboard—occupied all her prayers, all her thoughts…
It was curious: despite being almost sisters, Emilia had not understood. Por that reason, Natalia began to speak. She accepted, without guilt, the second glass of wine that her friend offered her—it didn’t seem to be best thing to do, to be drinking wine while her father was debating between life and death—and she began to speak. She did as well as she could, as if it were coming out of her. She had relived, so many times, every one of the scenes that she was going to relate that she feels that she is not the protagonist, but rather another woman, much more determined and better grounded in life. There were five nights, she said, that she spent with Rafael. Five nights in which despite not understanding it, to not give credit to what was confided, she protected him, she sheltered him because he was lost, because she had to help him find the path of return, because no longer had to avoid what years ago had begun to gestate between them. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t think. It was Rafael Halim, Isaac’s brother. Her teacher. Despite his having shaved, despite that he was breaking the laws that he himself had pushed her to respect. . .
Everything had changed. Rafael doesn’t appear in the temple. He doesn’t call. A month passes, and Natalia realizes that being with him was a grave error. The worst. She realizes it when she gets dressed, when she bathes. She knows it and wishes time to go backward. She covers the streets as never before, she attends to the old, she speaks vehemently in the groups, she accomplishes that two, three youths return to the path of the Good Jew. But she is desperate. She can’t tell anyone what she suspects because she doesn’t know what as her next step. She has a different look: her skin is luminous, her eyes shine. She has no doubt. She is several weeks late. Her breasts are much firmer, if she brushes against them, they hurt… Despite the exhaustion that causes her to fall asleep in the buses, in the subway, to go to bed when she has just returned from the temple. Se is convinced that once she’s done what she is going to do, she will never look like this again. But there is no other way to put an end to her mistake. She took care of everything. She met with a doctor—a kind man, with a white shirt and beard, who well could have been one of those who pass daily through the temple–: take a few days, think it over well, he had said to her, and Natalia, who lately had become an obedient person, respectful of the protocols of others, she took a few days. So that Rafael call her.
Natalia speaks and it is if sho took up a story begun a long time before. At times, she smiled. She looked for Emilia’s gaze. For some moments she seemed to by beyond the scene: the living room filled with toys, the attentive gaze of the other woman. She told her that she waited. As well as she could. But she waited.
The afternoon when Rafael finally called, it was two weeks later: after that the doctor had explained, everything becomes a lot more difficult. It seemed to her that his voice trembled: he wanted to see her, he said, they had to talk. He gave her the address of a bar. The branches of the paradise trees hug each other over the street, they form a tunnel of branches and small fruit against the white sky. He had chosen one of the tables in the back, away from the window. He seemed like a different person. Skinny. Disheveled. He wore a blue sweater, a rolled-up scarf around his neck. Natalia was pleased, a kippah covered his head. When he opened the door of the bar, when he showed himself, for a second, for a thousandth of a second, she believed that he had noticed. If it was impossible to hide it, if it was written all over her body. Her eyes, her skin, her way of walking. Rafael smiled. But he didn’t hug her. He didn’t walk over to meet her. He got up and after giving her a kiss on the cheek, returned to concentrate on his coffee. He had a lot to tell her. So much was happening to him. He asked how she was. She was fine. How were the recent days? They had been fine. The temple? Fine, Natalia said, and she didn’t intend to tell him much more, when she found herself telling him about the enthusiasm of the children who traveled to Israel, Ethel Naim’s help with the women’s groups, about the new rab, about the kids in the Hebrew class. She found herself laughing with him. And you? She brought herself to ask, Rafael didn’t respond immediately. He needed to be alone, he finally said. And then, you must have already heard : I’m going to the United States with my family. While she was listening to him, Natalia saw him transform himself once more in the one loved by all, she imagined him behind a podium, giant, enormous, out of reach. She adjusted the blue kerchief, with her finger, she traced with her index finger the pattern of the cloth above her forehead, although it wasn’t very clear why, if this man no longer followed the same precepts that she did. She distanced herself from the scene. She ceased being there. I must meet with some women in Flores, she said. And he didn’t ask her much more. If Rafael knew or didn’t know what was living inside of her, no longer had any importance. I’m sorry, my love, he said, but Natalia no longer heard him, or if she heard him, she simple saw the words breaking apart, tangling in the branches of the paradise trees, losing themselves in the afternoon quiet and disappearing.
What Natalia had just said took up so much space, that, for a while, neither speaks. Emilia takes the glasses to the kitchen, walks to the window, and observes for a few minutes what was going on outside.
“I was so pretty, you would have to had to have seen me, I was radiant.”
“You were expecting a child—Emilia says and smiles. She comes close and kisses her on the cheek, takes her hand, closes her eyes.
The friends stay this way for a while, hugging, until, in a moment, Emilia lets go, asks:
Roberto Brodsky es un escritor y profesor universitario, vive en Washington, DC., que ha trabajado para las revistas Apsi, Hoy y Don Balón y Caras y para los diarios Fortín Mapocho y La Nación Domingo, donde se desempeñó como editor del suplemento cultural Diagonal. Fue cofundador y columnista de The Clinic y colaborador del suplemento Artes y Letras y de la Revista Power.
Sus novelas
Ha publicado las novelas Casa chilena (2015), Veneno (2012), Bosque quemado (2008) Premio España Jaén, Premio Municipal de Santiago y Premio Nuez Marín de la Facultad de Letras UC), El arte del silencio (2004), Últimos días de la historia (2001) y Lo peor de los héroes (1999). Co-escribió los guiones de las películas Machuca (2004) y Mi vida con Carlos (2009), entre otros trabajos audiovisuales.
Sus ensayos
También, Brodsky ha publicado ensayos y prólogos sobre la obra de Roberto Bolaño, Enrique Vila-Matas, Witold Gombrowicz y Roberto Arlt. En 2007 dejó su cargo de Director de la Oficina de la Unión Latina en Chile, que había ocupado durante diez años, para vivir con su familia en Estados Unidos.
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His Life
A writer and university professor, Roberto Brodsky lives in Washington, D.C., where he has worked as an adjunct professor and Visiting Researcher at the Center for Latin American Studies of Georgetown University since 2008. He has worked for the magazines Apsi, Hoy, Don Balón, and Caras and for the newspapers Fort Mapocho and La Nación Domingo, where he served as editor of the cultural supplement Diagonal. He was cofounder and a columnist of The Clinic and a collaborator in the supplements Artes y Letras and Revista Poder.
Sus novelas
He has published the novels Casa chilena (2015), Veneno (2012), Bosque quemado (2008, Premio Jaén España, Premio Municipal de Santiago, and Premio Nuez Marín de la Escuela de Letras de la UC), El arte de callar (2004), Últimos días de la historia ( 2001), and El peor de los héroes (1999).
Sus ensayos
Also, Brodsky co-wrote the screenplays of the films Machuca (2004) and Mi vida con Carlos (2009), among other audiovisual works. He has published essays and prologues over the work of Roberto Bolaño, Enrique Vila-Matas, Witold Gombrowicz, and Roberto Arlt. In 2007, he left his post as Director of the Office of the Unión Latina in Chile, which he had held for ten years, to live with his family in the United States.
Roberto Brodsky. Bosque quemado. Santiago de Chile: Mondatori, 2008; Digital Version: Santiago de Chile: Penguin Random House Grupo Editorial, S.A., 2002.
René me pregunta si acaso mi padre es judío. Entiendo su reacción: acabo de informarle que se llama Moisés y es médico al igual que él, pero como no lo conoce y además nunca ha logrado escribir ni pronunciar correctamente mi apellido—algo que lo envalentona o lo intimida, no lo sé muy bien–, se le ocurre salvar la dificultad con una explicación sumaria que distribuye la culpa por partes iguales: los judíos.
En cualquier caso, por una puerta u otra, siempre se llega a la tierra prometida. Es un clásico, lo mismo si me preguntara por mi pene. ¿Lo tiene usted recortado también?, parece decir. O se burlan de mí o no entienden nada de nada. Y eso hasta el día de hoy en que ambas alternativas convergen hacia una sola sospecha: tú parece que no fueras de aquí, me deslizan. No, claro que no. Y a la vez, por supuesto que sí: la ciudadanía es una cosa y el sombrero del pene otra distinta. Porque, además, ¿quién es de aquí? ¿Los primeros alacalufes o los últimos europeos? ¿Los habitantes originarios o aquellos que los exterminaron? ¿Los mapuches o los aymaras? ¿La rancia tradición vascocastellana o los italianos de La Serena” ¿Los alemanes de Osorno o los escoceses de Valparaíso? No, nadie es de ninguna parte si se las arregla contra viento y marea para llegar de este lado. Mi abuelo lo hizo hace cien años con una mano delante y la otra también, porque ésa en la única forma de sobrevivir. Como buena parte de los judíos askenazi escapando los pogromos de comienzos del siglo pasado, siendo todavía un adolescente, acompañó a sus hermanos y a su madre desde Odessa hace un esquivo punto en el mapa designado Buenos Aires, para luego, años después. Seguir sol hacia un valle escondido al otro lado de la cordillera llamado Santiago, donde no estaba obligado a ocupar ciertas zonas rurales a cambio del derecho a entrada. El campo es para las vacas, solía decir él, y aplicó este credo para instalarse con mujer e hijos en la calle Serrano, desarrollando su sentido de sobrevivencia con un negocio de colchones y somieres en el barrio Franklin, donde las tiendas de mobiliario todavía abren sus puertas en medio de una muchedumbre caótica, mezcla de sudores y tráfico que se cocinan a fuego lento en una cazuela cada vez más despreciada y aguachenta.
Mi padre se crió entre esos olores de tras tienda y manteca. Como las ventas del negocio no alcanzaban para alimentar siete bocas, el abuelo Bernardo, que enviudó una década después de haber cruzado a Chile, decidió que los hijos varones lo acompañarían en sus actividades comerciales y las hembras se prepararían para el matrimonio. En cuanto a mi padre, sería el encargado, de asegurar el prestigio social del apellido a través de estudios formales, hasta convertirse en el profesional de la familia. Incorporar a un médico siempre ha sido una obsesión entre los inmigrantes judíos, y a Moisés le corresponda ser el elegido. A partir de entonces a Moisés la medicina sería su única religión. Vivía para ella, obligado a cumplir el mandato familiar al mismo tiempo que maravillado y agradecido de su esclavitud. A los pies su diosa todos los prejuicios heredados y traficado en la calle Serrano, hasta mezclar su sangre con una muchacha goy diez años menor que él, hoja de una católica convencido y de un laico cartesiano que entonaba La Marsellesa cada domingo en la compañía francesa de bomberos. Entusiasmados uno con el otro, mis padres consagraron su matrimonio lejos de la sinagoga y la parroquia, muy a tono con la república docente de los años cincuenta que se afirmaba bajo una sucesión de gobiernos radicales. El ritmo de progreso marcaba la secuencia de embarazos, de acuerdo los hijos que llegamos al mundo sin Dios ni Rey, pero baja la sospecha judía, ya que según la ley del vientre no pertenecíamos a la tribu de Israel per cargábamos con las tablea en el nombre de mi padre. Nos iba bien: vivíamos en el barrio de los profesionales de la clase media, asistíamos a un colegio privado donde nos enseñaban lenguas extranjeras, mis padres estaban suscritos al Reader’s Digest y nuestra mascota era un boxer que imponía su presencia en toda la cuadra. Pero como; no teníamos un lugar estable en el más allá, mi padre se hizo comunista. Y comenzaron los problemas.
Lo compruebo y me han dado ganas de salir a buscarlo. ¡Cuántas batallas inútiles! ¡Cuántos molinos de viento se habría podido de no haber abrazado la dictadora del proletariado como destino científico! ¡Cuántas falsas expectativas! Ah, la sociedad sin clases, la justicia universal, ¡el pensamiento del partido! Es posible que nadie excepto un comunista chileno de los años setenta comprenda el enorme equívoco que reserva el enunciado anterior. Pero ni siquiera así: posiblemente sólo un hijo de un comunista chileno sea capaz de rendir cuenta detallada sobre esta catástrofe. ¿Le digo o no le digo? No, hoy ese lugar está vacío, así mejor no lo digo. A lo más, advierto su anacronismo y dejo suspendida la imagen de mi padre en esa rarísima mezcla de entendimiento y cerrazón, de autoritaria ingenuidad y bondadosa perversión que se agita en el alma a la vez incrédula mesiánica de un viejo comunista chileno. Pero además lleva por su nombre Moisés, es médico, judío no observante pero judío, al fin y al cabo, y es mi progenitor, entonces mi única revancha posible es correr a la casa de los felices y sacarlos de la cama para gritarles en la cara lo felices que son ser felices, y luego cerrarles la puerta e irme con paso firme y ademán acusativo: ¡chancos burgueses!, ¡hijos de puta! ¡asesinos!; con un dedo levantado no hacia la indiferencia, irme nada tan olímpicamente como ellos se quedan. Pero me arrepiento de inmediato. . .
René asked me if my father could be Jewish. I understand his reaction: I had just finished informing him that he was named Moses and a doctor just like he is, but as he doesn’t know my name well and has never been successful in writing nor pronouncing it properly—something that emboldens him or intimidates him, I don’t know which–, it occurred to him to avoid the problem with a brief explanation that spread the blame equally among all: the Jews and other immigrants.
In any case, through one door or another, you always arrive at the holy land. It’s classic, the same as if he had asked me about my penis. You have it cut short, too? he seemed to be saying. Or they make fun of me, or they don’t understand anything about anything. And that even these days in which each of these alternatives results in a single suspicion: you seem that you’re not from here, they slip by me. No, of course not. And at the same time, of course I am. Citizenship is one thing and the hat on my penis is something else. Because, exactly, who is from here? The first Alacalufes or the last Europeans? The original inhabitants or those who exterminated them? They Mapuche or the Aymara? The rancid tradition of the Vasco-Spanish or the Italians of La Serena? The Germans from Osorno or the Scotch of Valparaiso? No, anybody from anywhere, if they manage against all odds to arrive on this side. My grandfather did it a hundred years ago with one hand in front of him and the other one too, because that was the only way to survive. Like the better part of the Ashkenazi Jews escaping the pogroms at the beginning of the last century, still a teenager, he accompanied his brothers and his mother from Odessa to an elusive point on the map designated Buenos Aires, and then, years later, following the sun towards a hidden valley on the other side of the mountain range called Santiago, where he was not obliged to occupy certain rural areas in exchange for the right of entry. The fields are for the cows, he used to say, and he applied this creed to settle with his wife and children on Serrano Street, developing his sense of survival with a mattress and box spring business in the Franklin neighborhood, where furniture stores still open their doors in the middle of a chaotic crowd, a mixture of sweat and traffic that is simmering in a casserole that is increasingly despised and thin.
My father grew up among those smells of the back room and butter. Since the sales from the business were not enough to feed seven mouths, Grandfather Bernardo, who was widowed a decade after crossing into Chile, decided that the sons would accompany him in his business activities and the daughters would prepare for marriage. As for my father, he would oversee the ensuring of the social prestige of the surname through formal studies, until he became the family professional. Incorporating a doctor has always been an obsession among Jewish immigrants, and it fell to Moses to be the chosen one. From then on, medicine would be for Moses his only religion. He lived for it, forced to fulfill the family mandate while marveling and grateful for his slavery. At his feet, his goddess, all the prejudices inherited and trafficked on Serrano Street, until he mixed his blood with a goyish girl ten years his junior, the offspring of a convinced Catholic and a Cartesian layman who sang La Marseillaise every Sunday in the French firemen’s company. Enthusiastic about each other, my parents consecrated their marriage away from synagogue and parish, very much in tune with the 1950s teacher’s republic that was asserting itself under a succession of radical governments. The rate of progress marked the sequence of pregnancies, according to the children who came into the world without God or King, but a low suspicion of being Jewish, since according to the law of the womb we did not belong to the tribe of Israel, but we carried the tablets in my father’s name. We were doing well: we lived in the neighborhood of middle-class professionals, we attended a private school where we were taught foreign languages, my parents subscribed to Reader’s Digest, and our pet was a boxer that presence commanded the entire block. But as we had no stable place in the afterlife, my father became a communist. And the problems began. I checked communism, and it made me want to go out and look for it. How many useless battles! How many windmills could have been built if the dictator of the proletariat had not been embraced as a scientific destiny! How many false expectations! Ah, the classless society, universal justice, the thought of the party! It is possible that no one except a seventy-year-old Chilean communist understands the enormous misunderstanding that the previous statement deserves. But not even that: possibly only a son of a Chilean communist would be capable of rendering a detailed account of this catastrophe. Do I tell him, or don’t I tell him? No, today that place is empty, so I better not say it. At most, I notice his anachronism and leave the image of my father suspended in that very rare mixture of understanding and closure, of authoritative ingenuity and kindly perversion that stirs in the messianic incredulous soul of an old Chilean communist. But he also has his name Moses, he is a doctor, a non-observant Jew, but a Jew, after all, and he is my father, so my only possible revenge is to run to the house of the happy ones and get them out of bed to yell at them in their faces how happy they are to be happy, and then close the door on them and leave with a firm step and an accusatory gesture: bourgeois pigs!, sons of bitches! murderers!; with a raised finger not towards indifference, I want nothing as olympic as they do. But I immediately regret it…
Michel Laub nasceu em Porto Alegre, em 1973 de pais judeus. Escritor e jornalista, foi editor-chefe da revista Bravo, coordenador de publicações e internet do Instituto Moreira Salles e colunista da Folha de S.Paulo e do Globo. Hoje é colunista do Valor Econômico e colaborador de diversas editoras e veículos.Publicou oito romances, todos pela Companhia das Letras: Música Anterior (2001), Longe da água (2004), O segundo tempo (2006), O gato diz adeus (2009), Diário da queda (2011), A maçã envenenada (2013), O Tribunal da Quinta-Feira (2016) e Solução de dois Estados (2020). Seus livros saíram em 12 idiomas. Integrante da coletânea Os Melhores jovens escritores brasileiros, da revista inglesa Granta, entre outras no Brasil e no exterior, o autor recebeu as bolsas Vitae (2006), Funarte (2010) e Petrobras (2012) e os prêmios JQ – Wingate (Inglaterra, 2015), Transfuge (França, 2014), Jabuti (segundo lugar, 2014), Copa de Literatura Brasileira (2013), Bravo Prime (2011), Bienal de Brasília (2012) e Erico Verissimo/Revelação (2001). Além disso, foi finalista dos prêmios Dublin International Literary Award (Irlanda, 2016), Correntes de Escrita (Portugal, 2014), Jabuti (2007, 2017 e 2021), São Paulo de Literatura (2012, 2014, 2017 e 2021) e outros.
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Michel Laub was born in Porto Alegre, in 1973 in a Jewish family. Writer and journalist, he was editor-in-chief of Bravo magazine, coordinator of publications and internet of the Moreira Salles Institute and columnist of Folha de S.Paulo and Globo. Now he is a columnist for Valor Econômico and a contributor to various publications. Publicou oito romances, all pela Companhia das Letras: Música Anterior (2001), Longe da água (2004), O segundo tempo (2006), O gato diz adeus (2009), Diário da queda (2011), A maçã envenenada (2013) ), O Tribunal da Quinta-Feira (2016) and Solução de dos Estados (2020). His books are published in 12 languages.He is one the of Best Young Brazilian Writers, according to eht the English magazine Granta, among others not in Brazil and abroad, and author received the Vitae (2006), Funarte (2010) and Petrobras (2012) awards and the JQ – Wingate awards (England, 2015), Transfuge (France, 2014), Jabuti (second place, 2014), Brazilian Literature Cup (2013), He was a finalist for two Dublin International Literary Awards (Ireland, 2016), Correntes de Escrita (Portugal, 2014), Jabuti (2007, 2017 and 2021), São Paulo for Literature (2012, 2014, 2017 and 2021) among others.
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Sources:/Fuentes:
Michel Laub. Diário da queda. São Paulo: Companhia de Letras, 2011.
Michel Laub. Diary of a Fall. Translated by Margaret Juli Costa. New York: Other Press, 2011.
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ALGUMAS COISAS QUE SEI SOBRE MIM
27.
Numa escola como a minha, os poucos alunos que não eram judeus tinham até privilégios. O de não assistir as aulas de hebraico, por exemplo. Ou as de cultura hebraica. Nas semanas que antecediam os feriados religiosos eles eram dispensados de aprender as canções típicas, e fazer as rezas, e dançar as coreografias e participar do Shabat, e visitar a sinagoga e o Lar dos Velhos, e enfeitar o berço de Moisés ao som do hino de Israel, isso sem falar nos acampamentos do chamado movimento juvenil.
28.
Nos acampamentos éramos divididos em grupos, cada um com um monitor mais velho, e parte do dia era ocupada por atividades normais num encontro assim, o almoço, o futebol, os abraços coletivos de união, as gincanas com talco e ovos. Nós levávamos barraca, repelente, marmita, cantil, e lembro ele esconder tudo o que pudesse ser roubado na minha ausência, urna barra de chocolate no fundo de um saco de roupa suja, um carregador de pilha em meio as urtigas.
29.
A noite éramos separados em dois grupos, um exercício que se chamava ataque a bandeira, um camuflado na vegetação e o outro que se encarregava da defesa, e durante a madrugada num descampado formávamos pelotões que reproduziam as estratégias de urna patrulha, com bússola e coluna, lanço e escalada. urna simulação do que tínhamos ouvido em palestras onde os monitores falavam sobre a Guerra de Seis Dias, a Guerra de Independência, a Guerra de Yom Kippur, Guerra de Líbano.
30.
Havia outros não judeus João na escola, mas nenhum como João. Uma vez um deles segurou um colega e o arrastou por quarenta metros e esticou seu braço direito e bateu com um portão de ferro várias vezes nos dedos, e quando o colega estava se contorcendo elepegou o braço esquerdo e fez a mesma coisa. Joao era diferente: o colega o mandava ficar de pé, e ele ficava. O colega jogava o sanduíche de Joao longe, e ele ia buscar. O colega segurava Joao e o forcava a comer o sanduíche, mordida por mordida, e no rosto deJoao não se via nada – nenhuma dor, nenhum apelo, nenhuma expressão.
31.
Quando o pai de Joao perguntou se eu não tinha vergonhado que aconteceu na festa, eu poderia ter descrito essa cena. Eu poderia ter dito algo mais do que ele esperava, o relato de como pedi desculpas a Joao quando ele retornou a escala. Em vez de contar como foi saber que João acabaria ficando bom, andando normalmente e tendo a mesma vida de antes, e como ficar sabendo disso tornou a nossa conversa mais fácil, como se o pedido de desculpas apagasse na hora o que ele passou depois da queda, ele estatelado diante dos parentes, com falta de ar porque havia bati do as costas, ele na ambulância e no pronto-socorro e no hospital sem receber uma visita dos colegas, e mais dois meses em casa sem receber nenhum de nós, e de volta a escala sem que nenhum de nós tivesse se aproximado dele até o dia em que criei coragem para tanto em vez de tudo isso eu poderia ter contado como era ver João comendo o sanduíche diante do agressor, terminando o último pedaço e senda novamente pego pelo agressor, atrás de urna árvore no canto do pátio, cercado por um pequeno grupo que cantava todos os dias a mesma música.
32
A música começava assim, come areia, come areia. Era como um ritual, o incentivo enquanto João virava o rosto e tentava es capar dos golpes até não resistir e abrir a boca, o gasto quente e áspero, sola de tênis na cara, e só aí o agressor cansava e os gritos diminuíam e Joao era deixado até se levantar já sozinho, ainda vermelho e ajeitando a roupa e pegando de novo a mochila e subindo de novo as escadas como admissão pública do quanto ele era sujo. e fraco. e desprezível.
33·
Nada disso impediu que ele aparecesse como convites para a festa. Nas cerimónias de Bar Mitzvah os convites eram impressos em gráfica, em papel-carteio dourado, com um laço e tipologia dourada. o nome dos pais do aniversariante, um telefone para confirmar a presença, o endereço para entrega ele presentes. Os de Joao eram caseiros, feitos com papel-ofício, dispostos num envelope de cartolina, escritos em caneta hidrocor. Ele os entregou em silencio. de mesa em mesa, com duas semanas de antecedência. a sétima série inteira convidada.
34.
Eu acordei cedo naquele sábado. Eu me vesti, fui até a geladeira e passei a manhã no quarto. Eu gostava de ver televisão as sim. a veneziana fechada, a cama ainda desfeita e as migalhas de pão sobre o lençol até que alguém batesse na porta porque já eram quinze para a uma, e o resto do dia foi: o almoço na casa da minha avó, a ida mom a minha mãe ao shopping. ela perguntando se o colega que fazia aniversario preferia um short ou uma mochila, uma carteira ou uma camiseta, se ele gostava de música e ficaria feliz com um vale-disco, e eu respondi e esperei que ela pagasse e que a balconista da loja fizesse o pacote e ainda fôssemos ao fliperama onde joguei corrida e sinuca eletrônica.
35-
Eu dei parabéns a João quando cheguei a festa. Eu entreguei o presente a ele. É possível que eu tenha cumprimentado o pai dele, algum parente que estivesse próximo, e é possível até que eu tivesse aproveitado a festa como todos os outros convidados, que eu tivesse até me divertido sem nem por um instante demonstrar nervosismo, os cinco colegas escalados para formar a rede de bombeiros, aqueles que eu também cumprimentei ao chegar, comquem também conversei normalmente, nós todos vestidos e ensaiados e unidos na espera pela hora do bolo e pelo parabéns.
36.
No sei se participei por causa desses outros colegas, e seria fácil a esta altura culpá-los por tudo, ou se em algum momento eu fui ativo na história: se nos dias anteriores tive alguma ideia, se diz alguma sugestão, se de alguma forma fui indispensável para que tudo saísse exatamente como planejado, nós em coro no verso final, muitos anos ele vida antes ele nos aproximarmos dele, em cada perna, um em cada braço, eu segurando o pescoço porque essa é a parte mais sensível do corpo.
37.
Não sei se fiz aquilo apenas porque me espelhava nos meus colegas, João senda jogado para cima urna vez, duas vezes, eu segurando até que na décima terceira vez e com ele ainda subindo eu recolhi os braços e dei um passo para trás e vi João parado no ar e iniciando a queda, ou se foi o contrário: se no fundo, por essa ideia dos dias anteriores, algo que eu tivesse dito ou uma atitude que tivesse tomado, uma vez que fosse, diante de uma pessoa que fosse, independentemente das circunstâncias e das desculpas, se no fundo eles também estavam se espelhando em mim.
38.
Porque é claro que eu usava aquelas palavras também, as mesmas que levaram ao momento em que ele bateu o pescoço no chão, e foi pouco tempo até eu perceber os colegas saindo rápido, dez passos até o corredor e a portaria e a rua e de repente você está virando a esquina em disparada sem olhar para trás e nem pensar que era só ter esticado o braço, só ter amortecido o impacto e João teria levantado, e eu nunca mais veria nele o desdobramento do que tinha feito por tanto tempo até acabar ali, a escala, o recreio, as escadas e o pátio e o muro onde Joao sentava para fazer o lanche, o sanduíche jogado longe e Joao enterrado e eu me deixando levar com os outros, repetindo os versos, a cadencia, todos juntos e ao mesmo tempo, a música que você canta porque é só o que pode e sabe fazer aos treze anos: come areia, come areia, come areia, gói filho de urna puta.
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SOME MORE THINGS I KNOW ABOUT MYSELF
27.
In a school like mine, the few non-Jewish students even enjoyed certain privileges. For example, they didn’t have to attend Hebrew classes. Or the classes about Hebrew culture. In the weeks preceding religious holidays, they were excused from learning the traditional songs, saying the prayers, doing the dances, taking part in the Shabbat, visiting the synagogue and the Old People’s Home, and decorating Moses’s cradle to the sound of the Israeli national anthem, not to mention the so-called Youth Movement camps.
28.
At camp we were divided into groups, each with an older boy as a monitor, and part of the <lay was taken up with the usual activities one would expect at such a gathering: lunch, football, group hugs, treasure hunts and messy games involving talcum powder and eggs. We took a tent, insect repellent, a cooking pot and canteen, and I remember carefully hiding anything that might be stolen in my absence, stowing a bar of chocolate at the bottom of my dirty laundry bag, a battery charger in the middle of a clump of nettles.
29.
At night we were divided into two groups, in an exercise known as “camp attack,” with one group hidden in the vegetation and the other in charge of defend ing the camp. Then, in a clearing in the early hours, we would form into platoons that basically did what patrols are supposed to do, armed with compasses and in columns, crawling through undergrowth and scaling hills, an imitation of what we had heard about in talks the monitors gave about the Six-Day War, the War of Independence, the Yom Kippur War, the Lebanese War.
30.
There were other non-Jews at the school, but none like João. Once, one of them got hold of a Jewish classmate, dragged him along for about forty meters, pinned his victim’s right arm to the wall next to an iron door, and repeatedly slammed the door on the boy’s and when the boy was screaming and writhing in pain, he grabbed the boy’s left arm and did the same again. João was different: if a classmate ordered him to stand, he would stand. If a classmate flung Joao’s sandwich across the playground, Joao would go and fetch it. If the same classmate, then grabbed Joao and made him eat the sandwich, bite by bite, Joao’s face would remain utterly impassive-no pain, no plead ing, no expression at all.
31.
When João’s father asked me if I didn’t feel ashamed about what had happened at the party, I could have described that scene to him. I could have told him more than he was expecting to hear, rather than about how I had apologized to João when he returned to school. Instead of telling him how relieved I felt when I found out that João would make a full recovery, walking normally and leading a normal life, and how knowing this had made our conversation easier, as if my apology had instantly erased everything he had been through after the fall, João lying on the floor in front of his relatives, the breath knocked out of him, João in the ambulance and in the emergency room and in hospital, where not a single one of his classmates visited him, and then another two months spent at home, where, again, none of us went to see him, and then back at school where, again, none of us spoke to him until I plucked up enough courage to do so–instead of that I could have told him what it was like to see João eating that sandwich watched by his attacker. And how, when he had finished the last mouthful, his attacker had hit him again, hidden behind a tree in one corner of the playground, surrounded by a small group of boys who chanted the same refrain every day.
32.
The refrain went like this: eat sand, eat sand. It was a sort of ritual, intended to drive them on while João turned his head to try and avoid the blows, until he could resist no longer and opened his mouth, the hot, rough taste, the sole of someone’s sneaker in his face, only then did his attacker grow weary and the shouting diminish and then João would be left to get his own, red-faced and straightening his rumpled, clothes, picking up his backpack and going up the stairs like a public admission of how dirty and weak and despicable he was.
33.
None of this prevented him from coming to school with the invitations to his party. For bar mitzvah ceremonies, the invitations were always professionally printed on a folded piece of card, with a ribbon and gilt lettering, the name of the boy’s parents, a telephone number to confirm that you would be coming and an address where presents could be sent. João’s invitations were homemade on a sheet of foolscap paper placed in a cardboard envelope and written in felt-tip pen. Two weeks beforehand, he silently gave them out, going from desk to desk, inviting the whole year group.
34,
That Saturday I woke up early. I got dressed, went to the fridge and spent the morning in my room. I liked watching TV like that, with the blinds clown, the bed still unmade and breadcrumbs among the sheets, until someone knocked on the door to tell me it was a quarter to one, and the rest of the day was: lunch at my grandmother’s house, a visit to the shopping mall with my mother, her asking me if the classmate whose birthday it was would prefer a pair of shorts or a backpack, a wallet or a T-shirt, or if he liked music and would be happy with a record-voucher, and me answering and waiting for her to pay and for the assistant to wrap the present up and then still having time to visit the arcade where I played at circuit racing and electronic snooker.
35.
1 wished João a happy birthday when I arrived at the party. I gave him his present. I may have said helio to his father too, or to some relative of his standing nearby, and I may even have enjoyed the party along with ali the other guests, I may even have had a good time without for a moment appearing nervous, along with the four other classmates chosen to form the safety net, and who I had also greeted when I arrived, and with whom I chatted normally, all of us dressed and ready and united as we waited for the moment for the birthday cake to be cut and for everyone to sing “Happy Birthday.”
36.
I don’t know if I took part because of those other classmates, and it would be easy at this stage to blame them for everything, or if at some point I played an active role in the story: if during the previous days I had an idea, made a suggestion, and was in sorne way indispensable if everything was to work out as planned, with us singing the last line together, happy birthday to you, before we gathered round him, one at each leg, one at each arm, with me supporting his neck because that’s the most vulnerable part of the body.
37.
I don’t know if I did it simply because I was mirroring my classmates’ behavior, João being thrown into the air once, twice, with me supporting him right up until the thirteenth time and then, as he was going up, withdrawing my arms and taking a step back and seeing Joao hover in the air and then begin the fall, or was it the other way round: what if, deep down, because of that plot hatched in the previous days, because of something I might have said or an attitude.1 might have taken, even if only once and in the presence of only one other person, quite independently of the circumstances and any possible excuses, what if, deep clown, they were also mirroring my behavior?
38.
Because of course I used the same words, the words that led up to the moment when the back of his neck struck the floor, and it didn’t take long for me to notice my classmates beating a hasty retreat, just ten steps to the corridor and the porter’s lodge and the street and suddenly you’re tearing round the corner without a backward glance and not even thinking that if you had only reached out an arm to break the fall João would have got up, and 1 would never have had to see in him the consequence of everything I had done up until then, school, break-time, the stairs and the playground and the wall where João used to sit, the sandwich flung across the playground and João buried in sand and me, allowing myself to be carried along with the others, all panting the same words, the same rhythm, al of us together at the same time, the song you sing because that’s all you can do when you’re thirteen: eat sand, eatsand yousonofa-bitch goy.
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MAIS ALGUMAS COISAS QUE SEI SOBRE O MEU AVÓ
4·
Eu comecei a beber aos catorzes anos, depois que mudei de escola junto com João. Embora já tivesse tomado um ou outro copo de cerveja com meu pai, e uma ou outra taça ele vinho em algum jantar ele adultos em casa, a primeira vez ele verdade foi numa festa logo no início das aulas. Eu não fui direto a festa, e sim a casa de um colega cujos pais não estavam, e quando saímos de lá alguns estavam cantando e falando alto e eu entrei no táxi com urna garrafa ele plástico cortada ao meio. Alguém tinha misturado cachaça com Coca-Cola, e era impossível tomar um gole sem prender a respiração, e ao descer do táxi eu senti as pernas meio ocas e nessa hora já estavam todos rindo e foi mais fácil entrar e passar o resto da noite encostado muna parede ao lado de uma caixa ele som: eu misturei a cachaça com vodca e um vinho com embalagem de papelão que deixava os dentes roxos e antes das onze já tinha me arrastado até o jardim e procurado um canto escuro e sentado com a pressão baixa e ninguém me acharia ali depois que eu me deixasse cair sem ajuda porque ainda nem conhecia direito os colegas.
5.
Demorou para os colegas perguntarem se eu era judeu, por que identificar sobrenomes é coisa de pessoas mais velhas e em geral também judias, e o meu não termina em man ou berg ou qualquer desses sufixos óbvios que dá as pistas a quem não sabia onde eu tinha estudado antes. Nas aulas da escola nova o Holocausto era apenas eventualmente citado entre os capítulos da Segunda Guerra, e Hitler era analisado pelo prisma histórico da República de Weimar, da crise econômica dos anos 30, da inflação que fazia as pessoas usarem carrinhos para levar o dinheiro da feira, e a história dos carrinhos despertava tanto interesse que se chegava ao vestibular sabendo mais sobre como alguém precisa, à ser rápido para que o preço do pão e do leite não subisse antes de passar no caixa do que sobre corno era feito o transporte de prisioneiros para os campos de concentração. Nenhum professor mencionou Auschwitz mais de urna vez. Nenhum jamais disse urna palavra sobre É isto um homem? Nenhum fez o cálculo óbvio de que eu com catorze anos naquela época, certamente tinha um pai ou avo ou bisavó meu ou de um primo ou de um amigo de um amigo de um amigo que escapou das câmaras de extermínio.
6.
Não sei se meu avo leu É isto um homem? ese ter vivido o que Primo Levi narra faz com que o livro soe diferente, e o que para um leitor comum é a descoberta dos detalhes da experiencia em Auschwitz para o meu avo era apenas reconhecimento, uma conferência para ver se o que era dito no texto correspondia ou à realidade, ou a realidade da memória do meu avo, e não sei. até que ponto essa leitura como pé atrás tira parte do impacto do relato.
7·
Eu não sei como meu avo reagia ao ouvir uma piada sobre judeus, se algum dia contaram essas piadas a ele ou se ele esteve na mesma sala onde alguém as contava, um coquetel ou jantar ou encontro de negócios em que ele estava distraído e por acaso ou um fiapo de voz ou de riso que remetia à palavra judeu, e como ele reagiria ao saber que foi isso que passei a ouvir aos catorze anos, o apelido que começou a ser usado na escola nova assim que João fez o primeiro comentário sobre a escola anterior, sobre a sinagoga pequena que havia no térreo e os al unos da sétima série que tinham estudado para fazer Bar Mitzvah, e que para mim o apelido teve um significado diferente, e em vez da raiva por urna ofensa que deveria ser enfrentada ou da indignação pelo estereótipo que ela envolvia, os velhos que apareciam em filmes e novelas ele TV usando roupa preta e falando com sotaque estrangeiro e dentes de vampiro, em vez disso eu preferi ficar inicialmente quieto.
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SOME MORE THINGS THAT I KNOW ABOUT MY GRANDFATHER
4.
I started drinking when I was fourteen, after João and I changed schools. I’d had the occasional beer with my father and the occasional glass of wine at some grown up suppers at home, but the first time I got seriously drunk was at a party just after term started. 1 didn’t go straight to the party, but to the house of a classmate whose parents were out and, when we left there, some of the boys were singing and talking loudly. and I climbed into the taxi clutching a plastic bottle cut in half. Someone had mixed cachaça and Coca-Cola, and you had to hold your breath every time you took a swig of it, and when I got out of the taxi, my legs felt hollow and by then everyone was laughing and it was easy enough to spend the rest of the night leaning against a wall next to a speaker. I mixed cachaça with vodka and with some cheap wine that stained your teeth purple, and by eleven o’clock I’d crawled out into the garden and found a dark corner where I sat, feeling rather weak, and where no one would find me once I’d slid helplessly to the ground, because I still didn’t really know any of my classmates.
5.
It was a while befare my classmates asked if I was Jewish, because identifying surnames is something that only older people and Jews in general do, and my name doesn’t end in man or berg or any of those other telltale suffixes that would have given a clue to anyone who didn’t know where I’d studied before. In the lessons at the new school, the Holocaust was only mentioned in passing as an episode in the Second World War, and Hitler was analyzed through the historical lens of the Weimar Republic, the economic crisis of the 1930s, and the soaring inflation that obliged people to use wheelbarrows to carry their money back from the market, a story that aroused so much interest that you reached the final year of school knowing more about how quick shoppers had to be if they wanted to reach the cashier befare the price of bread or milk went up again than about how prisoners were transported to the concentration camps. Not one of the teachers gave more than a cursory nod to Auschwitz. Not one of them said a word about If This Is a Man. Not one of them made the obvious calculation that a fourteen-year-old like me must have had a father or a grandfather or a great-grandfather or a cousin or a friend of a friend of a friend who had escaped the gas chambers.
6.
I don’t know if my grandfather ever read If This Is a Man or if the fact of having actually lived through what Primo Levi wrote about would have made him read the book differently, whether what was a revelation to the ordinary reader, a detailed description of the whole Auschwitz experience, would have been merely a process of recognition for my grandfather, a matter of checking to see whether or not the book corresponded to reality or to the reality of his memory, and I don’t know to what extent that somewhat distanced reading would reduce the book’s impact.
7.
I don’t know how my grandfather used to react when he heard a joke about Jews, assuming anyone ever told such jokes to him, or if he, as the distracted guest at some cocktail party or supper or business meeting, was ever in a room where someone was telling them and where he might have heard a high-pitched giggle in response to the word Jew–or what his reaction would have been to knowing that this is what happened to me when I was fourteen, that this was the nickname that began to be used as soon as João mentioned our previous school with the little synagogue on the grounds and the seventh-grade students studying for their bar mitzvah, and that the nickname meant something different for me, that instead of feeling angry at an insult that ought to be confronted or indignant at the implied stereotype-the old men all in black and with vampire teeth who used to appear in films and TV soaps–I preferred not to say or do anything, at least initially.
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)
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.
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.
Polifacético autor argentino, Marcelo Birmajer es novelista, escritor de cuentos, periodista cultural, ensayista, escritor de relatos, autor teatral, humorista, traductor… algunos de sus guiones cinematográficos han recibido premios com el Oso de Plata o el Premio Clarín. Como periodista, ha colaborado en numerosos periódicos y revistas de habla hispana.
En su vertiente como novelista, Birmajer se caracteriza por tratar frecuentemente temas y personajes judíos (ese era su origen), con finas descripciones y con gran sentido del humor. En la periodística, sus ensayos y artículos, están muy bien documentados y analizados con rigor.
Birmajer ha recibido varios premios, entre ellos el White Ravens, traduciéndose sus obras a varios idiomas.
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Multifaceted Argentine author, Marcelo Birmajer is a novelist, short story writer, cultural journalist, essayist, short story writer, playwright, humorist, translator… some of his film scripts have received awards such as the Silver Bear or the Clarín Award. As a journalist, he has contributed to numerous Spanish-language newspapers and magazines.
In his novelist side, Birmajer is characterized by frequently dealing with Jewish themes and characters (that was his origin), with fine descriptions and with a great sense of humor. In journalism, his essays and articles are very well documented and rigorously analyzed.
Birmajer has received several awards, including the White Ravens, and his works have been translated into several languages.
De:/From: Marcelo Birmajer. El Club de las Necrológicas. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 2012, pp. 17-24.
UN HOMBRE RICO
Genaro se había hecho rico por su propia cuenta. Provenía de un sólido hogar de clase media, a su vez levantado de la nada por su padre. Pero él había llegado a ser un hombre rico, desahogado, con la capacidad de decidir qué día y en qué momento trabajar; su poder, sus contactos, eran logros exclusivamente personales. De hecho, representaban una ruptura con la vida esforzada y fatigosa de su padre y su madre.
El abuelo paterno, Jacinto Dabar, aunque recibía el mote de “turco” como cualquier sefaradí, provenía de Siria, específicamente de Damasco. Había dejado una esposa allá, y consiguió otras dos en la Argentina. A sus dos familias mantenía vendiendo exquisiteces orientales en un carrito ambulante—con la inscripción “Maijlef”–: lasamachín, kipe, murrak, bureka, kedaife. Cuando la esposa siria llegó a reclamar su parte, la sumó a pensionadas.
Como a la abuela de Gernaro, Raquel, y la otra esposa, Manuela—ambas judías sefardíes–, Jacinto las había conocido al mismo tiempo, no había prioridades ni bastardos; o todos eran legítimos o ninguno era. Pero mientras que los hijos de Manuela eran cinco, Lázaro era el único. Raquel dio ese único hijo sin dificultades; pero como si el vientre hubiera advertido antes que la propia mujer con quién ella se había casado, luego de Lázaro se tornó yermo.
De modo que Jacinto consideró que Manuela y su prole precisaban una casa; mientras que Raquel y su hijo, Lázaro, podrían vivir en un conventillo. Todos habitan en el barrio de Flores. Lo que inicialmente podría haber parecido una desventaja, en ningún caso un desprecio, para Raquel y Lázaro, acabó siendo un privilegio: porque cuando llegó la esposa siria, Menesa (al menos ese era su nombre en la Argentina), con sus dos hijos, Jacinto no tuvo más remedio que ubicarla en la misma casa que ocupaban—literalmente ocupaban, en el sentido de que no le pertenecía a Jacinto ni pagaba legalmente un alquiler–, Manuela y sus cinco hijos. Allí Jacinto dormía noche por medio, y hacía uso indiscriminado de sus dos esposas, confundiéndoles el nombre. Era bueno con los chicos.
Hasta Genaro recordaba con cariño a su abuelo, por los pocos años que lo tuvo cerca; el olor a almíbar en sus manos, los dedos parecían otra masita oriental. Sus abrazos delicados y sus palabras en ladino. Pero Lázaro lo odiaba. Le había dado una infancia horrible. Escapando a Siria cuando su nieto tenía cinco años, Jacinto abandonó en la Argentina a sus tres esposas y sus tantos hijos. Y el carrito.
En el 48, más corrido por las turbas de Damasco que por sus propias ganas, alcanzó fronteras con del recién nacido Israel, fue uno más de los 6.000 muertos, el uno por ciento de la población judía, caídos en la guerra de Independencia. Pero ni siquiera esta muerte permitió a Lázaro reconciliarse al menos con el recuerdo de su padre, su cerebro y corazón se dedicaron a una única aventura: conseguir una casa propia.
Aunque Lázaro nunca lo explicitó, el oficio que asumió—un verbo, para el caso, más adecuado que “eligió—era indudable una herencia paterna.
Trabajó de cadete de peleteros afortunados, de los textiles de las calles Nazca y Avellaneda, fue repartidor de diarios, y llegó a atender un negocio en el Once. En el Once conoció sus dos únicas certezas: el barrio en el que quería alzar su casa, y la mujer con la que deseaba pasar la vida.
Genoveva era blanca, tranquila, inteligente, pero no iluminista, con sentido común, de escondida sensualidad, nada ostentosa, ama de casa que no negaba su feminidad puertas adentro. Lázaro repitió durante medio siglo que Dios le había quitado como hijo se lo había dado como marido. Los padres de Genoveva efectivamente provenían de Smirna, Turquía, y eran más ilustrados que los de Lázaro. Pero el empuje, la fuerza, el tesón con que Lázaro persiguió sus obsesiones—su casa, su mujer, su barrio–, no podía ser opacado por libros ni jerarquías; ni siquiera por generaciones. Aunque le hubiera gustado llevar un destino profesional, arquitecto o ingeniero, una tarde de lluvia, todavía trabajando en el Once y viviendo en un departamento alquilado en Floresta, con Genoveva ya casados, ella cocinó lasmashín por primera vez como esposa, el aroma convocó a unos vecinos y nació lo que con el tiempo llegaría a llamarse El Imperio de Sefarad.
Por motivos no aclarados, Lázaro heredó el carrito de Jacinto. Pero no lo quiso conservar, y lo vendió a un botellero. En cambio, como ya se dijo, sin reconocerlo, se quedó con el oficio. Primero se encargó de comprar las materias primas para Genoveva y ella vendía, en casa, a los vecinos, que se acercaban a la ventana. Pero a Lázaro no le gustaba que su esposa entrara en contacto, a solas, con tantos extraños. La fama de los lasmashín crecía, y Genoveva no daba abasto. Lázaro consiguió trabajo en un puesto de diarios, casi por el mismo dinero que le pagaban en el negocio de tela, también en el Once, con la ventaja de atender el kiosko de tres de la mañana a doce del mediodía, y llegar a casa para trabajar codo a codo con Genoveva. Con este nuevo arreglo, el matrimonio apostó por más: kedaífes. A pedido del público, extendieron el repertorio a todo lo que había vendido Jacinto: kipe, murrak, bureka. Ya estaba todo inventado. No sin ávergüenza, Lázaro se vio obligado a comprar un carrito; con alegría contrató un cadete. Entonces abandonó el puesto de diarios, pero no su sueño de vivir en el Once.
Le pusieron El Imperio de Sefarad. Existe una pizzería, clásica de los judíos askenazíes de Villa Crespo, llamada Imperio también. Allí coinciden los judíos comunistas y los cuentapropistas, que inicialmente festejaron juntos la creación de Israel, y luego en 1956, cuando la URSS se puso hostil contra el estado judío, y mucho más de lo que ya era contra los judíos en general, se separaron. Pero el Imperio de Canning y Corrientes continuó como territorio neutral, alternándose los días de visitas los judíos pro-soviéticos y los judíos a secas.
Lázaro quiso abrir su propio Imperio, donde coincidirían todos los judíos sefaradíes, sin distinción de ideas ni orígenes, lo mismo los turcos, incluso libaneses, franceses e italianos. Lo consiguió por varios motivos: en primer lugar, que no hubo entre los judíos sefardíes ninguna zanja ideológica como la que, desde el Exilio hasta nuestros días, atenazaba a los judíos de la Europa fría, neuróticos y autodestructivos.
Cuando fue posible, frizó sus maravillosos productos, y los kipes viajaron a las provincias del Norte, en micros, igual que las telas y las ropas confeccionadas en los talleres de Flores, Floresta y el Once. Los vecinos de Flores y Floresta, y los del Once y Villa Crespo, sin distinción de orígenes, acudieron a la casa-despensa de Flores, que muy pronto dejó de ser casa y permaneció hasta el final como despensa y restaurante de parado, con dos empleados, más Genoveva y Lázaro: El Imperio de Sefarad.
Genero nació en el Once, en la calle Tucumán, entre Agüero y Anchorena, justo al frente al club Macabi—del que lo nombraron socio vitalicio y al que concurría hasta los 15 años–, el día que sus padres se mudaron. Lázaro nunca dejó de considerar un milagro el nacimiento de su primogénito el mismo día que concretaba su anhelo de casa propia en el Once. Genero, en la adultez, reacio a aceptar la mística de su nacimiento, afirmaba: “Un milagro es una casualidad vista por un creyente.”.
Genaro nació literalmente en casa, y Genoveva fue asistida por una de las señoras de la limpieza y un médico del club Macabi.
En ese momento, en Floresta, en El Imperio de Sefarad, los comerciantes comían de pie, acodados en unos pocos tablones de fórmica, durante la pausa del almuerzo.
Genero had become rich by his own means. He came from a solid middle-class home, in turn built from nothing by his father. But he had become a rich man, comfortable, with the ability to decide what day and at what moment to work; his power, his contacts, were exclusively personal achievements. In fact, they represented a rupture from the hardworking and exhausting life of his mother and father.
His paternal grandfather, Jacinto Dabar, even though he had the nickname, “Turk,” like any Sephardic Jew, he came from Syria, specifically Damascus. He had left behind a wife there, and he obtained two more in Argentina. He maintained his two families, selling oriental delicacies from a movable cart—with the inscription “Mailef”– lasmachín, kipe, murrak, bureka, kedaife. When the Syrian wife arrived to claim her art, he added her to his pensioners.
As for Genaro’s grandmother, Raquel, and the other wife, Manuela—both Sephardic Jews–, Jacinto had met them at the same time, there were no priorities or bastards; or they all were legitimate, or none was. But while Manuela had five children, Lázaro was an only child. Raquel gave birth to that only son without difficulties, but as if her womb had warned her before the woman herself with whom he had married, after Lázaro, he became impotent.
So that Jacinto considered that Manuela and her offspring required a house, while Raquel and her son Lázaro could live in a tenement house. They all lived in the Floresta neighborhood. What could initially could have appeared to be a disadvantage, though never a slight, ended up being a privilege: because when the Syrian wife Menesa (at least that was her name in Argentina) with her two kids, Jacinto had no choice than to put her in the same house that occupied—literally occupied, in the sense that it didn’t belong to Jacinto nor did he legally pay rent–. By Manuela and her five children. Jacinto slept there for half a night, and he made indiscriminate use of his two wives, confusing their names. He was good with the children.
Even Genaro remembered his grandfather with affection, for the few years that he had him nearby; the smell of syrup on his hands, the fingers that seemed to be another oriental pastry. His delicate arms and his words in Ladino. But Lázaro hated him. He had given him a horrible childhood. Escaping to Syria when his grandchild was five, Jacinto abandoned his three wives and their numerous children. And the cart.
In 1948, kicked out by the mobs of Damascus more than by his own wishes, he reached the borders of the recently born Israel, he was one of the 6,000 dead, one per cent of the Jewish population, fallen in the war of Independence. But not even that death allowed Lázaro to reconcile himself even with memory of his father, his brain and heart were dedicated to one adventure: getting his own house.
Although Lázaro never explicitly stated it, the trade that he assumed—a verb, for the case, more fitting that “chose”—was undoubtably a paternal inheritance.
He worked as an errand boy for fortunate furriers, of the textiles of Nazca and Avellaneda Streets, he was a newspaper deliverer and he ended up looking after a business in Once. In Once he encountered his two things, he was certain of: the neighborhood where he wanted to build his house and the woman with whom he desired to spend his life.
Genoveva was white, tranquil, intelligent, but not illuminist, with common sense, of hidden sexuality, not at all ostentatious, housewife who didn’t deny her femininity behind closed doors. Lázaro repeated for half a century that what God had taken away from his boyhood, He had given it back as a husband. Genoveva’s parents, indeed, came from Smyrna, Turkey, and were more cultured than Lázaro’s. But the spirit, the force, the determination with which Lázaro pursued his obsessions–his house, his wife, his neighborhood–, couldn’t be obscured by books or hierarchies, not even by generations. Although he would have liked to follow a professional destiny, architect, engineer, one rainy afternoon, still working in Once and living in an apartment in Floresta, already married to Genoveva; she cooked lasmashín for the first time as a wife, the aroma brought forth a few neighbors y was born the which with time would be called El Imperio de Sefarad. [The Empire of Sepharad.]
For reasons that were not clear, Lázaro inherited the food cart from Jacinto. But he didn’t want to keep it and he sold it to a junkman. On the other hand, as has already been said, without recognizing it, he already had with a trade. First, he took charge of buying the raw material for Genoveva, and she sold, at home, to the neighbors, who came up to the window. But Lázaro didn’t like the idea that his wife come in contact, alone, with so many strangers. The fame of the Lamashín grew, and Genoveva couldn’t keep up. Lazaro found a job at a newspaper stand tant paid him almost as much as the fabric store, also in Once, with the advantage of looking after the kiosk from three in the morning to twelve noon and arrive home to work along side Genoveva. With this new arrangement, the couple went further: kedaifes. On public demand, they extended their repertory to include everything that Jacinto had sold: kipe, murrak, bureka. Everything was in place. It was not without embarrassment that Lázaro saw himself obligated to buy a food cart; with joy, he hired an assistant. Then I left the news stand, but not his dream to live in Once.
They named it the Imperio de Sepharad. A pizzeria existed, typical of the Ashkenazi Jews of Villa Crespo, also called Imperio. There, the Communist Jews and those of the opposition, who initially celebrated the creation of Israel, and later in 1956, when the USSR became hostile to the Jewish State, and much more than it was already against towards Jews in general, they separated. But the Imperio of Canning and Corrientes continued as neutral territory, alternating the days open to the pro-Soviet Jews and the rest of the Jews.
Lázaro wanted to open his own Imperio, where all the Sephardic Jews would meet, without distinction of ideas or origin, the same for the Turks, including Lebanese, French and Italians. He achieved that for various reasons: in the first place because, among the Sephardic Jew, there was no ideological divide like that since the Exile to our times, tormented the Jews from the cold Europe, neurotic and self-destructive.
Whenever possible, they froze their marvelous products, and the kipes traveled in small buses, the same as the fabrics and clothing made in the workshops of Flores y Floresta, and those of Once and Villa Crespo. The neighbors of Flores and Floresta, and those of Once and Villa Crespo, of every background, came to the home-dispensary in Flores, so that soon it ceased to be a home and remained until the end as a dispensary and restaurant in which on stood, with two employees, plus Genoveva and Lázaro: El Imperio de Sefarad”.
Genero was born in Once, on Tucumán Street, between Agüero and Anchorena, right in front of the Macabí Club—to which they named him a life-time member and to which he went until he was 15–, the day that his parents moved. Lázaro never ceased to consider it a miracle the birth of his first-born son on the same day that he fulfilled his desire for his own home in Once. Genero, as an adult, unwilling to accept the mysticism of his birth: affirmed “a miracle is a coincidence viewed by a believer.”
Genero was literally born “at home.” And Genoveva was aided by a series of cleaning ladies and a doctor from the Macabí Club.
At that moment, in Floresta, in the Imperio de Sefarad, businessmen ate standing up, bent over a few thick planks of formica, during the lunch break.
Adriana Armony nasceu no Rio de Janeiro. É escritora, professora do Colégio Pedro II e doutora em Literatura Comparada pela UFRJ, com a tese “Nelson Rodrigues, leitor de Dostoiévski”. Publicou, pela Editora Record, os romances Estranhos no aquário (2012), Judite no país do futuro (2008) e A fome de Nelson (2005), e organizou, com Tatiana Salem Levy, a coletânea Primos (2010), da qual também participou com um conto. O romance Estranhos no aquário foi contemplado com a Bolsa de Criação Literária da Petrobras.
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Adriana Armony was born in Rio de Janeiro City. She has three novels published by Editora Record: Strangers in the Aquarium (2012), Judith in the Future Land (2008), and Nelson’s Hunger (2005). In 2010, she received an award in Creative Writing by Petrobras, a Brazilian Company renowned for their support to the Brazilian arts and culture. Adriana also co-edited Cousins: stories of Jewish and Arab heritage (2010), a collection of fictional short stories by Brazilian writers about their Jewish and Arab background. Besides her life as a writer (and passionate reader), Adriana teaches Brazilian Literature at Colégio Pedro II, a prestigious State school in Rio de Janeiro. She has a PhD in Comparative Literature, and is a member of the Centre for Jewish Studies of Federal University of Rio de Janeiro (UFRJ)
Adriana Armony. Judite do país do futuro. Rio de Janeiro: Record, 2008, 195-200 or 2003.
Dois corpos enlaçados, pálios e rígidos. Ele compôs-se solenemente para a morte; calça marrom-escura, camisa marrom-clara, gravata preta. Deitada de lado, envolta num penhoar estampado com ramagens, ela encosta-se no seu ombro, segura carinhosamente as mãos entrelaçadas. Suicídio, não havia dúvida. Mas seria possível?
No caminho para a casa de Judite, João costumava comprar os jornais vespertinos, que lia enquanto esperava Salomão chegar. Ultimamente longos períodos de silêncio pesavam entre ele e Judite, e o jornal fornecia uma proteção íntima e reconfortante para os dois. João relé as manchetes daquela terça feira, 24 de fevereiro: dois navios nacionais foram bombardeados por submarinos alemães; Stefan Zweig, o escritor de Brasil, país de futuro, matou-se, com sua esposa Lotte, em Petrópolis, onde será sepultado. O nazi-fascismo estava fazendo suas primeiras vítimas no Brasil; mais cedo o mais tarde, a declaração de guerra seria inevitável.
Apesar de tudo, era difícil entender. Um escritor de sucesso, que conseguira escapar das garras do nazismo, tinha o direito de se matar? Por que ele se suicidara? Por que arrastara a mulher com ele? Era aquilo o verdadeiro amor? “Parece que ele morreu antes dela… foi necessário forçar aquele corpinho para coloca-lo no ataúde… O rosto da mulher estava deformado” –foram as palavras da poeta Gabriela Mistral, que um repórter registrara. E havia detalhes que impressionavam. A mobília era quase indigente: duas camas de solteiro, encostadas uma na outra; dois criados-mudos com abajures baratos, um pão mordiscado, uma caixa de fósforos vazia, uma garrafa de água mineral.
Uma vez ouvira que é bela a morte voluntária. Que a vida escolhe por nós, más a morte nós somos nós que escolhemos. Em Os irmãos Karamazov, Kirilov se mata para competir com Deus. Lembrou dos versos de Manuel Bandeira: “Muitas palmeiras se suicidaram porque não viviam num píncaro azulado.” João não queria morrer. Ah, se fosse um escritor famoso, si tivesse uma mulher que o amasse… ou se as mulheres o cercassem de mimos, disputassem o seu autógrafo (havia tantas mulheres bonitas), soltassem suas risadinhas excitadas, então seria feliz! Estava sendo fútil, pensou envergonhado, mas não podia evitar que o grito se erguesse dento de ele: estava vivo! E, para apaziguar sua excitação, forcou-se a pensar nos corpos amarelos e gelados.
Iria até Petrópolis. Quem sabe se voltaria? Prestaria a última homenagem a Zweig, y depois iria para o Rio. Estava perdendo tempo ali, na barra da saia de uma mulher casada. Coisas graves aconteciam, histórias de amor e morte. Era por acaso um adolescente? Apalpou o bolso, retirou uma folha amarrotada. Há dias levava aquele poema que escrevera pensando em Judite. Escrevera-o como que possuído, depois de ler o Cântico dos Cânticos, e não tinha sequer coragem de relê-lo, quanto mais de mostra-lo a Judite. Como ia partir, já podia fazê-lo. Mas era impossível que ela o lesse na sua presença, de modo que era preciso rabiscar algumas palavras com algumas instruções técnicos para ser cortejada sem se sujar”, pensou, como raiva. Mas também ele não era um cobarde? Temia ou admirava Salomão, o justo? Ou será que era ela dela que tinha.
Ali estava um restaurante que costumava frequentar. Certamente poderia sentar-se por alguns instantes e escrever, enquanto bebericava alguma coisa. Pegou um guardanapo. “Judite, deixo-te este poema como doce lembrança dos nossos dias.” Era ridículo aquele tom nostálgico. Riscou tudo, escreveu: “Por favor, leia, mas não ria de mim.” Aquela ambiguidade era servil demais. Seria melhor fingir um interesse puramente literário: “Espero que goste deste poema.” Numa súbita inspiração, acrescentou, ressentido: “Junto com Zweig, alguma coisa também morreu entre nós.” Meu Deus, nada tinha acontecido entre eles! Certamente, devia a ser tudo uma fantasia… Rabiscou a última frase e escreveu diretamente no verso do envelope onde enfiara o poema: “Sigo hoje para a casa de parentes em Petrópolis e deixo-lhe este poema como lembrança e tributo ao nosso amor pela Literatura.” Nenhuma acusação, uma ambiguidade viril: o tom estava correto. E, embora fosse improvável que Judite fosse procurá-lo, lá estava a indicação do local onde ele poderia ser encontrado. Si ela quisesse, não seria difícil descobrir onde ficava a casa a dos Ramalho, bastante conhecidos na cidade.
João bate na porta, ele atendo. Percebe imediatamente que houve algo extraordinário. Ele não deixa espaço para dúvidas.
— Stefan Zweig se matou!
–O que você está dizendo! –Judite, com a mão diante da boca.
–Ele e a mulher fizeram um pacto de morte. Ingeriam veneno e morrerem abraçados. Vão ser enterrados amanhã em Petrópolis.
–Mas por quê?
“Ele não tinha direito”, Judite está pensado. “Tantos queriam viver e morreram.” E depois: “Só os mortos não morrerão.”
–Ninguém sabe.
–Todos aqueles homes e mulheres torturados, veraneando solitários naqueles hotéis… Talvez ele fosse assim. Mesmo não sendo pego pelos nazis, mesmo morando aqui no Brasil, continuou sofrendo.
–Lá em Petrópolis ele podia continuar escrevendo, podia esperar a paz… Mas até aqui em Brasil!
— Todo aquele mundo abafado… Ele não podia suportar o calor. A gente vê isso nos livros dele.
–Esqueci de dizer: mais dois navios brasileiros foram torpedeados
–Ah, meu Deus, a guerra está chegando perto de nós! Será que agora finalmente vai ficar contra os alemães? Salomão precisa saber disso.
–Já deve saber, as notícias já devem ter chegado ao armazém. – Faz uma pausa, olha sério para Judite, — Escuta—ele nunca tinha falado nesse tom com ela–, você muitas vezes me criticou porque nunca mostrei nada que tinha escrito. Dessa vez eu trouxe um poema, mas, por favor, só você pode ler. –Ele Ile estende um envelope onde se pode ler algo escrito numa letra miúda e vai recuado até a porta. O seu rosto parece emitir uma luz estranha.
–Não vai esperar Salomão?
–Não, hoje não. Estou com pressa.
Quando a porta se fecha, Judite percorre com o olhar o dorso do envelope: “Sigo hoje a casa de parentes em Petrópolis e deixo-Ihe este poema como lembrança a e tributo ao nosso amor pela Literatura.” Rasga o envelope e lê, de pé, aproveitando que Salomão não chegou e as crianças estão com Dorinha. . .
Adriana Armony. Judite do país do futuro. [judite in the country of the future.] Rio de Janeiro: Record, 2008, 195-200 or 2003.
Two bodies fit together, pallid, and rigid. He was solemnly positioned for death; dark-brown pants, light-brown shirt, black tie. Lying beside him, wrapped in dressing gown printed with boughs and trees, she reclined on his shoulder, lovingly secure, the hands inter-laced. Suicide, the was no doubt. But could it be possible?
On the way toward Judite’s house, João customarily bought the evening’s newspapers, that he read as waited for Salomão to arrive. Lately, long periods of silence weighted on him and Judite, and the newspaper furnished a and intimate and comforting protection for the two of them. João reread the headlines of that Tuesday, February 24: two Brazilian ships were bombed by German submarines; Stefan Zweig, the author of Brazil, the Country of the Future, killed himself, with his wife Lotte, in Petrópolis, where they would be buried. The Nazi-fascism was taking its first victims in Brazil; but sooner or later, a declaration of war would be inevitable.
Despite everything, it was difficult to understand. A successful author, who had been able to escape the claws of Nazism, had the right to kill himself? Why did he commit suicide? Why did he drag his wife with him? Was that true love? “It appears that he died before she did… It was necessary to force that bodice to fit it into the casket… The face of the woman was deformed,”were the words of the poet Gabriela Mistral, that a reporter noted. And there were details that were touching. The furniture was almost indigent: two single beds, set one next to the other; two night tables with cheap lamps, bread that had been partially eaten, an empty box of matches, a bottle of mineral water.
Once, he had heard that a voluntary death is beautiful. That life chooses for us, but for our death we are the ones who choose. In The Brothers Karamazov, Kirlov kills himself to compete with God. He remembered the verses of Manuel Bandeira: “Many palm trees commit suicide because they don’t live on a sunny hill.” João didn’t want to die. Ah, he would become a famous writer, if he had a woman who loved him… or if the women would surround him with delight, fight over his autograph (there were so many pretty women), let out excited laughter, then he would be happy! He was being shallow, he thought, embarrassed, but he couldn’t keep back a shout that was rising inside of him: he was alive. And to quiet his excitement, he forced himself to think about yellow and frozen bodies.
All those tortured men and women spending the summer alone in those hotels… Perhaps he was like that. Just like not being caught by the Nazis, just like dying here in Brazil, he continued suffering.
“There in Petrópolis he could continue writing, he could wait for the peace… But until it is here in Brazil!
“All that sweltering world…He couldn’t tolerate the heat. People see this in his books.
“I forgot to say that two Brazilian ships were torpedoed.”
“Oh, my God, the war is coming close to us! Will it be that here finally they are going to concentrate on the Nazis? Salomao needed to know of this.
He would go to Petrópolis. Who knows if he would return? He would make his last respects to Zweig, and then her would go toward Rio. He was wasting time here, tied to the skirts of a married woman. Serious things happen, stories of life and death. Was he by any chance an adolescent. For days he had been perfecting that poem that he was writing for Judite. He wrote like someone possessed, after reading the Song of Songs, and he hadn’t had the courage to reread it, much less show it to Judite. As he was leaving, he could still do it.
t would be impossible to do so. But it was impossible that she read it in his presence, so that he must scribble some words with some technical instructions that would court her without embarrassing himself, he thought angrily. But wasn’t he a coward as well? Did he fear or admire Solomão, the just? Or would it be that she was the one who was afraid?
João knocked on the door, he waited. He
Immediately perceived that something extraordinary was going on. That was without a doubt.
“Stefan Zweig killed himself!”
“Oh, what are you saying?”, reacted Judite, with her hand in front of her mouth.
He and his wife made a death pact. They ingested poison, and they died, embracing each other. They will be buried tomorrow in Petrópolis.
“But, why?”
” He had no right to do it.” Judite was thinking. “So many want to live, and they die. And later: “Only the dead don’t die.”
“Nobody knows.”
-You should now, then news ought to have arrived in the mailbox. He pauses, he looked intensely for Judite, Listen. He had never spoken in that tone with hers. Many times, you have criticized me because I never showed anything I had written. This time I found a poem. But, please, only you can read it.” He reached out to her an envelope where someone could read something written in a child’s script, and he walked backwards toward the door. His face seemed to emit a strange light.
“No, not today. I’m in a hurry.”
When the door closed, Judite looked the back of the envelope: “I’m leaving today for my relatives house in Petrlis, and I leave you this poem as a memory and tribute to our love of literature.” She opened the letter and read, standing, taking advantage of the fact that Salomão hadn’t arrived, and the kids were with Dorina…
Paula Margules nació en Buenos Aires en 1959. Es licenciada en Relaciones Humanas y Públicas (Universidad de Morón).
Su trabajo:
Pasado. Material con el cual se construye el presente.
Ministerio de Educación de la Nación Plan de lectura: Asesor externo: Talleres de fomento de la lectura literaria dirigidos a docentes y alumnos de los niveles de primaria y secundaria. 2009 y 2010. Asesora externa, responsable de contenidos del Taller Literario a Distancia (Educ.ar). 2008.
Actividades de Paula Margules
Taller Literario del diario “La Razón” en la Feria Internacional del Libro de Buenos Aires Dirección, (2005 a 2007).
Fundación Avon Dirección del Taller Literario, 2004 y 2005.
“Cartas desde Buenos Aires”, revista literaria Miembro del Equipo Asesor y colaborador. De 2003 a 2008, año en que falleció la fundadora, Victoria Pueyrredon. Y con él, la publicación.
“revistas” Revista dominical, columnista, de 2002 a 2005, año en que cerró la publicación.
Actividades que construyen el día a día: Bravo.Continental El programa de Fernando Bravo, en esa emisora: am 590 http://www.continental.com.ar Desde enero de 2017 realizo el ‘Espacio Literario’, un segmento dedicado a incentivar la lectura. Hasta agosto de 2019, la periodicidad era quincenal. A partir de esa fecha es semanal.
“AMIJAI, La Revista de la Comunidad” Columnista, desde 2001.
Consejo Profesional de Ciencias Económicas de la Ciudad Autónoma de Buenos Aires Miembro del Jurado del Certamen Literario, desde 2007.
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A Portrait of Paula Margules
Paula Margules was born in Buenos Aires in 1959. She has a BA in Human and Public Relations (University of Morón/ en Relaciones Humanas y Públicas (Universidad de Morón).
Past, material with which the present was built: Ministry of Education of the Nation Reading Plan: External advisor: Workshops to encourage literary reading aimed at teachers and students at primary and secondary levels. 2009 and 2010. External advisor, responsible for contents of the Distance Literary Workshop (Educ.ar). 2008.
Literary Workshop of the newspaper “La Razón” at the International Book Fair of Buenos Aires Direction, (2005 to 2007).
Avon Foundation Direction of the Literary Workshop, 2004 and 2005.
“Letters from Buenos Aires”, literary magazine Member of the Advisory Team and collaborator. From 2003 to 2008, the year in which the founder, Victoria Pueyrredon, died. And with it, the publication.
“magazines” Sunday magazine, columnist, from 2002 to 2005, the year the publication closed.
Activities that build the day to day: Bravo.Continental Fernando Bravo’s program, on that station: am 590 http://www.continental.com.ar Since January 2017, I have been doing the ‘Literary Space’, a segment dedicated to encouraging reading. Until August 2019, the periodicity was fortnightly. From that date it is weekly. “AMIJAI, The Community Magazine” Columnist, since 2001.
Professional Council of Economic Sciences of the Autonomous City of Buenos Aires Member of the Jury of the Literary Contest, since 2007.
De; Paula Margoles, Brújula al Sur. Buenos Aires; Emecé, 2007.
“El discurso”
La multitud–Pese a todo: Buenos Días. Hoy se cumple un año de la instalación de esta Carpa, y se cumple un mes de la muerte de Walter Villegas, para algunos—entre los que me cuento, —accidentalmente dudosa. El Kadish, la oración que los judíos rezamos por los muertos, es una plegaria de vida, un ruego que pide paz. Por es estoy aquí, ante ustedes, quiero expresar mi rezo laico por la vida en paz, por una suerte mejor para nosotros, los docentes, por el recuerdo de Walter Villegas, un hombre siempre lo intentó.
La multitud lo aplaudió con fuerza, se escucharon cornetazos y algún biombo. David musitó “y tal vez se cansó. O no’” Levantó las manos pidiendo silencio y continuó:
–Soy hijo de la escuela pública como lo fueron mis padres. Y mi abuelo. Una escuela pública era un ejemplo y era orgullo, ejemplo de excelencia y de integración, porque salvo muy breves periodos, en la escuela pública convivíamos los Soifer con los Villegas y los Urdinarrain, los Fernández con los Rigolli. Hoy la situación es muy distinta. Hoy la escuela es marginalidad. Hoy, estamos desde el margen pidiendo por la educación. Hoy vivimos en el margen arañando los renglones para no caernos.
Hubo aplausos, un grito de “bravo” y un larguísimo cornetazo. David insistió con los gestos pidiendo silencio. Un nuevo acople al micrófono sacudió las piedras. Después, dijo:
–Una democracia es grande y suculenta cuando además de ejercer sus ventajas, también se hace cargo de los conflictos que genera su desarrollo. Cuando no se preocupa tanto por llegar, sino que se entretiene más en ir. Una sociedad se va haciendo más democrática en la medida en que cada uno de sus miembros—desde el primero al último, hasta completar la nación toda–. Se responzabiliza por sus acciones cívicas sin delegar esa función. Si la sociedad simula su realidad en lugar de asumirla, prevalece la cultura de encubrimiento; la verdad se transforma en una alusión. Y la alusión siempre tiene un sentido desfigurador, desnaturaliza la magnitud del conflicto. De eso, los argentinos sabemos demasiado.
La gente estalló en aplausos. Comenzaron a caer algunas gotas. David siguió:
Somos un pueblo condenado a la creatividad. Pero si reducimos el presupuesto de esta alternativa a la invención de escusas y de mentiras, nuestra capacidad de crecimiento, de desarrollo, de expansión, será otro renglón en la larga lista de sueños ahogados con la almohada, antes de acostarnos a dormir. Martín Buber, Maestro, uno de los grandes de pensadores de nuestro tiempo, filósofo siempre preocupado por la condición humana, creía que la nacionalidad no puede ser un fin en sí misma. En los primeros años de este siglo turbulento, Buber dijo: “la nacionalidad de un hombre es el único medio por la cual una persona o un pueblo, pueden ser creadores” …
–Cuando la confusión y la locura forman parte de lo cotidianeidad; cuando las pasiones, los intereses propios, se convierten en los únicos argumentos verdaderos; cuando se opta por ignorar la previsible y por desparramar culpas a diestra, siniestra, arriba y abajo, no sea cosa que alguna quede pegada y haya que responder para ella; cuando un complicado arte del esquive lleva a hacerle verónicas cualquier responsabilidad para cederle el paso a toda clase de teorías mefistofélicas; cuando se prejuzga por deporte y se habla por hablar; cuando se inflan virtudes hasta el límite máximo de su potencia, sólo para esconder defectos; cuando blanco significa negro y negro quiere decir colorado y nos perdemos en medio de un cromatismo patético que nos aleja millones de años luz de la armonía del arco iris…
–Cuando el dolor y la impotencia se agitan desde los noticieros, pero se quedan a vivir en la casa de los deudos; cuando se pierde el rumbo que nunca logramos conseguir y andamos por la vida guiados por una brújula del sur; cuando el envenenamiento cotidiano del espanto; la injusticia y la contaminación se aceptan como costumbre; cuando el determinismo se vende en el almacén de cada barrio y resulta difícil hasta lo quimérico defender el derecho a soñar porque la realidad impertinente rompe las ilusiones a hachazos: cuando en este primer mundo—más primitivo que óptimo–, en pleno auge de la libertad del mercado, y de elección, no se puede elegir el puesto al que comprarle la luz, no al feriante que venda más frescas los teléfonos; cuando me resisto a tirar mis horas y mi vida en el agujero de las colas
–Cuando la prepotencia y la soberbia reemplazan a la sencilla y humilde lógica; cuando lo grave no son los hechos, sino su difusión; cuando se alienta la impunidad con tolerancias injustificadas;
Cuando la muerte convierte en dioses a la gente, y una pátina de olvido transforma los errores en aciertos y los delitos en éxitos; cuando la vida deja para más tarde los reconocimientos merecidos;
cuando aparecen ilusiones auditivas, ¿será la realidad que grita y nadie escucha?
cuando se pretende que el opositor signifique enemigo;
cuando la historia se cuenta con mentiras; cuando las reglas están para “los tontos” porque los vivos” las usan para jugar al rango; cuando la gloria de ciertos eventos se confunde con la vanidad de quienes participan en ellos; cuando las antinomias crecen al ritmo acompasado de la estupidez; cuando la opinión vive devaluada y la desmesura de lo apetitos personales priva a todos de opiniones diferentes; cuando el sofismo se convierte en un estilo de vida, y los eufemismos en idioma; cuando se habla de “las últimas consecuencias” como de un epítome perentorio, y no es más que un artilugio indigno para dilaciones que conocen los abismos infinitos del olvido…
–Cuando se hace un culto de la hipocresía, del fanatismo y de la intolerancia, y parece que todo está perdonado, por lo que se infiere que todo está permitido; cuando la única rutina que supimos conseguir es la de perjudicar al próximo, por que el mejor éxito es el fracaso de los demás; cuando la ignorancia se pavonea insolente, las respuestas importan más que las preguntas, y el olvido se impone a la memoria; cuando se dice que todos somos culpables, perdiendo de vista que las generalizaciones disuelve la individualidad, y ya nadie es responsable de nada…
–Cuando la vida es una caminata nocturna en un desierto sin estrellas, entonces duele, duele, duele, hasta la desesperación ser argentino.
La multitud vibraba. El organizador lo abrazó efusivamente. Los altoparlantes repetían: “Gracias”, “Gracias”, Gracias”.
Entre saludos y palmadas, David vio los ojos llorosos de Marta. Entonces no supo que por última vez. En mucho tiempo. Mucho. Demasiado. La gente empezó a gritar, desde un escenario un grupo de docentes pudo ver claramente un remolino de personas que venía girando desde la calle Riobamba. La garúa suave que acompañó el discurso se hizo lluvia intensa. Por detrás del torbellino—cada vez más rápido, más grueso, más voraz–, que se acercaba hacia el escenario desde Congreso estallaron reflejos de una luz amarilla. Ruido intenso, lacerante, polvo, vidrios rotos y gritos. Una bomba.
La gente corrió hacia todos lados, sin dirección, sin orden, como pudo. A lo lejos comenzó a sonar el ulular de las sirenas, los movileros corrían detrás de la gente. Todo fue humo y confusión. En la corrida, se faltó quien aprovechara para apoderarse de alguna carrera. David quedó paralizado, de pie en medio del escenario. Pensó en Walter, en Marta, en Clara y El abuelo mirando todo por televisión. Los docentes lo tomaron de los hombros y lo empujaron para bajar del escenario. No se movió. Todos se fueron. David quedó solo sobre esa tarima dispuesta para el acto, dos palomas volaron cerca de él. Buscó a Marta con la mirada. No la encontró. En pocos minutos la plaza había quedado desierta. Solo palomas volando de un lado al otro, espantadas…
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“The Speech”
The crowd—In spite of everything: Good Day. Today is the first anniversary of this Tent, and it is a month since the death of Walter Villegas, for some—and I am one of them—doubtfully accidental. The Kaddish, that we Jews pray for the dead, is a prayer for the living, a plea for peace. For that reason, I am here today, before you, I want to express my secular prayer for life in peace, for a better situation for all of us, the teachers, in the memory of Walter Villegas, a man that always wished for it.
The crowd applauded him strongly, Cornet blasts and a big drum were heard. David muttered “and perhaps he got tired, Or not.” He raised his hand, asking for silence, and he continued:
“I am the son of the public schools as were my parents. And my grandfather. A public school was an example and a cause for pride, example of excellence and of integration, because, except for very brief periods, in the public school get along together the Soifers, the Villegas, the Urdinarrains, the Fernándezes with the Rigolli. Today the situation is very different. The school has been marginalized. Today, we are at the margin, asking for education. Today we live at the margin, holding onto the lines so we don’t fall.
There was applause, a shout of “bravo” and a long cornet blast. With gestures, David insisted on asking for silence. A new round of feedback from the microphone shook the stones. After that, he said:
“A democracy is great and succulent when, beyond exercising its strengths, also pays attention of the conflicts that generate its development. When you don’t worry so much about arriving, but rather pay more attention to going. A society goes on becoming more democratic to the extent that each one of its members—from the first to the last, until it includes the entire country–. It takes responsibility for civic actions without delegating that function, If the society feigns its reality instead of taking it on, the culture of concealment the truth is transformed into allusion. And the allusion always shas a disfiguring meaning, it denaturalizes the magnitude of the conflict. Of that, the Argentines know too much.”
The people broke into applause. Raindrops began to fall. David continued:
“We are a people condemned to creativity. But if we reduce the budget for this alternative to the invention of excuses and of lies, our capacity for growth, for development, for expansion, will be another line in the long list of dreams suffocated by a pillow, before going to bed. Martín Buber, Maestro, one of the great thinkers of our time, philosopher always worried about the human condition, believed that nationality cannot be an end in itself. In the first years of a turbulent century, Buber said, “a man’s nationality is the only medium through which a person or a people, can be creators’…”
“When confusion and madness form part of everyday life, when passions, personal interests, are converted into the only true arguments, when the choice is to ignore the foreseeable and spread guilt to the right, left, up, down, so that nothing is stuck in place and has to be responded to; when a complicated art of the dodge becomes spinning veronicas, whatever responsibility to let by all sorts of diabolic theories, when one makes prejudgment into a sport and speaks just to speak; when virtues are inflated to the maximum of their possibility, only to hide defects, when whit means black and black means red and we lose ourselves in the middle of that pathetic mixture of colors that the takes us away from millions of years of light of the harmony of the rainbow…
“When the pain and impotence is agitated by the news, but they stay living in their relative’s house; when the direction is lost and we never can get it and we go through life guided by a compass of the south; when the daily poisoning of shock; the injustice and contamination are accepted by custom, when the determinism is sold in the warehouse of every neighborhood and it is difficult even chimerical to defend the right to dream because the impertinent reality breaks up illusions with hatchet blows; when in this first world–more primitive than optimal–, at the full height of the freedom of the market, and of choice, you can’t chose the job with which to buy light/electricity, not the fair-seller who sells telephones on the cheap, when I resist throwing away my hours and my life in the hole of the waiting lines…
“When a cult is made of hypocrisy, fanaticism and intolerance, and it seems like everything is pardoned, from which you infer that everything is permitted, when the only routine that we learned is the prejudice of toward the neighbor, that for which the greatest success is the failure of the others; when ignorance parades around insolently, the answers, the answers are more important than the solutions, and forgetting imposes on memory; when it’s said that we are all guilty, losing sight of the fact that generalizations dissolve individuality, an so nobody is responsible for anything….
“When life is a nighttime walk in a desert without stars, then it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, until desperation to be Argentinean.”
The crown vibrated. The organizer hugged him effusively. The loudspeakers repeated: “Thank you,” “Thank you,” “Thank you.” Among the cheers and applause, David say Marta’s crying eyes. Then he didn’t know that it was for the last time. In a great deal of time. Much time. Too much. The people began to shout, from a stage a group of teachers could clearly see the swirl of people turning toward Riobamba Street. The soft mist that accompanied the speech became a heavy downpour. Beyond the whirlwind—continually more rapid, more wide, more voracious–, that approached the stage from Congreso, exploded reflections of a yellow light. Intense noise, cutting, dull, broken windows and shouts. A bomb.
People ran everywhere, without direction, as they could. In the distance began to sound the wailing of sirens, reporters ran after the crowd. It was all smoke and confusion. In the running. There was no one who could take over any rush. David remained paralyzed, standing in the middle of the stage. He thought about Walter, Marta, Clara, and the grandfather watching on television. The teachers took him by his shoulders, and they pushed him to come down from the stage. He didn’t move. Everyone left. David stood alone on that platform set up for the event. Two doves flew near him. He looked for Marta with his gaze. He didn’t find her. In a few minutes the plaza had become deserted. Only doves flying one next to the other, stunned.
Translated by Stephen A. Sadow
From; Paula Margoles, Brújula al Sur. Buenos Aires; Emecé, 2007.
Jacques Fux é um autor brasileiro. Foi Visiting Scholar na Universidade de Harvard (2012–2014), realizou pós-doutorado na Universidade de Campinas, recebeu seu Ph.D. em literatura comparada pela UFMG e em língua, literatura e civilização francesas pela Universidade de Lille III. Possui mestrado em ciência da computação e bacharelado em matemática. Publicou quatro livros: Literatura e Matemática, premiado com o Prêmio Capes de Melhor Dissertação em Letras e Lingüística no Brasil; Antiterapias, sua primeira ficção, que recebeu o Prêmio São Paulo de Literatura; Brochadas; e Meshugá: um romance sobre a loucura.
Tradutora:
Hillary Auker se formou recentemente na Boston University com mestrado em Estudos Latino-Americanos com foco em tradução e escrita brasileira contemporânea. Ela também tem um B.A. em linguística com foco nas línguas espanhola e portuguesa, e atualmente trabalha no Departamento de Línguas Românicas da Universidade de Harvard.
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Jacques Fux is a Brazilian author. He was a visiting scholar at Harvard University (2012–2014), performed post-doctoral studies at the University of Campinas, received his Ph.D. in comparative literature from UFMG and in French language, literature, and civilization from the University of Lille III. He has a Master’s degree in computer science and a Bachelor’s degree in mathematics. He has published four books: Literatura e matemática, awarded the Capes Prize for the Best Dissertation in Letters and Linguistics in Brazil; Antiterapias, his first fiction, which received the São Paulo Prize for Literature; Brochadas; and Meshugá: um romance sobre a loucura.
Translator:
Hillary Auker recently graduated from Boston University with an M.A. in Latin American Studies with a focus in translation and contemporary Brazilian writing. She also has a B.A. in linguistics with a focus in Spanish and Portuguese languages, and is currently working in the Romance Languages Department at Harvard University.
Por: Jacques Fux and Raquel Matsushita. As coisas de que não me lembro, sou. Aletra Editora
Não me lembro do dia em que fui para escola pela primeira vez. Não me lembro de nenhuma mordida, nenhum soco, nenhuma briga que tive com algum colega. Nem me recordo de ter sido colega de ninguém no jardim de infância. Não me lembro das brincadeiras, dos sorrisos, das corridas e saltos mirabolantes. também não me lembro das lágrimas da minha mãe quando me deixou pela primeira vez nessa escola. Não me recordo do meu desespero, do meu pranto, dos soluços e da dor de barriga de tanto chorar. Não me lembro da professora, de sua tentativa em ludibriar, transformar e recriar um mundo fora do útero dos meus pais. também não me lembro do dia em que a escola passou a ser essencial e que os amigos se tornaram fundamentais. Não lembro da profunda atenção que meus pais davam ao meu irmão, da completa ausência de tios e avós na minha criação. Não me lembro (e gostaria muito de reviver) o carinho especial da minha bisavó. O amor que ela viveu com minha mãe e que revivia comigo. também não me lembro do seu desaparecimento. de ser capaz de ressignificar amor e ausência.
Não me lembro do primeiro grito de reprovação que recebi (nem do segundo, nem do terceiro). também não me lembro de ter aprendido algo com esse grito, com esse tapa, com o dedo em riste, com o olhar sério, com a voz grossa, com a necessidade de ser educado. Não me lembro dos professores da minha infância. devem ter sido sensíveis, carinhosos e tolos. Não me lembro de colorir, de encaixar brinquedos, de jogar objetos em rebeldia, mostrando que eu tinha vontade própria, de gritar, fazer pirraça e calar quando bem entendia. Não me lembro de começar a escrever, de repetir infindavelmente as letras do meu nome, de descobrir o som distinto e paradoxal da última letra do meu sobrenome. de entender a herança pesada da minha família e da minha cultura. Não lembro de descobrir o fabuloso mundo que se desvelava com a minha alfabetização. mundo imponderável para meus avós e bisavós. Não me recordo de trazer para aula o nome e a profissão dos meus pais, avós, tios. Não me lembro de construir a árvore genealógica de minha família, de escutar sobre a origem dos meus ancestrais e dos ancestrais de meus amigos. Não me lembro de me dar conta de que as professoras não eram judias, de que o mundo não era judeu, de que tatuagens com números estranhos nos braços dos avós não eram coisas normais, comuns e cotidianas. Não me lembro de estranhar o nome Auschwitz ou de compreender que genocídios não eram coisas cotidianas e banais. Não me lembro de associar as palavras barbárie, poesia e amor.
Não me lembro de ter aprendido o alfabeto. de repetir fastidiosamente o som das vogais e das consoantes. Não me recordo de ter aprendido o estranho som da letra h e nem de ter a percepção e consciência do w. Não me lembro de sentir nenhum desejo, cobiça e volúpia pelo outro. ele ainda fazia parte de mim. Não me lembro da disputa e da competição pelo olhar da professora. Por seu amor e admiração. Não me lembro das brigas, das desilusões, das primeiras angústias que só aconteciam na escola. Não me lembro quando diferenciei pela primeira vez meninos de meninas. Não me recordo do dia em que olhei para uma menina e algo diferente se passou em mim. talvez um brilho mais intenso no meu olhar. talvez uma quentura inaugural percorrendo meu corpo.
Não me lembro da primeira vez em que cheguei em casa desiludido. Não me lembro do dia em que descobri que todos os outros alunos da escola também eram especiais, e que uns eram muito mais especiais e queridos pelas professoras que os outros. e eu não era um dos queridinhos. Não me lembro do dia em que algum amigo preteriu outro a mim. também devo ter apagado completamente a lembrança do dia em que uma menina escolheu olhar para outro e fechar os olhos para minha perfeição. Não lembro de compreender que o mundo poderia ruir um dia. Que eu podia me abalar. Que eu poderia sofrer.
Também não lembro do dia em que descobri que meus pais não eram perfeitos. Que meu pai não era herói. Que minha mãe o havia escolhido antes de me gerar. e que eu era somente o segundo, ou o terceiro. Não me lembro do dia em que reparei algum defeito nos meus pais. Não me lembro do dia em que eu percebi o cheiro deles. um cheiro que já não era meu. Não me recordo do dia em que tive vergonha dos meus pais. em que concebi as terríveis diferenças e limitações do meu irmão. e também tive vergonha e me escondi. e passei a esconder as histórias da minha casa. também não me lembro do dia em que comecei a invejar as outras famílias, fantasiadas na minha mente como normais, e que desejei estar no corpo de outro. também não sei quanto tempo isso tudo durou. e quanto tempo depois descobri que nada disso tinha sentido. Que cada um tinha que viver com suas próprias dores. e com suas próprias invenções.
Não me recordo de aprender hebraico. Não me lembro de saber que hebraico não se falava correntemente no Brasil. também não me lembro do dia em que comecei a esquecer propositalmente essa língua. Nem de quando percebi que iídiche não se falava na rua. também não me lembro do dia em que entendi que as palavras em iídiche tinham uma conotação negativa. uma conotação de dor, de saudade da diáspora da minha família e de sentir no corpo e na fala o não pertencimento a lugar algum. uma tentativa inútil de preservação cultural. de recordar tempos e épocas em que meus antepassados tinham que fugir constantemente. também não me lembro quando entendi que falar essa língua era discriminar as pessoas e o país que acolheram minha família. também não sei se eles foram acolhidos, se foram felizes, se viveram em paz. Não me lembro de conversar com eles sobre isso. Nem sei como eles me passaram os valores culturais, históricos, familiares e dolorosos do judaísmo. também não lembro da primeira vez que comi guelfite fish.
Não me recordo da paixão pelas rezas matinais. Não me lembro o porquê cantava com tanto fervor e alegria versos em hebraico (que eu não entendia nada). Não me lembro da certeza que tinha em relação à existência de deus. do deus judeu. Não sei dizer quando eu rezava acreditando que deus me ouviria. e quando eu trapaceava, e era vil e mesquinho, almejando que deus me esquecesse naquele momento. Não me lembro do dia em que deus me abandonou e nem do dia em que eu o abandonei. eternamente. Não me lembro de tê-lo matado, e nem de quando ele matou meu tio. também não sei quem o fez. tampouco entendi a dor da minha família, da minha avó, dos meus primos. também não lembro do dia que compreendi que eu e meus pais éramos mortais.
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Não me lembro mais do dia em que passei a considerar o amor como sofrimento. Não me recordo o dia em que amei a primeira menina que não me queria. em que passei a me tornar melancólico. também não lembro da certeza que tinha que era o melhor e o mais inteligente de todos. Não me lembro de me tornar estúpido, arrogante e metido. de me retrair. de ficar na minha. de blasfemar. de achar que o mundo não era bom o suficiente para mim. também não me lembro do dia em que gostei de me ver inserido no mundo goy, e que passei a detestar e amar simultaneamente o judaísmo. A detestar fazer jejum e lembrar, constantemente, das infelicidades desse meu povo. A me encantar com a possibilidade de viver em um país forte, novo, briguento. também não me lembro do dia em que tive pela primeira vez ojeriza da sinagoga e de muitos de seus membros. Não lembro mais o motivo. Não me lembro mais da aversão que tive dos seus cheiros, roupas e mesquinharias.
Não lembro mais por que me achava diferente e melhor em meio ao mundo católico. também não me lembro da razão por me considerar um estranho e pior no mundo judeu. Não me lembro por que comecei a ler. Não me lembro mais do primeiro, do segundo e do terceiro livro que li. Não me lembro das sensações que senti. Não me lembro por que me achava especial por carregar um livro nas mãos. Não me lembro de gostar de ler nenhum livro para o colégio.
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By Lee Wan Xiang, Asymptote Magazine
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I Am What I Can’t Remember
I can’t remember the very first day I went to school. I can’t remember biting, punching, or fighting with classmates. I can’t remember being anyone’s classmate at all. I can’t remember the games, the smiles, the running, the spectacular somersaults. Nor can I remember how hurt I was when my mother left me alone at school for the first time. I can’t remember my despair, my weeping, my hiccups, and my stomach aches from crying so much. I can’t remember the teacher thinking she could play the part of my parents. I also can’t remember the day school became essential and that the friends became fundamental as well. I can’t remember the considerable attention that my parents paid to my brother, or the complete absence of uncles and grandparents in my upbringing. I can’t remember (and I would like very much to relive it), my great-grandmother’s special affection. The love that she shared with my mother and that she continued with me. I also can’t remember her becoming unable to show love and affection.
I can’t remember the first time I was scolded (nor the second, nor the third). I also can’t remember having learned something from this scolding, slap, pointed finger, serious look, or stern voice about the need to behave myself. I can’t remember the teachers from my childhood, but I imagine they should have been sensitive, loving, and silly. I can’t remember coloring, playing with toys, or throwing things in protest to demonstrate that I had my own will, or shouting, or being stubborn, only quieting when I wanted to. I can’t remember beginning to write, infinitely repeating the letters of my name, discovering the distinct and paradoxical sound of the last letter of my last name. Or understanding the heavy past of my family and my culture. I can’t remember discovering the bright, new world that unfolded with literacy. An unimaginable world for my grandparents and great-grandparents. I can’t remember coming to class and sharing the names and professions of my parents, grandparents, and uncles. I can’t remember making a family tree or hearing the origin of my ancestors and my friend’s ancestors. I can’t remember realizing that my teachers weren’t Jewish, that the world wasn’t Jewish, and that tattoos with strange numbers on your grandparents’ arms weren’t a normal, common, everyday thing. I can’t remember ever finding the name “Auschwitz” peculiar, or understanding that genocides weren’t normal, common, everyday topics either. I can’t remember connecting the words savagery, poetry, and love.
I can’t remember having learned the alphabet. Or carefully repeating the sounds of the vowels and consonants. I can’t remember having learned the strange sound of the letter h or having discovered the sensation of the w. I don’t remember feeling any coveted or sensual desire for another. That wasn’t yet a part of me. I can’t remember competing for a teacher’s attention. For her love and admiration. I can’t remember the fights, disappointments, the frustrations that only happened in school. I can’t remember the first time I saw a difference between boys and girls. I can’t remember the day that I looked at a girl and noticed something change in me. Like a more intense sparkle in my eye. Like an initial heat moving through my body.
I can’t remember the first time that I came home disappointed. I can’t remember the day that I discovered that all the other students were also special, and that the professors loved some of these special students more than the others. And I wasn’t special. I can’t remember the day one friend chose someone else over me. I should have completely erased from my memory the day that a girl chose to look for someone else, ignoring my perfection. I can’t remember understanding that the world could collapse one day. That I could be upset. That I could suffer.
I also can’t remember the day I discovered my parents weren’t perfect. That my dad wasn’t a hero. That my mother had chosen my father before she chose to conceive me. That I was only her second choice, or maybe her third. I can’t remember the day that I noticed my parents’ flaws. I can’t remember the day I first perceived their scents. A scent that wasn’t quite mine. I can’t remember the day I felt ashamed of my parents. When I could conceive the terrible differences and limitation of my brother. I was ashamed of being ashamed, and hid myself. I started to hide the stories of my house. I can’t remember the day I started being jealous of other families I thought to be normal, or the day I started wanting to be someone else. I don’t know how much time it took to create these fantasies. And how much time after their inception I discovered that they were impossible, and made no sense. When I discovered that everyone had to live his own pain and his own stories.
I can’t remember learning Hebrew. I can’t remember learning that Hebrew wasn’t spoken correctly in Brazil. I also can’t remember the day that I started to forget this language deliberately. Or when I perceived that Yiddish wasn’t spoken out in the streets. I can’t remember the day that I understood Yiddish words to have a negative connotation. A connotation of pain, of longing, of the diaspora of my family and feeling like neither my language nor my body could belong to one place or another. A useless attempt at cultural preservation. Of remembering times and epochs when my ancestors had been constantly on the run. Also, I can’t remember when I understood that to speak this language was to discriminate against the people and the country that had welcomed my family. I also can’t know if they truly felt welcome, if they were happy, if they lived in peace. I can’t remember conversing with them about it. Nor do I know how they passed on to me culture, history, family values, and the pain of Judaism. I also can’t remember the first time I ate gefilte fish.
I can’t remember the passion I had for the morning prayers. I can’t remember the reason I sang the Hebrew verses (of which I understood nothing) with such fervor and happiness. I can’t remember the certainty I had regarding the existence of God. Of the Jewish God. I can’t say that when I prayed, I believed that my God could hear me. I also can’t say for certain when I deceived Him, and when I was vile and petty, longing for God to forget me in those moments. I can’t remember the day that God abandoned me nor the day that I abandoned Him. Forever. I can’t remember having killed Him, or when He killed my uncle. I don’t know who did it. I can’t remember my family’s pain—my grandparents’ or my cousins’. I can’t remember the day I understood that my parents and I were just human.
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I can’t remember most of the day that I began to consider love to mean suffering. I can’t remember the day I first loved the first girl that didn’t love me back. When I started to turn melancholy. I can’t remember feeling certain that I was the best and most intelligent of anyone. I don’t remember feeling stupid, arrogant, and brazen. Being a wallflower. Hiding within myself. Cursing others. Finding out that the world was not good or good enough for me. I also can’t remember the day that I liked being embedded in the goy world, and that I started hating and loving Judaism simultaneously. When I started detesting fasting and remembering, constantly, the unhappiness of my people. I was enchanted by the possibility of living in a strong, new, aggressive country. I can’t remember the day that I had, for the first time, a grudge against the synagogue and many of its members. I can’t remember why anymore. I can’t remember the aversion I had to their scents, clothes, and stinginess.
I can’t remember why I found the Catholic world to be different and better. I can’t remember the reason for considering the Jewish world strange and worse. I can’t remember why I started to read. I no longer remember the first, second, or third book that I read. I can’t remember how they made me feel. I can’t remember why I found carrying a book around in my hands so special. I can’t remember liking any of the books I read for high school.
Translation by Stephen A. Sadow _______________________________________________
Pablo A. Freinkel (Bahía Blanca, Argentina, 1957). Licenciado en Bioquímica. Periodista y escritor. Sus artículos y notas se han dado a conocer en Buenos Aires, New York y Jerusalem; y en medios online nacionales y extranjeros. Es autor de cinco libros: Diccionario Biográfico Bahiense, el ensayo Metafísica y Holocausto, y las novelas El día que Sigmund Freud asesinó a Moisés y Los destinos sagrados. Escribió el guión del documental Matthias Sindelar: un gol por la vida. Ha dictado conferencias sobre Spinoza, Maimónides y literatura judía argentina actual, en diferentes instituciones del país. El lector de Spinoza acaba de publicarse.
Pablo A. Freinkel (Bahía Blanca, Argentina, 1957) who has a degree in biochemistry. He is a journalist and writer. His articles and notes have been published in Buenos Aires, New York and Jerusalem, in Argentine and international online media. Freinkel is the author of five books: Diccionario Biográfico Bahiense, Metafísica y Holocausto, and the novel El día que Sigmund Freud asesinó a Moisés and Los destinos sagrados. He wrote the script for Matthias Sindelar: un gol por la vida. He has lectured on Spinoza, Maimonides and on contemporary Argentine-Jewish literature throughout Argentina. His El lector de Spinoza has just been published.
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Baruj Spinoza
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Baruch Spinoza logró escribir una serie de textos que definirían sus corrientes filosóficas. Uno de sus primeros trabajos fue Breve tratado acerca de Dios, el hombre y su felicidad (1658). En esta obra, Spinoza realizó una ardua crítica contra la biblia y la iglesia católica, partiendo de un pensamiento racionalista, el cual se mantendría en el resto de sus investigaciones y postulados filosóficos.
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Baruch Spinoza managed to write a series of texts that would define his philosophical currents. One of his first works was a short treatise on God, man and their happiness (1658). In this work, Spinoza made an arduous criticism against the Bible and the Catholic Church, starting from a rationalist thought, which would be maintained in the rest of his investigations and philosophical postulates.
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“El lector de Spinoza”
Don Segismundo está leyendo de un cuaderno personal:
“Poco antes del mediodía”, leyó, “vino un hombre de mediana estatura, delgado, cabellera amplia, oscura, de hasta veinticinco años, no más. Al principio, me pareció tímido, apocado, como si no supiera qué solicitar. Echó un vistazo por el salón, dejó vagar los ojos por anaqueles y mesas hasta que irresoluto, como luchando consigo mismo, se acercó hasta el mostrador. Al verlo a tan poca distancia, me pareció percibir una luz diferente ardiendo en sus pupilas. Se dirigió a mí con corrección y voz clara, sin falsas cadencias. „Buen día, señor‟, saludó. „Estoy averiguando sobre algunos libros del filósofo Baruj Spinoza. ¿Lo conoce?‟
“Me llamó la atención porque no daba el tipo spinoziano y por la pregunta final. Me sonaba más como una broma; sin embargo, la seriedad con que me interpeló hizo que pronto se disiparan mis dudas”. ¿Busca algún título en particular o se está iniciando en su estudio?‟ Pareció dudar tal vez porque no había considerado esta situación-. „Si este es el caso, podría empezar con un estudio general sobre su obra, una introducción, para después proseguir con sus textos. Usted debe saber que la erudición de Spinoza es complicada si no se tiene un concepto previo‟.
“Sí, comprendo‟.
“El ímpetu del que había hecho lucimiento al principio se fue diluyendo y lo reflejaba su rostro con rapidez. Intuí que debía ponerme al frente de la situación e intentar un rescate de emergencia”. „Vamos a hacer lo siguiente. En primer lugar, ¿por qué desea usted tomar conocimiento de la obra de Spinoza?”
“La decepción iba en continuo crecimiento y le quitaba edad a sus facciones. Ahora no semejaba tener más de veinte años. La duda lo carcomía por dentro; le faltaba el impulso para decidirse a hablar. Yo ya no sabía cómo darle ánimos sin caer en la categoría de indiscreto”. „Todo empezó en un Kabalat Shabat, por una crítica del… sacerdote…‟, “dudó al emplear la palabra”. ¿Rabino?‟, “Lo corregí. No me escuchó. En cambio, me miró como calibrando mi aspecto antes de hacer la pregunta que consideraba crucial”. „Disculpe, señor… ¿Usted es judío?”
“Bueno, bueno”, pensé. “Basta que todo esto no derive en una cuestión de antisemitismo. Pero me arriesgué y respondí afirmativamente”.
Don Segismundo dejó de leer para mirarme directamente a la cara.
-Marquitos, vos no podés imaginarte la cara de alivio de ese muchacho. Ahora sí, no le daba más de veinte años, con una sonrisa radiante, sus ojos limpios de toda nube de aprensión. Todavía recuerdo la imagen y me emociona. Sigo.
Volvió al cuaderno.
“Sí.refería a la fe, a los creyentes, a la fuerza y la misericordia de Adonai. En un momento, se desvió de su prédica y empezó a atacar a los que rechazan la existencia de Dios, propagan falsas interpretaciones, niegan las verdades eternas transmitidas por los santos profetas y responsabilizó al hereje holandés Baruj Spinoza, expulsado de la Casa de Israel justamente por envenenar la mente de los piadosos. Nadie comprendía nada, muy pocos o ninguno habíamos escuchado alguna vez el nombre de esa persona…‟
“Esto despertó mi atención. Lo interrumpí. “¿De dónde viene usted?‟
“El muchacho permaneció en silencio mientras pensaba con rapidez. Entregaba una imagen de tanto candor que sus reacciones dibujaban los gestos de su cara. „De un pequeño pueblo al oeste. No tenemos shill y los que queremos recibir y honrar el shabat vamos a una localidad cercana, que tiene un rabino‟.¿Ese sitio tiene nombre?,‟ pregunté. „Compréndame si prefiero no dar detalles. Ahora mismo no sé si hago bien en estar hablando de esto con usted‟. „Claro. No quiero comprometerlo‟. „Al término de la ceremonia me acerqué al rabino y con algún temor le pregunté quién era ese Spinoza que había recibido una crítica tan severa de su parte. Enojado, de malas maneras, me ordenó que me mantenga apartado de él, era un impío, un traidor. Por supuesto, lejos de convencerme, me animó a averiguar algo más sobre ese personaje. Regresé a mi casa y consulté un diccionario. En dos o tres renglones me informó que era un filósofo holandés, las fechas de nacimiento y muerte, y que su divisa era una frase en latín, creo, que no recuerdo…‟ „Deus, sive Natura, dije‟. „¿Perdón?‟ „Así se define su filosofía: Dios, o sea la Naturaleza‟. „Ah. No sabía qué significaba‟. „Ahora lo sabe. ¿Qué pasó después?‟ Pasé el fin de semana obsesionado con Spinoza. En realidad, no tenía nada qué pensar sobre él porque lo ignoraba todo. Además, en el pueblo no había nadie con los conocimientos necesarios para aclararme el panorama. Me volvían a la memoria las palabras inusitadamente implacables del rabino, por lo común amable, tranquilo. El lunes le pedí a mi padre unas horas libres, yo estoy empleado en su comercio, y volví a la ciudad. Fui a la Biblioteca Pública, donde solicité consultar una enciclopedia. Cuando le dije a la anciana bibliotecaria el tema que quería conocer, me miró con asombro y desconfianza. Sin embargo, me orientó en la búsqueda. Al entrar a la sala de lectura, llevaba en mis manos un antiguo volumen, las letras doradas del lomo gastadas por el tiempo y el uso; cuando lo abrí, el crujido de las hojas resecas, amarillas, me produjo un temblor que fue casi como una advertencia. Rápidamente, encontré lo que buscaba. Spinoza, Benito. Filósofo judío nacido en Ámsterdam, de familia sefardita. Anoté los datos en unas hojas sueltas; en especial, los libros que había escrito. El punto que me más me afectó fue enterarme que había sido expulsado del judaísmo por sus posiciones heréticas. Al devolver el libro, pregunté a la encargada si la Biblioteca contaba con algún libro de ese autor. Dijo que no y al ver la mueca de desencanto que seguramente esbozó mi rostro, me observó con muy detenimiento.
Entonces, quiso saber por qué yo, una persona tan joven, buscaba escritos de un hombre que había vivido tantos años atrás y dejado una reputación tan mala en religión y filosofía. No supe qué contestarle, pero algo me decía que allí podría haber una oportunidad para averiguar algo más. „Escuché que alguien hablaba de sus enseñanzas y me despertó la curiosidad, respondí a medias‟.
„En ese caso, es muy poco lo que podrá recoger aquí. Si está tan interesado como dice, hay en la Capital una librería atendida por un señor muy especial que podrá ayudarlo en su pesquisa. Es discreto y muy buen intencionado. Vaya a verlo‟. „Tomó un papel de los que se utilizaban para anotar los pedidos y rápidamente garabateó unas líneas‟. „Espero que le sea útil para resolver sus dudas. Pero no crea demasiado lo que tiene Spinoza para decir. Buenos días‟. „No me dio tiempo a nada, ni siquiera a agradecerle pues desapareció en una oficinita anexa‟.
Don Segismundo detuvo la lectura y alzó la vista como para enfocar un acontecimiento del pasado que circulara por delante de sus ojos.
-Supongo innecesario aclarar que le dirección que le entregó la buena señora era de la librería. Cuando la inauguré, remití creo que cientos de cartas de presentación a bibliotecas públicas y privadas en una amplia zona alrededor de esta ciudad. Me alegra saber que algunas llegaron y fueron bien valoradas.
-¿Tiene alguna lista de destinatarios? –pregunté ansioso.
-Las ubiqué en una guía de teléfonos. Ésa fue mi lista. Lo siento.
-Está bien.
Nuestro anfitrión volvió a la lectura y al relato de su inesperado cliente: „Pasaron varias jornadas de duda e indecisión. Me preguntaba si para satisfacer un capricho debía sacrificar un día de trabajo, además del dinero para el pasaje en tren y después si se justificaba gastar en libros de destino impreciso. Pero allí permanecía el ansia de saber y cada tanto retornaba azuzándome con su aguijón. Hasta que hoy por la mañana me di cuenta de que no podía luchar más contra esta idea fija. Inventé una excusa para demorar mi ingreso al negocio y aquí me tiene. ¿En qué puede ayudarme para salvar esta situación? Lo único que yo puedo hacer es ofrecerle libros para que conozca al personaje y su doctrina. Tal vez pueda darle algunas precisiones o detalles, pero nada mejor que leer a los eruditos sobre un tema para conocerlo a fondo‟.
“Pensé por unos instantes cuáles podían ser los textos que le servirían como introducción a un asunto tan complejo y se me ocurrió una recurso que podría resultar favorable. „Espere un segundo‟, le dije.
“Fui hasta unos anaqueles que reunían distintos autores y asuntos filosóficos, tomé dos volúmenes y regresé hasta donde estaba el joven, impaciente. Al verlo en este estado, le pregunté si se sentía bien. „Sí, replicó. Lo que pasa es que tengo que presentarme en el trabajo en poco tiempo. Mi papá empieza a sospechar que ando en algo raro‟. „Bueno, aprovechemos el tiempo de la mejor manera. Aquí tengo un material con el cual usted podrá tomar contacto por primera vez con el maestro de Ámsterdam. Una biografía escrita por Karl Gebhardt, creo que es un material comprensible para un neófito y el Tratado Teológico Político que, aunque por su título parece catastrófico, su estilo permite un rápido acceso; claro, tiene su dificultad, no se lo voy a negar, pero Spinoza es un maestro en el arte de hacer asequible lo complicado‟.
“Le entregué los libros y él los miró como objetos de otro mundo. Recorrió las hojas sin mirar nada específico, hasta que con un tono de resignación me confesó: „No los puedo comprar; el dinero no me alcanza‟.
“Entonces hice algo que nunca había hecho hasta entonces y que muy pocas veces lo repetí en el futuro: „Llévelos, con confianza. Los va pagando a medida que pueda‟.
„Pero usted no me conoce. Ni siquiera sabe mi nombre, protestó‟. „No crea, lo conozco más de lo que usted piensa. Además, un nombre no hace ninguna diferencia. Importa la persona‟.
“Me miró con un brillo lacrimal en los ojos. A continuación, buscó en el bolsillo de su pantalón, extrajo un billete de muy baja denominación y me lo extendió. „Gracias. Yo después lo apunto‟.
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“The Reader of Spinoza”
Don Segismundo is reading from a personal diary:
“A little before noon,” he read, “a man of average stature, thin, with a lot of hair on his head, dark, perhaps twenty-five years old, no more, came in. At first, he appeared timid to me, shy, as if he didn’t know what to ask for. He took a quick look at the store, he let his eyes wander through the shelves and tables until, hesitant, as if her were fighting with himself, he approached the counter. Seeing him up close, I seemed to perceive a strange kind of light burning in his pupils. He turned to me addressed me with care and a clear voice, without false cadences. “Good day, sir.” He greeted me.
“I am looking for some books by the philosopher Baruj Spinoza. Do you know him?” ”This caught my attention because he didn’t to be the Spinozan type and for the last question. It sounded like a joke to me: nevertheless, the seriousness with which he questioned me caused my doubts to dissipate.” “Are you looking for a specific title or are you beginning your study?” “He seemed doubtful, perhaps because he had never considered this possibility. “If that is the case, you could begin with a general study of his works, an introduction, in order to later proceed with his texts. You need to know that Spinoza’s erudition is complicated if you don’t have a prior concept of it.”
“Yes, I understand.”
The impetus that had shown at the beginning was failing, and it was quickly showing in his face. I intuited that I ought to take charge of the situation and try for an emergency rescue. “Let’s do the following. First of all, why do why to you want to learn about Spinoza’s work?” “The disappointment was continually growing, and it made his face look younger. Doubt was eating inside of him: he lacked the desire to speak. I didn’t know how to prompt him without out being indiscreet.” “Everything began in a Kabbalat Shabbat, with the criticism of the. . .priest,” “He was doubtful about using that word.” “Rabbi?” I corrected him. “He didn’t listen to me. Instead, he looked at me, calculating my look, before asking the question that considered crucial.” “Forgive me, sir . . .Are you Jewish?” “Good, good, I thought. “I hope that this doesn’t come out of question of anti-Semitism. But I took a risk and answered affirmatively.”
Don Segismundo stopped reading to look me straight in the face. “Marquitos, you can’t imagine the face of relief that this boy had. Now, he didn’t seem to be more twenty years old, with a radiant smile, his eyes cleansed of any cloud of apprehension. I still remember the picture, and it moves me. I continue. He turned back to the notebook.
The boy remained silent while he thought rapidly. He gave off an image of such candor that his reactions were drawn of the movements of his face. “From a small town to the west. We don’t have a shul and those who want to receive and honor the Shabbat go to a nearby locale, that has a rabbi.” “Does that place have a name?” I asked, “Please understand if I prefer not to get into details. At this moment, I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing by speaking with you.” “Of course. I don’t want to compromise you.” “At the end of the ceremony a approached the rabbi a with some fear, I asked him who was that Spinoza who had received such severe criticism. Angered, bad-mannered, he ordered that I keep away from Spinoza, that he was impious, a traitor. Of course, far from convincing me, I was encouraged to find out something more about that personage. I returned home and I consulted a dictionary. In two or three lines, it informed me that he was a Dutch philosopher. The dates of his birth and death, and that his motto was a phrase in Latin that I don’t remember. . . “Deus sive Natura,” I said. “Excuse me” “That is how his philosophy is defined: God, or be it Nature.” “Ah. I didn’t know what it meant.” “Now he knew. What happened next?” “I spent the weekend obsessed by Spinoza. Truthfully, I didn’t have anything to think about him, because I didn’t know anything. Also, in the town, there wasn’t anyone with the knowledge necessary to clarify the panorama. The unusually implacable words of the rabbi came back to me; he is a man generally friendly and tranquil. On Monday, I asked my father for a few hours off, I am employed in his business, and I returned to the city.”
“Yes, yes, of course, I wanted to say rabbi,” he corrected himself,” blushing. “Yes. he was referring to the faith, to the believers, to the force and mercy of Adonai. In a moment, he went off his sermon and began to attack those who reject the existence of God, put out false interpretations, deny the eternal truths transmitted by the holy prophets and put the responsibility on the Dutch heretic Baruj Spinoza, justly expelled from the House of Israel for poisoning the minds of the pious. Nobody understood anything, very few or no one had ever heard the name of that man. . .”
“That caught my attention.” I interrupted him. “Where are you from?”
The boy remained silent while he thought rapidly. He gave off an image of such candor that his reactions were drawn of the movements of his face. “From a small town to the west. We don’t have a shul and those who want to receive and honor the Shabbat go to a nearby locale, that has a rabbi.” “Does that place have a name?” I asked, “Please understand if I prefer not to get into details. At this moment, I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing by speaking with you.” “Of course. I don’t want to compromise you.” “At the end of the ceremony a approached the rabbi a with some fear, I asked him who was that Spinoza who had received such severe criticism. Angered, badly mannered, He ordered that I keep away from him, that he was impious, a traitor. Of course, far from convincing me, I was encouraged to find out something more about that personage. I returned home and I consulted a dictionary. In two or three lines, it informed me that he was a Dutch philosopher. The dates of his birth and death, and that his motto was a phrase in Latin that I don’t remember. . . “Deus sive Natura, I said. “Excuse me” “That is how is philosophy is defined: God, of be it Nature.” “Ah. I didn’t know what it meant.” “Now he knew. What happened next?” “I spent the week end obsessed by Spinoza. Truthfully, I didn’t have anything to think about him, because I didn’t know anything. Also, in the town, there wasn’t anyone with the knowledge necessary to clarify the panorama. The unusually implacable words of the rabbi came back to me; a man generally friendly and tranquil. On Monday, I asked my father for a few hours off, I am employed in his business, and I returned to the city.”
I went to the Public Library, where I asked to use an encyclopedia. When I told the aged librarian the theme that I wanted to know about, she looked at me with amazement and mistrust. Nevertheless, she oriented me in my search, Upon entering the reading room, I carried in my hands an old volume, the letters golden letters on the spine worn by time and usage; when I opened it, the crackling of the very dry pages, yellowed, produced in me a shiver that was almost like a warning. Rapidly, I found what I was seeking, Spinoza, Benito. Jewish philosopher born in Amsterdam, of a Sephardic family. I took down notes on some loose pieces of paper, especially, the books he had written. The point that affected me the most was when I learned that he had been expelled from Judaism for his heretical positions. On returning the book, I asked the person in charge if the Library had any books by that author. She said no, but on seeing my grimace of dismay that surely passed over my face, she observed me carefully.”
“Then, she wanted to know why I, a person so young, was looking for writings by a man who had lived so many years ago and left behind such a poor reputation in religion and philosophy. I didn’t know how to answer her, but something told me that there I could have the opportunity to clarify something more. “I heard that someone was speaking about his teachings and it awakened my curiosity,” I answered have-heartedly.”
“In that case, there is very little you can get here. If you are as interested as you say, there is in the Capital,a bookstore, run by a very special gentleman who can probably help you in your search. He is discreet and well-meaning. Go see him.” “She took a piece of paper from those that were used to note down requests and rapidly scribbled some lines.” “I hope that he will he helpful in resolving your doubts. But don’t believe too much in what Spinosa has to say. Good day.” “She didn’t give me time to do anything, not even thank her since she disappeared into a small office nearby.”
Don Segismundo stopped the reading and raised his eyes as if to focus on an event in the past that was circulating in front of his eyes.
“I suppose it’s unnecessary to state the address that the good lady gave you was of this bookstore. When I opened the store, I sent out, I think, hundreds of announcements to public and private libraries in a broad area around this city. I’m pleased to know that they arrived and were valued.”
“Do you have a list of the recipients.” I asked anxiously.
“I found them in a telephone book. That was my list. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry.”
Our host returned to his reading and the story of his unexpected client: “Several days of doubt and indecision passed by. I wondered if to satisfy a whim I ought to sacrifice a day of work, as well as the money for the train and then if it was justifiable to waste about books of an imprecise destination. But the desire to know remained and every once in a while, returned pushing me with its sting. Until this morning I couldn’t fight any longer against this fixed idea. I invented an excuse to delay my entry into the business it had me there. What can help me to save this situation? The only thing I could do is offer him books so that he knew the man and his doctrine. Perhaps I can give him some bits of information and details, but there is nothing better to read the scholars about a theme in order to know it in depth.
“I thought for a few moments about which books could be the texts that might serve him as an introduction to such a complex issue and a resource occurred to me that could have a favorable result. . . ”Wait a moment,” I told him.
“I went over to some shelves where authors and philosophical were kept, I took two volumes and I returned to where the young man was impatiently waiting. Seeing him in this state, I asked him if he felt okay.” “Yes,” he replied. What happened is that I have to return to work very soon. My papa is beginning to suspect that I’m involved in something strange”. “Okay, let’s take advantage of the time in the best way possible. Here I have a book with which you will come in contact for the first time with the master from Amsterdam. A biography written by Karl Gebbart, I believe it is a work understandable by a neophyte and the Tractate Theological-Political, which, although it’s title seems catastrophic, his style permits a rapid access; of course, it has its difficulties, I won’t deny it, but Spinoza is a master in the art of making the complicated accessible”.
“I gave him the books, and he looked at them as if they were objects from another world. He flipped through the pages without looking for something specific, until, with a tone of resignation, he confessed, “I can’t buy them. I don’t have enough money.”
“Then, I did something that I had never done until then and that I rarely did in the future.” “Take them, on trust. You will pay for them as you can.
“But you don’t know me. You don’t even know my name, he protested” “Don’t you believe it. I know you better than you think. Moreover, a name doesn’t make any difference. What’s important is the person.”
“He looked at me with a teary shine in his eyes. Then, he looked in his pants pocket, extracted a bill of a very small denomination and he extended it to me.”
Sabina Berman Goldberg es una escritora, periodista y dramaturga mexicana, nacida 1955, en la Ciudad de México. Sus padres, de origen judío-polaco, emigraron a México ella. con el estallido de la Segunda Guerra Mundial, él durante el gobierno de Lázaro Cárdenas del Río. Sabina creció en México, al lado de tres hermanosProfesionalmente, estudió psicología y letras mexicanas en la Universidad Iberoamericana. Debutó como guionista de cine con la cinta de horror La tía Alejandra (1979), para luego dedicarse por varios años al periodismo y la enseñanza. Volvería en la década de los años 90, con el guión para la cinta Entre Pancho Villa y una mujer desnuda (1996), para luego trabajar en las cintas El traspatio (2009), Gloria (2014) y Macho (2016). Sabina ha escrito tres novelas, La bobe, La mujer que buceó en el corazón del mundo y El Dios de Darwin, además de ser reconocida con el Premio Nacional de Periodismo y el Premio de la Feria Internacional de Frankfurt, en Alemania. Ahora es locutora de un programa de opinión en la televisión.
Sabina Berman Goldberg is a Mexican writer, journalist and playwright, born 1955, in Mexico City. His parents, of Polish-Jewish origin, emigrated to Mexico; él, during the government of Lázaro Cárdenas del Río y ella with the outbreak of World War II,. Sabi grew up in Mexico, next to three brothers.Professionally, he studied psychology and Mexican literature at the Universidad Iberoamericana. He made his debut as a film screenwriter with the horror film La tía Alejandra (1979), and then devoted himself to journalism and teaching for several years. He would return in the 90s, with the script for the film Between Pancho Villa and a naked woman (1996), to later work on the films El traspatio (2009), Gloria (2014) and Macho (2016). Sabina has written three novels, La bobe, La mujer que buceó en el corazón del mundo and El Dios de Darwin, in addition to being recognized with the National Prize for Journalism and the Prize of the Frankfurt International Fair in Germany. Now she leads a television program of opinion and discusion.
Sabina Berman, La bobe. México, D.F: Planeta., 1990.
Sabina Berman. La bobe/The Grandma
“Le platico a mi madre”
Le platico a mi madre de este señor llamado Moisés. Estamos en el comedor, mis hermanos se han ido a jugar al jardín. Le platico que Moisés, lleno de la fuera de Dios, abrió los brazos, y el Mar rojo se abrió y entonces Moisés, seguido por el pueblo judío, avanzó entre las paredes del mar alzado.
Mi madre atiende divertida, sus ojos verdes, casi grises, son verde- turquesa cuando es feliz. Terminado mi relato, se despeja la frente del mechón de cabello rubio y me explica:
El señor, ese Moisés era un astrónomo egipcio y conociendo los movimientos de las mareas llegó ante el Mar Rojo en el momento que sus aguas estaban bien bajas. Además el Mar Rojo no era un mar, era un mar, era un lago de aguas mansas. Además no era rojo. Así que fue así: Moisés llegó en el momento adecuado para cruzar sin problemas ese charco.
Al día siguiente, en la clase de la Biblia, pido la palabra. Digo: Moisés que era un egipcio que había estudiad astronomía. . .
La maestra me interrumpe para corregir: Moisés era un judío. . .
No, digo. Era un egipcio que le dijo a los judíos algunas mentiras, como ésa de ser judío. . .
Espérame en la dirección, dice la maestra.
Me enseñan en la escuela y en casa me desenseñan. Me enseñan en casa y en la escuela e en la escuela me expulsaron.
Me dice mi mamá.
Eso de que el pueblo judío es un pueblo elegido de Dios es lo que se llama un milagro de la imaginación. Fíjate los judíos somos el pueblo más maltratado de la historia: cada cincuenta o cien algún tirano trata de exterminarnos, cada que un país quiere echarle la culpa de sus desgracias a alguien se la echó a los judíos, así que los judíos, ¿qué hacemos los judíos? Inventamos entre nosotros que Dios, ese señor invisible, ese señor hipotético (después hablamos de lo que quiere decir hipotético), Dios, ése, sí nos adora. Cómo verás locura pura.
Al día siguiente vuelvo a casa con una nota de expulsión.
I I speak to my mother about this man called Moses. We’re in the dining room; my brothers have gone out into the garden to play. I tell her the Moses, infuse with God’s strength, opened his arms and the Red Sea parted, and then, followed by the Jewish people, he advanced between the walls of the risen sea.
My mother listens, amused, her green-gray eyes turning turquoise, as they do when she’s happy. When I finish my story, she brushes a blonde curl from her forehead and explains:
“This guy Moses was a n Egyptian astronomer who understood the tides and arrived at the Red Sea just when the water level was very low. Besides, the Red Sea wasn’t a sea at all, it was a lake with very calm waters. And it wasn’t really red. So it’s like this: Moses arrived at exactly the right moment when he could cross that pond without any problems.”
The next day in Bible class, I raise my hand. I say: “Moses was an Egyptian who studied astronomy. . .”
The teacher interrupts me and corrects me: “Moses was a Jew.”
“No,” I insist. “He was an Egyptian who told lies to the Jews; he told them he was Jewish.”
“Wait for me in the office,” the teacher says.
In school, they teach me things that I have to unlearn at home. They teach me things at home, and I’m expelled from school.
My mother explains: “The business about the Jews being God’s chosen people is what we call a miracle of the imagination. Look: we Jews are the most abused people in history. Every fifty or one hundred years some tyrant comes along and tries to exterminate us. Every time some country wants to blame someone for its problems, they blame the Jews, and we Jews, what do we do? We delude ourselves with the story that God, that invisible guy, that hypothetical guy gentleman, (later, we’ll discuss the meaning of hypothetical), really adores us. You see? Sheer craziness.”
The next day I come home from school with an expulsion notice.
Bendice las velas del Shabat: sus manos cortas, delgadas, sobrevuelan las flamas en círculos lentísimos, las seis flamas, las ocho flamas, la corona de luces del candelabro de plata de ocho brazos dispuestos en círculo. El velo de encaje blanco sobre la cabeza, sobre los ojos, los labios murmurando la oración que agradece y da la bienvenida al Shabat: la reina del día del descanso. La mesa está puesta para quince personas, platos blancos con borde de azul cobalto, cubiertas de plata, copas, vasos, jarras, el vaso de plata en la cabecera para el abuelo. En la cocina la comida está lista desde el atardecer. Ha trabajado desde la mañana del día anterior preparando el arenque marinado, la carpa, el pescado rebosado, el pescado relleno, el caldo, los fideos para el caldo, el pollo al horno, el lomo, las zanahorias con pasitas, la col rellena, la compota de fruta, el strudl, el pastel de manzana, el pan trenzado. Por fin, cuando en el ventanal de la sala el cielo estaba rojizo, se ha quitado en el baño la ropa olorosa de guisos y salmuera y se ha bañado en la tina. Se ha perfumado y peinado y vestido con minucia. Ante el espejo del dormitorio de ha pintado los labios de carmín subido. Se ha colocado el collar de perlas y se ha quedado mirando sus ojos negros en el espejo, los aretes de perla gris, su vestido azul marino de seda cruda. Preparar la comida y preparar su aspecto: lo ha hecho con igual religiosidad. Ha ido acumulando los detalles del ritual que cerca ese día, lo aparta de los otros, consagra sus horas, las disuelve en otro tiempo libre de urgencias mundanas, un tiempo imantado de lo eterno. Entre los haceres del ritual, le ha servido al abuelo un té, o dos, le ha servido la cena y más tarde el desayuno; asistió cuando escuchó sus gritos de náufrago para arrebatarle el periódico entre cuyas noticias atroces se hundía y le ha servido otro té, ahora de yerbabuena, con otros cuatro terrones de azúcar, mientras él abría la Guía de Maimónides, su tabla de salvación. En algún momento me ha recibido a mí, su nieta menor; la puerta del elevador se ha abierto, ha tomado de mis manos la maleta con ropa de fiesta, se ha inclinado para que la bese rodeándole el cuelo con los brazos, me ha sentado en el estudio, ante el escritorio, para que trabaje en mis cuadernos. Ha sacado los dos panes trenzados del horno. Le ha entregado al abuelo el estuche de terciopelo rojo tinto que guarda el libro de rezos y lo ha despedido en la puerta. Ha ido de cuarto en cuarto encendiendo las luces de techo y las lámparas, porque iniciado el Shabat están proscritos los trabajos, incluso el nimio de prender la luz. En el estudio descolgó el teléfono: si ni siquiera a las bestias les es permitido trabajar en Shabat, me explicó alguna vez, menos a los teléfonos. Se ha bañado y vestido acicalado. Entonces me ha llamados para revisar mi atuendo: el pelo a la príncipe valiente, el traje de falda y saco color crema con rebordes azules en el cuelo y las mangas, las calcetas blancas, bien dobladas al tobillo, visibles bajo mis primorosas botitas de plástico transparente. Se ha quedado absorta en las botitas, nunca había visto algo así, ha dicho. Son casi increíbles, ha dicho, azorada. Tienen en las punteras un rombo rosa fosforescente. Es lo moderno, le he dicho yo. Cuando en el ventanal, en el cielo aún diurno apareció el punto de luz de la primera estrella, hemos ido a la sala, se ha colocado sobre la cabeza y los ojos en velo de encajes, ha encendido las flamas de l candelabro y las ha bendecido.
Se quita el velo, sonriente. Me toma de ambas manos, meneando la cabeza. Menea la cabeza al lento ritmo de una música secreta, el mismo ritmo lo marca con los pies. La imito. Nos movemos así muy despacio por la estancia. Bailar a solas dos o una, bailar sin música y sin motivo, es como ofender flores a la alegría. Se inclina hacia mí para decirme muy quedo: Siente la Shabat, entrando. . .entrando. . . Coloca las yemas de dos dedos sobre mi corazón. Sí, ahí se siente, esa suavidad, entrando, entrando. . . ¿Es iz lijtik?, me pregunta en un sople de voz,¿Es luminoso? Pasa sus dedos sobre mis ojos para entrecerrarlos.
De pronto noto en la abuela un gesto de impaciencia, de urgencia, es como si quisiera verme por dentro, saber si me alcanza a tocar su voz, si comparto con ella esa luz. Sí, murmuro, la veo.
Seguimos moviéndonos despacio. Oib es iz lijtik, es shein, dice. Sí, es luminoso, es bello.
Oib es iz shein, susurra, sí es bello, es iz heilik, es sagrado. Me pregunta en un soplo de voz si entiendo. También a mí es difícil hablar, no rendirme completamente a ese encanto que sucede en silencio: le digo que sí, como en secreto, sí entiendo. Aún nos movemos, despacio. Ella dice que no, que todavía no entiendo, que me acuerde: es bello, es sagrado. Habla poco y cuando habla le faltan palabras para hacer largas explicaciones, entonces habla en aforismos. Vuelve a decir que no con la cabeza, sin dejar de bailar. No, ahora, no, no es posible que yo entienda ahora, pero debo aprenderlo de memoria. Bello: sagrado.
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“She Blesses the Shabbat Candles”
““She Blesses the Shabbat candles; her short, thin hands fly above the flames in very slow circles, six flames, eight flames, a crown of light circling the eight-branched silver candelabrum. A while lace veil on her head covers her eyes, as her lips murmur the prayer that welcomes and gives thanks for the Sabbath: the queen of the day of rest. The table is set for fifteen people: white plates with a cobalt blue border, cups, glasses, pitchers, my grandfather’s silver glass at the head of the table. In the kitchen the food has been ready since nightfall. She has worked since the morning of the previous day, preparing the pickled herring, the carp, gefilte fish, stuffed fish, soup, noodles for the soup, the roast chicken, the pot roast, carrots with raisins, stuffed cabbage, fruit compote, strudel, apple pie, challah. Finally, when the sky turns coppery outside the living room window, she goes into the bathroom and removes the clothes that are of seasonings and brine, and she bathes in the tub. She meticulously perfumes, combs, and dresses herself. She paints her lips bright red before the vanity mirror. She puts on her gray pearl necklace and contemplates her appearance in the mirror; her black eyes, her gray pearl earrings, her navy raw silk dress. Preparing the food and preparing herself; she has done both with equal devotion. She has been accumulating the rituals that surround this day, that separate it from the rest of the week.
She has consecrated its hours, dissolving them into another time that is free from worldly pressure, a time that is charged with eternity. Between performing the duties of the ritual, she has served my grandfather his cup of tow of tea; she has served dinner, and later, breakfast. She has come running when she heard his cries, like a mand drowning behind his newspaper, and has snatched it away from him because he has been sinking in the morass of bad news. She has served him yet another cup of tea, mint this time, with four additional lumps of sugar, while he opened his copy of Maimonides’s Guide, his tablet of salvation. At some point she opens the door for me, her youngest granddaughter; the elevator door opens up and she takes my little suitcase with my holiday clothes from my hand. She leans over to let me kiss her and throw my arms around her neck. She sits me down at the desk in the study so I can do my homework. She takes the two challahs from the oven. She hands my grandfather the wine-red velvet case that holds his prayer book, and she takes leave of him at the door. She goes from room to room, turning on the ceiling lights and the lamps, because once Shabbat begins, all work is forbidden, even the trivial task of turning on the lights. She disconnects the phone in the study; not even animals are allowed to work on Shabbat, so why should the telephone? She once explained to me, years before. She is bathed, dressed, and adorned. Then she calls me over to check my appearance: my Prince Valiant hairstyle, my cream-colored suit with a blue border on the collar and sleeves, my white socks neatly doubled over at the ankle showing through my dainty, transparent little plastic boots. She seems fascinated by my boots; she’s never seen anything like them before, she says. “They’re incredible,” she says with astonishment. On the toes they have an iridescent pink plastic rhombus. “They’re the latest thing,” I explain.
When the point of light of the first evening star appears in the still-daylit sky through the living room window, we go to the living room, where he places the lace veil over her head and shoulders, lights the flames of the candelabrum and blesses them.
Smiling, she removes the veil. She takes me by both hands, moving her head from side to side. She moves her head to the slow rhythm of a secret music, the same rhythm that she marks with her feet. I imitate her. We move very slowly like this across the room. For one person or two to dance like this, alone, with out music, is like offering flowers to happiness. She bends over to whisper to me: “Feel Shabbas coming in, coming in. . . “She places the pads of her fingers in my heart. “Yes, that’s where you feel it, that softness, coming in, coming in. . . Es is lichtik? Is it shining? She passes her fingers across my eyelids, closing them.
Suddenly I notice a gesture of impatience or urgency in my grandmother. It’s as though she wants to see inside me, to find out if her voice has reached me, if I share that light with her.
“Yes.” I whisper, “I feel it.”
We keep moving, slowly. Oyb es is lichtik, es is shayn,” she says. If it’s shining, it’s beautiful/ Oyb esis shayn es is haylik.” “If it’s beautiful,” she whispers, “it’s holy.” She asks me in a breath of a voice if I understand, I too, find it hard to speak, not to submit completely to that enchanted silence. I tell her yes, as if confiding a secret, yes, I understand. We’re still moving, slowly. She says no, I don’t understand yet. I should remember: it’s beautiful, it’s sacred. She hardly speaks, and when she does, she lacks the words for long explanations, so she uses aphorisms. Again she shakes her head, no without stopping the dance. No, not now: it’s not possible for me to understand it now, but I must learn it by rote: beautiful, sacred.
Sergio Chejfec nació en Buenos Aires en 1956, empezó a publicar en revistas literarias mientras trabajaba como librero, taxista u oficinista. En 1990, ya en Caracas, se integró a la redacción de la revista cultural y de ciencias sociales Nueva Sociedad. El autor recibió el premio Konex, fue becario de la Fundación Guggenheim y residente en Civitella Ranieri (Italia) y la Maison des Écrivains Étrangers et des Traducteurs (MEET) de Saint-Nazaire. Publicó las novelas Lenta biografía y Moral (1990). Le sucedieron títulos como El aire (1992), Cinco (1996), El llamado de la especie (1997), Los planetas (1999), Boca de lobo (2000), Los incompletos (2004), Baroni: un viaje(2007), Mis dos mundos(2008), La experiencia dramática (2012) y la colección de cuentos Modo linterna (2013). También publicó libros de poemas como Tres poemas y una merced (2002), Gallos y huesos (2003), y los ensayos El punto vacilante (2005) y Sobre Giannuzzi (2010). Sus últimos libros, característicos de la hibridez genérica y la renombrada incertidumbre referencial que definía su estilo, fueron Últimas noticias de la escritura (2016), El visitante (2017), Teoría del ascensor (2018), 5 (2019) y No hablen de mí: una vida y su museo (2021). Adaptado de Letralia.
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Sergio Chejfec was born in Buenos Aires in 1956. He began to publish in literary magazines while he worked as a bookseller, taxi driver or clerk. In 1990, already in Caracas, he joined the editorial staff of the cultural and social science magazine Nueva Sociedad. The author received the Konex award, was a fellow of the Guggenheim Foundation and a resident at Civitella Ranieri (Italy) and the Maison des Écrivains Étrangers et des Traducteurs (MEET) in Saint-Nazaire. He published the novels Lenta biografía and Moral (1990). Titles such as El aire (1992), Cinco (1996), The call of the species (1997), Los planetas (1999), Boca de lobo (2000), Los incompletos (2004), Baroni: un viaje (2007) followed. , Mis dos mundos (2008), La experiencia dramática (2012) and the collection of stories Modo Linterna (2013). He also published books of poems such as Tres poemas y una merced (2002), Gallos y huesos (2003), and the essays El punto vacilante (2005) and Sobre Giannuzzi (2010). His latest books, characteristic of the generic hybridity and the renowned referential uncertainty that defined his style, were Últimas Noticias de la Lectura (2016), El visitante (2017), Teoría del ascensor (2018), 5 (2019) and No hablen de mí: una vida y su museo (2021). Adapted from Letralia.
Esas preguntas eran, ahora pienso, una materia sutil de imaginar; yo imaginaba caras, gestos, ojos. También eran la forma de pensarla familia que mi padre no tenía. Suponía las caras de mis tíos como variaciones leves de la suya, a pesar de que sus voces les concedía mayor flexibilidad: podían ser más agudas o graves que la de él. Creo que si mi imaginación era más permisiva en relación con ellas que con las caras, lo que fue justamente porque con su voz mi padre se distanciaba—de un modo permanente—de lo que me rodea; él hablaba otros idiomas y hablaba—habla mal el mío. Ruso, idisch, polaco, salían de su boca graves con la naturalidad que ortagaba el uso y con el infinito matiz de entonaciones que concede la total identificación la total identificación con el universo de la lengua.
Supongamos que escapando, mi padre vino a Buenos Aires escapándole a la guerra ya terminada, o más bien, o más bien quizá a sus consecuencias y recuerdos. Espantado de hambre; también—supongo– con la intención de radicarse. De aquellos judíos, los que no huyeron espantados casi todos terminaron muriéndose asesinados; seis de ellos fueron mis tíos, dos de ellos mis abuelos, o sea sus padres. El siempre tuvo respuestas escuetas para referirse a su familia desaparecida: cuántos eran hombres, cuántos mujeres, qué lugar ocupaba él en la escala cronológica, la diferencia de edad entre sus padres, y cosas por el estilo. Ese recato no estaba dado a su parte por una abierta y explícita negación a profundizar en estas cuestiones (en realidad más bien siempre se cuida de sugiera una circunstancia en la que se pudiese preguntar por ellas), sino que nos contagiaba el tono de sus respuestas precisas y lánguidas, que se rezumaban y transmitían un despego profundo con su pasado. Sin embargo, si ese alejamiento existía realmente, de noche desaparecía: nosotros sabíamos que soñaba de manera cotidiana con sus hermanos y padres, y era esto lo que nos desconcertaba.
Es como si los muertos nos visitaran como vivos, pero ataviados por nosotros. Esas cosas no reflejaba yo cuando era chico; imaginaba difusas las caras que mis tíos tendrían. Años después me daría cuenta de que intentaba reconstruir y recordar un pasado que no me pertenecía directamente: esa pertenencia estaba dada por la persona de mi padre. También pienso ahora que si yo quería sospechar sus caras y sus voces no era, bien miradas las cosas, porque rechazara la idea de que no pudiera conocerlos, sino todo lo contrario: su condición de muertos, de inexistentes, de personas que ya nunca volverían, fue la manera natural que para mí siempre tuvieron, con cierta matiz diferente–o sea sus carácter de desaparecidos—en relación a mi padre. Ellos eran su sombra natural, el pasado y su espacio virtual desde donde él había venido. (Fisgoneaba, oteaba, prácticamente vigilaba su cara para suponer las posibles variaciones de las arrugas y los gestos en relación a aquel conjunto misterioso e inexistente que había sido su seno; y lo que atisbaba eran las tímidas sugerencias que me ofrecían sus rasgos.)
Hace cierto tiempo una tarde mi padre aumentó, sin saberlo, es espacio oscuro de donde provino y provenía cuando era niño: me dijo, con su voz lenta y grave, con distintas palabras, que el pueblo donde él nació y vivió quince años no existía, se había destruido en la guerra. Sin dejar rastros, pensé yo, como sus padres y hermanos, que sin embargo, tienen la cara de mi padre en mi recuerdo de infancia. Es que como si los muertos nos visitaran a los vivos, pero ataviados por nosotros. Un hermano, para él, era un hermano; para mí, un tío, casi era él. Mi padre era todo lo que él decía que había tenido; era, al mismo tiempo, testimonio y causa. El atavío, a estos muertos ignotos, era yes puesto por mí utilizando la figura de mi padre.
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“Slow Biography”
These questions were, I now think, a subtle subject for imagination; I imagined faces, gestures, eyes. They were also the way of thinking about the family that my father didn’t have. I conceived the faces of my uncles and aunts to be slight variations of his, although I conceded more flexibility to their voices; they could be higher or lower than his. I believe that if my imagination was more permissive in relation to them than with the faces, that was justified because, with his voice, my father distanced himself—in a permanent way—from what surrounded me; he spoke other languages and he spoke mine poorly. Russian, Yiddish, Polish from his mouth came deep sounds and with the naturalness that use bestows and with the infinite shades of intonations that grants the total identification with the universe of the language.
Let’s suppose that escaping, my father came to Buenos Aires, ridding himself from the war that was already ended, or better said, perhaps its consequences and memories. Terrified by hunger also—I suppose—with the intention of settling there. Of those Jews, those who did not flee terrified, almost all ended up murdered; six of them were my uncles and aunts, two of them my grandparents, or his parents, and things like that. He always had terse answers when referring to his family, how many women, how many men, the place they occupied in the family chronology, the difference in age between his parents, and things like that. That restraint didn’t come from him through an open and explicit negation to go deeper into these questions (in reality more because he is careful not to hint at a circumstance that would lead to our asking about them), but what infected us was the tone of his precise and languid answers that summarized and transmitted a profound detachment from his past. Nevertheless, if that distancing really existed, at night it disappeared: we knew that he dreamed in an ordinary manner about his brothers and parents, and that is what disconcerted us.
It is as if the dead visited us as if they were alive, but dressed up by us. I didn’t think about such things when I was little; I imagined, in a diffuse way, the faces that my uncles and aunts would have. Years later, I came to the conclusion that I tried to reconstruct and remember a past that didn’t directly belong to me; that ownership was given by way of my father. I also now think that if I wanted to guess at at their faces and voices, it wasn’t because, seeing things clearly, I rejected the idea that I could never get to know them, but just the opposite: their condition of being dead, non-existent, of people who will never return, was the natural way for me that they always had, with a certain different tinge—or perhaps their state of being disappeared—in relation to my father. They were his natural shadow, the past and his virtual space from which he had come. (I snooped, examined, practically watched his face to guess the possible variations of his wrinkles and his gestures in relation to that mysterious and inexistent group that had been his refuge; and what it hinted at were the timid suggestions that didn’t provide me with their basic characteristics.)
Some time ago, one afternoon, my father increased, without knowing it, the dark space from which he comes or came when he was a boy: he told me, with his slow and deep voice, with precise words, that the town where he was born and lived for fifteen years didn’t exist, it had been destroyed in the war. Without leaving traces, I thought, like his parents and brothers, who, nevertheless, have my father’s face in my childhood memory. It is as if the dead visit the living, but dressed up by us. A brother, for him, was a brother; for me, an uncle, was almost him. My father was everything that he said he had had, he was, at the same time, proof and cause. The clothing, of these unknown dead, was and is created by me, using my father’s figure as a model.
Ana María Shua nació en Buenos Aires. Siendo hija de padre padres judíos, padre libanés y madre polaca, que emigraron en los años 20 a Argentina. A los 15 años publicó su primer libro de poesía, El sol y yo que fue un éxito. Recibió dos premios, el Premio estímulo del Fondo Nacional de las Artes y la Faja de Honor de la Sociedad Argentina de Escritores. Estudió literatura en la Universidad de Buenos Aires donde obtuvo un Máster en Art. En 1976, hubo un golpe de estado en Argentina Shua se dirigió voluntariamente al exilio en París y trabajó como editora para la revista española “Cambio 16”. Regresó al cabo de un año a su tierra natal y publicó su primera novela Soy Paciente en Buenos Aires en 1980, considerada por los críticos metáfora interpretada por el régimen dictatorial. Algunas de sus obras fueron traducidas a múltiples lenguas y dos de sus novelas fueron llevadas al cine: Soy Paciente (1986) y Los amores de Laurita (1986). Desde entonces ha publicado más de ochenta libros de muchos géneros, incluyendo: novelas, cuentos, micro-ficciones, poesía, teatro, literatura infantil, literatura cómica, la antología, ensayos y guiones cinematográficos y artículos periodísticos. Ha recibido numerosos premios nacionales e internacionales, incluyendo una beca otorgada por la John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation. Es particularmente famosa en el mundo de habla hispana como la “Reina de la Microficción”.
Ana María Shua was born in Buenos Aires. Being the daughter of a Jewish father, a Lebanese father and a Polish mother, who emigrated to Argentina in the 1920s. At the age of 15, he published his first book of poetry, El sol y yo, which was a success. He received two awards, the Stimulus Award from the National Fund for the Arts and the Belt of Honor from the Argentine Society of Writers. She studied literature at the University of Buenos Aires where she obtained a Master’s in Art. In 1976, there was a coup in Argentina. Shua voluntarily went into exile in Paris and worked as an editor for the Spanish magazine “Cambio 16”. He returned to his homeland after a year and published his first novel Soy paciente in Buenos Aires in 1980, considered by critics to be a metaphor interpreted by the dictatorial regime. Some of his works were translated into multiple languages and two of his novels were made into movies: Soy paciente(1986) and Los amores de Laurita (1986). Since then he has published more than eighty books of many genres, including: novels, short stories, micro-fictions, poetry, theater, children’s literature, comic literature, the anthology, essays and film scripts and newspaper articles. He has received numerous national and international awards, including a fellowship from the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation. She is particularly famous in the Spanish-speaking world as the “Queen of Microfiction”.
Cuando el mayor de los hijos del abuelo Gedalia y la babuela, el que llegaría a ser, con el tiempo el tío Silvestre, empezó a ir a la escuela, todavía (como suele suceder con los hijos mayores en las familias de inmigrantes pobres) no dominaba el idioma del país.
Esa desventaja con respecto a los compañeros le produjo grandes sufrimientos morales. Tardó pocos meses en poseer un vocabulario tan amplio como cualquiera d e los demás chicos, modificó con gran rapidez sus errores sintácticos y gramaticales en castellano, pero le llevó años enteros llegar a pronunciar la terrible erre de la lengua española, la fricativa alveolar sonora: la punta de su lengua resistía a vibrar con ese sonido de motor que escuchaba y envidiaba en niños mucho más pequeños que él, vibración que era capaz de imitar con el labio superior, pero no con el maldito punta de su lengua. (Pinche, que aprendió a hablar imitándolo a Silvestre, como lo imitaba en todo lo demás, nunca pudo llegar a pronunciar la doble erre, que a Silvestre sólo se le entregó mucho después, ya en plena adolescencia).
Decí regalo, le decían los otros chicos. Decí erre con erre guitarra, le decían. Decí que rápido ruedan las ruedas, las ruedas del ferrocarril. Y cuando escribía, Silvestre confundió territorio con terítorrio y la maestra se sorprendía de esa dificultad en un alumno tan bueno, tan brillante, tan reiteradamente abanderado.
Entonces, un día, llegó Silvestre enojado y decidido a la Casa Vieja y declaró que en esa casa no se iba a hablar nunca más el Otro Idioma, el que sus padres habían traído con ellos del otro lado del mar. Ese idioma agonizante que tampoco en el país donde el abuelo Gedalia y la babuela habían vivido era la lengua de todos, la lengua de la mayoría, que ni siquiera era la lengua que los habían obligado a usar en la escuela pública, pero que sí había sido el idioma para ellos, el Idioma de sus padres y el de sus amigos y el de juegos infantiles y las canciones de cuna y las primeras palabras de amor los insultos y, par siempre, el Idioma de los números: el único Idioma en el que era posible hacer las cuentas . El Otro Idioma, el íntimo, el propio, el verdadero, el único, el Idioma de ningún país, el Idioma que tantos se burlaban, al que muchos llamaban jerga, el Idioma que nadie, salvo ellos y los que eran como ellos, respetaban y querían. El Idioma que estaba condenado a morir con su generación.
Y sin embargo cuando llegó Silvestre, llegó ese día en la escuela y sin sacarse el delantal declaró que la señorita había dado el orden que en su casa tenían que hablar solamente castellano, nadie se sorprendió.
Al abuelo Gedalia le gustó mucho la idea por dos razones: porque necesitaba, para su trabajo de kuentenik, es decir, vendedor, mejorar todo lo posible en su habilidad con la lengua del país en qué vivía, y también porque se le presentaba una oportunidad más de humillar a su mujer delante de sus hijos (esa actividad era una de sus diversiones preferidas).
A la babuela, que nunca había hablado de corrido la lengua de la mayoría, ni siquiera en su país de origen, el castellano le parecía un idioma brutal, inexpresivo, y sobre todo inaccesible, y hasta ese momento se las había rebuscado con gestos con gestos y sonrisas u algunas palabras para hacer las compras. En la época en la cual el carnicero regalaba el hígado para el gato de la casa. La babuela señalaba el trozo de hígado sangrante y sonreía muy avergonzada y el carnicero
Se lo envolvía en un pedazo grande de papel de diario.
Pero si así lo había dicho la señorita, así debía ser. La babuela le tenía miedo a la maestra, que era para ella casi un funcionario de control fronterizo, alguien destacado por las autoridades de inmigración para vigilar desde adentro a las familias inmigrantes y asegurarse de que se fundieran correctamente el crisol de razas.
Y asî fue como el idioma de las canciones de cuna y las palabras de amor y los insultos de lo que con el tiempo llegaron a ser los abuelos, desapareció, al menos en la superficie, de la casa de la familia Rimetka, quedó para siempre encerrado en el dormitorio grande y los hermanos menores apenas lo entendían.
Fuera del dormitorio, el abuelo Gedalia se complacía en no entenderse con su mujer en castellano de manera más completa y al mismo tiempo más sutil que la que usaban para no entenderse en la que era para ambos su Lengua natal. Es por eso que en el Libro de los Recuerdos son muy pocas o ninguna las palabras que no aparecen en castellano.
Ana María Shua. El libro de los recuerdos. Buenos Aires: Editorial Sudamericana, 1994, 21-23.
When the eldest of Grandfather Gedalia and Granny’s children began attending school, he still hadn’t mastered the language of the country (as was customary with the eldest in families of poor immigrants.)
This disadvantage, in terms of his relationship with other school mates, caused him great suffering. Yet it didn’t take him long to acquire an ample vocabulary equal to the other students, and he quickly learned how to mitigate his syntactical and grammatical errors in Spanish. Nevertheless, it took him several years to learn to roll that terrible Spanish double rr, that sonorous alveolar fricative in which the tip of his tongue refused to vibrate like the sound of a motor—you know—you know, vrrrrrrm—that he would hear children younger than him pronounce, making him envious, a sound that he could imitate with his upper lip but not with that damned tip of his tongue.
Pucho, the second in line, who learned to speak by imitating Silvester (he imitated Silvester did), never did learn how to pronounce that double rr either, the same one that Silvester only managed to acquire much later in life, when he was already a teenager,
“Say rrrregalo,” the other children would tell him. Or, they’d tell him to say “rr and rr, guitarra”” rápido ruedan las ruedas, laas recueros del ferrocarril.” And when he would write, Silvester always put teritorio for territorio, which surprised the teacher because Silvester was such a good student, so brilliant, a real standard bearer.
Then on day, Silvester, who had become visibly upset, arrived at the Old House, having made up his mind that never again in that house was anyone was going to speak the Other Language, the one his parents had brought over from the old country; the language that was dying and wasn’t even the main language spoken in his parent’s native land, or taught in the public schools they had attended. It had been the language commonly used by their parents among their friends, for children’s games and lullabies, for their first words of love, for insulting, and always, counting; the only language in which they could do their adding and subtracting. It was that Other Language, the intimate language, the one they could call their own, the true language, the only language, the language, the one language
that knew no national boundaries, the one language that people joked about, the one so many people called jargon, the language that no one, except for them and others like them, loved and respected. The language was condemned to die with them.
And yet no one was when Silvester came home from school that day and, even before taking off his school uniform, that the teacher had told them to speak only Spanish at home.
Grandfather Gedalia liked the idea for two reasons: it enhanced his work as a peddler, that is to say, salesman, because it was a good opportunity to improve his Spanish. And also, because it gave him the opportunity to humiliate his wife in front of his children (which gave much pleasure.)
For Granny, who didn’t even manage well in the majority of her country back home, Spanish seemed like a harsh, unexpressive language that was, above all, inaccessible. Up until that time, she had done her shopping mainly by gesturing and smiling. That was when the butcher at the meat market would give her liver for the cat. Granny would point at the bloody piece of meat and smile embarrassingly while the butcher wrapped it up in a large piece of newspaper.
But if that’s what the teacher had ordered. That’s the way it had to be. Granny was a little afraid of the teacher who seemed to her more like a member of the border patrol under orders from the immigration authorities keeping an eye on immigrants and making sure they conform, integrate, and become part of the melting pot.
And, hence, that’s how the grandparents became identified with the language of lullabies, love, and insults that in time began to disappear, at least on the surface of things, from the home of the Rimetka family. Once it became confined to the master bedroom, the two younger children, never did fully grasp the language.
Beyond the bedroom. Grandfather Gedalia was quite happy not understanding his wife in Spanish, just as they didn’t understand each other in their native language. For that reason, you will only find Spanish in the Book of Memories.
Ana María Shua. Albuquerque: The Book of Memories. The University of New Mexico Press, 1998. Trans. by Dick Gerdes. pp. 17-19
Edna Aizenberg inició su carrera académica en la Universidad Central de Venezuela en Caracas y fue fundadora de la Escuela de Lenguas Modernas de la U.C.V. Comenzó a enseñar en Marymount Manhattan College a mediados de la década de 1970 hasta su retiro hace solo unos años. Un estudioso de Borges de renombre mundial, su libro The Aleph Weaver (1984), inició el estudio de la Shoah, la política y la “realidad” en la obra de Borges. La traducción al español del libro, El tejedor del Aleph: biblia, kábala y judaísmo en Borges (1986) ganó el Premio Fernando Jeno (México, 1997). Entre sus numerosas publicaciones y ensayos, la Dra. Aizenberg también fue miembro de los consejos editoriales de Variaciones Borges y EIAL, y se desempeñó como evaluador y consultor de Modern Language Association, MacArthur Foundation; Fondo Nacional de las Humanidades; la Fundación para la Cultura Judía y la Fundación de Ciencias de Israel.
Edna Aizenberg began her academic career at the Universidad Central de Venezuela in Caracas, and was a founder of the U.C.V’s School of Modern Languages. She began teaching at Marymount Manhattan College in the mid-1970s until her retirement only a few years ago. A world-renowned scholar of Borges, her book The Aleph Weaver (1984), initiated the study of the Shoah, politics and “reality” in Borges’s work. The book’s Spanish translation, El tejedor del Aleph: biblia, kábala y judaísmo en Borges(1986) won the Fernando Jeno Prize (Mexico, 1997). Among her numerous publications and essays, Dr. Aizenberg was also a member of the editorial boards of Variaciones Borges and EIAL, and served as an evaluator and consultant for the Modern Language Association, MacArthur Foundation; National Endowment for the Humanities; the Foundation for Jewish Culture, and the Israel Science Foundation.
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Nota: Este ensayo fue escrito en inglés y es una versión anterior de un capítulo de Aizenberg’s Books and Bombs in Buenos Aires. Por eso el inglés aparece primero, en contraste con las otras entradas en el blog.
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Note: This essay first appeared in English and is an earlier version of a chapter in Aizenberg’s Books and Bombs in Argentina. For that reason, the English appears first, in contrast with the other posts in the blog.
I would like to look at Sephardim in Latin American Literature. I begin with Sephardic reality and Sephardic mythology. I use the phrase “Sephardic Reality to refer to the fact that since colonial times and down to our days there have been Sephardim in Latin America producing literature in Spanish. The earliest Jewish settlers and the earliest Jewish writers were Sephardim: in the period between discovery and independence, they were members of the Marrano Diaspora who emigrated to Spain’s New World dependencies; immediately after independence, they were there were Sephardim of Caribbean, usually Curaçaoan stock, who were among the founders of Latin American Jewry. Their numbers were small—and for reasons that newness in the environment to lack of talent, their production was not necessarily of the first order. But they were there, part of the literary fabric of Latin America.
In sixteenth-century Mexico we have the figure of Luis de Carvajal, a Spanish-born crypto-Jew, who was martyred by the Inquisition. Carvajal, the author of prayers, religious poetry, a memoir and other works, was probably the earliest of the Sephardic writers. He was followed, three centuries later when the independent South American republics abolished the Inquisition and made it possible for Jews to openly, by such authors of as Abraham Zacaria López-Penha (Colombia) and Elías David Curiel (Venezuela.) Both were poets of Sephardic Curaçaoan descent who were likely the first aboveboard Jews to make a contribution to Hispanic American literature (See Rotbaum, 174-5; Aizenberg, “Elías David Curiel”).
In their wake came other writers of Judeo-Hispanic literature, for example in the Dominican Republic, another López Penha, a novelist active in the 1930s and 1040s; and, again in Venezuela, SephardiIsaac Chocrón (see Younoszai and Irouquin-Johnson). Chocrón, a product of the newest wave of Sephardic immigration to Latin America—from North Africa and the Middle East—was a leading contemporary dramatist, having achieved stature both in his country and abroad. Talents such as Ricardo Halac and Marcos Ricardo Barnatán, Reina Roffé and Ana María Shua in Argentina, Teresa Porzecanski in Uruguay, Miriam Moscona and Rosa Nissán in Mexico, and again in Venezuela, Sonia Chocrón have added their names to the roster of Latin American Sephardic authors of Asian and African origin.
There are other contemporary names—the Argentine Humberto Costantini, from an Italian Sephardic family, and the Mexican Angelina Muñiz-Huberman–, whose return to their ancestral roots brings us back to the Iberian and Crypto-Jewish sources of Sephardim.
Like all realities, Sephardic literary reality in Latin America is multi-faceted and contradictory. It includes a Carvajal, who makes his beleaguered Jewish faith the very core of his writing and Curiel, whose poems in their then fashionable modernista style deal mainly with the pleasures of the flesh and the bottle as an escape from the angst of provincial life. It likewise includes a Haim Horacio López Penha, a free-thinking Mason, coming out of the small inter-married Dominican Sephardic community, who defends Jews and Judaism during the Nazi period in novel Senda de Revelación (1936); Path of Revelation, and an author with a much stronger Sephardic background, who paints a scathing portrait of Sephardic family life in his play Animales feroces (1963; Ferocious Animals). It embraces Rosa Nissán, whose autobiographical “bildungsroman” Novia que te vea (1992); May I See You a Bride), by a sequel “Hisho que te nasca (1996): May You Give Birth to a Son), so rings with the sounds of the spoken and sung Ladino, of the author’s childhood in Mexico City Sephardic immigrant committee that she provides a glossary, and Marcos Ricardo Barnatán, for whom the legacy of Sepharad is bookish and Borgesian in the epistolary novel, gesturing toward the intellectual, mystical traditions of Kabbalah and the midrash. (On Nissán, see Lockhart, “Growing Up”: I devote a chapter to Barnatán in Books and Bombs in Buenos Aires).
Writings by Latin American Sephardim are as varied as the authors’ divergent inclinations, life experiences and historical circumstances. There is even a variation within the same writer, with Chocrón, for instance, taking a more positive attitude toward his Sephardic inheritance in the epistolary novel Rómpese en caso de incendio (1976: Break in Case of Fire). The book chronicles the journey of self-discovery of a Venezuelan Sephardi named Daniel Benabel, a journey that takes him back to Sephardic sources—Spain and North Africa. In the work, Chocrón touches on a particularly significant aspect of Sephardic reality in Latin America: the phenomenon of resefardización, or the renewed integration of Sephardism into a wider Hispanic context (See León Pérez, Actas, 141-148).
We might expect Jews marked by Hispanic culture and character to find that their Jewish and general cultures complement each other, and even mesh, despite religious and other differences. This seems to be true in Chocrón’s case. Speaking through his protagonist, Benabel, Chocrón indicates that his Sephardic identity forms part of the same Spanish-Moorish complex in his Venezuelan identity. ”You’re forgetting that I’m a Sephardic Jew,” Benabel writes to an American friend, “So African, so Spanish, so Venezuelan that the Yiddish from Brooklyn would consider me a heretic.” “[Olvidas que soy judío sefaradita: tan africano, tan español y tan venezolano que los Yiddish de Brooklyn me considerarían un hereje.] (229-230)
Chacrón’s forerunners also found their at homeness in Latin America facilitated by the Sephadism. Abraham Z. López Penha was born in Curaçao and only settles in Barranquilla as an adult. Yet the fact that, like most of the Sephardim on the Dutch island, he was fluent in Spanish and familiar with the Hispanic ethos, undoubtedly smoothed the way for his smooth entry into the literary circles of fin de siècle South America. As for the Dominican Haim Horacio López Penha and the Venezuelan Curiel, they were members of communities where Sephardism had been such an effective took of assimilation that there very survival as Jews was threatened. López Penha’s Judaism, through a meritorious social ancestral heritage, blends easily with his Dominican identity. (His novel, set in Germany, where he studied, tells of a love between Gretchen, a German girl of Jewish descent, and Enrique, a Dominican student.) Curiel’s alienation is as much, if not more, than that of an artist from an uncomprehending milieu than rather than that of a Jew from his Hispano-Catholic surroundings—although that dimension is not absent.
So despite their diversity, Sephardic authors in Latin America share the benefits of a Hispanic patrimony on which to draw in the process of acculturation to Spanish-America.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Aizenberg, Edna. Books and Bombs in Buenos Aires.
Hanover, NH: University Press of New England,
2002.
Aizenberg, Edna. “David Curiel: Influencias y temas.”
Revista Nacional de Cultura (Caracas) 32(1971):
94-103.
Lockhart, Darrell B. “Growing Up Jewish in Mexico:
Sabina Berman’s La bobe and Rosa Nissán’s Novia
que no te vea.” In The Other Mirror: Women’s Narrative
in Mexico. Ed. Kristine L. Ibsen. Westport, Conn.:
Greenwood, 159-74.
Lockhart, Darrell B. Ed. Jewish Writers of Latin America:
A Dictionary. New York: Garland, 1997.
Pérez, León. “El área de sefardización secundaria:
América Latina.” Actos del Primer Simposio de
Estudios Sefardíes. Madrid: Instituto Arías-Montano,
1970, 141-148.
Rotbaum, Itic Croitoru. De sefarad a neosefardismo.
Vol. I. Bogotá: Editorial Kelly, 1967.
Younoszai, Barbara and Rossi Irauquin-Johnson. Eds.
Three Plays by Isaac Chocrón. New York: Peter Lang,
1995.
______________________________________
Se encuentran estos autores y artistas sefardíes en este blog hasta ahora. Vea la Lista completa A-Z para ver su obra./Sephardic authors and artists found in this blog up to now: See the Complete List A-Z to see their works.
Livio Abramo, Jenny Asse Chayo, Isaac Chacrón, Sonia Chacrón, Humberto Costantini, Victoria Dana, Rafael Eli, José Luis Fariñas, Juana García Abás, Linda Kohen, Luis León, Angelina Muñiz-Huberman, Rosa Nissán, Ferruccio Polacco, Ivonne Saed, Fanny Sarfati, Carlos Szwarcer, Bella Clara Ventura
Me gustaría mirar a los sefardíes en la literatura latinoamericana. Comienzo con la realidad sefardí y la mitología sefardí. Utilizo la frase “Realidad Sefardí” para referirme al hecho de que desde la época colonial y hasta nuestros días ha habido sefardíes en América Latina produciendo literatura en español. Los primeros colonos judíos y los primeros escritores judíos fueron sefardíes: en el período entre el descubrimiento y la independencia, eran miembros de la diáspora marrana que emigraron a las dependencias españolas del Nuevo Mundo; Inmediatamente después de la independencia, había sefardíes del Caribe, generalmente de origen curazao, que se encontraban entre los fundadores de la judería latinoamericana. Su número era pequeño y por razones que iban desde la novedad en el ambiente hasta la falta de talento, su producción no era necesariamente de primer orden. Pero estaban allí, formaban parte del tejido literario de América Latina.
En el México del siglo XVI tenemos la figura de Luis de Carvajal, un criptojudío de origen español, que fue martirizado por la Inquisición. Carvajal, autor de oraciones, poesía religiosa, memorias y otras obras, fue probablemente el primero de los escritores sefardíes. Le siguieron, tres siglos después, cuando las repúblicas sudamericanas independientes abolieron la Inquisición e hicieron posible que los judíos hablaran abiertamente, de autores como Abraham Zacaria López-Penha (Colombia) y Elías David Curiel (Venezuela). Ambos fueron poetas de Descendientes sefardíes de Curazao que probablemente fueron los primeros judíos honestos en hacer una contribución a la literatura hispanoamericana (Ver Rotbaum, 174-5; Aizenberg, “Elías David Curiel”).
Tras ellos llegaron otros escritores de la literatura judeo-hispánica, por ejemplo en República Dominicana, otro López Penha, novelista activo en las décadas de 1930 y 1040; y, nuevamente en Venezuela, SephardiIsaac Chocrón (ver Younoszai e Irouquin-Johnson). Chocrón, producto de la nueva ola de inmigración sefardí a América Latina —desde el norte de África y el Medio Oriente— fue un destacado dramaturgo contemporáneo, habiendo alcanzado estatura tanto en su país como en el extranjero. Talentos como Ricardo Halac y Marcos Ricardo Barnatán, Reina Roffé y Ana María Shua en Argentina, Teresa Porzecanski en Uruguay, Miriam Moscona y Rosa Nissán en México, y nuevamente en Venezuela, Sonia Chocrón han sumado sus nombres a la nómina de sefardíes latinoamericanos. autores de origen asiático y africano.
Hay otros nombres contemporáneos —el argentino Humberto Costantini, de familia sefardí italiana, y la mexicana Angelina Muñiz-Huberman—, cuyo retorno a sus raíces ancestrales nos remite a las fuentes ibéricas y cripto-judías de los sefardíes.
Como todas las realidades, la realidad literaria sefardí en América Latina es multifacética y contradictoria. Incluye a un Carvajal, que hace de su fe judía asediada el núcleo mismo de su escritura y Curiel, cuyos poemas en su estilo modernista entonces de moda tratan principalmente de los placeres de la carne y la botella como un escape de la angustia de la vida provinciana. También incluye a Haim Horacio López Penha, un masón de pensamiento libre, proveniente de la pequeña comunidad sefardí dominicana de matrimonios mixtos, que defiende a los judíos y al judaísmo durante el período nazi en la novela Senda de Revelación (1936); Path of Revelation, y un autor con un trasfondo sefardí mucho más fuerte, que pinta un retrato mordaz de la vida familiar sefardí en su obra Animales feroces (1963; Ferocious Animals). Abarca a Rosa Nissán, cuya “bildungsroman” autobiográfica Novia que te vea (1992); May I See You a Bride), de una secuela “Hisho que te nasca (1996): Que des a luz a un hijo), así suena con los sones del ladino hablado y cantado, de la infancia del autor en la Ciudad de México inmigrante sefardí comité que proporciona un glosario, y Marcos Ricardo Barnatán, para quien el legado de Sefarad es libresco y borgiano en la novela epistolar, apuntando hacia las tradiciones intelectuales y místicas de la Cábala y el midrash. (Sobre Nissán, véase Lockhart, “Growing Up”: a Barnatán le dedico un capítulo en Books and Bombs in Buenos Aires).
Los escritos de los sefardíes latinoamericanos son tan variados como las inclinaciones divergentes, las experiencias de vida y las circunstancias históricas de los autores. Incluso hay una variación dentro del mismo escritor, con Chocrón, por ejemplo, adoptando una actitud más positiva hacia su herencia sefardí en la novela epistolar Rómpese en caso de incendio (1976: Break in Case of Fire). El libro narra el viaje de autodescubrimiento de un sefardí venezolano llamado Daniel Benabel, un viaje que lo lleva de vuelta a las fuentes sefardíes: España y el norte de África. En la obra, Chocrón toca un aspecto particularmente significativo de la realidad sefardí en América Latina: el fenómeno de la resefardización, o la renovada integración del sefardí en un contexto hispánico más amplio (Ver León Pérez, Actas, 141-148).
Podríamos esperar que los judíos marcados por la cultura y el carácter hispanos descubran que sus culturas judía y general se complementan entre sí, e incluso encajan, a pesar de las diferencias religiosas y de otro tipo. Esto parece ser cierto en el caso de Chocrón. Hablando a través de su protagonista, Benabel, Chocrón indica que su identidad sefardí forma parte del mismo complejo hispano-morisco de su identidad venezolana. “Estás olvidando que soy un judío sefardí”, escribe Benabel a un amigo estadounidense, “tan africano, tan español, tan venezolano que los yiddish de Brooklyn me considerarían un hereje”. “[Olvidas que soy judío sefaradita: tan africano, tan español y tan venezolano que los yiddish de Brooklyn me considerarían un hereje.] (229-230)
Los precursores de Chacrón también encontraron su hogar en América Latina facilitado por el sefadismo. Abraham Z. López Penha nació en Curaçao y solo se radica en Barranquilla de adulto. Sin embargo, el hecho de que, como la mayoría de los sefardíes en la isla holandesa, dominara el español y estuviera familiarizado con el ethos hispano, indudablemente allanó el camino para su fácil entrada en los círculos literarios de la América del Sur de fin de siglo. En cuanto al dominicano Haim Horacio López Penha y al venezolano Curiel, eran miembros de comunidades donde el sefardí había tenido un efecto de asimilación tan efectivo que su propia supervivencia como judíos estaba amenazada. El judaísmo de López Penha, a través de una meritoria herencia social ancestral, se confunde fácilmente con su identidad dominicana. (Su novela, ambientada en Alemania, donde estudió, habla del amor entre Gretchen, una chica alemana de ascendencia judía, y Enrique, un estudiante dominicano.) La alienación de Curiel es tanto, si no más, que la de un artista de un medio incomprensible que más que el de un judío de su entorno hispano-católico, aunque esa dimensión no está ausente.
Así, a pesar de su diversidad, los autores sefardíes de América Latina comparten los beneficios de un patrimonio hispánico al que acudir en el proceso de aculturación hacia Hispanoamérica.
Translation by Stephen A. Sadow
BIBLIOGRAFÍA
Aizenberg, Edna. Books and Bombs in Buenos Aires.
Hanover, NH: University Press of New England,
2002.
Aizenberg, Edna. “David Curiel: Influencias y temas.”
Revista Nacional de Cultura (Caracas) 32(1971):
94-103.
Lockhart, Darrell B. “Growing Up Jewish in Mexico:
Sabina Berman’s La bobe and Rosa Nissán’s Novia
que no te vea.” In The Other Mirror: Women’s Narrative
in Mexico. Ed. Kristine L. Ibsen. Westport, Conn.:
Greenwood, 159-74.
Lockhart, Darrell B. Ed. Jewish Writers of Latin America:
A Dictionary. New York: Garland, 1997.
Pérez, León. “El área de sefardización secundaria:
América Latina.” Actos del Primer Simposio de
Estudios Sefardíes. Madrid: Instituto Arías-Montano,
1970, 141-148.
Rotbaum, Itic Croitoru. De sefarad a neosefardismo.
Vol. I. Bogotá: Editorial Kelly, 1967.
Younoszai, Barbara and Rossi Irauquin-Johnson. Eds.
Three Plays by Isaac Chocrón. New York: Peter Lang,
Marcos Ricardo Barnatán es un escritor argentino nacido en Buenos Aires en 1946, en el seno de una familia sefardita de origen hispano-sirio. Realizó sus primeros estudios y cursó Filosofía y Letras en su ciudad natal. En 1965 fijó su residencia en Madrid, aunque realiza frecuentes viajes a Argentina, Francia e Israel. Colabora habitualmente, en calidad de crítico literario, en las principales revistas españolas e hispanoamericanas. En 1971 publicó su primera novela, El laberinto de Sion, a la que siguieron Gor (1973), Diano (1982), y Con la frente marchita (1989). Sus narraciones completas integran La República de Mónaco (Seix Barral, 2000).En 2005 publicó en Editorial Alhulia Dos mil y una noches a modo de diario. Su poesía, que comparte los planteamientos de los novísimos y en la que las referencias a la cábala y a la cultura judía son una constante, resulta un personal hallazgo donde se entrecruzan la tradición castellana y las literaturas europeas en sus tendencias más cosmopolitas. Su obra poética se halla reunida en El oráculo invocado (1984), El techo del templo (1999) y Consulado general (2000)Entre sus ensayos destacan La Kábala (1974) y Borges, biografía total (1996).
Marcos Ricardo Barnatán is an Argentine writer born in Buenos Aires in 1946, into a Sephardic family of Spanish-Syrian origin. He made his first studies and studied Philosophy and Letters in his hometown. In 1965 he settled in Madrid, although he made frequent trips to Argentina, France and Israel. He regularly collaborates, as a literary critic, in the main Spanish and Latin American magazines. In 1971 he published his first novel, El laberinto de Sion, which was followed by Gor (1973), Diano (1982), and With the Withered Forehead (1989). His complete narratives make up La República de Monaco (Seix Barral, 2000). In 2005 he published in Editorial Alhulia Two thousand and One Nights as a newspaper. His poetry, which shares the approaches of the newest and in which references to the Kabbalah and Jewish culture are a constant, is a personal find where the Castilian tradition and European literatures intersect in their most cosmopolitan tendencies. His poetic work is found together in The Invoked Oracle (1984), The temple Ceiling (1999) and General Consulate (2000). His essays include La Kábala (1974) and Borges, Biography Total (1996).
Me despertaba agitado, siempre envuelto en un pesadilla engorrosa donde todo era trágico. No era felicidad. La casa a oscuras y silenciosa parecía un gran ataúd con su víctima luchando, absurdamente, por vivir. Desde mi cama y sin levantar la cabeza podía ver la ventana entreabierta, escondida tras los visillos y protegida por la persiana gris que ahuyentaba mis recelos, nadie podía entrar. Si estiraba el brazo era posible palpar el cable de la luz y su perilla, sentir la seguridad de que estaba en mis manos encender el velador, destrozar a las fantasías de la ambigüedad. Más allá el vaso de agua que mamá dejaba siempre a mi alcance para aliviar cualquier imprevisto ataque de tos. El reloj con sus luminiscentes agujas brillando a la mesilla, y el libro de historia adivinado en la página de la última lección. Una cortina ocultando al asesinos de Julio César.
— Anoche, mientras comíamos, iba a contarlo cuando algo me detuvo, sentí de pronto vergüenza y callé
Para entrever la puerta era necesario volverme y incorporarme sobre la cama un poco, entonces debía concentrar mi vista sobre ella para lentamente se dibujase el marco y más tarde la sombra del picaporte. Muchas veces después de un corto desvelo volvía dormirme y no despertaba hasta que golpeaban anunciándome que era hora de ir al colegio, pero otras veces, permanecía despierto acostumbrándome a la luz, velador oscuridad y a aquel nuevo universo espectral con sus planetas, camas espectral con sus planetas, , vaso de cama, ventana, visillo, persiana, cable de luz, perilla, velador, vaso de agua, reloj, mesilla, libro de historia y puerta. ¡Cuánta valentía era necesario para vencer mi horror! Cuando la claridad se filtraba en la habitación comenzaba a vestirme y al sonar de las golpes para salir a llevarme.
–“¡Ustedes lo mataron! Yo lo sé, todos ustedes. . .”
Si la noche se alargaba demasiado y las visiones turbaban mi descanso, las mantas hacía de fiel coraza y escudo para mi temor, temblando y sudando trataba de ocultarme entre ellos, de desaparecer para siempre bajo aquel, mullido cobijo. Olvidaba entonces todo mi poder, atemorizado por mis ensueños no reparaba en el cable en el cable de la luz ni en la perilla, no atinaba a estirar a estirar el brazo y encender, por el contrario me alejaba de la mesilla, internándome hacia la pared, acurrando y sollozante como un náufrago que rema desesperadamente hacia alta mar en ingenua búsqueda de la salvación.
–“¡Ustedes lo mataron! Yo lo sé, todos ustedes. . .”
–Papá había comido sin hablarnos, inquieto repitió la bendición del pan tan maquinalmente que no me di cuenta de ella. Mamá me miraba con cierta extrañeza, como se hubiera descubierto en mí algo insospechado, una cosa que le preocupaba más que mi tos o mis multiplicaciones. Tenía deseos de hablar, de decirles todo, pero ese silencio y esa mirada me intimidaron, No, no lo diré, es mejor que no diga nada. No puede ser verdad. ¡No es verdad!
Mucho después cuando el abuelo me llevó por primera vez a casa de Rabbi Khaen, pude explicarme todo el temor, aquel enloquecido miedo nocturno que nadie conocía y que yo guardaba en el más impenetrable de los secretos. Fue entonces que comprendí el significado de aquellas visiones perturbadores. Rabbi Khaen me brindó con gran generosidad el arma más eficiente para combatirlas. Sólo sería necesario que mis labios infantiles pronunciaran el verbo primigenio, recitando la Shemá, una calma celestial me colmaba, la seguridad. Los malos espíritus abandonaron mi cuerpo, y otra vez la paz, la certidumbre del cable de la luz y el perilla, el velador, el vaso de agua simbolizando la custodia materna, el reloj con sus luminiscentes agujas brillando en la mesilla, y el libro de historia adivinado con la página de la última lección. Una cortina ocultando al asesino de Julio César. Sólo seis palabras repetidas con entusiasmo intenso hacían el milagro, seis palabras de fe, seis palabras de gloria, seis palabras también de propiedad, de exclusividad, de orgullo. Ya no necesitaba de la luz. Su presencia iluminaba la noche.
–Enrique me había visto llorar de rabia en un rincón de la clase, mientras los compañeros gritaban en el patio sus últimos minutos de recreo. Lo vi entrar exaltado y a la vez comprensivo, queriendo consolar con un gesto todo mi dolor. . .
—Déjalos, no saben lo que dicen. . .”
–No podía ser verdad, nosotros no habían matado a nadie, ni mi padre, ni mi madre, ni mis abuelos. Nunca había visto a nadie que hubiera matado. . .En el solitario delirio de mi dolor comencé a odiar a ese desconocido del que nunca había oído hablar. La causa de mi llanto.
–“Fueron los romanos—dijo mi primo–, te digo que fueron los romanos, me lo contó papá, los soldados de Roma lo crucificaron. . .”
Ya no necesitaba de la luz, la Shemá era suficiente para iluminar y sobrevivir en las tempestades. Aprendí también a besar el mesusá antes de salir de la casa, y mi abuelo me prometió llevarme al tiempo los días de fiesta grande, De la inseguridad desoladora de mi orfandad sólo quedaron restos, cortos escalofríos que no llegaban nunca a dañar los cimientos del mundo feliz que mi abuelo y el Rabbi Khaen me habían construido. Supe que era parte de un orden, de un Gran Orden que no había nacido conmigo, sino que existía desde siempre y que sería eterno. El caos y la anarquía se habían borrado de mi espíritu. Él y nosotros teníamos un pacto sellado en nuestra piel, una indestructible alianza a través de los tiempos. Éramos Su Pueblo, y no nos abandonaría jamás. “Nunca, nunca abandonaré al pueblo mío”. ¿Por qué temer entonces? ¿Qué mejor protección que la de Él? Era fundamental que venciese mi miedo.
La imagen de ese espeso cortinaje, extraído de algún grabado antiguo por el autor de mi libro de historia, siempre se me aparecía antes de dormirme. El asesino entre sus pliegues llevaba un puñal en la mano preparado para herir a Julio César que, coronado hacía unos instantes, se acercaba a él. Muchas veces creí adivinar su color granate, como el cortinado pesado que escoltaba el blanco encaje de Murano en la ventana del comedor, el puñal corto y brillante con mango de nácar, como un abrecartas que había en el despacho de papá. Una cortina ocultando al asesino de Julio César. Un perfume de rosas aterciopeladas en una habitación que abandoné para siempre. Sólo seis palabras hacían el milagro. Tía Luna me había mostrado aquel pesado libro que el abuelo guardaba con sumo cuidado en un armario del gran salón. Tenía cinco años, pero a pesar de los esfuerzos de mi padre aún, no concurría a un colegio. Todos temían por mi salud delicada y preferían enseñarme en casa las primeras letras.
Más tarde la opinión paterna prevaleció, pero entonces ya fue mucho más duro abandonar a los seres queridos. Luna siempre hablaba de París, de sus juegos infantiles y de la Plaza Lafayette, o de aquel delicioso helado de todas que las mañanas del domingo tomaban los hermanos en “La Boule de Neige”. Me resultaba difícil sostener el libro. Creo recordar sus gruesas pastas azules estampadas en oro. Tía Luna comprendía mi debilidad ayudándome sigilosamente para evitar en mí un vergonzoso sentimiento de impotencia. Era el gran libro del abuelo, en el que todos ponían los sumos cuidados, el libro que ocultaba ese secreto que daba luz al rostro de los que sufrían. Entonces era tan sólo un catálogo de letras desconocidas, páginas de extraños signos contorsionados y extremadamente negras. Los miraba uno a uno, maravillado en aquel laberinto indescifrable pero sin embargo profundamente amado. Era un deslumbrada]o colegial ante lustrosas figuras multicolores de desconocidos países, remotas latitudes de plenas de seguridad paradisíaca. Algo me decía ya que era el Gran Libro, el mítico receptáculo de todos los libros. Las grande capitulares estaban ornadas por complicadas filigranas, que yo seguía fiel en sus misteriosos caminos.
* * *
–“Bueno te pongo una siesta. Pero mañana tenés que leer mucho mejor para que mantenga la nota.“
Tía Luna decía que papá era muy exigente y exageraba demasiado cuando yo me equivocaba en una palabra.
–Estos no son métodos para enseñarle al pobre chico–exclamaba con cierta magnificencia, dándole la frase un tono de grandeza que hacía sonreír a mamá y enfurecía a papá. Yo rechazaba los libros de cuentos que casi siempre me regalaran mis tías. Me aburría mucho con aquellos cuadernos grandotes ilustrados con agresivos grabados que sólo decían tonterías. Prefería leer LA PRENSA o el VEA Y LEA, de mi abuela.
Más tarde, iba a devorar todas las novelas que llenan los estanterías de la habitación de Luna, y las que mamá resolvía comprarme después de secretas consultaciones con el abuelo. Tía Luna no me dejaba nunca con el libro cuando lo sacaba del armario, permanecía hasta que sea la hora de volverlo a su sitio. Era una parsimoniosa ceremonia, un rito semejante a su sobriedad en los momentos previos a la comida del domingo en casa del abuelo, en la que cada miembro de la familia buscaba su lugar, mirándose todos con prudencia, devolviendo luego acompasadamiento sus servilletas a la espera de la bendición patriarcal.
–Tia, quiero leer el libro.
Ella dejaba, por un momento, de saborear su chocolate y vainilla en la “Boule de Niege” y me ayudaba a sostenerlo con generosa paciencia. Interrumpía el breve paseo hacia el Bulevar Magenta y se acercaba al armario en búsqueda de aquel paraíso de papel y cartón donde comencé a temer y a amar a lo desconocido.
El abuelo en su sillón bebía a sorbos pequeños sorbos tu tasita de café. Muchas tardes, me pedía que le leyese un trozo de Spinoza o algún poema de su Solomón Ibn Gabirol. La última vez que le leía a Gabirol, me había pedido “La Canción del Agua”. Le gustaba contarme sus sueños o hablarme de su abuelo, hermano de un famoso rabino de Safed.
–Cuando mi abuelo me llevó a casa de su hermano, el rabbi, sentí miedo. Temía encontrarme allí con el olor asfixiante de las lámpara de aceite con aquel silencio tenebroso que yo adivinaba en la sinagoga.
Muchas noches, después de cenar, nos quedábamos horas junto al café y al agua de azahar.
–Las siete reglas de la interpretación que has aprendido son imprescindibles para comprender las sagradas y el espíritu de la Ley. Has obedecido las palabras de Hillel, el anciano. “No digas nunca estudiaré cuando tenga tiempo, pues nunca lo tendrás”.
A veces lo dejaba dormido en su sillón y abandonaba la casa pensando en la serenidad del sueño, visión en la que crecían de sombras de un estirpe docta y temeroso de Dios.
I woke up agitated, completely involved in an intricate dream where everything was tragic. It wasn’t happy. The dark and silent house seemed like a large coffin with its victim, fighting absurdly, to live. From my bed and without lifting my head I could see the half-opened window, hidden behind the lace curtains and protected by the gray Venetian blinds that drove away my fears, nobody could enter. If I stretched my arm it was possible to touch electric wire and its switch, feel the sureness that was in my hands to turn on the night light, destroy the fantasies of the ambiguity. Further away, the glass of water the mama always left at my reach to alleviate any unexpected coughing attack. The clock with its luminescent hands shined on the table, and the history book specifically on the page beginning the last lesson. A curtain hiding the assassins of Julius Cesar.
In order to take a glimpse though door, it was necessary for me to turn around and straighten up a little on the bed, then I had to concentrate my vision on it to slowly make out the frame and then the shadow of the door handle. Often after a short moment of sleeplessness I would fall asleep again and not wake up until they knocked, announcing the it was time to go to school, but on other occasions, I remained awake accustoming myself to the light, the lamp dark, and to a new spectral universe, spectral beds with their planets, glass of bed, window, lace curtains, Venetian blinds, electric wire, switch, glass of water, clock, bed table, history book and door. What courage was needed to overcome my horror! When the clarity filtered into the room, I began to get dressed and on hearing the knocks to get me up to leave.
You killed him! I know it, all of you. . .!”
If the night stretched out too long and the visions upset my rest, the covers made a faithful breastplate and shield for my fear, trembling and sweating. I tried to hide myself among them, to disappear forever under that fluffy shelter. I then forgot all my strength, terrorized by my dreams, didn’t make use of the electric cable or the switch, didn’t succeed in reaching out my arm and turning it on, on the contrary, I moved away from the night able, going in toward the wall, moaning and sobbing like a shipwrecked man who rows desperately toward the open sea in an ingenuous search for salvation.
You killed him! I know it, all of you!
Papa had eaten without speaking, uneasy, he repeated the blessing over the bread so mechanically that I didn’t notice it. Mama looked at my in a certain strange way, as if she had discovered in me something unexpected in me, something that worried her more than my cough or my multiplication tables. I really wanted to speak, to tell them something, but that silence and that look intimidated me. No, no I won’t tell them, it’s better that I don’t say anything. It can’t be true. It’s not true!!
Much latter when my grandfather took me for the first time to Rabbi Khaen’s house, I was able to explain all the terror, all that crazed nocturnal fear nobody knew and that I kept in the most impenetrable of silences. It was then that I understood the meaning of those perturbing visions.
Rabbi Khaen, with great generosity, offered me the most efficient armament for combatting them. It would only be necessary that my child’s lips pronounce the primal words, reciting the Schma: a celestial calm filled me with security. The evil spirits abandoned my body, and once again, peace, the certainty of the electric wire and switch, the lamp, the glass of water, symbolizing maternal protection, the clock with its luminescent hands, shining on the night table and the history book set with the page from the last lesson. A curtain hiding the assassin of Julius Cesar. Only six words repeated with intense enthusiasm made the miracle, six words of glory, six words also of property, of exclusivity, of pride. I no longer needed the light. Its presence illuminated the night.
Enrique had seen me cry with anger in a corner of the classroom, while, the other boys yelled in the patio during the last minutes of break. I saw him enter, exalted and at the same time understanding, wishing to console all my suffering with a gesture.
Let them go, they don’t know what they are saying. . .”
It can’t be true, we hadn’t killed anyone, not my father, not my mother, not my grandparents. I had never seen anyone who might have killed. . . In the solitary delirium of my pain, I began to hate this unknown ow whom I had never heard spoken. The cause of my crying.
”It was the Romans, my cousin said, I’m telling you that it was the Romans, Papa, the soldiers from Rome, crucified him . .”
I no longer needed the light. The Shema was sufficient to illuminate and to survive in the storms. I learned also to kiss the Mesusa before leaving the house, and my grandfather promised to take me at the time of great holiday.
From the bleak insecurity of my orphanhood only remains were left, short shivers that didn’t ever damage the foundation of the happy world that my grandfather and Rabbi Khaen had constructed for me. I knew that I was part of an order, of a Great Order that had not been born with me, but that always existed and would be eternal. The chaos and the anarchy had been erased from my spirit. He and we had a pact in our skin, an indestructible alliance through the ages. We were His People, and he would never abandon us. “Never, never will I abandon my people.” Why then fear? What better protection than His? It was certain that my fear would be defeated.
The image on that heavy cover, taken from some ancient print by the author of my history book, always appeared to me before I went to sleep. The assassin between the folds carried a dagger in his hand, preparing to wound Julius Cesar, who, crowned just a few instants before, approached him. Many times, I believed I could pick out his garnet color, like the heavy curtain that heard the white Murano lace in the dining room window, the short and brilliant dagger with a mother-of-pearl handle, like the letter opener that was in Papa’s office. A curtain hiding the assassin of Julius Cesar. A perfume of velveted roses in a room that I abandoned forever. Only six words made the miracle, Aunt Luna had shown me that heavy book that grandfather kept with great care in a living room closet. I was six-years-old, but even in spite of my efforts, I didn’t go to school. Everyone feared for my delicate health and preferred to teach me the first materials at home.
Later, my father’s opinion prevailed, put then it was far more difficult for me to leave my loved ones. Luna always spoke of Paris, of her childhood games and of the Plaza Lafayette. Or of that delicious ice cream every Sunday morning that all the children had at the “Snow Ball.” It was difficult for me to hold the book. I believe I remember its thick blue covers stamped with gold. Aunt Luna understood my weakness slyly helping me avoid a shameful feeling of impotence. It was grandfather’s huge book, into which everyone put their greatest cares, the book that hid this secret that gave birth to the face of those who suffered. The, it was only a catalogue of unknown letters, pages of strange signs, twisted and extremely black. They looked at each other, marveling in that indecipherable labyrinth, that nevertheless profoundly loved. It was a dazzling collection, with lustrous multi-color figures of unknown countries, remote latitudes full of paradisal security. Something told me then that it was the Great Book, the mythical receptacle of all books. The great capitulars were made ornate by complicated watermarks, that I followed loyal to its mysterious paths.
***
“Okay, I’ll give you a 7. But tomorrow you have to read a lot better so you can keep up your grades.”
Aunt Luna said that papa was very demanding and exaggerated when I made a mistake on a word. “These aren’t methods for teaching the poor boy,” he would exclaim with a certain magnificence, giving the phrase a tone of grandeur that made mama laugh and infuriated papa. I rejected the storybooks that my aunts almost always gave me. They bored me a lot, with those over-sized notebooks illustrated with aggressive prints that only said nonsense. I preferred to read my grandmother’s La Prensa or Vea y Lea.
Later on, I went on to devour all the novels that filled the shelves in Aunt Luna’s room, and those that mama decided to buy for me after secret consultations with my grandfather. Aunt Luna never let me keep the book when I took it out of the closet, it stayed only until it was time to return it to its place. It was a parsimonious ceremony, a rite similar to sobriety in the moments previous toe the Sunday meal in grandfather’s house, during which each member of the family sought his place, all looking at each other with prudence, later returning to adjusting their napkins, while waiting for the patriarchal.
“Aunt, I want to read the book.”
She stopped, for a moment to enjoy her chocolate and vanilla in the “Boule de Neige” and helped me hold it with generous patience. She interrupted the short walk toward the Magenta Boulevard and she went towards the closet in search of that paradise of paper and cardboard where I began to fear and love the unknown.
Grandfather in his large chair, drank in small sips from his small cup of coffee. Many afternoons, he asked me to read to him a piece of Spinoza or some poem by Solomon Ibn Gabirol. The last time that I read Gabirol to him, he had asked for the ”Song of the Water” He liked to tell me his dreams or to tell me about his grandfather, brother of a famous rabbi from Safed. “When my grandfather took me to the house or his brother, the rabbi, I was afraid. I feared finding myself there with the asphyxiating odor of the oil lamp with that gloomy silence that I perceived in the synagogue.”
Many nights, after dinner, we spent hours near the coffee and the orange water.
“The seven rules of interpretation that you have learned are indispensable for understanding the sacred things and the spirit of the Law. You have obeyed the words of Hillel, the ancient one
Never say that I will study when I have time, but cause then you will never have it.”
At time, I left him sleeping in his great chair, and I abandoned the house, thinking about the serenity of the dream, a vision from which grew from the shadows a wise and frightening way of God.
Adina Darvasi nació en Buenos Aires en 1927. A los dos años de edad la familia se trasladó a Santiago de Chile. Los primeros años de la escuela primaria los cursó en el colegio Manuel de Salas.A raíz del divorcio de sus padres, en 1937 viajó con su padre a Hotín, (entonces Rumania) poco antes del comienzo de la Segunda Guerra Mundial. Durante la guerra fue deportada junto con su padre y el resto de los habitantes judíos de Hotín, al gueto Moguilev, Transnistria-Ucrania, donde padeció horribles persecuciones raciales, por parte de soldados alemanes y rumanos. Adina permaneció en el gueto dos años y medio. Debido a intensas gestiones realizadas por su madre, quien residía en Santiago, un diplomático argentino logró rescatar a la niña del gueto, gracias a su nacionalidad argentina. Enseguida fue aceptada a un colegio de monjas francesas, Notre Dame de Zión en Bucarest, en cuyo internado permaneció hasta mediados del año 1944 – cuando partió a Palestina (bajo mandato británico) En Jerusalén ingresó al liceo ‘Haguimnasia Haivrit’ en el cual terminó sus estudios secundarios. En 1947 volvió a Santiago, reuniéndose con su madre. Realizó sus estudios universitarios en la Facultad de Arquitectura de la Universidad de Chile, recibiéndose de arquitecta en el año 1962. En 1972 se radicó en Israel, con su esposo y tres hijos, lugar de su residencia permanente. Junto con ejercer su profesión, Adina ha dedicó varios años al estudio de literatura iberoamericana en la Universidad Hebrea de Jerusalén.
Adina Darvasi was born in Buenos Aires in 1927. When she was two, the family moved to Santiago de Chile. Following the divorce of his parents, in 1937 she traveled with her father to Hotín, (then Romania) shortly before the start of the Second World War. During the war she was deported along with her father and the rest of the Jewish inhabitants of Hotín, to the Moguilev ghetto, Transnistria-Ukraine, where she suffered horrible racial persecution by German and Romanian soldiers. Adina remained in the ghetto for two and a half years. Due to intense efforts by her mother, who lived in Santiago, an Argentine diplomat managed to rescue the girl from the ghetto, thanks to her Argentine nationality. She was immediately accepted to a French nuns’ school, Notre Dame de Zión in Bucharest, in whose boarding school she remained until mid-1944 – when she left for Palestine (under British mandate). In Jerusalem, she studied at ‘Haguimnasia Haivrit’ where she completed her high school studies. In 1947 she returned to Santiago, meeting with her mother. She completed her university studies at the Faculty of Architecture of the University of Chile, graduating as an architect in 1962. In 1972, she settled in Israel, with her husband and three children, the place of her permanent residence. Along with practicing her profession, Adina devoted several years to the study of Ibero-American literature at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. She died in 2014.
__________________________
“El viaje”
Primera parte:
Embarque, agosto 1937
¿Cómo así de repente, un viaje en barco? –se admiró Dana mientras probaba el vestido de seda celeste con aplicaciones blancas. Papá aceptaba comprarle lo que quería, pedir no más. ¡Qué buenos! Probar y probar. Porque de la casa partieron con un bolso de mano, sin más equipaje.
–Le queda linda—sonrió la vendedora—es el color de sus ojos. ¿Un abriguito tal vez? Azul con botones dorados.
–Sí, claro, las tardes son frescas y estaremos un mes en el mar [. . .]
El barco inglés le parecía enorme, con sus múltiples cubiertas a distintos niveles; todo flamante, por la pintura flamante. Oropresa, qué nombre raro. Dana imaginó lingotes y más lingotes de oro en sus profundas bodegas, alineadas e fila como los soldaditos de plomo del hermano de Chepa.
–Papá, déjame a mí en la cama de arriba, así, estaré justo frente a la ventana redonda mirando al mar. Mira, mira como los pájaros están rodando al barco. ¿Nos acompañarán todo el viaje?
–Todavía no sabe. [. . .]
Golda no tenía hijos; hace pocos meses Fani había muerto. Todo en la enorme casa-quinta de Hotin emanaba olor a mortajas; se podía decir, sin errar, que la muerte vivía en cada rincón, mueble y adorno. Se la mencionaba sin cesar, en las comidas, al levantarse; de noche, se escuchaban gritos de angustia: Fani, Fani.
Dana veía las fotografías de Fani dispersas por todos los cuartos, enmarcada y colgadas en los muros; sueltas, de diversos tamaños, sobre los muebles. La mirada penetrante de ultratumba la perseguía; trataba de cruzar las manos como la muerta, de sonreír con la comisura de los labios hacia abajo; no lo lograba; el peinado tampoco podía copiarlo. [. . .]
Fani, brillante, buena y hermosa, era inigualable e inalcanzable. Dana lo odiaba, un odio estéril; lo peor que se le puede es desear a un enemigo–la muerte—no venía al caso. . . por el contrario, sólo si resucitara, llegaría la salvación; pero Dana sabía que, aparte de Jesucristo, nadie había resucitado. Nunca, aun tratando mucho, podrá, ni siquiera remotamente, parecerse a la difunta. [. . ]
Por Golda quien propuso a Hanán venir de América a vivir con ellos, el tío opinó distinto: ¿Para qué liquidar todo? Que se divorcie allá y rehaga su vida en sin volver a Hotín. El tío no estaba demasiado dolorido, le molestaba el timbre de una voz infantil, el correr; no quería encariñarse con la policía de nuevo, no podía. [. . .]
¡Vienen los rusos! Ocuparon la zona, Hotín y Chernovitz también: Se repartieron con los alemanes hasta territorios polacos – exclamó el primo Aquiba, al escuchar el último noticiero radial. [. . .]
La inseguridad comenzó a reinar, las dudas, el susurro, que
no escuchen. . .: ! Hasta las paredes escuchan—[. . . ] ¿Estaremos en la lista negra?
No, no alcanzarían a deportarlos; en todo caso, no los rusos. [. . .]
Seconda parte
Tempesdad, June, 1941
Hija mía, me espantan las noticias de los diarios: la guerra aproximándose a vuestra zona; tu papá, ¿llevaría al frente? ¡Qué temor! Tú, por lo menos, te quedarás a salvo con los tíos [. . .]
El ensordecedor ruido de los motores despertaron a Dana; corrió a la ventana: –Me parecía distinguir a los pilotos con sus anteojos y gorros negros–. Escuchó estampidos, descargan las bombas [. . .] La guerra lejana, cosa de diarios y noticiarios radiales, había llegado, se escuchaba y se palpaba.[. . .]
Llegado el día señalado, acorralaron a los judíos de Hotín en la explanada frente al mercado, donde estacionaban los campesinos en días de feria, con sus ovejunos y vacunos. Había miles de deportados. mujeres, niños y hombres envueltos por un nube de misterio: –¿Por qué nos echan, cuál es nuestro pecado? ¿Esta noche, dónde dormiremos? ¿Saldremos vivos? ¿Se volvieron locos los soldados? –Confundieron delito con locura. [. . .]
Los deportados avanzaban lentamente, acongojados, escoltados por militares romanos armados, con plenos poderes de abusar, herir y matar.[. . .]
Los niños no cesaban su llanto desgarrador; el murmullo de los adultos perplejos seguía: ¿a dónde? ¿por qué? Polvo levantado por el viento, pegado a los narices, al pelo, a la ropa, al cuerpo sudorosa. Comenzó a oscurecer; la luna apareció, llena, desconcertada.
Primera noche de su vida en la inhóspita intemperie; la fatiga no permitía razonar, sólo imperaban las necesidades primarias, sensoriales: calor, frío, hambre, dolor. [. . .] Luego, muy luego, a Dana se le irían acabando las fuerzas.
Con el alba, los soldados renovaron la marcha forzada, arriando como a un ganado, gritando, a latigazos. –¡Ahora no puedo más! Tengo ampollas reventados en el otro pie, me duele tanto. [. . .]
Soldados del Ejército Rumano 1943
Se vio rodeada de extraños, oprimidos, amenazados; sintió escalofrío ante el desamparo y soledad infinita. Sobre el lecho de hojas y ramas secas, inició el juego: morirse como liberación de tormento.[. . .]
Ahora es noche allá, mientras estás durmiendo sobre su almohada, ¿te acordarás de mí en tus sueños? ¡Cuánto te quisiera! [. . .]
La primera víctima, una criatura de meses, murió asfixiada entre bártulos. La madre: –Quizá Dios me la quitó antes de sufriera más; en vez de llorar debería agradecer. [. . .]
–Algo me camina por la cabeza—se admiró Dana–¿serán hormigas?
Ojalá hubiesen sido hormiguitas: ¡eran piojos! Invasión de piojos, grandes amarillentos, asquerosos, con huevos adheridos porfiadamente a los pelos; no había manera de librarse de ellos. Asco de sí misma: arrancarse, huir, sin tener a dónde ni cómo. [. . .]
Divisaron el río Dniester; cerca del embarcadero se distinguía un puente destruido, dinamitado por los rusos al retirarse; faltarían meses, hasta que los alemanes comenzaron a construir uno nuevo con el trabajo forzado de los deportados. [. . .]
Llegó la hora de seguir hasta el otro lado del río Dniester, y no pasarían desaparecidos con el tumulto de antes. La balsa se deslizó lentamente, suavemente, hacia el nuevo desvío caótico de sus vidas. [. . .]
Hija mía, tu odio, lo palpo; traspasa continentes, mares y océanos, penetra en todos mis poros. [. . .]
Simultáneamente les dio tifus exantemático; padre e hija yacían en el cuarto grande. Katia atendiéndolos. Fiebre altísima. Dana sentía palpitaciones en la cabeza, perdido en los sentidos por el delirio. Compresas de agua fría, era lo único disponible. [. . .]
Comenzó una larga convalecencia. Hanán se recuperó pronto; Dana, de ojos hundidos y piel transparente, le costó volver a caminar.
–Conseguí miel. Pan negro con miel te dará vigor. Hay que raptarte la cabeza, todos lo hacen después del tifus; así crece el pelo más sano y tupido.
–¡No, no quiero! Papá, por favor, ¡no! – se defendió Dana.
El tacto espinoso del cráneo, le quedaría eternamente pegado a las yemas de los dedos; el pelo demoró siglos en crecer. El hecho de que muchos anduviesen rapados en el guetto de Moguilev, no aliviaba en absoluto la angustia ni la humillación. Era como estar marcada, fuera de la estrella amarilla obligatoria, los rapados, los salvados de tifus.
El minúsculo espejo de la dentista muerta mostraba una imagen fea; irremediablemente fea. [. . .]
Me gustaría tanto saber lo que pasa en tu pequeño cerebro. Qué de pensamientos, qué de reproches, qué de juzgar tan severo. Sí, tú eres mi tribunal implacable y más despiadado. Mi bella hija, para el deleite de otros ojos .[. . .]
Escapar: que termine; vislumbrar un fin tan utópico como desprenderse de la propia sombra. No, no había indicios, apoyos, signos, la nada absoluta invadía el horizonte. Muros insalvables de incertidumbre acorralado y oprimiendo, aumentando la angustia. En el impecable cielo azul. En cuyo espesor Dios se había desintegrado, quedaban estrellas y sueños bordados con hilos de polvo dorado.[. . .]
–Ha llegado a Moguilev el delegado de la Cruz Roja Internacional, el señor Charles Kolb—informó Hanan, entrando en la calle—pretende prestar ayuda a los deportados. Ofreció a quienes tienen parientes en las Américas, transmitir misivas muy cortas: cuatro, cinco palabras, no más.
NOUS MOURONS DE FAIM, DANA. La dirección (de su madre), la recordaba muy bien: Plaza Ñuñoa 19, Santiago de Chile. [. . .]
Hacia fines de 1943, los sobrevivientes de esta deplorable migración eran 78.000 de los 200.000 deportados a Ucrania en 1941. Conferencia XVII del Comité Internacional de la Cruz Roja. “Stockholm, agosto de 1948.
Tercera Parte
RETORNO octubre 1943
Una orden al comandante de la guarnición: Preparar las formalidades para el traslado de Dana I., ciudadana argentina, hacia Bucarest. El permiso de salida del guetto Moguilev, firmado por el mismo General Atonescu, había llegado anoche.[. . .]
Como un terremoto en día claro. Dana no pensó, invadida de emoción, todo se desplazó, se volcó, sí, alegría, futuro. . . Peligros, sí, salir, correr y obliterar el pasado; pronto, ahora, al instante. El horizonte por fin se deslumbró, desconocido, confuso, pero existente. [. . .]
De madrugada, en la calle desierta, quedó recortada y grabada la silueta de su padre, cuyos ojos brillosos rehusaban admitir la separación; acaso el último adiós, mientras el vehículo militar avanzaba pesadamente hacia el reconstruido puente sobre el río Dniester.[. . .]
Vértigos, superarlos y controlarlos; idiomas en desuso, rescatarlos, aplicarlos; códigos nuevos, adaptarlos, asumirlos. . . Dana terminaba el día agobiada, con migrena persistente.[. . .]
El Nuncio hizo las gestiones pertinentes: las monjas francesas de Notre Dame de Sion (en Bucarest) se harán cargo de su educación. Es un colegio particular de niñas, con muy buen internado. Allí permanecerá hasta nuevas instrucciones.[. . .]
¡La euforia me invade! ¡Vives! [. . .}
Noviembre 1947
Aeropuerto, Santiago de Chile, 1948
Distingo la silueta, ahí estás, lejos, con tu maleta en el suelo. Sí, eres tú, buscándome en la mirada, aún no me ves, a pesar de mis señas, porque todos hacen señas. Vinieron en busca de alguien, con rostros sonrientes. Yo, aquí parada, once años, con mejillas húmedas, aunque prometí no llorar; mi mente turbada. Se diluyen los recuerdos: estás tú y tu rostro, tu cuerpo del mío, tus lágrimas, se funden en las mías, empañan la vista, siento los latidos, el pestañear y los sollozos ahogados. . .El ayer sellado junto al hoy cambiante, mirándonos; buscaremos juntas, respuestas que no siempre hallaremos.
November 1947
Going down the steps from the plane, he didn’t hurry her pace; gain five minutes, eternity. . .not seeing her yet, the first word, perhaps the hug.
She made out her at customs, behind the glassed-in parameter, tall, grayed hair, smoked up eyeglasses, shaking her am toward the public. Then would come the tears, the furtive kisses. A tangle of emotions, mute, tactile; the two, perhaps, intertwined, dissipating accumulated rancor. [. . .]
How can it be that suddenly, a voyage in a ship? Dana was amazed while she tried on the silk dress, sky-blue with white appliqué. Papa agreed to buying her the dress, no more asking. Who nice! To try on and try on. For they left the house with a hand bang, without any luggage.
“It looks pretty on your,” smiled the saleslady, “It’s the color of your eyes. A small coat, perhaps, blue with golden buttons.
Yes, of course, the afternoons are cool and we will be at sea for a month.[…]
The English ship seemed enormous to her, with multiple decks at different levels, all brand new, brand new in the picture. Orapesa, what a strange name. Dana imagined lingotes and more lingotes of gold in it deepest holds, lined up like her brother Chepa’s little lead soldiers.
Papa, let me have the top bed, so, I will be just in front of the round window. Look, look how the birds are flying around the ship. Will they accompany us for the entire trip?”
“We don’t know yet. […]
–Ana ven, ha ocurrido algo terrible. Recibí un telegrama. Estánen un barco, fuera de las aguas territoriales. ¡Ana, se robó a la niña!
Lo recuerdo todo, porque el tiempo no borra, acaso ni mitiga ,ni eso. Quiero que tú sepas mi verdad, aunque no sé si algún día te mostraré porque el daño está hecho y vidas no se hacen como los tejidos a palillos. . .[. . .]
Traté explicarle: –No se me atreví a confesártelo por cobarde, por temores. . . procura comprenderme, no puedo mentirte más.
¿Tratar de comprenderte? ¿De qué está hablando? Me destrozas con un cuchillo filoso, hundido sin piedad en lo vivo. ¿Tania, por qué? ¡Cinco años compartidos!
Yo no abarcaba todavía la magnitud del desastre. Habló de dejar la casa. En ningún momento sospeché la venganza que preparaba[. . .]
–Jamás se debe reconocer infidelidades; un amante es pasajero por definición Se habría acabado en unos años más, sin ocurrencias, Tania, hay cosas, que un marido no tiene para qué saberlas [. . .]
Le engañé largo tiempo; fue inevitable, porque hubiese sido como querer detener una cascada: mi pasión era la vida misma, el fuego y el mar, ¿Cómo hubiese podido renunciar? Tania, ¡Una simple mortal![. . .]
I remember everything. Because time doesn’t erase, perhaps not even mitigate, not that. OI want you to know my truth, although I don’t know if some day I will show you because the damage is done and lives aren’t made like a weaving of toothpicks.[. . .]
“I tried to explain it to her. . .”I didn’t try everything to you, as a coward, for fears…try to understand me, I can’t lie to you anymore.“
“Try to understand you?” What are you talking about? You destroy me with a sharp knife, plunged, without remorse in the living. Tania, why” Five years shared.
“I can’t get my arms around the magnitude of the disaster. He spoke of leaving home. At no time did I suspect the vengeance that was prepared.”.[. . .]
“You should never pay attention to infidelities; a lover is a passerby by definition. It would have ended in a few more years, without trouble, Tania, there are some things, that a husband doesn’t need to know.[. . .]“
“I deceived him for a long time, it was inevitable, because it would have been like wanting to stop a waterfall: my passion was like itself, the fire and the sea, how could I have stopped? Tania, a simple mortal!”
Septiembre 1937
Golda didn’t have children; Fani had died a few months before. Everything in the entire house-estate gave off the odor of shrouds; it could be said, correctly, that death lived in every corner, piece of furniture and adornment. She was spoken of endlessly, at the meals, on awakening; at night shouts of anguish were heard: Fani, Fani.
Dana saw the photographs of Fani, spread around the all the rooms, framed and hung on the walls, separate, of different sizes, on the furniture. The penetrating face from beyond the grave pursued her, she tried to cross her hands like the dead woman, to smile with the ends of lips pointing down; she didn’t do it[ she couldn’t copy the hairstyle either. [. . .] on the contrary, only if she were brought back to life, would there be salvation; but Dana knew that, apart from Jesus Christ, nobody had come back
Fani, brilliant, good and beautiful was better than all and unreachable. Dania hated her, a sterile hate; the worst she could do is wish for an enemy—death—didn’t fit that description. . .on the contrary, only if she were to come back to like, could there be salvation, but Dana knew that, apart from Jesus Christ, no one had come back. Never, even trying hard, will she, not even remotely, look like the dead woman.[. . .]
For Golda, who proposed to Hanán the idea of going to America to live with them, the uncle disagreed. Why sell off everything? Get divorced here and remake your life without returning to Hotín. The uncle wasn’t in too much pain, the timbre of a child’s voice bothered him, the running, he didn’t want to be of interest to the police once more, he couldn’t [. . .]
Segunda parte
Storm June 1941
My daughter, the news in the papers shocks me: the wa ris coming close to your zone, your father, will they bring him to the front” What fear. You, at least, will stay safe with your aunts and uncles.
The deafening noise of the motors woke Dana; she ran to the window: “I could distinguish the pilots with their glasses and their black caps.” She heard shots and bombs drop[. . .]The distant war, thing of the newspapers and radio reports, had arrived, it was heard, touched.[. . .]
The appointed day having arrived, the rounded up the Jews of Hotín in the esplanade in front of the market, where the peasants parked on holidays, with their sheep and cattle. There were thousands of deportees, women, children, children, surrounded in a cloud of mystery: “Why are they throwing us out, what is our sin? Tonight, where will we sleep? Will we get out of this alive? Have the soldiers gone crazy.” They confused crime with madness.
The deportees were advancing slowly, distressed, listening for the armed Rumanian soldiers, with full powers to abuse, wound, kill. [. . .]
The first victim, a nine-month-old little girl, died, suffocated by the gear. The mother: “Perhaps God took her away from me before she suffered more; instead of crying, I should be thankful. [. . .]
“Something walked over my head,” Dana wondered. “Ants?”
If only they had been ants: they were lice. An invasion of lice, yellowed, disgusting, with eggs adhering perfidiously to the hairs; there was no way to get free from then. Disgust with herself: to pull herself out, to flee, without having a where or a how.[. . .]
They could spot the Dniester River; near to the pier, could be seen a destroyed bridge, dynamited by the Russians as they retreated; it would be months until the Germans began to construct a new one with the forced labor of the deportees.{. . .]
The hour came for continuing toward the other side of the Dienster River, and they would pass hidden by the earlier tumult. The raft slid slowly, softly, toward the new chaotic detour of their lives [. . .]
The children didn’t cease their heartrending crying, the murmuring of the perplexed adults followed: “to where? Why?” Dust, lifted by the wind, stuck to their noses, skin, clothing, sweating bodies.[. . .] It began to get dark, the moon appeared, distressed.
The first night of her life in the inhospitable outdoors; fatigue didn’t allow for reasoning, only the primary sensorial necessities were important: heat, cold, hunger, pain.[. . .] Later, much later, Dana’s strength was failing.
With the dawn, the soldiers renewed the forced march, led, like a herd of cattle, yelling, whiplashes. “I can’t go anymore! I have broken blisters on the other foot, it hurts so much.[. .. .]
Soldiers of the Romanian Army, 1944
Now it is night there, while you are sleeping on your pillow. Do you remember me in your dreams? How much I would love you![. . .]
My daughter, your hatred, I feel it; it crosses continents, seas and oceans, it penetrates in all my pores.[. . .]
Simultaneously, they caught tick-born typhus : father and daughter lay in the large room. Katia, taking care of them. Very high fever. Dana felt palpitations in her head, lost in the feelings of delirium. Compresses of cold water, it was the only thing available.[. . .]
The long convalescence began. Hanán quickly recovered; Dana, with sunken eyes and transparent skin, it was hard for her to walk again.
“I got hold of some honey. Black bread with honey will give you strength; it’s necessary to shave your head; so that the hair grows back health and thick.
“No, I don’t want to! Papa, no, please! ” Dana defended herself.
The spiny touch of the skull would be eternally be stuck to her finger tips; the hair took centuries to grow back. The fac that many walked with shaved heads in the Moquilev ghetto, didn’t alleviate in the slightest the anguish and the pain. I was like being marked, beyond the obligatory yellow star, the shaved ones, those saved from typhus.
The miniscule mirror from the dead dentist showed an ugly image, irremediably ugly. [. . . ]
“I would so much like to know what is happening in your little head. What thoughts, what reproaches, what of judging so severely. If you are my implacable and most dismissive tribunal. My beautiful daughter, for the delight of other eyes. [. . .]
To escape: let it end: to glimpse an end so utopic as detaching her won shadow. No, there were no signs, hints, supports, signs, the absolutely nothing on the horizon. insolvable walls of uncertainty, locked up and oppressed, augmenting the anguish. In the impeccable blue sky. In whose thickness, God had disintegrated; there were dreams embroidered with threads of golden dust.
“The delegate of the International Red cross, Mr. Charles Kolb has arrived at Moguilev,” Hanán imformed them, entering the street—He intends to give help to the deportees. He offered to those who have relatives in the Americas, to transmit very short missives: four, five words, no more.
NOUS MOURINS DE FAIM, DANA, the address of her mother, she remembered it quite well: Plaza Ñunu, Santiago de chile. [.. .]
Toward the ends of 1943, the survivors of this deplorable migration were 79,000 of the 200.000 deported to th Ukraine in 1941, Conference of XVII of the International Red Cross. Stockholm, August, 1948.
The “delegate of the International Red cross, Mr. Charles Kolb has arrived at Moguilev,” Hanán imformed them, entering the street—He intends to give help to the deportees. He offered to those who have relatives in the Americas, to transmit very short missives: four, five words, no more.
NOUS MOURINS DE FAIM, DANA, the address of her mother, she remembered it quite well: Plaza Ñunu, Santiago de chile. [.. .]
Toward the ends of 1943, the survivors of this deplorable migration were 79,000 of the 200.000 deported to the Ukraine in 1941, Conference of XVII of the International Red Cross. Stockholm, August, 1948.
Vertigos, overcome them and control them: languages in disuse, save them, apply them: new codes of behavior, adapt them, assume them. . .Dana ended the day exhausted, with a persistent migraine.{. . .]
The Nuncio took care of the necessary details: the French nuns of Notre Dame of Sion (Bucharest) will take charge of her education. It is a private school for girls, with a very good boarding school. She will stay there until new instructions.[. . .]
¡The euphoria invades me! ¡You are alive!
Airport of Santiago de Chile, 1948
Al bajar las escalinatas del avión, no apresuró el paso; ganara otros minutos, la eternidad. . .no verla todavía, la primera palabra, acaso el abrazo.
La divisó desde la aduana, detrás del parámetro vidriado; alta, canosa, anteojos ahumados, agitando un brazo entre el público. Luego vendrían las lágrimas, los besos furtivos. Una maraña de emociones, mudas, táctiles; las dos, tal vez, entrelazadas, disipando rencores acumulados.[. . .]
I distinguish the silouette, there you are, far away, with your suitcase on the floor. Yes, it is you, looking for my face, you still don’t see me, in spite of my signals. The come looking for someone. Wit smiling faces. I, standing here, eleven years, with damp cheeks, although I promised not to cry, my mind disturbed. The memories become diluted: you are here and your face, your body from mine, your tears, they merge into mine, mist up sight, I feel the heartbeats, the blinking and the stifled sighs. . .The yesterday closed together with the changing today, looking at each other, we sill search together, answers that we won’t always find.
Diego Paszcowski (Buenos Aires, 1966)Ganador del Premio de Novela del diario La Nación por “Tesis sobre un homicidio”(Sudamericana, 1999; DeBolsillo 2007; Sudamericana 2013 y 2016), llevada al cine en 2013 por Hernán Goldfrid y protagonizada por Ricardo Darín; autor de “El otro Gómez”(Sudamericana, 2001), de “Alrededor de Lorena”(Mondadori, 2006) y de “Rosen – Una historia judía” (Sudamericana, 2013). Algunos de sus libros fueron traducidos al portugués, al italiano y al francés. Coordinador del Taller de Escritura para Jóvenes en el Centro Cultural Ricardo Rojas (UBA), y director de diversas colecciones de «Nuevas Narrativas» y de ciclos de lecturas a partir de los trabajos realizados en sus talleres literarios. En los últimos años presentó su performance “Notas de jazz” junto a destacados músicos, y es autor de la letra de «Estoy aquí», tema con música de Alejandro Devries interpretado por Sandra Mihanovich en su disco “Vuelvo a estar con vos”. En 2009, Alfaguara editó “El día en que los animales quisieron comer otra cosa”, su primer libro de cuentos para niños; en 2013, la misma editorial publicó su primera novela para niños, “Te espero en Sofía”, en 2016 su segunda novela infantil, “La puerta secreta y otras historias imposibles” y en 2019 la tercera, “Donovan, el mejor detective del mundo”.
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Diego Paszkowski(Buenos Aires, 1966) Ganador del Premio de Novela del diario La Nación por “Tesis sobre un homicidio”(Sudamericana, 1999; DeBolsillo 2007; Sudamericana 2013 y 2016), llevada al cine en 2013 por Hernán Goldfrid y protagonizada por Ricardo Darín; autor de “El otro Gómez”(Sudamericana, 2001), de “Alrededor de Lorena”(Mondadori, 2006) y de “Rosen – Una historia judía” (Sudamericana, 2013). Algunos de sus libros fueron traducidos al portugués, al italiano y al francés. Coordinador del Taller de Escritura para Jóvenes en el Centro Cultural Ricardo Rojas (UBA), y director de diversas colecciones de «Nuevas Narrativas» y de ciclos de lecturas a partir de los trabajos realizados en sus talleres literarios. En los últimos años presentó su performance “Notas de jazz”junto a destacados músicos, y es autor de la letra de «Estoy aquí», tema con música de Alejandro Devries interpretado por Sandra Mihanovich en su disco “Vuelvo a estar con vos”. En 2009, Alfaguara editó “El día en que los animales quisieron comer otra cosa”, su primer libro de cuentos para niños; en 2013, la misma editorial publicó su primera novela para niños, “Te espero en Sofía”, en 2016 su segunda novela infantil, “La puerta secreta y otras historias imposibles” y en 2019 la tercera, “Donovan, el mejor detective del mundo”.
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Rosen-Una historia judía
No quiero a Max Rosen. Sé lo bastante de su vida, de sus correrías, de sus travesías y hasta sus delitos como para estar por completo de no debería quererlo. Y, sin embargo, De sus correrías, de sus travesías y hasta sus delitos, reales o inventados, más los reales que los inventados, no han dejado de atraerme, aun cuando se oponen a todos los principios que he defendido en la vida, aun cuando la vida me ha traído ya a los ochenta años, cuando el alma cuenta, según se sabe, con un vigor especial. En cualquier caso, y aunque hace tiempo escribo, fascinado, sobre él. Deseo dejar en claro en estas líneas que no quiero a Max Rosen.
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ARGENTINA
Max se inició en el comercio a los cinco años de edad: ya entonces compraba y vendía joyas, no verdaderas, desde luego, sino sencillas piedras de la calle convertidas en joyas por la inagotable imaginación infantil. Su hermano Aarón, con nueve años cumplidos, lo iniciaba en los secretos del comercio, tal vez por haber notado que por las amigos de sus padres—Shíe y Ruju, por caso. Tenían una tienda de ropa en el pujante barrio de Caballito, y pensaban abrir pronto un sucursal—eran más prósperos de su propia familia, mantenida a duras penas por un simple obrero textil. Y también sabía Aarón, que los parientes que habían quedado en Montevideo, y se dedicaban a la curtiembre, eran más importantes y ricos que los Rosen, quienes habían hecho la mala elección de desembarcar en Buenos Aires.
Porque lamentaba el oficio de su padre, la comunidad de aquel viaje hasta Buenos Aires y el destino de pobreza que les esperaba, Aarón había decidido encargarse de la instrucción de su hermano Max. “¿Cuánto vale este zafiro?”, preguntaba, y le mostraba a su hermano una piedra pequeña y gris. “Dos pesos”, decía Max, que no tenía una verdadera idea del valor de las cosas y ni siquiera sabía qué era un zafiro o un diamante. “No, vale veinte mil”, decía el hermano mayor, el menor aceptaba: “Bien, veinte mil”, decía. “Pues te daré ocho mil”, decía Aarón, y si el joven Max y el menor aceptaba y por esa suma se la entrega era reprehendido, como también era reprehendido si insistía más de la cuenta en reclamar los veinte mil. Hasta que, muy pronto, el niño reclama más de la cuenta en reclamar los veinte mil. Hasta que muy pronto el niño inteligente aprendió lo que tenía que aprender: “Creo que quince mil es un precio justo por esta piedra”, decía”, y su hermano lo felicitaba, aunque luego decía: “esta no es una piedra, es un zafiro. . .y esta es un rubí, si no lo crees nunca podrás hacer que los demás lleguen a creerlo”.
* * *
Y así fue como Max, ya sin compañero, ya sin compañero de aventuras, se dedicó a visitar, en una soledad tranquilizadora, los luminosos sitios en que los dueños de aquellas máquinas se quedaban con el sueldo de los pobres trabajadores perdidos por la pasión del juego, por la ilusión por una fortuna siempre esquiva, y por sus propias miserias. Cada tanto echaban a Max, era cierto, pero también cada tanto él encontraba la máquina precisa, el golpe exacto en la parte exterior de la máquina que haría que expulsase una cantidad de fichas suficientes para vivir, incluso con algunas comodidades, todo un mes. Max cambiaba de ropa y de peinado, llevaba anteojos o no los llevaba, elegía los horarios de mayor concurrencia o de menor—y en ese caso ya había entablado amistosa relación con algunos de los encargados de impedirle la entrada—y de algún modo descubriría la de la máquina más débil, el golpe seco en la parte posterior, el tintineante sonido de monedas que caen, de luces que se encienden, de duraznos o cerezas o limones que de pronto deciden alinearse, . .
Pero la verdadera habilidad de Max no residía en saber jugar al póker—algo que desde luego hacía, tras una vida de haber visto a su padre, de haber encontrado el método para saber qué cartas quedarían en el mazo y deducir en consecuencia con cuáles podrían contar sus adversarios—sino en poder determinar, con sólo ver unas pocas manos del juego, qué hombres serían capaces de jugar para él, es decir para la casa. La exigencia era notable, ya que no sólo se buscaba a alguien que tuviese habilidad o suerte sino también resistencia; aquellas partidas se prolongaban desde las seis de la tarde de un día hasta de las ocho de la noche, y era muy mal visto abandonar la mesa antes del tiempo establecido, a menos que se hubiese perdido todo. Max no jugaba, pero organizar aquello era para él un verdadero juego de niños: apostadores compulsivos—no lo pobres diablos en las máquinas la mitad o todos el sueldo, y que ambicionaban sin suerte acceder a aquella sala donde, se suponía—debían llamar por teléfono para reservar un lugar exclusivo en que el dos, o en algunos casos tres jugadores profesionales contratados por Max, desde luego en combinación procederían a desplumarlos. . . .
* * *
Cada vez que las ganancias de sus actividades sobrepasaron lo esperado, elegía a una asociación de la comunidad para hacer beneficia; podía ser tanto el asilo de ancianos judíos ubicado en la lejana localidad de Burzaco, como el centro Simón Wiesenthal, recientemente creado en los Estados Unidos para para la persecución y castigo de los inmundos criminales nazis, como a familia de un pobre rabino ciego y olvidado por Dios. Las donaciones destinadas a hacer el bien, hacen el bien en sí mismas, más allá del origen o de lo procedencia del dinero, y era por eso que todos aceptan encantados lo que Max ofrecía; quién si no un verdadero ángel podría ser aquel que se presentaba en alguna asociación necesitada de ayuda sólo para darlo todo, sin pedir, como se dice, algo en cambio. Lo único que preocupaba a Max era que se recordara su nombre. Si hubiese sido un verdadero ángel, o sus acciones guiadas o simple bondad, tal vez hubiera deseado permanecer anónimo, como anónimos son las regalos de Purim para que ningún pobre se sienta avergonzado, pero no era éste el caso de Max: que se recordara su nombre era una forma de ganar amigos.
ESPAÑA
Los días se convirtieron en semanas, y las semanas en todo un mes, pero al cabo de aquel primer mes en España, Max tuvo una revelación que podría en resumirse en la frase “uno debe ser quien debe ser”. Era así simple, y eso cambiaba todas las cosas. Antes había pensado que, para ganarse la vida, debía emplearse como vendedor, o bien intentar dar clases en ajedrez, o de fútbol, o instalarse en Madrid varias máquinas “tragaperras”, o dedicarse a jugar al póker en forma profesional, pero ahora veía que todo más claro: uno debe ser quien debe ser, y no un fantasma de lo que pudo haber sido. Eran las diez de la mañana y aún no había desayunado. Se hallaba, como de costumbre, en el banco de su plaza favorita, pensando en las escasas posibilidades que le ofrecía el destino, y se levantó de pronto, caminó hasta la calle de Santa Engracia y miró en el reloj de vidriera de un negocio de ropa: nadie confiaría su dinero ni su trabajo que le daría trabajo a un hombre así, tan delgado que ni podía reconocerse con la barba crecida, el cabello largo y prolijo, la ropa sucia, alguien que le parecía un mendigo que a un hombre de bien. Aún quedaba dinero suficiente para vivir siete meses de la forma en que vivír, pero la forma en que vivía, no podía llamarse vivir. Debió hacer un cambio radical, y a partir de lo que había pensado en las cuentas resultaban sencillas podría conseguir un albergue siete veces mejor, tomar desayunos siete veces más sabroso, vestir como vestía de antes, es decir: cambiar siete meses de aquella vulgar de sobrevivida por un mes, tan sólo un mes, de su vida pasada.
De regreso a Madrid, y ahora con dinero suficiente, Max abandonó sus labores en la peluquería para multiplicar, en el comercio, su radio de acción. Era sencillo, y no tan distinto a lo que su hermano en la infancia, le había enseñado: comprar por menos, vender por más, y quedarse con la diferencia sin sentir ningún remordimiento alguno. Las comisiones existen desde que el mundo, pensaba Max, desde el primer mono consiguió dos bananas gracias a las indicaciones que el otro mono amigo se quedó con una.
En tanto el embarazo de su mujer progresaba de acuerdo con lo esperado y ella, que en su nuevo estado había cambiado de humor y ahora parecía enojada todo el tiempo, le exigía que cumpliese con una promesa que él le había hecho antes de viajar: a Guadalupe no le bastaba haberse casado con Max por las leyes civiles sino que esperaba que ambos, en la iglesia, formalizasen su matrimonio. Esto a Max le parecía ridículo, ya que ella ni siquiera planteaba una ceremonia mixta, que en aquel tiempo era novedad. Debía ser en la iglesia, y no en cualquiera sino en una que Lupe. Y si a Max se le ocurría ponerse alguna objeción o, de regreso en casa tras una semana entera de arduo trabajo, tenía el impulso de reírse de las locas pretensiones de Lupe, Lupe acudía a su más melodramático tono para decirle: “qué te importa, si según dices tú ni crees en Dios”, y también “hazlo aunque más no sea por la memoria de mi madre, que en paz descanse, no sabes lo mucho que a ella le hubiese gustado”.
Y después de todo ella tenía razón: qué importaba dejarse rociar con agua bendita, que importaba jurar por un dios, o por otros, o por ambos, o por tres, o por ninguno, si las cosas de cualquier modo jamás cambiaban. Si casaría, si eso era lo que la hacía. Se casaría bajo las condiciones que ella impusiese: si al cura no le importaba que él tuviese la circuncisión, a él tampoco le importaría. De modo que juntos concurrieron a la Parroquia de San Antonio, en el número ciento cincuenta de la calle Bravo Murillo, en el mismo barrio en el que vivían y donde también la madre de Lupe se había casado, e iniciaron allí los trámites que hicieron meses después Max Rosen, con veintiocho años cumplidos, en el caluroso agosto de mil novecientos sesenta y uno, tomara la Sagrada Comunión y obtuviera del obispo local. Mintió en cada pregunta que le hicieran, y dijo todo lo que todo sacerdote quería escuchar de su boca, mientras pensaba: por más se sumerja en una fuente repleta de agua bendita, un judío sigue siendo un judío por toda la eternidad.
ISRAEL
De los kibutzim que en la Oficina del Ministerio de Absorción e inmigración le propusieron para que se instalase, Max eligió precisamente el más alejado de las grandes ciudades, el más cercano a los peligrosos Altos de Golán, y al mismo—y por los mismos motivos–, el más confortable.
* * *
Entre las numerosas mujeres que conoció en Israel, solo una le interesaba. No era la más bonita de todas, ni la más dispuesta; tenía ya dos hijos y un marido muerto en la Guerra de los Seis Días, contra cuyo heroica memoria ni Max ni nadie hubiera podido competir. Jana Katz no quería saber nada con Max Rosen, y era casi la única de todas las solteras o viudas en el kibutz que no había caídas bajo sus encantos. “La gracia de la vida”, pensaba Max entonces, “radica en buscar lo imposible”.
* * *
Así como todos en el kibutz habían lamentado su partida hacia el ejército, todo el kibutz, ahora festejaba su regreso, incluida aquella mujer, quien de pronto se mostraba más receptiva a sus galanteos, más interesados en sus historias, más atenta a lo que él pudiera proponerle. . .
Dios cierra las puertas, pero siempre deja abierta una ventana. Y allí estaba Max, de regreso a los brazos de Jana y a un amor que, desde que viera a la mujer, no había dejado sentir que le pertenecía. Ahora ellos compartían una misma habitación, y en el kibutz se debatía sobre la conveniencia o no de los niños de todos de todas las familias aunque durmieron juntos.
Sin embargo, no le resultó tan sencillo convencerla: primero debió volver pruebas de sinceridad y rectitud, y lo que hizo para ganar al fin la confianza de Jana fue contarle todo lo que había hecho en su vida, desde los dieciséis años hasta aquellas últimas vacaciones en Tel Aviv, sin omitir detalle. Y aunque la tradición recomienda ser breve en el diálogo con las mujeres, todas las noches, después de la cena, Jana escuchaba fascinada el relato de la vida de Max, como si de novela se tratase, si bien aún lamentaba la pérdida del ser heroico amante vencido, podía ver en aquel hombre que le cortejaba desde hacía años a un verdadero sobreviviente. Así somos los judíos, sobrevivientes: a más que mil años de persecuciones, a la Shoá, a las mil penurias que Dios, en Su infinita sabiduría para algunos, en un mortal indiferencia para otros, ha sabido entregarnos para poner a prueba la sinceridad de nuestra fe.
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Rosen-A Jewish Story
I don’t like Max Rosen. I know enough about his life, his escapades, his journeys and even his sins in order to be totally convinced that I shouldn’t like him. And, nevertheless, of his escapades, his journeys and even his sins, real or invented, more the real ones than the invented, haven’t ceased to attract me, even when they go against the principles that I have defended in my life, even the live that has brought me to eighty years old, when the soul does count, as we know, with a special vigor. In whatever case, and even though it was some time ago, I write, fascinated about him. I want to make it clear, in these lines, that I don’t like Max. Rosen.
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ARGENTINA
Max was initiated into commerce at the age of five; even then he bought and sold jewels, not real ones of course, but simple stones converted in jewels by his unlimited childhood imagination. His brother Aaron, at nine years old, initiated him in the secrets of business, perhaps having learned from the friends of his parents–Shie and Rulu, for example. They had a clothing store in the thriving neighborhood of Caballito, and they thought about opening another branch—they were the most prosperous of his own family, which was barely sustained, by enormous effort by a simple textile worker. And Aaron also knew about that the relatives that had remained in Montevideo, dedicated themselves to the tannery, were the most important and rich of the Rosen, who had made the bad choice of disembarking in Buenos Aires.
Because he lamented his father’s trade, the community that made that trip to Buenos Aires and the fate of poverty that awaited them, Aaron had decided to take on the instruction of his brother Max, “How much is this sapphire worth?” he asked and showed his brother a small, gray stone. “Two pesos”, said Max, who didn’t have a true idea of the value of things, and he didn’t even what was a sapphire or diamond was. “No, it’s worth twenty thousand, the older brother said. They younger brother accepted. “Okay, I’ll give you twenty thousand, he said. Then, then I’ll give you eight thousand,” Aaron said, and if Max, the younger, accepted that amount, and delivered the stone, he was reprehended. As he was also reprehended, if he insisted on more than the sum in demanding the twenty thousand. Until he quickly the intelligent boy learned what he had to learn: “I think fifteen thousand is a fair price for this stone,” he said, and his brother congratulated him, though he said: “This is not a stone, it is a sapphire…and this is a ruby, if you don’t believe it, you will never get the others to believe it.”
* * *
And so it was that Max, now without a companion, now without a companion for adventure, dedicated himself to visit, in a tranquilizing solitude, the illuminated places in with the owners of those slot machines gathered up the salaries of the poor workers lost by a passion for gaming, by the illusion of an always elusive fortune, and by their own misfortunes. Every once in a while, they threw Max out, but also once in a while he found the exact machine, the exact blow in the back of the machine that would make it eject a sufficient quantity of tokens to allow him to live, even with a few luxuries, for an entire month. Max changed clothes and haircut, he wore eyeglasses, or he didn’t wear them, he chose the times of greatest traffic or of least—and in that case he had already a friendly relationship with some of those who were supposed to keep his out—and in one way or another, he would discover the spot on the weakest machine, the dry blow on the rear part, the quiet jingling of the falling coins, the lights that brighten, with peaches or cherries or lemons that quickly decide to line up. . .
* * *
However, Max’s true ability wasn’t in knowing how to play poker—something that of course he did, after a lifetime of having seen his father, of having found the method for knowing which cards remained in the deck and to deduce accurately what his adversaries could count on—but rather in being able to determine, after seeing only a few hands, which men would be capable of playing him, that’s to say for the house. The exigency was notable, since he not only looked for someone who had skill or luck, but also stamina; those games went on from six in the afternoon on one day until eight o’clock in the evening, and it was strongly looked down upon to abandon the table before the established time, unless you had lost everything. Max didn’t play, but he organized what was for him true child’s play, compulsive betters—not the poor devils of the machine with half or all of their pay, and who, wanted badly, but unsuccessfully to accede to that room where, it was thought—they ought to make a telephone call to reserve an exclusive place in which two or in some cases three professional card players, contracted by Max, who, of course in combination, proceeded fleece them. . .
* * *
Every time that the winnings from his activities went beyond what was hoped for, he chose a community association to give a charitable gift; it could be the home for aged Jews, located in the far away town of Burzaco, of The Simon Wiesenthal Center, recently created in the United Sates for the persecution and punishment of the filthy Nazi criminals, or the family of a poor rabbi, blind and forgotten by God. The donations, sent to do good, did good in themselves, beyond the origin and source of the money, and for that reason, everyone accepted with delight what Max offered; who if not a true angel could be the one who came to a needy organization only to give it all, without asking for, how do you say, anything in return. The only thing that worried Max was that his name be remembered. If he had been a true angel, or his actions guided by simple goodness, perhaps he would have desired to remain anonymous, as Purim gifts are anonymous so that no poor person is embarrassed, but that wasn’t Max’s case; his name being remembered was a way of gaining friends.
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SPAIN
The days became weeks, and the weeks in a complete month, but at the end of that first month in Spain, Max had a revelation that could be summarized the phrase: “one should be what one should be.” It was that simple, and that changed everything. Before, he had thought that to earn a living, he ought to be employed as a salesman, or set out to give classes in chess, or football, or to install in Madrid several slot machines or to dedicate himself to playing poker as a profession, but now he saw everything more clearly, and not as a ghost of what he could have been. It was ten o’clock in the morning, and he hadn’t had breakfast yet. He found himself, customarily, on a bench in his favorite plaza, thinking about the scarce possibilities that his fate offered him, and he quickly stood up, walked toward Santa Engracia Street and looked at glass clock of clothing store: nobody would trust his money nor hisXXX to a person like that, so thin that he couldn’t even recognize himself with his beard grown out, and his hair long and thick, the dirty clothes. Someone who appeared to be a beggar rather than a man of means. He still had enough money to live for seven months in the way he had been living, but the way he was living couldn’t be called living. He had to make a radical change, and from what he thought, with what he had, he simply could find a place to live that was seven times better, have breakfasts seven times tastier, dress as he had dressed before, that is to say: exchange seven months of that vulgar life for a month, only a month of his past life.
* * *
ISRAEL
Of the kibbutzim the Office of the Ministry of Absorption and Immigration offered him to settle in, Max chose precisely the furthest from the big cities, the closest to the dangerous Golan Heights, and at the same time—for the same motives, the most comfortable.
Of the numerous women that Max met in Israel, only one interested him. She wasn’t the prettiest or the most available: she already had two children and a husband who died in the Six Day War, against whose heroic memory, neither Max nor anyone could compete. Jana Katz didn’t want to know anything of Max Rosen: and she was almost the only one of the unmarried women or widows on the kibbitz who hadn’t fallen under his charm.
“The fun of life,” thought Max then, “lies in seeking the impossible.”
* * *
Just as everyone in the kibbutz had regretted his leaving for the army, now they all celebrated his return, including that woman, who quickly showed herself to be more responsive to his courtship, more interested in his stories, more attentive to what he could suggest to her.. .
* * *
God shuts the doors, but always leaves a window open. And there was Max, on returning, in the arms of Jana and a love that, since he saw the woman, he had not ceased feeling that she belonged to him. they shared the same room, and in the kibbutz, they debated the advantage or not of having all the children from all the families even if they slept together.
Nevertheless, it wasn’t so easy to convince her; first he had to return proofs of sincerity and rectitude, and what he did to finally gain Jana’s confidence, was to tell her all that he had done in his life, from sixteen years old to those recent vacations in Tel Aviv, without omitting a detail. And even if the tradition recommends being brief in dialogues with women, every night, after supper, fascinated, Jana listened to the tale of Max’s life, as it were a novel, even if she still mourned the loss of her defeated heroic lover, she could see in that man who courted her for years a true survivor. We Jews are survivors: after more than a thousand years of persecutions, of thousand travails that God, in His infinite wisdom for some, in a mortal indifference for others, has known how to give us the chance to test the sincerity of our faith.
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Libros de Diego Paszkowski/Books by Diego Paszkowski
Marcos Aguinis es un autor con amplia formación internacional en literatura, neurocirugía, psicoanálisis, artes e historia. “He viajado por el mundo, pero también he viajado por diferentes profesiones”. Aguinis nació en Córdoba, Argentina en 1935, hijo de inmigrantes judíos. Tenía siete años cuando llegó la noticia de que los nazis habían matado a su abuelo y al resto de su familia que se había quedado en Europa. Él describe esto como el momento fundamental de su vida, y uno que finalmente lo llevó a escribir en un esfuerzo por cerrar esa herida, para reparar el “mecanismo roto de la humanidad”. Publicó su primer libro en 1963 y desde entonces ha escrito trece novelas, catorce colecciones de ensayos, cuatro colecciones de cuentos y dos biografías. La mayoría de ellos se han convertido en bestsellers y han generado entusiasmo y controversia. El Sr. Aguinis fue el primer autor fuera de España en recibir el prestigioso Premio Planeta por su libro “La Cruz Invertida” y su novela superventas “Contra la Inquisición” ha sido traducida a varios idiomas y elogiada por el Premio Nobel Mario Vargas Llosa como “Conmovedor canto de libertad” ….
del sitio web de Marcos Aguinis
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Marcos Aguinis is an author with extensive international training in literature, neurosurgery, psychoanalysis, the arts, and history. “I have traveled the world, but I have also traveled by different professions.” Aguinis was born in Córdoba, Argentina in 1935, the son of Jewish immigrants. He was seven years old when the news came that the Nazis had killed his grandfather and the rest of his family who had remained in Europe. He describes this as the pivotal moment in his life, and one that ultimately led him to write in an effort to close that wound, to repair the “broken mechanism of humanity.” He published his first book in 1963 and since then he has written thirteen novels, fourteen essay collections, four short story collections, and two biographies. Most of them have become bestsellers and have generated excitement and controversy. Mr. Aguinis was the first author outside of Spain to receive the prestigious Planeta Prize for his book “The Inverted Cross” and his best-selling novel “Against the Inquisition” has been translated into several languages and praised by Nobel Prize winner Mario Vargas Llosa as a “moving song of freedom” ….
Mugre, piel y huesos, con los tobillos y las muñecas ulceradas, por los grilletes, Francisco es una braza que arde bajo los escombros. Los jueces miran con fastidio a ese esperpento: un incordio decididamente intolerable.
Hace diez año que lo han enterrado en las cárceles secretos. Lo sometieron a interrogatorios y privaciones. Lo enfrentaron con eruditos en sonoras controversias. Lo humillaron y amenazaron, pero Francisco Maldonado da Silva no cedió. Ni a los dolores físicos ni a las presiones espirituales. Los tenaces inquisidores sudan rabia porque no quieren enviarlo a la hoguera sin arrepentimiento ni temor.
Cuando seis años atrás el reo afectó un ayuno rebelde que casi lo disolvió en cadáver, los inquisidores ordenaron hacerle comer a la fuerza, darle vino y pasteles; no toleraban que ese gusano les arrebatarse la decisión de su fin. Francisco Maldonado da Silva tardó en recuperarse, pero logró demonstrar a sus verdugos que podía sufrir no menos que un santo.
En su maloliente mazmorra el estragado prisionero suele evocar su odisea, Nació en 1592, exactamente un siglo después de que los judíos fueron expulsados de España y Colón descubriera las Indias Occidentales. Vio la luz en el remoto oasis de Ibatín, en su casa predominaba el color pastel con manchones de azul. Luego se trasladó a Córdoba precipitadamente. Huían de una persecución que pronto les daría alcance. Navegó por tierras amenazadas: indios, pumas, ladrones, alucinantes salinas. Cuando cumplió nueve años, arrestaron a su padre en un desgarrador operativo. Un año después del hogar a su hermano mayor. Llegó a las once, y ya no quedaban en su vivienda bienes que no hubieran sido investigados y malvendidos por las implacables autoridades. Su madre, vencida, casi loca, se entregó a la muerte.
El llagado adolescente completó su educación en un convento: leía la Biblia y soñaba con una reparación aún inconfesable. Salvó a un apopléjico, cabalgó por los portentosas serranías de Córdoba y conoció las flagelaciones más absurdas.
Antes de cumplir dieciocho años decidió partir para Lima para graduarse de médico en la Universidad de San Marcos. Allí anhelaba re-encontrarse con su padre, todavía vivo ver baldado por las torturas de la Inquisición. Su viaje de miles de kilómetros en carretera y en mula lo llevó desde las infinitas pampas del Sur a la helada puna del Norte. Alternó con inesperadas acompañantes e hizo descubrimientos que le cambiaron la visión de su identidad. Descendió a la deslumbrante Lima, llamada Ciudad de los Reyes, para recibir la revelación final. Allí, además del encuentro dramático con su padre, conoció a Martín Porres, el primer santo negro de América, participó en las defensas de Callao contra el pirata holandés Spilpergen y se graduó en una brillante ceremonia.
La persecución, que había empezado en Ibatín y siguió en Córdoba, volvió a enardecerse en Lima. Decidió entonces embarcar hacia Chile: era un eterno fugitivo. Allí logró ser contratado como cirujano mayor del hospital de Santiago, porque era el primer profesional con títulos legítimos que llegaba al país. Su biblioteca personal superaba todas las colecciones existentes en conventos o reparticiones públicas. Visitó salones y palacios, alternó con autoridades civiles y religiosas, recibió halagos por su cultura. Y se casó con una hermosa mujer. Llegó a ser exitoso y apreciado; su bienestar reparaba la cadena de padecimientos anteriores.
Un hombre común no habría alterado esta situación. Pero en su espíritu llameaba un tizón inextinguible, un rebelión que ascendía desde los abismos. Sabía que otra gente, como él, deambulaba por el mundo sosteniendo sus creencias en secreto. Era difícil, conflictivo, indigno. Contra la lógica de la conveniencia, optó por quitarse la máscara y defender sus derechos de manera frontal. Hasta entonces había sido un hipócrita, un marrano.
Filthy, skin and bones, with his ankles and wrists ulcerated by the shackles. Francisco is a hot coal the burns under the rubble. The judges look with annoyance at that grotesque sight: a decidedly intolerable nuisance.
Ten years have passed since they have buried gun in the secret prisons. They submitted him to interrogations and privations. The confronted him with scholars in sonorous arguments. They humiliated and threatened him, but Francisco Maldonado da Silva did not give in. Neither the physical pains nor the spiritual pressures. The persistent inquisitors sweated rage because they didn’t want to send him to the stake without repentance or fear.
When, six years back, the prisoner affected a rebellious fast that almost dissolved him into a cadaver, the Inquisitors ordered that he be forcefully, giving him wine and cakes; they couldn’t tolerate that this worm snatch from them the decision of when he would die. Fernando Maldonado da Silva was slow to recuperate, but he was successful in demonstrating to executioners that could suffer no less than a saint.
In his ill-smelling dungeon, the ravaged prisoner continued to think about his odyssey, He was born in 1692, exactly a century after the Jews were expelled from Spain and Columbus discovered the West Indies. He was born in the remote oasis of Ibatín. In his house, pastel colors predominated with large blotches of blue. Then then the family hastily moved to Córdoba. They fled a persecution that quickly caught up with them. They navigated through threatening territories: Indians, pumas, thieves, saline hallucinations. When he turned nine, the arrested his father in a heartbreaking operation. A year later they removed his older brother by force from their home. They arrived at home at eleven, and in their dwelling, no longer remained things that had not been investigated and sold cheaply by the implacable authorities.
The suffering adolescent complete his education in a convent. He read the Bible and dreamed of a reparation not yet mentionable. He saved an apoplectic, he rode his horse through the marvelous mountains of Córdoba, and he encountered the most absurd flagellations.
Before he turned eighteen, he decided to leave for Lime to graduate as a physician from the University of San Marcos. He yearned to find his father, still alive, XXX crippled by the tortures of the Inquisition. His voyage of thousands by road and by mule carried him from the infinite pampas of the South to the frozen puna of the North. Hi mingled with unexpected companions and he made discoveries that changed his vision of his identity. He descended to the dazzling Lima, called the City of Kings, to receive the final revelation. There, besides the dramatic meeting with his father, he met Martín de Porres, the first black saint of the Americas, participated in the defense of Callao against the Dutch pirate and he graduated in a splendid ceremony
The persecution, that had begun in Ibatín and continued in Córdoba, blazed again in Lima. He then decided to embark for Chile: he was an eternal fugitive. There, he was able get a contract as the chief surgeon in the Santiago hospital, because he was the first professional with legitimate titles who arrived in the country. His personal library surpassed all the existing collections in convents or public distributions. He visited salons and palaces, socialized with civil and religious authorities, received praise for his culture. And he married a beautiful woman. He became successful and highly regarded; his wellbeing repaired the chain of earlier afflictions.
An average man would not have changed this arrangement. But his spirit burned in an inextinguishable ember a rebellion that ascended from the abysm, He knew that other people like himself wandered through the world, maintaining their beliefs in secret. It was difficult, unsettling, shameful. Against the logic of advantage, he opted to take off his mask and defend his rights in a head-on manner. Until then, he had been a hypocrite, a marrano.
Luisa Futoransky nació en Buenos Aires. En 1967 se recibe de abogada en la misma Universidad. Obtiene una beca de la Universidad de Iowa mediante la que realiza la residencia del Programa Internacional de Escritura, EE. UU.En Roma, Italia, estudia poesía contemporánea en la Universidad de Roma y en la Academia Chighiana, Siena. Tras residir en China, donde trabaja para Radio Pekín, y Japón, donde es periodista del servicio en español de la NHK y profesora de música en la Universidad de música de Mushasino (Tokio), en 1981 se radicó en Francia, trabajando en el Centro Georges Pompidou, y como redactora de la agencia de noticias France Presse.Ha colaborado en diversos medios literarios periodísticos: Ars, L’Ane, Página/30, Página/12, Clarín, El Correo de la Unesco, World Fiction, Hispamérica, Basel Zeitung. Asimismo, ha hecho trabajos para Radio France, el Ministerio de Cultura Francés y Radio Euskadi de España.Futoransky, que habla español, francés, inglés, hebreo e italiano, reúne en su obra un conjunto increíblemente rico de referencias culturales inspiradas en sus experiencias de vida en América Latina, Europa y el Lejano Oriente, que mezcla con imágenes distintivas de su hogar (Argentina). En 1997 fue miembro del International Writing Program de Iowa City, Iowa. Es invitada regularmente a dar conferencias en prestigiosas universidades de Francia, España, Argentina y Estados Unidos. Asimismo, con regularidad es autora invitada a festivales literarios internacionales. La obra de Futoransky se cita a menudo en los estudios sobre la escritura femenina contemporánea, así como en los que tratan temas como el exilio, la identidad transnacional, la lengua, la poesía latinoamericana contemporánea o los escritores argentinos en París.
Luisa Futoransky was born in Buenos Aires. In 1967 she received her law degree from the same University. He obtains a scholarship from the University of Iowa through which he does the International Writing Program residency, USA in Rome, Italy, studies contemporary poetry at the University of Rome and at the Chighiana Academy, Siena. After residing in China, where she works for Radio Peking, and Japan, where she is a journalist for the NHK Spanish service and a music professor at the Mushasino University of Music (Tokyo), in 1981 she settled in France, working at the Center Georges Pompidou, and as editor of the France Presse news agency, has collaborated in various literary and journalistic media: Ars, L’Ane, Página / 30, Página / 12, Clarín, El Correo de la Unesco, World Fiction, Hispamérica, Basel Zeitung. He has also done work for Radio France, the French Ministry of Culture and Radio Euskadi de España.Futoransky, who speaks Spanish, French, English, Hebrew and Italian, brings together in his work an incredibly rich set of cultural references inspired by his experiences of life in Latin America, Europe and the Far East, which he mixes with distinctive images of her home (Argentina). In 1997 she was a member of the International Writing Program of Iowa City, Iowa. She is regularly invited to give lectures at prestigious universities in France, Spain, Argentina and the United States. She is also a regular guest author at international literary festivals. Futoransky’s work is often cited in studies of contemporary female writing, as well as in those dealing with topics such as exile, transnational identity, language, contemporary Latin American poetry, or Argentine writers in Paris.
En el comienzo hay ruido a viento, está soleado y yo estoy adentro. No empleo el tiempo caminando por el sendero de tierra para el barrio de Jaitién, no por el de la derecha hacia la Cooperativa Popular. Se me cruzan varios lugares en los que puedo pensar para no estar donde estoy ahora, sugeridos por una foto y una tarjeta postal que coloqué bajo el vidrio del escritorio, son: un ramo de cerezas en flor de uno de los árboles de la casa donde viví cuatro años en Sakuradai, Tokio, y la Puerta de los Leones de Jerusalem.
Me soné los dedos, los de la mano izquierda, cada crujido equivale a una mentira: tengo más mentiras en la mano derecha que en la izquierda. Estoy de acuerdo: la izquierda es del corazón.
Oigo que por el pasillo que da a mi cuarto los tonjis, camaradas en chino, se están gritoneando, a lo mejor son simplemente como me suenan a mí los cuatro tonos de su idioma y en vez de putearse están hablando de sus temas preferidos: el tiempo o el precio, calidad y escasez de las verduras. Las ramas de los árboles ya están peladas.
Cancelo la nostalgia de un plumazo y no voy a hablar de cuando volví a ver la Cruz del Sur, pero en Bali. Entonces, ¿qué? Estoy mareada porque no sé lo que vale la pena decir y lo que tengo que seguir diciendo. Excusas, tentaciones que no me voy a conceder: irme un <<ratito>> a la cama para hacerme la paja, visitar a mi vecina para preguntarle cómo siguen los múltiples fracturas del marido después del accidente—último escandalete protagonizados por sudamericanos del Hotel de la Amistad, donde ocurrió que luego de hartas tramoyas para conseguirlo por vía diplomático, el único latino con auto propio de los que trabajamos contratados por China en Pekín, sale a estrenarlo con el amigo y el mismo día se hacen polvo en curda a las tres de la mañana tratando de levantar minas en el parque Beihai—o hablar con Ana para matar el tiempo, suponiendo que el tiempo se deje. Entonces accedo a tras trampas de las urgencias: mear y lavar los pañuelos—estoy tan resfriada–, por encima de la náusea que no quedan restos de moco y hacerlos secar en las azulejos del baño para que se planchen solos. También ahí, está claro, me doy una lectura, una guía, una señal.
No puedo comenzar esto diciendo: <<Nací 1632 en la ciudad de York>> como Robinson, porque nací en Buenos Aires el 5 de enero de 1939. Mis padres decían que en el nacimiento del cuello tengo dos venitas que formaban claramente una V, la V de Victoria, decían.
Casi ningún recuerdo de la guerra, aunque esforzándome puedo distinguir con vaguedad en la pieza que nos servía de comedor y dormitorio, de techo muy alto con ladrillos entre las vigas, pintados de cal blanca, una conversación entre papá y los tíos—apuesto que quieran ganar a los aliados–. Y otra más susurrada: –dicen que en Entre Ríos están preparando campos de concentración–. Y una tercera en la que mamá trata de aplacarlo y él da un puñetazo sordo en la mesa y se pone colorado de rabia, como cuando se enoja conmigo: — cuando ustedes decían que Londres no iba a aguantar el único que tenía razón como siempre era yo–, notar el como siempre. Pero, mucho más que eso, recuerdo celebrando parecido con Shirley Temple; por él una mujer una vez hasta me quiso regalar plata en el subte: –la nena es una belleza, Dios la guarde; toma linda, para que te compres algo que te guste–. Y papá, por supuesto impidiéndome recibirla con la mirada: –faltaba más, señora, pero decí gracias lo mismo–. Y ella: –pero señor….
Y el episodio me dejaba una sensación de culpa, de vergüenza, de miedo, porque estaba enojado y yo no sabía qué había hecho de malo; otra mujer con papá y yo en la plaza de Santos Lugares, papá nunca me deja esta vez me manda — ¡qué raro!—a jugar sola; por fin después me llaman y la mujer se ríe siempre me regalaba monedas uruguayas grandotas de cinco centésimos, muy pesadas. –Pichita, decí muchas gracias–, y digo pero de mentira si igual no son para mí, si el que junta monedas es papá. Desde ese día perdí el gusto por mi juego preferido, subirme a la cama grande y que papá y yo desparramáramos juntos su colección de monedas porque estaban <<esas>> de las que no podía hablar ni la señora tampoco. Recuerdo a mi abuela que me ordenaba contestar a todos que me dijeran que yo era linda, sana y gordita: –¿yo como tu pan?—y hacer simultáneamente sin que me vieran el signo de la figa así me alcanzaría el mal del ojo. Recuerdo el gallinero, los nísperos y el membrillo cerca de un lugar que no me dejan y llamaban pozo ciego, recuerdo a mi abuelo siempre con tos y cosiendo corbatas, la mano más linda de todas de llevar mi mano por la calle, la boca más verdad de todas de contarme cuentos de gitanos, recuerdo el polvillo que levantaba en la entretela cuando cosía y tosía porque yo siempre quería estar parada al lado de la máquina con él, a mi abuelo un día muerto y papá que me lleva para que lo vea en la pieza de al lado y aunque estaba muy raro y amarillo y medio blanco y medio verde tuve que darle un beso, pero yo no quería. Recuerdo la bomba de agua tan fría a la mañana tan lejos en el fondo de la casa, mejor morir como el abuelo y los canarios del abuelo y el perro del abuelo que tener que lavarse para ir al colegio; –de la Capital porque aunque sea un sacrificio para mi marido llevar y traer a la nena todos los días a la escuela, la enseñanza es mucho mejor que de la provincia–.
El colegio Delfín Gallo, Escuela número 1, Consejo escolar 17, de Villa Devoto. Por más que ahora me esfuerce, nunca sabré ya quién era ellfíngallo, ni cuál será el fin del gallo y como esa, muchísimas cosas más.
En el exilio no se velan las armas sino el cartero.
siempre, siempre, desde hace veinte años, la esperanza en el cartero o en el teléfono con el mensaje milagroso que cambiara el curso de la vida, o más modestamente una pequeña glorificación, al menos uno de los premios menores de la lotería
debido a mi precariedad todos mis cuartos han tenido y tienen todavía cosas en la pared clavadas con chinches, nada de marcos ni clavitos, nada de permanente ni de permanecer, al menos por ahora, la inseguridad de no tener derecho (real) de estar en el lugar donde estás, de paso marginal o casi fuera de la ley, un eterno rechazo (eso no se hace, nena, ¡qué vergüenza!) a firmar contratos y angustia a renovar el pasaporte, cambio, refocilarme en la lista de miedos de día, que los de noche todavía no se tocan, siempre existen varias manera para salir del callejón sin salida, volver sobre los pasos por ejemplo, aunque generalmente el camino de vuelta es más largo y pesado, o saltar la tapia—
posibilidad aún no contemplada. pausa. debajo del vidrio de mi escritorio—pesado resabio, como todos los todos los muebles del hotel, de la primavera del romance chino-soviético–, también tengo una foto del Buda de Kamakura; le miro larga, intensamente, cómo forma con las manos el mudra perfecto para integrarse con el cosmos, por si alguna vez aprendo. estoy sacando del cajón lo que tengo (¿todo?, existe acaso todo?), en este momento es lo mejor, lo único, una cosa que querría tener delante, mecerla contra el pecho, a tres metros del ojo, incrustada en mi pared: la chupa enlozada, con esfuerzo podría decir con mayúsculas azules y dibujo y texto en parte borrados para siempre que se encontraba en el muro de entrada del patio de mi escuela primaria: las mayúsculas grandes rezaban absolutos: SEA COMPASIVO CON LOS ANIMALES (Domingo Faustino Sarmiento).
la palabra compasión que volvió a aparecérseme hace un par de años, allá por los trainings de Life dynamics en Tokio, en los libros de budismo que leo ahora y que me sorprendió—pero, ¿de qué está hablando? – cuando al final de algunas de aquellas catárticas maratones emocionales, Paula, una muchacha integrante del grupo, le pidió a Satoko, la calígrafa japonesa, que le llevara la mano para escribirse esa palabra en los enigmáticos y sombríos caracteres chinos y poder tenerla así continuamente delante a mí se me confunde con la que a mi turno, yo le pedí: alegría y creación, o sea con-pasión, una sola patita de una consonante y es una puerta que no cruzo, al menos todavía, detengámonos en el dintel.
Recién estoy empezando a aceptar que en Baires no se acuerden de mí. Un segmento de recta largo que tracé relativamente a sabiendas y del cual soy responsable. Me liga un ajado pasaporte azul marino, el idioma que estoy viviendo como puedo, el paquete de fantasmas que me visitan cada vez por suerte de menos frecuencia, los cuatro o cinco amigos que cada tanto reencontramos por el mundo y pará de contar. Se acabaron los firuletes y el vendedor de barquillos con el eje de su ruleta pura trampa en el recuerdo. Nadie conserva los negativos del bebé desnudo en Santos Lugares ni las piedrecitas que se metía en mis primeros zapatos cuando caminaba orgullosa de la ma-no-de-pa-pá por el pedregullo de la plazoleta de la estación de ferrocarril. Allí quedaron también los huesos de las bobes y zeides que a veces pretendo que me visitan para protegerme cuando medito a modo nuestro en el zaipe número 4414 del pekinés Yoi-Bing-Wang, Hotel de la Amistad.
In the beginning there is noise of the wind, it is sunny and I am inside. I don’t use the time walking on the dirt path toward the Jaitien neighborhood, not to the right toward the Popular Cooperative. Several places pass me by of which I can think in order not to be where I am now, suggested by a photograph and a post card that I placed under the glass of the next, they are: a branch or cherries in flower of one to the house trees where I lived tor four years in Sakuradai, Tokyo and the Lion’s Gate in Jerusalem.
I cracked my fingers, the lefthanded ones, each crack equals a lie: I have more lies in the right hand than in the left. I agree: the left side is the heart.
Though the hallway that faces my room I hear the tonjis, comrades in Chinese, they are yelling, or perhaps it is simply how the four tones of their language sound to be, and instead of screwing around, they are speaking about their favorite topics: the weather or the price, quality and shortages of vegetables. The tree branches are already bare.
I cancel nostalgia with a stroke of my pen and I’m not going to speak about when I saw the Southern Cross again, though in Bali. Then, what? I am dazed because I don’t know what is worth saying and what I have to say continue saying. Excuses, temptations to which I am not going to concede: go to bed for “a little while” to masturbate, visit my neighbor to ask her how her husband’s multiple fractures are coming along after the accident—a small scandal starring South Americans from the Hotel of Friendship, where it happened that after full-fledged schemes to obtain it by diplomatic means, the only Latino with his own car from among those who worked under contract to China in Peking, goes out with a friend to show it off, and the same day they got wasted and totaled it at three o’clock in the morning, while chasing girls in Bahei Park. Or to speak with Ana to kill time, supposing that there was time left to kill. Then, I accede to those urgent requirements: to pee and to wash handkerchiefs—I have such a bad cold—above and beyond the nausea, that there are no bits of snot left and to let them dry on the bathroom tiles so that they iron themselves. Also, there, I give myself a lecture, a guide, a signal.
I can’t begin by saying: “I was born in the city of York” like Robinson, because I was born in Buenos Aires in the fifth o January of 1939. My parents use to say that since birth I have two little veins that clearly form a V, a V for Victoria, they said.
Almost no memory of the war, though forcing myself I can distinguish vaguely in the room that served us as bedroom and living room, with a very high roof with bricks between the rafters, painted with white lime, a conversation among papa and my uncles—I guess the wanted Allies to win–. And another more whispered: “They say that they are preparing concentration camps in Entre Ríos.” And a third in which my mother tried to calm him down, and he slammed the table with dull blow of his fist on the table and turned red with rage, like when he was mad at me: “When you folks said that London will not endure, I was the only one who was right, as I always was, with the emphasis as always. But much more that, I remember my celebrated resemblance to Shirley Temple. For that, once a woman wanted to give me money on the subway: “The little girl is a beauty, let God watch over her, take pretty one, so that you can buy something that you like.” And papa, of course keeping me with his glance from receiving it; “It’s not necessary, Madam, but tell the thank you anyway.” And she: “But, sir… And the episode left with a sensation of guilt, of shame, of fear, because he was angry, and I didn’t know what I had done wrong; another woman with papa in the Santos Lugares Plaza, papa who never left me, ordered me–how strange!—to play alone; finally, later they called me, and the woman laughed and gave me huge Uruguayan coins of five centesimos, very heavy ones. “PInchita, say thank you very much”, and I said it, but I was lying, for as it was, they weren’t for me, since the one who collects coins from all over the world is papa. From that day, I lost my appetite for my favorite game, to climb onto the big bed, and papa and I spilled together his collection because there were “those” which he couldn’t speak not even to mother. I remember my grandmother who ordered me to answer all those who told me I was pretty, healthy and chubby: “Do I eat your bread?” and simultaneously without their seeing it give them the finger, so as to avoid the evil eye. I remember the chicken coop, the medlars and the quince tree near a place where they didn’t let me go near and they called the blind well, I remember my grandfather who always had a cough and always sewing neckties, the nicest hand of all to take my hand on the street, the most true of all for telling me gypsy stories, I remember the dust that rose on the inner lining when he sewed and coughed because I always wanted to stand beside the machine with him, of my grandfather, dead one day, and papa who brought me so I could see him in the side room, and although he was very strange and yellow and half white and half green, I had to give him a kiss, but I didn’t want to. I remember the pump of cold water in the morning so far from the back of the house, better to die like my grandfather and my grandfather’s canaries than to have to wash yourself before going to school: “in the Capital because even if it was a sacrifice for my husband to take the girl to school and bring her home every day, the teaching is far better than in the province.”
The Delfín Gallo School, School number 1, School Council 17 of Villa Devoto. For as hard as I now try, I will never yet know who was ellfíngallo, or what will be the ‘fin (end) of the gallo (rooster)’ and like that, many other things.
In exile, you don’t watch over your weapons and armor, but rather the postman.
always, always, for twenty years, the hope in the postman or in the telephone with a miraculous message that will change the course of life, or more modestly, a small gratification, at least one of the smaller prizes of the lottery.
owing to my precariousness, my rooms have had and still have thing on the wall stuck in with little pins, nothing like frames or little nails, nothing permanent nor staying, at least for now, the insecurity of not having the right (for real) to be in the place where you are, marginally passing through or almost beyond the law, an eternal rejection (you don’t do that, little girl, how shameful!) to sign contracts and the anguish of renewing your passport, change, to take pleasure in the list of fears by day, that those by night don’t yet touch you, there always exist various ways to leave the dead end street, reverse your steps, for example, although generally the return trip is larger and harder, or jump over the wall—
a possibility not yet contemplated, pause, below the glass of my writing desk—awfully bad taste, like all the furniture of the hotel, from the spring of the Chino-Soviet romance–, also I have a photo of the Buddha of Kamakural; I look at him for a long time, intensely, how he forms the perfect mudra with his hands to integrate himself with the cosmos, as if I will learn sometime. I am taking what I have out of my big box (all? does all perhaps exist?), in this moment, it is the best; the only one, a thing that I would like to have in front of me, to rock it against my chest, at three meters from my eye, incrusted into my wall: the enameled piece of leather, with difficulty it could say with it had blue capital letters and drawing and text, in part erased, for all times that was found in the entrance wall of the patio of my elementary school: the capital letters prayed in absolute terms: BE COMPASSIONATE WITH ANIMALS (Domingo Faustino Sarmiento.)
the word compassion that appeared to me again a couple of years ago, there in the trainingsofLife dynamics in Tokyo, in the books of Buddhism that I read now and that surprised me—but, what are they talking about—when at the end of some cathartic emotional marathons, Paula, a girl member of the group, aske Satoko, the Japanese calligrapher, that he raise his hand to write that work in the enigmatic and somber Chinese characters and have it always in front of her, and I am confused when at my turn, I ask him for: joy and creation, o rather con-passion, a single little foot of a consonant and it is a door that I don’t cross, at least for now. let’s stop at the threshold.
Recently, I am beginning to accept that in Baires they don’t remember me. A segment of a long straight line that I trace relatively fully aware and of which I am responsible. I am tied by a worn sea blue passport, the language that I am living as I can, a package of phantasms that visit me luckily over time less frequency, the four of five friends that every once in a while we meet again in the world and–stop to retell. The knick-knacks have stopped and the seller of ice cream cones with the shaft of his roulette wheel only a trap in the memory, nobody keeps the negatives of the naked baby in Santos Lugares nor the little stones that were put in my first shoes when I proudly walked with pa-pa’s ha-nd through the little square of the railway station. There also remain the bones of the las bobes and zeides who at times I pretend visit me to protect me when I meditate in our way in the zaipe number 4424 of the Bejing Yoi-Bing-Wang, Hotel of Friendship.
Alicia Kozameh nació en 1953 en Rosario, Argentina. En 1973, esta joven cuya vida quedó marcada por la temprana muerte de su hermana mayor, comenzó a estudiar Filosofía y Letras en la Universidad Nacional de Rosario.El 24 de septiembre de 1975, fue detenida por su militancia política en un partido de izquierda, el Partido Revolucionario de los Trabajadores (PRT). Por ese entonces, pasó sus días presa en uno de los lugares de detención más peligroso del país conocido como “El sótano”, de la Alcaldía de Mujeres de la Jefatura de Policía de Rosario. Tiempo después, ya en la penitenciaría de Villa Devoto (en la ciudad de Buenos Aires), una amnistía de Navidad la dejó libre pero vigilada. Por supuesto, no fue fácil para esta mujer rehacer su vida. A la dificultad para encontrar trabajo se le había sumado las amenazas que continuaba recibiendo pese a que los seis meses de libertad vigilada ya habían quedado atrás. Las autoridades policiales como las militares le exigían que se fuera del país. Ante esa situación, apenas tuvo en su poder la documentación requerida, Alicia Kozameh decidió exiliarse y así fue como llegó a California y, tiempo después, a México. En ese periodo de destierro, la escritora se ganó la vida en una agencia de prensa, fue redactora en jefe de la publicación literaria “La brújula en el bolsillo”, se desempeñó como jefe de oficina y fue directora de la biblioteca de la agencia “Los Niños de las Américas”. El regreso de la autora a su tierra natal tuvo lugar en 1984. A partir de allí, trabajó para una agencia de marketing en Buenos Aires, fue empleada de la Escuela Freudiana y publicó varios cuentos y artículos en diversos medios argentinos. En 1987, con la aparición de su novela “Pasos bajo el agua”, las amenazas y presiones policiales que ya parecían haber quedado en el olvido vuelven a cobrar fuerza y, por esa razón, Kozameh regresa al año siguiente a California. Siempre ligada a las actividades literarias, , fundó un centro cultural latinoamericano en Los Ángeles, enseñó literatura y creó la revista literaria “Monóculo”.“El séptimo sueño”, “259 saltos, uno inmortal”, “Patas de avestruz” y “Ofrenda de propia piel” son otros de los libros publicados por esta argentina que ha sido reconocida con el Premio Crisis (Argentina) y compartió con otras autoras el Premio Memoria Histórica de las Mujeres en América Latina y el Caribe2000.
Alicia Kozameh was born in 1953 in Rosario, Argentina. In 1973, this young woman whose life was marked by the early death of her older sister, began to study Philosophy and Letters at the National University of Rosario. On September 24, 1975, she was arrested for her political activism in a left-wing party, the Revolutionary Workers Party (PRT). At that time, she spent her days imprisoned in one of the most dangerous places of detention in the country known as “El sótano”, of the Mayor’s Office for Women of the Rosario Police Headquarters. Some time later, already in the Villa Devoto penitentiary (in the city of Buenos Aires), a Christmas amnesty left her free but under surveillance. Of course, it was not easy for this woman to rebuild her life. The difficulty in finding work had been compounded by the threats that he continued to receive despite the fact that the six months of probation had already been left behind. Police authorities such as the military demanded that he leave the country. Faced with this situation, as soon as she had the required documentation in her possession, Alicia Kozameh decided to go into exile and that is how she arrived in California and, later, in Mexico. During that period of exile, the writer earned her living at a press agency, she was editor-in-chief of the literary publication “Los Niños de las Américas”. The author’s return to her homeland took place in 1984. From there, she worked for a marketing agency in Buenos Aires, was an employee of the Freudian School and published several stories and articles in various Argentine media. In 1987, with the appearance of his novel “Steps under the water”, the threats and police pressure that seemed to have been forgotten once again gained strength and, for that reason, Kozameh returned to California the following year. Always linked to literary activities, she founded a Latin American cultural center in Los Angeles, taught literature and created the literary magazine “Monóculo”. “El séptimo sueño”, “259 saltos, uno inmortal”, “Patas de avestruz” y “Ofrenda de propia piel” are other books published by this Argentine that has been recognized with the Crisis Award (Argentina) and shared with others authors of the Prize for the Historical Memory of Women in Latin America and the Caribbean 2000.
¡Qué efecto te causará ese tipo de sismos, o como quieras llamarles, tardíos! (¡Nunca es tan tarde, querida!); porque son como alfileres ubicados en puntos estratégicos del cerebro. Quiero decir, las catarsis nunca vienen solas: el Paraná baja desde el Matto Grosso y arrastra muy variados especímenes. Los camalotes, Juliana, y las pirañas. De los camalotes estoy muy segura. Y me pregunto por qué las pirañas no llegan hasta Rosario.
Estamos avanzando, raudas, por los primeros días del año 1984. Y también veloces. Otros son capaces de desligarse de la acumulación y de los años. A mí se me dio por incursionar en hechos siempre dispuestos a permanecer. No es casual. No creas en las casualidades. Estoy tratando de ubicarme en el punto de fuga de todas las visiones posibles, para arrancar con un cuento en el que el eje sea traslado al sótano de Rosario a Villa Devoto. A mí me de vuelta como un guante en el trance de vencerme a mí misma.
Entonces, vos entendés. Una vez te pedí que contestaras por carta mis preguntas sobre tu tortura. Las dos conocíamos hasta las inflexiones que le ponés la voz en esos casos. Pero yo me impulsé, por mi pedido y por tus respuestas, y seguí adelante con la novela que estaba escribiendo. Ahora, el mismo recurso.
Anoche no pude dormir: eso de que el chico nazca con alguna falla. Y esta mañana, al irme al trabajo, cuando ya habíamos salido de casa, me di cuenta de que todavía estaba adentro, buscando la puerta de la calle.
Santa Bárbara es salvaje y lo disfruta. Abre las piernas y se sacude de sol y abundancia. Aquí la gente no se muere nunca. En cambio el Paraná, vos viste: nos crispa los nervios. Las víboras, todo lo que nos deposita al final de su travesía. ¿Te suena lo que viene? El Paraná nace en Brasil de la confluencia de los ríos Paranaíba y Grande. Esta memoria que me gasto tiene que ser un producto de una endovenosa aplicada por la vieja de Geografía. De otro modo no se explica
Del sótano a Villa Devoto. Imposible recordar la totalidad. Sí ciertas angustias: Blanca siempre tuvo una sombra de bigotes más pronunciado de lo recomendable. Ese día se le había ennegrecido, le cortaba la cara en dos. Iba esposada a Tania. Tania tan alta y ella tan petisa, con sus bigotes y su muda en un bolso azul, hecho de un pantalón vaquero por un par de esas manos casi mágicas que ya empezamos a tener. Contáme algo de París, ¿no?, ¿o no vivís allí?, ¿o estás encerrada en el baño del departamento?, ¿o en la cocina? Ojalá se trate del dormitorio.
Tu calle debe ser como una de Posadas. Empedrada, entre piedra y piedra alguna planta asomándose, sobre alguna hoja una hormiga en plena cabalgata pro-víveres. Así se me ocurre una calle de Posadas; además de estar salpicada con golpes que el Paraná da cuando se enloquece. A las otras cuadras de París deben salpicarlas llantos de pájaros, cervezas rotas, lluvias incestuosas y enredadas. Y también un poco del Paraná, estoy segura. Colaborá conmigo y confirmáselo. Gracias.
¿Vos a quién ibas esposada? No recuerdo haber visto a nadie cerca tuya en ese momento. Pero lo que me olvido es que, llegadas a Devoto, Mercedes entró al pabellón que nos asignaron y vomitó hasta el corazón. Con eso mandó por las tuberías de las letrinas todo lo que se pareciera a un traslado de presas políticas y sus posibles implicancias. Admirable.
¡Pabellón 31! En serio. Admirable.
Dónde andará Flora; la que lavaba la ropa cuando le tocaba, a cualquiera menos a ella y ocupaba la única soga del baño como si nada. Qué será de esa cara apretada que tenía. Estará eligiendo apropiados jabones de polvo en barra en el Senegal y alrededores. Es posible que con tantos años de exilio ya había adquirido un lavarropas automático. Depende: no sé qué grado de especialización haya logrado.
Tu madre me escribió para mi cumpleaños. Se la siente como una flor a las nueve de la mañana de verano porteño. No quiero ponerme redundante, pero te envidio. ¡Una madre como Adelina!
Uno vive disculpándose. Temor de ser reiterativo. Y preguntarles a los milicos si les importó repetir métodos, plagiarlos, gastarlos. Es decir, no te molestes. No les preguntes nada.
Me siento como si estuviera muy concentrada en meter un dedo en algún agujero.
Aquella bandera, la que les dejamos colgada en el baño del sótano antes de que nos llevaran. No sé, nunca terminé de completar en mi cabeza un cuadro con las manos de las celadoras interrumpidas en alguna forma de asombro, suspendidas entre la bandera y sus panzas, sus tetas, sin poder decidirse a arrancarla. Tocarla: abrazar al demonio. No celeste, blanca y celeste, querida: sólo celeste y blanca. ¿Te las imaginás? Tan puras, ellas.
Abrazar el demonio. Las yemas de los dedos acercándose.
Debe estar caliente, por donde lo toques. Los ojos afiebrados, y esa barba en punta que debe dar muchas, pero muchas ganas de apoyarse, ¿no? Sin dudas: si se me aparece Mandinga, yo pruebo. ¡Gran siestita! Y nada de forget about it. Ahí debe haber mucho que aprender.
Meterme entre las sábanas. Las frazadas pesándome sobre el lado izquierdo. Sí. Me doy una ducha y sigo desde la cama.
Estaba pensando—el agua es un sacramento—que tomar una resolución, optar, es como perder un dedo de la mano en un acto voluntario y adquirir tres en la otra, así, de golpe. No te desesperes mucho. Ya sabés: precalentamiento. Acordáte el futuro cuento. Estoy abriendo el primer agujero. Aunque también podría estar trabajándome algo referido a dar un salto. No es nada novedoso, ya lo sé. Mis saltos te provocan ataques hepáticos, pero son previsibles. Es magnífico optar, elegir. ¿No es como cantar Yesterday modulando despacio, con tus propios labios, con tus propios labios, cada palabra, ir dándoles forma una a una, ocupando cada músculo, los dientes, la lengua, la boca entera, recostada en una hamaca tejida desde que la única visión sea una fuente transparente repleta de cerezas casi violetas y un avión blanco despegando? Antes de que la celadora me asegurara con las esposas creo que a Sonia y nos sentará de bruto empujón en el suelo, en la plataforma sin asientos dijo como otro golpe, un no pueden mirar. Levanté apenas la cabeza. Ya casi todas las compañeras estaban colocadas en hileras, sentadas a lo Buda en el suelo engrilladas al acero del piso, las cabezas bajas y el brazo libre pesando sobre la nuca. Te juro que le saqué una foto eterna, para la posteridad de este espectáculo.
Una formación, una escuadra paralizada en trance de retraer su miembros en un paso íntimo de baile, en un círculo completo, para después abrirse y alagarse para siempre. No me digas que la realidad del avión estaba muy lejos de parecerse a ninguna danza. Ya lo sé. Se trata más bien de un gran mareo histórico, de la náusea universal, que de todos modos dejó sentir la dirección por la que se decidía este gran aparato digestivo que habitamos.
Los grillos y las esposas eran galladura de huevo; eran una absoluto, una ficción. Una fiesta de potencias se movilizaba alrededor de cada ojo, de cada labio frenando el impulso de gestar sonidos.
Algunos pares de borceguíes también provocaban su propio accidente contra hombros, cabezas, entre las caras que intentaban reajustar su perspectiva captando un ángulo de totalidad y la solidez sonora de los tacos. Yo ya estaba en el avión militar, amordazada de pies y tuétanos. Bonavena despenado, imangínate.
El día fue largo. Estuve tratando de tomarme el trabajo con un poco de nuestra filosofía: “qué va a hacer”, pero no caben mis delirios por estas latitudes.
Encima de pronto fui a descubrir, y nada menos que por el zumbido a una mosca pedante como pocas, que se pasó quince minutos de su vida—de la mía-arremetiendo de cabeza contra el vidrio de la ventana. Y no me vengas con tu lógica; sí, era pedante. Y no le di antes la vía libre porque me quedé ahí siguiéndole el proceso de ablandamiento, de consagración a la causa. La hubieras visto retroceder y tomar impulso, y largarse contra la luz hasta rajar el vidrio de extremo a extremo. La casa se reserva el derecho de admisión. No se me mueve un pelo si me cuestionás la verosimilizad. ¿Suena parecido?
No salió sola, porque se ve que se mareó y no pudo completar la operación. Se apoyó en la orilla de la ventana, con cara de víctima: así que le abrí.
Juliana, decime, ¿te acordás de un vestido blanco de algodón, con flores negras que no nos quedaba tan bien a los dos, y que mi vieja me cosió poco después de la libertad? Anoche, caminando por State, vi uno muy parecido en la vidriera. Me produjo un solo efecto: ganas de azotar el aire con un par de gritos más o menos siniestros.
Y es tan sucio por épocas en la zona de Rosario, digo el rio—es tan limpio; la próxima tarea –, que tienta a sumergirse, a bucearse, porque ya sabemos todo lo que puede hacer enredado el plantario y el barro. ¿Vos qué te imagínas? Algunos son tesoros incanjeables: yo puesto por un humilde simple de Jimmy Hendrix, el Antidhuring y un buen diccionario de sinónimos. Buen, porque más bueno, más útil, más rápido. Más rápido te lo sacás de encima
Teníamos que estar listos en veinte minutos con muda de ropa. De dónde íbamos a sacar mesura para demorarnos una eternidad. En la mitad del tiempo ya esperábamos, unidas por una corriente eléctrica muy física que nos mantenía activos garganta y estómago. Pero lo que me angustia: ¿sabés lo que es?: la posibilidad de que ninguna entendiera en ese momento la esencia del problema. Pero no, tampoco estoy en lo cierto; porque entonces si no captábamos la cosa medular, decime que fue lo que nos hizo despedirnos como si fuésemos a morir. Nos clavábamos unas miradas blancas, tiza compacto, firme contra las frentes, nos estudiábamos la lividez, las arrugas, las canas recientes, nos corregíamos los defectos de peinado o nos arrancábamos unas o otras hilachas, pelosas.
Algunos recuerdos están amputados. Pero no me cuesta nada provocarme un efecto de neuronas. Reponer imágenes y las sensaciones vuelven intactas.
Recibí carta de Virginia. Todo el asunto se mueve alrededor de una moto que se compró su nuevo compañero; es increíble, pero no resulta tediosa. Por ahí se les ingenia para ponerlo en ridículo al tal Gustavo. Se ve que hay algo de él con el casco que se incompatible con ciertas ansiedades de ella. No hubo forma de desviarla del tema. Es notorio que a vez le subyuga y le repugna: la moto, el marido, no sé.
Estuve haciendo serios esfuerzos para recordar algunos ejercicios. No hubo caso. Es como si me instalara una sábana entre los ojos y el cerebro. La razón de la desmemoria está ahí: en los colores, las formas, la mayor yo menor nitidez, los ritmos. La capacidad letal de los acontecimientos.
Por ejemplo la bajada del avión. Sé que nos aterrizamos en Aeroparque porque alguien me lo dijo después, no sé cuando. Pero no puedo, no puedo conseguir esa parte de la película. Salto del pleno vuelo a los camiones que nos transportan a Villa Devoto. Se me borró el aterrizaje, se me borró lo que siguió hasta empezar a circular por el inconfundible vapor de Buenos Aires. Siento la asfixia todavía, los chorros que me brotaban de la espalda, siento la deshidratación como si ahora me estuvieran obligando a tragar una sandía entera. Con la intensidad. Veo gris y veo verde, tengo pegados el verde y el gris.
Pero hay fuertes huecos irrecuperables.
Che, es tarde. Voy a ver si me duermo. Me arden los ojos; se me rompió una patilla de los lentes. Causa, le regalé a David en México el único buen estuche que tenía. Annie me regaló uno mejor, pero el período intermedio fue fatal. Así que corto. Contestá enseguida. El tiempo pasa raudo. Y también veloz. (¿Ya te lo dije?)
El ser humano que gana espacio en mis interiores da gruesos saltos en su esfuerzo para ser amistoso. Paciencia: la lucha contra el cáncer, el desplazamiento de la historia respecto de la línea de los deseos, los desfiles militares, la sombra que proyecta el edificio de enfrente sobre tu casa, moderan el espíritu.
Chau. Besos a los conocidos o queridos en común. A vos mi amor, como siempre.
Sara.
P.D. Esa foto que me mandaste de tu hija con una gallina en brazos es tan estúpida que me resultó ineludible su inclusión entre las demás, tan
lindas todas. Besos.
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LETTER TO AUBERVILLIERS, FRANCE
A Juliana, que es Estela
Santa Barbara, January 2, 1984
What an effect this type of earthquake, or as you may call them aftershocks! (It’s never too late my dear!); because they are like pins placed in strategic parts of the brain. I mean, the catharsis never come alone: the Paraná river descends from Matto Grosso and drags with it varied specimens. The water hyacinths, Juliana, and the piranha. Of the water hyacinth, I’m sure. And I wonder why the piranha don’t come as far as Rosario.
We are advancing, headlong, through the first days of 1984. And, also, quickly. Others are capable of separating themselves from the buildup and from those years. With me, I let myself enter into facts that are always likely to remain. It is not by chance. Don’t believe in coincidences. I’m trying to place myself at point of escape from all possible views, to drag out a story in which the axis will be placed at the time of the moving of prisoners from the basement in Rosario to Villa Devoto. I go round and round like a glove in a trance to defeat myself.
Then, you understand. Once I asked ty to answer in a letter my questions about your torture. We two know even the inflections that you use in you voice in those cases. But I forced myself, for my question and for my question and for your answers, and I went forward with the novel that I was writing. Now, the same recourse.
Last night I couldn’t sleep: that one about the kid who is born with a defect. And this morning, going to work, when we had already left the house, I realized that I was still inside, looking for the door.
Santa Barbara is wild and I take advantage of it. It opens its legs and shakes with sunlight and abundance. Here people never die. Whereas the Paraná, you saw, grates on your nerves. The snakes, all that it deposits for us at the end of its journey. Do you hear what’s coming? The Paraná is born in Brazil at the confluence of the Paranaiba and Grande. This memory that I wear out has to be a product of an intravenous injection applied by the old lady of Geography. There is no other way to explain it.
From the basement to Villa Devoto. It is impossible to remember the totality of it: Blanca always had the shadow of a mustache, more pronounced that is recommended. That day, they had turned black, they cut her face in half. She was handcuffed to Tania. Tania so tall and she so short, with her mustache and her clothing in a blue bag, made from a pair of jeans a pair of those hands, almost magical, that we all began to have. Tell me about Paris, no?, or you don’t live there, or are you shut up in the apartment’s bathroom? In the kitchen? I hope we’re dealing with the bedroom.
Your street must be like one in Posadas. Cobblestone, between each stone, some plant sticking out, on some leaf in full charge for foodstuff, In that way, a street in Posadas occurred to me, beyond being splashed by blows that the Paraná gives out when it goes crazy. On the other blocks of Paris, bird cries, broken beer bottle, incestuous and tangled rain out to splash them, I’m sure. Work with me and confirm it.
Who were you handcuffed to? I don’t remember having seen anyone near you at that moment. But what I forget is that, having arrived at Devoto, Mercedes entered the pavilion that they assigned to us and vomited almost to her heart. With that, she sent to the pipes of the latrines all that seemed a transfer of political prisoners and its possible implications. Remarkable.
Pavilion 31! Seriously. Remarkable.
Where would Flora be?; the one who washed the clothing when it was her turn, of everyone except hers and took care of the only rope in the bathroom as if it were nothing. How would be that tight face she had? She’s probably choosing appropriate bars of powdered soap in Senegal and its environs. It’s possible that in so many years of exile, she’s acquired an automatic washer. It depends: I don’t know what level of specialization she has acquired.
Your mother wrote me for my birthday. She feels like a flower at nine o’clock in the morning of a Buenos Aires summer. I don’t want to be redundant, but I am jealous of you. A mother like Adelina!
You live forgiving yourself. I fear being reiterative. And to ask the military bastards is they care about repeating methods, borrowing them, wasting them. That’s to say, don’t bother. Don’t ask them anything.
I feel as if I were very concentrated in put a finger in some hole.
That flag, that which we left hanging in the basement bathroom before they took us away. I don’t know, I never stopped completing in my head a picture with the hands of the security guards, interrupted in some form of amazement, suspended between the flag and their bellies. Their tits, without being able to decide whether to tear it down. To touch it: to embrace the devil. Not sky blue, white and sky blue, my dear: only sky blue and white. Can you imagine it? So pure, those colors.
Embrace the devil. The fingertips coming near you. He must be hot, wherever you touch him. The feverish eyes, and that pointed beard that most provoke much desire, but much desire to be supported,. No? No doubt: if Mandinga appears to me, I prove it. Great little siesta! And nothing of forget about it. There must be a lot to learn.
To get under the sheets. The blankets weighing on my left side. Yes. I take a shower and go on to bed.
I was thinking—water is a sacrament–to make a resolution, to choose, is like losing a finger from your hand in a voluntary act, and acquire three more on the other, just like that, suddenly. You don’t despair too much. You already know: warming-up. Remember the future story. I am opening the first hole. Although I may also be working myself up to something called taking a jump. It’s nothing new; I know. My jumps take the form of liver attacks, but they are foreseeable. It’s magnificent to opt for, to choose. Isn’t it like singing Yesterday, modulating slowly, with your own lips, with your own lips, each word, giving them form, one by one, using every muscle, the teeth, the whole mouth, lying on a hammock from which the only view is of a transparent fountain full of almost violet cherries and a white plane taking off? Before the security guard secured me with the handcuffs I think with Sonia, and he sat us down with a brutal push, onto the platform without seats, he said as another blow, a you can’t look. I hardly raised my head. By then, almost all the compañeras were placed in rows, seated in the Buddha position on the floor, shackled to the steel floor, the heads down and the free arm on the nape of the neck. I swear to you that I took an eternal photo of it, for the posterity of this spectacle.
The shackles and the handcuffs were the blood spot on the egg; they were an absolute, a fiction. A party of powers was mobilized around every eye, of every lip, halting the impulse to gestate sounds.
Some pairs of laced boots also provoked their own accident against shoulders, heads, among the faces that were trying to readjust their angle, by setting an angle of totality and the solidity of the heels. I was already in the military airplane, tied up through and through. Bonavena finished off, imagine it.
The day was long. I was trying to accept the situation with a bit of our philosophy “what are you going to do?,” but my delirium didn’t function at those latitudes.
Very soon I was to discover, and nothing less than the by buzzing of a bee, an unusual teacher, who spent fifteen minutes of its life—of mine—charging with his head against the window glass. And don’t try your logic on me, yes, he was a pedant. And didn’t I say to you earlier. And I didn’t give him free passage because I stayed there following him in his process of softening, his consecration to the cause. You would have seen her retreat and take strength and throw herself against the light until scratching the glass from one end to the other. The house reserves the right of admission. Don’t move a hair if you question my verisimilitude. Sounds familiar?
She didn’t get out alone, because you could see that she was stunned and couldn’t complete the operation. She leaned against the edge of the window, with a victim’s face; so, I opened it for her.
Juliana, tell me, do you remember that white cotton dress, with black flowers that didn’t fit either of us very well, and that my mother sewed soon after freedom? Last night, walking on State, I in the shop window one that was very similar. It produced in me a single effect: desire to whip the air with a pair of more or less evil shouts.
And it is so dirty for decades in the area of Rosario, I mean the river—it is so clean; the next task—that tempts you to submerge yourself, swim underwater, because we already know everything that can make the plants and the mud come together. Can you imagine? Some treasures are invaluable; I’d go for a humble single by Jimmy Hendrix, the Antidhuring and a good dictionary of synonyms. Well, the better, more useful, the quicker. The quicker you get if off of you.
We had to be ready in twenty minutes with a change of clothes. Where were we going to find the patience to delay ourselves for an eternity. In half the time, we were already waiting, united by a very physical electric current that kept out stomachs and throats active. But that which troubled me: you know what it is?: the possibility that nobody would understand at that moment the essence of the problem: because if we didn’t capture the core thing. But no, neither am I sure. Tell me what it was that made us say goodbye as if we were going to die. We put on white gazes, compact chalk, firm a against the foreheads. We study the paleness, the wrinkles, the recent white hairs, we correct the defects in our hair or we pull out some loose threads, fluff.
Some memories are amputated. But it doesn’t cost me anything to provoke in myself an effect of neurons. To put back images and the sensations return intact.
I received a letter from Virginia. The whole thing was about a motorcycle that her new boyfriend bought: it’s incredible, but it didn’t turn out to be boring. They worked it out there to make a certain Gustavo look ridiculous. It seems that there is something about him with his helmet that was incompatible with certain of her anxieties. There was no way of diverting her from the subject. It’s strange that at the same time it charms her and repulses her: the motorcycle, the husband, I don’t know.
I was trying very hard to remember some exercises. There was no way. It is as if I put a sheet between my eyes and my brain. The reason for the amnesia is there: in the colors, the greater or lesser definition, the rhythms. The lethal possibility of the events.
For example, leaving the plane. I know that we landed in Aeroparque because someone told me later, I don’t know when. But I can’t, I can’t obtain that part of the movie. A leap from the full plane to the trucks that transported us to Villa Devoto. The landing is erased, what happened after that is erased until beginning to circle through the unmistakable air of Buenos Aires. I still feel the asphyxia, the streams that that burst from my back, I feel the dehydration as if even now they were forcing me to swallow a whole watermelon. With the intensity. I see gray and I see green. I’m stuck on the green and the gray.
But there are strong memories that are not recuperable.
Che, it’s late. I’m going to see if I can sleep. My eyes are burning; one of the arms of my eyeglasses broke. The reason. In Mexico, I lent the only good case that I had. Annie gave me a better one, but the intervening period was fatal. So, now I’ll stop. Answer immediately. The time passes quickly. And, also, fast. (Did I say that to you already?)
The human being who wins space in my insides makes difficult jumps in its force to be friendly. Patience: the fight against cancer, the historical displacement with respect to the direction of desires, the military parades, the shadow that the building in front projects onto your house, moderate the spirit.
Chau. Kisses to the acquaintances or dear ones in common. My love to you, as always.
P.S. That photograph of your daughter with the hen in her arms is that you sent me is so stupid that that its inclusion is unavoidable with the others, the others so pretty. Kisses.
Pasos bajo el agua, Buenos Aires: Contrapunto 1987 Córdoba: Alción, reeditada en 2006, traducida al inglés como Steps Under Water y alalemán como Schritte unter Wasser.
259 saltos, uno inmortal, Córdoba: Narvaja 2001, traducida al inglés como 259 Leaps, the Last Immortal.
Patas de avestruz, Córdoba: Alción, traducida al alemán como Straussenbeine.
Margo Glantz (Ciudad de México, 1930) Escritor, conferenciante y periodista. Después de graduarse de la UNAM, Glantz continuó su educación en París, donde recibió su doctorado en la Sorbona. En 1958 inició su carrera académica dando clases en la UNAM. Fundó y editó la revista Punto de Partida de la UNAM en 1966. En el campo de la difusión cultural ocupó diversos cargos: Directora del Instituto Cultural Mexicano-Israelí (1966-1970), del Centro de Lenguas de la UNAM. Extranjeras (1970-1971) y el puesto de Literatura en el Instituto Nacional de Bellas Artes (1983-1986), entre otros. De 1986 a 1988 fue agregada cultural de la Embajada de México en Londres. Desde 1995 es miembro activo de la Academia Mexicana de la Lengua. Es profesora emérita de la UNAM, columnista del diario mexicano La Jornada y novelista. Margo Glantz ha ganado numerosos premios y distinciones literarias durante su carrera como escritora, entre ellos el Premio Sor Juana de la Cruz por su novela El rastro (2004), el Premio Javier Villaurrutia por su novela Síndrome de naufragios (1984), el Premio Magda Donato de El árbol genealógico (1982) y el Premio Universidad Nacional (1991). Ganó el Premio Nacional de Artes y Ciencias en el campo de Lingüística y Literatura en 2004, el premio de la Feria Internacional del Libro de Guadalajara en 2010 y el Premio de Ficción Manuel Rojas (2015). Sus últimos libros son Coronada de moscas (2012), Yo también me acuerdo (2014), La cabellera andante (2015) y Por breve herida (2016).
Adaptado de Encyclopedia.com
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Margo Glantz (Mexico City, 1930) Writer, lecturer and journalist. After graduating from UNAM, Glantz continued her education in Paris, where she received her doctorate from the Sorbonne. In 1958 she began her academic career, lecturing at UNAM. She founded and edited the UNAM magazine, Punto de Partida, in 1966. In the field of cultural dissemination, she held a number of positions: Director of the Instituto Cultural Mexicano-Israelí (1966-1970), of UNAM’s Centro de Lenguas Extranjeras (1970-1971) and the Literature post at the Instituto Nacional de Bellas Artes (1983-1986), among others. From 1986 to 1988 she was the cultural attaché at the Mexican Embassy in London. Since 1995 she has been an active member of the Academia Mexicana de la Lengua. She is an emeritus professor at UNAM, columnist for the Mexican newspaper La Jornada and a novelist. Margo Glantz has won many literary prizes and distinctions during her writing career, including the Sor Juana de la Cruz Prize for her novel El rastro (2004), the Javier Villaurrutia Prize for her novel Síndrome de naufragios (1984), the Magda Donato Prize for The Family Tree (1982) and the Universidad Nacional Prize (1991). She won the National Arts and Sciences Award in the field of Linguistics and Literature in 2004, the Guadalajara International Book Fair award in 2010, and the Manuel Rojas Fiction Prize (2015). Her latest books are Coronada de moscas (2012), Yo también me acuerdo (2014), La cabellera andante (2015) and Por breve herida (2016).
Los proverbios no son eternos. Mi padre los condimenta. A ésa muy conocido que reza: “Al ojo del amo engorda el caballo”, mi padre lo agrega, “pero enflaca al amo”, clave útil por entender por qué nuestro signo comercial fue tan variado. Ya he dicho que mis padres transitaron por los oficios y que, en resumidas cuentas, se detuvieron sobre todo aquello que tiene que ver con la manducación y con el calzado. Las reiteradas ocasiones en que la comida tuvo que ver en mi casa terminaron, al principio, en fracaso: un cafecito en las calle Guatemala, a pesar de que mi padre era un asiduo frecuentador de cafés y restaurantes, cafés donde se reunía la tertulia literaria en ese México ya desaparecido.
El restaurante de Guatemala fue abandonado en un apagón, creo, porque mi padre prendió una lamparita de gasolina e incendió el local. Quizá exagero, pero entre las cosas quemadas está un monedero de piel que mi mamá recibió de sus hermanos cuando cumplió quince años, monedero que llevaba grabados en oro algunos de sus nombres y que ahora se insertan en un viejo álbum de fotografías con tapas de marfil que conserva mi hermana menor Shulamis. Todo queda en familia, menos el primer café que luego se vuelve, hacia 1954, el Genova Coffee Shop (¿por qué inglés, no lo sé, o más bien, sí, era un barrio turístico o empezaba a serlo): allí se inicia mi padre en los problemas de la galería artística y empieza a exponer obras de pinturas en ese entonces poco conocidos; primero, como es natural, a los muralistas, luego empiezan a pasar, ya por el Carmel, los nuevos, Manuel Felguérez, Lilia Carillo, Brian Nissen, Leonel Góngora, Pedro y Rafael Coronel, López Loza, Arnaldo Coen, etcétera. El pan comenzó a vender muy pronto y su persistencia en mantenernos duró varios años: en los intersticios, algunas corbatas, mucho papel, peines de acero (quizá para despiojarnos en esos tránsitos por las escuelas públicas) y el paso indeterminado por distintos domicilios y, por consiguiente, el cambio constante de escuelas, la sensación de exilio permanente, los sobre saltos, quizá ya en los juegos de Chapultepec adonde nos llevaba a montar a burro o a caballo . . .
El pan se mantenía caliente y también las muelas cuando se arrancaban de la boca. El Carmel se asocia con pasteles ya muy elaboradas, pasteles vieneses, o esos pasteles de manzana llamados strudl; mi madre solía hacerlos por domesticidad pura y sencilla y de pronto se transformaron en posibilidades de ganancia. Luego los cuernitos de nuez y al lado, Felguérez adornando con cuerdas marineras la incipiente galería donde se exhibirían algunas de sus primeras obras. Juan García Ponce solía aparecer y también Jaime García Terrés, el novio eterno de con Celia Chávez; Juan de la Cabada contaba cuentos en el restaurante y comía allí cuando no tenía dinero para ir a otra parte, Arreola organizaba sus talleres, cenaban y hacían poesía Gabriel Carbajal, Armando Zárate, Luis Mario Schneider. Mi padre iba de mesa en mesa respondiendo a las peticiones de esos gringos que venían a comer en México guisos estilo kosher—nunca ortodoxamente preparados—siempre reminiscencias de los pescados rellenos o del maná convertido en sopa que comíamos durante las fiestas religiosas celebradas en casas de mis tías pelirrojas que llegaron a México desde Constantinopla, trayendo en los cuellos esos largos collares de ámbar rojo que fueron las canicas de mi infancia. También había borsht (no sé si así se escribe) y golubzes, col rellena con carne.
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Marc Chagall es nonagenario y como en sus pinturas, sigue volando por los techos. Algunas veces realizó uno de estos viajes con mis padres, pues el destino se prepara desde la más tierna infancia, y como ya lo he dicho varias veces, el pueblo de mi padre se llama Novo Vitebsk y se construyó con las sobras del pueblo donde nació Chagall, Vibebsk, pueblo de casas de madera con tzerbas (iglesias rusas) y con sinagogas de shtétl, pueblitos de judíos sin dinero y con barbas.
–Hay quienes consideran la vejez como naufragio—dice mi padre–, casi como estas aves que cruzan por los pantanos sin marcharse.
Y lo dice por Chagall, a quien conoció en México al principio de la década de los cuarenta, por intermedio de Diego Rivera, quien lo presenta así ante al maestro, en carta de agosto 13 de 1942 (la traduzco porque estaba en francés):
He aquí que sin todavía tener el placer de verlo le dirijo otra carta. Mi amigo , el escritor Yacob Glantz, redactor (poeta y crítico de arte) de la Gaceta Israelita de México, quiere entrevistarlo para su periódico. Por eso, me veo obligado molestarle de nuevo con mi correspondencia. Agradezco de antemano la atención que prestará usted a mi amigo Glantz.
¿Está usted bien aquí? Esperando tener el placer saludarlo, quedo de usted. Diego Rivera.
Y la repetición se instaura en la novedad. Y mi padre se instala en Bellas Artes y observa las idas y venidas del pintor. Rehace los trayectos antes hechos con Orozco, con Rivera, y con Fernando Leal. Ahora lo visita diariamente en el escenario de Bellas Artes. “donde trepaba escaleras para dibujar coreografía del ballet Aleka de Dugalieff, basado en el poema de Alejandro Pushkin, Tzigany (Gitanos)”.
También estaba Bella, “su inspiradora”. La que le sirvió de modelo por muchas de sus famosas pinturas: La novia vestida de blanco, La boda, El entierro, etcétera.
–La consultaba siempre.
Chagall era muy cordial—cuenta mamá—muy simpático. Y su primera mujer, Bela, con la que había vivido casi todo el tiempo, era amable, muy preparada. Se habían conocido donde muy chicos, y cuando él se fue a estudiar fuera de Virtebsk, ella se quedó en Rusia haciendo altos estudios.
Los Chagall permanecen en la Ciudad de México un breve tiempo, casi de incógnito, allá por los años 40, y van a visitar a mis padres, toman el té y blintzes con ellos. Bella lee sus poemas y sus cuentos, entre ellos uno que se llama pleonásticamente “Velas encendidas”, por los candeleros que se encienden los viernes por la noche.
–Hay que buscar el libro.
Y por un azar feliz y extraño lo encuentra, también otro, en yidish, que se llama “El primer encuentro”, y otro más, traducido al sueco: “Con amor”.
En Saint Paul de Vence también lo visita, en 1964.
–Llamé desde París y me dijo: “Toma un coche y ven a verme”. Le contesté: ¿Cómo puedo ir , si estoy en París?”. “Entonces toma un tren”, me dijo.
Al llegar a la estación lo esperaba un chofer, un ruso blanco, aristócrata.
–La casa tenía un hermoso parque y caballos. Tenía muchas cuadras que nunca quiso vender.
Y para confirmar la ley de las reiteraciones, mi padre entra de nuevo al tabernáculo.
Y observó al pintor dentro de su estudio.
–A nadie dejaba entrar en donde pintaba y yo sí entré. No entendía entonces la importancia de que me pintara.
Mi madre intercala:
–Siempre se entiende tarde.
Jacobo escribió en yidish un texto sobre Chagall y sus personajes, y al enseñárselo, le preguntó:
¿Por qué lo lee con tanto interés? ¿A poco no está cansado de leer lo que otros escriben sobre usted??”
¿Qué saben los demás de mí?—me contestó. Usted, sí, lo que usted dice, vale la pena”.
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The Genealogies
(two excerpts)
XLVIII
The proverbs are not eternal. My father seasons them. To this very well-known one that claims: “The master’s eye makes the horse fat,” my father adds, “but makes the master skinny,” a useful key for understanding why our commercial trail was so varied. I have already said that my parents moved around in various trades, and to sum it up, they most often stopped on that which had to do with grub and shoes. The reiterated occasions with food had to be seen in my house, ended, at first, in disaster: a small café on Guatemala Street, in spite of the fact my father was an assiduous frequenter of cafés and restaurants, cafés where the literary gatherings met in that Mexico now disappeared.
The restaurant on Guatemala was abandoned during a blackout, I believe, because my father took a small gasoline lamp and burnt down the place. Perhaps, I exaggerate, but among the scorched articles was a change purse that my mama had received from her brothers and sisters on her fifteenth birthday that had some of their names engraved in gold and that now is inserted in an old photograph album with marble covers that my youngest sister Sholomis keeps aside. Everything stays in the family, except the first café, that later became, in 1954, the Genova Coffee Shop. (Why English? I don’t know, or more likely, yes, it was a tourist area or was beginning to be one): there my father was initiated in the problems of an art gallery and began to show paintings by, at that time, little-known artists; first, as was to be expected, the muralists, then began to pass by, still by the Carmel, the new ones: Manuel Felguérez, Lilia Carillo, Brian Nissen, Leonel Góngora, Pedro y Rafael Coronel, López Loza, Arnaldo Coen, etcetera. The bread began to sell very quickly, and its persistence in supporting us, lasted for several years. In the intervals, some neckties, a lot of paper, iron combs (perhaps to delouse us during those transits through the public schools) and the indeterminate movement through districts, and, as a result, the constant change of schools. The sensation of permanent exile, the summersaults, perhaps, already experienced in the Chepultepec playgrounds where we were carried by burros or horses. . .
The bread stayed hot and also your molars when you pulled them from your mouth. The Carmel neighborhood was associated with very elaborate pastries, Viennese pastries, or those apple pastries called strudel; my mother continued to make them for domesticity, pure and simple; they were suddenly were transformed in a means of earning money. Then, the little horns of walnuts, and all around Felguérez adorning with maritime ropes the incipient gallery where some of his early works would be exhibited. Juan García Ponce often came by and also Jaime García Terrés, the eternal boyfriend of Celia Chávez; Juan de la Cabada told stories in the restaurant and ate there when he didn’t have the money to go elsewhere, Arreola organized his workshops, Gabriel Carbajal, Armando Zárate, Luis Mario Schneider had supper and wrote poetry. My father went from table to table, responding to the requests of the gringos who came to eat in Mexico, kosher-style plates—never prepared in the orthodox manner—always reminiscent of the stuffed fish or the manna from heaven converted into soup that we ate during the religious festivals celebrated in the houses of my red-haired aunts who arrived to Mexico from Constantinople, carrying on their necks those large collars of red amber that were the marbles of my childhood. There was also borsht (I don’t know if it is spelled like that) and golubses, cabbagestuffed with meat.
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L
Marc Chagall is a nonagenarian and as in his paintings, continues flying over the rooftops. Sometimes, he made one of those trips with my parents, since destiny prepared for it from the earliest infancy, and as I had said before several times, my father’s town is called Nove Vitebsk and it was built one what was left of the town where Chagall was born, a town of wooden houses with tzerbas (Russian churches) and with shtetl synagogues of Jews without money and with beards.
There are those who consider old age as a ship wreak—my father says–, almost like these birds that cross the swamps without leaving them.
And he said it about Chagall, whom he met in Mexico at the beginning of the forties, by the intervention of Diego Rivera, who presented him so to the maestro, in a letter on August 13, 1942 (I translate it as it was in French,)
As I have not yet had the pleasure of seeing you, I send you another letter. My friend, the writer, Yacob Glantz, editor (poet and art critic) for the Israelite Gazette of Mexico, would like to interview you for his paper. For that reason, I see myself obliged to bother you again with my correspondence. I thank you in advance for the attention that you lend to my friend Glantz.
Are you well here? Hoping to have the pleasure of greeting you, Yours, Diego Rivera.
And the repetition is found in the new. And my father set himself up in the Palace of Fine Arts and observed the comings and goings of the painter. He redid the trajectories already taken with Orozco, with Rivera, and with Fernando Leal. He visited him daily in the Fine Arts stage “where he climbed stairs to design the choreography for the ballet Aleka by Diaghilev based on a poem by Alexander Pushkin, Tzigany (Gypsies.)”
Bella was there too, “his inspiration.” The one who served as the model for many of his famous paintings, The Bride Dressed in White, The Wedding, The Burial, et cetera.
The Chagalls stayed in Mexico City for a short time, almost incognito, there during the forties, and they went to visit my parents, had tea and blintzes with them. Bella read his poems and his stories, among them one called pleonasticly “Lit Candles” for the candle sticks lit on Friday night
“We must look for the book.”
And by a happy and strange chance, he found it, and another one, in Yiddish, that is named The First Meeting, and yet another translated into Swedish: With Love.
He also visited him in Saint Paul de Vence in 1964.
“I called from Paris, and he told me: “Take a car and come to see me.” I answered him, “How can I come, I am in Paris?” “Then take a train,” he told me.
On arriving at the station, a driver was waiting, a White Russian, an aristocrat.
“The house had a pretty garden and horses. He had many paintings that he never wanted to sell.”
And to confirm the law of repetitions, my father once again entered the tabernacle. And he observed the maestro in his study.
“He didn’t allow anyone to enter where he painted, and I did enter. I didn’t understand then the importance of what he was painting for me.”
My mother interjected:
“You always understand too late.”
Jacob wrote in Yiddish a text about Chagall and his characters, and on showing it to him, he asked him?
“Why are you reading it with so much interest? Aren’t you a bit tired of reading what others write about you?”
“What do the others know about me?” he answered me. You, yes, what you say, is worth the trouble.”
Azriel Bibliowicz estudió sociología en la Universidad Nacional de Colombia. Ha sido profesor visitante y conferencista en sociología y literatura en universidades de Estados Unidos y Europa. Fue columnista del diario El Espectador. En 1981 recibió el premio Nacional de Periodismo Simón Bolívar. Desde 1983 ha estado vinculado a la Universidad Nacional de Colombia. En el 2004 le otorgaron la Medalla al Mérito Académico.Sus obras incluyen El rumor del astracán (1991), con cuatro ediciones; Sobre la faz del abismo (2002); Flaubert: historia de una cama (2004) y la compilación de los Seminarios y talleres con invitados internacionales de la Maestría en Escrituras Creativas de la Universidad de Colombia (2012). Algunos de sus cuentos han sido traducidos al inglés, alemán e italiano.
Azriel Bibliowicz studied sociology at the National University of Colombia. He has been a visiting professor and lecturer in sociology and literature at universities in the United States and Europe. He was a columnist for the newspaper El Espectador. In 1981 he received the Simón Bolívar National Prize for Journalism. Since 1983, he has taught at the National University of Colombia. In 2004 he was awarded the Medal of Academic Merit. His works include El rumor del astracán (1991), with four editions; Sobre la faz del abismo (2002); Flaubert: historia de una cama (2004) and the compilation of the Seminars and workshops with international guests of the Master in Creative Writing at the University of Colombia (2012). Some of his stories have been translated into English, German and Italian.
De:/From: Azriel Bibliowicz. El rumor del astracán. Bogotá: Planeta Colombiana Editorial, 1991.
“El arribo del barco”
La conmoción en el Caribia-Hamburg vaticinaba el arribo del barco a la tierra. Abraham les explicó que llegarían a Puerto Colombia. Sus pasaportes descollaban por apariencia extraña. En el mercado negro sus opciones no fueron los mejores, compraron lo que había. La cara de sospecha del oficial polaco en el puerto de Gdnia alcanzó a preocuparlos, pero, ¿quién iba a detener unos judíos por abandonar el país?
Abraham les aseguró que les esperarían. El barco de carga tiró una manila delgada. Los trabajadores del puerto la cobraron e hicieron llegar un cable grueso. Las pesas facilitaron el atraque. El muelle con tablones y pilotes de pino cresolado les dio la bienvenida. El mar era como un plato bordeado por piedras disformes. Cactus y trupillos acorralaban el paisaje.
El sol los obligó a quitarse los zapatos. Se aflojaron la corbata. Jacob desbotonó su chaleco. Le condujeron a un edificio alto de techos altos. Una negra con una batea en la cabeza ofrecía: alegrías; panelitas y cocadas.
Buscaron ansiosos a la persona que Abraham aseguró los ayudaría con papeles y diligencias.
–Nunca se me ocurrió. ¿Cómo se busca a un judío en un país extraño?
–¿Por la nariz?
–Tengo una idea. Todo judío reconoce las trencillas de su manto sagrado. Tú siempre vistes un pequeño taled debajo de la camisa. Saca las trencillas; deja que sus nudos cuelgan como banderas.
Jacob se siente incómodo.
–Eso, deja que las vean—insistió Saúl.
Se quedaron parados. Miraban pasar la gente de lado a lado. Sus facciones de extranjeros despertaron la atención de vendedores ambulantes en el muelle. Las trencillas del traje de Jacob ofrecían una escena poco común. Los pasajeros avanzaban por inmigración y la aduana.
“. . .¿Será que en América le cortaron las trencillas al taled; sólo conservan nudillos y rayas?. . .”
Si bien el poncho guardaba un curioso parecido al taled, no acababa de persuadirlo. Frente a la duda, se acercó al hombre. Lo saludó en yiddish.
–Shalom Aleijem.
–¿Cómo?
Saúl se levantó su sombrero, disculpándose, y regresó donde Jacob.
–¿No será todo cuento de Abraham? ¿Por qué confiamos en él?—Refunfuñó angustiado Jacob– ¿Ahora que vamos a hacer?
La fila a los oficiales era cada vez más corta. Sólo quedaban dos pasajeros por revisar. El oficial al verlos, les indicó que siguieran. Colocaron un billete de diez dólares entre sus pasaportes.
Seguían en la búsqueda de quien debía recibirlos.
–No dejaron ni que el maletero recogiera el equipaje, mi sargento—recalcó uno de los oficiales de la aduana.
El sargento revisó los pasaportes: descubrió los billetes que tomó con naturalidad.
–¿Cuánto tiempo piensan quedarse?
Jacob y Saúl se miraron sin comprender qué indagaban. Detallaban impacientes su alrededor.
–¿A quién buscarán con tantas ganas?—le preguntó el sargento a uno de los oficiales y dio la orden:—¡Revísenlos bien!
Los agentes escarbaron las maletas, mientras el sargento continuó atento a los documentos. Pasaba una y otra página para comentarle a uno de los compañeros:
–Estos gringos son de buenas, menos mal que sé leer estos garabatos, si no, se jodían.
El subalterno lo contempló.
–Usted si que sabe cosas, mi sargento.
–Estoy seguro que traen contrabando. ¡Inspeccionen bien estas maletas!
Los oficiales les formulaban preguntas que no hallaban respuestas. En los rincones de las valijas entraban las manos ansiosas a revolcar la ropa arrugada por la travesía.
Saúl le ofreció un cigarrillo al sargento con una sonrisa. Este lo aceptó, y el resto del paquete se repartió entre las guardias.
–Un cigarrillo americano curioso. Esta marca no la conocía—comentó el sargento mientras rastrilló una cerilla y le ofreció lumbre a Saúl.
–¿Qué encontraron?
–Nada, ropa sucia.
–¡Cómo que nada! ¡Debe haber algo ahí! ¡No ven que hasta los cigarrillos son de matute! ¡Córtenles lo que sea, pero encuentren qué llevan!
–Pero, sargento. . .
–Aprenda agente. Como dice mi Coronel: “Autoridad que no abusa, se desprestigia”.
Jacob miraba con insistencia a su alrededor, con la esperanza de que al última hora los salvaran. Al sacar los agentes unas navajas, los dos se asustaron.
–Ahora qué hacemos. .
–¿Tienes la tarjeta de Abraham?
Jacob sacó la tarjeta y se la entregó al sargento.
–Así que éste es el contacto.
Ya confiesan.
Jacob caminó de un lado al otro. El calor multiplicó el agobio. Al verlos rajar la maleta no resistió más. Rasgó la costura de su saco. Extrajo veinte dólares que había guardado para una eventualidad. Se los dio al sargento con los ojos enrojecidos. Este recibió el billete, para gritarles a los agentes:
–¡Amanecemos aquí si es necesario! ¡Coño, quiero saber qué traen!
Les quitaron los sacos, rompieron las costuras, requisaron y vaciaron pieza por pieza las maletas. Después de dos horas, el sargento se convenció que nada había.
–¡Gringos huevones! Nos pagaron y no traían ni mierda. ¡García, sélleles esos papeles. Déles pita para que amarren sus trapos y se larguen!
Fragmento de la novela El rumor de astracán (1991)
The commotion in the Caribia-Hamburg predicted the arrival of the ship to the shore. Abraham explained to them that they would arrive at Puerto Colombia. Their passports stood out for their strange appearance. In the black market, their options weren’t the best, they bought whatever there was. The Polish official’s suspicious face in the port of Gdynia was enough to worry them. But who was going to stop some Jews from leaving the country.
Abraham assured them that they would be waiting for them. The cargo ship threw a thin rope. The port workers grabbed it and made a thick cable reach the ship. The weights helped the mooring. The dock with thick planks and creosoted pilings welcomed them. The sea was like a plate bordered by deformed rocks, Cactus and mesquite hemmed in the countryside.
The sun forced them to take off their shoes. They loosened their ties. Jacob unbuttoned his vest. They were led to a tall building with high roofs. A black woman, with a tray on her head, offered local sweets: alegrías, panelitas and cocadas. Anxiously, they looked for the person that Abraham had assured would help them with papers and formalities.
“It never occurred to me. How do you find a Jew in a foreign country?
“By his nose?”
“I have an idea. Every Jew recognizes the fringes of a holy prayer shall. You always wear a small tallit underneath under your shirt. Take out the fringes; let the knots hang out like flags.
Jacob felt uncomfortable.
“That’s it, let them see them,” Saul insisted.”
They remained standing. They saw people passing by. Their foreign look awakened the attention of street vendors on the dock. The fringes of Jacob’s suit offered up a rare scene, the passengers advanced through immigration and customs.
“Could it be the in America they cut off the fringes of the tallit; they only keep the knots and stripes?”
If the poncho had a curious similarity to a tallit, it didn’t quite convince him. Thought in doubt, he approached the man. He greeted him in Yiddish.
“Shalom Aleichem.”
“What?”
Saul lifted his hat, apologizing, and returned to where Jacob was.
“Could it be that Abraham was a fake? Why did we trust him?,” Jacob grumbled anxiously. “What are we going to do now?”
The line leading to the officials became shorter and shorted. Only two passengers were left to check. On seeing them, the official, indicated to them that they follow. They placed a ten-dollar bill between their passports.
The continued in their search for someone who should greet them.
The sergeant looked over the passports; he discovered the bills and took them as if it were the most natural thing to do.
“How long do you intend to stay?”
Jacob and Saul looked at each other without understanding what was asked. They looked impatiently around them.
“Who are they looking for with such interest?” the sergeant asked one of the officials, then gave the order: “Inspect them well!”
The agents searched the suitcases, while the sergeant continued looking attentively at the documents.
He went over one page after another then commented to one of his buddies, “ These gringos are in a good mood. it’s lucky that I know how to read these scribbles. If not, they’d be screwed.
The subordinate looked at him intently.
“You certainly know a lot, my sergeant.
“I’m sure they are carrying contraband. Inspect those suitcases well.”
The officials formulated questions that didn’t find answers. In the corners of the suitcases entered anxious hands to go through clothing that was wrinkled by the crossing.
Saul offered a cigarette to the sergeant, with a smile. He accepted it, and divided the rest of the packet among the guards.
“A very curious American cigarette. I this know this brand,” commented the sergeant while he lit a match and offered a light to Saul.
“What did you find?”
“Nothing. Dirty clothes.”
“What do you mean nothing?” There has to be something here. Don’t you see that even the cigarettes are smuggled? Cut anything of theirs, but find what they’re carrying.”
“But sergeant…”
Agent, learn from me. As my Colonel says: “Authority that doesn’t abuse, loses prestige.
Jacob insistently looks around, with the hope that at the last moment they would be saved. When the agents took out their razors, the two were shocked.
“Now what do we do?”
“Do you have Abraham’s card?”
Jacob took out the card and handed it to the sergeant.
“So, this guy is the contact.”
They have confessed.
Jacob walked from one side to the other. The heat multiplied the stress. Seeing them slit the suitcase, he couldn’t take any more. He tore the seam of his jacket. He extracted twenty dollars that he had kept for an eventuality. He gave them to the sergeant with reddened eyes. The man received the bill, only to yell at the agents:
“We will spend the night here if necessary. Fuck, I want to know what they’re bringing in.”
They took the jackets off them, tore the seams, seized and emptied the suitcases, piece by piece. After two hours, the sergeant was convinced that there was nothing.
“Mother-fucking gringos! They pay us and they don’t bring shit. García, stamp those papers. Give them some twine to tie up their rags and then get out of here.”
Excerpt from the novel: El rumor de astracán (1991)
