Mirta Narosky es.Profesora y licenciada en Artes Plรกsticas (orientaciรณn pintura), recibida en la Universidad Nacional de La Plata.Desde pequeรฑa, recibe premios en poesรญa y pintura nacionales e internacionales. En pintura se destacan: 1967- Manchas pavimentales (3ยบ premio, no alcanzando la edad mรญnima), 1968-1ยบ premio Pintura rupestre. Cรณrdoba, 1971-3ยบ premio internacional de pintura y grabado. Bruselas. Bรฉlgica. 1ยบ premio concurso nacional de manchas. Salta.
Mirta Narosky is a Professor and holds a Licentiate in Visual Arts (specializing in painting) from the National University of La Plata. Since childhood, she has received national and international awards in both poetry and painting. Her notable achievements in painting include: 1967โManchas pavimentales (3rd Prize; awarded despite not meeting the minimum age requirement); 1968โ1st Prize for Pintura rupestre (Rock Painting) in Cรณrdoba; and 1971โ3rd International Prize for Painting and Engraving in Brussels, Belgium, as well as 1st Prize in the National Manchas (Inkblot) Competition in Salta.
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Actividades seleccionadas de Mirta Norowsky/Selected Activities of Mirta Narosky
Exposiciones individuales/Individual Expositions
1987.- โAcuarelasโ, Direcciรณn de Cultura de Lomas de Zamora. 1988.– โAcuarelasโ, Escuela de Bellas Artes de Lanรบs. 1990.- โDe la tierra y otros planetasโ, Sheraton hotel, BsA. 1997.-โEspacios virtualesโ, Centro Cultural Gral. San Martรญn Bs. As. 1999.- โCajas virtuales โ contenidos realesโ, Galerรญa Espacio Buenos Aires.Museo de Bellas Artes de Chivilcoy, pcia. Buenos Aires. โ 2000.- โRetratos y rostrosโ Gal. Adriana Budich. Buenos Aires, Argentina. 2001.- โEntre materia y espรญritusโ en Gal. Alejo Carpentier, Camaguey (Cuba).โRaรญces y tangoโ (inaugura espacio de Arte y Tango), Hotel Continental. Bs.As. 2000.- Bs. As. 2004.-โInstantรกneas de vidaโ Galerรญa Braque. (Bs.As.) Realiza dos murales. 2006.- โEstados del almaโ Centro Cultural Borges. 2007.- โImรกgenes de la Riveraโ. Conventillo Verde de La Boca (pinta en la vรญa Pรบblica). 2008.- Mis mujeresโ (Inaugura Gal. La Imprenta con conferencia y pintura en vivo). 2009.- โVรณrticesโ Centro Cultural Borges. 2010.- โVรณrticesโ Museo Municipal. de Bellas Artes E. Pettoruti. La Plata. 2011.- โDesde el Vรณrticeโ Galerรญa Nes.Bs. As. Pintura de murales, (Coordinando a alumnado) Universidad Jaureche. 2014.- Pinta en vivo en Congreso de Medicina.โ Medicinaโฆ del Humanismo a la Ciencia y el Arteโ (Integra una mesa redonda: habla del Arte como sanador del individual Dos + Una (Invitada especial por Buenos Aires) Casa de Cรณrdoba en Bs. As. โConjugaciรณn: Formas y Lรญneasโen Distal Arte. Recoleta. 2015.-โPercepciones del Futuro 0.5โ, Abstracciones figurativas-figuraciones abstractas. Gal. Raรญces Americanas. 2016.- โVรณrtices y Percepciones del Futuro 0.5โ (dibujos y pinturas) INNOVA, Espacio de Arte. Punta del Este. Uruguay. 2018.- โFragmentacionesโ dibujos. Galerรญa Liliana Rodrรญguez. โMirta Narosky โMaestra-Artista Contemporรกnea invitada especial de Brea Studio. 2019.- โSACHโ Estudios abiertos de Chacarita.โInterpelando lo Ilusorioโ Invitada exposiciรณn individual Gal. PalermoH. 2020- Objetos y tramas tejidas en el espacio Performance, Bs. As. 2022- โConfluenciaโ. Serie Fragmentaciones. Museo del ojo. Cerro de las Rosas. Cรณrdoba. โMicro Vรณrticesโ pinturas e instalaciรณn Areatec. Edificio Cassarรก. Avellaneda. โFragmentaciones e improntas de la pandemiaโ Pcia de Bs A2023- Semana del Arte en CABA. โBarbaro bar. Mirta Narosky dibujos y pinturasโ 2024– โVรณrticesโ Pje de la Luna (inaugura Centro Cutural). โMis Mujeresโ Galerรญa Palermo H. Dibujos en el Bรกrbaro. 2024/25- โEspacios virtualesโ (serie de los 90s) en Galerรญa Roseum Contemporรกnea. 2025-โFragmentaciones y Microvรณrticesโ Museo Provincial Emilio Caraffa. Cรณrdoba.
Inherente a su hacer artรญstico/Related to her artistic work:
1983/2000 Es profesora de tesis en la Escuela de Bellas Artes de Lanรบs. Diseรฑa y realiza numerosas escenografรญas para teatro y tv. 1986/1987.- Viaja un aรฑo por Europa donde dicta cursos (Inglaterra e Italia) y a Marruecos, Egipto, Israel, India y Nepal, oportunidad en que se nutre del Arte Oriental. 1986/A la fecha. –Participa como jurado, dicta conferencias y forma parte de mesas redondas. Le realizan numerosas notas en diarios, revistas, radio y tv de todo el paรญs en el exterior. IIlustra libros y sus obras se encuentran en numerosos libros de Arte.Colabora con artรญculos de Arte. Escribe โDuendes por la dignidadโ libro para niรฑos sobre la Historia del Bauen como Fรกbrica recuperada1996/1997.- Es invitada especial a los encuentros nacionales de artistas plรกsticos (Catamarca, Sgo. del Estero y Cรณrdoba). 1999.- Dos documentales de su obra realizados por el cineasta Jorge Coscia. 2005.- Invitada como jurado Acadรฉmico para concurso de puesto docente de Dibujo en la Universidad de la Plata. 2012.- Es convocada por la Secretarรญa de la Industria para asesorar de Arte Plรกstica de Negocios. 2013.- Jurado en el 1ยบ Salรณn Nacional de pintura, Municipalidad de Florencio Varela. Entrega de un gruya intervenida por Mirta Narosky al Embajador de Japรณn. 2016.- Recibe la distinciรณn โLa Orden del Buzรณnโ, como personalidad de La Cultura. 2018.-Artista invitada como artista referente en el Encuentro de Pintores y Escultores por Direcciรณn de Juventud de Dolores. Chivilcoy. 2021- Diรกlogo entre artistas (zoom en vivo con Mรณnica Goldstein.Proyecto de AAVRA). 2023.- Exposiciรณn de sus alumnos de taller y clรญnica en Facultad de Derecho. UBA. 2024- Clรญnicas grupales para artistas. 2025- Pinta en vivo sobre el escenario en recital de Rock de grupo Fierr
El destacado fue un escritor y ensayista Efraรญm Szmulewicz ampliamente conocido en el รกmbito nacional y la hispanoamericana. Su vida obedeciรณ mรกs que nada al interรฉs de la Secretaria de Relaciones Culturales de Gobierno por promover entre los estudiantes el hรกbito de la buena lectura y tambiรฉn informar acerca del desarrollo literario nacional y sus proyecciones futuras. Szmulewicz es un escritor que avanza con claridad de consagrado y es humanista cabal. Tiene una amplia cultura, de diรกlogo ameno y de una experiencia vital en tratar los problemas que tiene la literatura contemporรกnea, como de las nuevas tรฉcnicas aplicadas para su mejor comprensiรณn… Szmulewicz es un escritor cuyo objetivo no complica las obras y tiene un tono claro y muy personal compostura su sentir. Polaco de nacimiento, de amplias lecturas y una memoria poderosa. Ganรณ el Premio Municipal por su Biografรญa de Pablo Neruda. Escribiรณ biografรญas de Gabriela Mistral y Vicente Huidobro y tambiรฉn de su Diccionario de la literatura chilena. Un hijo judรญo es una de sus cuatro novelas. — adaptado de Federico Tatter
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The distinguished writer and essayist Efraรญm Szmulewicz was a figure widely renowned figure both nationally and throughout the Hispanic American sphere. His life was driven, above all, by the interest of the Governmentโs Secretariat of Cultural Relations in fostering the habit of quality reading among students, as well as in providing insight into the development of national literature and its future trajectory. Szmulewicz is a writer who moves with the assured clarity of an established master, and he is, at heart, a consummate humanist. Possessing a vast breadth of knowledge, he is a delightful conversationalist with a wealth of lived experience in addressing the challenges facing contemporary literatureโincluding the new techniques applied to facilitate its deeper understanding. Szmulewicz is an objective writer who avoids overcomplicating his subjects; his tone is lucid, and his style reflects a deeply personal sensibility. Polish by birth, he is a voracious reader endowed with a powerful memory. He was awarded the Municipal Prize for his biography of Pablo Neruda. He has also authored biographies of Gabriela Mistral and Vicente Huidobro, as well as his Dictionary of Chilean Literature. Un hijo judรญo (A Jewish Son) is one of his four novels. โ Adapted from Federico Tatter
De: Santiago de Chile:ย Empresa Editora Zig-Zag,ย (1940). 192 pp.ย con 6 b/n grabados de Carlos Hermosilla Alvarez. Gracias a Joel y Lilian Rosenthal por su ayuda en esta entrada/192 pp.ย con 6 b/w woodcuts by Carlos Hermosilla Alvarez./Thanks to Joel and Liliana Rosenthal for their help on this post.
JOSEF tenรญa seis aรฑos y dormรญa con su madre. Los compaรฑeros del “Cheider” (1) se burlaban de รฉlโฆ “tan grande y todavia duerme con la mamรก; ยฟserรก porque tiene miedo a las รกnimas?”. Las burlas de liviano humor precedรญan a las criticas hirientes y de mala intenciรณn. Muchas veces el niรฑo tuvo que morderse los puรฑos y apretar los dientes para no llorar, al encontrarse con sus compaรฑeros. Una pelea con Wolf, un niรฑo de siete aรฑos y de la misma escuela, fue uno de los motivos que decidieron el comienzo del aislamiento parcial de Josef.ย ย ย ย ย ย .
Wolf era un chiquillo robusto y vivรญa en el mismo edificio que Josef. Jugaban con botones. Los dos iban aumentando su desagrado por la compaรฑรญa mutua. Habla entre ellos una rivalidad oculta, que se exteriorizaba en diversas ocasiones. Las tareas escritas y orales del hebreo daban generalmente un resultado de empate entre los dos. Wolf llevaba el tercer aรฑo de estudios, mientras que Josef cursaba el segundo. La lectura del Pentateuco con 1108 comentarios de Rashay era el punto รกlgido de la discordia. El profesor trataba de calmar los รกnimos de los muchachos, dando a cada uno una tarea diferente para desarrollar, pero su esfuerzo era inรบtil.
En una tarde calurosa, cuando Josef le iba ganando todos los botones a su rival, รฉste intentรณ hacer trampa, corriendo uno de los botones para que la palma de Josef no alcanzase a abarcarlos. El tramposo fue descubierto por
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(1) Escuela religiosa judรญa, donde los niรฑos se aprenden a leer la Biblia y a rezar, segรบn los dictรกmenes de Moisรฉs
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otro compaรฑero que estaba presente. Se entablรณ una pelea entre los dos jugadores. El rencor acumulado durante mรกs de medio aรฑo se convirtiรณ en una acciรณn directa y decisiva. El combate se prolongรณ por la escalera de la casa de Wolf; y allรญ, รฉste, al ver salir a su padre, empezรณ a pegar con mรกs furia. Josef estaba desesperado. Los golpes que recibiรณ le enfurecieron mรกs. En un momento de inconsciencia se dejรณ caer con los dientes en el muslo del rival. Wolf lanzรณ un grito angustia y le golpeรณ con el otro pie en plena cara. Josef cayรณ de la escalera con las narices y la boca ensangrentadas.ย Acudieron su padre y su hermano.ย El primero, al verle en ese estado, le pegรณ en presencia de su adversario; le tomรณ por una oreja y lo arrastrรณ a la casa. Allรญ. quedรณ arrinconado en el patio, llorando furiosamente con una impotencia que le hacรญa renegar de su padre. Jurรณ vengarse,no tanto por los golpes, sino por la enorme humillaciรณn en que su padre tuvo una parte considerable de culpa. Lasheridas de su amor propio haciรฉndole olvidar las fรญsicas. En este corazรณn tan pequeรฑo se trababa en estos instantes una lucha feroz. De un laido, la niรฑez inconsciente con el estupor de ojos redondeados; del otro, la vergรผenza de la derrota. รl era algo. Ya habรญa sufrido un fracaso. Era el momento de hacerse fuerte para vencer a tanto enemigo. Consideraba que todo el mundo era su enemigo personal y que su misiรณn no consistรญa en aclarar su inocencia, sino en vencer al “enemigo”. Las Ideas se sucedรญan con la rapidez de un rayo. . . “Cuando yo sea grande … ” No sabรญa a ciencia cierta lo que harรญa cuando fuese grande…, “de cualquier modo cobrarรฉ por la derrota … Todos vendrรกn a mi …ย Ademรกs, serรฉ un gran hombre…”
Llegรณ la tia Jaya, trayรฉndole dulces. No aceptรณ ninguno; y cuando ella fue a conversar con los padres, el dolor habla vencido a la soberbia. Josef lloraba ardorosamente y en silencio.
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CAPรTULO TERCERO
PARA Josef todo habรญa cambiado. La preocupaciรณn por sus compaรฑeros se hacรญa mรกs escasa. Frecuentaba el par-que de la ciudad. Las burlas iban disminuyendo a medida que รฉl se despreocupaba de ellas. Su rostro cobrรณ unaย atmรณsfera grave y de preocupaciรณn interior. Seguรญa durmiendo con su madre, pero ya sabรญa que no estรก por miedo a los espรญritus malos ni por ser muy niรฑo, sino porque amaba mucho a su querida “mameshi” (1). Jugaba raramente con botones y al escondite. La madre le daba permiso para salir y รฉl aprovechaba el tiempo. Iba al parque, tratando de no encontrarse con alguno de sus compaรฑeros. Allรญ se ten-dรญa sobre el pasto, de cara al cielo, mirando distraรญdamente a las blancas ovejitas que pastaban por las hierbas azules del firmamento. No siempre habla ovejas; entonces escuchaba el murmullo eterno del rio, que corrรญa a ras de la avenida y por el que, con frecuencia, se deslizaban elรกsticamente botes con parejas o grupos. El agua estaba siempre transparente y tranquila; pero no asรญ el cielo; รฉste se enfurecรญa a veces con una tormenta.
El rรญo hablaba largo. El cielo tenla muchas ovejas e inagotable pasto. El sol desaparecรญa lentamente detrรกs de la barraca de Gotfried y las primeras estrellas le guiaban como para advertirle de la avanzada hora. Llegaba a la casa sin sentir el camino. El padre le reprendรญa por su indisciplina:
– ยฟSon รฉstas horas de llegar a comer? La sopa y las papas estรกn frรญas.
La madre le defendรญa con argumentos un poco humillantes para รฉl. Que era un niรฑo todavia y que necesitaba distraerse. Le molestaba, a ratos, โขesta clase de defensa de parte de su madre; pero se lo perdonaba generosamente. Siempre sucedรญa lo mismo: el padre lo resondraba y la madre lo defendรญa. Por esto รฉl amaba mรกs a su madre que al padre. A รฉste le respetaba y le temรญa. A veces sentรญa un verdadero orgullo por el respeto que le inspiraba. Por cierto, que no se lo daba a entender. La diferencia en los afectos consistรญa en que a su madre la amaba; la amaba con toda franqueza, con todas las atribuciones manifiestas, mientras que al padre lo veneraba ocultamente con una adoraciรณn mรญstica; como los adultos adoran y temen, al mismo tiempo, a Dios, quien resuelve todos los problemas y quien lo sabe todo. El padre de Josef sabia todo; y, mรกs que eso, era convincente y se hacรญa obedecer.
Al acostarse, rezaba la รบltima plegaria del dรญa, y en silencio, rogaba a Jehovah para la salud de sus padres y por la de su hermano. Le imploraba que no mandara el รกngel malo para quitarle los botones y las pelotitas de trapo (tambiรฉn tenรญa una de goma) durante el sueรฑo. Josef supo que todo lo que era de รฉl y lo que e encontraba a su alrededor pertenencia a Jehovah. No recordaba si esto se lo hablan contado o si lo tenรญa en la conciencia antes de nacer. Dios estaba en condiciones de quitarle el rio, los juguetes, las ovejitas del cielo, el profesor y aun sus propios padres. Bastaba un solo aliento de su boca divina.
Jehovah era el gran Dios que habitaba el inmenso terreno azul por donde se paseaban las ovejas blancas. El profesor le habla dicho que eran siete las esferas celestes y que en la รบltima se encontraba la habitaciรณn dorada del Altรญsimo. Adonay, estaba siempre rodeado de una legiรณn de รกngeles. Cada uno de ellos poseรญa seis alas: dos para tapar la vergรผenza, Dos para cubrir la cara, a fin de no perder la vista ante la deslumbrante claridad del espรญritu de รl; y, por รบltimo, dos alas para volar. Rabรญ Jaim (asรญ se llamaba el profesor) enseriaba a los alumnos una cantidad de tarjetas con las imรกgenes de Dios, de los รกngeles y de otras celebridades celestes. Rabรญ Jalm decรญa que Dios era bueno; pero que no se debla abusar de su bondad, pues entonces se transformaba en implacable. Josef tenla mucho el enojo de Jehovah; mรกs que el de su padre. Conocรญa el castigo que le esperaba al faltarle el respeto a รฉste, mientras que la pena del primero no 1a conocรญa. Siempre que el cielo se ponรญafurioso y lanzaba fuego y aguacero, Josef pronunciaba la frase hebrea que debiera servir, segรบn las palabras del maestro, para espantar los truenos y relรกmpagos. Rezaba todos los dรญas las tres plegarias de rigor, fuera de las frases pronunciadas en la cama, antes de dormirse, despuรฉs de las cuales no era permitido hablar mรกs aquel dรญa. En estas รบltimas frases el niรฑo ponla todo su ardor de creyente. Era para implorar que el dรญa siguiente no lo encontrase sin los juguetes. Como era de esperar, el buen Dios no le quitaba las chucherรญas ni el alma que Josef hablaba confiado durante el sueรฑo. Asรญ transcurrieron los dรญas y el muchacho seguรญa creyendo con mรกs fervor en รl repetรญa diariamente las oraciones reglamentarias.
Otra duda representaba su nombre.
Que a รฉl le llamaban Josef, no cabรญa duda; pero no sabรญa si este nombre serรญa siempre suyo, o si de un dรญa a otro se lo cambiarรญan. Era natural que su madre se llamara “madยญre” y su padre, “padre”. Ellos eran grandes y los grandes lo saben y lo comprenden todo. Despuรฉs de varios dรญas de continua preocupaciรณn se atreviรณ a formular la pregunta a su mamรก.
-Por supuesto que si: siempre te llamarรกn del mismo modo. Nunca te cambiarรกn el nombre. Ademรกs, yo no me llamo “madre”. Tengo otro nombre. ยฟNo oyes acaso que las vecinas me llaman Denora? Lo mismo sucede con tu padre; su nombre es David. Somos padres de ustedes y de nadie mรกs. Algรบn serรกs padre y entenderรกs lo que esto significa.
No entendรญa las รบltimas palabras de su madre; pero le bastaban las primeras. Se sentรญa sobre un terreno firme con su nombre propio; era algo asรญ como una personalidad.
Se acostรณ temprano y se durmiรณ pensando en su nombre. El aire se hizo vago y comenzรณ a soรฑar:
Recostado sobre el pasto del parque, miraba hacia el cielo. El rio estaba quieto y los รกrboles cantaban gloria al Altรญsimo. De pronto sintiรณse un ruido y algo anublรณ ligeramente la atmรณsfera. Josef dirigiรณ los ojos hacia el rio. Ante รฉl .se encontraba un hombre vestido de negro y con un enorme cuchillo en una mano. Su rostro estaba cubierto con la misma tela que el cuerpo. Sรณlo se le velan los ojos a travรฉs de dos huecos. Eran profundos y penetraban con agudeza. los contornos de la cara, como tambiรฉn los del cuerpo, eran huesudos. Al hombre le seguรญa una sombra, que no estaba acostada sobre el prado. Andaba detrรกs de รฉl, parada como si fuera otra persona. Josef tratรณ de levantarse, pero no pudo. Una fuerza poderosa 1e sujetaba a la tierra. Apenas consiguiรณ incorporar la cabeza; vio entonces que debajo de รฉl estaba su propia sombra y que รฉsta no le dejaba levantarse. Mientras tanto, el extraรฑo huรฉsped se acercรณ y le hablรณ de ยทesta manera:
-Bienvenido a mi tierra, amigo. Llegaste en hora oportuna. Tendrรฉ el mayor placer en librarte de tu sombra con este cuchillo, pues de otra manera ella continuarรก reteniรฉndote en el suelo toda la vida; pero junto con la sombra perderรกs tu nombre y te llamarรกs “padre”. Aquรญ, en mi reino, todos andamos sin las sombras pegadas a los cuerpos. Ellas nos siguen detrรกs. Si quieres convencerte de mis palabras, llamarรฉ a los mรญos.
Ysin esperar la respuesta de Josef, lanzรณ un silbido agudo y estridente.
De todas partes comenzaron a brotar hombres semejantes a รฉl. El ruido era como las enormes alas. Detrรกs de ellos seguรญa un ejรฉrcito de sombras livianas y transparentes a la luz de la luna.
-ยฟVes?, todos son felices. ยฟNo es verdad? -se dirigiรณ a los suyos.
-ยกSรญรญรญรญรญ!! Se oyรณ un vocerรญo terrible.
Josef tiritaba. Intentรณ gritar, pero no pudo sacar de la garganta mรกs que un sonido sordo. Desesperado veรญa el muchacho el hombre acercรกrsele con su enorme cuchillo en la mano y rodeado de sus amigos. El muchacho movรญa la cabeza derecha a izquierda. No, querรญa que le cortasen la sombra y le quitasen el nombre; pero el otro no le hizo caso y se dispuso a realizar su tarea.
Un sudor de escarcha envolvรญa todo el cuerpo del niรฑo. La madre estaba al lado ide la cama. Josef la abrazรณ apoyando su cabeza en el pecho de ella, y murmurรณ:
–iMadre! -y su cuerpo cayรณ sobre el 1echo.
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“Child is Born Jewish”
(The story takes place in Poland)
Josef was six years old and still slept with his mother. His classmates at the Cheider (1) would mock him: “So big, yet he still sleeps with his mommy? Is it because heโs afraid of ghosts?” These lighthearted taunts soon gave way to hurtful, malicious criticism. Often, upon encountering his classmates, the boy had to bite his fists and clench his teeth to keep from crying. A fight with Wolfโa seven-year-old boy from the same schoolโwas one of the events that marked the beginning of Josefโs partial isolation.
Wolf was a sturdy little boy who lived in the same building as Josef. They used to play games with buttons. As time went on, their mutual dislike for one another grew. A hidden rivalry simmered between them, surfacing on various occasions. Their written and oral Hebrew assignments usually ended in a tie. Wolf was in his third year of studies, while Josef was in his second. Reading the Pentateuchโalong with the commentaries by Rashiโwas the primary flashpoint of their discord. Their teacher tried to calm the boys down by assigning each a different task to complete, but his efforts were in vain.
One sweltering afternoon, just as Josef was winning all of his rivalโs buttons, Wolf tried to cheat by nudging one of the buttons out of place so that Josefโs outstretched palm could not cover them all. The cheater was caught by
(1) A Jewish religious school where children learn to read the Bible and pray, in accordance with the precepts of Moses.
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another classmate who happened to be present. A brawl broke out between the two players. The resentment that had been festering for over six months finally erupted into direct, decisive action. The fight spilled out onto the stairwell of Wolfโs building; there, upon seeing his father emerge, Wolf began to strike with even greater fury. Josef was in despair. The blows he received only fueled his rage. In a moment of blind fury, he threw himself forward and sank his teeth into his opponent’s thigh. Wolf let out a cry of anguish and kicked him squarely in the face with his other foot. Josef tumbled down the stairs, his nose and mouth streaming with blood. His father and brother rushed to his side. The former, upon seeing him in such a state, struck him right there in the presence of his adversary; he grabbed him by the ear and dragged him into the house. There, he was left cornered in the courtyard, weeping furiouslyโa weeping born of a sense of helplessness that made him curse his own father. He vowed revengeโnot so much for the blows themselves, but for the immense humiliation for which his father bore a considerable share of the blame. The wounds to his pride made him forget his physical injuries. Within that small heart, a fierce battle was being waged in those very moments. On one side stood unthinking childhood, with its wide-eyed bewilderment; on the other, the shame of defeat. He was somebody. He had already suffered a failure. Now was the moment to steel himself, to grow strong enough to vanquish so many enemies. He came to view the entire world as his personal foe, and his mission not as proving his innocence, but as defeating the “enemy.” Thoughts flashed through his mind with the speed of lightningโฆ “When I grow upโฆ” He did not know for certain what he would do when he grew upโฆ “but one way or another, I will exact my price for this defeatโฆ Everyone will come to meโฆ And whatโs more, I will be a great manโฆ”
CHAPTER THREE
For Josef, everything had changed. His concern for his schoolmates was waning. He began frequenting the city park. The taunts diminished as he ceased to care about them. His face took on an air of gravity and inner preoccupation. He still slept with his mother, though he now knew that this was not out of fear of evil spirits, nor because he was still a little boy, but simply because he loved his dear “Mameshi” (1) so very much. He rarely played with buttons or at hide-and-seek anymore. His mother gave him permission to go out, and he made the most of the time. He would go to the park, trying to avoid running into any of his schoolmates. There, he would lie stretched out on the grass, face turned toward the sky, gazing absently at the little white sheep grazing amidst the blue grasses of the firmament. There were not always sheep; at such times, he would listen to the eternal murmur of the river, which flowed right alongside the avenueโa river along which boats carrying couples or groups would frequently glide with fluid ease. The water was always transparent and calm; the sky, however, was not; at times, it would rage with a storm.
The river spoke at great length. The sky held many sheep and inexhaustible pastures. The sun would slowly vanish behind Gotfriedโs shed, and the first stars would guide him home, as if to warn him of the late hour. He would arrive at the house without even noticing the journey. His father would scold him for his lack of discipline:
“Is this a proper time to show up for dinner? The soup and potatoes are cold.”
His mother would defend him with arguments that, at times, felt somewhat humiliating to himโinsisting that he was still just a child and needed to find ways to amuse himself. Occasionally, this manner of defense on his motherโs part would irk him; yet he would always forgive her for it with generous affection. It always played out the same way: his father would scold him, and his mother would defend him. For this reason, he loved his mother more than his father. The latter, he respected and feared. At times, he felt a genuine sense of pride in the respect his father inspired. Of course, he never let on. The difference in his affections lay in this: he loved his motherโloved her with utter openness, with all the overt expressions of affectionโwhereas he venerated his father in secret, with a mystical adoration; much as adults simultaneously worship and fear GodโHe who resolves all problems and knows all things. Josefโs father knew everything; and, more than that, he was commanding and ensured he was obeyed.
Upon going to bed, he would recite his final prayer of the day, silently beseeching Jehovah to grant good health to his parents and to his brother. He implored Him not to send the “bad angel” to take away his buttons and his little cloth balls (he had a rubber one, too) while he slept. Josef knew that everything he possessedโand everything that surrounded himโbelonged to Jehovah. He could not recall whether he had been told this, or if the knowledge had been imprinted upon his consciousness even before he was born. God had the power to take away the river, his toys, the little sheep in the sky, his teacher, and even his own parents. A single breath from His divine mouth would suffice.
Jehovah was the great God who dwelt in the immense blue expanse where white sheep roamed. The teacher had told him that there were seven celestial spheres, and that within the last of them lay the golden chamber of the Most High. Adonai was always surrounded by a legion of angels. Each of them possessed six wings: two to conceal their nakedness, two to cover their facesโlest they lose their sight before the dazzling brilliance of His spiritโand, finally, two wings for flight. Rabbi Chaim (for that was the teacherโs name) would show his students a collection of cards bearing images of God, the angels, and other celestial luminaries. Rabbi Chaim taught that God was good, yet one must not take His goodness for granted, for then He would become implacable. Josef feared Jehovahโs wrath deeplyโeven more so than his own fatherโs. He knew the punishment that awaited him should he disrespect the latter, whereas the penalty exacted by the former remained an unknown quantity. Whenever the heavens grew furious, unleashing fire and torrential rain, Josef would recite the Hebrew phrase thatโaccording to his teacherโwas meant to ward off thunder and lightning. He recited the three obligatory prayers every day, in addition to the phrases spoken from his bed just before falling asleepโafter which, no further speech was permitted for the remainder of the day. In these final utterances, the boy poured out the full fervor of his faith. They were meant to implore that the coming day would not find him bereft of his toys. As was to be expected, the good Lord never took away his trinketsโnor the soul that Josef, in his slumber, had entrusted to His care. Thus the days passed, and the boy continued to believe in Him with ever-increasing fervor, reciting his prescribed prayers day after day.
CHAPTER FOUR
Doubts arose quite frequently; yet, because his mother would invariably smile whenever he posed a question, he tended to harbor those doubts within his memory for a very long time. This gave him an air of eternal abstraction. His mother had told him that his questions were naive, but he could not understand why. He meditated upon all thingsโthe stars, the rainโbut above all, he dreamed of solving the problem of knowing the good Lord. Jehovah ought to be more condescending toward obedient children like him. Aunt Jaya had warned him that if he continued to insist on seeing Adonai, she would be able to grant him his wish; however, he must bear in mind that death would follow upon seeing Him, for such was the law. From that moment on, he never asked about God again.
Another doubt was about his name.
That they called him Josef, there was no doubt; but he did not know if this name would always be his, or if it would be changed from one day to the next. It was natural that his mother was called “mother” and his father, “father.” They were grown-ups, and grown-ups know and understand everything. After several days of constant worry, he dared to ask his mother the question.
“Of course,” she said, “they’ll always call you the same thing. They’ll never change your name. Besides, my name isn’t ‘mother.’ I have another name. Don’t you hear the neighbors calling me Denora? The same goes for your father; his name is David. We are your parents and no one else’s. Someday you’ll be a father, and you’ll understand what this means.”
He didn’t understand his mother’s last words, but the first ones were enough. He felt on solid ground with his own name; it was something like a personality.
He went to bed early and fell asleep thinking about his name. The air grew thin, and he began to dream:
Lying on the grass in the park, he gazed up at the sky. The river was still, and the trees sang glory to the Almighty. Suddenly there was a noise, and something slightly clouded the atmosphere. Josef turned his eyes toward the river. Before him stood a man dressed in black, holding an enormous knife in one hand. His face was covered with the same cloth as his body. Only his eyes were visible through two slits. They were deep and piercing. The contours of his face, like those of his body, were bony. A shadow followed the man, not lying on the meadow. It walked behind him, standing as if it were another person. Josef tried to get up, but he couldn’t. A powerful force held him to the ground. He barely managed to raise his head; then he saw that his own shadow was beneath him, preventing him from rising. Meanwhile, the strange guest approached and spoke to him thus:
“Welcome to my land, friend. You have arrived at an opportune time.” I will take the greatest pleasure in freeing you from your shadow with this knife, for otherwise it will continue to hold you to the ground for the rest of your life; but along with the shadow, you will lose your name and be called “father.” Here, in my kingdom, we all walk without shadows clinging to our bodies. They follow behind us. If you wish to be convinced of my words, I will summon my people.
And without waiting for Josef’s reply, he let out a sharp, piercing whistle.
Men like himself began to sprout from all sides. The noise was like enormous wings. Behind them followed an army of shadows, light and transparent in the moonlight.
“You see? Everyone is happy. Isn’t that right?” he said to his people.
“Yessss!” A terrible roar erupted.
Josef trembled. He tried to shout, but could only manage a muffled sound. Desperate, the boy watched the man approach him, his enormous knife in hand, surrounded by his friends. The boy shook his head from side to side. No, he didn’t want them to cut off his shadow and take his name; but the other man paid him no heed and proceeded to carry out his task.
A frosty sweat enveloped the boy’s entire body. His mother was beside the bed. Josef embraced her, resting his head on her chest, and murmured:
Como solo la muerte es pasajera titulรณ su libro Alberto Szpunberg en 2013 y ante su desapariciรณn fรญsica, ocurrida hoy en Barcelona, se torna verdadero el aserto de la supervivencia en la obra, en la palabra, la materia candente que Alberto Szpunberg templara con sutil delicadeza. Periodista, militante combativo, docente, pero siempre poeta, deja sus palabras inscriptas en el fragor de los tiempos. Desde Poemas de la mano mayor de 1962 y Juego limpio de 1963, Szpunberg fue desgranando esa estรฉtica suya, tan reconocible, al acecho del exilio, del regreso y del olvido. Recibiรณ, entre otros, el premio Alcalรก de Henares de poesรญa 1983 por Su fuego en la tibieza y en 1993 el Premio Internacional de Poesรญa Antonio Machado por Luces que a lo lejos. Dirigiรณ la carrera de Lengua y Literaturas Clรกsicas en la Universidad de Buenos Aires, donde fue profesor de Literatura Argentina. Y fue director entre 1975 y 1976 del mรญtico suplemento cultural del diario La Opiniรณn. — Biblioteca Nacional Mariano Moreno
Only Death Is Fleetingโsuch was the title Alberto Szpunberg chose for his book in 2013; and now, following his physical passing today in Barcelona, โโthe assertion of survivalโwithin one’s work, within the word, that incandescent matter which Alberto Szpunberg tempered with subtle delicacyโproves profoundly true. Journalist, militant activist, educator, yet always a poet, he leaves his words inscribed amidst the tumult of the times. From Poemas de la mano mayor (1962) to Juego limpio (1963), Szpunberg steadily unfolded that aesthetic of hisโso instantly recognizableโever poised in the shadow of exile, of return, and of oblivion. Among other honors, he received the 1983 Alcalรก de Henares Poetry Prize for Su fuego en la tibieza and, in 1993, the Antonio Machado International Poetry Prize for Luces que a lo lejos. He directed the program in Classical Languages โโand Literatures at the University of Buenos Aires, where he also served as a professor of Argentine Literature. Furthermore, between 1975 and 1976, he served as the director of the legendary cultural supplement of the newspaper La Opiniรณn. โ Mariano Moreno National Library
Krina Ber naciรณ en Polonia en 1948, creciรณ en Israel, se graduรณ en arquitectura en la EPFL (Suiza) y se casรณ en Portugal antes de mudarse, en 1975, a Caracas, donde ella y su esposo fundaron Kreska C.A., una empresa especializada en diseรฑo de acero, aluminio y vidrio. Comenzรณ a escribir en 2001. Sus cuentos, incluidos en casi todas las antologรญas de cuentos cortos venezolanos y premiados en importantes concursos nacionales, se recogen en Cuentos con agujeros (Monte รvila, 2005), Para no perder el hilo (Mondadori, 2009) y La hora perdida (รgneo, 2015). Su primera novela, Nube de polvo (Equinoccio 2015), recibiรณ el Premio de la Crรญtica, y en 2020 Ficciones asesinas ganรณ el XIX Concurso Transgenรฉrico, otorgado por la Fundaciรณn para la Cultura Urbana.
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Krina Ber was born in Poland in 1948, grew up in Israel, graduated with a degree in architecture from EPFL (Switzerland), and got married in Portugual before moving, in 1975, to Caracas, where she and her husband founded Kreska C.A., a business specialized in steel, aluminum, and glass design. She started writing in 2001. Her short storiesโwhich are included in almost all anthologies of Venezuelan short fiction and have received prizes in important national competitionsโare collected in Cuentos con agujeros (Monte รvila, 2005), Para no perder el hilo (Mondadori, 2009), and La hora perdida (รgneo, 2015). Her first novel, Nube de polvo (Equinoccio 2015), received the Premio de la Crรญtica, and in 2020 Ficciones asesinas won the nineteenth Concurso Transgenรฉrico, awarded by the Fundaciรณn para la Cultura Urbana.
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Benjamรญn y la caminadora
Caminando, caminando y ni te acuerdas, eso es lo que le dice siempre. Bueno, no exactamente en esos tรฉrminos. Generalmente se trata de un reclamo mรกs directo: no llamaste a Pacheco, no revisaste el contrato de Supercable, no llevaste el carro al taller, se te pasรณ la hora de la cena, te olvidaste de nuestro aniversario de bodas o de comprar el champรบ que te pedรญ. Ella no espera respuestas y Benjamรญn sabe que serรญa inรบtil contestar. Tambiรฉn sabe que tras esa letanรญa de pequeรฑos olvidos se alza, liso e implacable como un tepuy, el verdadero reproche, existencial, imperdonable. El de no recordar. Hay una enorme diferencia entre olvidar y no recordar.
Un reproche que, por supuesto, nunca ha sido pronunciado directamente. El peso acusador de lo que Benjamรญn no recuerda โo pretende no recordarโ desencadenarรญa tamaรฑo terremoto en todas las capas geolรณgicas que amontonaron con paciencia durante aรฑos hasta formar un terreno estable donde pueden soportarse mutuamente. Benjamรญn no se acuerda del futuro que quedรณ en el pasado, de ese futuro glorioso, brillante como el sol, cuyos contornos desaparecรญan misteriosamente a medida que se adentraban en รฉl. Treinta y cinco aรฑos es suficiente tiempo para comprobarlo.
Lo peor es no recordar, dice ella sin decirlo, pues habla tan solo del mecรกnico y del champรบ. Se te olvida todo, dice. La vida que me prometiste (eso no lo dice). Caminar y caminar no lo resuelve, dice, y รบltimamente es todo lo que haces.
Como si no supiera que Benjamรญn se puso a caminar por orden del mรฉdico. El santo remedio para la edad que tiene, el colesterol alto, el hรญgado perezoso, las arterias obstruidas, y el corazรณn tan poco activo como el dueรฑo de esos รณrganos estropeados. Asรญ que se acostumbrรณ a caminar. Ahora su mujer sospecha que le gusta hacerlo y esto no lo puede permitir; no es justo, mientras ella vive con la desdicha de acordarse a diario de ese luminoso futuro comรบn que se desdibujรณ en el presente y nada mรกs.
โYa basta de caminar tanto, Benjamรญn. ยกAbre la puerta por favor! Mauricio viene hoy a cenar con tus nietos, nunca sabe que hacer con los chicos cuando le toca cuidarlos, hay que decir que se volvieron insoportables desde el divorcio, se les nota la educaciรณn de su madre (mejor no hablo de ella) y Sandrita estรก durmiendo, asรญ que tienes que dar un salto a la panaderรญa. Y podrรญas poner la mesa tambiรฉn, ยฟquรฉ te parece? Siempre yo sola con todo. Y tรบ, ยกcaminando y caminando!
Los guijarros crujen bajo sus pies y el aire de primavera rebosa del trinar de invisibles pรกjaros. Benjamรญn sube el volumen; desde muy lejos le llega el relincho de un caballo. Un sonido delicioso.
Le rodea un mundo verde y vegetal, ahora como al principio, cuando se dirigiรณ a los sitios con derecho comรบn a la caminata: la Autopista cerrada los domingos, Los Caobos, El Parque del Este. Se comprรณ un โwalkmanโ y por un tiempo metรญa la panza y erguรญa la cabeza, como corresponde a quien forma parte de una comunidad saludable y deportiva, donde los exitosos hombres de negocios se ponen democrรกticamente el mismo short que los fracasados; reino de piernas largas y musculosas preparรกndose para un maratรณn, ceรฑidas mallas, impecables traseros, cuerpos brillantes de crema y sudor. Hasta que llegรณ el dรญa inevitable en que se dio cuenta de que los demรกs corrรญan o trotaban, y aรบn los que caminaban como รฉl, lo pasaban con facilidad, una y otra vez. Pisando fuerte el cemento de umbrosos senderos parecรญan dirigirse apurados hacia algรบn destino importante, desconocido para รฉl. Benjamรญn, en cambio, solo daba vueltas. Se quedaba atrรกs, como siempre. Y eso le recordaba de alguna manera el reproche nunca pronunciado por su mujer, implacable como un tepuy. De modo que guardรณ el walkman en la gaveta, (siempre compras cosas y despuรฉs no las usas) y optรณ por cederle definitivamente el carro y caminar a su trabajo, de ida y de vuelta.
โMe oรญste, Benjamรญn, ยกbasta ya! โdice ellaโ. ยกรbreme esta puerta! Van a cerrar la panaderรญa.
Benjamรญn aprieta el paso. Aรบn le queda camino por recorrer.
Su oficina se encuentra en el mismo viejo edificio donde รฉl la instalรณ cuando este era nuevo, mucho antes de que la ciudad le pasara por encima y lo dejara olvidado al final de una calle peatonal, hoy invadida por buhoneros y artesanos ambulantes.
Caminar por allรญ implicaba perderse entre los tenderetes y bandejas, en el abigarramiento de joyas de plรกstico, perfumes de Taiwรกn, bluyines de contrabando y pantaletas de lycra con encaje. Benjamรญn remoloneaba hojeando libros de segunda mano y manoseadas revistas pornogrรกficas desplegadas sobre la acera; a veces compraba dulce de leche o un kilo mal pesado de mandarinas a una joven mulata, cuyo bebรฉ color puro chocolate dormรญa entre chucherรญas. Ella le hablaba con amabilidad, decรญa que estรกn dulcitas las mandarinas, le decรญa โmi amorโ, y el vendedor de revistas, alemรกn de pelo blanco y acento colombiano, compartรญa con รฉl profundas reflexiones acerca de la situaciรณn del paรญs con las cuales Benjamรญn no podรญa discrepar.
Aquรญ no existรญa pasado ni futuro alguno, mucho menos un futuro que ya pasรณ. Era fรกcil vagar sin metas ni equipaje por ese presente instantรกneo, efรญmero y eterno a la vez, que se deshacรญa en gritos y revoloteo de colchas apenas se asomaban los agentes uniformados en la esquina quedando la calle sรบbitamente vacรญa con sus fachadas desconchadas, pipotes atestados de basura y remiendos de asfalto entre los adoquines; pero nada de esto era trรกgico ni definitivo: minutos despuรฉs reaparecรญan los colores y se reanudaba el bullicio.
Muy pronto el camino de ida y vuelta a su oficina se convirtiรณ en el placer de cada dรญa. Benjamรญn lo mantenรญa en secreto, por supuesto. Sabรญa bien que no tenรญa ese derecho, mientras a Mauricio lo limpiara la arpรญa de su ex, y Sandrita se metiera ese polvo en la nariz que la pone incoherente y chillona. Y ella, pobrecita, en la casa: sola y recordando.
Al fin terminaron por descubrirlo. Era inevitable. Tardaba en llegar al trabajo y le mentรญa a su vieja secretaria. Para colmo, atracaron a su cuรฑado allรญ mismo, en la salida de la Notarรญa. Le rompieron el saco, le quitaron la cartera y al parecer se enojaron bastante al abrirla, ya que fueron golpes y mรกs golpes. De modo que su mujer y el doctor le prohibieron caminar por la calle. Desde varios puntos de vista era malo para la salud.
Era un hecho indiscutible que su colesterol aumentรณ considerablemente y el ritmo cardรญaco no se beneficiaba mucho con el inรบtil vagar de esas caminatas. De nada sirve, le decรญan, caminar con el paso tan lento. Ahora se preocupan: al parecer lo hace demasiado deprisa. A su edad, es peligroso; le puede dar un infarto.
โBenjamรญn, ยกabre ya la puerta! โVoces de Sandra y de su mujer. Pero รฉl se hace el loco, y camina, camina, camina, cada vez mรกs rรกpido. Sus piernas se han hecho fuertes y la panza bajรณ de volumen; sin embargo, estรก sudado y jadeante, el corazรณn le retumba en el pecho. No importa, algรบn dรญa tiene que llegar al final del recorrido. Por una vez en la vida estรก haciendo lo correcto: fijarse objetivos y alcanzarlos.
De hecho, todos ellos son responsables tambiรฉn. Le sugirieron esta soluciรณn y se mostraron complacidos cuando la Caminadora llegรณ a casa, aunque les extraรฑรณ un poco la inusual iniciativa que habรญa demostrado al comprarla sin consultar a nadie. Aรฑos hacรญa que Benjamรญn, รฉl solo, no se compraba ni una camisa. รl mismo no logra entender cรณmo descubriรณ aquel artefacto en una tienda por departamentos, ni cรณmo se dejรณ seducir de inmediato por las explicaciones del vendedor, quiรฉn โcosa raraโ, ni cuenta se daba del poder de su propia mercancรญa. Casi sin proponรฉrselo, Benjamรญn se hizo dueรฑo de una mรกquina para caminar, la mejor del mercado, el รบltimo modelo. Menos mal que nunca sabrรกn cuรกnto le costรณ esta extravagancia.
Acto seguido convirtiรณ al dormitorio de huรฉspedes (totalmente inรบtil, dicho sea de paso) en una especie de gimnasio privado. Allรญ, siguiendo penosamente las instrucciones del manual, instalรณ La Caminadora con su baterรญa de altavoces y proyectores.
Comenzรณ a practicar con la velocidad mรกs baja y desde el principio sintiรณ una gran afinidad con ese ejercicio que parece haber sido diseรฑado especialmente para รฉl. Hay un deje melancรณlicamente familiar en eso de caminar y caminar para quedarse siempre en el mismo sitio. Algo asรญ habรญa hecho durante toda su vida.
Con la salvedad de que ahora tiene algo mรกs: la cinta de vรญdeo que vino con el paquete. Desde la primera proyecciรณn supo que algo nuevo e importante estaba irrumpiendo en su vida. La pared blanca frente a รฉl se llenรณ de paisajes verdes que desfilaban de รกrbol en รกrbol entre fuentes cristalinas y parterres de flores, mientras los altavoces reproducรญan a la perfecciรณn el piar de los pรกjaros y el crujido de la grava bajo sus pasos. Estaba solo, maravillosamente solo, indiscutible rey de tanta belleza. Mandรณ instalar una cerradura Multilock a su improvisado gimnasio. Custodiaba la llave con recelo, hasta dormรญa con ella en el bolsillo de su pijama; tu padre se ha vuelto loco, dice ella, y la limpieza ยฟquรฉ?.
รl aclaraba con paciencia que encontrรณ finalmente un sistema idรณneo para caminar, y que necesitaba concentrarse para practicar. Estaba tan animado que su mujer frunciรณ las cejas, sospechosa, pero se abstuvo de comentarios. Al fin y al cabo se trataba de una actividad saludable, aburrida y recomendada por el doctor. No reconociรณ las seรฑales de peligro.
Benjamรญn en cambio intuรญa que su vida adquirรญa una nueva dimensiรณn, aunque tan sรณlo al cabo de dos o tres semanas advirtiรณ ligeras alteraciones en el paisaje que recorrรญa en el video. Al principio fueron ruidos inexplicables, sugiriendo apenas perceptibles presencias animales. Comenzรณ con aquella chicharra cuyo desagradable zumbido pertinaz lo acompaรฑรณ durante un buen trecho del camino. Convencido de que รฉsta habรญa encontrado una manera de escurrirse por la ventana, Benjamรญn interrumpiรณ la sesiรณn con el firme propรณsito de deshacerse del intruso y constatรณ con asombro que el zumbido cesรณ en el mismo instante en que parรณ la cinta. Se trataba de una extraรฑa coincidencia o de un insecto particularmente inteligente, pues reanudรณ su vuelo al reiniciarse el video. Nunca mรกs habรญa vuelto. Y Benjamรญn terminรณ por olvidarlo concentrรกndose en caminar โlo hacรญa cada vez mรกs rรกpido y mejorโ hasta el dรญa en que se parรณ, pensativo, al borde del tercer estanque. Hubiese jurado que cada vez cuando pasaba por allรญ un imponente chorro cristalino brotaba en su centro; sin embargo, hoy la fuente estaba cerrada, el agua adquirรญa profundos tonos verdes y un pequeรฑo pato silvestre jugueteaba en la orilla. Perplejo , Benjamรญn dejรณ que la cinta se rebobinara, luego la colocรณ desde el principio y volviรณ a sus propios pasos. Esta vez el chorro de agua brotaba a borbotones, no habรญa duda sobre esto, pero el patito seguรญa en su sitio. Era extraรฑo que nunca antes advirtiera su presencia.
Por primera vez se dio cuenta de que jamรกs habรญa llegado mรกs allรก de aquel estanque, y sintiรณ curiosidad. Prolongรณ la duraciรณn de sus caminatas, luego se empeรฑรณ en aumentar la velocidad. La cinta recompensรณ su esfuerzo: efectivamente, mรกs lejos el paisaje cambiaba. Los รกrboles del parque comenzaron a rarificarse, y por ambos lados del camino aparecรญan ahora elaboradas verjas de hierro dejando entrever opulentas mansiones de dos y tres pisos en medio de sus jardines. Al tercer dรญa llegรณ, jadeando de cansancio, a una casa particularmente hermosa, toda de madera recubierta de viรฑa silvestre. Le pareciรณ vagamente conocida. Deseรณ saber quien vivรญa allรญ, tocar el timbre y entrar, pero la ley de la Caminadora no permitรญa tales extravagancias. Sรณlo pudo seguir caminando lentamente, sin quitar los ojos de las ventanas que protegรญan su misterio con alegres cortinas amarillas y aguzaba el oรญdo para captar la tenue risa de unos niรฑos jugando en algรบn lugar del jardรญn. De pronto surgiรณ el recuerdo: ella, joven y deslumbrante, recortando imรกgenes de revistas, el hogar soรฑado para su futuro comรบn. En su fuero interno supo que no podรญa ser solamente una coincidencia, un azar del vรญdeo. Aquella casa estaba allรญ para รฉl cual trampa divina. Benjamรญn acusรณ el golpe. Tuvo que parar el ejercicio y la imagen se desvaneciรณ, dejรกndolo sudado y resollando frente a la desoladora pared blanca del ex cuarto de huรฉspedes.
Aquella noche no pudo conciliar el sueรฑo. Hasta los irregulares ronquidos de ella y los sonidos de parranda que se filtraban desde la habitaciรณn de Sandra aumentaban el estado de embeleso febril en el cual se encontraba sumido. No veรญa la hora de volver a ese lugar y a las cinco de la maรฑana ya estaba ataviado con su mono de gimnasia ยฟte caรญste de la cama, o quรฉ?
En un sรบbito impulso le propuso acompaรฑarlo โven conmigo, quiero mostrarte algo. Ella le dio la espalda, implacable con las extravagancias ยฟA esta hora? Estรกs loco. De modo que Benjamรญn acariciรณ brevemente los suaves rollos de goma espuma sobre la cabeza de su mujer y renunciรณ a compartir su hallazgo con ella.
Menos mal: lo hubiera juzgado loco. De la tercera fuente brotaba con fuerza un chorro cristalino y en el estanque nadaba ahora toda una familia de patos, pero no hubo ni rastro de la casa cubierta de viรฑa. En vano la buscรณ caminando rabiosamente. Atrรกs quedaron las verjas y las mansiones y una carretera de dos vรญas reemplazรณ al sendero en medio de un paisaje anodino y campestre. Suaves colinas azuladas ondulaban el horizonte. Sobre una de ellas estaba la ciudad, cual dibujo lejano. Al cabo de unos dรญas desistiรณ de buscar la casa y concentrรณ todos sus esfuerzos en llegar allรญ.
Pero ยฟquรฉ te pasa?, decรญa ella. Estรกs mรกs distraรญdo que nunca. Tienes la misma mirada vidriosa que Sandrita cuando estaba en esa instituciรณn. Y se te olvidรณ llamar al banco para mi tarjeta de crรฉditoโฆ Estรกs peor que nunca. Se te olvida todo. ยกTodo!
Esta vez era cierto: se le olvidaba todo. Pero estaba mejor que nunca. Con una secreta excitaciรณn Benjamรญn acariciaba la llave en el bolsillo de su pantalรณn y no veรญa la hora de reiniciar su sesiรณn de ejercicios. Ahora caminaba varias veces al dรญa y cada vez se encerraba mรกs tiempo con la Caminadora. Por desgracia, la cinta de video estaba estudiada para promover un progresivo aumento del esfuerzo: no habรญa manera de reiniciarla en cualquier punto del camino, de algรบn modo siempre se devolvรญa sola al inicio. Si querรญa llegar al final, donde la lejana ciudad se erguรญa sobre la colina o, ยฟquiรฉn sabe? mรกs lejos aรบn, tenรญa que volver cada vez al punto de partida, atravesar el parque, recorrer los estanques, el sendero, la urbanizaciรณn de quintasโฆ La carretera que seguรญa se le antojaba interminable.
Te has vuelto loco, decรญa ella. Mรญrate, como sales de allรญ. Pรกlido. Apenas puedes respirar del cansancio. El doctor dijo que es peligroso, no puedes hacer esto. Es peor que una prueba de esfuerzo. Nadie puede hacer pruebas de esfuerzo sin supervisiรณn mรฉdica.
Era cierto. En algรบn lugar recรณndito de la conciencia Benjamรญn sabe que deberรญa bajar el ritmo. Sus piernas se han fortalecido pero el corazรณn reacciona bastante mal. Anoche sintiรณ otro dolor en el pecho; tuvo que parar la mรกquina y se recostรณ, jadeante, al borde del camino, sin apartar la vista de las lejanas colinas hasta que estas se apagaron en la blancura del horizonte. La pared se le vino encima mientras trataba de incorporarse sobre la alfombra, en sus oรญdos el zumbido inexorable de la cinta que se rebobinaba otra vez hacia el inicio del trayecto.
Estรกn aporreando la puerta ahora. Se oyen voces, la risita estรบpida de Sandra, los gritos de los muchachos de Mauricio, sal papรก, sal abuelo, ยกqueremos comer!
โBenjamรญn, ยกya basta! No importa la mesa, la puse yo misma, tan sรณlo sal. Viejo exagerado. Voy a vender esta maldita mรกquina, tan sรณlo te hace daรฑo.
Benjamรญn acaba de llegar al pie de la primera colina e inicia la ansiada subida. El dolor vuelve, agudo, esta vez en el brazo izquierdo y le nubla un poco la vista, pero la ciudad no estรก tan lejos ya. Su รบltima posibilidad de escape. Allรญ habrรก otra calle donde los vendedores ambulantes desplegarรกn sobre la acera, sรณlo para รฉl, sus efรญmeras maravillas. Tal vez otra oficina. Tal vez otra casa. Ojalรก pase algรบn vehรญculo para darle un aventรณn, porque el tiempo apremia.
โBenjamรญn โruega ella, ahora con voz de angustiaโ abre, Benjamรญn; Mauricio dice algo del cerrajero que ya estรก en camino. Benjamรญn anhela el asilo de la ciudad desconocida. Menuda sorpresa tendrรกn cuando terminen de tumbar la puerta.
Sabe que si llega a tiempo, no podrรกn quitarle la Caminadora. Ni nada mรกs. Llegar al final es necesario, indispensableโฆ Una meta, al fin. Si se ejercita lo suficiente, llegarรก. Es una mera cuestiรณn de entrenamiento.
La vista fija en su meta, Benjamรญn aprieta el paso.
Del libro: Cuentos con agujeros (Monte Avila, 2001)
“Walking, walking, and you don’t even remember,” that’s what she always says to him. Well, not exactly in those terms. It’s usually a more direct complaint: you didn’t call Pacheco, you didn’t check the Supercable contract, you didn’t take the car to the mechanic, you missed dinner, you forgot our wedding anniversary or that you didn’t buy the shampoo I asked you for. She doesn’t expect answers, and Benjamin knows it would be pointless to reply. He also knows that behind this litany of minor oversights rises, smooth and implacable like a tepui, the true reproach, existential, unforgivable. The reproach of not remembering. There’s a huge difference between forgetting and not remembering.
A reproach that, of course, has never been uttered directly. The accusing weight of what Benjamin doesn’t rememberโor pretends not to rememberโwould unleash such a massive earthquake in all the geological layers that patiently accumulated over the years to form a stable ground where they can support each other. Benjamin doesn’t remember the future that’s now in the past, that glorious future, bright as the sun, whose outlines mysteriously vanished as they moved deeper into it. Thirty-five years is enough time to see that.
The worst part is not remembering, she says without saying it, since she only talks about the mechanic and the shampoo. You forget everything, she says. The life you promised me (she doesn’t say that). Walking and walking doesn’t fix it, she says, and lately it’s all you do.
As if she didn’t know that Benjamin started walking on the doctor’s orders. The perfect remedy for his age, his high cholesterol, his sluggish liver, his clogged arteries, and a heart as inactive as the owner of those damaged organs. So he got used to walking. Now his wife suspects he enjoys it, and she can’t allow that. It’s not fair, while she lives with the misery of remembering every day that bright future they shared, a future that has faded into the present and nothing more.
“Enough walking, Benjamin. Open the door, please! Mauricio is coming for dinner tonight with your grandchildren. He never knows what to do with the kids when it’s his turn to babysit. I have to say, they’ve become unbearable since the divorce. You can see their mother’s upbringing in them (best not to mention her). And Sandrita is asleep, so you have to run to the bakery. And you could set the table too, what do you think? I’m always the one doing everything. And you, walking and walking!”
The pebbles crunch under their feet, and the spring air is filled with the chirping of invisible birds. Benjamin turns up the volume; from far away, he hears the whinny of a horse. A delightful sound.
He was surrounded by a green and verdant world, now as he had been in the beginning, when he frequented the places where walking was commonplace: the highway closed on Sundays, Los Caobos, Parque del Este. He bought a Walkman and for a while, he sucked in his stomach and held his head high, as befits someone who belongs to a healthy and athletic community, where successful businessmen democratically wear the same shorts as the unsuccessful; a realm of long, muscular legs preparing for a marathon, tight leggings, flawless backsides, bodies glistening with lotion and sweat. Until the inevitable day arrived when he realized that everyone else was running or jogging, and even those who walked like him, easily passed him, time and time again. Footsteps pounding on the concrete of shady paths, they seemed to be hurrying toward some important destination, unknown to him. Benjamin, on the other hand, just wandered around. He fell behind, as always. And that somehow reminded him of his wife’s unspoken reproach, as implacable as a tepui. So he put the Walkman away in the drawer (you always buy things and then never use them) and decided to finally give her the car and walk to work, both ways.
“Did you hear me, Benjamin? That’s enough!” she says. “Open this door! They’re about to close the bakery.”
Benjamin quickens his pace. He still has a long way to go.
His office is in the same old building where he set it up when it was new, long before the city overran it and left it forgotten at the end of a pedestrian street, now overrun by street vendors and itinerant artisans.
Walking there meant getting lost among the stalls and trays, in the jumble of plastic jewelry, Taiwanese perfumes, contraband jeans, and lace-trimmed lycra panties. Benjamin lingered, leafing through secondhand books and well-worn pornographic magazines spread out on the sidewalk; sometimes he bought dulce de leche or a roughly weighed kilo of tangerines from a young mulatto woman whose pure chocolate-colored baby slept among sweets. She spoke to him kindly, saying the tangerines were sweet, calling him “my love,” and the magazine vendor, a white-haired German with a Colombian accent, shared profound reflections with him about the country’s situation.
Comments. After all, it was a healthy, boring activity recommended by the doctor. He didn’t recognize the warning signs.
Benjamin, on the other hand, sensed that his life was taking on a new dimension, although only after two or three weeks did he notice slight alterations in the landscape he was traversing in the video. At first, they were inexplicable noises, suggesting barely perceptible animal presences. It began with that cicada whose unpleasant, persistent buzzing accompanied him for a good part of the journey. Convinced that it had found a way to slip out the window, Benjamin interrupted the session with the firm intention of getting rid of the intruder and noted with astonishment that the buzzing stopped the very instant he stopped the tape. It was a strange coincidence or a particularly intelligent insect, because it resumed its flight when the video restarted. It never returned. And Benjamin eventually forgot about it, concentrating instead on walkingโhe walked faster and better each timeโuntil the day he stopped, lost in thought, at the edge of the third pond. He would have sworn that every time he passed by, an impressive jet of crystal-clear water gushed from its center; however, today the fountain was closed, the water took on deep shades of green, and a small wild duck frolicked on the bank. Perplexed, Benjamin let the tape rewind, then put it back in from the beginning and retraced his steps. This time the jet of water gushed forth, there was no doubt about that, but the duckling was still there. It was strange that he had never noticed it before.
For the first time, he realized that he had never gone beyond that pond, and he felt curious. He lengthened his walks, then he set about increasing his speed. The tape rewarded his effort: indeed, the further he went, the more the landscape changed. The trees in the park began to thin out, and on both sides of the path, elaborate iron gates now appeared, offering glimpses of opulent two- and three-story mansions nestled in their gardens. On the third day, panting with exhaustion, he arrived at a particularly beautiful house, all wood covered in wild vines. It seemed vaguely familiar. He longed to know who lived there, to ring the bell and go inside, but the law of the Walker forbade such extravagances. He could only continue walking slowly, his eyes fixed on the windows that shielded their mystery with cheerful yellow curtains, his ears straining to catch the faint laughter of children playing somewhere in the garden. Suddenly, the memory surfaced: her, young and dazzling, cutting out pictures from magazines, the dream home for their future together. Deep down, he knew it couldn’t be just a coincidence, a random trick of the video. That house was there for him like a divine trap. Benjamin felt the blow. He had to stop exercising, and the image faded, leaving him sweaty and panting in front of the desolate white wall of the former guest room.
That night he couldn’t sleep. Even her irregular snores and the sounds of revelry filtering from Sandra’s room intensified the feverish rapture he was in. He couldn’t wait to return to that place, and by five in the morning he was already dressed in his gym clothes. “Did you fall out of bed or what?”
On a sudden impulse, he suggested she come with him. “Come with me, I want to show you something.” She turned her back on him, unmoved by such eccentricities. “At this hour? Are you crazy?” So Benjamin briefly stroked the soft foam rolls on his wife’s head and gave up on sharing his discovery with her.
Thank goodness: she would have thought him mad. From the third fountain gushed a powerful stream of crystal-clear water, and a whole family of ducks swam in the pond, but there was no sign of the vine-covered house. He searched for it in vain, walking furiously. Behind him lay the gates and mansions, and a two-lane road replaced the path amidst a bland, rural landscape. Gentle blue hills rippled the horizon. On one of them stood the city, like a distant drawing. After a few days, he gave up looking for the house and concentrated all his efforts on getting there.
“But what’s wrong with you?” she would say. “You’re more distracted than ever. You have the same glazed look Sandrita had when she was in that institution. And you forgot to call the bank about my credit cardโฆ You’re worse than ever. You forget everything. Everything!”
This time it was true: he forgot everything. But he was better than ever. With a secret excitement, Benjamin stroked the key in his pants pocket and couldn’t wait to restart his exercise session. Now he walked several times a day, and each time he spent more time on the treadmill. Unfortunately, the treadmill was designed to promote a progressive increase in effort: there was no way to reset it at any time.
Carla Guelfenbein estudiรณ biologรญa en la Universidad de Essex. Tambiรฉn estudiรณ diseรฑo grรกfico en la Escuela de Arte St. Martin de Londres. De regreso en Chile, trabajรณ como directora de arte en BBDO y editora de moda en ELLE. Es autora de las novelas El revรฉs del alma, La mujer de mi vida, El resto es silencio, Nadar desnudas, Contigo en la distancia y de varios cuentos que han aparecido en importantes revistas y antologรญas. Su obra ha sido traducida a 14 idiomas por las editoriales mรกs prestigiosas de Europa. Guelfenbein es uno de los รบltimos fenรณmenos best-seller de la narrativa chilena. Su segunda novela desbancรณ a Dan Brown del primer puesto del ranking. Contigo en la distancia, ganรณ el importante premio Alfaguara, y se lanzรณ simultรกneamente en Espaรฑa y Latinoamรฉrica.
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Carla Guelfenbein studied biology at Essex University. She also studied graphic design at St. Martinโs School of Art in London. Back in Chile she worked as Art director in BBDO and fashion editor atย ELLE. She is the author of the novels El revรฉs del alma, La mujer de mi Vida, El Resto Es Silencio, Nadar desnudas, Contigo en la distancia, and a number of short stories tenat have appeared in important magazines and anthologies. Her work has been translated into 14 languages by the most prestigious editorial houses in Europe. Guelfenbein is one of the last bestselling phenomenas of the Chilean narrative. Her second novel ousted Dan Brown in the top of the ranking. Contigo en la distancia, won the important Alfaguara prize, and was simultaneously launched in Spain and Latin America.
Vera Sigall, ahora de 80 aรฑos, ha vivido una vida misteriosa y ascรฉtica, alejada del foco literario. Este poderoso personaje tiene un profundo impacto en quienes la rodean: Daniel, arquitecto, vecino y amigo suyo, infeliz en su matrimonio y su carrera; Emilia, una estudiante franco-chilena que viaja a Santiago para escribir una tesis sobre la esquiva Vera; y Horacio, un aclamado poeta con quien Vera tuvo un romance tumultuoso y apasionado en su juventud. A medida que Daniel, Emilia y Horacio cuentan sus historias, reconstruyen el pasado de Vera y buscan sus propias identidades.
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With You in the Distance — Summary
Vera Sigall, now 80 years old, has lived a mysterious, ascetic life far from the limelight of literary circles. This powerful character has a profound effect on those around her — Daniel, an architect and her neighbor and friend, unhappy in his marriage and career; Emilia, a Franco-Chilean student who travels to Santiago to write a thesis on the elusive Vera; and Horacio, an acclaimed poet with whom Vera had a tumultuous, passionate affair in her youth. As Daniel, Emilia and Horacio tell their stories, they reconstruct Veraโs past and search for their own identities.
Mi tutor de la universidad me habรญa conseguido una beca, pero esta apenas cubrรญa mis gastos. Por eso, con algunos ahorros, me comprรฉ una bicicleta Pashley de se-gunda mano y me ofrecรญ para hacer de repartidora en la verdulerรญa del barrio. Don Josรฉ, el dueรฑo, aceptรณ de inmediato. Era hijo de inmigrantes espaรฑoles llegados en el Winnรญpeg. Nunca habรญa vivido en Espaรฑa, pero conserva-ba el acento que debiรณ heredar de sus padres. Llevaba boina, bigotes y un par de suspensores, entre los cuales emergรญa una gruesa panza. A la verdulerรญa se entraba bajando tres escalones, donde un gato negro solรญa recostar-se. Cada maรฑana, despuรฉs de hacer el reparto, me dirigรญa en mi bicicleta hacia la Biblioteca Bombal, en la calle Condell.
El primer dรญa, una mujer delgada y menuda me abriรณ la puerta. Sin ser del todo anciana, llevaba un bastรณn y tenรญa el cabello cano. Apenas entrรฉ, me hizo pasar a un cuarto ocupado casi enteramente por un escritorio de caoba. La luz entraba apenas, a travรฉs de unos largos cortinones de terciopelo. Todo allรญ parecรญa haberse asentado hacรญa largo tiempo, y los colores y las cosas se fundรญan en una sola materia uniforme.
La biblioteca habรญa sido fundada por la heredera de una gran fortuna en los aรฑos cincuenta. Buscaban reunir y rescatar textos de narradoras y poetas latinoamericanas, pero tambiรฉn tenรญan una colecciรณn de poemas y cartas de mujeres anรณnimas de origen sajรณn del siglo XIX.
-Mi nombre es Rosa Espinoza. En quรฉ puedo ayudarle -me dijo una vez que ambas estuvimos senta-das, ella uas el escritorio atestado de libros y yo frente a ella.
Me llamรณ la atenciรณn su nombre. O sus padres lo habรญan hecho a propรณsito -lo que habrรญa sido una cruel-dad- o no se habรญan percatado de lo que hacรญan.
Nada mรกs sentarme, la seรฑora Espinoza comenzรณ a hacerme una retahรญla de preguntas: direcciรณn, edad, seรฑas de mis tutores en Francia, estudios. Asuntos de esa รญndole. En su anticuado computador anotaba las respuestas con lenta severidad, mientras tras sus gafas me escrutaba como si dentro de mi morral ocultara una bomba.
-ยฟY quรฉ pretende hacer aquรญ? -me preguntรณ
por fin.
Se sacรณ los anteojos, los cerrรณ y, sosteniรฉndolos como un arma punzante, cruzรณ los brazos sobre la mesa. Me resultaba difรญcil entender lo que estaba ocurriendo. Horacio Infante me habรญa insistido en que tan solo tenรญa que llegar hasta ahรญ y comenzar a trabajar.
-ยฟNo lo sabe realmente?
La mujer negรณ con un gesto de la cabeza. Sus aros de perlas dejaban caer destellos sobre sus hombros. Iba vestida de colores claros que hacรญan juego con su pelo cano. Permanecรญ en silencio. No querรญa hablar del verdadero motivo que me habรญa llevado hasta allรญ. Resguarda-do en mi interior, los confines a los cuales podรญa llegar eran ilimitados. Nombrarlo, en cambio, hubiera sido una forma de apresarlo y mutilarlo. Por eso habรญa ideado un proyecto que me sirviera de pantalla: catalogar los papeles y archivos que Vera Sigall habรญa donado hacรญa dos aรฑos y que segรบn las averiguaciones de monsieur Roche, habรญan permanecido intocados.
-Quizรกs, antes de explicarme, quiera servirse una taza de tรฉ.
Sus ojillos rodeados de arrugas brillaron con un raro fulgor.
-Me encantarรญa -dije, y ella desapareciรณ.
A travรฉs de la gruesa cortina entornada divisรฉ las ramas desnudas de los รกrboles que se recortaban contra el cielo gris, formando una filigrana. Un mundo de รกrboles sin estrellas, murmurรฉ. Eran las รบltimas palabras de Javier, el personaje principal de la primera novela de Vera Sigall.
La seรฑora Espinoza volviรณ con un hombre que, tras ella, sostenรญa una bandeja de plata con una tetera azul grisรกcea y dos tazas del mismo color. El hombre dejรณ la bandeja sobre el escritorio, ayudรณ a la seรฑora Espinoza a desembarazarse de su bastรณn y luego a sentarse.
-Gracias, Efraรญn -sonriรณ ella-. Efraรญn es el jardinero, mi chofer y el guardiรกn de todo esto -aรฑadiรณ despuรฉs de que รฉl hubo desaparecido.
El aroma del tรฉ con especias llenรณ la estancia. La seรฑora Espinoza lo sirviรณ con parsimonia.
-Estรก un poco caliente, tenga cuidado -hizo una pausa y luego continuรณ-: Ahora tal vez pueda decirme cuรกl es el objetivo de su visita a este lugar.
Levantรณ la cabeza, esperando que de mis palabras surgiera algo inesperado pero a la vez conocido, como una paloma del sombrero de un mago.
-Lo que quiero hacer… -dije, y me detuve.
-Vamos, hable.
Su voz sonaba dulce pero firme.
Apoyรณ la cabeza en el respaldo de su silla y fijรณ sus ojos desprovistos de ornamentaciรณn en los mรญos.
-Bueno, lo que quiero es analizar los distintos sentidos de los astros y los planetas en los escritos de Vera Sigall. Descubrir su origen. Eso a grandes rasgos. Llevo un tiempo en este estudio y no he llegado muy lejos.
No sรฉ por quรฉ lo hice, pero frente a esa mujer nombrรฉ por vez primera lo que me habรญa llevado hasta ahรญ. Lo que me habรญa dado la fuerza para atravesar el charco. Tenรญa la intuiciรณn de que habรญa algo oculto en las estrellas de Vera Sigall. Algo que traspasaba las narraciones, los personajes y sus historias. Incluso las palabras. Intuรญa tambiรฉn que, hallรกndolo, encontrarรญa algo de mรญ misma. Era una percepciรณn que resultaba tan vaga e inasible que muchas veces se desvanecรญa. Bajรฉ los ojos. Las manos me sudaban.
-Apenas la vi, supe que Horacio Infante estaba equivocado, y que su verdadero objetivo no era catalogar la obra de Vera Sigall. Usted no tiene cara de catalogadora. Yo no sabรญa abrazar a las personas. Pero aรฑorรฉ haber podido hacerlo.
Junto a ella, recorrรญ la biblioteca, un inmueble de dos pisos de estilo inglรฉs. El primero albergaba la amplia estancia dispuesta para los estudiosos. Una vitrina con un taburete que habรญa pertenecido a Alfonsina Storni se asomaba en un rincรณn. Segรบn me explicรณ la seรฑora Espinoza, Alfonsina lo llevaba con ella en sus largas caminatas por los pรกramos y se sentaba en รฉl a pensar. La biblioteca se encontraba en el segundo piso. Eran tres grandes salas y en una de ellas habรญa un gran mueble con cajones, clasificados por autora. Alcancรฉ a distinguir a algunas: Clarice Lispector, Elena Garro, Silvina Ocampo y Alejandra Pizarnik.
Al cabo de un rato, ya estaba sentada en el primer piso frente a una de las cajas que Vera Sigall habรญa donado a la biblioteca. Me llamรณ la atenciรณn un grupo de fotografรญas sujetas con una cinta negra. Los retratos de Vera Sigall son escasos. La prensa y los editores suelen reproducir siempre el mismo, uno en que, tras una incisiva seriedad, pareciera querer ocultar su belleza. Deshice el nudo con cuidado. Eran cinco fotografรญas en blanco y negro. Cuatro de ellas mostraban a personas que me resultaron desconocidas. La quinta era una fotografรญa de Vera junto a sus padres, Arรณn y Emma Sigall. Es una imagen ovalada. La madre, de rostro grueso y tosco, mira hacia la cรกmara con expresiรณn preocupada, como si el destino le deparara un futuro difรญcil y ella con reciedumbre lo anticipara. El padre, con un traje humilde de quien estรก acostumbrado al trabajo, observa la cรกmara con determi-naciรณn y severidad. Vera, una niรฑa de no mรกs de siete aรฑos, despide un aire intranquilo, misterioso.
En uno de los libros mรกs importantes editados so-bre la obra de Vera Sigall, Benjamรญn Moser -su autor-puntualiza que todo lo que se refiere a sus datos biogrรกfi-cos es ambiguo y muchas veces contradictorio. Nadie sabe a ciencia cierta cuรกntos aรฑos tenรญa cuando sus padres hu-yeron de la aldea de Chechelnik, en Ucrania, escapando de los pogromos. Segรบn lo que รฉl logrรณ averiguar, llegaron a Moldavia por el rรญo Dniester en una canoa. La exacta fecha de su arribo a Rumania y el viaje que hicieron despuรฉs para llegar a Chile se pierden en una nebulosa. A lo largo de su vida, Vera se rodeรณ de enigmas y en las escasas entrevistas que aceptรณ, solรญa escudarse tras la misma res-puesta: ยซMi gran misterio es que no tengo misterioยป.
Recuerdo la primera vez que leรญ uno de sus textos. El lenguaje mutaba en sus manos. Las palabras se reflejaban y reproducรญan unas a otras, como en las imรกgenes de los espejos cruzados, creando una sensaciรณn de desconcierto.
Dejรฉ la fotografรญa sobre la mesa y cerrรฉ los ojos. Necesitaba absorber la emociรณn que me producรญa estar en el mundo de Vera Sigall. Pensรฉ que tal vez habรญa por fin encontrado mi lugar, entre esas paredes vetustas, entre las almas de todas esas mujeres. Allรญ nadie me alcanzarรญa. Nadie exigirรญa de mรญ lo que nunca podrรญa darles.
Volvรญ en mi bicicleta antes de que oscureciera. Los rayos de sol cruzaban el cielo como dardos, rebotando en mis ventanas de los altos edificios acristalados. Subรญa las escaleras hacia mi altillo, cuando me encontrรฉ con mis vecinos del piso nueve. Se presentaron como Juan y Franisco. Juan era alto y moreno, de modales pausados, vestรญa con escrupulosidad y elegancia. Francisco era bajo y for-aido, de mechas enhiestas y claras, ojos vivos, y en sus jeans gastados y en su suรฉter traรญa rezagos de pintura.
-Emilia Husson, ยฟverdad? -me preguntรณ Juan.
.\.fe tendiรณ una mano grande y oscura, con una amable formalidad. Yo asentรญ sin coger la suya. รl, leyendo quizรกs en mis ojos que no se trataba de un gesto de desdรฉn, hizo caso omiso de mi falta y continuรณ-: Ya ves, hemos hecho nuestras averiguaciones con el conserje. Eres Emilia y vienes llegando de Parรญs.
-Bueno, no precisamente de Parรญs, vivo en Grenoble, pero para el caso supongo que da lo mismo.
Ambos sonrieron con franca simpatรญa.
-Hace mรกs de un aรฑo que nadie vive en el altillo. Estรกbamos preocupados de quiรฉn podrรญa llegar. Me alegro que seas tรบ, Emilia -dijo Juan mientras sacaba unas llaves de su bolsillo. -Esperamos verte seguido -dijo Francisco, y ambos desaparecieron tras la puerta de su departamento.
Cuando lleguรฉ a mi altillo, lavรฉ los platos que habรญa dejado de la cena y luego encendรญ mi computador. Tenรญa un largo mail de Jรฉrome. Al dรญa siguiente, partรญ a una de sus excursiones de montaรฑismo. Esta vez intentarรญa llegar a la cima del Elbrรบs. Despuรฉs de leerlo, le contรฉ mi encuentro con the seลora Espinosa, el olor a polvo, la solemnidad de Efrain, el jardinero, el tรฉ aromรกtico que mutรณ el orden de las cosas como un brebaje. Tambiรฉn le contรฉ de la fotografรญa de que habรญa hallado, de sus ojos inquietos que parecรญan esperar algo.
My university advisor had gotten me a scholarship, but it barely covered my expenses. So, with some savings, I bought a secondhand Pashley bicycle and offered to work as a delivery girl for the neighborhood greengrocer. Don Josรฉ, the owner, accepted immediately. He was the son of Spanish immigrants who had arrived on the Winnipeg. He had never lived in Spain, but he still had the accent he must have inherited from his parents. He wore a beret, a mustache, and a pair of suspenders, between which a thick belly peeked out. The greengrocer’s entrance was down three steps, where a black cat often lay. Every morning, after making my deliveries, I rode my bicycle to the Bombal Library on Condell Street.
The first day, a thin, petite woman opened the door for me. While not exactly elderly, she used a cane and had gray hair. As soon as I entered, she showed me into a room almost entirely occupied by a mahogany desk. Light filtered in, barely filtering through long velvet curtains. Everything there seemed to have settled long ago, and the colors and objects blended into a single, uniform mass.
The library had been founded in the 1950s by the heiress to a vast fortune. They sought to collect and preserve texts by Latin American women writers and poets, but they also had a collection of poems and letters by anonymous women of Anglo-Saxon origin from the 19th century.
“My name is Rosa Espinoza. How can I help you?” she said once we were both seated, she at the desk piled high with books and I across from her.
Her name caught my attention. Either her parents had chosen it on purposeโwhich would have been cruelโor they hadn’t realized what they were doing.
No sooner had I sat down than Mrs. Espinoza began bombarding me with questions: address, age, contact information for my guardians in France, education. Matters of that nature. She meticulously recorded my answers on her antiquated computer, while behind her glasses she scrutinized me as if I were hiding a bomb in my backpack.
“And what do you intend to do here?” she finally asked.
She took off her glasses, closed them, and, holding them like a sharp weapon, crossed her arms on the table. I found it difficult to understand what was happening. Horacio Infante had insisted that I simply had to get there and start working.
“Don’t you really know?”
The woman shook her head. Her pearl earrings shimmered on her shoulders. She was dressed in light colors that complemented her gray hair. I remained silent. I didn’t want to talk about the real reason that had brought me there. Sheltered within myself, the limits to which I could reach were boundless. To name it, however, would have been a way of imprisoning and mutilating it. That’s why I had devised a project to serve as a smokescreen: cataloging the papers and files that Vera Sigall had donated two years ago and which, according to Monsieur Roche’s investigation, had remained untouched.
“Perhaps, before I explain, you’d like to pour yourself a cup of tea.”
Her small, wrinkled eyes shone with a rare brilliance.
Vera Sigall. I thought that perhaps I had finally found my place, among those ancient walls, among the souls of all those women. There, no one could reach me. No one would demand of me what I could never give them.
I returned on my bicycle before dark. The sun’s rays crossed the sky like darts, bouncing off
the windows of the tall glass buildings. I was climbing the stairs to my loft when I ran into my neighbors from the ninth floor. They introduced themselves as Juan and Franisco. Juan was tall and dark-haired, with a measured manner, and dressed with meticulousness and elegance. Francisco was short and thin, with spiky, light-colored hair, lively eyes, and traces of paint on his worn jeans and sweater.
“Emilia Husson, right?” Juan asked me.
He extended a large, dark hand, with a polite formality. I nodded without taking his. He, perhaps reading in my eyes that it wasn’t a gesture of disdain, ignored my oversight and continued: “You see, we’ve checked with the concierge. You’re Emilia, and you’ve just arrived from Paris.”
“Well, not exactly from Paris, I live in Grenoble, but for all intents and purposes, I suppose it’s the same thing.”
They both smiled with genuine warmth.
“It’s been over a year since anyone has lived in the attic. We were worried about who might move in. I’m glad it’s you, Emilia,” said Juan as he took some keys from his pocket. “We hope to see you often,” said Francisco, and they both disappeared behind the door of their apartment.
When I got back to my attic, I washed the dishes I’d left from dinner and then turned on my computer. I had a long email from Jรฉrรดme. The next day, I left for one of his mountaineering excursions. This time I would try to reach the summit of Elbrus. After reading it, I told him about my encounter with Seรฑora Espinosa, the smell of dust, the solemnity of Efraรญn, the gardener, the aromatic tea that altered the order of things like a brew. I also told him about the photograph I had found, about her restless eyes that seemed to be waiting for something.
Yishai Jusidman es un pintor contemporรกneo y crรญtico de arte ocasional. Naciรณ en la Ciudad de Mรฉxico, reside en Los รngeles y pronto emigrarรก al moshav Tal Shachar. Su obra se ha exhibido en prestigiosas exposiciones internacionales en todo el mundo. Una serie reciente, “Azul de Prusia”, aborda los desafรญos estรฉticos de la conmemoraciรณn del Holocausto a travรฉs del arte y se exhibe en el Museo Memorial de Auschwitz-Birkenau hasta octubre de 2026. Sus escritos se han publicado en Artforum, Art Issues, Los Angeles Times, Cleveland Review of Books y mรกs.
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Yishai Jusidman is a contemporary painter and occasional art critic, born in Mexico City, based in Los Angeles and soon migrating to moshav Tal Shachar. His artwork has been shown worldwide in prestigious international exhibitions. A recent series, “Prussian Blue”, deals with the aesthetic challenges of Holocaust remembrance through art, and it is on view at the Auschwitz-Birkenau Memorial Museum through October 2026. His writing has been published in Artforum, Art Issues, Los Angeles Times, Cleveland Review of Books, and more.
En mi serie Azul de Prusia, abordo el Holocausto en la pintura buscando generar la impresiรณn pictรณrica de un silencio tan solemne y directo como elocuente, ofreciendo asรญ una alternativa a las restricciones fatalistas que han frenado la producciรณn de obras que abordan este tema.
Pintura azul de Prusia: El producto Zyklon B, utilizado como agente letal entre 1940 y 1945, solรญa producir manchas azules en las paredes de las cรกmaras de gas debido a una reacciรณn quรญmica con el ladrillo y el mortero. Dichas manchas aรบn son muy visibles en las estructuras de Majdanek. El compuesto de cianuro y hierro de estas manchas es quรญmicamente idรฉntico al pigmento del pintor, conocido como Azul de Prusia. — Yisgai Jusidman
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In my Prussian Blue series, I address the Holocaust in painting by seeking to generate the pictorial impression of a silence as solemn and forthright as it is eloquent, thus furnishing an alternative to the fatalistic strictures that have stifled the production of works dealing with this subject.
Prussian blue paint: The Zyklon B product that was used as a killing agent from 1940 through 1945 often produced blue stains on the walls of the gas chambers by way of a chemical reaction with the brick and mortar. Such stains are still very much apparent in the structures at Majdanek. The cyanide-iron compound of these stains is chemically identical to the painterโs pigment known as Prussian Blue.
Mutatis Mutandi
He manipulado elementos basados โโen objetos y tecnologรญa para llamar la atenciรณn sobre el efecto pictรณrico, colocando lo tรกctil contra lo รณptico, lo literal contra lo metafรณrico, los fenรณmenos contra el discurso. โ Yisgai Jusidman
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I have manipulated object-based and technology-based elements so as to call attention to the painterly effect, by placing the tactile against the optical, the literal against the metaphorical, phenomena against discourse. — Yisgai Jusidman
Eduardo Mosches es mexicano de origen argentino. Naciรณ en Buenos aires en 1944. Viviรณ en Israel de 1963 a 1970. Tomรณ un aviรณn en 1970 hacia Berlรญn, donde estudiรณ Ciencias Sociales en la Universidad Libre en, Alemania y se dirigiรณ hacia Argentina en 1974. Despuรฉs en 1976, se fue rumbo a Mรฉxico, donde entablรณ varios retos, entre otros el de estudiar Cinematografรญa en la UNAM. Reside en Mรฉxico desde ese aรฑo. Fue coordinador editorial en la Universidad Autรณnoma de la Ciudad de Mรฉxico(2002-2012). Fundador y director de la revista literaria Blanco Mรณvil, desde 1985. Ha publicado los poemarios Los lentes y Marx, Los tiempos mezquinos, Cuando las pieles riman, Viaje a travรฉs de los etcรฉteras, Como el mar que nos habita, Molinos de Fuego, Susurros de la memoria,Avatares de la memoria (antologรญa poรฉtica 1979-2006) , El ojo histรณrico (2014), Los enemigos del silencio ( 2014) y el libro de prosa Caminos sin ruta. Ha colaborado en periรณdicos y revistas en Mรฉxico, Argentina, Alemania, Brasil, Espaรฑa, Estados Unidos, Israel, Italia, Chile, entre otros. Ha recibido varios premios nacionales como poeta y editor de revistas literarias. Ha sido traducido al alemรกn, italiano, portuguรฉs, hebreo e inglรฉs.
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Eduardo Mosches is a Mexican of Argentine origin. He was born in Buenos Aires in 1944. He lived in Israel from 1963 to 1970. In 1970, he went to Berlin, where he studied Social Sciences at the Free University of Berlin, Germany, and then returned to Argentina in 1974. In 1976, he went to Mexico, where he undertook several challenges, including studying Cinematography at the National Autonomous University of Mexico (UNAM). He has resided in Mexico since that year. He was the editorial coordinator at the Autonomous University of Mexico City (2002-2012). Founder and editor of the literary magazine Blanco Mรณvil since 1985. He has published the poetry collectionsLos lentes y Marx, Los tiempos mezquinos, Cuando las pieles riman, Viaje a travรฉs de los etcรฉteras, Como el mar que nos habita, Molinos de Fuego, Susurros de la memoria, Avatares de la memoria (poetic anthology 1979-2006), El ojo histรณrico (2014), Los enemigos del silencio (2014), and the prose work Caminos sin ruta. He has contributed to newspapers and magazines in Mexico, Argentina, Germany, Brazil, Spain, the United States, Israel, Italy, Chile, and other countries. He has received several national awards as a poet and editor of literary magazines. His work has been translated into German, Italian, Portuguese, Hebrew, and English.
Las gotas de lluvia golpeaban en un ritmo pausado de somnolencia, las veladuras de grises ingresaban a travรฉs del cristal, enfriaban las tazas de un cafรฉ por beberse a sorbos lentos mientras la mano tatuada por venas infladas, rรญos congelados por la pesada edad, desnudas de lรญquido, descansan un momento tomadas entre sรญ, como trapecios en el descanso. El rรญo de las venas se oculta mientras los รกrboles crecen al ritmo que los pantalones se achican. Nubes de conversaciones se inclinan como ramas cargadas de frutos carnosos, envueltos en la piel de recuerdos. Los caballos se lanzan veloces a galopar en el patio empedrado, giran como en un carrusel con que se arma el pentagrama de los sucesos infantiles, donde la figura del abuelo, alta y ceremoniosa, juez de la vida y las hazaรฑas, se va dibujando en trazos finos deslavados, para ir llegando a toparse con la mรญtica imagen de espalda tan amplia como una meseta, la que sostiene la caรญda ominosa de terrosas bolsas de granos. La voz lenta, animosa, nos dice de cรณmo salva la vida del hermano, en su niรฑez de rodillas raspadas y uรฑas mordidas, el cual aรฑos mรกs tarde, muere en un salto desde un techo sin violรญn alguno. Narrando estรก mi padre, mientras el cafรฉ en la taza va adquiriendo una tonalidad muy negruzca, azulada, como la noche que avanza sobre el crepรบsculo de un dรญa de invierno, en alguna ciudad puerto.
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Clouds and Veins
The raindrops pattered with a languid, sleepy rhythm, veils of gray seeped through the glass, chilling the cups of coffee sipped slowly while the hand, tattooed with swollen veins, rivers frozen by the weight of age, bare of liquid, rested for a moment, clasped together, like trapezes at rest. The river of veins hides as the trees grow at the same pace as the trousers shrink. Clouds of conversation bend like branches laden with fleshy fruit, wrapped in the skin of memories.
The horses burst into a gallop across the cobbled courtyard, circling like a carousel, forming the musical staff of childhood memories. There, the figure of the grandfather, tall and ceremonious, judge of life and deeds, is sketched in fine, faded strokes, eventually colliding with the mythical image, his back as broad as a plateau, supporting the ominous fall of earthen sacks of grain. His slow, spirited voice tell he saved his brother’s life in his childhood, knees scraped and his nails bitten, a brother who, years later, died jumping from a roof, without a violin in sight.
My father is narrating, while the coffee in the cup takes on a very dark, bluish hue, like the night advancing over the twilight of a winter’s day in some port city.
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Susurros de la memoria (fragmento)
VII
Momento de gateo refugio del pavor el eco de los gritos o la oscuridad las horas y el angustiado temor del hambre calor cobijador de ciertas patas caninas Aroma de recuerdo bosque de abedules perfumadas tardes acompaรฑadas de pardos eucaliptos mientras el frรญo se omitรญa crecรญan en el vaho nubes de vapores otoรฑales la lluvia se deslizaba en su sonido parco sueรฑo logrado por el vientre protector que compartiรณ su refugio con ese niรฑo que era yo
Ven perro, perro, sin un ladrido, desolaciรณn
El recuerdo es acciรณn del cuento oral algunas horas barridas en la angustia de los otros mientras soรฑaba con suma placidez tranquilidad del reposo sobre el perro almohada de pelos cรกlidos oscuridad y tibieza Es posible que cierto lejano familiar mordiese muslos que bajaban de los trenes en Treblinka o Auschwitz rasgase pantalones junto con los mรบsculos en algรบn lugar cercado por el miedo: Altamirano Trelew o Kosovo
Todo esto fue antes que creciera la sombra de un bigote y enfrentase otros dientes amenazantes en alguna manifestaciรณn en contra o a favor.
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Whispers of Memory (fragment)
VII
Moment of crawling
refuge from terror
the echo of screams or the darkness
the hours and the anguished fear of hunger
the comforting warmth of certain canine paws
Scent of memory, birch forest
perfumed afternoons accompanied by brown eucalyptus trees
while the cold was omitted
clouds of autumnal vapors grew in the mist
the rain slid in its sparse sound
sleep achieved by the protective womb
that shared its refuge
with that child who was me
Come, dog, dog, without a bark, desolation
Memory is the action of oral storytelling
some hours swept away in the anguish of others
while I dreamed with utmost placidity
the tranquility of repose
on the dog, a pillow of warm fur
darkness and warmth
It is possible that a certain distant relative
bite thighs that came down from the trains
in Treblinka or Auschwitz
ripping trousers along with the muscles
somewhere surrounded by fear:
Altamirano, Trelew, or Kosovo
All this was before
the shadow of a mustache grew
and faced other threatening teeth
in some demonstration for or against.
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Los tiempos mezquinos (fragmento)
V
Los olivos murmuran sobre las zanjas que fueron casas o en los trozos de loza que alguna vez cobijaron redondos panes รกrabes que sonreรญan blanco a los dientes. Un trago lento y leve de agua fresca lavado el paladar de ese cafรฉ pastoso un corto ademรกn de entretejerse dedos en el mismo momento en que la explosiรณn hacรญa hondo el instante del silencio.
Las bocas de todos los asesinados fragmentan a la historia en un gemido largo.
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The Mean Times (excerpt)
V
The olive trees murmur
over the ditches that were once houses
or on the pieces of pottery
that once
sheltered round
Arabian loaves that smiled white
at the teeth.
A slow, light sip
of fresh water washes the palate
of that thick coffee, a brief gesture
of interlacing fingers
at the very moment
when the explosion
deepened
the instant of silence.
The mouths of all the murdered
fragment history
in a long moan.
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Dejando atrรกs
La ciudad se cubre los ojos respira agitada entre el temor y la angustia.
Las nubes se llenan de pรกjaros oscuros revolotean sobre los cadรกveres que van a existir.
La letanรญa de los mensajes penetra por las uรฑas, se deslizan a travรฉs de las venas, surcan el cuerpo afiebrando al miedo.
Huir de los otros cuerpos, no acariciarse, los ojos esquivos, mirar ese otro cuerpo los otros cuerpos, las manos y sus pies con las nรกuseas del posible sufrimiento.
Las lajas de los cementerios cubren con pesadez el espรญritu de los vecinos. Las bocas respiran a travรฉs del tejido no hablar no comer no besarse.
Los caballos atraviesan el horizonte a trote cansino, pisan pesadamente en las osamentas de los deseos, el cerrojo de las prohibiciones abre su boca รกvida, hundir los dientes revolotean los vampiros las alas se llenan de tabรบes, mientras las sotanas marchan y marchan al sonido de los tambores del pasado.
La ciudad y su gente se revuelve arrullada por las hojas de los รกrboles afiebrados, una nube abre su ojo y la lluvia humedece los hombros las cabelleras los huesos los tejidos, toda flota sobre ese rรญo de las nubes.
El sol entibia los cuerpos, el mรญo y el de ella y jugamos al no me importa mientras las pieles se sonrรญen, se rebelan pintando nuevas pecas gozosas, componen la mรบsica de los susurros y quejidos dejan atrรกs las letanรญas de las prohibiciones.
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Leaving Behind
The city covers its eyes,
breathes raggedly between fear and anguish.
The clouds fill with dark birds,
fluttering above the corpses that are yet to come.
The litany of messages seeps through the fingernails,
slides through the veins,
rides the body, feverish with fear.
Fleeing from other bodies,
not touching each other,
eyes averted,
looking at that other body, those other bodies,
hands and feet,
with the nausea of โโpossible suffering.
The flagstones of the cemeteries
heavily cover
the spirits of the neighbors.
Mouths breathe through the fabric,
not speaking, not eating, not kissing.
Horses cross the horizon at a weary trot,
their feet crunch heavily on the bones of desires,
the bolt of prohibitions opens its eager mouth,
vampires flutter, sinking their teeth,
their wings fill with taboos,
while the cassocks march on and on
to the beat of the drums of the past.
The city and its people stir,
lulled by the leaves of feverish trees,
a cloud opens its eye and the rain dampens
shoulders, hair, bones, fabrics,
everything floats on that river of clouds.
The sun warms our bodies,
mine and hers,
and we play at not caring,
while our skin smiles,
rebels, painting new, joyful freckles,
composing the music of whispers and moans,
leaving behind the litanies of prohibitions
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Dolor y tiempo
El dedo pulgar de esa mano izquierda refrendaย el dolor de una cantidad ampliada de dรญas
La pinza de esos dedos ha aprisionado no pocas veces frutos coloridos y jugosos alguna carta que ha llegado del pasado en esa larga travesรญa de los mares amorosos para crear la cueva cรกlida de mano con mano y atravesar la corriente frรญa de las despedidas Una vuelta en el cerrojo de la propia puerta
El atardecer se carga en el vaho aceitoso de los automรณviles circulando en las calles de esta ciudad que anuda en su misterio diario a muchos otros pulgares
Las sinagogas de Panamรก son una especie de federaciรณn: si perteneces a una, perteneces a todas, sin importar tu afiliaciรณn como sefardรญ o asquenazรญ. En la Ciudad de Panamรก, los judรญos estรกn unidos como una sola comunidad.
Los hermosos y amplios edificios de las sinagogas pueden albergar varias congregaciones. Shevet Ahim es el corazรณn de la comunidad sefardรญ panameรฑa. En una de las fotografรญas, verรกs que al entrar al vestรญbulo, puedes elegir entrar a uno de los diferentes santuarios (congregaciones) dentro del mismo edificio. Ademรกs, dado que el gran edificio de la sinagoga alberga diferentes congregaciones, en una fotografรญa puedes ver el horario de los servicios diarios, mostrando varios servicios disponibles para cada congregaciรณn en distintos horarios.
Nuestro guรญa nos comentรณ que la mayorรญa de los judรญos en la Ciudad de Panamรก son de Siria, pero que en los รบltimos 20 aรฑos, aproximadamente, algunos tambiรฉn han venido de Venezuela y Colombia. Nos comentรณ que Panamรก es un paรญs muy tolerante, ya que, como resultado, algunos judรญos se han mudado a la Ciudad de Panamรก desde Aventura, Florida, donde emigraron originalmente muchos judรญos sudamericanos. Hay 65 restaurantes, cafeterรญas y empresas de catering kosher. Recorrimos un hermoso barrio judรญo llamado Punta Paitilla. Otro se llama Punta Pacรญfica. Ambos estรกn compuestos por altos y lujosos edificios de apartamentos. Algunos de los edificios estรกn ocupados 100% por judรญos, de ahรญ el apodo de dos de ellos: “Kibbeh 1” y “Kibbeh 2”. La vida judรญa es evidente: la proximidad de los edificios de apartamentos a las sinagogas, los restaurantes kosher, los nombres de las clรญnicas y tiendas, etc.
Mi impresiรณn general es que la comunidad judรญa es vibrante, muy cohesionada y generosa con sus instituciones, su gente y la comunidad de la Ciudad de Panamรก en general. Por ejemplo, las sinagogas donan dinero a otras organizaciones sin fines de lucro y organizan comidas comunitarias semanales para personas necesitadas.
The synagogues of Panama are a federation of sorts – – if you belong to one, you belong to all, no matter your affiliation as a Sephardic or Ashkenazi. In Panama City, the Jews are united as one community.
The beautiful large synagogue buildings may house several congregations. Shevet Ahim is the heart of the Panamanian Sephardic community. Youโll see in one of the photographs that when you enter the lobby, you can then choose to enter one of several different sanctuaries (congregations) within the same building. Also, because the large synagogue building houses different congregations, in one photograph you can see a schedule of the daily services, showing several services available for each congregation at various times.
Our guide told us that most of the Jews in Panama City are from Syria, but that in the last 20 years or so, some have come from Venezuela and Colombia as well. He told us that Panama is very tolerant as, a result, some Jews have moved to Panama City from Aventura FL, to where many South American Jews had originally emigrated. There are 65 kosher restaurants, cafes, and caterers. We drove through a beautiful Jewish neighborhood called Punta Paitilla. Another is called Punta Pacifica. Both are composed of tall, luxurious apartment buildings. Some of the buildings are 100% Jewish occupied, hence the nickname of two of these buildings are โKibbeh 1โ and โKibbeh 2.โ Evidence of Jewish life is clear โ the proximity of the apartment buildings to the synagogues, the kosher restaurants, the names on the clinics and stores, etc.
My overall impression is that the Jewish community is vibrant, very cohesive, and generous to its institutions, people, and the greater Panama City community. For example, the synagogues give money to other not for profits and run weekly community meals for people in need.
Judy Kalman, Guest Curator, Photographer. Former president of Congregation B’nai Shalom, Westborough, MA, USA.
Sinagoga Central Shevet Ahim. Alberga varias sinagogas, ya que Shevet Ahim es una Federaciรณn de Sinagogas. Santuario.
Shevet Ahim Central synagogue. It houses several synagogues, because Shevet Ahim is a Federation of synagogues. Sanctuary.
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Interior
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La Sinagoga Ateret Yosef, que comparte estructura con Ahavat Siรณn en Paitilla, es una rama de la gran congregaciรณn Shevet Ahim, que une a la comunidad judรญa de la Ciudad de Panamรก.
Ateret Yosef Synagogue, which shares a structure with Ahavat Sion in Paitilla. These congregations are a branch of the large Shevet Ahim umbrella that unites the Jewish community of Panama City.
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Sinagoga Ateret Yosef. Santuario. Aron Hakodesh. Es de metal y se abre como una Torรก./
Ateret Yosef Synagogue. Sanctuary. Aron Hakodesh. It is metal and opens like a Torah.
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Sinagoga Ateret Yosef que forma parte del grupo de la sinagoga Shevet Achim. Santuario./
Ateret Yosef synagogue. Part of the Shevet Achim synagogue group. Sanctuary. _____________________________
Sinagoga Ahavat Sion que forma parte del grupo de la sinagoga Shevet Achim. Santuario./
Ahavat Zion synagogue. Part of the Shevet Achim synagogue group. Sanctuary,
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Sinagoga Ahavat Siรณn/Ahavat Sion Synagogue
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Sinagoga Bet Max Ve Sara/Max ve Sara Sinagogue
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Sinagoga Bet Max ve Sarah./Max ve Sarah Synagogue
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Sinagoga Bet Max Ve Sara/Max ve Sara Sinagogue
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Mikve de la Sinagoga Bet Max Ve Sarah. Se considera la mikve mรกs hermosa de la Ciudad de Panamรก. Vestรญbulo. /
Mikvah of the Synagogue Bet Max Ve Sarah. It is considered the most beautiful Mikvah in Panama City. Lobby.
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Mikve Synagoga Bet Max Ve Sarah
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Horario de los servicios en los sinagogas /Schedule of the services in the synagogues
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El barrio judรญo de la Ciudad de Panamรก se llama Pallatin. Estรก bordeado por la Rue d’Italia. La mayorรญa de los edificios estรกn ocupados casi al 100% por judรญos y hay muchos restaurantes y supermercados kosher en la zona./
Jewish neighborhood of Panama City called Pallatin. It is boarded by the Rue dโItalia. Most of the buildings are 100% or close to 100% occupied by Jews and there are many kosher restaurants and supermarkets in the area.
Harry Wohlstein Rubinstein naciรณ en San Josรฉ, Costa Rica el 17 de septiembre de 1946. Es hijo de emigrantes pues su padre era austriaco y su madre polaca. Llegaron a Costa Rica huyendo de los horrores de la Segunda Guerra mundial. Abogado, editor, escritor, docente y un enamorado del desarrollo ambiental sostenible, ha desempeรฑado diversos cargos en la administraciรณn pรบblica costarricense, como ministro de Gobernaciรณn y Seguridad Pรบblica en la administraciรณn de Rodrigo Carazo Odio, presidente de la Direcciรณn Nacional de Comunicaciones, del Consejo Nacional de Migraciรณn. Es autor de diversas novelas, cuentos y artรญculos de opiniรณn para diferentes revistas y periรณdicos dEste viernes 27 de setiembre a las 7 pm por Zoom nos acompaรฑarรก en nuestra reuniรณn virtual. Harry Wohlstein @harrywohlstein #piedrasobrepiedra#harrywohlstein#lecturaextraordinaria#clubdelecturasc
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Harry Wohlstein Rubinstein was born in San Josรฉ, Costa Rica, on September 17, 1946. He is the son of immigrants; his father was Austrian and his mother Polish. They arrived in Costa Rica fleeing the horrors of World War II. A lawyer, editor, writer, teacher, and passionate advocate for sustainable environmental development, he has held various positions in the Costa Rican public administration, including Minister of the Interior and Public Security under Rodrigo Carazo Odio, President of the National Communications Directorate, and President of the National Migration Council. He is the author of several novels, short stories, and opinion pieces for various magazines and newspapers in his country. @harrywohlstein #piedrasobrepiedra#harrywohlstein#lecturaextraordinaria#clubdelecturasc
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El arte de la tapa por Ileana Piszk/Cover Art by Ileana Piszk
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Piedra sobre piedra
โPoco a pocoโ โฆ โel tiempo correโ como le habรญa dicho Josef a Rudolf, todo pasa. Evidentemente, el tiempo se convirtiรณ en la mejor medicina. El establecimiento de la vergonzosa Comisiรณn y su resoluciรณn recomendando expulsar a la mayorรญa de los investigados, no fue ejecutada por la administraciรณn del Dr. Rafael รngel Calderรณn Guardia. Sin mucha alharaca fue desoรญda por su gobierno, pasada por alto. No fue de su prioridad polรญtica, quizรก, no necesariamente por simpatรญa hacia los โpolacosโ, sino mรกs bien por la alianza de ese gobierno con el de los Estados Unidos y el de los paรญses aliados, en el combate contra la ideologรญa nazi y al rรฉgimen de terror impuesto por Alemania en Europa y en otros paรญses. No quiso exponerse innecesariamente abriendo un frente interno que contrariara sus nuevas alianzas.
Cerrado este tenebroso capรญtulo, valija en mano, Josef se reiniciรณ en el mundo de las ventas ambulantes. Para ese entonces habรญa regularizado su situaciรณn migratoria -y por ende su tranquilidad en este campo-, gracias a la intervenciรณn del nuevo ministro de Relaciones Exteriores, don Fernando Soto Harrison, quien liderรณ con firmeza el principio de justicia en las relaciones humanas y rescatรณ, especialmente, el espรญritu tradicionalmente noble y hospitalario del pueblo costarricense.
Su reinicio โpolaquiandoโ lo ejerciรณ en varios poblados de la periferia capitalina, concentrรกndose en el cantรณn de Desamparados, su plaza comercial preferida. Josef viajaba de dรญa de por medio, armado de sombrero, camisa blanca, -a veces se ponรญa corbata-, las tarjetas y la valija donde llevaba el muestrario y los encargos. En las tarjetas llevaba el control de visitas y el estado de cuenta de cada uno de sus clientes, como un mazo de naipes, ordenadamente dispuestas por zonas y bien prensadas por una liga. Las emitรญa por duplicado, una copia que รฉl conservaba y la otra idรฉntica se la entregaba al cliente, -llamada โla tarjeta del polacoโ-, exhibida en muchas casas en lugares visibles, como si fuera el recibo de la luz. – Hola niรฑa Rosario, buenos dรญas, โฆ aquรญ le traigo sus cortes de poplรญn (popelina) y tafetรกnโฆ Josef reciรฉn iniciaba la jornada, tempranito, en la modesta pero coqueta casita de los Fallas en el caserรญo de Llano Blanco de Frailes. Ellos se dedicaban, como muchos por allรญ, al cultivo del cafรฉ y hortalizas. – Pase adelante don Josef, quรฉ dicha que vino. Lo estaba esperando, โฆ es que me urgen esos cortes para cocerle a mi comadre un vestido con su combinaciรณn. – Aquรญ le tengo los dos pesitos para que se aboneโฆ Pero pase, pase y se toma un cafecitoโฆ Doรฑa Rosario continuรณ hablando de seguido agregado con denodado entusiasmo: Para el mes que entra le encargo unos zapaticos negros nรบmero 33 para Juancito. Ya me entra a segundo grado y no quiero que me vaya descalzo a la escuelaโฆ
โLittle by littleโโฆ โtime flies,โ as Josef had told Rudolf, everything passes. Evidently, time became the best medicine. The establishment of the shameful Commission and its resolution recommending the expulsion of most of those investigated was not implemented by the administration of Dr. Rafael รngel Calderรณn Guardia. Without much fanfare, it was disregarded by his government, simply ignored. It was not a political priority for him, perhaps not necessarily out of sympathy for the “Poles,” but rather because of his government’s alliance with the United States and the Allied countries in the fight against Nazi ideology and the regime of terror imposed by Germany in Europe and other countries. He did not want to unnecessarily expose himself by opening an internal front that would contradict his new alliances.
With this dark chapter closed, suitcase in hand, Josef resumed his life as a traveling salesman. By then, he had regularized his immigration statusโand therefore his peace of mind in this areaโthanks to the intervention of the new Minister of Foreign Affairs, Don Fernando Soto Harrison, who firmly upheld the principle of justice in human relations and, especially, rescued the traditionally noble and hospitable spirit of the Costa Rican people.
He resumed his “peddling” in several towns on the outskirts of the capital, concentrating on the canton of Desamparados, his preferred commercial area. Josef traveled every other day, armed with a hat, a white shirtโsometimes he wore a tieโthe cards, and the suitcase where he carried his samples and orders. On the cards, he kept track of visits and the account status of each of his clients, like a deck of cards, neatly arranged by zone and held together by a rubber band. He issued them in duplicate, one copy for himself and the other identical copy for the clientโcalled “the Pole’s card”โdisplayed in many homes in visible places, as if it were the electricity bill. “Hello, Miss Rosario, good morningโฆ I’ve brought you your poplin and taffeta fabric pieces.” Josef was just starting his day, bright and early, at the modest but charming little house of the Fallas family in the hamlet of Llano Blanco de Frailes. Like many others in the area, they cultivated coffee and vegetables. “Come in, Don Josef, how wonderful that you came! I was expecting youโฆ I really need those fabric pieces to sew a dress and slip for my friend.” “Here are the two pesos for your paymentโฆ But please, come in and have a cup of coffee.” Doรฑa Rosario continued talking non-stop, adding with great enthusiasm: “Next month I’d like to order a pair of black shoes, size 33, for little Juan. He’s starting second grade, and I don’t want him going to school barefootโฆ”
– ยฟQuiere trabajar conmigo?
– ยฟYโฆ quรฉ tengo que hacer?
– Jalarme la valija. Por ahoraโฆ vamos poco a poco. El joven sonriรณ, abriendo la boca a todo lo amplio, mostrando una dentadura limpia y alineada en perfecto orden. Fue su seรฑal de aceptaciรณn. โAntonio Brenes, โToรฑoโ, me siguiรณ toda la vidaโฆ Mรกs que un infatigable empleado, fue como un sabio amigo; se convirtiรณ en mi sombra generosa, bondadosa y leal. Una persona de esas que cuando hablan, lo hacen parecer todo sencilloโฆ Y es que lo distinguรญa precisamente la sencillez, no como demรฉrito, sino todo lo contrario, โฆ como una de las mรกs bellas virtudes de la vida que adornan a un ser humano.โ Josef habรญa encontrado a Toรฑo cerca de la esquina noreste del Mercado Central de San Josรฉ, recostado contra la pared, con su pierna izquierda flexionada y apoyada en esta, descalzo, con pantalรณn corto y camisa desteรฑidos, pero limpios -quizรก gastados por innumerables lavadas- denotando, sin importar su atuendo, una gran pulcritud, cualidad que siempre, siempre, lo siguiรณ. Cerquita de donde lo hallรณ, justo en la esquina de esa apariciรณn, aรฑos mรกs tarde, Josef abriรณ su primer establecimiento comercial propio, la tienda La Vienesa. Toรฑo llegรณ a alumbrarle con su luz, el camino hacia el futuro. โMi otro hallazgo se originรณ durante nuestro confinamiento en La Esperanza, โฆ allรญ donde permanecimos como dos aรฑos, disfrutando de una serenaโฆ y a veces tensa felicidad.โ – Esteโฆ esteโฆ buenasโฆ va usted a perdonarโฆ Esta vez Josef, titubeando igual, pero seguro de lo que querรญa, se aprestaba a hacer una propuesta a una joven con quien se detuvo a conversar. Sucediรณ durante un festejo de Purim54 al que habรญa sido invitado en un salรณn por la quinta avenida de San Josรฉ. – La invito a pasear a la montaรฑaโฆ รl habรญa enfilado su curiosidad hacia ella, unos diez aรฑos menor, a quien no le quitรณ su atenciรณn durante el festejo; ยฟserรญan sus ojos de mirada pรญcara y profunda? ยฟsu cabello de finos bucles, ordenados con soltura y lozanรญa? o ยฟserรญa su alegre, entusiasta y vital compostura? Lo cierto es que se le acercรณ para hacerle la propuesta, una simple invitaciรณn, sin considerar fuera esta osada o no. Estaba decidido: 54 Purim es una festividad de mucha diversiรณn y alegrรญa en el calendario judรญo. Celebra la salvaciรณn del pueblo judรญo del exterminio en las manos de los persas bajo el dominio del Rey Ajashverosh (Asuero). La Meguilรก o Rollo de Ester, narra la historia de cรณmo la Reina Ester y su tรญo Mordejai salvaron las vidas de los judรญos durante el Imperio Persa en el siglo IV aC. Sojuzgado por la belleza del entorno mรกgico de la Finca La Esperanza, de un bosque sobrecogedor e imponente, de un aire puro y translรบcido, alegrado por cautivantes aromas y flores silvestres multicolores, todo, pero absolutamente todo en conjunciรณn sublime, invitando a enseรฑorear el espรญritu durante algunos recreos de su oficio, Josef los aprovechaba para recorrer ese hipnรณtico paisaje, en plรกcidas cabalgatas, con la compaรฑรญa de una visita -ya no de los agentes de policรญa-, sino de una que empezรณ siendo ocasional, pero cuya espera, con el paso de los dรญas y los meses, se le tornada cada vez mรกs intensa y de frenรฉtica ansiedad. Pero, bien estรก lo que bien acabaโฆ โMi cuerpo, mi alma, mi corazรณn se conmovieron en una sensaciรณn indescriptibleโฆ Serรญa mi mรกs adorable y exquisito hallazgo… infinito, eterno, universal, sin medida de tiempo y espacio: Lucรญa -mรญ querida โGรบchaleโ-, llegรณ a mi vida para ser mi antes y mi despuรฉs, mi nueva razรณn de existir y la que se convertirรญa en mi amada esposaโฆ amada desde lo mรกs profundo de mi ser, compaรฑera y guรญa inseparable por toda la vidaโ.
Wohlstein, Harry. Piedra sobre piedra. (Kindle, pp. 189-195)
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Stone by Stone
โLittle by littleโโฆ โtime flies,โ as Josef had told Rudolf, everything passes. Evidently, time became the best medicine. The establishment of the shameful Commission and its resolution recommending the expulsion of most of those investigated was not implemented by the administration of Dr. Rafael รngel Calderรณn Guardia. Without much fanfare, it was disregarded by his government, simply ignored. It was not a political priority for him, perhaps not necessarily out of sympathy for the “Poles,” but rather because of his government’s alliance with the United States and the Allied countries in the fight against Nazi ideology and the regime of terror imposed by Germany in Europe and other countries. He did not want to unnecessarily expose himself by opening an internal front that would contradict his new alliances.
With this dark chapter closed, suitcase in hand, Josef resumed his life as a traveling salesman. By then, he had regularized his immigration statusโand therefore his peace of mind in this areaโthanks to the intervention of the new Minister of Foreign Affairs, Don Fernando Soto Harrison, who firmly upheld the principle of justice in human relations and, especially, rescued the traditionally noble and hospitable spirit of the Costa Rican people.
He resumed his “peddling” in several towns on the outskirts of the capital, concentrating on the canton of Desamparados, his preferred commercial area. Josef traveled every other day, armed with a hat, a white shirtโsometimes he wore a tieโthe cards, and the suitcase where he carried his samples and orders. On the cards, he kept track of visits and the account status of each of his clients, like a deck of cards, neatly arranged by zone and held together by a rubber band. He issued them in duplicate, one copy for himself and the other identical copy for the clientโcalled “the Pole’s card”โdisplayed in many homes in visible places, as if it were the electricity bill. “Hello, Miss Rosario, good morningโฆ I’ve brought you your poplin and taffeta fabric pieces.” Josef was just starting his day, bright and early, at the modest but charming little house of the Fallas family in the hamlet of Llano Blanco de Frailes. Like many others in the area, they cultivated coffee and vegetables. “Come in, Don Josef, how wonderful that you came! I was expecting youโฆ I really need those fabric pieces to sew a dress and slip for my friend.” “Here are the two pesos for your paymentโฆ But please, come in and have a cup of coffee.” Doรฑa Rosario continued talking non-stop, adding with great enthusiasm: “Next month I’d like to order a pair of black shoes, size 33, for little Juan. He’s starting second grade, and I don’t want him going to school barefootโฆ”โWith pleasure, Miss Rosario, andโฆ thank you very much for inviting me for coffeeโฆ it was delicious as always,โ Josef replied after chatting for a while. He said goodbye, briefly tipping his hat. Doรฑa Rosario stopped him at the door to say: โMr. Josef, I almost forgot to tell you: I want to recommend that you go to see my sister Jovita and her husband Inocencio Monge; they live in Patarrรก, near the lime kilns. She told me she needed some fabric for a tablecloth and curtains for the roomsโฆโ โThank you very muchโฆ I appreciate it,โ Josef replied. โYou know, I know themโฆโ He paused thoughtfully before adding: โI can bring them some very nice checkered chenille fabric, double width; I can get it for them so it matchesโฆโ Josef paused to catch his breath, put his hand on his chin, shaking his head slowly, and said: โButโฆ but Miss Rosarioโฆ can I ask you a favor?โฆโ โYes, Mr. Josef. Is something wrong?โ Doรฑa Rosario interrupted him, raising her hands to her forehead. She looked worried. And he continued: โTell them I’ll stop by next Tuesday, around middayโฆ butโฆ but I’m a little embarrassed to say thisโฆ tell your brother-in-law Inocencio thatโฆ pleaseโฆ not to tie that fierce dog 53 at the front gateโฆ Last time it almost bit me, and it accomplished what it wanted: I couldn’t go in to collect the moneyโฆโ โPolaquiarโ and โamarrar el perroโ are Costa Ricanisms; the first denotes the act of selling on credit in a door-to-door fashion, originally introduced as a way of doing business by Polish immigrants. โAmarrar el perroโ (to tie up the dog) is the act of not paying a debt (by the debtor) or using tricks to scare away the creditor. Both terms are commonly used in Costa Rica. Josef began to glimpse in the sky the bright light of the star that followed him, regardless of whether it was hidden at times among the clouds, eclipsing his hope. In the long run, he said hopefully, that light managed to prevail, emerge victorious, and emanate its radiant and protective glow. โDespite the state of war in Europe and the enormous difficulties in getting aheadโscarcity, lack of basic products, poverty, the adaptation process, and, on top of that, the social and political effervescence that was being experienced locallyโI began to understand my surroundings in Costa Rica more clearly: the first thing was to be flooded with peace, and then, to decipher my future, laying a foundation of hope and optimismโฆ Many stones in the roadโฆ I collected themโstone upon stoneโlike trophies that shaped a comforting attitude within me. At times the path seemedโand surprised meโwith an openly incongruous, contradictory, ironic panoramaโฆ but, deep inside, I savored the sweet feeling of now being safe; physically safe and, above all, confident in my ability to work tirelessly.โ And two events and two new people appeared, framing my firmament. This time, however, they were far, very far, from myโuntil thenโcustomary adversities. The discoveries were arranged in a golden frameโฆ A divine blessing rewarding my “free will.โ Josef now confessed that much of what had happened in his life was rooted in a symbiosis of faith and the attitude or disposition to face it. He now affirmed his belief in the causality of life’s circumstances, not in chance, because, as he rightly said, there is an abysmal difference between the two words. That symbiosis and affirmation were working their magic on him, as often happens, emerging from nowhere, unexpectedly, but largely driven by himself, deliberately, inadvertently, or instinctively, with the will and attitude to desire something, to help seize destiny in his hands and take the initiative regarding his aspirations. He was always restless, persistent, and a creator of initiatives, creative and innovative, but often he stopped at the attempt, at the theory. He understood this aspect of his behavior, just as he understood that it shouldn’t become a limitation; he recognized, without pride or vanity, that he needed an echo, someone who understood him, supported him, advised him, and encouraged him with his ideas and, sometimes, helped him execute them. Talking a lot wasn’t his strong suit, but perhaps, in the long run, it was a virtue. “Uhโฆ uhโฆ helloโฆ excuse meโฆ” With caution, a certain shyness, modesty, and without making much noise, he said those words, as he usually spoke, separating them with pauses and hesitations. He had approached a thin, almost translucent young man with caramel-colored skin and dark eyes. This singular character slightly raised his head and looked at Josef suspiciously, perhaps overwhelmed because he hadn’t expected it; he frowned, revealing a timid face, but easily betraying a gentle sweetness. Without further preamble, he stammered out the question.
Do you want to work with me?
Andโฆ what do I have to do?
Pull my suitcase. For nowโฆ let’s take it one step at a time. The young man smiled, opening his mouth wide, showing clean, perfectly aligned teeth. It was his sign of acceptance. โAntonio Brenes, โToรฑo,โ followed me all my lifeโฆ More than a tireless employee, he was like a wise friend; he became my generous, kind, and loyal shadow. One of those people who, when they speak, make everything seem simpleโฆ And it was precisely simplicity that distinguished him, not as a demerit, but quite the opposite, โฆ as one of the most beautiful virtues of life that adorn a human being.โ Josef had found Toรฑo near the northeast corner of the Central Market in San Josรฉ, leaning against the wall, his left leg bent and resting against it, barefoot, wearing faded but clean shorts and a shirtโperhaps worn out from countless washingsโdenoting, regardless of his attire, great neatness, a quality that always, always, stayed with him. Very close to where he found him, right on the corner of that encounter, years later, Josef opened his first own business establishment, the La Vienesa store. Toรฑo came to illuminate his path to the future with his light. โMy other discovery originated during our confinement in La Esperanza, โฆ where we stayed for about two years, enjoying a sereneโฆ and sometimes tense happiness.โ – Thisโฆ thisโฆ helloโฆ you’ll have to excuse meโฆ This time Josef, hesitating just as much, but sure of what he wanted, was preparing to make a proposal to a young woman with whom he had stopped to talk. It happened during a Purim celebration54 to which he had been invited in a hall on Fifth Avenue in San Josรฉ. – I invite you for a walk in the mountainsโฆ He had directed his curiosity towards her, about ten years younger, and he didn’t take his eyes off her during the celebration; could it have been her mischievous and deep gaze? Was it her hair of fine curls, neatly and gracefully arranged? Or was it her cheerful, enthusiastic, and vibrant demeanor? The truth is, he approached her to make the proposal, a simple invitation, without considering whether it was bold or not. He was determined: Purim is a very fun and joyful holiday in the Jewish calendar. It celebrates the salvation of the Jewish people from extermination at the hands of the Persians under the rule of King Ahasuerus. The Megillah or Scroll of Esther, recounts the story of how Queen Esther and her uncle Mordecai saved the lives of the Jews during the Persian Empire in the 4th century BC. Captivated by the magical beauty of the La Esperanza Estate, by a breathtaking and imposing forest, by the pure and translucent air, enlivened by captivating aromas and multicolored wildflowers, everything, absolutely everything in sublime conjunction, inviting him to let his spirit soar during some breaks from his work, Josef took advantage of these moments to explore that hypnotic landscape on peaceful horseback rides, in the company of a visitorโno longer the police officersโbut one whose visits, initially occasional, became, with the passing of days and months, increasingly intense and filled with frantic anticipation. But all’s well that ends wellโฆ โMy body, my soul, my heart were moved by an indescribable feelingโฆ She would be my most adorable and exquisite discoveryโฆ infinite, eternal, universal, without measure of time and space: Lucรญaโmy dear โGรบchaleโโcame into my life to be my before and my after, my new reason for existing and the one who would become my beloved wifeโฆ loved from the depths of my being, inseparable companion and guide for life.โ
Wohlstein, Harry. Piedra sobre piedra. (Kindle, pp. 189-195)
Noรฉ Jitrik naciรณ en Rivera, provincia de Buenos Aires, en 1928. Fue profesor en diversas universidades y, desde 1997, director del Instituto de Literatura Hispanoamericana de la Universidad de Buenos Aires. Dirigiรณ la obra Historia Crรญtica de la Literatura Argentina, que se publicรณ en doce tomos. Es autor de mรกs de 50 libros (ensayos, novelas, poemarios y relatos). Colaborรณ en diversos medios, entre otros en LA GACETA Literaria. Ganรณ tres premios Konex y recibiรณ doctorados honoris causa de varias universidades. Falleciรณ en 2022.
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Para muchos, es el crรญtico literario mรกs importante de Argentina. En este texto, analiza el proceso de convertirse en lector y las consecuencias de una concepciรณn errรณnea de su naturaleza. Tambiรฉn aborda las ideas equivocadas sobre el descubrimiento de Amรฉrica y su propia concepciรณn del cristianismo como resultado de un acontecimiento poรฉtico. Alejandra Crespรญn Argaรฑaraz – LA GACETA
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Noรฉ Jitrik was born in Rivera, Buenos Aires Province, in 1928. He was a professor at various universities and, since 1997, director of the Institute of Hispanic American Literature at the University of Buenos Aires. He edited the twelve-volume work Critical History of Argentine Literature. He is the author of more than 50 books (essays, novels, poetry collections, and short stories). He contributed to various publications, including LA GACETA Literaria. He won three Konex Awards and received honorary doctorates from several universities. He passed away in 2022.
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He is, for many, Argentina’s greatest literary critic. Here he analyzes the process of becoming a reader and the consequences of a mistaken conception of its nature. He also discusses the misconceptions related to the discovery of America and his conception of Christianity as the result of a poetic event. Alejandra Crespรญn Argaรฑaraz – LA GACETA.
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Entrevista, 31 Enero 2016
-ยฟPor quรฉ afirma que โel lector no existeโ?
-Sรญ, es una expresiรณn un poco escandalosa, pero creo que tiene sustento. La crรญtica mรกs habitual hace una pequeรฑa operaciรณn mencionando la palabra โlectorโ, entonces el crรญtico cuando algo no le gusta o no entiende dice โel lector no entiende…โ Como si el lector fuera una categorรญa objetiva, mensurable, que se sabe quiรฉn es. Y eso influye sobre las editoriales que empiezan a caracterizar a los lectores en un momento determinado y publican libros para los que ellos creen que son esos lectores. Pero resulta que el lector estรก cuando lee, no es algo de existencia previa a la lectura. ยฟPor quรฉ suponer que la gente que pasa por la calle son lectores? Probablemente sepan leer, pero no necesariamente son lectores en el sentido literario de la palabra. Entonces, se convierten en lectores cuando empiezan a leer y cuando empiezan a leer literatura, por lo tanto, no existen previamente. Es el libro el que los crea, empieza uno a ser lector cuando se conecta con un texto. Entonces el texto es el que hace la operaciรณn natalicia, se nace a cada momento como lector si en cada uno de esos momentos hay un nuevo texto que se pone ante sus ojos. Es una manera de dar una existencia que tiene luego una ubicaciรณn perversa, porque supone toda una red tรญpicamente comercial en relaciรณn con el libro, de una crรญtica fรกcil, de la arrogancia de pretender saber quiรฉnes son los lectores y quรฉ quieren leer. La lectura es una operaciรณn compleja y lo interesante de esa operaciรณn es que no puede renunciar a esa complejidad y, por el contrario, hay que provocarla. Porque mediante el acercamiento a esa complejidad y el intento de desentraรฑar la red que implica esa complejidad el que lee, ya convertido en lector, empieza a ser una persona de otra naturaleza.
-Y ahรญ nos adentramos en la filosofรญa…
-Sรญ, la literatura nos cambia. En realidad, el lector no existe, es el texto el que genera al lector. Esa es la provisoria explicaciรณn de un concepto que suele chocar a mucha gente porque estรกn mรกs acostumbrados a lugares comunes. Yo escribรญ un libro en Mรฉxico sobre el diario de Colรณn cuyo tรญtulo era Los dos ejes de la cruz. Una vez que apareciรณ fui a buscarlo a una librerรญa muy buena, Gandhi, que en Mรฉxico tiene miles de consumidores, y lo habรญan puesto en religiรณn porque se suponรญa que si dice โcruzโ es para lectores de religiรณn. Es decir, presuponรญan el universo de lectores. El libro no merecรญa esa suerte porque no tenรญa nada que ver con religiรณn salvo develar la relaciรณn que hubo en el momento llamado โdescubrimientoโ entre la fe, la empresa, la mirada, el mundo que se abrรญa y todo eso.
-ยฟFue realmente un descubrimiento el descubrimiento de Amรฉrica?
-Es una palabra que trata de sintetizar lo que implicรณ la llegada de los europeos a este continente cuya existencia ignoraban. Hay algunas teorรญas segรบn las cuales la parte norte ya habรญa sido conocida por viajeros nรณrdicos, pero eso no tuvo trascendencia. Lo que tuvo transcendencia fue la llegada de Colรณn y como esa tierra no era conocida -porque Colรณn suponรญa que por ese trayecto llegaba al Oriente-, entonces se hablรณ de descubrimiento. Es una palabra tรญpica no del que es descubierto sino del descubridor; es la palabra que el que llega a un lugar puede emplear para explicar lo que se le estรก presentando, pero el que estรก en ese lugar no siente necesariamente que le corresponda, no se siente descubierto necesariamente. Lo que pasa es que tampoco hay testimonios de cรณmo se sintieron los naturales de estas islas cuando vieron a los espaรฑoles, lo รบnico que se sabe es lo que los espaรฑoles dijeron. Hubo tentativas de recuperar palabras de los pueblos originarios, en Mรฉxico sobre todo, en la poesรญa, en mitos, en las inscripciones, en los templos. Hay fuertes tradiciones que existรญan antes de que los espaรฑoles llegaran, pero fueron ocultadas o borradas o tardaron en conocerse, y se necesitaron investigaciones muy profundas mucho tiempo despuรฉs. Pero lo que sabemos de todo eso es lo que dijeron los llamados descubridores.
-ยฟCuรกl es tรบ opiniรณn respecto a los pueblos originarios?
-Si los espaรฑoles hubieran llegado a las costas de Cuba, a las islas, al continente, cien aรฑos despuรฉs, hubiera sido otra cosa. Habrรญan tenido que reconocer la existencia de mundos organizados como era el de los Mayas, de los Aztecas o de los Incas que eran imperios con estructura, organizaciรณn, lenguaje y hasta incluso en momentos con comienzo de escritura. Cien aรฑos despuรฉs la historia hubiera sido completamente diferente, que es lo que les ocurriรณ cuando llegaron a Oriente, donde habรญa culturas ya consolidadas. Ellos llegaron en un momento en el que arrasaron con todo y lo preexistente fue liquidado o reducido, convertido hasta cierto punto, pero no pudieron terminar con todo. Introdujeron enfermedades, esclavitud, servidumbre, cosas que pueden ser entendidas como el primitivismo, el salvajismo de sociedades para las que la apropiaciรณn es como la razรณn de ser. Al mismo tiempo, esa operaciรณn es como una de las penรบltimas de los comportamientos que vienen de la antigรผedad mรกs remota, porque siempre hubo pueblos que se apropiaron de otros, que esclavizaron y crearon imperios sobre la base de la ocupaciรณn de territorios. Eso fue como un penรบltimo coletazo de esa inveterada costumbre de la historia europea de ocupar tierras, apropiarse de ellas y de la gente.
-Hablamos de la โcruzโ ยฟquรฉ concepto tiene de Dios?
-Hace un tiempo saquรฉ un artรญculo en Pรกgina 12, que se llama โPasionesโ, donde comento la pasiรณn segรบn San Mateo de Juan Sebastiรกn Bach en particular, de ahรญ voy y me meto mรกs en la redacciรณn de los evangelios y la creaciรณn del cristianismo. La hipรณtesis que marco ahรญ es que la creaciรณn probablemente mรกs importante de la civilizaciรณn humana, la Iglesia Catรณlica, surge de un hecho poรฉtico. El hecho poรฉtico es la versiรณn que dan los evangelios de un episodio ocurrido, que habรญan recogido por tradiciones orales y que correspondรญa a un pequeรฑo lugar de un inmenso planeta, el universo judรญo, en el cual un sujeto hablรณ de la paternidad de Dios Padre, que era el de objeto de culto de ese lugar tan pequeรฑo y que se distinguรญa de todo lo que lo rodeaba. En ese universo surgieron muchรญsimos tipos, algunos probablemente esquizofrรฉnicos, otros iluminados, profetas. Uno de ellos pudo despuรฉs ser conocido como Cristo. Esos actos que habrรญan ocurrido en ese momento fueron recogidos por poetas y escritores que les dieron una estructura y eso dio lugar a la creaciรณn mรกs poderosa de la civilizaciรณn humana. El fundamento de eso es una creencia previa, la existencia de Dios, que recorre toda la genรฉtica humana desde tiempos remotos y que surge como una necesidad primaria de una explicaciรณn que se va concretando en mitos y leyendas, que poco a poco comienzan a ordenar la vida de la gente y a tener cabida en el orden de la escritura que la recoge. Entonces la palabra โDiosโ, en realidad, es una explicaciรณn de un conjunto de causas que no solo son inexplicables sino que generan angustia. Esa explicaciรณn calma la angustia, sobre todo si se ordena en forma de un rito especรญfico que es el que establece una conexiรณn con uno mismo y que sofoca la angustia del tiempo, de la muerte, de la existencia, del otro. Eso pone las cosas en un terreno y deja de lado el otro aspecto de la cuestiรณn que es la natural tendencia que tenemos todos a tratar de sofocar esa angustia que nos hace pensar que hay enigmas, pero que no son de carรกcter necesariamente mรญstico. Esos enigmas generan una actitud que podemos llamar de religiosidad, la voluntad, la conexiรณn con esos enigmas y la voluntad de entregarse a ellos aceptรกndolos, considerando que existen y que son inabordables y que eso determina una cierta actitud de respeto frente a lo desconocido.
ยฉ LA GACETA
-Why do you claim that โthe reader doesn’t existโ?
-Yes, it’s a somewhat provocative statement, but I think it’s well-founded. The most common form of criticism performs a subtle manipulation by using the word โreader.โ When a critic dislikes or doesn’t understand something, they say, โthe reader won’t understandโฆโ As if the reader were an objective, measurable category, whose identity is known. And this influences publishers, who begin to characterize readers at a given moment and publish books for those they believe these readers to be. But the truth is, the reader exists only when they are reading; their existence isn’t prior to the act of reading. Why assume that the people walking down the street are readers? They probably know how to read, but they aren’t necessarily readers in the literary sense of the word. They become readers when they start reading, and when they start reading literature; therefore, they don’t exist beforehand. It is the book that creates them; one becomes a reader when one connects with a text. So the text is what performs this act of creation; one is born as a reader at every moment if, in each of those moments, there is a new text placed before one’s eyes. It’s a way of granting an existence that then takes on a perverse dimension, because it implies an entire network, typically commercial, in relation to the book, of facile criticism, of the arrogance of pretending to know who readers are and what they want to read. Reading is a complex operation, and the interesting thing about this operation is that it cannot relinquish that complexity; on the contrary, it must be embraced. Because through approaching that complexity and attempting to unravel the network that this complexity entails, the person who reads, now transformed into a reader, begins to be a person of a different nature.
-And that’s where we delve into philosophyโฆ
-Yes, literature changes us. In reality, the reader doesn’t exist; it’s the text that creates the reader. That’s the provisional explanation of a concept that often surprises many people because they’re more accustomed to clichรฉs. I wrote a book in Mexico about Columbus’s diary, titled The Two Axes of the Cross. Once it was published, I went to look for it at a very good bookstore, Gandhi, which has thousands of customers in Mexico, and they had placed it in the religion section because they assumed that if it said “cross,” it was for readers interested in religion. In other words, they presupposed the universe of readers. The book didn’t deserve that fate because it had nothing to do with religion except for revealing the relationship that existed at the time of the so-called “discovery” between faith, enterprise, perspective, the world that was opening up, and all of that.
-Was the discovery of America truly a discovery?
-It’s a word that tries to summarize what the arrival of the Europeans on this continent, whose existence they were unaware of, entailed. There are some theories according to which the northern part had already been known by Nordic travelers, but that didn’t have any lasting impact. What did have an impact was the arrival of Columbus, and since this land was unknownโbecause Columbus thought that this route would take him to the Eastโthe term “discovery” was used. It’s a word typical not of the discovered but of the discoverer; it’s the word that the one who arrives at a place can use to explain what is being presented to him, but the one who is already in that place doesn’t necessarily feel that it applies to them, doesn’t necessarily feel discovered. The thing is, there are no accounts of how the natives of these islands felt when they saw the Spaniards; all we know is what the Spaniards said. There have been attempts to recover words from the indigenous peoples, especially in Mexico, in poetry, in myths, in inscriptions, in temples. There are strong traditions that existed before the Spaniards arrived, but they were hidden or erased or took a long time to become known, and very in-depth research was needed much later. But what we know about all of this is what the so-called discoverers said.
-What is your opinion regarding the indigenous peoples?
-If the Spanish had arrived on the coasts of Cuba, the islands, the continent, a hundred years later, it would have been a different story. They would have had to recognize the existence of organized worlds such as those of the Mayans, the Aztecs, or the Incas, which were empires with structure, organization, language, and even, at times, the beginnings of writing. A hundred years later, history would have been completely different, which is what happened when they arrived in the East, where there were already established cultures. They arrived at a time when they swept everything away, and what pre-existed was liquidated or reduced, transformed to a certain extent, but they couldn’t completely eradicate everything. They introduced diseases, slavery, servitude, things that can be understood as the primitivism, the savagery of societies for which appropriation is like their reason for being. At the same time, that operation is like one of the penultimate manifestations of behaviors that come from the most remote antiquity, because there have always been peoples who appropriated others, who enslaved and created empires based on the occupation of territories. That was like a penultimate gasp of that inveterate custom of European history of occupying lands, appropriating them and the people.
-We talked about the “cross,” what is your concept of God?
-Some time ago I published an article in Pรกgina 12, called “Passions,” where I discuss the Passion according to Saint Matthew by Johann Sebastian Bach in particular, and from there I delve further into the writing of the Gospels and the creation of Christianity. The hypothesis I put forward there is that the probably most important creation of human civilization, the Catholic Church, arises from a poetic event. The poetic event is the version given by the Gospels of an episode that occurred, which they had gathered through oral traditions and which corresponded to a small place on an immense planet, the Jewish world, in which a man spoke of the fatherhood of God the Father, who was the object of worship in that very small place and who was distinguished from everything that surrounded it. In that universe, many different types of people emerged, some probably schizophrenic, others enlightened, prophets. One of them would later become known as Christ. The events that supposedly occurred at that time were recorded by poets and writers who gave them structure, and this led to the most powerful creation of human civilization. The foundation of this is a prior belief, the existence of God, which runs through all of human genetics from ancient times and arises as a primary need for an explanation that gradually takes shape in myths and legends, which little by little begin to order people’s lives and find their place in the written tradition that records them. So the word “God,” in reality, is an explanation for a set of causes that are not only inexplicable but also generate anxiety. This explanation calms the anxiety, especially if it is structured in the form of a specific ritual that establishes a connection with oneself and suppresses the anxiety of time, of death, of existence, of the other. This places things on a certain footing and sets aside the other aspect of the matter, which is the natural tendency we all have to try to suppress this anxiety that makes us think there are enigmas, but which are not necessarily mystical in nature. These enigmas generate an attitude that we can call religiosity, the will, the connection with these enigmas, and the willingness to surrender to them, accepting them, considering that they exist and are unfathomable, and that this determines a certain attitude of respect towards the unknown.
Pedro Meyer naciรณ en Madrid (1935) hijo de padres judรญos exiliados republicanos de Espaรฑa. Obtuvo la nacionalidad mexicana a los 7 aรฑos. Lleva cuarenta aรฑos en el mundo del arte fotogrรกfico y es uno de los grandes representantes de la fotografรญa mexicana contemporรกnea. Como declarรณ en una entrevista nunca deja de aprender, porque se debe estar aprendiendo todos los dรญas, โlas circunstancias nos obligan a ello, ya que los cambios tecnolรณgicos afectan a todoโ, dijo. Ha sido pionero en el lenguaje digital, autor de varios libros, curador y director de ZoneZero, famoso sitio virtual que recoge portafolio de mรกs de mil fotรณgrafos alrededor del mundo. Meyer ha expuesto su trabajo en mรกs de doscientas muestras en diversos paรญses y su obra hace parte de importantes colecciones privadas y de los mรกs prestigiosos museos.Ha presentado su obra en mรกs de 200 exposiciones que han recorrido paรญses como China, Inglaterra, Francia, Estados Unidos, Cuba e Italia. Entre sus principales contribuciones se encuentran la fundaciรณn del Consejo Mexicano de Fotografรญa y la organizaciรณn de los tres primeros Coloquios Latinoamericanos de Fotografรญa. Tambiรฉn es director de la Fundaciรณn Pedro Meyer, con la que busca โcontribuir a la reflexiรณn, interpretaciรณn e investigaciรณn en lo que se refiere a la imagen fotogrรกfica dentro del marco de las nuevas tecnologรญasโ. En 2014 erige el Foto Museo 4 Caminos que tiene como principal objetivo la educaciรณn en el รกmbito fotogrรกfico.
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Pedro Meyer was born in Madrid in 1935, the son of exiled Jewish Republicans from Spain. He obtained Mexican citizenship at the age of seven. He has been involved in the world of photographic art for forty years and is one of the leading figures in contemporary Mexican photography. As he himself stated in an interview, one should never stop learning, because continuous learning is essential every day, “circumstances demand it, since technological changes affect us all,” he said. He has been a pioneer in digital photography, the author of several books, a curator, and the director of ZoneZero, a renowned online platform that features a portfolio of more than a thousand photographers from around the world. Meyer has exhibited his work in over 200 exhibitions in various countries, and his work is part of important private collections and the most prestigious museums. He has presented his work in more than 200 exhibitions that have traveled to countries such as China, England, France, the United States, Cuba, and Italy. Among his main contributions are the founding of the Mexican Council of Photography and the organization of the first three Latin American Photography Colloquiums. He is also the director of the Pedro Meyer Foundation, whose objective is to contribute to reflection, interpretation, and research on the photographic image within the framework of new technologies. In 2014, he founded the Foto Museo 4 Caminos, whose main objective is education in the field of photography.
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Pedro Meyer insists that all photographs โ manipulated or not โ are equally true and untrue. Meyer argues that digital manipulation continues the tradition of so-called โstraight photographyโ in which unwanted details are cropped out, or the photographer directs the scene from behind the camera, asking his subject to step out of the shadows into better light. In addition, Meyer contends that unseen elements like memory or emotion present themselves with a physical reality equal to visible objects. In his photographs, these elements often appear with a clarify that connects his work to the tradition of Magical Realism. — Lehigh University Arts
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Pedro Meyer insists that all photographs โ manipulated or not โ are equally true and untrue. Meyer argues that digital manipulation continues the tradition of so-called โstraight photographyโ in which unwanted details are cropped out, or the photographer directs the scene from behind the camera, asking his subject to step out of the shadows into better light. In addition, Meyer contends that unseen elements like memory or emotion present themselves with a physical reality equal to visible objects. In his photographs, these elements often appear with a clarify that connects his work to the tradition of Magical Realism. — Lehigh University Arts
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Fotografรญa digital y no realista de Pedro Meyer/
Digital and non-realist photography by Pedro Meyer
Marina Mariasch Nace en Buenos Aires en una familia judรญa. Licenciada en Letras y docente en la carrera de Artes de la Escritura (UNA). En los aรฑos 90 fundรณ el sello editorial Siesta. Publicรณ poesรญa (El zig zag de las instituciones, Paz o amor, Mutual sentimiento, entre otros), novela (El Matrimonio, Estamos unidas, Efectos personales), cuentos y ensayos que fueron traducidos al alemรกn, inglรฉs, finlandรฉs. Escribe e interviene en diversos medios culturales.
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Marina Mariasch was born in Buenos Aires to a Jewish family, She holds a degree in Literature and teaches in the Creative Writing program at the National University of the Arts (UNA). In the 1990s, she founded the publishing house Siesta. She has published poetry (El zig zag de las instituciones, Paz o amor, Mutual sentimiento, among others), novels (El Matrimonio, Estamos unidas, Efectos personales), short stories, and essays that have been translated into German, English, and Finnish. She writes for and contributes to various cultural media outlets.
sparks, locks of hair. Anguished, she came and went
carrying and bringing boxes and orders
and my mother already a ghost but still
alive shook her head
looked at my friends, shook her head
that that was something to do to
a friend the day that you enter
a new house. Trouble
recently sown. In the hall
there was a a virgin from some religion or other
a fertility goddess and a cross
on a bright-colored rosary
I decided to keep them, to throw them away
I thought of what survives
and has a name before you do.
I wanted only that the days
Psss, go around in baggy pants,
tee shirt and a mug of coffee with milk,
what is called around the house, although
that sounds silly, the words are
useless devises for the
morning peace. Itโs not that
I venerate them. I had bought
ghosts, long before
itโs necessary to hate a bit
what you love. They continue here
among us, seeing how
they love us and leave,
they bring flowers of those
that rot and others that
stay alive every season.
The variable becomes
static never permanent
durable, things arrived
from other homes. The
epoch changed. It ceased being the
same, there are no hammocks
or games that arenโt
mental, table.
The house of honey
is this one, not the one to the side
it isnโt the one in front.
That closed, the other navigates
a drunken ship. Here the honey
is never lacking, it is ours
crossed three houses
three avenues toward poverty
it is our amalgam
our amalga, the word that never
appears when I want to
name it. It remains.
IO the chain of trembling
that we walk in pajamas
with cups of cover in hand
some things continue here
we continue here, we not
the same, but not so much
either, going to sleep
getting up, without knowing
very well when it ends
but knowing well
when we move together
near the oven to get
warm, when we share
drying washed hair
by hands, that ends
in a different path.
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No le tengas miedo a las tormentas. Los truenos son espectaculares tienen que ver con el cine. Si tenรฉs miedo, venรญ a mi cama nos tapamos con dos frazadas. Los relรกmpagos. El flash de una cรกmara que le saca una foto a la ciudad. Los balcones se iluminan por un segundo y se apagan como cuando es navidad. Las tormentas son buenas. un preรกmbulo o conclusiรณn que tranquiliza porque llegรณ.
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Donโt be afraid of the storms.
The thunder
Is spectacular
They are like the movies.
If you are afraid, come to my bed
Weโll cover ourselves with two blankets.
The lightening bolts. The flash of a camera
that takes a photo of the entire city.
The balconies are illuminated for a second
and go dark
as when it is Christmas.
The storms are good.
A preamble or a conclusion
that quiets because it arrived.
___________________________________
Hace calor a esta hora. En el patio de abajo corre viento como en los lugares de playa. La perra lame sus cachorros para refrescarlos. despuรฉs de comer nos tiramos en la cama hacemos la siesta, la cama es un barco la alfombra es el mar. Las sierras de la obra hacen de chicharras los obreros tocan el toc-toc.
Itโs hot at this hour.
In the patio below
wind runs
as in those places on the beach.
The bitch licks its pups
to cool them off.
after eating
we throw ourselves on the bed
we take a siesta
the bed is a ship
the rug is the sea
The mountains of the work
act like cicadas
the workers play knock-knock.
Estรกs sentado, estรกs leyendo En la mesa del comedor hay una canasta con pan y manteca Y vos-naranja Sos suavecito en los dedos cuando hablรกs por telรฉfono Si estamos resfriados nos damos besos aรฉreos Si estamos mojados nos damos besos mojados. Clic-clic es el ruido de la puerta cuando me late mรกs fuerte y cruzo las piernas. De los gajos de una naranja saliรณ el ombligo.
Los dรญas nublados tenรฉs los ojos como pasto mojado. Tu piel es suave como la parte de adentro de los brazos y tenรฉs pecas en la boca, ยฟte comiste una torta de pecas? Ahora te mirรกs en un espejo chiquito te saca la lengua, te devuelve una risa. Cerca de casa hay un รกrbol de moras. Un dรญa voy a ir a la maรฑana Y te voy a juntar muchas moras para el desayuno. Cuando llegue el invierno cada uno tendrรก sus pantuflas tendrรก los pies tibios.
You are seated, you are reading
On the dining room table
there is a basket
with bread and butter
and you-orange
You are very soft with your fingers
When you speak
on the telephone
If we have a cold
We give each other air kisses
If we are damp
We give each other damp kisses.
Click-click is the sound of the door
when it throbs in me stronger
and I cross my legs.
Some of the orange peel
came out of my belly button.
On cloudy days you have
Eyes like damp grass.
Your skin is soft like the part
Inside your arms and you have
freckles on your tongue. Did you eat a
freckles cake?
Now you look at yourself
In a small mirror
It takes out your tongue
It gives back to your smile.
Near the house there is a blackberry
Bush. One day
Iโm going to go in the morning
and Iโll gather for you many blackberries
for breakfast.
When the winter comes
each one of us will have slippers
will have warm feet.
____________________________________________
Libros de Marina Mariasch/Books by Marina Mariasch
Tatiana Salem Levy, nascida em Lisboa em 1979, รฉ uma escritora brasileira de ascendรชncia portuguesa e judaico-turca. Vive em Lisboa, onde trabalha como pesquisadora na Universidade Nova. ร tambรฉm colunista do jornal Valor Econรดmico. Estudou Letras na Universidade Federal do Rio de Janeiro e na Pontifรญcia Universidade Catรณlica do Rio de Janeiro. Ao longo da vida, viveu nos Estados Unidos e na Franรงa. Sua obra literรกria inclui diversos romances, alguns dos quais foram traduzidos para o espanhol, como A Chave de Esmirna (vencedor do Prรชmio Sรฃo Paulo de Melhor Estreia em 2008) e Vista Chinesa.
_______________________________________
Tatiana Salem Levy, born in Lisbon in 1979, is a Brazilian writer of Portuguese and Jewish-Turkish descent. She lives in Lisbon, where she works as a researcher at Nova University. She is also a columnist for the newspaper Valor Econรดmico. She studied Literature at the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro and the Pontifical Catholic University of Rio de Janeiro. Throughout her life, she has lived in the United States and France. Her literary work includes several novels, some of which have been translated into Spanish, such as A Chave de Esmirna (winner of the Sรฃo Paulo Prize for Best Debut in 2008) and Vista Chinesa.
____________________________________
______________________________
A chave da casa
Conto (crio) essa histรณria dos meus antepassados, essa histรณria das imigraรงรตes e suas perdas, essa histรณria da chave de casa, da esperanรงa de retornar ao lugar de onde eles saรญram, mas nรณs duas (sรณ nรณs duas) sabemos ser outro o motivo da minha paralisia. Conto (crio) essa histรณria para dar algum sentido ร imobilidade, para dar uma resposta ao mundo e, de alguma forma, a mim mesma, mas nรณs duas (sรณ nรณs duas) conhecemos a verdade. Eu nรฃo nasci assim. sair.
_____________________________
Nรฃo havia nada de religioso no ritual. Para mim, faltava sempre alguma coisa. Faltava verdade. Tudo nรฃo passava de uma grande encenaรงรฃo: รฉramos judeus um dia por ano. Festejรกvamos o ano-novo, mas para nรณs o ano sรณ comeรงava no dia primeiro de janeiro. O ano nunca comeรงou em setembro ou outubro. Entรฃo, por que a celebraรงรฃo? Por que esse teatro para nรณs mesmos? [Nรฃo entendo por que dizer que nรฃo havia verdade. Deus nรฃo estava na mesa, concordo, foi a nossa escolha. Nรฃo era a religiรฃo o que nos importava, mas a tradiรงรฃo. Nรฃo querรญamos simplesmente jogar na lata de lixo aquilo que nossos antepassados se esforรงaram para guardar. O importante era manter a simbologia. Eu queria transmitir um pouquinho do que aprendi para os que vieram depois.] Eu sei. Entendo seu gesto, entendo sua intenรงรฃo. Romper definitivamente com o passado รฉ mais difรญcil do que imaginamos, gera culpa, uma culpa que pode se tornar mortal. Penso que รฉ por isso que somos judeus mesmo quando nรฃo o somos. Dizemos que se trata de uma questรฃo genealรณgica, mas รฉ sobretudo uma questรฃo de medo: temos medo de esquecer o passado e ser responsรกveis por isso. [O passado nรฃo รฉ para ser esquecido.] Se nรฃo esquecemos o passado nรฃo vivemos o presente. Vocรช sabe, essa dor que sinto no corpo, os ombros pesados, รฉ o passado nรฃo esquecido que carrego comigo. O passado de geraรงรตes e geraรงรตes. [Nรฃo, minha filha, o que vocรช suporta em seu dorso frรกgil sรฃo os silรชncios do passado. Vocรช carrega o que nunca foi falado, o que nunca foi ouvido. O silรชncio รฉ perigoso, eu a alertei.] Mas a culpa nรฃo รฉ minha, nรฃo fui eu quem guardou os segredos. Eles chegaram a mim sem licenรงa, e eu nem os conheรงo. [Sim, vocรช os conhece: seu corpo conhece todos os segredos, todos os silรชncios, muito mais do que vocรช imagina.] Vocรช confirma entรฃo que se trata de uma heranรงa? Que herdei da famรญlia todas as dores? Que belo presente! [Nรฃo se irrite, de nada adianta. Tampouco se ausente de sua responsabilidade. Vocรช tambรฉm รฉ responsรกvel pelo seu passado, รฉ responsรกvel pelo que carrega nas costas e, principalmente, pela maneira como o carrega. Existem diferentes formas de lidar com a heranรงa, e vocรช certamente escolheu uma das mais pesadas, mais doloridas.] Nรฃo escolhi nada, jรก disse: vim ao mundo com esse fardo. [Eu estava lรก quando vocรช nasceu e me lembro bem: vocรช era um bebรช gorducho e fofo, nรฃo havia nada de pesado em seu corpo mole.] Nรฃo seja irรดnica, vocรช sabe do que estou falando. [Nรฃo se trata de ironia. Quero apenas que tente enxergar as coisas como elas sรฃo, que acredite nessa viagem, que acredite que pode e merece ser feliz. Quero que entenda que nรฃo precisa ter a famรญlia nas costas, que pode se livrar do passado. Mas para isso nรฃo pode ignorรก-lo: pelo simples fato de que vocรช nunca o ignorou atรฉ agora e, por isso, precisa entendรช-lo, precisa nomeรก-lo.] Jรก o nomeei: o passado se chama medo. [Nunca conheci ninguรฉm tรฃo cabeรงa-dura. Mesmo quando vocรช toma decisรตes, sempre as estรก questionando. A cada passo que avanรงa, parece que recua outro. O passado nรฃo se chama medo. Nรฃo questione tanto, minha filha, apenas prossiga a viagem e verรก as surpresas que a aguardam, verรก o quรฃo leve a vida pode ser.] Vocรช me diz isso agora, mas nรฃo se esqueรงa de que foi vocรช quem me ensinou que antes da maรงรฃ doce precisamos comer o pรฃo seco. [ร assim mesmo. A matzรก serve para nos lembrar do passado sofrido. O pรฃo seco fala da dor, da misรฉria. E a maรงรฃ com mel garante que nรฃo precisamos repetir o passado.] Se falam do passado, entรฃo por que trago comigo seus silรชncios? [Compreendo suas inquietaรงรตes. Hรก muitas coisas que nรฃo foram ditas. . .
_________________________
Serรก que encontraria a casa dos meus antepassados? Que a chave ainda seria a mesma? Eu tentava acreditar nessa histรณria que tinha inventado para mim mesma, nessa histรณria que ainda invento e que รฉ a รบnica capaz de me dar alguma resposta. Nessa histรณria que pode ser a mais descabida, mas tambรฉm a mais real. Nรฃo sei atรฉ que ponto sรฃo verdadeiras as histรณrias do meu avรด, atรฉ que ponto รฉ verdadeiro o que vivo agora. Nem mesmo sei se รฉ verdadeira a minha viagem. Parece que quanto mais me aproximo dos fatos mais me afasto da verdade.
Levy, Tatiana Salem. A chave de casa, Kindle Edition.
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
The Key to the House
I tell (create) this story of my ancestors, this story of immigration and its losses, this story of the house key, of the hope of returning to the place they left, but the two of us (only the two of us) know that the reason for my paralysis is something else. I tell (create) this story to give some meaning to the immobility, to give an answer to the world and, in some way, to myself, but the two of us (only the two of us) know the truth. I wasn’t born this way.
______________________
There was nothing religious about the ritual. For me, something was always missing. Truth was missing. It was all just a big charade: we were Jewish one day a year. We celebrated the new year, but for us the year only began on January first. The year never started in September or October. So why the celebration? Why this theater for ourselves? [I don’t understand why you say there was no truth. God wasn’t at the table, I agree, that was our choice. It wasn’t religion that mattered to us, but tradition. We didn’t want to simply throw away what our ancestors had strived to preserve. The important thing was to maintain the symbolism. I wanted to pass on a little of what I learned to those who came after.] I know. I understand your gesture, I understand your intention. To break from dealing with the past is definitely more difficult than we imagine; it generates guilt, a guilt that can become deadly. I think that’s why we are Jewish even when we’re not. We say it’s a genealogical matter, but it’s above all a matter of fear: we are afraid of forgetting the past and being responsible for it. [The past is not to be forgotten.] If we don’t forget the past, we don’t live in the present. You know, this pain I feel in my body, the heavy shoulders, is the unforgotten past that I carry with me. The past of generations and generations. [No, my daughter, what you bear on your fragile back are the silences of the past. You carry what was never spoken, what was never heard. Silence is dangerous, I warned you.] But the guilt isn’t mine, I wasn’t the one who kept the secrets. They came to me without permission, and I don’t even know them. [Yes, you know them: your body knows all the secrets, all the silences, much more than you imagine.] So you confirm that it’s an inheritance? That I inherited all the pain from my family? What a beautiful gift! [Don’t get angry, it’s no use. Nor should you shirk your responsibility. You are also responsible for your past, you are responsible for what you carry on your back and, above all, for the way you carry it. There are different ways to deal with the inheritance, and you certainly chose one of the heaviest, most painful ones.] I didn’t choose anything, I already said: I came into the world with this burden. [I was there when you were born and I remember well: you were a chubby and cute baby, there was nothing heavy about your soft body.] Don’t be ironic, you know what I’m talking about. [It’s not irony. I just want you to try to see things as they are, to believe in this journey, to believe that you can and deserve to be happy. I want you to understand that you don’t need to have your family on your back, that you can free yourself from the past.] But to do that, you can’t ignore it: for the simple reason that you’ve never ignored it until now, and therefore you need to understand it, you need to name it.] I’ve already named it: the past is called fear. [I’ve never met anyone so stubborn. Even when you make decisions, you’re always questioning them. With every step you take forward, you seem to take another step back. The past is not called fear. No.] “Don’t question so much, my daughter, just continue the journey and you will see the surprises that await you, you will see how light life can be.” You tell me this now, but don’t forget that it was you who taught me that before the sweet apple we must eat the dry bread. [That’s right. The matzah serves to remind us of the suffering of the past. The dry bread speaks of pain, of misery. And the apple with honey ensures that we don’t need to repeat the past.] If they speak of the past, then why do I carry their silences with me? [I understand your anxieties. There are many things that were left unsaid…
____________________________
Would I find my ancestors’ house? Would the key still be the same? I tried to believe in this story I had invented for myself, this story I still invent and which is the only one capable of giving me any answers. This story that may be the most far-fetched, but also the most real. I don’t know to what extent my grandfather’s stories are true, to what extent what I’m experiencing now is true. I don’t even know if my journey is real. It seems that the closer I get to the facts, the further I get from the truth.
Translated by Stephen A. Sadow
____________________________________________
Livros de Tatiana Salem Levy/Books by Tatiana Salem Levy
Tosia Malamud naciรณ en 1923 en Vinnytsya, Ucrania, fue la menor de los dos hijos de Isaac Malamud y Liza Backal, quienes emigraron a Mรฉxico cuando ella tenรญa 4 aรฑos de edad. En el nuevo hogar, su padre estableciรณ la primera imprenta en idish, donde se publicรณ el legendario libro: โDi Drai Vegnโ (Los Tres Caminos) de los recordados poetas Itzjak Berliner, Yacov Glantz y Moishe Glikovsky.. En 1952 tuvo la oportunidad de tener su propio estudio formal que compartiรณ con otro artista, asรญ logrรณ separar su vida familiar con la artรญstica. El aรฑo de 1954 fue para Tosia muy importante, debido a que tuvo varias exposiciones, tanto en el Salรณn de Plรกstica Mexicana del INBA como en el Centro Deportivo Israelita. Ya se pueden advertir tendencias personales y de estilo que la distinguen de otros escultores de Mรฉxico. Lo que mรกs destaca es la acciรณn, el movimiento; es decir Tosia no toma la expresiรณn escultรณrica como arte inerte, estรกtica, sino que sus preferencias y su talento la llevan a animar un aliento vivo y sugerente al menor tema. Tosia participรณ en mรกs de 40 exposiciones individuales y otras tantas colectivas, tanto en Mรฉxico, Estados Unidos, Europa e Israel. Su magistral obra, la mayor parte de ella elaboradas en bronce y piedra, de las cuales 38 de ellas estรกn expuestas en instituciones y lugares pรบblicos en la Repรบblica Mexicana y 14 en el extranjero.
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Tosia Malamud was born in 1923 in Vinnytsya, Ukraine, the younger of two children of Isaac Malamud and Liza Backal, who emigrated to Mexico when she was four years old. In their new home, her father established the first Yiddish printing press, where the legendary book “Di Drai Vegn” (The Three Paths) by the renowned poets Itzjak Berliner, Yacov Glantz, and Moishe Glikovsky was published. In 1952, she had the opportunity to have her own formal studio, which she shared with another artist, thus allowing her to separate her family life from her artistic life. The year 1954 was very important for Tosia, as she had several exhibitions, both at the Salรณn de la Plรกstica Mexicana of the INBA (National Institute of Fine Arts) and at the Israeli Sports Center. Personal and stylistic tendencies that distinguish her from other Mexican sculptors were already evident. What stands out most is the sense of action and movement; that is, Tosia did not conceive of sculptural expression as an inert, static art form, but rather her preferences and talent led her to imbue even the simplest subject with a vibrant and evocative spirit. Tosia participated in more than 40 solo exhibitions and numerous group exhibitions in Mexico, the United States, Europe, and Israel. Her masterful works, most of them created in bronze and stone, include 38 pieces displayed in institutions and public spaces throughout Mexico and 14 abroad.
ISAAC GOLDEMBERG naciรณ en Chepรฉn, Perรบ, en 1945 y reside en Nueva York desde 1964. Ha publicado cuatro novelas, dos libros de relatos, trece de poesรญa y tres obras de teatro. Sus publicaciones mรกs recientes son Libro de reclamaciones (2018),Philosophy and Other Fables (2016),Diรกlogos conmigo y mis otros (2013), La vida breve (2012), Acuรฉrdate del escorpiรณn (2010),Monos azules en Times Square (2008) y Libro de las transformaciones (2007). Su obra ha sido sido traducida a varios idiomas e incluida en numerosas antologรญas de Amรฉrica Latina, Europa y los Estados Unidos. En 1995 su novela La vida a plazos de don Jacobo Lerner fue considerada en una encuesta de la revistaDebate como una de las mejores novelas peruanas de todos los tiempos; y en el 2001 fue seleccionada por un Jurado Internacional de crรญticos literarios convocado por el Yiddish Book Center de Estados Unidos como una de las 100 obras mรกs importantes de la literatura judรญa mundial de los รบltimos 150 aรฑos. Goldemberg fue catedrรกtico de New York University (1973-1986) y Profesor Distinguido de The City University of New York (1992-2019), donde dirigiรณ el Instituto de Escritores Latinoamericanos y la revista internacional de cultura Hostos Review. Es Miembro Numerario de la Academia Norteamericana de la Lengua. Es Miembro Numerario de la Academia Norteamericana de la Lengua Espaรฑola y profesor honorario de la Universidad Ricardo Palma.
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ISAAC GOLDEMBERG was born in Chepรฉn, Peru, in 1945 and has resided in New York since 1964. He has published four novels, two short-story books, thirteen poetry and three plays. His most recent publications are Libro de reclamaciones (2018),Philosophy and Other Fables (2016),Diรกlogos conmigo y mis otros (2013), La vida breve (2012), Acuรฉrdate del escorpiรณn (2010),Monos azules en Times Square (2008) and Libro de las transformaciones (2007). His work has been translated into several languages โโand included in numerous anthologies of Latin America, Europe and the United States. In 1995 his novel Libro de reclamaciones (2018),Philosophy and Other Fables (2016), Diรกlogos conmigo y mis otros (2013), La vida breve (2012), Acuรฉrdate del escorpiรณn (2010), Monos azules en Times Square (2008) y Libro de las transformaciones (2007). was considered in a survey by Debate magazine as one of the best Peruvian novels of all time; and in 2001 it was selected by an International Jury of literary critics convened by the Yiddish Book Center of the United States as one of the 100 most important works of world Jewish literature of the last 150 years. Goldemberg was a professor at New York University (1973-1986) and Distinguished Professor at The City University of New York (1992-2019), where he directed the Institute of Latin American Writers and the international culture magazine Hostos Review. He is a Full Member of the North American Academy of Language. He is a Full Member of the American Academy of the Spanish Language and an honorary professor at the Ricardo Palma University.
________________________________________
Isaac Goldemberg. El nuevo gusano saltarรญn. New York: New York Poetry Press, 2025
Translations into English by Stephen A. Sadow and J. Kates
_________________________________
Goldemberg sabe bien que tanto el primer verso como el รบltimo son cruciales para el equilibrio del poema. Sin el corte versal preciso el poema puede inevitablemente colapsar perdiendo sonido y sentido. La poesรญa se vuelve un trabajo de nรกufragos, y estar a la deriva es un remolino de nunca acabar. Pocos poemas comienzan bien o poseen un final perfecto que se regodee de sentido. El libro de Goldemberg estรก repleto de sonido y de sentido. Todo funciona. Cada encabalgamiento estรก atado al siguiente por vรญnculos que nos llevan a tratar de entender sus altos vuelos. El nuevo gusano saltarรญn trae pensamiento, orden y desorden. La filosofรญa en estos textos deja una clara imagen del transcurso de la vida contra la muerte.
Miguel รngel Zapata
___________________
Goldemberg knows well that both the first and last verses are crucial to the poem’s balance. Without the precise line breaks, the poem can inevitably collapse, losing both sound and meaning. Poetry becomes the work of shipwrecked souls, and being adrift is an endless whirlpool. Few poems begin well or possess a perfect ending that revels in meaning. Goldemberg’s book is brimming with sound and meaning. Everything works. Each enjambment is linked to the next by connections that lead us to try to understand its soaring flights. The new leaping worm brings thought, order, and disorder. The philosophy in these texts leaves a clear image of the passage of life against the backdrop of death.
Miguel รngel Zapata
_________________________________
PASEO
La muerte.
La siente cerca
a la conchesumadre.
Un poco
al lado,
codeรกndolo.
Es un recuerdo
de cuando
se le apareciรณ
por primera vez.
Estuvo allรญ,
pero no la vieron
sus ojos
de niรฑo.
La evadiรณ
de muchacho,
como cuando
te dan un jalรณn
para atrรกs.
La vio rebotar
contra el pavimento,
mofรกndose de รฉl.
Ahora la tiene
colgada
del brazo.
________________________________
ALONG THE WAY
Death.
He feels the motherfucker
nearby
a little
to one side
jostling him.
He has a memory
of when
it appeared to him
for the first time.
There it was
but the eyes
of a child
could not see it.
As a boy
he dodged it,
as when
they yank you
backwards.
he saw it
bob and weave
on the pavement,
mocking him.
Now he has it
hanging
from his arm.
_______________________________
PAZ
Duerme
con la mirada
fija
en el techo
del sueรฑo.
Despierta
en lo mรกs profundo
de sus ojos.
En la superficie
la tierra
se ha hundido,
estรกn abiertos s
sus espacios
y ya obrando.
La muerte es suave
y alimenta.
Es mejor
no despertar,
el mundo real
invita al sueรฑo
y la paz
se esfuma
su carroza
blanca. ________________
PEACE
He sleeps
with his gaze
fixed
on the ceiling
of his dream.
Wakes up
in the deepest part
of his eyes.
He has sunk
into the surface
of the earth,
the open
parts of him
are still working.
Death
is soft
and
nourishing.
Itโs better
not to
wake,
the real world
invites sleep
and peace
vanishes
into its
white
hearse.
________________________
RETORNO
La oreja
derecha
del hijo
oye el canto
de sirenas
que no llega
a la oreja
izquierda
del padre,
atado
al mรกstil
de una nave
encallada
en la memoria
seco mar
que se orilla
en la bruma
invisible
de una isla
imaginada,
que flota
en el hรกlito
de una muerte
golosa.
_________________________
RETURN
The son’s
right
ear
hears the song
of the Sirens
that doesnโt reach
the left
ear
of the father
tied
to the mast
of a ship
whitewashed
in memory,
a dry sea
that
reaches shore
in the invisible
fog
of an imagined
island
floating
in the
breath
of a hungry
death.
_____________________________
DESCENSO
Resonรณ
como un goterรณn
de lluvia
la primera
palada
sobre
el barniz
de la madera
a punto
de ser hundida
en la tierra,
como un mensaje
anunciando
el comienzo
de un acto
que maรฑana
o pasado
serรก repetido,
con lluvia
o sin lluvia.
________________________
DESCENT
It echoed like a large raindrop the first shovelful on the varnished wood about to be buried in earth. Like a message announcing the beginning of an act that tomorrow or the next day will be repeated, with rain or without rain.
___________________________ SEรALES
Cruza
los desiertos
prometidos,
las lluvias
de fuego
golpean su fรฉretro
endureciendo
el espรญritu.
El espacio
es la boca
del lobo,
y los dioses
callan sus lenguas.
Delante de
las ruinas
exuberantes,
del aire y los golpes
y del lejano
tiempo,
va envuelto
en la luz.
Con el dรญa
y su falta de fe
se alzan
sobre รฉl
los astros.
__________________________________
SIGNALS
He crosses
the
promised
deserts,
rains of fire
hit his
coffin
hardening
his spirit.
Space is
the wolfโs mouth,
and the gods
hold their
tongues.
In front of
abundant
ruins
of air
and shock
and from
a far-off time
he comes
clothed
in lights.
With day
and his lack of faith
the stars
rise
above him.
_______________________________
PEQUENA MUERTE
El olor
a molusco
de la tierra
lo arrecha.
Se le para
la vida,
lo cruza
humedecida
por pecho
y espalda,
como sin darse
cuenta,
trรกnsito
pasajero
del mundo
de abajo
al mundo
de arriba.
รl y la tierra
calatos
al filo
del catre,
en pรบbicos
nudos,
sorbiendo รฉl
abajo,
la sopa negra
del alba.
El color arcilloso de ella
lo arrecha
mucho
mรกs
de la cuenta.
Ella lo acoge,
piernas
en arco.
Cรกvame,
implora.
Hรบrgame
en el sabor
del orgasmo.
___________________________
LA PETITE MORT
The scent
of a
land
snail
arouses him.
A moist
life
stops him short,
crosses
his chest
and his back
as if he doesnโt
realze,
a passenger
in transit
from the world
below
to the world
above.
He and the earth
naked
on the
edge
of the
makeshift bed,
in
pubic
knots,
breathing in,
below,
the black
soup
of dawn.
Her glaucous
color
arouses him
more
and even more.
She embraces him,
legs
in a pointed arch.
Dig into me,
She begs.
Take me
in the tang
of orgasm.
____________________
SILENCIOS
Estรก
de espaldas
a la vida
y รฉsta alza
su silencio
bajo el suyo,
aรบn
no rebalsa
la sombra
en que se plasma,
porque
su despertar
detrรกs de ella
lo deslumbra
y la sequedad
del ruido
mancha
su alma,
impidiendo
que flote
su cuerpo
sobre la tierra.
Adrede
rehรบsa
abrir los ojos
hecho pedazos
sobre
su ajena
angustia,
luchando grave
fuera de si,
liberto,
separado
de la luz
y de las sombras.
________________________
SILENCES
He has turned
his back on life
and this intensifies
its silence
below his,
still
doesnโt
overflow
the shade
in which
it is caught.
because
his waking up
behind it
dazzles him
and the dryness
of sound
stains
his soul,
keeping
his body
from floating
above the earth.
He intentionally
refuses
to open his eyes,
made drunk
with estranged
anguish,
fighting
seriously
outside himself,
a freed man
separated
from light
and from shadows.
______________________________
TRรNSITO
Ha salido
por un segundo
de si mismo,
hacia adentro.
Mรกs recuerda
su corazรณn
que el cerebro.
Aquรฉl lo vive,
รฉste lo piensa.
Entre vivir
y pensar
el dolor
hay un abismo
en expansiรณn,
una suerte de
pantalla
receptora
de lo vivido.
El personaje
difunto
que es รฉl
se entrevera
con sus otros
y se levanta hondo.
Jura y perjura
la defensa
ante el Juez,
que su vida
ha sido
hermosa.
El personaje
yace
de barriga
con la mirada
puesta
en el ridรญculo
y la vergรผenza,
y acaso
en algo mรกs,
ยกquiรฉn sabe!
_______________________________
TRANSIT
He has left
himself
for a second,
turning inward.
He remembers his
heart more
than his brain.
One lives it,
the other thinks it.
Between living
and thinking of
the pain
there is an expanding
chasm,
a good fortune
of a screen
receiving
what is lived.
The dead
individual
that he is
interchanges
with his others
and rises
deep.
He swears and perjures
his defense
to the judge
that his life
has been beautiful.
The individual
lies
on his belly
his gaze set on
the ridiculous
and shame
and perhaps
in something else,
who knows!
_______________________________
IGUALDAD
Como si fuese
una raรญz
de la cual crece
el cuerpo,
desenmascarado
el rostro,
puro hueso,
en uno de tantos.
Un fondo
negro
en los ojos
besa
la luz
de un sol
de paisaje,
alumbrando
un tiempo
congelado
en el retrovisor
de la vida
que se muestra
mรกs cerca
de lo que parece.
Rompen
la monotonรญa
del
camino,
tramos
de recuerdos,
sueรฑos
que marean
tornรกndolo
en otro.
_________________________________
EQUALITY
As if it were
a root
from which
the body
grows,
the face unmasked
to pure bone,
one of many.
a black
depth
in the eyes
kisses
light
from a sun
passing by
lighting up
a frozen
time
in lifeโs
rearview mirror
where objects
are closer
than they appear.
Breaking
the monotony
of the back
road
are stretches
of memory,
dreams
that sicken him
taking him for
another
_____________________
PARAรSO
Estรก
en sus รบltimas,
de pie
delante
de la puerta
que acaba
de cerrรกrsele,
aferrado
como un perro
a sus huesos.
Ha visto
un prado verde
y una colita
como de mariposa
tentรกndolo.
Es de noche,
ella ha corrido
sobre
sus cuatro
patitas.
รl la persigue
entre las rosas
de un jardรญn
que florece
donde posa
los ojos,
olfateando
el amor
en fuga.
Despierto
en plena noche,
ยกzas!
el bosque
abriรณ
la boca.
________________________
PARADISE
He is
nearing the end,
standing
in front of
the door
that has just
closed on him,
tied
like a dog
clinging
to its bones.
He has seen
a green meadow
and a small hill,
like a butterfly
tempting him.
It is night,
it has run
on
four
little feet.
He follows it
among the roses
of a garden
flourishing
where the eyes
come to rest,
smelling
love in the flight.
I waken
n the middle
of the night,
Presto!
The forest
opened
its mouth,
____________________________
MUNDOS
Hay un mundo
dentro
del mundo
sin
puertas y
sin
ventanas.
Ni un solo
camino
lleva
a ese mundo.
El camino
es el mundo
Una pared
se alza
del aire
hacia la nada,
y un solo รกrbol.
_________________
WORLDS
There is
a world
inside
the world
without
doors
and without
windows.
No single
road
leads
to that
world.
The road
is the world.
A wall
rises
from the air, toward
nothingness
and a single tree.
____________________________
ย RECURRENCIA
Se arrastra
por un tรบnel
acolchado,
bajo
y angosto.
A veces timbra
un telรฉfono
o se prende
un televisor
o alguien pregunta
si ya le traen
el almuerzo.
Ya no es posible
el hambre,
dice que no.
Quiere
ponerse en pie
mejor,
cuidรกndose
de no caer
en sus recuerdos,
de no sangrar
sobre
sus propios.
huesos.
Una vez,
en lo oscuro,
permaneciรณ
con los ojos
bien abiertos,
congelado
__________________________________
RECURRENCE
He crawls
through a
padded,
low
and narrow
tunnel.
At times
a telephone rings
or a television
is turned on
or someone
asks
if he has already
had his lunch.
And hunger
is no longer
possible,
says no.
He wants
to stand up
straighter,
taking care
not to fall
into
his memories,
not to bleed
on his own
bones.
Once,
in the dark,
he remained
with his eyes
wide
open,
frozen
_______________________________
CANCIรN DE CUNA
Se va,
se va
la muerte,
se va
con el enterrador,
y en esa muerte
que cruza
el dรญa,
se va,
se va
el amor.
Se va,
se va
el amor,
se va
con el remador,
y en ese amor
que cruza
la noche,
se va,
se va
el dolor.
Se va,
se va
el dolor,
se va
con la mediadora,
y en ese dolor
que cruza
la muerte,
se van
se van
las horas.
Se van,
se van
la horas,
se van
con la segadora,
y en esas horas
que cruzan
el sol,
se va,
se va
la vida.
Se va,
se va
la vida,
se va
con la guadaรฑera,
y en esa vida
que cruza.
la sombra,
se va,
se va
la nada
(Variaciรณn de โSe va la lanchaโ, canciรณn de Francisco Bastardi)
_____________________________
CRADLE SONG
It goes away,
goes away,
death does,
goes away
with the gravedigger,
and in that death
that crosses
the day
it goes away,
goes away
love does.
It goes away
with the oarsman
and in that love
that crosses
the night,
it goes away,
goes away,
the pain does.
It goes away,
goes away,
the pain,
goes away
with the midwife
and in this pain
crosses
death,
they go away
go away
the hours do.
They go away,
go away,
the hours do,
go away
with the farmwife.
And in those hours
that cross
the sun
it goes away,
goes away,
life does.
It goes away,
goes away,
life does,
goes away
with the housewife
and in this life
that crosses
the shadow.
it goes,
it goes,
nothing
(Variation of โSe va la lanchaโ, a song by Francisco Bastardi)
Mario Diament es escritor, periodista y profesor universitario,. Naciรณ en Buenos Aires, ha vivido en Israel y en varias partes de Estados Unidos. Trabajรณ como corresponsal en Europa, Medio Oriente y EEUU. Fue director del diario La Opiniรณn y de la revista Expreso. Es miembro correspondiente de la Academia Nacional de Periodismo de Argentina. En 2014 recibiรณ el Premio Konex, que lo ubicรณ entre los 10 dramaturgos mรกs relevantes de la dรฉcada. Ha recibido numerosos reconocimientos por sus obras de teatro, que se han representado en Europa, Australia, Estados Unidos y Amรฉrica Latina. Algunas de sus piezas son: Esquirlas, Crรณnica de un secuestro, El libro de Ruth, Cita a ciegas, Un informe sobre la banalidad del amor y Tierra del fuego. Su pieza Cita a ciegas llegรณ a la pantalla grande en dos oportunidades: Puzzle (, e Inevitable. Entre sus obras narrativas se encuentran el libro de cuentos El Exilio, la novela Martรญn Eidรกn y los ensayos Conversaciones con un judรญo y El Hermano Mayor โ Crรณnicas norteamericanas.
_________________________________________
Mario Diament is a writer, journalist and university professor. Born in Buenos Aires, he has lived in Israel and various parts of the United States. He worked as a correspondent in Europe, the Middle East, and the United States. He was the director of the newspaper La Opiniรณn and the magazine Expreso. He is a corresponding member of the National Academy of Journalism of Argentina. In 2014, he received the Konex Award, which placed him among the 10 most important playwrights of the decade. He has received numerous awards for his plays, which have been performed in Europe, Australia, the United States, and Latin America. Some of his plays include: Esquirlas (Splinters), Crรณnica de un secuestro (Chronicle of a Kidnapping), El libro de Ruth (The Book of Ruth), Cita a ciegas (Blind Date), Un informe sobre la banalidad del amor (A Report on the Banality of Love) and Tierra del Fuego (Land of Fire). Cita a ciegas was adapted into two films: Puzzle and Inevitable. His narrative works include the short story collection Exilio (Exile), the novel Martรญn Eidรกn, and the essay collections Conversaciones con un judรญo (Conversations with a Jew) and El Hermano Mayor โ Crรณnicas norteamericanas (The Older Brother โ North American Chronicles.)
Esta obra es esencialmente una pieza de ficciรณn. Muchos de los episodios yreferencias estรกn basados en hechos reales en la vida de Yulie Cohen, perootros son inventados o imaginados.Todas la escenas tienen lugar en el aรฑo 2000, excepto la รบltima, que sucedeen 2005.
_______________________________________
Oscuridad. Se escuchan disparos de ametralladora y unos rayos de luz, similares a los de balas trazadoras, cruzan la escena. Mรกs disparos. Se escucha la sirena de autos policiales y de ambulancias. Murmullos de horror. Gritos.
LOCUTOR DE TV
โLos atacantes abrieron fuego con ametralladoras y arrojaron granadas en el momento en que los 21 miembros de la tripulaciรณn del vuelo de El Al 061, proveniente de Nueva York, se disponรญan a ingresar al Hotel Europa, en la capital britรกnica. Uno de los terroristas muriรณ al instante cuando una de las granadas que portaba explotรณ prematuramente. El otro terrorista, Hasรกn el- Fawzi, de 22 aรฑos, fue arrestado pocos momentos despuรฉs. En el ataque perdiรณ la vida una de las auxiliares de a bordo, Nirit Golรกn, de 25 aรฑos. Otra de las auxiliares, Yael Alรณn, de 22 aรฑos resultรณ herida.โ
Se encienden las luces.
YAEL estรก esperando en la pequeรฑa sala, sentada ante una mesa, en el nivel mรกs alto. Hay una silla vacรญa del lado opuesto. Una puerta invisible se abre y entra HASAN. La observa un instante y se sienta frente a ella, con las manos ocultas detrรกs de la mesa.
YAEL
Hola. Soy Yael.
HASAN
Yo soy Hasรกn.
YAEL
Lo sรฉ. Te reconozco. (Le tiende la mano) Mucho gusto.
HASAN
(Le da tรญmidamente la mano a su vez.) Mucho gusto, tambiรฉn.
Pausa.
YAEL
ยฟCรณmo estรกs?
HASAN
Ya lo ves. (Pausa.) ยฟY vos?
YAEL
Nerviosa. Es natural.
Pausa.
HASAN
ยฟTuviste un buen viaje?
YAEL
Sรญ, muy bueno.
Pausa.
YAEL
(Cont.) No debรฉs recibir muchas visitas.
HASAN
No.
YAEL
ยฟNo tenรฉs familia?
HASAN
No. No tengo a nadie.
Pausa.
YAEL
Te habrรก sorprendido mi pedido, me imagino.
HASAN
Mi abogado me dijo que tenรญas algo importante que preguntarme.
YAEL
Bueno, sรญ. Importante para mรญ, por lo menos.
HASAN
ยฟDe quรฉ se trata?
YAEL
(Toma coraje.) Hace veintitrรฉs aรฑos trataste de matarme, asรญ que decidรญ venir hasta aquรญ para que me expliques por quรฉ.
Silencio.
HASAN
Yo no tratรฉ de matarte.
YAEL
Todavรญa tengo una cicatriz bastante fea en el brazo. (Se la muestra). Y mataste a mi amiga Nirit.
HASAN
Yo no tratรฉ de matarte, ni tampoco a tu amiga. Tratรฉ de matar lo que representaban.
YAEL
ยฟLo que representรกbamos?
HASAN
El enemigo, la ocupaciรณn. (Se controla.) Pero eso fue hace mucho tiempo. Ya no soy la misma persona.
YAEL se queda silenciosa.
HASAN
(Cont.) Tuve mucho tiempo para pensar. Es lo que uno hace aquรญ. Pensar. A veces uno piensa tanto que siente que va a estallarle la cabeza.
YAEL
ยฟY quรฉ pensaste?
HASAN
Muchas cosas. Pensรฉ en lo que sucediรณ ese dรญa y en las razones que me llevaron a hacer lo que hice.
YAEL
ยฟY a quรฉ conclusiรณn llegaste?
HASAN
La violencia no arregla nada. Es responder a una injusticia con otra injusticia.
Silencio.
YAEL
Tenรญa veintidรณs aรฑos.
HASAN
Yo tambiรฉn.
YAEL
Era mi primer viaje a Londres.
HASAN
Tambiรฉn el mรญo.
YAEL
Despuรฉs de eso, no me atrevรญ a volver. Es la primera vez que vengo desde entonces.
HASAN
Yo, como verรกs, quedรฉ atrapado aquรญ.
YAEL saca una fotografรญa de un sobre. Se la enseรฑa.
YAEL
Mirรก, รฉsta era yo, en ese entonces
YAEL
(Cont.) Me acuerdo que te vi cuando bajaba del รณmnibus. Llevabas un bolso negro. Nuestras miradas se cruzaron. Supe que ibas a hacer algo. Se lo comentรฉ a uno de mis compaรฑeros.
HASAN
No me acuerdo mucho de los detalles. Estaba muy nervioso. Todo el cuerpo me temblaba.
YAEL
(Saca otra foto del sobre.) Esta es Nirit. La chica que mataste. ยฟQuerรฉs verla?
HASAN toma la foto, la estudia unos instantes, inexpresivo, y se la devuelve sin decir nada.
YAEL
(Cont.) Tenรญa veinticinco aรฑos. Estaba a punto de casarse. (Pausa.) Todavรญa me siento muy culpable con ella.
HASAN
ยฟPor quรฉ te sentรญs culpable?
YAEL
Porque nunca fui a visitar a sus padres. Lo fui postergando y postergando y al final ya me daba vergรผenza. Estรกbamos una al lado de la otra. La muerta podรญa haber sido yo. (Pausa.) ยฟTe incomoda que hable de todo esto?
HASAN
Ya te lo dije, soy otra persona. El Hasรกn que cometiรณ esos crรญmenes no existe mรกs.
YAEL
ยฟDe verdad pensรกs eso?
HASAN
ยฟQuรฉ cosa?
YAEL
Que quien hizo todo aquello es otra persona.
HASAN
Sรญ. Claro que lo pienso. (Pausa.) No fue fรกcil. Nada fue fรกcil. Me tomรณ muchos aรฑos comprenderlo. (Recoge la fotografรญa de YAEL.) Esta es la que eras entonces y รฉsta es la que sos hoy. Pensรก en todo lo que hiciste desde entonces. Las cosas que te pasaron. Tuviste novios, te casaste, tuviste hijos, viajaste, fuiste al cine, a bailar. Yo no hice nada de eso. Todo cuanto vi en estos veintidรณs aรฑos fueron las paredes de mi celda.
YAEL
Nirit no pudo ver ni siquiera eso.
HASAN: Lo lamento mucho, de verdad. ยฟQuรฉ puedo decirte? ยฟQue no pasa una noche sin que me arrepienta de lo que hice? Por lo menos, ahora estรก en paz.
YAEL
El muchacho que iba a casarse con ella quedรณ nunca pudo recuperarse.
HASAN
Todos somos vรญctimas, Yael.
*****************
YAEL
ยฟCรณmo fue que te metiste en esa operaciรณn?
HASAN
Querรญa hacer algo.
YAEL
(Con ironรญa.) ยฟHacer algo?
HASAN
Me sentรญa frustrado, lleno de rabia, impotente. ยฟAlguna vez estuviste en un campamento de refugiados?
YAEL
Estuve en varios. Durante un tiempo trabajรฉ acompaรฑando a corresponsales extranjeros a los territorios ocupados.
HASAN
Bueno, no es lo mismo. Pero sabrรกs a lo que me refiero. El hacinamiento, la basura, el barro, la humillaciรณn, la desesperanza. Esa fue mi infancia.
YAEL
ยฟDe dรณnde eran tus padres?
HASAN
De Jaffa. Toda mi familia era de allรญ. Mi viejo, mis abuelos y los abuelos de รฉl.
YAEL
ยฟQuรฉ hacรญa tu padre?
HASAN
Era comerciante. Tenรญa una mueblerรญa cerca de la Torre del Reloj. La Gran Mueblerรญa El-Fawzi. Todo el mundo la conocรญa. Mi viejo era un tipo muy respetado en la comunidad. Vivรญan en una casa grande de piedra, con un gran jardรญn donde crecรญan รกrboles frutales. Pero cuando los judรญos llegaron en el 48, tuvieron que dejarlo todo y escapar. Nunca les permitieron volver.
Terminaron en un campamento de refugiados en Ramallah. Ahรญ nacรญ yo. (Pausa.) ยฟY vos?
YAEL
ยฟYo?
HASAN
ยฟDรณnde naciste?
YAEL
En Tel Aviv.
HASAN
ยฟY tus padres? ยฟDe dรณnde vinieron?
YAEL
Mi padre naciรณ en Haifa; mi madre en Tel Aviv. Yo soy la quinta generaciรณn.
HASAN
(Sorprendido.) ยฟDe veras?
YAEL
ยฟTe asombra?
HASAN
Yo creรญ que todos los judรญos venรญan de Europa.
YAEL
Pues estรกs mal informado.
Pausa.
HASAN
Estoy seguro que tu infancia fue mucho mejor que la mรญa.
YAEL
Seguramente.
HASAN
La vida en el campamento era un infierno. No podรฉs imaginarte. Mi viejo nunca se recuperรณ de la Nakba, de la catรกstrofe. Siempre fue un tipo muy orgulloso. No pudo soportar verse de repente convertido en un refugiado, viviendo de las limosnas de las Naciones Unidas. Primero vino la depresiรณn, despuรฉs la bebida y despuรฉs la violencia. Cualquier discusiรณn, cualquier incidente por insignificante que fuera, era motivo para que nos golpease a mi madre y a mรญ. (Pausa.) Lo รบnico que lo mantenรญa vivo era su odio a los sionistas, que lo habรญan despojado de sus bienes y de su dignidad, y la esperanza de algรบn dรญa poder regresar a Jaffa. Pero era demasiado cobarde para rebelarse, asรญ que pasaba la mayor parte del tiempo borracho y sacaba su resentimiento con nosotros.
YAEL
ยฟQuerรญas a tu padre?
HASAN
ยฟSi lo querรญa? No, no lo querรญa. Lo odiaba. Al รบnico que querรญa de verdad era a mi abuelo. Era un hombre muy dulce. Me contaba historias.
YAEL
ยฟQuรฉ clase de historias?
HASAN
De joven se habรญa ido a la Argentina y me contaba cosas de allรก. Muriรณ cuando yo tenรญa diez aรฑos, pero me acuerdo de todas las cosas que me contaba.
Despuรฉs de la muerte de mi abuelo, mi viejo se puso insoportable. Yo trataba de mantenerme lo mรกs lejos posible de รฉl.
YAEL
ยฟQuรฉ hacรญas?
HASAN
Pasaba todo el dรญa en la calle con mi amigo Bashir. Jugรกbamos a la pelota entre los escombros y nos metรญamos entre las montaรฑas de basura a buscar tesoros. Hacรญamos planes de irnos a recorrer el mundo, como mi abuelo. Mirรก.
Del interior de su camisa saca una pรกgina de revista arrugada. La despliega y la alisa frente a YAEL.
HASAN
(Cont.) ยฟSabรฉs quรฉ es esto?
YAEL
No.
HASAN
Tierra del Fuego.
YAEL
ยฟTierra del Fuego?
HASAN
Ahรญ es donde viviรณ mi abuelo. ยฟSabรฉs dรณnde queda?
YAEL
No estoy segura. Lejos.
HASAN
Muy lejos. Es donde se juntan los dos ocรฉanos, el Atlรกntico y el Pacรญfico. Estuve leyendo mucho sobre esto en la biblioteca de la prisiรณn. Leo todo lo que puedo. Trato de educarme. Ahรญ รญbamos a irnos con Bashir, a Tierra del Fuego. En mi celda tengo un mapa enorme que pintรฉ sobre la pared. (Dibuja con el dedo sobre la mesa.) El estrecho de Magallanes, el Cabo de Hornos, Usuahia.
YAEL
ยฟPor quรฉ Tierra del Fuego?
HASAN
Porque es el fin del mundo. ยกImaginate, llegar al fin del mundo! Ibamos a meternos a marineros y asรญ llegar hasta allรญ. Mi abuelo me contaba que hay ballenas y lobos de mar y bosques subterrรกneos y grutas submarinas. Y que el aire es tan puro que marea.
Silencio. YAEL estudia la foto.
**********************
YAEL
ยฟQuรฉ sentiste al disparar contra nosotros?
HASAN
ยกQuรฉ se yo! ยฟPara quรฉ querรฉs saberlo?
YAEL
Quiero saberlo. Es importante.
HASAN
ยฟImportante para quiรฉn?
YAEL
Para mรญ. Para vos.
HASAN
No me acuerdo.
YAEL
No te creo.
HASAN
De veras que no me acuerdo.
YAEL
Hacรฉ un esfuerzo.
Pausa.
HASAN
(Repentinamente, intenso.) Odio. Sentรญ odio.
YAEL
ยฟCรณmo se puede odiar lo que no se conoce?
HASAN
Conocรญa los uniformes. No importa quiรฉn los llevaba.
YAEL
Todas las tripulaciones llevan uniformes. No รฉramos soldados.
HASAN
Una ocupaciรณn no se mantiene solamente con soldados. Todos colaboran. Por lo tanto, todos son responsables.
***********
Ya le dije: no lo sรฉ. Lo sabrรฉ cuando esto termine o tal vez no lo sabrรฉ nunca. Evidentemente, tenรญa necesidad de hacerlo. Mi vida cambiรณ despuรฉs del atentado. Vivรญa en un estado constante de ansiedad. ยกAumentรฉ veinticinco kilos en el primer aรฑo! Sufrรญa de insomnio y cuando lograba dormir, tenรญa unas pesadillas espantosas. Todavรญa me cuesta dormir mรกs de dos o tres horas. Los mรฉdicos me diagnosticaron Trastorno por estrรฉs postraumรกtico. Estoy condenada a tomar pastillas el resto de mi vida. Al principio sentรญ un gran resentimiento hacia los รกrabes. Me producรญa nรกuseas cruzarme con alguno por la calle. Pero despuรฉs de la primera invasiรณn al Lรญbano empecรฉ a ver las cosas desde otra perspectiva. Esa no era una guerra defensiva. La imagen de Arik Sharon montado sobre un tanque mirando a travรฉs de un largavista cรณmo la artillerรญa israelรญ bombardeaba Beirut me sacudiรณ. Despuรฉs vino la masacre de Sabra y Shatila y me enfermรฉ. Pasรฉ semanas en cama en una depresiรณn profunda. Estaba como paralizada. No podรญa pararme ni mover los brazos. Mi familia no sabรญa quรฉ hacer. Finalmente, mi marido decidiรณ que nos fuรฉramos a los Estados Unidos. Vivimos dos aรฑos en Nueva York, durante los cuales leรญ mucho y aprendรญ mucho. Pasaba tardes enteras en la biblioteca, devorando libros como si estuviera poseรญda. Descubrรญ que habรญa crecido entre mentiras y mitos y que tambiรฉn los palestinos habรญan crecido entre mentiras y mitos, y que los polรญticos de ambos lados nos han estado mintiendo y envenenando y avivando el odio hacia el otro. Decidรญ que si volvรญa a Israel serรญa para trabajar por la paz, por el entendimiento. Es lo que hice.
*******************
HASAN
Pasรณ que un dรญa entendรญ.
YAEL
ยฟY eso cuรกndo fue?
HASAN
Hace unos aรฑos, cuando conocรญ a Joska, el polaco.
YAEL
ยฟA quiรฉn?
HASAN
Joska, el polaco. Es un preso, como yo. Trabaja en la biblioteca. Creo que es judรญo. No estoy seguro. El sabรญa bien quiรฉn era yo y quรฉ habรญa hecho, pero nunca dijo nada. No hablamos mucho; apenas lo necesario. Al principio, yo pedรญa los libros y รฉl me los traรญa. Seguramente le llamรณ la atenciรณn que pidiera libros sobre la Segunda Guerra Mundial. Un dรญa me acercรณ uno y me dijo que lo leyera. El autor era uno de los comandantes de la resistencia judรญa en Varsovia. Marek Edelman, ยฟEscuchaste hablar de รฉl?
YAEL
No sรฉ. Creo que sรญ.
HASAN
Uno de los pocos que quedaron vivos. Me leรญ el libro en una noche. No podรญa parar. Por primera vez entendรญ por lo que habรญan pasado los judรญos durante la guerra. Tambiรฉn me di cuenta que la lucha de ellos era muy parecida a la nuestra. No tenรญan ninguna esperanza, pero peleaban igual, por su dignidad. Peleaban con revรณlveres, con cuchillos, con bombas Molotov contra un ejรฉrcito que tenรญa caรฑones, tanques y aviones. Nosotros hacemos lo mismo.
ยฟNo te parece una ironรญa? Y este Edelman era un hรฉroe de verdad, un gigante. Cuando terminรณ la guerra no quiso emigrar a Israel. Eligiรณ quedarse en Polonia. Ahรญ habรญa nacido y reclamaba el derecho de seguir viviendo ahรญ. (Pausa.) Habรญa algo que รฉl decรญa que me quedรณ grabado. (Recita:) โPeleรกbamos con una determinaciรณn sin esperanza pero nuestras armas nunca fueron dirigidas contra la poblaciรณn civil indefensa, nunca matamos mujeres o niรฑos. En un mundo despojado de principios y de valores, a pesar del constante peligro de muerte, nosotros permanecimos fieles a estos valores y a estos principios morales.โ ยฟVos preguntรกs quรฉ me cambiรณ? Ese libro me cambiรณ.
This work is essentially a work of fiction. Many of the episodes and references are based on real events in Yulie Cohen’s life, but others are invented or imagined. All scenes take place in 2000, except for the last one, which happens in 2005.
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Darkness. Machine gun fire is heard, and flashes of light, similar to tracer bullets, cross the scene. More gunfire. Police and ambulance sirens wail. Murmurs of horror. Screams.
TV ANNOUNCER
โThe attackers opened fire with machine guns and threw grenades as the 21 crew members of El Al Flight 061, arriving from New York, were about to enter the Europa Hotel in the British capital. One of the terrorists died instantly when one of the grenades he was carrying exploded prematurely. The other terrorist, 22-year-old Hassan el-Fawzi, was arrested moments later. One of the flight attendants, 25-year-old Nirit Golan, was killed in the attack. Another flight attendant, 22-year-old Yael Allon, was wounded.โ
The lights come on.
YAEL is waiting in the small room, seated at a table on the top floor. There’s an empty chair on the opposite side. An invisible door opens and HASAN enters. He observes her for a moment and sits down opposite her, his hands hidden behind the table.
YAEL
Hello. I’m Yael.
HASAN
I’m Hasan.
YAEL
I know. I recognize you. (She extends her hand) Nice to meet you.
HASAN
(Shyly shakes her hand in return.) Nice to meet you too.
Pause.
YAEL
How are you?
HASAN
You can see that. (Pause.) And you?
YAEL
Nervous. It’s natural.
Pause.
HASAN
Did you have a good trip?
YAEL
Yes, very good.
Pause.
YAEL
(Cont.) You shouldn’t receive many visitors.
HASAN
No.
YAEL
Don’t you have any family?
HASAN
No. I have no one.
Pause.
YAEL
My request must have surprised you, I imagine.
HASAN
My lawyer told me you had something important to ask me.
YAEL
Well, yes. Important to me, at least.
HASAN
What is it?
YAEL
(Gathering courage.) Twenty-three years ago you tried to kill me, so I decided to come here so you could explain why.
Silence.
HASAN
I didn’t try to kill you.
YAEL
I still have a rather ugly scar on my arm. (She shows it to him.) And you killed my friend Nirit.
HASAN
I didn’t try to kill you, nor your friend. I tried to kill what they represented.
YAEL
What we represented?
HASAN
The enemy, the occupation. (He composes himself.) But that was a long time ago. I’m not the same person anymore.
YAEL remains silent.
HASAN
(Cont.) I had a lot of time to think. That’s what you do here. Think. Sometimes you think so much you feel like your head is going to explode.
YAEL
And what did you think about?
HASAN
Many things. I thought about what happened that day and the reasons that led me to do what I did.
YAEL
And what conclusion did you reach?
HASAN
Violence doesn’t solve anything. It’s responding to injustice with another injustice.
Silence.
YAEL
I was twenty-two years old.
HASAN
Me too.
YAEL
It was my first trip to London.
HASAN
Mine too.
YAEL
After that, I didn’t dare to return. This is the first time I’ve been here since.
HASAN
As you can see, I’m trapped here.
YAEL takes a photograph out of an envelope. He shows it to her.
YAEL
Look, this was me back then.
YAEL
(Cont.) I remember seeing you when I got off the bus. You were carrying a black bag. Our eyes met. I knew you were going to do something. I told one of my classmates.
HASAN
I don’t remember many details. I was very nervous. My whole body was shaking.
YAEL
(Takes another photo out of the envelope.) This is Nirit. The girl you killed. Do you want to see her?
HASAN takes the photo, studies it for a few moments, expressionless, and hands it back without saying anything.
YAEL
(Cont.) I was twenty-five years old. I was about to get married. (Pause.) I still feel very guilty about her.
HASAN
Why do you feel guilty?
YAEL
Because I never went to visit her parents. I kept putting it off, and in the end, I was ashamed. We were right next to each other. I could have been the one who died. (Pause.) Does it bother you that I’m talking about all this?
HASAN
I already told you, I’m a different person. The Hasan who committed those crimes doesn’t exist anymore.
YAEL
Do you really think that?
HASAN
What?
YAEL
That the person who did all that is someone else.
HASAN
Yes. Of course I think that. (Pause.) It wasn’t easy. Nothing was easy. It took me many years to understand. (He picks up Yael’s photograph.) This is who you were then, and this is who you are today. Think about everything you’ve done since then. The things that have happened to you. You had boyfriends, you got married, you had children, you traveled, you went to the movies, dancing. I didn’t do any of that. All I saw in these twenty-two years were the walls of my cell.
YAEL
Nirit didn’t even get to see that.
HASAN:
I’m so sorry, truly. What can I say? That not a night goes by that I don’t regret what I did? At least she’s at peace now.
YAEL
The young man who was going to marry her never recovered.
HASAN
We’re all victims, Yael. **********YAEL
How did you get involved in that operation?
HASAN
I wanted to do something.
YAEL
(Ironically.) Do something?
HASAN
I felt frustrated, full of rage, powerless. Have you ever been in a refugee camp?
YAEL
I’ve been in several. For a while, I worked accompanying foreign correspondents to the occupied territories.
HASAN
Well, it’s not the same. But you know what I mean. The overcrowding, the garbage, the mud, the humiliation, the hopelessness. That was my childhood.
YAEL
Where were your parents from?
HASAN
Jaffa. My whole family was from there. My father, my grandparents, and his grandparents.
YAEL
What did your father do?
HASAN
He was a shopkeeper. He owned a furniture store near the Clock Tower. The Great El-Fawzi Furniture Store. Everyone knew it. My father was a very respected man in the community. They lived in a large stone house, with a big garden where fruit trees grew. But when the Jews arrived in ’48, they had to leave everything and escape. They were never allowed to return.
They ended up in a refugee camp in Ramallah. That’s where I was born. (Pause.) And you?
YAEL
Me?
HASAN
Where were you born?
YAEL
In Tel Aviv.
HASAN
And your parents? Where did they come from?
YAEL
My father was born in Haifa; my mother in Tel Aviv. I’m a fifth-generation Jew.
HASAN
(Surprised.) Really?
YAEL
Are you surprised?
HASAN
I thought all Jews came from Europe.
YAEL
Well, you’re misinformed.
Pause.
HASAN
I’m sure your childhood was much better than mine.
YAEL
Definitely.
HASAN
Life in the camp was hell. You can’t imagine. My father never recovered from the Nakba, from the catastrophe. He was always a very proud man. He couldn’t bear to suddenly find himself a refugee, living off UN handouts. First came the depression, then the drinking, and then the violence. Any argument, any incident, no matter how insignificant, was enough for him to beat my mother and me. (Pause.) The only thing that kept him going was his hatred for the Zionists, who had stripped him of his possessions and his dignity, and the hope of one day being able to return to Jaffa. But he was too cowardly to rebel, so he spent most of his time drunk and took out his resentment on us.
YAEL
Did you love your father?
HASAN
Did I love him? No, I didn’t love him. I hated him. The only person I truly loved was my grandfather. He was a very sweet man. He told me stories.
YAEL
What kind of stories?
HASAN
When he was young, he went to Argentina and told me things about it. He died when I was ten, but I remember everything he told me.
After my grandfather died, my dad became unbearable. I tried to stay as far away from him as possible.
YAEL
What did you do?
HASAN
I spent all day in the street with my friend Bashir. We played ball among the rubble and went into the mountains of garbage looking for treasure. We made plans to travel the world, like my grandfather. Look.
He takes a crumpled magazine page out of his shirt pocket. He unfolds it and smooths it out in front of YAEL.
HASAN
(Cont.) Do you know what this is?
YAEL
No.
HASAN
Tierra del Fuego.
YAEL
Tierra del Fuego?
HASAN
That’s where my grandfather lived. Do you know where it is?
YAEL
I’m not sure. Far away.
HASAN
Very far away. It’s where the two oceans meet, the Atlantic and the Pacific. I’ve been reading a lot about it in the prison library. I read everything I can. I try to educate myself. We were going to go there with Bashir, to Tierra del Fuego. In my cell, I have a huge map that I painted on the wall. (She draws with her finger on the table.) The Strait of Magellan, Cape Horn, Ushuaia.
YAEL
Why Tierra del Fuego?
HASAN
Because it’s the end of the world. Imagine, reaching the end of the world! We were going to become sailors and get there. My grandfather told me that there are whales and sea lions and underground forests and underwater caves. And that the air is so pure it makes you dizzy.
*************
The prison room. YAEL and HASAN are sitting facing each other, as in the previous scene.
YAEL
What did you feel when you shot at us?
HASAN
How should I know! Why do you want to know?
YAEL
I want to know. It’s important.
HASAN
Important to whom?
YAEL
To me. To you.
HASAN
I don’t remember.
YAEL
I don’t believe you.
HASAN
I really don’t remember.
YAEL
Try to remember.
Pause.
HASAN
(Suddenly, intensely.) Hate. I felt hate.
YAEL
How can you hate what you don’t know?
HASAN
I knew the uniforms. It doesn’t matter who wore them.
YAEL
All the crews wear uniforms. We weren’t soldiers.
HASAN
An occupation isn’t sustained by soldiers alone. Everyone collaborates. Therefore, everyone is responsible.
************
YAEL
I already told you: I don’t know. I’ll know when this is over, or maybe I’ll never know. Obviously, I needed to do it. My life changed after the attack. I lived in a constant state of anxiety. I gained 25 kilos in the first year! I suffered from insomnia, and when I did manage to sleep, I had terrible nightmares. I still struggle to sleep more than two or three hours. The doctors diagnosed me with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I’m condemned to take pills for the rest of my life. At first, I felt a great deal of resentment toward Arabs. It made me nauseous to pass one on the street. But after the first invasion of Lebanon, I began to see things from a different perspective. That wasn’t a defensive war. The image of Arik Sharon on top of a tank, looking through binoculars as Israeli artillery bombarded Beirut, shook me to my core. Then came the Sabra and Shatila massacre, and I became ill. I spent weeks in bed in a deep depression. I was paralyzed. I couldn’t stand or move my arms. My family didn’t know what to do. Finally, my husband decided we should go to the United States. We lived in New York for two years, during which I read a lot and learned a great deal. I spent entire afternoons in the library, devouring books as if possessed. I discovered that I had grown up surrounded by lies and myths, and that the Palestinians had also grown up surrounded by lies and myths, and that politicians on both sides had been lying to us, poisoning our minds, and stoking hatred toward each other. I decided that if I returned to Israel, it would be to work for peace, for understanding. That’s what I did.
***********
HASAN
It happened that one day I understood.
YAEL
And when was that?
HASAN
A few years ago, when I met Joska, the Pole.
YAEL
Who?
HASAN
Joska, the Pole. He’s a prisoner, like me. He works in the library. I think he’s Jewish. I’m not sure. He knew perfectly well who I was and what I had done, but he never said anything. We didn’t talk much; just enough. At first, I would ask for books and he would bring them to me. He was probably intrigued that I asked for books about World War II. One day he handed me one and told me to read it. The author was one of the commanders of the Jewish resistance in Warsaw. Marek Edelman. Have you heard of him?
YAEL
I don’t know. I think so.
HASAN
One of the few who survived. I read the book in one night. I couldn’t stop. For the first time, I understood what the Jews had gone through during the war. I also realized that their struggle was very similar to ours. They had no hope, but they fought anyway, for their dignity. They fought with revolvers, with knives, with Molotov cocktails against an army that had cannons, tanks, and airplanes. We do the same.
Don’t you find that ironic? And this Edelman was a true hero, a giant. When the war ended, he didn’t want to emigrate to Israel. He chose to stay in Poland. He was born there and claimed the right to continue living there. (Pause.) There was something he said that stuck with me. (Recites:) โWe fought with hopeless determination, but our weapons were never directed against the defenseless civilian population; we never killed women or children. In a world stripped of principles and values, despite the constant danger of death, we remained true to these values โโand these moral principles.โ You ask what changed me? That book changed me.
Olga Fisch (1901-1990) fue una artista, marchante de arte y promotora cultural extraordinaria. Nacida en Hungrรญa, viajรณ por el mundo explorando las selvas de Sudamรฉrica y viviendo en Marruecos, donde reuniรณ su primera colecciรณn de artesanรญas. En 1932, se casรณ con su segundo esposo, Bela Fisch. La pareja emigrรณ de Europa debido a las tensiones polรญticas en la Alemania nazi, particularmente peligrosas por su origen judรญo. En Ecuador, Fisch comenzรณ a enseรฑar en la Escuela de Bellas Artes y se involucrรณ profundamente en el arte popular ecuatoriano. Para 1943, su colecciรณn de artefactos y obras de arte atrajo la atenciรณn internacional. Lincoln Kirstein, director del Museo de Arte Moderno de Nueva York (MoMA), visitรณ Ecuador para ver la colecciรณn. Este encuentro la catapultรณ a la fama y la llevรณ a tener a la ONU y al MoMA como sus primeros clientes. Durante la dรฉcada de 1950, Fisch diseรฑรณ varias lรญneas de alfombras de gran รฉxito. En la dรฉcada de 1960, su exclusivo negocio de alfombras, dirigido por mujeres y basado en encargos, era un รฉxito rotundo. Tambiรฉn fundรณ un museo sin fines de lucro dedicado a la cultura ecuatoriana y una tienda de artesanรญas llamada “Folklore”, que aรบn hoy es un referente cultural en Quito. Incluso en sus รบltimos aรฑos, Fisch conservรณ un agudo sentido del estilo, combinando con maestrรญa la inspiraciรณn arqueolรณgica y los motivos precolombinos con influencias clรกsicas coloniales.
Olga Fisch (1901-1990) was an extraordinary artist, art dealer and cultural advocate. Born in Hungary, Olga Fisch traveled the world exploring the jungles of South America and living in Morocco where she assembled her first collection of cultural handicrafts. In 1932, Olga married her second husband Bela Fisch. The couple emigrated from Europe due to political tensions in Nazi Germany, particularly dangerous due to their Jewishย heritage. In Ecuador, Fisch began teaching at the School of Fine Arts. Fisch became deeply involved in Ecuadorian folk art. By 1943, Fischโs collection of cultural artifacts and art attracted international attention. Lincoln Kirstein, the director of New Yorkโs Museum of Modern Art, visited Ecuador to view the collection. This meeting catapulted Fisch into the spotlight and resulted in the U.N. and MoMA becoming her first clients. During the 1950s, Fisch designed several successful area carpetย lines. By the 1960โs, Fischโs exclusive women-run commission-based carpet business was a resounding success. She also started a non-profit museum dedicated to Ecuadorian cultural and a handicraft shop called “Folklore” that is still a cultural landmark in Quito. Even in her older years, Fisch retained a keen sense of style that artfully combined archaeological inspiration and Pre-Colombian motifs with classical colonial influences.
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De la serie “Caverna”:/From the “Caverna” series
Diseรฑos especiales/Special Designs
Gente del Ecuador, en la colonia y en la actualidad de la artista/Ecuadorian people in the Colonial period and time of the artist
Nascida na Argentina, filha de imigrantes judeus poloneses, em 1933, Anna Bella Geiger vive e trabalha no Rio de Janeiro. De 1950 a 1953, Geiger frequentou aulas gratuitas de desenho, pintura e gravura no Instituto Fayga Ostrower, onde seu trabalho tendeu ร abstraรงรฃo. Viajou para Nova York para estudar histรณria da arte e sociologia na Universidade de Nova York e no Metropolitan Museum of Art; Geiger retornou ao Rio de Janeiro em 1954. Ao longo da dรฉcada de 1960, continuou a receber prรชmios em exposiรงรตes nacionais. Em 1964, Geiger se desencantou com a abstraรงรฃo informal. Seu trabalho comeรงou a refletir as formas orgรขnicas do corpo. No final da dรฉcada de 1960, sentiu a necessidade de responder ao clima sociopolรญtico de seu paรญs. Participou de um boicote ร 10ยช Bienal de Sรฃo Paulo (1969) e empregou colagem e assemblage para explorar a identidade brasileira e as noรงรตes de periferia. Cartografia e topografia logo se tornaram motivos importantes em sua obra. Na dรฉcada de 1980, seu interesse pela pintura foi renovado, enquanto na dรฉcada de 1990 ela retornou ร escultura multimรญdia com formas cartogrรกficas. Em 1987, em parceria com o artista, crรญtico e professor Fernando Cocchiarale, foi coautora de Abstraรงรฃo Geomรฉtrica e Informal: A Vanguarda Brasileira nos Anos 50. Geiger participou de bienais internacionais realizadas em Sรฃo Paulo, Veneza (1980), Havana (1997) e Porto Alegre, Brasil (1997). Recebeu uma bolsa da Fundaรงรฃo Memorial John Simon Guggenheim (1982) e foi premiada diversas vezes, incluindo a Bolsa da Fundaรงรฃo Vitae, o Prรชmio SESC Rio de Fomento ร Cultura (2010) e o Prรชmio Ibram de Arte Contemporรขnea (2011). — Courtney Smith
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Born in Argentina to Polish Jewish immigrant parents in 1933, Anna Bella Geiger lives and works in Rio de Janeiro. From 1950 to 1953 Geiger attended free classes in drawing, painting, and engraving at Instituto Fayga Ostrower, where her work tended toward abstraction. She traveled to New York to study art history and sociology at New York University and the Metropolitan Museum of Art; Geiger returned to Rio de Janeiro in 1954, Through the 1960s she continued to receive awards at national exhibitions. By 1964 Geiger became disenchanted with informal abstraction. Her work began to reflect the body’s organic forms. By the late 1960s she felt the need to respond to the sociopolitical climate of her country. She participated in a boycott of the 10th Bienal de Sรฃo Paulo (1969) and employed collage and assemblage to explore Brazilian identity and notions of the periphery. Cartography and topography soon became important motifs in her work. The 1980s saw her renewed interest in painting, while in the 1990s she returned to multimedia sculpture of cartographic forms. In 1987, with the artist, critic, and professor Fernando Cocchiarale, she coauthored Geometric and Informal Abstractionism: The Brazilian Avant-garde in the Fifties. Geiger participated in international biennials held in Sรฃo Paulo Venice (1980), Havana (1997), and Porto Alegre, Brazil (1997). She received a John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation Fellowship (1982) and won several awards, including the Bolsa da Fundaรงรฃo Vitae, Prรชmio SESC Rio de Fomento ร Cultura (2010), and Prรชmio Ibram de Arte Contemporรขnea (2011). — Courtney Smith
Sara Levi Calderรณn no es su verdadero nombre, pues ella viene de una familia ashkenazรญ muy reconocida en Mรฉxico. Es su nombre de pluma con el cual publicรณ hace 30 aรฑos, su libro, una relato que incluye poesรญa erรณtica y describe un amor prohibido entre dos mujeres, siendo una de ellas parte de la Comunidad judรญa de Mรฉxico. Debido a este amor, โSaraโ es desterrada de su casa por sus propios hijos; desheredada por sus padres; y expulsada de su comunidad por sus amigos y parientes. La apariciรณn del libro y la condiciรณn de lesbiana de una โhija de familiaโ fue un shock para la comunidad judรญa de la รฉpoca. โLa homofobia era terrible. No supe cรณmo defenderme, no supe cรณmo explicรกrselo a mis hijos. Estaba aterrada por el escรกndalo, me sentรญ seรฑalada- y dejรฉ el paรญs. // Se casรณ a los 18 aรฑos con un hombre, quien fue excelente marido y buen padre . La mujer, que tiene otras expectativas, vive insatisfecha y termina divorciรกndose. Un buen dรญa, se enamora por primera vez en la vida โalgo de lo cual no me creรญa capazโ. El objeto de su amor es una mujer que todo el mundo a su alrededor amaโฆ hasta que se descubre el lazo que las une. โLa Comunidad no me perdona que haya yo herido a mis padres y a mis hijos โ y lo lamenta. Sin embargo, tenรญa que elegir entre perder el amor y morir; o aceptarlo y seguir con vidaโ. โDesde hace 35 aรฑos que vivo con esta persona, la amo con todo mi serโ, concluye la novelista. vuelve a tomar la pluma con la obra โVida y peripecies de una buena hija de familiaโ. Adaptado de Enlace Judรญo
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Sara Levi Calderรณn 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, โSaraโ 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 โdaughter of a familyโ shocked the Jewish community at the time. โThe 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 outโand 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, โsomething I didn’t think I was capable of.โ The object of her love was a woman whom everyone around her lovedโฆ until the bond between them was discovered. โThe community doesn’t forgive me for having hurt my parents and my children,โ and she regrets it. However, she had to choose between losing love and dying; or accepting it and continuing to live.โ โI have lived with this person for 35 years, I love her with all my being,โ the novelist concludes. She returns to writing with the work โLife and Adventures of a Good Daughter of a Family.โ Adapted from Enlace Judรญo
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Dos mujeres/Two mujeres
Una menta?
Genovesa me ofreciรณ una menta. Sin recato la tomรฉ con mi boca. Sentรญ el contacto desconocido de sus dedos en mi lengua: un rayo luminoso se abriรณ camino por mi cerebro. Ella me mirรณ atรณnita sin quitar la mano. Hice un avance hacia su boca entreabierta por la sorpresa. Temblรฉ, temblamos, con el corazรณn enloquecido metรญ mi lengua en su boca, circundรฉ sus dientes: sabรญa a flor nueva. Nuestras miradas se desprendieron como dos pรกjaros 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 panteรณn de ojos. Caรญamos en un silencio inhรณspito. Gulp, vi mis profundos interiores. Negras entraรฑas enrojecรญan, pequeรฑas estrรญas se marcaron en mis ojos. Genovesa seguรญa clavada en el espejo. Su vista se habรญa poblado de nardos.
Todo durรณ un instante que a mรญ me pareciรณ una eternidad. Ella saliรณ lentamente del entramado de refracciones.
Parecรญa una doliente milenaria. Me reconocรญ en ella como aquella joven mujer que habรญa sido hacรญa no mucho tiempo. Tomรฉ su mano que reposaba sobre el edredรณn beige. Las dos venรญamos de dos experiencias tan diferentes, pero en algo nos parecรญamos.
โNo es fรกcil hacer aรฑicos a los fantasmas genitores โle dijeโ. Lo nuestro significa romper con los sรญmbolos mรกs antiguos: sรญmbolos aprendidos desde antes de nacer. โBajรณ la cabeza y acomodรณ el edredรณn sobre sus piernas.
โSรญ โdijo suavementeโ, tiene que ver con algo muy antiguo. โAl verme retraรญda me pasรณ la mano por la mejilla. Me preguntรณ si a mรญ tambiรฉn me preocupaba.
โSรญ โle dije. Mi afirmaciรณn pareciรณ tranquilizarla. Poco a poco nuestras formaciones granรญticas se fueron disolviendo y el deseo volviรณ a ser transparente.
Pronto supe que la entrega de su cuerpo era lenta. Habรญa que acariciarla con la mirada, eliminar la tristeza que encubrรญa su voluptuosidad. Tal quehacer se asemejaba a la delicada factura de una acuarela japonesa. Lamรญ su cuello, su boca…
Afuera, una lluvia fina golpeaba las ventanas. La mรบsica de Alain Barriรจre nos acompaรฑaba en la entrada de un territorio nuevo.
ยซDos mujeresยป, pensรฉ con todo mi deseo a flor de cada poro. Mi boca se detuvo en su cuello. Bajรฉ por su vientre, retuve sus caderas. Ella acercรณ sus senos a mis senos, a mi cara, a mi boca; lamiรณ 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.
โQuรฉ fuerte siento contigo โsusurrรณ.
โDeseo hacerte mรญa: volverme tuya โmusitรฉ a su oรญdo.
Mi lengua perturbada recorre sus senos, sus pezones inflamados, su vientre liso, se interna en su vulva: estรก hecha de musgo fresco. Destellos plateados caen sobre un mar plumbago. Me siento fuerte, ilimitada.
โLe temo al vรฉrtigo โdijo.
La tierra se vuelve lรญquida. Nos detenemos la una de la otra. Reconoce su sabor a travรฉs de mi boca… Los leรฑos regurgitan secamente mientras nuestras voces se dicen coplas. Una voz urbana clama: te amo. Esa voz es mรญa y de nadie mรกs.
Para quien quiera un poco de vidaโฆ
Cuando despertรฉ la vi acostada a mi lado. Era muy bella. Me gustaba que solo tuviera veinticinco aรฑos y que estuviera allรญ, en mi cama, tranquilamente dormida. Moviรณ la boca como si fuera a decir algo, pero solo era un movimiento del sueรฑo. Deseรฉ que nunca terminara el puente de Muertos. ยซEs ella a quien he estado esperando toda mi vidaยป, pensรฉ. Pero que fuera una mujer no era cualquier cosa. Recordรฉ a Morena que nunca querรญa hablar conmigo de su querida prima, pero que finalmente me la presentรณ y luego le dejรณ una nota diciรฉndole que me llamara cuando ella partiera. Quรฉ diferentes eran la una de la otra. Con Morena yo tenรญa el papel de protectora. Genovesa, a pesar de sus catorce aรฑos menos que yo, podรญa mostrarme caminos que yo anhelaba recorrer.
Abriรณ los ojos. Notรฉ que algo la afligรญa. Ya habรญan pasado tres dรญas y no querรญa que terminaran las vacaciones. ยฟQuรฉ va a pasar despuรฉs? No habรญa que preocuparse antes de tiempo…
โMe gustas โle dije.
Me pasรณ la mano por la nuca y el hombro. Quรฉ delicia de manos. Se las mirรณ detenidamente como si no fueran suyas.
โParecen de pintora.
โ ยฟY cรณmo son las manos de pintora?
โNo lo sรฉ, pero las tuyas son muy sensibles.
Me pidiรณ que le mostrara las mรญas. Me dijo que no sabรญa de quรฉ podรญan ser, pero que definitivamente no eran de sociรณloga. Me preguntรณ quรฉ me gustarรญa ser.
โEscritora.
โ ยฟDe veras? Quรฉ guardado te lo tenรญas.
โTe lo juro, toda mi vida lo he deseado. Me he metido a estudiar teatro, creaciรณn dramรกtica, sociologรญa, etcรฉtera. Todo, para un dรญa poder escribir. Pero ya se me pasรณ el tiempo.
โDecรญdete: deja de hacer otras cosas y ponte a escribir โme urgiรณ.
โVoy a escribir una historia de amor.
โ ยฟSรญ? ยฟAlguna muy importante en tu vida?
La besรฉ y le dije que la nuestra era la historia de amor mรกs importante de mi vida. Me preguntรณ que cรณmo podรญa saberlo si apenas la conocรญa. Asรญ es el amor, pega como un destello de luz y sabes que esa persona es la esperada. Es la ventaja de tener mรกs aรฑos.
โA mรญ me falta vivir, conocer โdijo. No sabรญa quรฉ querรญa en su vida. Le preocupaba terriblemente que su gran historia de amor fuera con una mujerโ. No es lo mรกs comรบn โsonriรณ. Ademรกs, yo era madre de dos hijos e hija de padres muy conocidos.
โ ยฟDebo negarme a vivir lo que tanto he anhelado? Seguro terminarรฉ siendo una vieja amargada. Mis hijos pronto se van a casar, ยฟy yo quรฉ? ยฟVoy a casarme con alguien a quien no quiero? Quรฉ injusto para mรญ.
โPara mรญ tambiรฉn serรญa injusto no vivir lo que estoy viviendo โdijo.
Pasรณ su mano sobre mis senos. Era la primera vez que se atrevรญa. Su boca se abriรณ levemente y pude ver su lengua hรบmeda. Saquรฉ mi lengua pidiendo la suya. El gesto la enloqueciรณ y me agarrรณ de la cintura, me hizo subir sobre ella. Nos besamos hasta agotar la respiraciรณn.
El brinco del siniestro
Los espejos devolvรญan nuestras imรกgenes desnudas. Un rayo de sol, como lengua de gato, entraba por la rendija de la ventana. Genovesa parecรญa animal joven que ha desechado la tensiรณn mediante juegos amorosos. Abriรณ un ojo, luego el otro. Se sobresaltรณ al verme mirรกndola. Para que recordara quiรฉn era yo la besรฉ suavemente. Se agarrรณ de mรญ como una gata mimosa. Nos dimos el primer beso de la maรฑana. 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 leรฑos carbonizados de la noche anterior. Nos hicimos el amor sin ninguna otra finalidad que dejarnos sentir. Rotos los lรญmites sugerรญ que saliรฉramos a la terraza. Aceptรณ diciendo que el jardรญn era bello.
Saquรฉ de la covacha un par de colchones amarillo chillante y los puse sobre el piso de ladrillo. Ella volviรณ a entretenerse con las flores.
โEstรกn mรกs abiertas, estรกn mรกs felices โdijo. Jugamos con las palabras: mรกs abiertas, mรกs felices. Las pusimos, las antepusimos, las propusimos: las tornamos y las alternamos.
โLas posibilidades son muchas โdijo plรกcidamente recostada sobre el colchรณn. Cerrรณ los ojos. El sol daba directo en su cara.
Se sentรณ a verme. Pasรณ un dedo sobre mi boca, la delineรณ. Con la punta de mi lengua toquรฉ su dedo. ยกAy! Mi boca se hizo una cueva, su dedo necesitaba conocer sus escondites: entrar y descubrir y salir y volver… La volteรฉ boca abajo. Lamรญ su espalda, acariciรฉ su cintura pronunciada, sus nalgas.
โTus manos parecen palomas โdijo.
Un viento recio hizo que los sauces llorones se cimbraran. Volteรณ desesperada a buscar mi boca. Nos besamos. Acariciรณ la curvatura de mi espalda, sentรญ duros sus pezones bajo mi boca que hacรญa una dรฉbil presiรณn sobre ellos. Sus caderas subรญan y bajaban, abrรญ con mi rodilla sus piernas, acoplamos ritmos, pasรณ su mano por mis senos, su mano volviรณ a mi cintura, me hizo girar para montarse sobre mรญ, su mata de pelo cubrรญa mi cara, a travรฉs de ese enjambre dorado veรญa las nubes aborregadas viajar veloces. Puse mis dedos en su clรญtoris, con mi muslo ayudรฉ a mi mano. Ella acariciaba mi brazo y susurraba: mรกs, mรกs, mรกs: el susurro acabรณ en gemido: en un grito, en una risa. Se abriรณ un placer indescriptible.
El sol se escondiรณ bajo una nube. Ansiosa, ella buscรณ mi vagina. El sol no tardรณ en salir para que no sintiรฉramos frรญo. Una luz iridiscente me traspasรณ. Ella entraba y salรญa de mรญ rรญtmicamente. El mundo de todos los principios… En medio de toda esta euforia escuchรฉ un ruido extraรฑo. Vi miles de conchas marinas romperse. Corrรญ a asomarme a la calle. Alejandro se estaba brincando la reja. Desesperada corrรญ a avisarle a Genovesa… No entendรญa nada. La tomรฉ de la mano y tal como estaba la escondรญ en la covacha. Me puse la bata que habรญa dejado sobre la cama. Alejandro ya estaba tocando furioso la puerta de mi recรกmara que por suerte tenรญa echado el cerrojo. Ay, el corazรณn. Le abrรญ con la resoluciรณn de…
Como amo por su casa entrรณ mirรกndome de soslayo. ยซ ยฟCรณmo se atreve?ยป, pensรฉ. Abriรณ la puerta del baรฑo y se asomรณ al vestidor. Volviรณ a la recรกmara. Girรณ la llave del ropero antiguo, percibiรณ los siete jarrones de rosas. Me volteรณ a ver. Deseรฉ tener las agallas para sacarlo a patadas. En medio de ese odio trastabillรณ y sin querer oprimiรณ el mecanismo de carrusel. Se escuchรณ un alarde de cornetas y trombones. Gritรณ como rata atrapada.
โยฟQuรฉ es esto? ยฟUna casa de locos?
Me atragantรฉ de terror al verlo salir a la terraza.
โยฟConque sรญ, eh? โdijo mirando el colchรณn amarilloโ: aquรญ hay gato encerrado โ agregรณ.
Un destello surgiรณ de sus lentes negros. Determinado se dirigiรณ a la covacha. Tomรณ la perilla de la puerta. No quise decirle: ยซAdentro hay alimaรฑasยป. Uf, soltรณ la perilla.
โAhorita mismo te me vassss โsilbรฉ aplomada.
Entrรฉ a mi recรกmara por un par de piedras milenarias y llevรกndolas a lo alto de mi cabeza lo amenacรฉ con romperle la crisma. Maldiciendo se dio la media vuelta. Bajรฉ tras รฉl para abrirle el candado. Le pedรญ las llaves de mi casa y di tal portazo que lo supuse clavado en la banqueta. Subรญ corriendo a sacar a Genovesa de la covacha. Estaba encorvada y lรญvida.
โ ยฟYa se fue? โpreguntรณ seca.
Algo se habรญa roto en ella. No entendiรณ quรฉ tipo de mujer era yo. Cรณmo era posible que ese hombre tuviera las llaves de mi casa y no hubiera tomado ninguna medida. Tratรฉ de explicarle que รฉl, ese hombre, se habรญa brincado la reja, que lo del candado y la cadena eran la medida. No le interesaban mis explicaciones. Preguntรณ cuรกndo regresaban los demรกs miembros de mi familia.
โPosiblemente hoy en la noche โle dije.
โPues es tiempo de que me vaya.
El mundo se me vino abajo. Me pidiรณ que la acompaรฑara al vestidor. Sentada en la alfombra vi cรณmo guardaba su ropa en el maletรญn cafรฉ. Parecรญa una niรฑa enfurruรฑada.
โDebe haber algo que te convenza de quedarte: no puedes irte asรญ. No serรญa justo para la historia โle dije.
โ ยฟPara la historia?
Le asegurรฉ que su huida era un pretexto para no enfrentar lo que habรญa sucedido entre nosotras. Dejรณ la maleta y vino a sentarse a mi lado. Me mirรณ y supe que iba por buen camino…
โ ยฟTรบ crees que de eso se trata? Metรญ 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.
โYes,โ she said softly, โit has to do with something very old.โ Seeing me withdrawn, she ran her hand along my cheek. She asked if I was worried about it too.
โYes,โ 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 mouthโฆ
Outside, a fine rain tapped against the windows. The music of Alain Barriรจre accompanied us as we entered a new territory.
โTwo women,โ 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 lifeโฆ
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. โSheโs the one Iโve been waiting for all my life,โ I thought. But the fact that she was a woman wasnโt 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 didnโt 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…
Sarina Helfgott fue una destacada poeta, dramaturga, antologadora, crรญtica literaria y periodista peruana. Fue hija de inmigrantes judรญos. que se establecieron en Perรบ. Ella participรณ activamente en diversas asociaciones y cรญrculos culturales judรญos en Perรบ. En 1956, publicรณ su primer poemario, La luz prรณdiga, donde explorรณ temas de amor, pasiรณn, muerte y trascendencia a travรฉs de sรญmbolos y metรกforas naturales. Este libro fue el inicio de su carrera literaria con un enfoque en el autodescubrimiento y la conexiรณn mรญstica con la naturaleza. Su poemario, El libro de los muertos (1962), le valiรณ reconocimiento internacional por su profunda reflexiรณn sobre el Holocausto. Este libro rindiรณ homenaje a sus raรญces y a las vรญctimas judรญas de la Segunda Guerra Mundial. Retratรณ la tragedia y la memoria histรณrica con una intensidad emotiva que ha sido estudiada como parte de la poesรญa del Holocausto. En 1973, publicรณ Ese vasto resplandor, una antologรญa de su obra poรฉtica desde 1957 hasta 1971, que reflejรณ su evoluciรณn literaria y su constante bรบsqueda de la expresiรณn pura de sentimientos a travรฉs de la naturaleza, en contraste con la percepciรณn de la ciudad como un lugar desprovisto de belleza poรฉtica. Sarina Helfgott tambiรฉn fue una influyente figura en el teatro peruano. Su primera obra, La Red (1953), fue el inicio de una prolรญfica carrera dramatรบrgica. La Jaula (1981) fue estrenada en Lima, Buenos Aires y Cambridge y traducida al inglรฉs y al neerlandรฉs.
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Sarina Helfgott was a prominent Peruvian poet, playwright, anthologist, literary critic, and journalist. She was the daughter of Jewish immigrants who settled in Peru. She actively participated in various Jewish cultural associations and circles in Peru. In 1956, she published her first book of poems, La luz prรณdiga (The Prodigal Light), where she explored themes of love, passion, death, and transcendence through natural symbols and metaphors. This book marked the beginning of her literary career, focusing on self-discovery and a mystical connection with nature. Her poetry collection, El libro de los muertos (The Book of the Dead, 1962), earned her international acclaim for its profound reflection on the Holocaust. This book paid homage to her roots and to the Jewish victims of World War II. It portrayed the tragedy and historical memory with an emotional intensity that has been studied as part of Holocaust poetry. In 1973, she published Ese vasto resplandor (That Vast Radiance), an anthology of her poetry from 1957 to 1971, which reflected her literary evolution and her constant search for the pure expression of feelings through nature, in contrast to her perception of the city as a place devoid of poetic beauty. Sarina Helfgott was also an influential figure in Peruvian theater. Her first play, La Red (The Net, 1953), marked the beginning of a prolific career as a playwright. La Jaula (The Cage, 1981) was staged in Lima, Buenos Aires, and Cambridge and was translated into English and Dutch.
Autora brasileรฑa de origen judรญo-ucraniano, Clarice Lispector (1920-1977) llegรณ con su familia a Brasil cuando apenas contaba con dos aรฑos de edad. Estudiรณ Derecho en la Facultad Nacional y trabajรณ, aunque de manera un tanto esporรกdica, como periodista para varios medios. Aunque ya habรญa publicado varios cuentos y relatos con anterioridad, Lispector comenzรณ su carrera literaria a los 21 aรฑos con Cerca del corazรณn salvaje, obra que recibiรณ el Premio Graรงa Aranha. A partir de ese momento, continuรณ escribiendo y colaborando con varios medios, pese a que sus constantes viajes โsu marido era diplomรกticoโ le hicieron desarrollar su obra de manera inconstante. Tras separarse de su marido en 1950, Lispector volviรณ al รกmbito periodรญstico y comenzรณ a destacar gracias a sus libros de relatos. En 1963 publicรณ La pasiรณn segรบn G.H., su novela mรกs aclamada. Despuรฉs de sobrevivir a un incendio en su casa que le produjo graves secuelas fรญsicas, Lispector sufriรณ de depresiรณn 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. Tambiรฉn comenzรณ a escribir relatos infantiles y siguiรณ con su pasiรณn por los cuentos cortos. Clarice Lispector muriรณ de cรกncer 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 Corazรณn Salvaje, a work that received the Graรงa Aranha Prize. From that moment on, she continued writing and collaborating with various media, despite her constant travels โ her husband was a diplomat โ 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 Pasiรณn segรบn 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 tricรด, Ana subiu no bonde. Depositou o volume no colo e o bonde comeรงou a andar. Recostou-se entรฃo no banco procurando conforto, num suspiro de meia satisfaรงรฃo.
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 espaรงosa, o fogรฃo enguiรงado 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 mรฃo, nรฃo outras, mas essas apenas. E cresciam รกrvores. Crescia sua rรกpida conversa com o cobrador de luz, crescia a รกgua 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 edifรญcio. Ana dava a tudo, tranquilamente, sua mรฃo pequena e forte, sua corrente de vida.
Certa hora da tarde era mais perigosa. Certa hora da tarde as รกrvores que plantara riam dela. Quando nada mais precisava de sua forรงa, inquietava-se. No entanto sentia-se mais sรณlida 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 artรญstico encaminhara-se hรก muito no sentido de tornar os dias realizados e belos; com o tempo, seu gosto pelo decorativo se desenvolvera e suplantara a รญntima desordem. Parecia ter descoberto que tudo era passรญvel de aperfeiรงoamento, a cada coisa se emprestaria uma aparรชncia harmoniosa; a vida podia ser feita pela mรฃo 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 doenรงa de vida. Dela havia aos poucos emergido para descobrir que tambรฉm sem a felicidade se vivia: abolindo-a, encontrara uma legiรฃo de pessoas, antes invisรญveis, que viviam como quem trabalha โ com persistรชncia, continuidade, alegria. que sucedera a Ana antes de ter o lar estava para sempre fora de seu alcance: uma exaltaรงรฃo perturbada que tantas vezes se confundira com felicidade insuportรกvel. Criara em troca algo enfim compreensรญvel, uma vida de adulto. Assim ela o quisera e o escolhera.
Sua precauรงรฃo 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 famรญlia distribuรญdo nas suas funรงรตes. Olhando os mรณveis limpos, seu coraรงรฃo se apertava um pouco em espanto. Mas na sua vida nรฃo havia lugar para que sentisse ternura pelo seu espanto – ela o abafava com a mesma habilidade que as lides em casa lhe haviam transmitido. Saรญa entรฃo para fazer compras ou levar objetos para consertar, cuidando do lar e da famรญlia ร revelia deles. Quando voltasse era o fim da tarde e as crianรงas vindas do colรฉgio exigiam-na. Assim chegaria a noite, com sua tranquila vibraรงรฃo.
De manhรฃ acordaria aureolada pelos calmos deveres. Encontrava os mรณveis de novo empoeirados e sujos, como se voltassem arrependidos. Quanto a ela mesma, fazia obscuramente parte das raรญzes 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 รบmido soprava anunciando, mais que o fim da tarde, o fim do vento mais รบmido soprava anunciando, mais que o fim da tarde, o fim da hora instรกvel. Ana respirou profundamente e uma grande aceitaรงรฃo deu a seu rosto um ar de mulher.
O bonde se arrastava, em seguida estacava. Atรฉ Humaitรก tinha tempo de descansar. Foi entรฃo que olhou para o homem parado no ponto.
A diferenรงa entre ele e os outros รฉ que ele estava realmente parado. De pรฉ, suas mรฃos se mantinham avanรงadas. Era um cego.
O que havia mais que fizesse Ana se aprumar em desconfianรงa? Alguma coisa intranqรผila estava sucedendo. Entรฃo ela viu: o cego mascava chicles… Um homem cego mascava chicles. Ana ainda teve tempo de pensar por um segundo que os irmรฃos viriam jantar โ o coraรงรฃo batia-lhe violento, espaรงado. Inclinada, olhava o cego profundamente, como se olha o que nรฃo nos vรช. Ele mascava goma na escuridรฃo. Sem sofrimento, com os olhos abertos. O movimento da mastigaรงรฃo fazia-o parecer sorrir e de repente deixar de sorrir, sorrir e deixar de sorrir โ como se ele a tivesse insultado, Ana olhava-o. E quem a visse teria a impressรฃo de uma mulher com รณdio. Mas continuava a olhรก-lo, cada vez mais inclinada โ o bonde deu uma arrancada sรบbita jogando-a desprevenida para trรกs, o pesado saco de tricรด despencou-se do colo, ruiu no chรฃo โ Ana deu um grito, o condutor deu ordem de parada antes de saber do que se tratava โ o bonde estacou, os passageiros olharam assustados. Incapaz de se mover para apanhar suas compras, Ana se aprumava pรกlida. Uma expressรฃo de rosto, hรก muito nรฃo usada, ressurgia-lhe com dificuldade, ainda incerta, incompreensรญvel. 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 mastigaรงรฃo e avanรงava as mรฃos 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 jรก nรฃo a olhavam mais.
O bonde se sacudia nos trilhos e o cego mascando goma ficara atrรกs para sempre. Mas o mal estava feito. A rede de tricรด era รกspera entre os dedos, nรฃo รญntima como quando a tricotara. A rede perdera o sentido e estar num bonde era um fio partido; nรฃo sabia o que fazer com as compras no colo. E como uma estranha mรบsica, o mundo recomeรงava ao redor. O mal estava feito. Por quรช? 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, perecรญvel… O mundo se tornara de novo um mal-estar. Vรกrios anos ruรญam, as gemas amarelas escorriam. Expulsa de seus prรณprios dias, parecia-lhe que as pessoas da rua eram periclitantes, que se mantinham por um mรญnimo equilรญbrio ร tona da escuridรฃo โ e por um momento a falta de sentido deixava-as tรฃo livres que elas nรฃo sabiam para onde ir. Perceber uma ausรชncia de lei foi tรฃo sรบbito 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 nรฃo 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 forรงa e vozes mais altas. Na Rua Voluntรกrios da Pรกtria parecia prestes a rebentar uma revoluรงรฃo, as grades dos esgotos estavam secas, o ar empoeirado. Um cego mascando chicles mergulhara o mundo em escura sofreguidรฃo. Em cada pessoa forte havia a ausรชncia de piedade pelo cego e as pessoas assustavam-na com o vigor que possuรญam. Junto dela havia uma senhora de azul, com um rosto. Desviou o olhar, depressa. Na calรงada, uma mulher deu um empurrรฃo no filho! Dois namorados entrelaรงavam os dedos sorrindo… E o cego? Ana caรญra numa bondade extremamente dolorosa. Ela apaziguara tรฃo bem a vida, cuidara tanto para que esta nรฃo explodisse. Mantinha tudo em serena compreensรฃo, 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 despedaรงava tudo isso. E atravรฉs da piedade aparecia a Ana uma vida cheia de nรกusea doce, atรฉ a boca. Sรณ entรฃo percebeu que hรก muito passara do seu ponto de descida. Na fraqueza em que estava, tudo a atingia com um susto; desceu do bonde com pernas dรฉbeis, olhou em torno de si, segurando a rede suja de ovo.
Por um momento nรฃo conseguia orientar-se. Parecia ter saltado no meio da noite. Era uma rua comprida, com muros altos, amarelos. Seu coraรงรฃo 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 ะพ muro. ย ย ย ย Enfim pรดde localizar-se. Andando um pouco mais ao longo de uma sebe, atravessou os portรตes do Jardim Botรขnico. Andava pesadamente pela alameda central, entre os coqueiros. Nรฃo havia ninguรฉm no Jardim. Depositou os embrulhos na terra, sentou-se no banco de um atalho e ali ficou muito tempo. A vastidรฃo parecia acalmรก-la, o silรชncio regulava sua respiraรงรฃo. Ela adormecia dentro de si. De longe via a alรฉia onde a tarde era clara e redonda. Mas a penumbra dos ramos cobria o atalho.
Ao seu redor havia ruรญdos serenos, cheiro de รกrvores, pequenas surpresas entre os cipรณs. Todo o Jardim triturado pelos instantes jรก 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 รญntimo a sobressaltou โ voltou-se rรกpida. Nada parecia se ter movido. Mas na alรฉia central estava imรณvel um poderoso gato. Seus pรชlos eram macios. Em novo andar silencioso, desapareceu. Inquieta, olhou em torno. Os ramos se balanรงavam, as sombras vacilavam no chรฃo. Um pardal ciscava na terra. E de repente, com malestar, pareceu-lhe ter caรญdo numa emboscada. Fazia-se no Jardim um trabalho secreto do qual ela comeรงava a se aperceber. Nas รกrvores as frutas eram pretas, doces como mel. Havia no chรฃo caroรงos secos cheios de circunvoluรงรตes, como pequenos cรฉrebros apodrecidos. O banco estava manchado de sucos roxos. Com suavidade intensa rumorejavam as รกguas. No tronco da รกrvore pregavam-se as luxuosas patas de uma aranha. A crueza do mundo era tranqรผila. O assassinato era profundo. E a morte nรฃo era o que pensรกvamos. Ao mesmo tempo que imaginรกrio โ era um mundo de se comer com os dentes, um mundo de volumosas dรกlias e tulipas. Os troncos estar, pareceu-lhe ter caรญdo numa emboscada. Fazia-se no Jardim um trabalho secreto do qual ela comeรงava a se aperceber.
Nas รกrvores as frutas eram pretas, doces como mel. Havia no chรฃo caroรงos secos cheios de circunvoluรงรตes, como pequenos cรฉrebros apodrecidos. O banco estava manchado de sucos roxos. Com suavidade intensa rumorejavam as รกguas. No tronco da รกrvore pregavam-se as luxuosas patas de uma aranha. A crueza do mundo era tranqรผila. O assassinato era profundo. E a morte nรฃo era o que pensรกvamos.
ย Ao mesmo tempo que imaginรกrio โ era um mundo de se comer com os dentes, um mundo de volumosas dรกlias e tulipas. Os troncos eram percorridos por parasitas folhudas, o abraรงo era macio, colado. Como a repulsa que precedesse uma entrega โ era fascinante, a mulher tinha nojo, e era fascinante.
As รกrvores estavam carregadas, o mundo era tรฃo rico que apodrecia. Quando Ana pensou que havia crianรงas e homens grandes com fome, a nรกusea subiu-lhe ร garganta, como se ela estivesse grรกvida e abandonada. A moral do Jardim era outra. Agora que o cego a guiara atรฉ ele, estremecia nos primeiros passos de um mundo faiscante, sombrio, onde vitรณrias-rรฉgias boiavam monstruosas. As pequenas flores espalhadas na relva nรฃo lhe pareciam amarelas ou rosadas, mas cor de mau ouro e escarlates. A decomposiรงรฃo era profunda, perfumada…
ย Mas todas as pesadas coisas, ela via com a cabeรงa 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 tรฃo bonito que ela teve medo do Inferno. Era quase noite agora e tudo parecia cheio, pesado, um esquilo voou na sombra. Sob os pรฉs a terra estava fofa, Ana aspirava-a com delรญcia. Era fascinante, e ela sentia nojo.
Mas quando se lembrou das crianรงas, diante das quais se tornara culpada, ergueu-se com uma exclamaรงรฃo de dor. Agarrou o embrulho, avanรงou pelo atalho obscuro, atingiu a alameda. Quase corria – e via ะพ Jardim em torno de si, com sua impersonalidade soberba. Sacudiu os portรตes fechados, sacudia-os segurando a madeira รกspera. O vigia apareceu espantado de nรฃo a ter visto.
Enquanto nรฃo chegou ร porta do edifรญcio, parecia ร beira de um desastre. Correu com a rede atรฉ o elevador, sua alma batia-lhe no peito – o que sucedia? A piedade pelo cego era tรฃo violenta como uma รขnsia, mas o mundo lhe parecia seu, sujo, perecรญvel, seu. Abriu a porta de casa. A sala era grande, quadrada, as maรงanetas brilhavam limpas, os vidros da janela brilhavam, a lรขmpada brilhava โ que nova terra era essa? E por um instante a vida sadia que levara atรฉ 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 abraรงava. Apertou-o com forรงa, com espanto. Protegia-se tremula. Porque a vida era periclitante. Ela amava o mundo, amava o que fora criado โ amava com noรงรฃo. Do mesmo modo como sempre fora fascinada pelas ostras, com aquele vago sentimento de asco que a aproximaรงรฃo da verdade Ihe provocava, avisando-a. Abraรงou o filho, quase a ponto de machucรก-lo. Como se soubesse de um mal โ o cego ou o belo Jardim Botรขnicะพ? – agarrava-se a ele, a quem queria acima de tudo. Fora atingida pelo demรดnio da fรฉ. A vida รฉ horrรญvel, 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 crianรงa entre os braรงos, ouviu o seu choro assustado. Mamรฃe, chamou o menino. Afastou-o, olhou aquele rosto, seu coraรงรฃo crispou-se. Nรฃo deixe mamรฃe te esquecer, disse-lhe. A crianรงa mal sentiu o abraรงo se afrouxar, escapou e correu atรฉ 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? Nรฃo havia como fugir. Os dias que ela forjara haviam-se rompido na crosta e a รกgua escapava.
Estava diante da ostra. E nรฃo havia como nรฃo olhรก-la. De que tinha vergonha? E que jรก nรฃo era mais piedade, nรฃo era sรณ piedade: seu coraรงรฃo se enchera com a pior vontade de viver. Jรก nรฃo 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 Botรขnico, tranquilo e alto, Ihe revelava. Com horror descobria que pertencia ร parte forte do mundo โ e que nome se deveria dar a sua misericรณrdia violenta? Seria obrigada a beijar um leproso, pois nunca seria apenas sua irmรฃ. Um cego me levou ao pior de mim mesma, pensou espantada. Sentia-se banida porque nenhum pobre beberia รกgua nas suas mรฃos ardentes. Ah! era mais fรกcil ser um santo que uma pessoa! Por Deus, pois nรฃo 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 fogรฃo, onde descobriu a pequena aranha. Carregando a jarra para mudar a รกgua – havia o horror da flor se entregando lรขnguida e asquerosa ร s suas mรฃos. O mesmo trabalho secreto se fazia ali na cozinha. Perto da lata de lixo, esmagou com o pรฉ a formiga. O pequeno assassinato da formiga. O mรญnimo corpo tremia. As gotas d’รกgua caรญam na รกgua parada do tanque. Os besouros de verรฃo.
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 cabeรงa, em ronda, em torno da luz, os mosquitos de uma noite cรกlida. Uma noite em que a piedade era tรฃo crua como o amor ruim. Entre os dois seios escorria o suor. A fรฉ ade que sondara no seu coraรงรฃo as รกguas mais profundas? Mas era uma piedade de leรฃo.
Humilhada, sabia que o cego preferiria um amor mais pobre. ะ, estremecendo, tambรฉm sabia por quรช. A vida do Jardim Botรขnico chamava-a como um lobisomem รฉ chamado pelo luar. Oh! mas ela amava o cego! pensou com os olhos molhados. No entanto nรฃo era com quebrantava, o calor do forno ardia nos seus olhos.
Depois o marido veio, vieram os irmรฃos e suas mulheres, vieram os filhos dos irmรฃos.
Jantaram com as janelas todas abertas, no nono andar. Um aviรฃo estremecia, ameaรงando no calor do cรฉu. Apesar de ter usado poucos ovos, o jantar estava bom. Tambรฉm suas crianรงas ficaram acordadas, brincando no tapete com as outras. Era verรฃo, seria inรบtil obrigรก-las a dormir. Ana estava um pouco pรกlida e ria suavemente com os outros.
Depois do jantar, enfim, a primeira brisa mais fresca entrou pelas janelas. Eles rodeavam a mesa, a famรญlia. Cansados do dia, felizes em nรฃo discordar, tรฃo dispostos a nรฃo ver defeitos. Riam-se de tudo, com o coraรงรฃo bom e humano. As crianรงas 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 crianรงas jรก 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 atรฉ envelhecer de novo?
Qualquer movimento seu e pisaria numa das crianรงas. Mas com uma maldade de
Depois, quando todos foram embora e as crianรงas jรก 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 atรฉ envelhecer de novo?
Qualquer movimento seu e pisaria numa das crianรงas. Mas com uma maldade de amante, parecia aceitar que da flor saรญsse o mosquito, que as vitรณriasrรฉgias boiassem no escuro do lago. O cego pendia entre os frutos do Jardim Botรขnico.
Se fora um estouro do fogรฃo, o fogo jรก teria pegado em toda a casa! pensou correndo para a cozinha e deparando com o seu marido diante do cafรฉ derramado.
– O que foi?! gritou vibrando toda.
Ele se assustou com o medo da mulher. E de repente riu entendendo: – Nรฃo foi nada, disse, sou um desajeitado. Ele parecia cansado, com olheiras. Mas diante do estranho rosto de Ana, espiou-a com maior atenรงรฃo.
Depois, quando todos foram embora e as crianรงas jรก 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 atรฉ envelhecer de novo? Qualquer movimento seu e pisaria numa das crianรงas. Mas com uma maldade de amante, parecia aceitar que da flor saรญsse o mosquito, que as vitรณrias-rรฉgias boiassem no escuro do lago. O cego pendia entre os frutos do Jardim Botรขnico.
Se fora um estouro do fogรฃo, o fogo jรก teria pegado em toda a casa! pensou correndo para a cozinha e deparando com o seu marido diante do cafรฉ derramado.
– O que foi?! gritou vibrando toda.
Ele se assustou com o medo da mulher. E de repente riu entendendo:
– Nรฃo foi nada, disse, sou um desajeitado. Ele parecia cansado, com olheiras.
Mas diante do estranho rosto de Ana, espiou-a com maior atenรงรฃo. Depois atraiu-a a si, em rรกpido afago.
โ Nรฃo quero que lhe aconteรงa nada, nunca! disse ela.
– Deixe que pelo menos me aconteรงa o fogรฃo dar um estouro, respondeu ele sorrindo.
Ela continuou sem forรงa nos seus braรงos. Hoje de tarde alguma coisa tranqรผila se rebentara, e na casa toda havia um tom humorรญstico, triste. ร hora de dormir, disse ele, รฉ tarde. Num gesto que nรฃo era seu, mas que pareceu natural, segurou a mรฃo da mulher, levando-a consigo sem olhar para trรกs, 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 coraรงรฃo. 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.
Arquitecto y pintor, Josรฉ Grinberg se graduรณ de arquitecto en la Universidad Nacional Autรณnoma de Mรฉxico (UNAM). Fundador y director de Grinberg & Topelson Arquitectos en la Ciudad de Mรฉxico en 1978, ha desarrollado una diversidad de proyectos residenciales, educativos, de salud, culturales, de vivienda social y de desarrollo urbano. Ha construido mรกs de cien residencias y diseรฑado complejos urbanos de vivienda social con mรกs de 20,000 unidades. Fue profesor de Diseรฑo Arquitectรณnico y Urbano durante 26 aรฑos en la Universidad Anรกhuac. Miembro del Consejo de Mรฉrito del Colegio de Arquitectos de Mรฉxico. Miembro de la Academia Mexicana de Arquitectos y de la Academia Nacional de Arquitectos de Mรฉxico. En la obra de Josรฉ Grinberg, las soluciones arquitectรณnicas y urbanรญsticas se fundamentan en el anรกlisis del contexto, el programa, las implicaciones sociales y las tecnologรญas constructivas, en estrecha relaciรณn con su tiempo y lugar.
Architect and Painter, Josรฉ Grinberg received his architectural degree form the National University UNAM. Founder and principal of Grinberg & Topelson Architects in Mexico City 1978, he has developed a diversity of projects, residencial, educational, health, cultural, social housing and urban development. He has built more than one hundred residencies, and designed urban complexes of social housing holding more than 20,000 units. Professor of Architectural & Urban Design during 26 years at the Universidad Anahuac. Member of the Merit Board at the Colegio de Arquitectos de Mexico. Fellow of the Mexican Academy of Architects and the National Academy of Architects of Mexico. In the works of Jose Grinberg, the architectural and urban solutions are rooted in the analysis of the context, program, social implications and building technologies, in close relation to their time and place.
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Sara Topelson de Grinberg se graduรณ como arquitecta en la Universidad Nacional Autรณnoma de Mรฉxico (UNAM). Nombrada Mujer del Aรฑo en Mรฉxico en 1996, Topelson fue presidenta de la Uniรณn Internacional de Arquitectos (UIA) de 1996 a 1999. Durante su trayectoria como socia del estudio de arquitectura Grinberg & Topelson, ha desarrollado proyectos en los รกmbitos de vivienda, industria, educaciรณn, cultura y vivienda social. Ademรกs de su labor en la prรกctica privada, Sara ha sido profesora en la Universidad Anรกhuac, donde impartiรณ clases de historia de la arquitectura durante 25 aรฑos. De 2001 a 2003, fue directora de Arquitectura del Instituto Nacional de Bellas Artes de Mรฉxico, donde impulsรณ la conservaciรณn de la arquitectura del siglo XX mediante registros, publicaciones y exposiciones en el Museo Nacional de Arquitectura. Coordina el Centro de Documentaciรณn e Investigaciรณn sobre Vivienda (CIDOC) de Mรฉxico, fundado en 2000, donde ha promovido proyectos de investigaciรณn, entre ellos ยซLa vivienda en el Estado de Mรฉxicoยป, en colaboraciรณn con el Centro Conjunto de Estudios de Vivienda de la Universidad de Harvard. Fue Directora General de Desarrollo Urbano del Distrito Miguel Hidalgo en la Ciudad de Mรฉxico desde octubre de 2006 hasta enero de 2007. Se desempeรฑรณ como Subsecretaria de Desarrollo Urbano y Regional del Gobierno Federal en Mรฉxico.
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Sara Topelson de Grinberg received her architectural degree from the National University of Mexico (UNAM). Named Mexico’s Woman of the Year 1996, Topelson was President of the International Union of Architects (UIA) 1996 โ 1999. During her career as a partner in the architectural firm Grinberg & Topelson, she has developed projects in the fields of housing, industry, education, culture and low-income housing. In addition to her work in private practice, Sara has been a professor at the Universidad Anahuac, teaching history of architecture for 25 years. From 2001 to 2003, she was Director of Architecture of the National Institute of Fine Arts of Mexico; promoting conservation of XX Century architecture through registers, publications and exhibitions ar the National Museum of Architecture. She coordinates the Housing Documentation and Research Center (CIDOC), Mรฉxico, founded in 2000 where she has promoted research projects, among them “The State of Mexico’s Housing” in collaboration with the Joint Center for Housing Studies of Harvard University. She was General Director of Urban Development for the Miguel Hidalgo District in Mexico City from October 2006 to January 2007. She has served as Undersecretary for Urban and Regional Development for the Federal Government in Mexico.
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Museo Pre-historico — Corea del Sur/The Prehistoric Museum — South Korea
Edificio Anahuac/Anahuac Building
Biblioteca Pรบblica de Jalisco
Comisiรณn nacional de vivienda/National Housing Commission
Liliana Mizrahi, nacida en Buenos Aires, Argentina en 1943. Desde 2004, colabora con la pรกgina Mujeres sin Fronteras, escribiendo una columna mensual. Desde 2006 es columnista de radio. Ha publicado notas periodรญsticas en Tiempo Argentino, La Razรณn y Pรกgina 12. Y en Revistas: El Porteรฑo, Para Ti, Claudia, Viva y otras. Premio Coca-Cola para las Artes y las Ciencias, menciรณn en poesรญa, 1983. Recibiรณ en 1988, la Beca Nacional de Poesรญa otorgada por el Fondo Nacional de las Artes. Menciรณn de Honor en Poesรญa del Fondo Nacional de las Artes, 1995. Fue finalista del concurso de poesรญa del diario La Naciรณn 1995. Sus poemas fueron traducidos al francรฉs, al inglรฉs y al hebreo.
Obras:
La Mujer Transgresora, Las Mujeres y La Culpa, Mujeres en Plena Revuelta, Madres en Desuso, Libro De Humor, Ilustrado, Los Mรกgicos Juegos, Bautismos y Fundaciones, Hembras del Ave del Paraรญso, Quiรฉn me Matรณ 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 Razรณn, and Pรกgina 12, and in magazines such as El Porteรฑo, 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 Naciรณn 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 Mรกgicos Juegos, Bautismos y Fundaciones, Hembras del Ave del Paraรญso, Quiรฉn me Matรณ Madre
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El cantar de los cantares, una รฉtica del amor*
ยฟA quiรฉn llamar?
ยฟA quiรฉn llamar en el camino
tan alto y tan
desierto?
JACOBO FIJMAN, El canto del cisne
Ser una escritora judรญa y sefaradรญ es una experiencia compleja. Implica, al menos para mรญ, asumir exigencias, reconocer ambigรผedades 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 extraรฑa. A veces, tambiรฉn desespero de la tierra prometida.
Mis ensayos tratan de la mujer y la transgresiรณn, 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 dรญas, cada maรฑana, cuando los varones rezan:
โGracias Dios mรญo, por no haberme hecho mujerโ.
A esa hora, me convierto en Lilith, en Eva, en Dรฉbora o en Judith. Y pienso: no convirtamos este universo en un gran destierro. No amputemos mรกs cuerpos ni mรกs geografรญas. Tratemos de achicar el repertorio de estereotipos y prejuicios.
Los varones ortodoxos repiten esta oraciรณn desde la presunciรณn de que han sido liberados de una situaciรณn precaria.
No quiero tener mรกs en contra de mรญ a mis propios judรญos 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 extraรฑa coaliciรณn.
Sรฉ tambiรฉn de mis propios prejuicios y estereotipos contra los que lucho por constituirme la mujer de Lot; Sara, la estรฉril o la que engaรฑa al enemigo; soy Ester y soy Rebeca. Busquรฉ a estas mujeres para apropiarme de ellas, no para ser una destinataria fatรญdica de versiones heredadas.
El discurso bรญblico me constituye, aunque me cueste reconocerlo; habla a travรฉs de mรญ 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 tambiรฉn se aproximan al tema del cambio.
El pueblo judรญo, en su larga historia, ha atravesado por transformaciones que significaron verdaderas mutaciones y acerca de las cuales la literatura bรญblica, por suerte, ha dejado constancia. Cambio, para mรญ, es metamorfosis. Mutaciรณn de valores. Incursiรณn en lo desconocido; comprometerse con hechos futuros que no son previsibles y enfrentar sus consecuencias. Este encuentro de escritores judรญos me sorprende sumergida literariamente en el tema del amor.
Elegรญ entonces una pareja: la Sulamita y el rey Salomรณn. Elegรญ un poema: โEl cantar de los cantaresโ. Y los elijo porque sobre la base de la transgresiรณn que ellos dramatizan se constituye una รฉtica del amor basada en la libertad y la autonomรญa de ambos, quizรกs por primera vez en la literatura amorosa universal.
El cantar de los cantares. Me pregunto: ยฟno serรก que una de las claves del amor, y que creo vislumbrar en la Sulamita y Salomรณn, es comprender a tiempo que todos los vรญnculos estรกn hechos para deshacerse?
Entonces pienso en su opuesto: la separaciรณn, en el mundo de las almas, no existe. Dice Salomรณn en el Eclesiastรฉs:
โPara todas las cosas hay sazรณn
y todo lo que se quiere debajo del cielo tiene su tiempo:
โTiempo de nacer y tiempo de morir.
โTiempo de abrazar
y tiempo de alejarse de abrazar. โ
Tiempo de amar y tiempo de aborrecer. una รฉtica del amor basada en la libertad y la autonomรญa de ambos, quizรกs por primera vez en la literatura amorosa universal.
โTiempo de guerra y tiempo de paz.โ Esta sagrada pareja, tan polรฉmica para la ortodoxia religiosa, nutre esta extraรฑa 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 posesiรณn, ademรกs de insuficiente, es inรบtil.
Esta pareja bรญblica contiene en su esencia los elementos fundantes de lo que para mรญ es una concepciรณn รฉtica del amor: el reconocimiento y la aceptaciรณn del otro como de un profundo misterio.
Este texto expresa, entre otras cosas, mi aspiraciรณn al diรกlogo, apertura al extraรฑo. En el diรกlogo se modela el espacio de una interioridad recรญproca. En la palabra, en el silencio, el amor se convierte en hogar imaginario de la vida interior de la pareja. La tensiรณn del diรกlogo en โEl cantar…โ no es dramรกtica sino lรญrica y amorosamente cultivada. La temรกtica erรณtica, en este poema, queda fuertemente unida a la ausencia:
โCorre, amado mรญoโ, dice la Sulamita.
El rey huye de la fusiรณn: โEn el lecho, entre sueรฑos, por la noche busquรฉ al amado y no le hallรฉโ. Aun en la fugacidad de la presencia no temen la incertidumbre. Paradojalmente, lo inasible del amante se convierte en plenitud de certezas.
El texto bรญblico nuevamente confirma y realimenta mis ensayos. Nuevamente me constituye y habla. No podrรญa estar pensando en una รฉtica del amor que no se apoyara en una concepciรณn de la soledad como plenitud del conocimiento y del encuentro con uno mismo. โEl amor consiste en que dos soledades mutuamente se protejan, se limiten y se reverencienโ, dice Rilke.
Me nutre la polรฉmica lectura que se puede hacer de esta obra. Julia Kristeva, en el ensayo “Una santa locura”, ella y รฉl, plantea la convergencia de una mentalidad judรญa religiosa, ideologรญa guardiana de su identidad, una estรฉtica 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 bรญblica.
Se ha legitimado lo imposible. La transgresiรณn se ha convertido en ley de amor. La verdad es poesรญa. A travรฉs de la transgresiรณn me reconcilio con lo que para mรญ es lo mejor del judaรญsmo y encuentro en รฉste un espacio alentador para mi propio despliegue.
Me adueรฑo y recreo la tradiciรณn a travรฉs de la conquista, cada maรฑana, de mi propia libertad. Como una vieja oraciรณn a rezar, cuyas palabras se deletrean con exactitud, pienso: que este discurso bรญblico que hoy nos convoca sirva para unir, para olvidar y para aprender a abrirnos y amar de nuevo, lo desconocido, lo extraรฑo.
* Presentado por primera vez en el Segundo Diรกlogo 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.
โA time of war and a time of peace.โ 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 โThe Song of Songsโฆโ is not dramatic but lyrical and lovingly cultivated. The erotic theme in this poem is strongly linked to absence:
โRun, my beloved,โ says the Shulamite.
The king flees from fusion: โOn my bed, between dreams, at night I sought my beloved and did not find him.โ 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. โLove consists in two solitudes mutually protecting, limiting, and revering one another,โ 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.
Nacida como Olga Kostakowsky en Leipzig, Alemania, en 1913, Olga Costa llegรณ a Mรฉxico en 1925, cuando tenรญa apenas doce aรฑos. Su familia, de origen judรญo-ruso, buscaba un lugar para rehacer sus vidas. Fue en Mรฉxico donde realmente alcanzรณ la mayorรญa de edad, cambiando finalmente su nombre. Tomรณ clases de grabado con Emilio Amero, donde conociรณ a su futuro compaรฑero de vida y artรญstico, Josรฉ Chรกvez Morado. Se casaron en 1935, formando una uniรณn que no solo fue emotiva sino tambiรฉn profundamente creativa. Olga Costa se dedicรณ a construir un cuerpo de trabajo marcado por una profunda originalidad. Sus pinturas son notables por su exaltaciรณn del color, sรญntesis formal y una mirada amorosa hacia la vida popular mexicana. Su universo eran flores, frutas, mujeres anรณnimas y altares domรฉsticos. Su pintura mรกs celebrada es La vendedora de frutas (1951), considerada un รญcono del arte moderno mexicano. El mรกximo reconocimiento a su carrera llegรณ en 1990 cuando le fue otorgado el Premio Nacional de Artes y Ciencias en la categorรญa de Bellas Artes, uno de los mรกximos honores culturales de Mรฉxico. Falleciรณ en Guanajuato en 1993.
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Born as Olga Kostakowsky in Leipzig, Germany, 1913, Olga Costa arrived in Mexico in 1925, when she was just twelve years old. Her family, of Jewish-Russian origin, was seeking a place to rebuild their lives, It was in Mexico where she truly came of age, eventually changing her name to She took printmaking classes with Emilio Amero, where she met her future life and artistic partner, Josรฉ Chรกvez Morado. They married in 1935, forming a union that was not only emotional but also deeply creative. Olga Costa dedicated herself to building a body of work marked by profound originality. Her paintings are notable for their exaltation of color, formal synthesis, and a loving gaze toward Mexican popular life. Her universe was flowers, fruits, anonymous women, and domestic altars. Her most celebrated painting is La vendedora de frutas(1951), considered an icon of modern Mexican art, The highest recognition of her career came in 1990 when she was awarded the National Prize for Arts and Sciences in the Fine Arts category, one of Mexicoโs highest cultural honors. She died in Guanajuato in 1993
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FRUTAS
MUJERES Y MUCHACHAS MEXICANAS/MEXICAN WOMAN AND GIRLS
Ruth Behar naciรณ en La Habana, Cuba, y creciรณ en Nueva York. Ahora es James W. Fernandez Distinguished University Professor of Anthropology and Professor of Anthropology en la Universidad de Michigan. Ruth ha trabajado como etnรณgrafa en Espaรฑa, Mรฉxico y Cuba, y es conocida por su enfoque humanista para comprender la identidad, la inmigraciรณn y la bรบsqueda de un hogar en nuestra era global. Sus libros incluyen The Presence of the Past in a Spanish Village; Translated Woman: Crossing the Border with Esperanzaโs Story; The Vulnerable Observer: Anthropology That Breaks Your Heart; y An Island Called Home: Returning to Jewish Cuba. Es co-editora de Women Writing Culture, editora de Bridges to Cuba/Puentes a Cuba y co-editora de The Portable Island: Cubans at Home in the World. Su documental, Adio Kerida/Goodbye Dear Love: A Cuban Sephardic Journey, se ha exhibido en festivales de todo el mundo. Tambiรฉn es poeta; su obra ha aparecido recientemente en Burnt Sugar/Caรฑa Quemada:Poesรญa Cubana Contemporรกnea en Inglรฉs y Espaรฑol y en The Norton Anthology of Latino Literature. Everything I Kept/Todo lo que guardรฉ es su primer libro de poesรญa.
Premios
Premio de la Fundaciรณn MacArthur
Premio de la Fundaciรณn en Memoria de John Simon Guggenheim
Beca Fulbright Senior
Instituto de Humanidades, Beca de la Familia Hunting, Universidad de Michigan
Universidad Wesleyana, Premio a la Exalumna Distinguida en Reconocimiento a sus Logros y Servicios Destacados
Doctora honoris causa en Letras Humanitarias, Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion
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Ruth Behar was born in Havana, Cuba, and grew up in New York. She is now James W. Fernandez Distinguished University Professor of Anthropology and Professor of Anthropology at the University of Michigan. Ruth has worked as an ethnographer in Spain, Mexico, and Cuba, and is known for her humanistic approach to understanding identity, immigration, and the search for home in our global era. Her books include The Presence of the Past in a Spanish Village; Translated Woman: Crossing the Border with Esperanzaโs Story; The Vulnerable Observer: Anthropology That Breaks Your Heart; and An Island Called Home: Returning to Jewish Cuba. She is co-editor of Women Writing Culture, editor of Bridges to Cuba/Puentes a Cuba, and co-editor of The Portable Island: Cubans at Home in the World. Her documentary, Adio Kerida/Goodbye Dear Love: A Cuban Sephardic Journey, has been shown in festivals around the world. A poet as well, her work has appeared recently in Burnt Sugar/Caรฑa Quemada: Contemporary Cuban Poetry in English and Spanish and The Norton Anthology of Latino Literature. Everything I Kept/Todo lo que guardรฉ is her first book of poetry.
Award(s)
MacArthur Foundation Fellows Award
John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation Award
Fulbright Senior Fellowship
Institute for the Humanities, Hunting Family Faculty Fellowship, University of Michigan
Wesleyan University, Distinguished Alumna Award in Recognition of Outstanding Achievement and Service
Doctor of Humane Letters, honoris causa, Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion
Estos poemas fueron escritos en inglรฉs y traducidos al espaรฑol por la poeta/ These poems were written in English and translated into Spanish by the poet.
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ALUMNA OBEDIENTE
Fui una alumna obediente. Cuando mis profesores me dijeron
que no llegarรญa a ser una buena poeta, dejรฉ de escribir. Preferรญ
cortarme la lengua que insultar a las Musas. Pero adoraba las
palabras como adoro el fuego en el invierno, el cielo estrellado
y el mar tranquilo. Dirรกn que estos poemas son tรญmidos; como
la invรกlida que se levanta de su cama despuรฉs de una larga
convalecencia. Pero asรญ ando, abrazรกndome a las paredes que
encuentro en mi camino.
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OBEDIENT STUDENT
I was an obedient student. When my teachers told me I
wouldnโt make a good poet, I stopped writing. I preferred to
cut out my tongue than insult the Muses. But I adored words,
like I adore fire in winter, the starry sky, and the calm sea. These
poems might be timid: like the invalid who rises from her bed
after a long convalescence. But I still walk, embracing the walls
along the way.
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MIEDOS
Tengo tantos miedos: de la noche, de envejecer, de ver a los
que he querido,
enfermar o morir, de mi propia muerte. Son
los miedos de todos. Pero me atormentan tambiรฉn miedos mรกs
raros: de que mi corazรณn se pone a latir mรกs rรกpido;
de volverme ciego de repente y no poder llegar a casa: de perder mi
memoria antes de encontrar tiempo de escribir los cuentos
dormidos dentro de mรญ; de inviernos enfurecidos que jamรกs
terminan. Tambiรฉn tengo miedo a mojarme en la lluvia, a
pararme de cabeza, a bajar las escaleras de prisa. Las policรญas,
los soldados, y los oficiales de inmigraciรณn me espantan.
Si me quitaron los miedos, no pesarรญa nada y serรญa libre. Me verรญas
bailar como una hoja parda, seca, y despuรฉs me soplarรญa el
viento de otoรฑo.
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FEARS
I have so many fears: of the night, of growing old, of seeing
those I have loved fall ill or die, of my own death. Those are
fears that everyone has. But I am also tormented by stranger fears:
of my heart pounding too quickly; of unexpectedly going blind
and not finding my way home: of losing my memory before I
find the time to write the stories still dormant in me: of raging winters
which will never end. I am also afraid of getting wet in
the rain, standing in my head, running down staircases.
Police, soldiers, and immigration officers terrify me. If you took
my fears away, I would be weightless and free. You would see
me dance like a brown leaf and then Iโd blow away in the
Eliah Germani es un escritor judรญo-chileno cuyos relatos exploran la identidad judรญa, la espiritualidad y las experiencias de los judรญos en Latinoamรฉrica. Su obra retrata personajes complejos y sus inesperadas revelaciones vitales, enmarcadas en el contexto de la historia y la cultura judรญas. En sus colecciones Volver a Berlรญn (2010) y Objetos personales (2015), Germani presenta relatos que contienen misticismo judรญo y referencias al Talmud y a la cultura yidish. Tambiรฉn explora temas como el exilio, la identidad y la memoria, reflexionando sobre el impacto del Holocausto y la dictadura de Pinochet en Chile. Volver a Berlรญn ganรณ el Premio del Consejo Nacional del Libro de Chile en la categorรญa de relatos inรฉditos. Sus cuentos han sido incluidos en la antologรญa Puro Cuento (Parรญs: Marco Antonio de la Parra, 2004,) en Enclave: Revista de la creaciรณn literaria en espaรฑol (CUNY, 2012), y en la revista literaria Hispamรฉrica (Estados Unidos, 2013), en Brevilla: Revista de minificciรณn (2017) y en Los huesos y otros cuentos, la antologรญa del Cuento โPaulaโ. Concurso (Alfaguara, 2018). Es pediatra del Centro Mรฉdico de la Universidad de Concepciรณn.
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Eliah Germani is a Chilean-Jewish writer whose short-stories explore Jewish identity, spirituality and the experiences of Jews in Latin America. His work depicts complex characters and their unexpected life revelations, set against the background of Jewish history and culture. In his collections Volver a Berlรญn (2010) and Objetos personales (2015), Germani presents stories containing Jewish mysticism and references to the Talmud and Yiddish culture. He also explores themes like exile, identity and memory, often reflecting on the impact of the Holocaust and the Pinochet dictatorship in Chile. Volver a Berlรญn won the National Book Council of Chile Prize in the category of unpublished stories. His short-stories have been included in the anthology Puro Cuento (Paris: Marco Antonio de la Parra, 2004,) in Enclave: Revista de la creaciรณn literaria en espaรฑol (CUNY, 2012), and in the literary journal Hispamรฉrica (U.S.A, 2013), in Brevilla: Revista de minificciรณn (2017) and in Los huesos y otros cuentos, the anthology of the โPaulaโ Short-Story Contest (Alfaguara, 2018.). He is a pediatrician at the University of Concepciรณn Medical Center.
El rabino estuvo de acuerdo en cambiar la mezuzรก. Goldberg se habรญa decidido a vivir con Daniela, en el departamento de ella, el mismo que ocupaba con su exmarido, y si bien no se trataba exactamente de una mudanza, la necesaria renovaciรณn de la vivienda tenรญa que incluir la mezuzรก. Para Goldberg no podรญa ser kosher la mezuzรก de su predecesor, asรญ que cambiarla era un ineludible acto de purificaciรณn. Deseando marcar la diferencia, adquiriรณ una mรกs ornamentada, que se notara mรกs, y quiso fijarla a la manera sefaradรญ, en posiciรณn vertical, y no inclinada hacia adentro como la anterior. Durante la ceremonia familiar de instalaciรณn, se reunieron en el pasillo no muy amplio del cuarto piso, Daniela, Goldberg y sus cuatro hijos, encabezados por el rabino, los hombres provistos de kipรก, en una ceremonia inequรญvocamente judรญa. En el preciso momento en que el rabino explicaba la mezuzรก, como escudo espiritual de la casa y de sus moradores, apareciรณ el vecino de enfrente, desde el ascensor contiguo, Fady Samur, un รกrabe joven, de origen palestino. Les saludรณ de lejos, entre sorprendido y curioso, con un ademรกn no desprovisto de amabilidad. Dirigiรณ una sonrisa cรณmplice a Daniela y continuรณ el breve trayecto hasta su puerta, sin poner atenciรณn a las palabras del rabino.
Antes de vivir con Daniela, Goldberg ya cumplรญa un par de aรฑos como soltero de segunda mano. Su matrimonio habรญa sido complicado, pero le parecรญa aรบn mรกs tรณxica la experiencia conyugal de Daniela. Su primera mujer era decoradora de interiores y debido a su trabajo, tenรญa un buen conocimiento del Feng Shui, cuyos preceptos practicaba antes que nada en casa, y de manera bastante ortodoxa, lo cual a Goldberg no pocas veces fastidiaba. Pero ahora, con el tiempo y la distancia, se daba cuenta de cรณmo lo habรญa permeado esa filosofรญa, al punto de encontrarla bastante razonable, escuchando incluso la voz de su exesposa cada vez que visitaba una nueva casa. Desde el primer dรญa sintiรณ que el departamento de Daniela era un terreno contaminado, invadido por una mala vibra que era necesario expurgar. Cuando por fin decidieron mudarse juntos, ambos estuvieron de acuerdo en llevar a cabo una renovaciรณn radical.
Un encuentro casual con Fady Samur en el ascensor, permitiรณ a Daniela presentar a los dos hombres. Asรญ que eres palestino, dijo Goldberg. No sรฉ si Dios o el diablo nos junta: yo soy judรญo. Bueno, por suerte somos humanos, ironizรณ Samur, ademรกs de chilenos, pero lo que mรกs importa, somos vecinos, lo digo porque no hubo buena onda con el fulano anterior. ยฟY por quรฉ crees que estamos saneando el departamento?, dijo Goldberg. Hacemos una limpieza energรฉtica. Energรญas limpias, como dirรญa un ingeniero. Ya pintamos las paredes y renovamos los muebles. Entre parรฉntesis, nos disculpas por el ruido. No hay problema, dijo Samur, Daniela ya me lo habรญa advertido, y tambiรฉn me hablรณ de ti, creo que eres una buena elecciรณn para ella, de seguro mejor que el otro tipo, intuyo que seremos buenos vecinos.
Cuando Goldberg llegaba a casa, tocaba la mezuzรก y se besaba la mano susurrando: โDios me acompaรฑa en mi entrada y en mi salidaโ. ย Pasado el umbral, lo acogรญa el recibidor, luminosa antesala del living, donde la suave curva de los muebles lo invitaba al descanso y a la meditaciรณn. Las paredes, vestidas de colores claros, tamizaban armoniosas la luz de los ventanales, como un manto protector contra el ruido y la disarmonรญa exterior. El verde ficus del rincรณn, que habรญan plantado con Daniela, replicaba vigoroso la sana energรญa que ambos cultivaban. Juntos barrieron el jametz de la vida pasada, eliminaron las alfombras y rasparon las malas huellas del piso, pintaron de nuevo cada habitaciรณn, adquirieron muebles de madera clara y dieron otra luz a la cocina. Daniela renovรณ todas sus cosas, desde la ropa รญntima hasta el colchรณn matrimonial, cambiรณ la cama, las toallas y las cortinas. Goldberg, en la pared donde antes colgaba la Ketubรก, dispuso un cuadrito prolijamente decorado, con la palabra hebrea โAnajnuโ, que significa โNosotrosโ, obra de su propia mano.
Un dรญa por la tarde, al regresar, Goldberg pisรณ algo raro al salir del ascensor. Se detuvo para ver de quรฉ se trataba y descubriรณ los restos pisoteados de la mezuzรก. Supo enseguida que habรญa sido vandalizada. El marco donde estaba atornillada se veรญa roto y astillado, delatando la violencia de la profanaciรณn. Un escalofrรญo de mil aรฑos lo estremeciรณ, la persecuciรณn ancestral golpeaba en su remota puerta chilena. Pero ยฟquiรฉn mรกs sabรญa de la mezuzรก? En un impulso visceral, se pegรณ al timbre del palestino. Samur apareciรณ extraรฑado, portaba unos audรญfonos. A sus espaldas, una muda pantalla exhibรญa una orquesta sinfรณnica. Goldberg agarrรณ por el brazo a Samur y lo llevรณ hasta su puerta violentada, mostrรกndole acusador el caos de la mezuzรก. Samur, incrรฉdulo, se quitรณ los audรญfonos. ยกEs horrible!, dijo. Goldberg le espetรณ que un ataque de ese tipo no era otra cosa que antisemitismo. ยฟNo pensarรกs que tengo algo que ver en esto?, protestรณ Samur. ยฟPor quรฉ habrรญa de romper tu sรญmbolo judรญo? Debes saber que soy astrรณnomo y como tal, incluso bromeaba con tu puerta, imaginaba que habรญas puesto un timbre al cielo.
Confundido, intentando disculparse, Goldberg ofreciรณ un cafรฉ a Samur, quien accediรณ aliviado. Comentรณ que nunca habรญa ocurrido algo asรญ en el edificio, incluso en tiempos del escandaloso vecino anterior, que tenรญa puros enemigos. A Goldberg le agradรณ el comentario sobre su antecesor, sintiรณ que le daba un respiro. Samur observรณ a su alrededor complacido, han hecho una buena renovaciรณn, dijo, se ve muy acogedor, se respira un aire diferente. Goldberg ignoraba que Samur conociera de antes el departamento y se sintiรณ como un advenedizo. Este atentado es puro antisemitismo, dijo Samur, quien hace algo asรญ, no lo hace por amor a los palestinos, lo hace por odio a Israel, por odio a los judรญos, aquรญ en Chile, a 13.000 kilรณmetros de distancia, es una pura estupidez, algo que no ayuda a nadie, que solo extiende el conflicto. Como astrรณnomo, toda la vida me ha conmovido la infinitud del Universo y, sencillamente, no puedo entender que en este planeta mรญnimo nos malgastemos la vida destruyรฉndonos. ยฟSabes quรฉ es lo opuesto del odio? Es precisamente aquella dimensiรณn donde tendrรญamos que movernos. No apagaremos el fuego con mรกs fuego, no tendremos resultados distintos si repetimos siempre lo mismo.
A la llegada de Daniela, Samur ya se habรญa ido. Durante la cena, mรกs que la conmociรณn de Goldberg, la abrumรณ el malentendido con el vecino. La avergonzaba la hostilidad de su exmarido contra โel turcoโ, y ahora Goldberg, con su metida de pata, repetรญa de nuevo la injusticia. Quiso hacerle saber cosas que รฉl ignoraba: Fady Samur fue su รกngel guardiรกn en los malos tiempos, รฉl llamรณ a los carabineros cuando su marido la golpeaba, รฉl le dio refugio en ese perรญodo crรญtico, รฉl le dio fuerzas para salir adelante. ยฟY entonces, por quรฉ no siguieron juntos?, inquiriรณ celoso Goldberg. Cรณmo se te ocurre, dijo Daniela, yo no podรญa mรกs, solo querรญa desaparecer, estaba fundida. Pero en circunstancias normales, insistiรณ Goldberg, ยฟno habrรญa sido distinto? Te equivocas, ยฟno sabes acaso que Fady es gay? No se le nota, dijo Goldberg. Incluso lo encuentro parecido a tu hermano. Sรญ, en verdad se parecen, dijo Daniela. ย Es el parentesco semita, ironizรณ Goldberg, se nota que somos primos. ยฟY si no fuese gay te hubieses enamorado de รฉl? Daniela respondiรณ con un gesto de impaciencia. Pero Goldberg no se rindiรณ. ยฟTe resultaba complicado que รฉl no fuese judรญo? Nunca lo pensรฉ y jamรกs me importarรญa, respondiรณ desafiante Daniela. Y por mi parte, deberรญas entender que no te da ventaja ser judรญo si te comportas como un niรฑo.
Despuรฉs de un largo baรฑo caliente, Daniela se durmiรณ rendida, de espaldas a Goldberg. A รฉl le costรณ conciliar el sueรฑo. Con la luz apagada, se quedรณ leyendo en su celular: Rabbi Kliger menciona tres categorรญas generales: tesis, antรญtesis y sรญntesis. Las dos primeras son limitadas por definiciรณn, ya que los opuestos se niegan mutuamente, pero el tercer camino, el intermedio, es infinito, pues incluye ambos opuestos y no estรก limitado por ninguno de ellos.
Cuando por fin se quedรณ dormido, Goldberg soรฑรณ con Fady Samur. Soรฑรณ que viajaban juntos por el mundo, dos emisarios, un palestino y un judรญo, ambos profetas de las energรญas limpias. Ellos sรญ hacรญan las cosas de manera diferente. Eran los magos de la buena vibra.
The rabbi agreed to replace the mezuzah. Goldberg had decided to live with Daniela in her apartment, the same one she lived in with her ex-husband. While it wasn’t exactly a move, the necessary renovation of the home had to include the mezuzah. For Goldberg, his predecessor’s mezuzah couldn’t be kosher, so replacing it was an unavoidable act of purification. Wanting to emphasize the difference, he acquired a more ornate, more noticeable one and wanted to affix it in the Sephardic manner, upright, rather than tilted inward like the previous one. During the family installation ceremony, Daniela, Goldberg and his children gathered in the narrow hallway on the fourth floor, led by the rabbi, the men wearing yarmulkes, in an unmistakably Jewish ceremony. At the very moment the rabbi was explaining the mezuzah, as a spiritual shield for the house and its inhabitants, the neighbor from across the hall, Fady Samur, a young Arab of Palestinian origin, appeared from the adjacent elevator. He greeted them from a distance, somewhere between surprised and curious, with a gesture not lacking in friendliness. He gave Daniela a knowing smile and continued the short walk to his door, not paying attention to the rabbi’s words.
Before living with Daniela, Goldberg had already been a second-hand bachelor for a couple of years. His marriage had been complicated, but he found Daniela’s marital experience even more toxic. His first wife was an interior decorator, and due to her job, she had a good understanding of Feng Shui, whose precepts she practiced first and foremost at home, and in a fairly orthodox manner, which often annoyed Goldberg. But now, with time and distance, he realized how that philosophy had permeated him, to the point of finding it quite reasonable, even hearing his ex-wife’s voice every time he visited a new house. From day one, he felt that Daniela’s apartment was a contaminated land, invaded by a bad vibe that needed to be expelled. When they finally decided to move in together, they both agreed to undertake a radical renovation.
A chance encounter with Fady Samur in the elevator allowed Daniela to introduce the two men. “So you’re Palestinian,” Goldberg said. “I don’t know if God or the devil brings us together: I’m Jewish. Well, luckily we’re human,” Samur joked, “as well as Chilean, but what matters most is, we’re neighbors. I say this because there weren’t any good vibes with the previous guy.” “And why do you think we’re cleaning up the apartment?” Goldberg said. “We’re doing an energetic cleansing. Clean energies, as an engineer would say. We’ve already painted the walls and refurbished the furniture. By the way, excuse us for the noise.” ‘No problem,” said Samur, “Daniela had already warned me, and she also told me about you. I think you’re a good choice for her, certainly better than the other guy. I have a feeling we’ll be good neighbors.”
When Goldberg would arrive home, he would touch the mezuzah and would kiss his hand, whispering, “God accompanies me as I enter and as I leave.” Crossing the threshold, he was welcomed by the foyer, a bright anteroom to the living room, where the soft curves of the furniture invited him to rest and meditate. The walls, dressed in light colors, harmoniously filtered the light from the windows, like a protective blanket against the noise and disharmony outside. The green ficus tree in the corner, which Daniela and he had planted, vigorously replicated the healthy energy they both cultivated. Together they swept away the chametz of their past lives, removed the rugs and scraped the bad traces from the floor, repainted each room, bought light-colored furniture, and brightened the kitchen. Daniela renewed all her belongings, from her underwear to her double mattress, and changed the bed, towels, and curtains. Goldberg placed a carefully decorated painting on the wall where the ketubah used to hang, featuring the Hebrew word “Anachnu,” meaning “We,” his own work.
One afternoon, on returning home, Goldberg stepped on something strange as he exited the elevator. He stopped to see what it was and discovered the trampled remains of the mezuzah. He knew immediately it had been vandalized. The frame where it was screwed was broken and splintered, betraying the violence of the desecration. A thousand-year-old chill shook him; ancestral persecution was pounding at his remote Chilean door. But who else knew about the mezuzah? On a visceral impulse, he pressed the Palestinian doorbell. Samur appeared, puzzled, wearing headphones. Behind him, a silent screen played a symphony orchestra. Goldberg grabbed Samur by the arm and led him to his broken door, accusingly showing him the mess of the mezuzah. Samur, incredulous, took off his headphones. โItโs horrible!โ he said. Goldberg told him that an attack of that kind was nothing more than anti-Semitism. “You don’t think I have something to do with this?” Samur protested. “Why would I break your Jewish symbol? You should know that I’m an astronomer, and as such, I even joked about your door, imagining you’d put a doorbell on heaven.”
Confused, trying to apologize, Goldberg offered Samur a coffee, who agreed with relief. He commented that nothing like this had ever happened in the building, even during the time of the scandalous previous neighbor, who had nothing but enemies. Goldberg liked the comment about his predecessor; he felt it gave him a break. Samur looked around with satisfaction. “They’ve done a good renovation,” he said, “it looks very cozy, it has a different air.” Goldberg didn’t know that Samur had known the apartment before, and he felt like an outsider. This attack is pure anti-Semitism, said Samur. Whoever does something like this doesn’t do it out of love for the Palestinians, they do it out of hatred for Israel, hatred for the Jews. Here in Chile, 13,000 kilometers away, it’s pure stupidity, something that helps no one, that only exacerbates the conflict. As an astronomer, I’ve always been moved by the infinity of the Universe, and I simply can’t understand why on this tiny planet we waste our lives destroying each other. Do you know what the opposite of hatred is? It’s precisely that dimension we should be moving towards. We won’t put out the fire with more fire; we won’t get any different results if we always repeat the same thing.”
By the time Daniela arrived, Samur had already left. During dinner, more than the shock of Goldberg, she was quite disturbed by the misunderstanding with the neighbor. She was ashamed of her ex-husband’s hostility toward “the Turk,” and now Goldberg, with his blunder, was repeating the injustice again. She wanted to let him know things he didn’t know: Fady Samur was her guardian angel in bad times, he called the police when her husband beat her, he gave her shelter during that critical period, he gave her the strength to get through it. “So why didn’t you stay together? Goldberg jealously inquired. “How could you think it,” Daniela said, “I couldn’t take it anymore, I just wanted to disappear, I was exhausted.” “But under normal circumstances,” Goldberg insisted, “wouldn’t it have been different?” “You’re wrong, don’t you know that Fady is gay?” “You can’t tell,” Goldberg said. “I even find him similar to your brother.” “Yes, they really do look alike,” Daniela said. “It’s the Semitic relationship,” Goldberg joked, “it’s obvious we’re cousins. And if he wasn’t gay, would you have fallen in love with him?” Daniela responded with an impatient gesture. But Goldberg didn’t give up. “Was it difficult for you that he wasn’t Jewish?” “I never thought about it, and I never would have cared,” Daniela responded defiantly. “And for my part, you should understand that being Jewish gives you no advantage if you behave like a child.”
After a long, hot bath, Daniela fell asleep soundly, her back to Goldberg. He struggled to sleep. With the light off, he stayed up reading on his cell phone: Rabbi Kliger mentions three general categories: thesis, antithesis, and synthesis. The first two are limited by definition, since opposites negate each other, but the third path, the middle one, is infinite, as it includes both opposites and is not limited by either of them.
When he finally fell asleep, Goldberg dreamed of Fady Samur. He dreamt that they were traveling the world together, two emissaries, a Palestinian and a Jew, both prophets of clean energy. They did things differently. They were the magicians of good vibes.
Como tantos otros que la conocieron, yo querรญa mucho a Marjorie. Solo nos veรญamos de vez en cuando, en sus lecturas en Cambridge y Maine, y en mis visitas a su casa en Wellesley. Pero siempre que la veรญa, nuestra conversaciรณn parecรญa retomar el hilo donde la habรญamos dejado. Marjorie me decรญa que sentรญa a sus familiares fallecidos caminar con ella; podรญa acudir a ellos en busca de consuelo y consejo. Echarรฉ de menos su consuelo y sus consejos.
Por Steve Sadow, Director del Blog
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Like so many others who knew her, I loved Marjorie. We only saw each other from time to time, at her readings in Cambridge and Maine and my visits to her home in Wellesley. But whenever I would see her, our conversation would seem to begin where we had just left off. Marjorie told me she could feel her deceased relatives walk along with her; she could turn to them for comfort and advice. I will miss her comfort and advice.
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Por Ruth Behar, Profesor de Antropologรญa. University of Michigan
Un tributo a Marjorie Agosรญn
Escribo esta esquela con el corazรณn roto para recordar y rendir homenaje a mi amiga, la renombrada poeta y escritora Marjorie Agosรญn. Hace apenas unos meses hablรกbamos por telรฉfono sobre la idea de esperar hasta los 70 aรฑos para dejar la vida laboral, y ella me dijo que despuรฉs ya no querรญa viajar, solo querรญa quedarse en casa y escribir.
Marjorie falleciรณ el 10 de marzo de 2025, a los 69 aรฑos, solo tres meses antes de su setenta cumpleaรฑos, en su hogar en Wellesley, MA. Luchรณ contra el cรกncer durante casi un aรฑo, eligiendo con coraje mantener secreta su enfermedad, compartiรฉndola solo con su esposo. Escribiรณ hasta el รบltimo dรญa de su vida.
Cualquiera que estรฉ familiarizado con la inmensa obra de Marjorie estarรก de acuerdo en que hemos perdido a una gigante de la literatura en el รกmbito de los estudios Judeo-Latinoamericanos. Sin duda, se destacรณ como la poeta y escritora Judeo-Latinoamericana mรกs elocuente, erudita, profunda y prolรญfica que residรญa en los Estados Unidos.
Su voz fue esencial en la redefiniciรณn de la frontera entre America y Amรฉrica, desafiando todas las suposiciones establecidas con anterioridad.
Fue una figura clave en la fundaciรณn del campo de la escritura judรญa latina y la escritura judรญa latinoamericana, tejiendo originales conexiones entre patrias y diรกsporas. Mucho antes de que se volviera un tema mรกs frecuente, puso de relieve la singular hibridez de la identidad Jewtina y construyรณ una comunidad literaria para escritoras que compartรญan este legado mixto.
En sus mรบltiples e impresionantes facetas como poeta, narradora, editora, acadรฉmica, educadora y activista en el รกmbito de los derechos humanos y los derechos de las mujeres, Marjorie sobresaliรณ como escritora creativa, pensadora valiente y mujer de integridad, pasiรณn, generosidad y brillantez.
Fue una fuente de inspiraciรณn y fortaleza, un modelo a seguir para las latinas en el mundo acadรฉmico que, como ella, sentรญan orgullo de su herencia judรญa. Creรญa en el poder de la escritura como un medio para buscar justicia y fue reconocida por su labor con un premio excepcional y prestigioso de las Naciones Unidas, que le otorgรณ el Leadership Award in Human Rights.
Nacida en Bethesda, Maryland, en 1955, Marjorie Agosรญn creciรณ en Chile, adonde regresรณ con apenas tres meses de edad junto a sus padres, Moisรฉs Agosรญn y Frida Halpern, una familia judรญa chilena.
Se establecieron en Santiago, rodeados de su familia extendida, y vacacionaban en El Quisco, un pueblo cercano a Isla Negra, donde alguna vez residiรณ Pablo Neruda. Junto a su hermana Cynthia (n. 1952) y su hermano menor Mario (n. 1963), Marjorie pasรณ su infancia y primera adolescencia en Chile durante la dรฉcada de 1960, estudiando en el Instituto Hebreo de Santiago de Chile.
En 1971, a los diecisรฉis aรฑos, Marjorie se trasladรณ con su familia a Athens, Georgia.Su padre, mรฉdico y bioquรญmico, aceptรณ un puesto como profesor de quรญmica en la universidad, sin imaginar cuรกnto tiempo permanecerรญan allรญ. Sin embargo, tras el golpe militar de Augusto Pinochet y el derrocamiento del gobierno democrรกtico de Salvador Allende, la familia comprendiรณ que no podrรญa regresar a Chile.
Marjorie, se sentรญa fuera de lugar en Estados Unidos, donde constantemente tenรญa que explicar su identidad a personas que no entendรญan cรณmo podรญa ser rubia, hablar espaรฑol sin parecer latina y, ademรกs, ser judรญa.
Escribรญa cartas a sus amigas en Chile, evocando flores, fragancias y todo lo que habรญa perdido. Con el tiempo, al asumir la escritura como su vocaciรณn, comprendiรณ que era una escritora en el exilio, para quien โla memoria se convierte en su aliada mรกs preciada, asรญ como en su obsesiรณn mรกs perturbadoraโ, como expresรณ en su libro de ensayos Ashes of Revolt (1996).
Obtuvo su licenciatura en Filosofรญa y Literatura Espaรฑola en la Universidad de Georgia en 1976. Posteriormente, en 1982, completรณ su maestrรญa y doctorado en Literatura Latinoamericana en la Universidad de Indiana.
Ese mismo aรฑo, comenzรณ a enseรฑar en el Departamento de Espaรฑol del Wellesley College, donde ofreciรณ cursos sobre escritoras judรญas, Amรฉrica Latina y escritura creativa. Con el tiempo, fue distinguida con el tรญtulo de Andrew Mellon Professor in the Humanities.
Disfrutaba impartiendo seminarios pequeรฑos en Wellesley y estableciendo vรญnculos cercanos con sus estudiantes. Sin embargo, nunca dejรณ de regresar a su amado Chile, que la honrรณ con el Premio Gabriela Mistral a la Trayectoria Distinguida.
Marjorie escribรญa en espaรฑol.Siempre en busca de un hogar, un tema que impregnรณ toda su obra, encontraba en su lengua materna el refugio mรกs autรฉntico, aunque en su infancia escuchรณ hablar en yidis, dominaba el hebreo y hablaba el inglรฉs con un acento musical. Eligiรณ que sus textos fueran traducidos al inglรฉs para sus lectores en Norteamรฉrica. Querรญa ser reconocida a travรฉs de la traducciรณn, ser una mujer traducida. Como expresรณ en El alfabeto en mis manos: una vida de escritura (1999): โSoy una escritora judรญa que escribe en espaรฑol y vive en Amรฉricaโ.
Explorรณ mรบltiples gรฉneros, desde la poesรญa hasta la memoria, el ensayo, la narrativa y la literatura infantil. Su voz era lรญrica en cualquier forma de escritura, y la poesรญa era indispensable en su vida. En sus versos abordรณ los temas de la memoria, la historia, la pรฉrdida y el exilio, centrรกndose a menudo en los deseos y sueรฑos de las mujeres.
No evitรณ los temas difรญciles: escribiรณ sobre el horror de las torturas, las desapariciones y los desmembramientos ocurridos en Chile, asรญ como sobre su propia conciencia de la culpa del sobreviviente. En Las zonas del dolor (1989), dio voz a una desaparecida, una mujer que decรญa de sรญ misma:
โNo tuve testigos / de mi muerte, / nadie realizรณ rituales, escribiรณ epitafiosโฆ / y cuando llamen mi nombre / aparecerรฉ / porque nunca fui a mi / propio funeral.โ
Marjorie veรญa una conexiรณn entre el genocidio perpetrado por las dictaduras latinoamericanas en los aรฑos 70 y las vรญctimas judรญas del genocidio nazi.
Este tema aparece en sus escritos sobre Ana Frank. Creciรณ contemplando una pequeรฑa fotografรญa de Ana, que le habรญa entregado su abuelo Josรฉ, un judรญo vienรฉs que vivรญa en Santiago de Chile. Al escribir los poemas de su libro Querida Ana Frank (1994), se convirtiรณ en la niรฑa a la que habรญa mirado durante tanto tiempo: โSoy Ana Frank, / tengo trece aรฑos / pero tambiรฉn miles de aรฑos. / Huelo a humo y vejez / cubriendo los rostros del miedo.โ
Sintiendo un vรญnculo espiritual con el exilio de los sefardรญes, escribiรณ una serie de poemas onรญricos en Las islas blancas (The White Islands, 2016), en los que lamenta la expulsiรณn de los judรญos de Espaรฑa y al mismo tiempo que celebra las memorias imborrables que dejaron.
Se inspirรณ en conversaciones con descendientes que encontraron un hogar en Salรณnica y en las islas griegas de Rodas y Creta, asรญ como en los Balcanes, lugares a los que viajรณ para conocer las historias de muchos que perecieron en el Holocausto.
โSolo quise escribir sobre ellos,/narrar su feroz audacia,/sus travesรญas por los corredores del Mediterrรกneo.โMarjorie amaba los mares del mundo y era consciente de las penas que guardaban. Escribiรณ:โSe llevaron a todos los judรญos de Rodas/en un dรญa soleado,como todos los dรญas apacibles del mar Egeo.โY se preguntรณ:โยฟQuรฉ hay mรกs allรก de las palabras?/ยฟQuรฉ miras mรกs allรก del horizonte,/donde el mar se funde con el cielo?โ
Luego, durante la pandemia de Covid-19 cuando viajar no era posible, encontrรณ la lucidez para escribir Mรกs allรก del tiempo de las palabras (Beyond the Time of Words, 2022), con el propรณsito de brindar consuelo a los lectores y ofrecer un santuario de poemas. Capturรณ la desesperaciรณn de aquel tiempo en estos versos conmovedores: โSolo la ausencia habita en mรญ,/ todo lo que fue y lo que no serรก,/ cosas arrebatadas y olvidadas./ Poseo el alma de un nรกufrago/ que todo lo anhela.โ
Las voces y las historias de sus ancestros siempre estuvieron cerca de su corazรณn, entre ellas las de sus bisabuelas, quienes escaparon de Viena y Odesa para encontrar un nuevo hogar en Chile.
Lamentablemente, el antisemitismo del que huyeron las siguiรณ al otro lado del mar, avivado por los colonos alemanes que se establecieron en el sur de Chile y por los criminales de guerra nazis que llegaron despuรฉs de la Segunda Guerra Mundial.
Marjorie tambiรฉn escribiรณ sobre muchos otros miembros de su familia: sus abuelos, sus tรญos y tรญas, cuyas historias quedaron grabadas en su memoria. Sus memorias, Una cruz y una estrella: recuerdos de una niรฑa judรญa en Chile (1997; 2022) y Siempre de otra parte: mi padre judรญo (1998), son relatos conmovedores de la vida de su madre y su padre.
En estas obras, buscรณ expresar la importancia fundamental de dar testimonio tanto del trauma como de la resiliencia judรญa. En Una cruz y una estrella, narrada en fragmentos que reflejan el vaivรฉn de la memoria, dio voz al peso del miedo intergeneracional que cargaban su madre y otros miembros de su familia:
โEn las pesadillas, los judรญos sueรฑan con estaciones de tren flotando entre la niebla y con puertas que se cierran contra las cenizas.โ
Entre las exigencias de la docencia y su propia escritura, Marjorie mantuvo un firme compromiso con la difusiรณn de la obra de escritoras judรญas latinoamericanas, acercรกndolas a lectores de Estados Unidos y del mundo.
Las numerosas antologรญas que editรณ son testimonio de su esfuerzo por construir comunidades de escritoras y explorar las diversas formas en que la identidad judรญa se narra en distintos contextos latinoamericanos. La casa de la memoria: relatos de escritoras judรญas de Amรฉrica Latina (publicada originalmente en 1999 y reeditada en 2022) fue la primera antologรญa de su tipo en inglรฉs. En ella reuniรณ treinta relatos de escritoras judรญas de diversas nacionalidades, entre ellas Mรฉxico, Argentina, Chile, Brasil y Cuba. Posteriormente, publicรณ un volumen dedicado a la poesรญa, Las hijas de Miriam: poetas judรญas latinoamericanas (2001), que permitiรณ a los lectores descubrir una asombrosa diversidad de voces poรฉticas.
Su curiosidad por las historias de vida de otras escritoras judรญas la llevรณ a realizar entrevistas para su libro Viajeras inciertas: conversaciones con mujeres judรญas inmigrantes en Amรฉrica (1999). Tuve el honor de ser entrevistada por Marjorie y de convertirme en el sujeto de su mirada antropolรณgica, una experiencia que atesoro profundamente.
En aรฑos recientes, buscรณ crear antologรญas que cruzaran fronteras y dieran voz a inmigrantes y exiliados desde una รกrea geogrรกfica mรกs amplia.
En el volumen Hogar: un paisaje imaginado (2016), reuniรณ a escritores de diversos lugares, incluyendo Grecia, Hungrรญa, Jamaica y Egipto, cada uno narrando el viaje รบnico que los llevรณ a construir un nuevo hogar en Estados Unidos. Siempre consciente de que los hogares son tanto reales como imaginados, escribiรณ: โEl hogar es un barco que viaja incesantemente, que arriba, pero zarpa en los puertos de nuestra imaginaciรณn.โ
En la รบltima etapa de su carrera, Marjorie se adentrรณ en la literatura para preadolescentes creando la hermosa novela Vivรญ en el Cerro Mariposa (2012), por la cual la Asociaciรณn de Bibliotecas de Amรฉrica (ALA) le otorgรณ la Medalla Pura Belprรฉ, un reconocimiento a obras que celebran la identidad latina. Mรกs tarde, publicรณ una impresionante secuela, Los mapas de la memoria: regreso al Cerro Mariposa (2020), donde abordรณ el complejo tema del trauma polรญtico y su impacto en jรณvenes que intentan comprender el pasado y el presente en Chile. Poco antes de su fallecimiento, finalizรณ el manuscrito de la tercera novela de la serie Cerro Mariposa.
Marjorie tenรญa una profunda espiritualidad en su forma de vivir. Aunque no era religiosa en el sentido tradicional, su identidad judรญa era inquebrantable, al mismo tiempo que mantenรญa una apertura hacia la interconexiรณn y la fluidez entre las diferentes creencias. Como recordรณ en El alfabeto en mis manos (1999), la celebraciรณn de Pรฉsaj en Chile formaba parte de la mezcla de culturas judรญa y catรณlica con la que creciรณ: โTodo en Pรฉsaj tenรญa el aroma de violetas, y luego llegaba la Semana Santa, y comรญamos pescado del Pacรญfico que, como el pan รกcimo, habรญan descendido del cielo.โ
Marjorie Agosรญn deja su legado en su esposo, John Wiggins, a quien conociรณ en la Biblioteca de la Universidad de Georgia en la primavera de 1973; su hijo, Joseph Wiggins Agosรญn; su hija, Sonia Wiggins Agosรญn; su hermano, Mario Agosรญn; su hermana, Cynthia Agosรญn, y su familia extendida en Chile. Tambiรฉn deja una inmensa red de amigas y amigos, colegas, estudiantes y lectores que aman su obra y agradecen el mundo que creรณ con su imaginaciรณn y sus palabras.Hace aรฑos, Marjorie escribiรณ un poema, โMรกs que la pazโ, en Las zonas del dolor, que quizรกs refleja lo que ella deseaba una vez que partiera.Que todos los que la extraรฑamos profundamente podamos desearle la paz que ella describiรณ con tanta claridad.
[Traducido al espaรฑol por Vivianne Schnitzer]
__________________________
“Mรกs que la paz”
No quiero nombres
ni tumbas
para mis muertos
ni compartir cementarios
con huesos extraviada
sรณlo denme
mi colchรณn de hojas
sรณlo dรฉjenme
regresar a mis bosque
___________________________
By Ruth Behar, Professor of Anthropology, University of Michigan
A Tribute to Marjorie Agosรญn
It is with a broken heart that I sit down to write this obituary to remember and praise my friend, the renowned poet and writer Marjorie Agosรญn. Just a few months ago we were speaking on the phone about waiting to retire until turning 70, and she said that afterward she didnโt want to travel, she just wanted to stay home and write.
Marjorie died on March 10, 2025 at the age of 69, just three months shy of her 70th birthday, at her home in Wellesley, MA. She suffered from cancer for close to a year, courageously choosing to keep her illness a secret that she shared only with her husband. She kept writing until the end of her days.
Anyone familiar with the vast corpus of Marjorieโs work will agree that we have lost a literary giant in the field of Latin American Jewish Studies. Without a doubt, she stood out as the most eloquent, knowledgeable, profound, and prolific Latin American Jewish woman poet and writer residing in the United States.
Hers was an essential voice in redefining the border between America and Amรฉrica in ways that challenged all presuppositions.
She was a key founder of the field of Jewish Latina writing and escritura judรญa latinoamericana, connecting homelands and diasporas in original ways. Long before it became commonplace, she called attention to the unique hybridity of โJewtinaโ identity and built a literary community for women writers who shared this mixed heritage.
In her many impressive roles as a poet, storyteller, editor, scholar, educator, and activist in the field of human rights and womenโs rights, Marjorie shone as a creative writer and brave thinker and a woman of integrity, passion, generosity, and brilliance.
She offered inspiration, strength, and a model of how to be a Latina in the academy who took pride in her Jewish heritage. She believed in the power of writing as a means of seeking justice and was recognized for her work in a rare and prestigious award from the United Nations, which presented her with a Leadership Award in Human Rights.
Born in Bethesda, Maryland, in 1955, Marjorie Agosรญn grew up in Chile, where she returned at the age of three months with her Jewish Chilean parents, Moisรฉs Agosรญn and Frida Halpern, to live amid their extended Jewish family in Santiago and vacationing in el Quisco, a village near Isla Negra, where Pablo Neruda once resided. Marjorie, together with her sister, Cynthia (b. 1952) and younger brother, Mario (b. 1963), spent her childhood and early adolescence in Chile in the 1960s, studying at the Hebrew Institute of Santiago de Chile.
In 1971, when she was sixteen, Marjorie moved with her family to Athens, Georgia. Her father, a doctor and a biochemist, took a job as a professor of chemistry at the university, not realizing how long they would be staying. After Augusto Pinochet staged a military coup, overthrowing the democratic government of Salvador Allende, the family knew they could not return to Chile.
Marjorie felt out of place in the United States, where she had to continually explain her identity to people who could not understand how she could be blonde, speak Spanish without looking Latina, and also be Jewish.
She wrote letters to her girlfriends in Chile, reminiscing about flowers, fragrances, all she had lost, and realized when she took up writing as her vocation that she was an exiled writer, for whom โmemory becomes her most precious ally, as well as her most disturbing obsession,โ as she put it in her book of essays, Ashes of Revolt (1996).
She received her B.A. in Philosophy and Spanish Literature from the University of Georgia in 1976. She then obtained her M.A. and PhD in Latin American Literature from Indiana University in 1982.
She began teaching in the Spanish Department at Wellesley College in 1982, offering courses on Jewish women writers and on Latin America, as well as creative writing, eventually being named an Andrew Mellon Professor in the Humanities.
She enjoyed teaching small seminars at Wellesley and getting to know her students. Yet she never stopped returning to her beloved Chile, which awarded her the Gabriela Mistral Lifetime Achievement Award.
Marjorie wrote in Spanish. Always in search of home, a topic that informed all of her writing, it was in her native language that she felt most truly at home, though she heard Yiddish growing up and was fluent in Hebrew and spoke a musically accented English. She chose for her work to be translated into English for her North American readers. She wanted to be known in translation, to be a translated woman. As she put it in The Alphabet in My Hands: A Writing Life (1999), โI am a Jewish writer who writes in Spanish and lives in America.โ
She wrote in many genres, from poetry to memoir to essays to fiction to childrenโs literature. Her voice was lyrical in whatever genre she wrote in and so poetry was indispensable. In her poetry she explored the themes of memory, history, loss, and exile. She frequently focused on the desires and dreams of women.
She didnโt shy away from hard topics, such as the horror of tortures, disappearances, dismemberments that took place in Chile and the awareness of her own survivorโs guilt. In Zones of Pain/Las zonas del dolor (1989), she wrote about a desaparecida, a disappeared woman, who said of herself: โI had no witnesses/to my death,/Nobody carried out rituals, wrote epitaphsโฆ/and when they call my name/I will appear/because I never went to my/own funeral.โ
Marjorie saw a connection between the genocide committed by Latin Americaโs dictatorships in the โ70s and the Jewish victims of Nazi genocide.
This theme comes up in her writing about Anne Frank. She grew up gazing at a little photograph of Anne Frank passed on to her by her grandfather Josรฉ, a Viennese Jew living in Santiago de Chile. When she wrote the poems in the volume, Dear Anne Frank (1994), she became the girl sheโd spent so much time gazing at: โI am Anne Frank/I am thirteen years old/but I am also thousands of years old./I smell of smoke and old age/covering the faces of fear.โ
Feeling a spiritual bond with the exile of the Sephardim, she wrote a series of dreamlike poems in The White Islands/Las islas blancas (2016) that lament the expulsion of the Jews from Spain while also celebrating the remembrances that remain.
She drew on conversations with descendants who found a home in Salonika and the Greek Islands, Rhodes, Crete, as well as the Balkans, places to which she traveled, learning the stories of many who perished during the Holocaust.
โI only wanted to write about them,/Narrate their fierce audacity,/Their voyages through the channels of the Mediterranean.โ Marjorie loved the seas of the world and was aware of the sorrows they held. She wrote, โThey took all the Jews of Rhodes/On a sunny day like all of the gentle days of the Aegean Sea.โ And she asked herself, โWhat is there beyond the words?/What are you gazing at beyond the horizon/Where the sea meets the sky?โ
Then, when it wasnโt possible to travel during the Covid 19 pandemic, she found the presence of mind to write Beyond the Time of Words/Mรกs allรก del tiempo de las palabras (2022), to give solace to readers and offer a sanctuary of poems. She captured the desperation of that time in these haunting lines: โOnly absence dwells in me,/Everything that was and that will not be,/Things snatched away and forgotten./I possess the soul of a castaway/Who longs for everything.โ
Close to her heart always were the voices and stories of her ancestors, among them her great-grandmothers who had escaped Vienna and Odessa, and found a new home inChile.
Sadly, the antisemitism they fled followed them across the sea, spurred by German colonists who settled in southern Chile, as well as Nazi war criminals who arrived after World War II.
Marjorie also wrote about many other family members, her grandparents, her aunts and uncles, whose stories were etched in her memory. Her memoirs, A Cross and a Star: Memoirs of a Jewish Girl in Chile (1997; 2022) and Always from Somewhere Else: My Jewish Father (1998), are moving accounts of the life stories of her mother and father.
In these works, she sought to express the crucial importance of bearing witness to Jewish trauma as well as Jewish resilience. In A Cross and a Star, told in fragments that mirror the ebb and flow of remembrances, she gave voice to the weight of inter-generational fear carried by her mother and other family: โIn nightmares, Jews dream about train stations floating in the mist and about doors shutting against the ashes.โ
Amid the demands of teaching and her own writing, she was committed to bringing a wide range of Latin American Jewish womenโs writing to the attention of U.S. and international readers.
The many anthologies she edited are a testament to her efforts to build communities of writers and understand the stories of Jewishness told in different Latin American settings. The House of Memory: Stories by Jewish Women Writers of Latin America (orig. 1999; 2022) was the first anthology of its kind to be published in English, and brought together thirty stories from Jewish writers of many nationalities, including Mexico, Argentina, Chile, Brazil, and Cuba. A volume focusing on poetry, Miriamโs Daughters: Jewish Latin American Women Poets (2001) followed, introducing readers to a stunning variety of poetic voices.
She was curious about the life stories of fellow Jewish women writers and carried out interviews for her book, Uncertain Travelers: Conversations with Jewish Women Immigrants to America (1999). I had the honor of being interviewed by Marjorie and enjoyed becoming the subject of her anthropological gaze.
More recently, she sought to create anthologies that crisscrossed borders and addressed immigrant and exile voices from a wider geographical area. In the volume, Home: An Imagined Landscape (2016), she brought together writers from a range of places, including Greece, Hungary, Jamaica, and Egypt, each addressing the unique journey that led them to build a new home in the United States. Ever aware of how homes are both real and imagined, she noted, โHome is an ever-traveling ship that arrives yet also takes sail in the harbors of our imagination.โ
In the last phase of her career, Marjorie dove into young adult literature, producing the beautiful novel, I Lived on Butterfly Hill (2012), for which the American Library Association awarded her the Pura Belprรฉ Medal for a work that celebrates Latina/Latino identity. She later brought out a stunning sequel to this novel, The Maps of Memory: Return to Butterfly Hill (2020), that takes on the complex subject of political trauma as it affects a range of young people trying to make sense of the past and the present in Chile. Just before her death, she completed the manuscript of the third novel in the Butterfly Hill series.
Marjorie was immensely spiritual in her approach to life. Though not religious in the traditional sense, she was unwaveringly Jewish while being open to the interconnectedness and fluidity of faiths. As she noted in The Alphabet in my Hands (1999), she remembered Passover in Chile being part of the mix of Jewish and Catholic cultures with which she grew up: โEverything about Passover had the fragrance of violets and then Easter week would arrive and we would eat fish from the Pacific that, like unleavened bread, had come from the heavens.โ
Marjorie Agosรญn is survived by her husband, John Wiggins, whom she met at the University of Georgia Library in the spring of 1973, her son Joseph Wiggins Agosรญn, her daughter Sonia Wiggins Agosรญn, her brother Mario Agosรญn, and sister Cynthia Agosรญn, and her extended family in Chile. She is also survived by a vast network of friends, colleagues, students, and readers who love her writing and are grateful for the world she brought into being with her imagination and her words.
Years ago, Marjorie wrote a poem, โMรกs que la pazโ (More than peace), in Zones of Pain that suggests what she perhaps wished for once she passed. May all of us who miss her deeply be able to wish her the peace she described with such clarity: ___________________
“More than Peace”
I want neither names
nor tombs
for my deaths
nor to share cemeteries
with bones
gone astray
just give me
my pillow
of leaves
just let me
go back to my
forests.
Translation by Ruth Behar
_______________________________ Estas elegรญas fueron publicado en inglรฉs recientemente por LAJSA/These elegies were recently published in English by LAJSA ___________________________________
Adelina, un cuento
Emma Weiss jamรกs habรญa visto el mar aunque se lo imaginaba cobrizo como los caballos indomables de sus antepasados vieneses y de su madre, Frida Weiss, quien lo llevaba recogidos en un lazo azul como si en guardaba los secretos anudados de sus de sus travesรญa y rivales. Siempre el mar aparecรญa como un horizonte insondable o como sueรฑos y con mรบsica de fondo de agua que Emma Weiss inventaba cada anochecer en los remotos paisajes Osorno, Chile, donde el silencio y la oscuridad de las planicies pululaban y el silencio, y el silbado de animales presagiaba el cambio y los nacimientos de niรฑos y รกrboles.
Su padre habรญa escapado mucho antes de los tatuajes se la guerra; dicen que lo habรญa hecho por un acto de amor y fe. Enamorado de una exquisita y valiente cantante de cabaret en los trasnochados barrios de la ciudad. Habรญa decidido a dar fin a ese ilรญcito amor, y en el mes de junio, cuando era posible pasearse al aire libre y el olor incompresible de las flores silvestres, redundaba la redondez del aire, Josรฉ Weiss decidiรณ emigrar al รบltimo rincรณn del mundo. Fue a Valparaรญso, ciudad de puertos y colinas iluminadas. Entonces se despidiรณ temeroso de Adelina, de sus piernas fugaces y su traje de brillo, ya que presagiaba por su uso enloquecido, sus arrugas insinuantes y vencidas, los comienzos del estropicio, los bombardeos sin sentido y el fracaso indiscutible de toda amenaza y guerra. Se despidieron en la plaza con esa certeza de los que permanecen queriรฉndose, cercanos a la tierra y a la curvatura de los besos. Eligieron aรบn la festividad del lugar, donde familias enteras gozaban como si fueran inmortales porque habรญa sol y niรฑos en las bancas de antiguas maderas.
Emma Weiss se preparaba para viajar a Valparaรญso por primera vez, acercarse a oler el mar, verlo alzando y misterioso en todo su esplendor y delirio. Tambiรฉn Emma conocerรญa a su abuela Helena, quien habรญa permanecido encerrada en el sรณtano de la casa de casa de Adelina porque era la madre de Josรฉ Weiss, porque era judรญa. Habรญa que cuidar la ciudad, rondar las calles antes de dirigirse al sรณtano, fijarse muy amanecida que nadie los acechaba y Adelina solรญa entrar como a hurtadillas para brindar la paz y su sonrisa como alimento que entregaba en las delgadas de Helena.
Juntas recordaban a Josรฉ Weiss y cerraban postigos para encender una vela. Iluminar las almas muertas y recordar aquel navegante judรญo quien llegรณ como un alma en pena, descendiendo desde lo mรกs hondo de su ahuecado destino a las extraรฑas faldas de Valparaรญso con una hija de meses en los brazos.
La noche del viaje en tren, desde Osorno hasta Valparaรญso, Emma Weiss planchรณ su vestido de lino color violeta, cepillรณ una y otra vez su espeso y sombrรญo cabello par soรฑar nada mรกs que con su abuela Elena y con el mar. Imaginaba al mar, con la inocencia de las primeras cosas, como cuando se mirรณ desnuda bajo los postigos de su cuarto y se puso bella en una redondez que amanecรญa. Imaginaba baรฑada el รฉl, dejando que el agua la llenara de vida y la poblaba de algas, y durmiรณ como si el mar hubiera entrado en sus ojos, como si las historias de terror de los niรฑos enviados en los trenes de la demencia se hubieran hundido en la corteza misma del sargazo.
En el tren, recorrieron enormes pastizales, animales humildes y derrotados y el olor a humo que impregnaba el paisaje. Ya nadie les recordaba a la Europa partida en dos porque supieron salvarse a tiempo y gracias al amor de Adelina que permitiรณ que Josรฉ Weiss llegara a las costas chilenas antes de recibir la orden de arresto.
A Emma le transpiraba la mano. Muy rara vez miraba a su padre, que aรบn llevaba su sombrero de Vienna y la mirada de Adelina en sus ojos de un verde espeso.
El puerto de Valparaรญso parecรญa desordenado, como si Dios o los constantes terremotos se hubieran olvidado a propรณsito de armarlo, y la ciudad parecรญa mรกs bien un cordel de melenas despeinadas y los cerros eran de tamaรฑo de las personas. Tal vez por eso no le extraรฑรณ a Emma ver un ataรบd bajando del cerro o una novia corriendo por los pedregales.
El dรญa era azul intenso y el cielo se confundรญan. Josรฉ ya habรญa divisado el barco su madre Elena a quien no habรญa visto desde hace trece aรฑos. No pudo dejar de recordar cuando fue ella misma, quien tenรญa la intuiciรณn de una clarividente, le iniciรณ a partir y besรกndole el cuello en silencio, le brindรณ la bendiciรณn del viajero. Pero Josรฉ Weiss pensaba en Adelina en su blusa brillosa que solรญa ponerse en noches, antes de los espectros de la muerte y de bombas que parecรญan palomas negras envestidas de mala fortuna.
Las manos de Emma Weiss sudaban: ella se desatรณ el lazo violeta y su cabello se asemejaba cada vez m s a las algas cobrizas. Alguien le tirรณ unas serpentinas y ella tรญmida las tirรณ al mar, pensado que tal vez caerรญan en el cabello de su abuela. Y ahรญ estaba el mar piadoso, recibiendo a los emigrantes, sujetando las naves y los candados del alma, y ella ya le permanecรญa porque habรญa soรฑado que su cuerpo era una cuna de peces en el regazo. Entonces, de pronto, Josรฉ divisรณ a Emma Weiss: venรญa con el mismo sombrero de tul, mรกs pequeรฑa y mรกs delgada su cara, y su pelo, cargaba el recuerdo de muchos muertos. Pero comprendรญa que se habรญa decidido por la vida y que verรญa a Josรฉ con su sonrisa tambiรฉn de verano y sus ojos parecidos a los bosques.
Ansiosos los familiares tiraban serpentinas. Otros tocaban pequeรฑas cornetas de papel aรฑejo que resonaban en el esplendor de los cerros. Era extraรฑo y alado Valparaรญso, loco en su cordura y al que llegaban los marineros, los que se despedรญan de los amores y los abatidos cuerpos despuรฉs de las iras de la guerra.
Entonces, Elena, digna, erguida, descendiรณ de la cubierta y distinguiรณ los ojos de su hijo, distinguiรณ a su nieta Emma que la miraba con todo el delirio y la ilusiรณn de sus trece aรฑos. Los besรณ tranquila porque sabรญa que habรญa llegado a tierra segura, les pidiรณ un sorbo de agua, y le entregรณ a Josรฉ un pequeรฑo sobre doblado.
Emma Weiss se sintiรณ feliz de poder de tener a su abuela, de haber abrazado y visto a su padre que le obsequiaba una blusa dorada que tenรญa la extraรฑa mezcla de esplendor y pobreza como sus lazos de familia.
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Adelina, a short-story
Emma Weiss had never seen the sea, although she imagined it coppery like the untamed horses of her Viennese ancestors and her mother, Frida Weiss, who wore them tied up in a blue ribbon as if guarding the knotted secrets of her journeys and rivals. The sea always appeared like an unfathomable horizon or like dreams, with the background music of water that Emma Weiss invented every evening in the remote landscapes of Osorno, Chile, where the silence and darkness of the plains swarmed, and the silence and the whistling of animals foreshadowed change and the births of children and trees. Her father had escaped the war long before the tattoos; they say he had done it as an act of love and faith. He had fallen in love with an exquisite and brave cabaret singer in the city’s nightlife neighborhoods. He had decided to end that illicit love, and in the month of June, when it was possible to walk in the fresh air and the incomprehensible scent of wildflowers filled the air, Josรฉ Weiss decided to emigrate to the farthest corner of the world. He went to Valparaรญso, a city of ports and illuminated hills. Then he fearfully said goodbye to Adelina, to her fleeting legs and her shiny dress, for it foreshadowed, through its frantic use, its suggestive and defeated wrinkles, the beginnings of destruction, the senseless bombings, and the undeniable failure of all threats and wars. They said goodbye in the plaza with the certainty of those who remain in love, close to the earth and the curve of kisses. They also chose the festivities of the place, where entire families rejoiced as if they were immortals because there was sunshine and children on the ancient wooden benches. Emma Weiss was preparing to travel to Valparaรญso for the first time, to come and smell the sea, to see it rising and mysterious in all its splendor and delirium. Emma would also meet her grandmother Helena, who had remained locked in the basement of Adelina’s house because she was Josรฉ Weiss’s mother, because she was Jewish. They had to take care of the city, patrol the streets before heading to the basement, making sure very early in the morning that no one was watching them, and Adelina would sneak in to offer peace and her smile like nourishment, which she delivered to Helena’s delicate lips. Together they remembered Josรฉ Weiss and closed the shutters to light a candle. To illuminate the dead souls and remember that Jewish navigator who arrived like a lost soul, descending from the depths of his hollow destiny to the strange slopes of Valparaรญso with a months-old daughter in his arms. The night of the train ride from Osorno to Valparaรญso, Emma Weiss ironed her violet linen dress, brushed her thick, dark hair over and over, dreaming of nothing but her grandmother Elena and the sea. She imagined the sea, with the innocence of the first things, like when she had looked at herself naked under the shutters of her room and become beautiful in a dawning roundness. She imagined herself bathed in it, letting the water fill her with life and populate her with seaweed, and she slept as if the sea had entered her eyes, as if the horror stories of children sent on the trains of dementia had sunk into the very crust of the sargassum. On the train, they traveled through vast pastures, humble and defeated animals, and the smell of smoke that permeated the landscape. No one reminded them of the Europe split in two because they knew how to save themselves in time, thanks to Adelina’s love, which allowed Josรฉ Weiss to reach the Chilean shores before receiving the arrest warrant. Emma’s hand was sweating. She rarely looked at her father, who still wore his Vienna hat and Adelina’s gaze in his thick green eyes. The port of Valparaรญso seemed in disarray, as if God or the constant earthquakes had deliberately forgotten to put it together, and the city looked more like a string of disheveled hair, and the hills were the size of people. Perhaps that’s why Emma wasn’t surprised to see a coffin being lowered from the hill or a bride running through the scree. The day was intensely blue, and the sky was a blur. Josรฉ had already spotted the ship, his mother Elena, whom he hadn’t seen for thirteen years. She couldn’t help but remember when it was she herself, with the intuition of a clairvoyant, who had initiated him to leave and, silently kissing his neck, offered him the traveler’s blessing. But Josรฉ Weiss was thinking of Adelina in her shiny blouse that she used to wear at night, before the specters of death and bombs that looked like black doves bearing ill fortune. Emma Weiss’s hands were sweating; she untied her violet ribbon, and her hair was becoming more and more like coppery seaweed. Someone threw some streamers to her, and she timidly threw them into the sea, thinking that perhaps they would fall into her grandmother’s hair. And there was the merciful sea, welcoming the emigrants, holding the ships and the locks of the soul, and she now remained with him because she had dreamed that her body was a cradle of fish in her lap. Then, suddenly, Josรฉ saw Emma Weiss: she was wearing the same tulle hat, her face smaller and thinner, and her hair carried the memory of many dead people. But he understood that she had decided for life and that she would see Josรฉ with his summer smile and his eyes like forests. Anxious family members threw streamers. Others blew small horns made of old paper that resonated in the splendor of the hills. Valparaรญso was strange and winged, mad in its sanity, where sailors arrived, those who said goodbye to their loves and their battered bodies after the wrath of war. Then, Elena, dignified and upright, descended from the deck and saw her son’s eyes, saw her granddaughter Emma looking at her with all the delirium and excitement of her thirteen years. She kissed them calmly because she knew she had reached safe land, asked them for a sip of water, and handed Josรฉ a small folded envelope. Emma Weiss felt happy to have her grandmother with her, to have hugged and seen her father giving her a golden blouse that had the strange mixture of splendor and poverty like their family ties.
Translation by Steve Sadow
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Algunos libros de Marjorie Agosรญn/Some of Marjorie Agosรญn’s Books
Selected Works of Marjorie Agosรญn
Novels
Las arpilleras: Una historia con hilo y aguja. Santiago, Chile: Editorial Mis Raices, 2021.
The Flowering Tree. Illustrated by Francisca Yanez, translated by Alison Ridley. Santiago, Chile: Editorial Mis Raices, 2018.
El arbol florido. Santiago, Chile: Editorial Mis Raices, 2018.
Ana Reimaginando:El Diario De Ana Frank. Santiago, Chile: Das Kapital Ediciones, 2015.
Young Adult Novels
The Maps of Memories: Returning to Butterfly Hill. New York: Simson & Schuster, 2020.
I Lived on Butterfly Hill. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2012.
Memoirs
Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 2000. With Emma Sepรบlveda.
The Alphabet in My Hands: A Writing Life. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2000.
Always from Somewhere Else: My Jewish Father. New York: Feminist Press, 1998.
A Cross and a Star: Memoirs of a Jewish Girl in Chile. New York: The Feminist Press, 1997; United Kingdom: Garnet Publishing, 1997; Albuquerque, NM: University of New Mexico Press, paperback edition, 2022 (with a foreword by Ruth Behar).
The Guardian of Memory: Aldo Izzo and the Ancient Jewish Cemetery of Venice. Dorset, England: Solis Press, 2023.
Books of Poetry
Mollica, Richard, and Marjorie Agosรญn. A Manifesto: Healing a Violent World. Tunbridge Wells, UK: Solis Press, 2019.
The White Islands / Las Islas Blancas. Translated by Jacqueline C. Nanfito. Chicago: Swan Isle Press, 2016.
Harbors of Light / Puertos De Luz. Translated by E. O. OโConnor. Buffalo, NY: White Pine, 2016.
The light of desire. Chicago: Swan Isle Press, 2009.
At the Threshold of Memory: New and Selected Poems. Buffalo, NY: White Pine Press, 2003.
Noche estrellada. Santiago, Chile: Lom Ediciones, 1996; Miami, FL: University of Miami North South Center, 1996.
Dear Anne Frank. Washington, DC: Azul Edition, 1994.
Circles of Madness. Fredonia, NY: White Pine Press, 1992.
Zones of Pain. Fredonia, NY: White Pine Press, 1989.
Brujas y Hogueras: Mexico: Antologรญa Poรฉtica, La Mรกquina Elรฉctrica, 1988.
Anthologies Edited
A Sea of Voices: Women Poets of Israel, an International Anthology. Santa Fe, NM: Sherman Asher, 2009.
From Chile to the World: 70 Years of Gabriela Mistralโs Nobel Prize: De Chile Al Mundo: 70 Aรฑos Del Premio Nobel De Gabriela Mistral. Edited by Marjorie Agosรญn, Gloria Garafulich Grabois. New York: Gabriela Mistral Foundation, 2015.
Home: An Imagined Landscape. Tunbridge Wells, UK: Solis Press, Kent, 2016.
Writing towards Hope: Human Rights in Latin America. New Haven: Yale University Press 2006.
Memory and Oblivion: The Modern Jewish Culture in Latin America Today. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 2004.
Miriamโs Daughters: Jewish Latin American Women Poets. Santa Fe, NM: Sherman Asher Publishing, 2000.
Uncertain Travelers: Jewish Women Emigrants to the Americas. Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 1999.
The House of Memory: Jewish Stories from Jewish Women of Latin America. New York: The Feminist Press, 1999.
A Map of Hope: Women Writers and Human Rights. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1999.
A Map of Hope: Women Writers and Human Rights. London: Penguin Books, 1999.
These Are Not the Sweet Girls: 20th Century Latin American Women Poets. Fredonia, NY: White Pine Press, 1993.
A Gabriela Mistral Reader. Fredonia, NY: White Pine Press, 1993.
Surviving Beyond Fear: Women, Children and Human Rights in Latin America. Fredonia, NY: White Pine Press, 1993.
Landscapes of a New Land: Short Stories by Latin American Women Writers. Fredonia, NY: White Pine Press, 1989. Second edition, February 1993.
“Vlady” Vladimir Victorovich Kibalchich Rusakov fue un pintor judรญo-ruso-mexicano. “Vlady” Vladimir Victorovich Kibalchich Rusakov fue un pintor judio-ruso-mexicano, conocido simplemente como “Vlady” en Mรฉxico. Llegรณ a Mรฉxico como refugiado de Rusia con su padre, el escritor Victor Serge. Atraรญdo por la pintura tras su experiencia en Europa, Vlady se integrรณ rรกpidamente en la escena artรญstica e intelectual mexicana, realizando su primera exposiciรณn individual en 1945, dos aรฑos despuรฉs de su llegada al paรญs. Vlady pasรณ la mayor parte de su carrera en Mรฉxico, con viajes de regreso a Europa, alcanzando la fama en la dรฉcada de 1960. En la dรฉcada de 1970, fue invitado a pintar murales en la Biblioteca Miguel Lerdo de Tejada, un edificio del siglo XVII en el centro histรณrico de la Ciudad de Mรฉxico. El resultado fue “Las Revoluciones y los Elementos”, dedicada a las diversas revoluciones modernas en el mundo, incluyendo la revoluciรณn sexual de mediados del siglo XX. La obra fue algo controvertida, pero dio lugar a otros murales en Nicaragua y Culiacรกn. Vlady recibiรณ varios premios por su obra, incluyendo la Membresรญa Honoraria de la Academia Rusa de las Artes. Aรฑos antes de su fallecimiento en 2005, el artista donรณ 4600 obras de su propia colecciรณn, de las cuales aproximadamente 1000 se conservan en el Centro Vlady de la Universidad Autรณnoma de la Ciudad de Mรฉxico, dedicado a la investigaciรณn y difusiรณn de judรญo-ruso-mexicano, conocido simplemente como “Vlady” en Mรฉxico. Llegรณ a Mรฉxico como refugiado de Rusia con su padre, el escritor Victor Serge. Atraรญdo por la pintura tras su experiencia en Europa, Vlady se integrรณ rรกpidamente en la escena artรญstica e intelectual mexicana, realizando su primera exposiciรณn individual en 1945, dos aรฑos despuรฉs de su llegada al paรญs. Vlady pasรณ la mayor parte de su carrera en Mรฉxico, con viajes de regreso a Europa, alcanzando la fama en la dรฉcada de 1960. En la dรฉcada de 1970, fue invitado a pintar murales en la Biblioteca Miguel Lerdo de Tejada, un edificio del siglo XVII en el centro histรณrico de la Ciudad de Mรฉxico. El resultado fue “Las Revoluciones y los Elementos”, dedicada a las diversas revoluciones modernas en el mundo, incluyendo la revoluciรณn sexual de mediados del siglo XX. La obra fue algo controvertida, pero dio lugar a otros murales en Nicaragua y Culiacรกn. Vlady recibiรณ varios premios por su obra, incluyendo la Membresรญa Honoraria de la Academia Rusa de las Artes. Aรฑos antes de su fallecimiento en 2005, el artista donรณ 4600 obras de su propia colecciรณn, de las cuales aproximadamente 1000 se conservan en el Centro Vlady de la Universidad Autรณnoma de la Ciudad de Mรฉxico, dedicado a la investigaciรณn y difusiรณn de su obra.
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“Vlady” Vladimir Victorovich Kibalchich Rusakov was a Russian-Jewish Mexican painter, known simply as “Vlady” in Mexico. He came to Mexico as a refugee from Russia together with his father, writer Victor Serge. Attracted to painting from his exposure in Europe, Vlady quickly became part of Mexico’s artistic and intellectual scene, with his first individual exhibition in 1945, two years after his arrival to the country. Vlady spent most of his career in Mexico with trips back to Europe, gaining fame in the 1960s. In the 1970s, he was invited to paint murals at the Miguel Lerdo de Tejada Library, a 17th-century building in the historic center of Mexico City. The result was “Las revoluciones y los elementos” dedicated to the various modern revolutions in the world including the sexual revolution of the mid 20th century. The work was somewhat controversial but it led to other mural work in Nicaragua and Culiacรกn. Vlady received a number of awards for his life’s work including honorary membership with the Russian Academy of Arts. A number of years before his death in 2005, the artist donated 4,600 artworks from his own collection, about a thousand of which are found at the Centro Vlady at the Universidad Autรณnoma de la Ciudad de Mรฉxico, which is dedicated to research and promotion of the artist’s work.
Mi nombre es Denise Leรณn. Nacรญ en Tucumรกn, Argentina, en 1974. Soy descendiente de inmigrantes sefardรญes. He publicado Poemas de Estambul (2008); El trayecto de la herida (2011); El saco de Douglas (2011); Templo de pescadores (2013); Sala de espera (2013); Poemas de Middlebury (2014), Mesa de pรกjaros (2019) y รrbol que tiembla (2022). He participado en varios festivales internacionales de poesรญa como el Festival Federal de la Palabra (2015) y el Festival Internacional de Poesรญa de Buenos Aires (2015). Mis poemas han sido incluidos en varias antologรญas como Por mi boka (2013) y Penรบltimos. 33 poetas de Argentina 1965-1985 (2015), y han sido traducidos al inglรฉs y al portuguรฉs. Tengo un doctorado en Literatura Latinoamericana y trabajo como investigador en CONICET (Consejo de Investigaciones Cientรญficas y Tรฉcnicas). Actualmente doy clases en los departamentos de Literatura Latinoamericana de la Universidad Nacional de Salta y en Teorรญa de la Comunicaciรณn en la Universidad Nacional de Tucumรกn, Argentina. Mi รบltimo libro รrbol que tiembla, es un texto que intenta reconstruir los caminos de la genealogรญa a partir de recuerdos e historias de los sobrevivientes de cuatro familias sefardรญes que llegaron a establecerse en Tucumรกn a principios del siglo XX.
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My name is Denise Leรณn. I was born in Tucumรกn, Argentina, in 1974. I am a descendant of Sephardic immigrants. I have published Poemas de Estambul (Poems from Istanbul), 2008; El trayecto de la herida (The path of the wound), 2011; El saco de Douglas (The sack of Douglas), 2011; Templo de pescadores (Temple of fishermen), 2013; Sala de espera (Waiting room), 2013; Poemas de Middlebury (Poemas from Middlebury) , 2014, Mesa de pรกjaros (Table for birds) y Bajo la luna , (Under the moon), 2019 and รrbol que tiembla, (Trembling tree), 2022. I have participated in several international poetry festivals such as the Fderal Word Festival (2015) and International Poetry Festival of Buenos Aires (2015). My poems have been included in various anthologies such as Por mi boka (2013), and Penรบltimos: 33 poets from Argentina 1965-1985 (2015), and have been translated into English and Portuguese. I have a PHD in Latin American Literature and work as a Researcher at CONICET (Council for Scientific and Technical Research). I currently teach in the departments of Latin American Literature at the National University of Salta and in Communication Theory at the National University of Tucumรกn, Argentina. My last book, รrbol que tiembla is a text that tries to rebuild the paths of genealogy from memories and stories of the survivors of four Sephardic families who came to settle in Tucumรกn at the beginning of the 20th century.
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Cรณmo se hacen las cosas
1
Las mujeres deben cubrirse el pelo cuando los hombres piadosos rezan. Los hombres piadosos se tapan los ojos o se cubren la cabeza con el talit cuando rezan. Se sabe: hay gestos que se conservan y se repiten. A los hombres piadosos los distrae el pelo de las mujeres.
2
Asรญ se hace un ojal; asรญ se pega un botรณn; asรญ se hace coincidir botรณn con el ojal que acabas de hacer; no se dejan cosas sucias en la pileta de la cocina (ni siquiera un rato); asรญ se barre un rincรณn y asรญ, toda una casa; asรญ se sonrรญe a alguien que no te gusta mucho; asรญ se sonrรญe a alguien que no te gusta nada; asรญ se toca la fruta para saber que no estรก podrida o rancia. Los verduleros son todos tramposos.
3
Necesito dormir pero el sol me despierta. Me hice grande pero mi madre es mรกs grande y serรก siempre asรญ.
4
Tu rostro oscuro y verde se asoma como un hacha como un barranco como un precipicio.
Ruega por mรญ.
No quiero que me toquen las mujeres que usan mi nombre en diminutivo ni el ojo de los mรฉdicos ni el poder de la ciencia. Los timbres de mi voz estรกn hรบmedos y mis ojos se abren de una manera que no les conocรญa. No quiero ser tocada por los sueรฑos.
5
Abren la canilla para limpiarme el mal. Todas las lรกgrimas de mi vida vuelven a mis ojos. Tengo que ser fiel a algo pero no necesariamente a los hechos. A la siesta, el aire era espeso y dulce y entre las sillas caรญdas, el rรญo crecido y los juncos comienzan a reventarse los vasos de sangre mรกs pequeรฑos de mi nariz.
6
.
La vi encender las velas y cubrirse los ojos. Vi sus manos inclinarse levemente encantando el humo. Vi arder las velas durante algรบn tiempo. Una de las velas titilรณ hasta agotar su espesor y mis ojos buscaron los restos de luz.
Vi tantas cosas y ahora no las recuerdo.
7
Fue enseรฑado que antes de la festividad se sacrifica ritualmente un animal salvaje o un ave. Las escuelas de sabios discuten aรบn cรณmo se debe cubrir su sangre. Todavรญa recuerdo la gente alrededor, las paredes blancas de la casa y la mirada del gallo ahogรกndose lentamente en el esfuerzo de una desesperaciรณn sin objeto. Conozco bien su mirada de asfixia conozco bien su mirada de sangre conozco bien su mirada de gallo.
8
Voy de la mano de mi madre a tomar el tranvรญa. Nos subimos y me quedo asรญ, quieta, como un cuerpo tendido sobre un colchรณn, latiendo El tranvรญa hace mucho ruido y se mueve hacia los costados. Pero este tranvรญa no se mueve.
9
Como un animal perseguido que se percibe otro en su sombra y salta el cerco -no por saltar sino para estar del otro lado- asรญ salto las palabras sรณlo para apurarlas sรณlo para estar del otro lado.
Los chicos no saben.
Y no tienen por quรฉ saber.
Esto han hecho conmigo. Quiero gritar: esto han hecho con mi cuerpo. Esto han hecho con mis venas que bajan flotando -sosegadamente- como un pรกjaro, como una red de pesca lanzada al mediodรญa.
Y la sombras crecen -de prisa- en el agua: podemos rasgarlas pero no desaparecen.
Esto han hecho conmigo. Quiero gritar pero los chicos no saben.
Luisa, 1914
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“How Things Are Done”
1
Women must cover their hair when pious men pray. Pious men cover their eyes or cover their heads with the tallit when they pray. It is known: there are gestures that are preserved and repeated. Pious men are distracted by women’s hair.
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2
This is how you make a buttonhole; This is how you sew on a button; This is how you match a button to the buttonhole you just made; You don’t leave dirty things in the kitchen sink (not even for a while); This is how you sweep a corner, and thus, a whole house; This is how you smile at someone you don’t like very much; This is how you smile at someone you don’t like at all; This is how you touch fruit to know it’s not rotten or stale. The greengrocers are all cheats.
3
I need to sleep, but the sun wakes me up. I grew up, but my mother is older and it will always be so.
4
Your dark, green face looms like an axe like a ravine like a precipice.
Pray for me.
I don’t want to be touched by women who use my name as a diminutive nor by the eye of doctors nor by the power of science. The timbres of my voice are moist and my eyes open in a way I’ve never known before. I don’t want to be touched by dreams.
5
They turn on the tap to cleanse me of evil. All the tears of my life return to my eyes. I have to be faithful to something, but not necessarily to the facts. At siesta time, the air was thick and sweet, and between the fallen chairs, the swollen river, and the reeds, the smallest blood vessels in my nose begin to burst.
6
I saw her light the candles and cover her eyes. I saw her hands bend slightly, enchanting the smoke. I watched the candles burn for some time. One of the candles flickered until it burned out, and my eyes searched for the remnants of light.
I saw so many things, and now I don’t remember them.
7
It was taught that before the festival, a wild animal or a bird is ritually sacrificed. The schools of sages still debate how its blood should be covered. I still remember the people around, the white walls of the house, and the look of the rooster slowly drowning in the effort of pointless despair. I know its look of suffocation well, I know its bloody look well, I know its rooster’s look well.
8 I walk hand in hand with my mother to take the tram. We get on and I stay like that, still, like a body lying on a mattress, throbbing. The tram makes a lot of noise and moves sideways. But this tram doesn’t move.
9
Like a hunted animal that perceives another in its shadow and jumps the fence โ not to jump but to be on the other sideโ so I jump the words just to hurry them along just to be on the other side.
The kids don’t know.
And they don’t have to know.
This is what they’ve done to me.
I want to scream: this is what they’ve done to my body. This is what they’ve done to my veins that float down โ peacefully โ like a bird, like a fishing net cast at noon.
And the shadows grow โ quickly โin the water: we can tear them, but they don’t disappear.
This is what they’ve done to me. I want to scream, but the kids don’t know.
Luisa, 1914
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Somos mรกs lentos que tu muerte y hay que acostumbrarse:
entre mis brazos se desliza un largo tren de carga y el aire vuelve a llenar los espacios donde tu cuerpo estuvo.
Todo lo que queda del grito es el aliento. Vacรญo mis bolsilos, vacรญos mis zapatos y los dejo al lado del camino.
Digo mi nombre Digo adiรณs. Una tras otra las palabras siguen viniendo.
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We’re slower than your death and we have to get used to it:
a long freight train glides through my arms and the air fills the spaces where your body once was.
All that remains of the scream is my breath. I empty my pockets, empty my shoes and leave them by the side of the road.
I say my name I say goodbye. One after another the words keep coming.
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yo acato las leyes secretas de los muertos. Voy a encontrarlo. Voy a encontrarlo. Voy a encontrarlo. Miro hacia la pared y las sombras se agigantan como dedos. Era verano. Trabajo sin parar. Era verano y mi madre me dijo no te quites los zapatos. Hasta las alfilercitas son viudas en esta sombrererรญa y acatan las leyes secretas de los muertos. Voy a encontrarlo. Cada una de las partes iguales en las que se divide el dรญa se me aprieta el corazรณn mientras las tijeras murmuran como si estuvieran rezando. Adelante. Atrรกs. Los dedos siguen al hilo. El hilo sigue los dedos. Los dedos siguen los ojos. Los ojos acatan las leyes secretas de los muertos. Este es mi precio. Voy a encontrarlo. Desde que el gallo ha cantado mi carne y mis huesos son piedra: la hora de la partida se esconde en mis labios โ mansos โ como perras.
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I obey the secret laws of the dead. I’m going to find him. I’m going to find him. I’m going to find him. I look at the wall and the shadows swell like fingers. It was summer. I work nonstop. It was summer and my mother told me not to take off my shoes. Even the little pins are widows in this hat shop and they obey the secret laws of the dead. I’m going to find him. Each of the equal parts into which the day is divided makes my heart clench while the scissors murmur as if praying. Forward. Back. The fingers follow the thread. The thread follows the fingers. The fingers follow the eyes. The eyes obey the secret laws of the dead. This is my price. I’m going to find him. Since the rooster crowed, my flesh and my bones are stone: the hour of departure hides in my lips โ meek โ like bitches.
Nascida em 1958 na Porto Alegre, no Brasil, Cรญntia Moscovich รฉ escritora, jornalista e mestre em Teoria Literรกria, tendo exercido atividades de professora, tradutora, consultora literรกria, revisora e assessora de imprensa. Dentre vรกrios prรชmios literรกrios conquistados, destaca-se o primeiro lugar no Concurso de Contos Guimarรฃes Rosa, instituรญdo em Paris. Em 1996, publicou sua primeira obra individual, “O reino das cebolas”. Um dos contos que integram a coletรขnea foi traduzido para o inglรชs e faz parte de uma antologia que reรบne escritores judeus de lรญngua portuguesa. Em 1998, ela lanรงou a novela “Duas iguais – Manual de amores e equรญvocos assemelhados”, que recebeu o Prรชmio Aรงorianos de Literatura em 1999. Em 2000, tambรฉm pela lanรงou o livro de contos “Anotaรงรตes durante o incรชndio, que reรบne onze textos de temรกticas diversas, com destaque ao judaรญsmo e ร condiรงรฃo feminina, merecendo outra vez o Prรชmio Aรงorianos de Literatura. Em 2004, publicou a coletรขnea de contos “Arquitetura do arco-รญris”, livro que lhe valeu o terceiro lugar em contos no prรชmio Jabuti. Em 2006, lanรงou o romance “Por que sou gorda, mamรฃe?”,. Em 2007, lanรงou seu sexto livro individual, o romance infanto-juvenil “Mais ou menos normal”. Em 1998, lanรงou a novela “Duas iguais – Manual de amores e equรญvocos assemelhados”, que recebeu o Prรชmio Aรงorianos de Literatura. Em 2000, tambรฉm lanรงou o livro de contos “Anotaรงรตes durante o incรชndio”, que reรบne textos de temรกticas diversas, com destaque ao judaรญsmo e ร condiรงรฃo feminina. Em 2013, “Essa coisa brilhante que รฉ a chuva” foi a vencedora do Prรชmo Clarice Lispector, concedido pela Fundaรงรฃo Bilbioteca Nacional. ___________________________
Born in 1958 in Porto Alegre, Brazil, Cรญntia 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 Guimarรฃes 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 equรญvocos similares,” which received the Aรงorianos 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 Aรงorianos 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 equรญvocos similares,” which received the Aรงorianos 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 gรชnio.
Aos dez anos de idade, รบnica filha de um casal descendente de imigrantes judeus, nascida depois de muitas e vรกrias tentativas โ portanto cheia de mimos, denguices, babados e brinquedos e tudo quanto me desse na telha โ, logo de mim, a unigรชnita, o pai queria que eu fosse nada mais nada menos do que isso โ uma crianรงa genial.
Assim: tinha de saber de cor as estrofes iniciais dโOs Lusรญadas (โCesse tudo o que a Musa antiga canta,/ Que outro valor mais alto se alevantaโ), ouvir calada e atenta โ e ainda por cima gostar โ a todas as รกrias de todas as รณperas que tรญnhamos em casa โ principalmente Una furtiva lacrima, no vozeirรฃo de Enrico Caruso, e a Casta Diva, gravada por Maria Callas โ, espremer os pรฉs em sapatilhas nas classes de balรฉ, assistir ร s terrรญveis aulas de piano e de inglรชs de dona Vivi, alรฉm das liรงรตes de francรชs com madame Vichy.
***
—Shein vi di levone.
Bomita como lua, tรญtulo de uma antiga canรงรฃo que imigrara junto com a famรญlia de Bessarรกbia. Mรบsica que, segundo ele, fora composto para mim, filha linda. E mesmo os anos passando, nunca esqueci daqueles abraรงos que tinham o perfume almiscarado รบmido da espuma de barba.
Coisa boa da vida.
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De tudo que eu cumpria como rutina diรกria, o que me propiciava mais divertimento, alรฉm de brincar, eram coisas de fazer de conta: na escola, tinha adoraรงรฃo pelas aulas de portuguรชs e pelas peรงas de teatro, e, em casa passava horas deitada de barriga para baixo, as pernas dobradas, os pรฉs se balanรงando, queixo apoiado nas mรฃos. Eu adorava ler. Piano, balรฉ, inglรชs, francรชsโcoisas porque pai dizia, a gente tinha de ser cultivadaโtudo isso eram pedรกgios carรญssimos para aquelas horas em a vida, pero, preto no branco, era puro desfrute. Meus paรญs nunca fixarem nenhum esforรงรฃo, nenhuma ameaรงa, nada: eu era naturalmente l, fato que, imagino, tambรฉm me dava muniรงรฃo suficiente para engendrar situaรงรตes para as aulas de teatro.
Passei a nutrir dois secretos desejos: eu queria escrever e trabalhar como atrizโQuimeras que a ninguรฉm revelei talvez porque, no fundo, achava que que aquilo ainda ia acabar mal.
O erro mรกximo se deu quando um dia, na mesa do almoรงo, se conversava sobre escolher ima profissรฃoโnum futuro remoto, portanto. Se eu me tivesse calado, teriam me incluรญdo no rol dos sรกbios. Mas eu falei:
– -Quando eu crescer, quero ser escritora e atriz.
O rosto do pai ficou vermelhoโdepois quase verde. A mรฃe acho melhor tirar os pratos da mesa, quase se esquecia do cafezinho, tinha deixado para coar: saiu de fininho tilintando louรงas 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 histรณrias: queria a carreira de uma grande atriz dramรกtica e escrever como Monteiro Lobato.
—Atriz dramรกtica? Escritora? โo pai ia ter um troรงo. Encheu um copo com รกgua e tomou dois pequemos goles: acalmava-se o algo parecido.
A mรฃe, agora trazendo o bule de cafรฉ e as xรญcaras para a mesa, ousou intrometer-se:
–Mas nรฃo รฉ vocรช quer que ela recite poemas de cor e que goste de รณpera? Porque ela nรฃo pode ser artista.
Bingo, mรฃe. O pai fez um movimento afirmativa, que tanto podia significar que ele aceitava o cafezinho recรฉm passado quanto a culpa no cartรณrio que realmente tinha. Deu sequรชncia a conversa, num tom atรฉ ameno:
–Entendo que vocรช goste de teatro รฉ de literatura, todos nรณs gostamos. Mas como รฉ que vocรช pretende sobrevivir com teatro ou literatura?
ร, eu sabia que queria um futuro para mim bomโque incluรญa nรฃo ter de passar forme como elas tinham passado quando eles tinham passado quando as famรญlias chegaram ao Brasil. Tentei amenizar era tรฃo bonito ser uma personagem, que nem aquelas que nem aquelas que ele e a mรฃe viam no Teatro Sรฃo Pedro; alรฉm do mais eu achava que tinha nascida para ser escritora e nรฃo me importava em nรฃo ser rica. Ele fez โachโ de desprezo com a mรฃe. 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 nรฃo crio filha para ser atriz, dessas que bebem e fumam outras coisas que nem รฉ bom falar. โO caldo m tinha engrossado. โAlรฉm do mais, vocรช nรฃo nasceu para ser escritora, ao menos atรฉ que prove o contrรกrio. โE lembrou que ele nรฃo era nenhum Procรณpio Ferreira para ter filha atriz.
—Vocรช vai ter um dรช e um erre antes do nome โdoutoraโ. Depois do diploma na minha mรฃo, decide-se o restoโdecretou, cravando-me uma um olhar impositivo. E sem medir a raiva, jรก siando da mesa: —Se vocรช estรก pensando em ser isso ai โe havia uma intenรงรฃo satรขnica no isso aiโentรฃo tenho que vai a vai viver de nariz quebrado (um perdedor) …
Passai a considerar a possibilidade de ser mรฉdica. Alรฉm de, claro, seguir as carreiras de atriz รฉ escritora.
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Nossa famรญlia tinha uns pequenos de roupas para senhoras e gestantes. Nada demais, nenhum empregado, apenas um negรณcio 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 manhรฃ, o exiliar de disciplina bateu na nossa sala de aula, chamavam-me na direรงรฃo. Engoli em seco e, bravamente, trilhe se o caminho pelo corredor silencioso.
Os dois jรก se reuniam lรก com dona Malvina. O pai de terno gravata, e a mรฃe tinha feito um coque no cabelo, vestido um tailleur รฉ o color de pรฉrolas com fecho de brilhantes; senti que ela havia colocado Cabochard, preciosa reservada para os dias de festa. A cerimรณnia do momento era tรฃo grande eu a loja estava fechadaโque, entรฃo estaria atendendo? E a loja sรณ era ocasiรตes muitรญssimo 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 vocรชs es mui criativa.
O pai adorava que me elogiassem. Dona Malvina prosseguiu:
–Tenho aqui comigo uma redaรงรฃo feita por ela sobre a amizade. Desculpem-me, mas tenho de saber se algum de vocรชs ajudou a escrevรช-la.
O pai e a mรฃe se entreolharam. Responderam que nรฃo: quando ela precisava de ajuda, era em matemรกtica, nunca para escrever. A diretora ficou feliz com a reposta:
–Foi o que imagineโabriu uma pasta e, de dentro de ela retirou minha relaรงรฃoโร impressionante.
O pai deu um salto, arrancando o papel da diretora; a mรฃe se pendurou para lero que estava escrito. Dona Malvina foi didรกtica:
Faz menรงรตes a O Pequeno Principe de Saint Exupรฉry, mas tambรฉm demonstra que aluna tem ideias prรณprias. Muito singulares e profundas.
A mรฃe es distraiu por um momento:
–Jรก sei por sumiu um pacote de aรงรบcar da dispensaโlogo depois se corrigiu:–Ah, mas nรฃo tem importรขncia.
O peito do pai se encheu, estufado. A diretora lanรงou a minha sorte:
–Talvez seja precipitadoโrefletiu. E daรญ salvou a pรกtria:–Pelo que ela tem ela tem demonstrado nos trabalhos anteriores e principalmente nesse, acho que tem vocaรงรฃo para ser escritora.
Ima chuva de estrelas dentro de mim. Dona Malvina arrematou:
–At onde eu soube, ela quer se formar em medicina. E tambรฉm atriz e escritora Parabรฉns. O futuro depende de incentivo. Parabรฉns.
O pai nรฃo sabia mais o que fazer. E ali, na sala da diretora, em meio รก cerimonia do momento, ele me abraรงou muito forte, tรฃo forte que me levantou do chรฃo. E ouvi ele sendo a pai mais feliz do mundo:
Shein a di levone
A bonito-do pai tinha uma futura pela frente.
Saรญmos os trรชs abraรงados.
Naquela noite, o pai abriu um vinho portuguรชs que estava guardado fazia tempo. Serviu-me num cรกlice um tantinho com รกgua e aรงรบcar.
—Lechaimโlevantou em saudaรงรฃo a taรงa 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 attemptsโand therefore showered with pampering, indulgences, frills, toys, and everything else I could imagineโmy father, an only child, wanted me to be nothing more, nothing less than thatโa 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 attentivelyโand even appreciateโevery aria from every opera we had at homeโespecially โUna furtiva Lacrimaโ sung by Enrico Caruso, and La Casta Diva, recorded by Maria Callasโput 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.
โBeautiful as the moon,โ 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, Frenchโthings because my father said we had to be cultivatedโall 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 actressโfantasies 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 professionโin 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 redโthen 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 myselfโone 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 Sรฃo 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 Procรณpio 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 thatโand there was a satanic intention in thatโthen I’ll have to go and live with a broken nose (a loser)โฆ 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 closedโso 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-Exupรฉry’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. —Lechaimโhe 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 futureโฆ
Liliana Heker naciรณ en Buenos Aires, en 1943. Es Cuentista, novelista y ensayista. Fundรณ y fue responsable, con Abelardo Castillo, de dos de las revistas de literatura de mayor repercusiรณn en la letras argentinas y latinoamericanas: El Escarabajo de Oro (1961-1974), yEl Ornitorrinco (1977-1986), donde publicรณ ensayos y sostuvo polรฉmicas que trascendieron la circunstancia que las motivรณ. Sus cuatro primeros libros de cuentos se reรบnen en el volumen Cuentos (editorial Punto de lectura). Publicรณ las novelas Zona de clivaje y El fin de la historia, y los libros de no ficciรณn Las hermanas de Shakespeare y Diรกlogos sobre la vida y la muerte. Su รบltimo libro de cuentos es La muerte de Dios. Obtuvo, entre otras distinciones, la Menciรณn รnica del Concurso de Casa de las Amรฉricas, el Primer Premio Municipal de Novela, el Premio Konex de Platino, el Premio a la Trayectoria Letras de Oro de la Fundaciรณn Honorarte, el Premio Esteban Echeverrรญa a la trayectoria, otorgado por Gente de Letras. Entre 2005 y 2011 se desempeรฑรณ 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 (1961โ1974) and El Ornitorrinco (1977โ1986), 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 Diรกlogos 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 Amรฉricas Competition, the First Municipal Novel Prize, the Platinum Konex Award, the Letras de Oro Lifetime Achievement Award from the Honorarte Foundation, and the Esteban Echeverrรญa 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 judรญa โirรก aprendiendoโ es muchas cosas a la vez, todas ilรณgicas. La prohibiciรณn de usar la medalla del hombrecito es sรณlo una. Poco despuรฉs de ese episodio se entera de que tampoco podrรก ir al colegio al que una vez se escapรณ sรณlo por averiguar a dรณnde iban las niรฑas 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 catรกstrofe ocurre en su quinto dรญa de clase. Marianita entrรณ directo a primero superior porque sabe todo, le cuenta su mamรก a cualquiera que se le cruza. Pero es mentira, no sabe todo: ignora las claves de un mundo en que los demรกs parecen manejarse como peces en el agua. Sรณlo ella boquea. Literalmente boquea: ha vomitado todas las maรฑanas en el momento de salir para el colegio. En su quinto dรญa de clase, la maestra formula una orden que la deja helada: Pรณnganse de pie los niรฑos que no son catรณlicos. ยฟHay un aura de desconcierto a su alrededor? ยฟO es sรณlo ella la que siente que, por primera vez, va a tener que hacer pรบblica una situaciรณn 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 atrรกs. Ve de pie junto a su banco a la chica que mรกs le gusta: es flaca, tiene pecas en la nariz y conoce los doce trabajos de Hรฉrcules. Tambiรฉn ve de pie a un chico que se llama Fernรกndez. ยฟPuede un judรญo llamarse Fernรกndez? Empieza a sospechar que ser judรญo debe ser aun mรกs complicado de lo que ella creรญa. Va a tener que pensar en eso. Ahora no tiene tiempo: la maestra estรก terminando de hacer un anuncio importante: los martes y viernes en la tercera hora los niรฑos catรณlicos se quedarรกn en el aula para la clase de Religiรณn. Los niรฑos no catรณlicos se trasladarรกn 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 mรกs la inquieta es la indefiniciรณn, esa zona amorfa y gelatinosa a la que son arrojados los niรฑos que no estudian Religiรณn. La religiรณn es algo. Mariana no conoce del todo sus reglas pero confรญa en su perfecta definiciรณn. En ella entran Dios, los santos, la Virgen Marรญa y el Niรฑo Jesรบs. No estรก segura de si Dios y el Niรฑo Jesรบs son la misma persona y tampoco puede establecer una relaciรณn muy clara entre el Niรฑo Jesรบs (tambiรฉn llamado Niรฑo Dios para complicar las cosas), que suele estar en un pesebre, sobre un jergรณn โcรณmo le gusta la palabra โjergรณnโ; Heidi tambiรฉn, en la cabaรฑa de su abuelo, duerme en un jergรณnโ, 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 niรฑos que van a Religiรณn deben aprender todas esas cosas y tambiรฉn la vida de los santos โnada le resulta tan tentador como las historias y la expresiรณn โvida de santosโ promete historias innumerablesโ y el misterioso catecismo, que estudian (fuera del colegio) los niรฑos de siete aรฑos que van a tomar la comuniรณn. ยกLa comuniรณn! ยกHe aquรญ un escamoteo realmente cruel! ยฟPuede existir algo mรกs encantador que ese traje de novia con el que las niรฑas catรณlicas se pasean por las calles el 8 de diciembre? Y acรก se presenta otro de los enigmas que Mariana no estรก en condiciones de resolver: ยฟes lo mismo ser catรณlico que ser cristiano? ยฟY es lo mismo โPadreโ que โDiosโ? Es un hecho que el Padre Nuestro que estรกs en los cielos es Dios pero ยฟquรฉ tiene en comรบn con el cura de la parroquia que, cada tanto, viene al aula a hablarles? Los niรฑos catรณlicos lo llaman โPadreโ, ella no. ยฟY cรณmo deberรญa llamarlo?: ยฟSeรฑor? De cualquier manera, el cura de la parroquia parece ignorarla. Da por hecho que en el mundo no hay otra cosa que niรฑos catรณlicos y los invita a la fiesta de la parroquia y les dice cรณmo deben comportarse para ser buenos cristianos y ganarse el cielo. Eso no la tienta de ninguna manera, le parece que el cura estรก diciendo una perfecta mentira: nadie es bueno del modo en que รฉl dice que hay que serlo, ni siquiera รฉl mismo. No le gustan los curas, parecen fallutos. A su mamรก sรญ le gustan: dice que hablan lindo y que saben muchas cosas. Su mamรก es bastante difรญcil de entender. Por una parte dice que es judรญa y por otra parte dice que le gusta cรณmo hablan los curas y que, cuando era soltera, para Semana Santa, se iba a escondidas al cine a ver la Pasiรณn y muerte de Nuestro Seรฑor Jesucristo. Es una historia tan terrible, le dice. A su mamรก 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 Pasiรณn y muerte (le dice): iban a pensar que soy una renegada. Aunque tambiรฉn le dice que ser un renegado es lo peor que una persona puede ser. No es fรกcil, con una persona como su mamรก, saber quรฉ es ser judรญo. Y con su papรก menos. Nunca le explican nada. Dicen que son judรญos, y que ella tiene que ir a Moral, y listo. Y รฉse es su calvario: la moral no es nada. Al menos, nadie sabe quรฉ es; ni siquiera la maestra de Moral que les tocรณ, que en realidad no esmaestra de Moral sino de primero inferior B. Desde el primer dรญa Mariana pensรณ que a esa maestra la habรญan puesto ahรญ porque a alguien tenรญan que poner, si no, ยฟquรฉ iban a hacer con los niรฑos judรญos y con el niรฑo que no tiene apellido judรญo pero igual va a Moral? โun 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 Prรญncipe Felizโ. A las clases de Moral van niรฑos de todos los grados y se ve bien claro que la maestra no sabe quรฉ hacer con esa mezcolanza. A veces les lee cuentos, que son lo mejor de la moral. El sastrecillo valiente, les lee un dรญa, y a ella le da en el centro mismo del corazรณn el modo en que el sastrecillo, que es pequeรฑo y debilucho, pudo vencer al gigante nada mรกs que con inteligencia y picardรญa. Pero no siempre pasan cosas tan agradables en las clases de Moral. Una vez les hacen hacer una composiciรณn sobre el ahorro. Y ella, que ama hacer composiciones casi mรกs que cualquier otra cosa en el mundo, acerca del ahorro sรณlo puede mentir, de la primera a la รบltima 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 quรฉ, pero le parece que en una composiciรณn una tiene que descubrir la verdad. Si le piden que escriba sobre la primavera, ella se pone a pensar y pensar quรฉ es eso de la primavera, no pura florcita y puro trino, como dicen los libros de lectura: tiene que descubrir la primavera, para eso estรกn las cosas escritas. Pero ยฟquรฉ descubrimiento se puede hacer sobre el ahorro? Por cuestiones como รฉsa siente que mandarla a Moral es lo mismo que tirarla a la basura. La religiรณn es algo, pero la moral no es nada. Y a ella, las cosas que no son nada le dan asco.
Con el tiempo aprenderรก a reรญrse. Sentada en el banco junto a la pecosa que le gusta tanto โlas dos son buenas en matemรกticas, las dos hacen composiciones hermosas, las dos leen a Salgariโ aprenderรก que la moral es buena para reรญrse de los otros y no hacer nada. Nadie la calificarรก, nadie le exigirรก ninguna cosa. Llegarรก a entender sin dramatismo que las clases de Moral son un mero pretexto para mantener alejados a los niรฑos judรญos de las clases de Religiรณn. ยฟEs que los judรญos carecen de religiรณn? Sus conocimientos al respecto son un poco confusos. Algunos de sus compaรฑeros 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 asรญ que no habla con ellos del tema, y la pecosa sabe tan poco como ella acerca de la cuestiรณn judรญa. ยฟQuรฉ sabe ella? Que una vez al aรฑo toda la familia se reรบne a cenar en la casa de sus abuelos y festejan el Pesaj. Eso es divertido y la comida es riquรญsima; el รบnico inconveniente es que, para empezar a comer, tienen que esperar a que su abuelo y el mรกs chico de sus primos varones digan un montรณn de cosas que nadie entiende. Pero despuรฉs comen y se rรญen mucho y eso le encanta. Otra fiesta que le gusta es el Iom Kipur. Ese dรญa, todas las hermanas de su mamรก ayunan para que les perdonen sus pecados y se pasan el dรญa entero sentadas en el shil, pero su mamรก no ayuna: dice que, a ella, estar todo el dรญa con el estรณmago vacรญo le da languidez y que si no toma unos mates a la maรฑana se siente mal. Lo que sรญ, almuerzo liviano, dice su mamรก. Y en lugar de pasarse todo el dรญa en el shil, a la tarde se pone lindรญsima y a ella tambiรฉn la pone lindรญsima, y entonces sรญ se van al shil para que todos las vean. Lucรญa no quiere ir asรญ que siempre, antes de salir, se descompone y vomita. Su papรก, en el Iom Kipur, come y vive como si tal cosa. Del Dios de los judรญos nadie le hablรณ nunca asรญ que ella da por hecho que es un tema de la religiรณn, y la religiรณn es para los catรณlicos. En un tiempo, cuando se enterรณ de que la tierra era redonda e imaginรณ al cielo como la parte superior de la esfera (que ella sรณlo podรญa ver desde abajo) veรญa a Dios vestido de amarillo y con un poncho de gaucho, sentado con las piernas cruzadas sobre la superficie de la esfera, pero no pensรณ demasiado en รฉl ni le atribuyรณ mรกs poder que el de mantenerse sentado sin caerse en un lugar tan incรณmodo. Su mamรก siempre dice que hay un Dios, y ahรญ se le termina el comentario. Su papรก, de Dios no habla nunca. Lucรญa le leyรณ unos poemas muy hermosos de un poeta que se llama Leรณn Felipe. A ella le gustaron mucho, sobre todo uno que dice ยกQuรฉ lรกstima que yo no pueda cantar a la usanza de este tiempo lo mismo que los poetas de hoy cantan! Lucรญa le dijo que Leรณn Felipe es panteรญsta. Quรฉ es ser panteรญsta, le preguntรณ ella. Es creer que Dios es todas las cosas, le dijo Lucรญa. 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 alegrรญa, pero no lo entiende del todo. ยกDios estรก azul!, dice otro poema lindรญsimo. Le encanta decir โDios estรก azulโ, pero nada mรกs que eso. Ahora ya no vomita cuando va al colegio, y aprendiรณ cรณmo 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 รฉl, del mismo modo que acepta que viajen en diligencia o se lancen al abordaje con el kriss entre los dientes. Nada mรกs que eso. Un ser impreciso y ajeno.
Being Jewishโshe will gradually learnโis 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 Fernรกndez standing there. Can a Jew be named Fernรกndez? 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 mattressโhow she loves the word “mattress”; Heidi, too, in her grandfather’s cabin, sleeps on a mattressโsurrounded 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 saintsโnothing is as tempting to her as stories, and the expression โlives of saintsโ promises countless storiesโand 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 โFatherโ the same as โGodโ? 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 โFather,โ 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 muchโthey’re both good at math, they both write beautiful compositions, they both read Salgariโshe’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. Lucรญa 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. Lucรญa read her some very beautiful poems by a poet named Leรณn 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!” Lucรญa told her that Leรณn Felipe is a pantheist. “What does it mean to be a pantheist?” she asked. It’s believing that God is all things, Lucรญa 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 Jewishโshe will gradually learnโis 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 mattressโhow she loves the word “mattress”; Heidi, too, in her grandfather’s cabin, sleeps on a mattressโsurrounded 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 saintsโnothing is as tempting to her as stories, and the expression โlives of saintsโ promises countless storiesโand 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 โFatherโ the same as โGodโ? 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 โFather,โ 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 muchโthey’re both good at math, they both write beautiful compositions, they both read Salgariโshe’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. Lucรญa 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. Lucรญa read her some very beautiful poems by a poet named Leรณn 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!” Lucรญa told her that Leรณn Felipe is a pantheist. “What does it mean to be a pantheist?” she asked. It’s believing that God is all things, Lucรญa 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.
Fayga Ostrower foi nascida em 1920 na cidade de Lodz, Polรดnia. Gravadora, pintora, desenhista, ilustradora, teรณrica da arte e professora, Fayga Ostrower chegou ao Rio de Janeiro em 1934. Cursou Artes Grรกficas na Fundaรงรฃo Getรบlio Vargas Entre os anos de 1954 e 1970, desenvolveu atividades docentes na disciplina de Composiรงรฃo e Anรกlise Crรญtica no Museu de Arte Moderna do Rio de Janeiro. No decorrer da dรฉcada de 60, lecionou no Spellman College, em Atlanta, EUA; na Slade School da Universidade de Londres, Inglaterra, e, posteriormente, como professora de pรณs-graduaรงรฃo, em vรกrias universidades brasileiras. Foi presidente da Associaรงรฃo Brasileira de Artes Plรกsticas entre 1963 e 1966. De 1978 a 1982, presidiu a comissรฃo brasileira da International Society of Education through Art, INSEA, da Unesco. Fez parte do Conselho Estadual de Cultura do Rio de Janeiro de 1982 a 1988. Em 1972, foi agraciada com a condecoraรงรฃo Ordem do Rio Branco. Em 1998, foi condecorada com o Prรชmio do Mรฉrito Cultural pelo Presidente da Repรบblica do Brasil. Em 1999, recebeu o Grande Prรชmio de Artes Plรกsticas do Ministรฉrio da Cultura. Faleceu no Rio de Janeiro, em 2001.
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Fayga Ostrower naciรณ en 1920 en Lodz, Polonia. Grabadora, pintora, diseรฑadora, ilustradora, teรณrica del arte y profesora, llegรณ a Rรญo de Janeiro en 1934. Estudiรณ Artes Grรกficas en la Fundaciรณn Getรบlio Vargas. Entre 1954 y 1970, impartiรณ clases de Composiciรณn y Anรกlisis Crรญtico en el Museo de Arte Moderno de Rรญo de Janeiro. Durante la dรฉcada de 1960, impartiรณ clases en el Spellman College de Atlanta, EE. UU.; en la Slade School de la Universidad de Londres, Inglaterra; y posteriormente, como profesora de posgrado en varias universidades brasileรฑas. Fue presidenta de la Asociaciรณn Brasileรฑa de Artes Visuales de 1963 a 1966. De 1978 a 1982, presidiรณ el comitรฉ brasileรฑo de la Sociedad Internacional de Educaciรณn por el Arte (INSEA) de la UNESCO. Fue miembro del Consejo de Cultura del Estado de Rรญo de Janeiro de 1982 a 1988. En 1972, recibiรณ la Orden de Rรญo Branco. En 1998, recibiรณ el Premio al Mรฉrito Cultural del Presidente de la Repรบblica de Brasil. En 1999, recibiรณ el Gran Premio de Artes Visuales del Ministerio de Cultura. Falleciรณ en Rรญo de Janeiro en 2001.
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Fayga Ostrower was born in 1920 in Lodz, Poland. Engraver, painter, designer, illustrator, art theorist and teacher, she arrived in Rรญo de Janeiro in 1934. She studied Graphic Arts at the Fundaciรณn Getรบlio Vargas. Between 1954 and 1970, she taught Composition and Critical Analysis at the Museum of Modern Art in Rรญo de Janeiro. During the 1960s, she taught classes at Spellman College in Atlanta, EE. UU.; at the Slade School at the University of London, England; and later, as a postgraduate professor at several Brazilian universities. She was president of the Brazilian Association of Visual Arts from 1963 to 1966. From 1978 to 1982, she chaired the Brazilian committee of the International Society of Education for Art (INSEA) of UNESCO. She was a member of the Consejo de Cultura del Estado de Rรญo de Janeiro from 1982 to 1988. In 1972, Ostrower received the Order of Rรญo Branco. In 1998, she received the Cultural Merit Award from the President of the Republic of Brazil. In 1999, she received the Grand Prize for Visual Arts from the Ministry of Culture. She died in Rรญo de Janeiro in 2001.
Margo Glantz (Ciudad de Mรฉxico, 1930) Escritor, conferenciante y periodista. Despuรฉs de graduarse de la UNAM, Glantz continuรณ su educaciรณn en Parรญs, donde recibiรณ su doctorado en la Sorbona. En 1958 iniciรณ su carrera acadรฉmica dando clases en la UNAM. Fundรณ y editรณ la revista Punto de Partida de la UNAM en 1966. En el campo de la difusiรณn cultural ocupรณ diversos cargos: Directora del Instituto Cultural Mexicano-Israelรญ (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 Mรฉxico en Londres. Desde 1995 es miembro activo de la Academia Mexicana de la Lengua. Es profesora emรฉrita 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 Sรญndrome de naufragios (1984), el Premio Magda Donato de El รกrbol genealรณgico (1982) y el Premio Universidad Nacional (1991). Ganรณ el Premio Nacional de Artes y Ciencias en el campo de Lingรผรญstica y Literatura en 2004, el premio de la Feria Internacional del Libro de Guadalajara en 2010 y el Premio de Ficciรณn Manuel Rojas (2015). Sus รบltimos libros son Coronada de moscas (2012), Yo tambiรฉn 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-Israelรญ (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 attachรฉ 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 Sรญndrome 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 tambiรฉn me acuerdo (2014), La cabellera andante (2015) and Por breve herida (2016).
Adapted from Encyclopedia.com
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Algunos dicen que la serpiente de Edรฉn era Satรกn disfrazado; o sea el Arcรกngel Samael.
Otros dicen que cuando los รกngeles (todos) se habรญan puesto obedientemente a los pies de Adรกn, Samael le dijo a Dios: โSeรฑor del Universo, Tรบ nos creaste con el esplendor de Tu gloria. ยฟDebemos adorar a un ser formado con polvo?โ Dios replicรณ: โSin embargo, esta criatura, aunque fue formada con polvo, te supera en sabidurรญa e inteligenciaโ. Samael le dijo: โยกPonnos a prueba!โ Dios dijo: โHe creado a los animales y a los reptiles. Desciende y ponlos en fila, y si puedes, dale los nombres que yo les habrรญa dado, Adรกn rendirรก homenaje a tu sabidurรญa. Pero si no puedes hacerlo y รฉl sรญ, tendrรกs que rendirle homenajeโ.
En Edรฉn, Adรกn rindiรณ homenaje a Samael, a quien tomรณ equivocadamente por Dios. Pero Dios le hizo levantarse y preguntรณ a Samael: โยฟSerรกs tรบ el primero que dรฉ nombres a esos animales o serรก Adรกn?โ Samael contestรณ: โSerรฉ yo pues soy el mayor y el mรกs sabioโ. Inmediatamente Dios puso bueyes ante รฉl y le preguntรณ: โยฟCรณmo se llaman?โ Cuando Samael guardรณ silencio Dios alejรณ a los bueyes. Luego le presentรณ un camello y despuรฉs un asno, pero Samael no pudo dar nombre a ninguno de ellos.
Luego Dios puso comprensiรณn en el corazรณn de Adรกn y le hablรณ de manera que la primera letra de cada pregunta indicara el nombre del animal. Asรญ tomรณ unos bueyes y dijo: โBueno, abre tus labios, Adรกn, y dime su nombreโ. Adรกn contestรณ: โBueyesโ. A continuaciรณn, le presentรณ un venado y le dijo: โVen, dime el nombre de รฉsteโ. Adรกn contesto: โVenadoโ, Por fin Dios le mostrรณ un asno: โยฟAspiras a nombrar a รฉste?โ Adรกn contestรณ: โEs un asnoโ.
Cuando Samael vio que Dios habรญa instruido a Adรกn gritรณ indignado. โยฟGritasโฆ?โ, le preguntรณ Dios. โยฟCรณmo no he de gritar โreplicรณ Samaelโ si Tรบ me creaste con Tu gloria y luego has dado inteligencia a una criatura hecha con polvo?โ
Dios dijo: โยกOh malvado Samael! ยฟTe asombra la sabidurรญa de Adรกn? ยกSin embargo, รฉl ahora preveerรก el nacimiento de sus descendientes y darรก a cada uno su nombre hasta el Dรญa del Juicio!โ Dicho esto arrojรณ a Samael del cielo y a sus รกngeles ayudantes. Samael se asiรณ a las alas de Miguel y lo habrรญa arrastrado a รฉl tambiรฉn hasta el abismo si Dios no hubiera intervenido.
Samael quiere decir quizรก โveneno de Diosโ, aunque probablemente su nombre sea una deformaciรณn de Shemal, divinidad siria. Adรกn inventรณ el vino y no tuvo tiempo de ponerle nombre porque se embriagรณ de tal forma que perdiรณ el aliento. Las peleas y rencillas del Paraรญso se diferencian de las de la Tierra en que las letras se inscriben con Mayรบsculas y en que Dios tiene mรกs poder para castigar a los hombres. Con todo, en los episodios de Abel y Caรญn y en las maldiciones de Noรฉ, es fรกcil advertir que la cรณlera divina y la cรณlera terrestre vuelven a diferir solamente por las Capitulares.
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AdรกnAdรกn, Eva, El serpiente, SamaelSamael, el รกngel caรญdo/the fallen angel
Some say that the serpent in Eden was Satan disguised, or rather the Archangel Samael with his angels and helpers.
Others say that when the angels (all of them) had obediently set themselves at Adamโs feet, Samael said to God: Master of the Universe> โYou created for us with the splendor of your glory. Should we adore a being formed of dust?โ God repliedโ Nevertheless, , this creature, although made of dust, is superior to you in wisdom and intelligence.โ Samael said to Him, โTest us:โ God said to him, โI have created the animals and the reptiles. Come down and put his in a line, if you can, give them the names that I would have given them</ Adam will give homage to your wisdom. But if you canโt do it and he can, you will have to give homage to him.โ
Then God put understanding into Adamโs heart and spoke to him in a way the first letter of each would indicate the name of an animal. And so, he took some antelope, and he said: โGood open your lips and tell me their name.โ Adam answered, โAntelope.โ Then he showed him a bear and said to him. โLook, tell me the name of this one,โ Adam answered โBearโ. Finally, God showed him and ass: โAre you ready to name this one?โ Adam replied, This iis an ass.โ
Adam made homage to Samael, for whom he mistakenly took for God. But God made him arise and he He asked Samael; โWill you be the first to give the animals names or will 1t be Adam?โ Samael answered, โIt will be me since I am the oldest and the wisest.โ Immediately, God put oxen before hem and asked him, โWhat are they called?โ When Samael remained silent, God took away the oxen. Then he showed him a camel and later an ass; but Samael could not put a name on any of them.
When Samuel saw that God had ta Adam, he shouted indignantly. โYou shout?โ God asked him. Why shouldnโt I shout,โ replied Samuel, โif You made me with your Glory and then you have given intelligence to a creature made of dust,โ
God said, โOh, cursed Samael! Does Adamโs wisdom amaze you? Even so, he now he will foresee the birth of you descendants, and he will give each a name, he will give a name to each of them until the Day of Judgment.โ Having said that, he threw Samael from the heavens. Samual grabbed onto the wings of the Archangel Michael, and he would have pulled him too down to the abysm, if God had not intervened.
Samael means, perhaps, โGodโs poison,” although his name was a deformation of Shamal, a Syrian divinity. Adam invented wine, and he didnโt have time to give him a name as he got drunk to such an extent that he lost consciousness. The quarrels and arguments in Paradise are different from those of the Earth in that letters in that the letters are written in Upper Case and where God has more power to punish humans. In everything, in the episodes of Cain and Abel and in the curses of Noah, it is easy to note that the divine anger and terrestrial anger became together again only for the the Priests to figure out.
Desde muy joven escribรญ poesรญa, a menudo con desesperaciรณn. Poner en palabras el dolor fue, durante mucho tiempo, una forma sutil de autosanaciรณn. Algunos de esos poemas dieron forma a los seis libros que figuran mรกs abajo. En aรฑos recientes, me he volcado al relato. Diario de un cuรฉntenik se basa tanto en personajes reales โpersonas que conocรญ trabajandoโ como en mi imaginaciรณn.
He vivido, con suerte diversa, del comercio. Hoy me dedico al tratamiento de rezagos electrรณnicos y al comercio electrรณnico. Me gusta pensar que soy un cuรฉntenik tecnolรณgico, pero cuรฉntenik 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 aรฑos, en la ciudad de Buenos Aires. Ese libro y El despuรฉs es ahora, 2021, fueron publicado por A Capella.
Actualmente estoy desarrollando Un judรญo amateur, un libro que combina ensayo, memoria personal y reflexiรณn sobre la identidad judรญa.
Nacรญ en Bahรญa Blanca en 1957. Estudiรฉ Matemรกtica en la Universidad de Buenos Aires y fui presidente, durante ocho aรฑos, de la Asociaciรณn 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 cuรฉntenikย 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, Iโm 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.
ย ย ย ย 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 Bahรญa 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 observรณ que no hay que descuidarse y si los jรณvenes siguen emigrando podrรญa afectar la sagrada ecuaciรณn. Serรญa una desagradable sorpresa ser menos los vivos que los que descansan en el cementerio. Como no estรก permitida la cremaciรณn dentro del judaรญsmo la cuenta es sencilla de hacer. Entregarse a la tierra, es el modo de purificar el alma. Dice la tradiciรณn de que no es prudente desafiar al destino.
No hay modo de retener a los jรณvenes que piensan buscar nuevos horizontes. Somos descendientes de los mรกs audaces, de aquellos que sobrevivieron a las persecuciones gracias a su temeridad de emigrar a estas nobles tierras. No entendรญan el idioma local, pero en donde se decรญa que se tiraba una semilla y se cosechaba dinero. Es cierto que no tenรญan mucho que perder en sus paรญses de origen, quedarse era soportar hambre y violencia. El espรญritu intrรฉpido se mantiene en la sangre, aunque cambie el escenario y lo que estรก ocurriendo era lo esperable. Lamento decirlo, pero en algรบn momento los temores se cumplirรกn y serรกn menos los vivos que moran en la sureรฑa ciudad que los que descansan en el camposanto.
Mareado por estas reflexiones voy a visitar las tumbas de mis familiares fallecidos. Mi primo se ofreciรณ para acompaรฑarme, รฉl se autodefine como un visitador serial de cementerios. Me cuenta que la traducciรณn al hebreo es beit jaim, la casa de la vida. Para รฉl 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 enterรณ, con total naturalidad, me envรญo saludos para todos. Yo no dije nada para no ofenderla.
Los cementerios judรญos 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 algรบn pariente lejano siente necesidad de bucear en su pasado. O para recibir algรบn 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 habilitaciรณn legal. Y un nutrido basural clandestino sin control municipal. Con bolsas de plรกstico que arrastradas por el viento que terminan atrapadas en los cercos de los campos vecinos. Este penoso paisaje me recordรณ que en varios pasajes de la biblia se habla de un basurero publico ubicado en el sur de Jerusalรฉn. En este lugar, no solo se arrojaban los cadรกveres de los criminales y animales sacrificados, sino tambiรฉn los desechos de la ciudad.
La asociaciรณn entre Gehena, que era el nombre del basurero, y la condenaciรณn eterna se debรญa principalmente a las llamas que ardรญan constantemente para consumir los desechos. Una imagen de destrucciรณn y muerte. Ademรกs, el hedor y la putrefacciรณn que emanaban de este lugar aรฑadรญan una sensaciรณn de horror y desolaciรณn que se llegรณ a asociar con un tormento eterno. De ahรญ surgiรณ la idea del infierno para los pecadores.
Un basural cerca del cementerio, es como convocar a un infierno cercano. Algo deberรญa hacer la comunidad al respecto porque es un espectรกculo decepcionante. Pero, a la vez, nada mal para un cementerio al que le conviene pasar desapercibido.
Cuando llegamos vimos que en el antiguo portรณn habรญa un cartel de cerrado. Nos sorprendiรณ porque en el calendario hebreo no habรญa ninguna conmemoraciรณn religiosa.
Debรญa ser necesariamente algo temporal.
No tenรญa yo otra fecha para visitarlo y estaba de paso en la ciudad, asรญ que esperamos pacientemente la vuelta el encargado. Cuando llegรณ ni siquiera intentรณ una disculpa por nuestro tiempo perdido. Con soltura nos informรณ 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 empatรญa era uno de ellos.
Acto seguido nos alertรณ que al vernos adentro otros se animarรญan a entrar. No vimos ningรบn auto por kilรณmetros, nos pareciรณ raro el comentario, pero al rato se confirmรณ que tenรญa razรณn. El hombre, nos guste o no, conocรญa los gajes de su oficio.
Momentos despuรฉs 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 estรกn en el lado mรกs antiguo. Todas las tumbas miran a Jerusalรฉn, la ciudad sagrada. Esto se debe a la creencia de que, en el momento adecuado, los muertos no dudaran hacia dรณnde dirigirse para su resurrecciรณn.
Me propuse tomar en serio el pedido de saludar y decidรญ pasar por donde estรกn los restos de cada uno de mis parientes y observarlos con nuevos ojos ahora que yo tambiรฉn tengo la edad en que la muerte es una posibilidad cierta. Frente a ellos, es natural que surja un dialogo รญntimo y silencioso.
Casi todos fallecieron antes de la era de la fotografรญa digital, asรญ que imagino la dificultad de buscar entre รกlbumes de fotos una que pudiera ser apta para el recuerdo. Para perpetuar el rostro por generaciones. Algunas de esas fotografรญas, lamento, no han hecho honor a los rostros de mis seres queridos. Con ayuda de mi memoria fui sacando conclusiones de cรณmo vivieron, de que legado dejaron en el espรญritu de sus parientes.
Mientras recorrรญamos 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 niรฑo vulnerable de 10 aรฑos que tuvo que decir unas palabras, en su carรกcter de primogรฉnito, en la ceremonia del entierro. Es inexplicable desde la razรณn, pero comprensible desde las emociones: el tiempo parece no haber pasado en ciertos instantes.
Pensรฉ en mandar a hacer una placa con alguno de los tantos poemas que hice sobre ella. Falleciรณ muy joven y esos versos me permiten tenerla presente a falta de otros recuerdos de momentos felices. Pero luego pensรฉ que nadie hacia nada parecido y no quiero llamar la atenciรณn.
Acompaรฑado por mi primo, sentรญa que nada malo podรญa pasarme. Cuando รฉramos chicos me llevรณ a descubrir lugares alejados de la severa mirada adulta, mucho mรกs pudorosa que la nuestra.
Fue en la infancia que nos dijeron que las tumbas mirando al paredรณn entrando por la derecha habรญan hecho cosas malas. Nos prohibieron andar curioseando por ahรญ, no vaya a ser cosa que nos contagiemos.
Decรญan que eran mujeres de mala vida, usureros o ladrones. Incluso de suicidas, porque parece ser que a ningรบn ser humano le estรก permitido ser artรญfice de su propia muerte.
Sorprende que los marginados de la sociedad aceptaran estar de espaldas mirando a la pared. ยฟSi vivieron al margen de la ley, porque no buscar otro lugar donde dejar sus restos? Es evidente que temรญan mรกs a la otra vida que a los castigos en esta. O, bien, que sabรญan cรณmo 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. ยฟHabrรก abogados en lo que nos espera luego de la muerte fรญsica?
La verdad es que, aunque ocultos tras el muro, miran en la misma direcciรณn que las otras tumbas, por lo tanto, una vez que llegue el Mesรญas y comience la resurrecciรณn, tal vez despuรฉs de todo el resto, podrรกn llegar a Jerusalรฉn. Eso no ocurrirรญa enterrados en el cementerio de los gentiles. Querรญan asegurarse, por lo que descuento, pagarรญan bien caro ese curioso privilegio.
Nos animamos a ver cรณmo eran las tumbas de aquellos repudiados por la sociedad. Siempre me intrigaron y tenรญamos tiempo disponible. No hay nada tan seductor como ver algo prohibido. Las otras oportunidades en que visite el cementerio, aunque ya adulto, las habรญa visto desde prudente distancia.
Ahora que nuestros mayores descansan del lado โbuenoโ del cementerio, no creo que se molestaran por nuestra ocurrencia. Ya no tenemos de quien ocultarnos. La โprohibiciรณnโ era una de los tantos rituales que se generan en cualquier sacrosanto. Como salir por un sendero diferente del que se entrรณ, o la prohibiciรณn de visitar a otros familiares fallecidos cuando se asiste a un entierro. Todas supersticiones que no estรกn en la Tora ni el Talmud pero que la gente cree a pie juntillas que en algรบn lado estรก 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 mรกs probos de la comunidad.
ยฟVelaran sus parientes por ellos? Imagino que algunos de sus descendientes aun hoy usufructรบan sus mal habidos bienes. Da para pensar, que posiblemente, se cambiaron el apellido para no dejar nada librado a las asociaciones obvias.
Pero, lo mรกs importante, ยฟdรณnde se entierran hoy los corruptos, los estafadores, los ladrones de guante blanco?
Registro que la รบltima placa es de los aรฑos 70, son muchos aรฑos sin ninguna oveja negra a la que hay que enterrar de espalda. Algo debe de haber pasado para que la sensatez termine esta vergonzante tradiciรณn.
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 compasiรณn. De las mujeres de mala vida no habrรญa mucho para decir en los tiempos de la cancelaciรณn y del empoderamiento femenino. La costumbre, bastante absurda, por cierto, desapareciรณ 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 รญntimo cree que nunca va a morir. Sueรฑa con vivir eternamente. No es que no lo sepa simplemente no estรก dispuesta a aceptarlo. No quiere pensar que tendrรก algรบn dรญa que abandonar este mundo. Se aferra a sus pequeรฑos hรกbitos, a sus cuidados, a su esperanza. Pero las palabras se escapan a veces de su celda y pregunta cosas como esta: “ยฟcรณmo estaban todos?โ. 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 allรญ 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 โโhell 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
โRevelacionesโ por la Editorial Huesos de Jibia 2010- Ciudad de Buenos Aires
โRevelaciones acerca de otras criaturasโ por la Editorial Huesos de Jibia 2011
โBreves โpor la editorial Colectivo Semilla 2013 de la ciudad de Bahรญa Blanca
โEl sonido de la atenciรณnโ Editorial Huesos de Jibia 2014 Ciudad de Buenos Aires
โLa incomodidadโ Editorial Huesos de Jibia 2015 Ciudad de Buenos Aires
Narrative: โDiario de un cuentenikโ de la editorial Leviatรกn 2020
Las pinturas, dibujos y escritos teรณricos del artista judรญo nacido en Austria, Wolfgang Paalen, fueron impulsados โโpor una poderosa fascinaciรณn por la relaciรณn entre el arte, la ciencia y la magia. Despuรฉs de unirse al grupo surrealista de Parรญs junto a su esposa, Alice Rahon, en 1935, Paalen quedรณ impresionado por las posibilidades creativas del automatismo, o la realizaciรณn de acciones sin pensamiento consciente. Este principio se expresรณ mรกs notablemente en su tรฉcnica fumage, en la que se utiliza humo de vela para hacer impresiones en un soporte preparado con pintura al รณleo. Las formas ondulantes e impredecibles que resultaron de esta tรฉcnica hablaron de la inclinaciรณn de Paalen por aprovechar el potencial creativo del azar, evidente en su obra Lโautophage (Fulgurites) (1938). En 1939, Paalen dejรณ Parรญs con Rahon y la fotรณgrafa Eva Sulzer para viajar por el noroeste del Pacรญfico antes de viajar a Mรฉxico. Tras el estallido de la Segunda Guerra Mundial, se establecieron juntos de forma permanente en la Ciudad de Mรฉxico, donde rรกpidamente se unieron a un grupo de innovadores artistas internacionales, entre ellos Diego Rivera, Manuel รlvarez Bravo y Leonora Carrington. En 1940, Paalen organizรณ la Exposiciรณn Internacional del Surrealismo en la Ciudad de Mรฉxico con Andrรฉ Breton, reuniendo las obras de arte y las ideas de sus colegas surrealistas entonces dispersos por la guerra. Sin embargo, en 1942 Paalen rompiรณ con los surrealistas, publicando su mordaz manifiesto “Adiรณs al surrealismo” en el primer nรบmero de su ambiciosa revista interdisciplinaria Dyn (1942-1944). Con esta separaciรณn pรบblica de los surrealistas, formรณ un nuevo grupo artรญstico experimental en el รrea de la Bahรญa de San Francisco con los pintores Gordon Onslow Ford y Lee Mullican y la escritora Jacqueline Johnson. Llamรกndose a sรญ mismos Dynaton, estos artistas buscaron redefinir lo posible a travรฉs de una exploraciรณn de la mente inconsciente y las culturas pasadas.
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The paintings, drawings and theoretical writings of Austrian-born Jewish artist Wolfgang Paalen were driven by a powerful fascination with the relationship between art, science, and magic. After joining the Paris Surrealist group alongside his wife, Alice Rahon, in 1935, Paalen was struck by the creative possibilities of automatism, or performing actions without conscious thought. This principle was most notably expressed in his technique fumage, in which candle smoke is used to make impressions on an oil-paint-primed support. The billowing, unpredictable forms that resulted from this technique spoke to Paalenโs penchant for harnessing the creative potential for chance, evident in his work Lโautophage (Fulgurites)(1938). In 1939, Paalen left Paris with Rahon and photographer Eva Sulzer to travel through the Pacific Northwest before journeying to Mexico. Following the outbreak of World War II, they settled together permanently in Mexico City where they quickly joined a group of innovative international artists, including Diego Rivera, Manuel รlvarez Bravo, and Leonora Carrington. In 1940, Paalen organized the International Exhibition of Surrealism in Mexico City with Andrรฉ Breton, bringing together the artwork and ideas of his Surrealist colleagues then scattered by the war. However, by 1942 Paalen broke with the Surrealists, publishing his biting manifesto โFarewell to Surrealismโ in the first issue of his ambitious, interdisciplinary journal Dyn (1942โ44). With this public separation from the Surrealists, he formed a new experimental artistic group in the San Francisco Bay Area with painters Gordon Onslow Ford and Lee Mullican and writer Jacqueline Johnson. Calling themselves Dynaton, these artists sought to redefine the possible through an exploration of the unconscious mind and past cultures.
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Libros sobre Wolfgang Paalan/Books about Wolfgang Paalan
Federico Andahazi naciรณ en Buenos Aires, Argentina en 1963. Se graduรณ como licenciado en psicologรญa 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 ยซDesde la Genteยป por su cuento “El sueรฑo de los justos”. En 1996 su novela El anatomista fue finalista del Premio Planeta Argentina y recibiรณ el primer premio de la Fundaciรณn Amalia Lacroze de Fortabat. En verano de 2005 el diario Clarรญn publicรณ el folletรญn Mapas del fin del mundo. En 2006 Andahazi recibiรณ el Premio Planeta por su novela El conquistador.ย Tambiรฉn ha publicado no ficciรณn: 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 sueรฑo 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 Clarรญn 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 abriรณ los ojos y se encandilรณ con el resplandor del amanecer. Tenรญa el cuerpo entumecido y el cuello rรญgido, dolorido. Le costรณ recordar dรณnde estaba y cรณmo habรญa llegado hasta ese lugar. Se llevรณ la mano a la nuca y descubriรณ que debajo de la cabeza habรญa dos libros envueltos en un suรฉter enrollado a manera de almohada. Los desenvolviรณ y leyรณ los tรญtulos con los pรกrpados entrecerrados para atenuar la claridad temprana del verano. Se trataba de una ediciรณn de la รtica de Aristรณteles y otra del Libro VI de Diรณgenes Laercio. En este รบltimo volumen, el historiador griego daba testimonio de la vida de su tocayo de Sรญnope. Habรญan sido las รบltimas lecturas de Eliseo antes de que se durmiera bajo la lรกnguida luz de un farol. Segรบn pudo reconstruir, esos restos mnรฉmicos fueron la arcilla con la que modelรณ su curioso sueรฑo griego. Habrรญa contribuido โconjeturรณโ el inesperado hecho de haber dormido bajo las estrellas, igual que el viejo vagabundo del รกgora. Fainzilber transitaba ese lรญmite difuso, perturbador, entre el sueรฑo y el despertar; no podรญa distinguir todavรญa de quรฉ lado de la frontera se encontraba. Tendido como estaba, se incorporรณ sobre los codos; sintiรณ que se le rompรญa el espinazo. Tenรญa la columna vertebral tan arqueada como las tablas vencidas del banco en el que amaneciรณ. Mirรณ hacia un costado y vio el puente de hierro sobre las vรญas de la estaciรณn Coghlan. Le costรณ reconocer, en ese alegre y colorido paisaje estival, el escenario sombrรญo en el que se habรญa dormido la noche anterior. Sobre el andรฉn, unas pocas personas esperaban el tren. Sintiรณ vergรผenza de solo imaginar que alguien pudiera reconocerlo. No tardรณ en descubrir, sin embargo, que era virtualmente invisible. De hecho, nadie le dirigรญa la mirada ni le prestaba la menor atenciรณn. Mรกs aรบn, nadie se habรญa sentado en el sector del banco que quedaba libre. La gente mantenรญa una prudente distancia hecha de aprensiรณn e indiferencia. Bajรณ los pies, se enderezรณ, se apoyรณ en el respaldo y moviรณ la cabeza de izquierda a derecha y de arriba abajo; las vรฉrtebras del cuello crepitaron como ramas al quebrarse. Repuesto de un breve mareo, hizo un rรกpido inventario de sus pertenencias. Tenรญa los dos libros, el suรฉter de hilo azul y el llavero prendido al cinturรณn. Metiรณ la mano en el bolsillo trasero del pantalรณn y comprobรณ que conservaba la billetera con las tarjetas de crรฉdito, los documentos y unos pocos billetes. En el bolsillo delantero derecho guardaba el celular. Lo sacรณ, mirรณ la pantalla y pulsรณ el botรณn de inicio. La baterรญa estaba muerta y no tenรญa el cargador. Al menos, se consolรณ, no le faltaba nada de lo poco que se habรญa podido llevar despuรฉs de que su mujer lo invitara a abandonar la casa el dรญa anterior. El sueรฑo, del que Eliseo no acababa de liberarse del todo, le habรญa provocado mรกs angustia que el recuerdo de la discusiรณn conyugal. Ni siquiera el hecho de haber pasado la noche fuera de su casa le causรณ mรกs pesadumbre que la asociaciรณn onรญrica con Diรณgenes, el homeless mรกs cรฉlebre de todos los tiempos. Mirรณ hacia el andรฉn opuesto y se encontrรณ con los ojos inquisidores de un viejo huรฉsped de la estaciรณn que, igual que รฉl, acababa de despertarse en otro asiento. Cruzaron miradas de un lado al otro de las vรญas. El hombre lo saludรณ con una inclinaciรณn de cabeza. Eliseo Fainzilber bajรณ la vista perturbado y hasta cierto punto agraviado. Temiรณ que alguien pudiera pensar que ese vagabundo y รฉl fueran lo mismo. No, รฉl no era uno de ellos. Mรกs aรบn, ni siquiera era usuario del tren. Hacรญa muchos aรฑos que no tomaba el transporte pรบblico; de hecho, manejaba un Land Rover Discovery y, de haber podido manotear las llaves antes de salir de la casa, habrรญa dormido en la mullida butaca del auto con aire acondicionado y mรบsica tenue. Tenรญa la boca pastosa y una sed desรฉrtica. Se ordenรณ el pelo con las manos, se desperezรณ con discreciรณn, ocultรณ un bostezo profundo detrรกs del puรฑo y finalmente se levantรณ. Asรญ, vertical, se sintiรณ uno mรกs entre la gente decente e, incluso, algo superior. Con el suรฉter sobre los hombros y los libros bajo el brazo, se dispuso a abandonar la estaciรณn. Volviรณ a mirar al hombre que aรบn remoloneaba desaliรฑado sobre el banco del andรฉn contrario, como si quisiera hacerle notar el abismo, mucho mรกs profundo que el foso de las vรญas, que existรญa entre ellos. La camisa Ralph Lauren, aunque arrugada, el abrigo Lacoste sobre los hombros y las lecturas clรกsicas marcaban el contraste con los harapos de su circunstancial vecino de enfrente. Lo mirรณ con un desprecio involuntario, acaso para que quedara claro que no eran colegas. El hombre le contestรณ con una sonrisa cรณmplice y burlona como si asรญ le dijera: โYa nos volveremos a verโ. Eliseo Fainzilber se dio media vuelta, bajรณ la escalera y apurรณ el paso hacia la calle. En la avenida Monroe entrรณ en una farmacia y tomรณ un cepillo de dientes, dentรญfrico, un desodorante, una botella de agua mineral, ibuprofeno y chicles. Sintiรณ que el sencillo acto de comprar lo redimรญa de su nueva condiciรณn nรณmade, que suponรญa transitoria. Cuando llegรณ a la caja entregรณ la tarjeta de crรฉdito con un pase de prestidigitaciรณn de los dedos รญndice y mayor. La cajera ingresรณ el cรณdigo y esperรณ. El display marcรณ error. Volviรณ a oprimir las teclas y, otra vez, la misma leyenda. Le devolviรณ la tarjeta y, sin mirarlo, le dijo: โNo estรก habilitada. โยฟCรณmo? โNo estรก habilitada, seรฑor. Eliseo Fainzilber sacudiรณ la cabeza y le entregรณ una segunda tarjeta. La mujer repitiรณ la operaciรณn y una vez mรกs, como si fueran las tres รบnicas palabras que conociera, le dijo: โNo estรก 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 rรกpido, como si quisiera pasar del oprobio a la ostentaciรณn, sacรณ todos los billetes del bolsillo y los contรณ sobre el mostrador. No le alcanzaba. Dejรณ los chicles y los analgรฉsicos, pagรณ y saliรณ de la farmacia como una exhalaciรณn. Mientras se cepillaba los dientes en el baรฑo de un bar, recordรณ que la titular de las tarjetas y, de hecho, tambiรฉn de las cuentas bancarias era Martina, su mujer. Golpeรณ el borde del lavatorio con el puรฑo. Estaba furioso con el banco, con la farmacia, con la cajera y con el vagabundo de la estaciรณn. Aquella indignaciรณn general no la incluรญa, 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 sรญ mismo. No sabรญa cuรกnto podรญa durarle el enojo a Martina o si alguna vez lo iba a perdonar, pero รฉl no podรญa pasar mucho mรกs tiempo en la calle. Apenas le quedaba plata para el cafรฉ y la medialuna que acababa de pedir. Por otra parte, necesitaba baรฑarse, afeitarse y cambiarse. Era la primera vez en varios aรฑos que no iba a trabajar un dรญa de semana. Sentado en una mesa junto a la ventana del bar, con la mirada perdida en el frente del hospital Pirovano, Eliseo debiรณ reconocer algo que no habรญa querido ver durante los รบltimos tiempos: que toda su vida giraba alrededor de Martina. El negocio familiar que รฉl habรญa administrado hasta ese dรญa le pertenecรญa a la familia de ella. La casa en la que convivรญan tambiรฉn era de Martina desde antes de conocerse. El Land Rover que manejaba, y que habรญa elegido รฉl a pesar de la oposiciรณn de su mujer, estaba a nombre de la sociedad de la otra empresa de Martina. Mientras estiraba el magro desayuno, Eliseo habรญa podido darle un poco de carga al celular gracias a la buena voluntad del encargado del bar. Lo primero que se le ocurriรณ fue llamar a Leopoldo y Alejandra, sus amigos de toda la vida. Pero recordรณ que eran amigos de toda la vida, sรญ, pero de su mujer. Mรกs aรบn, a Leopoldo y Alejandra los habรญa 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 habรญa dejado de ver hacรญa mucho tiempo. Ademรกs de la humillaciรณn que significarรญa acudir a ellos derrotado y solo, tampoco tenรญa la certeza de que pudieran o quisieran ayudarlo. De cualquier modo, las dudas le duraron muy poco; cuando encendiรณ el telรฉfono recibiรณ una notificaciรณn inapelable: la lรญnea habรญa sido dada de baja. Eliseo cerrรณ los ojos y asintiรณ en silencio, resignado ante la evidencia. La titular de la lรญnea era, quiรฉn si no, Martina Paz. Jaque mate. No tenรญa ningรบn casillero a donde moverse. De la noche a la maรฑana se habรญa convertido en Diรณgenes, el admirado personaje de sus lecturas, cuyo destino tanto temรญa. El sueรฑo se le habรญa manifestado como un orรกculo: igual que el filรณsofo callejero, Eliseo Fainzilber estaba librado a la intemperie del รกgora. O, dicho de otra forma, se habรญa 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
Sergio Lererย naciรณ en 1948ย y se criรณ en una familia judรญa con raรญces artรญsticas. Su padre fue actor en Polonia, su madre ceramista, y sus hermanas se dedicaron al canto lรญrico y la literatura. Desde joven se volcรณ al circuito en idioma idish, dentro del grupo filodramรกtico del TES. En sus comienzos interpretรณย obras clรกsicasย bajo la direcciรณn de Samuel Rollasky. Pronto obtuvo notoriedad con su papel en la obraย Es difรญcil ser judรญoย y por haber acompaรฑado durante cuatro aรฑos al humoristaย Norman Erlich. En ese mismo รกmbito, tambiรฉn coprotagonizรณย Draculovich, el vampiro que faltaba, y se luciรณ en piezas comoย La familia, Jasie la huรฉrfanaย yย Habรญa una vez una aldea.
En televisiรณn, participรณ en muchas de las series mรกs exitosas de las รบltimas dรฉcadas:ย Los Simuladores, Todos contra Juan, Casados con hijos, Peor es nada, entre otras. Su paso por el cine incluye tรญtulos comoย El amor en una mujer gorda,El censor, Morir en San Hilario, La suerte estรก echada, Hijo del rรญo, Aporรญa, El Cheย yย Lucky Luke. Respecto a sus colaboraciones con estrellas internacionales, se recuerda su encuentro conย Madonna cuando protagonizรณย Evitaย y, conย Brad Pitt, durante el rodaje deย Siete aรฑos en el Tibet, en La Plata. El actor solรญa definirse como una persona que disfrutaba de mรบltiples pasiones: โMe divierte ir a los cafรฉs a estudiar y militar en la Asociaciรณn Argentina de Actoresโ,ย aseguraba. Tambiรฉn fue psicoanalista, profesor de Psicologรญa, traductor y docente de hebreo. Lerer dejรณ una marca profunda gracias aย su sensibilidad artรญstica, su compromiso con la cultura judรญa y su talento para conectar el escenario, el consultorio y el aulaย en una misma vocaciรณn de transmitir y conmover. De: Perfil
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Sergio Lerer was born in 1948 and grew up in a Jewish family with artistic roots. His father was an actor in Poland, his mother a ceramist, and his sisters dedicated themselves to opera singing and literature. From a young age, he became involved in the Yiddish-language circuit, within the TES philodramatic group. In his early days, he performed classical works under the direction of Samuel Rollasky. He soon gained notoriety for his role in the play It’s Difficult to Be Jewish and for having accompanied the comedian Norman Erlich for four years. In the same field, he also co-starred in Draculovich, the Missing Vampire, and shone in plays On television, he participated in many of the most successful series of recent decades: Los Simuladores, Todos contra Juan, Casados โโcon hijos, Peor es nada, among others. His work in film includes titles such as El amor en una mujer gordo, El censor, Morir en San Hilario, La suerte estรก echada, Hijo del rรญo, Aporia, El Che and Lucky Luke. Regarding his collaborations with international stars, we remember his meeting with Madonna when she starred in Evita and, with Brad Pitt, during the filming of Siete aรฑos en el Tibet, in La Plata. The actor used to define himself as a person who enjoyed multiple passions: โI enjoy going to cafes to study and being an activist in the Argentine Actors Association,โ he said. He was also a psychoanalyst, psychology professor, translator and Hebrew teacher. Lerer left a profound mark thanks to his artistic sensitivity, his commitment to Jewish culture, and his talent for connecting the stage, the consulting room, and the classroom in a single vocation to transmit and move. From: Profile
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De:/From: in the name of the son/in the name of the son — Trailer
Espaรฑol/Yiddish/Hebrew/English subtitles
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Unas pelรญculas y programas de televisiรณn con Sergio Lerer/Some movies and TV shows with Sergio Lerer
Yo no podรญa encontrar datos bibliogrรกficos de Ariana Stein Fourman. Le dedico esta pรกgina a ella./I couldn’t find any bibliographical information on Ariana Stein Fourman. I’m dedicating this page to her.
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“Recuerdo y exilio en la diรกspora judรญa argentina:
En รltimos poemas a Buenos Aires, Adriana SteinFourman, al igual que muchos escritores judรญos latinoamericanos contemporรกneos, explora la naturaleza del recuerdo y el exilio en el contexto de la justicia social, no solo en Amรฉrica, sino tambiรฉn en el contexto mรกs amplio de la polรญtica mundial. Su poemario, publicado como libro electrรณnico en 2015, rastrea el legado de la diรกspora judรญa en Argentina a travรฉs de sus propias experiencias y las de amigos y familiares, al evocar recuerdos de los desaparecidos durante la Guerra Sucia de 1974 a 1983. Algunos de los poemas de este poemario se publicaron inicialmente bajo el nombre de Adriana Stein Fourman en el Proyecto Desaparecidos para Argentina, el sitio web dedicado a la memoria de las vรญctimas del rรฉgimen militar y a desenmascarar a sus represores. Los temas del yo marginado o fragmentado, asรญ como el exilio interno y externo, comunes en las obras de las comunidades diaspรณricas a lo largo de la historia judรญa, tambiรฉn encuentran expresiรณn en la colecciรณn de Stein, junto con la recurrente historia de la Shoรก. De hecho, a travรฉs de su poesรญa, Adriana Stein contribuye al discurso mรกs amplio sobre las polรญticas de identidad, que sirve como testimonio literario de la lucha constante por los derechos humanos, centrada en las sociedades diaspรณricas de Amรฉrica Latina y otros lugares.
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“Remembrance and Exile in Argentinaโs Jewish Diaspora: The Poetry of Adriana Stein”
Joan F. Marx
Muhlenberg College, Allentown, Pennsylvania, USA
In รltimos poemas a Buenos Aires, Adriana Stein Fourman, like many contemporary Jewish Latin American writers, explores the nature of remembrance and exile within the context of social justice not only in the Americas, but also within the broader context of world politics. Her collection of poetry, published as an e-book in 2015, traces the legacy of the Jewish diaspora in Argentina through her own experiences and those of friends and family as she summons memories of the disappeared during the Dirty War from 1974 to 1983. Some of the poems contained this collection were first published under the name of Adriana Stein Fourman on the Proyecto desaparecidos for Argentina, the website dedicated to the memory of the victims of the military regime and to exposing their repressors. Themes of the marginalized or fragmented self as well as both internal and external exile common in works by diasporic communities throughout Jewish history also find expression in Steinโs collection, along with the oft repeated history of Shoah. Indeed, through her poetry, Adriana Stein contributes to the wider discourse of the politics of identity that serves as literary testimony of the perpetual struggle for human rights that focuses on diasporic societies in Latin America and elsewhere.
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Alejandra Stein Fourman. รltimos poemas a Buenos Aires. Kindle Edition. 2015.
II รLTIMOS POEMAS A BUENOS AIRES,
Una estrella se enredรณ en tu pelo
Roja y sangrienta
Callada
Y te araรฑรณ la nuca y te araรฑรณ la sien
Hasta dolerte hasta llorarte.
Una estrella se clavรณ en tus ojos
Multicolores
Multirraciales
Hasta dejarte dos cuencas vacรญas
Y ciegas lรกgrimas
Blancas.
Una estrella asaltรณ tu pecho
Hiriรณ tus manos truncรณ tus pasos
Y andรกs ahora Convulsionada enloquecida
Fiera y digna agonizando y renaciendo
Cristo de estrellas
Dagas y espadas Blancas.
Barcelona, 26/11/1978
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II LAST POEMS TO BUENOS AIRES,
A star tangled in your hair
Red and bloody
Silent
And it scratched the back of your neck and scratched your temple
Until it hurt you until you cried.
A star pierced your eyes
Multicolored
Multiracial
Until it left you with two empty sockets
And blind tears
White.
A star assaulted your chest
It wounded your hands, cut short your steps
And now you walk Convulsed, mad
Fierce and dignified, dying and being reborn
Christ of stars
White daggers and swords.
Barcelona, โโ11/26/1978
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ยฟ???LA ECUACIรN DEL FUTURO
Ahora que la esperanza abre sus puertas
Ahora que los huesos aparecen
Y buscan otros huesos como amantes
Desesperados de abrazar el tiempo
Ahora que las lรกgrimas han hallado su cauce
Ahora que la tierra en su regazo
Acuna ya a sus hijos
Ahora que el antiguo rito
Puede ser consumado
Ahora que los muertos pueden
Descansar lo que queda de su carne
Ahora que la hiel se desprende del llanto
Ahora que la esperanza abre las puertas
Sobre un surco sediento de justicia
El futuro es una ecuaciรณn posible:
Ahora que la tierra
Cubre por fin tus huesos
Ahora que las rosas
Cubren por fin la tierra
Ahora que sabemos.
Donde velar tu sueรฑo. Marbella, 2002
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THE EQUATION OF THE FUTURE
Now that hope opens its doors
Now that the bones appear
And they seek other bones like lovers
Desperate to embrace time
Now that tears have found their channel
Now that the earth in her lap
Now cradles her children
Now that the ancient rite
Can be consummated
Now that the dead can
Lay what remains of their flesh to rest
Now that the bile is released from tears
Now that hope opens its doors
On a furrow thirsting for justice
The future is a possible equation:
Now that the earth
Finally covers your bones
Now that the roses
Finally cover the earth
Now that we know.
Where to watch over your dream. Marbella, 2002
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VII CAROLINA A Carolina Segal, mi amiga.
Secuestrada en 1976.
Tenรญa veinte aรฑos.
En Buenos Aires estรก naciendo el dรญa
Entre furias y monstruos desatados.
En Buenos Aires estรก naciendo el dรญa Enlutecido Amordazado
Amortajado.
En Buenos Aires
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VII CAROLINA
To Carolina Segal, my friend.
Kidnapped in 1976.
I was twenty years old.
In Buenos Aires, the day is dawning
Among unleashed furies and monsters.
In Buenos Aires, the day is dawning, Mourning, Gagged,
Shrouded.
In Buenos Aires
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XIX
A Josรฉ Gabriel,
Que todavรญa no tenรญa un
Aรฑo cuando sus padres fueron secuestrados.
A Carolina Segal y Nรฉstor Rovegno,
Que no pudieron ver a su hijo
Habrรกs crecido lejos de mรญ
Pero eso no es lo importante.
Habrรกs crecido en Buenos Aires
La avenida Rivadavia
El parque
El panadero
Aquรฉl viejo almacรฉn.
Habrรกs crecido en Buenos Aires.
Le serรกs familiar
Tanto
Como yo te soy extraรฑa.
Pero eso no es lo importante.
La รบltima vez que te vi fue en un viejo cafรฉ.
Mirรกbamos gente.
Hablรกbamos.
Vivรญas en una casa con in patio sombrรญo
Una cocina grande y un moisรฉs todo
Blanco.
Tenรญas cinco meses y tal vez no te acuerdes.
Pero eso no es lo importante.
Ahora que tenรฉs tres aรฑos
Josรฉ Gabriel
Decรญme:
ยฟDรณnde termina tu ciudad?
ยฟA quinientas?
ยฟAmil?
ยฟY ti sonrisa?
ยฟHasta dรณnde llega
Josรฉ Gabriel
ยฟTu sonrisa?
ยฟHasta la muete?
ยฟHasta el dolorโ
ยฟY tu memoria?
ยฟLlegรณ a guardar dos pares de ojos azulados?
ยฟDos cabelleras rubias?
ยฟDos esperanzas?
ยฟDos esperanzas?
ยฟDos guitarras?
ยฟY tus pasos?
ยฟA dรณnde van
Josรฉ Gabriel
ยฟTus pasos?
ยฟQuรฉ manos buscan tus manos?
ยฟPara quiรฉn son tus besos?
ยฟPara quiรฉn es
Josรฉ Gabriel
Tu canto?
Ahora que tenรฉs tres aรฑos
Josรฉ Gabriel
Decรญme:
Cuรกndo tenรฉs miedo:
ยฟA quiรฉn llamรกs?
Cuando querรฉs amor:
ยฟA quiรฉn buscรกs?
Ahora que tenรฉs tres aรฑos
Josรฉ Gabriel
Decรญme:
A papรก y a mamรก
ยฟLos recordรกs?
Rennes, 8/10/1978
___________________________
XIX
To Josรฉ Gabriel,
Who was not yet a
Year old when his parents were kidnapped.
To Carolina Segal and Nรฉstor Rovegno,
Who could not see their son
You may have grown up far from me
But that’s not the important thing.
You may have grown up in Buenos Aires
Rivadavia Avenue
The park
The baker
That old store.
You may have grown up in Buenos Aires.
You will be familiar
As much
as I am a stranger to you.
But that’s not the important thing.
The last time I saw you was in an old cafรฉ.
We were people-watching.
We were talking.
You lived in a house with a shady patio
A large kitchen and a bassinet all
white.
You were five months old, and maybe you don’t remember.
But that’s not the important thing.
Now that you’re three years old
Josรฉ Gabriel
Tell me:
Where does your city end?
At five hundred?
A thousand?
And your smile?
How far does your smile go
Josรฉ Gabriel
until death?
Even the pain?
And your memory?
Did it manage to hold two pairs of blue eyes?
Two blond hairs?
Two hopes?
Two hopes?
Two guitars?
And your steps?
Where do they go, Josรฉ Gabriel?
Your steps?
Whose hands do your hands seek?
Who are your kisses for?
Who is your song for?
Now that you are three years old, Josรฉ Gabriel
Tell me:
When you are afraid:
Who do you call?
When you want love:
Who are you looking for?
Now that you are three years old, Josรฉ Gabriel
Tell me:
Dad and Mom
Do you remember them?
Rennes, 10/8/1978
_______________________
XXVI JUDรA ERRANTE
Yo irรฉ a matar la Buenos Aires celeste
El recuerdo
El sueรฑo La nostalgia.
Hipnotizada
Atravesarรฉ mi Vรญa Crucis Cuenta atrรกs
Hasta tocar las tumbas que aรบn me esperan
En esa ciudad donde hoy serรฉ extranjera
Donde nadie me reconocerรก
Donde nadie dice ya Mi nombre.
Sobre un papel en blanco
En un viejo cafรฉ cuyas sillas conozco
Encontrarรฉ el camino hacia mi alumbramiento
El instante obscuro en que fue concebido
Mi exilio.
No sรฉ cuรกntas horas pasarรกn
Desgranando los aรฑos De la ausencia.
Sola en esa ciudad
Que fue la mรญa para luego ser
El amputado miembro de mi cuerpo
Comprenderรฉ que mรกs allรก de la distancia
El tiempo hizo lo suyo Inexorable.
Soy este muรฑรณn que incansable dialoga
Con los muertos; soy este รกrbol que sobreviviรณ la tala.
Y en vano busco sus raรญces. Soy esta libra de carne. Condenado a volar,
Asรญ donde nacรญ
Soy extranjera.
Ciudat de Palma, 6-10-86
_______________________________
XXVI WANDERING JEW
I will go to kill the celestial Buenos Aires
The memory
The dream
The nostalgia.
Hypnotized
I will go through my Stations of the Cross Countdown
Until I touch the graves that still await me
In that city where today I will be a stranger
Where no one will recognize me
Where no one says my name anymore.
On a blank sheet of paper
In an old cafรฉ whose chairs I know
I will find the path to my birth
The dark moment when my exile was conceived.
I don’t know how many hours will pass
Shearing off the years of absence.
Alone in that city
That was mine and then became
The amputated member of my body
I will understand that beyond the distance
Time did its inexorable thing.
I am this stump that tirelessly dialogues
With the dead; I am this tree that survived the felling.
And in vain I search for its roots. I am this pound of flesh. Condemned to fly,
So where I was born
I am foreigner.
City of Palma, 6-10-86
________________________________
XXIX ESPERANZA
Cรณmo quisiera que llegues
Trayendo buenas nuevas No una simple noticia:
Una promesa.
Que todo estรก cambiando
Que los verรฉ de nuevo
A ellos Los que quiero.
Que todo fue un mal sueรฑo
Que la cรกrcel no existe
Que la muerte estรก muerta.
Cรณmo quisiera que llegues
Con una carta abierta Un cielo despejado
Una promesa.
Enero, 1978
__________________________________
XXIX HOPE
How I wish you would arrive
Bringing good news Not just news:
A promise.
That everything is changing
That I will see them again
Them, the ones I love.
That it was all a bad dream
That prison doesn’t exist
That death is dead.
How I wish you would arrive
With an open letter, a clear sky
A promise.
January, 1978
_______________________
XXXIV LA VIDA ETERNA
Yo no soy sรณlo yo
Este cuerpo en la tierra
Estos ojos
Estos pies
Estas manos.
Yo no soy sรณlo yo.
Vengo desde muy lejos.
Soy los que quise y quiero
Los que son Los que fueron.
_______________________________
XXXIV ETERNAL LIFE
I am not only me
This body on earth
These eyes
These feet
These hands.
I am not only me.
I come from far away.
I am the ones I loved and the ones I love
The ones who are, the ones who were
_______________________________________
XXXV LOS RESTOS DEL NAUFRAGIO
Aquรญ en el silencio
Cuento Los maderos que llegan a la orilla
Hinchados por el agua y por el tiempo Reumรกticos. ยฟDรณnde estรก la que fuera otrora nave
Seรฑorial y altanera
Soberbia?
ยฟDe la proa a la popa la materia Inalterada,
Orgullosa De los embates por venir,
De los combates?
ยฟEl albo velamen poderoso
Brillante como el hielo
Desafiante?
ยฟLa quilla fornicadora de todos los mares?
ยฟDรณnde estรก la brรบjula que marcaba
El norte de la tierra y de los sueรฑos?
ยฟEl sextante?
ยฟLos mapas?
ยฟPasto de la fauna marina?
ยฟLos cofres rebosantes de promesas
Cerrados con siete llaves?
ยฟLas bengalas? ยกTripulantes!!!
ยฟTripulantes?
Aquรญ en el silencio
___________________________________
XXXV THE REMAINS OF THE SHIPWRECK
Here in the silence
I tell the story of the timbers that reach the shore
Swollen with water and time, rheumatic. Where is the ship that was once
Myriam Moscona (1955) es poeta y periodista. Es autor de nueve libros, entre ellos Vรญsperas 1996), El que nada (Mรฉxico, 2006) y De par en par ( Mรฉxico, 2009). Su libro De frente y de perfil (DDF, Mรฉxico, 1996), presenta retratos literarios de 75 poetas mexicanos, con fotografรญas de Rogelio Cuรฉllar. Tela de sevoya (2012) y Leรณn de Lidia (2024) es una narraciรณn hรญbrida que entrelaza la memoria y la ficciรณn; el telรณn de fondo del libro es el idioma familiar de Moscona, el ladino o el judeoespaรฑol. Su secuencia de libro, Ivory Black (Negro marfil)โ, traducido del espaรฑol por Jen Hofer, recibiรณ el Premio Harold Morton Landon 2012 de la Academia de Poetas Americanos. Moscona ha recibido numerosos premios, entre ellos el Premio de Poesรญa Aguascalientes y el Premio Nacional de Traducciรณn de Poesรญa; Ella es beneficiaria del Sistema Nacional de Creadores de Arte, y recibiรณ una beca de la Fundaciรณn Guggenheim. Selecciones de su trabajo tambiรฉn se han traducido al alemรกn, italiano, francรฉs, hebreo, รกrabe, ruso, bรบlgaro, chino y sueco.
________________________________________________
Myriam Moscona (1955) is a poet and journalist. She is the author of nine books, including Vรญsperas (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 Cuรฉllar. Tela de sevoya (2012) and Leรณn de Lidia (2024) are hybrid narratives that intertwine memory and fiction; the bookโs backdrop is Mosconaโs familiar language, Ladino or Judeo-Spanish. Her book sequence, Ivory Black (Negro marfil),โ 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.
______________________________________
“Tela de cebolla”
DISTANCIA DE FOCO
ยฟTodos los abuelos de la tierra hablarรกn con esos giros tan extraรฑos? Esther Benaroya creciรณ envuelta en ese espaรฑol entreverado con palabras de otros mundos. El judeo-espaรฑol no fue la lengua de sus estudios pero sรญ la que escuchรณ de sus padres y abuelos. Mรกs adelante vino a hablarla lejos, โadonde arrapan al gรผerko: 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 Kaliforniaโ. 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 neรณn. Necesita comprar pasadores para aplacarse los rizos. Sube las escaleras elรฉctricas con un temor que nadie parece distinguir. Se encamina al segundo piso y, muy segura de lo que busca, aborda a una dependienta: โsenyorita, kero merkar unas firketas para los kaveyosโ. โยฟUnas quรฉ?โ โtrokas, firketasโ. La empleada no alcanza a comprender. Desde hace algunas semanas, se aprendiรณ la palabra โchingadaโ y luego โchingaderaโ pero ella prefiere el diminutivo: โchingaderikaโ. Asรญ pues, se corrige: โkero unas chingaderikas, breโ. La empleada se sonroja y va disparada en busca del gerente. Esther Benaroya sale con un empaque de cartรณn lleno de pasadores con punta engomada. La hace feliz desesperar a la gente. Ya se la dicho que la palabra โchingaderaโ es una majaderรญa en ese paรญs, pero ella no se inmuta. Es su forma de decir โagora avlo vuestro espanyol komo lo avlash vosotros en la Espanya i en Meksikoโ. Unos se escandalizan, otros la ignoran o se carcajean ante sus chifladuras. Antes de llegar a Mรฉxico, sรณlo podรญa decir que era un paรญs lejano donde se usaban chapeos de charro y se comรญa picante en forma exagerada. โDize el marido miyo ke los mushos le kedan kemando dospues de estas komidas de foegosโ Al desembarcar en estas tierras pensรณ por un momento que todos los mexicanos eran de sangre judรญa. Todos hablaban espaรฑol, esa lengua de los sefardรญs de Turquรญa y de Bulgaria. โAma aki lo avlan malo, malo… no saven dezir las kozas kon su muzika de orijรญnโ.
MOLINO DE VIENTO
En mi otra vida, la que recuerdo sรณlo en fragmentos, la que irrumpe a media maรฑana con mensajes de otros mundos, en esa vida, digo, me he visto al lado de un hombre que me recibe de frente y sin ningรบn miramiento comienza a desnudarse. Me ofrece todo lo que se quita. โTe regalo esta ropa viejaโ โme dice. โรsala aunque estรฉ gastadaโ. Cuando me pruebo los pantalones siento cรณmo se me escurren del cuerpo, no hay forma de ceรฑirlos a mi cintura. โUsa otra parte de ti para apretarlosโ, me dice pausadamente. Capto sus indicaciones. Llevo una trenza larga. Con un instrumento que รฉl pone en mis manos, la corto de tajo. La trenza me sirve para tejer un cinturรณn 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 lรญneas de un libro en caracteres cirรญlicos: Quiero darte un consejo. Nunca pronostiques una muerte trรกgica en lo que escribes porque la fuerza de las palabras es tal, que ella, con su poder de evocaciรณn, te conducirรก a esa muerte vaticinada. Yo he llegado a esta edad porque siempre he eludido hacer predicciones sobre mรญ mismo. Algo me hace explotar en llanto. Cuando vuelvo en mรญ, lo busco. Ya no estรก. Sรณlo aparece cuando lo olvido. ยฟLo olvido?
DISTANCIA DE FOCO
Muerto en su cama, en Mรฉxico, a sus cuarenta y siete aรฑos. Me prometiรณ un cochecito de cuerda que se desliza por la pared y nunca me lo dio. Me regalรณ una muรฑeca con chaleco rojo a cuadros y pelo crespo. No me gustan las muรฑecas aunque รฉsta sabe decir algunas frases con una voz aguda y fea, pero ยกsabe hablar! Expulsa las palabras desde un disco interno, allรญ pego la oreja, sobre sus pechos duros, de plรกstico. Sus palabras y las de mi padre muerto son igual de falsas. Un rostro con lรญneas borrosas, apenas las distingo. Mi padre es de Plovdiv, una ciudad en las montaรฑas de Bulgaria. Sรฉ poco de รฉl. Sรฉ que de niรฑo lo llevaron a vivir a Estambul, en su casa se hablaba ladino, volviรณ a Plovdiv ya en su juventud. Cuando comenzรณ la Segunda Guerra, a los judรญos de Bulgaria se les impidiรณ circular libremente por las calles; podรญan hacerlo dos o tres horas al dรญa y volver al toque de queda, siempre a una hora convenida. Debรญan 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 tambiรฉn debรญan distinguirse con claridad. Un ideรณlogo antisemita de Bulgaria de nombre Alexsander Belev (a quien le llamaban โel rey judรญoโ), amigo cercano del representante de la Gestapo en su paรญs, habรญa pasado una temporada en la Alemania nazi para estudiar las leyes antisemitas. Era un convencido del exterminio judรญo, vivรญa ansioso de colaborar con ese โnoble propรณsitoโ y desde el Ministerio del Interior se encargรณ de preparar la nueva polรญtica judรญa del Estado Bรบlgaro que mantenรญa en esos momentos excelentes relaciones con los nazis. Empezรณ a fertilizar el terreno para preparar los convoyes con buenos resultados, aunque a รบltima hora se frustrรณ su plan: el tren fue detenido y la gente que iba a ser entregada en los campos de concentraciรณn fue puesta en libertad. De uno de esos vagones, vagones, incrรฉdulo, agradecido, descendiรณ 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 aviรณn 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 paรญs y hablaron el judezmo. Las palabras son frรกgiles y la memoria que tengo de ellas estรก rodeada de calor. Llega el aviรณn a Sofia, rasgada por una lluvia delgada, constante. Hay algo que hace fricciรณn. Es la memoria: el eslabรณn abierto de una larga cadena. Esa abertura que me une y me separa es la que me ha traรญdo aquรญ. Ande topes una senyal, alevanta la kara. Eso hago en la sinagoga de la ciudad levantada en 1909. Subo la mirada a la lรกmpara mรกs grande en los Balcanes: tiene 460 luces que equivalen a 460 plegarias. La influencia รกrabe, la sillerรญa, las columnas verdes, los contrastes de tono. โThis is the lifeโ, dice el cuidador. โOur style is colorful, is warmerโ. En el fondo, arriba del tabernรกculo, hay una inscripciรณn en hebreo. โConoce frente a quiรฉn estรกs paradoโ. (Haga lo que haga, sรฉ que Dios me mira, incluso en el baรฑo me observa como un cรญclope y yo le pido perdรณn. Suelto frente al tabernรกculo un tembloroso โguay de mi-noโ. Asรญ, como me enseรฑรณ la abuela). A la salida, enciendo dos velas sobre un pequeรฑo estanque de aceite. Una por ella y otra por รฉl, como en los viejos tiempos. Doy la vuelta en la esquina, veo el nombre de la calle Ekzarh Yosif. Casi el de mi abuelo. Sonrรญo. ยฟMencionรฉ a las dos madres? Ahora espero a una mujer mayor, reducida a un metro cincuenta. โEn la chikez fui una mujer de alturasโ, me dice cerrรกndome un ojo despuรฉs de saludarme en la lengua que me hace evocar un tรญtulo del escritor israelรญ de origen rumano Aharon Appelfeld: La herencia desnuda. Eso se aproxima al calor del judeo-espaรฑol en sus capas cubrientes. Y luego la mujer con su voz nasal, venida de Pasarjik, a cien kilรณmetros de Sofia. Allรญ pasรณ su infancia. Yo, en cambio, en mi herencia desnuda, mรกs allรก de la lengua, en los cuerpos que rodean mi chikez, papรก y mamรก, traigo, digo, la necesidad de inventarles biografรญas porque los perdรญ de vista, por eso vine, porque me dijeron que aquรญ podrรญa descubrir la forma de atar los cabos sueltos.
______________________________________________
______________________________________
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 gรผerko: 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. โMy husband says his muscles are burning after eating these fires.โ 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. โMy dear, they speak badly here, badlyโฆ they can’t sing their songs with their traditional music.โ
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. โI’m giving you these old clothes,โ he tells me. โWear them even if they’re worn out.โ When I try on the pants, I feel them slipping from my body; there’s no way to cinch them around my waist. โUse another part of you to tighten them,โ 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. โThis is life,โ says the caretaker. โOur style is colorful, itโs warmer.โ In the background, above the tabernacle, thereโs an inscription in Hebrew: โKnow before whom you stand.โ (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 โWoah de mi-noโ 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 grandfatherโs name. I smile. Did I mention the two mothers? Now Iโm waiting for an elderly woman, reduced to about five feet five inches. โAs a child, I was a woman of heights,โ 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 รฉ escritora, professora de literatura e de escrita e crรญtica literรกria. Doutorou- se em Literatura Brasileira pela USP. Publicou โO que os cegos estรฃo sonhandoโ (Ed. 34-2012), โA verdadeira histรณria do alfabetoโ (Companhia das Letras โ 2012), vencedor do Prรชmio Brasรญlia de Literatura em 2014, โIrisz: as orquรญdeasโ(Companhia das Letras โ 2015), โNรฃo estรก mais aqui quem falouโ(Companhia das Letras โ 2017), โO que ela sussurraโ, โLili: Novela de um lutoโ (Companhia das Letras โ 2021), โEscrita em movimento: sete princรญpios do fazer literรกrioโ (Companhia das Letras โ 2023), entre outros. Desde 2016, mantรฉm o Centro Cultural Literรกrio Escrevedeira, em parceria com Luciana Gerbovic e Joรฃo 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 โO que os cegos estรฃo sonhandoโ (Ed. 34-2012), โA Verdadeira Histรณria do Alfabetoโ (Companhia das Letras โ 2012), winner of the Prรชmio Brasilia de Literatura in 2014, โIrisz: as orquรญdeasโ (Companhia das Letras โ 2015), โNรฃo esta mais aqui quem falouโ (Companhia das Letras โ 2017), โO que ela sussurraโ, โLili: Novela de um lutoโ (Companhia das Letras โ 2021), โWritten in movement: seven principles of making literatureโ (Companhia das Letras โ 2023), among others. Since 2016, we have maintained the Centro Cultural Literรกrio Escrevedeira, in partnership with Luciana Gerbovic and Joรฃo 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 mรฃos, seu colo. Apertava seu pulso, abraรงava seu corpo, chamava: mรฃe, mรฃe. Levantava sua mรฃo e a deixava cair. No dia anterior, quando ela ainda nรฃo estava morta, mas quase, eu aproximava meu ouvido do seu peito e ouvia a respiraรงรฃo. Era diferente. ร diferente estar quase morta de estar morta mesmo. ร diferente, e sรณ sei disso agora que ela morreu. Se quando ela estava quase morta eu esperava que ela morresse, agora รฉ como se eu a quisesse quase morta para sempre, sรณ para ouvir sua respiraรงรฃo, a bochecha quente, os dedos da mรฃo se mexendo mesmo que por reflexo, um ronco baixo no peito, o tremor nas pรกlpebras. Nunca tinha ficado perto de uma pessoa morta e descoberta. Apenas do meu pai, mas um lenรงol o cobria, sobre o qual tracei com o dedo o contorno do seu nariz, gesto que repeti com a minha mรฃe depois que a cobriram. Fui a รบnica a permanecer com ela, ela morta. Fiz isso porque eu precisava, e por que precisava nรฃo sei dizer. Para estar mais com ela. O homem do chevra kadisha me censurou. Disse que quem estava lรก nรฃo 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: รฉ o corpo da minha mรฃe. Era ela ou nรฃo era ela? Na hora, para mim, era. O corpo da minha mรฃe morta รฉ minha mรฃe. Tive a ousadia de abrir os olhos dela, e por trรกs das pรกlpebras lรก estava o olho inteiro, da mesma cor, o mesmo olhar, ainda que ninguรฉm olhasse por trรกs dele. Nรฃo foi masoquismo, um prazer mรณrbido. Foi tรฃo simples como uma despedida de amor ou a dificuldade da separaรงรฃo. Nas รบltimas semanas ela adormecia com frequรชncia enquanto conversรกvamos e numa dessas vezes ela acordou sobressaltada, gemendo, e eu e a Leda perguntamos o que foi?, e ela respondeu: a dor da separaรงรฃo. Ela sabia que ia morrer e, apesar de sempre ter afirmado โ e era verdade โ nรฃo ter medo da morte, no final estava com medo, com muito medo. Ela pedia beijos sem fim, nรฃo queria largar o abraรงo e pedia mais e mais beijos. No penรบltimo dia antes de morrer, aproximei minha bochecha da sua boca e pedi beijos, e ela, semi-inconsciente, fez um bico com os lรกbios, chegando a dar um estalo. Tambรฉm apertou minha mรฃo e fez que sim e que nรฃo com a cabeรงa. Por tanto tempo tive pressa pela morte dela, mas nos รบltimos dias eu sรณ queria que demorasse para sempre. Uma pessoa pode ser sรณ o calor da mรฃo. Isso basta para que uma mรฃe seja mรฃe e para que eu seja filha. Ver o corpo morto e aceitar: mรฃe, vocรช estรก morta. Existe uma aceitaรงรฃo incontornรกvel a um corpo morto. Nรฃo vou prendรช-lo, me agarrar a ele, impedir que seja embrulhado, ensacado, encaixotado e transportado por alguรฉm que nรฃo conheรงo โ e a quem agradeรงo de coraรงรฃo โ para dentro de uma geladeira. Deve ser assim. ร horrรญvel e deve ser assim. Dever, aqui, quer dizer muitas coisas: รฉ uma atribuiรงรฃo da maturidade realista, uma aceitaรงรฃo do ritual necessรกrio de conformaรงรฃo ร natureza (esse corpo vai se degradar) e ร comunidade os mortos devem ser enterrados) e uma demonstraรงรฃo de sanidade (nรฃo sou louca, nรฃo devo me agarrar ao corpo). E existe ainda uma aceitaรงรฃo existencial, que oscila: aceito, nรฃo aceito: ela nรฃo existe mais. Minha mรฃe โ o olhar, o sorriso, o beijo e o abraรงo โ nรฃo existe mais. Quando penso nela, penso no olhar, no sorriso que ela abria quando reconhecia que eu tinha chegado, no abraรงo e nos beijos inumerรกveis, sobre os quais ela dizia que โtudo era muito poucoโ. Nos รบltimos 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 abraรงada por um leรฃo, ser beijada por um amante que recebe amada. Sua mรฃo grossa e quente apertava meu tronco e minhas mรฃos. Falรกvamos pouco. Ela adormecia, e muitas vezes dormi em seu ombro, ouvindo sua respiraรงรฃo lenta, me sentindo aconchegada. Ela era mรฃe. Ela se tornou mรฃe. Ela se reduziu a mรฃe. Ela era feliz porque tinha as trรชs filhas, e nรณs trรชs รฉramos o mundo todo, a vida toda para ela. Nada mais importava alรฉm de poder nos ver e beijar e abraรงar.
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 personโs soul. I resisted: it was my motherโs body. Was it her or wasnโt it her? At the time, for me, it was. My dead motherโs 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 wasnโt 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 โ and it was true โ that she wasnโt 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 โ and to whom I thank from the bottom of my heart โ 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 โ her gaze, her smile, her kiss and her hug โ 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 โeverything was too littleโ. 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.
Jacqueline Goldberg. Es una escritora, periodista y editora venezolana. Naciรณ en 1966, en Maracaibo. Es Licenciada en Letras, por la Universidad del Zulia (1990) y Doctora en Ciencias Sociales, por la Universidad Central de Venezuela (1998). Desde comienzos de los aรฑos noventa su trabajo discurre entre la literatura y el periodismo. En mรกs de una veintena de libros abarca la narrativa, la poesรญa, la literatura infantil, el reportaje, el ensayo, la crรญtica de artes visuales, el periodismo gastronรณmico y el gรฉnero testimonial. En su obra poรฉtica se encuentran los libros: Treinta soles desaparecidos (1986), De un mismo centro (1986), En todos los lugares bajo todos los signos (1987), Luba (1988), Mรกscaras de familia(1990), Trastienda (1992), Insolaciones en Miami Beach (1995), Carnadas(1998), Vรญspera (2000), La salud(2002), Una sal donde estoy de pie. Antologรญa (2003), El orden de las ramas(2003), Verbos predadores. Poesรญa reunida (1986-2006)(2007), Amphycles, los bogavantesโ (2011), Dรญa del perdรณn (2011), Postales negras (2011), Limones en almรญbar (2014), Nosotros, los salvados(2015), El libro de lo salvado (2020). Su trabajo poรฉtico aparece incluido y reseรฑado en antologรญas en Italia, Rumania, Corea del Sur, Espaรฑa, Puerto Rico, Chile, Perรบ, Argentina, Colombia, Estados Unidos, Cuba, Mรฉxico, Brasil y Venezuela.
De: Vomitรฉ un conejito
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Jacqueline Goldberg is a Venezuelan writer, journalist, and editor. She was born in 1966 in Maracaibo. She holds a Bachelor’s degree in Literature from the University of Zulia (1990) and a PhD in Social Sciences from the Central University of Venezuela (1998.). Since the early 1990s, her work has intersected literature and journalism. In more than twenty books, she covers fiction, poetry, children’s literature, reportage, essays, visual arts criticism, food journalism, and testimonials. Her poetic work includes the following books: Treinta soles desaparecidos (1986), De un mismo centro (1986), En todos los lugares bajo todos los signos (1987), Luba (1988), Mรกscaras de familia(1990), Trastienda (1992), Insolaciones en Miami Beach (1995), Carnadas(1998), Vรญspera (2000), La salud(2002), Una sal donde estoy de pie. Antologรญa (2003), El orden de las ramas(2003), Verbos predadores. Poesรญa reunida (1986-2006)(2007), Amphycles, los bogavantesโ (2011), Dรญa del perdรณn (2011), Postales negras (2011), Limones en almรญbar (2014), Nosotros, los salvados(2015), El libro de lo salvado (2020.) Her poetic work appears included and reviewed in anthologies in Italy, Romania, South Korea, Spain, Puerto Rico, Chile, Peru, Argentina, Colombia, United States, Cuba, Mexico, Brazil and Venezuela.
From: Vomitรฉ un conejito
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Poemas/Poems
El lugar de las precariedades
Sobre el escritorio reposa la fotografรญa de mi รบtero descolgado, amasijo que tan poco dice de la tenencia y de sus fibras.
He procurado permanecer cada tarde frente a la imagen, convencerme de que ese bocado sacrificial estuvo alguna vez atenazado en mi vientre. Que su superficie lisa y brillante se escurriรณ de mรญ en apenas un par de horas de quirรณfano. Que en adelante serรก mansedumbre.
Aรบn siento mordimientos en el abdomen, cansancio al retroceder.
Es difรญcil arremeter contra ciertos desenlaces: las heridas no son diques, no acunan, no revierten.
Quizรก reproduzca la imagen en una postal barnizada y la obsequie a los amigos. En su dorso escribirรฉ: ยซcuerpo uterino piriforme de 7 x 6 centรญmetros, en el cual se diagnosticรณ fibromatosis, adenomiosis y endometrio proliferativo, extraรญdo de Jacqueline Goldberg el martes 21 de febrero del aรฑo 2006ยป.
Que se vea. Se admire. Se abomine.
Me importa su cumplimiento de rastrojo.
Se trata de un retrato primordial, procedencia sin fin. Mis viejas fauces.
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A Place of Precariousness
On the desk sits a picture of my excised uterus, a mess that says so little about its fibers, the properties.
Iโve tried to spend time with the image every afternoon, convincing myself that this sacrificial lump was once attached to my belly. Its smooth, glistening surface slipped away in a few short hours of surgery. Hereafter, there will be a gentleness.
I still feel twinges in my abdomen, fatigue when I slow down.
Itโs hard to lash out against certain outcomes: wounds arenโt dikes, they donโt cradle, donโt regress.
Maybe Iโll reproduce the image on a glossy postcard and give it away to my friends. On the back Iโll write: โpyriform uterine body of 7 x 6 centimeters,
in which fibromatosis was diagnosed adenomyosis and proliferative endometrium, extracted from Jacqueline Goldberg, on Tuesday February 21 of the year 2006.โ
Let it be seen. Admired. Detested.
The compliant stubble matters to me.
Itโs an essential portrait, a port of origin without end. My old maw.
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Estado de exilio
Hay una retahรญla de verbos emancipados, sin cielo.
Todo es mรญo. Lo pestilente y lo liviano. Todo lo amasรฉ, lo mordรญ, lo acunรฉ.
Son mรญas las imprecisiones, el barro que no amaina, los hilos de sangre que cuajan el hogar.
Mรญo lo que despoja, savia de una tarde avara, huesos desmoronados en el รบtero.
Las minucias me las llevo al asco, al exilio de mรญ.
Las pรฉrdidas no me arrancarรกn el mal, no me harรกn dadivosa ni puntual.
Si me voy cargo con todo, armo el miedo en otro puerto, me ensucio para nuevas esperanzas.
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State of Exile
There is a string of emancipated verbs, without sky.
Everything is mine. The pestilent and lightweight things. I kneaded it all, bit it all, cradled it.
Mine are the inaccuracies, the mud doesnโt subside, threads of blood coagulate the home.
Mine is whatever despoils, sap of one greedy afternoon, crumbling bones in the womb.
I carry minutiae to my disgust, to my exile.
The losses wonโt pull the evil out of me, they wonโt make me generous or punctual.
If I go I will carry everything,
assemble fear in another port, sully myself for new hope.
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El moribundo nos convoca
el moribundo nos convoca para recapitular su vida
forzado como estรก a respirarse a sรญ mismo hasta el fin su confesiรณn es de segunda mano carece de voluntad para ocultar ciertas lealtades
en la vastedad del adiรณs la verdad es siempre un escรกndalo
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The Dying Man Summons Us
the dying man summons us, to recapitulate his life
forced as he is to breathe for himself until the end his confession is a second hand one lacks the will to conceal certain loyalties
in the vastness of farewells truth is always a scandal
Translated by Consuelo Mรฉndez, with William Blair
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VรSPERA (2000)
Si quedara un hombre
un sรณlo hombre
para despuรฉs y la eternidad
corregido en su mรญnima condiciรณn
desechado si quedara para mรกs nunca
postergado al tropiezo la triza infinita
si existiera y nos viรฉramos
y me explicara
el secreto que lo mantiene solo
alumbrado y solo pleno de encierros
si existiera
y pudiera irme lejos
no desear arrimarme รบnica
sola sin palabras
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EVE (2000)
If there was a man
only one man
for later and eternity
corrected in his minimum condition
discarded if he remained for never again
postponed to stumble over the infinite fragment
if he existed and we saw each other
and he would explain to me
the secret that keeps him alone
lighted and alone full of confinements
if he existed
and I could go far away
not yearn get closer, unique
alone in words
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INSOLACIONES EN MIAMI BEACH (1995)
El balcรณn es un pedazo de Collins Avenue
vista reducida a extremos
que nadie atiende durante las horas del lunch
miramos su amasijo en traje de baรฑo disponemos toallas
sandwiches de tuna coca cola de dieta
encallamos al disparo seco
de una avioneta sobre la bahรญa
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The balcony is a piece of Collins Avenue a view reduced to extremes that no one notices during lunch we watch its jumble in bathing suits arrange towels tunafish sandwiches diet cokes become paralyzed at the dry shot
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ยซLUBAยป (1988)
Tomo su herencia
de edades en quiebra
los oficios tristes del abandono sus muertos
I take on her inheritance
of crumbling ages
the sad trades of neglect her dead ones
Diรกlogo de pasillos diurnos
raรญz memoria que soy
Dialogues in Daytime Hallways
root memory that I am
Duelen estas gana de luto
de amanecer
recogiendo plumas
en patios ajenos ganas
de ser ella
This Yearning of Mourning Hurts
of gathering feathers
at dawn
in alien courtyards
desire to be her
Luba asiste a cuanto soy
detiene sus raรญces
sufre de nuevo
Luba Delivers All I Am
stalls her roots
she suffers anew
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ย (Verbos Predadores/โPredatory Verbsโ, 2007)
JardรญnBotรกnico
Muestro al hijo semillas hincadas en el musgo.
Seรฑalo una palmera,
la flor que renacerรก en sesenta aรฑos.
รl pregunta por las ramas del รกrbol invisible,
persigue dinosaurios,
remienda el carruaje de un fantasma.
Sigo los pretiles de mi angustia.
<<(Mira las aves de rapiรฑa,
No esan lejos de la bellezaยป, digo.
I<<Mira la quietud de los troncos,
manos condescendientesยป, digo.
Demasiados รกngulos para un mismo blindaje.
Sentencio ยซhe ahรญ un jabillo, una bromeliaยป.
Nombro tambiรฉn destrozos, para no engaรฑar.
El hijo no entiende, crepita en otro rubor.
Su maรฑana no es la mรญa. No es pรกlida. No es efรญmera.
Su maรฑana no cabe en mi reposo.
Lo conduzco para comparar nuestros ocรฉanos,
De tiempo viudo, idรฉntica admiraciรณn.
Jabillo: Name given in Venezuela to the tree Hura crepitans.
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โBotanical Gardenโ
I show my son the sunken seeds in the moss. I point at a palm tree, at the flower that will be reborn in sixty years.
He asks about the branches of the invisible tree, he chases dinosaurs, restores the carriage of a ghost.
I follow the barrier of my anxiety.
โLook at the vultures, not too far away from beautyโ I say.
โLook at the tranquility of the trunks,
condescendent handsโ I say.
Too many angles for a unique shielding.
I proclaim, โBehold a Jabillo, a Bromeliaโ,
I also name damage, not to cheat.
The son understands, he crackles in another flush. His morning is not mine. His isnโt pale. Nor ephemeral. His morning doesnโt fit my rest.
I drive him to compare our oceans, the being of a widowed time and an identical admiration.
Jabillo: Name given in Venezuela to the tree Hura crepitans.
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 Revoluciรณn, the magazine Casa de las Amรฉricas, INRA, Uniรณn, 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 Revoluciรณn 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 aรฑos 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 conocรญ en una situaciรณn disparatada, cuando estuve en su campamento de Limรณn Agrio tratando de cobrarle una cuenta. Nunca antes habรญa oรญdo hablar de รฉl, ni sabรญa nada de sus andanzas por Mรฉxico. Eso me lo contรณ el teniente Rawson despuรฉs, al hacer un alto a la orilla del lago, frente al volcรกn, y el whisky le soltรณ la lengua. Sobre aquel mar plateado, mientras evocaba las hazaรฑas propias y los incontables gestos temerarios de su jefe, Rawson parecรญa otro hombre, muy distinto al que entrรณ dรญas antes en la cantina. Yo lo observaba y detrรกs a los dos volcanes que emergรญan del islote como torres casi gemelas, y creรญa haber perdido toda nociรณn del tiempo.
Hacรญa poco que habรญamos celebrado el cumpleaรฑos de la Abuela, y ya confirmรกbamos 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 creyรณ oรญr ruidos entre las matas de plรกtano y el corral, y aunque el silencio despejรณ sus temores, a la maรฑana siguiente comprobรณ desconsolado que varias gallinas y sus dos cerdos habรญan desaparecido. Algunos vecinos decรญan haber visto extraรฑos soldados merodeando al amparo de la oscuridad, y el conductor de una de las diligencias que recorrรญan la Ruta del Trรกnsito hasta podรญa describirlos: atuendo estrafalario de los sombreros a las botas, piel blanca y una jerga como el inglรฉs.
Confieso que la primera vez que nos hablaron de ellos, ni mi padre ni yo le concedimos demasiada importancia al asunto. Creรญmos que tales rumores venรญan ya cargados por excesos de la imaginaciรณn de la gente. Pero corno dice รฉl, 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. Quizรกs por eso no quisimos ver nada anormal en el tipo que llegรณ aquella noche a la cantina con la mirada huidiza y una barba naciente salpicada por la lluvia. Estรกbamos 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, revรณlveres y dagas que les abultaban la cintura o sobresalรญan por el pliegue de sus bolsillos.
Las Brisas del Lago era tal vez la cantina mรกs abigarrada y pintoresca del paรญs, y nosotros, los taberneros mรกs discretos del mundo. Por allรญ, por el camino del oro, desfilaba la gente mรกs loca, aventurera y delirante que habรญa pisado la regiรณn desde los tiempos de la Conquista.
Por suerte o por desgracia, estรกbamos a mitad de camino del trayecto de la Ruta del Trรกnsito. Un enjambre de vapores, bergantines y clippers zarpaba regularmente de Nueva York o de Nueva Orleรกns rumbo a San Juan del Este, en la costa caribeรฑa, donde los pasajeros abordaban un bongo o un vaporcito que navegaba rรญo arriba hasta San Ernesto, en la ribera oriental del lago. Entonces se embarcaban en naves de amplios salones y cรณmodos camarotes, que al cabo de unas horas la otra ribera, en el bullicioso laberinto del puerto de La Santa. Los loros y las cotorras sorprendรญan al viajero con sualgarabรญa, “Hey, California, gold” “Hey, Californiaโ, las: mujeres ofrecรญan canastas con mantas tejidas, petales bordados, abanicos, quesos, tamales y tortillas, entre otros artรญculos y objetos; aturdรญa a los pasajeros el griterรญo de cochereros, encargadores y muleros que se disputaban bolsas, baรบles, y valijitas; y por fin, en los carruajes y diligencias de la Compaรฑia del Trรกnsito, al trote de cuatro caballos que lucรญan bordas y colleras de cascabeles, emprendรญan el viaje hasta San Juan del Oeste -diecinueve kilรณmetros de huecos, polvo y canรญcula donde tendrรญan que esperar el vapor, clipper o bergantรญn que cubrรญa la ruta a San Francisco. En esas horas o dรญas, se mezclaban con los que regresaban y tenรญan asรญ como un anticipo de su propio destino. En aquella turba se confundรญan fracasados, los que aspiraban a rehacer su vida en el este o enel sur de la Uniรณn y los que ya no tendrรญan que buscar por los enriquecidos con un golpe de suerte o le audacia, vivรญan la fiebre del oro en una euforia permanente. Estos eran los menos. claro estรก, pues podรญan contarse con los dedos de una mano, entre Lodos los que pasaron alguna vez por la cantina.
El reciรฉn llegado vaciรณ de golpe un vaso de whisky, y acerยญcรกndose a la ventana como si buscara el fresco de la noche, se pasรณ la mano por la frente. Era la seรฑal convenida, sin duda, porque de inmediato entraron cuatro individuos que inmovilizaron a los escasos parroquianos levantando apenas sus rifles. El agua chorreaba todavรญa de sus anchos sombreros de fieltro, aunque de sus botas enfangadas sobresalรญan cuchillos de matarife. El hombre de la seรฑal se acercรณ al mostrador y le dijo a mi padre que querรญa hablar a solas con รฉl. Su acento era tรญpico de la costa oeste, bien que se acostumbrรณ su oรญdo a escucharlo en el tiempo de sus andanzas por aquellos parajes. Mi padre lo mirรณ de arriba abajo y sin decir palabra se dirigiรณ a la puerta lateral que daba al almacรฉn. Yo, haciรฉndome el distraรญdo, los seguรญ.
-Hey, you!… -gritรณ uno de ellos acercรกndose-. Where are you going? Stay there!
-He’s my father–le respondรญ sin titubear-. What’s wrong with…?
El hombre no me dejรณ terminar:
-Oh, you speak English! -exclamรณ divertido. Y volviรฉnยญdose hacia el otro–It’s ok, Mac.
Sonreรญ tรญmidamente. El hombre me dio una palmadita en el brazo.
-What’s your name, kid?
-Ricardo -dije-. Ricardo Vidal.
-Mine is Rawson. Lieutenant Rawson -precisรณ รฉl-. Come on, Dick.
Cerrรณ la puerta a sus espaldas y, mientras se quitaba el sombrero y lo sacudรญa, dijo que no tenรญamos nada que temer. รl y sus hombres eran soldados que venรญan de Norteamรฉrica con un sรณlo propรณsito: liberamos de los conservadores porque ese Partido, como todos sabรญan, habรญa violado los mรกs elementales principios democrรกticos y ahora debรญa rendir cuenta de sus abusos. Pero no venรญa a hablar de polรญtica, sino de negocios, necesitaba-indicรณ con un gesto las cajas y barriles que se apilaban en un rincรณn- avituallar a su tropa, unos doscientos efectivos, y levantarle el รกnimo con algunas garrafas de aguardiente o de whisky. ยฟSiempre llueve tanto por aquรญ?
Eso fue todo. Los de California y Texas, y dos soldados con las escarapelas rojas del Partido Liberal en sus sombreros desteรฑidos, empezaron a cargar las provisiones en tres mulas: barriles de manteca y galletas, garrafas de ron y de whisky, harina…
-Bien, seรฑor Vidal, no le quito mรกs tiempo -dijo elย teniente cuando la carga estuvo lista-. Tendrรฉ muy en cuenta sus servicios.
Mi padre lo mirรณ frรญamente.
-Son cincuenta y seis pesos, seรฑor.
-Puede pasarยท a cobrar al campamento -replicรณ รฉl con una sonrisa maligna.
Mirรฉ a mi padre. Estaba rojo de cรณlera, el puรฑo cerrado. Pensรฉ en Schultz.
-Ahora mismo -dijo, disponiรฉndose a salir.
-ยกYo voy! –gritรฉ, dando un salto hacia la puerta. Y antes quemi padre pudiera impedรญrmelo, corrรญ detrรกs de los muleros que ya se perdรญan en la oscuridad doblados bajo el peso de la lluvia.
ย ย Fue asรญ como lo conocรญ, sin poder imaginarme que iba a tenerlopegado a mรญ mientras durara aquella estรบpida aventura. Desde lo alto de la cuesta mirรฉ hacia la cantina, un puntico en noche apenas iluminado por la luz del farol que colgaba sobre el anuncio. Despuรฉs de todo, gracias a Dios que estaba vivo porque Rawson no era Schultz y esta vez ni siquiera tendrรญa tiempo de huir. Lo habรญa hecho aรฑos atrรกs no sรฉ ni cรณmo, en un pueblo minero de California, cuando lo picรณ la fiebre del oro y estuvo trabajando en una mina a pesar de que el capataz. Sadsmile Schultz, no se cansaba de humillarlo llamรกndole โgreaser” y cosas asรญ. Mi padre simulaba no entenderlo hasta que un domingo, mientras bebรญa en la cantina del pueblo para sentirse menos solo, Schultz, bonacho como una cuba, le gritรณ delante de todo el mundo que se pusiera en cuatro patas y ladrara como un perro. Fue lo รบltimo que dijo en su vida. Mi padre, que nunca habรญa matado una mosca, le cortรณ la yugular de un navajazo y no parรณ de comer hasta que estuvo en la goleta que lo llevรณ de San Francisco a Panamรก y de Panamรก a San Juan del Oeste. Sรณlo cuando se vio en La Victoria, la hacienda de la abuela doรฑa Lilia, se sintiรณ realmente seguro.
Me habรญa rezagado y tuve que comer cuesta abajo para alcanzar a los muleros. En el llano la marcha fue haciรฉndose cada vez mรกs lenta y fatigosa, con las mulas atascรกndose y resbalanยญ do en los lodazales, y los hombres dando tumbos y tratando de entrar en calor a puro fuego de aguardiente.
Nos tomรณ casi dos horas divisar a lo lejos los primeros ranchos de Limรณn Agrio. El teniente respondiรณ con una contraseรฑa el alto de los centinelas y, cuando vine a ver; ya estaban descargando sus bestias en la casucha que servรญa de cocina. Algunas sombras cuchicheaban bajo los รกrboles. Los soldados fumaban y se pasaban de mano en mano sus canecas. Rawson se habรญa desmontado dando รณrdenes y al pasar junto a mรญ me dijo en inglรฉs que esperara, que iba a ver si el Presidente todavรญa estaba despierto. Yo me quedรฉ pensando quรฉ harรญa un hombre tan importante extraviado por aquellos parajes y en tan extraรฑa compaรฑรญa. Lo vi perderse tras el portรณn de la casona que alguna vez debiรณ haber sido del patrรณn de la hacienda, porque a pesar de su evidente deterioro, aรบn conservaba el aliento de fortaleza con que su propietario la edificรณ.
Recostado al tronco de un aguacate esperรฉ casi toda la noยญ che, cabeceando y sin poder pegar los ojos bajo una densa nube de mosquitos. Sentรญ en el hombro la mano de un soldado y una voz que me decรญa en inglรฉs que lo siguiera. Entramos al salรณn de la vieja residencia, el polvo y las telaraรฑas flotando a la luz de un candil, y allรญ, junto a un tabique que acentuaba las penumbras y detrรกs de una mesa de madera, mรกs que ver escuchรฉ la voz del hombre que me observaba desde su oscura, desconocida mรกscara. A su lado estaba Rawson, tieso como un palo.
-Aquรญ lo tiene, Presidente -dijo el teniente en inglรฉs. Entonces se volviรณ hacia mรญ y me anunciรณ que el coronel
William W Providence habรญa tomado la decisiรณn de pagarnos la cuenta tan pronto se posesionarรก de Granada, la capital. Ademรกs, aรฑadiรณ, prerrรบarรญa generosamente mis servicios si los acompaรฑaba en calidad de intรฉrprete. ยฟyo no serรญa conservador, verdad? Vi la mirada de Rawson, su mirada cรณmplice, y me di cuenta de que aquello no era una invitaciรณn sino una orden, aun antes de que el hombre se volviera hacia รฉl para dar por concluido el encuentro.
-Take care of him, will you? -dijo.
Afuera me esperaba la frialdad de una maรฑana cenicienta gravitando sobre el ajetreo de la tropa, que por lo visto habรญa recibido la orden de levantar el campamento. Dos columnas de conservadores armados habรญan sido detectadas cerca y al parecer se dirigรญan al puerto lacustre de La Santa. Pude tomar una jรญcara de cafรฉ, y antes de que despuntara el sol ya estaba nuestro camino, alejรกndome cada vez mรกs de mi casa. Aunque Rawson me trataba con amabilidad, y nunca volviรณ a mencionar la entrevista, yo sabรญa que era su rehรฉn. “Take care of him” querรญa decir en realidad, “hazte cargo de este tipo y no lo pierda de vista”. Pensaba en eso mientras contemplaba los volcanes aยญ torres de vigilia del lago, y รฉl, despuรฉs de rellenar de la cantimplora, me contaba entre carcajadas cรณmo ha aprendido “this fucking language” persiguiendo bandidos y โseรฑoritasโ en Mรฉxico, “bello paรญs, by the way”, requisando ganado, cobrando impuestos y domando indias cerreras. Eran tiempos inolvidables y รฉsos se los debรญa al Presidente, cuando todavรญa no lo era, sino coronel. Lo habรญa conocido en San Francisco cuando todavรญa no era jefe, jefe militar, sino periodista, y ya soรฑaba con colonizar esas tierras salvajes de la frontera con Mรฉxico. Y aquel dรญa de abril habรญan vuelto a encontrarse en su oficina o del Industrial Adviser, como la primera vez, pero ahora frente a un mapa de la Amรฉrica Central. Para empezar, la Repรบblica de Granada, mi paรญs, aparecรญa enmarcada en un cรญrculo rojo, una presa remota, pero al alcance de la mano, segรบn le explicaba el propio Providence apuntando con una pluma de de ganso hacia la pared. Un territorio rico en recursos naturales, una situaciรณn geogrรกfica envidiable -alzรณ la pluma, uniendo deun gesto las costas del Atlรกntico y del Pacรญfico-, y una poblaciรณn que los recibirรญa con los brazos abiertos. Brian Coleman, un hombre de toda su confianza con el que sostenรญa una amistad รญntima, acababa de regresar de allรญ y lo sabรญa muy bien. Con cien hombres armados y dispuestos a todo, la campaยญรฑa durarรญa a lo sumo tres semanas. Tal vez menos.
-Do you follow me?
Se quedรณ mirรกndolo. Rawson no sabรญa quรฉ decirle, en realidad no podรญa ocultar su sorpresa. Habรญa ido a platicar sobre el nuevo proyecto de colonizaciรณn de Sonora y la Baja California, que Providence, dos aรฑos antes, uniera en un solo estado, del que no tardรณ en proclamarse presidente. Y ahora, asรญ, de pronto…
Presidente, en Sonora y la Baja California, bajo sus รณrdenes, pasรฉ los mejores momentos de mi vida. Tuvimos que abandonar el paรญs, es cie1to, en una retirada tรกctica, pero siempre pensando en volver. Le confieso que todavรญa siento la nostalgia de esas tierras, que fueron nuestras y lo serรญan de nuevo si… Pero ante todo soy un soldado a sus รณrdenes, de manera que si usted dice Mรฉxico otra vez, Panamรก, Cuba, Nicaragua, Presiยญdente, it’s ok with me. Just tell me when.
Todavรญa recordaba cรณmo el coronel, con la mano extendida, se habรญa acercado a รฉl exclamando que no esperaba menos de un valiente. Yahora, a miles de kilรณmetros de distancia, miraba hacia el lago como si quisiera rescatar, en los destellos de aquella errorยญ me superlicie bmรฑida, la fascinaciรณn del momento preciso que lo habรญa conducido a estas tierras. De pronto, para mi sorpresa, se volviรณ hacia mรญ y me puso una mano en el hombro.
-Listen, you’re a smart kid –dijo–. Jugando limpio, salยญdrรกs ganando…Tรบ y tu familia. Asรญ que no tricks, ยฟok?
Claro que lo sabรญa. Rawson tenรญa una manera de hacerse entender con frases que eran al mismo tiempo amenazadoras y corteses. No parecรญa un simple aventurero. La Ruta del Trรกnsiยญ to estaba llena de ese tipo de gente. No sรฉ si considerรณ mi silenยญ cio como un asentimiento pero รฉl pareciรณ darse por satisfecho. Sacudiรณ la cantimplora, comprobรณ 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. Avanzรกbamos por una zona boscosa, de pinos esmirriados y matorrales polvorientos, cuando se escuchรณ a poca distancia el chirrido de una carreta de bueyes. Rawson dio el alto levantando la mano, indicรณ a sus lugartenientes que lo siguieran y desยญ apareciรณ tras los pinos. Poco despuรฉs se oyeron una voz de protesta y una maldiciรณn en inglรฉs. Al reanudarse los chirridos, Rawson saliรณ del bosque. Lo seguรญa una carreta que cargaba carne y cueros y que guiaba uno de sus jinetes. La columna emprendiรณ nuevamente la marcha sin hacer el menor comentaยญ Rawson se me acercรณ. En su voz creรญ notar un tono de disculpa ode cinismo, tal vez.
ย ย ย ย La guerra es la guerra, muchacho –dijo–. Si quieres triunfar,tienes que comer. Ysi quieres comeโฆย ย
No pude contenerme.
-Tienes que robar o reprimir o…
รl se encogiรณ ligeramente de hombros.
-Le propuse comprarle la carga –dijo–. No aceptรณ.
A pesar de conocer muy bien ese tipo de compras, no dije nada.Tenรญa que andar como sobre una cuerda floja si querรญa salir ileso del lรญo en que me habรญan metido. Precisamente por ello no gritรฉ de alegrรญa cuando reconocรญ al viejo Nicasio, arriero de la zona a quien yo habรญa visto a menudo en la cantina con su hilera de mulos.
Horas antes tuve la corazonada de que andaba con suerte. Atrรกs quedaron los pinares y avanzรกbamos por una suave plaยญnicie de hierbas ralas y arbustos dispersos. Ese paisaje de pronto me resultรณ familiar. Quizรกs habรญamos dado un rodeo y nos acerยญcรกbamos por el oeste a Colina, que en toda la regiรณn era el pueblo mรกs prรณximo al nuestro. Efectivamente. Poco despuรฉs del mediodรญa cruzรกbamos el riachuelo que da acceso al caserรญo, con sus ranchos y sus casitas de caรฑa y adobe y la pequeรฑaiglesia en cuyo campanario se alza una cruz de hierro que, seยญ gรบn los vecinos, sirve de pararrayos en los dรญas de tormenta.
ย ย No tardamos en averiguar que los conservadores se habรญan desplazado esa misma maรฑana de Rivas, donde vivaqueaba el grueso de su ejรฉrcito, hacia La Santa. Rawson mandรณ 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 costaยญ do de la iglesia, los hombres habรญan ido formando, y entretanto Rawson, a gritos, mezclando improperios en inglรฉs y espaรฑol, parecรญa estar preparรกndose para asaltar un cuartel. Era evidente que deseaba impresionar a los vecinos, muchos de los cuales se habรญan encerrado en sus casas, en tanto otros observaban indiferentes el trajรญn de una tropa tan abigarrada que cada vez le resultaba mรกs difรญcil mantener la formaciรณn, pese a sus esยญfuerzos 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 algarabรญa y todo lo que no fuera el paso cansino de su recua. Iba a pasar junto a mรญ de un momento aย otro. Mirรฉ hacia el teniente, embargado completamente en sus maniobras, y yo, que trataba de dominar mi nerviosismo, murmurรฉ:
-Psht… Nicasio… Nicasio…
El viejo volviรณ la cabeza hacia mรญ, sorprendido. Yo hice un leve gesto con la mano.
-Soy Ricardo, el hijo de Eulogio Vidal, el cantinero de Roยญ sales. ยฟMe recuerda?
Se quedรณ mirรกndome, inmรณvil, y farfullรณ algo entre dientes. De pronto, notรฉ en sus ojitos rasgados y en la comisura de sus labios un amago de sonrisa. Me habรญa reconocido vagamente.
-Avรญsele a mi padre que estoy retenido -murmurรฉ, casi deletreando las palabras-. A mi padre, Eulogio Vidal. Dรญgale que vamos para La Santa… ยฟMe entiende?
รl mirรณ a un lado y al otro, receloso, moviรณ ligeramente la cabeza, me dio la espalda y arreรณ de nuevo sus mulas. En el centro de la plaza, incansable, Rawson seguรญa vociferando inรบtilmente.
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I met William W. Providence in a strange situation, when I was at his camp in Limรณn 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 Trรกnsito 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 Trรกnsito. 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”โhe gestured to the crates and barrels stacked in a cornerโ”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 Doรฑa 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 Limรณn 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 “seรฑorรญtas” 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 locationโhe raised the feather, joining the Atlantic and Pacific coasts with a gestureโand 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.
โMr. 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 โโstunted 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.”
ย ย ย ย 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.
ย ย ย ย 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.
Memo รnjel (Josรฉ Guillermo รngel) naciรณ en Medellรญn, Colombia, como hijo de inmigrantes argelinos sefardรญes en 1954. Ademรกs de su oeuvre literario, รnjel ha trabajado por muchos aรฑos como professor of de Comunicaciรณn Social en la Universidad Pontificia Bolivariana en Medellรญn.
Algunos de sus libros: La luna verde de Atocha (novela); La casa de las cebollas (novela), Todos los sitios son Berlรญn (novela), Libreta de apuntes de Yehuda Malaji, relojero sefardรญ (Ejercicios de imaginaciรณn sobre la conformaciรณn de los pecados), Zurich es una letra alef (novela), Tanta gente (novela), El tercer huevo de la gallina (novela) y Calor intenso (cuentos).
Considera la escritura como una actividad existencial, algo que le ayuda a analizarse a sรญ mismo y a reconocer la naturaleza de los demรกs. Profundamente en el sentido de la tolerancia y la vida misma. Segรบn Anjel, solo el conocimiento necesario de lo que nos rodea nos permite sobrevivir y dar a nuestra existencia la suficiente transparencia.
รnjel es uno de un grupo de autores colombianos modernos que ya no piensan y escriben de una manera especรญficamente colombiana, sino universal. โEn todo el mundo, las personas tienen experiencias similares, ya sea que vivan en Colombia o en Alemania: tienen familia, trabajan, sufren y experimentan las mismas tragedias, la guerra y la emigraciรณnโ.
รnjel ha realizado un intenso estudio de los clรกsicos judรญos, y en muchas de sus obras examina su propia historia sefardรญ y la cuestiรณn de lo que significa ser un judรญo sefardรญ en la cultura de asimilaciรณn actual. Ha escrito varios ensayos sobre la contribuciรณn de la cultura รกrabe al desarrollo de la civilizaciรณn occidental y el papel de la cultura y la historia judรญas en las ideas literarias y filosรณficas contemporรกneas.
Memo Anjel (Josรฉ Guillermo รngel) was born in Medellรญn, Columbia, as the child of Sephardic Algerian immigrants in 1954. Besides his literary oeuvre, Anjel has worked for many years as a professor of social communication at the Universidad Pontificia Bolivariana in Medellรญn.
Some of his books: La luna verde de Atocha (novel) La casa de cebollas (novel), Todos los sitios son Berlรญn (novel), Libreta de apuntes de Yehuda Malaji, relojero sefardรญ (Ejercicios de imaginaciรณn sobre la conformaciรณn de los pecados), Zurich es una letra alef (novel), Tanta gente (novel), El tercer huevo de la gallina (novel) and Calor intenso (stories).
He regards writing as an existential activity, something that helps him to analyse himself and to recognise the nature of others, in order to look deeply at the meaning of tolerance and life itself. According to Anjel, only the necessary knowledge of what surrounds us enables us to survive at all and to give our existence sufficient transparency.
รnjel is one of a group of modern Colombian authors who no longer think and write in a specifically Columbian, but rather universal way. โAll over the world, people have similar experiences ? whether they live in Columbia or Germany: they have a family, work, suffer, and experience the same tragedies, war and emigration.โ
Anjel has made an intense study of Jewish classics, and in many of his works he examines his own Sephardic history and the question of what it means to be a Sephardic Jew in todayโs culture of assimilation. He has written several essays on the contribution of Arabic culture to the development of occidental civilisation and the role of Jewish culture and history in contemporary literary and philosophical ideas.
Adapted from Berliner Kรผnstlerprogramm des Daad
_________________________________________________
Un hombre de suerte
El doctor Isaac Siegelboim se presentaba siempre como un maestro y un amante del fracaso. Iniciaba sus conferencias diciendo estoy aquรญ para decirles cรณmo deben y necesitan fracasar hombres y mujeres. Y ante el silencio de los asistentes, primero definรญa lo que era el fracaso y luego enumeraba las diferentes formas de fracasar, imperativas, segรบn el doctor, para sentir la vida a plenitud y dejar de lado toda esperanza, esto que tanto dolor genera porque esperar es asumir una frustraciรณn cercana en tanto que desesperar es negarse a sufrir por un imaginario. Al final del desespero, uno se siente libre. Y si bien las tesis que exponรญa no eran originales, pues ya otros las habรญan teorizado y รฉl lo รบnico que hacรญa era ampliarlas y conectarlas para que no hubiera incoherencias, sรญ lo era la dulzura con la que hablaba de esa necesidad imperiosa de asumir los momentos de fracaso y caos y vivir recordรกndolos cada tanto para sentir que la vida no habรญa pasado en vano, que todo lo destruido o dejado de hacer era parte de haber vivido, pues sin la confusiรณn y el desengaรฑo no existรญa un concepto claro sobre el hombre, etcรฉtera. Hablaba como si diera consejos a un amigo, como si pintara un mapa y dijera dรณnde estaban las ciudades necesarias y los tiempos propicios para hacer un viaje. Y mientras hablaba, movรญa las manos y parecรญa que corriera los velos que cubren a esa diosa de la verdad de la que hablaba Parmรฉnides. La gente se emocionaba con este acto. Isaac Siegelboim tenรญa cincuenta aรฑos y tres matrimonios que, con la habilidad de un cirujano, se habรญa encargado de destruir o de no asumir, es decir, habรญa fracasado vรญvidamente en ellos, segรบn รฉl, siguiendo su teorรญa. Y esto no lo entendรญa yo muy bien, porque un hombre como el doctor parecรญa capaz de todo menos de daรฑar a nadie o de acabar con lo que habรญa construido. Pero lo habรญa hecho y cuando contaba sobre estas destrucciones hablaba como si se estuviera refiriendo a una crรญa de palomas o a un viaje en barco donde lo habรญa pasado muy bien. Sus alumnos dijimos que debรญa ser un masoquista o un sรกdico, un buscador de dolor. Pero no era asรญ. Las tres mujeres con las que habรญa vivido encontraron en la destrucciรณn de la relaciรณn algo bueno y apetitoso, algo asรญ como un acto de ciencia y la satisfacciรณn a una necesidad bรกsica. Y no lo odiaban ni querรญan, sino que lo admitรญan en sus vidas igual que se admite la existencia de un reloj o una pelรญcula que se recuerda por sus escenas de y por la mรบsica. Ellas hablaban de sus fracasos matrimoniales con cierta alegrรญa.
La primera mujer de Siegelboim, una polaca de cuerpo menudo y ojos negros coquetas, habรญa durado un aรฑo con รฉl. Y en ese tiempo, que no fue el mejor porque el doctor habรญa abandonado su trabajo como analista de procesos de calidad y se habรญa sentado frente a una mirada a mirar a la calle por dรญas, para ver com Dโs fracasaba con รฉl. pasaron juntos muchas necesidades. Rivka, asรญ se llamaba la mujer, trabajรณ en oficios, ya como secretaria, ya como empleada del vagรณn del tren que hacรญa el recorrido entre Frankfort y Milรกn. Y agotรณ todas las maneras de amarlo. Cuando lo dejรณ, despuรฉs de un divorcio rรกpido, quedรณ en visitarlo un dรญa cada mes. รl dijo que estaba bien, pero si lo querรญa, podrรญa visitarlo en las maรฑanas. Rivka sonrรญa contando esta historia de un aรฑo perdido en su vida y no realmente perdido sino vivido en aras de la teorรญa del fracaso. Era una mujer muy bella y de dedos muy delgados. Y muy difรญcil de definir porque se movรญa todo el tiempo.
El doctor Siegelboim se habรญa especializado en procesos de producciรณn y hacรญa proyectos para fรกbricas diversas. Proyectos que incrementaban la productividad. Y esto era una contradicciรณn, pensรกbamos nosotros, pero no lo era. Siegelboim decรญa, mejoro un fracaso, lo hago mรกs interesante, le agrego codicia. Y mis asesorados entran de cabezas en el proyecto, siguiendo mis instrucciones, y hacen realidad lo que les propongo, basado en un cambio de direcciรณn a eso en lo que han fallado. Esto dura varios meses. ยฟCรณmo se explican ustedes que se persista en lo mismo, que se empeรฑen en mejorar eso que hacen sabiendo (en este caso negรกndose) de antemano que todo, productos y administraciรณn, tiende a destruirse? Siegelboim nos miraba rascarnos la cabeza y admitir con desgano lo que no entendรญamos bien, pero que sus mujeres sรญ habรญan entendido. Quizรกs debiรฉramos vivir mรกs tiempo con el doctor, estar en la misma casa que รฉl, acompaรฑarlo cuando salรญa al cine o a mirar los barcos que iban por el rรญo. Pero a Siegelboim no le gustaba que sus alumnos le hiciรฉramos la corte y por eso nos citaba y nos incumplรญa. En ocasiones aparecรญa en el salรณn de clases y nos decรญa vengo en un momento y no regresaba. Muchos de sus alumnos no resistieron y lo denunciaron a la decanatura, pero echar a Siegelboim de la universidad hubiera sido admitir su teorรญa del fracaso y esto no lo iban a aceptar los directores. Asรญ que quedamos unos pocos que asistรญamos a sus clases y a los vacรญos que รฉl dejaba en ellas. A mรญ especialmente me gustaba que รฉl nos hiciera fallar, que nos creara el caos y la confusiรณn no acertando. Llegarรญa un dรญa, pensaba, en que sabrรญa lo que รฉl y le dirรญa, profesor Siegelboim, quiero ser su asistente. La teorรญa que mรกs trabajaba era la de dejarse vencer por las cosas simples que podemos hacer. Segรบn el profesor, admitir que lo que estรก a nuestro alcance es superior a nosotros, que eso que solo necesita de un poco de paciencia y orden nos desborda, es el fracaso que mรกs conmueve. La inutilidad nuestra frente a la simpleza, esto de no ser capaces delante de un acontecimiento elemental, nos lleva a crear nuestra propia vida, esa que no es la que la realidad nos evidencia, sino la que inventamos descaradamente y con la que siempre incumplimos porque hay otros pequeรฑos fracasos que nos llaman para que trabajemos en ellos, pero no para resolverlos, sino buscando estar mรกs confusos. El fracaso continuado, ese que nos admitimos porque imaginamos asumir un fracaso mayor, es el que nos lleva a reconocer lo caรณtico y nuestra participaciรณn (activa, le gustaba esta palabra) en รฉl. Y en el caos, estamos en continuo proceso de creaciรณn, revisรกndonos, sabiendo quรฉ somos y no somos. Nos emocionรกbamos con estas palabras y dejรกbamos de escribir para solo escucharlo y al final salir confundidos con lo que decรญa.
La segunda mujer de Siegelboim, Marta Klezmer, era dos aรฑos mayor que รฉl y manejaba un pequeรฑo almacรฉn de lencerรญa en cercanรญas del mercado de las especias. Y era muy distinta a Rivka, mรกs alta y robusta. Cuando la conocรญ (fui a pedido de Siegelboim) le habรญan tapado un ojo para corregirle un defecto de visiรณn. El ojo que se le veรญa era redondo y azul. Se notaba que habรญa sido muy bella y todavรญa tenรญa unos dientes bonitos y unos labios atrayentes. Y no se veรญa que hubiera fracasado con Siegelboim porque todavรญa estaba enamorada de รฉl, como me dijo, a pesar de que ya se habรญa casado con otro y tenรญa tres hijos. Me mostrรณ las fotos en las que aparecรญa su nuevo marido, un hombre con dientes de conejo y pelo abundante. Al lado de รฉl se veรญan tres y ojos muy parecidos a los de la madre. Son muy bellos los niรฑos, dije. Ya no lo son, han crecido, dijo Marta. Movรญa las manos con nerviosismo, como si de repente la palabra bellos le hubiera entrado en la sangre poniendo en movimiento recuerdos o momentos, no lo supe bien. Segรบn Siegelboim, un recuerdo se diferenciaba de un momento. En el primero se podรญa inventar o al menos adornar con imaginaciones lo recordado, en tanto que el segundo necesariamente habรญa que vivirlo, incluso negรกndolo. Entonces, ยฟestaba Marta Klezmer recordando algo o estaba sintiendo? Para que sus manos dejaran de moverse puse las mรญas en las de ella y me mirรณ agradecida con el ojo que le quedaba libre. Me sonriรณ y puso cara de niรฑa. Apretรฉ sus manos y quise besarla, pero me levantรฉ aterrado por lo que habรญa acabado de hacer o por haber sentido el momento o el recuerdo de Marta, no lo tengo claro, y salรญ a la calle. La teorรญa sobre el fracaso, que ya casi memorizaba y me hacรญa un incondicional de Siegelboim, estuvo presente toda la noche. Hasta que el sueรฑo me venciรณ y no supe si habรญa acertado en lo que realmente habรญa sucedido entre la mujer de la lencerรญa y el profesor. Dormรญ mal la noche que conocรญ a Marta Klezmer y me levantรฉ de mal humor. Pero no dejรฉ de visitarla los dรญas siguientes para mirarla y ver si movรญa esas manos que necesitaba tener de nuevo entre las mรญas. Estuve yendo donde ella un mes entero, pero ella, que me recibรญa sonriendo, no dejรณ que pasara nada. O sรญ, me aprendรญ la cara del marido de memoria mientras ella me contaba cรณmo se habรญa hundido su primer matrimonio. Siegelboim la invitaba a ciertos lugares decadentes y allรญ la dejaba sola. Tambiรฉn pasaba que dejaba de hablarle por dรญas y en ese tiempo se disfrazaba para asustarla o acusarla de adulterio. Las crisis fueron abundantes. Al momento del divorcio, el profesor disertรณ sobre el fracaso poniendo como ejemplo la รบltima flor en el yugo de una novia. El juez quedรณ impresionado. Y Marta, como me dijo, se sintiรณ agradecida. Mire que hacer parte de una teorรญa exitosa…
Isaac Siegelboim tenรญa las cejas desordenadas y fumaba mucho. Este aspecto, que habรญa pasado por alto, es muy importante para definir bien al profesor. O al menos asรญ me parece, porque de esta manera entiendo que el profesor era un hombre que estaba saliendo del infierno o de algo parecido, pero con diablos. diablos. รฉl de esto porque era un hombre con el que no se debรญa hablar de algo que no estuviera comprobado. Existe la historia del deseo de conocer a Dโs, pero esa historia no es Dโs, habรญa dicho en una conferencia. Y en esa historia estรก presente el deseo de que existan cielos e infiernos, รกngeles y demonios, salvados y condenados. Pero realmente no hay nada de esto sino el fracaso, la imposibilidad, las palabras que no definen, sino que solo terminan creando รญdolos. La teologรญa es una de las formas que tiene la literatura de ficciรณn. Y hay quienes, sabiendo que van a fracasar, se enfrascan en ella. Pero es un fracaso sin sentido porque se sabe ya que el intento es enorme, que aun pereciendo en รฉl se sale vencedor si se usa la filosofรญa que dice que, si existe una palabra, ya existe la cosa que nombra. Propongo entonces, para que el fracaso tenga sentido, que nosotros seamos dioses y demonios, รกngeles y dibbuks, asรญ tendremos a mano lo que buscamos por fuera de nosotros, destruyรฉndolo. Los directores, que estaban presentes en la conferencia, fueron los primeros en aplaudir. Siegelboim los mirรณ con cara radiante. Despuรฉs de la conferencia estuvimos bebiendo cerveza y oyendo valses. Y en ese bar le notรฉ las cejas, las distintas direcciones de los pelos, la manera como fumaba un cigarrillo tras de otro, botando el humo de distintas maneras. Salรญa de una situaciรณn infernal o de algo que tenรญa diablos, volvรญ a pensar, pero no tuve el valor de decirle nada. Solo murmurรฉ que habรญa conocido a Marta Klezmer. Y al oรญrme, rio mucho. Y cantรณ, cosa que nunca le habรญamos visto hacer. El piso donde vivรญa Isaac Siegelboim era pequeรฑo pero muy ordenado. Cada cosa estaba en su lugar y olรญa a รณleo todo el tiempo. Extraรฑo, porque รฉl no pintaba ni vivรญa ya con su tercera mujer, que sรญ pintaba. Podrรญa decir entonces que era el olor de ella que se mantenรญa ahรญ, entre los muebles y los libros del profesor. Pero no era asรญ, la vida de Siegelboim con Irene Moscatel habรญa sido en Estambul y no aquรญ. Y de ella no habรญa ningรบn rastro en el piso del profesor, como sรญ lo habรญa de Rivka y Marta. De las dos primeras mujeres, Siegelboim tenรญa fotografรญas y prendas. En este mueble tengo ropa de Rivka y en este otro de Marta. Nunca quisieron llevรกrsela, aunque quedamos en que, una vez divorciados, cada uno se llevarรญa sus propias cosas. Hablaba con tono divertido acerca de lo que tenรญa de sus dos primeras mujeres (que miraba cada tanto) y especialmente de los dos muebles con prendas de ellas, que estaban ubicados el uno frente al otro y en medio de ellos un sillรณn en el que se sentaba Siegelboim. Me gusta verme entre lo que queda de Rivka y Marta, dijo. Cuando hablaba de Irene, abrรญa la ventana. Estรก en algรบn lugar del aire, decรญa.
En ese piso, al que dos o tres veces cada semestre nos invitaba a mirar sus libros para que no solo supiรฉramos quรฉ habรญa leรญdo sino para que leyรฉramos sus acotaciones a un lado de las pรกginas, en una letra pequeรฑa y redonda, nunca hablรณ de sus teorรญas. Charlรณ sobre quesos italianos y vinos franceses, panes y embutidos de Alemania, arte persa y fรญsica aplicada en la construcciรณn o a la velocidad de los trenes, pero nunca del fracaso. รbamos allรญ solo a leer sus acotaciones y a escuchar su mรบsica. Y a verlo dormir en un sillรณn forrado en una tela de flores grandes, herencia de su abuela que habรญa vivido en Marsella, donde quedรณ viuda. ยฟHacรญa un ensayo con nosotros? ยฟEstaba probando algo? Dormido, se le ampliaban las cejas.
A Irene la encontrรฉ unos aรฑos despuรฉs, cuando yo ya no era alumno de Siegelboim y habรญa fracasado en ser su asistente. O sea que la encontrรฉ cuando ya no era necesaria para lo que querรญa probar: que el fracaso mayor era no poder fracasar. Irene era una mujer de estatura media, pelo rizado y boca fina. Y aunque era delgada, tenรญa las caderas anchas y unas piernas fuertes. Parecรญa mรกs un ama de casa que una pintora. Se notaba en el orden exagerado que habรญa en su piso y un aseo tal que obligaba a moverse con cuidado. Mientras hablรฉ con ella, me cuidรฉ de no ir a tocar nada. Pero me habรญa hecho una mala idea de la mujer. Si bien le gustaba que todo reluciera y que nada estorbara el paso, tambiรฉn aceptaba que las cosas se tenรญan que ensuciar y envejecer y que vivรญa momentos de desorden (necesarios, los llamรณ) para no momificarse. En este รบltimo punto estaba de acuerdo con Siegelboim, o al menos sufrรญa cierta influencia de รฉl. Igual que yo, que estaba en Estambul de paseo con mi mujer y en un momento determinado sentรญ la necesidad apremiante de dar con Irene Moscatel. Asรญ que salรญ y dejรฉ a Inga en el hotel, sin explicarle para dรณnde iba ni cuรกndo vendrรญa. Salรญ corriendo y, al llegar a la calle, lo primero que hice fue tomar un directorio telefรณnico que colgaba de una cadena en una caseta de telรฉfonos y buscar el nombre de ella. No figuraba en el listรญn. Busquรฉ entonces algo que tuviera que ver con judรญos y despuรฉs de llamar a cuatro partes y hacerme entender en un mal turco, alguien me dijo que sรญ, que conocรญa a Irene. Luego me dijo algo que no entendรญ. En esa situaciรณn pude haber desistido y fracasar, lo habrรญa hecho en honor a Siegelboim, pero lo defraudรฉ y decidรญ ir a la direcciรณn a donde habรญa llamado. Me atendiรณ un hombre viejo que, con mรกs seรฑas que palabras, me indicรณ el piso de Irene. Y lleguรฉ allรญ, alegre de no haber fracasado. Este acontecimiento habrรญa desencantado a Siegelboim, pero yo no era รฉl ni era ya su alumno. En este punto me contradigo porque ser un fracaso para รฉl era lo correcto, lo que buscaba de nosotros, que no pudiera acertar y entonces nos viera y fuera el caos.
Irene vivรญa sola y seguรญa pensando en que algรบn dรญa Siegelboim bajarรญa del tranvรญa y, cargando una maleta y una bolsa de papel (esa era la imagen que la mujer tenรญa del profesor), subirรญa las escaleras. Ella lo estarรญa esperando en la puerta. Es que los matrimonios judรญos no se borran, lo que me extraรฑรณ porque creรญa que ella y el profesor (รฉl nos lo dijo) se habรญan casado por lo civil, lo que me hizo pensar que la mujer me estaba mintiendo o que quizรกs no fuera la verdadera Irene sino otra. No habรญa visto ningรบn cuadro en la pared y menos la seรฑal de que ella pintara o de que allรญ tuviera un estudio. Pero fue solo una confusiรณn momentรกnea, porque me invitรณ a unas galletas con tรฉ y mientras ponรญa la mesa me pasรณ un รกlbum donde habรญa recortes de periรณdicos que hablaban de ella y de sus exposiciones. Abundaban las fotografรญas de su cara y me pareciรณ que tenรญa una nariz muy recta para ser judรญa.
Regresรฉ al hotel casi a la media noche, despuรฉs de caminar por las calles y pensar que todo lo que teรณricamente relacionaba a Irene con Siegelboim era una farsa y que me habรญa metido en ella cuando ya no podรญa hacerle ningรบn reclamo al profesor, que en realidad sรญ se habรญa casado por lo judรญo como vi en una fotografรญa y que ella conservaba todavรญa el contrato de matrimonio, sin acotaciones posteriores de ningรบn rabino. Y si con Irene habรญa descubierto a un Siegelboim que mentรญa, que no se habรญa separado de ella, sino que seguรญa unido a la mujer y casado legalmente, ese descubrimiento me llevรณ a pensar que habรญa perdido todo el tiempo empleado en ir a sus clases. Pagar por escuchar a un mentiroso, me dije con rabia. Pero con el frรญo de la noche, el calor que hacรญa bullir mis ideas comenzรณ a descender hasta convertirlas en una nada en la que yo flotaba como un globo de helio soltado por un niรฑo. Inga, cuando le contรฉ la historia, dijo que no entendรญa que la hubiera dejado sola. Me dio miedo oรญrle decir estas palabras.
Con los dรญas volvรญ a recuperar mi confianza en Siegelboim. Mentir era una forma de asumir el fracaso, de llegar hasta una certidumbre y negarla. Si decรญa la verdad, si acertaba con algo, su teorรญa se venรญa al suelo. Aceptรฉ de nuevo que el profesor era consecuente con lo que enseรฑaba y que no haber llegado a ser su asistente era una muestra de que yo no tenรญa la preparaciรณn suficiente para entender la necesidad de un caos permanente. En efecto no habรญa nacido para caminar por encima de una cuerda floja. Yo necesitaba el dominio sobre algo, el acierto, no los riesgos y la incertidumbre. Y menos el fracaso, porque yo era un hombre exitoso. Todos hablaban bien de mรญ, en especial mi madre que contaba a sus amigas cรณmo me habรญan ascendido a jefe de secciรณn sin tener la edad, y cรณmo habรญa embarazado a Inga cuando estuvimos en Estambul. Pero pensar en esto me pone mal. No tengo la suerte de Siegelboim, esa seguridad de que รฉl fracasa permanentemente y por eso estรก vivo, cuando abrazo a Inga me da miedo de que yo sea un ciudadano peligroso. Pero este miedo me da confianza y entonces la amo. Y todo se ordena.
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A Lucky Man
Dr. Isaac Siegelboim always presented himself as a master and a lover of failure. He began his lectures by saying, “I am here to tell you how men and women should and need to fail.” And before the silence of the audience, he first defined failure and then enumerated the different forms of failure, imperative, according to the doctor, to experience life to the fullest and to let go of all hope, which causes so much pain because to hope is to accept an imminent frustration, while to despair is to refuse to suffer for an imaginary one. At the end of despair, one feels free. And while the theses he expounded weren’t original, as others had already theorized them and all he did was expand on them and connect them so there were no inconsistencies, what was striking was the sweetness with which he spoke of that imperative need to accept moments of failure and chaos and live by remembering them from time to time to feel that life hadn’t passed in vain, that everything destroyed or left undone was part of having lived, because without confusion and disillusionment, there was no clear concept of man, and so on. He spoke as if giving advice to a friend, as if painting a map and indicating where the necessary cities were and the propitious times for a journey. And as he spoke, he moved his hands, seeming to draw back the veils that cover that goddess of truth of whom Parmenides spoke. People were moved by this act. Isaac Siegelboim was fifty years old and had three marriages, which, with the skill of a surgeon, he had undertaken to destroy or not acceptโthat is, he had vividly failed at them, according to his theory. And I didn’t quite understand this, because a man like the doctor seemed capable of everything except harming anyone or destroying what he had built. But he had done it, and when he talked about these destructions, he spoke as if he were referring to a brood of pigeons or a boat trip where he had had a wonderful time. His students said he must be a masochist or a sadist, a pain-seeker. But that wasn’t the case. The three women he had lived with found in the destruction of the relationship something good and appetizing, something like an act of science and the satisfaction of a basic need. And they didn’t hate it or want it, but rather admitted it into their lives just as one admits the existence of a watch or a film remembered for its scenes and music. They talked about their marital failures with a certain joy. Siegelboim’s first wife, a Polish woman with a petite body and flirtatious black eyes, had been with him for a year. And during that time, which wasn’t the best because the doctor had abandoned his job as a quality process analyst and had sat across the street for days, watching God fail him, they endured many hardships together. Rivka, that was his name, worked in trades, sometimes as a secretary, sometimes as a train car employee that ran between Frankfurt and Milan. And she exhausted every way to love him. When she left him, after a quick divorce, she agreed to visit him one day a month. He said it was fine, but if she wanted, she could visit him in the mornings. Rivka smiled as she told this story of a lost year in her lifeโnot really lost, but lived for the sake of the theory of failure. She was a very beautiful woman with very slender fingers. And very difficult to define because it was constantly moving. Dr. Siegelboim had specialized in production processes and designed projects for various factories. Projects that increased productivity. And this was a contradiction, we thought, but it wasn’t. Siegelboim said, “I’ll improve on a failure, I’ll make it more interesting, I’ll add greed.” And my advisors dive headfirst into the project, following my instructions, and make what I propose a reality, based on a change of direction in what they’ve failed at. This lasts for several months. How do you explain that they persist in the same thing, that they insist on improving what they do, knowing (in this case, refusing) in advance that everything, products and management, tends to be destroyed? Siegelboim watched us scratch our heads and reluctantly admit what we didn’t quite understand, but that his wives had. Perhaps we should have lived with the doctor longer, been in the same house as him, accompanied him when he went to the movies or to watch the boats sailing on the river. But Siegelboim didn’t like his students courting him, and that’s why he would make appointments and break them. Occasionally, he would appear in the classroom and say, “I’ll be right back,” and then never return. Many of his students couldn’t resist and reported him to the dean’s office, but expelling Siegelboim from the university would have been to admit his theory of failure, and the directors weren’t going to accept that. So a few of us remained, attending his classes and the gaps he left in the classroom. and the gaps he left in them. I especially liked that he made us fail, that he created chaos and confusion by failing to get it right. One day, I thought, I would find out what he meant and say, Professor Siegelboim, I want to be your assistant. The theory I worked on most was that of letting ourselves be overcome by the simple things we can do. According to the professor, admitting that what is within our reach is beyond us, that what only requires a little patience and order overwhelms us, is the failure that moves us the most. Our uselessness in the face of simplicity, this inability to face an elementary event, leads us to create our own life, one that is not the one reality shows us, but the one we shamelessly invent and with which we always fail because there are other small failures that call us to work on them, not to resolve them, but rather to seek to be more confused. Continued failure, the kind we admit to ourselves because we imagine assuming a greater failure, is what leads us to recognize chaos and our (active, he liked this word) participation in it. And in chaos, we are in a continuous process of creation, revising ourselves, knowing what we are and are not. We were moved by these words and stopped writing to just listen to him, ultimately leaving confused by what he was saying. Siegelboim’s second wife, Marta Klezmer, was two years older than him and ran a small lingerie store near the spice market. And she was very different from Rivka, taller and more robust. When I met her (at Siegelboim’s request), one of her eyes had been covered to correct a vision defect. The eye that was visible was round and blue. It was clear that she had been very beautiful and still had nice teeth and attractive lips. And it didn’t seem like she had failed with Siegelboim because she was still in love with him, as she told me, even though she had already married someone else and had three children. She showed me the photos of her new husband, a man with buck teeth and thick hair. Next to him were three children with eyes very similar to their mother’s. “Children are very beautiful,” I said. “They aren’t anymore, they’ve grown up,” Marta said. She moved her hands nervously, as if the word “beautiful” had suddenly entered her bloodstream, setting memories or moments in motion; I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. According to Siegelboim, a memory was different from a moment. In the former, one could invent or at least embellish what was remembered with imagination, while in the latter, one necessarily had to live it, even deny it. So, was Marta Klezmer remembering something or was she feeling something? To stop her hands from moving, I placed mine in hers, and she looked at me gratefully with her free eye. She smiled at me and put on a child’s face. I squeezed her hands and wanted to kiss her, but I got up, terrified by what I had just done, or by having felt the moment, or by the memory of MartaโI’m not sureโand went out into the street. The theory about failure, which I had almost memorized and had become a Siegelboim fanatic, was present all night. Until sleep overcame me and I didn’t know if I had guessed correctly what had really happened between the lingerie woman and the professor. I slept poorly the night I met Marta Klezmer and woke up in a bad mood. But I didn’t stop visiting her the following days to look at her and see if she would move those hands I needed to have in mine again. I went to her for a whole month, but she, who greeted me with a smile, didn’t let anything happen. Or maybe I did, I learned her husband’s face by heart while she told me how her first marriage had fallen apart. Siegelboim would invite her to certain decadent places and leave her alone there. He also happened to stop speaking to her for days, during which time he would dress up to scare her or accuse her of adultery. The crises were numerous. At the time of the divorce, the professor lectured on failure, using the last flower on a bride’s yoke as an example. The judge was impressed. And Marta, as she told me, was grateful. Look, being part of a successful theoryโฆ Isaac Siegelboim had untidy eyebrows and smoked a lot. This aspect, which I had overlooked, is very important to properly define the professor. Or at least that’s how it seems to me, because this way I understand that the professor was a man who was coming out of hell or something similar, but with devils. devils. He was a man with whom one shouldn’t talk about anything that wasn’t proven. There’s the story of the desire to know God, but that story isn’t God, he had said in a lecture. And in that story, there’s the desire for heaven and hell, angels and demons, the saved and the damned. But there’s really none of this, only failure, impossibility, words that don’t define, but only end up creating idols. Theology is one of the forms of fictional literature. And there are those who, knowing they will fail, immerse themselves in it. But it is a pointless failure because it is already known that the attempt is enormous, that even if it perishes in it, one emerges victorious if one uses the philosophy that says that, if a word exists, the thing it names already exists. I propose then, so that failure has meaning, that we be gods and demons, angels and dybbuks, so that we will have at hand what we seek outside ourselves, by destroying it. The conductors, who were present at the conference, were the first to applaud. Siegelboim looked at them with a radiant face. After the conference, we drank beer and listened to waltzes. And in that bar, I noticed his eyebrows, the different directions of his hair, the way he chain-smoked one cigarette after another, blowing the smoke out in different ways. I was getting out of a hellish situation or something that had me in my head, I thought again, but I didn’t have the courage to say anything. I just murmured that I had met Marta Klezmer. And when he heard me, he laughed a lot. And he sang, something we’d never seen him do before. The apartment where Isaac Siegelboim lived was small but very tidy. Everything was in its place and it smelled of oil paint all the time. Strange, because he didn’t paint and he no longer lived with his third wife, who did paint. I could say then that it was her scent that lingered there, among the furniture and the professor’s books. But it wasn’t like that; Siegelboim’s life with Irene Moscatel had been in Istanbul, not here. And there was no trace of her in the professor’s apartment, as there was of Rivka and Marta. Siegelboim had photographs and clothes of the first two women. In this piece of furniture I have clothes of Rivka’s and in this other one of Marta’s. They never wanted to take her, although we agreed that, once divorced, we would each take our own things. He spoke playfully about what he had from his first two wives (which he looked at every now and then) and especially about the two pieces of furniture containing their clothes, placed opposite each other, with an armchair in between where Siegelboim sat. “I like to see myself among what’s left of Rivka and Marta,” he said. When he talked about Irene, he opened the window. “She’s somewhere in the air,” he said.
In that apartment, where he invited us two or three times a semester to look at his books so that we would not only know what he had read but also read his notes on the side of the pages, in small, rounded print, he never spoke of his theories. He chatted about Italian cheeses and French wines, German breads and cured meats, Persian art, and applied physics in construction or the speed of trains, but never about failure. We went there just tos, where she was widowed. Was he rehearsing with us? Was he trying something out? As he slept, his eyebrows widened.
I found Irene a few years later, when I was no longer Siegelboim’s student and had failed as his assistant. In other words, I found her when she was no longer necessary for what I wanted to prove: that the greatest failure was not being able to fail. Irene was a woman of medium height, with curly hair and a thin mouth. And although she was slim, she had wide hips and strong legs. She looked more like a housewife than a painter. It was evident in the exaggerated order of her apartment and the cleanliness that required one to move carefully. While I spoke with her, I was careful not to touch anything. But I had gotten the wrong idea about the woman. While he liked everything to shine and nothing to get in the way, he also accepted that things had to get dirty and age, and that he lived through periods of disorder (necessary, he called them) to avoid becoming mummified. On this last point, he agreed with Siegelboim, or at least was somewhat influenced by him. Like me, I was in Istanbul on a trip with my wife and at a certain moment felt the urgent need to find Irene Moscatel. So I left and left Inga at the hotel, without telling her where I was going or when I would be back. I ran out, and when I got to the street, the first thing I did was grab a phone book hanging from a chain in a phone booth and look for her name. She wasn’t listed. I then looked for something related to Jews, and after calling four different places and making myself understood in broken Turkish, someone told me yes, they knew Irene. Then they said something I didn’t understand. In that situation, I could have given up and failed. I would have done it in honor of Siegelboim, but I let him down and decided to go to the address he had called. An old man answered me and, with more signs than words, directed me to Irene’s apartment. And I arrived there, glad that I hadn’t failed. This event would have disenchanted Siegelboim, but I was not him, nor was I his student anymore. On this point, I contradicted myself.
Irene lived alone and kept thinking that one day Siegelboim would get off the tram and, carrying a suitcase and a paper bag (that was the woman’s image of the professor), walk up the stairs. She would be waiting for him at the door. Jewish marriages aren’t erased, which surprised me because I thought she and the professor (he told us) had had a civil marriage, which made me think the woman was lying to me or that perhaps it wasn’t the real Irene but someone else. I hadn’t seen any paintings on the wall, much less any sign that she painted or that she had a studio there. But it was only a momentary confusion, because she invited me to have some biscuits and tea, and while she was setting the table, she handed me an album containing newspaper clippings about her and her exhibitions. There were many photographs of her face, and it seemed to me that she had a very straight nose for a Jew.
I returned to the hotel almost at midnight, after walking the streets and thinking that everything that theoretically linked Irene to Siegelboim was a farce, and that I had gotten myself into it when I could no longer complain to the professor, who had in fact gotten married Jewishly, as I saw in a photograph, and that she still had the marriage contract, without any subsequent comment from any rabbi. And if with Irene I had discovered a Siegelboim who was lying, who hadn’t separated from her, but was still united to the woman and legally married, that discovery made me think I had wasted all the time I’d spent attending his classes. Paying to listen to a liar, I told myself angrily. But with the night’s chill, the heat that had been boiling over my thoughts began to sink, turning them into nothingness in which I floated like a helium balloon released by a child. When I told Inga the story, she said she couldn’t understand why I had left her alone. I was frightened to hear her say those words.
As the days went by, I regained my trust in Siegelboim. Lying was a way of accepting failure, of reaching a certainty and then denying it. If I told the truth, if I was right about something, his theory collapsed. I accepted again that the professor was consistent with what he taught and that not having become his assistant was proof that I wasn’t sufficiently prepared to understand the need for permanent chaos. Indeed, I hadn’t been born to walk a tightrope. I needed mastery over something, success, not risks and uncertainty. And even less so failure, because I was a successful man. Everyone spoke well of me, especially my mother, who told her friends how I’d been promoted to section head before I was old enough, and how I’d gotten Inga pregnant when we were in Istanbul. But thinking about this makes me sick. I don’t have Siegelboim’s luck, that certainty that he’s constantly failing and that’s why he’s alive. When I hug Inga, I’m afraid I’m a dangerous citizen. But this fear gives me confidence, and then I love her. And everything falls into place.
_____________________________ Libros de Memo รnjel/Books by Memo รnjel
Mauricio Lasansky in his studio, Iowa City, IA ca. 1965
Biografรญa
Nacido en Buenos Aires, in 1914, Mauricio Lasansky es uno de los pocos artistas modernos que han limitado su obra casi exclusivamente a los medios grรกficos. Gracias a sus tempranas contribuciones al desarrollo de las tรฉcnicas grรกficas y a su dedicaciรณn al grabado, Lasansky es considerado un precursor en la evoluciรณn de las artes grรกficas como forma de arte crรญtico y ha sido reconocido como uno de los “Padres del Grabado Americano del Siglo XX”.
En 1936, a los veintidรณs aรฑos, ya era director de la Escuela Libre de Bellas Artes de Villa Marรญa, Cรณrdoba, Argentina. En 1943, Lasansky recibiรณ la prestigiosa Beca Guggenheim, con la que viajรณ a Estados Unidos y estudiรณ la colecciรณn de grabados del Museo Metropolitano de Arte. Esta oportunidad no solo le proporcionรณ un vasto conocimiento sobre grabados y grabadores, sino que tambiรฉn le brindรณ la oportunidad de conocer y trabajar con varios maestros europeos que habรญan huido a Estados Unidos durante la guerra. Para 1952, no solo habรญa recibido numerosos reconocimientos, premios y galardones, y contaba con una impresionante colecciรณn de exposiciones, sino que tambiรฉn se habรญa consolidado como ciudadano estadounidense.
Durante la dรฉcada de 1940, el interรฉs por el grabado como arte se revitalizรณ gracias a los talleres de artes grรกficas de la Administraciรณn de Progreso de Obras (WPA), y muchos artistas continuaron explorando el mรฉtodo tras la suspensiรณn de los proyectos de la WPA. El mรกs importante de estos estudios fue el Atelier 17 de Nueva York, fundado por Stanley William Hayter. El suyo fue el primer taller estadounidense independiente creado para la experimentaciรณn exclusiva con el proceso de grabado calcogrรกfico. Gracias a la labor de Hayter, el estudio captรณ la atenciรณn de artistas de todo el paรญs. Muchos de estos artistas se conocen actualmente como la Escuela de Nueva York. Estos artistas adoptaron el expresionismo abstracto como medio de expresiรณn estilรญstica y su obra transformรณ radicalmente el curso del grabado calcogrรกfico en Estados Unidos.
Muchos artistas, incluyendo a Lasansky, trabajaron extensamente en el Atelier 17 formulando nuevos mรฉtodos y creando nuevas tรฉcnicas tanto para sus temas como para sus grabados. Posteriormente, varios fueron invitados a establecer talleres de grabado en departamentos de arte universitarios de todo el paรญs. Uno de los primeros artistas en aceptar este reto fue Mauricio Lasansky, quien fundรณ el importante taller de grabado en la Universidad de Iowa. Hasta el dรญa de hoy, sirve de modelo para numerosos departamentos universitarios de grabado, dirigidos por muchos de sus antiguos alumnos.
La transmisiรณn de tรฉcnicas e ideologรญas consolidadas sobre tรฉcnicas innovadoras de grabado, a travรฉs de generaciones de profesores y alumnos, marca el legado del Atelier 17. Y es Lasansky, una de las primeras generaciones de estos grabadores, quien ha influido en el desarrollo del grabado en Estados Unidos.
Conocido sobre todo por sus grabados a gran escala, en los que utiliza mรบltiples planchas y gamas cromรกticas completas, Lasansky combina una amplia gama de tรฉcnicas grรกficas, incluyendo el aguafuerte, la punta seca, el aguatinta y el grabado. A lo largo de su evoluciรณn estilรญstica, ha creado elocuentes evocaciones figurativas, coloridas, frescas y espontรกneas. Sus obras tempranas y tardรญas demuestran que su imaginerรญa ha abordado constantemente elementos que han experimentado cambios y expansiones a lo largo de su creaciรณn. Por lo tanto, el tema de su arte es tan importante como el aspecto tรฉcnico de sus grabados.
Los retratos de Lasansky se presentan como ideales humanรญsticos en comparaciรณn con las figuras deshumanizadas que aparecen en sus otros grabados. Muchos de sus retratos comienzan en un formato individual, pero en muchas ocasiones la figura idealizada se degenera y se presenta en un espacio grรกfico en lugar de pictรณrico. Tiene una especial consideraciรณn por el espectador, ya que retrata la imagen dentro de su espacio.
Lasansky se ha dedicado a explorar las posibilidades expresivas de las artes grรกficas. Ha acumulado un conjunto de grabados considerados entre los mรกs impactantes e impactantes del arte contemporรกneo. Ha contribuido significativamente a consolidar el grabado como una forma de arte significativa y crucial del siglo XX. Y, como resultado, se ha convertido en uno de los primeros de una generaciรณn de importantes grabadores en enseรฑar a decenas de estudiantes, quienes a su vez enseรฑan a decenas de generaciones futuras en este paรญs. Por todas estas razones, se le considera uno de los “Padres del Grabado Americano del Siglo XX”.
Lasansky ha recibido cinco Becas Guggenheim, seis Doctorados Honoris Causa en Artes y numerosos premios y distinciones especiales. Su obra estรก representada en mรกs de cien colecciones pรบblicas, incluyendo prรกcticamente todos los principales museos de Estados Unidos. Reconocido internacionalmente, ha expuesto en Amรฉrica del Norte y del Sur, Europa y Rusia. Ya jubilado de la Universidad de Iowa, sigue siendo una inspiraciรณn para los artistas por sus contribuciones, la riqueza e intensidad de sus superficies impresas y su estilo profundamente personal.
__________________________________ Biography
Born in Buenos Aires, in 1914, Mauricio Lasansky is one of the few modern artists who have limited their works almost exclusively to the graphic media. Due to his early contributions in the development of graphic techniques and his dedication to printmaking, Lasansky is considered to be a forerunner in the evolution of the graphic arts as a critical art form and has become recognized as one of the “Fathers of 20th Century American Printmaking.”
In 1936, at the age of twenty-two, he had already become the director of the Free Fine Arts School, in Villa Maria, Cordoba, Argentina. In 1943, Lasansky was offered the prestigious Guggenheim Fellowship in which he came to the United States and studied the print collection at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. This opportunity not only afforded him a wealth of knowledge about prints and printmakers but created an opportunity for him to be exposed to and work with a number of European masters who had fled to the United States during wartimes. By 1952, he had not only received a great deal of recognition, prizes and awards, and had an impressive line of exhibitions, but also had established himself as an American citizen.
During the 1940’s, the interest in printmaking as a fine art was revitalized by the Works Progress Administration graphic arts workshops and many artists continued to explore the method after the WPA projects were discontinued. The most important of these studios was the New York Atelier 17 established by Stanley William Hayter. His was the first independent American workshop developed for exclusive experimentation of the intaglio process of printmaking. Through Hayter’s efforts, the studio gained the attention of artists from around the country. Many of these artists are now referred to as the New York School. These artists adopted Abstract Expressionism as a means of stylistic expression and their work radically altered the course of intaglio printmaking in America.
Many artists, including Lasansky, worked extensively at the Atelier 17 formulating new methods and creating new techniques for their subjects as well as their prints. Several were later invited to develop print-shops in university art departments around the country. One of the first artists to accept this challenge was Mauricio Lasansky. He established the vital printmaking workshop at the University of Iowa. To this day, it serves as a model for numerous other university printmaking departments led by many of Lasansky’s former students.
It is the passing down of established techniques and ideologies about innovative printmaking techniques from generations of these teachers and students that marks the legacy of Atelier 17. And, it is Lasansky, one of the first generations of these printmakers, who has influenced the course of printmaking in the United States.
Best known for large scale prints in which he uses multiple plates and full ranges of color, Lasansky combines a spectrum of graphic techniques including etching, drypoint, aquatint and engraving. Throughout his stylistic evolution, he has created eloquent figural statements that are colorful, fresh and spontaneous. His early and late works show that his imagery has consistently dealt with elements which have undergone change and expansion as the work was created. Therefore, the subject of his art is as important as the technical aspect of his printmaking.
Lasansky’s portraits appear as humanistic ideals when compared to the dehumanized figures that appear in his other prints. Many of his portraits begin in an individual format, but many times the idealized figure degenerates and is presented in graphic rather than pictorial space. He has a special regard for the spectator, as he portrays the image within the viewer’s space.
Lasansky has devoted himself to exploring the expressive possibilities of graphic arts. He has amassed a body of prints considered to be some of the most powerful and impressive in contemporary art. He has contributed significantly in establishing printmaking as a meaningful and critical art form of the 20th century. And, as a result, he has become one of the first in a generation of important printmakers to teach scores of students, who in turn are teaching scores of future generations in this country. For all these reasons, he is considered to be one of the “Fathers of 20th Century American Printmaking.”
Lasansky has been the recipient of a total of five Guggenheim Fellowships, six honorary Doctorate of Arts degrees and numerous prizes and special honors. His work is represented in more than one hundred public collections including virtually every major museum in the United States. Internationally recognized, he has been exhibited throughout North and South America, Europe and Russia. Now retired from the University of Iowa, he continues to be an inspiration to artists for his contributions, his richly and intensely printed surfaces, and his highly personal style.
Verรณnica Volkow naciรณ en la Ciudad de Mรฉxico en 1955. Es poeta, ensayista, traductora y doctora en Letras. Actualmente es profesora e investigadora en la Universidad Nacional Autรณnoma de Mรฉxico (UNAM). Tiene una maestrรญa en Literatura Comparada por la Universidad de Columbia, una maestrรญa en Historia del Arte por la UNAM y un doctorado en Literatura Comparada por la UNAM. Recibiรณ el Premio Nacional de Poesรญa Carlos Pellicer en 2004 por su poemario Oro del viento y el Premio Nacional de Ensayo Josรฉ Revueltas en 2005 por su novela El Retrato de Jorge Cuesta.Ha publicado varios poemarios, asรญ como el volumen en prosa Sudafrica: Diario de un Viaje, un relato sobre la vida cotidiana en Sudรกfrica durante el apartheid. Ha traducido la obra de Elizabeth Bishop, Leรณn Trotsky, Victor Serge, Henry Michaux y Michael Hamburger.
____________________________
Verรณnica Volkow was born in Mexico City in 1955. She is a poet, essayist, translator, and a Doctor of Letters. She is currently a Professor and researcher at the National Autonomous University of Mexico (UNAM). She holds a master’s degree in Comparative Literature from Columbia University, a masterโs degree in Art History from UNAM, and a doctorate in Comparative Literature from UNAM. She received the Carlos Pellicer National Poetry Prize in 2004 for her poetry book Oro del viento, and the Josรฉ Revueltas National Essay award in 2005 for her novel El Retrato de Jorge Cuesta. She has published several collections of poetry, as well as the prose volume Sudafrica: Diario de un Viaje, a report on daily life in South Africa under apartheid. She has translated the work of Elizabeth Bishop, Leon Trotsky, Victor Serge, Henry Michaux, and Michael Hamburger.
Poemas personales/Personal Poems
LIBERTAD
Me gusta la libertad, viajar rodeado por el horizonte, en el gran cรญrculo sin muros, caminar casi volando,
y del corazรณn surgir que en sรญ mismo es ahora un vuelo mudo e invisible, un impulso solitario, no sรฉ si fuera de lo real o realmente dentro, o dรณnde no importarรก porque no soy un muro y abandonรฉ mi peso en cada orilla.
Somos un pรกjaro por dentro, un vuelo, y yo โno estoy en la tierra ni en el hierroโ soy un sueรฑo, un ala mรบltiple, un fuego interior.
Y me gusta la soledad y el mar y el horizonte y ese dejarse ser como un acecho de pรกjaros o una flor o una estrella dispersa y me gusta el amor que se asemeja a la libertad, sรญ, que es la creaciรณn de cosas y con suave e inexplicable razรณn me ilumina.
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FREEDOM I like freedom, to journey encompassed by the horizon, in the great circle without wallsย ย ย to walk almost flying,
and from the heart spring up that in itself is now a mute and invisible flight, a solitary impulse, I donโt know if outside the real or actually inside, Or where it wonโt matter because Iโm not a wall and I abandoned my weight on every shore.
We are a bird inside, a flight, and I -am not on the earth or iron -I am a dream, a multiple wing, an internal fire.
And I like solitude and the sea and the horizon and that letting one be like a stalking of birds or flower or star scattering and I like love that resembles freedom, yes, which is the creation of things and with gentle, inexplicable reason it illuminates me.
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PETICIรN
Dame la humildad del ala y de lo leve,
de lo que pasa suave
y suelta el ancla,
la despedida ingrรกvida,
y el abandono al vuelo,
la cicatriz que avanza
como ala en su desierto.
Dame la humildad del alma
sin cuerpo y ya sin cosas.
Ser la poesรญa y su luz,
tan sรณlo la poesรญa
y la regiรณn mรกs de aire,
inaccesible al desastre.
Dame la luz sin lรญmites
acechando adentro
y la noche que soy y el barro,
con la estrella distante
que la sed no sacia.
Dame la humildad que suelte las cadenas,
la verdad que desnuda
el polvo, el hueso que me fraguan.
Sรณlo en lo que soy caigo,
me derrumbo.
Dรฉjame andar sin equipaje,
leve,
abierta al horizonte.
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PETITION
Give me the humility
of the wings and of lightness,
of what passes gently
and drops its anchor,
the weightless farewell,
and abandonment to flight,
the scar that advances
like a wing in its desert.
Give me the humility of the soul
without body and now without weight.
To be poetry and its light,
only poetry
and the most airy region,
inaccessible to disaster.
Give me the limitless light
lurking within
and the night where I am and the mud,
with the distant star
that thirst cannot quench.
Give me the humility that unchains,
the truth that lays bare
the dust, the bone that tembers me.
Only in what I am do I fall,
I collapse.
Let me walk without baggage,
light,
open to the horizon.
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RรO
El rรญo es sรณlo un brillo entre las rocas
que cae, cae
y canta un estallido incesante
como vidrio que nunca deja
por dentro de quebrarse.
Los รกrboles danzan en el viento,
danzan con perfecciรณn,
se mueven en un mezcla
de agitaciรณn y engranaje.
El viento, se alza el viento,
rumor que desglosa lo mรบltiple.
El lago cambia de rostros como un espejo,
en la tarde despuรฉs de ser sol
se vuelve algo metรกlico.
Ahora el lago es azul
y paulatinamente transparente
como aire cercano hacia los bordes.
Entre la niebla el agua es una piedra,
la niebla cubre el bosque como un velo profundo
pero por todas partes estรก abierta.
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RIVER
The river is only a glimmer among the rocks
that falls, falls
and sings an incessant burst
like glass that never stops
breaking inside.
The trees dance in the wind,
they dance with perfection,
they move in a mixture
of agitation and gears.
The wind, the wind rises,
a murmur that breaks down the multiple.
The lake changes faces like a mirror,
in the afternoon, after being sunny,
it becomes something metallic.
Now the lake is blue
and gradually transparent
like air close to the edges.
Amid the mist, the water is a stone,
the mist covers the forest like a deep veil,
but everywhere it is open.
Translations by Stephen A. Sadow
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Arcana del Tarot/Arcana of the Tarot
Arcanum 1 El mago
ยฟQuiรฉn escuchรณ la voz del viento, la palabra que dice, su grito interminable en la montaรฑa, y descifrรณ el lenguaje de los ruidos, el galopar de letras del follaje, y las ยซelesยป del agua? ยฟ Quiรฉn atrapรณ con un nombre el fondo de la noche, la rasgadura del rayo? Poderes precisos de lo etรฉreo, y un saber que rescata en manos de aire. Lo eterno es hueco, es forma, es alma โesa imposible sed de la memoria. Sin cuerpo y sin las cosas, sรณlo viento tejido por los sueรฑos, almas al aire que el silencio olvida, estatuas de la ausencia insomnes, despertar de la nada hacia la nada. Hay sombras en los sueรฑos que no son de las cosas, sino cuerpos quizรก de las palabras, รกnimas de los nombres, resurrecciรณn de la llamada. Para poder morir son las palabras: salvaciรณn profunda de lo ido, tiempo enamorado que habla. ___________________________________ Arcanum 1 The Magician Who listened to the voice of the wind, the word that speaks, its unceasing shout in the mountain, and deciphered the language of noises, the galloping of the letters of foliage, the liquid โlโsโ of water? Who captured with a name the nightโs depth and the tearing flash of lightning? Precise power of the ethereal, nd a knowledge that rescues in aerial hands. The eternal is a gap, a form, a soul โthat impossible thirst of memory. Bodiless and without substance, nothing but wind and dreams, words, wind woven by dreams, souls in the air which silence forgets, Insomniac statues of absence, waking from nothingness to nothingness. In dreams there are shadows which are not of things but maybe the body of words, the soul of names, the resurrection of calls. Words are to help us die: profound salvation of whatโs gone, time speaking in love.
_________________________ Arcano 2
La sacerdotisa
No se mira la noche, se sueรฑa y los sueรฑos como la luna son reflejos, flotan aquรญ y estรกn en otra parte.
Ancla la transparencia en el espacio, mas vuela el velo fuera del tiempo como ensueรฑo; el velo deshaciรฉndose devela y disuelve a la noche en un suspenso. Luz ya casi mรกs niebla y que es un sueรฑo nรกufrago de misterio.
Vela que zarpa hacia lo tenue y luz que se adelgaza quizรกs hasta perderse, disipaciรณn sutil que el aire excava: desaparecido interior que es un afuera. Hundido desconcierto en lo intangible.
La eternidad estรก durmiendo bajo el tiempo, y los astros en su lejanรญa inmersos permanecen idรฉnticos.
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Arcanum 2 The High Priestess
Night is not observed., it is dreamt and dreams like the moon are reflectionsโ they float here and are elsewhere.
Transparence anchors in space but the veil flies outside time as if day-dreaming; unravelling, the veil reveals and dissolves night into suspense. Light is almost mist now and a dream a castaway into mystery. and light that grows faint maybe to the point of disappearing, subtle dissipation digging the air: a vanished interior which is an exterior. Sunk startling into the intangible.
Eternity is sleeping under time, and stars, immersed in their distance, remain identical.
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Arcanum 4 El emperadorEntallaron la piedra hasta que recordara: ejรฉrcitos como ecos que estampan las colinas, lanzas y saetas ciertas con la muerte erizadas y volutas veloces que deslizan el rรญo; las plantas y las bestias, tributos derramados, y hundidos en un nรบmero, idรฉnticos esclavos. Extrajeron el mundo de la roca, le pusieron cuatro esquinas al tiempo y guardaron en muros lo interior del espacio. Crear un hueco, un patio, la nada de lo abstracto, la moneda en la mano, la rueda que al vaciarse avanza, el dibujo del que un ser deserta; o tomar entre manos exactas lo perdido, cantera y cรกntaro la estatua, agua imposible y piedra. Formas con el poder de su vacรญo, su ceรฑido abismo, su llamado, como vasos traรญdos del reino de los muertos. La espada creรณ la forma del imperio; el cincel, los muertos, las estatuas que habitamos. Somos el despertar de su escritura, su mundo interno, su aรฑoranza humeante. La materia es un hueco en que soรฑamos.
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Arcanum 4 The Emperor
They carved the stone until it remembered: armies like echoes printing the hills, lances and arrows pointed with death and swift spirals that slide down the river. Plants and beasts, lavished tributes, and identical slaves sunk in a number. They extracted the world from rock, they boxed time in and within walls they guarded the interior of space. To create a hole, a courtyard, the nothingness of the abstract, the coin in oneโs hand, the wheel that emptying moves on, the drawing from which a being deserts; or to take what is lost between exact hands, the statue a quarry and a jug, impossible water and stone. Forms with the power of their own emptiness, their tight abyss, their call, like glasses brought from the kingdom of the dead. The sword shaped the empire; the chisel, the dead, the statues we inhabit. We are the waking of their writing, their inner world, their smoldering longing Matter is a hole in which we dream.
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Arcano 5 El hierofante
La cรบpula amarrada por un centro, las bรณvedas ceรฑidas son estrellas, y una mano invisible une un dibujo. Geometrรญa entraรฑada hay en las cosas y constelaciรณn subterrรกnea. Aquรญ piedras respiran la mรบsica del templo, metales y maderas cantan un mundo que se inhala, voz que es esencias y fuego de sentido despierto en cada piedra. La memoria en vuelo va por dentro, el viento sopla interno y es recuerdo, silbo de entraรฑa que lo escucha, un tiempo casi puro y desterrado en sueรฑos y un decir cosas transparentes que son alma y son nada. Inmensidades guarda en su interior el templo, en los muros las conchas con sus manos agarran los sonidos; orbes de noche y sol: follajes. Agujero del cielo en el claustro: la fuente. orbes de noche y sol: follajes. Agujero del cielo en el claustro: la fuente. _______________________________ Arcanum 5 The Hierophant
The cupola tied to a centre, the embraced vaults are stars, and an invisible hand links a drawing. There is an inner geometry in things and a subterranean constellation. Here stones breathe the music of the temple, brass and wood sing a world inhaled, a voice of essences and a fire of sense awake in every stone. Memory in flight is deep down, the wind blows internally and is recollection, a whistle from the innards that listens to it, a time almost pure and exiled in dreams and a saying of transparent things that are soul and are nothing. The temple guards immensities inside, in its walls shells with their hands grab soundsโ spheres of night and sun: foliage. A heavenly gap in its cloister: the fountain.
Poems translated by Luis Ingelmo y Michael Smith
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Poemarios de Ver Volkow/Poetry Books by Verรณnica Volkow
Perla Suez naciรณ en Cรณrdoba en 1947. Es escritora, profesora en Letras Modernas, egresada de la Universidad Nacional de Cรณrdoba, Argentina. Fue becaria del Gobierno Francรฉs y del Gobierno de Canadรก. En 1997 recibiรณ la Menciรณn especial del Premio Mundial de Literatura Infantil y juvenil Josรฉ Martรญ. En 2001, finalista del Premio Internacional de Novela Rรณmulo Gallegos con su novela Letargo. Sus novelas para adultos se han traducido al inglรฉs por The University of New Mรฉxico Press, Estados Unidos. Otras Publicaciones: Memorias de Vladimir; El รกrbol 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 Amรฉrica, Antologรญa bilingรผe, selecciรณn, prรณlogo y notas de la autora, , 2001. Ahora que todo parece haber cambiado, cuento, en Antologรญa Nuevos Cuentos Argentinos, 2001. Tradujo del francรฉs la novela Una llama en la oscuridad de Franรงois David.
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Perla Suez was born in Cรณrdoba in 1947. She is a writer and professor of Modern Literature, a graduate of the National University of Cรณrdoba, Argentina. She was a scholarship recipient of the French and Canadian governments. In July 2001, she was a finalist for the Rรณmulo 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 Franรงois 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 pudrirseโฆ”
John Dos Passos
Vasili y Ana Finz llegaron a Villa Clara con los inmigrantes que trajo el Barรณn Hirsch, a fines del siglo pasado. Finz se iniciรณ en el trabajo de la tierra como aguador de arrozal y aprendiรณ el oficio de arrocero. Al nacer Lucien, Ana muriรณ de eclampsia durante el puerperio. Finz arrendaba siete hectรกreas con una casa de adobe y un galpรณn. Un ama de leche amamantรณ al chico hasta que cumpliรณ un aรฑo y despuรฉs, los otros hijos de Finz se ocuparon de criarlo. El muchacho creciรณ en la arrocera, con la seguridad que le habรญan dado su padre y especialmente Max, el hermano mayor. Cuando Lucien no podรญa conciliar el sueรฑo, 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, tambiรฉn, la historia del emperador que se paseaba desnudo creyendo lucir un rico traje y una calma profunda invadรญa al niรฑo 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 decรญa el padre. Los Finz se protegรญan del sol bajo la sombra de un eucalipto, y almorzaban alguna cosa frugal, tendidos sobre el pasto. Apenas echaban un sueรฑo y seguรญan trabajando. Con la entrada del sol comรญan con fruiciรณn, y bebรญan apenas una copa de vino, y hablaban de algรบn asunto baladรญ. Despuรฉs, se iban a descansar. Lucien preferรญa caminar un rato, antes de que el sueรฑo lo venciera. En el verano se escuchaba la enรฉrgica voz de Vasili que llamaba a los hijos y les advertรญa: Va a venir la lagarta militar. Busquen a Gonzรกlez, que cure de palabra a la lagarta. Pronto el arroz maduraba y se podรญan escuchar los gritos del muchacho que llamaba al padre y a sus hermanos, para que vieran la floraciรณn. ยกNoรฉ, 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 mรบsicos con acordeones a piano y timbales hacรญa 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. Despuรฉs, hacรญa un giro en el aire, caรญa de nuevo en cuclillas, y continuaba bailando con gracia y desenfado. Viejos respetables, judรญos 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. Llovรญa desde hacรญa una semana y los caminos estaban anegados y el arroyo Malo desbordaba; ni siquiera los caballos podรญan cruzar hasta la otra orilla. Lucien caminรณ de la mano de su padre: no tenรญa mรกs de once aรฑos.
“Escucha el pampero, Lucien, dijo usted, con la cabeza inclinada, queriendo que yo escuchara el sonido preliminar del viento. Vasili tenรญa la vista fija en la arrocera. ยฟVa a despejar, padre?, le preguntรฉ yo. Usted me dijo que iba a despejar. La arrocera era una ciรฉnaga. El agua nos llegaba rodillas. Una madera podrida y una yararรก enroscada cruzaron ante mis ojos; una rata muerta y un nubarrรณn 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 caรญa y dijo haberse levantado de la ruina mรกs de una vez. Pero habรญa muchas cosas que usted no dijo…” Asรญ como la lagarta militar terminรณ el grano en unas horas; asรญ como la lluvia lo pudriรณ todo, asรญ tambiรฉn los Finz, no eran gente que se diera por vencida. Preparen todo que maรฑana nos vamos. ยฟPero adรณnde?, preguntรณ Max. A arrendar el campo que me ofrecieron en Carlos Casares. Probaremos sembrar trigo. Carlos Casares tambiรฉn estรก inundado, dijo Noรฉ. No querรฉs sacrificarte, dijo Vasili, la voz ronca, la mirada clavada en Noรฉ. Lucien recordรณ 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 estรก perdida, dice. El sol se ha escondido, la arrocera estรก fangosa huele a vรณmito. No hay viento. La tarde cae apacible. Escucho el graznido de una tijereta que cruza el aire y hay moscardones azul elรฉctrico 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 quรฉ puedo hacer yo… Durante mรกs de tres horas recorrimos la arrocera anegada. ยฟCรณmo estรก el nivel del agua en la varilla?, preguntรณ usted a Max. ยกMierda, sigue subiendo…!,dijo รฉl. ยกNo hable asรญ, estรก perdiendo la decencia!, dijo. Max le gritรณ, ยกCree que sigo siendo ese niรฑo a quien usted obligaba a acostarse al sol sobre una chapa de zinc caliente porque se negaba a obedecerle. Humillarse y sufrir, es lo รบnico que le gusta! ยกBasta! Dรญgame que mis esfuerzos no fueron en vano…, dijo Vasili. Y se alejรณ de la arrocera. El lamento de una lechuza perturbรณ la tarde que caรญa. Mirรฉ hacia el cielo y tuve miedo lo vi todo rojo, todo sangre. Vayamos a descansar y volveremos en cuanto baje el agua, dijo Noรฉ. ยฟDรณnde estรก Lucien?, preguntรณ Max. Pero yo que era un niรฑo que habรญa escuchado todo, me roalejรฉ sin decir nada. Sรณlo volvรญ la cabeza, cuando sentรญ los brazos de Max que me envolvรญan, ยกEi, Lucien, respirรก hondo y chupate el viento para adentro y subite a mis hombros, voy a llevarte a babuchas! Y me subรญ a sus hombros y nos fuimos trotando hasta casa.” “Mirรก Lucien por allรญ va a venir el Mesรญas trayendo paz y justicia, dijo usted. Y yo que era un niรฑo temeroso de Dios, creรญ verlo llegar, montado en su alazรกn blanco. Su cara delgada y su barba larga desaparecieron en cuanto abrรญ los ojos: Me quedรฉ insomne, padre.” Lucien caminaba por la arrocera, cuando escuchรณ que alguien cantaba una balada en el dialecto de los abuelos y la sintiรณ como una amenaza: …Voy de viaje en trineo,/ a travรฉs de la estepa nevada,/ los lobos me pisan los talones… La tierra retumbaba en sus oรญdos. Oyรณ un rumor sordo. Apurรณ el paso. Era seguro que la tormenta harรญa estragos en el semental. Al llegar a su casa escuchรณ que el viento empezaba a agitar con violencia los รกrboles. Max no habรญa vuelto y tuvieron que esperar que la tormenta y la Lluvia.
No tardรณ en darse cuenta de que Max estaba muerto y se arrojรณ sollozando sobre su cadรกver. Lucien se ahogaba y Noรฉ no podรญa pronunciar mรกs que sonidos entrecortados. Cerraron el ataรบd y lo cubrieron con una tela negra que tenรญa una estrella de David en el centro, y lo velaron en el comedor de la casa. Lucien estuvo aferrado al cajรณn, mudo, sin poder llorar, hasta que Vera, la mujer de Noรฉ, lo tomรณ de la mano y lo sacรณ de allรญ. Los colonos, vestidos de luto riguroso, permanecรญan agrupados en la puerta de la casa de los Finz, con las caras rudas, llenas de estupor, hablando de รฉl como si viviera. Una mujer robusta y vieja irrumpiรณ en el velorio y se abriรณ paso entre la gente. Dijo que habรญa sido maestra de sexto grado del muchacho. Cuando ella vio el ataรบd, un leve gemido saliรณ de su garganta, mirรณ a un colono que estaba a su lado y le dijo que Max era un niรฑo rรกpido para los nรบmeros y enseguida se fue. Lo enterraron en el cementerio de la colonia, segรบn la Ley de Moisรฉs. Vasili rezรณ con fervor frente a la tumba del hijoy nombrรณ a su padre, la voz apesadumbrada.
Lucien se quedรณ mirando los cipreses: la sombra de sus ramas temblaba en el suelo. Vio una isoca que salรญa de una tumba y pensรณ que tambiรฉn en ese lugar los gusanos se hacรญan amos de los muertos.
(ยฉ Perla Suez, en El arresto, Editorial Norma, Colecciรณn La Otra Orilla, Buenos Aires, 2001)
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“In the Rice Cooker”
“Hiding things is what makes them rot…”
John Dos Passos
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, Noรฉ said. You don’t want to sacrifice yourself, Vasili said, his voice hoarse, his gaze fixed on Noรฉ. 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, Noรฉ’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.
Abraham Palatnik รฉ uma figura icรดnica nos movimentos de arte รณptica e cinรฉtica do Brasil โ um pioneiro em seu interesse de longa data por explorar as possibilidades criativas incorporadas em cruzamentos de arte e tecnologia. Tendo estudado engenharia, o artista se interessou em investigar usos mecรขnicos deluz e movimento. Em 1949, ele ganhou destaque com a criaรงรฃo de seu Dispositivo Cinecromรกtico, reinventando efetivamente a ideia de uma pintura usando lรขmpadas de diferentes voltagens movendo-se em diferentes velocidades e direรงรตes para criar imagens caleidoscรณpicas. A peรงa foi exibida na 1ยช Bienal de Sรฃo Paulo (1951) e recebeu uma Menรงรฃo Honrosa do Jรบri Internacional por sua originalidade. Abraham Palatnik posteriormente iniciou seu trabalho com relevos, cunhados relevos progressivos, que ele fez de vรกrios materiais (como madeira, papelรฃo duplex e acrรญlico) usando processos manuais meticulosos para criar uma variedade de efeitos รณpticos e cinรฉticos. Alรฉm da sรฉrie W, que passou a incorporar o uso do corte a laser, Palatnik continuou a construir e a pintar cada peรงa ร mรฃo, tornando cada trabalho um sรญmbolo de seu artesanato.
Nara Roesler
Para mais informaรงรตes sobre a arte de Abraham Palatnik, veja a Galeria Nara Roesler:
Abraham Palatnik es una figura icรณnica de los movimientos de arte รณptico y cinรฉtico. de Brasil, un pionero en su interรฉs de larga data por explorar las posibilidades creativas Incorporado en las intersecciones del arte y la tecnologรญa. Habiendo estudiado ingenierรญa, el artista se interesรณ en investigar los usos mecรกnicos de la luz y el movimiento. En 1949, saltรณ a la fama con la creaciรณn de su Dispositivo Cinecromรกtico, reinventando efectivamente la idea de una pintura al utilizar bombillas de diferentes potencias que se movรญan a diferentes velocidades y direcciones para crear imรกgenes caleidoscรณpicas. La pieza fue expuesta en la 1ยช Bienal de Sรฃo Paulo (1951) y recibiรณ una Menciรณn Honorรญfica del Jurado Internacional por su originalidad. Abraham Palatnik comenzรณ mรกs tarde su trabajo con relieves, llamados relieves progresivos, que realizรณ a partir de diversos materiales (como madera, cartรณn dรบplex y acrรญlico) mediante meticulosos procesos manuales para crear una variedad de efectos รณpticos y cinรฉticos. Ademรกs de la serie W, que comenzรณ a incorporar el uso del corte por lรกser, Palatnik continuรณ construyendo y pintando cada pieza a mano, haciendo de cada obra un sรญmbolo de su artesanรญa.
Nara Roesler
Para obtener mรกs informaciรณn sobre el arte de Abraham Palatnik, visite la Galerรญa Nara Roesler:
Abraham Palatnik is an iconic figure in the optical and kinetic art movements of Brazilโa pioneer in his long-standing interest for exploring the creative possibilities embedded in crossings of art and technology. Having studied engineering, the artist became interested in investigating mechanic uses of light and movement. In 1949, he rose to prominence with the creation of his first Kinechromatic Device effectively reinventing the idea of a painting by using different voltage bulbs moving at different speeds and directions to create kaleidoscopic images. The piece was shown at the 1st Bienal de Sรฃo Paulo (1951) and received an Honorable Mention from the International Jury for its originality. Abraham Palatnik subsequently initiated his work with reliefs, coined Progressive reliefs, which he made out of various materials (such as wood, duplex cardboard and acrylic) using meticulous manual processes to create a variety of optical and kinetic effects. Apart from the series W, which has come to incorporate the use of laser-cutting, Palatnik continued to construct and paint every piece by hand, making each work a token of his craftsmanship. His main solo exhibitions include: Abraham Palatnik: Seismograph of Color, at Nara Roesler (2022), in New York, United States; Abraham Palatnik โ A Reinvenรงรฃo da Pintura [Abraham Palatnik โ The Reinvention of Painting], was featured in several Brazilian institutions
Nara Roesler
For more information about and art of Abraham Palatnik, see Nara Roesler Gallery:
Paulina Vinderman es poeta y traductora y vive en Buenos Aires. Ha publicado mรกs de quince libros de poesรญa, entre los que encuentran: Hospital de veteranos (2006), Bote Negro ( 2010 ; Vaso Roto, 2010) ,La epigrafista (2012), Ciruelo (2014) y Tocar el cielo oscuro, Obra reunida (2016 ) Obtuvo entre otros, el Primer Premio Municipal Ciudad de Buenos Aires (bienio 2002-2003), el Premio Nacional Regional de la Secretarรญa de Cultura de la Naciรณn (cuatrienio 93-96), los Premios Fondo Nacional de las Artes 2002 y 2005, Premio Citta di Cremona, Italia, 2006, al conjunto de su obra; Premio de la Academia Argentina de Letras, 2004-2006, a su trayectoria y a su libro “Hospital de veteranos”.; Gran Premio de Honor de la Fundaciรณn Argentina para la Poesรญa (2011), Premio Esteban Echeverrรญa a trayectoria ,Gente de Letras, 2012 y Premio Alfonsina Storni 2019. Ha sido incluรญda en numerosas antologรญas y traducida parcialmente al inglรฉs, al italiano, al alemรกn, al francรฉs, portuguรฉs, rumano, catalรกn y turco. Ha traducido entre otros poetas, a Emily Dickinson, Michael Ondaatje, Sylvia Plath, James Merrill.
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Paulina Vinderman is a poet and translator living in Buenos Aires. She has published more than fifteen books of poetry, including: Hospital de Veteranos (2006), Bote Negro (2010; Vaso Roto, 2010), La epigrafista (2012), Ciruelo (2014), and Tocar el cielo oscuro, Obra reunida (2016). She has won, among others, the First Prize of the City of Buenos Aires (2002-2003), the National Regional Prize of the Secretariat of Culture of the Nation (four-year period 93-96), the National Fund for the Arts Awards 2002 and 2005, the Citta di Cremona Prize, Italy, 2006, for her body of work; the Argentine Academy of Letters Prize, 2004-2006, for her career and for her book “Hospital de Veteranos.” Grand Prize of Honor from the Argentine Foundation for Poetry (2011), Esteban Echeverrรญa Award for lifetime achievement, Gente de Letras, 2012 and Alfonsina Storni Award 2019. She has been included in numerous anthologies and partially translated into English, Italian, German, French, Portuguese, Romanian, Catalan and Turkish. She has translated, among other poets, Emily Dickinson, Michael Ondaatje, Sylvia Plath, James Merrill.
Y si hubiera nacido hombre habrรญa sido marinero con una azul mortaja como lecho.
Madre, no me dijiste nunca que habรญa que pagar un precio para hablar con las flores. Detrรกs de tantas ventanas las mujeres se peinan para recibirlos. No me enseรฑaste nunca que habรญa que pagar un precio por haber nacido mujer y marinera.
Mi amor a punto de morir no sabe que amo รบnicamente ahora que no hay vientre ni ola ni deseo.
Mi amor a punto de morir no sabe que รบnicamente lo amo porque muere y quedo libre de todo excepto de escribirlo eligiendo los momentos del goce como un conquistador antes del oro
Mi amor no sabe que el รบnico al que amรฉ fue aquel marino de la fotografรญa que jamรกs conocรญ.
Porque me enamoraba รบnicamente de los derrotados. Porque habrรก naufragado con una azul mortaja como lecho.
Porque sus ojos eran huรฉrfanos como los mรญos, sucios de tormentas y remedios solitarios contra el amor, la blandura, la nostalgia de tierra.
If I Had Been Born a Man
Madre, no me enseรฑaste nunca a ordenar mis pedazos Me dejaste cortarme, cortarme, con cuchillos de mar y de ventanas. ยซLas mujeres se peinan, decรญas, para recibirlos.ยป
_______________________
And If I Had Been Born A Manโฆ
And if I had been born a man
I would have been a seaman
with a blue shroud for a bed.
Mother, you never told
that I had to pay a price
to speak with the flowers.
Behind so many windows
the women do their hair to receive them.
You never taught me
that I would have to pay a price
for having been born a woman
and a seaman
My love doesnโt know
that the only one that I loved
was that mariner in the photo
who I never knew.
Because he loved me only
from among the defeated.
Because he will have shipwrecked
With a blue shroud as a bed.
Because his eyes were orphans
like mine,
dirtied by the storms and solitary remedies
against love, the weakness,
the nostalgia of the earth.
Mother, you never taught me
to out my pieces in order.
You let me cut myself, cut myself,
with knives of sea and of windows
โThe women do their hair, you used to say,
To receive them.โ
De “La balada de Cordelia” 1984
___________
La equilibrista
La equilibrista mueve su sombrilla
y su pie aletea sabiamente hacia delante
y hacia atrรกs, hocico de luna dentro de su/ zapatilla
con lentejuelas.
Nadie sabe en las gradas
de sus ojos ahumados porque su amor ha muerto.
Y ella piensa, mientras los tambores suenan
lejanos desde el foso,
a quรฉ regiones de trampa puede llevar
el dolor,
cuando la misma ceremonia de homenaje
ha de cumplirse
tanto si adelanta el pie sobre la cuerda
porque la vida espera
o si se deja caer, burbuja de color,
con la sombrilla cerrada como paracaรญdas inรบtil,
a un oscuro suelo, a su compasiรณn.
_________________________
Otra vez mi ropa cuelga de un clavo en la pared
y la precariedad se vuelve voluptuosa.
Los pescadores se han dormido
y salgo a mirar el mar.
Una cinta de acero.
Mi mar ยฟse acordarรก de mรญ?
El azul medianoche, el de Caleta Olivia
y su playa sin nadie, donde encontrรฉ
mi estrella morada.
Tal vez yo necesito que perduren mis fantasmas.
Once more my clothing hands on a nail on the wall
and the precarity becomes voluptuous.
The fishermen have fallen asleep
and I go out to look at the sea.
A belt of iron.
Does the sea remember me?
The midnight blue, that of Caleta Olivia
and its beach without anyone, where I will find
my purple star.
Perhaps I need my fantasies to persist.
___________________________
2)
Nunca estuve tan cerca de mรญ.
Percibo la espalda del amor
y el dibujo รกspero de lo ilusorio.
Mi vida entera ahora es irreal, un sueรฑo
de manos y oboes compartidos.
โNo me quites la memoria, รกngel oscuroโ*
La claridad se fundiรณ en mi taza y fabricรณ
una cabaรฑa donde dormir.
No me quites mi luna, mi madre, mi farola,
las pequeรฑas rocas, el Mar de la Tranquilidad.
*Celia Gourinski
I was never so close to myself.
I perceive loveโs back
and the rough drawing of the illusory.
My entire live is now unreal, a dream
of hands and shared oboes.
โDonโt take the memory from me, dark angelโ *
Clarity mixed into my cup and built
a cabana I which to sleep.
Donโt take my moon, my mother, my streetlight.
The small rocks, the Sea of Tranquility.
*Celia Gourinski
5)
El amor ahora es sรณlo un dolor de ciรฉnaga,
aroma de frutos que se pudren.
En el cielo color violeta olvido las mentiras,
la traiciรณn de la muerte, las cajas abarrotadas
de cartas y fotos sonrientes.
Mi cafetera perdiรณ su brillo y mi taza se cuarteรณ
pero a Imaginaciรณn, mi cabra adoptada
le bastan su maรญz y mis palabras.
The love is now only a pain coming from the swamp,
aroma of fruits that rot.
In the violet color sky you forget the lies,
the treason of death, the cram-paced boxes
of smiling letters and photos.
My coffee pot lost its shine, and my cup cracked
but the imagination, my adopted goat
Is satisfied with its corn and my words.
__________________________
8)
No lo llames exilio, esto no es un exilio.
En el mundo de gaviotas, ellas me miran
como a un ave perdido mรกs.
Sentada en la arena frente al dรญa que agoniza
preparo una ceremonia del tรฉ.
El cielo es de durazno y un poco de metal.
Mi alfabeto se redujo y no quiero otra vida.
Es รฉsta mi otra vida.
Tiene color de medianoche y las vรฉrtebras
rotas.
Donโt call it exile; this is not an exile.
In the world of seagulls, they look at me
like one more lost bird.
Seated in the sand facing the dying day
I prepare a tea ceremony.
The sky is of peach and a little of metal.
Mi alphabet is reduced, and I donโt want another/ life,
This is my other life.
It has the color of midnight and the broken vertebrae.
______________________________
13)
Tu carta pregunta demasiado.
No, no he cambiado mucho, se acentuaron
mi vieja mudez y mi cautela.
Curo mi herida con el agua de mar
Y sueรฑo con un camino entre dramรกticos olivos
(un camino dramรกtico entre olivos).
Ya no busco seรฑales y mi tristeza es cada vez
mรกs dulce y mi locura incierta.
Y cuando escribo, lo hago con un amor
por el mundo tan grande y terrible
como la muerte.
__________________________
Your letter questions too much.
No, I havenโt changed much, my old muteness
and my caution became accentuated.
I cure my wound with sea water
and I dream of a road among dramatic olive trees
(a dramatic road through olive trees.)
I no longer look for signs and my sadness is increasingly sweeter and my madness unsure.
And when I write, I do it with a love
for the world so great and terrible
as death.
__________________
Tan antiguo esto de robar un sueรฑo…
Tan antiguo esto de robar un sueรฑo a alguien que pasa. El mismo sueรฑo que rueda por entre las mesas de esta fiesta abandonada. De esta ciudad vacรญa de celebraciones verdaderas. Nadie posee nada en esta calle. Las cosas se acumulan en cajas, en nรบmeros, en miedos vigilantes que se suman como otra cosa mรกs a las palabras impuestas. Lo รบnico que existe, es este sueรฑo oscuro e imperioso de otra ciudad. Donde no sea necesario robar un sueรฑo a alguien que pasa.
De “La otra ciudad” 1980
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Itโs So Ancient All This About Stealing a Dream
Itโs so ancient all this about stealing a dream
from someone who passes by.
The same dream that rolls among the
tables
of this abandoned party.
of this city empty of true
celebrations
Nobody owns anything in this street,
the things accumulate
in boxes, in numbers,
in vigilant fears
that add up like one more thing
on the imposed words.
The anything that exists,
In this dark and imperious dream
of another city.
Where it may not be necessary
to streal a dream from anyone.
Transparencias
Escrรญbanme. Resuelvo en medio de la crisis volverme carta: papeles que atraviesen los ocรฉanos como frรกgiles balsas (para dar importancia a las tormentas) Anoche lloviรณ. Los senderos se embarraron, atrapรฉ una luciรฉrnaga equivocada -y esquiva- y despuรฉs leรญ poemas isabelinos hasta que amaneciรณ (Un cierto orden es el que sostiene la soledad y los abrazos) Hoy tomรฉ cerveza con un hombre cansado -de ojos endiabladamente hermosos- y enmudecimos frente a un pueblo fantasmagรณrico levantado sobre nosotros como una pintura surreal.
Todos los dรญas voy hasta el rรญo despuรฉs del cafรฉ. Todos los dรญas desisto de mirarme en el agua barrosa. En realidad, ya ninguna trasparencia es posible, como si la vida se ocultara a sรญ misma en el penacho de los cocoteros. Como si la vida fuera todo y nada, orgullosa de sus fosforescencias hasta en las palabras, que finalmente nada dicen, nada reclaman sino el mรญnimo lugar en un universo de ruido de sartenes amores suntuosos olas que arrasan las orillas y cรณdigos infinitos para desenterrar tesoros (casi siempre con palas prestadas y al amanecer.)
De “Rojo Junio” 1998
____________________________
Transparences
Write to me, all of you.
I resolve in the middle of the crisis
to become a letter,
papers that cross the oceans
like fragile balsa rafts
(to give importance to the storms)
Last night it rained,
the paths became muddy,
I trapped a lightening bug mistaken
-and evasive-
and later, I read poems isabelline poems
until it was dawn
(A certain order is that which sustains
solitude
And the hugging)
Today I had a beer with a tired man
–with devilishly beautiful eyesโ
and we said nothing
before a phantasmagoric town buuilt over us like a/
surreal painting.
Every day I go as far as the river
beyond the cafรฉ. Every day I desist
from looking at myself in the muddy water.
In reality, no transparence is longer
possible.
As if life hides itself
in the plumes of the coconut palms.
As if life were everything and nowhere, proud of its phosphorescence
until in words, that finally say
nothing,
Reclaim nothing
only the minimum place in the universe,
noisy frying pans
sumptuous loves
waves that devastate the shores
and infinite codes for digging up treasures
(almost always with borrowed shovels
And at dawn.)
_________________________________
Vivir para contarlo III
Agua dulce es el nombre del cafรฉ y el nombre que me susurraba mi primer amante. Yo no era dulce, la furia asomaba en el verano a lo largo de una partida de ajedrez que iba a durar hasta que los รกrboles dijeran basta. Todavรญa es verano, los รกrboles no dicen basta y la luz sobre el puente marca aquella frรกgil furia convertida en fronteras, esquirlas de poemas, tesoros que ya no tienen caja de guardar. ยฟQuรฉ es escribir sino modificar la respiraciรณn de las ciudades? Camino hacia el cafรฉ de la mano de un marinero ruso que reciรฉn bajรณ de su barco hacia la ginebra oscilando sobre un caminito bordeado de narcisos. En su inglรฉs primitivo puede contarme poco. Me extiende varias fotos entre los vasos ardientes y miro (ยฟCuรกnto hace que estoy despierta y que miro, despierta todo el tiempo para mirar?) Una casa de suburbio, abandonada a un orgullo de sartรฉn, de felpudo, de cafetera lustrada. Con el alma vacรญa contemplo un perro negro y mรกs atrรกs, la cicatriz de la derrota en mi propia memoria que tambiรฉn se mira. Salgo de la foto a un umbral, a una noche cรกlida en una ciudad tan grande que no cree en sรญ misma, sรณlo late y en ella por azar nos reconocemos: la piedra oscura del hogar (no sale la mancha, no sale con la esponja y el esfuerzo del brazo y el vรฉrtigo de las estrellas mientras espiamos el idรฉntico gesto del padre y una bandera diferente) Insomnes, reuniremos de a poco nuestra obstinaciรณn. ยฟQuรฉ fue primero, la orfandad o la herida? Por ahora es el viento el escritor absoluto, el dueรฑo de todas las historias.
De Bulgaria” 1998
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To Live to Tell It
III
Fresh Waterโ is the name of the cafรฉ.
And the name that my first lover whispered to me.
I wasnโt fresh, fury appeared in summer
During a chess game
that wasnโt going to last until the trees said โenough.โ
Itโs still summer. The trees still donโt say โenough.โ
And the light above the door
sof poems,
Treasures that donโt yet have boxes to keep.
What is writing if not the modifying the breathing
of cities?
I walk toward the cafรฉ in hand of a Russian sailor
who recently came off his ship to gin
swinging over a path bordered by narcissuses.
He can tell me a little in his primitive English.
He shows me some photos between the burning glasses.
(How long have I been awake and that I look,
awake all the time to look?)
A slum house, abandoned to the pride of
a frying pan, doormat, a shined coffeepot.
With an empty soul, I contemplate a black dog.
And further back, the scar of loss
in my own memory
that also looks at itself.
I go out of the photo at a doorstep
To a hot night in a city so big
that it doesnโt believe in itself, it only beats and in it
by chance we recognize each other: the dark stone of the home
(the stain doesnโt come out, it doesnโt come out with the /sponge and
the elbow grease and the vertigo of the stars,
while we spy the identical gesture of a father
and a different flag)
Sleepless, we will meet our obstinacy little by little.
What was the first, the orphanhood or the wound?
For now, the wind is the absolute writer,
the owner of all the stories.
______________________________
El centro del mundo
No estoy en el centro del mundo,
apenas una ciudad
de provincia
que respira a sus anchas bajo mi ventana.
Hay un viento caliente
y una estatua que se cree dorada por las tardes
y un vendedor de almohadas que me cambia sus relatos
por un cigarrillo.
Quรฉ puede importar la sordidez del bolero o
el soneto a la baya del cafรฉ.
Esta soledad crea chispas a su alrededor,
es orgullosa, irrepetible, diabรณlica, no se refleja en el espejo,
pero fabrica un reino de este borde astillado.
La maรฑana parece tan irisada y absurda como las cortinas del vestรญbulo.
ยซTengo otra historia, es de un mudo y un รกngel,
su mercรฉ, vale por dosยป.
________________________________
The Center of the World
Iโm not in the center of the world,
hardly a provincial
city
That breathes its wideness below my window.
There is a hot wind
and a statue que you believe is golden in the afternoons
and its pillow salesman who changes his stories for me
Ricardo Talesnik (Buenos Aires, Argentina 1935) es un premiado dramaturgo, autor y director argentino de ascendencia judรญo-polaca. En 1945 actuรณ en dos pelรญculas: La prรณdiga y Cuando en el cielo pasen lista. Saltรณ a la fama con la obra La fiaca (La pereza) de la que tambiรฉn se hizo una versiรณn cinematogrรกfica con Norman Briski. La pieza se estrenรณ en 1969 en Madrid dirigida e interpretada por Fernando Fernรกn Gรณmez. Su pieza Los japoneses no esperan estrenada en 1973 en Buenos Aires dirigida por David Stivel con Bรกrbara Mujica, Soledad Silveyra y Vรญctor Laplace, fue luego estrenada en Madrid, Caracas y Mรฉxico. En 1978 se hizo una versiรณn cinematogrรกfica en Mรฉxico dirigida por Rogelio A. Gonzรกlez protagonizada por Julio Alemรกn y Jacqueline Andere. Talesnik actuรณ en el filme Cuando en el cielo pasen lista (1945) dirigido por Carlos Borcosque. Estuvo casado con la actriz uruguaya Henny Trayles con quien escribiรณ el espectรกculo Trayles en 1974.Tiene dos hijas de su segunda esposa y su actual pareja. Publicรณ su biografรญa como Autobiografรญa NO autorizada de Ricardo Talesnik.
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Ricardo Talesnik (Buenos Aires, Argentina, 1935) is an award-winning Argentine playwright, author and director of Polish Jewish descent. In 1945 he acted in two films: La prรณdiga and Cuando en el cielo pasen lista. He rose to fame with the play La fiaca (Laziness), which was also made into a film version with Norman Briski. The play premiered in 1969 in Madrid, directed and performed by Fernando Fernรกn Gรณmez. His play Los japonesas no espera (The Japanese Don’t Wait), premiered in 1973 in Buenos Aires, directed by David Stivel with Bรกrbara Mujica, Soledad Silveyra and Vรญctor Laplace, and was later released in Madrid, Caracas and Mexico. In 1978, a film version was made in Mexico, directed by Rogelio A. Gonzรกlez, starring Julio Alemรกn and Jacqueline Andere. Talesnik acted in the film Cuando en el cielo pasen lista (1945), directed by Carlos Borcosque. He was married to Uruguayan actress Henny Trayles with whom he wrote the show Trayles in 1974. He has two daughters from his second wife and his current partner. He published his biography as Unauthorized Autobiography of Ricardo Talesnik.
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La fiaca
La fiaca se estrenรณ el 28 de diciembre 1967, en el Teatro San Telmo.
escena 1
Noche del domingo. Marta en la cama con el control remoto en la mano mira un programa de TV que estรฉ finalizado. El sonido es suave e ininteligible. Nรฉstor mira por una ventana. Comienza el programa de fรบtbol. Nรฉstor mira hacia la TV con desgano, piensa un segundo y vuelve mirar hacia la ventana. Marta baja el volumen.
Marta: ยฟNo vas a ver el fรบtbol?
Nรฉstor: No… hoy no. (Ella lo mira con extraรฑeza.)
Marta: ยฟNo te acostรกs?
Nรฉstor: Sรญ, ya voy… (Marta lo mira y apaga la tele.)
Marta: ยฟHasta maรฑana?
Nรฉstor: Chau.
Marta lo nota raro, pero se dispone a dormir. El ambiente queda con luz tenue. Nรฉstor va lento a la cama y se sienta. Enciende su luz y se quita las pantuflas. Levanta una, la observa, juega con ella infantilmente, como si Jitera un avionยญ cita, y la deja. Sigue sentado, pensando. Gira como para deยญ chirle algo Marta, pero no. Apoya medio cuerpo en el resยญ paldo y se come las uรฑas. Mira el reloj. Piensa. Lo vuelve a mirar. Baja de la cama. Se pasea inquieto. Reflexiona, mueve los labios. Imagina, argumenta, se convence, se arreยญpiente, recuerda, titubea, y al.fin, se decide. Va a la cama. Lento, trascendental, desprograma la alarma del reloj y lo guarda. Se acuesta para dormir, pero se incorpora enseguida. Toma el reloj, programa de nuevo la alarma y lo deja a la vista. Satisfecho, apoya la cabeza en la almohada y apaga la luz. Tiempo. Claridad de la maรฑana. Suena el desputado1: Nรฉstor despierta sobresaltado. Cuando estรก por mascullar la puteada de rutina, recuerda. Sonrรญe y detiene la alarma, encantado. Apoya la cabeza en la almohada. Trata de superar su excitaciรณn para saborear el momento. Sonยญ rรญe y cierra los ojos. Marta despierta.
Marta: ยฟQuรฉ hacรฉs?
Nรฉstor (abre los ojos, inquieto, pero se impone naturalidad): Nada. Aquรญ estoy.
Marta: ยฟQuรฉ hora es?
Nรฉstor: Las siete y cinco.
Marta: ยฟNo te levantรกs?
Nรฉstor (firme, sin mirarla): No… (Se aclara la garganta.)
No me levanto.
Marta (se incorpora): ยฟCรณmo?
Nรฉstor (Aparenta resoluciรณn y serenidad): Que no me levanto.
Marta:(seria, tranquila): Dale, Nรฉstor, levantate que vas egar tarde en seno. (Va hacia un supuesto baรฑo.)
Nรฉstor: ยกTengo fiaca en serio!
Marta (!e detiene y vuelve): ยฟQuรฉte pasa Nรฉstor? ยฟQue te agarro?
Nรฉstor: ยกFiaca, ยฟno te digo?! ยกNo tengo ganas de ir y
listo, no voy! โข
Marta: ยฟAsรญ porque sรญ?
Nรฉstor: Ni mรกs ni menos.
Marta (nerviosa): Son las siete y cuarto. Nรฉstor Vas a
llegar tarde!
Nรฉstor: No, no voy a llegar tarde… porque no pienso llegar.
Marta: ยฟY quรฉ vas a decir?
Nรฉstor: ยฟA quiรฉn?
Marta: ยฟComo a quiรฉn? ยฟNo pensรกs avisar?
Nรฉstor: No.
Marta: ยฟTe volviste loco? ยฟQuรฉ te pasa?
Nรฉstor: Nada, Marta, nada … No tengo ganas de trabajar… ยกNo es para tanto!
Marta: Decime la verdad, Nรฉstor, ยฟte sentรญs mal?
Nรฉstor: Escuchame, Marta …
Marta: ยกLevantate, Nรฉstor, por favor\
Nรฉstor (suave): Venรญ, Martita, oรญme… ( Marta se acerca con recelo.) Escuchame bien: no tengo ganas de ira traยญ bajar, tengo fiaca … ยฟTan grave te parece?
Marta: No te pasรณ nunca. Es la primera vez.
Nรฉstor (sonriente): Y bueno, algรบn dรญa tenรญa que ser.
Marta (se aparta brusca): ยกVos tenรฉs algo! (Va al telรฉfono.) ยกYo llamo a la oficina para que te manden el mรฉdico!
Nรฉstor (agresivo): ยกNi se te ocurra! (Marta se detiene impresionada. Menos agresivo.) Me siento mejor que nunca. No tengo nada mรกs que fiaca … ยฟentendรฉs? Fiaca.
La fiaca premiered on December 28, 1967, at the Teatro San Telmo.
Sunday night, Marta is in bed with the remote control in hand watches a TV program that is ending.The sound is soft and unintelligible. Nรฉstor looks out a window. The soccer program starts. Nรฉstor looks at the TV listlessly, thinks for a second, and looks back at the window. Marta turns down the volume.
Marta: Aren’t you going to watch soccer?
Nรฉstor: No… not today. (She looks at him strangely.)
Marta: Aren’t you going to bed?
Nรฉstor: Yes, I’m coming… (Marta looks at him and turns off the TV.)
Marta: See you tomorrow?
Nรฉstor: Bye.
Marta notices it’s strange, but she gets ready to sleep. The room is dimly lit. Nรฉstor slowly goes to bed and sits down. He turns on his light and takes off his slippers. He picks one up, looks at it, plays with it childishly, as if it were a rendezvous plane, and puts it down. He remains seated, thinking. He turns around as if Marta were trying to squeal something, but no. He leans half his body against the backrest and bites his nails. He looks at his watch. He thinks. He turns it back.
He gets out of bed. He paces restlessly. He reflects, moves his lips. He imagines, argues, convinces himself, regrets, remembers, hesitates, and finally, makes up his mind. He goes to bed. Slowly, transcendentally, he deschedules the alarm clock and puts it away. He lies down to sleep but gets up immediately. He takes the clock, sets the alarm again and leaves it in sight. Satisfied, he rests his head on the pillow and turns off the light. Time. Morning clarity. The alarm goes off: Nรฉstor wakes up startled. When he is about to mutter the routine curse, he remembers. He smiles and stops the alarm, delighted. He rests his head on the pillow. He tries to overcome his excitement to savor the moment. He laughs and closes his eyes. Marta wakes up.
Marta: What are you doing?
Nรฉstor (opens his eyes, restless, but imposes naturalness): Nothing. Here I am.
Marta: What time is it?
Nรฉstor: Seven-five.
Marta: Aren’t you getting up?
Nรฉstor (firmly, without looking at her): No… (He clears his throat.)
I’m not getting up.
Marta (stands up): What?
Nรฉstor (feigning determination and serenity): I’m not getting up.
Marta: I’m not…? What do you mean you’re not getting up…?
Nรฉstor: I don’t feel like it.
Marta (to herself, disconcerted): I feel like it…
Nรฉstor: I don’t feel like going to work. Marta: You’re kidding me!
Nรฉstor: No, seriously: I’m not going to the office.
Marta (plays along). Oh, s…? And why?
Nรฉstor: Because I have fiaca.
Marta (smiling): Faica?
Nรฉstor: Yes, sir!
Marta (serious, calm): Come on, Nestor, get up, you’re going to be late for school. (She goes to a supposed bathroom.)
Nestor: I have fiaca!
Marta (stops and turns around): What’s wrong Nestor? What got to you?
Fiaca, didn’t I tell you?! I don’t feel like going and I’m not going! โข
Marta: Just like that?
Nรฉstor: No more, no less.
Marta (nervous): It’s a quarter past seven, Nestor. You’re going to
be late!!
Nรฉstor No, I’m not going to be late… because I’m not going to be late.
Marta: And what are you going to say?
Nรฉstor: To whom?
Marta: Like to whom? Aren’t you going to let me know?
Nรฉstor: No.
Marta: Have you gone crazy? What’s wrong with you?
Nรฉstor: Nothing, Marta, nothing… I don’t feel like going to work… It’s not that bad!
Marta: Tell me the truth, Nestor, do you feel bad?
Nรฉstor: Listen to me, Marta…
Marta: Get up, Nestor, please!
Nรฉstor (softly): Come on, Marta, listen to me… (Marta approaches with suspicion.) Listen to me carefully: I don’t feel like going downstairs, I have fiaca… Does it seem that serious to you?
Marta: It’s never happened to you before. It’s the first time.
Nรฉstor (smiling): And well, it had to happen someday.
Marta (steps away abruptly): You have something! (Goes to the phone.) I’ll call the office so they can send you to the doctor!
Nรฉstor (aggressive): Don’t even think about it! (Marta stops, impressed. Less aggressive.) I feel better than ever. I have nothing but fiaca… do you understand?
Fanny Rabel naciรณ en 1922 en Polonia, en el seno de una familia judรญa que huyรณ a la Ciudad de Mรฉxico en 1937, cuando comenzรณ la Segunda Guerra Mundial. A los 17 aรฑos, comenzรณ su carrera artรญstica, estudiando en la Escuela Nocturna para Trabajadores No. 1. Despuรฉs de eso, fue contratada por David Alfaro Siqueiros para decorar los murales del Sindicato Mexicano de Electricistas y por Diego Rivera para trabajar en los murales del Palacio Nacional. Su primera exposiciรณn individual pรบblica se realizรณ en 1941 en la Liga Popular Israelita en la Ciudad de Mรฉxico. Sus temas, composiciones y tรฉcnicas eran caracterรญsticos de los conceptos del realismo social que la mayorรญa de los artistas de la รฉpoca intentaban retratar. Realizรณ varios murales importantes con estos temas. En 1993, el Instituto Nacional de Bellas Artes reconociรณ sus 50 aรฑos de dedicaciรณn a las artes en el Palacio de Bellas Artes. Fanny Rabel, muriรณ en 2008 a los 86 aรฑos en la Ciudad de Mรฉxico. Su cuerpo fue enterrado en el Panteรณn Israelita. Adaptado de la Galerรญa Artspawn.
____________________________________________
Fanny Rabel was born in 1922 in Poland to a Jewish family that fled to Mexico City in 1937 when WWII began. At 17, she began her artistic career, studying at the Escuela Nocturna para Trabajadores No. 1. After that she was hired by David Alfaro Siqueiros to decorate the murals of the Mexican Syndicate of Electricians and by Diego Rivera to work on the murals at the Palacio Nacional. Her first public solo exhibit was held in 1941 at the Liga Popular Israelita in Mexico City. Her themes, compositions and the techniques were all characteristic of the concepts of social realism which most artists of the time tried to portray. She did several important murals with these themes. In 1993, the Instituto Nacional de Bellas Artes recognized her 50 years of dedication to the arts at the Palacio de Bellas Artes. Fanny Rabel, died on in 2008 at age 86 in Mexico City. Her body was buried at the Panteon Israelita. Adapted from Artspawn Gallery.
Bernardo Kucinski, ou B. Kucinski, nasceu em 1937 na cidade de Sรฃo Paulo, Brasil. Formou-se em Fรญsica (1968) e doutorou-se em Ciรชncias da Comunicaรงรฃo (1991) pela Universidade de Sรฃo Paulo (USP), onde foi professor titular do Departamento de Jornalismo e Editoraรงรฃo da Escola de Comunicaรงรตes e Artes (ECA). Entre 2003 e 2005, atuou como assessor da Presidรชncia da Repรบblica do Brasil durante o governo Lula da Silva. ร autor de obras sobre polรญtica, economia e jornalismo, como Abertura: a histรณria de uma crise (1982), A ditadura da dรญvida (1987), O que sรฃo Multinacionais (1991) e Jornalismo na era virtual (2005).
Sua estreia no campo literรกrio ocorreu apenas aos 74 anos com o livro K.: relato de uma busca. Alรฉm deste, B. Kucinski tambรฉm รฉ autor de outras obras que abordam episรณdios traumรกticos da histรณria brasileira, como Vocรช vai voltar pra mim e outros contos (2014), Jรบlia: nos campos conflagrados do senhor (2020) e O congresso dos desaparecidos: drama em prosa (2023). Tambรฉm dedicou algumas pรกginas a contos que refletem questรตes contemporรขneas, como Pretรฉrito imperfeito (2017) e A Nova Ordem (2019).
____________________________________________
Bernardo Kucinski, or B. Kucinski, was born in 1937 in the city of Sรฃo Paulo, Brazil. He graduated in Physics (1968) and earned a doctorate in Communication Sciences (1991) from the University of Sรฃo 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 histรณria de uma crise A ditadura da dรญvida, O que sรฃo 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 Vocรช vai voltar pra mim e outros contos , Jรบlia: 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 Pretรฉrito imperfeito and A Nova Ordem.
___________________________________________
De:/From: K. do Bernardo Kucinski. Sao Paulo: Expressรฃo Popular, 2011.
Sorvedouro de pessoas — capitulo 1
A tragรฉdia jรก avanรงara inexorรกvel quando, naquela manhรฃ de domingo, K. sentiu pela primeira vez a angรบstia que logo o tomaria por completo. Hรก dez dias a filha nรฃo telefona. Depois, ele culparia a ausรชncia dos ritos de famรญlia, ainda mais necessรกrios em tempos difรญceis, o telefonar uma vez por dia, o almoรงo aos domingos. A filha nรฃo afinava com sua segunda mulher.
E como nรฃo perceber o tumulto dos novos tempos, ele, escolado em polรญtica? Quem sabe teria sido diferente se, em vez dos amigos escritores do iรญdiche, * essa lรญngua morta que sรณ poucos velhos ainda falam, prestasse mais atenรงรฃo ao que acontecia no paรญs naquele momento? Quem sabe? Que importa o iรญdiche?
* O iรญdiche รฉ falado pelos judeus da Europa Oriental e teve seu apogeu no inรญcio do sรฉculo xx, quando se consolidou sua literatura; sofreu rรกpido declรญnio devido ao Holocausto e ร adoรงรฃo do hebraico pelos fundadores do Esta- do de Israel.
Nada. Uma lรญngua-cadรกver, isso sim, que eles pranteavam nessas reuniรตes semanais, em vez de cuidar dos vivos.
Associava o domingo ร filha desde quando lhe trazia regalos no dia da feira. Sรบbito, lembrou rumores da vรฉspera, no Bom Retiro; dois estudantes judeus da medicina teriam desaparecido, um deles, dizia-se, de famรญlia rica. Coisa da polรญtica, disseram, da ditadura, nรฃo tinha a ver com antissemitismo. Tambรฉm sumiram outros, nรฃo judeus, por isso a Federaรงรฃo decidira nรฃo se meter. Esse era o boato, talvez nem fosse verdade; pois nรฃo diziam quem eram os rapazes.
Foi o rumor que o fez inquieto, nรฃo foi o domingo. Passou o dia discando um nรบmero de telefone que a filha lhe dera para urgรชncias, mas o toque ecoava solitรกrio. Sem resposta, nem ร uma da madrugada, quando ela deveria estar de volta mesmo que tivesse ido ao cinema, de que tanto gostava, decidiu procurรก-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 desgraรงas do povo judeu, o dia da destruiรงรฃo do primeiro templo e do segundo, e tambรฉm o da expulsรฃo da Espanha.
Sem saber o que temer, mas jรก temendo, e sem acordar a mulher, tirou o Austin da garagem e dirigiu rumo ao campus da universidade, distante na planรญcie, do outro lado do emaranhado de arranha-cรฉus. Conduzia devagar, demorando-se ao atravessar o centro, como se nรฃo quisesse chegar nunca; ossentimentos alternando-se entre a certeza de encontrรก-la trabalhando normalmente e o medo do seu contrรกrio. Por fim, atingiu o Conjunto das Quรญmicas, onde estivera uma รบnica 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 mรชs de Av do calendรกrio judaico, considerado maldito.
Ela nรฃo veio hoje, disseram as amigas. Hesitantes, olhavam de soslaio umas para as outras. Depois, como se temessem a indiscriรงรฃo das paredes, puxaram K. para conversar no jardim. Entรฃo revelaram que havia onze dias que ela nรฃo aparecia. Sim, com certeza, onze dias, contando dois finais de semana. Ela, que nunca deixara de dar uma รบnica 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 โ quem sabe os superiores da filha tinham alguma informaรงรฃo? Se ela tivesse sofrido um acidente e estivesse hospitalizada decerto teriam contatado a universidade. As amigas alarmam-se. Nรฃo faรงa isso. Por enquanto, nรฃo. Para dissuadi-lo, moderaram a fala, pode ser que ela tenha viajado, se afastado por alguns dias por precauรงรฃo. Desconhecidos andaram perguntando por ela, sabe? Hรก gente estranha no campus. Anotam chapas de carros. Eles estรฃo dentro da reitoria. Eles quem? Nรฃo souberam responder.
Persuadido a nรฃo procurar as autoridades universitรกrias, K. dirigiu em agonia do campus atรฉ um nรบmero da rua Padre Chico, que a filha lhe dera havia tempos, com a recomendaรงรฃo de sรณ a procurar nesse endereรงo se acontecesse algo muito grave e ela nรฃo atendesse ao telefone. Um absurdo ele nรฃo questionado isso de sรณ visitar se for grave, de sรณ telefonar se for urgente. Onde ele estava com a cabeรงa, meu Deus?
Era um sobradinho geminado, dando diretamente para a rua, espremido entre uma dezena do mesmo tipo. Ao pรฉ da porta, folhetos e jornais empoeirados denunciavam ausรชncia prolongada dos moradores. Ninguรฉm atendeu seus apertos inquisitivos de campainha.
Pronto, estava instalada a tragรฉdia. O que fazer? Os dois filhos, longe, no exterior. A segunda esposa, uma inรบtil. As amigas da universidade em pรขnico. O velho sentiu-se esmagado. O corpo fraco, vazio, como se fosse desabar. A mente em estupor. De repente, tudo perdia sentido. Um fato รบnico impunha-se, cancelando o que dele nรฃo fosse parte; fazendo tu- do o mais obsoleto. O fato concreto de sua filha querida estar sumida hรก onze dias, talvez mais. Sentiu-se muito sรณ.
Passou a listar hipรณteses. Quem sabe um acidente, ou uma doenรงa grave que ela nรฃo quisesse revelar. A pior era a prisรฃo pelos serviรงos secretos. O Estado nรฃo tem rosto nem sentimentos, รฉ opaco e perverso. Sua รบnica fresta รฉ a corrupรงรฃo. Mas ร s vezes atรฉ essa se fecha por razรตes superiores. E entรฃo o Estado se torna maligno em dobro, pela crueldade e por ser inatingรญvel. Isso ele sabia muito bem.
K. rememorou cenas recentes, o nervosismo da filha, suas evasivas, isso de chegar correndo e sair correndo, do endereรงo sรณ em รบltimo caso e com a recomendaรงรฃo de nรฃo passรก-lo a ninguรฉm. Atarantado, deu-se conta da enormidade do autoengano em que vivera, ludibriado pela prรณpria filha, talvez mettida em aventuras perigosรญssimas sem ele desconfiar, distraรญdo que fora pela devoรงรฃo ao iรญdiche, pelo encanto fรกcil das sessรตes literรกrias.
Ah, e o erro de ter se casado com aquela judia alemรฃ sรณ 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, tambรฉm advogado, orientou-o a dar queixa na Delegacia de Desaparecidos, embora advertindo que de nada adiantaria, era uma obrigaรงรฃo formal de pai. Ditou-lhe o endereรงo, na Brigadeiro Tobias, sede central da polรญcia. K. perguntou se ele ouvira falar do sumiรงo de dois alunos judeus da medicina. Sim. Era verdade. Jรก fora procurado por uma das famรญlias. E o que ele ia fazer? Nada. Nas prisรตes de motivaรงรฃo polรญtica, os tribunais estavam proibidos de aceitar pedidos de habeas corpus. Nรฃo hรก nada que um advogado possa fazer. Nada. Esta รฉ a situaรงรฃo.
Na polรญcia 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 sรณ. Tinha seu prรณprio carro; nรฃo seria alguma coisa polรญtica?
Nรฃo quis se abrir com o delegado, apenas insinuou. Por isso tambรฉm nรฃo lhe deu o endereรงo da Padre Chico, deu o seu como sendo o dela e o da loja como se fosse o seu. Sem perceber, K. retomava hรกbitos adormecidos da juventude conspiratรณria na Polรดnia. O delegado de plantรฃo nรฃo gostou da conversa. Em casos polรญticos, estava proibido de se meter. Mas, condoรญdo, registrou a queixa. Ele que esperasse e nรฃo falasse mais em polรญtica.
Procurar? Nรฃo, a polรญcia tinha mais o que fazer; uma professora universitรกria, de quase trinta anos, adulta e vacinada. Ele que esperasse, uma circular com a fotografia chegaria a todas as delegacias. Se ele nรฃo fosse avisado em cinco dias, podia tentar o Instituto Mรฉdico Legal, para onde encaminha- vam corpos nรฃo identificados de vรญtimas de atropelamentos e outros acidentes. Disse isso constrangido.
Assim comeรงou a saga do velho pai, cada dia mais aflito, mais mal dormido. No vigรฉsimo dia, depois de mais uma incursรฃo inรบtil ao campus e ร casa da Padre Chico, recorreu aos amigos do cรญrculo literรกrio; os mesmos que por descontrole havia amaldiรงoado. Quem sabe conheciam alguรฉm que conhecesse alguรฉm outro, na polรญcia, no Exรฉrcito, no sni, seja onde for dentro daquele sistema que engolia pessoas sem deixar traรงos. Com exceรงรฃo do advogado, eram uns pobretรตes que nรฃo conheciam ninguรฉm importante. O advogado mencionou vagamente um lรญder da comunidade do Rio que tinha acesso aos generais. Tentaria saber mais.
K. passou a contabilizar a duraรงรฃo da ausรชncia da filha, outro preceito dos tempos da juventude. E nรฃo passava um dia sem que tentasse algo pela filha. Jรก nรฃo fazia outra coisa. Para dormir, passou a tomar soporรญferos. Quando se completaram vinte e cinco dias, reuniu coragem e foi ao Instituto Mรฉdico Legal.
Falou da inexplicรกvel ausรชncia da filha, sem mencionar polรญtica. Mostrou sua foto de formatura, solene. Depois mostrou outra, diferente, ela magra e de olhar sofrido. Nรฃo, os funcionรกrios nรฃo associavam aquele rosto a nenhum dos pouvos cadรกveres femininos, todos negros ou pardos. Quase todos, indigentes. Para dizer a verdade, deve fazer mais de ano que nรฃo chega aqui um corpo nรฃo identificado de mulher branca.
K. saiu do iml aliviado; mantinha-se a esperanรงa de encontra–la viva. Mas as fotografias do รกlbum dos indigentes e desconhecidos o deprimiram. Nem na รฉpoca da guerra na Polรดnia deparara com rostos tรฃo maltratados e olhos tรฃo arregalados de pavor.
Foi entรฃo que, obcecado, passou a abordar fregueses que vinham pagar a prestaรงรฃo na loja, vizinhos da avenida, e atรฉ desconhecidos. A todos contava a histรณria da filha. E sua fosquinha tambรฉm sumiu, ele enfatizava. A maioria ouvia atรฉ o fim em silรชncio, depois davam-lhe eventualmente uma tapinha nas costas encurvadas e diziam: eu sinto muito. Alguns poucos o interrompiam jรก no inรญcio, alegando hora marcada no mรฉdico, ou um pretexto parecido como se ouvir jรก os colocasse em perigo.
No trigรฉsimo dia do sumiรงo da filha, K. leu no Estado de S. Paulo uma notรญcia que se referia, embora de modo discreto, a desaparecidos polรญticos. O arcebispo havia convocado uma reuniรฃo com โfamiliares de desaparecidos polรญticosโ.
Estava escrito assim mesmo: โfamiliares de desaparecidos polรญticosโ.
K. nunca entrara num templo catรณlico, tal o estranha- mento nele provocado pela penumbra silenciosa das igrejas e pelas imagens de santos, que vislumbrava por entre vรฃos de porta. Tinha pelo catolicismo repulsa atรกvica, ร qual somava desprezo pelas prรกticas religiosas todas, inclusive as do seu prรณprio povo. Na verdade, nรฃo era das pessoas e suas crenรงas que ele nรฃo gostava, era dos sacerdotes, fossem padres, rabinos ou bispos; ele os tinha como hipรณcritas. Mas, naquela tarde, nada disso importava. Uma autoridade importante, um arcebispo, ia falar sobre as estranhas desapariรงรตes.
Ao entrar no salรฃo central da Cรบria Metropolitana, K. sentiu o quanto o sumiรงo da filha jรก o havia mudado. Foi com simpatia que contemplou a imagem barroca da Virgem Maria situada no saguรฃo, e outras de santos que desconhecia, postadas nos cantos. Quando chegou, a reuniรฃo jรก comeรงara. Havia sessenta pessoas ou mais nas cadeiras bem mais numerosas dispostas no salรฃo. Quatro senhores sisudos que pareciam advogados coordenavam o encontro, sentados em forma de meialua de frente para o pรบblico; uma freira escrevia num grande caderno.
Falava uma senhora de muita idade, talvez passando dos noventa, franzina, miรบda, de รณculos na ponta do nariz e cabelos brancos; seu marido voltava do exรญlio por Uruguaiana, chegou atรฉ um ponto de encontro prรฉ-combinado, do lado de cรก da fronteira, e desapareceu por completo, sem deixar vestรญgio, como se tivesse evaporado ou anjos o tivessem alรงado aos cรฉus. Um dos filhos tentou rastrear seus passos, foi a todos os hospitais, delegacias, estaรงรตes de รดnibus 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 ร sua casa, pedindo que o marido os acompanhasse ร delegacia para prestar alguns esclarecimentos. Ele foi tranquilo, pois embora seu mandato de deputado tivesse sido cassado pelos militares, levava vida normal, tinha escritรณrio de advocacia. Desde entรฃo, 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 sumiรงos; todos queriam falar. E queriam ouvir. Queriam entender. Talvez do conjunto de casos surgis- se uma explicaรงรฃo, uma lรณgica, principalmente uma soluรงรฃo, uma maneira de pรดr fim ao pesadelo. Uma jovem de nรฃo mais que vinte anos pediu para falar em nome de um grupo sentado ร sua volta, โfamiliares dos desaparecidos do Araguaiaโ, disse ela. K. pela primeira vez ouvia alguรฉm falar do Araguaia; ficou sabendo que muitos rapazes tinham sido presos pelas Forรงas Armadas no meio da floresta amazรดnica e executados lรก mesmo.
O que trazia aquele grupo ร reuniรฃo era algo insรณlito. O Exรฉrcito alegava que nada disso tinha acontecido, apesar de um dos presos, apenas um, ter escapado e testemunhado tudo. Os familiares queriam enterrar seus mortos โ que eles jรก sabiam mortos, mais de cinquenta, diziam, sabiam atรฉ a regiรฃo aproximada em que foram executados, mas os militares insistiam que nรฃo havia corpo nenhum para entregar.
Um rapaz encontrou-se com a esposa no Conjunto Nacional para almoรงarem juntos e os dois nunca mais foram vistos. ร medida que falava, a mรฃe do rapaz mostrava aos vizinhos de assento as fotos do filho, da nora e do netinho. Um senhor levantou-se, disse que viera de Goiรขnia especialmente para a reuniรฃo. Seus dois filhos, um de vinte anos e o outro de apenas dezasseis, foram desaparecidos. Esse senhor gaguejava, parecia em estado catatรดnico. Foi o primeiro a usar a expressรฃo โforam desaparecidosโ. Tambรฉm trazia fotos dos filhos. Depois dele, K. tomou coragem e contou a sua histรณria. Jรก havia caรญdo a noite e os relatos prosseguiam. Variavam cenรกrios, detalhes, circunstรขncias, mas todos os vinte e dois casos computados naquela reuniรฃo tinham uma caracterรญstica comum assombrosa: as pessoas desapareciam sem deixar vestรญgios. Era como se volatilizassem. O mesmo com os jovens do Araguaia, embora este jรก se soubesse estarem mortos. A freira anotava caso por caso. Tambรฉm recolhia as fotos trazidas pelos familiares.
K. tudo ouvia, espantado. Atรฉ os nazistas que reduziam suas vรญtimas a cinzas registavam os mortos. Cada um tinha um nรบmero, tatuado no braรงo. A cada morte, davam baixa num livro. ร verdade que nos primeiros dias da invasรฃo houve chacinas e depois tambรฉm. 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. Nรฃo havia a agonia da incerteza; eram execuรงรตes em massa, nรฃo 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 โ 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 Chicoโs 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 didnโt 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 daughterโs absence, another precept from his youth. And not a day went by without him trying something for his daughter. He didnโt 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 daughterโs 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 โrelatives of political disappearances. It was written exactly like that: โrelatives of political disappearances.โ
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 daughterโs 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, โrelatives of the missing people from Araguaia,โ 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 deadโwho they already knew were dead, more than fifty, they said, and even knew the approximate region where they had been executedโbut 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 Goiรขnia 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 โthey had disappeared.โ 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
Isaac Markus, nacido en Uruguay, es Contador Pรบblico y Master en Administraciรณn de Empresas. Paralelamente a su actividad profesional se ha sentido atraรญdo por la escritura de ficciรณn, habiendo publicado con el seudรณnimo Iche Marx los libros de cuentos Camino al Cementerio (Editorial Rumbo) en el aรฑo 2012, Mirada de Outsider (Editorial Apeirรณn, como finalista del concurso Gregorio Samsa) en el aรฑo 2020, e Historias Ambiguas (Editorial Pampia) en el aรฑo 2025.
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Isaac Markus, born in Uruguay, is a Certified Public Accountant and holds a Master’s degree in Business Administration. In parallel to his professional activity, he has been drawn to writing fiction, having published under the pseudonym Iche Marx the short story books Camino al Cementerio (Rumbo Publishing House) in 2012, Mirada de Outsider (Apeirรณn Publishing House, as a finalist in the Gregorio Samsa competition) in 2020, and Historias Ambiguas (Pampia Publishing House) in 2025.
El doctor Fernรกndez atendรญa ese dรญa a sus pacientes ginecolรณgicas, quienes aguardaban turno en la sala de espera y enfrentaban el aburrimiento mirando sus celulares o ensayando una mirada hรญbrida que simulabaย otear el horizonte donde solo habรญa paredes o cuadros, o echando un vistazo a las otrasย pacientes cuando creรญan que su examen no serรญa percibido.ย
Emanuela Colucci, una de ellas, no dejaba de observar con interรฉs a la paciente de la silla de enfrente. Era una mujer de edad mediana, esa edad en la que las mujeres se plantean el eventual conflicto entre la sexualidad y la maternidad, entre la productividad y el placer vรกlido por sรญ mismo, entre la juventud y la vejez, entre las energรญas desplegadas sin lรญmites y la necesidad de racionalizarlas o limitarlas, entre la vida como objetivo hedonista o รฉtico.
Pero mรกs allรก de las fuerzas que nos llevan a escudriรฑar a otras personas y preguntarnos por quรฉ son como son, algo atribuible a la simple curiosidad o a la bรบsqueda de chimentos o quizรกs de un modelo comparativo que permita evaluarnos a nosotros mismos, el interรฉs de Emanuela por la paciente de la silla de enfrente adolecรญa de cierta falta de inocencia.
Es que ella la habรญa visto en el centro comercial de la zona en compaรฑรญa del doctorย Fernรกndez, y ver a su ginecรณlogo en compaรฑรญa de una fรฉmina es algo que una mujerย no deja pasar por alto, quedando su rostro grabado en la memoria. En aquella ocasiรณnย hizo una rรกpida evaluaciรณn de sus caracterรญsticas, si era bonita, si era delgada, si estaba bien vestida y todos los aspectos queย considerรณ relevantes y que el tiempo disponible permitรญa.ย ย
Y ahora estaba allรญ, en la silla de enfrente, tal como la recordaba, apenas con algunos pequeรฑos cambios de vestimenta y maquillaje. Pero lo importante era saber quรฉ era lo que estaba haciendo allรญ. ยฟSerรญa acaso la esposa del doctor esperando ser atendida por alguna cuestiรณn domรฉstica, o tal vez su amante transfigurada en simple paciente, o, mรกs audaz aรบn, dispuesta a una sesiรณn amorosa en pleno consultorio simulando ser atendida como paciente?
La curiosidad era excesiva como para que Emanuela no intentara hacer algo que le permitiera obtener respuestas, por lo que lanzรณ:
โSe hace larga la espera, ยฟno?
La paciente de la silla de enfrente la observรณ durante algunos segundos y, sin que su mirada lograra ocultar un dejo de ironรญa, respondiรณ:
โSรญ. ยกAunque este doctor vale la pena! โยกPor supuesto!
–ยฟY hace mucho que se atiende con รฉl?
โMenos de un aรฑoโฆ ยกes excelente! Emanuela pensรณ que de ser la esposa del doctor habrรญa hecho alguna referencia,ย aunque debรญa corroborarlo. Sigilosamente buscรณ en las redes sociales en su celular algรบn rastro de la vida privada del doctor y encontrรณ fotos recientes en las que se encontraba rodeado de niรฑos, probablemente sus hijos, y con una mujer, probablemente su esposa, quien no era la mujer de la silla de enfrente. La posibilidad de que fuera su amante adquirรญa mayor fuerza. ยกAh, la muy zorra! ยกYa verรญa que podrรญa sonsacarle! Pero la mujer de la silla de enfrente, en lugar de mantener ese tipo de silencios prudentes que suelen acompaรฑar las culpabilidades, arremetiรณ con un comentario inesperado:ย
โNos conocemos de algรบn lado, ยฟverdad?
Emanuela pensรณ: ยฟDe quรฉ diablos estarรญa hablando? ยฟHabrรญa captado mi mirada insistente el dรญa en que la descubrรญ con el doctor en el centro comercial y tambiรฉn habrรญa grabado mi rostro en su memoria?
โPues en verdad no recuerdo. ยฟDe dรณnde nos conocemos?
โยฟTรบ eres la esposa del abogado Mรกrquez?
Emanuela se inquietรณ: ยฟDe dรณnde conocerรญa esta harpรญa a mi marido? ยฟNo le era suficiente con ponerle cuernos a la mujer del doctor? De pronto comenzรณ a sentir en su propia frente el surgimiento de una cierta excrecencia.
โSรญ, peroโฆ ยฟde dรณnde lo conoces?
โAhโฆ es una larga historiaโฆ Otro dรญa te la contarรฉ, el doctor Fernรกndez ya me estรก llamando para ingresar a la consulta…
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The woman in the opposite chair
That day, Dr. Fernรกndez was attending to his gynecological patients, who were waiting their turn in the waiting room and coping with boredom by looking at their cell phones or practicing a hybrid look that simulated scanning the horizon where there were only walls or pictures, or glancing at the other patients when they thought their exam would not be noticed.
Enanuela Colucci, one of them, could not stop observing with interest the patient in the chair in front of her. She was a middle-aged woman, that age in which women consider the eventual conflict between sexuality and motherhood, between productivity and pleasure valid in itself, between youth and old age, between energies deployed without limits and the need to rationalize or limit them, between life as a hedonistic or ethical objective.
But beyond the forces that lead us to scrutinize other people and ask ourselves why they are the way they are, something attributable to simple curiosity or the search for gossip or perhaps a comparative model that allows us to evaluate ourselves, Emanuela’s interest in the patient in the chair opposite her suffered from a certain lack of innocence.
She had seen her in the local shopping center in the company of Dr. Fernรกndez, and seeing her gynecologist in the company of a woman is something that a woman does not let go by, leaving her face engraved in her memory. On that occasion she made a quick evaluation of her characteristics, if she was pretty, if she was thin, if she was well dressed and all the aspects that she considered relevant and that the available time allowed.
And now she was there, in the chair opposite, just as she remembered her, with only a few small changes of clothing and makeup. But the important thing was to know what she was doing there. Was she perhaps the doctor’s wife waiting to be seen for some domestic matter, or perhaps his lover transfigured into a simple patient, or, even more daring, willing to have a love session in the middle of the office pretending to be seen as a patient?
Emanuela was too curious not to try to do something that would allow her to get answers, so she said:
โIt’s been a long wait, isn’t it?
The patient in the chair opposite looked at her for a few seconds and, without managing to hide a hint of irony, answered:
โYes. Although this doctor is worth it! โOf course!
And have you been seeing him for a long time?
โLess than a year… he’s excellent! Emanuela thought that if she were the doctor’s wife she would have made some reference, although she had to confirm it. She stealthily searched social media on her cell phone for a trace of the doctor’s private life and found recent photos in which he was surrounded by children, probably his children, and with a woman, probably his wife, who was not the woman in the chair in front of her. The possibility that she was his lover gained strength. Ah, the bitch! She would see what she could get out of him! But the woman in the chair in front of her, instead of maintaining that kind of prudent silence that usually accompanies guilt, lashed out with an unexpected comment:
โWe know each other from somewhere, right?
Emanuela thought: What the hell was she talking about? Had she caught my insistent glance the day I discovered her with the doctor in the shopping center and also recorded my face in her memory?
โWell, I really don’t remember. Where do we know each other from?
โAre you the wife of the lawyer Mรกrquez?
Emanuela worried: Where did this harpy know my husband from? Wasn’t it enough for her to cuckold the doctor’s wife? Suddenly he began to feel the emergence of a certain growth on his own forehead. Emanuela worried: Where did this harpy know my husband from? Wasn’t it enough for her to cuckold the doctor’s wife? Suddenly he began to feel the emergence of a certain growth on her own forehead.
–Yes, but… where do you know him from?
–Ah… It’s a long story… I’ll tell you about it another day. Dr. Fernandez is calling me to come in for a consultation..
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Sombras en Venecia
La dulce borrachera del champagne nos hizo unir a la pareja de turistas argentinos que cohabitaban en la gรณndola, y acompaรฑamos a grito pelado los cรกnticos napolitanos de los gondolieri. El eco de nuestras voces rebotando en los muros de esa ciudad irreal nos hacรญa sentir mรกs cercanos a ella, como si el desafinado intercambio sonoro creara una especie de intimidad compartida.
Descendimos de la gรณndola y caminamos por las estrechas callejuelas bajo el guiรฑo cรณmplice de las mรกscaras que desde los escaparates parecรญan invitar a un sensual baile de disfraces. La felicidad acechaba como algo fรกcil de acceder, pero el silencio entre nosotros nos hacรญa evocar las sombras del viaje.
“Los puentes, plazas y palacios se sucedรญan unos a otros sin dar indicio alguno…”.ย ย sin dar indicio alguno delย camino de retorno al hotel. A punto de de desfallecer de cansancio divisamos una confiterรญa ubicada en la intersecciรณn de dos canales.ย Un mozo de frac y moรฑita nos dio la bienvenida y nos condujo a una mesa desde la que se desplegaba una vista maravillosa. El dรญa era hermoso, sin las nubes y lluvias que oscurecen el alma de la ciudad. Los barcos navegaban por los canales asemejando una marina en el centro de un paisaje urbano, y las palomas se posaban a un costado de nuestra mesa transmitiendo un mensaje de paz. Entonces la mirรฉ y volvรญ a ser consciente de lo bella que era. Quise besarla, pero me rechazรณ diciendo:ย
โยฟCrees que Venecia puede hacer que todo desaparezca?
Se levantรณ y se fue. Pensรฉ que amar era transitar una infinidad de silencios e interpretaciones incorrectas. Solo en una ciudad que ahondaba mi melancolรญa, dejรฉ que misย pasos me condujeran hacia cualquier lugar.ย Una casa lucรญa en su fachada la palabra nefesh, la que segรบn la cรกbala era la dimensiรณnย del hombre centrada en la satisfacciรณn de los instintos. Quise alejarme de la tristeza y entrรฉ a la casa. Descendรญ por una escalera de caracol hasta una sala en la que una tenueย luz azulada iluminaba bellamente los cuerpos de hombres y mujeres desnudos penetrรกndose interminablemente…ย ย
Salรญ de la casa y continuรฉ caminado sin rumbo. Un cartel me hizo saber que habรญa llegado al ghetto donde habrรญa vivido Shylock en caso de haber existido. Preguntรฉ sobre รฉl a un rabino que pasaba a mi lado y me pidiรณ que lo acompaรฑara. Tras un extenuante ascenso por las escaleras de un vetusto edificio llegamos a la sinagoga. Al encenderse las luces recordรฉ los tiempos en que visitaba a mi padre el ยซdรญa del perdรณnยป y escuchรกbamos el lamento del shofar que nos hacรญa pensar en nuestros errores. ยฟTambiรฉn ahora estarรญa cometiendo un error? ยฟLas barreras que meย separaban de ella habrรญan sido creadas para que encontrara la forma de derribarlas? El rabino comenzรณ a leer viejos decretos que solo permitรญan a los judรญos ejercer elย oficio de prestamista al mismo tiempo se losย condenaba por ello. Pero ya no estaba allรญ. Cuando retornรฉ a la plaza central del ghetto, ella estaba observรกndome llegar como si siempre hubiera estado esperando.ย Una sonrisa se dibujรณ en sus labios; amor y odio podรญan coexistir bajo el manto de una fidelidad incorruptible. Venecia continuรณ hundiรฉndose en las tinieblas.
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Shadows in Venice
The sweet intoxication of champagne made us join the couple of Argentine tourists who were cohabiting in the gondola, and we accompanied the Neapolitan chants of the gondoliers at the top of our lungs. The echo of our voices bouncing off the walls of that unreal city made us feel closer to it, as if the out-of-tune sound exchange created a kind of shared intimacy.
โYes, but… where do you know him from? โAh… it’s a long story… Another day I’ll tell you about it, Dr. Fernandez is already calling me to come in for a consultation…
We got off the gondola and walked through the narrow streets under the knowing wink of the masks that seemed to invite us to a sensual costume ball from the shop windows. Happiness lurked as something easy to access, but the silence between us made us evoke the shadows of the trip.
without giving any indication of the way back to the hotel. About to faint from exhaustion we saw a confectionery located at the intersection of two canals. A waiter in a tuxedo and bow tie welcomed us and led us to a table with a wonderful view. The day was beautiful, without the clouds and rain that darken the soul of the city. The boats sailed through the canals, resembling a marina in the center of an urban landscape, and the pigeons perched on one side of our table, transmitting a message of peace. Then I looked at her and became aware of how beautiful she was. I wanted to kiss her, but she rejected me, saying:
โDo you think Venice can make everything disappear?
She got up and left. I thought that loving was going through an infinity of silences and incorrect interpretations. Alone in a city that deepened my melancholy, I let my steps lead me to any place. A house displayed on its facade the word nefesh, which according to the Kabbalah was the dimension of man centered on the satisfaction of instincts. I wanted toe escape sadness and entered the house. I went down a spiral staircase into a room where a soft blue light beautifully illuminated the bodies of naked men and women penetrating each other endlessly…
I left the house and continued walking aimlessly. A sign told me that I had arrived at the ghetto where Shylock would have lived if he had existed. I asked a rabbi who was passing by me about him and he asked me to accompany him. After an exhausting climb up the stairs of an old building we arrived at the synagogue. When the lights came on I remembered the times when I visited my father on the “day of forgiveness” and we listened to the wailing of the shofar that made us think of our mistakes. Was I making a mistake now too? Had the barriers that separated me from her been created so that I could find a way to break them down? The rabbi began to read old decrees that only allowed Jews to work as moneylenders while condemning them for it. But my mind was no longer there. When I returned to the central square of the ghetto, she was watching me arrive as if she had always been waiting. A smile appeared on her lips; love and hate could coexist under the cloak of an incorruptible fidelity. Venice continued to sink into darkness.
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Camino al cementerio
Hay quienes se refugian en la fantasรญa de una vida despuรฉs de la muerte, pero, en mi caso, intento soportar la conciencia de tan amargo destino simulando su inexistencia. Procuraba mantenerme alejado de los cementerios, pero mi cercanรญa con el muerto de turno no me dejรณ mรกs alternativa que concurrir a su entierro.
Transitaba por una ruta que ya conocรญa desde que el paso del tiempo comenzรณ a cobrar sus vรญctimas entre amigos y parientes. Conducรญa absorto en mis pensamientos, cuando un suceso imprevisto me obligรณ a de tenerme. Los vehรญculos formaban delante del mรญo una larga cadena inmovilizada sin que nadie supiera quรฉ sucedรญa.
La necesidad de llegar a tiempo hizo que intentara salvar el obstรกculo tomando un ca mino lateral; confiaba que en algรบn momento se habilitarรญa una vรญa que permitirรญa retornar a la ruta. Pero el camino se esforzaba en mostrar su terquedad y parecรญa extenderse sin lรญmite alguno.
Cuando ya conservaba pocas esperanzas de retornar a la ruta, arribรฉ a una explanada que rodeaba una antigua casa de corte seรฑo rial. La solemnidad del edificio tenรญa algรบn parentesco con la que suele rodear la idea de la muerte, y esto me hizo pensar que me hallarรญa frente al atrio de acceso al cementerio.
Entrรฉ a la vieja casona, donde una multitud de seres se ocupaban de menesteres indefinidos. Al acercarse un sujeto elegantemente vestido y dotado de expresiรณn afable, le preguntรฉ por el camino que me conducirรญa a las tumbas. El hombre permaneciรณ en silencio varios minutos y luego se limitรณ a preguntar:ย
โยฟGusta tomar un cafecito
Aceptรฉ, advirtiรฉndole que disponรญa de poco tiempo. Mientras bebรญa el cafรฉ, el hombre me continuรณ observando en silencio. Habรญa algo irritante en su actitud, pero mi urgencia por llegar al entierro me hizo volver a preguntarle cรณmo acceder a las tumbas. Ante mi insistencia, la expresiรณn del hombre se transformรณ brutalmente, y su voz, engrosada por la ira, se disparรณ como un latigazo:
โยกTengo varios amigos castrados! ยฟPor quรฉ no les pregunta a ellos?
Aunque no comprendรญa su significado, la respuesta no auguraba momentos felices.ย Escapรฉ de allรญ con el corazรณn golpeando con fuerza, atravesando cuanto espacio vacรญo se abrรญa a mi paso. Sin certeza del lugar hacia el que me dirigรญa corrรญ hasta quedar exhausto y caer sobre una tierra recientemente removida. Ese hรบmedo contacto encendiรณ una leve luz en mi mente. Creรญ intuir lo que sucedรญa, pero las pesadas paladas de tierra que de inmediato cayeron sobre mรญ me hundieron en la oscuridad mรกs absoluta.
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On the way to the cemetery
There are those who take refuge in the fantasy of a life after death, but, in my case, I try to bear the awareness of such a bitter fate by pretending its nonexistence. I tried to stay away from cemeteries, but my proximity to the deceased on duty left me no alternative but to attend his burial.
I was traveling along a route that I already knew since the passage of time began to claim its victims among friends and relatives. I was driving absorbed in my thoughts, when an unexpected event forced me to stop. The vehicles in front of mine formed a long chain immobilized without anyone knowing what was happening.
The need to arrive on time made me try to overcome the obstacle by taking a side road; I hoped that at some point a path would open up that would allow me to return to the route. But the road tried to show its stubbornness and seemed to extend without any limit.
When I had little hope of returning to the route, I arrived at an esplanade that surrounded an old stately house. The solemnity of the building had some kinship with that which usually surrounds the idea of โโdeath, and this made me think that I would find myself in front of the entrance hall to the cemetery.
I entered the old house, where a multitude of beings were busy with undefined tasks. When an elegantly dressed man with a friendly expression approached, I asked him for the path that would lead me to the tombs. The man remained silent for several minutes and then simply asked:
–“Would you like to have a coffee?”
I accepted, warning him that I had little time. As I drank my coffee, the man continued to watch me in silence. There was something irritating about his attitude, but my urgency to get to the burial made me ask him again how to access the graves.
I agreed, warning him that I had little time. As I drank my coffee, the man continued to watch me in silence. There was something irritating about his attitude, but my urgency to get to the burial made me ask him again how to access the graves.
At my insistence, the man’s expression changed brutally, and his voice, thick with anger, shot out like a whip:
–“I have several castrated friends! Why don’t you ask them?”
Although I didn’t understand his meaning, the answer did not bode well for happy times. I escaped from there with my heart pounding, crossing every empty space that opened up before me. Unsure of where I was going, I ran until I was exhausted and fell on recently turned earth. That wet contact lit a faint light in my mind. I thought I sensed what was happening, but the heavy shovelfuls of earth that immediately fell on me plunged me into absolute darkness.
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Metamorfosis
La foto de perfil de Internet de uno de los porteros del edificio donde vivo era la de un lobo feroz. El portero en cuestiรณn (a quien desde que descubrรญ la foto comencรฉ a denominar โel Loboโ) era bรกsicamente muy afable, por lo que atribuรญ el hecho a un posible caso de doble personalidad o de personalidad encubierta.
Los otros porteros del edificio trataban de huir del lugar de vigilancia que se les habรญa asignado, pero โel Loboโ nunca levantaba su trasero del asiento. En ese sentido era muy eficiente, salvo cuando se le pedรญa una tarea que implicara moverse del lugar. En esas ocasiones, dejaba pasar el tiempo para que el portero subsiguiente se hiciera cargo, o para que el condรณmino terminara olvidando su peticiรณn.ย Serรญa injusto, sin embargo, no reconocer que โel Loboโ estaba siempre con una sonrisa a flor de labios, pero supuse que lo harรญa para poder atraparme y comerme crudo cuando me tuviera entre sus garras. Aquella foto del perfil de Internet no podรญa ser inocente; reflejaba probablemente lo que sucede cuando se oculta el lado profundo del ser humano; las fuerzas del odio, del resentimiento, en principio ocultas, van adquiriendo fuerzaย hasta explotar un dรญa en un ejercicio supremo de maldad.ย ย
No tenรญa pruebas que avalaran mis especulaciones. El Creador habรญa vedado al ser humano cualquier comprobaciรณn fehaciente, ineluctable, de sus pensamientos. Ser es ser percibido decรญan algunos, pero nadie aseguraba que la percepciรณn no fuera mรกs que el engaรฑo de un genio maligno.
Lo cierto es que a veces uno se harta de sus propias cavilaciones, y tantas dudas, tantos divagues, tanto escepticismo, tanto liberalismo, terminaron socavando mi posiciรณn primaria, y, en lugar de continuar con mi actitud preventiva, comencรฉ a apreciar su sonrisa como algo merecedor de simpatรญa, de afecto, de solidaridad humana.
Comencรฉ, a partir de ese momento, a hablar con รฉl sin lรญmite alguno, confiรกndole mis secretos mรกs รญntimos, tal como si fuera un amigo o un hermano. Ya estaba completamente entregado cuando lleguรฉ un dรญa al edificio y me topรฉ con un lobo de verdad sentado en la silla del portero, con sus fauces abiertas, sus colmillos blancos centelleantes entre tanta negrura y sus ojos inyectados de un odio profundo que no le perdonaban a la naturaleza el juego del que lo habรญa hecho parte.ย Y asรญ fue como me desvanecรญ a la primera mordida, perdiรฉndome el espectรกculo de un ser humano exponiendo sus tripas y su sangre jugosa, algo que podrรญa haber hecho las delicias de cualquier asador de animales.
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Metamorphosis
The Internet profile picture of one of the doormen in the building where I live was that of a ferocious wolf. The doorman in question (whom I began to call โthe Wolfโ since I discovered the photo) was basically very affable, so I attributed the fact to a possible case of double personality or undercover personality.
The other doormen in the building tried to escape from the surveillance spot that had been assigned to them, but โthe Wolfโ never lifted his butt from his seat. He was very efficient in that sense, except when he was asked to do a task that involved moving from the spot. On those occasions, he would let time pass so that the next doorman could take over, or so that the condominium owner would end up forgetting his request. It would be unfair, however, not to acknowledge that โthe Wolfโ always had a smile on his lips, but I assumed he would do it so he could catch me and eat me raw when he had me in his claws. That Internet profile picture couldnโt be innocent; It probably reflected what happens when the deep side of a human being is hidden; the forces of hatred and resentment, hidden at first, gradually gain strength until one day they explode in a supreme act of evil.
I had no proof to support my speculations. The Creator had forbidden human beings any reliable, inescapable verification of their thoughts. To be is to be perceived, some said, but no one claimed that perception was nothing more than the deception of an evil genius.
The truth is that sometimes one gets fed up with one’s own musings, and so many doubts, so many ramblings, so much skepticism, so much liberalism, ended up undermining my primary position, and, instead of continuing with my preventive attitude, I began to appreciate his smile as something worthy of sympathy, affection, human solidarity.
From that moment on, I began to talk to him without any limits, confiding my most intimate secrets to him, as if he were a friend or a brother. I was already completely devoted when I arrived at the building one day and came across a real wolf sitting on the doorman’s chair, with its jaws open, its white fangs flashing in the darkness and its eyes filled with a deep hatred that did not forgive nature for the game it had made it a part of. And that was how I fainted after the first bite, missing the spectacle of a human being exposing its guts and juicy blood, something that could have delighted anyone who roasts animals.
Mariana Yampolsky naciรณ en Chicago de padres judรญos. Como fotรณgrafa tomรณ fotografรญas de muchas personas y lugares mexicanos. A la edad de diecinueve aรฑos en 1944, se mudรณ sola a Mรฉxico y no hablaba nada de espaรฑol. โDesde el principio le gustรณ mucho Mรฉxico y su gente. Diez aรฑos despuรฉs tuvo que tomar una decisiรณn difรญcilโ. Mariana se nacionalizรณ mexicana en 1954. Oscar, su padre, le enseรฑรณ a seguir sus sueรฑos donde quiera que fuera. “รl le dio un fuerte sentimiento de confianza en sรญ misma que conservรณ toda su vida”. (Entrevista con Arjen Van der Sluis, 2/12/05) Mariana era artista, pero utilizรณ su arte como herramienta para hacer de Mรฉxico un lugar mejor para los pobres. Ella usรณ su arte para mostrar la belleza de Mรฉxico. Tomรณ fotografรญas de Mรฉxico y de los mexicanos durante cincuenta aรฑos. Creรณ diecisรฉis libros de su fotografรญa. Aunque Mariana Yampolsky era famosa, se preocupaba por las personas que fotografiaba. Ella siempre preguntaba antes de tomar fotografรญas por respeto a su privacidad. โCuando fotografรญa en el campo, Mariana Yampolsky se acerca a la gente de un pueblo como si llevara una bandera blanca en las manosโ. dice Vander de Sluis. Era maestra y ayudรณ a muchos huรฉrfanos a encontrar familias. Fue famosa en Mรฉxico y su arte se mostrรณ en otros paรญses: Italia, Inglaterra, Francia, Yugoslavia, Holanda, Ecuador, Islandia, Alemania, Cuba, Australia y Espaรฑa.
Mariana Yampolsky was born in Chicago of Jewish parents. As a photographer she took pictures of many Mexican people and places. At the age of nineteen in 1944, she moved to Mexico by herself and did not speak any Spanish. โRight from the beginning, she liked Mexico and its people very much. Ten years later she had to make a difficult decision.โ Mariana became a Mexican citizen in 1954. Oscar, her father, taught her to follow her dreams wherever she went. โHe gave her a strong feeling of self-confidence that she kept all her life.โ (Interview with Arjen Van der Sluis, 12/2/05) Mariana was an artist, but she used her art as a tool to make Mexico better for the poor people. She used her art was to show Mexicoโs beauty. She took pictures of Mexico and Mexican people for fifty years. She created sixteen books of her photography. Though Mariana Yampolsky was famous, she cared for the people she photographed. She always asked before taking pictures out of respect for their privacy. โWhen she photographs in the field, Mariana Yampolsky approaches the people in a village as if sheโs carrying a white flag in her hands.โ says Vander de Sluis. She was a teacher, and she helped many orphans find families. She was famous in Mexico, and her art was shown in other countries: Italy, England, France, Yugoslavia, Holland, Ecuador, Iceland, Germany, Cuba, Australia, and Spain.
Myriam Moscona (1955) es poeta y periodista. Es autor de nueve libros, entre ellos Vรญsperas 1996), El que nada (Mรฉxico, 2006) y De par en par ( Mรฉxico, 2009). Su libro De frente y de perfil (DDF, Mรฉxico, 1996), presenta retratos literarios de 75 poetas mexicanos, con fotografรญas de Rogelio Cuรฉllar. Tela de sevoya (2012) y Leรณn de Lidia (2024) es una narraciรณn hรญbrida que entrelaza la memoria y la ficciรณn; el telรณn de fondo del libro es el idioma familiar de Moscona, el ladino o el judeoespaรฑol. Su secuencia de libro, Ivory Black (Negro marfil)โ, traducido del espaรฑol por Jen Hofer, recibiรณ el Premio Harold Morton Landon 2012 de la Academia de Poetas Americanos. Moscona ha recibido numerosos premios, entre ellos el Premio de Poesรญa Aguascalientes y el Premio Nacional de Traducciรณn de Poesรญa; Ella es beneficiaria del Sistema Nacional de Creadores de Arte, y recibiรณ una beca de la Fundaciรณn Guggenheim. Selecciones de su trabajo tambiรฉn se han traducido al alemรกn, italiano, francรฉs, hebreo, รกrabe, ruso, bรบlgaro, chino y sueco.
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Myriam Moscona (1955) is a poet and journalist. She is the author of nine books, including Vรญsperas (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 Cuรฉllar. Tela de sevoya (2012) and Leรณn de Lidia (2024) are hybrid narratives that intertwine memory and fiction; the bookโs backdrop is Mosconaโs familiar language, Ladino or Judeo-Spanish. Her book sequence, Ivory Black (Negro marfil),โ 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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When conceiving Negro marfil, Moscona focused on the use of visual materials (inks, pastels, graphite, and acrylics), which led her to explore visual poetry. In this realm, she is the creator of a variety of art objects and artist books, some of which are part of the Special Collections and Archives at the University of California, Irvine.
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Al concebir Negro marfil, Moscona se centrรณ en el uso de materiales visuales (tintas, pasteles, grafito y acrรญlicos), lo que la llevรณ a explorar la poesรญa visual. En este รกmbito, es creadora de una variedad de objetos de arte y libros de artista, algunos de los cuales forman parte de las Colecciones Especiales y Archivos de la Universidad de California, Irvine.
Liliana Heker, nacida en Buenos Aires en 1943, es cuentista, novelista y ensayista. Estudiรณ Fรญsica en la Universidad de Buenos Aires, pero, desde muy temprana edad, eligiรณ la literatura. A los 16 aรฑos se identificรณ con las actitudes literarias y la posiciรณn ideolรณgica de la revista literaria El Grillo de Papel. En El Grillo de Papel publicรณ sus primeros cuentos. En 1961, luego de que la revista fuera prohibida por un decreto estatal junto con otras publicaciones de izquierda, fundรณ con Abelardo Castillo, la revista literaria El Escarabajo de Oro (1961 โ 1974). En 1977, con Abelardo Castillo y Sylvia Iparraguirre, fundรณ la revista El Ornitorrinco (1977 โ 1986), que codirigiรณ. En estas revistas publicรณ artรญculos, ensayos, reseรฑas y polรฉmicas contra la Dictadura. Su primer libro de cuentos Los que vio la zarza obtuvo la Primera Menciรณn en el Concurso Hispanoamericano de Literatura en 1966. Posteriormente publicรณ Acuario (cuentos, 1972), Un brillo que se apagรณ en el mundo (trรญptico de cuentos, 1977), Las peras del mal (cuentos, 1982), Zona de Clivaje (novela, 1987 โ Primer Premio Municipal de Novela), Los fronteras de lo real (1991, que reรบne sus tres primeros libros de cuentos, y obtuvo el Segundo Premio Municipal de Cuento, El fin de la historia (novela, 1996) y La muerte de Dios (cuentos, 2001). En 2016 se publicรณ Cuentos Reunidos, que combina sus cuentos publicados y algunos inรฉditos. Las traducciones de sus cuentos al inglรฉs, alemรกn, francรฉs, ruso, turco, serbio, holandรฉs y farsi estรกn incluidas en varias antologรญas. Su novela El fin de la historia fue traducida al inglรฉs por Andrea Labinger y publicado por Editorial Biblioasis (Canadรก, 2012). La Universidad de Yale publicรณ una amplia selecciรณn de sus cuentos, traducidos al inglรฉs por Alberto Manguel y Miranda France: Please Talk to Me (Yale University Press, 2015). En 2008, una selecciรณn de sus cuentos traducidos al hebreo se publicรณ en Israel.
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Liliana Heker, born in Buenos Aires in 1943, is a short story writer, novelist and essayist. She studied Physics at the University of Buenos Aires, but from a very early age she chose literature. At the age of 16 she identified with the literary attitudes and ideological position of the literary magazine El Grillo de Papel. In El Grillo de Papel she published her first stories. In 1961, after the magazine was banned by a state decree along with other leftist publications, she founded with Abelardo Castillo the literary magazine El Escarabajo de Oro (1961 โ 1974). In 1977, with Abelardo Castillo and Sylvia Iparraguirre, she founded the magazine El Ornitorrinco (1977 โ 1986), which she co-directed. In these magazines she published articles, essays, reviews and polemics against the Dictatorship. Her first book of short stories, Los que vio la zarza, was awarded First Mention in the Hispano-American Literature Competition in 1966. She later published Acuario (short stories, 1972), Un brillo que se apagรณ en el mundo (triptych of short stories, 1977), Las peras del mal (short stories, 1982), Zona de Clivaje (novel, 1987 โ First Municipal Novel Prize), Los fronteras de lo real (1991, which brings together her first three books of short stories, and won the Second Municipal Novel Prize), El fin de la historia (novel, 1996) and La muerte de Dios (short stories, 2001). In 2016, Cuentos Reunidos was published, which combines his published stories and some unpublished ones. The translations of his stories into English, German, French, Russian, Turkish, Serbian, Dutch and Farsi are included in several anthologies. Her novel El fin de la historia was translated into English by Andrea Labinger and published by Biblioasis Publishing (Canada, 2012). A large selection of her stories, translated into English by Alberto Manguel and Miranda France, was published by Yale University: Please Talk to Me (Yale University Press, 2015). In 2008, a selection of her stories translated into Hebrew was published in Israel.
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History of God I I
ย ย ย ย ย ย Vivir con Dios es otra cosa. Sigue sin dormir pensando que Lucรญa se vuelve loca y la mata con un cuchillo, que su papรก y su mamรก se mueren en un accidente, que un leรณn la estรก esperando detrรกs de la mesa del comedor. Y en las madrugadas todavรญa se despierta ahogada de terror por las cosas que tendrรญa que haber hecho y no hizo, pero cuando de verdad desea algo que de no ocurrir la harรญa desdichada se lo pide a Dios y sabe que, de una manera o de otra, รฉl se las va a arreglar para que ella lo consiga. Todas las noches le reza. Desde su cama, en la oscuridad, cuando todos en la casa estรกn acostados, sin emitir el menor sonido para que Lucรญa no la descubra, junta palma contra palma sobre el pecho y comienza una oraciรณn que siempre empieza: Diosecito de mi vida. Los pedidos son de รญndole diversa y, en general, de resoluciรณn factible y cumplimiento no inmediato; no le gustarรญa ponerlo a Dios en apuros. Poco a poco, la oraciรณn va adquiriendo una forma: una especie de molde que admite mรบltiples variables. Hay pedidos que se emiten por รบnica vez; otros, de largo alcance, se repiten muchas noches seguidas; tambiรฉn hay parlamentos puramente conversacionales (va comprobando que Dios la entiende mejor que nadie, que aun ciertas debilidades y contradicciones suyas que le resultarรญa difรญcil explicar a otros, son rรกpidamente aceptadas por Dios: รฉl conoce las motivaciones de todo, razรณn por la cual suele no coincidir con lo que dice la gente acerca de lo que estรก bien y lo que estรก mal: para Mariana, que siempre estรก a contramano de lo que recomiendan las maestras y los libros de lectura, es un verdadero desahogo hablar con รฉl). Para el final de la oraciรณn, igual que para el comienzo, hay una fรณrmula รบnica: un beso en la punta de los dedos que luego es enviado hacia el cielo. No es que lo ubique a Dios allรญ o en lugar alguno. Las alusiones al Paraรญso, por ejemplo, le resultan tan poco creรญbles como los cuentos de hadas. Pero la altura le parece un buen รกmbito de observaciรณn para alguien capaz de saber quรฉ le estรก pasando a la gente. No cree que รฉl sepa ni le interese saber enย todoย momento lo que le sucede aย todaย la gente. Atiende en cada circunstancia lo que debe ser atendido. A ella la atiende siempre: le gusta su manera de ser: que le hable a รฉl deย vosย y que no crea que hay que comportarse como las niรฑas juiciosas de los libros de lectura. ย ย ย ย ย ย Por todos estos motivos su vรญnculo con Dios es secreto e incomunicable. ยฟCรณmo podrรญa explicarles a sus compaรฑeras que se santiguan ante cada situaciรณn de peligro y rezan elย Padre nuestroย y van a confesarse cuando creen que obraron mal de palabra o de hecho, que a Dios lo aburren muchรญsimo los formulismos y que jamรกs les prestรณ atenciรณn a las estupideces que ellas llaman pecados? Con ella sรญ se divierte: le gusta su manera de ser. El diรกlogo entre los dos es frecuente y sabroso. Ella le sigue pidiendo cosas y รฉl, a su manera, le cumple en todo. Poco a poco va introduciรฉndose en el vรญnculo la posibilidad de los castigos y el sistema se hace cada vez mรกs complejo. Para entenderlo de algรบn modo hay que diferenciar los desafรญos de las promesas. Los desafรญos no requieren la intervenciรณn directa de Dios; estรก implรญcito que รฉl algo debe controlar โsi no, ยฟquiรฉn?โ pero ella no le pide nada a cambio; el cumplimiento en sรญ mismo de la prueba y el haberse librado asรญ del castigo son el premio. Por ejemplo: ella dice que tiene que pisar nada mรกs que baldosas coloradas en una calle en que casi todas las baldosas son azules y hay sรณlo un camino en zigzag, con interrupciones, de coloradas. Si pisa una baldosa que no sea colorada, le van a ocurrir tres desgracias antes de fin de mes. Ella camina con el corazรณn pendiendo de un hilo hasta que, por fin, llega a una vereda de baldosas amarillas y queda a salvo. O se acerca a un perro que le da miedo y le acaricia la cabeza. O cuenta hasta treinta con la cabeza adentro del agua. La amenaza de algo terrible se cierne siempre sobre el incumplimiento. Se trata entonces, en cierta manera, de cumplir o morir. Hay un desafรญo muy especial cuando ella tiene doce aรฑos. Lo que tiene de especial es que lo ha podido anunciar con bombos y platillos sin que su padre o su madre se lo pudieran impedir. Lo que ella se ha propuesto y les ha dicho que va a hacer es ayunar el Dรญa del Perdรณn. ยฟQuiรฉn le puede prohibir algo asรญ? Sus tรญas ayunan, su abuelo tambiรฉn, y su abuela ayunaba antes de morir. En su casa no ayuna nadie pero su mamรก misma ha dicho que los que ayunan son muy judรญos. ยฟAlguien se animarรญa a pedirle a ella que no sea muy judรญa? En realidad, ser muy judรญa o poco judรญa le da exactamente lo mismo. Todo precepto religioso le parece una perfecta idiotez โha crecidoโ y lo รบnico que quiere es demostrarse a sรญ misma que es capaz de no probar siquiera una gota de agua durante veinticuatro horas. Resulta una experiencia fuerte: el ayuno debe ser absoluto, como su mamรก le ha dicho que ayunan los muy judรญos, asรญ que debe tener mucho cuidado incluso cuando se lava los dientes para no tragar siquiera una milรฉsima de gotita de agua. ยฟY ese gusto que siente en la boca? ยฟNo serรก que involuntariamente ha tragado un micrรณn de gotita? Claro que no, quรฉ estรบpida, si las papilas gustativas estรกn en la lengua. Pero, entonces, ยฟpor quรฉ despuรฉs de un rato el sabor desaparece? ยฟSerรก una propiedad de lo saboreable desaparecer despuรฉs de un rato o es que ella ha tragado algo de dentรญfrico y el sabor se le fue por la garganta? ยฟY la saliva? ยฟEstรก permitido tragarse la saliva? Sรญ, mientras uno no realice el acto voluntario de tragar. Pero apenas llega a esta conclusiรณn le vienen esas ganas insoportables de tragar que la vuelven loca: trata de pensar en otra cosa pero no puede. Contra el desaliento, irrumpe la idea de que la dificultad y esta lucha consigo misma son parte de su hazaรฑa. Cuando aparece la primera estrella el triunfo es total. ย ย ย ย ย ย Las promesas, en cambio, son hechas directamente a Dios y siempre estรกn asociadas a un objetivo concreto, en general al pedido de algo cuyo cumplimiento resulta imperioso โlos pedidos corrientes se realizan de manera directa, provocan un alivio inmediato con sรณlo haber sido formulados, y no requieren promesa algunaโ. Ella trata de que la tarea o hazaรฑa a cumplir tenga consecuencias beneficiosas; es habitual que lo prometido consista en algo que ella tendrรญa que hacer pero que su naturaleza perezosa o su perversidad le impide llevar a cabo. La promesa tiene fuerza suficiente como para atravesar estas barreras; es asรญ que, ademรกs de garantizar la concesiรณn del pedido, trae el beneficio del cumplimiento mismo โel silicio no se hizo para ellaโ. En los รบltimos tiempos, varias promesas de orden alimenticio le han permitido llegar a ser tan delgada como siempre quiso. Hace poco se ha mirado en el espejo y, por primera vez, se ha gustado: otra cosa que le debe agradecer a Dios. A veces โmuy pocas vecesโ hace una promesa que no puede cumplir. Entonces, antes de que llegue el castigo de Dios, se castiga ella misma. Como una ofrenda, le promete a Dios algo todavรญa mรกs difรญcil que lo descartado o mรกs largo de cumplir. Y รฉl lo acepta. Las relaciones entre los dos son de total armonรญa. Ella ahora agradece el no haber recibido el menor atisbo de una educaciรณn religiosa. Esto le ha permitido conocer a Dios en su esencia, sin ataduras ni mandatos. รl siempre estรก cuando lo necesita. La escucha, la entiende y la cuida. Por difรญcil que sea a veces la vida, ella sabe que, bajo su manto protector, nada malo puede pasarle.
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God’s Story II
Living with God is something else. She still can’t sleep thinking that Lucia will go crazy and kill her with a knife, that her father and mother will die in an accident, that a lion is waiting for her behind the dining room table. And in the early mornings she still wakes up drowning in terror because of the things she should have done and didn’t do, but when she really wants something that would make her unhappy if it didn’t happen, she asks God for it and knows that, one way or another, he will manage to make it happen for her. Every night she prays to him. From her bed, in the dark, when everyone in the house is in bed, without making the slightest sound so that Lucia does not discover her, she puts her palms together on her chest and begins a prayer that always begins: Little God of my life. The requests are of various kinds and, in general, of feasible resolution and not immediate fulfillment; she would not like to put God in a difficult situation. Little by little, the prayer takes on a form: a kind of mold that admits multiple variables. There are requests that are issued only once; others, of far-reaching scope, are repeated many nights in a row; There are also purely conversational lines (she finds that God understands her better than anyone else, that even certain weaknesses and contradictions of hers that she would find difficult to explain to others are quickly accepted by God: he knows the motivations for everything, which is why he usually does not agree with what people say about what is right and what is wrong: for Mariana, who is always against what teachers and reading books recommend, it is a real relief to talk to him). For the end of the prayer, as for the beginning, there is a unique formula: a kiss on the tip of the fingers that is then sent up to heaven. It is not that she places God there or in any place. Allusions to Paradise, for example, seem as little credible to her as fairy tales. But she finds height a good observation area for someone capable of knowing what is happening to people. She does not believe that he knows or is interested in knowing at all times what is happening to all people. In every circumstance, he pays attention to what needs to be paid to. He always pays attention to her: he likes her way of being: that she speaks to him about you and that she doesn’t think that one has to behave like the sensible girls in the reading books. For all these reasons, her bond with God is secret and incommunicable. How could she explain to her companions that they cross themselves in every dangerous situation and pray the Our Father and go to confession when they think they have done wrong in word or deed, that God is bored to death by formalities and that he never paid attention to the stupid things they call sins? He does have fun with her: he likes her way of being. The dialogue between them is frequent and enjoyable. She keeps asking him for things and he, in his own way, fulfills everything. Little by little, the possibility of punishments is introduced into the relationship and the system becomes more and more complex. To understand it in some way, we must differentiate challenges from promises. Challenges do not require God’s direct intervention; it is implied that he must control something – if not, who? – but she does not ask him for anything in return; the fulfillment of the test itself and having thus escaped punishment are the reward. For example: she says that she has to step on nothing but red tiles on a street where almost all the tiles are blue and there is only one zigzag path, with interruptions, of red ones. If she steps on a tile that is not red, three misfortunes will happen to her before the end of the month. She walks with her heart hanging by a thread until, finally, she reaches a sidewalk of yellow tiles and is safe. Or she approaches a dog that frightens her and strokes its head. Or she counts to thirty with her head under water. The threat of something terrible always looms over failure. So it is, in a way, a question of doing or dying. There is a very special challenge when she is twelve years old. What is special about her is that she has been able to announce it with great fanfare without her father or mother being able to stop her. What she has decided and told them she is going to do is fast on the Day of Atonement. Who can forbid her to do that? Her aunts fast, her grandfather too, and her grandmother fasted before she died. No one in her house fasts, but her mother herself has said that those who fast are very Jewish. Would anyone dare ask her not to be very Jewish? In reality, being very Jewish or not very Jewish is exactly the same to her. Every religious precept seems to her to be completely idioticโshe has grown upโand all she wants is to prove to herself that she is capable of not touching even a drop of water for twenty-four hours. It is a powerful experience: the fast must be absolute, as her mother has told her that the Jews fast, so she must be very careful even when brushing her teeth not to swallow even a thousandth of a drop of water. And that taste she feels in her mouth? Could it be that she has involuntarily swallowed a micron of a drop? Of course not, how stupid, if the taste buds are on the tongue. But then, why does the taste disappear after a while? Is it a property of the taste to disappear after a while or has she swallowed some toothpaste and the taste went down her throat? And the saliva? Is it permissible to swallow saliva? Yes, as long as one does not perform the voluntary act of swallowing. But as soon as she reaches this conclusion she is hit by this unbearable desire to swallow that drives her crazy: she tries to think of something else but cannot. Against the discouragement, the idea breaks in that the difficulty and this struggle with herself are part of her feat. When the first star appears, the triumph is total. Promises, on the other hand, are made directly to God and are always associated with a specific objective, generally with a request for something whose fulfillment is imperative – ordinary requests are made directly, they cause immediate relief just by being formulated, and they do not require any promise. She tries to make the task or feat to be accomplished have beneficial consequences; it is usual for the promise to consist of something that she should do but that her lazy nature or her perversity prevents her from carrying out. The promise is strong enough to cross these barriers; thus, in addition to guaranteeing the granting of the request, it brings the benefit of the fulfillment itself – the silicone was not made for her. In recent times, various promises of food have allowed her to become as thin as she always wanted. She recently looked in the mirror and, for the first time, she liked herself: another thing she has to thank God for. Sometimes – very rarely – she makes a promise that she cannot keep. Then, before God’s punishment comes, she punishes herself. As an offering, she promises God something even more difficult than what she had discarded or that would take longer to fulfill. And he accepts it. The relationship between the two is completely harmonious. She is now grateful for not having received the slightest hint of a religious education. This has allowed her to know God in his essence, without ties or mandates. He is always there when she needs him. He listens to her, understands her and takes care of her. However difficult life may be at times, she knows that, under his protective mantle, nothing bad can happen to her.
Yaco Nowens naciรณ en Buenos Aires en 1938. Estudiรณ en la Escuela Nacional de Bellas Artes Manuel Belgrano y en los talleres de Josรฉ Maltz y Mรฉndez Terrero hasta 1965. Trabajรณ como dibujante en Clarรญn. Teรณrico de arte y coeditor de la revista de artes plรกsticas รleo y Mรกrmol junto con Teresa Pociello. Sus primeras muestras fueron como dibujante, junto a Quino, Garaycochea y Landrรบ. En 1964 o 1965 lo empiezan a invitar y Renรฉ Morรณn, su maestro y guรญa, lo obligรณ a exponer y asรญ comenzรณ. Dictรณ conferencias nacionales e internacionales. Miembro de Sociรฉtรฉ des Auteurs dans les Arts Graphiques et Plastiques de Parรญs. En 1972 invitado por la OEA viajรณ a Estados Unidos. Expuso en la Argentina, Estados Unidos, Israel, Corea, Venezuela, Espaรฑa, Ecuador, Francia y Cuba. โSu obra de los aรฑos 1960 era netamente confesional, desde el expresionismo, Mรกs adelante, impresionado por los informalistas del Grupo del Paso de Espaรฑa, Pollock y Kooning, su obra se mantiene dentro de una abstracciรณn lรญrica que nos permite adivinar el gesto de la pincelada manteniendo el todo dentro de composiciones de gran equilibrio geomรฉtrico y afรญn a las primeras etapas del cubismo. De colores restallantes, y de lรญneas que se entrecruzan a veces, para aludir a una marcada y cierta figuraciรณn paisajรญsticaโ, (Rafael Squirru). Tambiรฉn bajo la direcciรณn del artista plรกstico Yaco Nowens, el periรณdico judรญo y militante Nueva Presencia se seguirรญa editando desde 1987 hasta 1993, aรฑo en que Di Presse quebrรณ definitivamente.
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Yaco Nowens was born in Buenos Aires in 1938. He studied at the Manuel Belgrano National School of Fine Arts and in the workshops of Josรฉ Maltz and Mรฉndez Terrero until 1965. He worked as a draftsman for Clarรญn. He was an art theorist and co-editor of the visual arts magazine รleo y Mรกrmol together with Teresa Pociello. His first exhibitions were as a draftsman, alongside Quino, Garaycochea and Landrรบ. In 1964 or 1965 he began to receive invitations and Renรฉ Morรณn, his teacher and guide, forced him to exhibit and that’s how he began. He gave national and international lectures. He is a member of the Sociรฉtรฉ des Auteurs dans les Arts Graphiques et Plastiques in Paris. In 1972, invited by the OAS, he traveled to the United States. He exhibited in Argentina, the United States, Israel, Korea, Venezuela, Spain, Ecuador, France and Cuba. โHis work from the 1960s was clearly confessional, from an expressionist perspective. Later, impressed by the informalists of the Grupo del Paso in Spain, Pollock and Kooning, his work remained within a lyrical abstraction that allows us to guess the gesture of the brushstroke, keeping the whole within compositions of great geometric balance and akin to the early stages of cubism. With bright colours and lines that sometimes intersect, to allude to a marked and certain landscape figurationโ, (Rafael Squirru). Also, under the direction of the visual artist Yaco Nowens, the Jewish and militant newspaper Nueva Presencia continued to be published from 1987 to 1993, the year in which Di Presse went bankrupt definitively.
Retrato de Yaco Nowens por el gran artista judรญo-argentino Gyula Kosice/A Portrait of Yako Nowens by the great Argentine Jewish artist Gyula Kosice
Robert Schopflocher naciรณ en una familia judรญa alemana asimilada. Despuรฉs de que los nazis tomaron el poder, fue excluido de asistir a la escuela primaria humanรญstica en Fรผrth y en su lugar asistiรณ a un internado judรญo. En abril de 1937, su familia huyรณ a Argentina. Allรญ, Schopflocher asistiรณ a la Escuela Pestalozzi fundada por August Siemsen. He publicado varios artรญculos en la revista del exilio La Otra Alemania editada por Siemsen. Sin embargo, por motivos econรณmicos no pudo iniciar una carrera como periodista o autor. Despuรฉs de completar sus estudios de agronomรญa, Schopflocher trabajรณ como administrador agrรญcola y comerciante de importaciones. Escribiรณ varios libros de texto y obras especializadas sobre temas agrรญcolas. A partir de la dรฉcada de 1980 tambiรฉn comenzรณ a escribir literatura: ensayos, crรญticas, cuentos y poemas, todos escritos inicialmente en espaรฑol. El autor tenรญa mรกs de setenta aรฑos cuando empezรณ a escribir en alemรกn. El impulso para esto provino de sus experiencias al traducir sus propios escritos al alemรกn. Al hacerlo, Schopflocher tuvo la impresiรณn 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 Erzรคhler [El narrador], 2018) A partir de ese momento, escribiรณ sus historias y novelas en alemรกn. En ensayos y conferencias, se comprometiรณ con su bilingรผismo como escritor. Roberto Schopflocher fue miembro honorario del Centro PEN de Escritores de Habla Alemana en el Extranjero. En 2008 la ciudad de Fรผrth le otorgรณ el premio Jakob Wassermann.
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Robert Schopflocherย was born into an assimilated German-Jewish family. After the Nazis seized power, he was excluded from attending the humanistic grammar school inย Fรผrthย and instead attended a Jewish boarding school. In April 1937, his family fled to Argentina. There,ย Schopflocherย attended the Pestalozzi School founded byย August Siemsen. He published several articles in the exile magazineย La otra Alemaniaย edited byย 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 โ 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 โSchichtโ (โlayerโ) and revealing the โin der Muttersprache abgelagerte[n] Urtextโ (โoriginal text deposited in my mother tongueโ, ed. trans, Quotation based on Dirk Niefanger/Gunnar Och, Robert Schopflocher, der Erzรคhler [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 Fรผrth awarded him the Jakob Wassermann Prize.
Reencuentros La historia de un perdedor
Lo reconocรญ de inmediato, por mรกs que alcancรฉ a verlo tan sรณlo de espaldas. Y eso que habรญan pasado varios aรฑos sin que nuestros caminos se cruzaran: prรกcticamente, desde que fracaso nuestro negocio, el รบnico que habรญamos emprendido juntos. Quizรก 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 podรญa otro que Marcos Silberman, Marquitos para sus allegados. La cola de sol resignados ciudadanos avanzaba lentamente.
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Mรกs de una vez mamรก me lo habรญa advertido: el chico aquรฉl es un tiro al aire y, acรณrdate de mis palabras, va a terminar mal. Nunca me enterรฉ en quรฉ fundaba sus presagios, acompaรฑado por una mirada lanzada al cielo y un suspiro, de รฉsos que sรณlo ella sabรญa emitir.
Marquitos ero un hijo de nuestros vecinos, el mรกs grande de los tres. Un chico lleno de ideas fascinantes. Sentรญa una profunda admiraciรณn por quien era para mรญ como ese hermano mayor, que yo no tenรญa. Debo aclarar que ser vecino significaba mucho en nuestra colonia, casi tanto como ser pariente. A veces, mรกs.
A primera vista, nuestras casas se parecรญan. Las mismas galerรญas. Imp de sus costados cerrado por enredaderas de flores olorosas: olorosas: madreselvas, jazmines, glicinas. Las mismas cocinas con dos hornallas, alimentadas a marlos y carbรณn de leรฑa. Idรฉnticas casillas de retrete, a treinta pasos detrรกs, el fondo del patio, en cuyo entro algunos paraรญsos, aplacaban con su sombra el fuego de las siestas estivales; de noche, nuestras gallinas dormรญan en sus ramas. Cortinas de crochet delante de las pequeรฑas ventanas; en la pared, las fotos de viejos barbudos de bajo del vidrio bombรฉ en marco ovalado. Con el correr de los aรฑos descubrรญ las diferencias. En la casa de los Silberman habรญa mรกs 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 รณleos; paisajes suizos con montaรฑas nevadas, alegres cabaรฑas y algunos cervatillos. Desde luego, cada familia poseรญa su propia historia, su propio lenguaje secreto y hasta sus propios chistes. Ahรญ se notaban las mayores diferencias entre los Silberman y nosotros, los Burdanek.
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Poco antes de tocarle el turno, Marcos se dio vuelta y me descubriรณ: ยกQuรฉ casualidad! Lo era de verdad, pues tragarme colas no formaba parte de mis costumbres. Mi tiempo vale oro. Me abrazรณ. Efusivamente, dirรญa yo. Quรฉ es tu vida, quise saber. Y entonces, en lugar de conformarme con cualquier contestaciรณn anodina, puso cara de misterio. Mรกs tarde te cuento, me prometiรณ. Lo mirรฉ con mayor detenciรณn. Registrรฉ el paรฑo lustroso de su traje, la camisa de cuello gastado, el portfolio raรญdo y deformado. A quรฉ tanto misterio, me dije algo fastidiado. Seguramente correteaba los artรญculos plรกsticos queโrecordรฉโfabricaba su suegro, un engreรญdo emigrante alemรกn, que tenรญa bien corto de riendas a ese yerno bohemio en sus severos ojos. De algo hay que vivir, solรญa vivir decir mi finado padre, de algo decente en lo posible. La รบltima vez que tropecรฉ con mi amigo fue en un negocio de muebles de jardรญn sobre la Panamericana, al cual; mi mujer me habรญa arrastrado para conseguir un juego de sillones de hierro, que consideraba de imperiosa necesidad para nuestra quita el club del campo. Fue varios aรฑos despuรฉs de haber perdido nuestre asesorรญa; yo estaba organizando mi shopping-center. Recurro a las etapas de mis negocios para medir el tiempo. Asรญ como otros emplean el crecimiento de sus hijos a modo de cronรณmetro. Cada uno tiene su mรฉtodo.
Entonces fui testigo de la derrota de mi amigo como vendedor de enanos de terracota, aquellos hombrecillos de gorro rojo que sonreรญan bondadosos detrรกs 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 โclase Media, mรกs bien bajaโ, como suele expresarse Yolanda, mi mujer.
La escena que me tocรณ 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 rincรณn, sus catรกlogos y listas de precios en el regazo. El dueรฑo del negocio lo habรญa plantado para atender a un caballero, quien con culto susurro manifestaba su interรฉs por uno de esos curiosos enanos, figurillas divertidos, expresiรณn de arte popular, que estaban llegando del Lejano Oriente. El comerciante simulaba no entender; uno nunca sabe si no estรก tratando con algรบn inspector disfrazado, a la pesca de una coima. Por ese seรฑor de compartimento educado, casi se dirรญa tรญmido, mรกs bien se parecรญa al gerente de una antigua casa exportadora de cereales. Hasta podrรญa ser inglรฉs. O catedrรกtico. No se inmutรณ ante el trato elusivo recibido. Ponderรณ el ingenio oriental y el humor popular de un tal Rabelais, quien segรบn se explicaba, no sabรญa de falsos pudores. Citรณ la mitologรญa de Los Antiguos y el Kamasutra, para terminar con las pinturas erรณticas en los muros de las villas de Pompeya.
El comerciante, convencido por fin de la legitimidad del cliente, lo condujo al rincรณn mรกs apartado del salรณn de ventas, pasando por los toboganes y hamacas, sombrillas y colchonetas inflables, hasta llegar a unos enanos de aspecto inocente. De lejos reconocรญ el estilo: engendros de plรกstico reforzado, que portaban delantales de vinรญlica imitaciรณn cuero. El vendedor alzรณ el delantal de uno ellos con gesto dramรกtico, dejando al descubierto un falo obscenamente gigante.
El respetable caballero parecรญa satisfecho; elogiรณ la excelente muestra del arte oriental, como si fuese experto en la materia. Y ordenรณ que cargasen la figura en el coche, cuidando de que no se le quebrara nada. Sin chistar pagรณ el precio exigido.
ยฟSe dio cuenta? โse dirigiรณ el comerciante a Marcos, una vez que el cliente dejรณ el local. –ยฟPor quรฉ no se les ocurren ideas nuevas a los industriales nacionales?
La verdad, somos unos atrasados โ admitiรณ Marquitos con aparente contriciรณn — ยกLo que son los orientales!
Alcancรฉ a observar la cara burlona de mi amigo.
–Viera el รฉxito que tienen esos enanitos pornogrรกficos. 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 antropolรณgicos del asunto; me dan cรกtedra sobre mitologรญa, 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. Crรฉame: yo los fajo que es un gusto; cobro mi impuesto a la lujuria.
El hombre parรณ de hablar. Con una sonrisa de simpatรญa miraba ese infeliz corredor de enanos pasados de moda. Rictus que, en realidad, no era mรกs que un tic nervioso; tal vez la consecuencia del trato demasiado รญntimo con tantos gnomos.
Y entonces sucediรณ algo que no olvidarรฉ por el resto de mi vida. El semblante de Marcos parecรญa iluminarse por dentro; era como si de repente se volviese transparente, dejando al descubierto su verdadera personalidad, oculta detrรกs de la mรกscara de humilde viajante:
–Lo que es importante es satisfacer los deseos de los seres humanos, para que vivan mรกs felices y reine la paz sobre la Tierra โ dijo como pensando en voz alta. Era patente que no se referรญa esos vulgares adefesios.
El comerciante no respondiรณ; se limitรณ a seguir mirรกndolo con se engaรฑosa pseudosonrisa.
Evoquรฉ la ceremonia nupcial en el shil, la pequeรฑa sinagoga de nuestra colonia. Con asombrosa nitidez me llegaron esos detalles minรบsculos, que, analizados en la retrospectiva, parecรญan presagiar los futuros acontecimientos. El leve tufo a sรณtano sin ventilar y la lumbre amarillenta que irradiaban los cirios, bajo el palio, se confundรญan en la luz รกcida de los Sol de Noche. Un clima irreal que me sacudiรณ. Cuando observรฉ a Anita, que tomaba del brazo de su padre que se dirigรญa al palio, acudiรณ a mi memoria una frase de Rabรญ Moshe Lieb: <<Nuestro camino en este mundo es como el filo de una navaja: de un lado estรก el mundo ilusorio y de aquel, el otro mundo. El camino de la vita estรก entre los dos>>. No se crea que yo soy un conocedor de la Cรกbala. Nada de eso: habรญa escuchado la cita aรฑos atrรกs 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 olรญa de misticismo, habรญa reprochado a su compaรฑero. ยกCitar semejantes herejรญas en presencia de los niรฑos! Hay que saberse, que mi abuela se aferraba al Shuljan Aruj, compendio que regula la vida de los judรญos conforme con la Ley de Moisรฉs, tal como fue codificada por los talmudistas. Como era lรณgico, contaba con el apoyo incondicional de nuestro shoijet, mientras que el gerente de la cooperativa integraba un dรบo apรณstata con el maestro de hebreo. Ninguno de los dos pertenecรญa al cรญrculo รญntimo de los viejos, y eso sรณlo por ser de otra generaciรณn. El maestro detestaba la rigidez de las leyes rabรญnicas que, segรบn รฉl, estaban asfixiando las fuerzas vitales de los judรญos, a los que รบnicamente el retorno a las fuentes vivas en la vieja-nueva patria podrรญan redimir. Y segรบn el gerente, todas las religiones no eran mรกs que opio para los pueblos. Recuerdo como los dos instaron a mi abuelo para que diera cumplimento a las leyes de la Torรก, lapidando sin mรกs trรกmite a todas las adรบlteras que conocรญa. El abuelo de Marcos se abstenรญa de intervenir en semejantes disputas. Segรบn supe aรฑos mรกs tarde, preferรญa enfrascarse en el estudio del Hemet yamin e ilustrarse asรญ sobre c cรณmo segur una vida conforme con la Cรกbala. A decir la verdad: nunca lleguรฉ a comprender los argumentos esgrimidos por los bebedores de tรฉ. Pero recuerdo la mรบsica de sus voces: la estridencia belicosa de mi irritable abuelo y el profundo cรกntico tranquilizador de Reb Abraham.
*
El servicio en el temple estaba a cargo de Reb Duvid, nuestro shoijet, cuyo fantasma se empeรฑรณ en saludarme mientras yo manejaba el coche. Un hombrecillo enjuto, el rostro pรกlido enmarcado por una barba rala, de nariz larga y filosa, que transmitรญa una impresiรณn de frรกgil espiritualidad. En mis recuerdos sigue canturreando las siete bendiciones de prรกctica. La novia da sus siete vueltas en turno al grupo reunido bajo el palio. Rodeos como lo exige la costumbre. Como siete son los dรญas de la semana y siete vueltas ce la correa alrededor del antebrazo para fijar la cรกpsula de las filacterias. Siete, nos explicaba el abuelo de Marquitos, pese a las protestas de su propia mujer: el valor de letra zeta, zaรญn, que conduce a zโman, el tiempo, con cuyas fibras estรก tejida nuestra identidad. El maestro de hebreo, ese truculente burlador, tenรญa preparada una explicaciรณn irreverente para las siete vueltas de la novia. :as da, pontificaba, para que la concurrencia se convenza de que la niรฑa no estรก embarazada. La entrega del anillo, luego, y la antiquรญsima fรณrmula consagratoria, pronunciada por el novio. Creo que fui uno de los pocos que advirtieron el pequeรฑo incidente que se produjo cuando Anita procurรณ levantar el velo para llevar el cรกliz a sus labios. El tul, prรฉstamo de la madre de Marcos, se enredรณ, y cuando Werner ayudรณ a subirlo se rasgรณ.
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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 thatโI rememberedโhis 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 โmiddle class, rather lower class,โ 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? โ 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 โ admitted Marquitos with apparent contrition โ 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 naciรณ en Buenos Aires en 1939 en el seno de una familia de intelectuales de izquierda. Su madre, catรณlica , Alicia Ortiz, fue una escritora feminista y comunista, y su padre, judรญo, Carlos Dujovne, un dirigente del PC argentino que cursรณ estudios en Moscรบ y fue miembro de la Internacional Sindical Roja. En 1978 A.D.O. se instalรณ en Francia, huyendo de la dictadura militar implantada en su paรญs. En efecto, como redactora cultural del diario La Opiniรณn, intervenido por el ejรฉrcito y cuyo director, Jacobo Timerman, fue torturado en una cรกrcel clandestina, su situaciรณn estaba particularmente comprometida. Gracias a una pequeรฑa beca de la Embajada de Francia, viajรณ a Parรญs con su hija de trece aรฑos. Al poco tiempo firmรณ su primer contrato de ediciรณn con el Mercure de France y comenzรณ a colaborar en los diarios Les Nouvelles Littรฉraires y Le Monde. Mรกs tarde le siguieron editoriales como Gallimard, Grasset o La Dรฉcouverte en las que publicรณ unos veinte libros. Su obra suma en total treinta y cinco volรบmenes, algunos de ellos editados solo en castellano y otros, solo en francรฉs. En castellano publicรณ las novelas La procesiรณn va por dentro, Marea, 2019, La mรกs agraciada y La Madama, Planeta, 2015 y 2013, Un corazรณn tan recio, La muรฑeca rusa, Las perlas rojas, Anita cubierta de arena,Mireya, El รกrbol de la gitana, Alfaguara, 2011, 2009, 2005, 2004, 1998 y 1991, El agujero en la tierra, Monte Avila, Caracas, 1982, El buzรณn de la esquina, Calicanto, 1980, asรญ como las biografรญas y crรณnicas Cronista de dos mundos y Milagro, Marea, 2021 y 2017, Quiรฉn matรณ a Diego Duarte, Crรณnicas de la basura, Aguilar, 2011, El camarada Carlos, Eva Perรณn, La biografรญa (best-seller internacional), Alfaguara, 2008 y 1995, Dora Maar, Prisionera de la mirada, Vaso Roto, Mรฉxico, 2003, Al que se va, Zorzal, 2002, Maradona soy yo, Emecรฉ, 1992, y Maria Elena Walsh, Jรบcar, Madrid, 1980. Varios de sus libros han sido traducidos a mรกs de veinte idiomas. Recibiรณ el Premio Konex de Platino, la Mission Stendhal del gobierno francรฉs o la beca de creaciรณn de la John Simon GuggenheimโFondation. Es miembro del PEF (Parlement des Ecrivaines Francophones). Acaba de terminar Aguardiente, tercera novela de autoficciรณn de una obra basada en el tema del exilio que llevarรก el tรญtulo general de Andanzas e incluye El รกrbol de la gitana y Las perlas rojas. Ha retomado la pintura, abandonada desde hace โapenasโ sesenta aรฑos, y prepara una exposiciรณn en la Embajada argentina en Parรญs. Tiene, ademรกs 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 Opiniรณn, 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, โโshe 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 Littรฉraires and Le Monde. Later, publishers such as Gallimard, Grasset and La Dรฉcouverte 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 Perรณn, 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), Emecรฉ (1992), and Maria Elena Walsh (Maria Elena Walsh), Jรบcar (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 procesiรณn va por dentro, Marea, 2019: La mรกs agraciada y La Madama, Planeta, 2015 y 2013, Un corazรณn tan recio, La muรฑeca rusa, Las perlas rojas, Anita cubierta de arena,Mireya, El รกrbol de la gitana, Alfaguara, 2011, 2009, 2005, 2004, 1998 y 1991: El agujero en la tierra, Monte Avila, Caracas, 1982, El buzรณn de la esquina, Calicanto, 1980, as well as biografรญas y crรณnicas Cronista de dos mundos y Milagro, Marea, 2021 y 2017, Quiรฉn matรณ a Diego Duarte, Crรณnicas de la basura, Aguilar, 2011, El camarada Carlos, Eva Perรณn. 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 รกrbol de la gitana (The Gypsy Tree) and Las perlas rojas (Red Pearls). She has taken up painting again, having abandoned it โbarelyโ 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: Trilogรญa autobiogrรกfica. EQUIDISTANCIAS. Kindle Edition.
Colonia Carmel
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Inesperadamente, Samuel se le acercรณ: โEntonces, vรกmonos. A ella la excitaciรณn la hizo ponerse de pie. Sin darse cuenta pateรณ unas hojas y preguntรณ con voz estrangulada: โ ยฟEn serio lo decรญs? ยฟTe irรญas? โยฟQuรฉ se puede perder? Volviรณ a sentarse, enfurruรฑada. โ La respuesta no es รฉsa. Si uno se va al fin del mundo, a las colonias agrarias del Barรณn de Hirsch, no serรก para encogerse de hombros con semejante amargura. โCada uno reacciona como puede, Sรกrele. Apenada, ella le insuflรณ รกnimos con un cariรฑo un poco seco, acariciรกndole la mejilla con la palma abierta, en forma vertical, como si lo afeitara. Mientras lo hacรญa volviรณ a la carga: โยฟSabรฉs cuรกnto recibirรก cada colono, Samuel? Trescientas hectรกreas. โSerรกn treinta. โTe digo que trescientas. Y le contรณ de nuevo lo que el novio sabรญa de memoria: que habรญa ido a Kishinev para escuchar la conferencia del emisario del barรณn, ese barรณn francรฉs que los querรญa salvar de los pogroms. Y que trescientas hectรกreas en la Argentina no eran nada, porque la pampa aquรฉlla era una estepa inacabable. Y repetรญa las palabras โllanuraโ e โinfinitaโ con tales gestos de grandeza, que Samuel la besรณ para impedir que se volara. A veces creemos besar al dueรฑo de unos labios, cuando en realidad estamos besando una idea. En los labios de Sara, รฉl besรณ a la Argentina, y ni siquiera, tal como ella lo temรญa, fue un beso esperanzado, sino movido por un recuerdo de plumas blancas. Para los judรญos de Besarabia, el dรญa en que asesinaron a Alejandro II se convirtiรณ en un dรญa de plumas blancas. Samuel de ese pogrom no recordaba muertos ni sangre, recordaba colchones abiertos y manos de cosacos que se metรญan por los tajos de los colchones para buscar el dinero judรญo, y un gran cuchillo que despanzurraba su propio colchoncito, y una nieve de plumas revoloteando por la casa. Se estremeciรณ: โPero a mรญ que no me den trescientas hectรกreas, Sรกrele. ยฟQuรฉ voy a hacer con tanta tierra? โAprenderemos. Trabajaremos con la hoz y el arado y nos liberaremos de la condena intelectual. โยฟComo querรฉs que me libere de la condena intelectual? Y entonces ella, completamente harta: โยกAy, 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 sรกnscritas, me vas a salir con que tenรฉs sangre gitana y que los gitanos vinieron de la India y que vos por eso estudiรกs sรกnscrito, y que ni los judรญos ni los gitanos necesitamos tierra. iPero es que yo no puedo mรกs, Samuel, no puedo mรกs, y despertate, que la vida no es eso! โยฟNo te parece que alguien va rehaciendo un dibujo? โmurmurรณ รฉl sin escucharlaโ. Hablaremos espaรฑol, nosotros que vinimos de Jazaria…lehuda Halevy cuenta que cuando el ministro judรญo del califa de Cรณrdoba se enterรณ de que existรญa un reino judรญo a orillas del mar Caspio … โMirรก, Samuel, si no te despertรกs, yo me voy sola. Samuel levantรณ el vaso de tรฉ con mango de plata que la chusma cristiana, por azar, no se habรญa llevado, mirรณ al trasluz el lรญquido rojizo con su kinoto almibarado en el fondo y pronunciรณ โยฟquรฉ remedio cabรญa? โel discurso impetuoso que Sara y los demรกs futuros inmigrantes esperaban del maestro de escuela, pero que dos padres y dos madres escucharon de lejos, como en un sueรฑo: โEl Barรณn de Hirsch… nunca mรกs un pogrom … una colonia que nos espera en la provincia de Entre Rรญos … los judรญos nacidos en la Argentina precisarรกn maestros… basta de leyendas… al fin podrรฉ decirles que Moisรฉs aprovechรณ la marea baja para cruzar el Mar Rojo … Argentina, tierra de promisiรณn … todos los hombres de buena voluntad … brazos abiertos … generaciones creciendo como el trigo… un campo para sembrar ideas … Pestalozzi … mis ideales de enseรฑanza … colaborar con el crecimiento de una nueva Naciรณn, quรฉ regalo de la Historia. El samovar seguรญa proclamando, incansable, โalgo se preparaโ, pero ya nadie era capaz de oรญr su resplandor. ยฟLos jasidim? Enmohecidos. No era que las leyendas se hubiesen acabado: habรญan sido reemplazadas por otras que exhibรญan textos distintos. Definitivamente instalados sobre sus cuatro sillas, los padres de Sara y de Samuel optaban por callarse. La redenciรณn por el trabajo de la tierra no les decรญa mucho. ยฟY de su propio dolor, podรญan 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 tรฉ, es un frutito arrugado de color pardo. Lo รบnico que atinรณ a expresar el viejo Akiba fue: โY bueno, cada generaciรณn se cuenta un cuento. Pero Sara y Samuel no lo escucharon. No podรญan. Para lograr marcharse, tenรญan 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 seguรญan 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 habrรก de llevar a la otra tierra. No hay momento mรกs grave, salvo el de morirse, y en ambos se hacen testamentos. โยกNo te vas a llevar esa gorrita agujereada! โSรกrele, ยฟcรณmo voy a dejar esta gorrita? โSi no sos capaz de desprenderte de una gorra, quedate en Rusia. ยฟEntonces quรฉ llevaron? ยฟQuรฉ envolvieron en trapos con una ambiciรณn de dignidad visible en los remiendos? ยฟQuรฉ metieron en canastas despeluzadas y en el bolsรณn del tรญo que navegรณ por el Mar Negro? ยฟEdredones de plumas? El calor de la Argentina los tornรณ inรบtiles y se volvieron almohadas. ยฟEl samovar? Para tomar mate no se necesita mรกs que una pava. Eso sรญ, cargaron con infinidad de paquetitos. La pobreza acumula. Solo el rico se desplaza con una sola valija fรกcil de llevar. El pobre arrastra bรกrtulos siempre bamboleantes y fardos anudados a los que abraza como si fueran niรฑos. Pero lo necesita. No sabrรญa partir con poca cosa. Asรญ, al confortar sus espaldas con la tibieza de un bulto, se siente acompaรฑado. Se vistieron de velorio, รฉl con el hongo en la cabeza, ella con el paรฑuelo y, de inmediato, se encontraron extraรฑos. Como vestidos con ropa ajena. La crispaciรณn del hombro o la cadera hacรญa chingar la falda o la chaqueta. Se las habรญan puesto cientos de veces, pero lo que ahora las hacรญa diferentes era la actitud de los cuerpos con el adiรณs adentro: nadie se para del mismo modo cuando se va para siempre. Al marcharse perdรญan su familia, su paรญs y su nombre. Nadie mรกs los llamarรญa Dujovne con el matiz exacto de la e, esa e entre dos aguas, de origen tรกrtaro, que se desliza entre la e y la y, mientras la lengua, casi pegada al paladar, deja pasar el aire. Lo sabรญan tan bien que ya apartaban de sus rostros, como espantรกndose una mosca, la tentativa de explicar cรณmo se pronunciaba el apellido, admitiendo de Desde aquel rio pardo, Buenos Aires se confundรญa con la pampa. โLlegamos โles dijeron. ยฟAdรณnde? Aquello era lo menos parecido a un lugar de llegada. Algo habรญa, sรญ, ยกpero tan chato! Juntos trotaron en manada, floja la pierna, arrugado el ropรณn, hasta el Hotel de Inmigrantes. Por las ventanas aparecรญa una ciudad con techos de pizarra, igual que en Parรญs, con ventanas de rejas, igual que en Madrid, y con cรบpulas verdes rodeadas de matronas aladas, igual que en Roma. De allรญ los embarcaron rumbo a Concepciรณn del Uruguay y, al fin, apareciรณ un pueblito llamado Villa Domรญnguez donde unos hombres con botas, pantalรณn abullonado, chaqueta corta y sombrero negro los miraron de lado. โยกCosacos! โexclamรณ Sara. Los reciรฉn llegados se volvieron hacia Samuel. Era el maestro, ya habรญa tenido que aprender un poco de espaรฑol. No muy seguro de sรญ, les explicรณ que a esos cosacos los llamaban gauchos, que el parecido se limitaba a la ropa, y quizรกs a la cara, se alisรณ las barbas, el ropรณn, se acomodรณ el honguito, se agachรณ a besar la tierra, se le cayรณ el honguito y, con labio terroso, articulรณ: โยฟCรณmo estรกis, amigos? Un jolgorio sacudiรณ el folclรณrico montรณn. Samuel creyรณ oรญr una palabra conocida y se frotรณ la oreja. Sรญ, era idisch. โยกGauchos judรญos! โgritรณ, abalanzรกndose a besarlos en la boca para horror de algรบn autรฉntico nativo que contemplaba la escena con una sorna parecida al rencor. Todo de beige, con cuello palomita, el administrador de la Jewish Colonisation, israelita francรฉs, se adelantรณ a darles la bienvenida revoleando el bastรณn. Tenรญa los modales adecuados como para que aquellos rusos se sintieran mรกs petisos y malentrazados que nunca. Los hicieron subir a un coche vivaracho que se llamaba sulky, la pampa abriรณ la boca, se los tragรณ, y los gauchos verdaderos, con un asombro creciente al ver que los apรณcrifos conducรญan el sulky de pie, se quedaron mirando con sus ojos oblicuos la polvareda rosa. ยฟPero serรญa posible una tierra tan plana? ยฟTan sin รกrboles? ยฟTan verde, sin embargo, y tan olorosa a vaca que el viento parecรญa contener los espรญritus de un ganado sin fin? Samuel, con amplio gesto, le mostrรณ a su mujer el horizonte circular y seรฑalรณ un punto: โยฟNo ves algo brillante, como de agua, allรก, entre la tierra y el cielo? โSerรก un espejismo. Esto es un desierto โcuando el nivel del entusiasmo subรญa en el marido, en la esposa bajaba. Ocasiรณn demasiado servida en bandeja como para que un maestro de Biblia no se sintiese obligado a contestar: โY aquรญ levantaremos nuestras tiendas. jAh, Sรกrele, Sรกrele! En este vacรญo sin lรญmites, la mirada comprende … Iba a decir: โA D.osโ. Pero se avergonzรณ y dijo: โLa redondez de la Tierraโ. Y llegaron a casa. La casa estaba en medio de la vastedad. No habรญan abandonado la vastedad para entrar en un pueblo amontonado que permitiese olvidarla por las noches, no: habรญa vastedad por adelante, vastedad por detrรกs 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 mirรณ con ese gesto amargo que se le iba dibujando en la boca, el nivel de entusiasmo en ella subiรณ con rapidez: โJuntaremos bosta de vaca para encerarlo bien, con el tiempo se forma una costra dura y brillante como roble de Eslavonia. Piso de madera no habrรญa pero sรญ mesas, roperos, camas, sillas, platos y hasta dos perros que ya tenรญan nombre: Pleve y Stolipin. Era una broma del Barรณn 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, allรญ donde a Samuel le pareciรณ ver el brillo de una laguna. Sobre los postes se demoraba un pรกjaro grande, inmรณvil, negro, a veces ronco. El polvo y el viento formaban conos inmensos que remolineaban como trompos. Y forzando la vista, entonces sรญ podรญa verse a la distancia la copa de algรบn รกrbol, el molino de viento de alguna casa judรญa, que si no ยฟde dรณnde saldrรญan 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 ยกah! de delicia sobre las camas nuevas, Samuel y Sara se miraron perdidos. Les sobraba lugar. Alrededor de sus cuerpos encontraban sitio de mรกs. Por falta de costumbre andaban rรญgidos, con los codos pegados a las caderas cuando, por el contrario, para poblar ese tamaรฑo habrรญan tenido que moverlos como aspas de molino y ocupar el espacio a fuerza de ademanes, porque toda la Tierra es redonda, sรญ, Sรกrele, pero la pampa es muchรญsimo mรกs 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 parecรญa retroceder a cada paso. Avanzaban un poco: el horizonte retrocedรญa otro. Seguรญan avanzando, exasperados, enloquecidos, preguntรกndose cuรกndo terminarรญa de estirarse aquel elรกstico de tierra. Suerte que nunca aprendieron a montar, de lo contrario, ยกquรฉ susto para ellos, comprender que ni a galope tendido se alcanzaba el final! โยฟQuรฉ me anda haciendo con ese sobretodazo, don Samuel? Aligรฉrese, hombre, el sombrero quรฉdeselo si quiere pero pรณngase bombacha, calce alpargata, ยกno me va a salir a manear la vaca con esa ropa de velorio! โยกManear la vaca! โmurmuraba el maestroโ. En Kurilovich la vaca se viene a parar sola para que uno la ordeรฑe. La vaca vive con la gente, adentro de la casa, por poco no te conversa mientras tomรกs el tรฉ. ยฟDรณnde se ha visto en nuestro pueblo que una vaca espere a que el tarro estรฉ lleno para encajarle una patada? Se la quedaba mirando. Era una vaca. Pero no era una vaca. Tenรญa una expresiรณn furiosa y testaruda. Vaca salvaje, sin amor, americana, de tierra solitaria. โยฟY los caballos? โseguรญaโ. Todo caballo ruso te conoce la hora en que debe ponerse junto a la vara para que le coloquen los arneses. Acรก, entre que salรญs a campearlo, lo enlazรกs y lo uncรญs al sulky, ya te olvidaste adรณnde ibas. Sin contar con que apenas te siente el peso, bufa como un demonio y sale disparado hasta que, cuadras mรกs allรก, te agarra ese tranquito cortรณn, criollo, que tanto me recuerda, ahora que pienso, al del caballo bashkir, solo que aquรฉl es mรกs chiquito y mรกs cubierto de pelo … โยก
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? โWhat can be lost? She sat down again, sulking. โThe 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. โEveryone reacts as they can, Sรกrele. 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: โDo you know how much each settler will receive, Samuel? Three hundred hectares. โThere will be thirty. โI 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 โplainโ and โinfiniteโ 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 Saraโs 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: โBut donโt give me three hundred hectares, Sarele. What am I going to do with so much land?โ โWe will learn.โ We will work with the sickle and the plough and we will free ourselves from intellectual condemnation. โHow do you expect me to free myself from intellectual condemnation? And then she, completely fed up: โOh, 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! โDon’t you think that someone is redoing a drawing? โhe murmured without listening to her. We will speak Spanish, we who came from Khazariaโฆ 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 Seaโฆ โLook, 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 โwhat choice? โ 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: โBaron de Hirschโฆ never again a pogromโฆ a colony awaits us in the province of Entre Rรญosโฆ the Jews born in Argentina will need teachersโฆ enough of legendsโฆ I will finally be able to tell them that Moses took advantage of the low tide to cross the Red Seaโฆ Argentina, promised landโฆ all men of good willโฆ open armsโฆ generations growing like wheatโฆ a field to sow ideasโฆ Pestalozziโฆ my teaching idealsโฆ to collaborate with the growth of a new Nation, what a gift of History. The samovar continued to proclaim, tirelessly, โsomething is being prepared,โ 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. โYou are not going to take that little cap with holes in it! โSarele, how am I going to leave this cap? โIf 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 wouldnโt 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 peopleโs 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. โWe arrived,โ 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 Concepciรณn del Uruguay and, finally, a small town called Villa Domรญnguez appeared where some men in boots, puffed pants, short jackets and black hats looked at them sideways. โCossacks!โ 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: โHow are you, friends?โ A cheer shook the folkloric crowd. Samuel thought he heard a familiar word and rubbed his ear. Yes, it was Yiddish. โJewish gauchos!โ 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: โDonโt you see something shining, like water, over there, between the earth and the sky?โ โIt must be a mirage. This is a desert.โ 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: โAnd here we will pitch our tents.โ Ah, Sarele, Sarele! In this boundless emptiness, the gaze understandsโฆ She was going to say: โTo God.โ But she was embarrassed and said: โThe roundness of the Earth.โ 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: โWeโll gather cow dung to wax it well, over time it forms a hard, shiny crust like Slavonian oak.โ 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 Tsarโs 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, Sรกrele, 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 hairโฆ
Carlos Poveda naciรณ en San Josรฉ, Costa Rica, en 1940. Su obra artรญstica comenzรณ a exponerse a principios de la dรฉcada del 60 en el continente americano. En 1965 obtuvo la Menciรณn Honorรญfica para Dibujo de la VIII Bienal de Arte de Sao Paulo, Brasil, y el Premio Nacional de Pintura de Costa Rica. En el 2004 recibe el Premio Nacional de Escultura de Costa Rica, y en el 2005 el Premio Unico Francisco Narvรกez de la VIII Bienal de Escultura Francisco Narvรกez en Venezuela. Luego de haber vivido 30 aรฑos en Venezuela, actualmente reside en Paris.
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Carlos Poveda was born in San Josรฉ, Costa Rica, in 1940. His artistic work began to be exhibited in the early 1960s in the American continent. In 1965 he received the Honorable Mention for Drawing at the VIII Sao Paulo Art Biennial, Brazil, and the National Painting Award of Costa Rica. In 2004 he received the National Sculpture Award of Costa Rica, and in 2005 the Francisco Narvรกez Unique Award of the VIII Francisco Narvรกez Sculpture Biennial in Venezuela. After having lived in Venezuela for 30 years, he currently resides in Paris.
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Dibujos y otras tรฉcnicas /Drawings and other Techniques
Jacobo Schifter-Skora tiene un doctorado en Historia de la Universidad de Columbia, Nueva York. Ha escrito mรกs de 20 libros sobre las relaciones de Estados Unidos con Centroamรฉrica, la comunidad judรญa en la regiรณn y sobre las minorรญas sexuales. Muchos de estos libros se han publicado en Estados Unidos. Entre ellos se encuentran La casa de Lila, un estudio sobre la prostituciรณn masculina en Amรฉrica Latina, La construcciรณn sexual de la juventud latina,Amor machista, un estudio sobre el sexo en prisiรณn y muchos otros.
el autor trabajรณ en la UPAZ, impartiendo cursos sobre Gรฉnero y Genocidio. Trabaja para la Organizaciรณn Gallup.
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Jacobo Schifter-Skora has a PhD in History from Columbia University, New York. He has written more than 20 books on US relations with Central America, the Jewish Community in the region, and on sexual minorities. Many of these books have been published in the States. Among these are Lila’s House,A Study on Male Prostitution in Latin America, The Sexual Construction of Latino Youth, Macho Love. A Study of Sex in Prison and many others. The author worked at UPEACE, teaching courses on Gender and Genocide. He works for the Gallup Organization.
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“East Side Story” — una explicaciรณn de los judรญos costarricenses
(Traducido del inglรฉs por Stephen A. Sadow)
A los judรญos costarricenses les cuesta reconocer que cargan con un trauma intergeneracional heredado de siglos de persecuciรณn y expulsiones, por no hablar del Holocausto, que no dejรณ a nadie ileso, ni a los sobrevivientes ni a sus descendientes.
La primera razรณn era muy clara. Siglos de antisemitismo convirtieron a los judรญos en chivos expiatorios de todos los males de la cultura occidental; nos hicieron temerosos de decir algo que pudiera ser usado en nuestra contra. Obviamente, para una minorรญa tan perseguida, proteger a la familia de cualquier manera posible y no denunciar ningรบn abuso dentro de ella era parte de la cultura. En otras palabras, el silencio es oro.
Actualmente, la mayorรญa de la comunidad es polaca o de Europa del Este. Nuestros abuelos huyeron de la persecuciรณn y la pobreza que afectรณ a la dรฉcada de 1930. Para hacerlo, muchas veces tuvieron que dejar atrรกs a sus padres y hermanos. Hacer el viaje era mรกs fรกcil para un hombre que para una mujer y, obviamente, para una persona joven. Mi padre y sus hermanos no sรณlo abandonaron a sus padres, sino tambiรฉn a sus hermanas, a sus sobrinos y sobrinas, y a decenas, si no cientos, de parientes. Nadie imaginarรญa que nunca mรกs los volverรญan a ver.
Estas experiencias, en teorรญa, deberรญan haber hecho que la familia judรญa se pareciera mรกs a la familia costarricense.
La forma de protegerse de fuerzas nefastas, como la Inquisiciรณn o el nazismo, serรญa lรณgicamente mediante la defensa de la familia y ocultando cualquier maldad al pรบblico.
Sin embargo, los nazis lo cambiaron todo.
Primero, aprendimos que los lazos familiares podรญan ser bastante peligrosos. Las personas, como mi abuelo, que sobrevivieron por pura suerte, lo hicieron separรกndose de sus familias. De los relatos de los sobrevivientes se extrajo una lecciรณn: los pocos que sobrevivieron fueron los que se escondieron en las alcantarillas, los bosques, las casas de los campesinos, los frentes de batalla, los que, en cada ocasiรณn, tuvieron que abandonar a los abuelos, los padres y los niรฑos pequeรฑos.
Peor aรบn fue en los campos. Al ser enviada a un campo de trabajo en lugar de a un campo de exterminio, alguien de tu familia ocupaba tu lugar. Los sobrevivientes contaban la historia porque el resto de su familia iba hacia la muerte. Los que no pudieron dejar sola a una madre, o a una hermana menor, acababan en una nube de gas. La familia sobreviviente heredaba una herida de traiciones y cortes y la transmitirรญa inconscientemente a las nuevas generaciones.
Sรฉ que habrรก miles de excepciones, ojalรก la mayorรญa, pero en el inconsciente de la generaciรณn que sobreviviรณ quedรณ la culpa. Tambiรฉn la percepciรณn de que tener una familia podรญa ser peligroso. Las pobres madres judรญas tuvieron que matar a los niรฑos nacidos en los campos. En la pelรญcula โLa decisiรณn de Sophieโ, sรณlo habรญa una posibilidad: salvar al niรฑo que podรญa trabajar y enviar a la muerte a la niรฑa mรกs pequeรฑa.
Sรณlo asรญ he podido explicar la toxicidad de mi familia. El Holocausto convirtiรณ la mรญa en un campo de batalla donde las traiciones de los antepasados โโfueron heredadas por sus descendientes.
Me quedรฉ para cuidar a mi madre que sobreviviรณ durante cuatro aรฑos y medio. El cรกncer volviรณ. Me tuvieron que hacer el examen que mostraba una mancha en sus pulmones y me dijeron que le quedaba un aรฑo de vida.
Durante este aรฑo, mi hermano no llamรณ ni vino ni un solo dรญa (sรญ lo hizo el dรญa que la enterramos para ver cuรกnto le tocarรญa) y mi hermana solo puso excusas (su amante no la dejaba venir), asรญ que tuve que cuidarla sola con mi pareja (por eso llevamos 38 aรฑos juntos; nunca pude dejar a la persona que me ayudรณ a cuidar a mi madre). Llegรณ el dรญa de la muerte de mi madre y en vez de venir al hospital, fue con Elizabeth o con Beto, el nuevo amante. ยฟCรณmo puedes ir a un motel cuando tu madre se estรก muriendo?
La de Beto no tuvo ningรบn trauma del Holocausto y su familia no tomรณ decisiones que salvaran a unos y liquidaran a otros. Asรญ que Beto apoyarรญa a sus descendientes en las buenas y en las malas, con decisiones legรญtimas e ilegรญtimas y corruptas. Beto defiende a su familia hasta la muerte. Derek destruye a la suya.
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“East Side Story” — Una explicaciรณn de los judรญos costarricnses
Costa Rican Jews find it difficult to recognize that they carry an intergenerational trauma inherited from centuries of persecution and expulsions. Not to menยญtion the Holocaust, which left no one unscathed; neiยญther the survivors nor their descendants.
The first reason was very clear. Centuries of anti-Semitism made Jews the scapegoats for all the evils of Western culture; it made us fearful of saying anything that could be used against us. Obviously, for such a persecuted minority, protecting the family in any way possible and not speaking out about any abuse within it was part of the culture. In other words, silence is golden.
Currently, most of the community is Polish or from Eastern Europe. Our grandparents fled persecution and poverty that affected the 1930s. To do so, they often had to leave behind their parents and siblings. Making the journey was easier for a man than a woman, and obviously, for a young person. My father and his brothers not only left their parents but also their sisters and their nieces and nephews, and dozens, if not hundreds, of relatives. No one would imagine they would never see them again.
These experiences, in theory, should have made the Jewish family more like the Costa Rican family.
The way to protect oneself against nefarious forces, such as the Inquisition or Nazism, would logically be through family defense and hiding any wrongdoing from the public.
However, the Nazis changed everything.
First, we learned that family ties could be rather dangerous. People, like my grandfather, who surviยญved by sheer luck, did so by breaking away from their families. From the accounts of survivors, a lesson was drawn: the few who survived were those who hid in sewers, forests, peasantsโ houses, battlefronts, those who, on every occasion, had to abandon grandparents, parents, and young children.
Even worse was in the camps. To be sent to a labor camp instead of an extermination camp, someone from your family took your place. The survivors were telling the story because the rest of their family went towards death. Those who couldnโt leave a mother, or a younger sister alone ended up in a cloud of gas. The surviving family inherited a wound of betrayals and cuts and would unconsciously pass it on to the new generations.
I know there will be thousands of exceptions, hopefully the majority, but in the unconscious of the generation that survived, guilt remained. Also, the perception that having a family could be dangerous. The poor Jewish mothers had to kill the children born in the camps. In the movie โSophieโs Choice,โ there was only one chance: to save the child who could work and send the youngest girl to death.
Only in this way have I been able to explain the toxicity of my family. The Holocaust turned mine into a battlefield where the betrayals of the ancestors were inherited by their descendants.
I stayed to take care of my mother who survived for four and a half years. The cancer came back. I had to receive the exam that showed a spot on her lungs, and they told me she had one year left to live.
During this year, my brother didnโt call or come a single day (he did on the day we buried her to see how much he would get) and my sister only made excuses (her lover wouldnโt let her come), so I had to take care of her alone with my partner (thatโs why weโve been together for 38 years; I could never leave the person who helped me take care of my mother). The day of my motherโs death came and instead of coming to the hospital, she went with Elizabeth or Beto, the new lover. How can you go to a motel when your mother is dying?
Betoโs didnโt have any trauma from the Holocaust and her family didnโt make decisions that saved some and liquidated others. So, Beto would support her descendants in good times and bad, with legitimate and illegitimate and corrupt decisions. Beto defends her family to the death. Derek destroys her own.
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“Hitler en Centroamรฉrica”, una novela
–Esta escena tiene lugar en San Josรฉ inmediatamente antes de la Segunda Guerra Mundial. Muestra la influencia, si indirecta, de los nazis en Costa Rica:
Ella no entendiรณ nada y lo intuyรณ todo a la vez.
El dibuk resultรณ, en realidad, ser un hombre, y las acompaรฑรณ de regreso al Mercado. El viaje de vuelta fue una combinaciรณn de terror y la mรกs absoluta felicidad, esto รบltimo un sentimiento nuevo. No prestaba oรญdos a nada de lo que le decรญa, ni comprendรญa los saludos de los comerciantes de la Avenida, o los piropos de los vendedores del mercado. Miraba a Carlos como al vestido de la vitrina, demasiado hermoso para hacerlo suyo.
Nunca habรญa visto un cabello de matices de rubio, cafรฉ y pastuso tan variados, ni una boca tan hermosa o dientes tan blancos y grandes. La sonrisa de su acompaรฑante era cรกlida, tan reconfortante como la de los negros que habรญa visto en Limรณn. Sin embargo,era un galรกn prohibido. Elena no comprendรญa cรณmo los alemanes tanto la odiaban y a la vez, la perseguรญan. “ยฟQuรฉ sentido tenรญa este truco de la naturaleza? ยฟEra el mismo sino que le tocรณ a Samuel, el suicida? โ- se preguntaba para sรญ.
Cuando le pidiรณ que, si podรญa volverla a ver, le dio un “no” que ni ella misma se creรญa.
Cuando Elena tomรณ conciencia de que estaba a diez metros de La Peregrina, la tienda de su padre, Carlos se habรญa ido por los sinuosos caminos del Mercado, como un Elรญas que volรณ al cielo.
Un terrible bofetรณn la sacรณ del embrujo. “ยกSi te vuelvo ver con ese alemรกn, te mato!โ- la amenazรณ su padre.
“ยกEstรกn comiendo ramas como las vacas!โ- fue el grito de Sarita cuando mirรณ a dos individuos deleitarse con la caรฑa de azรบcar. La niรฑa no conocรญa la planta y no comprendรญa cรณmo los costarricenses podรญan comerla. Samuel, el hermano intermedio, por su parte, se
habรญa comido un banano con todo y cรกscara y la misma Elena habรญa pelado un aguacate para casi quebrarse un diente con la semilla. Ninguno de ellos, estaba acostumbrado a viandas hechas de maรญz. Ni conocรญan verduras como el chayote, el camote, y la yuca.
Tampoco consumรญan frijoles negros, esos granos entre negros y cafรฉs, pastosos con un sabor a tierra mojada, calientes y con un dejo de sabor delicioso a aroma tropical, parte de la dieta de la nueva naciรณn.
En Europa, se alimentaban con papa, frijoles blancos, fideos, arenque, mantequilla, pan y salami. Los productos variaban de acuerdo con la estaciรณn: mรกs grasas en el invierno y mรกs productos lรกcteos en el verano. Pero en un paรญs tropical, los platos del Viejo Mundo se tornaron en muy pesados y debieron ser abandonados.
Tambiรฉn algo mรกs importante para los Sikora: la comida kosher, que en el barco no la consiguieron, ni en Costa Rica, porque no habรญa shoijets que sacrificaran los animales.
Para esa fecha y debido a casi una dรฉcada sin carne kosher, los primeros inmigrantes habรญan abandonado la costumbre.
La joven tuvo, a la vez, que variar su forma de vestir. En la carta que le enviรณ a su amiga Shosha, le contรณ que “debido a que en Europa se dan las cuatro estaciones y aquรญ esverano todo el aรฑo, la ropa es mรกs ligera. Cuando me puse mis medias largas de hilo queusamos allรก contra el frรญo, la gente se reรญa porque me veรญa cรณmica”. La vida socialtambiรฉn era distinta. Los paisanos se encontraron, de la noche a la maรฑana, convertidosen minorรญa psicolรณgica.
En Polonia, aunque tambiรฉn eran menos que los cristianos, vivรญan como mayorรญa urbana.De ahรญ que en estos shteitels, se impusieran las celebraciones religiosas como centro de lavida cultural y social. Pero en el Nuevo Mundo, la vida social y recreativa pasรณ a ser secular. Y ademรกs, habรญa algo ausente en los shteitels polacos: el cine. Segรบn Elena, elnuevo arte le ayudarรญa a divertirse y expandir su mente: “El cine vino a ser el punto central de la actividad social. รste, con sus anuncios luminosos, representaba para mรญtodo lo festivo. Las luces que se encendรญan y apagaban me atraรญan mucho porque en mipueblo en Polonia no habรญa electricidad”.
Pero los cambios no se limitarรญan a los alimentos o el vestido. El idioma serรญa uno crucial.En Polonia, los Sikora hablaban รญdish, la lengua de los ashkenazis. Luego, dependiendode la actividad y la necesidad, se hablaba el polaco. La mayorรญa de los paisanos lo dominaba a medias porque vivรญa tan separada, que la comunicaciรณn con los polacos era mรญnima. Pero en el nuevo paรญs, el contacto social fue mucho mayor. Elena, por ejemplo,empezรณ sus clases con el carnicero del mercado para integrarse, como toda su generaciรณn,a las escuelas pรบblicas. La joven, en la misma misiva a su amiga en Polonia, describe cuรกn rรกpido tuvo que aprenderlo:
Lo primero que notamos fue que habรญa que aprender el espaรฑol. Como llegamos cuando estaban por finalizar las clases, mi papรก me puso un maestro particular.Pero fue en la escuela donde lo pude aprender de verdad. Recuerdo que la ortografรญa la logrรฉ dominar rรกpido. En el primer dictado que hizo la maestra, unaniรฑa tuvo 70 faltas de ortografรญa. Cuando la maestra dijo ante todas que una de nosotras habรญa cometido tantos errores, me echรฉ a reรญr y pensรฉ: ยกquรฉ tonta!
Buena sorpresa me llevรฉ al descubrir que habรญa sido yo. Al mes siguiente, en el segundo dictado, solamente cometรญ solo tres.
Obviamente, sus padres no contaron, por la edad y por no asistir a la escuela, con un espaรฑol tan rรกpido y tan bien hablado. Pronto, Elena hablaba el espaรฑol como su primera lengua y sus padres se quedaban con un cada dรญa mรกs olvidado รญdish y un espaรฑoldeficiente. La diferencia tendrรญa repercusiones.
Papรก hablaba en รญdish con mamรก y en espaรฑol con nosotros. Cuando รฉl hablaba en la lengua local, sentรญa que le era difรญcil expresar lo que querรญa decir. Era ssegunda lengua y no la dominaba. A veces creo que muchas cosas que me decรญan hubiesen tenido un mayor impacto si hubiese hablado naturalmente el castellano.
En ciertas ocasiones lo observaba expresรกndose en รญdish y parecรญa mรกs seguro de sรญ mismo, mรกs profundo en lo que decรญa. Me preguntaba: ยฟCuรกnto no noshabremos conocido por hablar idiomas diferentes?
La joven no solo lo aprendiรณ sin acento, sino que “por arte de magia” el polaco desapareciรณ. Elena le escribiรณ a su compaรฑera del pueblo que “me pasรณ una cosa curiosa.Como usted sabe, habรญa asistido a la escuela pรบblica polaca y hablaba el idioma a la perfecciรณn. Mis padres, como los tuyos, hablaban en รญdish. Pues en seis meses de estar aquรญ, se me olvidรณ totalmente el polaco. A mediados de este aรฑo ya no recuerdo nada”.
Un factor que hizo difรญcil la comunicaciรณn entre David y su familia fueron los aรฑos de separaciรณn. Los siete aรฑos que se mantuvieron aparte crearon divisiones difรญciles de ignorar. Su hija asรญ lo habรญa escrito a su compaรฑera en Polonia:
Papรก y yo estuvimos separados varios aรฑos. Al llegar nosotros a Costa Rica, tiempo despuรฉs de que รฉl lo habรญa hecho, empezamos a acostumbrarnos el uno alotro. Yo me habรญa criado sin padre y ahora me era difรญcil aceptarlo. Fue un comienzo duro, รญbamos asimilando las costumbres del lugar y las suyas. Era una convivencia familiar diferente, habรญa un hombre y todo giraba alrededor de รฉl, del humor que podรญa tener, que casi siempre era malo. La vida era dura y meimagino que eso lo hacรญa a รฉl serlo. Al principio, la dependencia econรณmica que tenรญamos con รฉl fue frustrante.
Estas transformaciones incidieron a la vez en la forma de llevar la religiรณn. La joven se percatรณ de que “nuestros padres se volvieron menos estrictos. Dejaron de asistir a la sinagoga los sรกbados” y eso habรญa sido fundamental para que “yo haga lo mismo”. Segรบn ella, la razรณn para que los paisanos ticos se convirtieran en Mechallel Shabes era econรณmica “porque aquรญ las tiendas, inclusive la nuestra, se abrรญan ese dรญa, de siete de la maรฑana a las diez de la nocheโ- porque “era el mejor dรญa de ventas”. A pesar de que en Dlugosiodlo era lo mรกs “lindo y sagradoโ- en Costa Rica, “era un dรญa cualquiera de trabajo. Mi padre iba a la sinagoga, pero la tienda no se debรญa cerrar”.
Pero el puรฑetazo de su padre le hizo saber, desde su segundo dรญa en el paรญs, que algunas cosas, aparentemente, no cambiarรญan. “No quiero una apikoiresteh que ande con goymโ le gritรณ a su hija. “Aquรญ las cosas parecen distintas. pero no tanto como crees. Una cosa es no comer kosher o laborar los sรกbados por necesidad y otra convertirnos. No voy a tolerar que mi hija deje el judaรญsmo, no mientras viva”.
Su padre interpretaba, como toda su generaciรณn, que, si los hebreos se casaran con cristianos, desaparecerรญan. “Mira lo que pasรณ con los judรญos sefarditas que vinieron a este paรญs. Como se unieron en matrimonio con gente de aquรญ, ahora sus hijos son cristianos y les da vergรผenza que sepan su origen hebreo. Lo mismo te pasarรก a ti si andas con esehombre que es, para peores, alemรกn y -ยกhorror de los horrores!- casado”.
La jovencita le dio la razรณn a su padre. Tenรญa bastantes problemas para aรฑadir uno mรกs.
Le prometiรณ que no saldrรญa con Carlos y le reiterรณ que asรญ se lo habรญa dicho al caballero.
Pero tambiรฉn le dejรณ saber que no la tratarรญa como una criada: Strasheh micht nit!, le gritรณ. A Elena, despuรฉs de vivir en el matriarcado en Polonia, no le gustaba la expectativa de entrar en una dictadura patriarcal. Si su madre se hacรญa sumisa, la joven no tenรญa ningรบn interรฉs en hacer lo mismo. Bastante esfuerzo les habรญa costado mantenerse solas para ahora claudicar por una tienda cerca de los orinales. Despuรฉs de todo, la gran mejorรญa en su vida parecรญa reducirse a vender en un cuchitril de mercado costarricense en lugar de un shteitel polaco.
Mientras la joven atendรญa a los clientes, aprendรญa el nuevo idioma, hacรญa labores domรฉsticas y cuidaba a sus hermanos, el galรกn alemรกn no dejaba de acosarla. Escogรญa los dรญas en que don David andaba donde el mรฉdico y buscaba los excusados del Mercadopara admirar la belleza de la tendera judรญa. La muchacha tampoco ocultaba que le agradaba ser cortejada por un varรณn tan galรกn. La misma Anita empezรณ a sospechar de las visitas a los servicios. “Tojter, ยฟno te parece extraรฑo que ese hombre orine tantas veces al dรญa?โ- le preguntรณ. “No, madre, seguro en el trรณpico la gente mea mรกs”. No obstante, la madre no quedรณ convencida. “No sรฉ hija mรญa, no me parece normal. Debe ir a revisarse los riรฑones”.
En otras ocasiones, el dueรฑo de la floristerรญa le traรญa unas rosas rojas a la muchacha. โAquรญ le manda un cliente que estรก agradecido por la buena calidad de la ropaโ- le comentaba al guiรฑarle el ojo. Anita no se lo creรญa: “ยฟEn quรฉ paรญs del mundo te mandan flores por las compras?โ- exclamaba sin entender quรฉ pasaba. “Y si es asรญ, ยฟpor quรฉ nadie me envรญa a mรญ?” “Es que usted vende ropa de mujer y ellas son menos agradecidasโ-contestaba la joven.
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“Hitler in Central America” — A Novel
–This scene takes place in San Josรฉ just before World War II. I shows the influence, if indirect, of the Nazis, en Costa Roca :
She understood nothing and sensed everything at once.
The dybbuk turned out to be a man, and he accompanied them back to the market. The trip back was a combination of terror and absolute happiness, the latter a new feeling. She didn’t listen to anything he said, nor did she understand the greetings of the merchants on the Avenue, or the compliments of the market vendors. She looked at Carlos as if he were a dress in the window, too beautiful to make her own.
She had never seen hair of such varied shades of blonde, brown and pastuso, nor such a beautiful mouth or such white and large teeth. Her companion’s smile was warm, as comforting as that of the blacks she had seen in Limรณn. However, he was a forbidden gallant. Elena did not understand how the Germans hated her so much and at the same time, persecuted her. “What was the point of this trick of nature? Was it the same fate that befell Samuel, the suicide?” she asked herself.
When she asked him if he could see her again, he gave her a “no” that she didn’t even believe.
When Elena realized that she was ten meters from “La Peregrina”, her father’s store, Carlos had gone along the winding paths of the Market, like an Elias who flew to heaven.
A terrible slap broke her out of the spell. “If I see you with that German again, I’ll kill you!” her father threatened her.
“They’re eating branches like cows!” was Sarita’s cry when she saw two individuals delighting in sugar cane. The girl did not know the plant and did not understand how Costa Ricans could eat it. Samuel, the middle brother, on the other hand, had eaten a banana with its peel and Elena herself had peeled an avocado, almost breaking a tooth with the seed. Neither of them was accustomed to food made from corn. Nor did they know vegetables such as chayote, sweet potato, and yuca.
They also did not eat black beans, those grains between black and brown, pasty with a taste of wet earth, hot and with a hint of delicious tropical aroma, part of the diet of the new nation.
In Europe, they ate potatoes, white beans, noodles, herring, butter, bread and salami. The products varied according to the season: more fats in the winter and more dairy products in the summer. But in a tropical country, the dishes of the Old The world became very burdensome and they had to be abandoned.
Also something more important for the Sikoras: kosher food, which they did not get on the ship, nor in Costa Rica, because there were no shoijets to slaughter the animals.
By that time and due to almost a decade without kosher meat, the first immigrants had abandoned the custom.
The young woman also had to change her way of dressing. In the letter she sent to her friend Shosha, she told her that “because in Europe there are four seasons and here it is summer all year round, the clothes are lighter. When I put on my long linen stockings that we wear there against the cold, people laughed because I looked funny.” Social life was also different. The countrymen found themselves, overnight, converted into a psychological minority.
In Poland, although they were also fewer than the Christians, they lived as an urban majority. Hence, in these shteitels, religious celebrations became the centre of cultural and social life. But in the New World, social and recreational life became secular. And there was also something missing in Polish shteitels: cinema. According to Elena, the new art would help her have fun and expand her mind: “The cinema became the central point of social activity. It, with its illuminated advertisements, represented for me everything festive. The lights that went on and off attracted me a lot because in my village in Poland there was no electricity.”
But the changes would not be limited to food or clothing. Language would be a crucial one. In Poland, the Sikora spoke Yiddish, the language of the Ashkenazis. Then, depending on the activity and need, Polish was spoken. Most of the countrymen only half mastered it because they lived so far apart that communication with the Poles was minimal. But in the new country, social contact was much greater. Elena, for example, began her classes with the butcher at the market in order to join, like all her generation, the public schools. In the same letter to her friend in Poland, the young woman describes how quickly she had to learn it:
The first thing we noticed was that we had to learn Spanish. Since we arrived when school was almost over, my father hired me a private tutor. But it was at school that I really learned it. I remember that I quickly mastered spelling. In the first dictation the teacher gave, one girl had 70 spelling mistakes. When the teacher told everyone that one of us had made so many mistakes, I laughed and thought: how stupid!
I was very surprised to discover that it was me. The following month, in the second dictation, I only made three.
Obviously, her parents did not have such a fast and well-spoken Spanish, due to her age and not attending school. Soon, Elena spoke Spanish as her first language and her parents were left with an increasingly forgotten Yiddish and a deficient Spanish. The difference would have repercussions.
Dad spoke Yiddish with Mom and Spanish with us. When he spoke in the local language, I felt it was difficult for him to express what he wanted to say. It was a second language and he didn’t master it. Sometimes I think that many things that were said to me would have had a greater impact if he had spoken Spanish naturally.
Sometimes I watched him express himself in Yiddish and he seemed more self-assured, more profound in what he said. I wondered: How long have we not known each other because we spoke different languages?
Not only did the young woman learn it without an accent, but “like magic” the Polish disappeared. Elena wrote to her friend in the village that “a curious thing happened to me. As you know, I had attended the Polish public school and spoke the language perfectly. My parents, like yours, spoke Yiddish. Well, in six months of being here, I completely forgot Polish. By the middle of this year I no longer remember anything.”
One factor that made communication between David and his family difficult was the years of separation. The seven years apart created divisions that were difficult to ignore. His daughter had written to her partner in Poland:
Dad and I were separated for several years. When we arrived in Costa Rica, some time after he had, we began to get used to each other. I had grown up without a father and now it was difficult for me to accept him. It was a hard start, we were assimilating the customs of the place and his own. It was a different family life, there was a man and everything revolved around him, his mood, which was almost always bad. Life was hard and I imagine that made him hard. At first, the economic dependence we had on him was frustrating.
These changes also affected the way we carried out religion. The young woman realized that “our parents became less strict. They stopped going to synagogue on Saturdays” and that had been fundamental for “me to do the same.” According to her, the reason for the Costa Ricans to become Mechallel Shabes was economic, “because here the stores, including ours, opened on that day, from seven in the morning to ten at night” – because “it was the best day for sales.” Even though in Dlugosiodlo it was the most “beautiful and sacred” – in Costa Rica, “it was just another work day. My father went to synagogue, but the store was not supposed to close.”
But her father’s punch made her know, from her second day in the country, that some things, apparently, would not change. “I don’t want an apikoiresteh who hangs out with goym” she shouted to her daughter. “Things seem different here, but not as much as you think. One thing is not eating kosher or working on Saturdays out of necessity and another is converting. I will not tolerate my daughter leaving Judaism, not while I live.”
Her father, like all his generation, interpreted that if Jews married Christians, they would disappear. “Look what happened to the Sephardic Jews who came to this country. Because they married people from here, now their children are Christians and they are ashamed that people know their Hebrew origin. The same thing will happen to you if you go out with that man who is, to make matters worse, German and – horror of horrors! – married.”
The young girl agreed with her father. She had enough problems to add one more.
She promised him that she would not go out with Carlos and reiterated that she had told the gentleman so.
But she also let him know that she would not treat her like a maid: Strasheh micht nit!, she shouted at him. Elena, after living in the matriarchy in Poland, did not like the prospect of entering a patriarchal dictatorship. If her mother became submissive, the young girl had no interest in doing the same. It had taken them enough effort to stay alone to now give in to a store near the urinals. After all, the great improvement in her life seemed to be reduced to selling in a Costa Rican market hovel instead of a Polish shteitel.
While the young woman was serving customers, learning the new language, doing housework and looking after her siblings, the German hunk kept harassing her. He chose the days when Don David was at the doctor’s and looked for the toilets in the market to admire the beauty of the Jewish shopkeeper. The girl also made no secret of the fact that she liked being courted by such a handsome man. Anita herself began to suspect the visits to the toilets. “Tojter, don’t you think it’s strange that this man urinates so many times a day?” she asked. “No, mother, surely in the tropics people urinate more.” However, the mother was not convinced. “I don’t know, my daughter, it doesn’t seem normal to me. She should go and have her kidneys checked.”
On other occasions, the owner of the flower shop would bring the girl some red roses. “This is what a customer who is grateful for the good quality of the clothes sent you,” he would comment, winking at her. Anita couldn’t believe it: “In what country in the world do they send you flowers for your purchases?” she exclaimed, not understanding what was happening. “And if that’s the case, why doesn’t anyone send them to me?” “It’s because you sell women’s clothes and women are less grateful,” the young woman answered.
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Libros de Jacobo Schifter-Sikora/Some of the books by Jacobo Schifter-Sikora
Hernan Rodrรญguez Fisse naciรณ en Santiago de Chile en 1950, siendo su padre nacido en Edirne y su madre en Estambul. Ambas familias descienden de judรญos exiliados de Espaรฑa en 1492. Emigraron a Chile en 1949. Es Licenciado en Administraciรณn Pรบblica por la Universidad de Chile y Postgraduado en Periodismo por la Universidad Catรณlica de Chile. Tiene un Magรญster en Ciencias Polรญticas y un Doctorado en Relaciones Internacionales. Es profesor de negocios internacionales y negociaciรณn empresarial y resoluciรณn de conflictos en la Universidad de Chile, Universidad de Santiago y Universidad Federico Santa Marรญa. 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 Mรฉxico. Ha sido lรญder de la comunidad sefardรญ de Santiago durante los รบltimos treinta aรฑos y en la actualidad enseรฑa โdjudezmoโ a los miembros.
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Hernan Rodrรญguez 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 โdjudezmoโ to the
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La obra ganadora de la 26ยช versiรณn del Premio Revista de Libros, en la categorรญa biografรญas y memorias, organizado por CMPC y El Mercurio, corresponde a un bello retrato de una familia de inmigrantes provenientes de Turquรญa a comienzos de los aรฑos 30. Jacques Rodrรญguez โturco sefarditaโ es el protagonista de esta historia de viajeros, inmigrantes, trabajadores y entusiastas; una vuelta por el mundo que arranca en Estambul, sigue por Parรญs y termina en Valparaรญso, Santiago y Osorno, arraigรกndose 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 Rodrรญguez โ Sephardic Turk โ 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 Valparaรญso, Santiago and Osorno, definitively taking root in Chile.
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Las camisas y corbatas que Jacques vendรญa en la tienda eran de la marca Wings y estaban fabricadas por una empresa nacional de propiedad de dos socios, los seรฑores 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 paรญs viendo lo que faltaba. Lo mismo ocurrรญa con la ropa destinada a la venta. Cuando algรบn producto se agotaba, la tienda enviaba un telegrama a la fรกbrica o al proveedor, especificando el detalle de los despachos que requerรญa. 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 dรญa siguiente del cumpleaรฑos de Jacques, en agosto de 1939, Luis Nun, uno de los propietarios de la fรกbrica de camisas Wings, visitรณ la tienda de Osorno, y despuรฉs de reunirse con los dueรฑos de La Femme Chic saludรณ personalmente a cada uno de los vendedores. Al momento de estrechar su mano, Jacques sintiรณ que le depositรณ un pequeรฑo papel muy doblado y le guiรฑรณ 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 leyรณ: ยซLo espero a almorzar en el Jockey Clubยป. Muy extraรฑado concurriรณ a la cita, con la misma sensaciรณn de cuando trabajaba en la Casa Rosemblitt de Santiago, antes de llegar a Osorno. Fue asรญ como el dueรฑo de las camisas Wings le ofreciรณ el trabajo de vendedor viajero de la zona entre Rancagua y Puerto Montt, y la representaciรณn de su marca. Le pagarรญan una comisiรณn del diez por ciento por las ventas a todas las casas comerciales. Ademรกs le permitรญan incluir otras marcas, siempre que no fueran competencia directa, es decir, ni camisas ni corbatas. Con este nuevo trabajo Jacques podrรญa aumentar sus ingresos de manera significativa, aunque el sueldo no incluรญa el pago de viรกticos y debรญa financiar los hoteles, el transporte y la comida por su propia cuenta. Si bien esto รบltimo implicaba un gran riesgo โporque involucraba gastos antes de las primeras pagasโ, Jacques quedรณ muy entusiasmado con la oferta y le darรญa su respuesta a don Luis en un plazo mรกximo de treinta dรญas, vรญa telegrama. Durante ese tiempo Jacques conversรณ 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 explicรณ que el trabajo no era fรกcil por el tiempo que se estaba fuera de casa, que sumado equivalรญa a unos seis meses al aรฑo. รl hacรญa un mรญnimo de cinco giras al aรฑo recorriendo los negocios de Rancagua, San Fernando, Curicรณ, Talca, Linares, Chillรกn, Concepciรณn, Los รngeles, Temuco, Valdivia, Osorno y Puerto Montt. Le enfatizรณ que era fundamental tener varias marcas para incrementar sus ingresos; รฉl, por ejemplo, le vendรญa a La Femme Chic solo los productos Caffarena, pero tambiรฉn tenรญa los calzados Guante y las telas Yarur, entre las marcas mรกs importantes que ofrecรญa entre sus clientes. Luego de mucho meditar, Jacques tomรณ la decisiรณn y mandรณ a Santiago el siguiente telegrama: ยซAcepto trabajo ofrecido. Siempre y cuando obtenga otras muestras. Agradezco contactos con firmas comercialesยป. Dos semanas despuรฉs le llegรณ la respuesta: ยซImpermeables Bรบfalo necesita vendedor viajeroยป.
Jacques se puso en contacto con aquellas firmas a las que podrรญa ofrecer sus servicios de vendedor viajero por el sur. Se reuniรณ con Leรณn Cherniavsky, quien le entregรณ la representaciรณn de los impermeables Bรบfalo, que tenรญan un popular eslogan que daban por radio: ยซCuando llueve todos se mojan, menos los que usan impermeables Bรบfaloยป. Don Leรณn, delante de Jacques, llamรณ a la fรกbrica de casacas de Grossman y Cรญa. y le dijo al dueรฑo que tenรญa al mejor vendedor para el sur, asรญ que le recomendรณ entregarle muestras, ya que en enero iniciarรญa su primera gira. Apenas cortรณ se comunicรณ con otro amigo, de apellido Mireman, y le pidiรณ que preparara su mejor muestrario de paรฑuelos para el nuevo vendedor estrella. Al dรญa siguiente, mientras retiraba las muestras, Jacques le comentรณ a Grossman que le gustarรญa vender tambiรฉn ropa interior masculina y calcetines, por lo que lo contactรณ con los dueรฑos de las fรกbricas de camisetas y calzoncillos Smart y calcetines Peruggi. En ambas obtuvo la representaciรณn, asรญ que reuniรณ mรกs de seis marcas y siete productos diferentes, tal como se lo habรญa recomendado Conforti. Preparรณ, con mapa en mano, su primera gira nacional entre Rancagua y Puerto Montt.
Tras el descanso del feriado, llegรณ a la fรกbrica de camisas Wings, donde le tenรญan preparado un completo muestrario con diferentes diseรฑos, incluyendo uno de cuello paloma que se usaba con ยซhumitasยป. Los colores y diseรฑos de las corbatas eran muy combinables y le adjuntaron una lista con los precios de cada artรญculo. Le hicieron entrega, ademรกs, de un bloc para anotar los pedidos, hecho con tres copias y calcos, ya que debรญa dejar una para el cliente, otra para solicitar los despachos y la tercera para รฉl 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 seรฑor Grossman le informรณ que lo habรญa visitado el dueรฑo de la fรกbrica de paraguas Cosmos, quien era su amigo, y le habรญa dejado un muestrario, por si le interesaba llevรกrselo, respetando la comisiรณn del diez por ciento de las ventas. Jacques aceptรณ, pero cuando le entregaron los impermeables Bรบfalo, se arrepintiรณ de haber aceptado los paraguas, ya que la cantidad de mercaderรญa superaba lo imaginado. Sumรณ en total cuatro valijas y dos baรบles, mรกs la maleta donde pondrรญa su ropa. Su pasaje en el tren hasta Osorno tenรญa fecha para el 6 de enero de 1940 y le habรญa costado doscientos cuatro pesos. Llamรณ de inmediato a su amigo Julio Recordรณn Burnier para reservar una habitaciรณn en su hotel. Este le ofreciรณ ir a buscarlo a la estaciรณn, y tras contarle Jacques la cantidad de muestras que llevaba consigo calcularon que tendrรญan que hacer por lo menos dos viajes con su Buick. Jacques estaba agradecido y emocionado por el ofrecimiento de su amigo sureรฑo. En el Hotel Burnier le facilitaron uno de los salones de reuniones para su trabajo. Se instalรณ en el cubรญculo de la telefonista y fue llamando, uno por uno, a todos los dueรฑos o encargados de compras en los locales que vendรญan ropa de hombre, a quienes citรณ en distintos horarios. La gran mayorรญa concurriรณ a su improvisado ยซsalรณn de ventasยป, donde exhibรญa sus muestrarios mientras un mozo del hotel les ofrecรญa cafรฉ con galletas o un pisco sour, si era la hora del aperitivo. Toda su gestiรณn comercial fue una verdadera revoluciรณn, 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 dรญa de trabajo, el total de ventas hizo que Jacques vislumbrara un futuro muy positivo.
Al quinto dรญa hizo un anรกlisis con las muestras de mayor venta y partiรณ con ellas, en tren, hasta Puerto Montt, recorriendo mรกs liviano los ciento treinta kilรณmetros de distancia. En 1940 Puerto Montt no tenรญa infraestructura hotelera, ni siquiera algo parecido al Burnier. Jacques se alojรณ dos noches en una residencial e hizo las ventas al estilo tradicional, visitando local por local. Puerto Varas tenรญa un antiguo hotel llamado Bellavista, y allรญ se quedรณ, pero como eran pocas las tiendas en la ciudad, prefiriรณ visitarlas personalmente. Con el dueรฑo de la Casa Kauak iniciรณ una larga amistad y jugaba con รฉl al dominรณ, al mediodรญa o por la tarde, una vez que cerraba la tienda, contemplando el volcรกn Osorno y su nieve eterna. En Temuco se alojรณ en el Hotel La Frontera, cuyo dueรฑo era Julio Recordรณn Borel, padre de su amigo del mismo nombre. Allรญ le dieron facilidades similares a las del Hotel Burnier, permitiรฉndole usar un salรณn 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 exhibiciรณn de la mercaderรญa. En esta ciudad existรญan numerosos inmigrantes provenientes de ciudades que pertenecieron al Imperio Otomano, como Monastir, Salรณnica, y la mayorรญa de ellos hablaban en castellano antiguo, por lo que Jacques fue muy bien recibido โincluso lo invitaban a cenar a sus casasโ y asegurรณ sus ventas en la zona. Informado de que en Valdivia tendrรญa el mismo problema que en Puerto Montt respecto a la falta de hoteles, decidiรณ viajar desde Temuco con menos muestras, y durmiรณ en una modesta residencial donde amaneciรณ con el cuerpo picado de pulgas. La amistad con un seรฑor Ergas, dueรฑo de la principal tienda de la calle Picarte en Valdivia, le permitirรญa en el futuro alojarse en su residencia. Asimismo, el dueรฑo de la Casa Taboada lo invitaba a cenar a su casa cada vez que cerraban un negocio. Valdivia, con su rรญo que cruzaba la ciudad, le recordaba Estambul con su Bรณsforo. Quedรณ maravillado con la ciudad y aprovechรณ de pasear en un pequeรฑo vapor por Niebla, Mancera y Corral. Escuchรณ que los alemanes pronunciaban faldivia y los chilenos le decรญan que era ยซla perla del Calle-Calleยป. Despuรฉs de Viรฑa del Mar y Puerto Varas, Valdivia se convertirรญa en su tercera ciudad favorita. Aรฑos despuรฉs se harรญa cliente frecuente de los mazapanes que allรญ se fabricaban y de la tortilla de erizos que preparaban en el Club Espaรฑol. Concepciรณn fue desde un principio una gran incรณgnita para Jacques, pues no sabรญa cรณmo funcionaba su comercio tras el terremoto del aรฑo anterior. Llegรณ al Claris Hotel en la calle Caupolicรกn, pero como no estaban los dueรฑos, no le dieron ninguna facilidad para exhibir la mercaderรญa. Sus ventas no serรญan muy auspiciosas, ya que solo le compraron sus mercancรญas en dos negocios de la ciudad: La Sastrerรญa Inglesa, en la calle Anรญbal Pinto, y Casa Garcรญa, en Barros Arana. Aรฑos despuรฉs, Concepciรณn se convertirรญa en la mejor plaza comercial del sur de Chile. En la vecina ciudad de Los รngeles logrรณ vender mucho mรกs que en la capital regional; reciรฉn se habรญa construido el Hotel Mariscal Alcรกzar y recurriรณ a sus clubes sociales para almorzar y cenar. En Chillรกn observรณ que la reconstrucciรณn avanzaba a paso acelerado, pero como el daรฑo habรญa sido tan grande, la preocupaciรณn principal de su poblaciรณn era obtener alimentos antes que comprar ropa.
Luego de treinta y cinco dรญas de intenso trabajo, Jacques regresรณ a Santiago con la certeza de que debรญa introducir algunos cambios en su prรณxima gira, la cual comenzarรญa en abril. La principal modificaciรณn consistirรญa en dividir su periplo en tres etapas. En un primer viaje cubrirรญa desde Puerto Montt a Temuco y regresarรญa a Santiago. Luego partirรญa para vender en Concepciรณn, Los รngeles y Chillรกn. Y finalmente se concentrarรญa en las ciudades mรกs cercanas a la capital, llegando solo hasta Linares. Tenรญa claro que esto significaba un aumento en el gasto de transporte, pero no serรญa tan agotador al hacerlo de un modo mรกs eficiente, aprovechando la venida a Santiago para visitar las fรกbricas 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 ofrecรญa.
Su segunda gira de ventas fue mucho mรกs exitosa gracias a sus mejoras y obtuvo muy buenas comisiones. Trabajar viajando era lo que mรกs disfrutaba Jacques, pues calzaba muy bien con su personalidad, y lo tenรญa muy entusiasmado. Su buen gusto lo ayudรณ a mejorar, poco a poco, los muestrarios segรบn sus conocimientos del cliente sureรฑo. Y se concentrรณ ademรกs en los artรญculos de mayor rotaciรณn, dejando de lado los de muy baja venta. Se dio cuenta de que las camisas y corbatas que รฉl usaba tenรญan mayores ventas y aprovechรณ entonces su porte para exhibir sus propios artรญculos. Pero el entusiasmo que sentรญa Jacques por su trabajo se opacaba al enterarse de lo que ocurrรญa 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 Parรญs el 14 de junio de 1940. Un terrible nudo se apoderรณ de su garganta.
Transcurrido menos de un aรฑo desde que tuvieron su primera salida, Jacques adquiriรณ en la Joyerรญa Parรญs un anillo de compromiso y le pidiรณ matrimonio. Amelia le dijo que sรญ y fijaron como fecha el mes de septiembre de 1942 para realizar la boda, determinando, ademรกs, que serรญa en una sencilla ceremonia en el Registro Civil, de modo que cada uno pudiera mantener sus respectivas creencias religiosas: ella era catรณlica, รฉl, judรญo. Asumieron que cada uno profesara su fe libremente, con respeto y sin interferencias, y acordaron que los hijos serรญan judรญos. Se retrataron juntos en el mismo estudio fotogrรกfico de aquella primera vez
No habรญan pasado ni tres dรญas cuando una carta de su hermano David se cruzรณ con la suya. Llegรณ al domicilio de Ernesto. ยซTenemos boda en Estambul. Me voy a casar con Fortunรฉe Fisse Cohen, prima de las mellizas Cohen que tรบ conocรญas. Estamos de novios hace bastante tiempo, pero como me han llamado al Ejรฉrcito tres veces, porque no se sabรญa si Turquรญa participarรญa de la guerra, hemos estado postergando la fecha del matrimonio. Serรก el 22 de marzo de 1942, en la sinagoga Apollon, si es que no se presenta ningรบn inconveniente. Estoy contento con mi novia, es muy dulce, cariรฑosa y por supuesto muy linda. Es la tercera de cinco hermanas y tiene un solo hermano, que es el mayor. El padre es dueรฑo de un negocio en el Bazar de las Especias de Estambul, por lo que los aliรฑos no faltarรกn en nuestras comidasยป.
El 8 de septiembre, en la oficina del Registro Civil de la comuna de Santiago, se efectuรณ 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 Crillรณn, de la calle Ahumada, y partieron a las Termas de Jahuel a disfrutar de su luna de miel
De equipar el nuevo hogar se encargรณ 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 aรฑos despuรฉs serรญan los primeros clientes que abrieron una cuenta corriente bipersonal a nombre de ambos en el reciรฉn inaugurado Banco Israelita, que estaba en la calle San Antonio esquina Moneda.
En marzo del mismo aรฑo, un especialista confirmรณ el embarazo de Amelia. . . El 3 de octubre de 1943 naciรณ un robusto varรณn en la Clรญnica Central de la calle San Isidro, a quien llamaron David, dejando muy contenta a la familia en Estambul. A la semana de nacido, el primogรฉnito fue circuncidado por un rabino, de acuerdo a los preceptos de la religiรณn judรญa. Pronto comenzarรญan a llamarlo Davico, para diferenciarlo del tรญo. La foto del reciรฉn nacido, con sus datos escritos al reverso en letra verde, fueron enviados por correo hasta Turquรญa. Jacques estaba dichoso, era padre y a su vez convertรญa en abuelos a los suyos. La generaciรณn de los nacidos en Chile habรญa comenzado. La decisiรณn del inmigrante, de quedarse en Chile, daba su primer fruto.
ALEXANDRA KOHAN naciรณ en Mar del Plata en 1971. Es psicoanalista y magรญster en Estudios Literarios por la Facultad de Filosofรญa y Letras de la Universidad de Buenos Aires. Integra, junto con Josรฉ Luis Juresa, el espacio de investigaciรณn y lectura Psicoanรกlisis Zona Franca. Colabora habitualmente en ElDiarioAr, las revistas Polvo y otros medios. Tiene una columna semanal en Dinero y Amor, programa de Blender. Es autora de Psicoanรกlisis: por una erรณtica contra natura (2019) y de los ensayos Y sin embargo, el amor (2020) y Un cuerpo al fin (2022), ambos traducidos al italiano.
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ALEXANDRA KOHAN was born in Mar del Plata in 1971. She is a psychoanalyst and has a masterโs degree in Literary Studies from the Faculty of Philosophy and Letters of the University of Buenos Aires. Together with Josรฉ Luis Juresa, she is a member of the research and reading space Psicoanรกlisis Zona Franca. She regularly collaborates with ElDiarioAr, the magazine Polvo and other media. She has a weekly column in “Dinero y Amor”, a program on Blender. She is the author of Psicoanรกlisis: por una erรณtica contra natura (2019) and the essays Y sin embargo, el amor (2020) and Un cuerpo al fin (2022), both translated into Italian.
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ElDiarioAR 7, Buenos Aires, de septiembre de 2021ย
“Y sin embargo, no dudo cuando digo soy judรญa”
Este aรฑo fui invitada por LimudBA a participar de esa lindรญsima celebraciรณn que se llama Rosh Hashanรก Urbano. Un acontecimiento que emociona por la alegrรญa que suscitan los lazos comunitarios que se construyen.
La idea, como siempre para Limud, es celebrar la diversidad. Me animarรญa a decir que se trata de sacar lo judรญo a la ciudad, de que se mezcle en lo pรบblico, de ser parte de algo que no se encierre en un โnosotrosโ -subrayo que no se encierre-. Fue una experiencia de vitalidad y entusiasmo en medio de una รฉpoca en la que no abundan. Siguen siendo momentos difรญciles para todos y considero que estos espacios nos muestran que, a pesar de todo lo que se rompiรณ, a pesar de que la pandemia no haya terminado, la vida sigue siendo posible, sigue siendo posibilidad. Voy a estar siempre agradecida a LimudBA por ese momento.
Una parte del texto que sigue fue leรญdo ese dรญa:
Yo no sabรญa que era judรญa cuando รญbamos a lo de mi tรญa Raquel a comer kreplaj y varenikes.
Yo no sabรญa que era judรญa cuando mi mamรก hacรญa un leicaj riquรญsimo, unos knishes espectaculares, o un guefilte fish exquisito.
Yo no sabรญa que era judรญa cuando veรญa el carnet de mi papรก de socio vitalicio de Hebraica.
Yo no sabรญa que era judรญa cuando mi papรก decรญa tujes o shikse.
Yo no sabรญa que era judรญa cuando preguntรฉ un dรญa quรฉ querรญa decir que mi hermano estuviera circuncidado.
Yo no sabรญa que era judรญa cuando mi papรก decรญa โ(tal) es paisanoโ.
Yo no sabรญa que era judรญa cuando iba al templo para los casamientos de los amigos de mi hermana.
Yo no sabรญa que era judรญa cuando iba a los Bar Mitzvah de algunos amigos.
Yo no sabรญa que era judรญa cuando escuchaba a mis amigos decir potz.
Yo no sabรญa que era judรญa porque en mi casa nadie habรญa dicho nunca โsos judรญaโ ni โsomos judรญosโ ni โsoy judรญoโ.
Sรฉ, por mi querido amigo Facundo Milman, que Emmanuel Levinas dice: โno se puede ser judรญo sin saberloโ, pero yo era judรญa, aunque no lo supiera, pero lo sabรญa: Como el inconsciente, que es un saber no sabido.
Y un dรญa supe quรฉ era un matrimonio โmixtoโ. Porque resulta que, para algunos judรญos, yo no era judรญa, por el vientre de mi mamรก, pero tampoco era catรณlica por el apellido de mi papรก. ยฟY entonces?
Y entonces pensรฉ que eso tambiรฉn era lo judรญo en mรญ: esa errancia, esa expulsiรณn, ese ir de un lugar al otro sin ser alojada del todo, manteniendo siempre una extraรฑeza en lo familiar, siendo un poco extranjera en lo propio.
En mi familia no se practicรณ jamรกs ningรบn ritual religioso, no se celebrรณ jamรกs ninguna fiesta judรญa.
Y sin embargo, no dudo cuando digo soy judรญa.
El psicoanรกlisis me enseรฑรณ que una identidad no es algo natural y dado y que, en cambio, se construye a partir de mรบltiples escrituras, identificaciones, legados, determinaciones, muchas de ellas, la mayorรญa, inconscientes. Sรฉ, porque estudiรฉ psicoanรกlisis, que la identidad es un palimpsesto que se construye con otros, en la alteridad. Que no hay Yo sin otro y que la identidad es siempre un poco precaria, movediza, inestable; que el ser es una ficciรณn -verdadera como toda ficciรณn-.
Y sin embargo, no dudo cuando digo soy judรญa.
La identidad es un palimpsesto que se construye con otros, en la alteridad. Que no hay Yo sin otro y que la identidad es siempre un poco precaria, movediza, inestable. Y sin embargo, no dudo cuando digo soy judรญa.
Las lecturas que hice a lo largo de mi vida me enseรฑaron que los esencialismos son una usina de prejuicios, que se trata de que sospechemos de eso que tiende a la naturalizaciรณn, que los esencialismos funcionan como un modo de obturar preguntas y coagular estereotipos, de conformar odios y segregaciones. Comparto lo que dice Milman: โser judรญo no es una esencia, es la imposibilidad de ser totalโ. Eso tambiรฉn me lo enseรฑรณ el psicoanรกlisis.
Y sin embargo, no dudo cuando digo soy judรญa.
Yo, que creo con vehemencia, que pensar es dudar, hacer vacilar las certidumbres; que pensar es hacer preguntas, abrir hiatos, interrogar las certezas, no dudo cuando digo soy judรญa.
Quizรกs porque no dudo del poder performativo de la palabra, acaso porque sรฉ que la palabra no es sรณlo un decir, sino que es un hacer, acaso porque sรฉ que el ser es un efecto del decir, acaso porque sรฉ que la palabra funciona en la medida en que se responda por ella, es que no dudo cuando digo soy judรญa.
Me gustรณ mucho lo que dijo Wally Liebhaber en otra ediciรณn del Rosh Hashanรก urbano: โel judaรญsmo es esa pregunta constante que no termina (…) nadie puede arrogarse el derecho a decir quiรฉn es judรญo y quiรฉn no (…) cada uno tiene su manera de ser judรญoโ. Gershom Scholem tambiรฉn habรญa dicho: โยฟquรฉ es ser judรญo? seguir preguntรกndoseloโ. Martรญn Kohan lo dice asรญ: โMe preguntaba, pues, por mi judaรญsmo. ยฟEra judรญo? ยฟhabรญa dejado de serlo? Claro que era judรญo, ยฟpero en quรฉ sentido lo era? Me hacรญa la pregunta, y no daba con la respuesta. Me llevรณ algรบn tiempo advertir que el judaรญsmo radicaba en la pregunta. En la pregunta, antes que en cualquier respuestaโ.
ยฟDe quรฉ estรก hecho mi judaรญsmo? y no ยฟquรฉ es mi judaรญsmo? Dice Diana Sperling: โel acento mรกs puesto en el hacer que en el ser, y el hacer no constituye identidad porque nunca se aquieta, es dinรกmicoโ. Me gusta pensar ahรญ, en eso que me fue legado sin saber, en eso que me fue transmitido sin aleccionamientos. Quizรกs porque en mi familia no hubo dogmatismos es que puedo decir soy judรญa sin tener que dar explicaciones. Quizรกs porque uno de los legados mรกs importantes de mi papรก fue el de practicar la diversidad. No solo casรกndose con una mujer no judรญa, sino evitando hacer de eso una รฉpica. Y es que sรญ, como dice Diana Sperling, โlo que caracteriza a lo judรญo es la diversidadโ.
Quizรกs porque en mi familia no hubo dogmatismos. Quizรกs porque uno de los legados mรกs importantes de mi papรก fue el de la diversidad. No solo casรกndose con una mujer no judรญa, sino evitando hacer de eso una รฉpica.
Acaso por ese amor, entendido como don, es que mi mamรก sabรญa cocinar tan bien comida judรญa. Y es asรญ que pienso que mi ser judรญa estรก hecho de esos pedazos, fragmentos, dispersiones, errancias, en las antรญpodas de cualquier identidad fรฉrrea.
Me gusta decir que la expresiรณn humor judรญo es un pleonasmo. Todos los chistes judรญos que sรฉ, los sรฉ o por mi papรก o por mi libro preferido de toda la obra de Freud: El chiste y su relaciรณn con lo inconsciente, que tiene muchรญsimos chistes judรญos y que iba a ser originalmente un libro sobre humor judรญo. Y es que el chiste funciona, justamente, para hacer caer la autoridad opresiva, hace trastabillar eso que se viene encima de manera fatal. El humor como legado.
Hay legados que se transmiten, muchas veces, sin saber. Por eso Freud cita a Goethe y dice โlo que has heredado de tus padres, adquiรฉrelo para que sea tuyoโ. Lo que supone una operaciรณn sobre eso que viene dado, sobre eso que nos l egan. ยฟQuรฉ se hace con eso que recibimos del otro? Los legados no se reciben pasivamente. Porque eso serรญa estar obligados a reproducirlos. โSer judรญoโ, sigue Milman, โtambiรฉn implica ser responsable de nuestras herenciasโ. Ahรญ hay una posiciรณn รฉtica: responder tambiรฉn por eso.
Para mรญ, pensar siempre es pensar con otros. Y entonces encuentro que Facundo Milman dice โpensamos desde la alteridad -desde la responsabilidad, desde la herencia de una tradiciรณn, desde el otro-, eso es ser judรญoโ. Podrรญa delimitar asรญ una zona en comรบn entre mi judaรญsmo y mi prรกctica del psicoanรกlisis. Justamente ahรญ donde considero que se pueden practicar en la medida en que no se erijan en un dogma, en la medida en que se los pueda seguir leyendo. Porque el judaรญsmo tambiรฉn es lectura, interpretaciรณn. Y leer estรก, para mรญ, en las antรญpodas de las repeticiones religiosas.
Sรฉ que decir โsoy judรญaโ es problemรกtico, que ahรญ empieza el problema. Pero necesito partir de ahรญ para poder expandir la pregunta, esa que sabemos que hace falta formular. Ese judaรญsmo no me fue legado, sino en la medida en que decidรญ tomarlo, no voluntariamente, sino contingentemente, mi judaรญsmo es un hallazgo. Quizรกs por eso mi recorrido es el inverso al de muchos testimonios, en los que se trata de sacarse de encima los dogmatismos para empezar a hacer una vida propia. En mi caso, la vida propia, porque no recibรญ dogmatismos, es con esos fragmentos de judaรญsmo y habiendo incorporado esa pregunta: quรฉ es ser judรญo. Una pregunta que no cesa y que tampoco estรก dada. Como dice Diana Sperling, โtambiรฉn hay que aprender a preguntarโ. Quizรกs ahรญ estรฉ el mayor legado: hacer preguntas que no tienen respuesta y, aun asรญ, seguir haciรฉndolas. Soportar estar en una pregunta sin aplastar nuestras existencias con respuestas, esas que se formularon saltรกndose la pregunta.
Freud se definiรณ a sรญ mismo como un judรญo sin dios. En el prรณlogo a la ediciรณn en hebreo de su texto Tรณtem y Tabรบ, dice que espera coincidir con sus lectores en el convencimiento de que la ciencia sin prejuicios no puede permanecer fuera del espรญritu del nuevo judaรญsmo. Al mismo tiempo, Freud no dejรณ de plantear que las resistencias al psicoanรกlisis tenรญan que ver, tambiรฉn, con que รฉl fuera judรญo. Lo dice asรญ: โquizรก tampoco sea simple casualidad el hecho de que el primer representante del psicoanรกlisis fuese un judรญo. Para profesar esta ciencia era preciso estar muy dispuesto a soportar el destino del aislamiento en la oposiciรณn, destino mรกs familiar al judรญo que a cualquier otro hombreโ. En una carta a la Bโnai Bโrith dice que โcomo judรญo estaba preparado para oponerme y arreglรกrmelas sin el acuerdo de la compacta mayorรญaโ. No caben dudas de que la subversiรณn del descubrimiento freudiano sigue, aรบn hoy, siendo resistido por la โcompacta mayorรญaโ.
Por รบltimo, querรญa retomar la idea de cรณmo la hostilidad y el odio de los otros nos lleva a constituirnos como judรญos en un gesto de resistencia. Lo dijo Hannah Arendt y lo realiza de manera magistral Woody Allen en la escena de Annie Hall llamada I Can’t Believe this Family: el protagonista conoce a la familia de Annie y la abuela, definida por รฉl como una clรกsica โjew haterโ, lo ve directamente como un rabino ortodoxo. Se puede ver acรก. Esa operaciรณn, la de Woody Allen, es exactamente eso: resaltar lo judรญo ante el odio del otro. Ese es un legado que me importa mucho. Peter Gay subraya cรณmo Freud se hacรญa mรกs judรญo en tiempos de hostilidad. En 1926, pensando en la situaciรณn polรญtica contemporรกnea, dice en una entrevista: โmi lengua es el alemรกn. Mi cultura, mis realizaciones, son alemanas Me considerรฉ intelectualmente alemรกn hasta que advertรญ el crecimiento del prejuicio antisemita en los alemanes y en la Austria alemana. Desde ese momento, prefiero llamarme judรญoโ.
Me apena muchรญsimo cuando alguien relativiza el antisemitismo de las redes sociales diciendo โes la redโ, como si la ficciรณn que armamos en nuestras autonarraciones no fueran verdaderas. Si alguien se hace el nazi, un poco nazi es. No hay mรกscara y detrรกs de la mรกscara, otra verdad mรกs real. La mรกscara es ya lo verdadero. Por eso, toda ficciรณn produce efectos de verdad. Creer que una ficciรณn es una mentira es no entender quรฉ es la ficciรณn, pero tambiรฉn es creer que la verdad acerca de uno podrรญa no ser ficcional -en el sentido en que estรก hecha de un modo no natural-. Hay demasiada tolerancia ante el antisemitismo. Dirรฉ que me espeluzna.
Shanรก Tovรก umetukรก.
es una iniciativa de alcance internacional presente en Argentina desde el aรฑo 2007, liderada por voluntarios. Producimos y desarrollamos distintos eventos de educaciรณn judรญa no formal en distintos formatos, con el fin de promover la tradiciรณn, valores y cultura judรญa.
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ElDiarioAR 7, Buenos Aires, de septiembre de 2021
“And, nevertheless, I don’t hesitate when I say I am Jewish.”
This year I was invited by LimudBA to participate in this beautiful celebration called Urban Rosh Hashanah. An event that excites because of the joy that comes from the community ties that are built.
The idea, as always for Limud, is to celebrate diversity. I would dare say that it is about bringing the Jewish into the city, about mixing it in the public, about being part of something that is not enclosed in a โweโ – I emphasize that it is not enclosed. It was an experience of vitality and enthusiasm in the midst of a time when they are not abundant. These are still difficult times for everyone and I believe that these spaces show us that, despite everything that was broken, despite the fact that the pandemic is not over, life is still possible, it is still a possibility. I will always be grateful to LimudBA for that moment.
A portion of the following text was read that day:
I didn’t know I was Jewish when we went to my aunt Raquel’s to eat kreplach and varenikes.
I didn’t know I was Jewish when my mom made delicious leikach, spectacular knishes, or exquisite gefilte fish.
I didn’t know I was Jewish when I saw my dad’s Hebraica lifetime membership card.
I didn’t know I was Jewish when my dad said tujes or shikse.
I didn’t know I was Jewish when I asked one day what it meant that my brother was circumcised.
I didn’t know I was Jewish when my dad said โ(so and so) is a countryman.โ
I didn’t know I was Jewish when I went to the temple for my sister’s friends’ weddings.
I didn’t know I was Jewish when I went to some friends’ Bar Mitzvahs.
I didnโt know I was Jewish when I heard my friends say potz.
I didnโt know I was Jewish because in my house no one had ever said โyou are Jewishโ or โwe are Jewsโ or โI am Jewish.โ
I know, from my dear friend Facundo Milman, that Emmanuel Levinas says: โyou cannot be Jewish without knowing it,โ but I was Jewish, even if I didnโt know it, but I knew it: Like the unconscious, which is an unknown knowledge.
And one day I learned what a โmixedโ marriage was. Because it turns out that, for some Jews, I was not Jewish, because of my motherโs womb, but I was not Catholic either because of my fatherโs last name. So what?
And then I thought that this was also what was Jews in me: this wandering, this expulsion, this going from one place to another without being fully welcomed, always maintaining a strangeness in the familiar, being a bit of a foreigner in my own.
In my family no religious ritual was ever practiced, no Jewish holiday was ever celebrated.
And yet, I do not hesitate when I say I am Jewish.
Psychoanalysis taught me that an identity is not something natural and given and that, instead, it is built from multiple writings, identifications, legacies, determinations, many of them, most of them, unconscious. I know, because I studied psychoanalysis, that identity is a palimpsest that is built with others, in otherness. That there is no I without another and that identity is always a bit precarious, shifting, unstable; that being is a fiction – true like all fiction.
And yet, I do not hesitate when I say I am Jewish.
Identity is a palimpsest that is built with others, in otherness. That there is no I without another and that identity is always a little precarious, shifting, unstable. And yet, I do not hesitate when I say I am Jewish.
The readings I have done throughout my life have taught me that essentialisms are a factory of prejudices, that it is about making us suspicious of that which tends to naturalization, that essentialisms function as a way of blocking questions and coagulating stereotypes, of forming hatreds and segregations. I share what Milman says: โbeing Jewish is not an essence, it is the impossibility of being total.โ Psychoanalysis also taught me that.
And yet, I do not hesitate when I say I am Jewish.
I, who vehemently believe that thinking is doubting, making certainties waver; that thinking is asking questions, opening gaps, questioning certainties, I do not hesitate when I say I am Jewish.
Perhaps because I do not doubt the performative power of the word, perhaps because I know that the word is not just a saying, but a doing, perhaps because I know that being is an effect of saying, perhaps because I know that the word works to the extent that it is answered by it, I do not doubt when I say I am Jewish.
I really liked what Wally Liebhaber said in another edition of the urban Rosh Hashanah: โJudaism is that constant question that never ends (โฆ) no one can claim the right to say who is Jewish and who is not (โฆ) โeach one has his own way of being Jewish.โ Gershom Scholem had also said: โwhat is it to be Jewish? keep asking yourself that.โ Martin Kohan puts it like this: โI wondered, then, about my Judaism. Was I Jewish? Had I stopped being Jewish? Of course I was Jewish, but in what sense was I? I asked myself the question, and I could not find the answer. It took me some time to realize that Judaism was rooted in the question. โIn the question, rather than in any answer.โ
What is my Judaism made of? and not what is my Judaism? Diana Sperling says: โthe emphasis is more on doing than on being, and doing does not constitute identity because it never quiets down, it is dynamic.โ I like to think about that, about what was passed down to me without knowing, about what was transmitted to me without teaching. Perhaps because there were no dogmatisms in my family, I can say I am Jewish without having to give explanations. Perhaps because one of my father’s most important legacies was to practice diversity. Not only by marrying a non-Jewish woman, but by avoiding making an epic out of it. And yes, as Diana Sperling says, โwhat characterizes being Jewish is diversity.โ
Perhaps because there were no dogmatisms in my family. Perhaps because one of my father’s most important legacies was diversity. Not only by marrying a non-Jewish woman, but by avoiding making an epic out of it.
Perhaps it was because of that love, understood as a gift, that my mother knew how to cook Jewish food so well. And so I think that my Jewish being is made of those pieces, fragments, dispersions, wanderings, at the antipodes of any ironclad identity.
I like to say that the expression Jewish humor is a pleonasm. All the Jewish jokes I know, I know them either because of my father or because of my favorite book of all Freud’s work: Jokes and Their Relationship to the Unconscious, which has many Jewish jokes and was originally going to be a book about Jewish humor . And the joke works, precisely, to bring down oppressive authority, it makes that which is coming upon us in a fatal way stumble. Humor as a legacy.
There are legacies that are transmitted, many times, without knowing. That is why Freud quotes Goethe and says โwhat you have inherited from your parents, acquire it so that it is yours.โ What this means is an operation on what is given, on what is bequeathed to us. What is done with what we receive from others? Legacies are not received passively. Because that would be obligated to reproduce them. โBeing Jewish,โ Milman continues, โalso implies being responsible for our inheritances.โ There is an ethical position: to answer for that as well.
For me, thinking is always thinking with others. And then I find that Facundo Milman says โwe think from otherness โ from responsibility, from the inheritance of a tradition, from the other โ that is being Jewish.โ I could thus delimit a common zone between my Judaism and my practice of psychoanalysis. Precisely there where I consider that they can be practiced to the extent that they are not erected into a dogma, to the extent that they can continue to be read. Because Judaism is also reading, interpretation. And reading is, for me, at the antipodes of religious repetitions.
I know that saying โI am Jewishโ is problematic, that the problem begins there. But I need to start from there in order to expand the question, the one that we know needs to be formulated. That Judaism was not bequeathed to me, but to the extent that I decided to take it, not voluntarily, but contingently, my Judaism is a discovery. Perhaps that is why my journey is the opposite of that of many testimonies, in which it is about getting rid of dogmatisms in order to start making a life of one’s own. In my case, my own life, because I did not receive dogmatisms, is with those fragments of Judaism and having incorporated that question: what is it to be Jewish? A question that does not cease and that is not given. As Diana Sperling says, “you also have to learn to ask.” Perhaps that is where the greatest legacy lies: asking questions that have no answer and, even so, continuing to ask them. Enduring being in a question without crushing our existences with answers, those that were formulated by skipping the question.
Freud defined himself as a Jew without a god. In the prologue to the Hebrew edition of his text Totem and Taboo, he says that he hopes to agree with his readers in the conviction that science without prejudice cannot remain outside the spirit of the new Judaism. At the same time, Freud did not fail to suggest that resistance to psychoanalysis was also related to the fact that he was Jewish. He put it this way: โPerhaps it is not a mere coincidence that the first representative of psychoanalysis was a Jew. To profess this science one had to be very willing to endure the fate of isolation in opposition, a fate more familiar to the Jew than to any other man.โ In a letter to Bโnai Bโrith he says that โas a Jew I was prepared to oppose and to manage without the agreement of the compact majority.โ There is no doubt that the subversion of Freudโs discovery continues, even today, to be resisted by the โcompact majority.โ
Finally, I wanted to return to the idea of โโhow the hostility and hatred of others leads us to constitute ourselves as Jews in a gesture of resistance. Hannah Arendt said it and Woody Allen does it masterfully in the scene from Annie Hall called I Can’t Believe this Family: the protagonist meets Annie’s family and the grandmother, defined by him as a classic “Jew hater”, sees him directly as an Orthodox rabbi. You can see it here. That operation, Woody Allen’s, is exactly that: highlighting the Jewish in the face of the hatred of the other. That is a legacy that is very important to me. Peter Gay underlines how Freud became more Jewish in times of hostility. In 1926, thinking about the contemporary political situation, he says in an interview: “My language is German. My culture, my achievements, are German. I considered myself intellectually German until I noticed the growth of anti-Semitic prejudice among Germans and in German Austria. From that moment on, I prefer to call myself Jewish.”
It saddens me greatly when someone relativizes the anti-Semitism of social networks by saying “it’s the network,” as if the fiction we create in our self-narrations were not true. If someone pretends to be a Nazi, he is a bit of a Nazi. There is no mask and behind the mask, another, more real truth. The mask is already the truth. That is why all fiction produces effects of truth. To believe that a fiction is a lie is to not understand what fiction is, but it is also to believe that the truth about oneself might not be fictional – in the sense that it is made in an unnatural way. There is too much tolerance for anti-Semitism. I will say that it creeps me out.
Shana Tova umetuka.
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Libros de Alejandra Kohan/Books by Alejandra Kohan
Andrea Jetanovic es narradora, ensayista y docente judรญo-chilena. De primera formaciรณn sociรณloga y luego Doctora en Literatura Hispanoamericana (Universidad de California en Berkeley). Es autora de siete libros. Entre los tรญtulos de ficciรณn estรกn Escenario de guerra, Geografรญa de la lengua, No aceptes caramelos de extraรฑos y Destinos errantes. En el campo del ensayo, publicรณ Conversaciones con Isidora Aguirre, Hablan los hijos y Escribir desde el trapecio. La mayorรญa de ellos cuentan con ediciones en diversos paรญses de habla hispana y han sido traducida al danรฉs, inglรฉs, portuguรฉs, serbio; entre otros. Su obra ha recibido diversos reconocimientos, entre los que destacan Pen Translates Awards (Reino Unido), Cรญrculo de Crรญticos de Arte de Chile, Consejo Nacional del Libro/Ministerio de las Culturas Chile, Premio Municipal, Juegos Literarios Gabriela Mistral. Ademรกs, ha sido invitada a residencias fuera de Chile por la DAAD, AECI- Espaรฑola, Fundaciรณn Ford y por universidades en Estados Unidos y Europa. Como investigadora ha trabajado en la lรญnea de la memoria y las pos-memorias en autores de Europa y el Cono Sur. Tambiรฉn, ha explorado en dramaturgia latinoamericana. En su afรกn de rescate de autoras y creadoras, ha fungido de antologadora del trabajo de Pรญa Barros (Una antologรญa Insumisa), de la brasilera Clarice Lispector y una extensa colaboraciรณn con la fotรณgrafa chilena Julia Toro. Combina su labor literaria con su rol docente en la Facultad de Humanidades de la Universidad de Santiago de Chile.
De su Website
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Andrea Jeftanovic is Chilean Jewish writer, author of the novels Escenario de Guerra , (published in UK by Charco Press) and Geografรญa de la lengua (Love in a Foreign Language), and of two volumes of short stories: No aceptes caramelos de extraรฑos (Donโt Take Candy from Strangers) and Destinos errantes (Roving Destinations). In addition, has published the essays Conversaciones con Isidora Aguirre (Dialogues with Isidora Aguirre), Hablan los hijos (Children Speak), y Escribir desde el trapecio (Write from the Trapezoid.) Her work has received several prizes, including the Chilean Art Critics Circle Award and the National Book and Reading Council Award, Pen Translates Awards. Her books has been translated into several languages and it appears in international as well as local anthologies. As a researcher, she has worked in the field of memory and post-memories in authors from Europe and the Southern Cone. She has also explored Latin American dramaturgy. In her quest to rescue female authors and creators, she has compiled anthologies of the work of Pรญa Barros (Una antologรญa insumisa) and the Brazilian Clarice Lispector, and has collaborated extensively with the Chilean photographer Julia Toro. She studied sociology at the Catholic University in Santiago de Chile and afterwards she did a PhD in Latin American Literature at the University of California, Berkeley. Jeftanovic is a theater critic, combines her literary work with academics at Universidad de Santiago de Chile. From her Website
Mรฉdico chileno con su paciente
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“Hasta se apaguen las estrellas”
Mi padre, un enfermo orientado en el tiempo y en el espacio, memoria de largo plazo impecable, confusos los รบltimos diez aรฑos, contacto visual, personalidad retraรญda, dificultad para expresarse oralmente, disfonรญa por rigidez en las cueras vocales. cuerdas vocales. Un tedioso gesto que perdรญa bajo los efectos de la marihuana, es mรกs, su habla se volvรญa nรญtida, modulada.
Despuรฉs de unas degluciones pensativas, esa forma que tienen los viejos de razonar con la boca.
Apuntaba con el dedo trรฉmulo y giraba el cuello como un muรฑeco a cuerda por la falta de dopamina. Sacรกbamos la cabeza por un extremo de la ventana, contรกbamos astros, adivinรกbamos galaxias, trazรกbamos la elipse de los planetas. Fantaseรกbamos con una visiรณn de telescopio. El cielo, un tejado para nuestras minรบsculas existencias. Mi padre con su conocimiento enciclopรฉdico me corregรญa, yo siempre confundรญa los planetas con las estrellas, erraba la ubicaciรณn de las constelaciones, no distinguรญa la luz de los satรฉlites del parpadeo de los aviones. Dejรกbamos derivar cuando tenรญamos la punta de la z demasiado helada.
Cuando fumรกbamos, mi padre tenรญa un tos fijo, se reรญa del calendario de la d, se quedaba quieto en el cinco de t o en el veintitrรฉs de octubre o el ocho de enero. Un anuario regalado el departamento de adulto mayor de la municipalidad, junto con la caja de vรญveres fin de aรฑo. Sus labios balbuceando algo.
Mi padre hecho de cosas por decir.
….
โยฟCรณmo se llama el caballero? Tu nombre, probablemente no completรฉ tu nombre.
โยฟUsted es su hija, no? El seรฑor estรก grave. ยฟQuรฉ opina de la ventilaciรณn mecรกnica? Yo, impรกvida, esperando que adivinara la respuesta que no me atrevรญa a emitir:
โFirme aquรญ, por favor.
โSi fuera mi padre, yo no firmarรญa asรญ.
La mano no me temblรณ frente al formulario, es tan difรญcil despedir a alguien durante tantos aรฑos, verlo consumirse, deteriorarse, dejar de ser la persona original, sentir lรกstima, ver su sufrimiento, el dolor encubierto, los dรญas largos y tediosos, perder a los amigos, perderse a sรญ mismo, ยฟQuรฉ dรญa es hoy? ยฟQuiรฉn es el presidente de Chile?
โPresidenta, Presidenta, papรก.
โNo importa, porque nosotros en Chacabuco…
โY tรบ dale con Chacabuco.
En cierto momento vi los ojos hรบmedos de mi padre, yo desnuda en mi frialdad, por suerte un paรฑuelo en mi bolso para sorber tristezas. Contรฉ uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco. No podรญa ser yo su madre si era su hija; no lo cogรญa en brazos porque no tenรญa la fuerza fรญsica necesaria; si lo acurrucaba, sentirรญa temor a que ordenasen que nos separรกramos de manos, de abrazos. Mis piernas acalambradas, mareada por el olor a medicinas, el doctor en el umbral de la puerta con una crucecita en la mitad del pecho.
โNo quiero molestar, pero debo examinarlo, seรฑor.
Mi padre contemplaba con fervor casi religioso a ese muรฑeco con bata y estetoscopio que empujaba con el dedo, balanceaba la barriga en un vaivรฉn nervioso, una corriente de aire estimulaba sus opiniones.
โEscucho una arritmia por ahรญ, los pulmones estรกn algo obstruidos, la orina demasiado oscura. ยฟHa podido evacuar? Mi padre asintiendo, el anรกlisis de azรบcar a la espera, el mรฉdico con el รญndice en el resultado; ยซsetenta y ocho aรฑos no son setenta y ocho meses, amigo, tenga paciencia, para esto estamos nosotros, usted tranquilo y esto es un disgusto, no es mรกs, un problema de la edad, cosas del paso del tiempo, resignarseยป.
โยฟSeรฑor, ha perdido el apetito?
Mi padre negando, mi padre sabiendo y no sabiendo su estado de gravedad, observando al mรฉdico antes de observarme a mรญ, admitiendo que era un conjunto de palitos de huesos, unas vรญsceras flรกcidas, el paciente de la cama de al lado vino a despedirse de nosotros. Esa noche la enfermera se quedรณ mรกs tiempo en la sala de pacientes crรญticos, el kinesiรณlogo vino sin interesarse en nada: ยซยฟPara quรฉ me llaman si este seรฑor ya no…?ยป Le dirigรญ una mirada de odio, porque mi padre estaba vivo y requerรญa ayuda para salir del anquilosamiento corporal tras tantos dรญas recostado. Le preguntรฉ con sorna si habรญa kinesiรณlogos forenses y me fui.
โDoctor, ยฟno podrรญa pasar dos veces al dรญa?
โEsto es algo entre un hospital y una clรญnica privada, tengo otros pacientes a la espera.
Sonrisa correcta, olor a jaboncillo, una mano que se extiende en un ยซbuenas nochesยป bajito. Le doy el alta maรฑana bajo su responsabilidad. Firme aquรญ, su pulgar, tendrรก que traerme una declaraciรณn notarial. Yo apoyaba la cabeza en el ventanal de esta clรญnica-hospital y echaba un vistazo a los adornos navideรฑos en los รกrboles, el rรญo Mapocho un delgado hilo zigzagueante, de reojo contemplaba la silla de la habitaciรณn con los exรกmenes finales de mis alumnos aรบn sin corregir. Tenรญa avidez de la ciudad afuera, contaba cinco estrellas, un reno, un viejo pascuero, dos pesebres. Calculaba los beneficios del plan del seguro, si son tres dรญas y el ochenta por ciento del dรญa cama, pero el cien por ciento de las medicinas, el setenta y cinco de los exรกmenes radiolรณgicos.
ยฟCuรกnto daba? ยฟCuรกnto ya debรญamos al establecimiento? ยฟY si lo traslado a otro centro mรฉdico con mejor cobertura? Despertรณ abruptamente y me abordรณ:
โยฟEn quรฉ piensas?
Mi padre girando el cuello con la rigidez del Parkinson.
Mi padre con el leve temblor de manos del Parkinson.
Mi padre caminando con los pasos arrastrados del Parkinson. Mi padre garabateando algo en la servilleta con la letra diminuta del Parkinson.
Mi padre hablando con las masticaciones del Parkinson.
En el Hogar la enfermera con labial color carmรญn se confesaba con cada pariente, se quejaba, ยซyo que no le he hecho mal a nadie para soportar el relato de estas vidas minรบsculasยป. Reanudaba la marcha obligando al hombre de la bolsa de orina a alcanzarla cuando estaba a punto de rebalsarse, palabras que luchaban unas con otras en las cartas inventando promesas. El hervidor se encenderรญa en un chasquido, un fulgor y nada, las enfermeras del turno de noche esperando las burbujas para un tรฉ deslavado, se notaba cรณmo engordaba por su cuello de iguana, una chispa; ellas conversando entre sรญ, quรฉ bien las entendรญa a pesar de su mudez. De vez en cuando, la enfermera depositaba un sobre en mi bolsillo. ยฟLa mensualidad? ยฟEl testamento de mi padre? ยฟLa cuenta de los insumos mรฉdicos de la รบltima neumonรญa? No me atrevรญa a abrir el sobre hasta llegar a casa. Los dรญas lunes era el control mรฉdico en el Hogar, una doctora tan anciana como ellos los examinaba uno a uno, balanzas de pesar esqueletos, porque no existรญan mรบsculos ni tendones, huesos sรญ, el cuerpo transformรกndose en otra cosa, las enfermeras les cogรญan las manos, los alineaban en la camilla exhibiendo evidencias de un sospechoso lunar en el hombro, otra verruga pequeรฑa, varices inflamadas. Todos salรญan con recetas de medicamentos y los familiares abordaban las farmacias de noche con frascos y cajas de laboratorios extranjeros.
โLe gustan mis dedos de pianista, ยฟno se nota? Las enfermeras buscaban los cierres de vestidos, de faldas, de los pantalones de caballero para permitir la revisiรณn de los abdรณmenes, de la piel, el control de la escara sacra en la zona alta de los glรบteos.
โAyรบdenos con los botones, ande, no sea malito. โA su papรก le faltan paรฑales, ya no alcanza con los tres diarios. La enfermera me lo dice en voz demasiado alta, mi padre siente vergรผenza y mira por la ventana.
โMaรฑana.
Mascullo en voz baja: ยซSabe, hace unos aรฑos, unas dos dรฉcadas atrรกs, este hombre que se orina en los pantalones se la habrรญa cogido, me escucha, porque era varonil, seductor, no, no era este viejito enclenque, medรญa mรกs de un metro ochenta porque caminaba erguido, su musculatura era fuerte porque practicaba deporte, tenis, atletismo, equitaciรณn, lo que le pidieran. No, no dependรญa de otros para baรฑarse ni para comer. Sรญ, la hubiese seducido y usted le habrรญa devuelto risas coquetas. En la escuela era campeรณn de cien metros planos, con o sin obstรกculos, volaba por los aires con sus zapatillas de clavo que rozaban las vallas. Uno, dos, tres, el disparo de la carrera que se redondeaba en doce segundos, un rรฉcord entre los colegios ingleses, vamos corre a la velocidad del rayo y cruza la meta rompiendo la tensa y delgada cuerda que se corta con el impulso del torso.ยป
Mi padre, una noche, extraรฑo, saltรกndose la rutina de la lectura de los diarios, el semblante mรกs definido tras varios redondeos:
โMe da vergรผenza decirlo, promete que no te enojarรกs conmigo. Hablaba con una revista delante de la cara: โNo me mires que si no, no me atrevo… Estoy enamorado.
โยฟDe quiรฉn?
โDe la Olguita, la de la habitaciรณn 314.
โยฟY desde cuรกndo?
โFue en el paseo a la playa.
โยฟY es mutuo?
โNo te rรญas, no sรฉ.
โNo, pero estoy sorprendida, y ยฟquรฉ vas a hacer?
Se encogiรณ de hombros. Hacia el fin de aรฑo organizaban un paseo a la costa, un bus municipal los llevaba por el dรญa, en la maรฑana habรญa trajรญn, los ancianos con sombreros de ala ancha, protector solar, algo de espรญritu de paseo de curso, de niรฑos preparรกndose para la aventura, vigilados por las enfermeras que no vestรญan delantales, sino pantalones de licra que dejaban al descubierto abdรณmenes abultados. La dueรฑa escoltรกndolos en una camioneta. Loncheras, medicamentos en cajitas, tanques de oxรญgeno, sillas de ruedas. Mi padre y su novia juntos sin importar lo que pudiesen decir, dos viejoscomo en las bodas verdaderas, caminando sendero arriba en medio de un torbellino de hortensias. Se protegรญan, se escondรญan de los demรกs, siempre tomados de la mano en el comedor, frente al televisor, en los talleres de memoria, de manualidades, de cine. Mi padre la observaba con ternura desde su corazรณn amorfo, su diabetes controlada, sus arterias del cerebro amenazadas por el colesterol, sus manos temblorosas, su cuello rรญgido por el Parkinson.
Visitaba a la Olguita en su habitaciรณn despuรฉs de varios cuidados: peinarse, el perfume, el paรฑuelito. Los observo con una pizca de celos. Su novia tiene ochenta aรฑos, la pobre, casi ochenta y es una niรฑa, separa del sofรก apoyรกndose en los codos y se detiene a mitad de camino oyendo no sรฉ quรฉ, asegura que es el telรฉfono y el telรฉfono nada; la semana pasada juraba que era la mรกquina de coser y ahora que es el motor del auto de su hija que no ha venido nunca a visitarla. Comparten la aficiรณn por las fotografรญas. Se sientan en el sofรก de dos cuerpos frente a un รกlbum que aprecian con lentitud, se detienen en algunas imรกgenes en una especie de sonrisa dirigida a la infancia. Pero, de pronto, alguna pรกgina se cierra de golpe y ella hunde la cabeza en el pecho de mi padre. Solloza, hipea, no la voz de mujer, sino la voz de una niรฑa acobardada. Mi padre acomodรกndose los lentes y haciรฉndonos seรฑas, el pulgar hacia la derecha y hacia la izquierda, un rumor en tus ojos que no quise percibir y la garganta tragando de nuevo, creรญ que mi nombre, ยฟfue en el almuerzo con los compaรฑeros, seรฑora?, ยฟquรฉ compaรฑeros? Al despedirnos, al momento en que creรญ oรญrte decir mi nombre, yo hice una pregunta que no entrรณ a tu campo auditivo.
Mi padre hecho de cosas por decir.
Susurrรกndome ยซsoy el que tiene la pierna rota, un relรกmpago en la manoยป. Me recuerdo paralizada, incapaz de fabular, hasta que observaba que la enfermera jefe, imperfecta en su carmรญn en los labios, era un perro de rebaรฑo conduciendo a aquellas ovejas a lo largo de los pocos dรญas que les quedaban. Un hombre sin nombre sustituyรณ al seรฑor de la cama prรณxima.
En las salas los muebles escasos amplificaban los ecos. Mirรฉ hacia la puerta, la enfermera jefe hizo el ademรกn de levantarse, pero siguiรณ sentada con la cabeza entre las manos. La enfermera y el carmรญn, el maquillaje disimula, la blusa nueva disimula, al cambiar de ropa el cuerpo cambia igualmente aunque estรฉ deprimida, pide un vaso de agua, aprovecha el descanso y hojea una revista, una segunda revista, se aburre de las revistas, pone mรบsica, la mรบsica la entristece, le caen unas lรกgrimas por las mejillas mofletudas. ยซNo me rรญo de nada.ยป
Me recuerda a no sรฉ quรฉ persona de hace varios lustros, de la รฉpoca en que yo aรบn era una niรฑa. Tambalea, le sugiero que vuelva a sentarse, perovella en medio del cuarto, lista para quejarse, despertando una ojeada inquisitiva.
โEstos viejos lo ensucian todo.
โTenga paciencia, es un mal dรญa.
โยฟHace cuรกnto tiempo que nadie se acerca a mรญ?
โยฟPor quรฉ hay tanto humo acรก?
โยฟFuman? ยฟQuรฉ fuman?
Mi padre no dejando de aspirar y exhalar, respirando la nube de humo y sonriendo, parlanchรญn, divagando para sรญ. Algunas disgregaciones con la quijada algo trabada.
โVรกyase, seรฑorita o seรฑora, o llamamos a la Jefa.
La enfermera pone los brazos en la cintura y me mira ofuscada.
โEsto es inconcebible, vรกyase a su casa.
Mi padre comenzรณ a hablar de cรณlicos, cerraba los ojos y le daba una punzada, en la oscuridad buscando con la palma sosegar su abdomen. ยฟOtra punzada? Mรกs malestar que nรกusea, un sabor รกcido, una languidez que desaparecรญa antes de los resultados. Dolores que estremecen, atento al cuarto del fondo, atravesando el pasillo, observando la puerta, demorรกndose, con las manos en los bolsillos, llaman a la enfermera del carmรญn, siguiรณ llamando durante hora, minutos, siglos, sigue llamando a las enfermeras y ellas asombradas conmigo. Despuรฉs del incidente, de haber sido citada por la dueรฑa del Hogar, comencรฉ a traer bizcochos rellenos de hierba. La marihuana mezclada con la harina y el huevo daba una contextura รกspera, pero igual de eficaz.
โยฟPapรก, has escuchado del Valle del Elqui?
โSรญ, claro, hippies y la Madre Cecilia; todos unos embusteros.
โYa se fueron, quiero llevarte allรก.
โยฟY quรฉ hay allรก?
โMuchas estrellas, el mejor cielo del planeta, las estrellas fugaces mรกs nรญtidas. Tambiรฉn hay laderas de viรฑas, olivos, rรญos, valles, caminos de tierra; te va a gustar.
โยฟY cuรกndo?
โEl viernes, en dos dรญas mรกs.
Lo escuchaba en el cuarto de baรฑo entre grifos rabiosos; yo, nerviosa por miedo que lo viesen salir con un pequeรฑo bolso sin permisos ni excusas. Yo, sentada en el banquito en el que deja ella en medio del cuarto, lista para quejarse, despertando una ojeada inquisitiva.
llevarte allรก.
โยฟY quรฉ hay allรก?
โMuchas estrellas, el mejor cielo del planeta, las estrellas fugaces mรกs nรญtidas. Tambiรฉn hay laderas de viรฑas, olivos, rรญos, valles, caminos de tierra; te va a gustar.
โยฟY cuรกndo?
โEl viernes, en dos dรญas mรกs.
Lo escuchaba en el cuarto de baรฑo entre grifos rabiosos; yo, nerviosa por miedo a que lo viesen salir con un pequeรฑo bolso sin permisos ni excusas. Yo, sentada en el banquito en el que deja ropa. Saliรณ a medio vestir, agitado. Llamรฉ a la enfermera para impedir que se pusiese los zapatos sin calcetines, los tobillos demasiado pรกlidos pidiendo ayuda, yo con un hilito de voz. La enfermera observando displicente.
โMi padre no anda descalzo, ยฟha oรญdo? La enfermera atando cordones y maniobrando calzadores, ya sin prestar atenciรณn:
โNo me toque, quรฉ cosa, dรฉjeme el cuello en paz.
โSeรฑor, no lo he rozado siquiera.
โMe ha rasgado el pantalรณn, me ha hecho daรฑo. Al final los calcetines en el bolsillo de la chaqueta, un retoque a las solapas, la corbata perfecta, el exceso de chaqueta en su cuerpo encogido. Escribe en una libreta una frase que no entiendo, articula palabras como si los diptongos fuesen bisagras.
โDespรญdete de la Olguita.
Mirรณ no con los ojos lรกnguidos, con las cuencas vacรญas.
โSon unas vacaciones, no dramatices. No vale la pena que te aflijas.
Expresรฉ un atisbo dubitativo.
โยฟDe todas maneras seguimos el plan?
โSรญ, claro. Lo dijo frunciendo las mejillas y los ojos grises tambiรฉn pasmados, sin valor de pedir que lo terminaran de vestir. Regresรณ varios minutos despuรฉs con los ojos acuosos, pero decidido. Las ambulancias en el garaje sin conectar las sirenas de pรกnico, la enferma despidiรฉndose en la puerta y la convicciรณn de no mรกs hospitales con hortensias, caminando con cautela debido al corazรณn, la diabetes, a una vena en el cerebro que al secarse podrรญa llevarse dos tercios de los recuerdos consigo. Creรญ que iba a llorar, pero no, comprobaba el paรฑuelo en el bolsillo de la chaqueta gastada.
En el asiento del copiloto una caja de perfume llena de hierba. Mi padre la tomรณ, la abriรณ, oliรณ con una profunda aspiraciรณn y sonrรญo.
โEscรณndela debajo del asiento, nos pueden parar los pacos. Mi padre y yo en el auto rumbeando hacia el norte, en el primer peaje preguntรณ.
โยฟPor cuรกnto tiempo nos vamos de viaje?
โยฟQuieres una medida de tiempo precisa? Encogiรณ los hombres, levantรณ una ceja y contemplรณ el trรฉbol de autopistas.
โHasta que se apaguen las estrellas.
Mi padre con su conocimiento enciclopรฉdico me corregรญa, yo
siempre confundรญa los planetas con las estrellas, erraba la
ubicaciรณn de las constelaciones, no distinguรญa la luz de los
satรฉlites del parpadeo de los aviones. Un mecanismo de
corazรณn precario que se atrasaba constantemente uno o dos
pasos en relaciรณn con la vida.
________________________________________
La Vรญa Lรกctea sobre el desierto de Atacama en Chile/The Milky Way over the Atacama Desert in Chile
___________________________________
Andrea Jeftanovic. No aceptes caramelos de extraรฑos. Editorial Comba. Barcelona. Kindle Edition
“Until the Stars Go Dark”
My father, a patient oriented in time and space, impeccable long-term memory, confusing the last ten years, eye contact, withdrawn personality, difficulty expressing himself orally, dysphonia due to rigidity in the vocal cords. vocal cords. A tedious gesture that he lost under the effects of marijuana, in fact, his speech became clear, modulated.
After some thoughtful swallows, that way old people have of reasoning with their mouths. He pointed with a trembling finger and turned his neck like a wind-up doll due to the lack of dopamine. We stuck our heads out of the window, counted stars, guessed galaxies, and traced the ellipse of the planets. We fantasized about a telescope vision. The sky, a roof for our tiny existences. My father, with his encyclopedic knowledge, corrected me, I always confused the planets with the stars, I misplaced the constellations, I did not distinguish the light of satellites from the flickering of airplanes. We let it drift when the tip of the z was too frozen. When we smoked, my father had a constant cough, he laughed at the D calendar, he would sit still on the fifth day or the twenty-third of October or January eighth. A yearbook was given to the municipality’s senior department, along with the end-of-year grocery box. His lips babbling something.
My father made of things to say.
….
โWhat is the gentleman’s name? Your name, I probably didn’t fill in your name.
โYou are his daughter, aren’t you? The gentleman is in a serious condition. What do you think about mechanical ventilation? Iโm impassive, waiting for him to guess the answer that I didn’t dare to give:
โPlease sign here.
โIf he were my father, I wouldn’t sign.
My hand didn’t shake in front of the form, it’s so difficult to say goodbye to someone for so many years, to see them waste away, deteriorate, stop being the original person, feel pity, see their suffering, the hidden pain, the long and tedious days, lose friends, lose yourself, what day is it today? Who is the Mr. President of Chile?
โMadam President. Madam President, Dad.
โIt doesn’t matter, because we in Chacabuco…
โCome on! Chacabuco!
At one point I saw my father’s wet eyes, I was naked in my coldness, luckily, I had a handkerchief in my bag to soothe my sadness. I counted one, two, three, four, five. I couldn’t be his mother, if I was his daughter; I didn’t hold him in my arms because I didn’t have the physical strength; if I hugged him, I would be afraid they would order us to separate–from holding hands, from hugging. My legs were cramped, I was dizzy from the smell of medicine, the doctor was standing in the doorway with a little cross in the middle of his chest.
โI don’t want to bother you, but I must examine you, sir.
My father looked with almost religious fervor at that doll with a lab coat and stethoscope that pushed with his finger, his belly swayed nervously, a current of air stimulated the doctorโs conclusions.
โI hear an arrhythmia there, his lungs are somewhat obstructed, his urine too dark. Have you been able to evacuate? My father nodding, waiting for the sugar test, the doctor with his index finger on the result; “seventy-eight years are not seventy-eight months, my friend, be patient, we are here for this, you can be calm, and this is a disappointment, it is nothing more, a problem of age, things that come with the passage of time, accept it.
โSir, have you lost your appetite?
My father denying it, my father knowing and not knowing about his serious condition, looking at the doctor before looking at me, admitting that he was a set of bone sticks, flaccid viscera, the patient in the next bed came to say goodbye to us. That night the nurse stayed longer in the critical patient room, the kinesiologist came without being interested in anything: โWhy are you calling me if this man is no longer…?โ I gave him a look of hatred, because my father was alive and needed help to get out of the bodily stiffness after so many days lying down. I asked him sarcastically if there were forensic kinesiologists and I left him
โDoctor, couldn’t you come by twice a day?
โThis is something between a hospital and a private clinic, I have other patients waiting.
Correct smile, smell of soap, a hand that extends a soft โgood night.โ Iโm discharging him tomorrow; you will be responsible for him. Sign here, your thumb, youโll have to bring me a notarized statement. I leaned my head against the window of this clinic-hospital and glanced at the Christmas decorations on the trees, the Mapocho River, a thin zigzag thread, out of the corner of my eye, I looked at the chair in the room with my studentsโ final exams still uncorrected. I was eager for the city outside, I counted five stars, a reindeer, a Santa Claus, two Nativity scenes. I calculated the benefits of the insurance plan, if itโs three days and eighty percent of the bed day, but one hundred percent of the medicines, seventy-five percent of the x-ray tests. How much would they give? How much did we already owe the establishment? What if I transfer him to another medical center with better coverage? He woke up abruptly and approached me:
โWhat are you thinking about?
My father turning his neck with the stiffness of Parkinson’s.
My father with the slight trembling of Parkinson’s hands.
My father walking with the shuffling steps of Parkinson’s. My father scribbling something on the napkin in the tiny handwriting of Parkinson’s.
My father speaking with the chewing of Parkinson’s.
At the Home, the nurse with the carmine-colored lipstick confessed to each relative, complained, “I who have done no harm to anyone have to bear the story of these tiny lives.” She would resume her march, forcing the man with the urine bag to catch up with her when it was about to overflow, words that fought each other in the letters inventing promises. The kettle would turn on with a click, a flash and nothing, the nurses on the night shift waiting for the bubbles for a watered-down tea, you could see how she was getting fatter on her iguana neck, a spark; They were talking to each other, I understood them so well despite their muteness. From time to time, the nurse would put an envelope in my pocket. The monthly payment? My father’s will? The bill for the medical supplies from the last pneumonia? I didn’t dare open the envelope until I got home. Mondays were the medical check-ups at the Home, a doctor as old as they were examined them one by one, scales weighing skeletons, because there were no muscles or tendons, bones yes, the body transforming into something else, the nurses took their hands, lined them up on the examination table displaying evidence of a suspicious mole on the shoulder, another small wart, swollen varicose veins. They all left with prescriptions for medicine, and the relatives approached the pharmacies at night with bottles and boxes from foreign laboratories.
โYou like my pianist fingers, didnโt you notice? The nurses looked for the zippers on dresses, skirts, or the men’s trousers to allow the examination of the abdomen, the skin, the control of the sacral scar in the upper part of the buttocks.
โHelp us with the buttons, come on, don’t be difficult. โYour father is out of diapers, the three a day are not enough. The nurse tells me in a very loud voice, my father feels ashamed and looks out the window.
โTomorrow.
I mutter in a low voice: ยซYou know, a few years ago, about two decades ago, this man who wets his pants would have fucked you, listen to me, because he was manly, seductive, no, he wasn’t this weak old man, he was more than six feet tall as he walked upright, his muscles were strong because he played sports, tennis, athletics, horseback riding, whatever they asked of him. No, he didn’t depend on others to bathe or eat. Yes, he would have seduced you, and you would have returned flirtatious laughter. At school he was a champion in the hundred-meter dash, with or without obstacles, he flew through the air with his spiked shoes that brushed the hurdles. One, two, three, the time of the race that was rounded off in twelve seconds, a record among English schools, come on, he runs at lightning speed and crosses the finish line breaking the tense, thin rope cut by the momentum of his torso. ยป
My father, one night, a stranger, skipping the routine of reading the newspapers, his face more defined after several rounds:
โI’m ashamed to say it, promise you won’t get angry with me. He spoke with a magazine in front of his face: โDon’t look at me, otherwise I wouldn’t dare… I’m in love.
โWith whom?
โWith Olguita, from room 314.
โAnd since when?
โIt was on the walk to the beach.
โAnd is it mutual?
โDon’t laugh, I don’t know.
โNo, but I’m surprised, and what are you going to do?
He shrugged. Towards the end of the year they organised a trip to the coast, a municipal bus took them for the day, in the morning there was hustle and bustle, the old people in wide-brimmed hats, sunscreen, a bit of a school trip spirit, children preparing for the adventure, watched over by nurses who didnโt wear aprons but Lycra trousers that left bulging abdomens exposed. The owner escorting them in a van. Lunch boxes, medicines in boxes, oxygen tanks, wheelchairs. My father and his fiancรฉe together, no matter what they might say, two old folks like at a real wedding, walking up the path in the middle of a whirlwind of hydrangeas. They protected each other, they hid from the others, always holding hands in the dining room, in front of the television, in the memory workshops, in crafts, in film. My father watched her tenderly from his amorphous heart, his controlled diabetes, his brain arteries threatened by cholesterol, his trembling hands, his neck stiff from Parkinson’s.
He visited Olguita in her room, after taking various preparations: combing his hair, perfume, handkerchief. I watch them with a hint of jealousy. His girlfriend is eighty years old, poor thing, almost eighty and she is a child, she moves away from the sofa leaning on her elbows and stops halfway listening to I don’t know what, she assures me it is the telephone and then not the telephone; last week she swore it was the sewing machine and now it is the engine of the car of daughter who has never come to visit her. They share the love of photography. They sit on the two-seater sofa in front of an album that they look at slowly, they stop at some images with a kind of smile directed at childhood. But suddenly, some page closes suddenly and she buries her head in my father’s chest. She sobs, hiccups, not a woman’s voice, but the voice
of a frightened child. My father adjusting his glasses and making signs to us, thumbs to the right and thumbs to the left,
a murmur in your eyes that I did not want to perceive and my throat swallowing again, I thought it was my name, was it at lunch with the colleagues, madam?, what colleagues? When we said goodbye, at the moment when I thought I heard my name, I asked a question that did not enter your hearing field.
My father full of things to say.
Whispering to me “I am the one with the broken leg, a lightning bolt in his hand.” I remember being paralyzed, unable to fabulate, until I observed that the head nurse, imperfect in her lipstick, was a flock dog leading those sheep throughout the few days they had left. A man without a name replaced the man in the next bed.
In the wards the sparse furniture amplified the echoes. I looked towards the door, the head nurse made the gesture of beginning to get up but remained seated with her head in her hands. The nurse and the lipstick, the makeup conceals, the new blouse conceals, when she changes clothes the body changes just the same even though she is depressed, she asks for a glass of water, takes advantage of the break and looks through a magazine, a second magazine, she gets bored of the magazines, she puts on music, the music saddens her, a few tears fall down her chubby cheeks. โI donโt laugh at anything.โ
She reminds me of someone from several decades ago, from the time when I was still a child. She staggers, I suggest she sit down again, but she stands in the middle of the room, ready to complain, awakening an inquisitive glance.
โThese old men dirty everything.
โBe patient, itโs a bad day.
โHow long has it been since anyone came near me?
โWhy is there so much smoke here?
โDo they smoke? What do they smoke?
My father, breathing in and out, smiling, chattering, rambling to himself. Some ramblings are with his jaw slightly locked.
โGo away, Miss or Madam, or we’ll call the Chief.
The nurse puts her arms on her waist and looks at me angrily.
โThis is inconceivable, go home.
My father began to talk about colic, he closed his eyes and felt a pang, in the darkness trying to calm his abdomen with his palm. Another pang? More discomfort than nausea, a sour taste, a languor that disappeared before the results. Pains that shake, attentive to the back room, crossing the corridor, watching the door, lingering, with hands in pockets, they call the nurse in lipstick, he continued calling for hours, minutes, centuries, he continues calling the nurses and they were amazed at me. After the incident, after having been summoned by the owner of the Home, I began to bring biscuits filled with pot. The marijuana mixed with flour and egg gave a rough texture, but it was just as effective.
โDad, have you heard of the Elqui Valley?
โYes, of course, hippies and Mother Cecilia; all liars.
โThey’ve already left, I want to take you there.
โAnd what’s there?
โLots of stars, the best sky on the planet, the clearest shooting stars. There are also slopes of vineyards, olive trees, rivers, valleys, dirt roads; you’ll like it.
โAnd when?
โOn Friday, in two days.
I listened to him in the bathroom between raging faucets; me, nervous for fear that they would see him leave with a small bag without permission or excuses. Me, sitting on the stool, she leaves in the middle of the room, ready to complain, awakening an inquisitive glance.
take you there.
โAnd what’s there?
โLots of stars, the best sky on the planet, the clearest shooting stars. There are also vineyard slopes, olive trees, rivers, valleys, dirt roads; you’ll like it.
โAnd when?
โOn Friday, in two days.
I listened to him in the bathroom between raging taps; me, nervous for fear of being seen leaving with a small bag without permission or excuses. Me, sitting on the stool where he leaves clothes. He came out half-dressed, agitated. I called the nurse to stop him from putting on his shoes without socks, his ankles too pale asking for help, me with a thread of voice. The nurse watching indifferently.
โMy father doesn’t walk barefoot, did you hear? The nurse tying laces and maneuvering shoehorns, no longer paying attention:
โDon’t touch me, what a thing, leave my neck alone.
โSir, I haven’t even touched it.
โHe ripped my pants, he hurt me. In the end, the socks were in the pocket of the jacket, a touch-up to the lapels, the perfect tie, the excess of jacket on his shrunken body. He writes in a notebook a sentence that I don’t understand, he articulates words as if the diphthongs were hinges.
โSay goodbye to Olguita.
He looked at me not with languid eyes, but with empty sockets.
โIt’s a vacation, don’t be dramatic. It’s not worth it for you to grieve.
I expressed a doubtful look.
โAre we going to continue with the plan anyway?
โYes, of course. He said it with his cheeks furrowed and his grey eyes also stunned, without the courage to ask to finish dressing him. He returned several minutes later with watery eyes but determined. The ambulances in the garage not turning on the panic sirens, the sick woman saying goodbye at the door and the conviction of no more hospitals with hydrangeas, walking cautiously because of the heart, diabetes, a vein in the worn-out brain that, when it dried out, could take two-thirds of the memories with it. I thought he was going to cry, but no, he was checking the handkerchief in the pocket of his worn jacket.
On the passenger seat was a perfume box full of pot. My father took it, opened it, sniffed deeply, and smiled.
โHide it under the seat, the cops might stop us. My father and I were in the car heading north, at the first toll booth. he asked.
โHow long are we going on the trip?
โDo you want a precise measure of time? He shrugged, raised an eyebrow, and looked at the cloverleaf of highways.
–Until the stars go out.
My father, with his encyclopedic knowledge, corrected me. I
Nessim Bassan naciรณ en la ciudad de Panamรก en 1950. Bassan comenzรณ a exponer desde muy temprano, en 1968, donde obtuvo un gran รฉxito. Su arte fue admirado y valorado por reconocidos crรญticos de arte y curadores como Thomas Messer del Museo Solomon R. Guggenheim de Nueva York y Lester Cooke de la Galerรญa Nacional de Arte de Washington DC. En 1970, Josรฉ Gรณmez-Sicre, lo invitรณ a exponer en la Organizaciรณn de Estados Americanos en Washington DC, lo que posteriormente propiciรณ su participaciรณn en la Bienal de Sao Paulo de 1981. Despuรฉs de este sorprendente comienzo en su carrera artรญstica, se tomรณ un descanso del mundo del arte, dedicรณ su tiempo a su familia y comenzรณ a pintar por sรญ mismo. A finales de la dรฉcada de 1990, comenzรณ a pintar todos los dรญas y dedicรณ plenamente su tiempo a su arte. . Comenzรณ a explorar mรกs a fondo el arte cinรฉtico, incorporando madera y pintura. Su visiรณn de la cinรฉtica tiene una fuerte estรฉtica abstracta geomรฉtrica moderna, que da como resultado cientos de capas de pintura y texturas entrelazadas, que evocan fantasรญas conceptuales. Esta tรฉcnica refleja ademรกs una perfecta armonรญa entre mediciones matemรกticas controladas, oscilando entre la gravedad y las ilusiones รณpticas que son aparentemente simples pero intrincadas. El atractivo de las infinitas composiciones de Bassan es que son delicadas y elegantes ilusiones รณpticas, con un impecable equilibrio y precisiรณn visual. Nessim Bassan tuvo una importante exposiciรณn que iniciรณ en noviembre de 2022, en el Museo de Arte Contemporรกneo de Panamรก, y viajรณ al Museo Nacional de Identidad de Honduras, el Museo de Arte de El Salvador finalizรณ en el Museo de Arte Moderno Carlos Mรฉrida en Guatemala. . El artista vive y trabaja en Panamรก.
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Nessim Bassan was born in Panamรก City in 1950. Bassan started exhibiting very early on, in 1968, where he found great success. His art was admired and valued by renowned art critics and curators such as Thomas Messer from the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum in New York and Lester Cooke from the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC. In 1970, Josรฉ Gรณmez-Sicre, invited him to exhibit at the Organization of American States in Washington DC, which later lead to his participation in the 1981 Sao Paulo Biennial. After this astonishing start to his artistic career, he took a break from the art world and dedicated his time to his family, and began painting for himself.During the late 1990s, he started painting every day, and fully dedicated his time to his art. He started to further explore kinetic art, incorporating wood and paint. His take on kinetics has a strong modern geometric abstract aesthetic, resulting in hundreds of layers of paint and interwoven textures, evoking conceptualfantasies. This technique further reflects a perfect harmony between controlled mathematical measurements, oscillating between gravity and optical illusions that are seemingly simple yet intricate. The allurement in Bassan’s infinite compositions is that they are delicate and elegant optical illusions, with an impeccable balance and visual precision. Nessim Bassan had a significant exhibition that began in November of 2022, at the Contemporary Art Museum in Panamรก, and traveled\ to the National Identity Museum of Honduras, The Museum of Art of El Salvador endedย at the Museum of Modern Art Carlos Mรฉrida in Guatemala. The artist lives and works in Panamรก.ย
Abrasha Rotenberg naciรณ en Ucrania, asรญ que su visiรณn de la vida allรญ, como de su vida despuรฉs en Berlรญn o en Buenos Aires, es nostรกlgica. Naciรณ en una aldea, Teofipol, fue trasladado a Moscรบ a los ocho aรฑos, en su familia se alternaban fanรกticos comunistas y anticomunistas. โEn la casa de mi abuelo se hablaba en voz baja, en la de mis tรญos se hablaba con alegrรญa, porque รฉstos creรญan que Stalin iba a sacarnos de la indigencia, que se iba a instaurar el hombre nuevoโ. Luego tuve โla enorme experiencia de vivir en una ciudad modelo de Stalin que se llamaba Magnitogorsk, la primera o la segunda ciudad mรกs contaminada del mundo. Cuando se hizo la revoluciรณn en lo que fue luego la Uniรณn Soviรฉtica, esa era una revoluciรณn contra natura. Rusia era un paรญs agrรญcola ganadero, que todavรญa tenรญa resabios del medioevo. Stalin quiso en diez o veinte aรฑos transformar esa Rusia agrรญcola, tambiรฉn algo ganadera, en una Rusia industrial. Proceso muy difรญcil. Pero Magnitogorsk era el sรญmbolo de eso. Vivรญamos en barracas, una vida horrible.Pero que a mi madre le dio el derecho de obtener una visa para Moscรบ. Y ahรญ tuve una maravillosa experiencia, porque vivรญa en una casa colectiva frente al Kremlin.Eso me dio ocasiรณn para asistir de niรฑo a los maravillosos espectรกculos que habรญa allรญ. Gente de todos los colores, todos en fila para visitar la tumba de Leninโ. Despuรฉs de โla Ucrania ambientaโ allรญ parecรญa haber oro, pero no habรญa. โEl hambre era muy duro, el hambre no te deja pensar. Comรญamos patatas, siempre patatas, o verdura. Jamรกs en los ocho aรฑos que vivรญ en la URSS comรญ carne, ni un trozo de carneโ. Pero la madre se las arreglรณ para viajar a Berlรญn. Allรญ el adolescente alcanzรณ a ver cรณmo Hitler armaba su ejรฉrcito. Pero ni Lenin ni Stalin fueron capaces de transformar el paรญs que heredaronโฆ Luego vino Nueva York. Y despuรฉs vino Argentina, alternada con una รฉpoca en Israel, quizรก su momento mรกs feliz, cuando se estaba haciendo, en 1952, el Estado de Israel. Despuรฉs vino Buenos Aires, y allรญ asentรณ Abrasha su peripecia de mal asiento, hasta que Videla y los suyos acabaron con su carrera de periodista(escritor, periodista, empresario) y abrazรณ un exilio que aquรญ, en Espaรฑa, durรณ 37 aรฑos, hasta que la vida lo devolviรณ a la que ahora es su tierra, despuรฉs de haber conocido, y padecido, y disfrutado, tantas que le fueron esquivas o propicias. Buenos Aires era, cuando mi padre llegรณ allรญ, el futuroโฆ Eran los aรฑos cuarenta. Y a mรญ me contaron que las calles de Buenos Aires no eran de adoquines, eran trozos de oro. Era una leyenda falsa. Ser un extranjero judรญo en la Argentina no era fรกcil. Yo vivรญa lo que era ser judรญo, porque digamos, no se hablaba. Me hice amigo de todos porque aprendรญ castellano rรกpido, por la radioโ. Abrasha se hizo argentino. โFue el azar, el azar, el azar. A los 14 aรฑos empecรฉ a trabajar en un aserradero y me paguรฉ las vacaciones. Cuando se estableciรณ el Estado de Israel, en la Argentina, en el 48, necesitaban personal y como yo habรญa estudiado hebreo, me contrataron. De ahรญ conseguรญ una beca para la Universidad de Jerusalรฉn. Yo estudiaba economรญa y me fui a estudiar. En Buenos Aires, de nuevo, conociรณ a la mujer de su vida, Dina, chilena, cantante, โella tenรญa dieciocho aรฑos, yo tenรญa veintitrรฉs. Setenta aรฑos juntosโ. Se le quiebra la voz al Abrasha que venรญa contando su vida como si fuera a caballo por la Pampa, pero llega hasta su รฉpoca como periodista, al frente, con Jacobo Timerman, de La Opiniรณn, masacrada por Videla. โFue terribleโ.
Adaptada de: Juan Cruz, “La historia insรณlito de Abrasha Rotenberg.” El Periรณdico de Espaรฑa. Madrid 29 de MAYO de 2023.
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La diversidad en el judaรญsmo ofrece un espacio fรฉrtil para la reflexiรณn crรญtica, 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 mรกs coherente y autรฉntica, alineando nuestras raรญces culturales con la realidad contemporรกnea, sin perder de vista la esencia de lo que somosยป. 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, โIn 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.โ Then I had โthe 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 Leninโs grave. After โthe Ukrainian ambiance.โ there seemed to be gold there, but there wasnโt. โHunger was very hard, hunger doesnโt 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.โ 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 inheritedโฆ 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 futureโฆ 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.โ Abrasha became Argentine. โIt 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, โshe was eighteen, I was twenty-three. Seventy years together.โ Abrashaโs 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 Opiniรณn, massacred by Videla. โIt was terrible.โ
Adapted from: Juan Cruz, “La historia insรณlito de Abrasha Rotenberg. El Periรณdico de Espaรฑa. Madrid 29 MAY 2023
De: Rotenberg, Abrasha. La amenaza (Spanish Edition) . Pampia Grupo Editor. Kindle Edition.
“La amenaza”
โEste hombre miente siempre, pero a veces se le escapa una verdad. Dale una รบltima chance โdijo dirigiรฉndose al Perro como si fuera su consejero. โVoy a hacerte una pregunta y tu futuro depende de tu respuesta โme advirtiรณ el Perroโ. Recordรก la despedida de los Eichenberger y decime si hubo algo mรกs que te llamรณ la atenciรณn. Yo sรฉ que lo recordรกs, pero temรฉs confesarlo porque puede comprometerte o porque se trata de un tema delicado. Si no lo confesรกs, tu vida corre peligro. Si lo confesรกs, podemos llegar a un acuerdo y te vas a ir en paz.
โNo sรฉ de quรฉ estรกs hablando. No recuerdo nada que pueda comprometerme. Todo lo que sรฉ ya te lo dije.
โHay demasiado casualidades en tu relato. Te las ingeniaste para vincularte con el Juez, con la seรฑora Edwina Eichenberger, conmigo y mi familia, con Rudy y sus amigos y estabas desesperado para que te invitemos a nuestra casa porque querรญas conocer a mi padre, el General. En realidad, fingรญas tu interรฉs por mi hermana para ocultar tu verdadero objetivo, que no era mi hermana sino mi padre, yo, Rudy y nuestros amigos. ยฟCasualidades? Confesรก la verdad antes de que yo te la arranque. Repito: ยฟquรฉ mรกs te llamรณ la atenciรณn en esa despedida?
โNo recuerdo nada mรกs. ยฟQuerรฉs que invente algo para satisfacerte? El Perro hizo un gesto a Charles Atlas y yo sentรญ que estaba perdido.
โLlevalo al rรญo โordenรณ con un tono de voz que denotaba indiferenciaโ. Nunca nos contarรก la verdad. Si se ahoga terminarรกn los problemas. Repentinamente Charles Atlas me inmovilizรณ con sus poderosas garras y con la ayuda del Alfeรฑique me arrancรณ de la silla y como si fuera una pluma me dejรณ inmรณvil y de pie, sin soltarme.
โNo sรฉ nadar โgritรฉ desesperado, dirigiรฉndome al rostro feroz del Perro.
โNo te creo. Vos sabรฉs nadar. Ahora vamos a saber si sos un mentiroso o decรญs la verdad.
โยฟQuรฉ querรฉs saber? ยฟAlgo del equipaje? ยฟEran muchas valijasโฆ? El Perro no me respondiรณ. Charles Atlas y el Alfeรฑique comenzaron a arrastrarme en direcciรณn al rรญo y yo seguรญ gritando: โยฟQuรฉ estรกs haciendo? Van a matarme. โยฟQuรฉ estoy haciendo?
Hago patria. Matar a un judรญo es hacer patria. Podรญas haberte salvado, peroโฆ โagregรณ con indiferencia, como si hubiera decidido aplastar una cucaracha con el pie. Entre Charles Atlas y el Alfeรฑique me llevaron hasta las orillas del rรญo y avanzaron unos metros dentro del agua. Yo estaba asustado porque la respiraciรณn, pero ยฟpor cuรกnto tiempo? El pecho comenzaba a dolerme y en unos segundos tendrรญa que abrir la boca y permitir que el agua me inundara. Era el fin. Me habรญa 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 empecรฉ a toser, a vomitar el agua y, con dificultades, a respirar. Unos segundos mรกs tarde (que me parecieron interminables) sentรญ que habรญa vuelto a la vida y como ya nada me importaba gritรฉ con todas mis fuerzas:
โยฟQuรฉ quieren de mรญ? Les contรฉ todo lo que sรฉ. Dรฉjense de inventar historias de espionaje. Tengo diecisรฉis aรฑosโฆ
En ese momento, los dos Charles me ayudaron a ponerme de pie y a caminar en direcciรณn al Perro. Me sentaron en una silla, empapado y exhausto. No tenรญa fuerzas para hablar y me dominaba la sensaciรณn de que ya nada me importaba, ni siquiera morir. Al rato se acercรณ el Perro y con el rostro ceรฑudo y una violencia contenida me advirtiรณ:
โยฟVas a contar la verdad o la prรณxima te dejamos bajo el agua para siempre?
Mi corazรณn latรญa acelerado, no podรญa controlar la fatiga de mi cuerpo ni la libertad de mi lengua. Estaba resignado a aceptar mi destino, a someterme a la decisiรณn de un grupo de alienados que, no lo dudo, estaban convencidos de que yo los espiaba porque era parte de una conjura secreta.
โLes voy a decir toda la verdad y si no me creen hagan conmigo lo que quieran. No tengo vergรผenza en confesarlo: por primera vez en mi vida me enamorรฉ. No importa si era la persona inadecuada, pero yo me enamorรฉ.
ยฟAlguno de ustedes se enamorรณ alguna vez? Si les ocurriรณ saben que se trata de una locura, de una enfermedad que te condiciona. Todo el dรญa y toda la noche pensรกs en esa muchacha y harรญas cualquier barbaridad para estar cerca de ella. Yo me convertรญ en un mentiroso para estar cerca de ella, yoโฆ En ese momento se me quebrรณ la voz. Tratรฉ de contenerme y contener las lรกgrimas que se asomaban. Hice un enorme esfuerzo para no llorar y me mantuve en silencio mientras mis verdugos me observaban. Escuchรฉ que King Kong comentรณ:
โEste tipo estรก completamente loco. Luego vi cรณmo el Perro y su gente se alejaron unos metros y tuve la impresiรณn de que conversaban sobre mรญ o tal vez discutรญan. Estaba tan agotado que ni siquiera me interesรณ observarlos. Al rato me pareciรณ que el cรณnclave habรญa terminado y observรฉ que se encaminaban hacia mรญ. Era evidente que algo habรญan decidido, pero ya nada me afectaba.
โยฟQuerรฉs tomar algo? โpreguntรณ el Perro en un tono sorprendentemente amable.
โUn vaso de aguaโ respondรญ.
โReciรฉn tuviste todo un rรญo para beber ยฟy me pedรญs agua? ยฟQuiรฉn te entiende? โexclamรณ el Perro y lanzรณ una carcajada. โEs un chico delicado. Solo bebe agua en vasos. โAportรณ su ironรญa el bello Dorian Gray.
โTraรฉ una copa de vino, asรญ se reanima โordenรณ el Perro y King Kong fue a buscarla. Dorian Gray tomรณ la palabra:
โTe hicimos una broma pesada porque a veces, sin mala intenciรณn, nos descontrolamos. El Perro tiene una educaciรณn militar y en el ejรฉrcito este tipo humor agresivo es bastante habitual. No le temen a la violencia ni al dolor. Te pido que nos disculpes. โยฟUna broma pesadaโฆ? ยฟNada mรกs? El Perro se me acercรณ y tuve conciencia de que deberรญa haberme callado. Mis reproches le molestaron.
โยฟQuรฉ querรฉs saber?
โQuiero saber por quรฉ fui castigado.
โPonete de pie โordenรณ. Aunque yo sentรญa que me faltaban fuerzas obedecรญ en silencio. Estรกbamos frente a frente y รฉl, debo confesarlo, me intimidaba. โCreo que sos un gran farsante y un hรกbil manipulador. No puedo demostrarlo, pero estoy convencido de que nos engaรฑรกs, que nos estuviste espiando para los tuyos, que sos un hipรณcrita. Todos tus pecados poco importan frente al crimen que cargรกs sobre tu conciencia, un crimen imprescriptible que debes asumir: sos un judรญo asesino, un miembro del pueblo deicida que crucificรณ a nuestro Seรฑor y yo soy tu enemigo, un enemigo altruista que va a permitir que seas por unos instantes un cristiano virtuoso. ยฟQuรฉ ordenรณ Jesรบs en el Sermรณn de la Montaรฑa? โAl que te hiriere en una mejilla, ofrรฉcele tambiรฉn la otraโ. Siendo judรญo ahora tenรฉs la oportunidad de comportarte como un buen cristiano. Sin darme tiempo de entender sus palabras recibรญ 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 preguntรฉ ยฟpor quรฉ? sin obtener respuesta. Los dos lacayos me ayudaron a ponerme de pie y me acomodaron en la silla. El Perro seguรญa frente a mรญ. Temรญ que me siguiera golpeando. โEscuchรก con atenciรณn 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. ยฟEntendiste? Una sentencia postergada. Decidรญ callar. El Perro se encaminรณ hacia la casona y los demรกs lo siguieron en silencio, excepto Charles Atlas que me acercรณ su paรฑuelo para que me tapara la nariz que continuaba sangrando.
โยฟSabรฉs por quรฉ me quedo con vos?โ preguntรณ y yo comencรฉ a preocuparme.
โNo lo sรฉ โrespondรญ angustiado temiendo que mi martirio continuara. โPorque me di cuenta de que sos un tipo honesto. No dudo que te da vergรผenza ser judรญo. Te entiendo, te entiendo muy bien porque a mรญ me sucederรญa lo mismo. Tambiรฉn yo soy un hombre honesto. La frase me doliรณ mรกs que la cachetada. ยฟEra yo un judรญo vergonzante? Me quedรฉ en silencio sin responderle. Charles Atlas continuรณ:
โEscuchรก este consejo que te doy porque te aprecio: desaparecรฉ de inmediato y jamรกs vuelvas a este pueblo. El Perro nunca habla en vano. Otra vez mi cara se habรญa hinchado, tenรญa la nariz partida y un labio me sangraba.
โTe agradezco el consejo. Lo voy a seguir, pero recordรก que me prometieron una copa de vino. Otra vez serรก.
โQue no haya otra vez, te lo digo por tu bien. Hizo un gesto de despedida con la mano y agregรณ:
โTe regalo mi paรฑuelo. Me quedรฉ sentado en la oscuridad y con la mente vacรญa. Sin poder contenerme me desplomรฉ y comencรฉ a llorar. Estaba solo, daรฑado por fuera, dolorido por dentro y dominado por un miedo tardรญo. Podรญan haberme matado. Cuando logrรฉ controlar mi llanto, lentamente me puse de pie. Con gran dificultad empecรฉ a caminar hacia el hotel en medio de la noche cargada de sonidos. Mis temores comenzaron a disiparse. ยฟDe dรณnde habรญa 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?”
โI donโt remember anything else. Do you want me to invent something to satisfy you?โ The Dog gestured to Charles Atlas and I felt that I was lost.
โTake him to the river,โ he ordered in a tone of voice that denoted indifference. โHe will never tell us the truth. If he drowns, the problems will end.โ
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.
โI donโt know how to swim,โ I shouted desperately, addressing the Dogโs ferocious face.
โI donโt believe you. You know how to swim. Now weโre going to find out if youโre a liar or telling the truth.โ โWhat do you want to know? Something about the luggage? Were there many suitcasesโฆ?โ The Dog didnโt answer me. Charles Atlas and The Weakling began to drag me towards the river, and I continued shouting:
โWhat are you doing? Theyโre going to kill me.โ
โWhat am I doing?โ Iโm serving my country. Killing a Jew is serving my country. You could have saved yourself, butโฆ,โ 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 oldโฆ” 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, Iโฆ” 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:
โThis guy is completely crazy.โ 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 didnโt 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.
โDo you want to drink something?โ asked the Dog in a surprisingly friendly tone.
โA glass of water,โ I answered.
โYou just had a whole river to drink, and you ask me for water? Who understands you?โ exclaimed the Dog and burst out laughing. โHeโs a delicate boy. He only drinks water in glasses.โ The beautiful Dorian Gray added his irony.
โBring a glass of wine, that will cheer him up,โ ordered the Dog and King Kong went to get it. Dorian Gray spoke up:
โWe 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 jokeโฆ? Nothing more?โ The Dog came up to me and I realized that I should have kept quiet. My reproaches annoyed him.
โWhat do you want to know?โ
โI want to know why I was punished.โ
โStand up,โ he ordered. Although I felt that I lacked strength, I obeyed silently. We were face to face and he, I must confess, intimidated me. โI 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.โ 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? โTo him who strikes you on one cheek, offer the other also.โ 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. โBecause 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
Liliana Lukin naciรณ en Buenos. Aires en 1951 en una familia judรญa. Publicรณ los libros de poesรญa: Abracadabra, 1978); Malasartes, Descomposiciรณn, 1986; Cortar por lo Sano, 1987; Carne de Tesoro, 1990; Cartas, 1992; Las preguntas, 1998); retรณrica erรณtica , 2002) y Construcciรณn comparativa , 2003 y ortros. Recibiรณ entre otros Secretarรญa Cultura de la Naciรณn, Fundaciรณn Antorchas, 1989 y Beca del Fondo Nacional de las Artes, 1997. Entre 1988 y 1989 fue Asesora Literaria del Centro Cultural Gral. San Martรญn y organizรณ el Foro de Literatura Contemporรกnea y el 1ยบ Foro de Cine Argentino. Desde 1988 hasta 2001 fue Asesora Literaria de la Fundaciรณn Noble-Clarรญn , organizรณ XIII Encuentros de Escritores R.Noble, y editรณ los correspondientes โCuadernos de Narrativa Argentinaโ. Es Lic. en Letras de la Universidad de Bs.As., docente en la carrera de Crรญtica de Artes en el IUNA (Instituto Universitario Nacional de Arte) y coordina la Clรญnica de escritura poรฉtica de la Biblioteca Nacional de la Argentina. Si sitio web es http://www.lilianalukin.com.ar
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Liliana Lukin was born in Buenos Aires in 1951 into a Jewish family. She published the following books of poetry: Abracadabra, 1978); Malasartes 1986, Decomposiciรณn, 1987; Cortar por lo Sano,, 1987); Tesoro de carne, 1990; Cartas, 1992; Las preguntas, 1998); retรณrica erรณtica, 2002; and Construcciรณn comparativa, 2003 and others. She received awards, among others, the Secretariat of Culture of the Nation, the Antorchas Foundation, 1989 and a Scholarship from the National Endowment for the Arts, 1997. Between 1988 and 1989 she was Literary Advisor to the General San Martรญn Cultural Center and organized the Contemporary Literature Forum and the 1st Argentine Film Forum. From 1988 to 2001 she was Literary Advisor of the Noble-Clarรญn Foundation, organized the XIII R.Noble Writers’ Meetings, and edited the corresponding โCuadernos de Narrativa Argentinaโ. She has a degree in Literature from the University of Buenos Aires, teaches in the Arts Criticism course at the IUNA (National University Institute of Art) and coordinates the Poetic Writing Clinic of the National Library of Argentina. Her website is http://www.lilianalukin.com.ar
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Poesรญa de Liliana Lukin/Poetry by Liliana Lukin
Sueรฑo con lobos, los corderos
persiguen mi sueรฑo,
quieren entrar en รฉl
como quien entra atropellando
en la jaula de su miedo.
*
El amor del lobo por la sangre
del cordero escribe
el drama del rebaรฑo:
ser el objeto de un deseo
que sรณlo se sacia en el sacrificio.
*
El cordero sabe que es la metรกfora
de otra cosa, que el lobo es
la metรกfora de otra cosa: comienza
con palabras como amor, y termina
con la muerte de alguna pasiรณn colectiva.
*
El pelaje del lobo estรก hecho para la caricia
que no conocerรก, inevitablemente el lobo ama
el amor en el cordero, pero mรกs los brazos que cargan
al cordero, las manos que se deslizan por su lomo,
la paz de ser el perseguido y no el perseguidor.
*
Toda marca al final del pacto, una firma
hecha con los dientes, aleja al mordedor
de la letra, ni el sรญmil entre piel y papel
permitirรก engaรฑarse: de lo humano imaginado
en el amor de esa marca no hay mรกs que terror.
De Ensayo Sobre el Poder, 2015
__________________________________________
___________________________________________
I dream of wolves, the lambs
pursue my dream
they want to enter it
like someone who enters abruptly
into a jail of his fear
*
The wolvesโ love for the lambโs
blood writes
the drama of the flock
to be the object of a desire
that is only sated with sacrifice.
*
The lamb knows that it is the metaphor
Of something else, that the wolf is the
metaphor forsomethingelse; it starts out
with words like love, and ends
with the death of some collective passion.
*
The wolfโs fur is made for the caress
that that it will not know, inevitably the wolf loves
the love in the lamb
but more the arms that carry
the lamb, hands that slide along its back,
the peace of being the pursued and not the pursuer.
*
Everything marks the end of the pact, a signature
made with teeth, moves away from the biter
of the letter, not even the simile between paper and paper
will permit it to deceive itself: of the imagined human
in the love of this mark there in only terror.
De Ensayo Sobre el Poder, 2015
**
Pandora huele
una palabra
si se guarda mucho tiempo
larga heces
materias hirientes
al ojo y al oรญdo
humedades
hace
sangre por varias de sus partes
no se pudre
dada su condiciรณn
de testigo de cargo
pero apesta
De Descomposiciรณn.1980-82,1987
**
Pandora smells
a word
if it watches out for it for a long time
lets out the dregs
materials hurtful
to the eye and the ear
dampness
it makes
blood through several of its parts
it doesnโt rot
given its condition
as witness of in charge
but it smells bad
De Descomposiciรณn.1980-82,1987
perder la orientaciรณn: eso hace
mi hermano como en medio del
mar, sin referencias fijas,
rodeado del relente de su
desolaciรณn, de la falta de
asociaciones llamadas correctas,
de algunas imรกgenes que evocan
aรฑos, rituales, pedazos,
pierde el sentido y anda sin rumbo,
por un pasaje estrecho, hรบmedo y seguro
*
to lose orientation, that my brother
does in the middle of the
sea, without fixed references,
surrounded by the relentlessness of his
desolation, by the lack of
associations called correct,
of some images that evoke
years, rituals, pieces,
he loses sense and moves without direction,
through a narrow, damp and sure passageway
*
mamรก trabaja para un naufragio
seco: prepara sus actos previendo agua
como en un ejercicio: insiste en ignorar
que algo se rompiรณ, que la ola
no existe pero estamos bajo su sonido
y su furia, rema, acumula baldes
que antes tuvieron plantas, para โachicarโ
el desborde, mantiene el ancla
*
mama works for a dry
ship wreak; prepares her actions anticipating water
as an exercise, she insists on ignoring
that something broke, that the wave
doesnโt exist, but rather we are under his sound
and fury, she accumulates pots
that before held plantsto โbail outโ
the overflow, to maintain the anchor
*
papรก va de la popa a la proa
como en un barco a la deriva, grita
ยกa babor!, ยกa estribor!, como si supiera
algo de navegar, de tormentas
en el centro del remolino,
de lo que no se puede saber
hasta que confunde, quema, moja: papรก es un viejo
capitรกn que mamรก sostiene soga en mano
*
papa goes from the stern to the prow,
as if in a boat adrift, he shouts
to the โport sideโ โto the starboardโ, as if he knew
something of the navigation of storms
in the center of the whirlpool,
of what one canโt know
until it confounds, burns, wets; papa is an old man
captain that mama sustains, rope in hand
**
carta II
mi querida: me dije algรบn poema tiene que haber
porque hay tanto ruido en el paรญs to
y en estos dรญas las metรกforas se cumplen
ya casi no hablamos mรกs
que de nosotras: metonimias de un paisaje de guerra
o pequeรฑos predios donde cultivar imรกgenes de sรญ
querida: se disuelve mi dogma a medida que amo
y aunque mi dogma sea de una especie razonable
padezco los efectos de esta fatal transformaciรณn:
no sรฉ nada ya de aquello que era
pero no olvido tampoco cรณmo era aquello ser
una foto de otra รฉpoca me muestra como a una muchacha
a la que he conocido: mi nostalgia de ella es infinita
aunque me diga que todo estรก muy bien y
aunque sea cierto que todo estรก (muy bien) ahora
algรบn poema tiene que haber me dije: en lugar
de una certeza siempre hay un poema
y en lugar de un poema siempre estoy
escribiendo cartas como un nรกufrago al revรฉs:
no corro peligro mรกs que de mรญ y el mundo
es una isla en la que sรณlo puedo sumergirme
mi querida en estos dรญas
en que la filosofรญa es un murmullo de la edad
sos el ruido de un paรญs en predios secos
donde un poema serรญa agua de beber.
De Cartas, 1992.
“Letter”
Mi querida: You told me about some poem that must exist
because there is so much noise in the country
and these days metaphors come to be
We hardly speak any more
about how we, metonymies of a battlefield
or small properties in which to cultivate images of your approval
dear: my dogma dissolves as I love
and although my dogma be of a reasonable sort
I suffer the effects of this fatal transformation.
I donโt yet know anything about what it was
but neither do I forget how that being was
a photo of another time shows me how a girl
that I have known, my nostalgia about her is infinite
even if I tell myself that everything is alright and
even if it be certain that everything is (very well) now
some poem must have, I told myself: instead of
a of certainty there is also a poem
and in place of a poem, I am always here
writing letters like a backwards ship wreak:
Iโm not in danger of more than myself and the whole world
is an island in which I can only immerse myself
my dearest during these days
in which philosophy is a murmur of the age
you are the noise of a country of dry lands
where a poem would be water to drink.
De Cartas, 1992
*
He descubierto una rama de odio
en la magnolia del parquecito:
no es de nadie el รกrbol, el paseo,
el descubrimiento.
De quiรฉn es el odio?
Ama la magnolia su brote,
su rama que estalla a punto
de floraciรณn bella y blanca?
Quรฉ estupor ver esa especie
creciendo, su inocencia
aparente en la forma de
encarnar,
quรฉ deseo de un
alerta a los sentados, los solos,
los amantes de la sombra,
decir: cuidado allรญ, cuidado asรญ
yo misma asustada
todavรญa, conjeturando sobre
modos sorpresivos de proliferaciรณn
de un sentimiento
en el reflejo del cristal que el hielo deja
en el tapiz, el musgo en la terraza,
dentro del poso de la taza de cafรฉ,
hay un odio que crece para alguien
en el cuajo de leche y en la cepa
del vino y en el hilo de coser
puede haber odio.
Camino hacia la zona de luz,
salgo del bosque casi artificial,
de utilerรญa, los bancos en la grava,
llevo la rama
pesada, todo lo que miro
se enturbia en el agobio
del recuerdo de un รกrbol.
Mala semilla durmiendo
entre nosotros, para siempre burlados
en la idea de un Jardรญn.
*
I have found a branch of hatred in
the magnolia of the little park:
the tree doesnโt belong to anyone, the promenade (short walk)
Gerardo Goldwasser nace en Montevideo, Uruguay, en 1961. Artista, docente y diseรฑador grรกfico, vive y trabaja en Montevideo. La sastrerรญa, la violencia y el arte contemporรกneo se conjugan en su trabajo. Realizรณ bachillerato de arquitectura, entre 1984 y 1988 estudiรณ artes plรกsticas en el CEA Centro de Expresiรณn Artรญstica, dirigido por Nelson Ramos. En 1986 realiza un curso de grabado en metal con David Finkbeiner (Profesor del Manhattan graphics of New York, Pratt Institute of New York) en el Museo Nacional de Artes Visuales, Montevideo, Uruguay. En 1987 participรณ en el curso de elaboraciรณn de papel con Laurence Baker (director del Barcelona Helkshop en Espaรฑa) en el Museo Nacional de Artes Visuales, Montevideo, Uruguay. Desde 1985 ha participado en numerosas exhibiciones nacionales e internacionales, entre las que se destacan: En 2011 “Blanco Mรณvil” en el Centro Cultural Dodecรก, en 2010 en el Museo Departamental Juan Manuel Blanes “Repeat me”, en 2008 Galerรญa Dabbah Torrejรณn, Buenos Aires; ARTbo. En el 2001 recibiรณ la Beca Fundaciรณn Pollock Krasner. En el 2004 recibe el Primer Premio en el 51ยบ Salรณn Nacional de Artes Visuales, Ministerio de Educaciรณn y Cultura, Uruguay. En el 2002 Primer Premio 50ยบ Salรณn Nacional de Artes Visuales, Ministerio de Educaciรณn y Cultura, Uruguay. En el 2000 recibe el Segundo Premio de grabado, en la II Bienal de grabado del Mercosur, Feria arte BA 2000, Fondo Nacional de las Artes, Buenos Aires, Argentina. En 1999 Premio adquisiciรณn Salรณn Municipal de Artes Plรกsticas, Montevideo. En 1996 Primer Premio, Paul Cezzane, Embajada de Francia-Montevideo Beca/residencia Parรญs, Nantes. Proyecto FRAC. Fondo Regional de Arte Contemporรกneo, Nantes, Francia.
Gerardo Goldwasser was born in Montevideo, Uruguay, in 1961. Artist, teacher and graphic designer, he lives and works in Montevideo. Tailoring, violence and contemporary art come together in his work. He completed a bachelor’s degree in architecture, and between 1984 and 1988 he studied fine arts at the CEA Centro de Expresiรณn Artรญstica, directed by Nelson Ramos. In 1986 he took a metal engraving course with David Finkbeiner (Professor at Manhattan Graphics of New York, Pratt Institute of New York) at the Museo Nacional de Artes Visuales, Montevideo, Uruguay. In 1987 he participated in a papermaking course with Laurence Baker (director of the Barcelona Helkshop in Spain) at the Museo Nacional de Artes Visuales, Montevideo, Uruguay. Since 1985 he has participated in numerous national and international exhibitions, among which the following stand out: In 2011 “Blanco Mรณvil” at the Dodecรก Cultural Center; in 2010 at the Juan Manuel Blanes Departmental Museum “Repeat me”, in 2008 Dabbah Torrejรณn Gallery, Buenos Aires; ARTbo. In 2001 he received the Pollock Krasner Foundation Scholarship. In 2004 he received First Prize at the 51st National Salon of Visual Arts, Ministry of Education and Culture, Uruguay. In 2002 First Prize 50th National Salon of Visual Arts, Ministry of Education and Culture, Uruguay. In 2000 he received Second Prize for engraving, at the II Mercosur Engraving Biennial, Feria arte BA 2000, National Fund for the Arts, Buenos Aires, Argentina. In 1999 Acquisition Award Municipal Salon of Plastic Arts, Montevideo. In 1996, First Prize, Paul Cezzane, French Embassy-Montevideo. Scholarship/residency Paris, Nantes. FRAC Project. Regional Fund for Contemporary Art, Nantes, France.
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Abajo: Detalle, siluetas de moldes de uniformes superpuestas e impresas digitalmente en transparencias, intercaladas entre papeles de molde plegados.Museo Blanes, 2010.
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Below: Detail, silhouettes of uniform molds superimposed and digitally printed on transparencies, interspersed between folded mold papers. Blanes Museum, 2010.
Mario Szichman naciรณ en Buenos Aires en 1945, llegรณ a Caracas en 1967. Regresรณ a su ciudad natal en 1971 y, en 1975, volviรณ a Venezuela para quedarse por cinco aรฑos mรกs. Se enamorรณ de Venezuela y su compromiso con el paรญs 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 seรฑora entrรณ en la inmortalidad, viajรณ a Estados Unidos, junto con su esposa Laura Corbalรกn. Se residenciaron en Nueva York, allรญ trabajรณ para la Associated Press y como corresponsal del periรณdico Tal Cual. Su obra: sus novelas histรณricas, seis de ellas reunidas en dos series: โLa trilogรญa del mar dulceโ formada por La verdadera crรณnica falsa, Los judรญos del Mar Dulce y A las 20:25 la seรฑora entrรณ en la inmortalidad, novelas querelatan las peripecias de una familia judรญa que trata de reinventarse a fin de ser aceptada en la sociedad argentina y โLa trilogรญa de la patria bobaโ, conformada por Los Papeles de Miranda, Las dos muertes del general Simรณn Bolรญvar y Los aรฑos de la guerra a muerte, novelas que narran las peripecias de los prรณceres de la independencia venezolana. Luego escribiรณ La regiรณn vacรญa, sobre los atentados a las torres gemelas, cuya trama tiene como soporte una serie de crรณnicas 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 Corbalรกn. 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 Simรณn Bolรญvar 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 SEรORA ENTRร EN LA INMORTALIDAD
El trabajo de Jaime era agotador. Para hacer confluir a los Gutiรฉrrez Anselmi en los Pechoff y borrara la parentela del mapa antes del desembarco en Buenos Aires, debรญa imitar a las araรฑas, 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 podรญan darse el lujo de parcelar los recuerdos y olvidar varios parientes sin abandonar su identidad, los Pechoff estaban abrumados e parientes รบtiles solamente para armar una rรฉplica y que despuรฉs 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 comรบn.
Para Jaime, todo vino mal barajado desde el principio.
Los archivos de su ciudad habรญan sido quemados de la gente de Pilsudky. En vez de cรฉdulas 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, ademรกs de los desertores convertidos en sostรฉn รบnico de madre viuda, hubo cambios de edades y deformaciรณn de apellidos.
En la memoria de Dora, Jaime figuraba como el โbenjamรญnโ. 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 recibiรณ una paliza de un vecino, harto de la insistencia en copiar las modales ampulosos de Jaime con sรณlo la mitad de su estatura.
Por otra parte, cada Pechoff escribรญa 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 polรญtico. Salmen fue atendido por un nacionalista que polaquizaba los apellidos guiรกndose por la fonรฉtica. El funcionario fue cambiado esa misma noche por un barรณn borracho que obsequiรณ a Dora una efe de mรกs para hacerse inolvidable. Los pasaportes de Natalio, Jaime e Itzik se sellaron a la semana siguiente. En el interรญn, la ciudad fue tomada por los bolcheviques y el nacionalista volviรณ a su puesto y rusificรณ a los tres hermanos encubriendo asรญ sus arrebatos patriรณticos.
Pero el problema mรกs grave era que los Pechof tenรญan sus recuerdos sin terminar.
La culpa era de la รฉpoca indecisa que les tocรณ 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 vivรญan 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 prolongรณ el engaรฑo usando modales de vencedor. Mandรณ arriar la bandera roja que tenรญa pintados la hoz y el martillo en pinceladas chorreantes de cal, y ordenรณ izar en su lugar al comisario polรญtico. Despuรฉs, se iniciรณ la cacerรญa de bolcheviques y judรญos.
Los Pechoff, que tenรญan la experiencia de de otros pogromos, aguadaron a que los soldados mataron a treinta รญdn, 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. Habรญan sido formados en academias militares del imperio austrohรบngaro y, despuรฉs de quemar con ladrillos al rojo vivo el sexo de todo poblador con patillas enruladas, encerraron a los sobrevivientes en los sรณtanos y clausuraron las trampas de acceso para que murieran de hambre.
Los Pechof metieron en un carro de baรบles y cinco hijos huyeron hacia Gdinia. Allรญ subieron el paquebote Titania y llegaron a Buenos Aires despuรฉs de hacer escala en Liverpool and Rรญo de Janeiro.
El Titania recalcรณ frente al Hotel de Inmigrantes, balanceando en horizonte de edificios frises, barcos de cascos oxidados, grรบas y รกrboles.
El zaide Pechof se inquietรณ porque el puerto plagiaba la rada de Gdinia. Le habรญan hablado tanto de Buenos Aires, que esperaba algo meno plausible.
Las sopechas crecieron cuando el changador les hablรณ en placo y en el hotel fueron saludados por idn.
El zaide informรณ sus mujer con amargura:
–Un mes para esto. Noj a mul en Polonia.
—Hasta cuรกndo con tus manรญas? โlo interrogรณ la bobe.
–-Pero si seguimos en Polonia todos hablan igual. ยฟNo es que en otro paรญs se habla distinto?
–รl que nos sellรณ los pรกpeles, hablaba distintoโrecordรณ la bobe.
–Porque era de la aduana. Tambiรฉn รฉl que nos sellรณ en Gdinia hablaba distinto. Es lo mismo en todas las aduanas.
–Yo de aquรญ no me muevo. Que sea lo que Dios quieraโanunciรณ 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 dรญa, empezรณ la Semana Trรกgica y dispararon sin dudas.
Mientras la policรญa ametrallaba a los obreros de Vasena, los guardias blancos rodearon el Hotel de Inmigrantes. Legaron los faetones Daimler y en tranvรญas acorazados con puertas corcel. Bajaron un caรฑรณn 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 mediodรญa, llegรณ un carro atmosfรฉrico y obstruyรณ la entrada del hotel. Conectaron una manguera y escribieron en letra marrรณn: Judรญos a Rusia. El hombre flaquito hizo sonar un silbato y se levantรณ el asedio en esfera de refuerzos.
Los Pechof volvieron a cargar en el carro con dos baรบles y los hijos y enfilaron hacia el interior por caminos bamboleantes.
El zeide querรญa retornar al pueblo siguiendo en reverso las huellas de la destrucciรณn. Bastaba encontrar el primer muerto para orientarse. No importaba la forma del cadรกver, El pogrom se irradiaba por simpatรญa 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 ataรบd.
Tres dรญas despuรฉs, surgiรณ un paisaje no presentido; tierras pantanosas, casa de forma rara recostadas contra รกrboles 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 sรณlo imaginables en las pampas argentinas
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย El zaide se bajรณ del carro y apartando una vaca, besรณ 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 Gutiรฉrrez 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? โthe 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 differentlyโthe 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.
Esther Seligson estudiรณ letras francesas e hispรกnicas en la Universidad Nacional Autรณnoma de Mรฉxico y empezรณ a publicar a los 24 aรฑos de edad en la revista Cuadernos del viento. En 1969, apareciรณ su primer libro de cuentos Tras la ventana de un รกrbol. En 1973 recibiรณ al Premio Xavier Villaurrutia por su novela Otros son los sueรฑos. Entre sus principales obras estรกn Luz de dos (1978), Diรกlogos con el cuerpo y La morada en el tiempo (1981), Isomorfismos (1991) y Hebras(1996), Rescoldos (2000), A campo traviesa (2005), Toda la luz (2006) y Todo aquรญ es polvo (post mortem, 2010). โNo puedo decir que mi literatura sea judรญa โafirmabaโ porque hay elementos de la mitologรญa griega, de hinduismo y de taoรญsmo, soy una lectora apasionada del I Ching, de sofismo y de miles de cosas. Ahora evidentemente no voy a negar que soy judรญa [โฆ]; considero que mi literatura es mรกs mexicana que judรญa y eso lo seรฑalaron hasta en Jerusalรฉnโ. Otra de sus pasiones fue el teatro, al que dedicรณ muchas reseรฑas y ensayos; asรญ como la traducciรณn de autores como Edmond Jabรฉs y Emil M. Cioran. Fue maestra del Centro Universitario de Teatro por mรกs de 25 aรฑos. En 1990 publicรณ El teatro, festรญn efรญmero (Reflexiones y testimonios), una compilaciรณn de textos y entrevistas a los directores, dramaturgos y actores de una de las รฉpocas mรกs prolรญficas de la escena mexicana.
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Esther Seligson estudiรณ letras francesas e hispรกnicas en la Universidad Nacional Autรณnoma de Mรฉxico y empezรณ a publicar a los 24 aรฑos de edad en la revista Cuadernos del viento. En 1969 apareciรณ su primer libro de cuentos Tras la ventana de un รกrbol. En 1973 recibiรณ el Premio Xavier Villaurrutia por su novela Otros son los sueรฑos. Entre sus principales obras estรกn Luz de dos (1978), Diรกlogos con el cuerpo y La morada en el tiempo (1981), Isomorfismos (1991) y Hebras (1996), Rescoldos (2000), A campo traviesa (2005), Toda la luz (2006) y Todo aquรญ es polvo (post mortem, 2010). โNo puedo decir que mi literatura sea judรญa โafirmabaโ porque hay elementos de la mitologรญa griega, de hinduismo y de taoรญsmo, soy una lectora apasionada del I Ching, de sofismo y de millas de cosas. Ahora evidentemente no voy a negar que soy judรญa [โฆ]; considero que mi literatura es mรกs mexicana que judรญa y eso lo seรฑalaron hasta en Jerusalรฉnโ. Otra de sus pasiones fue el teatro, al que dedicรณ muchas reseรฑas y ensayos; asรญ como la traducciรณn de autores como Edmond Jabรฉs y Emil M. Cioran. Fue maestra del Centro Universitario de Teatro por mรกs de 25 aรฑos. En 1990 publicรณ El teatro, festรญn efรญmero (Reflexiones y testimonios), una recopilaciรณn de textos y entrevistas a los directores, dramaturgos y actores de una de las รฉpocas mรกs prolรญficas de la escena mexicana.
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El Segundo Templo Judรญo en Jerusalรฉn/ The Second Jewish Temple in Jerusalem– 536 BC to 70 CE
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“El sembrador de estrellas”
Siempre esperando, pero sin busยญcar nada, sigue su camino.
Martรญn Buber, Yo y Tรบ
รl llegaba todas las maรฑanas a barrer el templo. รsa habรญa sido su tarea desde que tenรญa memoria, desde que su madre viniera a entregarlo como sirviente, desde las primeras espigas de la primera cosecha que recordaba y los primeros rayos del sol que mojaran sus ojos somnolientos acostumbrados a abrirse apeยญnas antes del mediodรญa, desde la primera sangre tibia que salpicara sus rodillas y se le cuajara en la pupila atรณnita y el olfato asqueado. Todo estaba ya vivido, meado; no sabรญa desde dรณnde, ni cuรกndo el recuerdo se encontrรณ ya ahรญ, completo en sus mรญnimos detalles, como una arquilla harto familiar cuyo contenido fuera desplegรกndose ante รฉl sin titubeos ni faltantes. Y รฉl lo reconocรญa, igual, sin vacilaciรณn alguna. De su cuartito en la parte baja de la ciudad hasta los umbraยญ les del templo tenรญa que atravesar el serpenteo de caยญllejuelas del barrio de teรฑidores, su olor acre y รกspero, su desorden de paรฑos abatanados, trapos percudidos y macetones floridos, y subir al alba para empezar un quehacer que, insensible y silencioso, pasรณ a transformarse en la razรณn de su existencia. Aprendiรณ a levantarse aun antes de que despuntaran los rezos en la alta madruยญgada, antes de que la montaรฑa y los senderos se cubrieran de rocรญo, ese sรบbito relente que en un cerrar de ojos descendรญa y desaparecรญa como el ondeo de un finรญsimo cendal antes de que el augur y el sacerdote empezaran con su trajรญn de fuentes, copas, tazones y vasos, y de hornillos, anafres, sebos y torcidas, antes, muยญcho antes de que nada, ni siquiera el revoloteo de cualquier palomilla parpadeara o chispeara bajo el cielo en esa invisible hora nocturna en que el aliento de las cosas quietas y de los seres vivos se pasma con asombro de reciรฉn parido. Salvo las estrellas, que nunca duermen y siemยญpre estรกn abiertas. Asรญ fue como supo identifiยญcarlas, las mรกs distantes y solitarias -porque las estrellas son lejanas entre si y caladas de soยญledad-, las pequeรฑas, las brillantes, las vagabundos-por la calle principal y que arrancaban casi desde el cruce de caminos donde venรญan a encontrarse las vรญas mรกs importantes de la comarca con sus caravanas de mercaderes y peregrinos, para observarlas a su albeยญdrรญo, sin prisa. Y no sรณlo por eso.
A esa hora, pues se le tenรญa prohibido acercarse al templo, embozado y silente, de tanto en tanto, llegaba el leproso ciego, aquel de quien se decรญa fue profeta y favorito entre reyes y sobre el que cayera el mal divino nunca se supo bien a bien a causa de cuรกles transgreยญsiones ocurridas en el santuario -lo sagrado es intoยญ cable muchacho, no intentes nunca cruzar el umbral ni descorrer el velo, aunque tire de ti, aunque te empuje su voz: resiste, date media vuelta, no mires, no alargues la mano-, aquel que hablaba con los espรญritus y conocรญa el nombre de los รกngeles y nombraba sin equรญvoco a cada uno de los moradores de la ciudad. รl le hablรณ de ellas. Dijo que eran diosas, de ahรญ que parecieran tan vivas, y que cada una anhelaba en la tierra a su geยญmelo. Las habรญa terribles, puntualizรณ, estrellas maldiยญtas devoradoras de almas, otras lascivas y melancรณliยญcas, insaciables todas, traviesas, sedientas de luz y alยญmizcles, guerreras algunas, pastoras, tamborileras. Se hubiese dicho que hablaba de un fluido sutil que trasยญ pasaba con su filigrana de murmullos las paredes de las casas y los sayos de sus habitantes, un fluido que religaba sin interrupciรณn la vida de los espacios allรก arriba y la de los meses y los dรญas aquรญ abajo. Y รฉl se fue habituando a mirar asรญ, sin fragmentar, sin separar, como cuando barrรญa despuรฉs de los servicios del atardecer y con la basura de desperdicio que se mezclaban los objetos perdidos y rara vez reclamados, cinchos, fajas, paรฑuelos , saquitos llenos de sal o de especias aromรกticas, piedras preciosas, fรญbulas, arrancadas, amuletos, una variedad a find de cuentas bastante bastante finita de enseres basaban a formar parte de los bienes del templo y redistribuรญan a los menesterosos. Nunca habรญa hurtado o codiciado nada para sรญ. Salvo la amatistas–su fuerza es sobrenatural, protegen a los hechizos y de la nostalgia–. para sembrarlas consagradas a alguna estrella y arbustos del huerto en la luna nueva. Despuรฉs de la escalinatas barrรญa las tres calzadas, limpiaba los espejos de agua, el gran atrio, y sรณlo al รบltimo penetraba en las salas de del santuario. Aguardaba no sabรญa quรฉ exactamente y alargaba el momento de entrar seguro de que algo iba a detenerlo. Era una tirantez dentro del cuerpo que en ek origen con la espera del leproso, con la escucho de su paso firme y el leve golpe de su bรกculo al apoyarse. Pero mรกs tarde, era justo cuando รฉl partรญa que la expectativa se tornaba cas una zozobra, la certeza de ese algo inminente por ocurrir– desengรกรฑate, el Destino nada tiene que con nuestras urgencias, y el llamado puede ni venir nunca. Aunque tambiรฉn, suele acontecer que ni siquiera nos percatemos del insta te en que se ha ofrecido–parecรญa caer sobre รฉl como una mano pesado. Con los muchachos de su edad se fue a los bosques, a entregar su semilla en las hierรณdulas, a solazarse a bajo de las frondas en el deleite de los cuerpos, a buscarse en los juegos y en los sacrificios, las ofrendas y los festines. Un estupor vacรญo le quedaba al retorno. Y en la inmediatez del contentamiento su devociรณn fue concentrรกndose poco a poco hacia los misterios mรกs ocultos del recinto sagrado, los rituales del enยญcendido de las lรกmparas, la limpieza de los ceniceros, aspersorios y braserillos, el degรผello de pichones y tรณrtolas, la calcinaciรณn de los panes รกzimos. Le dieron una celda a un costado del patio de las purificaciones y, ademรกs, el cargo de portero. Empezรณ a rastrear en los gestos y miradas de los peregrinos y de aquellos que acudรญan regularmente a los servicios, un signo, el bruรฑido, la irisaciรณn de las creadoras estelares. Adiviยญnaba, bajo los rasgos distintos de los rostros, una misma sรบplica, una misma distorsiรณn, almas mustias y asoladas, corazones sonรกmbulos y acanallados, laยญ bios codiciosos, pesadumbre en las mejillas, soberbia en las frentes, dolor, a veces una chispa de alegrรญa, un reto, un mentรญs a lo irrevocable; la esperanza รกvida, la paz. Tomaba a las mujeres segรบn se le ofrecรญan, sin preguntas, cauteloso, porque sabรญa que era posible perderse en ellas sin restituciรณn, y porque le atemoriยญzaban esos seres secretos y sus indescifrables demanยญdas. Si alguna querรญa quedarse, รฉl objetaba sus quehaยญceres en el templo, su accesoria labor de hortelano, su constante vigilia, su espera.
Un dรญa el profeta no regresรณ ni se supo mรกs de su paradero, aunque un mil historias sobre su desapariยญciรณn se contaron, que si lo habรญan visto en el Norte; que no, que hacia el Sur, del lado de los desiertos; que si recuperรณ la vista y bajo su pelliza no habรญa ya seรฑales del mal; que si fue arrebatado desde los cielos por un carro รญgneo; que si tal que si cual. Fue entonยญces cuando รฉl empezรณ a sentir su presencia mientras barrรญa mientras sembraba. Creรญa ver sus mensajes entre las cenizas de los holocaustos, y escuchar su voz cuando hablaba con las estrellas -me traspasa un lejano llanto, un hueco abierto al desamparo, mรญ grito llama en todas las gargantas desde hace siglos, tanยญ tos siglos. Todo termina y nada acaba, ยฟen quรฉ lecho tibio descansaremos por fin?-, cuando engarzaba las amatistas en la raรญz de los rosales, los granados y los almendros. Quiso adquirir sabidurรญa y pidiรณ al augur y al sacerdote que lo instruyeran. Aumentรณ la tesura en su cuerpo. El aprendizaje era lento largo. Le angustยญiรณ saberse tan ignorante. La zozobra y la certeza eran una dolencia hermanada un pinchazo de espina viva en la sangre1 en el pensamiento. Habรญa cumplido quiยญnientas ochenta y ocho lunas y aรบn le era nebuloso su destino.
–Itamar despierta. El gallo ya cantรณ tres veces. Estรกs borracho…-
Ocurriรณ en la รฉpoca de la sequรญa. La gente acudiรณ desde alejadas comarcas acosada por el hambre y las epidemias para rogarle al Dios de la Montaรฑa del Templo e implorar sus misericordias. Se corriรณ la voz de que en las cรกmaras interiores habรญa reservas inmensas de trigo y aceite, y que se les darรญa provisiรณn y vestido a los mรกs necesitados: huรฉrfanos, viuยญdas y ancianos principalmente. Ni los sacerdotes ni los soldados del rey lograron contener a aquella masa afiebrada que, de penitente contrito -todas nuestras acciones influyen en el orden del universo, tanto si son para bien como si son para mal; incluso lo que fraguas en tu corazรณn y en tu mente darรก su fruto tarde o temprano-, terminรณ por transformarse en una fauce arrasadora. ยฟQuรฉ caso tenรญa, frente a la extenuaciรณn, pedir arrepentimiento y ayuno; frente a la enfermeยญdad y la muerte, fe y caridad? Saquearon los graneros de las casas ricas y asaltaron los corrales del palacio. Una lucha fratricida desmantelรณ incluso los cobertiยญzos en los barrios pobres y en el ala del templo donde se cobijaban los animales para inmolar. Y de no haber sido por la lluvia intempestiva, el fuego hubiese dado cuenta de la ciudad entera. Fueron tres dรญas de pesadiยญlla con sus noches completas. รl llenaba los cรกlices del candelabro con el aceite de oliva cuando Ella entrรณ. Venรญa herida y con las ropas chamuscadas. La lavรณ, le aplicรณ ungรผentos y le frotรณ bรกlsamos, reconfortรณ su cuerpo con potingues y templรณ su รกnimo con salยญmos y consejas. Tuvo la sensaciรณn de que nadaban a contracorriente y de que Ella no se dejaba rescatar. รl se reconociรณ en la profundidad de esas aguas lejanas, luminiscentes. Y la amรณ una tarde, en el huerto, inยญ terminable atardecer, hasta que lo venciรณ el sueรฑo. Le habrรญa pedido que se quedara, pero cuando el sacerยญdote lo sacudiรณ para despertarlo imputรกndole ebrieยญdad, Ella ya no estaba ahรญ junto a รฉl, ni en ninguna parte. Salvo en el hueco de ternura que sus manos le dejaran sobre el rostro. en ninguna parte. Salvo en el hueco de ternura que sus manos le dejaran sobre el rostro
Corrieron ciento veintinueve lunas mรกs. Aquellos sucesos formaban ya parte de las haยญblillas populares, que si la tormenta fue milaยญ grosa, que si los justos y piadosos resucitaron, que si hasta hoy en dรญa, en el templo, durante los rezos, las almas de los difuntos impenitenยญtes aprovechan los susurros de los vivos para mezclar sus propias murmuraciones, sus proยญpios pasos furtivos, pasos que se prolongan fuera, por las calles de la ciudad, incesante romper de olas menudas murmuraciones como aletas de peces flotando azulosas por enยญ cima de las cabezas de los orantes. El cotidiano fluir no se habรญa interrumpido. Los campos de algodรณn los avellanos la lana trasquilada y las nieves blanquearon el horizonte a su tiempo, y a su tiempo tambiรฉn se le blanqueรณ el cabello y se le serenaron los recuerdos. No asรญ la espera de ese algo impreciso y cierto. El desasosiego y la mordedura se ahondaron con el estudio. Igual que la soledad -has pecado por cuanto no serviste a tu Dios con alegrรญa y gozo de coraยญzรณn, por la abundancia de todas las cosas-, y la carencia. Ahora era รฉl quien sabรญa nombrar por su nombre a las estrellas y determinar su influjo en la vida de los hombres. Curandero reputado y escriba, llegaba, no obstante todas las maรฑanas, despuรฉs de atravesar el serpenยญteo de callejuelas del barrio de curtidores, a barrer el templo. Y una madrugada, antes de que la montaรฑa y los senderos se cubrieran de rocรญo, los vio subir por las anchas escalinatas de piedra. De inmediato supo quiรฉnes eran. El niรฑo tenรญa el mismo mirar de Ella, el fulgor, la sonrisa…
-Viene a quedarse contigo, Itamar. Es tu hijo.
Y desapareciรณ, como aquella tarde, sin que รฉl supiera cuรกndo mientras levantaba al niรฑo en brazos.
Always waiting, but seeking nothing, he goes on his way.
Martin Buber, I and Thou
He came every morning to sweep the temple. That had been his task for as long as he could remember, since his mother came to hand him over as a servant, since the first ears of corn of the first harvest he remembered and the first rays of the sun that wet his sleepy eyes accustomed to opening just before noon, since the first warm blood that splashed his knees and coagulated in his astonished pupil and disgusted nose. Everything had already been lived, pissed on; he did not know from where, or when the memory was already there, complete in its smallest details, like a familiar little chest whose contents were unfolding before him without hesitation or lack thereof. And he recognized it, just the same, without any hesitation. From his little room in the lower part of the city to the threshold of the temple he had to cross the winding streets of the dyeing district, its acrid and harsh smell, its disorder of worn cloth, shabby rags and flower pots, and go up at dawn to begin a task that, insensible and silent, became the reason for his existence. He learned to rise even before the dawn of prayers, before the mountain and the paths were covered with dew, that sudden dew that in the blink of an eye descended and disappeared like the flutter of fine silk before the augur and the priest began their bustle of platters, goblets, bowls and glasses, and stoves, braziers, fats and twisted meats, before, long before anything, not even the fluttering of a moth, flickered or sparkled beneath the sky in that invisible night hour when the breath of still things and living beings is amazed with the wonder of a newborn. Except the stars, which never sleep and are always open. That was how he knew how to identify them, the most distant and solitary ones – because the stars are far away from each other and soaked in solitude -, the small ones, the bright ones, the vagabonds – along the main street and that started almost from the crossroads where the most important roads of the region met with their caravans of merchants and pilgrims, to observe them at his leisure, without hurrying. And not only for that.
At that hour, for he was forbidden to approach the temple, muffled and silent, from time to time there came the blind leper, he who was said to have been a prophet and a favourite among kings, and on whom divine evil fell no one knew for certain what transgressions had occurred in the sanctuary – what is sacred is untouchable, boy, never try to cross the threshold or draw back the veil, even if he pulls you, even if his voice pushes you: resist, turn around, do not look, do not reach out your hand – he who spoke with the spirits and knew the names of the angels and named unmistakably each one of the inhabitants of the city. He spoke to him of them. He said they were goddesses, that is why they seemed so alive, and that each one longed on earth for her twin. There were terrible ones, he pointed out, cursed stars that devoured souls, others lascivious and melancholic, all insatiable, mischievous, thirsty for light and musk, some warriors, shepherds, drummers. One would have said that he spoke of a subtle fluid that passed with its filigree of murmurs through the walls of the houses and the robes of their inhabitants, a fluid that linked without interruption the life of the spaces up there and that of the months and days down here. And he grew accustomed to looking like this, without fragmenting, without separating, as when he swept after the evening services and mixed with the rubbish of waste that was lost and rarely claimed, belts, sashes, handkerchiefs, bags full of salt or aromatic spices, precious stones, brooches, amulets, a variety of items that were quite finite and that were used to form part of the temple’s property and redistributed to the needy. He had never stolen or coveted anything for himself. Except the amethysts – their power is supernatural, they protect against spells and nostalgia – to plant them consecrated to some star and bushes in the garden during the new moon. After the steps he swept the three roads, cleaned the pools, the great atrium, and only at the end did he enter the halls of the sanctuary. He waited, not knowing what exactly, and he put off the moment of entering, certain that something would stop him. It was a tension inside his body that originally came from the wait of the leper, from the hearing of his firm step and the light knock of his staff as he leaned on it. But later, it was just when he left that the expectation became almost a feeling of anxiety, the certainty of something imminent about to happen – forget it, Destiny has nothing to do with our urgencies, and the call may never come. Although it also often happens that it does not even come. nowhere. Except in the hollow of tenderness that her hands had left on his face.
One hundred and twenty-nine more moons passed. Those events were already part of popular tales, that the storm was miraculous, that the just and pious were resurrected, that even today, in the temple, during prayers, the souls of the impenitent dead take advantage of the whispers of the living to mix their own murmurings, their own furtive steps, steps that continue outside, through the streets of the city, incessant breaking of small waves, murmurings like fish fins floating blue above the heads of those praying. The daily flow had not been interrupted. The cotton fields, the hazel trees, the shorn wool and the snows whitened the horizon in their time, and in their time his hair also whitened and his memories calmed down. Not so the wait for that something vague and certain. The restlessness and the dullness deepened with the study. As did the loneliness – you have sinned because you did not serve your God with joy and gladness of heart, for the abundance of all things – and the lack. Now it was he who knew how to name the stars and determine their abundance of all things, and lack. Now it was he who knew how to name the stars and determine their influence on the lives of men. A renowned healer and scribe, he nevertheless arrived every morning, after traversing the winding streets of the tanners’ quarter, to sweep the temple. And one morning, before the mountain and the paths were covered with dew, he saw them climbing the wide stone steps. He immediately knew who they were. The child had the same look as Her, the glow, the smileโฆ
“He’s coming to stay with you, Itamar. He’s your son.”
And he disappeared, like that afternoon, without him knowing when as he lifted the child in his arms.
Poesรญa, reflexiรณn y arte unidos para conmemorar el 7 de octubre de 2023
Liderado por la destacada escritora, periodista y poeta judรญo-venezolana Raquel Markus – Finckler, este proyecto busca convertirse en un esfuerzo intelectual significativo que permitirรก recordar y honrar a las vรญctimas de los atentados, a sus familias, a todos los afectados directa o indirectamente por este pogromo. La publicaciรณn estรก dedicada al Estado de Israel, a sus habitantes y, en general, a todos los miembros del pueblo judรญo.
Por medio de la fusiรณn de palabra, voz e imagen, No alcanzan las palabras busca transmitir el dolor, la tristeza y la desesperaciรณn que la Naciรณn judรญa (en Israel y en el mundo) ha cargado desde aquel terrible dรญa, y al mismo tiempo, es un reconocimiento a su uniรณn, a la esperanza, fe y templanza que ha demostrado durante este tiempo. La obra es un reflejo de las sombras y luces de todos sus participantes que promete dejar una huella profunda en todos sus lectores y escuchas.
A propรณsito de este prรณximo lanzamiento, Raquel Markus โ Finckler expresรณ: โTenemos planificado realizar su difusiรณn en todas las comunidades judรญas hispanoparlantes de Amรฉrica Latina, Estados Unidos, Europa e Israel. Gracias a la colaboraciรณn de muchas personas involucradas en este proyecto, incluyendo a todos los artistas que participan, queremos llegar tan lejos como sea posible. Nuestra voz debe ser escuchada por el mundo, el pueblo y el Estado de Israel tienen derecho a la vida y tienen derecho a defender sus vidas. Este libro es un necesaria reivindicaciรณn de nuestro honor y de nuestro nombre. Aquรญ estamos de pie y orgullosos respondiendo a la proclama de Am Israel Jai, el pueblo de Israel viveโ.
Son muchos los artistas plรกsticos que aceptaron colaborar con este proyecto literario y artรญstico ad honorem y completamente comprometidos con su propรณsito. En orden de publicaciรณn, ellos son: Ricardo Benaim, Edith Shlesinger, Samantha Finckler, Irene Pressner, Monique Mendelovici, Susy Iglicki, Cecilia Hecht, Orlando Campos, Susan Hirschhaut, Lisette Waich, Luis Franco Gutiรฉrrez, Lihie Talmor, Geula Zylberman, Vanessa Baumgartner, Dahlia Dreszer, Vanessa Katz, Leah Reategui Rotker, Pรกjaro, Maruja Herrera Benzecri, Paola Levy, Raquel Soffer, Simรณn Weitzman, Lucy Keme, Silvia Cohen, Karla Kantorovich. Todos ubicados entre Venezuela, Estados Unidos e Israel y unidos bajo la consigna de Am Israel Jai (el pueblo de Israel vive).
El prรณlogo de esta obra estรก a cargo del reconocido acadรฉmico Stephen A, Sadow, profesor emรฉrito de Literatura Latinoamericana en la Northeastern University de Boston, autor de varios libros que tratan sobre la literatura y el arte judรญos latinoamericano, asรญ como creador de la reconocida pรกgina web jewishlatinamerica.com. Sadow dice:
Confrontar directamente una catรกstrofe requiere gran coraje. Convertir las emociones confusas del momento en literatura y arte requiere gran talento y estabilidad emocional. En su No alcanzan las palabras, la poeta judeo-venezolana Raquel Markus-Finckler โjunto a los artistas plรกsticos que en sus obras reaccionan a los poemas escritos por ellaโ tiene el coraje y talento requeridos. En este libro se crea una nueva forma de denuncia de una catรกstrofe judรญa. He aquรญ las interacciones entre la poรฉtica y el arte. Un grupo de gente talentosa se esfuerza para protestar en contra de los ataques del 7 de octubre sobre los kibutzim Kfar Aza, Beโeri, Ofakim, Sderot, Yad Mordejรกi, Yated, Kisufim y Urim, el festival musical Nova de Simjat Torรก y por los numerosos soldados israelรญes caรญdos, los rehenes tomados y el dolor sentido por el paรญs y la Diรกspora. Raquel Markus-Finckler extiende la tradiciรณn judรญa
โEn fin, No alcanzan las palabras es una profunda e incisiva respuesta a los horrorosos eventos del 7 de octubre de 2023. Se puede considerar como una reacciรณn de la kehilรก de Venezuela a un momento de gran agitaciรณn en el paรญs. No alcanzan las palabras estรก armado por los poemas de Raquel Markus-Finckler y por un conjunto de obras de distintos artistas plรกsticos. Ellos actรบan como representantes de una comunidad judรญa relativamente pequeรฑa de la Diรกspora, la venezolana, que muestra su solidaridad hacia los rehenes y sus familias, y hacia los que murieron y sufrieron el ataque del 7 de octubreโ.
En su contexto histรณrico, la analista internacional Beatriz W. de Rittigstein, expresa:
โLas atrocidades perpetradas por Hamรกs, la Yihad Islรกmica Palestina, otros grupรบsculos terroristas y miles de civiles gazatรญes en el territorio soberano de Israel aquel nefasto 7 de octubre, sin ninguna duda, constituye para el Estado y el pueblo judรญos un parteaguas, una lรญnea divisoria de un antes y un despuรฉs, un suceso que marca que ya nada serรก igual a lo previo. Va mรกs allรก de una guerra de religiones; se trata de una confrontaciรณn de civilizaciones entre el islam radical y la cultural judeocristiana, entre el mal y el bien, y, por la ventura de la humanidad, la cultura de la luz deberรก prevalecerโ.
El epรญlogo de la obra, a cargo del reconocido periodista, escritor y poeta Nรฉstor Garrido, expresa:
โConocida es la prolรญfica pluma de Raquel a la hora de traducir en versos sus pensamientos y sentimientos, como tambiรฉn su habilidad de hallar las palabras sencillas y tropos acertados; lo que sรญ no sabรญa era de su capacidad de convencer a un grupo de instituciones, artistas e intelectuales para seguirla en esta meta, habida cuenta de que se trataba de un trabajo ad honรณrem y por la sola satisfacciรณn de hace No alcanzan las palabras es una creaciรณn hecha yad beyad (mano con mano), a la que le sobraron conciencias para concretar una obra colectiva que se ejecutรณ desde el coraje y la temeridad. Su propรณsito principal es poder conmemorar, por medio de la poesรญa, la reflexiรณn yel arte el primer aniversario desde aquel trรกgico 7 de octubre.
A partir de su lanzamiento oficial, el 6, โNo alcanzan las palabrasโ estarรก disponible sin costo alguno en formato de ebook, como PDF para ser compartido por medio de correos y chats institucionales, y en veinte video poemas, publicados en la plataforma de YouTube en un canal que lleva por nombre: No alcanzan las palabras.
“Words Are Not Enough” by Raquel Markus โ Finckler Poetry, reflection and art united to commemorate October 7, 2023
Led by the prominent Jewish-Venezuelan writer, journalist and poet Raquel Markus – Finckler, this project seeks to become a significant intellectual effort that will allow us to remember and honor the victims of the attacks, their families, all those directly or indirectly affected by this pogrom. The publication is dedicated to the State of Israel, its inhabitants and, in general, to all members of the Jewish people.
Through the fusion of word, voice and image, “Words Are Not Enough” seeks to convey the pain, sadness and despair that the Jewish Nation (in Israel and in the world) has carried since that terrible day, and at the same time, it is a recognition of its union, the hope, faith and temperance that it has shown during this time. The work is a reflection of the shadows and lights of all its participants that promises to leave a deep mark on all its readers and listeners.
Regarding this upcoming release, Raquel Markus-Finckler said: โWe plan to distribute it in all Spanish-speaking Jewish communities in Latin America, the United States, Europe and Israel. Thanks to the collaboration of many people involved in this project, including all the participating artists, we want to reach as far as possible. Our voice must be heard by the world, the people and the State of Israel have the right to life and the right to defend their lives. This book is a necessary vindication of our honor and our name. Here we stand proudly responding to the proclamation of Am Israel Jai, the people of Israel live.โ
There are many visual artists who agreed to collaborate with this literary and artistic project ad honorem and are completely committed to its purpose. In order of publication, they are: Ricardo Benaim, Edith Shlesinger, Samantha Finckler, Irene Pressner, Monique Mendelovici, Susy Iglicki, Cecilia Hecht, Orlando Campos, Susan Hirschhaut, Lisette Waich, Luis Franco Gutiรฉrrez, Lihie Talmor, Geula Zylberman, Vanessa Baumgartner, Dahlia Dreszer, Vanessa Katz, Leah Reategui Rotker, Pรกjaro, Maruja Herrera Benzecri, Paola Levy, Raquel Soffer, Simรณn Weitzman, Lucy Keme, Silvia Cohen, Karla Kantorovich. All live in Venezuela, the United States and Israel and are united under the slogan Am Israel Jai (the people of Israel live).
The prologue to this work is by the renowned academic Stephen A. Sadow, professor emeritus of Latin American Literature at Northeastern University in Boston, author of several books dealing with Latin American Jewish literature and art, as well as creator of the renowned website jewishlatinamerica.com. Sadow says:
To confront a catastrophe directly requires great courage. To convert the confusing emotions of the moment into literature and art requires great talent and emotional stability. In her No alcanzan las palabras, the Jewish-Venezuelan poet Raquel Markus-Finckler โalong with the visual artists who in their works react to the poems written by herโ has the courage and talent required. In this book, a new form of denunciation of a Jewish catastrophe is created. Here are the interactions between poetics and art. A group of talented people is working hard to protest against the October 7 attacks on the kibbutzim Kfar Aza, Beโeri, Ofakim, Sderot, Yad Mordechai, Yated, Kisufim and Urim, the Nova Simchat Torah music festival and for the numerous fallen Israeli soldiers, the hostages taken and the pain felt by the country and the Diaspora. Raquel Markus-Finckler extends the Jewish tradition
โIn short, Words Are Not Enough is a profound and incisive response to the horrific events of October 7, 2023. It can be considered as a reaction of the kehilรก of Venezuela to a moment of great turmoil in the country. Words Are Not Enough is put together by the poems of Raquel Markus-Finckler and by a set of works by different visual artists. They act as representatives of a relatively small Jewish community in the Diaspora, the Venezuelan one, which shows its solidarity towards the hostages and their families, and towards those who died and suffered in the attack on October 7.โ
In its historical context, the international analyst Beatriz W. de Rittigstein, expresses:
โThe atrocities perpetrated by Hamas, the Palestinian Islamic Jihad, other terrorist groups and thousands of Gazan civilians in the sovereign territory of Israel on that fateful October 7, without a doubt, constitute for the Jewish State and people a watershed, a dividing line of a before and after, an event that marks that nothing will be the same as before. It goes beyond a war of religions; it is a confrontation of civilizations between radical Islam and Judeo-Christian culture, between evil and good, and, for the good of humanity, the culture of light must prevail.โ
The epilogue of the work, by the renowned journalist, writer and poet Nรฉstor Garrido, states:
โRaquel’s prolific pen is well-known when it comes to translating her thoughts and feelings into verse, as well as her ability to find simple words and successful tropes; what I did not know was her ability to convince a group of institutions, artists and intellectuals to follow her in this goal, given that it was an ad honorem work and for the sole satisfaction of doing it.
No alcanzan las palabras is a creation made yad beyad (hand in hand), which had more than enough conscience to realize a collective work that was executed from courage and recklessness. Its main purpose is to commemorate, through poetry, reflection and art, the first anniversary of that tragic October 7th.
From its official launch, โNo alcanzan las palabrasโ will be available free of charge in ebook format, as a PDF, that can also to be shared through institutional emails and chats, and in twenty video poems, published on the YouTube platform in a channel called: No alcanzan las palabras.
Eliezer Levin รฉ autor de livros de contos, crรดnicas e romances. O seu primeiro romance. Bom Retiro, publicado em 1972, constituiu-se por assim dizer, em sua temรกtica regionalista, um marco solitรกrio no panorama de nossa um livro sobre o bairro judaico de Sรฃo Paulo. Atรฉ entรฃo nenhum romance se ocupara especificamente do assunto. Conforme crรญtica da รฉpoca, o autor estreava em plano alto, o nรญvel de realizaรงรฃo literรกria que sugeria maturidade. Dono de estilo simples, claro, fluente, havia escrito โum livro envolvente, de evocativa beleza, digno dos escritores de raรงaโ
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Eliezer Levin es autor de libros de cuentos, crรณnicas y novelas. Tu primera novela. Bom Retiro, publicado en 1972, constituyรณ, por asรญ decirlo, en su temรกtica regionalista, un hito solitario en el panorama de nuestro libro sobre el barrio judรญo de Sรฃo Paulo. Hasta entonces, ninguna novela habรญa tratado especรญficamente el tema. Segรบn la crรญtica de la รฉpoca, el autor debutรณ en un nivel alto, el nivel de realizaciรณn literaria que sugerรญa madurez. Dueรฑo de un estilo sencillo, claro y fluido, habรญa escrito โun libro cautivador, de belleza evocadora, digno de escritores de razaโ.
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Eliezer Levin is the author of books of short stories, chronicles and novels. Your first novel. Bom Retiro, published in 1972, constituted, so to speak, in its regionalist theme, a solitary landmark in the panorama of our book on the Jewish neighborhood of Sรฃo Paulo. Until then, no novel had specifically dealt with the subject. According to the critics of the time, the author debuted at a high level, the level of literary achievement that suggested maturity. Owner of a simple, clear and fluid style, he had written โa captivating book, of evocative beauty, worthy of writers of his ethnicity.โ
O retrato ficava bern no meio da parede da nossa sala de jantar, en frente da mesa. Tratava-se de um desenho antiยญ go, feito a lรกpis-crayon, corn urna armaรงรฃo de vidro e urna grande moldura dourada de estilo. Nele, o meu avo aparecia exibindo a sua longa barba preta e um par de รณculos sem aro; os olhos, grandes e luminosos, dominavam o rosto. Algumas rugas na testa emprestavam-lhe um ar mais sรฉrio, em contrasยญ te com a expressรฃo da boca, que continha um meio-sorriso.
Desde que me conhecia por gente, o retrato esteve sempre lรก. Tรฃo acostumados estรกvamos com ele, que passava desยญ percebido, corno qualquer outra coisa comum da sala. Mas, no meu caso, nao era bem assim.
A grande mesa da sala era normalmente a mesa em que costumava fazer as Iiรงรตes. Diariamente, punha os livros e caยญdernos sobre ela, ficando ali debruรงado por vรกrias horas, atรฉ a conclusรฃo do trabalho. Por vezes, meio distraรญdo, olhava para o retrato, dando, entรฃo, com seus grandes olhos, que me fitaยญvam seriamente atrรกs das lentes. Tinha a impressรฃo de que esยญ tavam interessados em tudo o que eu fizesse; nao me deixaยญvam por um instante. Como eu tivesse o hรกbito de repetir os Ao observar os pontos andando de um lado para o outro da sala, eu conseguia atรฉ sentir como eles me seguiam; nรฃo apenas os olhos, mas o rosto inteiro. Eles se viravam em minha direรงรฃo e praticamente me seguiam. Eu sentia tanto a presenรงa do meu avรด que, com o tempo, comecei a ter, por assim dizer, um diรกlogo silencioso com ele. Eu lhe contava minhas dรบvidas, sugeria meus problemas, confiava meus planos e aventuras. รs vezes, na vรฉspera de provas, eu ficava acordado estudando atรฉ tarde da noite. A casa ficava muito silenciosa. Todos dormiam. Sozinho com meus livros, eu tentava rever os รบltimos pontos. Quando, exausto e cochilando, eu parava por um breve momento, pegava aqueles grandes olhos fixos em mim, como se me olhassem com curiosidade. Acho que poucas pessoas na casa se importavam com o retrato. De minha parte, eu o conhecia tรฃo bem que conseguia reproduzi-lo nos mรญnimos detalhes. Eu podia dizer de cor o nรบmero de rugas em sua testa, o corte de seu cabelo e barba, o estilo de seus รณculos, a luz em seus olhos, o formato de suas orelhas e nariz. No entanto, de vez em quando eu podia jurar que ele havia passado por algumas mudanรงas. As rugas ร s vezes pareciam mais profundas, ร s vezes menos; o meio sorriso nos cantos de seus lรกbios foi substituรญdo por uma expressรฃo diferente, quase triste; os รณculos montados em seu nariz tinham mudado ligeiramente de posiรงรฃo. Mas essas eram diferenรงas tรฃo insignificantes que fiquei em dรบvida. De uma coisa, no entanto, eu tinha certeza absoluta: sua barba. Eu sempre pensei que fosse preta; a barba preta de um profeta. Eu nรฃo tinha dรบvidas sobre isso. E foi um verdadeiro choque para mim quando, uma noite, enquanto olhava para o retrato, particularmente para a barba, descobri alguns reflexos. Fui atรฉ lรก e examinei seu rosto. Com certeza, havia alguns cabelos grisalhos. Eu nรฃo os tinha notado antes?
–Vocรช nรฃo percebeu nada no retrato?
–Que retrato?
–Do vovรด.
–O que eu temo retrato?
–Vocรช nรฃo acha que a barba estรก um pouco diferente?
–Diferente? Como?!
Ela levantou a cabeรงa, olhou para mim e depois olhou para o retrato.
–O que vocรช vรช de diferente?
–Vocรช nรฃo acha que estรฃo aparecendo alguns cabelos grisalhos?
–Ah, isso! Esses fios sempre foram brancos.
–Mas, mรฃe, a barba do vovรด era preta. Mamรฃe riu alto; Eu nรฃo insisti mais. Outra noite, abordei meu pai. No momento em que ele largou o jornal, entrei na conversa. Inicialmente perguntei quem havia desenhado o retrato e quando o trouxeram. Quando pensei que papai estava suficientemente preparado, fui direto ao assunto:
–Vocรช nรฃo percebe nenhuma diferenรงa nele?
–Assim?
–A barba possui fios brancos; nรฃo existia antes.
–Vocรช deve estar maluco, sempre haverรก cabelos grisalhos. Dizendo isso, deu uma rรกpida olhada no retrato e pegou novamente o jornal. Suas palavras foram incisivas, nรฃo deixando margem para dรบvidas. Mas nรฃo desisti das investigaรงรตes. Eu fui em frente. Eu tinha acabado de desistir do meu pai. E entรฃo passei para outro membro da famรญlia.
ร verdade que, com este, nรฃo tive nada a temer; Por outro lado, nรฃo parecia que eu iria conseguir muito. Meu irmรฃo Srulic.
–Srulic – disse a ele, quando estรกvamos sozinhos -, preste atenรงรฃo no que vou dizer. Dรช uma boa olhada no retrato do vovรด e me diga qual era a cor da barba dele.
Os olhos de Srulic brilharam, ele ficou orgulhoso por eu estar me dirigindo a ele de forma tรฃo educada.
–A cor?!
–Sim, a cor.
–Cor?!
–Entรฃo vocรช nรฃo sabe qual รฉ a cor? Branco, preto, azul, vermelho, roxo. Vocรช entende? Imediatamente vi que nรฃo, desisti dele.
Continuei minha investigaรงรฃo com as outras pessoas que costumavam entrar na casa. Falei com todos, sem exceรงรฃo, e todos, alรฉm de mostrarem uma expressรฃo de surpresa, estranhando a pergunta, foram unรขnimes em dizer que eu estava enganado. ร claro que, a essa altura, minhas convicรงรตes jรก davam sinais de abalar e comecei a aceitar a ideia de que estava enganado. E o pior de tudo รฉ que o fato passou a ser de domรญnio pรบblico, obrigando-me a aceitar ironias de ambos os lados.
–Descobriu mais algum cabelo grisalho? – perguntou meu pai. Decidi esquecer o assunto.
Quando passei no vestibular para o Ginรกsio Estadual, esse fato despertou muita alegria em casa; Naquela รฉpoca nรฃo era fรกcil conseguir uma vaga no ensino mรฉdio. Portanto, minha conquista teve sabor de vitรณria e me proporcionou uma verdadeira consagraรงรฃo da minha famรญlia. A notรญcia se espalhou rapidamente.
Dai a pouco, nossa casa ficou completamente cheia. Os vizinhos estavam chegando, cumprimentando meu pai, que estava um eufรณrico. Mamรฃe preparou os copos, estendeu a toalha branca na estava na mesa e nรฃo parava de trazer cupcakes da cozinha. Bu, que era o herรณi, naturalmente se divertiu com tudo. Mas no local, entre o grupo que me cercava, olhei casualmente para o retrato. Os olhos me olharam felizes. Vocรช tive e novamente aquela estranha impressรฃo de que a barba parecia mais grisalha. Um bom nรบmero de cabelos grisalhos se somaria aos que eu jรก pensava conhecer. Eu cheguei mais perto.
–Parabรฉns – meu avรด sussurrou para mim.
Alguns meses se passaram. Fizemos uma pequena reforma, trocamos alguns mรณveis, mamรฃe pintou a sala e trocou as cortinas. Durante a pintura, o vidro do retrato quebrou. Papai teve que levรก-lo ao vidraceiro; Enquanto isso, mamรฃe guardou no armรกrio. Depois, passou um bom tempo sem que tivรฉssemos notรญcias dele. Sรณ fui vรช-lo novamente depois de vรกrios meses, casualmente. Um dia (isso foi por volta dos meses finais da guerra), ao vasculhar o pequeno depรณsito, encontrei-o encostado num canto, um pouco empoeirado, junto com algumas bugigangas. Limpei o vidro, que ainda estava quebrado, com um pano e aproximei-o da janela para ver melhor ร luz. Lรก estava meu avรด: os รณculos sem aro, as rugas na testa, o meio sorriso no canto dos lรกbios. Os olhos me olharam com curiosidade. A barba estava completamente branca.
____________________________________
El retrato
El retrato estaba ubicado en medio de la pared de nuestro comedor, frente a la mesa. Era un dibujo antiguo, hecho con crayones, con un marco de cristal y un marco dorado grande y elegante. En รฉl aparecรญa mi abuelo luciendo su larga barba negra y unas gafas sin montura; los ojos, grandes y luminosos, dominaban el rostro. Algunas arrugas en su frente le daban un aspecto mรกs serio, en contraste con la expresiรณn de su boca, que contenรญa una media sonrisa.
Desde que tengo uso de razรณn, el retrato siempre ha estado ahรญ. Estรกbamos tan acostumbrados que pasรณ desapercibido, como cualquier otra cosa comรบn en la habitaciรณn. Pero en mi caso no fue asรญ.
La mesa grande de la sala era normalmente la mesa donde solรญa dar mis lecciones. Todos los dรญas colocaba allรญ sus libros y cuadernos, permaneciendo allรญ durante varias horas, hasta completar el trabajo. A veces, un poco distraรญdo, miraba el retrato y luego, con sus grandes ojos, me miraba seriamente detrรกs del objetivo. Tuve la impresiรณn de que les interesaba todo lo que hacรญa; No me dejarรญan ni por un momento. Como tenรญa la costumbre de repetir los puntos al observar los puntos moviรฉndose de un lado a otro de la habitaciรณn, incluso podรญa sentir como me seguรญan; no sรณlo los ojos, sino todo el rostro. Se volvieron hacia mรญ y prรกcticamente me siguieron. Sentรญ tanto la presencia de mi abuelo que, con el tiempo, comencรฉ a tener, por asรญ decirlo, un diรกlogo silencioso con รฉl. Le contรฉ mis dudas, le sugerรญ mis problemas, me confiรฉ mis planes y aventuras. A veces, el dรญa antes de los exรกmenes, me quedaba estudiando hasta altas horas de la noche. La casa estaba muy silenciosa. Todos durmieron. A solas con mis libros, intentรฉ repasar los รบltimos puntos. Cuando, exhausto y adormecido, me detuve por un breve momento, vi esos grandes ojos mirรกndome fijamente, como si me miraran con curiosidad. Creo que a pocas personas en la casa les importaba el retrato. Por mi parte, lo conocรญa tan bien que podรญa reproducirlo hasta el mรกs mรญnimo detalle. Podรญa saber de memoria el nรบmero de arrugas de su frente, el corte de su cabello y barba, el estilo de sus gafas, la luz de sus ojos, la forma de sus orejas y nariz. Sin embargo, de vez en cuando podrรญa jurar que habรญa pasado por algunos cambios. Las arrugas a veces parecรญan mรกs profundas, a veces menos; la media sonrisa en las comisuras de sus labios fue reemplazada por una expresiรณn diferente, casi triste; Las gafas montadas en su nariz habรญan cambiado ligeramente de posiciรณn. Pero eran diferencias tan insignificantes que tenรญa dudas. Sin embargo, de una cosa estaba absolutamente seguro: de su barba. Siempre pensรฉ que era negro; la barba negra de un profeta. No tenรญa dudas sobre eso. Y fue un verdadero shock para mรญ cuando, una noche, mirando el retrato, especialmente la barba, descubrรญ algunos reflejos. Fui allรญ y examinรฉ su rostro. Efectivamente, habรญa algunas canas. ยฟNo los habรญa notado antes?
–ยฟNo notaste nada en el retrato?
–ยฟQuรฉ retrato?
–Del abuelo.
–ยฟA quรฉ le temo al retrato?
–ยฟNo crees que la barba se ve un poco diferente?
–ยฟDiferente? ยกยฟComo?!
Levantรณ la cabeza, me mirรณ y luego mirรณ el retrato.
–ยฟQuรฉ ves diferente?
–ยฟNo crees que te estรกn saliendo algunas canas?
–ยกAh, eso! Estos cables siempre han sido blancos.
–Pero mamรก, la barba del abuelo era negra. Mamรก se riรณ a carcajadas; No insistรญ mรกs. La otra noche me acerquรฉ a mi padre. En el momento en que dejรณ el periรณdico, me unรญ a la conversaciรณn. Al principio preguntรฉ quiรฉn habรญa dibujado el retrato y cuรกndo lo habรญan traรญdo. Cuando pensรฉ que papรก estaba lo suficientemente preparado, fui directo al grano:
–ยฟNo notas ninguna diferencia en รฉl?
–ยฟComo esto?
–La โโbarba tiene hilos blancos; antes no existรญa.
–Debes estar loco, siempre habrรก canas. Dicho esto, echรณ un rรกpido vistazo al retrato y volviรณ a coger el periรณdico. Sus palabras fueron incisivas y no dejaron lugar a dudas. Pero no abandonรฉ las investigaciones. Seguรญ adelante. Acababa de renunciar a mi padre. Y luego se lo pasรฉ a otro miembro de la familia.
Es cierto que con รฉste no tenรญa nada que temer; Por otro lado, no parecรญa que fuera a conseguir mucho. Mi hermano Srulic.
–Srulic โ le dije, cuando estรกbamos solos โ, presta atenciรณn a lo que voy a decir. Mira bien el retrato del abuelo y dime de quรฉ color era su barba.
Los ojos de Srulic se iluminaron, estaba orgulloso de que me dirigiera a รฉl con tanta educaciรณn.
–ยกยฟEl color?!
–Sรญ, el color.
–ยกยฟColor?!
–ยฟEntonces no sabes de quรฉ color es? Blanco, negro, azul, rojo, morado. ยฟLo entiendes? Inmediatamente vi que no, lo abandonรฉ.
Continuรฉ mi investigaciรณn con las otras personas que solรญan entrar a la casa. Hablรฉ con todos, sin excepciรณn, y todos, ademรกs de mostrar una expresiรณn de sorpresa, encontrando extraรฑa la pregunta, fueron unรกnimes en decir que me habรญa equivocado. Por supuesto, en este punto, mis convicciones
Ya daban seรฑales de temblar y comencรฉ a aceptar la idea de que estaba equivocado. Y lo peor de todo es que el hecho pasรณ a ser de dominio pรบblico, obligรกndome a aceptar la ironรญa de ambas partes.
–ยฟDescubriste mรกs canas? – preguntรณ mi padre. Decidรญ olvidarme del asunto. Cuando aprobรฉ el examen de ingreso al Gimnasio del Estado, este hecho provocรณ mucha alegrรญa en casa; En aquella รฉpoca no era fรกcil conseguir una plaza en el bachillerato. Por eso, mi logro tuvo sabor a victoria y me dio una verdadera consagraciรณn de mi familia. La noticia se difundiรณ rรกpidamente.
Pronto nuestra casa estuvo completamente llena. Los vecinos iban llegando, saludando a mi padre, quien estaba eufรณrico. Mamรก preparรณ los vasos, extendiรณ el mantel blanco sobre la mesa y siguiรณ trayendo pastelitos de la cocina. A Bu, que era el hรฉroe, naturalmente le divertรญa todo. Pero allรญ, entre el grupo que me rodeaba, mirรฉ casualmente el retrato. Los ojos me miraron felices. Una vez mรกs tuviste esa extraรฑa impresiรณn de que tu barba parecรญa mรกs gris. Un buen nรบmero de canas se sumarรญan a las que ya creรญa conocer. Me acerquรฉ.
–Felicidades โ me susurrรณ mi abuelo.
Pasaron unos meses. Hicimos una pequeรฑa renovaciรณn, cambiamos algunos muebles, mamรก pintรณ la sala y cambiรณ las cortinas. Durante la pintura, el cristal del retrato se rompiรณ. Papรก tuvo que llevarlo al vidriero; Mientras tanto, mamรก lo guardรณ en el armario. Despuรฉs pasรณ mucho tiempo sin que supiรฉramos nada de รฉl. Sรณlo volvรญ a verlo despuรฉs de varios meses, de manera casual. Un dรญa (esto fue en los รบltimos meses de la guerra), mientras buscaba en el pequeรฑo almacรฉn, lo encontrรฉ recostado en un rincรณn, un poco polvoriento, junto con algunas chucherรญas. Limpiรฉ el cristal, que aรบn estaba roto, con un paรฑo y lo acerquรฉ a la ventana para ver mejor con la luz. Allรญ estaba mi abuelo: las gafas sin montura, las arrugas en la frente, la media sonrisa en las comisuras de los labios. Los ojos me miraron con curiosidad. La barba estaba completamente blanca.
____________________________________
The Portrait
The portrait was located in the middle of the wall in our dining room, opposite the table. It was an old drawing, made in crayon, with a glass structure and a large, stylish gold frame. In it, my grandfather appeared sporting his long black beard and a pair of rimless glasses; The eyes, large and luminous, dominated the face. Some wrinkles on his forehead gave him a more serious appearance, in contrast to the expression on his mouth, which contained a half smile. Ever since I met, the portrait has always been there. We were so used to it that it went unnoticed, like everything else in the room. But in my case, it wasn’t quite like that. The large table in the room was usually the table where I did the exercises. Every day, he placed the books and notebooks in it, remaining there for several hours, until the work was completed. Sometimes, a little distracted, he would look at the portrait, then, with his big eyes, he would look at me seriously through the lens. I had the impression that they were interested in everything I did; don’t let me go for a moment. As I watched the dots walking from one side of the room to the other, I could even feel how they were following me; not only their eyes, but their entire faces. They turned in my direction and virtually followed me. I felt my grandfather’s presence so much that, over time, I began to have, so to speak, a silent dialogue with him. I would tell him my doubts, suggest my problems to him, confide in him my plans and adventures. Sometimes, on the eve of exams, I would stay up studying until late at night. The house would be very quiet. Everyone was asleep. Alone with my books, I would try to review the last points. When, exhausted and nodding off from sleep, I would pause for a brief moment, I would catch those big eyes fixed on me, as if looking at me curiously. I think that few people in the house cared about the portrait. For my part, I knew him so well that I could reproduce him in the smallest detail. I could tell by heart the number of wrinkles on his forehead, the cut of his hair and beard, the style of his glasses, the light in his eyes, the shape of his ears and nose. However, from time to time I could swear that he had undergone some changes. The wrinkles sometimes seemed deeper, sometimes less so; the half-smile at the corners of his lips was replaced by a different, almost sad expression; the spectacles mounted on his nose had changed slightly in position. But these were such insignificant differences that I was left in doubt. Of one thing, however, I felt absolutely certain: his beard. I had always thought it was black; the black beard of a prophet. I had no doubt about that. And it was a real shock for me when, one evening, as I looked at the portrait, particularly at the beard, I discovered some reflections. I went over and examined her face. Sure enough, there were some gray hairs. Hadn’t I noticed them before?
–Didn’t you notice anything in the portrait?
–What portrait?
–Grandpa’s.
–What do I fear portrait?
–Don’t you think the beard looks a little different?
–Different? As?! She raised her head, looked at me, and then looked at the portrait.
–What do you see different?
–Don’t you think some gray hairs are appearing?
–Oh, that! These wires have always been white.
–But, mom, grandpa’s beard was black. Mom laughed loudly; I didn’t insist anymore. The other night, I approached my father. The moment he put down the newspaper, I joined the conversation. Initially I asked who had drawn the portrait and when they brought it. When I thought Dad was sufficiently prepared, I got straight to the point:
–You don’t notice any difference in him?
–Like this?
–The beard has white strands; it didn’t exist before. You must be crazy, there will always be gray hair. Saying this, she took a quick look at the portrait and picked up the newspaper again. Her words were incisive, leaving no room for doubt. But I didn’t give up on the investigations. I went ahead. I had just given up on my father. And then I passed it on to another family member.
It’s true that, with this one, I had nothing to fear; On the other hand, it didn’t seem like I was going to achieve much. My brother Srulic.
It’s true that, with this one, I had nothing to fear; On the other hand, it didn’t seem like I was going to achieve much. My brother Srulic.
–Srulic – I said to him, when we were alone -, pay attention to what I’m going to say. Take a good look at Grandpaโs portrait and tell me what the color of his beard was. Srulic’s eyes shone, he felt proud that I was addressing him so politely.
–The color?!
–Yes, the color.
–Color?!
–So, you don’t know what color is? White, black, blue, red, purple. Do you understand?
I immediately saw that no, I gave up on him. I continued my investigation with the other people who usually entered the house. I spoke to them all, without any exception, and all of them, in addition to showing a look of surprise, finding the question strange, were unanimous in saying that I was mistaken. Of course, by this time my convictions were already showing signs of shaking and I began to come to terms with the idea that I was mistaken. And the worst of all is that the fact had become public domain, forcing me to accept irony from both sides.
–Did you discover any more gray hairs? – asked my father. I decided to forget the matter. When I passed the entrance exams to the State Gymnasium, that aroused great joy at home; it wasn’t easy in those times to get a place in high school. Therefore, my achievement had the flavor of a victory and gave me true consecration from my family. The news spread quickly.
Bit by bit, our house became completely full. The neighbors were arriving, greeting my father, who was euphoric. Mom prepared the glasses, laid out the white tablecloth on the table and didn’t stop bringing cupcakes from the kitchen. But, he who was the hero, naturally reveled in everything. But at the scene, among the group that surrounded me, I looked casually at the portrait. The eyes looked at me happily. I once again had that strange impression that the beard appeared grayer. A good number of gray hairs would be added to those I already thought I knew. I got closer.
–Congratulations – my grandfather whispered to me. A few months passed. We had a small renovation, moved some furniture, mom painted the living room and changed the curtains.
During the painting, the glass of the portrait broke. Dad had to take him to the glazier; Meanwhile, Mom put it in the closet. Afterwards, a good period of time passed without us hearing from him. I only went to see it again after several months, casually. One day (this was around the final months of the war), when rummaging through the little storage room, I found it leaning in a corner, a bit dusty, along with some trinkets. I wiped the glass, which was still broken, with a cloth and brought it closer to the window to see it better in the light. There was my grandfather: the rimless glasses, the wrinkles on his forehead, the half-smile at the corner of his lips. The eyes looked at me curiously. The beard was completely white.
– O nosso hornero estรก no ponto? – perguntou maยญ mรฃe a meu pai, que estava lendo o jornal.
Lรก do meu canto, levantei as orelhas, porque era de mim que se falava. Faltava pouco para o dia do meu Bar-Mitzva e eu me encontrava preocupado, tanto quanto ela.
Afinal de contas, quem irรญa fazer no templo as brachot da Torรก e o longo discurso com citaรงรตes do Talmud era eu. Tambรฉm me pesava a idรฉia de que, com treze anos, conforme me tinham dito, eu completava a maioridade, me tornava um “hornero” e assumia urna carga de responsabilidades, para o que, em sa consciencia, nao me sentia com nenhum preparo.
Dava tratos a bola: como รฉ que um “homem” como eu poยญdรญa, por exemplo, ganhar a vida e sustentar-se, se fosse o caยญ so? Deus me livre se tivesse de ocupar a cadeira do chefe da famรญlia, tomar as rรฉdeas da casa e de tudo o mais.
Ter de enfrentar, nesse sรกbado, os vizinhos, o rabino, os chachomim do Bom Retiro, que viriam em peso ao templo sรณ para assistir ao meu Bar-Mitzva, isso me deixava bem deยญsassossegado. Nao ligar para a piscada de olhos dos garotos, que tudo fariam para rir de rnim, eis outro pesadelo, nada fรกยญ cil de engolir.
Quanto ao meu irmรฃo, felizmente com esse nao tive proยญblemas, pois, antes que ele comeรงasse com as suas, eu jรก lhe lera a entender que queria o mรกximo respeito, nao deixaria passar em nuvens brancas nenhuma brincadeira de mau gosยญ to. Mas, como controlar meus amigos? Como resistir aos seus olhares, cheios de ironia e degozaรงรฃo?
Papai abaixou o jornal, tirou os รณculos e olhou para mim.
–O nosso homem estรก muito bem.
Mamรฃe deu um suspiro e voltou para a cozinha, onde andava preparando, com a ajuda de Dona Paulina, os pratos especiais da festa, essa parte a que ela proclamava como “a minha parte”.
Ao que me pareceu, o รบnico que nao demonstrava neยญnhuma preocupaรงรฃo com a tempestade que vinha aรญ era o meu pai. Ele andava sorridente, cantarolava a meia voz, esfregava satisfeito as mรฃos, e os seus ares eram de um hornero feliz que encara o amanha como urna benc,:ao dos cรฉus e se sente bem neste mundo de Deus. la de um quarto para outro, a procura nao sei bem do que; metia-se na cozinha para dar alguns palยญ pites, o que, aliรกs, nao era do seu feitio. Voltava ao seu jorยญnal, interrompia a leitura e gritava para a cozinha:
–Estou as ordens. Nao vo precisar de alguma coisa?
O pessoal da cozinha queria paz e sossego, nada mais do que isso, e tempo para trabalhar.–Que cada um cuide da sua parte – era o que mamรฃe vivia dizendo. – Eu sei qual รฉ a minha parte, meu Deus.
Com todo esse movimento, imagina-se o meu estado de espรญrito. Duma hora para outra, eu virava o centro da casa, chamavam-me de “o nosso homem”, me davarn urna atenยญ c,:ao que nunca tive, nem sonhei ter. Queriarn saber se eu estaยญ va passando bern e corno ia a rninha voz. Mamae me trazia oe-dac;:os de pifo com gordura de galinha. Papai puxava prosa coยญ migo num tom diferente, cheio de brandura, cheio de respeito.
–Ei, o senhor aรญ! Que tal uma “liรงรฃozinha”? – perguntava-me, cantarolando.
E, pela milรฉsima vez, eu repetia as brachot da Torรก, usando a melodia que ele me ensinara. Depois, repetia o disยญ curso com todas aquelas citac;:oes do Talmud. Pelos seus olhos, que nao escondiam nada, eu sabia que estava indo bem.
—Koi ornar Adoshem.
–ร-ti-mo de no-vo – repetia meu pai, no mesmo diapasรฃo, e lรก ia eu, outra vez.
Na manha do sรกbado, a sinagoga estava cheia. O talis de seda, que papai me comprara, cobria-me os ombros e me rocava as faces afogueadas. Fizeram-me sentar ao lado doraยญ bino, esse mesmo que permutava jornais idish com meu pai. Do lado do balรงรฃo, as mulheres nao tiravam os olhos de mim, lรก estavam como seus vestidos de Shabat, as cabeรงas coberยญtas por xales brancos. Dava para ver mรฃmae e Dona Paulina rezando pelo mesmo livro.
O hazan Avrum, em frente do Aron-Acodesch, entoaยญ va, com sua voz de “baixo”, as dezoito oraรงรตes.
Tendo chegado a minha vez, encaminhei-me junto com meu pai em direcรงรฃo da grande mesa onde estavam abertos os rolos da Torรก. E, no devido tempo, em meio ao silencio que se fizera na pequena sinagoga, comecei a cantar:
—Koi omar Adoshem.
Coma voz ecoando por todo o salao, ainda que meio embargada, e com o corac;:ao palpitante, eu sentia que estava encerrando nesse momento um ciclo de minha vida.
Ao me virar para o pรบblico, que esperava o tradicional discurso, olhei para o meu pai, a poucos passos de mim, e proยญ curei mรฃ
mae, no alto do balรงao. Depois, abrindo os brรฃรงos, comecei:
Meu povo…
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El Bar Mitzvรก
–ยฟEstรก nuestro homem en punto? – preguntรณ mi madre a mi padre, que estaba leyendo el periรณdico.
Desde mi esquina levantรฉ el oรญdo, porque era de mรญ de quien se hablaba. No pasรณ mucho tiempo antes de que mi Bar Mitzva y yo estuviรฉramos preocupados, tanto como ella.
Despuรฉs de todo, yo era quien iba a dar las berajot de la Torรก y el largo discurso con citas del Talmud en el templo. Tambiรฉn me pesaba la idea de que, a los trece aรฑos, como me habรญan dicho, alcanzarรญa la mayorรญa de edad, me convertirรญa en hornero y asumirรญa un montรณn de responsabilidades, para las cuales, en conciencia, me No me sentรญ preparado de ninguna manera.
Era un gran problema: ยฟcรณmo podrรญa un “hombre” como yo, por ejemplo, ganarse la vida y mantenerse, si ese fuera el caso? Dios no lo quiera si tuviera que ocupar el puesto de cabeza de familia, encargarme de la casa y de todo lo demรกs.
Tener que enfrentarme ese sรกbado a los vecinos, al rabino y a los jajomim de Bom Retiro, que vendrรญan en masa al templo sรณlo para asistir a mi Bar-Mitzvรก, me inquietรณ mucho. No prestar atenciรณn a los ojos guiรฑantes de los chicos, que harรญan cualquier cosa por reรญrse de ti, es otra pesadilla, no fรกcil de tragar.
En cuanto a mi hermano, afortunadamente no tuve ningรบn problema con รฉl, porque antes de que empezara con el suyo ya lo habรญa leรญdo para entender que querรญa el mรกximo respeto, no dejarรญa pasar ninguna broma de mal gusto en nubes blancas. ยฟPero cรณmo controlo a mis amigos? ยฟCรณmo resistirme a sus miradas, llenas de ironรญa y burla?
Papรก dejรณ el periรณdico, se quitรณ las gafas y me mirรณ.
–Nuestro hombre estรก muy bien.
Mamรก suspirรณ y regresรณ a la cocina, donde estaba preparando, con ayuda de doรฑa Paulina, los platos especiales para la fiesta, esa parte de la que proclamรณ como “mi parte”.
Me pareciรณ que el รบnico que no mostrรณ ninguna preocupaciรณn por la tormenta que se avecinaba era mi padre. Caminaba sonriendo, tarareando en voz baja, frotรกndose las manos con satisfacciรณn, y su aire era el de un hombre feliz que ve el maรฑana como una bendiciรณn del cielo y se siente a gusto en el mundo de Dios. De una habitaciรณn a otra, busco, no sรฉ exactamente quรฉ; Fue a la cocina para hacer algunas conjeturas, lo cual, por cierto, no era propio de รฉl. Volviรณ al periรณdico, dejรณ de leer y gritรณ en la cocina:
–Estoy bajo รณrdenes. ยฟNo necesitas nada?
El personal de la cocina querรญa paz y tranquilidad, nada mรกs que eso, y tiempo para trabajar. -Que cada uno haga su parte -eso decรญa mamรก. – Sรฉ cuรกl es mi parte, Dios mรญo.
Con todo este movimiento, os podรฉis imaginar mi estado de รกnimo. De un momento a otro me convertรญ en el centro de la casa, me llamaban โnuestro hombreโ, me brindaban una atenciรณn que nunca tuve, ni soรฑรฉ tener. Querรญa saber si estaba bien y cรณmo estaba la vocecita. Mamรก solรญa traerme oe-dac;:os hechos con grasa de pollo. Papรก me hablรณ en un tono diferente, lleno de dulzura, lleno de respeto.
–ยกOye, estรกs ahรญ! ยฟQuรฉ tal una “pequeรฑa lecciรณn”? – me preguntรณ tarareando.
Y, por milรฉsima vez, repetรญ las berajot de la Torรก, usando la melodรญa que รฉl me habรญa enseรฑado. Luego repitiรณ el discurso con todas esas citas del Talmud. Por sus ojos, que no ocultaban nada, supe que estaba bien.
–Los koi adornan a Adoshem.
–O-tรบ otra vez โ repitiรณ mi padre, en el mismo tono, y ahรญ fui, otra vez.
El sรกbado por la maรฑana la sinagoga estaba llena. Los tallis de seda que me habรญa comprado mi padre cubrรญan mis hombros y tocaban mis mejillas sonrojadas. Me hicieron sentar al lado de Bino, la misma persona que intercambiaba periรณdicos en yiddish con mi padre. Al lado del mostrador, las mujeres no me quitaban los ojos de encima, estaban allรญ con sus vestidos de Shabat y sus cabezas cubiertas con chales blancos. Se podรญa ver a mamรก y a doรฑa Paulina orando por el mismo libro.
Hazan Avrum, delante del Aron-Acodesch, cantรณ, con su voz de “bajo”, las dieciocho oraciones.
Cuando llegรณ mi turno, caminรฉ con mi padre hacia la gran mesa donde estaban abiertos los rollos de la Torรก. Y, a su debido tiempo, en medio del silencio que reinรณ en la pequeรฑa sinagoga, comencรฉ a cantar:
–Koi omar Adoshem.
Con mi voz resonando por toda la habitaciรณn, aunque un poco entrecortada, y con el corazรณn latiendo con fuerza, sentรญ que estaba cerrando un ciclo de mi vida en ese momento.
Mientras me volvรญa hacia el pรบblico que esperaba el tradicional discurso, mirรฉ a mi padre, a unos pasos de mรญ, y busquรฉ a mi madre.
madre, en lo alto del balcรณn. Entonces, abriendo los brazos, comencรฉ:
Mi genteโฆ
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El Bar Mitzvah –
–Are is our man ready? – my mother asked my father , who was reading the newspaper.
From my corner I raised my ear, because it was my place to speak. There was a lot of time before my Bar Mitzva and we were worried, just as much as she was.
After all, I was able to give the speeches of the Torah and the long speech with quotes from the Talmud in the temple. I was also weighed down by the idea that, in the last three years, as I said, I would reach the majority of the age, I would become a man and take on a lot of responsibilities, for which, in conscience, I didn’t feel prepared in any way .
It was a big problem: how could a “man” like you, for example, gain life and maintain it, if that were the case? God didn’t want to if he had to occupy the family head post, take charge of the house and everything else.
Having to face myself this Saturday at the vecinos, the rabbi and the jajomim from Bom Retiro, who came to the temple alone to attend my Bar Mitzvah, made me very worried. Don’t pay attention to the guiรฑante eyes of children, who will do anything to get rid of you, it’s another nightmare, not easy to swallow.
As for my brother, luckily I didn’t have any problems with him, because before I started with him I had read him to understand that he wanted maximum respect, I wouldn’t have to pass anyone a bad taste in white clouds. But how do I control my friends? How can I resist his looks, full of irony and mockery?
Dad left the newspaper, he left the glasses and looked at me.
–Our man is very good.
Mom sighed and returned to the kitchen, where she was preparing, with the help of Doรฑa Paulina, the special dishes for the fiesta, that part of which she proclaimed as “my part”.
It seemed to me that the only one who showed no concern about the storm that arose was my father. He walked smiling, chatting in a low voice, frotting his hands with satisfaction, and his air was that of a happy man who sees the morning as a blessing of the sky and feels like it in the world of God. From one room to another, I look for exactly what; I went to the kitchen to make some conjectures, which, of course, was not appropriate for him. He turned to the newspaper, stopped reading and shouted in the kitchen: –I’m under orders. Don’t you need anything?
The kitchen staff wanted peace and tranquility, nothing more than that, and time to work.
–That each one has their own part of it -that’s what Mom says. – – I know my part, dear Lord,
With all this movement, you can imagine my state of mind. From one moment to another I became the center of the house, they called me โour manโ, they gave me attention that I never had, never had. I wanted to know if he was okay and how he was with you. Mama solรญa traerme oe-dac;:os hechos con grasa de pollo. Daddy spoke to me in a different tone, full of sweetness, full of respect.
–ยกOye, you’re there! How about a “small lesson”? – he asked me, gossiping.
And, for the thousandth time, I repeated the words of the Torah, using the melody that was taught to me. Then he repeated the speech with all these quotes from the Talmud. By his eyes, which didn’t hide anything, she assumes he’s fine.
—Koi adorn Adoshem.
–O-you again โ my to my father repeated in the same tone, and then I went once more.
On Saturday morning the synagogue was full. The silk tallis that my father had bought me covered my shoulders and wore my dreamy bags. It made me sit next to the rabbi, the same person who exchanged periodicals in Yiddish with my father. From the balcony, the women didn’t leave their eyes from me, they were there with their Shabbat dresses and their heads covered with white shawls. You could see mom and doรฑa Paulina praying for the same book.
Hazan Avrum, before Aron-Acodesch, sang, with his “low” voice, the prayers.
When I left my turn, I walked with my father to the big table where the Torah scrolls were open. And, at the right time, in the midst of the silence that reigned in the small synagogue, he began to sing: —Koi omar Adoshem.
With my voice resonating throughout the room, even a little choppy, and with my heart barking with strength, I felt like I was closing a cycle of my life at that moment.
As I turned towards the public that was waiting for the traditional speech, I went to my father, a few steps away from me, and looked for my mother on top of the balcony. Then, opening my arms, I begin:
Nacรญ en Argentina en 1952 y emigrรฉ a Israel en 1972. Graduada en Literatura Espaรฑola por la Universidad Hebrea de Jerusalรฉn. Postgrado en Ciencias de la Informaciรณn de la Universidad de Haifa. M.Ed. en Educaciรณn linguรญstica en sociedades multiculturales, del Instituto Levinsky del Profesorado. Mi proyecto de investigacion trata sobre las relaciones entre el ejercito y la sociedad civil en Israel, desde el ciberdiscursoHe iniciado un camino espiritual a traves de una reflexion sobre el proceso creativo y recientemente he iniciado estudios formales de Budismo en el marco de un curso para formacion de maestros de Meditacion budista. Ejerzo como profesora de Lengua y Literatura Espaรฑola, escritura creativa y arte.Poeta en espaรฑol y hebreo y traductora. Artista plรกstica e ilustradora.Publicada, premiada, antologada y traducida al inglรฉs, hebreo, francรฉs, portuguรฉs, italiano, alemรกn , mixteca y sueco. Autora de catorce poemarios que publico en internet, para el acceso de todos los lectores en espaรฑol: Anfibia, Cuerpo mediterrรกneo, Monรณlogo en la arena, Libro de las horas lejanas, Body Art, Revisiรณn de los amores, El abrazo de la diosa , Rios y penumbras, Homenaje a la caligrafia efimera, Zona, Movilizacion, Secuencias, Pausa y Paradero. Asimismo soy autora de dos poemarios en hebreo, inรฉditos: Orillas y Antes del viaje.En mi escritura reflejo las voces de un mandala interior en busca de armonรญa y equilibrio como รบnica supervivencia posible en este Medio Oriente excesivo, encandilante y luctuoso.Estudiรฉ Arte en la Academia de Bellas Artes de Florencia, Italia y en talleres de notables maestros en Israel como Iosef Hirsh, Dan Kriger y Aharon April. Ahora estoy aprendiendo caligrafia japonesa con el master zen japonรฉs Ishii Katsuo.
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I was born in Argentina in 1952 and emigrated to Israel in 1972. Graduated in Spanish Literature from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Postgraduate in Information Sciences from the University of Haifa. M.Ed. in Language Education in Multicultural Societies, from the Levinsky Teachers Institute. My research project is about the relations between the army and civil society in Israel, from cyberdiscourse. I have begun a spiritual path through a reflection on the creative process and I have recently begun formal studies of Buddhism within the framework of a training course. of Buddhist Meditation teachers. I work as a teacher of Spanish Language and Literature, creative writing and art. Poet in Spanish and Hebrew and translator. Visual artist and illustrator. Published, awarded, anthologized and translated into English, Hebrew, French, Portuguese, Italian, German, Mixtec and Swedish. Author of fourteen collections of poems that I publish on the internet, for access to all readers in Spanish: Anfibia, Cuerpo mediterrรกneo, Monรณlogo en la arena, Libro de las horas lejanas, Body Art, Revisiรณn de loamores, El abrazo de la diosa , Rios y penumbras, Homenaje a la caligrafia efimera, Zona, Movilizacion, Secuencias, Pausa y Paradero. I am also the author of two unpublished collections of poems in Hebrew: Shores and Before the Journey. In my writing I reflect the voices of an inner mandala in search of harmony and balance as the only possible survival in this excessive, dazzling and mournful Middle East. I studied Art in the Academy of Fine Arts in Florence, Italy and in workshops of notable masters in Israel such as Iosef Hirsh, Dan Kriger and Aharon April. Now I am learning Japanese calligraphy with the Japanese Zen master Ishii Katsuo.
Miryam Gover De Nasatsky se graduรณ como profesora enLetras en la Universidad Nacional del Litoral, Argentina. Docente e investigadora. Con una beca del Fondo Nacional de las Artes editรณ La Bibliografรญa de Alberto Gerchunoff. Conjuntamente con la Lic. Ana Weinstein dio a conocer los dos tomos del libro Escritores judeoargentinos: bibliografรญa 1900-1987. Ademรกs, 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 estรกn dos poemarios Persistentes vibraciones (1999) y Resonancias de Auschwitz (2011); y tres novelas histรณricas, La pasiรณn de un visionarioโTheodor Herzl (2004) y Desde la cima:Reminiscencias de David Ben-Guriรณn (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 Bibliografรญa de Alberto Gerchunoff. With Ana Weinstein, she published the two volumes of Escritores judeo-argentinos: bibliografรญa 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 pasiรณn de un visionarioโTheodor Herzl (2004) and Desde la cima: Reminiscencias de David Ben-Guriรณn (2008) and Hacia la libertad (2015.)
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DENSA PENUMBRA
En Amertรกstica cambiaban rรกpidamente no sรณlo las costumยญres y su sistema polรญtico sino tambiรฉn las ciudades y la vegetaciรณn. Miles de hectรกreas boscosas devastadas por el fuego estabanยญ arrasando los รกrboles y arbustos autรณctonos – leรญ en un dรญaยญ de ese tiempo. No podรญan combatir el incendio que habรญa estado fuera de control cuando aparentaba estar sofocado. La guardia de cenizas recorrรญa constantemente el lugar con el fin de apagar nuevos focos.
Todo parecรญa conjurarse contra esta regiรณn situada en el heยญmisferio sur, a pesar de sus habitantes tan alegres, trabajadores y clientes. La sequรญa que afecta el territorio y el viento provenientede la cordillera de los Andes influyeron para que el fuego se hicieran inmanejable- era la explicaciรณn dada por los tรฉcnicos.
Un periรณdico local describรญa la lucha contra las llamas desยญde el aire, por medio de un helicรณptero el cual arrojaba baldes de agua que se evaporaba antes de llegar al suelo y, desde la tierra, porun viejo camiรณn. รste sรณlo tenรญa tracciรณn trasera y resbalaba en el mismo lugar sobre la arenosa estepa patagรณnica.
Huรญan distintas especies de animales y bandadas de pรกjaros. Faltaba personal especializado, recursos y agua. El humo proยญducido se sumรณ a la neblina existente, aunque provenรญa de una zona lejana y casi olvidada. Por suerte, los circuitos turรญsticos de la regiรณn no se vieron afectados y todos continuaron disfrutanยญ do de ellos.
Un empresario japonรฉs, cuyo nombre no pude descifrar, ya estaba interesado en dichas tierras libres de รกrboles que tanto lugar ocupan. Las consideraba propicias para un nuevo emprenยญdimiento industrial. Por Lo visto, no todo estรก perdido -decรญan los pobladores -quizรกs allรญ consigamos trabajo. Serรญa un nuevo diseรฑo para el paรญs. La evoluciรณn era permanente pero no lograban recobrar la claridad, habรญa que adaptarse a la densa penumbra. Este fenรณยญmeno evitaba percibir el estado en que se encontraban las ciuยญdades cubiertas de suciedad, excremento canino y basura. Por supuesto, habรญa camiones recolectores pero nunca terminaban de limpiar porque, a medida que levantaban los desperdicios, otros aparecรญan de inmediato. La palabra contaminaciรณn no asustaba a nadie aunque podรญa verse afectada el agua del rรญo y la fauna ictรญcola.
Se iba gestando una peligrosa concentraciรณn de productos quรญยญmicos perjudiciales para La salud humana como el fรณsforo– segรบn opinaban los entendidos. Sรณlo era cuestiรณn de hacer cumplir las ordenanzas que prevรฉn tal estado de cosas.
Una soluciรณn fue no baรฑarse en el rรญo; otra, no abastecer de agua a algunos barrios que la estaban solicitando desde hacรญa aรฑos. De todas maneras, se incrementaba la expectativa de vida a pesar de que tal situaciรณn amenazaba con producir consecuenยญcias nocivas para la salud.
–Los macro-negocios no suelen tener en cuenta el impacto amยญbiental– aseguraba una sicรณloga social anee el proyecto de consยญtruir quinientos complejos urbanรญsticos 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 tรกctica para revalorizar zonas y llamar la atenciรณn 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 soluยญciones, mรกs me intrigaba la espesa capa que lo envolvรญa. Tenรญa 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 compaรฑas proselitistas a las que se dedicaban los supuestos futuros prรณceres. Visibilidad escasa– advertรญa todos los dรญas el pronรณstico. Por eso trataban de resaltar los mรฉritos de quienes integraban las listas.
No quise guiarme por las noticias engaรฑosas y entrevistรฉ a sobrevivientes de la รฉpoca quienes estaban confiados en que pronto se develarรญa el misterio de la comarca. Creรญan en prediยญcadores que habรญan augurado un futuro mejor donde las leyes no se modificaran segรบn la conveniencia de cada uno. Los mรกs ancianos conservaban vestigios de un pasado feliz en el que no se escuchaban cantos truenos y los gobernantes eran inocentes. Toda รฉpoca pasada fue mejor -reperรญan con sabidurรญa- la memoยญria conserva los recuerdos gratificantes. Por supuesto, no mencioยญ naron la pastosa niebla en aumento la cual producรญa la sensaciรณn de que el tiempo no transcurrรญa.
Siempre se habรญan superado las crisis y รฉsta, seguramente, era una mรกs en la larga litca desde la รฉpoca de la colonia. La historia fue repitiendo un juego de alternancia entre polรญticas esratizantes y privatizantes segรบn los intereses de turno. Por suerte, Amertรกstica contaba con excelentes recursos naturales. El problema consistรญa en las fallas de la administraciรณn y en esa amenaza latente que producรญa hechos inexplicables. Empezaba a entender lo que sostenรญa un economista: -La crisis es un estado coyuntural de escasa importancia.
Hacรญa falta una cuota de entusiasmo aunque despuรฉs viniera el desconcierto que, poco a poco, invadiรณ rodas las actividaยญ des. Se insinuaba una tormenta. Los pobladores no la percibรญan ya que estaban muy entretenidos llenando planillas urgentes y adquiriendo objetos importados de codos los colores. Sรญ, un feยญnรณmeno curioso era la presencia de miles de contenedores; por suerte, de dimensiones considerables que podรญan detectarse a pesar del aire enrarecido. Un gran logro de la moderna globalizaciรณn. Tal distracciรณn permitรญa dejar de lado las hipรณtesis pesimista que generaba la paralizaciรณn parlamentaria.
Proyectos empantanados –leรญ en uno de los principales matutinos debido a que no lograban una estrategia conjunta los distintos bloques que formaban la cรกmara. No se ponรญan de acuerdo: unos querรญan derogar leyes recientemente aprobadas o aprovechar la ausencia de colegas para estblecer nuevas condiciones. De esta forma, no podรญan sesionar.
Se trabaron varias propuestas consideradas fundamentales por el Ejecutivo —aclaraba el mismo periรณdico. Era necesario superar las diferencias para no perder el espรญritu democrรกtico. Habรญa reuniones muy difรญciles ya que la oposiciรณn pedรญa demasiadas explicaciones y los otros no tenรญan respuestas precisas ==Solamente sabemos lo que informan los medios– se excusaban. Por ejemplo, era difรญcil desenmascarar a los culpables de tantos atentados. Siempre tenรญan a mano los identikits, por las dudas, pero se confundรญan porque habรญa muchos parecidos. No era fรกcil: a veces, terminaban desconfiado de las vรญctimas.
–Los jueces no son detectives–aclaraba con un aire didรกctico un famoso legislador.
—La fundamental era no violar el secreto de sumario- recordaba los polรญticos comrpehensivos.
Incertidumbre e niebla, dos constates, se apoderaron de los habitantes quienes realizaban sus tareas como autรณmatas. Asรญ se les fueron atrofiando los sentidos y la capacidad de pensar. Pero no precisaban ejercitar esa รบltima facultad, todo estaba bastante resuelto. Los problemas que surgรญan eran normales; no nos olvidamos que el ser humano es limitado.
Amertรกstica no podรญa ser eterna. Despuรฉs de revisar los archivos queda en mi imaginaciรณn la sensaciรณn de lo que pudo ser y el recuerdo de los pobladores con sus esperanzas y proyectos. Quizรก algรบn dรญa se realice su segunda fundaciรณn.
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DENSE PENUMBRA
In Amertรกstica, 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, Amertรกstica 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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PรNICO BURSรTIL
Las medidas extremas tomadas por las autoridades de Amertรกstica para evitar una corrida bancaria produjo el efecto contrario. La causa mรกs evidente fue que los inversores sospeยญ chaban que lo peor aรบn permanecรญa encubierto y que la salud patrimonial del mercado estaba muy debilitada.
-Atravesamos una circunstancia adversa- explicรณ el Primer Magistrado.
-Evitaremos la bancarrota de las instituciones y controlaremos la situaciรณn del sector financiero- asegurรณ un tecnรณcrata de reยญ nombre.
Asรญ, dieron a conocer drรกsticas decisiones que incluรญan crรฉdiยญtos de emergencia, rescate de empresas en quiebra e incentivos para productores medianos.
La velocidad y la virulencia con que se sucedรญan los hechos era impresionante. Con el fin de evitar el fuerte impacto, los establecimientos comerciales se interconectaron para ayudarse entre sรญ, pero la posibilidad de un estallido parecรญa inminente.
Los integrantes del gobierno no se ponรญan de acuerdo y se peleaban por imponer una lรญnea de acciรณn que salvara el propio beneficio. Aunque lo disimulaban muy bien, sรณlo favorecรญan a determinadas empresas que les concernรญan en particular.
Seamos pragmรกticos- era la consigna de los economistas mรกs especializados en transacciones de riesgo.
Los ciudadanos estaban atรณnitos. Habรญan pasado privaciones hasta conseguir algรบn crรฉdito que les permitiera subsistir. Sin embargo, sentรญan que todo tambaleaba porque ya no podrรญanpagar ni los altos impuestos ni los intereses que habรญan subido drรกsticamente en contra de las clรกusulas establecidas.
-En un perรญodo tan difรญcil como el actual, lo importante es no perder la confianza en las autoridades- alentaba un financista ilusionado en obtener alguna ganancia. Y agregรณ:
-Tengan paciencia. Estamos implementando una baterรญa de re cursos que nos salvarรก de la hecatombe.
Pero el deterioro de las condiciones socio-econรณmicas fue en aumento al mismo tiempo que la incertidumbre. Pocos hecho habรญan logrado trastornar tanto a los sufridos habitantes. Todo esperaban algรบn milagro o una simple seรฑal que los orientara frente a la desolaciรณn que invadรญa sus corazones. Les parecรญa que un ser extraรฑo los habรญa mutilado. Ya no eran personas, no podรญan pensar.
Despuรฉs de varios meses de desesperanza e impotencia, poco a poco, como autรณmatas, abandonaron sus viviendas y, en una larga caravana, en coche o a pie, se trasladaron a un paรญs vecino donde era posible vivir sin sobresaltos.
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STOCK MARKET PANIC
The extreme measures taken by the Amertรกstica 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.
Aรญda Socolovsky naciรณ en Montevideo. Estudiรณ en la Escuela de Bellas Artes y le Taller Torres Garcรญa. Se perfeccionรณ con Guillermo Fernรกndez y Nelson Ramos. Realizรณ mรกs de un centenar de exposiciones individuales y colectivas en su paรญs y EE.UU. Obtuvo innumerables premios. Poseen su obra colecciones de los EE.UU., El Salvador y Rรญo de Janeiro. Su obra integra los libros Al sur del sur de Susana Negri y 12 pintores uruguayos de Ernesto Heine.
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Aรญda Socolovsky was born in Montevideo. She studied in the School of Fine Arts and the Torres Garcรญa Studio. She completed her studies with Guillermo Fernรกndez and Nelson Ramos. She has had more than a hundred individual and group exhibitions in Uruguay and the United States. She won innumerable prizes. Collections in the United States, El Salvador and Rio de Janeiro own her works. She is Included in the books Al sur del sur [To the South of the South] by Susana Negri and 12 pintores uruguayos [12 Uruguayan Painters] by Ernesto Heine.
Nacido en 1930 en Connecticut, el rabino Marshall T. Meyer comenzรณ su lucha espiritual en Dartmouth College, donde tuvo la suerte de encontrar un maestro superlativo, Abraham Joshua Heschel, quizรกs el filรณsofo judรญo mรกs influyente de su tiempo. Mientras el rabino Meyer creaba una gran comunidad judรญa en Argentina, se convirtiรณ en uno de los pocos crรญticos abiertos de la represiva junta militar argentina que se apoderรณ del paรญs. Fue el รบnico no argentino designado para la Comisiรณn Nacional de Investigaciรณn de Desaparecidos. Ganador del premio mรกs alto de Argentina otorgado a un no ciudadano, fue una figura de renombre mundial que dinamizรณ el judaรญsmo estadounidense cuando regresรณ a Estados Unidos en 1985. Muriรณ en 1993.
Jane Tsay
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Born in 1930 in Connecticut, Rabbi Marshall T. Meyer began his spiritual struggle at Dartmouth College, where he was fortunate enough to find a superlative teacher, Abraham Joshua Heschel, perhaps the most influential Jewish philosopher of his time. While Rabbi Meyer was creating a large Jewish community in Argentina, he became one of the few outspoken critics of the repressive Argentine military junta that took over the country. He was the only non-Argentine appointed to the National Commission for the Investigation of the Disappeared. Recipient of Argentina’s highest award granted to a non-citizen, he was a figure of world renown who energized American Judaism when he returned the the United States in 1985. He died in 1993.
Jane Tsay
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Cรณmo puedo quejarme de pesadillas? ยฟPor quรฉ mi corazรณn no se llena de gratitud? Despuรฉs de todo, ninguno de mis hijos desapareciรณ. Mi esposa no desapareciรณ. No desaparecรญ. Sufro de insomnio; desde la adolescencia he padecido insomnio. (La mayor parte de mis pensamientos y meditaciones se concentran durante las horas nocturnas, en el silencio y la oscuridad). Es un pequeรฑo precio a pagar por haber vivido en Argentina durante veinticinco aรฑos (1959-1984) y ser activo en la lucha por los derechos humanos. movimiento allรญ durante ese perรญodo agotador. En esa lรญnea de siglo hubo quince presidentes, de los cuales sรณlo seis fueron elegidos en elecciones democrรกticas por el pueblo argentino. Siete presidentes representaron juntas militares que pisotearon no muy gradualmente los derechos civiles y humanos hasta llegar al punto mรกs bajo del infierno entre 1976 y 1983.
ยฟQuรฉ significa ser uno de los desaparecidos? ยฟQuiรฉn lo sabรญa? ยฟQuiรฉn hizo algo para ayudar? ยฟQuiรฉn eligiรณ a los que iban a desaparecer? ยฟHubo algรบn motivo para la desapariciรณn? ยฟLas desapariciones siguieron un patrรณn? ยฟCรณmo fue vivir en una ciudad altamente cosmopolita y sofisticada como Buenos Aires y escuchar en la escuela, en la universidad o en el trabajo que el niรฑo o la niรฑa (o el hombre o la mujer) que ayer estaba sentado a tu lado desapareciรณ anoche? ยฟCรณmo es entrar al dormitorio de tu ser querido y encontrarlo no allรญ? ยฟNi hoy, ni maรฑana, ni nunca? ยฟCรณmo es estar de luto sin un cadรกver que enterrar? ยฟCรณmo serรญa no tener la mรกs mรญnima nociรณn de lo que le pasรณ a tu hijo, o hija, o hermano, o hermana, o amigo?
Las tropas aliadas encontraron listas porque los nazis mantenรญan archivos completos de los prisioneros de los campos de concentraciรณn: quiรฉn fue incinerado y quiรฉn fue fusilado, quiรฉn fue gaseado y quiรฉn muriรณ de hambre. Pero en Argentina las รบnicas listas que existen son esas listas incompletas hechas por los padres y familiares y amigos que lenta y tortuosamente decidieron que no ayudaban con su silencio a sus hijos ni a sus seres queridos; que simplemente no era cierto lo que tantas instituciones y personas decรญan: “Serรก mejor que no presentes un recurso de hรกbeas corpus porque sรณlo le pondrรกs las cosas mรกs difรญciles a tu hijo”; o “No es prudente acudir a la policรญa, ni al Ministerio del Interior, ni al ejรฉrcito, ni a la marina, ni a la fuerza aรฉrea. Sรณlo torturarรกn mรกs a su hijo si lo hace. No haga escรกndalo. Ya veremos, dentro de unos dรญas volverรก a estar en casa”.
Quizรกs el peor dolor sea la duda persistente: ยฟSoy culpable de algo? ยฟMi hijo o hija estuvo involucrado en una banda terrorista? Despuรฉs de todo, todo el mundo dice: “Por algo serรก. En algo habrรก estado metido”. (Debe haber alguna razรณn. Debe haber estado involucrado en algo.) Respondes tu propia respuesta: “Eso es ridรญculo. Sรฉ perfectamente bien que no estuvo involucrado en ninguna organizaciรณn polรญtica”.
Por otro lado, los periรณdicos y muchos otros sugieren que los terroristas de extrema izquierda matan a sus propios miembros para que no revelen ningรบn secreto. Otros afirman que muchas personas se han hecho desaparecer y se han escapado a otros paรญses. “Pero mi hijo o mi hija no me harรญan eso. ยกNo estรกbamos distanciados!”
Conforme va pasando el tiempo, empiezas a conocer a otras personas que te cuentan historias similares. A medida que pasan los aรฑos, cada vez mรกs personas conocen a alguien que ha “desaparecido”. Si se leen los periรณdicos correctos (muy pocos) -“La Opiniรณn”, el diario inglรฉs “The Buenos Aires Herald”, “Nueva Presencia”-, los nombres de los desaparecidos comienzan a aparecer regularmente. Cada vez mรกs editoriales y cartas a El editor apareciรณ bajo el tรญtulo “Nombre oculto”. Poco a poco se hace evidente que la naciรณn se estรก convirtiendo en un infierno. La vida es insoportable para aquellos cuyos seres queridos han desaparecido. Los incรณmodos intentos de sus amigos por consolarlo a usted–nunca a costa de perder el sueรฑo o el dinero o arriesgar la posiciรณn-hacen el infierno todo lo mรกs insoportable.
Hay algรบn juez ocasional que intenta trabajar dentro del debido proceso legal, ese precioso proceso que es el รบltimo refugio de la jungla de la muerte totalitaria. Pero esos jueces tambiรฉn desaparecen. La gente dijo que รฉsta es una “guerra sucia” -como si alguna vez hubiera guerras “limpias”- y que la รบnica manera de acabar con el terrorismo es mediante el uso del terror. No hubo muchas voces que proclamaran que eso engendra terror; que cuando un Estado emplea medios que anulan el debido proceso legal, el Estado mismo se convierte en un instrumento de terror. Lo mรกs aterrador de todo fue que para la mayorรญa de los argentinos la vida seguรญa…El silencio era la consigna y la cobardรญa reinaba.
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CUANDO DECIR KADDISH-NO ESTร PERMITIDO
Quizรกs hayas leรญdo sobre las “madres locas”, mujeres que llevaban bordados en sus paรฑuelos blancos los nombres de sus hijos desaparecidos y que caminaban en silencio todos los jueves a las 15.30 horas, alrededor del obelisco de la Plaza de Mayo. Cuando las madres de Plaza de Mayo acudรญan a los servicios en mi sinagoga, muy pocas personas caminaban con ellas. Podrรญas contarlos con unos pocos dedos. Sabes lo que significa cuando alguien a quien amas llega tarde a casa. Trate de imaginar cรณmo se siente cuando ha estado esperando durante seis o siete aรฑos, esperando recibir un cadรกver sobre el cual decir Kaddish (la oraciรณn del doliente).
Un hombre entrรณ en mi estudio, se arremangรณ y me mostrรณ los nรบmeros. “ยฟPor esto me salvaron de Auschwitz? Rabino, tengo una pregunta halรกjica (legal). Se llevaron a mis dos hijos. ยฟTengo derecho a decir Kadish?” Respondรญ: “ยฟMe lo preguntas como rabino, halรกjicamente?” “Sรญ”, dijo. Me tenรญa agarrado por el cuello en ese momento. Le dije: “Si no puedes probar que estรกn muertos y sรณlo han pasado un par de meses, tienes que esperar”. Su respuesta angustiada: “ยฟCรณmo puedes pedirme que espere mรกs?” รl todavรญa estรก esperando.
BERLรN NO DEBE SER OLVIDADA DE NUEVO
Al hablar pรบblicamente contra las acciones del gobierno, sabรญa que estaba poniendo en peligro mi vida y la de mi familia. Por otro lado, sentรญ que estarรญa poniendo en peligro mi alma si permanecรญa en silencio. Cuando estuve en Argentina no tomรฉ posiciones por una corriente polรญtica especรญfica, sino que mi activismo emanรณ de las fuentes de mi propio judaรญsmo. Yo creรญa que si uno tomaba la Biblia en serio, simplemente no se podรญa ver suceder estas cosas y guardar silencio; no si eres un cristiano creyente o un judรญo creyente. Era parte integrante de mi propio judaรญsmo; Simplemente no podรญa callarme. Especialmente despuรฉs de saber lo que habรญa sucedido en Europa en los aรฑos del Holocausto.
Creo que yo, como rabino, no podrรญa perdonarme si repitiera el silencio de los rabinos de Europa en los aรฑos treinta. Los enemigos de la paz y la justicia siempre se basan en el miedo y en el silencio de la poblaciรณn. Hoy en Argentina hay demasiadas fuerzas que intentan bloquear la luz de la esperanza de un maรฑana de paz y creatividad. Cada uno de nosotros tiene la santa obligaciรณn de mantener viva al menos una pequeรฑa chispa de esta luz.
NO HAY PERDรN-NINGUNO
Las fuerzas armadas de Argentina afirmaron que sรณlo la historia puede juzgar y determinar con precisiรณn quiรฉn es responsable de los mรฉtodos injustos empleados y de las vidas inocentes perdidas. Este documento (que declara amnistรญa para los militares despuรฉs de la “guerra sucia”), hermanos y hermanas judรญos, es hilul hashem, una profanaciรณn y profanaciรณn del nombre de Dios. Aรบn mรกs escandaloso, los autores de este documento tienen la audacia de utilizar el nombre de Dios, sugiriendo que Dios perdone a los subversivos, sin mencionar nada sobre los asesinos que mataron a tantos inocentes. Este documento es una profanaciรณn del nombre de Dios y su publicaciรณn trae una impureza radical a esta tierra y a esta repรบblica.
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How can I complain of nightmares? Why isn’t my heart filled with gratitude? After ali, none of my children disappeared. My wife didn’t disappear. I didn’t disappear. I suffer from insomnia-since adolesยญcence I have been an insomniac. (Most of my thinking and meditating comes into focus during the night hours in the silence and darkness.) It is a small price to pay for having lived in Argentina for twenty-five years (1959-1984) and being active in the human rights movement there during that grueling period. That guarter of a century saw fifยญteen presidents, of whom only six were chosen in a democratic election by the people of Argentina. Seven presidents represented military junยญtas which not too gradually trampled on civil and human rights until the absolute nadir of hell was plumbed from 1976 until 1983.
What does it mean to be one of the disappeared? Who knew about it? Who did anything to help? Who chose the ones to disappear? Was there any reason for the disappearance? Did the disappearances follow a pattern? What was it like to live in a highly cosmopolitan, sophisticated city like Buenos Aires and to hear in school or at the university or at work that the boy or girl (or man or woman) who was sitting next to you yesterday disappeared last night? What is it like to walk into your loved one’s bedroom and find him or her not there; not today, not tomorrow, not ever? What is it like to be in mourning without a cadaver to bury? What would it be like not to have the slightest notion of what happened to your son, or daughter, or brother, or sister, or friend?
The allied troops found lists because the Nazis kept complete archives of the concentration camp inmates: who was cremated and who was shot, who was gassed and who died of starvation. But in Argentina the only lists that exist are those incomplete lists made by the parents and relatives and friends who slowly and torturously decided that they were not helping their children or loved ones with their silence; that what so many institutions and people were saying simply wasn’t true: “You’d better not present a writ of habeas corpus because you’ll only make things more difficult for your child;” or “It’s not wise to go to the Police, or the Ministry of Interior, or the Army, or the Navy, or the Air Force. They’ll only torture your child more if you do. Don’t make waves. You’ll see, in a few days he or she will be home again.”
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Perhaps the worst pain is the gnawing doubt: Am I guilty of someยญthing? Was my son or daughter involved in a terrorist gang? After al, everyone says: “Por algo serรก. En algo habrรก estado metido.” (There must be some reason. He must have been involved in something.) You shoot back your own answer: “That’s ridiculous. I know perfectly well that he was not involved in any political organization.”
On the other hand, the newspapers and many others suggest that the extreme left-wing terrorists kill their own members so that they won’t divulge any secrets. Still others claim that many people have made themselves disappear, sneaking off to other countries. “But my son or daughter wouldn’t do that to me. We were not estranged!”
As time goes by, you begin to meet other people who tell you simiยญlar stories. As the years pass, more and more people know someone who has “disappeared.” If you read the right newspapers (very few in number)- “La Opiniรณn,” the English daily “The Buenos Aires Herald,’ “Nueva Presencia”-the names of the disappeared begin to appear regularly. More and more editorials and letters to the editor appeared. under the byline “Name withheld” Slowly it becomes evident that the nation is turning into hell. Life is unbearable for those whose loved ones have disappeared. Awkward attempts by friends to console youยญ never at the cost of losing any sleep or money or risking one’s posiยญtion-make the hell all the more unbearable.
There is an occasional judge who tries to work within the due process of law, that precious process that is the last refuge from the jungle of totalitarian death. But those judges, too, disappear. The people told that this is a “dirty war”-as though there were ever “clean` wars-and that the only way to do away with terrorism is via the use of terror. There were not many voices proclaiming that engenders terror; that when a state employs means that abrogate the due process of law, the state itself becomes an instrument of terror. What was most frightening of all was that for most Argentines life went onโฆSilence was the watchword and cowardice reigned supreme.
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WHEN SAYING KADDISH-IS NOT PERMITTED
You may have read about the “mad mothers,” women who have the names of their missing sons and daughters embroidered on their white kerchiefs, and who walked in silence every Thursday at 3:30 P.M., around the obelisk in the Plaza de Mayo. When the mothers of the Plaza de Mayo carne to services at my synagogue, very few people were walking with them. You could count them on a few fingers. You know what it means when someone you love comes home late. Try to imagยญine how it feels when you have been waiting for six or seven years, waiting to receive a cadaver over which to say Kaddish (mourner’s prayer).
One man carne into my study, rolled up his sleeve, and showed me the numbers. “For this I was saved from Auschwitz? Rabbi, I have a halakhic (legal) question. They took my two sons. Do I have a right to say Kaddish?” l answered: “Are you asking me as a rabbi, halakhically?” “Yes,” he said. He had me by the throat at this point. I said: “If you can’t prove that they’re dead and it’s only been a couple of months, you’ve got to wait.” His anguished reply: “How can you ask me to wait any longer?” He is still waiting.
BERLIN MUST NOT RE FORGOTTEN
By speaking out publicly against the actions of the government, I knew that I was placing my life, and the life of my family, in jeopardy. On the other hand, I felt that I would be putting my soul in jeopardy if I stood silent. When I was in Argentina I didn’t take positions because of a specific political persuasion, but rather my activism emanated from the wellsprings of my own Judaism. If one was to take the Bible seriously, I believed, you just couldn’t watch these things happen and maintain silence; not if you’re a believing Christian or a believing Jew. I t was part and parcel of my own J Judaism; I just couldn’t shut up. Especially after knowing what had happened in Europe in the Holocaust years.
I believe that I, as a rabbi, could not forgive myself if I repeated the silence of the rabbis of Europe in the 1930s. The enemies of peace and justice always rely on fear and on the silence of the population. In Argentina today there are too many forces trying to block out the light of hope for a tomorrow of peace and creativity. Every one of us has the holy obligation to keep alive at least a small spark of this light.
NO FORGIVENESS-NONE
The armed forces of Argentina asserted that only history can accuยญrately judge and determine who is responsible for the unjust methods employed and the innocent lives lost. This document (declaring amnesty for the military after the “dirty war”), Jewish brothers and sisters, is hilul hashem, a desecration and profanation of the name of God. Even more outrageous, the authors of this document have the audacity to use the name of God-suggesting that God should forgive the subversives, without mentioning anything about the murderers that killed so many innocent individuals. This document is a profanaยญtion of the name of God and its publication brings a radical impurity to this earth and this republic.
Paula Varsavsky es escritora de ficciรณn, docente y periodista argentina. Vive en Buenos Aires. Sus obras de ficciรณn son las novelasย Nadie alzaba la vozย (Emecรฉ, 1994), publicada tambiรฉn en en Estados Unidos en traducciรณn al inglรฉs por Anne McLeanย No One Said a Wordย (ediciรณn de tapa dura Ontario Review Press, 2000; ediciรณn rรบstica y electrรณnica Wings Press, 2012),ย El resto de su vidaย (Mondadori, 2007) y la colecciรณn de cuentosย La libertad de los huรฉrfanosย (La mariposa y la iguana, 2022 y Lastarria y de Mora, 2023). En cuanto a no-ficciรณn publicรณย Las mil caras del autorย (EDUVIM, 2015, RIL Editores Chile 2016, RIL Editores Espaรฑa, 2018 y LยดHARMATTAN, 2023 traducida al francรฉs por Luis Dapeloย Les Mille visages de lยดauteur) que es una compilaciรณn de conversaciones con britรกnicos y estadounidenses. Ha entrevistado a a Joyce Carol Oates, Richard Ford, David Lodge, Hanif Kureishi, Edmund White, David Leavitt, Siri Hustvedt, Ali Smith, Esther Freud, William Boyd, Meir Shalev, Aharon Appelfeld, Nicole Brossard, Margaret Atwood, Graham Swift y E.L. Doctorow, entre muchos otros.
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Paula Varsavsky is an Argentine fiction writer, teacher and journalist. She lives in Buenos Aires. Her works are the novelsย Nadie alzaba la vozย (Emecรฉ, 1994), also published in the United States in English translation by Anne McLeanย No One Said a Wordย (Ontario Review Press, hardcover edition of 2000 and Wings Press, 2013 paperback and e-book edition).ย El resto de su vidaย (Mondadori, 2007) and the collection of stories La libertad de los huรฉrfanos (La mariposa y la iguana, Argentina, 2022 and Lastarria y de Mora Spain, 2023). Her non-fiction workย Las mil caras del autorย (EDUVIM, 2015, RIL Editores Chile 2016, RIL Editores Espaรฑa, 2018 y LยดHARMATTAN, 2023 translated into French by Luis Dapeloย Les Mille visages de lยดauteur)ย is a collection of conversations with British and American writers. She has interviewed a Joyce Carol Oates, Richard Ford, David Lodge, Hanif Kureishi, Edmund White, David Leavitt, Siri Hustvedt, Ali Smith, Esther Freud, William Boyd, Meir Shalev, Aharon Appelfeld, Nicole Brossard, Margaret Atwood, Graham Swift y E.L. Doctorow, among many others.
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“La libertad de los huรฉrfanos“
Hay un sueรฑo que tuve una gran cantidad de veces. Mi padre estaba vivo. Yo lo encontraba despuรฉs de pasar dieciocho aรฑos sin verlo. Papรก no se sorprendรญa ni se alegraba. Dirรญa que hasta me evitaba. El hecho de encontrarse conmigo parecรญa un problema para รฉl, no le generaba felicidad. Le reprochaba que no me hubiera buscado, que no se hubiera contactado conmigo durante tantos aรฑos. Papรก apenas me escuchaba. Estaba con su mujer, ella me miraba esquiva. Yola odiaba mรกs que nunca. Papรก estaba delicado de salud. Ella lo habรญa cuidado.
Pero a papรก lo habรญan enterrado, yo lo habรญa visto, argumentaba en mi sueรฑo. Habรญa observado cรณmo descendรญa el ataรบd, lo habรญamos cubierto con tierra. Ahรญ habรญa quedado solamente unos dรญas, me contestaban personas que, en el sueรฑo, no lograba reconocer.
Una variante del sueรฑo era que yo viajaba a Roma, donde mi padre habรญa vivido los รบltimos nueve aรฑos de su vida y, de alguna forma extraรฑa, mientras caminaba por la Piazza Navona, daba con su casa. Se trataba de un apartamento distinto del que รฉl habรญa tenido. El de mi sueรฑo tenรญa los techos mรกs bajos, se asemejaba a uno de Buenos Aires. Yo estaba furiosa porque no me habรญan invitado a hospedarme allรญ. ยกCรณmo podรญa ser que estuviera en la misma ciudad y que a รฉl no le importara!
Otra vez soรฑรฉ que lo encontraba despuรฉs de veinte aรฑos. Veinte aรฑos sin verlo. Lo habรญa llamado por telรฉfono deยญcenas de veces, no me atendรญa. Creรญa que quizรกs a travรฉs del e-mail hubiese podido ubicarlo. Sin tener en cuenta que, obviamente, en esos aรฑos pasados no existรญa el mail ยซClaro, si supiera su e-mail, si supiera su e-mailยป, pensaba en el sueรฑo. Me despertaba agotada por los esfuerzos denodados que habรญa hecho por encontrar a mi padre. Estaba cerca, varias veces habรญa estado cerca, pero no lograba dar con รฉl. Aquella vez, al levantarme, advertรญ que faltaban dos dรญas para que se cumplieran veinte aรฑos de su muerte. Sentรญa la presiรณn de mantener vivo su recuerdo. Sin embargo, me costaba mรกs. Cada aรฑo se alejaba mรกs.
Algunas veces, en mis sueรฑos, aparecรญa mi hermana y me pasaba algรบn dato acerca de รฉl. Ella sรญ habรญa logrado contactarlo. Yo me enfurecรญa porque no me habรญa pasado su telรฉfono con suficiente rapidez. Las respuestas de papรก, si lograba que me contestara algo, eran vagas, confusas, se le notaba abatido, sin interรฉs por verme.
En todos estos sueรฑos, papรก estaba mal de salud. Pero nunca me quedaba claro quรฉ tenรญa. Era inasible.
Papรก muriรณ cuando yo tenรญa doce aรฑos. Luego de que pasaron mรกs de veinte, ya no llevรฉ la cuenta.
Hoy es el Dรญa del Padre. De pronto advierto que hace mucho que no sueรฑo con รฉl, ni vivo ni muerto. Ya no me siento presionada por buscar un padre sustituto, ni lamento no poder festejarle. Probablemente descanse en paz mientras yo disfruto de la libertad de los huรฉrfanos.
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“An Orphan’s Freedom”
Thereโs a dream I used to have again and again. My father was alive. We hadnโt seen each other in eighteen years, and Iโd found him. Dad wasnโt surprised. Nor was he glad to see me. It felt like heโd been avoiding me. The fact that we were together again seemed problematic to himโhe wasnโt happy about it. I reproached him for not having looked for me, for not having contacted me all those years. Dad hardly listened to me. He was with his wife, who looked at me coldly. I hated her more than ever. Dad wasnโt in good health, and sheโd been taking care of him.
But my father had been buried, Iโd seen it with my own eyes. Iโd watched the coffin lowered before we covered it with earth. Heโd only been down there for a few days, they told me.
In another version of the dream I travelled to Rome, where my father had lived for the last nine years of his life. Strangely, as I walked around the Piazza Navona, I came upon his home, an apartment in Rome that was different from the one heโd actually lived in. The apartment in my dream had lower ceilings and looked like one youโd see in Buenos Aires. I was furious because they hadnโt asked me to stay with them. How could he not care I was in Rome?
In all these dreams Dad wasnโt doing well. But I never really understood what was wrong with him. It was hard to grasp.
Another time I dreamed Iโd found him after twenty years. Twenty years and I hadnโt seen him. Iโd called him dozens of times but heโd never answered. I wished email had existed back then. I figured it might have been a way to find him. โIf only I had his email, if only I had his email,โ I thought in the dream.
Iโd wake exhausted after tirelessly searching for my father in my dreams. I was close, several times I was close, but I never got to him. In two days, twenty years would have passed since his death. I felt I had to keep his memory alive, but it was getting harder and harder. Each year he slipped further away.
Some nights when I had the dream my sister shared information about my father with me. Sheโd been able to reach him. Iโd be furious with her because she hadnโt given me his phone number earlier. Dadโs replies, if I was able to get him to say anything, were vague, confusing. He seemed despondent, as though he wasnโt interested in seeing me.
Dad died when I was twelve years old. After more than twenty years had gone by I stopped keeping track. Itโs been a while since Iโve dreamed of him, dead or alive.
Today is Fatherโs Day. I donโt feel compelled to look for a surrogate father anymore, nor do I wish I could be with him today. Heโs probably resting in peace, while I enjoy an orphanโs freedom.
Anahรญ estaba segura de que no le convenรญa volver a salir con Damiรกn. Pero a pesar de habรฉrselo dejado bien claro, รฉl no hacรญa mรกs que mandarle e-mails contรกndole lo desesperado que estaba por ella. Una madrugada, luego de una noche de tormenta en la que apenas logrรณ conciliar el sueรฑo, ella le respondiรณ. A los quince minutos, Damiรกn la llamรณ por telรฉfono; enseguida combinaron para salir esa noche. La separaciรณn que habรญa impuesto Anahรญ un mes atrรกs habรญa terminado en forma abrupta: a partir de entonces volvieron a verse en esa rutina de espacios de tiempo indefinidos en los que รฉl lograba escaparse de su mujer.
Hacรญa tres aรฑos, el marido de Anahรญ habรญa muerto en un accidente de auto. Ella vivรญa sola con sus hijas, asรญ como Damiรกn convivรญa con su mujer y su hijo. Anahรญ trataba de quitarle peso al matrimonio de รฉl: ยซNo estรก casado legalยญmenteยป, pensaba intentado consolarse. Pero sabรญa que, en una pareja, los papeles no tenรญan ninguna importancia; รฉl era un padre de familia.
A ella le desesperaba corroborar que su cuerpo y su menยญte iban por carriles paralelos que le parecรญan imposibles de compatibilizar. Por un lado, no querรญa seguir con รฉl, sabรญa que la situaciรณn era peligrosa, como le habรญa dicho una amiยญga: ยซยฟQuรฉ sabรฉs cรณmo puede reaccionar la mujer? Vos sos la รบnica responsable de tus hijas, te ponรฉs en riesgoยป. Por otro lado, sentรญa una atracciรณn tremenda por รฉl; lo que mรกs le gustaba de la relaciรณn era el sexo.
En un intento renovado de comprender ese vรญnculo que la hacรญa sentir siempre desdichada, salvo en los momentos en que hacรญan el amor, creyรณ que compartir sus dilemas con mรกs amigos la ayudarรญa.
Un mediodรญa de enero, mientras sus hijas estaban en el club, se encontrรณ en un cafรฉ cercano a su trabajo con su amigo Gastรณn, un hรกbil periodista polรญtico que sabรญa definir con rapidez el perfil de una persona.
-Es raro eso de que salgan tambiรฉn los sรกbados -comentรณ con una leve sonrisa despuรฉs de escucharla con atenciรณn. Ante el silencio de Anahรญ, continuรณ–. Evidentemente, รฉl te ve a vos como una pareja. Pero no lo sos, porque estรก con la mina. El hecho de engancharse con una mina mรกs chica, como hizo Damiรกn con su mujer, tiene su atractivo. Durante un tiempo sos Dios. Ella te idealiza, es gratificante. El tema es que despuรฉs se vuelve aburrido. En su momento le debe haber gustado sexualmente. Supongo que se fija mucho en la estรฉtica. En vos debe haber encontrado alguien que estรก a la par, con quien puede compartir otros temas, inclusive con quien salir. Pero es probable que, si hoy en dรญa le decรญs que elija entre estar con vos o con ella, se quede con ella.
Gastรณn hizo una pausa.
-O sea, a ver si lo puedo explicar mejor: si le hacรฉs el planteo de que terminen la relaciรณn, va a actuar haciรฉndose el que aquรญ no pasa nada, que estรก todo igual.
Anahรญ le comentรณ que eso era exactamente lo que le habรญa sucedido. Sonรณ el celular de ella y atendiรณ. Sonriรณ. Gastรณn le guiรฑรณ un ojo para darle a entender que sabรญa de quiรฉn se trataba.
Gastรณn le advirtiรณ.
-Volvรฉ a planteรกrselo, pero con firmeza. โNo transรฉs nada intermedio. Que no te venga con promesas.
Y despuรฉs: -Buscรกte un tipo que no estรฉ casado -esto fue lo รบltiยญmo que le dijo.
El domingo siguiente, almorzรณ con una amiga en una canยญtina de Almagro:
-Sos su sostรฉn, รฉl puede conservar la relaciรณn con su mujer gracias a que vos estรกs ahรญ. Si no estuvieras, le seยญrรญa mucho mรกs difรญcil. Te lo digo porque lo vivรญ de los dos lados. A veces, despuรฉs de encamarme fantรกstico con un amante, volvรญa a mi casa y pensaba que, en realidad, estaba muy bien con mi marido. Al final, รฉl me dejรณ por una mina fea y aburrida, no sรฉ quรฉ le vio.
Anahรญ alternaba momentos en que lo amaba con otros en que lo detestaba.
ยซรl vuelve a un dramaยป, le asegurรณ otra amiga, casada y con cuatro hijos, alguien que sabรญa de quรฉ podรญa tratarse un mal matrimonio. Anahรญ recordรณ el tiempo en que su marido y ella discutรญan por cualquier tema, pero su pareja nunca habรญa llegado a convertirse en una pesadilla. Ya pasaron mรกs de tres aรฑos de su muerte, ยกquรฉ lejano parece!, pensรณ.
-Vos no, vos estรกs bien en tu casa con tus hijas. Tenรฉs una vida bastante placentera.
ยฟCreรฉs que soy una estรบpida? ยฟQuรฉ no me doy cuenta de que me cogรฉs cuando querรฉs? Ensayรณ las dos frases antes de encontrarse a cenar con Damiรกn unos dรญas mรกs tarde. No le habรญa dicho de ir a tomar un cafรฉ para disimular que se trataba de una nueva ruptura.
Pero aquella cena fue patรฉtica, comenzรณ con el planteo de ella, de que esta vez sรญ deberรญan poner fin a la relaciรณn.
Entonces รฉl le pidiรณ explicaciones. Ella habรญa pinchado un ravioli de verdura, que volรณ por el aire.
-Una impresentable, eso es lo que soy para vos -le contestรณ a Damiรกn mientras el raviol cayรณ sobre el mantel junto con la salsa blanca que tenรญa encima.
A Damiรกn empezรณ a sangrarle la nariz, la moza le alcanzรณ hielo. Tomรณ un cubito y lo sostuvo en una mano; con la otra, desplegรณ una servilleta blanca de algodรณn tipo sรกbana. Ella no atinรณ a ayudarlo, se mantuvo en silencio.
Sabรญa que รฉl jugaba con sus sentimientos. ยฟSe harรก otra vez el sorprendido?, se preguntรณ Anahรญ. La nariz habรญa dejado de sangrarle cuando รฉl intentรณ convencerle de que la querรญa. Que pensara lo que le estaba diciendo: asรญ no podรญan seguir, le retrucรณ ella.
Volviรณ a sangrarle la nariz. Y fue entonces que รฉl se puso a hablarle de su propio proceso. A Anahรญ le disgustรณ doblemente: por lo que habรญa sucedido en el paรญs y por el que รฉl trataba de inventarle. Me pide que permanezca cerca de รฉl en una situaciรณn que no tiene reglas, concluyรณ, pero prefiriรณ no decรญrselo. Segรบn Damiรกn, eso que ella le proponรญa se contradecรญa con su proceso interno.
De pronto ella vio que corrรญa una lรกgrima por su mejilla. Se posรณ sobre la sangre que todavรญa le quedaba alrededor de la nariz, llegรณ al mentรณn color rosa. Al fin cayรณ sobre el mantel. Ya hablamos de que no podemos seguir siendo una pareja -dijo entonces Damiรกn.
Ella dedujo que se referรญa a รฉl y a su mujer. La servilleta manchada seguรญa sobre la mesa hecha un bollo. ยกQuรฉ roja es la sangre!, pensรณ Anahรญ.
-ยกY nuestro hijo en el medio!-agregรณ.
Las lรกgrimas que le cayeron lograron conmoverla. Le tomรณ una mano, le acariciรณ lentamente una de sus mejillas hรบmedas.
รl le preguntรณ cuรกndo se volverรญan a ver. Anahรญ dudรณ un instante y siguiรณ uno de los tantos consejos que le habรญan dado sus amigos.
-Si en marzo te separรกs, avรญsame.
A principios de abril, cuando hacรญa un mes que sus hijas estaban encaminadas en primero y tercer grado y ella esยญtaba finalizando los detalles de una nueva producciรณn que lanzarรญan por televisiรณn, al mirar su celular, vio una llamada perdida: era de Damiรกn. No quiso prestarle atenciรณn ni desยญconcentrarse. Cuando estaba por salir de la oficina, รฉl volviรณ a llamar.
-Me separรฉ -fue loque dijo.
Conmovida, atinรณ a preguntarle dรณnde estaba viviendo, รฉl contestรณ que en su estudio de grabaciรณn. La invitรณ a cenar allรญ mismo disculpรกndose por no tener todavรญa una casa armada:
-Duermo en un colchรณn en el piso.
Anahรญ repasรณ mentalmente las personas que podrรญan cuiยญdar a sus hijas esa misma noche cuando fuera a verlo.
El lunes siguiente, Anahรญ le comentรณ a una compaรฑera de trabajo, que conocรญa su relaciรณn con Damiรกn, el รบltimo giro que habรญa dado su vรญnculo, lo bien que lo habรญan pasado juntos ese fin de semana.
-Bueno, se podrรญa decir que ustedes la hicieron como corresponde. Es cierto que antes eras su refugio secreto, pero ahora te usa para separarse. Ademรกs, no se sabe cuรกnto puede durar eso, digo, muchas vuelven, viene la gran reconciliaciรณn y otro hijo. Eso es un embole (1) ,yo lo pasรฉ, no te lo recomiendo -le dijo, dio media vuelta y empezรณ a caminar hacia el pasillo.
Anahรญ supuso que aquellas no eran mรกs que pavadas, preยญfiriรณ olvidar la advertencia. Solamente recordรณ el chicle que tenรญa su compaรฑera en la boca mientras le hablรณ.
Anahรญ was sure that it wasnโt a good idea to go out again with Damiรกn. But despite her having made that very clear, he persisted in sending her emails telling her how desperately he needed her. One morning at dawn, after a night of torment in which she could barely get to sleep, she responded to his emails. Fifteen minutes later, Damiรกn called her; immediately they made plans to go out that night. The separation that Anahi had imposed a month earlier had ended abruptly: from then on, they once again saw each other in a routine of indefinite time between when he was able to get away from his wife.
Three years earlier, Anahรญโs husband had died in an automobile accident. She lived alone with her daughters. Just to downplay his marriage: โHe isnโt legally married,โ she thought, trying to console herself. But she knew that, for a couple, the papers didnโt matter at all; he was the father of a family.
She tried desperately to make sure that her body and her mind were on parallel tracks which seemed impossible to reconcile. On the one hand, she didnโt want to go on with him; she knew that the situation was dangerous, as a friend had told her: โHow do you know how the woman will react? You are the only one responsible for your daughters, you are putting yourself at risk.โ On the other hand, she felt a tremendous attraction for him; what she most liked in the relationship was the sex.
In a renewed attempt to understand that connection that always made her feel wretched, except in the moments when they made love, she believed that sharing her dilemma with more friends would help her.
On a January noontime, while her daughters were at the club, she found herself in a cafรฉ near her work with her friend Gastรณn, a shrewd journalist who knew how to rapidly define someoneโs profile.
โItโs odd that you also go out on Saturdays,โ he commented with a slight smile after listening to her attentively. With Anahรญโs silence, he continued. โEvidently, he sees the two of you as a couple.โBut you arenโt, because he is with herโ. The fact of hooking up with this younger gal, as Damiรกn did with his wife, has its attraction. For a time, you are God. She idealizes you, it’s gratifying. What happens is that later, you get bored. At the time, he must have liked the sex. I suppose he pays a lot of attention to aesthetics. In you, Anahรญ, he ought to have found someone who is on par with him, with whom he can share other topics, including who to go out with. But it is probablethat, if these days you tell him to choose between being with you or her, he will stay with her.โ
Gastรณn paused.
โWell, letโs see if I can explain it better: if you propose to him that you both end the relationship, he will act as if nothing had happened to him, that everything is just the same.โ
Anahรญ commented that that was exactly what had happened to her. The cell phone rang, and she answered it Gastรณn winked an eye to let her understand that he knew who the subject was.
Gastรณn warned her:
โPropose it to him again, but firmly. Donโt compromise to anything in between. Be sure that he doesnโt come to you with promises.โ
And then:
โLook for a guy who isnโt marriedโโthat was the last thing he said to her.
The following Sunday, she had lunch with a friend in a cantina in Almagro:
ย ย โYou are his support; he can keep the relationship with his wife, thanks to the fact that you are there. If you werenโt in the picture, it would be much more difficult for him. Iโm telling you this because I have lived both sides. At times, after having had fantastic sex with a lover, I returned home and I thought that, really, I was doing very well with my husband. Finally, he left me for an ugly and boring gal. I donโt know what he saw in her.โ
Anahรญ went back and forth between moments in which she loved him with others in which she detested him.
โHe returns to a drama,โ a friend assured, who was married and had four children, someone who knew what a bad marriage could be like. Anahรญ remembered the time when she and her husband argued about anything, but her relationship never became a nightmare. It had already been three years since his death, how far away it seemed, she thought.
โYou are not, you are doing well in your home with your daughters. You have a rather pleasant life.โ
Do you think Iโm stupid?โ That I donโt understand you fuck me when you want to?ย She tried out the two phrases before meeting Damiรกn for supper a few days later. She hadnโt suggested they have coffeeto hide that the topic was a new breakup.
But that dinner was pathetic. It began with her proposal, that this time, yes, they ought to put an end to the relationship. Then he asked her for explanations. She had poked a piece of vegetable ravioli that flew through the air.
โA liability, that is what I am for you.โ She answered to Damiรกn, while the ravioli fell onto the tablecloth together with the white sauce on it.
Damiรกnโs nose began to bleed and the waitress brought him some ice. He took a small cube and held it in one hand; with the other, he unfolded a white napkin made of bedsheet cotton. She managed not to help him; she kept silent.
She knew that he was playing with her feelings. โWill he once again act as if he were surprised.โ Anahรญ wondered. His nose had stopped bleeding, when he tried to convince her that he loved her.
ย ย What did he think he was telling her; they canโt go on like this, she retorted. His nose began to bleed again. And it was then that he began to speak to her about his own proceso, his inner struggle.Anahรญ was doubly irritated by him: for what had happened in the country and for what he was trying to concoct for her. He asks me to stay close to him in a situation that doesnโt have rules, she concluded, but she preferred not to tell him that. According to Damiรกn, what she proposed contradicted his own internal struggle. All of a sudden, she saw a tear on his cheek. It settled on the blood that still remained around his nose; it reached his chin in rose color. Finally, it fell on the tablecloth.
โWeโve already talked about how we canโt continue being a couple,โ Damiรกn then said.
She deduced that he was referring to him and his wife. The stained napkin, made into a ball, remained on the table. How red blood is! Anahรญ thought.
โAnd our son in the middle of it!โ he added.
The tears that fell from him succeeded in moving her. She took his hand; she caressed slowly one of his damp cheeks.
He asked when they would see each other again. Anahรญ was doubtful for an instant and continued with one of so many pieces of advice that her friends had given her.
โIn March, if you separate, let me know.โ
At the beginning of April, when her daughters were a month into their first and third grades, and she was finalizing a new project that they would launch on television, looking at her cell phone, she saw a missed call: it was from Damiรกn. She didnโt want to pay attention or lose her concentration. When she was about to leave the office, he called again.
ย ย ย ย ย โI have separated,” is what he said. ย ย ย ย
ย ย ย ย ย ย Moved, she decided to ask him where he was living. He answered that he was in his recording studio. He invited her to have supper right there, apologizing for not yet having a full-fledged home:
โI sleep on a mattress on the floor.โ
Anahรญ thought over the people who could take care of her daughters that night, when she went to see him.
The following Monday, Anahรญ commented to a coworker, who knew about her relationship with Damiรกn, the latest turn that her linkup had taken, how well they had spent that weekend together.
โWell, you could say that you two did what was called for. Itโs certain that beforehand you were his secret refuge, but now heโs using you in his separation. Also, you donโt know how long that can last, I mean, many return, the great reconciliation comes and another child. That is a bummer. I went through it, I donโt recommend it to you,โ she said, made a half turn and began to walk toward the hallway.
Anahรญ supposed that those were nothing more than bits of nonsense. She preferred to forget the warning. She only remembered the chewing gum that her coworker had in her mouth while she was talking to her.
Translated by Stephen A. Sadow, with the help of the author
Osvaldo Dragรบn naciรณ en Entre Rรญos, Argentina, de padres judรญos. Se trasladaron a Buenos Aires donde, Dragรบn iniciรณ estudios universitarios, pero los abandonรณ para dedicarse al teatro. Se uniรณ al movimiento de Teatro Independiente que se contraponรญa en aquellos aรฑos al teatro profesional e inspiraba a una nueva generaciรณn de dramaturgos que iba a incluir nuevas voces como las de Dragรบn y Carlos Gorostiza. En ese medio se vio atraรญdo por los propรณsitos del teatro experimental. En 1952 Dragรบn se uniรณ al Centro de Estudios de Arte Dramรกtico Fray Mocho. Conociรณ allรญ las ideas y teorรญas de Bertolt Brecht, y creรณ una versiรณn en espaรฑol de ยซMadre Corajeยป (1954) de este eminente pero controvertido dramaturgo alemรกn. Estrenรณ con el Grupo Fray Mocho su primera obra dramรกtica, ยซLa peste viene de Melosยป (1956), pieza basada en el golpe de estado que en 1954, derrocรณ al presidente de Guatemala, Jacobo Arbenz. Dragรบn siguiรณ produciendo obras de teatro que suscitaban polรฉmicas en la Argentina, notablemente ยซMilagro en el mercado viejoยป,1962. Su devociรณn al arte teatral motivรณ a Dragรบn a fundar la Comedia de Campana en 1969. Este teatro ha representado muchas de sus obras: ยซEl jardรญn del infiernoยป (1975), ยซEl amasijoยป (1984), ยซHistorias para ser contadasยป (1985) y ยซLos de la mesa 10ยป (1985). El tรฉrmino ยซmelodrama socialยป ha sido asociado con el teatro de Dragรบn. En 1980, aprovechando una nueva actitud menos represiva ante el teatro por parte de los miembros de la dictadura militar (1976โ1983), Dragรบn organizรณ a sus colegas de teatro para fundar un nuevo teatro de improvisaciones, el Teatro Abierto de Argentina. Este teatro abriรณ sus puertas en junio de 1981, estrenando, entre otras obras, ยซMi obelisco y yoยป, de Dragรบn. รste vendrรญa a ser un triunfo empaรฑado en parte por el asalto por bomba incendiaria al teatro, una semana despuรฉs de su inauguraciรณn. El papel del Teatro Abierto como fuente de obras de resistencia ante la represiรณn gubernamental se cifra en el tรญtulo de la temporada de 1984, el Teatrazo, o sea, ataque por teatro. Dragรบn mรกs tarde ocupรณ otros cargos importantes nacionales; entre ellos, Director del Teatro Nacional Cervantes en la Argentina desde 1996 hasta su muerte en 1999. Se ha afirmado que el teatro contemporรกneo argentino se fundamenta en la dramaturgia de Osvaldo Dragรบn.
Osvaldo Dragรบn was born in Entre Rรญos, Argentina, to Jewish parents. They moved to Buenos Aires where Dragรบn began university studies, but abandoned them to dedicate himself to theater. He joined the Independent Theater movement that was opposed to professional theater in those years and inspired a new generation of playwrights that was going to include new voices such as those of Dragรบn and Carlos Gorostiza. In that environment he was attracted by the purposes of experimental theater. In 1952 Dragรบn joined the Fray Mocho Dramatic Art Study Center. There he learned about the ideas and theories of Bertolt Brecht, and created a Spanish version of “Mother Courage” (1954) by this eminent but controversial German playwright. With the Grupo Fray Mocho he premiered his first dramatic work, “The Plague Comes from Melos” (1956), a piece based on the coup d’รฉtat that in 1954 overthrew the president of Guatemala, Jacobo Arbenz. Dragรบn continued to produce plays that sparked controversy in Argentina, notably “Miracle in the Old Market”, 1962. His devotion to theatrical art motivated Dragรบn to found the Comedia de Campana in 1969. This theater has performed many of his works: “The Garden of Hell” (1975), “El amasijo” (1984), “Stories to be told” (1985) and “Those at Table 10” (1985). The term “social melodrama” has been associated with Dragรบn’s theater. In 1980, taking advantage of a new, less repressive attitude toward theater on the part of members of the military dictatorship (1976โ1983), Dragรบn organized his theater colleagues to found a new improvisation theater, the Teatro Abierto de Argentina. This theater opened its doors in June 1981, premiering, among other works, โMy Obelisk and Iโ by Dragรบn. This would be a triumph marred in part by the firebomb attack on the theater, a week after its inauguration. The role of the Open Theater as a source of works of resistance to government repression is found in the title of the 1984 season, Teatrazo, that is, attack for theater. Dragรบn later held other important national positions; among them, Director of the Cervantes National Theater in Argentina from 1996 until his death in 1999. It has been stated that contemporary Argentine theater is based on the dramaturgy of Osvaldo Dragรบn.
ACTOR 2ยบ โ Amigos, la tercera historia vamos a contarla asรญโฆ
ACTOR 3ยบ โ Asรญ como nos la contaron esta tarde a nosotros.
ACTRIZ โ Es la ยซHistoria del hombre que se convirtiรณ en perroยป.
ACTOR 3ยบ โ Empezรณ hace dos aรฑos, en el banco de una plaza. Allรญ, seรฑorโฆ donde usted trataba hoy de adivinar el secreto de una hoja.
ACTRIZ โ Allรญ, donde extendiendo los brazos apretamos al mundo por la cabeza y los pies, y le decimos: ยกsuena, acordeรณn, suena!
ACTOR 2ยบ โ Allรญ le conocimos. (Entra el Actor 1ยบ.) Eraโฆ (lo seรฑala) โฆ asรญ como lo ven, nada mรกs. Y estaba muy triste.
ACTRIZ โ Fue nuestro amigo. รl buscaba trabajo, y nosotros รฉramos actores.
ACTOR 3ยบ โ รl debรญa mantener a su mujer, y nosotros รฉramos actores.
ACTOR 2ยบ โ รl soรฑaba con la vida, y despertaba gritando por la noche. Y nosotros รฉramos actores.
ACTRIZ โ Fue nuestro amigo, claro. Asรญ como lo venโฆ (Lo seรฑala.) Nada mรกs.
TODOSโโ ยกY estaba muy triste!
ACTOR 3ยบ โ Pasรณ el tiempo. El otoรฑoโฆ
ACTOR 2ยบ โ El veranoโฆ
ACTRIZ โ El inviernoโฆ
ACTOR 3ยบ โ La primaveraโฆ
ACTOR 1ยบ โ ยกMentira! Nunca tuve primavera.
ACTOR 2ยบ โ El otoรฑoโฆ
ACTRIZ โ El inviernoโฆ
ACTOR 3ยบ โ El verano. Y volvimos. Y fuimos a visitarlo, porque era nuestro amigo.
ACTOR 2ยบ โ Y preguntamos: ยฟEstรก bien? Y su mujer nos dijoโฆ
ACTRIZ โ No sรฉโฆ
ACTOR 3ยบ โ ยฟEstรก mal?
ACTRIZ โ No sรฉ.
ACTORES 2ยบ y 3ยบ โ ยฟDรณnde estรก?
ACTRIZ โ En la perrera.
(Actor 1ยบ en cuatro patas.)
ACTORES 2ยบ y 3ยบ โ ยกUhhh!
ACTOR 3ยบ โ (Observรกndolo.) Soy el director de la perrera, y esto me parece fenomenal. Llegรณ ladrando como un perro (requisito principal) y si bien conserva el traje, es un perro, a no dudar.
ACTOR 2ยบ โ (Tartamudeando.) S-s-soy el v-veter-r-inario, y esto-to-to es c-claro p-para mรญ. Aun-que p-parezca un ho-hombre, es un p-pe-perro el q-que estรก aquรญ.
ACTOR 1ยบ โ (Al pรบblico.) Y yo, ยฟquรฉ les puedo decir? No sรฉ si soy hombre o perro. Y creo que ni siquiera ustedes podrรกn decรญrmelo al final. Porque todo empezรณ de la manera mรกs corriente. Fui a una fรกbrica a buscar trabajo. Hacรญa tres meses que no conseguรญa nada, y fui a buscar trabajo.
ACTOR 3ยบ โ ยฟNo leyรณ el letrero? ยซNO HAY VACANTESยป.
ACTOR 1ยบ โ Sรญ, lo leรญ. ยฟNo tiene nada para mรญ?
ACTOR 3ยบ โ Si dice ยซNo hay vacantesยป, no hay.
ACTOR 1ยบ โ Claro. ยฟNo tiene nada para mรญ?
ACTOR 3ยบ โ Ni para usted, ni para el ministro.7
ACTOR 1ยบ โ ยกAhรก! ยฟNo tiene nada para mรญ?
ACTOR 3ยบ โ ยกNO!
ACTOR 1ยบ โ Tornero.
ACTOR 3ยบ โ ยกNO!
ACTOR 1ยบ โ Mecรกnico.
ACTOR 3ยบ โ ยกNO!
ACTOR 1ยบ โ Sโฆ
ACTOR 3ยบ โ Nโฆ
ACTOR 1ยบ โ Rโฆ
ACTOR 2ยบ โ (Tartamudeando.) S-s-soy el v-veter-r-inario, y esto-to-to es c-claro p-para mรญ. Aun-que p-parezca un ho-hombre, es un p-pe-perro el q-que estรก aquรญ.
ACTOR 1ยบ โ (Al pรบblico.) Y yo, ยฟquรฉ les puedo decir? No sรฉ si soy hombre o perro. Y creo que ni siquiera ustedes podrรกn decรญrmelo al final. Porque todo empezรณ de la manera mรกs corriente. Fui a una fรกbrica a buscar trabajo. Hacรญa tres meses que no conseguรญa nada, y fui a buscar trabajo.
ACTOR 3ยบ โ ยฟNo leyรณ el letrero? ยซNO HAY VACANTESยป.
ACTOR 1ยบ โ Sรญ, lo leรญ. ยฟNo tiene nada para mรญ?
ACTOR 3ยบ โ Si dice ยซNo hay vacantesยป, no hay.
ACTOR 1ยบ โ Claro. ยฟNo tiene nada para mรญ?
ACTOR 3ยบ โ Ni para usted, ni para el ministro.7
ACTOR 1ยบ โ ยกAhรก! ยฟNo tiene nada para mรญ?
ACTOR 3ยบ โ ยกNO!
ACTOR 1ยบ โ Tornero.
ACTOR 3ยบ โ ยกNO!
ACTOR 1ยบ โ Mecรกnico.
ACTOR 3ยบ โ ยกNO!
ACTOR 1ยบ โ Sโฆ
ACTOR 3ยบ โ Nโฆ
ACTOR 1ยบ โ Rโฆ
ACTOR 3ยบ โ Nโฆ
ACTOR 1ยบ โ Fโฆ
ACTOR 3ยบ โ Nโฆ
ACTOR 1ยบ โ ยกSereno! ยกSereno! ยกAunque sea de sereno!
ACTOR 3ยบ โ Nโฆ
ACTOR 1ยบ โ Fโฆ
ACTOR 3ยบ โ Nโฆ
ACTOR 1ยบ โ ยกSereno! ยกSereno! ยกAunque sea de sereno!
ACTRIZ โ (Como si tocara un clarรญn.) ยกTutรบ, tu-tu-tรบ! ยกEl patrรณn! (Los Actores 2ยบ y 3ยบ hablan por seรฑas)
ACTOR 3ยบ โ (Al pรบblico.) El perro del sereno, seรฑores, habรญa muerto la noche anterior, luego de veinticinco aรฑos de lealtad.
ACTOR 2ยบ โ Era un perro muy viejo.
ACTRIZ โ Amรฉn.
ACTOR 2ยบ โ (Al Actor 1ยบ.) ยฟSabe ladrar?
ACTOR 1ยบ โTornero.
ACTOR 2ยบ โ ยฟSabe ladrar?
ACTOR 1ยบ โ Mecรกnico.
ACTOR 2ยบ โ ยฟSabe ladrar?
ACTOR 1ยบ โ Albaรฑil.
ACTORES 2ยบ y 3ยบ โ ยกNO HAY VACANTES!
ACTOR 1ยบ โ (Pausa.) ยกGuauโฆ guauโฆ!
ACTOR 2ยบ โ Muy bien, lo felicitoโฆ
ACTOR 3ยบ โ Le asignamos diez pesos diarios de sueldo, la casilla y la comida.
ACTOR 2ยบ โ Como ven, ganaba diez pesos mรกs que el perro verdadero.
ACTRIZ โ Cuando volviรณ a casa me contรณ del empleo conseguido. Estaba borracho.
ACTOR 1ยบ โ (A su mujer.) Pero me prometieron que apenas un obrero se jubilara, muriera o fuera despedido me darรญan su puesto. ยกDivertite, Marรญa, divertite! ยกGuauโฆ, guauโฆ! ยกDivertite, Marรญa, divertite!
ACTORES 2ยบ y 3ยบ โ ยกGuauโฆ, guauโฆ! ยกDivertite, Marรญa, divertite!
ACTRIZ โ Estaba borracho, pobreโฆ
ACTOR 1ยบ โ Y a la otra noche empecรฉ a trabajarโฆ (Se agacha en cuatro patas.)
ACTOR 2ยบ โ ยฟTan chica le queda la casilla?
ACTOR 1ยบ โ No puedo agacharme tanto.
ACTOR 3ยบ โ ยฟLe aprieta aquรญ?
ACTOR 1ยบ โ Sรญ.
ACTOR 3ยบ โ Bueno, pero vea, no me diga ยซsรญยป. Tiene que empezar a acostumbrarse. Dรญgame: ยกGuauโฆguau!
ACTOR 2ยบ โ ยฟLe aprieta aquรญ? (El Actor 1ยบ no responde.) ยฟLe aprieta aquรญ?
ACTOR 1ยบ โ ยกGuauโฆ guauโฆ!
ACTOR 2ยบ โ Y buenoโฆ (Sale.)
ACTOR 1ยบ โ Pero esa noche lloviรณ, y tuve que meterme en la casilla.
ACTOR 2ยบ โ (Al Actor 1ยบ.) Ya no le aprietaโฆ
ACTOR 3ยบ โ Y estรก en la casilla.
ACTOR 2ยบ โ (Al Actor 1ยบ.) ยฟVio cรณmo uno se acostumbra a todo?
ACTRIZ โ Uno se acostumbra a todoโฆ
ACTORES 2ยบ y 3ยบ โ Amรฉnโฆ
ACTRIZ โ Y รฉl empezรณ a acostumbrarse.
ACTOR 3ยบ โ Entonces, cuando vea que alguien entra, me grita: ยกGuauโฆ guau! A verโฆ
ACTOR 1ยบ โ (El Actor 2ยบ pasa corriendo.) ยกGuauโฆ guauโฆ! (El Actor 2ยบ pasa sigilosamente. ยกGuauโฆ guauโฆ! (El Actor 2ยบ pasa agachado.) ยกGuauโฆ guauโฆ guauโฆ! (Sale.)
ACTOR 3ยบ โ (Al Actor 2ยบ.) Son diez pesos por dรญa extras en nuestro presupuestoโฆ
ACTOR 2ยบ โ ยกMmm!
ACTOR 3ยบ โ โฆpero la aplicaciรณn que pone el pobre, los mereceโฆ
ACTOR 2ยบ โ ยกMmm!
ACTOR 3ยบ โ Ademรกs, no come mรกs que el muertoโฆ
ACTOR 2ยบ โ ยกMmm!
ACTOR 3ยบ โ ยกDebemos ayudar a su familia!
ACTOR 2ยบ โ ยกMmm! ยกMmm! ยกMmm! (Salen.)
ACTRIZ โ Sin embargo, yo lo veรญa muy triste, y trataba de consolarlo cuando รฉl volvรญa a casa. (Entra Actor 1ยบ.) ยกHoy vinieron visitasโฆ!
ACTOR 1ยบ โ ยฟSรญ?
ACTRIZ โ Y de los bailes en el club, ยฟte acordรกs?
ACTOR 1ยบ โ Sรญ.
ACTRIZ โ ยฟCuรกl era nuestro tango?
ACTOR 1ยบ โ No sรฉ.
ACTRIZ โ ยกCรณmo que no! ยซPercanta que me amurasteโฆยป (El Actor 1ยบ estรก en cuatro patas.) Y un dรญa me trajiste un clavelโฆ (Lo mira, y queda horrorizada.) ยฟQuรฉ estรกs haciendo?
ACTOR 1ยบ โ No te iba a morderโฆ Te iba a besar, Marรญaโฆ
ACTRIZ โ ยกAh! yo creรญa que me ibas a morderโฆ (Sale. Entran los Actores 2ยบ y 3ยบ.)
ACTOR 2ยบ โ Por supuestoโฆ
ACTOR 3ยบ โ โฆa la maรฑana siguienteโฆ
ACTORES 2ยบ y 3ยบ โ Debiรณ volver a buscar trabajo.
ACTOR 1ยบ โ Recorrรญ varias partes, hasta que en unaโฆ
ACTOR 3ยบ โ Vea, รฉsteโฆ no tenemos nada. Salvo queโฆ
ACTOR 1ยบ โ ยฟQuรฉ?
ACTOR 3ยบ โ Anoche muriรณ el perro del sereno.
ACTOR 2ยบ โ Tenรญa treinta y cinco aรฑos, el pobreโฆ
ACTORES 2ยบ y 3ยบ โ ยกEl pobreโฆ!
ACTOR 1ยบ โ Y tuve que volver a aceptar.
ACTOR 2ยบ โ Eso sรญ, le pagรกbamos quince pesos por dรญa. (Los Actores 2ยบ y 3ยบ dan vueltas.) ยกHmm! ยกHmmmโฆ! ยกHmmmโฆ!
ACTORES 2ยบ y 3ยบ โ ยกAceptado! ยกQue sean quince! (Salen.)
ACTRIZ โ (Entra.) Claro que 450 pesos no nos alcanza para pagar el alquilerโฆ
ACTOR 1ยบ โ Mira, como yo tengo la casilla, mudate vos a una pieza con cuatro o cinco muchachas mรกs, ยฟeh?
ACTRIZ โ No hay otra soluciรณn. Y como no nos alcanza tampoco para comerโฆ
ACTOR 1ยบ โ Mira, como yo me acostumbrรฉ al hueso, te voy a traer la carne a vos, ยฟeh?
ACTORES 2ยบ y 3ยบ โ (Entrando.) ยกEl directorio accediรณ!
ACTOR 1ยบ y ACTRIZ โ El directorio accediรณโฆ ยกLoado sea! (Salen los Actores 2ยบ y 3ยบ.)
ACTOR 1ยบ โ Yo ya me habรญa acostumbrado. La casilla me parecรญa mรกs grande. Andar en cuatro patas no era muy diferente de andar en dos. Con Marรญa nos veรญamos en la plazaโฆ (Va hacia ella.) Porque vos no podรฉs entrar en mi casilla; y como yo no puedo entrar en tu piezaโฆ Hasta que una nocheโฆ
ACTRIZ โ Paseรกbamos. Y de repente me sentรญ malโฆ
ACTOR 1ยบ โ ยฟQuรฉ te pasa?
ACTRIZ โ Tengo mareos.
ACTOR 1ยบ โ ยฟPor quรฉ?
ACTRIZ โ (Llorando.) Me pareceโฆ que voy a tener un hijoโฆ
ACTOR 1ยบ โ ยฟY por eso lloras?
ACTRIZ โ ยกTengo miedoโฆ tengo miedo!
ACTOR 1ยบ โPero, ยฟpor quรฉ?
ACTRIZ โ ยกTengo miedoโฆ tengo miedo! ยกNo quiero tener un hijo!
ACTOR 1ยบ โ ยฟPor quรฉ, Marรญa? ยฟPor quรฉ?
ACTRIZ โ Tengo miedoโฆ que seaโฆ (Musita ยซperroยป. El Actor 1ยบ la mira aterrado, y sale corriendo y ladrando. Cae al suelo. Ella se pone de pie.) ยกSe fueโฆ se fue corriendo! A veces se paraba, y a veces corrรญa en cuatro patasโฆ
ACTOR 1ยบ โ ยกNo es cierto, no me paraba! ยกNo podรญa pararme! ยกMe dolรญa la cintura si me paraba! ยกGuauโฆ! Los coches se me venรญan encimaโฆ La gente me mirabaโฆ (Entran los Actores 2ยบ y 3ยบ.) ยกVรกyanse! ยฟNunca vieron un perro?
ACTOR 2ยบ โ ยกEstรก loco! ยกLlamen a un mรฉdico! (Sale.)
ACTOR 3ยบ โ ยกEstรก borracho! ยกLlamen a un policรญa! (Sale.)
ACTRIZ โ Despuรฉs me dijeron que un hombre se apiadรณ de รฉl, y se le acercรณ cariรฑosamente.
ACTOR 2ยบ โ (Entra.) ยฟSe siente mal, amigo? No puede quedarse en cuatro patas. ยฟSabe cuรกntas cosas hermosas hay para ver, de pie, con los ojos hacia arriba? A ver, pรกreseโฆ Yo lo ayudoโฆ Vamos, pรกreseโฆ
ACTOR 1ยบ โ (Comienza a pararse, y de repente.) ยกGuauโฆ guauโฆ! (Lo muerde.) ยกGuauโฆ guauโฆ! (Sale.)
ACTOR 3ยบ โ (Entra.) En fin, que cuando, despuรฉs de dos aรฑos sin verlo, le preguntamos a su mujer ยซยฟCรณmo estรกยป, nos contestรณโฆ
ACTRIZ โ No sรฉ.
ACTOR 2ยบ โ ยฟEstรก bien?
ACTRIZ โ No sรฉ.
ACTOR 2ยบ โ ยฟEstรก mal?
ACTRIZ โ No sรฉ.
ACTORES 2ยบ y 3ยบ โ ยฟDรณnde estรก?
ACTRIZ โ En la perrera.
ACTOR 3ยบ โ Y cuando venรญamos para acรก, pasรณ al lado nuestro un boxeadorโฆ
ACTOR 2ยบ โ Y nos dijeron que no sabรญa leer, pero que eso no importaba porque era boxeador.
ACTOR 3ยบ โ Y pasรณ un conscriptoโฆ
ACTRIZ โ Y pasรณ un policรญaโฆ
ACTOR 2ยบ โ Y pasaronโฆ y pasaronโฆ y pasaron ustedes. Y pensamos que tal vez podrรญa importarles la historia de nuestro amigoโฆ
ACTRIZ โ Porque tal vez entre ustedes haya ahora una mujer que piense: ยซยฟNo tendrรฉโฆ no tendrรฉโฆ?ยป (Musita: ยซperroยป.)
ACTOR 3ยบ โ O alguien a quien le hayan ofrecido el empleo del perro del serenoโฆ
ACTRIZ โ Si no es asรญ, nos alegramos.
ACTOR 2ยบ โ Pero si es asรญ, si entre ustedes hay alguno a quien quieran convertir en perro, como a nuestro amigo, entoncesโฆ. Pero bueno, entonces esaโฆ ยกesa es otra historia!
ACTOR 2nd โ Friends, we are going to tell the third story like thisโฆ
3rd ACTOR โ Just as they told it to us this afternoon.
ACTRESS โ It is the “Story of the man who became a dog.”
ACTOR 3 โ It started two years ago, on a bench in a square. There, sirโฆ where today you were trying to guess the secret of a leaf.
ACTRESS โ There, where by extending our arms we squeeze the world by the head and feet, and we say: play, accordion, play!
ACTOR 2nd โ We met him there. (The 1st Actor enters.) It wasโฆ (points to it)โฆ just as you see it, nothing more. And I was very sad.
ACTRESS โ He was our friend. He was looking for work, and we were actors.
3rd ACTOR โ He had to support his wife, and we were actors.
ACTOR 2nd โ He dreamed of life, and woke up screaming at night. And we were actors.
ACTRESS โ He was our friend, of course. Just as you see itโฆ (Points to it.) Nothing more.
EVERYONEโโ And I was very sad!
3rd ACTOR โ Time passed. Fallโฆ
ACTOR 2nd โ Summerโฆ
ACTRESS โ Winterโฆ
3rd ACTOR โ Springโฆ
1ST ACTOR โ Lie! I never had spring.
ACTOR 2nd โ Autumnโฆ
ACTRESS โ Winterโฆ
3rd ACTOR โ Summer. And we came back. And we went to visit him, because he was our friend.
ACTOR 2nd โ And we ask: Is it okay? And his wife told usโฆ
ACTRESS โ I don’t knowโฆ
3rd ACTOR โ Is it wrong?
ACTRESS โ I don’t know.
ACTORS 2nd and 3rd โ Where is he?
ACTRESS โ In the kennel.
(1st Actor on all fours.)
2nd and 3rd ACTORS โ Uhhh!
ACTOR 3: (Watching him.) I’m the director of the kennel, and I think this is phenomenal. He arrived barking like a dog (main requirement) and although he still has his suit, he is a dog, no doubt.
ACTOR 2nd โ (Stuttering.) I-I-I’m the v-veterinary, and this-to-to is c-clear f-to me. Even though h-he looks like a man, he’s a h-h-dog that’s here.
ACTOR 1st โ (To the audience.) And me, what can I tell you? I don’t know if I’m a man or a dog. And I don’t think even you guys will be able to tell me in the end. Because it all started in the most ordinary way. I went to a factory to look for work. I hadn’t gotten anything for three months, and I went to look for work.
3rd ACTOR โ Didn’t you read the sign? “NO VACANCY”.
1ST ACTOR โ Yes, I read it. Don’t you have anything for me?
3rd ACTOR โ If it says โThere are no vacancies,โ there aren’t any.
1ST ACTOR โ Sure. Don’t you have anything for me?
3rd ACTOR โ Neither for you, nor for the minister.7
1ST ACTOR โ Aha! Don’t you have anything for me?
3rd ACTOR โ NO!
1st ACTOR โ Turner.
3rd ACTOR โ NO!
1st ACTOR โ Mechanic.
3rd ACTOR โ NO!
1st ACTOR โ Sโฆ
3rd ACTOR โ Nโฆ
1st ACTOR โ Rโฆ
3rd ACTOR โ Nโฆ
1st ACTOR โ Fโฆ
3rd ACTOR โ Nโฆ
1st ACTOR โ Serene! Serene! Even if it’s serene!
ACTRESS โ (As if blowing a clarion.) Tutu, tu-tu-tu! The boss! (The 2nd and 3rd Actors speak through signs)
ACTOR 3 – (To the audience.) The watchman’s dog, gentlemen, had died the night before, after twenty-five years of loyalty.
ACTOR 2nd โ It was a very old dog.
ACTRESS โ Amen.
ACTOR 2nd โ (To Actor 1st.) Does he know how to bark?
ACTOR 1st โTurner.
ACTOR 2nd โ Can you bark?
1st ACTOR โ Mechanic.
ACTOR 2nd โ Can you bark?
ACTOR 1st โ Bricklayer.
2nd and 3rd ACTORS โ THERE ARE NO VACANCIES!
1st ACTOR โ (Pause.) Bowโฆ wowโฆ!
ACTOR 2nd โ Very good, I congratulate youโฆ
3rd ACTOR โ We assign him ten pesos a day salary, housing and food.
ACTOR 2nd โ As you can see, he earned ten pesos more than the real dog.
ACTRESS โ When he returned home he told me about the job he got. I was drunk.
ACTOR 1 – (To his wife.) But they promised me that as soon as a worker retired, died or was fired, they would give me his job. Have fun, Maria, have fun! Wowโฆ, wowโฆ! Have fun, Maria, have fun!
2nd and 3rd ACTORS โ Wowโฆ, wowโฆ! Have fun, Maria, have fun!
ACTRESS โ He was drunk, poor thingโฆ
ACTOR 1st โ And the other night I started workingโฆ (He crouches on all fours.)
ACTOR 2nd โ Is the box that small for you?
1ST ACTOR โ I can’t bend down that much.
3rd ACTOR โ Do you feel pressured here?
1ST ACTOR โ Yes.
3rd ACTOR โ Well, but look, don’t tell me “yes.” You have to start getting used to it. Tell me: Wowโฆwow!
ACTOR 2nd โ Do you feel pressured here? (The 1st Actor does not respond.) Does it bother you here?
1st ACTOR โ Wowโฆ wowโฆ!
ACTOR 2nd โ And wellโฆ (Exit.)
ACTOR 2nd โ Is the box that small for you?
1ST ACTOR โ I can’t bend down that much.
3rd ACTOR โ Do you feel pressured here?
1ST ACTOR โ Yes.
3rd ACTOR โ Well, but look, don’t tell me “yes.” You have to start getting used to it. Tell me: Wowโฆwow!
ACTOR 2nd โ Do you feel pressured here? (The 1st Actor does not respond.) Does it bother you here?
1st ACTOR โ Wowโฆ wowโฆ!
ACTOR 2nd โ And wellโฆ (Exit.)
1ST ACTOR โ But that night it rained, and I had to go into the booth.
ACTOR 2nd โ (To Actor 1st.) It doesn’t bother him anymoreโฆ
3rd ACTOR โ And it’s in the box.
ACTOR 2nd โ (To Actor 1st.) Did you see how one gets used to everything?
ACTRESS โ You get used to everythingโฆ
ACTORS 2nd and 3rd โ Amenโฆ
ACTRESS โ And he started to get used to it.
3rd ACTOR โ Then, when he sees someone come in, he shouts at me: Wowโฆ wow! Let’s seeโฆ
1st ACTOR โ (The 2nd Actor runs past.) Wowโฆ wowโฆ! (The 2nd Actor passes by stealthily. Wowโฆ woofโฆ! (The 2nd Actor passes by crouching.) Wowโฆ woofโฆ woofโฆ! (Sale.)
3rd ACTOR โ (To the 2nd Actor.) That’s ten pesos a day extra in our budgetโฆ
2ND ACTOR โ Mmm!
3rd ACTOR โ โฆbut the poor man’s application deserves themโฆ
2ND ACTOR โ Mmm!
3rd ACTOR โ Besides, he doesn’t eat more than the deadโฆ
2ND ACTOR โ Mmm!
3rd ACTOR โ We must help his family!
2ND ACTOR โ Mmm! Hmm! Hmm! (Exit.)
ACTRESS โ However, I saw him very sad, and I tried to console him when he returned home. (Enter Actor 1.) Today visitors cameโฆ!
1st ACTOR โ Yes?
ACTRESS โ And the dancing at the club, do you remember?
1ST ACTOR โ Yes.
ACTRESS โ What was our tango?
1st ACTOR โ I don’t know.
ACTRESS โ Of course not! “I’m glad you told meโฆ” (Actor 1 is on all fours.) And one day you brought me a carnationโฆ (She looks at him, and is horrified.) What are you doing?
1st ACTOR โ (The 2nd Actor runs past.) Wowโฆ wowโฆ! (The 2nd Actor passes by stealthily. Wowโฆ woofโฆ! (The 2nd Actor passes by crouching.) Wowโฆ woofโฆ woofโฆ! (Sale.)
3rd ACTOR โ (To the 2nd Actor.) That’s ten pesos a day extra in our budgetโฆ
2ND ACTOR โ Mmm!
3rd ACTOR โ โฆbut the poor man’s application deserves themโฆ
2ND ACTOR โ Mmm!
3rd ACTOR โ Besides, he doesn’t eat more than the deadโฆ
2ND ACTOR โ Mmm!
3rd ACTOR โ We must help his family!
2ND ACTOR โ Mmm! Hmm! Hmm! (Exit.)
ACTRESS โ However, I saw him very sad, and I tried to console him when he returned home. (Enter Actor 1.) Today visitors cameโฆ!
1st ACTOR โ Yes?
ACTRESS โ And the dancing at the club, do you remember?
1ST ACTOR โ Yes.
ACTRESS โ What was our tango?
1st ACTOR โ I don’t know.
ACTRESS โ Of course not! “I’m glad you told meโฆ” (Actor 1 is on all fours.) And one day you brought me a carnationโฆ (She looks at him, and is horrified.) What are you doing?
ACTOR 1st โ I wasn’t going to bite youโฆ I was going to kiss you, Marรญaโฆ
ACTRESS โ Ah! I thought you were going to bite meโฆ (Exit. The 2nd and 3rd Actors enter.)
ACTOR 2nd โ Of courseโฆ
3rd ACTOR โ โฆthe next morningโฆ
ACTORS 2nd and 3rd โ He had to look for work again.
1st ACTOR โ I went through several parts, until in oneโฆ
3rd ACTOR โ See, this oneโฆ we have nothing. Unlessโฆ
ACTOR 1st โ What?
3rd ACTOR โ Last night the watchman’s dog died.
ACTOR 2nd โ He was thirty-five years old, the poor thingโฆ
ACTORS 2nd and 3rd โ The poor manโฆ!
1ST ACTOR โ And I had to accept again.
ACTOR 2nd โ Of course, we paid him fifteen pesos a day. (The 2nd and 3rd Actors spin around.) Hmm! Hmmmโฆ! Hmmmโฆ!
2nd and 3rd ACTORS โ Accepted! Make it fifteen! (They leave.)
ACTRESS โ (Enter.) Of course 450 pesos is not enough for us to pay the rentโฆ
1st ACTOR โ Look, since I have the box, you can move into a room with four or five other girls, eh?
ACTRESS โ There is no other solution. And since we don’t have enough to eat eitherโฆ
ACTOR 1st โ Look, since I got used to the bone, I’m going to bring the meat to you, eh?
ACTORS 2nd and 3rd โ (Entering.) The board agreed!
1ST ACTOR and ACTRESS โ The board agreedโฆ Praise be to them! (The 2nd and 3rd Actors exit.)
1ST ACTOR โ I had already gotten used to it. The box seemed bigger to me. Walking on all fours was not much different from walking on two. We saw each other with Marรญa in the squareโฆ (He goes towards her.) Because you can’t enter my box; and since I can’t enter your roomโฆ Until one nightโฆ
ACTRESS โ We were walking. And suddenly I felt badโฆ
ACTOR 1 โ What’s wrong with you?
ACTRESS โ I have dizziness.
1ST ACTOR โ Why?
ACTRESS โ (Crying.) It seems to meโฆ that I’m going to have a sonโฆ
ACTOR 1st โ And that’s why you cry?
ACTRESS โ I’m afraidโฆ I’m afraid!
ACTOR 1st โBut why?
ACTRESS โ I’m afraidโฆ I’m afraid! I don’t want to have a child!
1st ACTOR โ Why, Marรญa? Because?
ACTRESS โ I’m afraidโฆ it’sโฆ (Mutters “dog.” Actor 1 looks at her terrified, and runs away barking. He falls to the ground. She stands up.) He leftโฆ he ran away! Sometimes he stood, and sometimes he ran on all foursโฆ
1st ACTOR โ It’s not true, I couldn’t stop! I couldn’t stop! My waist hurt if I stood up! Wowโฆ! The cars were coming at meโฆ People were looking at meโฆ (The 2nd and 3rd Actors enter.) Go away! Have you never seen a dog?
2ND ACTOR โ He’s crazy! Call a doctor! (Comes out.)
3rd ACTOR โ He’s drunk! Call a policeman! (Comes out.)
ACTRESS โ Later they told me that a man took pity on him, and approached him affectionately.
ACTOR 2nd โ (Enter.) Do you feel bad, friend? He can’t stay on all fours. Do you know how many beautiful things there are to see, standing with your eyes upward? Let’s see, stopโฆ I’ll help youโฆ Come on, stopโฆ
ACTOR 1st โ (Begins to stand up, and suddenly.) Wowโฆ wowโฆ! (Bites it.) Wowโฆ wowโฆ! (Comes out.)
ACTOR 3 – (Enter.) Anyway, when, after two years without seeing him, we asked his wife “How are you?” she answered usโฆ
ACTRESS โ I don’t know.
2ND ACTOR โ Is that okay?
ACTRESS โ I don’t know.
ACTOR 2nd โ Is it wrong?
ACTRESS โ I don’t know.
ACTORS 2nd and 3rd โ Where is he?
ACTRESS โ In the kennel.
ACTOR 3: And when we were coming here, a boxer passed by usโฆ
ACTOR 2nd โ And they told us that he couldn’t read, but that didn’t matter because he was a boxer.
3rd ACTOR โ And a conscript passed byโฆ
ACTRESS โ And a police officer passed byโฆ
ACTOR 2nd โ And they passedโฆ and they passedโฆ and you passed. And we thought maybe you might care about our friend’s storyโฆ
ACTRESS โ Because perhaps there is a woman among you now who thinks: “Won’t I haveโฆ won’t I haveโฆ?” (Mutters: “dog.”)
3rd ACTOR โ Or someone who has been offered the job of the watchman’s dogโฆ
ACTRESS โ If not, we are glad.
ACTOR 2: But if that’s the case, if there is anyone among you who you want to turn into a dog, like our friend, thenโฆ But well, then thatโฆ that’s another story!
Josรฉ Lรฉvy (1978-) es un artista dominicano de ascendencia judรญa sefardรญ que ha estado exponiendo la complejidad de la sociedad dominicana a travรฉs de su arte. El arte de Lรฉvy cuenta la historia del Caribe y su gente, a menudo ignorada por los principales medios de comunicaciรณn. Busca crear una sociedad mรกs inclusiva dando voz a quienes estรกn marginados. Despuรฉs de graduarse de la escuela secundaria, Lรฉvy dedicรณ su talento a estudiar en profundidad la cultura dominicana y a conectarla con parte de su historia judรญa sefardรญ. Segรบn Lรฉvy, “podrรญa ser fรกcil para mรญ explorar las diferentes formas de arte, especialmente las que recibimos de Europa o Estados Unidos. Sin embargo, mi experiencia como judรญo sefardรญ dominicano y el sentimiento de pรฉrdida cultural debido al borrado de La historia sefardรญ nos recuerda que necesitamos crear artes que reflejen nuestra cultura para la generaciรณn futura”. Su arte fusiona la historia de los antepasados โโjudรญos de Lรฉvy y la sociedad dominicana actual. Su trabajo ha sido exhibido en lugares de todo el Caribe, Amรฉrica Latina y Estados Unidos.
โA travรฉs de mis pinturas busco una catarsis como todo artista serio; reflejar cosas que entiendo estรกn mal en la sociedad, como la corrupciรณn, la violencia, el Estado cuasi podrido de la sociedad dominicana, entre otros tipos de cosas.โ – El Caribe, 2018
____________________________________
Josรฉ Lรฉvy (1978- ) is a Dominican artist of Jewish Sephardic descent who has been exposing the complexity of Dominican society through his art. Lรฉvy’s art tells the story of the Caribbean and its people, often overlooked by mainstream media. He seeks to create a more inclusive society by giving a voice to those who are marginalized. After graduating high school, Lรฉvy dedicated his talents to studying Dominican culture in depth and connecting it to part of his Sephardi Jewish history. According to Lรฉvy, “it could be easy for me to explore the different forms of arts, especially those we receive from Europe or the United States. However, my experience as a Dominican Sephardic Jew and the sense of cultural loss due to the erasure of the Sephardi history reminds us that we need to create arts that reflect our culture for the future generation.” His art merges the history of Lรฉvy’s Jewish ancestors and the present Dominican society. His work has been exhibited in venues throughout the Caribbean, Latin America, and the United States.
โThrough my paintings I look for catharsis like every serious artist; reflect things that I understand are bad in society, such as corruption, violence, the quasi-rotten state of Dominican society, among other types of things.โ – El Caribe, 2018
Karina Lerman es poeta, psicoanalista, maestra de idioma hebreo y docente universitaria. Artista visual. Editรณ Las hijas de Lot por Griselda Garcรญa Editora (2018) y en Mรฉxico por Divรกn Negro ediciones (2022). Perlas, por El jardรญn de las delicias (2022). Enfrascados, poemario para las infancias (2023). Seleccionada para la Antologรญa Cรณmo decir, por Editorial Ruinas Circulares (2019). Primera menciรณn del premio Adolfo Bioy Casares (2019) con su poemario Cayupรกn. Reeditado en Chile por Editorial Navaja (2024). Con el texto Y narrarรกs a tus hijos por el Centro Ana Frank de Argentina (2021). Su textos Desmalvinizados y su texto por los 40 aรฑos de democracia argentina, han sido seleccionados por la Universidad de La Matanza (Argentina) para integrar sendas antologรญas (2023 y 2024). Seleccionada para integrar la antologรญa del premio R. Reches, Ruinas Circulares. Argentina (2023). Ha participado en el festival de poesรญa de la ciudad de Fusagasugรก (Colombia, 2022) dedicado al apoyo de los pueblos originarios. Compiladora de la Antologรญa digital Enhebradas, de una poiesis psicoanalรญtica en tiempos de pandemia (2021), la Antologรญa solidaria Mujeres en voz (Marzo de 2022). La antologรญa poรฉtica digital De pรฉrdidas y duelo. Cartografรญa de los cuerpos (2023) y Costuras de la palabra (2023). La antologรญa poรฉtica al รญdish La lengua en filigrana (2023). Becaria de LABA (laboratorio de arte y cultura judรญa en Buenos Aires, 2023). Coordina el ciclo de lecturas en diรกlogo poรฉtico Las flores de Circe. Dicta talleres de lecturas entramadas y anรกlisis de textos poรฉticos. Escribe reseรฑas y artรญculos para medios de difusiรณn literarios y psicoanalรญticos de Argentina y paรญses latinoamericanos. Ha sido traducida al mapuzungรบn, griego, inglรฉs e idish. Contacto:
Karina Lerman is a poet, psychoanalyst, Hebrew language teacher and university professor. Visual artist. He edited Las hijas de Lot by Griselda Garcรญa Editora (2018) and in Mexico by Divรกn Negro editions (2022). Perlas, for El jardรญn de las delicias (2022), Enfrascados, a collection of poems for children (2023). Selected for the Anthology Cรณmo decir, by Editorial Ruinas Circulares (2019). First mention of the Adolfo Bioy Casares award (2019) with his collection of poems Cayupรกn. Republished in Chile by Editorial Navaja (2024). With the text And You Will Narrate to your children by the Anne Frank Center in Argentina (2021). Her texts Desmalvinizados and her text for the 40 years of Argentine democracy have been selected by the University of La Matanza (Argentina) to be two anthologies (2023 and 2024). Selected to integrate the R. Reches award anthology, Circular Ruins. Argentina (2023). She has participated in the poetry festival of the city of Fusagasugรก (Colombia, 2022) dedicated to the support of indigenous peoples. Compiler of the digital Anthology Enhebradas, de una poiesis psicoanalรญtica en tiempos de pandemia (2021), the Solidarity Anthology Mujeres en voz (March 2022). The digital poetic anthology De pรฉrdidas y duelo. Cartografรญa de los cuerpos ( (2023) and Costuras de la palabra (2023). The Yiddish poetic anthology La lengua en filigrana (2023). Scholarship holder from LABA (laboratory of Jewish art and culture in Buenos Aires, 2023). Coordinates the cycle of readings in poetic dialogue Las flores de Circe. She teaches workshops on structured readings and analysis of poetic texts. She writes reviews and articles for literary and psychoanalytic media in Argentina and Latin American countries. Her work has been translated into Mapuzungun, Greek, English and Yiddish. Contact:
Cerca de la parte baja del funicular que sube hasta el Monte Petลรญn se encuentra el monumento a las vรญctimas del comunismo en el cual se contempla un conjunto escultรณrico de varias figuras humanas bajando por unas escaleras. A medida que avanzan, les van faltando partes del cuerpo.
_____________________
FLOWER OF PETRIN
Near the lower part of the funicular that goes up to Mount Petลรญn is the monument to the victims of communism in which a sculptural group of several human figures can be seen descending stairs. As they advance, they are missing body parts.
Ah, la terrible descarga en las fosas de los vivos con los muertos
BLANCO
donde un fogonazo quemรณ mirรญada de pรฉtalos,
y si acaso algรบn apellido
buscara
alivianar
su cifra
como un hilo de agua
entre las piedras.
BLANCO
tersura de una marca indeleble sobre el azul aterciopelado, paz en los ojos.
Mi notaciรณn sobre la hoja
que se marchita a la luz del crimen cuando las flores se hielan.
____________________
4.
Ah, the terrible discharge
into the graves of the living
with the dead
WHITE
where an explosion
burns a myriad
of petals,
and if, perhaps some last name
might seek to lighten
its cipher
like a thread of water
among rocks.
WHITE
smoothness of an indelible
mark on the velveted
blue, peace in
the eyes.
My notation on the leaf
that dries up in the sun
of the crime when the flowers freeze.
_____________________________
5.
ELLA ES UNA GARZA ENCORVADA
a la luz del alba:
Somnolienta,
entrecierra los ojos sin poder (dormir) sin poder restituirse del olvido.
Le leo verso tras verso (hace mรกs de una dรฉcada) al poeta quien le hace saber de su hambre, de su casa natal en un pueblito de Praga y de un รกrbol de castaรฑo de indias. Un insecto devora la curvatura (de su sueรฑo).
La memoria del hueco la seguirรก adonde vaya.
______________________
5.
SHE IS ACURVED HERON
in the light of dawn:
drowsy,
she squints without being able to (sleep) without being able to recover from oblivion.
I read the verse after verse (more than a decade ago) to the poet who lets her know of her hunger, of her birthplace in a small town of Prague and of a horse chestnut. An insect devours the curvature (of her dream.)
The memory of the void will follow her wherever she goes.
________________________
6.
ยฟERAS VOS, MADRE,
poniendo a prueba los hilos de la fe?
Habรญa llovido y la luz del atardecer en agua cielo se derramaba.
(Sollozo de estambre junto al rรญo contra toda esperanza).
Acaso, ยฟera ese el destino?
Las ropas al silencio de las รบltimas ramas en el fiero arrastre de un
aliento guardado para el final: Enie batโฆ
Y el amor era el bautismo en madre, esa irrupciรณn de lo perdido.
Azul de celajes el poema,
quedamente,
una flor de Petrรญn por cada muerto.
_____________________________
6.
WAS IT YOU, MOTHER,
putting to test threads of faith?
It had rained and the light of evening in watery sky was fading
(Sobbing of stamen together with the river against all hope.)
Perhaps that was the destiny?
The clothing on the silent last branches fiercely drags
a spirit kept for the end:
ani bat
And the love was a baptism in mother, that irruption of the lost.
Blue of sunset cloudscapes the poem,
gently,
a flower of Petrin for each of the dead.
___________________________________
7.
Y EL LIBRO en su forma
mรกs anochecida
de apagarse: durmiente
como la ahogada de regreso a la orilla,
ยฟnombrarlo, madre, acaso,
podrรญas?
Barranco luz de nadie
no lejos de la mano que te hubo escrito: una flor s
e convertรญa en ramillete
y la palabra buscando echar raรญz:
pistilo ovario pรฉtalo estigma
aquel sol negro enredado en la crecida.
__________________
7.
AND THE BOOK in its most
dusky form
fading out: asleep
like the drowned woman returning from the shore,
name it, mother, perhaps,
could you?
Ravine nobodyโs light
not far from the hand that
had written to you: a flower
turns into a bouquet and the
word seeking to take root:
pistil ovary petal, stigma
that black sun tangled in the crest.
________________________________________
8.
Y DESPUรS, la plegaria inclinaba
un argumento sobre sรญ
donde mis manos
sin territorio
ensayaban
su aleluya en un Shemรก
o un consuelo sin
horizontes.
_________________
8.
AND AFTER, the prayer pursing
an argument about itself
where my hands
without place
were practicing
its hallelujah in a Shema
or a consolation without
horizons.
__________________________________________
9.
La plegaria que se alza
EN ESTE ENSALMO que ya es grieta,
se resquebraja
y se desoye.
Insisto en conservar la incertidumbre
(algo ha de haber
en el ritmo jadeante del verbo
como una tierra indรณmita,
de un corazรณn desbocado).
____________________
9.
The prayer that rises
IN THIS INCANTATION is already a crack,
falls apart
and is disregarded.
I insist on conserving the uncertainty
(something should be
in the panting rhythm of the verb
like an indomitable land
of a flowing heart).
_______________________
10.
Y EN ESTE ACTO de leve desprendimiento ante un rรญo
monosรญlabo
se suelta el escozor
por los mil matices de un bosque de abedules.
DIGO
como si diera cuchilladas
en la vida: esta zona difusa de lo judรญo como ajeno
y lo no judรญo como propio.
DIGO
circuncidando la letra desgraciada
en la raรญz del hueso
que mueve las pรกginas de una biblia en otro mundo.
DIGO
como si la semilla de amapola
ya no fuera el sustento en lo oculto de la pena.
DIGO
fruto verbal como el rastro de baba
que deja a su paso el caracol
ante la ausencia de cordura.
ยฟhubo una vez una mรบsica
que no devenga en รบltimo reducto
contra la muerte?
DIGO
como lรกnguidos vestidos de alfabetos,
tesoros sin habla entre las noches.
DIGO
la hendidura del luto
es un nervio inรบtil entre espejos tapados.
DIGO, y madre que cruza en el limbo
la frontera cuando la escarcha
apresura sus pasos,
y su รบltima canciรณn
de arca rota
y poco ya
para decir.
____________________________
10.
AND IN THIS ACT of slight
release before a river
monosyllable
grief breaks loose
a thousand hues of a birch woods.
ISAY
as if there were slashes
In life of Jewishness as foreign.
and the not Jewish as close by.
ISAY
circumcising the disgraced letter
in the root of the bone
that moves the pages of a bible in another world.
ISAY
as if the poppy seed
was no longer the sustenance in the occult of the pain
Nascida em 1911, em Ucrรขnia, Elisa Lispector passou por uma longa jornada antes de publicar seu primeiro roยญmance, Alรฉm da fronteira (1945). Ainda crianรงa, vagou pela terra natal destruรญda pela guerrilha, de aldeia em aldeia, com a famรญlia, que fugia da perseguiรงรฃo antissemita instaurada apรณs a Revoluรงรฃo Comunista de 1917. Aos nove anos, chega ao Brasil com pai, mรฃe e duas irยญmรฃs: Ethel, de trรชs anos, e Clarice, recรฉm-nascida. Depois de cinco duros anos em Maceiรณ, a famรญlia se muda para Recife, onde consegue uma situaรงรฃo econรดmica mais estรกvel. Lรก, fica atรฉ 1937, quando segue para o Rio de Janeiro. Essa penosa odisseia familiar รฉ retratada em No exรญlio (1948). Aos 26 anos, Elisa Lispector chega ao Rio de Janeiro, tendo se formado na Escola Normal, estudado no conservatรณrio musical e lecionado para crianรงas em Recife. Entra concursada no serviรงo pรบblico federal e desempenha funรงรตes importantes, inclusive no exterior, secretariando delegaรงรตes governamentais. Chegou a representar o Brasil em uma reuniรฃo da Organizaรงรฃo Internacional do Trabalho, no Peru, para estudar os problemas da mรฃo-de-obra feminina na Amรฉrica Latina. No Rio, ainda estuda sociologia na Escola Nacional de Filosofia e crรญtica de arte na Fundaรงรฃo Brasileira de Teatro. Sua apariรงรฃo na literatura se dรก nos anos 1940, em momento de maturidade intelectual e sob influรชncia do existencialismo. Sua obra trata do enigma do ser. Refugia-se e se descobre na solidรฃo e na comunicaรงรฃo impossรญvel com o outro. Aspira ร vida, sabendo que esta se encaminha inevitavelmente para a morte. Seus personagens descobrem corajosamente que รฉ em seu รญntimo e nรฃo no mundo das relaรงรตes humanas que se deve procurar respostas para indagaรงรตes sobre a vida. Elisa Lispector foi a primeira pessoa a receber, com o romance O muro de pedras (1963), o prรชmio Josรฉ Lins do Rego, destinado a autores de romances inรฉditos. Com o mesmo romance, ganhou o prรชmio Coelho Neto da Academia Brasileira de Letras em 1964. Jรก reconhecida pela crรญtica como romancista de talento, estreia como contista e publica Sangue no sol (1970), lnvenยญtdrio (1977) e O tigre de bengala (1985), com o qual recebeu o prรชmio Luรญsa Clรกudio de Souza, do Pen Clube. A autora ainda colaborou com jornais e revistas literรกrias e publicou os romances Ronda solitรกria (1954), A รบltima porta (1975) e Corpo a corpo (1983).
____________________________________
Born in 1911, in Ukraine, Elisa Lispector went through a long journey before publishing her first novel, Alรฉm 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 Maceiรณ, 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 Josรฉ 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 Luรญsa Clรกudio de Souza award, from Pen Club. The author also collaborated with newspapers and literary magazines and published the novels Ronda solitaria (1954), A รบltima porta (1975) and Corpo a corpo (1983).
“(…) Este dia vos serรก por memรณria, e celebrรก-lo-eis por festa a Jehovah; entre vossas geraรงรตes o celebrareis por estatuยญto perpรฉtuo…
Marim estendeu uma toalha branca sobre a mesinha reยญdonda colocada no centro do quarto, dispรดs 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.
– Nรฃo pude arranjar nada que servisse de korbanot nem de kharosset. Sรณ consegui raiz amarga para o maror. Aves, vinho, nozes … penso que ninguรฉm 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 lavatรณrio. -Korbanot hรก muiยญto, jรก, deveriam ter sido abolidos. Hรก milรชnios os judeus nรฃo mais imolam animais em oferenda a Deus. Hoje – acrescentou sombrio -, homens matam homens, para alegria do negro Satรฃ. E se nรฃo hรก kharosset, tambรฉm nรฃo faz mal. Maror por si sรณ lembrarรก toda a amargura do cativeiro. Sentemo-nos ร mesa. Comecemos o seder. – Dizendo isso, pรดs na caยญbeรงa o solidรฉu, subitamente tomado de ira. Marim fitava-o calada, os movimentos cortados. Entรฃo ele dominou-se, e ร raiva sobreveio uma lassidรฃo muito grande. Agora tambรฉm ele sentia-se como um seixo ao sabor da corrente, sem vontaยญde, sem impulso. Aproximou-se da mesa, ajeitou dois travesยญseiros pequenos ao encosto da cadeira, ร guisa de almofadas, sentou-se e comeรงou a folhear a Hagadรก.
– Papรก, por que vocรช se senta sobre os travesseiros? – perguntou Lizza.
Ele ergueu-se a meio, parecendo sรณ entรฃo 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 nรณs somos um povo de reis. Um povo livre. Um dia fomos escravizados pelo faraรณ, no Egito, mas nos libertamos. Um judeu nรฃo รฉ escravo, e nรฃo escraviza a outrem.
– Papรก, conta como foi no Egito.
Ternura branda invadiu o coraรงรฃo de Pinkhas, ante o olhar suplicante da filha. Tornou a ajeitar o barrete num gesto de quem estรก com o pensamento longe, e comeรงou:
– Por longos anos viveram os judeus no Egito. Cresceram e se multiplicaram. Entรฃo, os egรญpcios temeram que o povo estranho se multiplicasse mais ainda, e porque o temeu, escravizou-o. ร sempre assim -prosseguiu falando agora consigo mesmo. – Porque nรฃo 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. Lรก, aproveitaram-nos para o pastoreio – tarefa que um egรญpcio considerava indigna para si. Mas, quando aprendeu o ofรญcio e viu que nรฃo lhe maculava as mรฃos, comeยญรงou a perseguir-nos. Assim tem continuado a ser. Aqui exploram o nosso tino para os negรณcios, ali tomam-nos o ouro ganho com o nosso labor; acolรก tiram partido de nosso amor ao saber. Depois acusam-nos de que “ameaรงamos”, “aรงambarcamos”. Esta a maneira pela qual o mundo se conduz.
Lizza ouvia, confusa. Nรฃo compreendia o sentido de certas palavras, mas contristou-a o semblante do pai, repentinaยญmente tรฃo grave e compungido. Fitava-o nos olhos, e uma angรบstia tรฃo funda estampou-se-lhe na fisionomia que Pinkhas afastou os negros pensamentos, e, para aliviar a tensรฃo, procurou mostrar-se alegre. Atรฉ antecipou as perguntas e respostas do Ma Nischtana, as quatro perguntas rituais sobre a significaรงรฃo da Pรกscoa, de que a menina tanto gostava.
O pai lia, agora, a Hagadรก, e a mรฃe fixava a chama da vela com o pensamento distante. Ethel continha-se para fechar a boca, com medo de que seu hรกlito apagasse a vela, compriยญmindo bem as mรฃozinhas 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 longรญnquo e tenebroso atรฉ o quarยญtinho frio e escuro no qual eles estavam encerrados, como numa prisรฃo, deparava com um mundo temรญvel e estranho. Pogroms, assassรญnios, medo, fugas, crueldades. Sua mente infantil estava conturbada.
Marim continuava concentrada em seus pensamentos, enquanto Pinkhas orava, e embora a cerimรณnia fosse de jรบbiยญlo, o menear da cabeรงa e a entonaรงรฃo de sua voz diziam que as penas do povo de Israel nรฃo haviam acabado. O cativeiro
nรฃo terminara com a fuga do Egito, nรฃo. Os judeus continuaยญvam a fugir de toda parte. Em toda parte, subsistiam os grilhรตes e se derramava sangue. Toda a histรณria dos judeus, atravรฉs dos sรฉculos, vinha tinta de sangue.
A chama tremulou debilmente, prestes a extinguir-se; entรฃo Pinkhas guardou, pressuroso, o livro de oraรงรฃo, murmuยญrou o tradicional “Leschanรก Habaรก Biruschalayim” -no ano prรณximo em Jerusalรฉm -dividiu os matzot, repartiu as batatas, jรก frias, molhando cada porรงรฃo em รกgua e sal, e eles comeram em silรชncio e sem fome. Depois deitaram-se, todos, sobre o mesmo estrado armado sobre caixotes de querosene e dormiram mais uma noite. sem sonhos.
Sรณ Ethel acordou no dia seguinte maravilhada, dizendo que o pai havia comprado um kalatshi muito, muito grande, mostrou abrindo os bracinhos quanto pรดde.
____________________________________________
93-95
O navio apoximava-se dos trรณpicos. A temperatura, ameยญna; as noites, homp1das, estreladas.
Pmkhas nรฃo tinha sono. Subia ao tombadilho, cruzava as mรฃos atrรกs e passeava da popa ร proa, e desta ร quela. รs vezes parava, debruรงava-se sobre a amurada do navio, perscrutava as รกguas profundas e negras do mar e experimentava uma sensaรงรฃo atรฉ entรฃo desconhecida. Diante da amplidรฃo do cรฉu e do mar a perder de vista, sentia-se integrado num plano mais extenso e imponderรกvel da vida.
No porรฃo, o calor e o ar viciado sufocavam. Marim dorยญmitava, apรณs um dia de nรกuseas e mal-estar. Ethel e Nina tamยญbรฉm dormiam. Sรณ Lizza nรฃo conseguia conciliar o sono. Virava-se constantemente de um lado para outro, cansada, enervada. Pressentia o navio cortando as รกguas escuras, seu trajeto marcado pelo balanรงar cadenciado com que o navio se inclinava para um lado e outro, como o carpir de uma mulher velha, sem forรงas nem conseqรผรชncias, num ermo sem fim. E quando uma ratazana enorme e lerda, os pequeninos olhos fuzilando por entre o pรชlo cinzento e repelente, passou sobre o travesseiro, roรงando-lhe o rosto, toda a sua tensรฃo nervosa explodiu em asco e revolta.
tou do leito e galgou a escada para fora do porรฃo. Sabia o pai lรก 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, graยญdativamente, a serenidade. Aos poucos, comeรงou a tomar inยญteresse pelo que lhe ia ร volta.
Da primeira classe vinham os sons da Viรบva alegre, de Lehar. Como era bonito. Deteve-se junto ร escada, fascinada pelo deslumbramento das luzes, dos sons e a beleza e o enยญcanto das damas e cavalheiros que passeavam, conversando, rindo, e fumando de delgadas e brilhantes piteiras.
Pinkhas tambรฉm havia parado, e olhavam, ambos, para aquele mundo tรฃo diferente do porรฃo da terceira classe, um mundo feliz e descuidado, onde os adultos recreavam-se como crianรงas despreocupadas.
A um dado momento, alta e loura, trajando decotado vesยญtido de lantejoulas, longos braรงos ร mostra, a mulher reparou na menina, voltou e reapareceu com as mรฃos cheias de bomยญbons. Estendeu-os a Lizza, sorrindo muito e proferindo palaยญvras untuosas. Devia estar dizendo amabilidades, pensou a menina, e fitava-a com espanto e admiraรงรฃo, nรฃo querendo aproximar-se e nรฃo tendo รขnimo para retroceder. A dama inยญsistia, sorria sempre e estendia ainda mais os braรงos nus, lonยญgos e finos. Entรฃo Lizza subiu alguns degraus atรฉ a dama alta e esguia e colheu seu sorriso arqueado bem de perto e o punhaยญdo de bombons raros e tentadores. Mas no momento em que fazia, olhou de esguelha para o pai, e viu-lhe olhar triste, os lรกbios crispados. Agradeceu, confusamente, desceu a escada, e agora nรฃo sabia que fazer com aquilo. Sentia haver interposto uma barreira entre ela e o pai. Num movimento brusco, corยญreu atรฉ o parapeito do navio e jogou os bombons no mar. fazia, olhou de esguelha para o pai, e viu-lhe olhar triste, os lรกbios crispados. Agradeceu, confusamente, desceu a escada, e agora nรฃo sabia que fazer com aquilo. Sentia haver interposto uma barreira entre ela e o pai. Num movimento brusco, corยญreu atรฉ o parapeito do navio e jogou os bombons no mar.
“Agora”, pensou, “tรฃo simples aproximar-me do pai.” Enยญtretanto, permanecia atoleimada, os pรฉs fincados no mesmo lugar, sentindo haver algo errado, mas nรฃo sabendo o quรช. Aliรกs, era tรฃo difรญcil compreender uma porรงรฃo de tantas ouยญtras coisas. Muitas pessoas nรฃo estavam em seus devidos luยญgares, e sempre aconteciam coisas que nรฃo deveriam suceder. Dentro de si mesma esbarrava constantemente numa quantiยญdade de obstรกculos e contradiรงรตes. Olhar para dentro de si prรณpria era como perder-se numa caverna sem fim.
A esses pensamentos, sentiu um desamparo muito granยญde, um nรณ a a-Vamos, Lizzutschka, jรก รฉ tarde. ร hora de dormir. Desceram.
O navio virava rumo ร aurora, as estrelas, esmaecendo; operar-lhe a garganta, e uma vontade tรฃo grande, mas tรฃo grande de chorar, ou de morrer.
Saiu de sua abstraรงรฃo ao sentir a mรฃo do pai sobre a sua cabeรงa.
Frio, e um silรชncio desolador sobre o oceano inteiro.ย ย ย ย
_______________________________________________
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 statuteโฆ
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 “Leschanรก Habaรก 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 ย 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.
_________________________________
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.ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย
Cold, and a desolate silence covered the entire ocean.
Susana Beibe, artista argentina, realizรณ su formaciรณn en pintura y escultura. Trabaja escultura en cemento, piedra, cerรกmica, metal y elementos no convencionales. Ademรกs realiza relieves con tรฉcnicas mixtas utilizando todos los derivados del papel.Estudiรณ en la Escuela Nacional de Cerรกmica y su formaciรณn en escultura y dibujo la realizo con los maestros: Leo Tavella, Aurelio Macchi y Leo Vinci. Algunos de sus esculturas monumentales estรกn emplazadas en el Centro Cultural San Martรญn, Plaza Seca, Buenos Aires, Parque Lenรญn, La Habana, Cuba. Museo Metropolitano, Buenos Aires. Invitada a dar seminarios sobre creatividad en Espaรฑa y Canada. Realizรณ el proyecto โJugando en la Veredaโ para la lX Bienal de La Habana, muestra colateral. Ganadora del proyecto del Monumento a la Humanidad por la Argentina a realizar por la Humanitad Foundation, United Kingdom. Susana Beibe integrรณ numerosas exposiciones colectivas en salones nacionales y municipales y realizรณ muestras individuales en espacios pรบblicos y privados, a nivel nacional e internacional. Sus obras se encuentran en colecciones institucionales y privadas de Argentina y el exterior.
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Serie Cabezas
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Susana Beibe, Argentine artist, completed her training in painting and sculpture. He works sculpture in cement, stone, ceramics, metal and unconventional elements. He also makes reliefs with mixed techniques using all derivatives of paper. He studied at the National School of Ceramics and his training in sculpture and drawing was done with the masters: Leo Tavella, Aurelio Macchi and Leo Vinci. Some of his monumental sculptures are located in the San Martรญn Cultural Center, Plaza Seca, Buenos Aires, Parque Lenรญn, Havana, Cuba. Metropolitan Museum, Buenos Aires. Invited to give seminars on creativity in Spain and Canada. He carried out the project โJugando en la Veredaโ for the 10th Havana Biennial, collateral exhibition. Winner of the Monument to Humanity for Argentina project to be carried out by the Humanitad Foundation, United Kingdom. Susana Beibe participated in numerous group exhibitions in national and municipal exhibitions and held individual exhibitions in public and private spaces, nationally and internationally. His works are found in institutional and private collections in Argentina and abroad.
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Durante sus vasta trayectoria como artista plรกstica y pintora, el arte de Susana habla por su colorido y su aproximaciรณn al mercado, siendo a la vez conmovedor y aplicable a todo tipo de espacios.
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Throughout her vast career as a visual artist and painter, Susana’s art speaks for its color and its approach to the market, being both moving and applicable to all types of spaces.
Iair Rubin naciรณ en Buenos Aires en 1941. En la Argentina fue miembro del moviยญmiento juvenil sionista “Hashomer Hatzair”, en el que asumiรณ diferentes cargos desde su adolescencia y en cuya direcciรณn participรณยญ en los aรฑos 60. Se radicรณ en Israel en 1964 y se incorยญporรณ en el kibutz Harel, en las colinas prรณxiยญmas a Jerusalรฉn y junto a la frontera jordaยญna. Alternรณ el trabajo agrรญcola en el kibutz con tareas comunitarias y educativas. Ejerciรณ funciones educativas en comunidadesยญ judรญas en Chile, Ia Argentina, Braยญsil y paรญses latinoamericanos. Cursรณ estudios de ciencias sociales en la Universidad Hebrea de Jerusalรฉn, en la que obtuvouna maestrรญa en sociologรญa de educaciรณn. Participรณ en proyectos eduยญcativos en la universidad, diversas municipalidades, ones del Ministerio de Educaciรณn, el Centro Social “Mishan” de la Histadrut, la Agencia Judรญa y la Organizaciรณn Sionista Mundial. Reside en Jerusalรฉn.
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Iair Rubin was born in Buenos Aires in 1941. In Argentina he was a member of the Zionist youth movement “Hashomer Hatzair”, in which he assumed different positions from his adolescence and in whose direction he participated in the 60s. He settled in Israel in 1964 and He incorporated Kibbutz Harel, in the hills near Jerusalem and next to the Jordanian border. He alternated agricultural work on the kibbutz with community and educational tasks. He carried out educational functions in Jewish communities in Chile, Argentina, Brazil and Latin American countries. He studied social sciences at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, where he obtained a master’s degree in sociology of education. He participated in educational projects at the university, various municipalities, ones of the Ministry of Education, the “Mishan” Social Center of the Histadrut, the Jewish Agency and the World Zionist Organization. He resides in Jerusalem.
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Las colinas de Granada y los rรญos de Amazonas
-iShalom! -oรญ a mis espaldas y me volvรญ sorprendido, pues no esperaba escuยญchar el saludo familiar que solemos intercambiar con mis compatriotas preยญcisamente en aquel lejano hotel del Amazonas, situado en la capital de! estaยญ do brasileรฑo norteรฑo y tropical.
Me encontraba frente a la mesa de recepciรณn de! suntuoso hotel; no coยญnocรญa a nadie y, aparentemente, nadie me conocรญa. Unos dรญas antes habรญa lleยญgado a aquella tierra hรบmeda y calurosa para cumplir funciones en el seno de la pequeรฑa comunidad judรญa local; habรญa terminado mi trabajo la noche anterior y me preparaba a cerrar cuentas y partir de regreso a San Pablo. No ocultaba mi presencia pero tampoco la ostentaba, asรญ que me asombro que alguien me saludara con un “Shalom” pronunciado en voz alta y clara. No; no estaba soรฑando y lo oรญdo no era producto de mi imaginaciรณn.
Los reflejos me hicieron volver velozmente para enfrentarme con el oriยญgen del saludo. Definitivamente, era un desconocido; se trataba de un homยญbre algunos aรฑos mas joven que yo, de estatura mediana y la tez oscura tรญpiยญca de los brasileรฑos del norte. Me observaba con rostro risueรฑo, afable y nada amenazante, pero no sabรญa quien era. Como no suelo hablar con desconocidos y menos aรบn en la selva brasileรฑa, ni siquiera en el lobby de un respetable hotel, me atrevรญ a vencer la resistencia inicial y le conteste educadamenยญte con otro cordial “iShalom!”
Para su gran desilusiรณn, me volvรญ hacia el mostrador de recepciรณn para terminar de pagar mi cuenta, despedirme gentilmente del conserje, repartir algunas propinas entre quienes me habรญan atendido solรญcitamente durante aquellos dรญas, tomar el bolso y la carpeta de trabajo y dirigirme hacia un sillรณn mullido para esperar el taxi que me llevarรญa al aeropuerto. La sorpresa no habรญa pasado y me sentรญ inquieto mientras me dedicaba a observar a quien hace tan sรณlo unos minutos me habรญa saludado y dejado perplejo y preocuยญpado. No, no habรญa ningรบn motivo de preocupaciรณn: era un personaje caracยญterรญstico de! norte brasileรฑo, vestido con la ropa tรญpica de! trรณpico, de buen porte, facciones agradables e inteligentes, simpรกtico y amable. Al parecer, tambiรฉn el cerraba sus cuentas y se preparaba para partir. Un sujeto comรบn y corriente que no implicaba ninguna amenaza ni motivo de preocupaciรณn. No parecรญa judรญo. Definitivamente, era brasileรฑo: de pura cepa norteรฑa, ta! vez con algo de portuguรฉs, pero de judรญo, nada.
Por lo visto, tampoco yo parezco judรญo y ya me confundieron con turco, griego o italiano. No exhibo ningรบn sรญmbolo que me identifique oficialmenยญte como ta!; no uso el solideo que distingue a los judรญos religiosos, no llevo una cadena con la Estrella de David ni tampoco la chamsa de los judรญos orienยญtales que, al parecer, los protege de! ma! de ojo y les da buena suerte en los negocios. Nada. Ningรบn signo que me identifique como judรญo o israelรญ. Tamยญpoco mi carpeta o mi bolso llevan inscripciones en hebreo que me seรฑalen como ta!, ni tarjeta de identificaciรณn de viaje; nada. No es que oculte mi conยญdiciรณn judรญa ni mi ciudadanรญa israelรญ; todo lo contrario, son motivo de proยญfundo orgullo para mรญ, pero tampoco las luzco como bandera, sobre todo en mis viajes a lugares exรณticos.
Hacรญa cinco o seis dรญas que me encontraba en Manaos. Mas allรก de mis funciones especรญficas en la pequeรฑa comunidad judรญa, dediquรฉ los momenยญtos libres a conocer esa pintoresca ciudad y a recorrer sus largas calles y sus amplias avenidas, invadidas por los colores y aromas provenientes de las aguas profundas y de la selva. Notรฉ el activo comercio de productos llegados de lejanas tierras orientales, europeas y americanas; visitรฉ la vieja sinagoga de clara influencia marroquรญ y las iglesias barrocas y coloniales. Por ultimo, recorrรญ los fantรกsticos y contradictorios restos arquitectรณnicos de un mundo opulento: la รpera del Amazonas, emula de aquella otra que se levanta enMilan y que allรญ, en la proximidad de la jungla brasilera, hospedara con orgullo hada ya varias dรฉcadas las mรกs famosas orquestas de! mundo y los mรกs prestigiosos cantantes de รณpera europeos, para deleite y ostentaciรณn de la aristocracia local, enriquecida entonces con la explotaciรณn del caucho, hoyextinguida.
Durante horas caminรฉ por los mercados y las ferias, rodeado por la a!garabia de un pueblo alegre y a la vez resignado a una vida de esfuerzos y privaciones, sumergido en una variedad infinita de frutos tropicales desconocidos y de especias e hierbas que curan los males de! cuerpo y las penurias del alma. Vรญ los peces mas exรณticos y los pรกjaros mas coloridos del mundo, y me invadiรณ el aroma de las frituras espesas y las salsas excitantes. Desde la baยญranda ruinosa observรฉ el rio ancho y turbio, que trae sus aguas correntosas, lIenos de barro y semillas, frutos y cortezas, grandes navรญos y barcas endebles, desde el corazรณn del Nuevo Continente. Bajรฉ al puerto, el famoso puerto floยญtante de Manaos con cientos de embarcaciones amarradas y otras que llegan y parten, creando por instantes el encuentro de las mercancรญas con los traยญbajadores portuarios y mercachifles, de pasajeros que arrastran sus modestos atados y su precaria existencia por esa vรญa de agua y lodo que los transporta desde las profundidades de esa Amรฉrica oscura y mestiza, con los sueรฑos, esperanzas y alegrรญas.
Cientos de barcazas y navรญos, miles de rostros curtidos por un sol implaยญcable y lluvias prolongadas. Cada embarcaciรณn tiene un nombre de significaยญdo misterioso, que incita a descifrar los secretos del pasado y los enigmas de un futuro incierto. Cada navรญo tiene un destino diferente y propio, pero tambiรฉn la realidad de un mundo distante a conocer y descubrir. Cada rostro enยญcierra una historia fascinante y una vida ruda e incierta, envuelta en rรญos desยญbordados e islas anegadas, a la bรบsqueda permanente de y tierra firme donde plantar un รกrbol y construir una casa, que volverรก a inundarse el prรณximo invierno. Manaos, tierra de aromas y colorido sin fin, de ruidos ensordecedores en las calles y de hondos silencios en sus rรญos profundos.
El taxi habrรญa de llevarme en poco tiempo al aeropuerto, arrancรกndome de ese mundo mรกgico y colorido para transportarme a una San Pablo cosยญmopolita y gris. Mientras tanto, sentado en el lobby de! hotel, contemplaba a quien -tal vez inocentemente- habรญa conseguido inquietarme con el tan judรญo “Shalom”. Ambos permanecemos en nuestros sillones a la espera de algo: yo esperaba a mi taxi; ยฟy el?
Volvi a mirarlo largamente; me devolviรณ una mirada franca, abierta y amistosa, por lo que decidi encararlo para satisfacer mi curiosidad y disipar de una vez por todas mis preocupaciones y sospechas.
-ยฟPor quX me saludรณ con un “Shalom”? -preguntรฉ directamente.
-Porque entendรญ que el seรฑor es judรญo. ยฟAcaso no lo es? -respondiรณ sonriendo, satisfecho de sรญ mismo.
–ยฟY cรณmo sabe que soy judรญo, si se puede saber? -preguntรฉ un poco inquieto.
-Por las letras impresas en las hojas de su carpeta -las seรฑialรณ y agregรณ una nueva pregunta-:
-ยฟNo es hebreo?
Observรฉ la carpeta que llevaba bajo el brazo y comprobรฉ que, por descuiยญdo, algunas hojas habรญan quedado al descubierto y mostraban unas lineas en hebreo.
-Pues, sรญ. Es una revista en hebreo -Esta vez fui yo quien agrego una pregunta-: ยฟEl seรฑor entiende hebreo?ยญ
-No, no entiendo. Pero conozco las letras, y estaba seguro de que eran hebreas -contesto.
Se hizo un corto silencio, con la expectativa de que, una vez iniciado el dialogo, la conversaciรณn empezara a fluir. Al parecer, ambos habรญamos terยญminado nuestras respectivas ocupaciones y no tenรญamos mayor prisa. Volvรญ a observarlo detenidamente: era un hombre de unos cuarenta anos, de tez osยญcura, rostro agradable y ojos inteligentes que reflejaban la tรญpica picardรญa braยญsilera. Por la calidad de su ropa podia entender que pertenecรญa a la clase media acomodada, tal vez un industrial o ejecutivo en viaje de negocios. Tambiรฉn el llevaba un portafolio y una carpeta tan abultada como Ia mรญa con diarios y papeles, pero no en hebreo.
-Pues, sรญ. Es una revista en hebreo -Esta vez fui yo quien agrego una preยญgunta-: ยฟEl seรฑor entiende hebreo?
-No, no entiendo. Pero conozco las letras, y estaba seguro de que eran hebreas -contestรณ.
Se hizo un corto silencio, con la expectativa de que, una vez iniciado el dialogo, la conversaciรณn empezara a fluir. Al parecer, ambos habรญamos terยญminado nuestras respectivas ocupaciones y no tenรญamos mayor prisa. Volvรญ a observarlo detenidamente: era un hombre de unos cuarenta anos, de tez osยญcura, rostro agradable y ojos inteligentes que reflejaban la tรญpica picardรญa braยญsilera. Por la calidad de su ropa podia entender que pertenecรญa a la clase media acomodada, tal vez un industrial o ejecutivo en viaje de negocios. Tambiรฉn el llevaba un portafolio y una carpeta tan abultada como Ia mรญa con diarios y papeles, pero no en hebreo.
-ยฟEI seรฑor es judรญo? -preguntรฉ sin mucho convencimiento y con bastanยญ te curiosidad, tratando de reanudar la conversaciรณn interrumpida.
-No. No soy judรญo -respondiรณ un poco indeciso-. No… en realidad bueno… es un poco complicado… Judรญo, judรญo en realidad no soy… Ahora no Io soy, pero un poco sรญ, ya que mi familia en un tiempo lo fue… Pero ahora…no -agregรณ titubeando.
Como no esperaba una respuesta tan confusa y no menos sorprendido que el primer “Shalom” oido, volvรญ a preguntar con impaciencia:
-ยฟCรณmoque es judรญo pero solo un poco, y ahora no y antes sรญ? -protestรฉ-. 0 se es, o no se es. No se puede ser antes sรญ y ahora no; o solo un poco mucho. Las cosas no son asรญ.
-Calma, calma -se disculpรณ con una sonrisa leve-. Al parecer, mi familia lo fue en el pasado lejano, hace muchรญsimos anos, siglos tal vez… Al parecer, provenimos de una antigua familia judรญa de mucha alcurnia, pero se interrumpiรณ hace anos, y ahora ya no somos mas.
El relato imprevisto prometรญa ser interesante para una tarde de otoรฑo: un hotel cรฉntrico de Ia capital de la selva brasileรฑa. Yo ya tenรญa mi historia; no estaba dispuesto a abandonarla fรกcilmente, asรญ que seguรญ preguntando:
-ยฟY cรณmo sabe todo eso? ยฟQuiรฉn le contรณ que su familia es de procedencia judรญa? ยฟQuรฉ certeza tiene? -ataquรฉ con impaciencia.
-Miabuelo Zacarรญas -explicรณ con mucha calma-. El viejo siempre me narraba historias del rey David y el rey Salomon. รsos fueron Ios cuentos que oรญa de niรฑo antes de dormir, historias de heroรญsmo y valentรญa, de moral justicia, que poblaron mi infancia; las recuerdo muy bien. Leyendas. El tenรญa gran poder de narraciรณn, una memoria fabulosa y descripciones de imaginaciรณn. Hablaba de las murallas de Jerusalรฉn, de las colinas de la Galilea y del valle del Jordan. Cuando el hablaba, era como si viera esos paisaยญjes con todo detalle. Mas tarde, cuando crecรญ y pude entender las cosas de otra manera, me explico el significado de mi nombre. Tengo un nombre hebreo, ยฟsabe? Aaron. Aunque lo brasilericรฉ y hoy lo escribo “Aron”, sin la hache intermedia. Dicen que fue el hermano del gran Moisรฉs y que de el proยญvienen vuestros sacerdotes. Un gran hombre, ยฟno es verdad?
Asรญ fue como de pronto yo, siempre tan cauto y discreto, por culpa de unas hojas descuidadas, me encontrรฉ en la tรณrrida capital del Amazonas con Aron, un brasileรฑo orgulloso de su nombre y de su procedencia judรญa; mรกs aรบn, de su presunta alcurnia que se remontaba hasta la estirpe de Moisรฉs y su hermano Aaron. Por lo menos eso era lo que el aseguraba, basรกndose en los relatos del abuelo Zacarรญas. Pero yo no habรญa llegado desde tan lejos para oรญr historias de judรญos. Ocupado diariamente con la comunidad judeo-brasiยญleรฑa, habรญa viajado a Manaos para realizar actividades con la antigua comuยญnidad de! Amazonas, que prosperara junto al rio caudaloso a fines del siglo XIX. Me encontrรฉ con los lideres de la comunidad y escuche las historias del pasado y de! presente. Con los jรณvenes hablamos sobre Israel y el Oriente Medio, sobre la condiciรณn judรญa y sus dilemas; les ayude a planificar activiยญdades y proyectos educativos, y una vez terminadas mis funciones, dediquรฉ algunos dรญas libres a recorrer esa excitante regiรณn.
No. No buscaba las antiguas historias de mi pueblo, que conozco bien, sino lo nuevo y exรณtico del fascinante mundo tropical. Por eso descendรญ los rรญos torrentosos en pos de la naturaleza y sus maravillosos secretos. Me encontrรฉ de pronto surcando aguas que conducen al corazรณn de mi contiยญnente americano, amanecรญ en el seno de rรญos profundos que arrastran la siยญmiente de una America virgen que huele a hierbas y frutos, contemple largos crepรบsculos poblados de pรกjaros coloridos que cubren un cielo tรณrrido y carยญgado de lluvia, surque cauces que cortan las islas en un largo y penoso camiยญno en busca del mar. Y hubo tambiรฉn algunos atardeceres frente a un rรญo ancho, un cielo bajo y un silencio milenario poblado de selva, que invitaba ala paz y la relajaciรณn.
Era el corazรณn mismo de una America ancestral, con la fuerza de una naยญturaleza en lucha por su supervivencia, la quietud y el largo silencio, la conยญtemplaciรณn de paisajes fluviales bordeados de selva, el aroma profundo de la tierra densa, del matorral salvaje y del barro, el fruto, la semilla y el รกrbol No. Definitivamente, no fui a buscar los relatos de mi pueblo, pero ellos me encontraron en medio de la selva y, al parecer, no estaban dispuestos a abanยญdonarme tan fรกcilmente. Todo por unas pocas hojas descuidadas, que escaยญparon traviesamente de mi carpeta de trabajo.
Aron continuรณ su relato:
-El viejo Zacarรญas, mi abuelo, contaba que venรญamos de Granada, la vieja capital mora, andaluza y judรญa. Hasta allรญ llega la memoria histรณrica de mi faยญmilia. รl solรญa hablar mucho de Granada y tambiรฉn de Jerusalรฉn, la otra caยญpital amurallada y situada en las colinas.
Cerrรฉ los ojos por un momento e imagine a Granada. La vi con la belleยญza del cielo invernal cargado de lluvia y tambiรฉn en los luminosos amaneceยญres del verano andaluz. La vi con las estrechas calles de Albaicin y la vieja juยญderรญa, y tambiรฉn con los frescos patios con naranjales y las fuentes que regaยญban jardines moros y judXos. La vi por un instante en la plenitud de los miยญnaretes y las altas murallas, soberbias y judรญas. Pero el continuรณ:
-Por supuesto que antes de Granada hubo otra historia, pero la memoria familiar llega tan sรณlo hasta allรญ. Como usted sabe, en esas colinas y entre esas murallas floreciรณ una juderรญa prรณspera, entre la que se contaban mis antepasados: poetas y mรฉdicos, hombres de negocios y cientรญficos, artesanos y orfebres famosos; todos ellos judรญos piadosos, estudiosos de las Sagradas Escrituras. Al parecer, durante generaciones vivieron en plena concordia, protegidos por los califas musulmanes. Esa fue nuestra familia. Como usted seguramente sabe, durante los siglos XII a XV, los reyes moros lucharon conยญtra los espaรฑoles; mi familia luchรณ junto a los รบltimos califas, que finalยญmente fueron derrotados. Fueron expulsados de Espaรฑa y conducidos al desยญtierro en las islas Azores, donde llevaron una vida de prisiรณn y exilio. El viejo Zacarรญas contaba que uno de mis antepasados, un afamado rabino y cientรญfico de nombre Yehudรก, consiguiรณ que lo liberaran y durante aรฑos vivieron en esas islas portuguesas manteniendo su judaรญsmo en secreto, como tantos otros.
Otro antepasado mio, de nombre Eleazar, logrรณ finalmente trasladar a nuestra familia al continente europeo. De allรญ emprendieron en el siglo XVI, junto con muchos otros, la travesรญa hacia el Brasil, con la esperanza de que en el Nuevo Mundo pudieran regresar finalmente al seno de su pueblo y vivir abiertamente como judรญos. La historia, como usted bien sabe, nos demostrรณ que esa ilusiรณn no fue posible.
-Pero ustedes, ยฟdXnde viven hoy dรญa? ยฟDonde esta hoy su familia? -preยญguntรฉ, tratando de obtener mas evidencias de esa historia increรญble.
-Nuestra familia es del nordeste, en donde vivimos desde el siglo XVI, en el estado de Paraiba, entre Campina Grande y Joao Pessoa. Durante siglos mantuvimos de alguna forma nuestra religiรณn y nuestras costumbres: los nombres, el Shabbat, algunas festividades, la prohibiciรณn de comer puerco y de mezclar came con leche, las viejas leyendas transmitidas de padres a hijos y a nietos, los casamientos en el seno de algunas familias, la tradiยญciรณn… Lamentablemente, eso se perdiรณ.
-ยฟCuรกndo? -volvรญ a preguntar con impaciencia.
-No sรฉ precisamente; tal vez con la generaciรณn de mis abuelos… Mis padres ya no se consideran judรญos. Tampoco son cristianos, pero dejaron de mantener las viejas tradiciones -dijo tristemente.
– ยฟY usted? ยฟUsted no se considera judรญo? ยฟNo se siente judรญo? -insistรญ.
-Bueno, yo… ya le dije. Yo sรญ me siento judรญo, sรฉ que eso estรก en mi sangre. Pero no sรฉ; en verdad me encuentro confuso y ambivalente. Lo que es nuestra historia, lo que me contaba mi abuelo, lo que leo hoy dรญa … todo eso me da mucha emociรณn y lo amo mucho. Pero usted sabe como es la vida: tiene su curso y uno fluye con ella. No es fรกcil regresar a las raรญces. Se neceยญsita mucha fuerza de voluntad y mucha valentรญa, y yo no sรฉ si las tengo -resยญpondiรณ con un poco de timidez y vergรผenza, pero sin perder la sonrisa.
Se hizo un corto silencio. Pensรฉ un poco y tomรฉ coraje para preguntar lo que ya flotaba en el ambiente:
-ยฟNo le gustarรญa volver a ser judรญo, regresar al seno de su pueblo, recupeยญrar la historia?
-No sรฉ -respondiรณ titubeando-. Hace falta mucho coraje para ello, mucha fuerza de voluntad. Tai vez algรบn dรญa…
-Y ademรกs de las historias y leyendas de su abuelo, ยฟhay algo mรกs que lesยญ testimonie vuestro origen? -volvรญ a preguntar inquisitorialmente.
-Hay un viejo baรบl que conservรฉ en el sรณtano. A veces lo abro y toco los objetos; no a todos los reconozco. Es el precioso tesoro de la familia que guarยญdo con celo. No sรฉ que hay de autรฉntico en esos viejos objetos, pero los conยญservo con cuidado. Son trozos de pergaminos antiguos con letras hebreas un poco borradas por el tiempo, algunas cajitas de cuero, viejos utensilios de bronce y plata cuyo significado ignoro. Mi abuelo Zacarรญas solรญa decir que son objetos sagrados y antiguos, que provienen de Granada, de Sevilla y otros lugares de Espaรฑa y Portugal. Fueron traรญdos por nuestros antepasados desde la vieja Europa y ocultados a los inquisidores, conservados en secreto y pasados de generaciรณn en generaciรณn como el gran tesoro de nuestra familia. A mรญ, el baรบl me fue entregado el dรญa que cumplรญ trece aรฑos, con la promesa de cuiยญdarlo y pasarlo a mi vez a mis hijos o a mis nietos.
Cerrรฉ los ojos un instante e imaginรณ el viejo baรบl. Toquรฉ con cuidado los pergaminos y trate de descifrar las letras hebreas semi-borradas. Palpรฉ emoยญcionado el cuero mustio de las filacterias, el cobre oscuro y Ia plata ennegreยญcida de los antiguos candelabros y las mezuzot. Pero frente a mi surgiรณ de pronto el conserje, que amablemente requerรญa mi presencia.
-Seรฑor Rubin, su taxi lo espera allรญ, bajo la lluvia. Si no se apura, llegarรก tarde al aeropuerto. Mire que a esta hora el transito es muy pesado, y con la lluvia el viaje se puede demorar.
Nos despedimos efusivamente. Aron no me ofreciรณ su tarjeta con la diยญrecciรณn y el telรฉfono, como era de esperar, y tal vez por eso tampoco yo le di la mรญa. El “Shalom” pronunciado ahora en forma mas clara que al inicio de nuestro encuentro tenรญa un significado mรกs fuerte que entonces.
Cรณmodamente sentado en el taxi, en camino al aeropuerto y en medio de una fuerte lluvia tropical, seguรญa viendo un viejo baรบl lleno de tesoros de Granada.
-iShalom! -I heard behind me and I turned around surprised, because I did not expect to hear the familiar greeting that we usually exchange with my compatriots precisely in that distant hotel in the Amazon, located in the capital of! northern and tropical Brazilian state.
I was in front of the reception desk of a sumptuous hotel; I didn’t know anyone and, apparently, no one knew me. A few days before he had arrived in that humid and hot land to carry out duties within the small local Jewish community; I had finished my work the night before and was preparing to close accounts and leave back to San Pablo. I didn’t hide my presence but I didn’t flaunt it either, so I was surprised that someone greeted me with a loud and clear “Shalom.” No; I was not dreaming and what I heard was not a product of my imagination.
The reflections made me turn quickly to face the origin of the greeting. He was definitely an unknown; He was a man a few years younger than me, of medium height and the dark complexion typical of northern Brazilians. He looked at me with a smiling, affable and non-threatening face, but I didn’t know who he was. Since I don’t usually talk to strangers and even less so in the Brazilian jungle, not even in the lobby of a respectable hotel, I dared to overcome the initial resistance and politely answered him with another cordial “iShalom!”
To his great disappointment, I turned to the reception desk to finish paying my bill, say goodbye graciously to the concierge, distribute some tips among those who had solicitously assisted me during those days, take my bag and work folder and head towards an armchair. soft to wait for the taxi that would take me to the airport. The surprise had not passed and I felt restless as I dedicated myself to observing the person who only a few minutes ago had greeted me and left me perplexed and worried. No, there was no reason for concern: it was a characteristic character of! northern Brazilian, dressed in typical clothing! tropic, of good bearing, pleasant and intelligent features, friendly and kind. Apparently, he too was closing his accounts and preparing to leave. An ordinary guy who posed no threat or cause for concern. He didn’t look Jewish. He was definitely Brazilian: of pure northern stock, ta! maybe with some Portuguese, but nothing Jewish.
Apparently, I don’t look Jewish either and I’ve already been mistaken for Turkish, Greek or Italian. I do not display any symbol that officially identifies me as ta!; I do not wear the skullcap that distinguishes religious Jews, I do not wear a chain with the Star of David nor the chamsa of Eastern Jews which, apparently, protects them from! Ma! eye and gives them good luck in business. Nothing. No sign identifying me as Jewish or Israeli. Nor do my folder or my bag have inscriptions in Hebrew that mark me as ta!, nor a travel identification card; nothing. It’s not that I hide my Jewishness or my Israeli citizenship; On the contrary, they are a source of deep pride for me, but I don’t wear them as a flag either, especially on my trips to exotic places.
I had been in Manaus for five or six days. Beyond my specific duties in the small Jewish community, I dedicated my free moments to getting to know that picturesque city and exploring its long streets and wide avenues, invaded by the colors and aromas coming from the deep waters and the jungle. I noticed the active trade of products from distant eastern, European and American lands; I visited the old synagogue with clear Moroccan influence and the baroque and colonial churches. Finally, I toured the fantastic and contradictory architectural remains of an opulent world: the Amazon Opera, emulating the other one that was built in Milan and that there, in the proximity of the Brazilian jungle, had proudly hosted for several decades now the most famous orchestras of! world and the most prestigious European opera singers, to the delight and ostentation of the local aristocracy, then enriched by the exploitation of rubber, now extinct.
For hours I walked through the markets and fairs, surrounded by the excitement of a happy people and at the same time resigned to a life of effort and deprivation, immersed in an infinite variety of unknown tropical fruits and spices and herbs that cure ailments. of! body and the hardships of the soul. I saw the most exotic fish and the most colorful birds in the world, and the aroma of thick fried foods and exciting sauces invaded me. From the ruined railing I observed the wide and murky river, which brings its rushing waters, full of mud and seeds, fruits and bark, large ships and flimsy boats, from the heart of the New Continent. I went down to the port, the famous floating port of Manaus with hundreds of boats moored and others that arrive and depart, creating for moments the meeting of the goods with the port workers and peddlers, of passengers who drag their modest bundles and their precarious existence through that path of water and mud that transports them from the depths of that dark and mixed America, with dreams, hopes and joys.
Hundreds of barges and ships, thousands of faces weathered by a relentless sun and prolonged rains. Each boat has a name with a mysterious meaning, which encourages us to decipher the secrets of the past and the enigmas of an uncertain future. Each ship has its own different destination, but also the reality of a distant world to know and discover. Each face contains a fascinating story and a rough and uncertain life, wrapped in overflowing rivers and flooded islands, in the permanent search for land on which to plant a tree and build a house, which will flood again next winter. Manaus, land of endless aromas and colors, of deafening noises in the streets and of deep silences in its deep rivers.
The taxi would take me to the airport in a short time, taking me away from that magical and colorful world to transport me to a cosmopolitan and gray San Pablo. Meanwhile, sitting in the lobby of! hotel, I contemplated who – perhaps innocently – had managed to unsettle me with the very Jewish “Shalom”. We both remain in our chairs waiting for something: I was waiting for my taxi; and the?
I looked at him for a long time again; He gave me a frank, open and friendly look, so I decided to face him to satisfy my curiosity and dispel my worries and suspicions once and for all.
-Why did X greet me with “Shalom”? -I asked directly.
-Because I understood that the man is Jewish. Isn’t it? -He responded smiling, satisfied with himself.
-And how do you know that I am Jewish, if you can know? -I asked a little worried.
-Because of the letters printed on the pages of your folder -he pointed to them and added a new question-:
-Isn’t he Hebrew?
I looked at the folder he was carrying under his arm and realized that, due to carelessness, some pages had been left exposed and showed some lines in Hebrew.
-Well yes. It is a magazine in Hebrew -This time it was I who added a question-: Does the gentleman understand Hebrew?
-No I do not understand. “But I know the letters, and I was sure they were Hebrew,” He answered.
There was a short silence, with the expectation that, once the dialogue began, the conversation would begin to flow. Apparently, we had both finished our respective occupations and were in no further hurry. I looked at him carefully again: he was a man of about forty, with a dark complexion, a pleasant face and intelligent eyes that reflected the typical Brazilian mischief. From the quality of his clothes I could understand that he belonged to the wealthy middle class, perhaps an industrialist or executive on a business trip. He also carried a briefcase and a folder as thick as mine with diaries and papers, but not in Hebrew.
-Is the man Jewish? -I asked without much conviction and with enough curiosity, trying to resume the interrupted conversation.
-No. “I’m not Jewish,” he answered a little hesitantly. Noโฆ actually wellโฆ it’s a bit complicatedโฆ Jewish, I’m not really Jewishโฆ Now I’m not, but I am a little bit, since my family once wasโฆ But “Nowโฆno,” he added hesitantly.
Not expecting such a confusing answer and no less surprised than the first “Shalom” I heard, I asked again impatiently:
-So he’s Jewish but only a little, and now he’s not and before he was? -I protested-. Either it is, or it is not. You cannot be yes before and no now; or just a little bit a lot. Things are not like that.
“Calm down, calm down,” he apologized with a slight smile. Apparently, my family was in the distant past, many years ago, centuries perhapsโฆ Apparently, we come from an ancient Jewish family of high rank, but it was interrupted years ago, and now we are no longer.
The unforeseen story promised to be interesting for an autumn afternoon: a central hotel in the capital of the Brazilian jungle. I already had my story; I wasn’t willing to give her up easily, so I kept asking:
-And how do you know all that? Who told you that your family is of Jewish origin? What certainty do you have? -I attacked impatiently.
“My grandfather Zacarรญas,” he explained very calmly. The old man always told me stories about King David and King Solomon. Those were the stories I heard as a child before going to sleep, stories of heroism and bravery, of moral justice, that populated my childhood; I remember them very well. Legends. He had great storytelling power, a fabulous memory and imaginative descriptions. He spoke of the walls of Jerusalem, the hills of Galilee and the Jordan Valley. When he spoke, it was as if he saw those landscapes in great detail. Later, when I grew up and could understand things
In another way, I explained the meaning of my name. I have a Hebrew name, you know? Aaron. Although I Brazilianized it and today I write it “Aron”, without the intermediate axe. They say that he was the brother of the great Moses and that your priests come from him. A great man, isn’t he?
That’s how I, always so cautious and discreet, because of some neglected leaves, suddenly found myself in the torrid capital of the Amazon with Aron, a Brazilian proud of his name and his Jewish origins; even more so, of his alleged lineage that went back to the lineage of Moses and his brother Aaron. At least that was what he claimed, based on Grandpa Zacarรญas’ stories. But I had not come that far to hear Jewish stories. Busy daily with the Jewish-Brazilian community, he had traveled to Manaus to carry out activities with the ancient community of! Amazon, which prospered next to the mighty river at the end of the 19th century. I met with community leaders and heard stories of the past and of! present. With the young people we talked about Israel and the Middle East, about the Jewish condition and its dilemmas; I helped them plan activities and educational projects, and once my duties were finished, I spent some free days touring that exciting region.
No. I was not looking for the old stories of my people, which I know well, but for the new and exotic of the fascinating tropical world. That’s why I descended the torrential rivers in pursuit of nature and its wonderful secrets. I suddenly found myself crossing waters that lead to the heart of my American continent, I woke up in the bosom of deep rivers that carry the seeds of a virgin America that smells of herbs and fruits, I contemplated long twilights populated by colorful birds that covered a torrid sky and loaded with rain, I cross channels that cut through the islands on a long and arduous path in search of the sea. And there were also some sunsets in front of a wide river, a low sky and an ancient silence filled with jungle, which invited peace and relaxation.
It was the very heart of an ancient America, with the force of a nature fighting for its survival, the stillness and long silence, the contemplation of river landscapes bordered by jungle, the deep aroma of the dense earth, the wild scrub and the mud, the fruit, the seed and the tree No. I definitely did not go looking for the stories of my people, but they found me in the middle of the jungle and, apparently, they were not willing to abandon me so easily. All because of a few careless pages, which mischievously escaped from my work folder.
Aron continued his story:
-Old Zacarรญas, my grandfather, said that we came from Granada, the old Moorish, Andalusian and Jewish capital. That’s as far as my family’s historical memory goes. He used to talk a lot about Granada and also about Jerusalem, the other walled capital located in the hills.
I closed my eyes for a moment and imagined Granada. I saw it with the beauty of the rain-laden winter sky and also in the bright dawns of the Andalusian summer. I saw it with the narrow streets of Albaicin and the old Jewish quarter, and also with the cool patios with orange groves and the fountains that watered Moorish and Jewish gardens. I saw it for a moment in the fullness of the minarets and the high walls, superb and Jewish.
But he continued:
-Of course there was another story before Granada, but the family memory only reaches there. As you know, on those hills and within those walls a prosperous Jewish community flourished, among which were my ancestors: poets and doctors, businessmen and scientists, famous artisans and goldsmiths; all of them pious Jews, students of the Holy Scriptures. Apparently, for generations they lived in complete harmony, protected by the Muslim caliphs. That was our family. As you surely know, during the 12th to 15th centuries, the Moorish kings fought against the Spanish; My family fought alongside the last caliphs, who were ultimately defeated. They were expelled from Spain and driven into exile on the Azores Islands, where they lived a life of prison and exile. Old Zechariah said that one of my ancestors, a famous rabbi and scientist named Yehudah, managed to get him released and for years they lived on those Portuguese islands keeping their Judaism a secret, like so many others.
Another ancestor of mine, named Eleazar, finally managed to move our family to the European continent. From there they undertook the journey to Brazil in the 16th century, along with many others, in the hope that in the New World they could finally return to the bosom of their people and live openly as Jews. History, as you well know, showed us that this illusion was not possible.
-But you, where do you live today? Where is your family today? -I asked, trying to obtain more evidence of that incredible story.
-Our family is from the northeast, where we have lived since the 16th century, in the state of Paraiba, between Campina Grande and Joao Pessoa. For centuries we maintained our religion and customs in some way: the names, the Shabbat, some festivities, the prohibition of eating pork and mixing meat with milk, the old legends transmitted from parents to children and grandchildren, marriages within some families, traditionโฆ Unfortunately, that was lost.
-When? -I asked again impatiently.
-I don’t know precisely; maybe with my grandparents’ generationโฆ My parents no longer consider themselves Jewish. “They are not Christians either, but they stopped maintaining the old traditions,” he said sadly.
-And you? You don’t consider yourself Jewish? Don’t you feel Jewish? -I insisted.
-Well, Iโฆ I already told you. I do feel Jewish, I know that is in my blood. But I do not know; I really find myself confused and ambivalent. What our history is, what my grandfather told me, what I read todayโฆ all of that gives me a lot of emotion and I love it very much. But you know how life is: it has its course and you flow with it. It is not easy to return to the roots. “It takes a lot of willpower and a lot of courage, and I don’t know if I have them,” he responded with a little shyness and embarrassment, but without losing his smile.
There was a short silence. I thought a little and took the courage to ask what was already floating in the air:
-Wouldn’t you like to be a Jew again, return to the bosom of your people, recover history?
“I don’t know,” he answered hesitantly. It takes a lot of courage, a lot of willpower. Maybe somedayโฆ
-And besides the stories and legends of your grandfather, is there anything else that testifies to your origin? -I asked again inquisitorially.
-But you, where do you live today? Where is your family today? -I asked, trying to obtain more evidence of that incredible story.
-Our family is from the northeast, where we have lived since the 16th century, in the state of Paraiba, between Campina Grande and Joao Pessoa. For centuries we maintained our religion and customs in some way: the names, the Shabbat, some festivities, the prohibition of eating pork and mixing meat with milk, the old legends transmitted from parents to children and grandchildren, marriages within some families, traditionโฆ Unfortunately, that was lost.
-When? -I asked again impatiently.
-I don’t know precisely; maybe with my grandparents’ generationโฆ My parents no longer consider themselves Jewish. “They are not Christians either, but they stopped maintaining the old traditions,” he said sadly.
And you? You don’t consider yourself Jewish? Don’t you feel Jewish? -I insisted.
-Well, Iโฆ I already told you. I do feel Jewish, I know that is in my blood. But I do not know; I really find myself confused and ambivalent. What our history is, what my grandfather told me, what I read todayโฆ all of that gives me a lot of emotion and I love it very much. But you know how life is: it has its course and you flow with it. It is not easy to return to the roots. “It takes a lot of willpower and a lot of courage, and I don’t know if I have them,” he responded with a little shyness and embarrassment, but without losing his smile.
There was a short silence. I thought a little and took the courage to ask what was already floating in the air:
-Wouldn’t you like to be a Jew again, return to the bosom of your people, recover history?
“I don’t know,” he answered hesitantly. It takes a lot of courage, a lot of willpower. Maybe somedayโฆ
-And besides the stories and legends of your grandfather, is there anything else that testifies to your origin? -I asked again inquisitorially.
-There is an old trunk that I kept in the basement. Sometimes I open it and touch the objects; I don’t recognize all of them. It is the precious treasure of the family that I guard jealously. I don’t know what’s authentic about those old objects, but I preserve them with care. They are pieces of ancient parchment with Hebrew letters a little erased by time, some leather boxes, old bronze and silver utensils whose meaning I do not know. My grandfather Zacarรญas used to say that they are sacred and ancient objects, that they come from Granada, Seville and other places in Spain and Portugal. They were brought by our ancestors from old Europe and hidden from the inquisitors, preserved in secret and passed down from generation to generation as the great treasure of our family. To me, the trunk was given to me on the day I turned thirteen, with the promise to take care of it and pass it on to my children or grandchildren.
I closed my eyes for a moment and imagined the old trunk. I carefully touched the parchments and tried to decipher the half-erased Hebrew letters. I excitedly touched the faded leather of the phylacteries, the dark copper and blackened silver of the ancient candelabras and mezuzot. But the janitor suddenly appeared in front of me, who kindly requested my presence.
-Mr. Rubin, your taxi is waiting for you there, in the rain. If you don’t hurry, you’ll be late for the airport. Please note that at this time the traffic is very heavy, and with the rain the trip may be delayed.
We said goodbye effusively. Aron did not offer me his card with the address and telephone number, as expected, and maybe that’s why I didn’t give him mine either. The “Shalom” pronounced now more clearly than at the beginning of our meeting had a stronger meaning than then.
Comfortably sitting in the taxi, on the way to the airport and in the middle of a heavy tropical rain, I kept seeing an old trunk full of treasures from Granada.
Las sinagogas del Caribe de habla inglรฉs, francรฉs y holandรฉs/The synagogues of the English-, French-, and Dutch-speaking Caribbean
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El Caribe incluye islas pertenecientes a diferentes potencias europeas, no ibรฉricas, entre ellos: Antigua, Aruba, Guyana, Trinidad y Tobago, Jamaica, Curazao, Haitรญ, Martinica y Guadeloupe. Ha habido presencia judรญa en la regiรณn del Caribe desde hace mรกs de 500 aรฑos, desde los primeros viajes de descubrimiento de los exploradores europeos. Ha habido comunidades judรญas establecidas en territorios colonizados por holandeses e ingleses desde que los judรญos holandeses se establecieron en Brasil en la dรฉcada de 1620. La colonizaciรณn judรญa en las islas holandesas, franceses y luego inglesas tuvo lugar entre los aรฑos 1620 y 1650, y estas comunidades han continuado en su mayor parte hasta hoy. En 1654 se estableciรณ en Barbados una sinagoga para sefardรญes, los judรญos de ascendencia espaรฑola o portuguesa. Se construyรณ en Bridgetown, la capital. En 1656 en Curazao habรญa suficientes judรญos para establecer una congregaciรณn en Willemstad, la Congregaciรณn Sefardรญ llamada Mikveh Israel, que todavรญa funciona. Construyeron una sinagoga en 1692. La primera sinagoga de Surinam fue construida de madera en la dรฉcada de 1660 en un sitio rรญo arriba de la capital en Paramaribo. Estaba rodeada por una ciudad que actuaba como sede de los propietarios de las plantaciones judรญas. En 1685 se erigiรณ un edificio de ladrillo mรกs permanente y llegรณ un rabino de Londres. En 1734, comenzaron a llegar judรญos asquenazรญes de habla alemana y, con el tiempo, ellos tambiรฉn querรญan tener una sinagoga propia. Los primeros judรญos se establecieron en Martinica a principios del siglo XVII, estableciรฉndose en puestos comerciales holandeses. Las comunidades caribeรฑas son pequeรฑas ahora. La sinagoga de Santo Tomรกs, que se estableciรณ originalmente en 1796 y luego fue reconstruida varias veces, ahora se erige como un monumento histรณrico nacional. En 1996, se aรฑadiรณ un pequeรฑo museo a la sinagoga. Y recientemente se inaugurรณ el Centro del Patrimonio Judรญo de Jamaica al lado de la sinagoga Shaare Shalom, de 100 aรฑos de antigรผedad, en Kingston. El centro alberga una exposiciรณn permanente de la historia judรญa de Jamaica, casos de judaica jamaicana, archivos, teatro y oficinas para la sinagoga y la comunidad, la mayorรญa de cuyos miembros estรกn en el negocio.
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The Caribbean includes islands belonging to different, non Iberian European powers over the centuries: Antigua, Aruba, Guyana, Trinidad and Tobago, Jamaica, Curacao, Haiti, Martinique and Guadeloupe. There has been a Jewish presence in the Caribbean region for more than 500 years, since the first voyages of discovery by European explorers. There have been Jewish communities established in territories colonized by the Dutch and English since Dutch Jews settled in Brazil in the 1620s and following (until their expulsion by the Portuguese in 1654). Jewish colonization on Dutch and then English islands took place in the 1620s through the 1650s, and these communities have continued for the most part until today. A synagogue for Sefardim, the Jews of Spanish or Portuguese descent, was established in Barbados in 1654. It was built in Bridgetown, the capital. In 1656 in Curaรงao there were enough Jews to establish a congregation in Willemstad, the Sefardi Congregation named Mikveh Israel, which still operates. They built a synagogue in 1692. Suriname’s first synagogue was built out of wood in the 1660s at a site upriver from the capitol at Paramaribo. It was surrounded by a town which acted as headquarters for the Jewish plantation owners. A more permanent brick building was erected in 1685, and a rabbi arrived from London. In 1734, German-speaking Ashkenazi Jews began arriving and in time, they too wanted a synagogue of their own. The first Jews settled in Martinique at the start of the 17th century, establishing themselves in Dutch commercial outposts. The Caribbean communities are tiny now. The St Thomas Synagogue, which was originally established in 1796 and was later rebuilt several times, now stands as a historic national landmark. In 1996, a small museum was added to the synagogue. And recently the Jamaican Jewish Heritage Centre opened next door to the 100-year-old Shaare Shalom synagogue in Kingston. The centre houses a permanent exhibition of Jamaican Jewish history, cases of Jamaican Judaica, archives, theatre and offices for the synagogue and community, most of whose members are in business.
Michelle Najlis naciรณ en Granada, Nicaragua, en 1946, hija de Rolando Najlis y Margarita Fle, inmigrantes judรญos-franceses, Siendo aรบn niรฑa se mudรณ con su familia a Managua, donde realizรณ estudios de primaria y secundaria. Posteriormente estudiรณ Ciencias de la Educaciรณn con especialidad en Filologรญa en la UNAN-Managua. Su primer poemario, titulado El Viento Armado, apareciรณ en 1969, ya este le seguirรญa Augurios, en 1980. En Ars Combinatoria, publicado en 1989, Michelle incursiona en el aforismo y el relato breve, mientras que Caminos de la Estrella Polar, de 1990, recoge una selecciรณn de sus artรญculos periodรญsticos. Con su tercer poemario, Cantos de Ifigenia, de 1997, Michelle gira hacia una poesรญa meditativa y amorosa con รฉnfasis en lo Absoluto. En sus poemarios siguientes, titulados La Soledad Sonora, de 2005, e Hija del Viento, de 2015, seguirรญa profundizando por la senda de la poesรญa mรญstica. Desde muy joven, Michelle participรณ en los movimientos artรญsticos y sociales de la รฉpoca, y fue muy activa en las luchas cรญvicas en contra del rรฉgimen de Somoza. Desde entonces, ha mantenido una actitud crรญtica y de denuncia a los abusos de poder, a la intolerancia y a las actitudes dictatoriales, sin miedo y de frente. Ejerciรณ el magisterio en la UNAN-Managua, asรญ como en la Universidad de Costa Rica, paรญs en donde viviรณ desde el terremoto de Managua, en 1972, hasta el triunfo de la Revoluciรณn, en 1979. En la dรฉcada de 1980 contribuyรณ al proceso revolucionario desde el Ministerio de Educaciรณn, donde trabajรณ como asesora para el รกrea de lengua y literatura. Tambiรฉn fue directora de cultura de la Universidad Centroamericana entre 1991 y 1997. Michelle Najlis recibiรณ la Orden Josefa Toledo en Grado: Defensora de Derechos Humanos. Demรกs de escritora y educadora, Michele se ha formado y desempeรฑado como teรณloga y biblista. Ha sido directora del รกrea de teologรญa del Centro Ecumรฉnico Antonio Valdivieso y desde fines de la dรฉcada de 1990 ha mantenido programas radiales de temas de interรฉs social desde un enfoque bรญblico y teolรณgico. ha sido una voz โ a veces solitaria โ en reinterpretar la biblia y las enseรฑanzas teolรณgicas desde una perspectiva feminista que promueve el respeto irrestricto de los derechos de las mujeres y de las personas LGTBI, crรญtica de los abusos de religiosos y a la manipulaciรณn de la religiosidad del pueblo con fines partidarios. Michelle es y ha sido una defensora de los derechos de las mujeres.
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Michelle Najlis was born in Granada, Nicaragua, in 1946, daughter of Rolando Najlis and Margarita Fle, French-Jewish immigrants. While still a child, she moved with her family to Managua, where she studied primary and secondary school. Later she studied Educational Sciences with a specialty in Philology at UNAN-Managua. Her first collection of poems, titled El Viento Armado, appeared in 1969, and this would be followed by Augurios, in 1980. In Ars Combinatoria, published in 1989, Michelle ventured into aphorisms and short stories, while Caminos de la Estrella Polar, from 1990 , collects a selection of her journalistic articles. With her third collection of poems, Cantos de Ifigenia, from 1997, Michelle turns towards meditative and loving poetry with an emphasis on the Absolute. In her subsequent collections of poems, titled La Soledad Sonora, from 2005, and Hija del viento, from 2015, she would continue to delve further down the path of mystical poetry. From a very young age, Michelle participated in the artistic and social movements of the time, and was very active in civic struggles against the Somoza regime. Since then, she has maintained a critical attitude and denounced abuses of power, intolerance and attitudes dictatoriales, without fear and head on. He taught at UNAN-Managua, as well as at the University of Costa Rica, country where she lived from the Managua earthquake in 1972 until the triumph of the Revolution in 1979. In the 1980s she contributed to the revolutionary process from the Ministry of Education, where she worked as an advisor for the area. of language and literature. She was also director of culture at the Universidad Centroamericana between 1991 and 1997. Michelle Najlis received the Josefa Toledo Order in Degree: Human Rights Defender. In addition to being a writer and educator, Michele has trained and worked as a theologian and biblical scholar. She has been director of the theology area of โโthe Antonio Valdivieso Ecumenical Center and since the late 1990s she has maintained radio programs on topics of social interest from a biblical and theological approach. has been a voice โ sometimes solitary โ in reinterpreting the Bible and theological teachings from a feminist perspective that promotes unrestricted respect for the rights of women and LGTBI people, criticism of religious abuses and the manipulation of religiosity of the people for partisan purposes. Michelle is and has been an advocate for women’s rights.
Veo llegar el dรญa en que el otoรฑo bese feliz la primavera. Espero la vendimia de mi sangre.
Veo tornarse ocres las verdes hojas de mis manos.
Siento crecer la vida que sembre con loco amor e insensatas alegrรญas, mientras fueron pasando, uno a uno, soles, constelaciones y planetas.
Aprendรญ a pronunciar 1os nombres de mis hijos que me fueron revelados poco a poco cuando ellos eran apenas dulces astronautas de mi vientre.
Conocรญ 1os secretos de la vida.
Bebi con la avidez rachas de viento, embriague mi piel con salobre espuma dorada por el sol.
Conocรญ la tormenta en el ocรฉano la perfecta oposiciรณn de 1os astros sobre el mar, y sentรญ la pequeรฑez indรณmita de este cuerpo que ocupa apenas un fragmento del tiempo y del espacio.
Yo, mujer, terca habitante del planeta he dejado mi huella amorosa en la nube que pasa ligera.
Ahora espero, gratia plena, el dรญa en que el otoรฑo bese feliz la primavera para compartir gozosa este jugo fermentado que es ahora mi sangre.
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I, woman
I, woman, stubborn inhabitant of the planet
I see the day coming when autumn happily kisses spring.
I await the harvest of my blood.
I see the green leaves of my hands turn ochre.
I feel the life that I sowed with crazy love and senseless joys grow, as suns, constellations and planets passed by, one by one.
I learned to pronounce the names of my children that were revealed to me little by little when they were just sweet astronauts in my womb.
I learned the secrets of life.
I greedily drank gusts of wind, intoxicated my skin with brackish foam golden by the sun.
I knew the storm in the ocean, the perfect opposition of the stars on the sea, and I felt the untamed smallness of this body that occupies just a fragment of time and
space.
I, woman, stubborn inhabitant of the planet, have left my loving mark on the cloud that passes lightly.
Now I wait, gratia plena, for the day when autumn happily kisses spring to joyfully share this fermented juice that is now my blood.
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Quiero un poema sencillo y bueno
Quiero un poema sencillo y bueno como el pan, caliente y oloroso con ese olor de gente, de harina, de manos amasando y de un gran fuego rojo en el cielo del horno.
Quiero decirte: Ven, mi pan es tuyo ยฟno ves quรฉ manos lo amasaron? ยฟno ves que un mismo amor lo ha cocido y que mis manos y las tuyas estuvieron juntas en la panaderรญa? ยฟNo ves que venimos amasando pan desde el primer grano que sembramos?
Ven: compartamos el pan y la esperanza aunque el dolor sea largo y la angustia infinita.
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I want a poem simple and good
I want a poem simple and good
like bread,
hot and fragrant
with that smell of people,
of flour,
of hands
kneading
and of a great red fire in the sky above the oven.
I want to tell you: Come,
my bread is yours
Don’t you see whose hands kneaded it?
Don’t you see that the same love has backed it?
and that my hands and yours
were they together at the bakery?
Don’t you see that we have been kneading bread?
From the first grain we sowed?
Come:
let’s share bread and hope,
although the pain is long
and infinite anguish.
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Dios
Dios, camarada caรญdo nรกufrago de inรบtiles canciones hรฉroe de los suspiros hermano de la nada.
ยฟDรณnde estรกs ahora que te busco en todas partes y dejo de rezar porque no veo ni oigo lo que dices?
ยฟDรณnde estรกn tus caricias que sanaban mi angustia y alegrรญa?
ยฟQuรฉ te has hecho, Amigo inevitable? que ya no puedo verte que tampoco te encuentro en los libros que amรฉ, en la mรบsica callada en la soledad sonora en el verso que recrea y enamora?
Si siempre estรกs aquรญ ยฟpor quรฉ yo no te veo? ยฟPor quรฉ no puedo verte inevitable Amigo en esta nada โque me acecha cada dรญa sin descanso?
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God God, fallen comrade castaway from useless songs hero of sighs brother from nowhere. Where are you now that I’m looking for you everywhere and I stop praying because I don’t see I don’t even hear what you say? Where are your caresses that healed my anguish and joy? What have you done to yourself, Inevitable Friend? that I can’t see you anymore I can’t find you either in the books that I loved, in quiet music in the sound solitude in the verse that recreates and falls in love? If you are always here why I do not see you? Because I can not see you inevitable friend in this nothing that stalks me every day without a rest?
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Como la tormenta, amor, como la tormenta
Como la tormenta, amor, como la tormenta.
Como el rayo, quemante, como el rayo.
Como la Iluvia, como los robles ante la Iluvia.
Como las flores, amor, como las flores.
Como el madero que retoรฑa en os cercos.
Como quien despierta a medianoche
gritando un nombre y oye que ese nombre le responde. Como quien toma unas manos tendidas desde siempre. Como un niรฑo ciego que busca su juguete preferido.
Como un cauce que se llena a la llegada del invierno.
Como una mujer ama a su hombre asรญ, amor, te he querido. Y ahora ante mi dolor y tu colera ante
tu imagen y mi deseo,
ante tu ausencia, como la tormenta.
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Like the storm, love, like the storm
Like the storm, love, like the storm.
Like lightning, burning, like lightning.
Like the Rain, like the oaks before the Rain.
Like flowers, love, like flowers.
Like the wood that sprouts on the fences.
Like someone who wakes up at midnight
shouting a name and hears that name respond to him.
Like someone who has always held outstretched hands. Like a blind child looking for his favorite toy.
Like a riverbed that fills up with the arrival of winter.
Like a woman loves her man like this, love,
I have loved you. And now before my pain and your anger before your image and my desire,
in your absence, like the storm.
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No dirรฉ tu nombre ahora
No dir tu nombre ahora no pronunciarรฉ en voz alta tu recuerdo no gritarรฉ la soledad de ti que me atormenta.
Pero 1as palabras estรกn -siempre estuvieron al pie de mis silencios.
Estรกn las viejas cosas (mรกs viejas y mรกs solas)
el laรบd melancรณlico y digno como siempre el canto gregoriano el buen- Marquรฉs de Santillana y la รบltima flor que tรบ me diste solidaria que tal vez esta noche no pueda vencer su dรฉbil lucha contra la muerte.
Serรก mรกs duro entonces alzar este brazo derecho y sin que tiemble la mano decidida partir en mil pรฉtalos marchitos estos dรญas en que guardo tu nombre inclinado amorosamente mi cabeza sobre cada letra de tu cuerpo.
No dirรฉ tu nombre ahora, pero las palabras estรกn me desangran al oรญdo tu presencia y la sal de cada dรญa aviva esta llaga que nos une.
Vivimos la atroz eternidad de dos amantes rotos por un signo desde siglos destrozados.
Ah, implacable viento humano que desgarra
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I won’t say your name now
I will not say your name now, I will not pronounce your memory out loud, I will not shout the loneliness of you that torments me.
But the words are – they were always at the foot of my silences.
There are the old things (older and lonelier)
the melancholic and dignified lute as always,
the Gregorian chant, — the good Marquis of Santillana and the last flower
that you gave me in solidarity that perhaps tonight I cannot overcome his weak fight against death.
It will be harder then to raise this right arm and without shaking my determined hand to split into a thousand withered petals these days in which I keep your name, lovingly bending my head over each letter of your body.
I will not say your name now, but the words are bleeding into my ear, your presence, and the salt of each day fuels this wound that unites us.
We live the atrocious eternity of two lovers broken by a
sign for centuries destroyed.
Ah, implacable human wind that rips
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Ensalmo para que viva un hijo
Ensalmo para que viva un hijo
Conjuro 1os elementos hasta que salte el rito.
En lo profundo del viento invoco al aire: porque no muera en el cielo echo a volar mi alma.
En lo alto del llanto invoco al mar:
porque no muera en el agua quemo todas mis naves.
En la sima tremenda invoco al vasto abismo:
porque no muera en la tierra
hรกgase mi vida รกrbol.
En el ardor de la llama invoco al gran incendio:
porque no muera en el fuego hago fuego en mi cuerpo.
Porque viva del aire
porque vuele en el mar
porque sean de barro sus segundos humanos
porque sean de fuego su gesto y su palabra
conjuro 1os elementos hasta que salta el rito.
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Incantation so that a son may live
Incantation so that a son may live
I conjure the elements until the ritual takes place.
In the depths of the wind I invoke the air: so that I do not die in the sky I make my soul fly.
At the height of crying I invoke the sea:
so that I don’t die in the water, I burn all my ships.
In the tremendous chasm I invoke the vast abyss:
So that I don’t die on earth
let my life become a tree.
In the burning of the flame I invoke the great fire:
so that I don’t die in the fire, I make fire in my body.
Because I live from the air
because it flies in the sea
because their second humans are made of clay
because his gesture and his word are fire
I conjure the elements until the rite occurs.
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Con las cartas marcadas
Juguรฉ a las cartas contra la soledad y me gano la muerte.
Todos 1os dados cargados.
Juguรฉ con elegancia, con valor con el llanto vestido a diario de alegrรญa.
Juguรฉ apostando mis ojos y me gano la muerte.
Juguรฉ apostando la risa y me gano la muerte.
Juguรฉ apostando el amor y me gano la muerte.
Despojada de todas mis riquezas.
Juguรฉ apostando la vida me habrรก ganado
-una vez mรกs la muerte?
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With marked cards
I played cards against loneliness and I make a killing.
All dice loaded.
I played with elegance, with courage with tears dressed daily
in joy.
I played by betting on my eyes and I made a killing.
I played betting on laughter and I made a killing.
I played betting on love and I made a killing.
Stripped of all my riches.
I played betting my life will death have made a killing
-once again death?
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Creo en el sol aรบn cuando no brilla
Creo en el sol aรบn cuando no brilla y en la tierra aรบn si es estรฉril. En el trabajo aรบn si es esclavo y en las manos aunque no estรฉn unidas. En el dolor aรบn cuando nos duela y en Chile aรบn cuando agoniza. En la palabra aun si estรก en silencio Y en el amigo aun cuando ya no exista. Creo en el aire aun cuando me asfixio Y en el amor aรบn si no regresa. Solo mi cabeza –“cansada de palabras’ No reposarรก ya mรกs sobre su pecho.
Ricardo Lindo en San Salvador, El Salvador, en 1947 en el seno de una familia judรญa de poetas e intelectuales, la trayectoria del escritor, poeta y crรญtico 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 librosย Jardines, Rara Avis, Las monedas bajo la lluviaย yย El seรฑor de la casa del tiempo. Sus trabajos de crรญtica incluyen un estudio poรฉtico sobre la pintura de El Salvador y el libroย El esplendor de la arcilla, cuyo tema es el teatro popular en El Salvador. Y en narrativa, entre otros,ย Cuentos del mar, una colecciรณn de cuentos infantiles, yย Lo que dice el Rรญo Lempa, el libro de relatos mencionado antes, publicado en 1990 y Tierra, 1998.Toda esta obra en conjunciรณn con su labor editorial al frente de la revistaย ARS, Segunda รpoca, en la cual viene fungiendo como director desde 1991. Muriรณ 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 Rรญo 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 รpoca, in which he has served as director since 1991. He died in 2016.
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“Tierra”
Aรบn reservaba la tierra otras bondades al curandero Otzilรฉn. Se acercaban a รฉl los muchachos deseosos de avanzar en la senda del conocimiento, y รฉl hablรณ entonces de las esferas que giran en la bรณveda celeste, de la vida que late en las profundidades del Ocรฉano, y acabado el capรญtulo de la ciencia, hablรณ tambiรฉn de su infancia en Tulum, y de los peces voladores, y de las ciudades sagradas, abandonadas en la selva desde siglos atrรกs por una inexplicable decisiรณn de las deidades En sus conversaciones, don Pablo se refiriรณ a la Gehena. Otzilรฉn preguntรณ quรฉ era eso. El cura se remontรณ a los tiempos antiguos, partiendo de los presentes. Hablรณ de la ciudadela de Jerusalem, a cuyos pies se abrรญa un pequeรฑo valle calcinado por el sol, el valle de Hebrรณn. En ese lugar, en otro tiempo, se quemaban niรฑos ante Moloch, dios pagano y abyecto, y era llamado Gehena el pequeรฑito valle, que mรกs tarde, sรญmbolo del Infierno, creciรณ en la imaginaciรณn de los cristianos hasta convertirse en un magno espacio intemporal de suplicios por fuego. Y se extendiรณ Pablo de Alcรกntara, 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 segรบn los tratantes que comerciaban en el barrio aledaรฑo: Puerta de los Caballos, Puerta de las Ovejas, y tambiรฉn por la cercanรญa de las fuentes de agua, materia preciosa en tierras desรฉrticas. Puerta de las Aguas. Hablรณ de los templos de la Ciudad Santa, cuyas agujas y cuyas cรบpulas 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, cรบpula cubierta de lรกminas de oro. Pero la pequefta Gehena no era nada comparable al formidable precipicio que se cortaba a pique al pie del Alcรกzar de Segovia, una de cuyas torres estaba destinada a despeรฑadero de judรญos. Otzilรฉn, ante la vivacidad de las descripciones de Jerusalem, preguntรณ a don Pablo si la habรญa visitado. No era ese el caso. Pero era el clรฉrigo de familia de judรญos conversos, y muchas veces oyรณ a sus mayores relatos sobre la Ciudad Santa, y participรณ, de niรฑo en las lamentaciones que acompaรฑaban las efemรฉrides de la destrucciรณn 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 congรฉneres, que optaron por cambiar de religiรณn para permanecer en Espaรฑa.
Y recordรณ don Pablo el edicto de expulsiรณn, que forzaba a los hebreos a cambiar de fe o a partir, y a Isaac Abarbanel, tesorero de sus Catรณlicas Majestades, rogando a los Reyes revocar el edicto, y ofreciendo treinta mil monedas de plata por cada israelita. El Gran Inquisidor Torquemada arrojรณ al suelo su crucifijo pectoral, gritando al Rey Fernando que, si ellos vendieron al Cristo por treinta monedas, vendiese รฉl ese crucifijo por las treinta mil monedas de Abarbanel. Y doscientos cincuenta mil judรญos debieron abandonar la tierra que fuera de sus padres, de sus abuelos, de los abuelos de sus abuelos, sin llevarse mรกs 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 arrancรกndose el alma, a cuantos vecinos, y aunque รฉl era muy pequeรฑo entonces, supo que la vida habรญa cambiado para siempre. Su padre, mรฉdico de oficio, debiรณ dejar su profesiรณn. Su madre horneaba pan, asรญ que pusieron una pequeรฑa panaderรญa, para vender doradas hogazas a los cristianos, y en secreto, en la noche anterior a la pascua hebrea, ella cocinรณ los panes rituales, para que, en alcobas escondidas, a la luz de los cirios, los hijos de Abraham diesen gracias a Jehovรก por la inmensidad de sus dones. Ocasionalmente, uno de los asistentes a la fiesta judรญa dejaba de ir. Era vรญctima de una denuncia anรณnima, y su cuerpo, convertido en antorcha viviente, alumbraba con llamas siniestras, acompaรฑadas de gritos desgarradores, la Gran Plaza. Pero รฉl creyรณ en Jesรบs, y supo deslindar a la Inquisiciรณn de las palabras deEvangelio, y asumiรณ voluntariamente las aguas del bautismo, y mรกs tarde, tendido por tierra, recibiรณ 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 pรกginas del Antiguo Testamento.
Aรฑadiรณ unas palabras de amor, don Pablo, para la seca Extremadura de su infancia, y se refiriรณ a un bosque de otoรฑo, al Norte, donde iba con sus padres y hermanos arecoger nueces, y recordรณ a su padre recitando, en hebreo, los versos de Shlomรณ Ibn Gabirol:
Con tinta de sus lluvias y rocรญos,
con pluma de sus rayos luminosos,
y la mano de sus nubes, escribiรณ el Otoรฑo
en el jardรญn una carta de pรบrpura y aรฑil.
Callรณ el clรฉrigo. Otzilรฉn, con cierto soma, le hizo ver que los espaรฑoles dieron el nombre de aftil al jiquilite, la planta de tinte azul. A punto seguido, le preguntรณ por quรฉ eran odiados los de su raza. Don Pablo de Alcรกntara dijo que ningรบn grupo humano acepta que otro tengadiferentes costumbres, y que ve como defecto cuanto es, simplemente, distinto. Pero hizo menciรณn de numerosos congรฉneres suyos que se enriquecieron a costa de otros, de prรฉstamos 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.
Otzilรฉn lo interrogรณ de nuevo. ยฟSe llamaba, el cura, como decรญa? El nada respondiรณ. Frunciรณ el ceรฑo, mirando a las nubes, y a ellas volviรณ tambiรฉn la mirada el hechicero. Despuรฉs musitรณ don Pablo: -Shlomรณ, es decir, Salomรณn. Y tomรณ su camino, caviloso. Supo asรญ, Otzilรฉn, la razรณn de la simpatรญa que despertaba el clรฉrigo en los indรญgenas, y viceversa. รl era, como ellos, el hijo de una raza maldita, despertรกndose en la Gehena de los males y las zozobras.
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The land still reserved other benefits for the healer Otzilรฉn. 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. Otzilรฉn 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 Alcรกntara 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 Alcรกzar of Segovia, one of whose towers was destined as a cliff for Jews. Otzilรฉn, 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 รบnicamente los sacerdotes, y se extendiรณ el hechicero refiriendo prodigios de Tenochtitlรกn, ciudad en la que estuvo unos dรญas solo, treinta y tantos aรฑos atrรกs. Mas recordaba al Rey avanzando en la canoa real por los canales de la ciudad esplรฉndida, como un sol erizado no de llamas, sino de plumas preciosas, entretejidas con arte insuperable.
Uno de los jรณvenes hacรญa, en eso, una pregunta, y รฉl contestaba con una respuesta que le sorprendรญa a รฉl mismo. รl sabรญa cosas que รฉl ignoraba que supiera. Mรกs tarde se lo contรณ a don Pablo, y รฉste subrayรณ sus palabras con otras del Talmud:
-He aprendido de mis maestros. He aprendido de mis compaรฑeros de estudio.
Pero he aprendido mucho mรกs de mis discรญpulos.
Otzilรฉn dejรณ pasar una pausa reflexiva y aรฑadiรณ:
-El haber sido amado por muchos me ha enseรฑado mucho. Y lo primero, a refrenar mi lengua. Si uno ama sรณlo a alguien o a algo, ofende fรกcilmente a los demรกs sin fijarse. Si uno ama al Amor, aprende que la mejor ciencia de la vida es dejar ser a los demรกs. y riรณ el brujo, y su risa volviรณ a ser cristalina, un manantial surgiendo de una peรฑa. Don Pablo sonriรณ. Ese hechicero al que viera con temor, con respeto, con admiraciรณn, pero siempre con afecto, era hoy un poco su discรญpulo, o no el de รฉl, sino el de una sabidurรญa heredada de un Dios severo, duro, que impuso diez leyes de piedra sobre un monte cuarenta veces santo.
—Otzilรฉn no soy yo quien te habla. Otzilรฉn, soy el monte Hebrรณn, y la nieve sobre el Hebrรณn. Otzilรฉn, la tierra es apenas nuestra infancia, y la vida toda, que no puede ser sin amor. es รบnicamente ese Amor al cual vamos.
– ยฟy tรบ quiรฉn eres, Pablo de Alcรกntara?
-Soy la oveja de cien buenos pastores. ยฟY tรบ?
-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 Otzilรฉn. 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. Otzilรฉn 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 Alcรกntara 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 Alcรกzar of Segovia, one of whose towers was destined as a cliff for Jews. Otzilรฉn, 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. Otzilรฉn, 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 Alcรกntara 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.
Otzilรฉn 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: -Shlomรณ, that is, Solomon. And he took his way, brooding Thus, Otzilรฉn, 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.
Periodista, historiadora, antropรณloga, crรญtica de arte y escritora creativa, Anita Brenner fue una de las intรฉrpretes mรกs comprensivas y perspicaces de Mรฉxico. Nacida en una familia de inmigrantes judรญos en Mรฉxico unos aรฑos antes de la Revoluciรณn Mexicana, madurรณ hasta convertirse en una liberal independiente que defendiรณ a Mรฉxico, a los trabajadores y a todos aquellos que eran tratados injustamente, cualquiera que fuera su origen o nacionalidad. Sus extensos escritos, especialmente Your Mexican Holiday y The Wind that Swept Mexico, introdujeron a los lectores estadounidenses en la riqueza de la cultura y la historia mexicanas:.
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Journalist, historian, anthropologist, art critic and creative writer, Anita Brenner was one of Mexico’s most sympathetic and discerning interpreters. Born to a Jewish immigrant family in Mexico a few years before the Mexican Revolution, she matured into an independent liberal who defended Mexico, workers and all those who were treated unfairly, whatever their origin or nationality. Her extensive writing, especially Your Mexican Holiday and The Wind that Swept Mexico introduced American readers to the wealth of Mexican culture and history.
Estos fragmentos vienen de: Susannah Joel Glusker. Anita Brenner: A Mind of her Own. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 1996. pp. 32-39, 150-4.
Los fragmentos incluidos aquรญ vienen de: Susannah Joel Glusker. Anita Brenner: A Mind of her Own. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 1996. pp. 32-39, 150-4.
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Aรบn bastante joven, Anita Brenner se convierte en una escritora:
EN EL VERANO DE 1923 Anita regresรณ a San Antonio y convenciรณ a su padre para que la dejara ir a la escuela en la Ciudad de Mรฉxico. Isidore Brenner consultรณ al rabino Ephraim Frisch, quien le asegurรณ que estarรญa a salvo.
El Dr. J. L. Weinberger, quien dirigiรณ la oficina de B’nai B’rith en Mรฉxico, se mantuvo en contacto y no informรณ ningรบn problema. La lucha armada de los dirigentes revolucionarios habรญa terminado. รlvaro Obregรณn era presidente. otros (Carranza, Villa y Zapata) estaban muertos. La Universidad de Mรฉxico. estaba en sesiรณn.
Anita llegรณ a la Ciudad de Mรฉxico en septiembre de 1923. Tenรญa dieciocho aรฑos. Pasarรญa los siguientes cuatro aรฑos asistiendo a la escuela, trabajando para mantenerse y comenzando una carrera. Su primer trabajo fue enseรฑar inglรฉs en la Escuela Normal de San รngel, una escuela misionera presbiteriana. Sus 2 aรฑos incluรญan alojamiento y comida. En ese momento se establecieron muchos patrones para el futuro. Su vida social cambiรณ dramรกticamente. Pasรณ de sentirse fuera de lugar a sentirse orgullosa de ser parte de un grupo excepcional de personas, algunas de las cuales luego serรญan consideradas los artistas e intelectuales mรกs importantes de Mรฉxico.
Todo se juntรณ rรกpidamente. La carta de presentaciรณn del rabino Frisch a Weinberger le dio a Anita su entrada al mundo de los escritores, artistas e intelectuales como Paca o (Panchita), miembro del grupo de intelectuales. Visitar a Panchita fue muy divertido, en contraste con la vida solemne en la escuela misionera. Frances vivรญa en un apartamento con vistas a un patio compartido y sus vecinos eran amigos y colegas, incluidos Carleton Beals, Bertram y Ella Wolfe.
Frances llevรณ a Anita a tomar el tรฉ a la YMHA (Asociaciรณn Hebrea de Hombres Jรณvenes). Carleton la llevรณ a bailar al Salรณn Mรฉxico y todos fueron a Sanborns (la Casa de los Azulejos), “el รบnico lugar donde se podรญa tomar un cafรฉ decente” y donde la gente iba a las citas. Anita rebosaba emociรณn en una larga carta dirigida a su amigo Jerry Aron en Austin.
Estรก bastante de moda, sobre todo a la hora del tรฉ. Pero en el desayuno es diferente. Usted descansa mientras come, y gente interesante que conoce (o deberรญa conocer) se acerca y habla (oh, libros, polรญtica, teatro y chismes) mientras fuma y toma cafรฉ. Estรก Goopta, un revolucionario hindรบ que enseรฑa sรกnscrito en la universidad y tambiรฉn en las escuelas pรบblicas, que es famoso, intrigante y encantador. Estรกn los Wolfe, comunistas, lectores รกvidos, satisfactorios y encantadores, sobre todo la dama. Hay muchos otros: todos los que tienen algรบn tipo de derecho al intelectualismo (?) estรกn mรกs o menos ligados a รฉl. Artistas, escultores, escritores, socialistas, mรบsicos, poetas intelectuales, pero no la imitaciรณn que tenemos nosotros, Jerry. No son nada sorprendentes. Que el amor es libre es una cuestiรณn tan aceptada que a nadie se le ocurre molestarse en afirmarlo. Todos hablan el mismo idioma, es decir, todos se entienden, lo aprueben o no. Por supuesto que lo disfruto. Sin esnobismo, prejuicios de ningรบn tipo, raciales, monetarios, aparentes. En cuanto a la raza, no podrรญa haberla. Hay demasiados tonos de piel y /1.ag representados. En cuanto a lo monetario, bueno, prรกcticamente todos tienen sus “nombramientos”, que significa una hora o dos de trabajo en las escuelas pรบblicas, lo que significa mucha polรญtica y una posibilidad azarosa de recibir un pago. Todo el mundo siempre estรก pidiendo prestado a los demรกs, lo cual es bastante reconfortante como en casa, ยฟsabes? Pero es tan real, tan fรกcil, tan libre y nada agitado, que tengo ganas de tener alas vivas, poner mi mรกquina de escribir bajo el brazo e ir al cielo o a algรบn lugar mรกs tranquilo para realizar una obra maestra.
Anita se vio arrastrada a un mundo de personas e ideas. Renunciรณ a su trabajo en la escuela de la misiรณn para protestar por el despido de una maestra estadounidense por salir con un mexicano; Mรกs tarde ficcionalizรณ el evento en un cuento. El trabajo que encontrรณ a continuaciรณn, con Weinberger en B’nai B’rith, incluรญa recibir barcos que traรญan inmigrantes judรญos a Veracruz; llevar registros del nรบmero, ocupaciones y necesidades de las personas que llegaron; redacciรณn de informes; y ayudar a asentar a los inmigrantes en una nueva cultura.
Anita comenzรณ a escribir para su publicaciรณn. Los primeros artรญculos establecieron su patrรณn de vida: escribir positivamente sobre Mรฉxico. Su primer artรญculo, “El judรญo en Mรฉxico” en The Nation en 1924, fue una respuesta a las crรญticas estadounidenses a Mรฉxico como un lugar inadecuado para que se establecieran los judรญos. Maurice Hexter, jefe del Comitรฉ Judรญo Estadounidense, consideraba que Mรฉxico no estaba seguro, incluso si el conflicto armado de la Revoluciรณn de 1910 hubiera terminado. Consideraba que Mรฉxico era demasiado diferente culturalmente de la cultura europea. Los judรญos necesitaban abandonar Europa y Estados Unidos habรญa cerrado sus puertas a una nueva inmigraciรณn. Anita sintiรณ que Mรฉxico era apropiado. Escribiรณ una serie de artรญculos para el Jewish Morning Journal, enviรณ numerosos despachos a la Agencia Telegrรกfica Judรญa y ficciรณn al Menorah Journal. En todos ellos presentรณ a Mรฉxico con entusiasmo, describiendo el estilo de vida de los judรญos europeos y los acontecimientos sociales y culturales de la comunidad, asรญ como las actividades econรณmicas, contrarrestando eficazmente la mala prensa que habรญa en los Estados Unidos. Anita se identificรณ como judรญa. No practicรณ su religiรณn dentro de una tradiciรณn ortodoxa, ni se uniรณ a ningรบn movimiento sionista, pero estaba comprometida, como periodista independiente, a ayudar a los judรญos a escapar de los pogromos en Europa y defender a Mรฉxico.
La contradicciรณn de que una joven contribuyera a la construcciรณn de una nueva sociedad mientras su familia enfrentaba la posibilidad de perder su tierra no parecรญa preocupar a Anita. Muchos artistas y (como Diego Rivera, Josรฉ Clemente, Orozco, Daniel Alfaro Siqueiros, Atonieta Rivas Mercado y las familias Marรญn y Asรบnsulo) se encontraban en una situaciรณn similar. Ellos tambiรฉn pertenecรญan a la clase media y alta educada. Anita conocรญa los problemas de los ricos, pero eso no atenuรณ su entusiasmo por crear una nueva sociedad.
Diego Rivera
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Anoche vino Diego (Rivera) a mecanografiar un artรญculo: “El arte de la revoluciรณn” y de allรญ derivรณ una larga y emocionante discusiรณn, en el curso de la cual me convertรญ activamente en un revolucionario, puesto que (ya que) estรกs a favor o en contra y la pasividad es negaciรณnโฆ El valor de la conversaciรณn para mรญ es una razรณn para trabajarโฆ
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En 1933, el problema era el antisemitismo en Mรฉxicoโฆ especialmente despuรฉs de que la Ley Johnson restringiera la inmigraciรณn a los Estados Unidos en 1924. Algunos inmigrantes llegaron con la idea de cruzar la frontera hacia los Estados Unidos. El peligro era ser atrapado y deportado a Europa. Muchos judรญos inmigrantes trabajaron como vendedores ambulantes en la Ciudad de Mรฉxico y otras ciudades importantes. Tambiรฉn viajaron a pequeรฑas comunidades rurales en busca de clientes con planes de pago a plazos. A medida que aumentaron los ingresos, alquilaron puestos en los mercados pรบblicos. El siguiente paso fue alquilar una tienda y luego establecer sus propias pequeรฑas plantas de fabricaciรณn. A los propietarios de grandes almacenes les molestaba la competencia, especialmente la pรฉrdida de clientes, que preferรญan tratar con amables vendedores ambulantes en casa que enfrentarse a taciturnos empleados de la ciudad. Se sintieron mรกs cรณmodos haciendo preguntas, realizando pagos y esperando futuras visitas. Los comerciantes europeos establecidos eligieron el momento para financiar una campaรฑa xenรณfoba contra judรญos y orientales. Apoyaron al congresista รngel Ladrรณn de Guevara, quien organizรณ manifestaciones y lanzรณ una campaรฑa de prensa. Logrรณ expulsar a judรญos y orientales del centro comercial Lagunilla de la Ciudad de Mรฉxico y estaba trabajando para expulsarlos de Mรฉxico.
Anita se puso a trabajar. Telegrafiรณ a La Naciรณn para documentar la necesidad de una entrevista con el presidente Abelardo Rodrรญguez y รngel Ladrรณn de Guevara. La Naciรณn respondiรณ con telegramas presionando para obtener informaciรณn. Anita publicรณ los hechos sobre la campaรฑa antisemita y la declaraciรณn del presidente Rodrรญguez en las portadas de la prensa local. La Naciรณn publicรณ entrevistas asรญ como un comunicado del presidente para frenar efectivamente la campaรฑa. Los judรญos no serรญan expulsados โโde Mรฉxico. Su nacionalidad no serรญa revocada; estaban a salvo.
Anita habรญa iniciado su carrera como periodista en los aรฑos veinte escribiendo sobre Mรฉxico. Su papel de defensa de la comunidad judรญa de Mรฉxico fue un puente entre su pasado y su futuro, escribiendo en defensa de las personas en problemas. Su identificaciรณn con el pueblo judรญo estรก estrechamente relacionada con sus luchas como radical independiente: ella era una judรญa independiente y una radical independiente.
The selections included here come from: Susannah Joel Glusker. Anita Brenner: A Mind of her Own. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 1996. pp. 32-39, 150-4.
IN THE SUMMER OF 1923 Anita returned to San Antonio and persuaded her father to let her go to school in Mexico City. Isidore Brenner consulted Rabbi Ephraim Frisch, who reassured him that she would be safe.
Dr. J. L. Weinberger, who headed the B’nai B’rith office in Mexico kept in touch and did not report any problems. The armed struggle n the revolutionary leaders was over. Alvaro Obregon was president. others-Carranza, Villa, and Zapata-were dead. The University of Mexico. was in session.
Anita arrived in Mexico City in September 1923. She was eighteen years She would spend the following four years going to school, working to support herself, and launching a career. Her first job was teaching English at the Escuela Normal de San Angel, a Presbyterian mission school. Her 2es included room and board. Many patterns for the future were set at time. Her social life shifted dramatically. She moved from feeling out of place to feeling proud to be part of an exceptional group of people, some of whom would later be considered Mexico’s most important artists and intellectuals.
It all came together quickly. Rabbi Frisch’s letter of introduction to Weinberger gave Anita her entree to the world of writers, artists, and intellectuals as Paca, or (Panchita), a member of the group of intellectuals. Visiting with Panchita was great fun, in contrast to thsolemn life at the mission school. Frances lived in an apartment overlooking a shared courtyard, and her neighbors were friends and colleagues, including Carleton Beals and Bertram and Ella Wolfe.
Frances took Anita to the YMHA (Young Men’s Hebrew Association) for tea. Carleton took her dancing to the Salon Mexico, and they all went to Sanborns (the House of Tiles), “the only place where one could get decent coffee” and where people went to rendezvous. Anita bubbled with excitement in a long letter to her friend Jerry Aron in Austin.
It is quite fashionable, particularly tea-time. But at breakfast it is different. You lounge through your meal, and interesting people whom you know-or ought to know, drop along and talk-oh, books and politics and the theatre and gossip-over the cigarettes and the coffee. There is Goopta, a Hindu revolutionist, who teaches Sanskrit in the University and also teaches in the public schools, who is famous and intriguing and delightful. There are the Wolfes, com munists, avid readers, satisfying and quite charming, particularly the lady. There are lots of others-everybody who has any sort of claim to intellectual-ism (?) is sort of loosely bound into it. Artists, sculptors, writers, socialists, musicians, poets-intelligentzia, but not the imitation of it that we have, Jerry. They are not a bit startling. That love is free is a matter so accepted that no one ever thinks to bother to state so. They all speak the same language, that is, all understand each other, whether they approve or not. Of course I bask in it No snobbishness, prejudice of any sort racial, monetary, apparent. As to racial, there couldn’t be. There are too many shades of skin and /1.ag represented. As to monetary-well, practically all of them have their “nombramientos” [contracts] which means an hour or two of work at the government schools, which means much politics and a haphazard chance of being paid. Everybody is always borrowing from everybody else which is quite comfortingly like home, you know. But it is so real, so easy, so unconstrained and not at all hectic, that I feel like living wings, putting my typewriter under my arm and going to heaven or to some quieter place to achieve a masterpiece.
Anita was swept up into a world of people and ideas. She resigned from her job at the mission school to protest the firing of an American teacher for dating a Mexican; she later fictionalized the event in a short story. The job she found next, with Weinberger at B’nai B’rith, included meeting boats bringing Jewish immigrants to Veracruz; keeping records on the number, occupations, and needs of people who arrived; writing reports; and helping to settle the immigrants into a new culture.
Anita began to write for publication. The earliest articles established her lifelong pattern: writing positively about Mexico. Her first article, “The Jew in Mexico” in The Nation in 1924, was a response to U.S. criticism of Mexico as an inappropriate place for Jews to settle. Maurice Hexter, head of the American Jewish Committee, felt that Mexico was not safe, even if the armed conflict of the 1910 Revolution was over. He considered Mexico too culturally dissimilar from European culture. Jews needed to leave Europe, and the United States had closed its doors to new immigration. Anita felt that Mexico was appropriate. She wrote a series of articles for the Jewish Morning Journal, sent numerous dispatches to the Jewish Telegraphic Agency, and sent fiction to the Menorah Journal. In them all, she presented Mexico enthusiastically, describing the life style of European Jews and the community’s social and cultural events as well as economic activities, effectively countering the bad press had in the states. Anita identified as a Jew. She did not practice her religion within an orthodox tradition, nor did she join a Zionist movement, but she was committed , as an independent journalist, to helping Jews excape pogroms in Europe and defending Mexico.
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The contradiction of a young woman contributing to building a new society while her family faced the possibility of losing their land did not seem to concern Anita. Many artists and (such as Diego Rivera, Josรฉ Clemente, Orozco, Daniel Alfaro Siqueiros, Atonieta Rivas Mercado, and the Marin and Asunsulo families) were in a similar situation. They too belonged to the educated upper- and middle-class. Anita knew of the problems of the wealthy., but that did not temper her enthusiasm for creating a new society.
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Diego Rivera
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Last night Diego (Rivera) came over to get an article typed– “Art of the Revolution” and derived therefrom a long and thrilling discussion, in the course of which I I became actively a revolutionist, puesto que (since) you are either for or against and passivity is negation… The value of the conversation for me a reason to work…
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In 1933, the issue was anti-Semitism in Mexico... especially after the Johnson Act restricted immigraยญtion to the United States in 1924. Some immigrants came with the idea of getting across the border into the United States. The danger was getting caught and being deported back to Europe. Many immigrant Jews worked as peddlers in Mexico City and other major cities. They also traveled to small rural communities in search of installment-plan clients.As revenues increased, they rented stalls in public markets. The next step was to rent a shop and then to establish their own small manufacturing plants.’ Large department-store owners resented the competition, especially the loss of clients, who preferred dealing with friendly peddlers at home to facยญing taciturn city clerks. They felt more comfortable asking questions, making payments, and looking forward to future visits. Established European merchants chose the moment to fund a xenophobic campaign against Jews and Orientals. They supported Congressman Angel Ladron de Gueยญvara who organized demonstrations and launched a press campaign. He succeeded in getting Jews and Orientals expelled from the Lagunilla market center of Mexico City and was working on expelling them from Mexico.
Anita went to work. She cabled The Nation to document the need for an interview with President Abelardo Rodriguez and Angel Ladron de Guevara. The Nation responded with telegrams pressuring for information. Anita got the facts about the anti-Semitic campaign and President Rodriยญquez’s statement on the front pages of the local press. The Nation published interviews as well as a statement from the president to effectively stopยญ the campaign. Jews would not be expelled from Mexico. Their nationalยญity would not be revoked; they were safe.
Anita had initiated her career as a journalist in the twenties writing about Mexico. Her role defending the Jewish community of Mexico was a bridge from her past to her future, writing in defense of people in trouble. Her identification with the Jewish people is closely related to her struggles in independent radical-she was an independent Jew and an independenยญt radical.
Natalia Timerman (Sรฃo Paulo, 1981) รฉ uma mรฉdicapsiquiatra, psicoterapeuta, crรญtica literรกria, pesquisadora e escritorabrasileira. Possui graduaรงรฃo em medicina pela Universidade Federal de Sรฃo Paulo, mestrado em psicologia clรญnica pela Universidade de Sรฃo Paulo e especializaรงรฃo em escrita pelo Instituto Vera Cruz. Trabalhou como psiquiatra no Centro Hospitalar do Sistema Penitenciรกrio por mais de uma dรฉcada. ร 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 carcerรกrio de Sรฃo Paulo. A obra trouxe ao pรบblico a vivรชncia de funcionรกrios e detentos que passaram pelo Centro Hospitalar do Sistema Penitenciรกrio. Seu segundo livro รฉ uma coletรขnea de contos de ficรงรฃo, Rachaduras, obra finalista do 62.ยบ Prรชmio Jabuti, publicada pela editora Quelรดnio. 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 contradiรงรตes de ser mรฃe. 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 รณculos 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 inspiraรงรฃo autobiogrรกfica e foi inspirada na experiรชncia da autora com a morte do pai, o mรฉdico infectologista e escritor Artur Timerman o luto vivido e sua relaรงรฃo com o judaรญsmo.
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Natalia Timerman (Sรฃo Paulo, 1981) is a Brazilian psychiatrist, psychotherapist, literary critic, researcher and writer. He has a degree in medicine from the Federal University of Sรฃo Paulo, a master’s degree in clinical psychology from the University of Sรฃo 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 Sรฃo 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 Quelรดnio. 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 รณculos 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 รฉ familiar, em um contexto tรฃo diferente, o aeroporto, e jรก passados tantos anos de quando o havia visto pela รบltima vez, no hospital, um dia antes da morte do meu pai. Devo ter sorrido; ele tambรฉm sorri e se aproxima de mim um pouco mais, um tanto mudado, mas sรณ depois penso que ele me reconheceu mais rรกpido, o que รฉ estranho, ou deveria ser, pois os mรฉdicos tรชm milhares de pacientes, e os pacientes e seus familiares, apenas um mรฉdico em cada situaรงรฃo. Ainda que meu pai fosse mรฉdico e eu tambรฉm; durante aqueles dias, รฉramos pacientes, ou melhor, meu pai era o paciente do dr. Felipe, mรฉdico de cuidados paliativos, e eu, apenas a filha de um homem com uma doenรงa terminal.
ร claro que ele nรฃo se lembra do meu nome, penso, postada diante dele na fila do cafรฉ, surpresa com aquele encontro; penso em dizรช-lo eu mesma, evitando algum constrangimento, se รฉ que seria constrangedor um mรฉdico se esquecer do nome da filha do seu paciente tantos anos depois. Mas nรฃo digo nada; sorrio de volta โ ou antes, ou ao mesmo tempo โ, um sorriso triste, porque esse encontro, essa presenรงa, remete de imediato ร queles dias, jรก passados faz tanto tempo, mas a morte nรฃo passa, ela continua, continua, continua.
O contato com o dr. Felipe nas รบltimas semanas de vida do meu pai foi tรฃo constante que, nos dias seguintes ร sua morte, tive diversas vezes o รญmpeto de ligar para ele de novo, como se seu paciente ainda existisse, ou como se falar com o mรฉdico pudesse fazer que o paciente continuasse ou voltasse a existir, resolvesse o engano, porque no inรญcio (e atรฉ hoje, em alguns momentos, quando olho com atenรงรฃo alguma foto do meu pai, seu rosto tรฃo conhecido, o gesto congelado na imagem, que poderia do lado de fora da foto continuar a se mover, falar, viver) tive a forte impressรฃo de que aquilo era algum tipo de equรญvoco โ morrer, meu pai morrer, palavras que nรฃo combinam, que atรฉ hoje tenho dificuldade de ver juntas.
Ou como se o dr. Felipe pudesse agora cuidar nรฃo da dor do meu pai, que jรก nรฃo existia, mas da minha, da minha dor de nรฃo haver mais a dor e a vida do meu pai. Alรด, Felipe (eu o chamava pelo nome, nunca consegui chamรก-lo de doutor, talvez porque eu mesma odeie ser chamada de doutora), aqui รฉ a Natalia, filha do Artur, bom dia, tudo bem?; entรฃo, Felipe, o Artur jรก nรฃo existe, mas eu ainda existo, vocรช poderia me ajudar?; aliรกs, por acaso ainda sou filha dele?; como รฉ ser filha de alguรฉm que jรก nรฃo estรก?; nรฃo sinto dor, ou melhor, sinto muita, mas nรฃo aquela dor insuportรกvel que meu pai sentiu nos รบltimos meses, aquela para a qual vocรช prescreveu morfina e pregabalina e doses impensรกveis de dipirona e depois, como nada disso adiantasse, patches de fentanil; nรฃo, minha dor รฉ outra, tambรฉm insuportรกvel, mas vem em ondas, e, quando vem, รฉ como se me estrangulasse, tirasse meu prumo, e tomo consciรชncia da aberraรงรฃo do meu corpo, de ter um corpo, em um mundo no qual meu pai nรฃo existe mais, e percebo meus braรงos vazios, que o calor do abraรงo do meu pai jรก nรฃo estรก, nunca mais estarรก, e meus braรงos pendem, murchos, levando meus ombros para baixo, e minha cabeรงa olha para o chรฃo, onde alguns dias atrรกs enterramos meu pai, eu ajudei a enterrรก-lo, joguei trรชs pรกs de terra por sobre seu caixรฃo e depois finquei a pรก na terra revolvida para que outra pessoa a tomasse e cumprisse o mesmo ritual, como manda o judaรญsmo, e eu, que nunca fui judia, quer dizer, que desde a adolescรชncia ignorei a religiรฃo da minha famรญlia, me vi de repente cumprindo cada ritual com um alรญvio impensรกvel 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 sรกbado de manhรฃ, ร s 9h43, no Shabat. E entรฃo fomos para casa enquanto o corpo dele ficava na morgue do hospital, esperando ser levado para o cemitรฉrio na manhรฃ do dia seguinte, pois durante o Shabat se deve descansar, esta รฉ uma das leis mรกximas do judaรญsmo: nรฃo fazer esforรงos, nรฃo dirigir carros, nรฃo velar corpos ou transportar caixรตes.
Foi um dia estranho. Meu pai havia morrido, e cada coisa continuava no lugar. Na rua, na praรงa cheia de รกrvores na frente de casa, onde os meninos brincam, tudo permanecia do mesmo jeito, se movimentando, as รกrvores, os pรกssaros, os barulhos, os carros no asfalto, tudo igual, mas havia um silรชncio por trรกs das coisas. A morte รฉ um silรชncio, atrรกs de cada som hรก esse silรชncio, 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 vocรช nรฃo pode mais ligar, eu nรฃo posso mais falar com vocรช, e no entanto, tudo como se continuasse.
Gabi veio para minha casa. Minha irmรฃ รฉ engenheira naval, uma profissรฃo que precisa de mar para ser exercida, e hรก muitos anos nรฃo mora mais em Sรฃo Paulo. Ela sempre ficava na casa do nosso pai quando estava na cidade, mas agora nรฃo, agora nรฃo mais, nรฃo hรก mais casa do nosso pai, aliรกs, ainda havia, naquele dia, mas sem nosso pai, que รฉ o mesmo que nรฃo haver mais casa dele. Minha irmรฃ passou o dia deitada em silรชncio, mal comeu, mal bebeu, mal podia andar.
Ao sairmos do hospital, deixando para trรกs o corpo, pegamos suas malas. Gabi tinha vindo direto de viagem e, desde que chegara, nรฃo arredara pรฉ do quarto do nosso pai, que nรบmero era?, jรก nรฃo me lembro, nem em que andar, dรฉcimo, sexto? Ela nรฃo tinha forรงas para carregar as malas, ela quase nรฃo tinha forรงas para carregar a si mesma.
Tinha sido assim no enterro e na cerimรดnia um pouco antes. Minha irmรฃ nรฃo conseguia ficar de pรฉ. Alguรฉm veio me perguntar se ela havia tomado algum remรฉdio, jรก nรฃo lembro quem, algum amigo dela. Nรฃo havia, simplesmente a forรงa se esvaรญra do seu corpo. Ao lado do meu pai atรฉ o รบltimo instante โ Gabi estava com ele quando o coraรงรฃo parou de bater; foi ela quem, de pรฉ junto do leito, enquanto uma enfermeira lhe dava banho, percebeu que ele havia parado de respirar โ, ao lado do meu pai ela estava firme. E nos telefonou com uma voz doce, calma, papai descansou, mas assim que saรญmos de perto dele, assim que nos pediram que levรกssemos todas as coisas do quarto do hospital pois viriam retirar o corpo, ela desmoronou.
Gabi tambรฉm cumpriu os rituais judaicos. Nรฃo sei quanto ao meu irmรฃo; ela e eu, tudo que nos orientavam a seguir, seguรญamos. E aquilo fazia sentido, pela primeira vez me senti amparada pela religiรฃo, nรฃo por Deus, mas pelos meus antepassados, que conheciam a dor que eu sentia e haviam inventado rituais que tentavam acolhรช-la, amenizรก-la, circunscrevรช-la. O mero fato de que havia regras para a Shivรก, 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 bagunรงasse o sentido de tudo, era conhecida e, de alguma forma, natural.
Foi necessรกrio segurar minha irmรฃ pelo braรงo para que ela conseguisse ficar de pรฉ diante do rabino, na pequena reza antes do enterro. Havia tanta gente no espaรงo que o caixรฃo do meu pai ficou no salรฃo de rezas (era uma sinagoga? Nรฃo sei, essas horas passadas no cemitรฉrio estรฃo todas um pouco borradas), e nรฃo nas salinhas do cemitรฉrio judaico destinadas aos velรณrios. Ficamos sentados nas cadeiras da frente โ minha irmรฃ, eu, meu irmรฃo, a mulher do meu pai, a filha dela. Um terrรญvel privilรฉgio, esse lugar da frente: bem diante da dor, o lugar da dor. Gabi ficou sentada quase o tempo todo; eu me levantava, ia beber รกgua, sentia uma sede terrรญvel, pegava รกgua para minha irmรฃ, ou alguรฉm aparecia com um copo cheio para cada uma, e eu andava para lรก e para cรก, perdida.
Eu recebia abraรงos e, tonta de um cansaรงo antigo, descobria sรณ depois de separados os troncos quem havia abraรงado. รs vezes os rostos eram desconhecidos, mas os abraรงos me pareciam bons, quentes, um lugar onde eu queria simplesmente dormir. Ou via o rosto de alguรฉm que me lembrava de uma รฉpoca da minha vida, da vida do meu pai, o cara com quem ele trabalhou durante toda a minha infรขncia, mais magro, muito mais velho, menor que a imagem que eu tinha dele, e entรฃo, ao abraรงรก-lo, chorava de novo, e mais, enquanto o sentia triste, porรฉm rijo, como se estivesse me segurando e amparando meu choro.
Havia quem comeรงasse a chorar jรก ao me ver, algumas amigas que gostavam muito do meu pai e que misturavam seu choro ao meu quando nos abraรงรกvamos. Esses eram os melhores abraรงos, eu me sentia um pouco fora de mim, como se parte minha estivesse com elas, e isso me proporcionava algum tipo de alรญvio, elas sentindo no meu lugar, me oferecendo um descanso do insuportรกvel.
Havia tambรฉm os abraรงos protocolares. Nรฃo eram ruins; cumpriam seu papel, e cumprir papรฉis preenche espaรงos vazios, em geral um pouco estranhos, tanto mais naquela situaรงรฃo. Havia quem abraรงasse demais, nรฃo sei por quรช, e isso nรฃo tinha a ver com a intimidade prรฉvia nem com algum critรฉrio, se pudessem existir critรฉrios de abraรงo; eram abraรงos que pediam mais do que davam, e naquela hora eu simplesmente nรฃo tinha nada a oferecer. Havia quem me abraรงasse com os olhos, de longe, por nรฃo conseguir se aproximar muito, seja pela falta de espaรงo, seja porque nรฃo houvesse caminho. Havia tantas partes da minha vida ali, no enterro do meu pai, na presenรงa de tanta gente e do tempo espalhado naquelas pessoas, mas aquilo era um absurdo, havia algo que nรฃo se encaixava, tantos amigos de รฉpocas diferentes da vida do meu pai, seria tรฃo รณbvio que justo ele estivesse ali, mas nรฃo: aquilo estava acontecendo justo porque ele nรฃo estava mais.
2
Ari, o mais velho dos cinco filhos de Jacรณ e Feyga (mais conhecida como Fani) โ dos quais Artur, meu pai, era o terceiro โ, veio me perguntar se eu queria discursar na cerimรดnia. Algum dos familiares prรณximos teria de dizer algo sobre o morto, fazer um pequeno discurso sobre a vida e as aรงรตes de quem morreu, da mesma forma que o patriarca Abraรฃo fez pela esposa Sara, vim a saber bem depois. Percebi que nรฃo, eu nรฃo queria falar nada, mas disse que sim, pois รฉ o que meu pai faria. Meu pai falaria. Nรฃo me lembro da ordem da cerimรดnia, nรฃo me lembro exatamente do que eu disse para as pessoas que lotavam o recinto sentadas e em pรฉ โ nunca vi um enterro tรฃo cheio, comentou o rabino, talvez tentando nos consolar de alguma maneira; lembro-me, jรก de pรฉ, diante de todo mundo, de respirar fundo algumas vezes e ser invadida pela sensaรงรฃo de que nรฃo conseguiria; de que, se abrisse a boca, sรณ poderia ser para chorar. Mas entรฃo meus irmรฃos, ambos, se levantaram ao mesmo tempo โ Gabi se ergueu sozinha nesse momento โ e se postaram um de cada lado meu, sem dizer nada, sem que isso tivesse sido combinado. Assim, com eles junto a mim, foi possรญvel falar. Eu disse algo como: se meu pai pudesse escolher qualquer coisa, escolheria a vida dele, a prรณpria vida que ele tinha levado, enquanto escutava os narizes fungando no salรฃo.
O enterro e a cerimรดnia que o antecede sรฃo um teatro. Eu sabia que as pessoas me observavam, observavam a mim, meu irmรฃo e minha irmรฃ chorando, observavam a companheira do meu pai atรดnita, e isso me dava certa sensaรงรฃo de farsa, a dor que eu comunicava nรฃo era a mesma que eu sentia, hรก um abismo entre ambas, mas as cerimรดnias sรฃo um teatro necessรกrio, pois por trรกs delas nรฃo hรก nada, รฉ isto a morte, nada, e isso nรฃo รฉ possรญvel 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 wonโt 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 backโor first, or at the same timeโa sad smile, because this meeting, this presence, brings me right back to that time, so long ago. But death doesnโt 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 mistakeโdying, 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), itโs 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 whoโs 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, whoโd 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 Sรฃo 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 sheโd taken anything, I don’t remember who, a friend of hers. She hadnโt, the strength had simply drained from her body. By my father’s side until the last momentโGabi 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 heโd stopped breathingโshe stood firm beside my father. And she called us and said, in a sweet, calm voice, Dadโs 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 rowโmy 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, Iโd 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 wasnโt 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)โof whom Artur, my father, was the thirdโcame 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 standingโIโve 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 wasnโt 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 timeโGabi got up on her own thenโand 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 wasnโt the same as what I was feeling, thereโs an abyss between the two, but ceremonies are a necessary theater, because behind them thereโs nothing, that is death, nothing, and thatโs something impossible to bear.
Timerman, Natalia. As pequenas chances. Todavia. Kindle Edition.
Jacques Sterenberg naciรณ en 1959 en Lima, Perรบ. Como hijo de madre chilena, su nacimiento fue inscrito en el Consulado de Chile en Lima y a los tres aรฑos llegรณ a vivir a nuestro paรญs. Es Licenciado en Artes Plรกsticas por la Universidad de Chile. Durante su formaciรณn fue invitado a participar en la muestra “Arte & Textos, Provincia Seรฑalada”(1983) realizada Santiago, Chile. En 1994 se trasladรณ a Israel tras obtener una beca para artistas otorgada por el Jerusalem Post. En ese mismo paรญs, en el cual se radicรณ, tomรณ cursos de impresiรณn y pintura industrial, asรญ como tambiรฉn de diseรฑo grรกfico computacional. Ademรกs, viviรณ y trabajรณ en Estados Unidos entre 1998 y 1999, posteriormente volviรณ a Tel Aviv. Su estadรญa en el extranjero permitiรณ la internacionalizaciรณn de su carrera, durante la cual ha exhibido sus obras en Israel, Estados Unidos, Alemania, Francia, Hungrรญa, Espaรฑa y Holanda, destacรกndose sus exposiciones individuales “To the Moon and Back” (2015-2014) en Menashe Art Gallery, Israel, y “Los dos juntos y cada uno por separado” (2017) en Granot Factories, Israel; ademรกs fue parte de “Art Beyond Boundaries” (2016-2017) que transitรณ por diversas ciudades de Estados Unidos. No obstante, Sterenberg ha mantenido siempre contacto con Chile, esto se refleja en su participaciรณn en muestras colectivas de la Galerรญa Artium, los aรฑos 2012 y 2015, y en la exposiciรณn “Eduardo Torres & Jacques Sterenberg”(2011) en Galerรญa Trece, todas en Santiago. Entre los reconocimientos obtenidos en el desarrollo de su carrera, destaca el primer lugar en el concurso “Postal Card Inter Ministerial Committee For Outstanding Artists “(1996), en Tel Aviv, Israel.
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Jacques Sterenberg was born in 1959 in Lima, Peru. As the son of a Chilean mother, his birth was registered at the Chilean Consulate in Lima and at the age of three he came to live in our country. He has a degree in Plastic Arts from the University of Chile. During his training he was invited to participate in the exhibition Arte & Textos, Provincia Indicada (1983) held in Santiago, Chile. In 1994 he moved to Israel after obtaining an artist scholarship from the Jerusalem Post. In that same country, where he settled, he took courses in industrial printing and painting, as well as computer graphic design. In addition, he lived and worked in the United States between 1998 and 1999, later returning to Tel Aviv. His stay abroad allowed the internationalization of his career, during which he has exhibited his works in Israel, the United States, Germany, France, Hungary, Spain and Holland, highlighting his individual exhibitions “To the Moon and Back”(2015-2014) in Menashe Art Gallery, Israel, and “Both Together and Each Separately” (2017) at Granot Factories, Israel; He was also part of “Art Beyond Boundaries” (2016-2017) that traveled through various cities in the United States. However, Sterenberg has always maintained contact with Chile, this is reflected in his participation in group exhibitions at the Artium Gallery, in 2012 and 2015, and in the exhibition “Eduardo Torres & Jacques Sterenberg” (2011) at Galerรญa Trece, all in Santiago. Among the many recognitions achieved in his career, the first place in the “Postal Card Inter Ministerial Committee For Outstanding Artists” competition (1996) in Tel Aviv, Israel stands out.
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Sterenberg desarrolla sus pinturas utilizando una paleta cromรกtica intensa, en la que predominan los colores primarios, los cuales contrasta entre sรญ y complementa con el uso de escalas de grises para desarrollar matices โantinaturalesโ en sus paisajes y retratos. Estos รบltimos se caracterizan por el minimalismo de los rasgos y expresiones hierรกticas de los personajes que protagonizan las obras.
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Sterenberg develops his paintings using an intense color palette, in which primary colors predominate, which he contrasts with each other and complements with the use of gray scales to develop โunnaturalโ nuances in his landscapes and portraits. The latter are characterized by the minimalism of the hieratic features and expressions of the characters who star in the works.
Adaptado de “Museo de Bellas Artes de Chile“/Adapted from “Museum of Fine Arts of Chile”
Traducciones del espaรฑol al idish, con otras al inglรฉs/
Translations from Spanish into Yiddish, with others into English ___________________________
Karina Lerman
Crear el libro:
La idea del libro pensado al modo de una antologรญa -como una especie de tejido viviente surgiรณ en plena รฉpoca de cuarentena. En esos tiempos de tanta incertidumbre y aturdimiento intentรฉ conectarme con algo mรกs personal y placentero que me llevรณ al estudio de un curso: prรกcticas y poรฉticas de la judeidad, a cargo de la coordinaciรณn de Susana Skura y equipo dentro de un programa de extensiรณn universitaria de la UBA(Argentina). Una exquisita labor a travรฉs de la cual el idish, como pieza sensible, brillaba en todas sus expresiones artรญsticas (teatro, literatura, material archivรญstico, mรบsica etc). Allรญ, sin saberlo, la docente de mรบsica idish Yasmin Garfunkel serรญa la traductora oficial de este proyecto que llevรณ 3 aรฑos. Proyecto transitado con muchos bemoles, altibajos, desesperanza; y gracias a la apuesta y tozudez personal y la valentรญa y amorosidad de la traductora pudo llevarse a cabo y ver la luz. La idea de la convocatoria era pesquisar, no sรณlo autoras judรญas, sino poรฉticas que tuvieran un recorrido vital relacionado con la judeidad; no necesariamente con el idish en su especificidad, pero sรญ cierta historia afectiva y de pensamiento para con ello. Fue precioso convocarlas y dialogar con cada una: largas charlas, grandes emociones recordando cuestiones personales que las reconectaban con la lengua del idish (si bien la mayorรญa no habla ni lee en idish). Asรญ, se sumaron autoras de diversas latitudes (Argentina, Mรฉxico, Venezuela). Demรกs aclarar que durante el proceso de la antologรญa dos autoras fallecieron; pero fue muy conmovedor encontrarse con la empatรญa de los familiares para colaborar y participar. A quienes tambiรฉn agradezco.Agrego que pueden contactarme a kariler1214@gmail.com para acercarse a la antologรญa que es de carรกcter digital y gratuito.
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Karina Lerman
Creating a book:
The idea of โโthe book thought of as an anthology – as a kind of living tissue – emerged in the middle of quarantine time. In these times of so much uncertainty and daze I tried to connect with something more personal and pleasant that led me to study of a course: practices and poetics of Jewishness, in charge of the coordination of Susana Skura and team within a UBA university extension program (Argentina). An exquisite work through which Yiddish, as a sensitive piece, shone in all its artistic expressions (theater, literature, archival material, music, etc.). There, without knowing this, Yiddish music teacher Yasmin Garfunkel would be the official translator of this project that took 3 years. Project traveled with many flats, ups and downs, hopelessness; and thanks to the commitment and personal stubbornness and the bravery and love of the translator was able to be carried out and see the light. the idea of โโthe call was to research, not only Jewish authors, but also poetic ones who had a vital journey related to Jewishness; not necessarily with Yiddish in their specificity, but a certain emotional and thought history towards it. It was beautiful to contact them and dialogue with each one: long talks, great emotions remembering personal issues that reconnected them with the Yiddish language (although most did not speak or read in Yiddish). Thus, authors from different latitudes joined in (Argentina, Mexico,Venezuela). Two authors died during the anthology process; but it was very moving to find the empathy of the family members to collaborate and participate. To whom I also thank. I add that you can contact me at kariler1214@gmail.com to get closer to the anthology which is digital and free.
Karina Lerman, Curadora de/Curator of La lengua en fllgrana
Karina Lerman. Poeta, psicoanalista, maestra de idioma hebreo y docente universitaria. Artista visual. Editรณ Las hijas de Lot (2018), Perlas, (2022) y la antologรญa Cรณmo decir, (2019). Primera menciรณn del premio Adolfo Bioy Casares (2019) con su poemario Cayupรกn. Y narrarรกs a tus hijos por el Centro Ana Frank de Argentina. Compiladora y curadora de la antologรญa digital Enhebradas, de una poiesis psicoanalรญtica en tiempos de pandemia (2021, 2023); la Antologรญa Mujeres en voz (2022). La antologรญa poรฉtica digital De pรฉrdidas y duelo. Cartografรญa de los cuerpos, (2023) y Costuras de la palabra (2023). La antologรญa al idish La lengua en filigrana (2023). Ha sido traducida al mapuzungรบn, griego e idish.
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Karina Lerman. Poet, psychoanalyst, Hebrew language teacher and university professor. Visual artist. She edited Las hijas de Lot (2018), Perlas (2022) and the anthology Cรณmo decir, (2019). First mention of the Adolfo Bioy Casares award (2019) with her collection of poems Cayupรกn. Y narrarรกs a tus hijos for the Anne Frank Center in Argentina. Compiler and curator of the anthology Enhebradas: de una poiesis psicoanalรญtica en tiempos de pandemia, (2021, 2023); the anthologies Y narrarรกs a tus hijos (2022), Mujeres en voz, (2023) and De pรฉrdidas y duelo. Cartografรญa de los cuerpos (2023)and Costuras de la palabra (2023). The Yiddish anthology La lengua en filigrana (2023). Her work been translated into Mapuzungun, Greek and Yiddish.
[1] Mikvah: es el espacio donde se realizan los baรฑos de purificaciรณn que prescribe el judaรญsmo. La mikvah no puede estar llena con agua estancada, sino que tiene que ser agua corriente. La palabra hace uso de las mismas raรญces en hebreo que la palabra โesperanza.โ
[1]Mikvah is the space where the purification baths prescribed by Judaism are carried out. The mikvah cannot be filled with stagnant water but must be running water. The word uses the same roots in Hebrew as the word โhope.โ
Presentaciรณn de la antologรญa/Presentation of the Anthology
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Miembros del equipo/Members of the team
Las poetas/The Poets
Raquel Jaduszliwer naciรณ en San Fernando, Pcia. de Buenos Aires.Psicoanalista. Reside en Buenos Aires. En poesรญa publicรณ poemarios entre2012 y 2023.ย Integrรณ diversas antologรญas.ย Publicรณ una nouvelle. Obtuvo varios premios nacionales eย internacionales.
Karina Lerman Vea arriba.
Laura Fuksman naciรณ en Buenos Aires. Es mรฉdica clรญnica y terapeuta corporal. Coordina Encuentros de Movimiento y Experimentaciรณn Corporal y Laboratorio de Recursosย Expresivos. Publicรณ diversos poemarios entre los aรฑos 2016-2021. Participรณ en antologรญas.ย
Celina Feuerstein naciรณ en Buenos Aires. Es Licenciada en Psicologรญa.Trabaja comoย psicoanalista. Poeta. Tiene textos en verso y prosa poรฉtica. Publicรณ poemarios entre 2018 y 2022. Sus poemas se publicaron en antologรญas.ย
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ย Raquel Jaduszliwer was born in San Fernando, Province of Buenos Aires. Psychoanalyst. She resides in Buenos Aires. She published books of poetry between 2012 and 2023. Her poems appear in several anthologies. She published a novel. She has won several national and international awards.
Karina Lerman See above.
Laura Fuksman was born in Buenos Aires. She is a clinical doctor and body therapist at Body Movement and Experimentation and Expressive Resources Laboratory. She published several collections of poems between the years 2016-2021. Her work is found in anthologies.
Celina Feuerstein was born in Buenos Aires. She has a degree in Psychology. He works as a psychoanalyst. Poet, with texts in verse and poetic prose. He published poetry collections between 2018 and 2022. Her poems were published in anthologies.
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Jefa de los traductores al idish/Head of the translators into Yiddish
Yasmin Garfunkel es cantante, docente e investigadora especializada en el idioma y cultura รญdish. Como cantante ha realizado conciertos en Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro, Ciudad de Mรฉxico y Tel Aviv. Junto a Federico Garber en el piano, con quien conforma el dรบo โGarfunkel Gaberโ, ha recibido premios del Instituto de Mรบsica Judaica de Brasil en el marco del Kleztival, y en el concurso โIdisher Idolโ, llevado a cabo en la ciudad de Mรฉxico. Colabora con la banda klezmer Peretz Garcik dirigida por Juliรกn Brenlle. Como docente ha brindado talleres de canciones en รญdish en la Universidad de Tel Aviv, para alumnos de la Universidad de Columbia de Nueva York y del Comitรฉ Central Israelita del Uruguay
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Yasmin Garfunkel is a singer, teacher and researcher specialized in the Yiddish language and culture. As a singer he has performed concerts in Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro, Mexico City and Tel Aviv. Together with Federico Garber on the piano, with whom he forms the duo โGarfunkel Gaberโ, she has received awards from the Institute of Jewish Music of Brazil within the framework of the Kleztival, and in the โIdisher Idolโ contests, held in the city of Mexico. she collaborates with the klezmer band Peretz Garcik directed by Juliรกn Brenlle. As a teacher, she has offered Yiddish song workshops at Tel Aviv University, for students at Columbia University in New York and the Central Jewish Committee of Uruguay.
Daniela Roitstein naciรณ en Buenos Aries. “Escritora, editora, comunicadora. Profesora de estudios hebreos y judaicos. Me especializo en comunicaciรณn 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 ficciรณn como de ficciรณn. Soy cofundadora y directora de Editorial Furtiva. He traducido textos del inglรฉs al espaรฑol. Soy Licenciada en Derecho por la UB de Buenos Aires, y Postgrado en Comunicaciรณn y Periodismo. de la Universidad Hebrea de Jerusalรฉn. Hablo hebreo e inglรฉs con fluidez. Comunicaciรณn y Periodismo de la Universidad Hebrea de Jerusalรฉn. Hablo hebreo e inglรฉs con fluidez”.โโ Desde su pรกgina 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.”โโโFrom her Facebook page.
Despuรฉs del incendio fui una vez a la sinagoga. Era viernes a la noche, habรญa salido la primera estrella y un impulso entre atรกvico y moderno me llevรณ al templo de mi juventud.
En medio de la crisis econรณmica habรญa resurgido en Buenos Aires una tendencia a la religiosidad practicante.
El Antiguo Testamento es una fascinaciรณn para mรญ. Sรฉ que Eva naciรณ de la costilla de Adรกn, que Caรญn matรณ a Abel y que Esav se perdiรณ por un plato de lentejas. Pero, ademรกs de los relatos bรกsicos, me atrapan los personajes menores. Del relato de Job, por ejemplo โel sufriente sin motivo, el conejillo de Indias de Diosโ mi preferido es Elihรบ: un personaje que aparece apenas perfilado, joven testigo del sufrimiento de Job que acude silencioso al drama. Elihรบ, 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 tรบnica larga y una mirada avivada de color azul como el Mediterrรกneo. Es รฉl quien le reprocha a Job ยซยฟpiensas ser mรกs justo que Dios?ยป, dejando en claro que ve lo que otros ignoran: el mayor pecado del supuesto justo es su soberbia. Elihรบ conoce a Job. Sabe de รฉl. Cuando Job afirma: ยซHabรญa hecho yo un pacto con mis ojos y no miraba a ninguna doncellaยป, ยฟquรฉ habrรก pensado Elihรบ? ยกUna mentira y una injuria para el gรฉnero masculino, mi queridรญsimo Job! ยกUna invitaciรณn 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 Elihรบ.
Eso, junto con ciertos recuerdos de infancia, hicieron el resto del camino.
El frรญo habรญa guardado a los judรญos de Belgrano en el calor de sus casas calefaccionadas y no รฉramos muchos los feligreses. Me sentรฉ bien al fondo, en una fila de sillas azules en la que no habรญa nadie mรกs. Siempre olรญa a reciรฉn pintado allรญ. La alfombra, tambiรฉn azul, obraba maravillas para contrarrestar la frialdad que generaba el gran tamaรฑo del lugar. Era desconcertante que solo se llenara de verdad en las Altas Fiestas. Para esas fechas yo iba al templo que solรญan ir mis abuelos, el de la calle Cosio, donde nadie rezaba mucho, pero tampoco simulaba hacerlo. Indescifrables hilos unรญan las palabras sagradas que los viejos decรญan a destiempo, mientras las viejas intercambiaban recetas de strudel de manzana y el dato de la pescaderรญa en la que molรญan mejor el pescado, la cebolla y la zanahoria para el guefilte fish. Cosio era el รบtero, Belgrano el corazรณn. 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 reciรฉn las siete y media y รฉramos pocos. Era temprano pero tarde, muy tarde; en algรบn lugar era muy tarde para mรญ. Tomรฉ el libro de rezos. Mis manos sudaban sin motivo. Me las sequรฉ en los costados de mi Leviโs 501, el mรกs clรกsico de la marca, que adquirรญ en la primera compra grande que hice con Laura para reaprovisionarme. Vestirme con un 501 era reafirmar lo existente, saber que el cielo no habรญa caรญdo. Para arriba me habรญa puesto una Lacoste rosa, regalo de Norita: No te hubieras molestado, Norita/ยซPero necesitรกs ropa, Ignacio, y ademรกs la comprรฉ en ofertaยป/Esa frase se esperarรญa que la diga yo, Norita/Se sonrรญe, cรณmplice, y me abraza.
Sonaron los acordes anunciando la entrada del rabino; en los รบltimos aรฑos la gente tomรณ la costumbre de ponerse de pie para recibirlo, como si fuera el Santo Padre. Yo no, siempre me incomodaron las jerarquรญas. Me quedรฉ sentado y me sentรญ pequeรฑo viendo desde mi รบltima fila las espaldas de toda la congregaciรณn de pie frente al altar. dio miedo y yo apuraba mis pasos torpes para no detenerme demasiado frente a รฉl. ยฟQuรฉ ven que yo no veo? ยฟQuรฉ miran? ยฟSerรก quรฉ me estoy perdiendo el fin del mundo? La espera de Oelze, artista de la dรฉcada del treinta que mi abuelo admiraba a pesar de su origen alemรกn, que pendรญa majestuoso sobre la cรณmoda de estilo de la casa, se quemรณ con todas mis otras cosas. Mi mamรก quiso dรกrmelo cuando muriรณ mi padre. Recuerdo un detalle del cuadro en el que una mujer y un hombre parecieran estar desertando de la escena. Si siguieran caminando tropezarรญan el uno con el otro, pero el misterio de los cuadros reside, justamente, en su quietud. De chico pensaba que el hombre lo sabรญa todo y por eso huรญa. ยฟY ella? Entendรญa algo que los demรกs solo alcanzaban a atisbar. Huรญa a conciencia.
Sobrecogido me hundรญ en la silla azul. Por instinto me toquรฉ la cabeza confirmando que todo โpelos y kipรกโ estaba en su lugar. Con ese gesto, una mujer sentada a cierta distancia de mรญ creyรณ que la estaba saludando y me sonriรณ con una familiaridad que me incomodรณ. No lograba ubicarla en ningรบn compartimento de mi memoria. Con su mano derecha, con breves sacudidas espasmรณdicas de su palma, bajito y apenas por encima de su ombligo, me saludรณ, como una adolescente contenta. Agucรฉ la vista mientras hacรญa 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 visiรณn del famoso cuadro sino una mujer entre robusta y contundente vestida de verde, con cartera verde, zapatos verdes y un pequeรฑo paรฑuelo alrededor del cuello. El pelo negro lacio y corto, y anillos verdes, pulseras verdes y uรฑas muy largas. Maquillaje en los pรกrpados del mismo color. ยฟDe dรณnde la conocรญa? Seguรญ el servicio religioso en una especie de trance, ya que por algรบn motivo que yo a conciencia ignoraba, la apariciรณn me habรญa encendido una reserva de energรญa de la que carecรญa desde el incendio. Me ponรญa de pie y sentรญa su mirada en mis omรณplatos. Me volvรญa a sentar y veรญa su sonrisa, pero la sonrisa seductora era ahora como de abuela, de amiga de mi madre, como diciendo ยซcuรกnto has cambiadoยป. O ยซno cambiaste nadaยป. Lo mismo da: una sonrisa de alguien que no me ve hace mucho tiempo.
Poco a poco, la sinagoga se fue llenando, la gente ocupรณ los asientos de siempre, como si fueran entradas de cine numeradas. Allรก la que tiene una hija bulรญmica, pero lo esconde. Mรกs a la izquierda, de traje a rayas y zapatos lustrados en la calle Florida, el dueรฑo 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 conocรญa mรกs 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 estรกn guardadas las Torot, disponiรฉndonos a cantar la plegaria Aleinu, en la pรกgina ciento cuarenta seis de nuestros sidurim, y quedaron a la vista las sagradas escrituras en rollos vestidos de hilos dorados y plateados, se elevรณ mi espรญritu. Quien no ha visto nunca la recรกmara de la sinagoga abierta de par en par, mostrando los rollos de los cinco libros de Moisรฉs engalanados, no ha visto nada aรบn. El Pueblo del Libro ataviaba a su obra magna con corona y vestido de reina. Y en el interior, la palabra. Los allรญ presentes estiramos nuestros brazos en sรญmbolo de respeto, besando de lejos el texto, reverenciando en ese beso la tradiciรณn y, por quรฉ no, una cierta magia. Era el momento de pedir, esa era la costumbre en mi familia. Resultaba un poco pagano, como si reverenciรกramos al becerro de oro, pero funcionaba. Cerrรฉ mis ojos y me conectรฉ con una parte de mรญ 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, pedรญ: Dios, me siento mal pero no abatido, solo quiero saber quiรฉn soy ahora. No permitas que recupere mis viejas cosas.
En el balanceo natural de quienes estรกn rezando, mis pies se despegaban del suelo medio centรญmetro hacia adelante, hacia atrรกs, hacia adelante, hacia atrรกs, de forma automรกtica y sin ninguna intenciรณn de mi parte de sumarme a los pรกjaros 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 โ the sufferer without reason, God’s guinea pig โ 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 โ hair and kippah โ 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.
Carlos Szwarcer es historiador, periodista y cuentista judรญo-argentino. Es especialista en la historia de los sefardรญes en la Argentina y ha coleccionado muchos testimonios orales de la gente vieja sefaradรญ de los barrios de Buenos Aires.
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Carlos Szwarcer is an -Argentine Jewish historian, journalist and short-story writer. He is a specialist in the history of Sephardic Jews of Argentina, and he has collected many oral testimonies from older people in Sephardic neighborhoods of Buenos Aires.
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Caminata otoรฑal -regreso a la inocencia-
Por Carlos Szwarcer
Cerrรณ la puerta de la pensiรณn en la que mal vivรญa y se echรณ a andar. Le habรญan dado un lugar para dormir gracias a la gestiรณn de un influyente sefaradรญ que se apiadรณ de รฉl. Estaba abatido. No podรญa creer que su malhadada existencia galopara desbocada por senderos tan antojadizos. โUna bien, otra mal, una bien, otra malโฆโ, pensaba. Arrastrando sus pies, cambiรณ su habitual recorrido, sin motivo alguno. Esta vez encarรณ la calle Gurruchaga hacia la izquierda. Mirรณ hacia la vereda de enfrente. Dos รกngeles de estuco lo observaban con misericordia desde los altos muros de la Iglesia San Bernardo.
โยกQuรฉ gameo! ยฟQuiรฉn me habrรก dicho que me meta en el negocio de las licitaciones? Yo sabรญa que me iba a pasar esto. Vender camisas, tocar el cielo, casa nueva, auto รบltimo modelo, guita[1]โฆ Y despuรฉs, como siempre, ยกperder todo!se decรญa, repasando sus รบltimos aรฑos, moviendo la cabeza hacia uno y otro lado y apretรกndose los labios entrecortando ese rezongo que le brotaba como quejosa plegaria.
Dos chicos que volvรญan a sus casas desde el Colegio Herrera lo observaron y se codearon. Su aspecto era lo suficientemente extraรฑo como para llamar la atenciรณn. Habรญa salido de esa pensiรณn-geriรกtrico tan ensimismado como desalineado; ni se habรญa peinado. Su cabello, otrora renegrido, encanecido demasiado rรกpidamente desde la muerte de su esposa, mostraba cientos de pelos parados como un cepillo viejo y escarchado. Josรฉ percibiรณ esas miradas raras, frunciรณ el ceรฑo y atinรณ a aplastarse con la mano derecha su abundante y desprolija pelambre, volviendo tan profundamente a sus embarullados pensamientos que no advirtiรณ las risotadas juveniles a su espalda.
En la esquina de la calle Murillo se frenรณ instintivamente poco antes de llegar al cordรณn de la vereda. Vaya a saber por quรฉ caprichos de su mente apareciรณ la inesperada y brillante imagen de su abuela fumando aquellos cigarros negros que apestaban el aire del inquilinato. Linda, robusta, peleadora. Hasta habรญa acuchillado a un turco allรก en Esmirna. Tuvo que hacerse respetar e ingeniรกrselas para darle de comer a sus tres hijos. En Turquรญa, su marido, Jaim, cumpliรณ cinco aรฑos de servicio militar y fue larga su ausencia durante la guerra. A Josรฉ le contaron que sus familiares vinieron a Buenos Aires desde el sector mรกs pobre del Karatash, el barrio judรญo de Esmirna, y que su abuelo demostrรณ tempranamente quiรฉn era, como para que no quedaran dudas: perdiรณ la pilcha[2] del casorio[3]jugรกndosela a los dados. Josรฉ mostraba su pรญcara sonrisa cuando tenรญa la ocasiรณn de explicar su teorรญa: la descendencia masculina heredarรญa de aquel patriarca familiar esa irresistible inclinaciรณn por el juego. En charla de amigos, ademรกs, reconocรญa con orgullo el carรกcter fuerte y pendenciero de su abuela, la que habรญa dado tanto que hablar a medio barrio. Cรณmo se peleaba esa mujer con los vecinos, sentada en su destartalada silla de mimbre en la vereda, alardeando con su infaltable cigarro negro a un costado de la boca y seรฑalando con el dedo รญndice. Nadie se le atrevรญa.
โยกQuรฉ tiemposโฆ! โmurmurรณ Josรฉ, emprendiendo absurdamente el cruce de Murillo a ciegas. Una bocina desesperada y el escandaloso ruido de los frenos de una camioneta Ford 400 lo ensordecieron hasta paralizarlo. El paragolpes metรกlico estaba a no mรกs de un centรญmetro de su rodilla. Se quedรณ aturdido y temblando. โยกQuรฉ torpeza la mรญa!โ, rumiรณ asustado.
โยกImbรฉcil! ยฟCรณmo te largรกs a cruzar de golpe? ยฟTe querรฉs matar? โlo increpรณ el conductor del vehรญculo.
Josรฉ, casi sin entender quรฉ le habรญa sucedido, recorriรณ la otra mitad de la calle, pero ahora con sus ojos exageradamente abiertos y abotargados clavados en la figura del joven que aรบn le gritaba por la ventanilla de la Ford. Su corazรณn agitado le percutรญa en la garganta y se balanceรณ sobre el cordรณn de la vereda como si estuviera sobre una baldosa enjabonada. Se recompuso, sacudiรณ la cabeza y tomรณ conciencia de que estuvo a punto de perder su frรกgil vida.
โยฟPero estoy charpeado, en dรณnde tengo el meoio? โexclamรณ apretรกndose las manos y mirando el cielo demasiado celeste.
Dio unos pasos y, tal vez porque instintivamente sabรญa que no habรญa peligro inmediato en los prรณximos cien metros โhasta la prรณxima esquinaโ, volviรณ a meterse de lleno en el tรบnel de los recuerdos mientras caminaba. Que lo echaran de la casa de su hijo era lo รบltimo que hubiera esperado. โยฟPor quรฉ no habrรฉ sacado el carรกcter temerario de mi abuela y atreverme a ponerle un cuchillo en el cuello a mi nueraโฆ, ยฟcรณmo pudo tratarme como un perro?โ, rezongรณ. โNoโฆ estas reacciones no son de gente como yo. ยฟQuรฉ me estรก pasando?โ, se sorprendiรณ de sus disparatados razonamientos. โยกEn quรฉ jal vinimos!โ[4], solรญa decir su abuela para expresar los malos momentos, y a Josรฉ le rondaron estas antiguas y lejanas palabras. Sentรญa amargamente que en el รบltimo tramo de su vida se encontraba en una humillante situaciรณn que no creรญa merecer. De chico habรญa sido rebelde, buscavidas, peleador, pero los aรฑos lo amansaron; los infalibles porrazos en su camino y su mala estrea fueron domando, de a poco, su carรกcter dรญscolo, restos de una remota osadรญa. Estaba entregado. En los รบltimos tiempos se sentรญa como aquel barrilete de su niรฑez al que se le cortรณ el hilo y fue llevado por el vientoโฆ hacia ningรบn lugar.
Al llegar a la esquina de Padilla decidiรณ abandonar por un momento sus pensamientos y mirรณ la calle antes de cruzar. Dejรณ pasar un micro naranja con niรฑos que iban o venรญan de algรบn colegio cercano, esta vez con los pies firmes apoyados en el cordรณn y, ya sin vehรญculos cercanos, apurรณ el paso y cruzรณ. Al llegar a la mitad de la cuadra escuchรณ la voz estridente de Roberto, su amigo de juergas, que le gritaba desde la entrada del mercadito de enfrente: โEh, Josรฉ, ยฟvas al Cafรฉ San Bernardo?โ.
โNo, no tengo un mango[5]para morfar[6]โฆno voy a ir al cafรฉ a jugar a las cartasโle contestรณ, arreglรกndose otra vez la cabellera y levantando la mano para saludar a su amigo.
โยกNo seas llorรณn! โle recriminรณ Roberto, que resignadamente encogiรณ los hombros y mientras se alejaba le gritรณ su frase habitualโ: ยกChau!โฆ Cheโฆ, ยกno te pierdas Josecito!
Josรฉ continuรณ su periplo en ese dรญa frรญo y esquivo, aunque el sol que le daba de frente acariciaba su rostro. Por un rato disfrutรณ de ese regalo de la naturaleza que le arrancรณ una media sonrisa de satisfacciรณn. Pero enseguida volviรณ a sumergirse en sus largas cavilaciones: โยกCuรกnta plata perdรญ en el juego, con la cuarta parte de lo que despilfarrรฉ podrรญa vivir tranquilo y no de la compasiรณn de los demรกsโฆ!โ.
Al llegar a la ochava de la calle Camargo mirรณ a la izquierda, hacia la mitad de cuadra, no habรญa nadie conocido en la puerta del Templo Sefaradรญ, excepto dos mastodontes del servicio de seguridad. Ese sitio ya no era el mismo desde los atentados a la Embajada de Israel y la AMIA: habรญan construido esos pilares para protecciรณn y tenรญa custodia permanente. Posรณ sus ojos marrones en la vereda de enfrente, en el nuevo negocio que por aรฑos fuera el almacรฉn de โmuรฑecoโ Goldfarb. โยฟQuรฉ habrรก sido de aquel flaco y pรกlido ashkenazรญ que rara vez su rostro veรญa la luz del sol? El pobre se pasaba dรญa tras dรญa parapetado detrรกs de su roja mรกquina de cortar fiambresโ, recordรณ con nostalgia.
Dejรณ pasar un colectivo 65 y cruzรณ la calle. Los cien metros siguientes hasta la gran avenida Corrientes no fueron sencillos de recorrer. La enorme red de su memoria lo atraparรญa hasta casi inmovilizarlo. Intuรญa que los recuerdos le traerรญan imรกgenes inevitables. Se dejรณ llevar lentamente por sus flacas y huesudas piernas, atraรญdo por los claroscuros de su pasado. De chico habรญa vivido en un inquilinato de esa cuadra por casi veinte aรฑos, cuando todo era distinto. Buenos Aires, Villa Crespo, la calle Gurruchagaโฆ, cรณmo habรญan cambiado, tanto como su propia vida.
Momentos de su infancia fueron pasando del sepia al color. Su padre โque habรญa hecho de todo para sobrevivirโ fue changarรญn[7]en el puerto, mozo de bodas y de cafรฉ, vendedor ambulante y โยกquรฉ gran bailarรญn!โ: por el arte de su danza armoniosa manteniendo una botella sobre la cabeza sin que se le cayera, acompaรฑรกndose con un par de cucharas marcando el ritmo oriental, tuvo cierta fama como para ganarse muchos aplausos, unos pocos pesos de propina y algunas copas sin cargo. Los รบltimos aรฑos se chupaba hasta una botella de whisky en el dรญa. Fue tan bueno como tarambana, se gastaba todo con los amigos, en el cafรฉ, en las carreras de caballos, jugando en el pรณquerโฆ hasta lo que no tenรญa.
Ese trรกgico gen familiar los persiguiรณ por generaciones. El abuelo de Josรฉ vino a โla Amerikaโ con ese vicio del juego, y un tรญo abuelo fue cรฉlebre por sus juergas desmedidas, jugosas anรฉcdotas que hasta se mencionan en algunos libros que cuentan la historia del barrio. Ni su padre fue ajeno a esta pasiรณn lรบdica y, para quรฉ negarlo, Josรฉ tampoco. ยกEse maldito gen! Pobre su madre, tuvo que rebuscรกrsela lavando ropa para los paisanos. Pero claro que era otra รฉpoca. Si no habรญa plata se las arreglaban. Ella, con un peso que le daba su esposo, hacรญa las cuatro comidas. โยกEra un milagro!โ. Comรญan โqueso rallado al tandurโ[8].โยกQuรฉ ricoโฆ, habรญa alegrรญa!โ. Derretรญan el queso con pan y lo acompaรฑaban con tรฉ y salmodiaban:โHoy cumimos, a Dios bendicimos y maรฑana veremosโ.
โYo fui felizโ, se decรญa Josรฉ y, atraรญdo por una fuerza extraรฑa que lo sacรณ abruptamente de sus elucubraciones, se detuvo frente al nรบmero 432. El local exhibรญa sus persianas marrรณn oscuro bajas y oxidadas. Era el Cafรฉ Izmir, que habรญa cerrado tiempo atrรกs. ยฟCuรกnto hacรญa que no pasaba por su frente? Los รบltimos aรฑos habรญa cambiado mucho porque se fueron muriendo los viejos turcos sefaradรญes como su padre. El local cerrado que tenรญa ante su vista habรญa perdido sus caracterรญsticas orientales y tambiรฉn la fama que supo tener en el barrio. Lo habรญan dejado deteriorarse, fue agonizando de a poco. Pero todavรญa estaba allรญ, resistiรฉndose a desaparecer del todo. Josรฉ se quedรณ duro frente a la persiana central, la mรกs angosta, la que ocultaba la doble puerta vaivรฉn de madera noble por la que habรญan pasado cientos de veces su abuelo, sus tรญos, su padre y tantos otros. Hubiera sido un pecado seguir de largo y no recordar que sus familiares contaron mรกs las horas allรญ que en sus propias casas. โยฟQuรฉ encanto habrรก tenido este sitio para atrapar tan fuertemente a los varones de mi familia?โ, se preguntรณ. รl no podรญa explicarse con exactitud quรฉ representรณ ese cafรฉ para los sefaradรญes, griegos, armenios, pero estaba seguro de que pasar, aunque sea un rato por allรญ, fue casi una obligaciรณn para todos ellos; era como ir a un templo o a una iglesia, encontraban algo de sus lejanas tierras. Se entretenรญan, jugaban a los naipes, escuchaban mรบsica, comรญan y bebรญan esos exquisitos manjares orientales, y las bailarinasโฆ ยกAhโฆ las bailarinas!, cรณmo les gustaban a sus mayores. Tantas veces su madre lo mandรณ a buscar a su padre y cuรกntas veces รฉl le contestรณ โยกVรกte de aquรญ hiyico, no fastidies!โ. Frecuentemente Josรฉ observaba de reojo el interior tras esa neblina impregnada del espeso humo de tabaco fuerte y de las comidas turcas, aromas imprescindibles que llegaban hasta la calle. Sus tรญos y su padre, eternos jugadores de cartas, cuando lo veรญan parado y desgarbado en el umbral de entrada mirando hacia adentro, empujaban el aire rรญtmicamente con las manos, desde el fondo del local, enviรกndole la seรฑal cotidiana: โno molestesโ. Tampoco conseguรญa que sus parientes le dieran los cinco centavos que valรญa la pelota para jugar con los pibes de la barrita de Camargo. Siempre ese ademรกn desde el fondo del cafรฉ lo invitaba a irse. Era parte de los tantos ritos cotidianos. Su madre lo volvรญa a mandar una y otra vez: โยกDile a tu padre ke ya me enfaziรณ[9], que o viene ya o se queda sin cumida!โ.
โCuรกntas cosas, ยฟno? ยฟEn quรฉ lugar estarรก guardado todo lo que pasa en la vida, Dios mรญo?โ, filosofaba abstraรญdo ante los vestigios del bar cerrado. Su abuela siempre le decรญa: โยกTรบ te akodrarรกs de tu chikez kuando peor estรฉs!โ.
Y parado como un soldado, frente al viejo y gastado umbral del Izmir, Josรฉ sintiรณ un escalofrรญo que le subiรณ desde la espalda y por los brazos hasta el cuello. Se vio sesenta aรฑos atrรกs, frente a ese mismo umbral, un gรฉlido dรญa de otoรฑo preรฑado de dignidad yhonor. Tenรญa ocho aรฑos. Salรญa del colegio camino al conventillo. En la vereda del cafรฉ escuchรณ que un metro atrรกs Simรณn, un compaรฑero ashkenazรญ, le gritaba: โยกEhโฆ sardina!โ. La inversiรณn de la tercera y cuarta letra de su apellido tenรญa el objetivo evidente de la burla, de dejarlo contrariado, le estaba diciendo โpescadoโ.
Josรฉ se dio media vuelta, tirรณ su portafolio al piso y dio comienzo a una memorable batalla que le dejarรญa una huella imborrable en el corazรณn. Los imberbes parecรญan dos feroces combatientes a muerte. Los nudillos vรญrgenes de Josecito dieron de lleno en el ojo derecho del provocador. Rรกpidamente algunos vecinos y vendedores ambulantes los rodearon y uno de ellos intentรณ separarlos, pero fue imposible. Dentro del cafรฉ estaban su abuelo, su padre y sus tรญos sentados impasibles en dos mesas, escuchando un chiftetelli de un gastado disco de pasta. Ninguno atinรณ a moverse ni cuando el pequeรฑo, la flor y nata de su linaje, recibiรณ una patada en el estรณmago que lo obligรณ a doblarse por el dolor.
Frente a las persianas bajas y mortecinas recordรณ a su padre con los brazos cruzados sentado en el ventanal, con el cigarrillo en la boca y una copa de rakรญ a medio tomar sobre la mesa, sin hacer un mรญnimo gesto cuando delante de sus propios ojos su รบnico hijo, enredado con el adversario se revolcaba por el piso. Incluso, despuรฉs le contarรญan que su progenitor frenรณ a los gritos a un parroquiano que salรญa a parar la lucha: โยกDรฉjalo!โ, habรญa ordenado secamente, โยกquรฉ se haga hombre!โ.
Con un pรกrpado hinchado y el labio inferior ensangrentado Simรณn saliรณ corriendo para evitar otra dura mano del pequeรฑo Josรฉ, que con voz llorosa y entrecortada le gritaba: โยกVenรญ, cobarde, no te escapes! ยกSardinas te voy a dar!โ. Medio maltrecho se acomodรณ el guardapolvo, mirรณ a su padre a los ojos a travรฉs del vidrio de la ventana guillotina, pero no obtuvo ni una ligera mueca de รฉl. Levantรณ su portafolio del piso mientras algunos vecinos le palmeaban la espalda por su faena: โยกBien Josรฉ, bienโฆ asรญ se hace!โ, le decรญan. Se sintiรณ casi un hombre.
Habรญa salvado el honor y la dignidad. Ese chiquito, que apenas empezaba a vivir, observรณ de soslayo a los parcos y circunspectos varones de su misma sangre reprimiendo exteriorizar el primitivo placer de la victoria de uno de su tribu. El grupo escondiรณ su alegrรญa detrรกs de extraรฑas seรฑas y ademanes contenidos que Josรฉ no lograba entender. Cuando apenas habรญa hecho unos pasos hacia el conventillo, distante a pocos metros del cafรฉ, reciรฉn ahรญ se escuchรณ un estallido de aplausos esmirlรญes: era el jolgorio djidiรณ[10]por su victoria. El tiempo le harรญa comprender la aparente indiferencia y apatรญa de su parentela durante aquel combate iniciรกtico. Esa noche su padre extraรฑamente llegรณ temprano a cenar ante la sorpresa de la familia, y despuรฉs de saludar con un grito a su esposa Rebeca, se acercรณ a Josecito y simplemente, sin decirle palabra, le manifestรณ su orgullo revolviรฉndole el pelo con sus enormes dedos รญndice y anular, apenas unos segundos, pero fue un gesto que su hijo jamรกs olvidarรญa.
โยกQuรฉ maneras tenรญan antes para decir te quieroโฆ!โ,se lamentรณ Josรฉ con la mirada colgada en el vacรญo del presente. De pronto, una hoja cayรณ del aรฑoso fresno; apenas le rozรณ la mejilla, pero le dio la sensaciรณn de un cachetazo. Se vio nuevamente frente al aรฑoso umbral del cafรฉ y advirtiรณ que dos lรกgrimas se le deslizaban, sin querer, zigzagueando entre los pelos de su breve barba de seis dรญas. Quiso ignorar el llanto que se precipitaba, pero le fue imposible, no solamente porque enseguida le llegรณ un sabor salado a su boca, sino porque aquellos dos hilos salobres se encargaron de llamar a la mar. Josรฉ comenzรณ a sollozar desconsoladamente frente al Cafรฉ Izmir. Tocรณ unos instantes la persiana herrumbrosa y en un gesto de reverencia llevรณ los dedos a sus labios y los besรณ con ternura, cerrรณ fuertemente los ojos y volviรณ a apoyar su mano en la cortina metรกlica, como si fuera un sector del Muro de los Lamentos. โยกTรบ te akodrarรกs de tu chikez kuando peor estรฉs!โ,volviรณ a escuchar las palabras sabias y premonitorias de su admirada abuela. Hizo unos pasos, mirรณ el lugar donde aรฑos atrรกs estuvo el conventillo en el que viviรณ hasta los veintitantos, y para no volverse a emocionar continuรณ su marcha hasta la avenida Corrientes.
Todavรญa aturdido, no alcanzรณ a recordar de quรฉ se lamentaba al salir de la pensiรณn, ni hacia dรณnde iba. Y con paso cansino, acompaรฑado por un pertinaz sรฉquito de รกngeles y demonios que se resistรญan a dejarlo en paz, se perdiรณ entre la gente, โcomo aquel barrilete a merced de los caprichos del vientoโฆ hacia ningรบn lugarโ.
He closed the door of the boarding house where he lived poorly and began to walk. They had provided him with a place to sleep, thanks to the management of an influential Sephardic man who took pity on him. He was dejected. He couldn’t believe that his unfortunate existence was galloping along such capricious paths. โOne good, one bad, one good, one badโฆโ he thought. Dragging his feet, for no reason, he changed his usual route, for no reason. This time he faced Gurruchaga Street on his left. He looked toward the sidewalk in front of him. Two stucco angels contemplated him with pity from the high walls of the Church of Saint Bernard.
What game! Who told me to get into the bidding at auction business? I knew this was going to happen to me. Sell โโt-shirts, touch the sky, new house, latest model car, guitaโฆ [1] And then, as always, lose it all!โ he said to himself, reviewing his last years, moving his head from side to side, and pursing his lips between breaths. That grumble that came out of him like a pitiful prayer.
Two boys who were returning home from Colegio Herrera observed him and nudge each other. His appearance was strange enough to attract attention. He had left that pension-nursing home as absorbed as he was disheveled. He hadn’t even combed her hair. His hair, once black, graying too quickly since the death of his wife, showed hundreds of hairs standing up like an old, frosted brush. Josรฉ noticed those strange looks, frowned, and managed to flatten his abundant and untidy hair with his right hand, so deeply in his confused thoughts, that he did not notice the youthful laughter behind him.
At the corner of Murillo Street, shortly before reaching the curb of the sidewalk he instinctively stopped. Who knows by what tricks of his mind the unexpected and brilliant image of his grandmother appeared– smoking those black cigarettes that reeked the air of the tenement. Pretty, robust, feisty. She had even stabbed a Turk there in Izmir. She had had to make himself respected and manage to feed her three children. In Turkey, her husband, Jaim, completed five years of military service and, during the war, was absent for a long time. They had told Josรฉ that his relatives came to Buenos Aires from the poorest sector of Karatash, the Jewish neighborhood of Izmir, and that his grandfather showed early on who he was, so that there would be no doubt: he lost the pilcha [2] of the casario \[ 3] playing dice. Josรฉ showed his mischievous smile when he had the opportunity to explain his theory: the male offspring would inherit from that family patriarch that irresistible inclination for gambling. In conversation with friends, he also proudly recognized the strong and quarrelsome character of his grandmother, who had given half the neighborhood so much to talk about. How that woman fought with the neighbors, sitting in her dilapidated wicker chair on the sidewalk, boasting with her inevitable black cigarette at the side of her mouth and pointing with her index finger. Nobody dared her.
โWhat timesโฆ! โJosรฉ murmured, absurdly crossing Murillo crossing blindly. A desperate horn and the loud noise of the brakes of a Ford 400 truck deafened him to the point of paralysis. The metal bumper was no more than a centimeter from his knee. He was left stunned and shaking. โHow clumsy I am!โ he ruminated in fear.โFool! How do cross suddenly? Do you want to kill yourself?โ the driver of the vehicle rebuked him.
Josรฉ, hardly understanding what had happened to him, walked the other half of the street, but now with his exaggeratedly open and bloated eyes fixed on the figure of the young man, still shouting at him through the Ford window. His heart pounded in his throat. and he tried to balance himself on the sidewalk, which felt like soapy tiles. He pulled himself together, shook his head, and realized that he had almost lost his fragile life.
โยฟPero estoy charpeado, en dรณnde tengo el meoio? But I’m confused, where am I?โhe exclaimed, squeezing his hands, and looking at the sky, that seemed too blue.
He took a few steps and, perhaps because he instinctively knew that there was no immediate danger in the next hundred meters, to the next corner. He plunged into the tunnel of memories as he walked. Being kicked out of his son’s house was the last thing he would have expected. โWhy couldn’t I have taken my grandmother’s reckless character and dared to put a knife to my daughter-in-law’s neck… how could she treat me like a dog?โ he grumbled. โNoโฆ these reactions do not come from people like me. What is happening to me?โ He was surprised by his crazy reasoning. โยกEn quรฉ jal vinimos!โ[4] โ his grandmother used to say to express bad times, and Josรฉ was haunted by these ancient and distant words. He bitterly felt that, in the last stretch of his life, he found himself in a humiliating situation that he did not believe he deserved. As a boy he had been a rebel, a hustler, a fighter, but the years tamed him. The unending blows in his path and his bad attitudes were taming, little by little, his wayward character, what was left of long-ago audacity. He was beaten. Recently, he felt like the kite from his childhood whose string was cut and was carried by the wind… to nowhere.
When he reached the corner of Padilla Street, he decided stop thinking for a moment and looked at the street before crossing. He let an orange bus pass by with children who were going or coming from a nearby school, this time with his feet firmly resting on the curb and, with no vehicles nearby, he quickened his pace and crossed. When he reached the middle of the block he heard the shrill voice of Roberto, his party friend, shouting to him from the entrance of the market opposite: โHey, Josรฉ, are you going to Cafรฉ San Bernardo?โ
No, I donโt have a mango[5]para morfar[6]“ I’m not going to go to the cafe to play cards,” he replied, fixing his hair again and raising his hand to greet his friend. โDon’t be a crybaby!โ Roberto reproached him. He resignedly shrugged his shoulders, and as he walked away, he shouted his usual phrase: โBye!… Hey…, don’t get lost, Josecito!โ
Josรฉ continued his journey on that cold and scornful day, though the sun shining in front of him caressed his face. For a while he enjoyed that gift of nature that made him smile with a bit of satisfaction. But he immediately plunged back into his long musings: โHow much money I lost in that game. With a quarter of what I wasted I could live in peace and not on the pity of others…!โ
When he reached the corner of Camargo Street he looked to the left, toward the middle of the block. There was no one he knew at the door of the Sephardic Temple, except for two mastodons from the security service. That site was no longer the same since the attacks on the Israeli Embassy and the AMIA. They had built those pillars for protection and had taken permanent custody of the place. He placed his brown eyes on the opposite sidewalk, at the new business that for years had been so-called Goldfarb’s store. โWhat had become of that thin and pale Ashkenazi whose face rarely saw the light of the sun? The poor guy spent day after day sheltered behind his red cold cuts slicer,โ he recalled wistfully.
He let a 65 bus pass and crossed the street. The next hundred meters to the large Corrientes Avenue were not easy to travel. The enormous net of his memory would trap him until he was almost immobilized. He sensed that memories would bring him inevitable images. He slowly let himself be carried along by his skinny, bony legs, attracted by the chiaroscuros of his past. Starting as a boy, he had lived in a tenement on that block for almost twenty years, when everything was different. Buenos Aires, Villa Crespo, Gurruchaga Street…, how they had changed, as much as his own life.
Moments of his childhood went from sepia to color. His father, who had done everything possible to survive, was a changarรญn[7] at the port, a waiter at weddings and cafes, a street vendor and โwhat a great dancer!โ: for the art of his harmonious dance, holding a bottle on hith his head without falling. Accompanied by a couple of spoons marking the oriental rhythm, he had a certain reputation for earning a lot of applause, a few pesos as a tip and some free drinks. In recent years he drank a bottle of whiskey a day. He was as good as a taramban; he spent everything with his friends, on coffee, on horse races, playing poker… even what he didn’t have.
That tragic family gene followed them for generations. Josรฉ’s grandfather came to โAmerikaโ with that gambling addiction, and a great uncle was famous for his excessive parties, juicy anecdotes even mentioned in some books tell the history of the neighborhood. Not even his father was a stranger to this playful passion and, why deny it, neither was Josรฉ. That damn gene! Poor mother, she had to earn a living washing clothes for her countrymen. But of course, it was a different time. If there was no money they made do. She, with a peso that her husband gave her, made the four meals. “It was a miracle!” They ate โ โqueso rallado al tandurโ[8].โยก โHow deliciousโฆ, there was joy!โ They melted the cheese with bread and accompanied it with tea and chanted: โToday we eat, we bless God and tomorrow we will see.โ
ย โI was happy,โ Josรฉ said to himself and, attracted by a strange force that abruptly brought him out of his musings, he stopped in front of number 432. The establishment displayed its low, rusty dark brown blinds. It was Cafรฉ Izmir, closed some time ago. How long had it been since you passed it forehead? In recent years it had changed a lot because the old Sephardic Turks, like his father were dying. The closed establishment in front of him had lost its oriental characteristics and the fame it once had in the neighborhood. They had let it deteriorate, it died little by little. But it was still there, refusing to disappear completely. Josรฉ stood hard in front of the central blind, the narrowest one, the one that hid the double swinging hardwood door, through which his grandfather, his uncles, his father and so many others had passed hundreds of times. It would have been a sin to pass by and not remember that his relatives counted the hours there more than in their own homes. โWhat charm must this place have had to hold on to the men of my family so strongly?โ he asked himself. He could not explain exactly what that cafe represented for the Sephardic, Greek, and Armenian people, but he was sure that spending even a little while there was almost an obligation for all of them; it was like going to a temple or a church. They found something from their distant lands. They entertained themselves, played cards, listened to music, ate and drank those exquisite oriental delicacies, and the dancers… Ah… the dancers! How their elders loved them. So many times, his mother sent Josรฉ to look for his father and how many times he replied, โGet out of here hiyico, don’t bother us!โ Josรฉ frequently looked out of the corner of his eye behind that fog impregnated with the thick smoke of strong tobacco and Turkish foods, essential aromas that reached the street. His uncles and his father, eternal card players, when they saw him standing ungainly on the entrance threshold looking in, they rhythmically pushed the air with their hands, from the back of the room, sending him the daily signal: โdo not disturb.โ He also couldn’t get his relatives to give him the five cents the ball cost, required to be able to play with the group of kids from Camargo Street. Always, that gesture from the back of the cafรฉ invited him to leave. It was part of the many daily rituals. His mother ordered him again and again: โTell your father that he has already angered me: [9], that either he comes now. or he is left without food!โ
ย โSo many things, right? โWhere is everything that happens in life stored, my God?โ he philosophized, while distracted in front of the vestiges of the closed bar. His grandmother always told him: โYou will yearn for your childhood warmlywhen you are worse off!โ
And standing like a soldier, in front of the old and worn threshold of Izmir, Joseph felt a chill that rose from his back and up his arms to his neck. He saw himself sixty years ago, in front of that same threshold, on a cold autumn day, full of dignity and honor. He was eight years old. He was leaving school on his way to the tenement. On the sidewalk of the cafรฉ, he heard Simรณn, an Ashkenazi fellow, shout from a meter behind him: โHeyโฆ sardine!โ The inversion of the third and fourth letters of his last name had the obvious objective of mocking him, of making him upset; he was calling him โfish.โ
Josรฉ turned around, threw his briefcase on the floor, and began a memorable battle that would leave an indelible mark on his heart. The two beardless ones looked like two fierce combatants to the death. Josecito’s virgin knuckles hit the provocateur’s right eye squarely. Quickly some neighbors and street vendors surrounded them, and one of them tried to separate them, but it was impossible. Inside the cafe were his grandfather, his father and his uncles sitting impassively at two tables, listening to a chiftetelli from a worn paste record. None of them managed to move, not even when the little boy, the cream of his lineage, received a kick in the stomach that forced him to double over in pain.
In front of the low and dim blinds he remembered his father with his arms crossed sitting at the window, with the cigarette in his mouth and a half-drunk glass of raki on the table, without making the slightest gesture when before his very eyes his only son, tangled with his adversary, was rolling on the floor. Later they would even tell him that his father shouted at a local man who was going out to stop the fight: “Leave him!” he had ordered dryly, “let him become a man!” With a swollen eyelid and a bloody lower lip, Simรณn ran to avoid another harsh hand from little Josรฉ, who with a tearful and broken voice shouted at him: โCome, coward, don’t run away! I’m going to give you sardines!โ Half battered, he adjusted his overalls, looked into his father’s eyes through the glass of the sash window, but did not get even the slightest grimace from him. He picked up his briefcase from the floor while some neighbors patted him on the back for his work: โGood Josรฉ, goodโฆ that’s how it’s done!โ they told him. He felt almost a man.
Still dazed, he couldn’t remember what he was complaining about when he left the boarding house, or where he was going. And with a weary step, accompanied by a persistent entourage of angels and demons who refused to leave him alone, he got lost among people, “like that kite at the mercy of the whims of the wind… towards nowhere at all.”
He had saved his honor and dignity. That little boy, who had just begun to live, looked askance at the restrained and circumspect men of his own blood, repressing the expression of primitive pleasure at the victory of one of his tribe. The group hid their joy behind strange signs and restrained gestures that Josรฉ could not understand. When he had barely taken a few steps towards the house, a few meters from the cafรฉ, he heard a burst of applause from Smirli: it was the djidiรณ [10], rejoicing over his victory. Time would make him understand the apparent indifference and apathy of his relatives during that initiation combat. That night his father strangely arrived early for dinner, to the family’s surprise, and after greeting his wife Rebeca with a shout, he approached Josecito and simply, without saying a word, expressed his pride by ruffling his hair with his huge fingers. index and ring finger, just a few seconds, but it was a gesture that his son would never forget.
โWhat ways did they have before to say I love youโฆ!โ Josรฉ lamented with his gaze hanging in the emptiness of the present. Suddenly, a leaf fell from the old ash tree; It barely touched his cheek, but it felt like a slap. He found himself again facing the aged threshold of the cafรฉ and noticed that two tears were slipping, involuntarily, zigzagging between the hairs of his short six-day beard. He wanted to ignore the crying that was precipitating, but it was impossible, not only because a salty taste immediately came to his mouth, but because those two salty threads were in charge of calling to the sea. Josรฉ began to sob uncontrollably in front of Cafรฉ Izmir. He touched the rusty blind for a few moments and in a gesture of reverence he brought his fingers to his lips and kissed them tenderly, he closed his eyes tightly and rested his hand again on the metal curtain, as if it were a section of the Wailing Wall. โYou will yearn for your childhood warmly when you are worse off!โ, he once again heard the wise and premonitory words of his admired grandmother. He took a few steps, looked at the place where years ago the tenement where he lived until he was in his twenties was, and so as not to get emotional again, he continued his walk to Corrientes Avenue.
Still dazed, he couldn’t remember what he was complaining about when he left the boarding house, or where he was going. And with a weary step, accompanied by a persistent entourage of angels and demons who refused to leave him alone, he got lost among the people, “like that kite at the mercy of the whims of the windโฆ towards nowhere.”
Notes:
[1] Money (from lunfardo, a criole language, once spoken in Buenos Aires).
Eduardo Cohen naciรณ en la Ciudad de Mรฉxico, en 1939. Se formรณ en la Academia de San Carlos, en el Mรฉxico City College (hoy Universidad de las Amรฉricas) y los talleres de dibujo y pintura de los maestros Arnold Belkin, Silva Santamarรญa, Antonio Rodrรญguez Luna y Muรฑoz Medina… Su obra estuvo cargada de pasiรณn, sensualidad, humor, mirada crรญtica y una reiterada perspectiva irรณnica que intentaba despojar a los objetos y a los seres de esa pomposa solemnidad tras la que a menudo se esconden otras โrealidadesโ distintas que Cohen se empeรฑรณ en descubrir al tiempo que construir. De ahรญ su inclinaciรณn hacia el dibujo expresionista como vรญa que opta por mostrar la realidad, no tal cual aparece a nuestros sentidos sino como la percibe una mirada intensamente subjetiva que cambia, trastoca y altera nuestras acostumbradas convenciones para expresar una emociรณn profundamente personal. La bรบsqueda constante de Cohen dio pie a una insรณlita versatilidad. Sus referencias eran explรญcitas: consciente de su admiraciรณn a Francis Bacon, Grosz, Gรณngora, Schielle y Orozco, por citar algunos ejemplos, exploraba esos caminos compartidos con el resultado de que tales referencias eran rebasadas finalmente al imponerse en su obra su sello absolutamente personal.Hacia fines de los aรฑos ochenta el dibujo minucioso deja paso a un รญmpetu informalista de trazos violentos y simplificados a partir de los cuales su virtuosismo se manifiesta en una nueva y mรกs libre vertiente… El pastel va a ser usado por Cohen cada vez con mรกs frecuencia y ello da pie a que el color ingrese en su mundo plรกstico como un elemento a la vez enriquecedor y desafiante… En esos mismos aรฑos es cuando Cohen recibe la misiรณn de pintar un mural para una sinagoga y realizar poco despuรฉs dos series de vitrales para bibliotecas de escuelas judรญas. Estos encargos, ademรกs de estimularlo a una ardua labor de investigaciรณn en referencia a los temas elegidos โel ritual festivo judรญo, los profetas bรญblicos y la creaciรณn del mundo segรบn una libรฉrrima interpretaciรณn del texto bรญblicoโ lo vuelcan hacia el descubrimiento de la sensualidad del trabajo en dimensiones espaciales mayores. A su muerte, acaecida el 15 de junio de 1995, guardaba en su estudio cerca de tres mil obras.
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Eduardo Cohen was born in Mexico City, in 1939. He trained at the Academia de San Carlos, at the Mรฉxico City College (today the University of the Americas) and the drawing and painting workshops of the masters Arnold Belkin, Silva Santamarรญa, Antonio Rodrรญguez Luna and Muรฑoz Medina… His work was full of passion, sensuality, humor, a critical gaze and a repeated ironic perspective that attempted to strip objects and beings of that pompous solemnity behind which other different โrealitiesโ are often hidden that Cohen insisted on discovering. time to build. Hence his inclination towards expressionist drawing as a way that chooses to show reality, not as it appears to our senses but as it is perceived by an intensely subjective gaze that changes, disrupts and alters our usual conventions to express a deeply personal emotion. Cohen’s constant search gave rise to unusual versatility. His references were explicit: aware of his admiration for Francis Bacon, Grosz, Gรณngora, Schielle and Orozco, to name a few examples, he explored those shared paths with the result that such references were finally surpassed as his absolutely personal stamp was imposed on his work. Towards the end of the eighties, the meticulous drawing gave way to an informalist impetus of violent and simplified strokes from which his virtuosity manifested itself in a new and freer aspectโฆ Pastel was going to be used by Cohen each time with more frequently and this gives rise to color entering his plastic world as an element that is both enriching and challengingโฆ In those same years is when Cohen receives the mission of painting a mural for a synagogue and shortly after creating two series of stained glass for Jewish school libraries. These assignments, in addition to stimulating him to carry out arduous research work in reference to the chosen topics โ the Jewish festive ritual, the biblical prophets and the creation of the world according to a very free interpretation of the biblical text โ turned him towards the discovery of the sensuality of work. in larger spatial dimensions. At his death, on June 15, 1995, he kept nearly three thousand works in his studio.
Una familia de inmigrantes judรญos en una comida en su nuevo hogar ecuatoriano en la dรฉcada de 1940. (Cortesรญa Eva Zelig)/A family of Jewish immigrants at a meal in their new Ecuadorian home in the 1940s. (Courtesy Eva Zelig)
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Ecuador como refugio judรญo
Si bien muchos paรญses hicieron menos de lo que podรญan cuando los judรญos buscaron refugio del Holocausto, la pequeรฑa naciรณn sudamericana de Ecuador tuvo un impacto enorme. La antigua colonia espaรฑola, que lleva el nombre del ecuador, se convirtiรณ en un refugio improbable para entre 3.200 y 4.000 judรญos entre 1933 y 1945. Pocos de estos refugiados sabรญan espaรฑol al llegar, y muchos no lograban localizar su nuevo hogar en el mapa. Sin embargo, algunos emigrados lograron รฉxito en diversos campos, desde la ciencia hasta la medicina y las artes, ayudando a Ecuador a modernizarse en el camino. La creciente amenaza de Hitler y Mussolini estimulรณ la inmigraciรณn judรญa a Ecuador, apoyada por la pequeรฑa comunidad judรญa local. El presidente Josรฉ Marรญa Velasco Ibarra promoviรณ el paรญs como un destino para cientรญficos y tรฉcnicos judรญos alemanes repentinamente desempleados debido al antisemitismo nazi.
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El autor y acadรฉmico radicado en Ecuador Daniel Kersffeld publicรณ un libro en espaรฑol sobre esta historia poco conocida, โLa migraciรณn judรญa en Ecuador: Ciencia, cultura y exilio 1933-1945โ. โInmigraciรณn judรญa en Ecuador: ciencia, cultura y exilio 1933-1945โ. El autor examinรณ 100 relatos biogrรกficos al escribir el libro. En una entrevista por correo electrรณnico, Kersffeld dijo que alrededor de 20 de las personas que describiรณ tienen una importancia significativa para el desarrollo econรณmico, cientรญfico, artรญstico y cultural de Ecuador. En plena forma. Entre ellos se encuentra el refugiado austriaco Paul Engel, quien se convirtiรณ en un pionero de la endocrinologรญa en su nueva patria. , manteniendo una carrera literaria separada bajo un seudรณnimo Diego Viga; Trude Sojka, superviviente del campo de concentraciรณn, que soportรณ la pรฉrdida de casi toda su familia y se convirtiรณ en una artista de รฉxito en Ecuador; y tres judรญos italianos (Alberto di Capua, Carlos Alberto Ottolenghi y Aldo Muggia) que fundaron una empresa farmacรฉutica que sentรณ precedentes, Laboratorios Industriales Farmacรฉuticos Ecuatorianos, o LIFE.
Marcado por el Amazonas y los Andes, Ecuador no podrรญa haber parecido un destino menos probable. Eso cambiรณ despuรฉs del pogromo de la Kristallnacht en Alemania y Austria en 1938, las Leyes Raciales en Italia el mismo aรฑo, la ocupaciรณn de gran parte de Checoslovaquia en 1939 y la caรญda de Francia en 1940. Ecuador se convirtiรณ en โuno de los รบltimos paรญses americanos en mantener abiertas sus fronterasโ. la posibilidad de inmigraciรณn en sus distintos consulados en Europaโ, escribe Kersffeld. โUna de las รบltimas alternativas cuando todos los demรกs puertos de entrada a las naciones americanas ya estaban cerradosโ.
El cรณnsul en Estocolmo, Manuel Antonio Muรฑoz Borrero, expidiรณ 200 pasaportes a judรญos y fue admitido pรณstumamente en 2011 como el primer Justo entre las Naciones de su paรญs en Yad Vashem. Otro cรณnsul, Josรฉ I. Burbano Rosales en Bremen, salvรณ a 40 familias judรญas entre 1937 y 1940. Pero Muรฑoz Borrero y Burbano fueron relevados de sus deberes despuรฉs de que el gobierno ecuatoriano supo que estaban ayudando a judรญos. Burbano fue trasladado a Estados Unidos, mientras que Muรฑoz Borrero permaneciรณ en Suecia y extraoficialmente continuรณ sus esfuerzos. Recientemente, el gobierno ecuatoriano honrรณ a Muรฑoz Borrero cuando restableciรณ al difunto diplomรกtico como miembro de su cuerpo.
Daniel Kersffeld habla en una ceremonia del gobierno ecuatoriano en honor al difunto cรณnsul Manuel Antonio Muรฑoz Borrero el 9 de noviembre de 2018. Durante el Holocausto, Borrero rescatรณ judรญos a travรฉs de su puesto de cรณnsul en Suecia, pero el gobierno ecuatoriano lo despojรณ de su puesto. La ceremonia del 9 de noviembre lo reintegrรณ como miembro del servicio exterior ecuatoriano./Daniel Kersffeld speaks at an Ecuadorian government ceremony honoring the late consul Manuel Antonio Munoz Borrero on November 9, 2018. During the Holocaust, Borrero rescued Jews through his position of consul in Sweden, but the Ecuadorian government stripped him of his position. The November 9 ceremony reinstated him as a member of the Ecuadorian foreign service. (Courtesy Daniel Kersffeld)
Inmigrantes judรญos en el barco hacia Ecuador./Jewish immigrants on the boat to Ecuador. (Eva Zelig)
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โCreo que la mayorรญa [de los judรญos] que fueron a Ecuador lo vieron como un trampolรญnโ, dijo. โNadie sabรญa dรณnde estaba en los mapasโ. Pero, dijo, โsiento una enorme gratitud. (Eva Zeligโ/”I think most [Jews] who went to Ecuador saw it as a stepping-stone,โ she said. โNobody knew where it was on maps.โBut, she said, โI feel tremendous gratitude. (Eva Zelig)
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Ecuador as a Shelter for Jews
While many countries did less than their all when Jews sought refuge from the Holocaust, the tiny South American nation of Ecuador made an outsized impact. Named for the equator, the former Spanish colony became an unlikely haven for an estimated 3,200-4,000 Jews from 1933 to 1945. Few of these refugees knew Spanish upon arrival, and many could not quite locate their new home on the map. Yet some emigres achieved success in diverse fields, from science to medicine to the arts, helping Ecuador modernize along the way. The growing menace of Hitler and Mussolini spurred Jewish immigration to Ecuador, supported by the small local Jewish community. President Jose Maria Velasco Ibarra promoted the country as a destination for German Jewish scientists and technicians suddenly unemployed due to Nazi anti-Semitism. Ecuador-based academic and author Daniel Kersffeld published a book in Spanish about this little-known story, โLa migracion judia en Ecuador: Ciencia, cultura y exilio 1933-1945.โ โJewish Immigration in Ecuador: Science, Culture and Exile 1933-1945.โ The author surveyed 100 biographical accounts in writing the book. In an email interview, Kersffeld said that around 20 of the individuals he profiled hold significant importance for Ecuadorโs economic, scientific, artistic, and cultural development.They include Austrian refugee Paul Engel, who became a pioneer of endocrinology in his new homeland, while maintaining a separate literary career under a pseudonym; concentration camp survivor Trude Sojka, who endured the loss of nearly all of her family and became a successful artist in Ecuador; and three Italian Jews โ Alberto di Capua, Carlos Alberto Ottolenghi and Aldo Muggia โ who founded a precedent-setting pharmaceutical company, Laboratorios Industriales Farmaceuticos Ecuatorianos, or LIFE.
Kersffeld learned that LIFEโs co-founders had been expelled from Italy in 1938 after the passage of dictator Benito Mussoliniโs anti-Semitic Racial Laws. He found they represented a wider story in Ecuador from 1933 to 1945 โ โa larger number of Jewish immigrants who were scientists, artists, intellectuals or who were in distinct ways linked to the high culture of Europe.โ
Marked by the Amazon and the Andes, Ecuador could not have seemed a less likely destination. That changed after the Kristallnacht pogrom in Germany and Austria in 1938, the Racial Laws in Italy the same year, the occupation of much of Czechoslovakia in 1939 and the Fall of France in 1940. Ecuador became โone of the last American countries to keep open the possibility of immigration in its various consulates in Europe,โ Kersffeld writes. โOne of the last alternatives when all the other ports of entry to American nations were already closed.โ The consul in Stockholm, Manuel Antonio Munoz Borrero, issued 200 passports to Jews and was posthumously inducted in 2011 as his countryโs first Righteous Among the Nations at Yad Vashem. Another consul, Jose I. Burbano Rosales in Bremen, saved 40 Jewish families from 1937 to 1940.But Munoz Borrero and Burbano were both relieved from their duties after the Ecuadorian government learned they were helping Jews. Burbano was transferred to the US, while Munoz Borrero stayed in Sweden and unofficially continued his efforts. Recently, the Ecuadorian government honored Munoz Borrero when it restored the late diplomat as a member of its fore.
Ecuadorโs Jewish-exile community in the 1940s at the Equatorial monument in Quito, Ecuador
Emigrantes a Ecuador al campo/Jewish immigrantes to Ecuador in the countryside
Artista judรญo-checo-ecuatoriana Trude Sojke/Czech-Ecuadoran Jewish Artist Trude Sojke
Emigrante judรญo A Horvath que trajo la tecnologรญa del transmisor radial a las selvas amazonas, cuando ayudaba a Shell Oil a buscar el petroleo durante los 1940s/ Jewish immigrant Al Horvath brought radio transmitter technology to the Amazon jungle in Ecuador while helping Shell Oil look for petroleum there in the 1940s. (Courtesy / Daniel Kersffeld)
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Adaptado de The Times of Israel/Adapted from the The Times of Israel
Virginia Feinmann es escritora y traductora. Publica cuentos en Verano/12, Revista Letras Libres, Diario La Gaceta, Revista El Coloquio de los Perros (Espaรฑa), Revista Socompa. En 2016 editรณ su primer libro de ficciรณn, Toda clase de cosas posibles (Colecciรณn Mulita) y en 2018 su segundo libro, Personas que quizรกs conozcas (Emecรฉ). En 2020 coordinรณ el sitio โDiarios de Cuarentenaโ, donde mรกs de 3000 personas de distintos paรญses le dieron forma literaria al encierro pandรฉmico.Desde 2015 dicta el taller de escritura โHerramientas de la tรฉcnica narrativa: objetos, acciones y metรกforas al servicio de una historiaโ en forma independiente y para instituciones (Foro Internacional de la Fundaciรณn Mempo Giardinelli, Centro Cultural de la Memoria Haroldo Conti โEx Esma, Biblioteca de Microrrelatos Luisa Valenzuela). En 2021, a partir de su propia vivencia, le sumรณ el taller โNarrar lo imperdonable. Ocho cuentos sobre abuso sexual infantilโ (Universidad Nacional de Rosario). Varios de sus microrrelatos, de fuerte circulaciรณn en las redes sociales, han sido adaptados para radio, teatro o espectรกculos de narraciรณn oral.
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Viginia Feinmann is a writer and translator. She published stories in Verano/12, Letras Libres Magazine, La Gaceta Newspaper, El Colloquio de los Perros Magazine (Spain), Socompa Magazine. In 2016 he published his first fiction book, Toda clase de cosas posibles(Mulita Collection) and in 2018 his second book, Personas que tal vez conozcas(Emecรฉ).In 2020 he coordinated the site โQuarantine Diariesโ, where more than 3,000 people from different countries gave literary form to the pandemic confinement. Since 2015, he has taught the writing workshop โTools of narrative technique: objects, actions and metaphors at the service of a storyโ independently and for institutions (International Forum of the Mempo Giardinelli Foundation, Haroldo Conti Cultural Center of Memory โ Ex Esma , Luisa Valenzuela Microstory Library). In 2021, based on her own experience, she added the workshop โNarrating the unforgivable. Eight stories about child sexual abuseโ (National University of Rosario). Several of her short stories, widely circulated on social networks, have been adapted for radio, theater or oral storytelling shows.
3 cuentos de Virginia Feinmann/3 stories by Virginian Feinmann
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PASO A COMPRAR ALGO PARA EL CUMPLEAรOS de mi amiga. Es merienda, me digo, masas, sรกndwiches de miga de una confiterรญa linda. O pepas en ese chino. Un paquete de pepas. Dos. Dos paquetes de pepas. Y un chocolate. Sรญ, va a estar bien,
Luego, saludo, voy a la cocina. Dejo las pepas sobre la mesada y el chocolate. No lo apoyo. Lo agarro. Lo apoyo. Lo agarro de nuevo. Me llaman. Lo guardo en la mochila.
Charlo con el marido de un amigo.
–โฆ ยฟCรณmo va la Secretaria de?
–Renunciรฉ.
Viene mi amiga y me frota el brazo rapidito. Le devuelvo el mimo, pero, peroโฆ–ยฟCรณmo que renunciaste?
–Sรญ, mi jefe era un foro.
Mi asiente que el jefe era un forro.
–Peroโฆ ยฟno puedo ir yo en tu lugar?
Se rรญen. Yo no tanto. Un poco, pero de nervios.
ยฟCuรกnto tardarรญa Vir en odiar a tu jefe? โdice mi amiga.
–No lo odiarรญaโle digo yo.
–Sรญ, lo odiarรญas
–Te juro que no lo odiarรญa.
–Bueno, te pondrรญas a llorar.
No me pondrรญa a llorar, Cecilia, no me pondrรญa a llorar. O me pondrรญa a llorar, pero irรญa a trabajo igual. Trabajarรญa muy bien.
Ellos se van porque sonรณ el timbre. Yo, aunque soy vegetariana, me como seis salchichas de Viena.
Entra una chica bellรญsima. Asiรกtica. De pรณmulos altos. Envuelta en un chal violeta. Quiero ser su amiga instantรกneamente.
Me siento al lado.
Le pregunto cรณmo se llama, de dรณnde es. Thanda. De Birmania.
–ยฟY por quรฉ te viniste?
–Por el tango.
–Jajajj, what a goddess.
Nos reรญmos. Tiene unos dientes perfectos.
–Y acรก quรฉ hacรฉs?
–Toco el violรญn, en un grupo de tango, y en la filarmรณnica del Colรณn.
–Ahโฆ–dejo el manรญ sobre la mesa– ยฟy en la filarmรณnica te pagan?
–Sรญโฆ tenemos sueldo.
–Y cuรกnto te pagan, digo, te alcanza para vivir. ยฟCon la filarmรณnica vivรญs bien?
Ella se ve un poco para atrรกs. Se mensajea la yema del dedo meรฑique. Mira un costado.
Pasan todos los niรฑos del cumpleaรฑos corriendo.
Quedo sentada al lado de un seรฑor. Me dice que tengo lindos rulos.
–Gracias. ยฟY usted quรฉ hace?โ
–Tengo reparto de pollos.โ
–ยฟY cรณmo es el reparto de pollos, se vive con eso? O sea, usted reparte el pollo yโฆ
Apagan las luces. Viene la torta. Le cantamos el feliz cumpleaรฑos a mi amiga.
Me ofrezco a cortar. Corto cuadraditos chiquititos y los voy poniendo en media servilleta cada uno. Mis amigos se rรญen –ยกSon muy chiquititos, Vir!
–Bueno, para que alcance para todos.
–Pero si hay dos tortas mรกs โvienen atrรกs con las dos tortas.
–Bueno.
Se siguen riendo.
Me siento en un costado. Los niรฑos pasan corriendo de nuevo. Me propongo no volver a un cumpleaรฑos hasta que consiga trabajo.
_________________________________________
I’M GOING TO BUY SOMETHING FOR MY FOR FRIEND’S BIRTHDAY. Itโs an afternoon party, I tell myself, pastries, crustless sandwiches from a cafรฉ and pastry shop. Or seeds from that Chinese store. A packet of seeds. Two. Two packages of seeds. And a chocolate. Yes, it’s going to be fine,
Then, I say hello, I go to the kitchen. I leave the seeds on the counter and the chocolate. I donโt put it down. I grab it. I put it down. I grab it again. They call me. I keep it in my backpack.
I chat with a friend’s husband.
โโฆHow is the Secretary of?โ
โI quit.โ
My friend comes and rubs my arm quickly. I return the touch, โbut, but…โ what do you mean you quit?โ
โYes, my boss was an idiot.โ
Mi friend agrees that the boss was an idiot.
โBut… can’t I go in your place?โ
They laugh. Me, not so much. A little, but from nerves.
โHow long would it take Vir to hate your boss?โ says my friend.
“I wouldn’t hate him,” I tell her.
โYes, you would hate him.โ
โI swear I wouldn’t hate him.โ
โWell, you would start crying.โ
โI wouldn’t start crying, Cecilia, I wouldn’t start crying. Or I would start crying, but I would go to work anyway. I would work very hard.โ
They leave because the doorbell rang. Although I am a vegetarian, I eat six Vienna sausages.
A very beautiful girl enters. Asian. High cheekbones. Wrapped in a violet shawl. Instantly I want to be her friend.
I sit next to her.
I ask her what her name is, where she is from. Thanda. From Burma.
“And why did you come here?”
“For the tango.”
“Ha, ha ha. What an goddess.”
We laugh. She has perfect teeth.
“And what are you doing here?”
“I play the violin, in a tango group, and in the Colรณn Philharmonic.”
“Ah…” I leave the peanuts on the table. “and do they pay you at the Philharmonic?”
“Yes… we have a salary.”
“And how much they pay you, I say, is enough for you to live on. Do you live well with the philharmonic?”
She moves backward a little. She rubs the tip of her little finger. She looks to the side.
All the birthday party children run by.
I am left sitting next to a man. He tells me I have nice curls.
“Thank you. And what do you do?”
“I have chicken distribution service.”
“And what is the distribution of chickens like, can you live from that? That is, you distribute the chicken andโฆ”
They turn off the lights. The cake is coming. We sing happy birthday to my friend.
I offer to cut the cake. I cut small squares and put them on half a napkin each. My friends laugh. “They are very small, Vir!”
“Well, so that it is enough for everyone.”
“But if there are two more cakes.” They return with the two cakes.
“Well.”
They keep laughing.
I sit on the side. The children run by again. I make it a point not to return to a birthday party until I get a job.
___________________________________________
_______________________________
ENTRAMOS AL SANITORIO Y NOS RECIBE el cirujano que operar a papรก.
Quiero hablar con alguien mรกs de la familia, nos dice a mi hermana y a mรญ, para que entiendan el riesgo que significa esta operaciรณn.
Lo miramos y esperamos.
Abre un laptop y la apoya en medio de mรกrmol pulido, el bronce lustrado, el florero con lirios de tela. Somos gente de negocios en un hotel de lujo si no fuera porque en la pantalla aparece la mรฉdula de papรก.
Hace dos aรฑos que le vengo diciendo a Pablo, aprieta una tecla y la mรฉdula se agranda, es como un cable gris de que pronto he hace finito hasta casi cortarse, le vengo diciendo que en este punto, acรก, pone un dedo sobre la pantalla, la mรฉdula estรก comprimida.
ยฟDos aรฑos?
Hace dos aรฑos que le digo esto. A tu papรก y a tu mamรก.
No es nuestra mamรก, pero estรก bien, sรญ, es la esposa de รฉl.
Bueno, nos mira como con pena, a la esposa de รฉl. Amor me dice entonces. ยฟEn quรฉ pensรณ? Amores me dice, a mรญ y a mi hermana. Vengan siรฉntense. Si me apoyo la mano en la rodilla, salto hasta la araรฑa de caireles, pero no. Dice solamente el riesgo es que al separar las vรฉrtebras y descomprimir la mรฉdula, puede dejar de funcionar.
ยฟY eso quรฉ significa?
Eso significa una tetraparesia, cuadriparesia, cuadriplejiaโฆLas tres palabras asรญ muy rรกpido. Entiendo enseguida. Hago la pregunta mรกs estรบpida del mundo. Peroโฆ ยฟlรบcido? Sรญ, lรบcido. El infierno, pienso. Hago la segunda pregunta mรกs estรบpida del mundo: doctor, ยฟusted no sabรญa que รฉl tenรญa dos hijas?
Esta mirada ya sรญ es de pena. No, amor. No sabรญa nada.
Fruncimos la boca a la vez, mi hermana y yo, que siempre hacemos los mismos gestos y pensamos en general lo mismo sรณlo que ahora no puedo descifrar si ella quiere matar primero a papรก y despuรฉs a Isabella o primero a Isabella y despuรฉs a papรก y es que yo tampoco lo tengo claro.
Lo podrรญamos haber pensado entre todos, me dice cuando el cirujano ya se fue con la laptop bajo el brazo.
Abajo del cartel Check in/Check out de excelente รกnimo. รl estรก efervescente. Ella tenรญa Cirugรญa estรกn papa e Isabella. Mostramos la cabeza metida en un formulario. ยกHola! Hola preciosas, papรก habla, y habla, y habla. Me acuerdo del dรญa que lo operaron de vesรญcula en 2008, reciรฉn baรฑado con jabรณn pervinox y una batata de tela verdeagua, los braciotos blancos y gordos y su cabeza enorme y cuando ve lo que lo miro desde arriba, hundido en la camilla mientras ya vienen a buscarlo para el quirรณfano me diceโ ยฟSabรญas que Marx juzgรณ a Bolรญvar desde una mirada tremendamente eurocรฉntrico, considerรกndolo un general festive, es un ser consciente? El hombre, en tanto sujeto me es un
bรกquico, desbordado?โ.
Ahora habla del Sujeto. El hombre es un ser consciente. El hombre, en tanto Sujeto, sujeto moderno, y de pronto, ยฟsabรฉs?
No, ยฟquรฉ?
Me preguntรฉ al cirujano, โcuando usted me operรฉ: ยฟyo voy a ser un sujeto o un objeto?โ Y el tipo me dice, โyo no opero ni a un sujeto ni a un predicadoโ
Quรฉ boludo, digo yo.
No te creas, dice papรก. โYo no opero ni a un
sujeto ni a un predicado, opero a un ser humanoโ.
Ahhhh. Contentas las dos, mi hermana y yo.
โA un pacienteโ, dice Isabella y nosotras levantamos la cabeza como dos galgos.
โA un ser humanoโ, dice papรก.
โA un paciente, Pablo, lo escuchรฉ perfectoโ.
โA un ser humano, queridas, a un ser humanoโ, papรก junta mi mano con la de mi hermana y palmea suave, muy suave. Llaman para ingresarlo. Sรณlo hay que esperar cuatro horas.
__________________________________________
_________________________
SIN QUERER MI HERMANA Y YO evitรกbamos hablarnos. Nos adorรกbamos. Adorรกbamos a papรก. Pero ya eran muchos dรญas..
Primero estรกbamos llenas de รญmpetu, de vamos para adelante y del amor todo lo puede. Salรญamos del sanatorio y querรญamos tomar un cafรฉ, un submarino, comentar de tal o cual enfermera y si la sonda Koler serรญa mejor que la Silmag. Ocuparnos.
Cuando se complicรณ en serio ni pensamos. Fuimos, venimos y nos llamamos, mensajeamos diez millones de veces hasta que nos ardieron los dedos y las orejas y era mail y telรฉfono y era mail y telรฉfono y Facebook entre nosotras y con el cirujano, el psiquiatra y los amigos, todo al mismo tiempo.
A partir de ahรญ, aunque mรกs tranquilas, ver el nombre de otra en el celular nos daba un golpecito en la panza. Era difรญcil recibir un wasap sin recordar que el que habรญa traรญdo las malas noticias.
Tampoco tenรญamos ya ganas de individualizar nombres de mรฉdicos o enfermeros ni encariรฑarnos particularmente con uno u otro.
Fueron cambiando, y eran todos mรกs o menos iguales.
Ya habรญamos regalado bombones, libros firmados. Ya habรญamos emocionado de verdad, habรญamos agradecido y habรญamos jurado que salรญamos delante de un modo que despuรฉs quedรณ corto, no conformรณ a nadie.
No fuimos de dar una noticia rotunda a los que rezaron, mandaron energรญa, se concentraron tal dรญa y a tal hora, y que merecรญan quizรกs un resultado menos tibio que el que tenรญamos para ofrecerles: rehabilitaciรณn.
ยฟHay que seguir rezando? Y, sรญโฆpero tampoco le quites el rezo a otro que estรฉ mรกs graveโฆ
Creo que al final, mi hermana y yo estรกbamos tan cansadas que cuando terminรกbamos el turno nos pasรกbamos un informecito mรกs o menos asรญ: rehabilitรณ โ durmiรณ โ no durmiรณ โ no rehabilitรณ โ sonriรณ โ no sonriรณ โ te quiero โ hasta maรฑana.
Creo que nos evitรกbamos para descansar realmente, Para no ver en la cara lo que habรญa de papa.
Tenรญamos un emoticรณn para despedirnos. No era una carita sonriente ni una carita triste. Era una cara sonriente boca abajo, El que lo dice diseรฑรณ es alguien muy sabio. No estรกbamos tristes. La felicidad no era imposible, Estaba ahรญ. Podรญamos verla. Solamente necesitรกbamos dar la vuelta.
________________________________________________
UNINTENTIONALLY, MY SISTER AND I avoided speaking to each other. We adored each other. We adored Dad.
At first we were full of energy, of let’s move forward and with love, anything is possible. We left the hospital and wanted to have a submarine, a coffee with hot milk with a chocolate bar dipped inside, comment on this or that nurse and whether the Koler probe would be better than the Silmag. To keep busy.
When things got complicated, we didn’t even think. We went out, we came back, and we called each other, we texted ten million times until our fingers and ears burned, and it was email and phone, and it was email and phone, and Facebook between us and with the surgeon, the psychiatrist, and our friends, all at the same time.
From then on, although calmer, seeing each otherโs name on the cell phone gave us a little punch in the stomach. It was difficult to receive a WhatsApp without remembering the one that had brought us the bad news.
We also no longer wanted to identify names of doctors or nurses or become particularly attached to one or the other.
They changed, and they were all more or less the same.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย We had already given away chocolates and signed books. We had already heard profound words, we had already been deeply moved, we had been grateful, and we had sworn that we would prevail in a way that later fell short, it did not satisfy anyone.
We were unable to give resounding news to those who prayed, sent energy, concentrated on that day and at that time, and who perhaps deserved a less lukewarm result than the one we had to offer them: rehabilitation.
Is it necessary to continue praying? And, yes…but don’t take away prayer from someone else who is sicker…
I think that in the end, my sister and I were so tired that when we finished the shift, we gave each other a little report that went something like this:he recovered a bit – he slept – he didn’t sleep – he didn’t recover- he smiled – he didn’t smile – I love you – see you tomorrow.
I think we avoided each other to really rest, so as not to see in his face what was wrong with dad.
I think we avoided each other to really rest, so as not to see dadโs face in our faces. We had an emoticon to say goodbye. It wasn’t a smiling face or a sad face. It was a smiling face upside down. Whoever designed it is someone very wise. We were not sad. Happiness was not impossible, it was there. We could see it. We just needed to turn it around.
________________________________________________
Libros de Virginia Feinmann/Books by Virginia Feinmann
Raquel Jaduszliwer naciรณ en San Fernando, Provincia de Buenos Aires, Argentina, en 1946). Reside en la Ciudad Autรณnoma de Buenos Aires. Es Lic. en Psicologรญa por la UBA y se formรณ como psicoanalista. Publicรณ una novela, La venganza delclan de las banderas de acero (2018) y nueve poemarios: Los panes y los peces (2012, Primer Premio Poesรญa Ed. De Los Cuatro Vientos). La noche con su lรกmpara (2014, Primer Premio Poesรญa Ed. Fundaciรณn Victoria Ocampo). Persistencia delo imposible (2015, Premio Ediciรณn Ed. Ruinas Circulares). Las razones del tiempo (2018, Ed. Lisboa); En el bosque (2018, Ed. Modesto Rimba). รngel de la enunciaciรณn (2020, Ed. Barnacle). El รกrbol de las especies (2022, Ed. Barnacle), Los diagramas radiantes (2022, Ed. Barnacle), Todos los lugares se llamaban promesa (2023, Primer Premio Rubรฉn Reches, Ed. Ruinas Circulares). Fue expositora en el Festival Internacional de Poesรญa (C.A.B.A, Argentina, 2019), y en el programa de actividades del VI Festival Internacional de Poesรญa de Fredonia, Colombia (2022). Participรณ del ciclo โLenguas en dispersiรณnโ realizado en el Museo del Libro y de la Lengua en la Ciudad Autรณnoma de Buenos Aires (2023).
_____________________________________________
Raquel Jaduszliwer was born in San Fernando, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina, in 1946). He resides in the Autonomous City of Buenos Aires. He has a degree in Psychology from the UBA and trained as a psychoanalyst. He published a novel, La venganza delclan de las banderas de acero (2018) and nine books of poetry: Los panes y los peces (2012, Primer Premio Poesรญa Ed. De Los Cuatro Vientos). La noche con su lรกmpara (2014, Primer Premio Poesรญa Ed. Fundaciรณn Victoria Ocampo). Persistencia delo imposible (2015, Premio Ediciรณn Ed. Ruinas Circulares). Las razones del tiempo (2018, Ed. Lisboa); En el bosque (2018, Ed. Modesto Rimba). รngel de la enunciaciรณn (2020, Ed. Barnacle). El รกrbol de las especies (2022, Ed. Barnacle), Los diagramas radiantes (2022, Ed. Barnacle), Todos los lugares se llamaban promesa (2023, Primer Premio Rubรฉn Reches. Ed. Ruinas Circulares). She was an exhibitor at the International Poetry Festival (C.A.B.A, Argentina, 2019), and in the program of activities of the VI International Poetry Festival of Fredonia, Colombia (2022). He participated in the cycle โLanguages โโin Dispersionโ held at the Museum of Books and Language in the Autonomous City of Buenos Aires (2023).
______________________________________________
Padre habla
dice
cuida de los rebaรฑos hija
hasta tu รบltimo dรญa
ese es nuestro legado somos tribus de exilio
dispersiones en tiempos de nevada
cuida de los rebaรฑos
las pasturas
atrรกs quedaron las casas incendiadas
todo lo abandonรฉ para que un dรญa nacieras
ah cรณmo arrancarme hija
esa bala de plata que sigue disparรกndose
asรญ hablaba mi padre
quedรณ escrito:
todos los sobrevivientes somos huรฉrfanos
todo el tiempo del mundo sigo viendo las casas incendiadas.
______________________________
Father speaks
he says
daughter, take care of the flocks
until your last day
that is out legacy we are tribes of exile
dispersions in times of snowfall
take care of the flocks
the pastures
the burnt out house stays behind
all that I abandoned so that you one day were born
ah how to pull out of me
that silver bullet that continues to be shot
so my father spoke
it is written:
all the survivors we are all orphans
all of the time of the world I keep seeing houses incinerated
______________________________________________
ยฟTe perdiste al menos una vez
en la parte mรกs profunda del bosque
y gritaste hay alguien ahรญ?
ยฟhay alguien ahรญ?
Otra pregunta:
ยฟte arrojarรญas sobre el fruto prohibido hasta ser devorado
o no hay fruto prohibido en este paraรญso con su telรณn de fondo
con su cielo al alcance, radiante y sin un pliegue?
ah, desperdicio, gesto desaprensivo
ยฟquรฉ fue lo que cambiaste por espejos
por algunas estrellas que parecen estrellas
por monedas
asรญ como si nada?
Allรก vamos ejรฉrcito sonรกmbulo
vamos hacia el destino de uno en uno
solitarios y ajenos allรก vamos
el corazรณn blindado
sin mirar atrรกs.
Tierra de desaliento ยฟquiรฉn responde?
ยฟhay alguien ahรญ?
_____________________________________
Have you at least once been lost
in the deepest part of the forest
and yelled is anyone here?
Is anyone there?
Another question:
Would you throw yourself on the forbidden fruit until being devoured
or is there no prohibited fruit in this paradise with
with its backdrop
with its sky within reach, radiant and without a pleat
ah, waste, unscrupulous gesture
what was that you exchanged for mirrors
for some stars that appear to be stars
for coins
as if it was nothing?
There we go, sleepwalking army
we go toward the destiny one by one
alone and foreign we go there
armored heart
without looking back.
Land of despair who answers?
is there anyone there?
________________________________________
De elegir entre todas las cosas el talismรกn de oro
por ejemplo, esa presencia que todavรญa persiste
pero que corre riesgo
o ese guijarro por lo tan pequeรฑo
audaz en su firmeza
o la palma traslรบcida, esa mano
al momento en que logra desclavarse
de apegarnos a alguna de esas cosas
la palabra destino irรก cobrando vida
asรญ
encarnada en el corazรณn expuesto
a su mayor esperanza, y siempre a costa nuestra
a cuenta de las futuras pรฉrdidas
y de todas las bajas.
______________________________________
To choose the golden talisman from all things
for example, that presence that still persists
but runs a risk
or that pebble for being so small
audacious in its firmness
o translucent palm, that hand
at the moment that it is able to free itself
we become fond of some of those things
the word destiny will be taking on life
so
lying down with the heart exposed
against future loses
and all the casualties.
____________________________________________
Envuelta criatura nacida del interior de un bosque
blanca entre los terrones, tan pรกlida en la marcha
asรญ serรก tu alba
sombra creciente, pequeรฑa luz en los peligros del follaje.
Envuelta criatura, quรฉ serรก de tu huella
quรฉ serรก de tus pasos avanzando sobre la oscuridad:
envoltorio y follaje, sombra larga, criatura
a tu camino van a dar nuestros caminos incansables
nuestros buenos deseos, todas nuestras plegarias.
Allรก vamos antiguos peregrinos
una cuerda nos ata a la esperanza
salimos a buscarte criatura perdida
Perdido talismรกn piedra preciosa
reflejo del tesoro ausente
pozo en el medio del gran claro del bosque.
____________________________________________
Swaddled baby born from the inside of the forest,
white among the clods of earth, so pallid in the march.
your dawn will be that way
growing shadow, little light in the dangers of the foliage
swaddled baby, what will be of your track
what will be of your steps advancing above the darkness:
bundle and foliage large shadow, baby
to your journey they are going to give our untiring journeys
our good wishes, all our prayers
here we go ancient pilgrims
just a cord ties to hope
we leave to look for you lost baby
lost talisman precious stone
reflection of absent treasure
well in the middle of the great clearing in the forest.
_______________________________________________
Mi hijo se habรญa visto en medio de la noche
caminaba con las manos en alto, en fila entre los vencidos.
Mi hijo me decรญa:
madre ยฟme ves? sigo caminando en la noche mรกs tupida del bosque
voy tras los pasos de tus seres perdidos
directo al corazรณn de las casas quemรกndose.
Entonces yo gritaba
no sigas, no, no sigas
pero mi voz era un graznido.
ยฟQuรฉ mรกs podrรญa haber hecho?
yo era un cuervo letal sobrevolando
buscando el aura de las generaciones anteriores
el eslabรณn perdido
la luz que se diezmรณ.
_________________________________________
My son had seen himself in the middle of the night.
He walked with his hands up high, in line among the vanquished
My son said to me:
mother do you see me? I keep walking in the densest night of
the forest
I follow the steps of the lost beings
direct to the heart of the burning houses
Then I was shouting
donโt go on, donโt go on.
But my voice was a cawing.
What more could I have done?
I was a lethal crow flying above
seeking the aura of previous generations
the lost link
the light that burns itself up.
______________________________________
Ya ves, cuantiosa estรก la noche
terciopelo tendido para su pedrerรญa
ยฟencontraste el tesoro?
ยฟhas visto cรณmo brilla al fondo del abismo?
y entonces nos decimos
cuidado, porque tenemos miedo
cuidado el remolino
cuidado con el pozo por arriba de nuestras cabezas
no te asomes, no te tiente el destello de la fosa en lo alto
ten cuidado
que la noche es de luto
y vasto y enjoyado es el lugar de la pรฉrdida.
_____________________
You see already, this night is substantial
velvet stretched for its precious stones
did you find the treasure?
Have you seen how it shines at the bottom of the abyss?
And then we tell ourselves
be careful because we are afraid
when the whirlwind
when the well above our heads
be careful
that the night is of grief
and vast and adorned is in the place of the loss.
_______________________________________________
ยฟAcaso conocรญas la pulsaciรณn del รกrbol
su corazรณn con un latido รบnico?
recuerdo ese sonido como de planetas
moviรฉndose por extensiones que no recorrerรกs
y si apoyaras tu cabeza en el regazo
en la aspereza de la astilla
escucharรญas la voz de la madera
ella te harรญa sentir un huรฉrfano en tus huesos
y todo te pondrรญa tan de otra medida
tan abstracto te ves en lo viviente
casi sรณlo una idea, como un animal solo
sin especie
solo y adentro de tu pensamiento
solo bajo el inmenso poderรญo del bosque
su camino sombreado entre el cielo y la tierra
tu espรญritu vagando por el desorden verde.
_________________________________________
Perhaps you knew of the pulse of the tree
its sound with a unique beat?
I remember that sound like that of planets
moving thorough expanses that you wonโt ever travel
and if you rest your head in the lap
in the ruggedness of the splinter
you will hear the voice of the wood
and it will make you feel like an orphan in your bones
and everything would put you so much in another dimension
so abstract you see in the living
almost only an idea, like an animal alone
without species
alone under the immense power of the forest
alone and inside your thought
its path darkening between heaven and earth
your spirit wandering through the green chaos.
___________________________________________
Y el viento dice, el viento nos hace decir:
acepta las virtudes de la duraciรณn
por ellas, todo lo que deberรญa retirarse asรญ lo harรก
tambiรฉn tus pertenencias, la manera en que eras
todo lo que la corriente lleva; acรฉptalo
asรญ llorarรกs menos
asรญ tendrรกs mรกs fuerza
cierra tus cuentas
actรบa como si todo ya hubiera concluido
busca el fondo del pozo
en su espejo de agua y en el mayor silencio
verรกs que hay un suceso extraordinario
aรบn por consumarse.
________________________________________
And the wind says, the wind makes us say:
accept the virtues of timeโs duration
for them, all that should leave so it will be
also their belongings, the way you were
all the current carries away; accept it
and so you will cry less
so that you will have more strength
close your accounts
act as if everything had been finished
look for the bottom of the well
in a mirror of water and in the greatest silence
you will see that there is an extraordinary event
just about to being carried out.
_____________________________________________
Es que verรกs, รฉste es el oleaje tumultuoso del mundo
venรญamos de otra parte que nunca conocimos
en las aguas profundas
รฉramos como brazadas de animal incansable
y en el espejo de la superficie
nos quedรกbamos quietos como รกngeles
arpones suspendidos de una respiraciรณn.
Quiรฉn se acordarรก un dรญa
de cรณmo con las corrientes mรกs benรฉvolas
nadรกbamos a la bรบsqueda de estrellas sumergidas.
Arriba
mรกs arriba
hundidas para siempre al fondo de la noche.
________________________________________
As you will see, this is the tumultuous sea swell of the world
we come from another place that we never knew
in the deep waters
we were like strokes of a tireless animal
and in the mirror of the surface
we were staying quiet like angels
harpoons suspended by a breath.
Who will remember a day
that like the most benevolent currents
we were swimming in search submerged stars.
Above
further above
they are sunk for all times at the bottom of the night.
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Aclaraciรณn/Clarification:
Los tres primeros poemas fueron seleccionados del libro Las razones del tiempo (Editorial Lisboa, Buenos Aires, 2018)/The first three poems were selected from Las razones del tiempo (Editorial Lisboa, Buenos Aires, 2018)
Los tres siguientes corresponden a: En el bosque (Editorial Modesto Rimba, Buenos Aires, 2018)/The next three from: En el bosque (Editorial Modesto Rimba, Buenos Aires, 2018)
Los tres รบltimos a: รngel de la enunciaciรณn (Editorial Barnacle, Buenos Aires, 2020)/The last three are from: รngel de la enunciaciรณn (Editorial Barnacle, Buenos Aires, 2020)
Raquel Markus-Finckler Periodista, escritora, poeta, investigadora histรณrica y editora venezolana de origen judรญo nacida en 19–. Esposa y madre. Integra la tercera generaciรณn de sobrevivientes del Holocausto. Graduada de Comunicaciรณn Social con Diplomado en Comunicaciรณn Digital de la Universidad Catรณlica Andrรฉs Bello. Venezuela. Post grado en Direcciรณn de Instituciones Comunitarias ofrecido para Amรฉrica Latina por el Comitรฉ Judรญo Americano de Distribuciรณn Conjunta (American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee) con el apoyo acadรฉmico de la Universidad de San Andrรฉs, Argentina, y del Instituto Judรญo Spertus para la Enseรฑanza y el Liderazgo, Chicago, Estados Unidos. Doctorado Honoris Causa, menciรณn Derechos Humanos, otorgado por la Fundaciรณn Universidad Hispana, Proyecto de Desarrollo Perรบ Cordilleras, Asociaciรณn de Periodistas Peruanos en el Exterior, Novel International University, Cรกmara de Comercio de Jesรบs Marรญa y el Instituto de Estudios Vallejianos.
Obtuvo el Primer Lugar de la modalidad de poesรญa del “Concurso periodรญstico, literario y poรฉtico Notas Migratorias Cรฉsar Vallejo 2021”, organizado por la Fundaciรณn Universidad Hispana. Ganรณ el Primer Lugar de Poesรญa del Segundo Encuentro Literario Solidario Internacional Distrital 2021 โ 2022, correspondiente a la Coordinaciรณn Rotary Club Playa Ancha, de Valparaรญso, Chile. Seleccionada entre los primeros seis finalistas del III Premio Rey David de Poesรญa Bรญblica Iberoamericana, Premio Bienal convocado por Tiberรญades (Red Iberoamericana de Poetas y Crรญticos Literarios Cristianos), la Sociedad Bรญblica de Espaรฑa y el Fondo Jacqueline Alencar para la promociรณn de la Poesรญa Bรญblica.Actuรณ como Jurado Principal del Certamen Internacional โNotas Migratorias Cรฉsar Vallejoโ ediciones 2022 y 2023โ, y del concurso de narrativa โMacondos del Siglo XXIโ, 2023.; ambos organizados por la Fundaciรณn Universidad Hispana. Fue designada Miembro de Nรบmero de la Academia de Genealogรญa de Venezuela (AGEVEN), es miembro activo del Cรญrculo de Escritora de Venezuela, integrante del Comitรฉ Venezolano de Yad Vashem y Miembro Honorario de la Fundaciรณn Universidad Hispana.
Ha estado a cargo de la investigaciรณn, redacciรณn y/o ediciรณn de otras publicaciones, entre ellas: โLibro de Vida. Sefer HaJaim del Cรญrculo Edad de Oro del Centro Social Cultural Deportivo Hebraicaโ, โUna historia, dos paรญses. La saga de la familia Yecutieli Cohenโ, โHebraica LeJaim. Memoria conmemorativa del 40 aniversario del Centro Social Cultural Deportivo Hebraicaโ y โHebraica de la A a la Z. Memoria Histรณrica en ocasiรณn del 50 aniversario del CSCDR Hebraicaโ. Parte de su trabajo literario ha sido publicado en distintos medios de comunicaciรณn social, revistas culturales y literarias, blogs especializados y plataformas informativas venezolanas y de carรกcter internacional. Entrevistas, notas de prensa y reseรฑas de sus obras han aparecido en distintos medios de comunicaciรณn de Venezuela y en prensa internacional.
Ha publicado tres poemarios: Escribir para existir, Donde Reside la Belleza y Las Horas Negras.
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Raquel Markus-Finckler Venezuelan journalist, writer, poet, historical researcher and editor of Jewish origin born in 19–. Wife and mother. She is part of the third generation of Holocaust survivors. Graduated in Social Communication with a Diploma in Digital Communication from the Andrรฉs Bello Catholic University. Venezuela. Postgraduate degree in Management of Community Institutions offered for Latin America by the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee with the academic support of the University of San Andrรฉs, Argentina, and the Spertus Jewish Institute for Teaching and Leadership , Chicago, United States. Honoris Causa Doctorate, Human Rights mention, awarded by the Hispanic University Foundation, Peru Cordilleras Development Project, Association of Peruvian Journalists Abroad, Novel International University, Jesรบs Marรญa Chamber of Commerce and the Institute of Vallejiano Studies.
She won First Place in the poetry category of the “Cรฉsar Vallejo 2021 Migratory Notes Journalistic, Literary and Poetic Contest”, organized by the Fundaciรณn Universidad Hispana. He won First Place for Poetry at the Second District International Solidarity Literary Meeting 2021 โ 2022, corresponding to the Rotary Club Playa Ancha Coordination, from Valparaรญso, Chile. Selected among the first six finalists of the III King David Prize for Ibero-American Biblical Poetry, Biennial Prize organized by Tiberรญades (Ibero-American Network of Christian Poets and Literary Critics), the Spanish Biblical Society and the Jacqueline Alencar Fund for the promotion of Biblical Poetry. He acted as Main Jury of the International Contest โNotes Migratorias Cรฉsar Vallejoโ editions 2022 and 2023โ, and of the narrative contest โMacondos del Siglo XXIโ, 2023.; both organized by the Hispanic University Foundation. She was designated a Full Member of the Academy of Genealogy of Venezuela (AGEVEN), she is an active member of the Venezuelan Writer’s Circle, a member of the Venezuelan Committee of Yad Vashem and an Honorary Member of the Fundaciรณn Universidad Hispana.
She has been in charge of the research, writing and/or editing of other publications, including: โLibro de Vida. Sefer HaJaim of the Golden Age Circle of the Hebraica Sports Cultural Social Centerโ, โOne story, two countries. The saga of the Yecutieli Cohen familyโ, โHebraica LeJaim. Commemorative memory of the 40th anniversary of the Social Cultural Sports Center Hebraicaโ and โHebraica from A to Z. Historical Memory on the occasion of the 50th anniversary of the CSCDR Hebraicaโ. Part of her literary work has been published in different social media, cultural and literary magazines, specialized blogs and Venezuelan and international information platforms. Interviews, press releases and reviews of his works have appeared in different media outlets in Venezuela and in the international press.
She has published three collections of poems: Escribir para existir, Donde Reside la Belleza and Las Horas Negras.
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“Desde pequeรฑa, la poesรญa me ha permitido salvarme, me permitiรณ seguir creyendo y creandoโฆ Me permitiรณ edificarme como ser humanoโฆ Llenรณ mis vacรญos y mi soledad existencial con palabras sublimes, etรฉreas y preciosasโฆ Me aportรณ la fortaleza que me transmitieron poetas que nunca lleguรฉ a conocer, pero cuyas palabras me acompaรฑaban, me curaban y me animaban a seguir buscando dentro de mรญ el increรญble manantial de esperanza, fe y valentรญa que significaba para mi alma la palabra poรฉticaโฆ Mi bรบsqueda de la excelencia me ha llevado a convertirme, cada dรญa, en un mejor ser humano, en una mejor escritora y, por lo tanto, en una mejor poetaโฆ Para mรญ la poesรญa es sinรณnimo de vida. Si tengo un estรญmulo o aliciente que me permita seguir en contacto con ella, (con la que leo, con la que siento, con la que creo) โฆ es razรณn suficiente para zambullirme dentro de esos caminos que me conducirรกn nuevamente al encuentro de la Verdad y la Belleza, los dos valores mรกs certeros que residen en la palabra poรฉtica.” Raquel Markus-Finckler
“Since I was little, poetry has allowed me to save myself, it allowed me to continue believing and creatingโฆ It allowed me to build myself up as a human beingโฆ It filled my voids and my existential loneliness with sublime, ethereal and precious wordsโฆ It gave me the strength that poets that I never reached to know, but whose words accompanied me, healed me and encouraged me to continue searching within myself for the incredible spring of hope, faith and courage that the poetic word meant for my soulโฆ My search for excellence has led me to become, each day, into a better human being, into a better writer and, therefore, into a better poetโฆ For me, poetry is synonymous with life. If I have a stimulus or incentive that allows me to continue in contact with it, (with the one I read, with the one I feel, with the one I believe)โฆ it is reason enough to dive into those paths that will lead me back to finding the Truth. and Beauty, the two most accurate values โโthat reside in the poetic word.” Raquel Markus-Finckler
Mรณnica Goldstein naciรณ en 1953, Trabaja en Buenos Aires. Desde 1976 participa en muestras individuales y colectivas en Argentina y en el extranjero.
“De adolescente me conmovรญan las pinturas prehistรณricas. Pensรฉ que lo que llamamos arte debe ser esencial al ser humano, y decidรญ dedicarme a รฉl. Me formรฉ en el taller de Eva Garcรญa. Por aquella รฉpoca Max Ernst y Paul Klee eran los artistas que mรกs admiraba. Investiguรฉ tรฉcnicas y materiales. Fuรญ encontrando aquellos con los que estaba en consonancia. Paralelamente estudiรฉ el pensamiento de India en la Universidad del Salvador. A mediados de los 80 comencรฉ a practicar meditaciรณn budista y yoga; mรกs adelante me formรฉ como instructora. Me acerquรฉ a los teรณricos, artistas y filรณsofos del arte contemporรกneo. Todo esto modificรณ tanto mi forma de producciรณn como la obra. El uso de tรฉcnicas automรกticas y la influencia del surrealismo fueron cediendo su lugar, surgiรณ otra actitud. En mi taller entro en รญntima relaciรณn conmigo misma, en un espacio silencioso, de tiempos pausados. Me interesan la posibilidad de evoluciรณn del ser humano, el Tiempo, la Libertad. Mi obra recorre distintas disciplinas: pintura, dibujo, monocopia, relieves, objetos, alguna instalaciรณn. Hacia finales de los 80 comencรฉ a producir libros de artista. La mayorรญa de ellos son ejemplares รบnicos, si bien he hecho tambiรฉn pequeรฑas ediciones. Trabajรฉ en diversos formatos: libro-objeto, rollos, libros intervenidos, entre otros”.
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Mรณnica Goldstein was born 1953 and works in Buenos Aires. Since 1976, she has taken part in numerous solo and group exhibitions, both in Argentina and in the rest of the world.
“As a teenager I was touched by prehistoric paintings. I thought that which we call art had to be essential to humans, and so I decided to dedicate myself to it. I studied with the artist and art teacher Eva Garcรญa. By that time, Max Ernst and Paul Klee were the artists I admired the most. I researched techniques and materials. I found those I was in tune with. At the same time, I studied Indian thought at Universidad del Salvador. In the mid-eighties, I started practicing Buddhist meditation and yoga, and later I trained as an instructor.I became closer to the theorists, artists and philosophers of contemporary art. All this changed both my way of production and the work itself. The use of automatic techniques and the influence of surrealism gradually lost ground and a different attitude emerged. In my atelier, I establish an intimate relationship with myself, in a quiet space with slower times. I am interested in the potential for evolution of the human being, Time, Freedom. My production runs across different disciplines: painting, drawing, monoprint, reliefs, objects, some installations. Towards the end of the 1980s, I also began to produce artistsโ books. Most of my books are unique, but I have also published small editions. I have worked in a variety of formats โbook art objects, scrolls, intervention in books, among others.”
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El arte de Mรณnica Goldstein/Mรณnica Goldstein’s Art
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Obras de varias tรฉcnicas: /Works in various techniques:
Pintura, รณleo, fotografรญa, lรกpiz graso, monocopia sobre fiselina. Lรกpiz graso sobre acrรญlico, dibujo, tinta china/ Painting, oil, photography, grease pencil, monocopy on fiseline. Oily pencil on acrylic, drawing, Chinese ink
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Sonidos de Taa-Ga. 2003. Pintura, รณleo y fotografรญa sobre MDF.1.50 m x 0.90 m.
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El Salar del Silencio, dรญptico. 2011. Oleo y lรกpiz graso sobre MDF. 200 cm x 100 cm.
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En medio del camino. Dรญptico. 2016. Pintura. Acrรญlico sobre MDF. 164 cm x 42 cm
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En el Salar. 2015. Dibujo. Lรกpiz graso sobre plancha de acrรญlico. 45 cm x 160,5 cm x 7 cm.
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Tiempo de quietud. 2013. Monocopia sobre fiselina. Lรกpiz graso sobre acrรญlico. 44 cm x 200 cm.
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Como un Eco, dรญptico. 2018. Dibujo, acrรญlico y Dibujo.sobre MDF. 200 cm x 100 cm
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Cordillera. 2018. Monocopia. 95 cm x 31 cm.
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Imperturbables II, dรญptico. 2019. Pintura, acrรญlico sobre MDF. 85 cm x 82 cm
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Imperturbables III. Monocopia. Oleo y lรกpiz litogrรกfico sobre papel. 118 x 48 cm.
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El Vigรญa. 2019. Dibujo. Tinta china, lรกpices y acrรญlico sobre MDF.
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Una vez un Lugar. 2022. Pintura, รณleo sobre MDF.184 x 70 cm
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Marin County. 2022. Monocopia, รณleo sobre papel 190 grs. 112 x 40 cm.
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Libros de artista
“La dificultad de definir quรฉ es un libro de artista me interesa. Cada vez que encuentro una definiciรณn al mismo tiempo surge una obra que la desborda. Hay una frase de un gran maestro de Budismo Tibetano, Lama Anagarika Govinda, que dice “La libertad no es indocilidad ni desenfreno, sino la expresiรณn de la ley interior de uno’. Creo que cada libro de artista logrado tiene un orden, una ley interior que lo sostiene.”
Mรณnica Goldstein, 2014.
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Artist’s Books
“The difficulty of defining what an artist’s book is interests me. Every time I find a definition, at the same time a work emerges that surpasses it. There is a phrase from a great teacher of Tibetan Buddhism, Lama Anagarika Govinda, who says ‘Freedom is not indocility or debauchery, but the expression of one’s inner law.’ I believe that every accomplished artist’s book has an order, an inner law that sustains it.
Mรณnica Goldstein, 2014.
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Shambala. 2008. Unico ejemplar. Libro modificado, tรฉcnica mixta, piedras, impresiones digitales, pintura. 27 cm x 33 cm x 9 cm/ Unique artist’s book. Modified book, mixed technique, stones, digital prints, painting. 27cm x 33cm x 9cm.
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REINOS MITICOS. 2009. รnico ejemplar. 7 pรกginas rรญgidas sobre una base de madera en la que se encastran en un eje central. Cada hoja estรก pintada de ambos lados y tiene un dibujo lineal que se continรบa al desplegar las 7 pรกginas en orden para conformar un paisaje total en una cara y con 7 imรกgenes diferentes en la otra. 58 cm x 14 cm x 10 cm/
2009. Unique artist’s book. 7 rigid pages on a wooden base which they fit into a central axis. Each sheet is painted on both sides and has a linear drawing that continues when unfolding the 7 pages in order to form a total landscape on one side and with 7 different images on the other. 58cm x 14cm x 10cm/
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Mi Principio mi Fin. รnico ejemplar. Tinta en papel japonรฉs Macau, Golden Panda, encuadernado en tela. 17,5 cm x 51,5 cm x 1 cm./ Unique artist’s book. Ink on Macau Japanese paper, Golden Panda, cloth bound. 17.5cm x 51.5cm x 1cm.
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SERIE SENDEROS, obras nรบmeros 3, 5 y 6
Tรฉcnicas: Dibujo e Ink jet print en papel ilustraciรณn mate 140 grs. Pastel tiza, lรกpices diversos, grafito, รณleo pastel/ Drawing and ink jet print on 140 gr matte illustration paper. pastel chalk, various pencils, grafiti, pastel oil.
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obra nยฐ3. 2021. Dibujo e Ink jet print en papel ilustraciรณn mate 140 grs. Pastel tiza, lรกpices diversos, grafito, รณleo pastel. 49,5 x 130 cm
obra nยฐ 5. 2022. Dibujo e Ink jet print en papel ilustraciรณn mate 140 grs. Pastel tiza, lรกpices grasos. 49,5 x 130 cm
Roberto Maldovsky- ArgentinaโJoanna Hausmann –Venezuela/Estados Unidosโ– Comediantes judรญo-latinoamericanos de hoy
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Chistes judรญos de antes y de hoy
El prรณspero financista enseรฑa al visitante su enorme comedor y dice: En este salรณn, Dios no lo permita, pueden cenar hasta ochenta personas.
El oficial polaco pregunta al recluta Isaac: –ยฟPor quรฉ debe el soldado sacrificar su vida? โTiene razรณn mi teniente! ยฟPor quรฉ deberรญa hacerlo?
ยกTome asiento, Barรณn! โseรฑala el judรญo muy atareado. โSoy el duque de Gramont โhace notar el indignado visitante. โTome otro asiento โcontesta el judรญo sin levantar la vista.
Son los dรญas de la preguerra hitlerista y tambiรฉn los de una negativa casi mundial para aceptar refugiados. Los diversos paรญses exigen mรบltiples requisitos en sus leyes de ingreso. Un judรญo alemรกn le pide consejo al agente de viajes sobre lo posibilidad de emigrar inmediatamente. Mientras estudia las casi nulas disyuntivas, hace girar el globo terrรกqueo que estรก sobre la mesa. Por fin, desesperado, pregunta: –ยฟNo tiene otro globo?
Muchas gracias a Alicia Freilich Warshavsky
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The prosperous financier shows the visitor his enormous dining room and says: In this room, God forbid, up to eighty people can dine.
The Polish officer asks the recruit Isaac: –Why should the soldier sacrifice his life? โMy lieutenant is right! Why should I do it?
Take a seat, Baron! โpoints out the very busy Jew. โI am the Duke of Gramont,โ the indignant visitor notes. โTake another seat,โ the Jew answers without looking up.
These are the days of the Hitlerite prewar and also those of an almost global refusal to accept refugees. Different countries require multiple requirements in their entry laws. A German Jew asks the travel agent for advice on the possibility of emigrating immediately. While studying the almost non-existent dilemmas, he spins the globe on the table. Finally, desperate, he asks: –Don’t you have another balloon?
Los ingleses se rรญen de los irlandeses y escoceses. Los franceses de los belgas. Los argentinos y brasileiros, de los gallegos y portugueses respectivamente. Los alemanes de los austriacos y รฉstos de los suizos. Los suizos no saben que es reรญrse. Los norteamericanos se rรญen de los polacos y los polacos todavรญa estรกn buscando a quien reรญrse.
Cada pueblo elige a otro como objeto de sus chistes y burlas, bajo determinadas circunstancias, tiene algo que ver con el humor, pero poco.
Cada pueblo tiene entonces, un referente para su humor, construido por algรบn otro pueblo con el que, generalmente, mantiene una relaciรณn de sometedor o de sometido.
Cada pueblo menos el pueblo judรญo.
ยฟPor quรฉ esta diferencia? (ยกOtra vez una
diferencia, Dios mรญo!)
En mi manera de ver las cosas, porque los judรญos no tenemos vรญnculos referenciales con otro pueblo determinado, sino con todos.
Que es lo mismo que con ninguno.
Es por eso que nos elegimos como propios destinarios de nuestro humor, siempre รกcido, pero siempre tierno.
Somos el dardo es y el blanco a la vez.
Es que un pueblo que, desde siempre, ha elegido como camino y como destino el que el mundo sea un poquito mรกs justo, estรก demasiado solo en estรฉ mundo tan injusto.
Y estar solo y no puede reรญrse es demasiado ni siquiera de eso, es demasiado.
Hasta para un judรญo.
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JEWISH HUMOR
The English laugh at the Irish and Scots. The French from the Belgians. The Argentines and Brazilians, the Galicians and the Portuguese respectively. The Germans from the Austrians and these from the Swiss. The Swiss don’t know what it means to laugh. Americans laugh at Poles and Poles are still looking for someone to laugh at.
โโโ Each people chooses another as the object of its jokes and ridicule, under certain circumstances, it has something to do with humor, but little.
โโโEach people then has a reference for its humor, constructed by some other town with which, generally, it maintains a relationship of master or subject.
โโโEvery people except the Jewish people.
โโโWhy this difference? (Again a difference, my God!)
In my way of seeing things, because we Jews do not have referential links with another specific people, but with everyone.
Which is the same as with none.
โโ That is why we choose ourselves as the recipients of our humor, always acidic, but always tender.
โโ We are the dart and the target at the same time.
โโโ The thing is that a people who have always chosen as their path and destiny that the world be a little more just, are too alone in this unjust world.
And being alone and not being able to laugh is too much even that, it’s too much.
Even for a Jew.
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Chistes judรญos
Abraham va a hacerle un traje a medida a Moisรฉs, el sastre.
-ยฟCuรกndo estarรก listo mi traje, Moishe?
-Yโฆ en unas tres semanasโฆ
-ยฟTres semanas para hacer un traje? ยกDios hizo el mundo en una semana!
-ยกY asรญ resultรณ!
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Fisher comienza a contarle un chiste a su amigo:
-Una vez Levin conoce a Cohenโฆ
“Siempre Levin y Cohen, siempre Levin y Cohen”, interrumpe el amigo. Me cansรฉ. ยฟPor quรฉ los hรฉroes de tus historias son siempre judรญos y nunca, digamos, chinos, por ejemplo?
-Tienes razรณn. De hecho, conozco una historia china: Shin Min una vez conoce a Lang Fu y lo invita al bar-mitzvah de su hijoโฆ
Aquรญ puedes encontrar una breve descripciรณn del humor judรญo de Roberto Moldavsky.
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Moishe va a consultar al rabino Iankl:
-Rabi, por favor dรญgame, tengo gripe y no puedo pagarle al mรฉdico, ยฟquรฉ hago?
-Toma un poco de tรฉ de manzanilla.
Al mismo tiempo, Moishe vuelve a darle las gracias:
-Gracias rabino Iankl, tu remedio me curรณ por completo.
Y el rabino Iankl escribe en su cuaderno: โEl tรฉ de manzanilla cura la gripeโ.
Pero unos dรญas despuรฉs, Moishe vuelve:
-Rab Iankl, quiero contarte que mi vecino Mendl cayรณ con una gripe muy fuerte, le hice tomar su remedio, tรฉ de manzanilla, y sin embargo cada vez estรก peorโฆ
Entonces el rabino Iankl corrige lo que escribiรณ en su cuaderno: โEl tรฉ de manzanilla cura la gripe en el 50% de los casosโ.
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Jacobo, a una estudiante:
-Me gustarรญa ser un libro, estar siempre en tus brazos.
Y ella:
-Estรก bien, pero mejor una agenda, asรญ a fin de aรฑo puedo cambiarte por otra.
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Jewish Jokes
I’m is going to make a custom-made suit for Moisรฉs, the tailor.
-When will my suit be ready, Moishe?
-Andโฆ in about three weeksโฆ
-Three weeks to make a suit? God made the world in a week!
-And so it turned out!
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Fisher begins to tell a joke to his friend:
-Once Levin meets Cohenโฆ
“Always Levin and Cohen, always Levin and Cohen,” the friend interrupts. I got tired. Why are the heroes of your stories always Jewish and never, say, Chinese, for example?
-You’re right. In fact, I know a Chinese story: Shin Min once meets Lang Fu and invites him to his son’s bar-mitzvahโฆ
—Here you can find a brief description of Roberto Moldavsky’s Jewish humor.
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Moishe goes to consult Rabbi Iankl:
-Rabi, please tell me, I have the flu and I can’t pay the doctor, what do I do?
-Drink some chamomile tea.
At the same time, Moishe thanks him again:
-Thank you Rabbi Iankl, your remedy cured me completely.
And Rabbi Iankl writes in his notebook: โChamomile tea cures the flu.โ
But a few days later, Moishe returns:
-Rab Iankl, I want to tell you that my neighbor Mendl came down with a very bad flu, I made him take his remedy, chamomile tea, and yet he is getting worse and worseโฆ
Then Rabbi Iankl corrects what he wrote in his notebook: โChamomile tea cures the flu in 50% of cases.โ
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Jacobo, to a student:
-I would like to be a book, always be in your arms.
And her:
-Okay, but like an agenda, so at the end of the year I can change you for another one.
Judith Laikin Elkin was born in Baltimore MD in 1928; she had lived in Ann Arbor since 1980. Married for 47 years to Sol M. Elkin, who pre-deceased her. She was the mother of Alissa Ruth Leonard and the late Susannah (Stephen) Zisk. She is survived by four grandchildren: Sarah, Talia, and Abigail Leonard, and Sam Zisk. Educated in Detroit Public Schools and the Farband Folk Shule, Judith earned a BA in English from the University of Michigan (1948) and an MA in International Relations from Columbia University (1950). After raising her children, she returned to the University of Michigan to earn her Ph.D. in history (1976). Identifying a gap in historical studies, she founded the Latin American Jewish Studies Association to support research in that area and served as its president for 13 years. She was the author of numerous books and articles on this subject, including The Jews of Latin America, the foundational text for the field. Judith was one of the few women commissioned as a United States Foreign Service Officer prior to passage of the 1964 Civil Rights Act. She served as vice consul to India, Pakistan, Burma (Myanmar), Ceylon (Sri Lanka), and Afghanistan, where she traveled extensively. A memoir of her experiences was published as Krishna Smiled: Assignment in South Asia. She later was assigned to London, England, as visa officer, where she had experiences recounted in her memoir, Walking Made My Path. She resigned her commission in order to be free to marry and found a family. Back home in Detroit, she wrote a column on foreign affairs for the Detroit Free Press and Toledo Blade. From 1989 on, she was an associate of the Frankel Center for Judaic Studies at the University of Michigan. While conducting research as an independent scholar, Judith taught history and political science at Albion College, Wayne State University, Ohio State University, and The University of Michigan. She also held administrative positions at Albion College, Great Lakes Colleges Association, and Union Steel. She was encouraged in her work by grants and fellowships from the National Endowment for the Humanities, the Fulbright Association, Memorial Foundation for Jewish Culture, American Jewish Archives, American Association of University Women, Touro National Heritage Foundation, and American Council of Learned Societies. She served as an elected member of the Albion school board, the board of the Michigan Chapter of the Fulbright Association, and the board of the Jewish Community Center of Greater Ann Arbor.โ Ann Arbor News
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Judith Laikin Elkin naciรณ en Baltimore MD en 1928; habรญa vivido en Ann Arbor desde 1980. Casada durante 47 aรฑos con Sol M. Elkin, quien falleciรณ antes que ella. Era la madre de Alissa Ruth Leonard y de la fallecida Susannah (Stephen) Zisk. Le sobreviven cuatro nietos: Sarah, Talia, Abigail Leonard y Sam Zisk. Educada en las Escuelas Pรบblicas de Detroit y en Farband Folk Shule, Judith obtuvo una licenciatura en inglรฉs de la Universidad de Michigan (1948) y una maestrรญa en Relaciones Internacionales de la Universidad de Columbia (1950). Despuรฉs de criar a sus hijos, regresรณ a la Universidad de Michigan para obtener su doctorado. en la historia (1976). Al identificar una brecha en los estudios histรณricos, fundรณ la Asociaciรณn de Estudios Judรญos Latinoamericanos para apoyar la investigaciรณn en esa รกrea y fue su presidenta durante 13 aรฑos. Fue autora de numerosos libros y artรญculos sobre este tema, incluido Los judรญos de Amรฉrica Latina, el texto fundacional del campo. Judith fue una de las pocas mujeres comisionadas como funcionaria del Servicio Exterior de los Estados Unidos antes de la aprobaciรณn de la Ley de Derechos Civiles de 1964. Se desempeรฑรณ como vicecรณnsul en India, Pakistรกn, Birmania (Myanmar), Ceilรกn (Sri Lanka) y Afganistรกn, donde viajรณ mucho. Se publicรณ una memoria de sus experiencias como Krishna Smiled: Assignment in South Asia. Mรกs tarde fue asignada a Londres, Inglaterra, como oficial de visas, donde contรณ sus experiencias en sus memorias, Walking Made My Path. Renunciรณ a su cargo para poder casarse y fundar una familia. De regreso a Detroit, escribiรณ una columna sobre asuntos exteriores para Detroit Free Press y Toledo Blade. A partir de 1989 fue asociada del Centro Frankel de Estudios Judaicos de la Universidad de Michigan. Mientras realizaba investigaciones como acadรฉmica independiente, Judith enseรฑรณ historia y ciencias polรญticas en Albion College, Wayne State University, Ohio State University y The University of Michigan. Tambiรฉn ocupรณ cargos administrativos en Albion College, Great Lakes Colleges Association y Union Steel. Su trabajo la alentaron las subvenciones y becas del Fondo Nacional de Humanidades, la Asociaciรณn Fulbright, la Fundaciรณn Memorial para la Cultura Judรญa, los Archivos Judรญos Estadounidenses, la Asociaciรณn Estadounidense de Mujeres Universitarias, la Fundaciรณn del Patrimonio Nacional Touro y el Consejo Estadounidense de Sociedades Cultas. Se desempeรฑรณ como miembro electa de la junta escolar de Albion, la junta del Capรญtulo de Michigan de la Asociaciรณn Fulbright y la junta del Centro Comunitario Judรญo de Greater Ann Arbor.โ Ann Arbor News
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Judith Laikin Elkin nasceu em Baltimore, MD, em 1928; morava em Ann Arbor desde 1980. Casado hรก 47 anos com Sol M. Elkin, que faleceu antes dela. Ela era a mรฃe de Alissa Ruth Leonard e da falecida Susannah (Stephen) Zisk. Ela deixa quatro netos: Sarah, Talia, Abigail Leonard e Sam Zisk. Educada nas Escolas Pรบblicas de Detroit e no Farband Folk Shule, Judith obteve bacharelado em Inglรชs pela Universidade de Michigan (1948) e mestrado em Relaรงรตes Internacionais pela Universidade de Columbia (1950). Depois de criar os filhos, ela voltou para a Universidade de Michigan para obter seu doutorado. na histรณria (1976). Identificando uma lacuna nos estudos histรณricos, ela fundou a Associaรงรฃo de Estudos Judaicos Latino-Americanos para apoiar pesquisas nessa รกrea e serviu como sua presidente por 13 anos. Ela foi autora de vรกrios livros e artigos sobre o tema, incluindo The Jews of Latin America, o texto fundador da รกrea. Judith foi uma das poucas mulheres comissionadas como oficial do Serviรงo de Relaรงรตes Exteriores dos Estados Unidos antes da aprovaรงรฃo da Lei dos Direitos Civis de 1964. Ela serviu como vice-cรดnsul na รndia, Paquistรฃo, Birmรขnia (Myanmar), Ceilรฃo (Sri Lanka) e Afeganistรฃo, onde ele viajou muito. Um livro de memรณrias de suas experiรชncias foi publicado como Krishna Smiled: Assignment in South Asia. Mais tarde, ela foi designada para Londres, Inglaterra, como oficial de vistos, onde contou suas experiรชncias em seu livro de memรณrias, Walking Made My Path. Ele renunciou ao cargo para poder se casar e constituir famรญlia. Retornando a Detroit, ele escreveu uma coluna sobre relaรงรตes exteriores para o Detroit Free Press e o Toledo Blade. A partir de 1989, ela foi associada do Centro Frankel de Estudos Judaicos da Universidade de Michigan. Enquanto conduzia pesquisas como acadรชmica independente, Judith ensinou histรณria e ciรชncias polรญticas no Albion College, na Wayne State University, na Ohio State University e na University of Michigan. Ele tambรฉm ocupou cargos administrativos no Albion College, na Great Lakes Colleges Association e na Union Steel. Seu trabalho foi incentivado por doaรงรตes e bolsas do National Endowment for the Humanities, da Fulbright Association, da Memorial Foundation for Jewish Culture, dos American Jewish Archives, da American Association of University Women, da Touro National Heritage Foundation e do American Council of Sociedades Cultuadas. Ela serviu como membro eleito do conselho escolar de Albion, do conselho do Capรญtulo de Michigan da Associaรงรฃo Fulbright e do conselho do Centro Comunitรกrio Judaico da Grande Ann Arbor.โโAnn Arbor News
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Books/Libros/Livros
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Judith Laikin Elkin. The Jews of Latin America. 3rd, Edition. Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner, 2014, 296-301:โ
English/Espaรฑol/Portuguรชs:
The Challenge of Religion
Absence of a religious core to Jewish life came to be seen as a principal reason for the accelerating rate of exogamy, which brought with it the prospect of the disappearance of Judaism from the continent. Of course, the disappearance of Judaism is not the same as disappearance of Jews physically, and Jews difยญfer as to Judaism’s enduring value. Persons “of Jewish descent” continue to live and thrive (or not) as citizens of their country of adoption, while memories of kehillah life retreat farther and farther beyond parents’ and grandparents’ horizons. Increasing numbers of Jews melt into national versions of the melting pot, while Orthodox Jews recoil from the “horror” of assimilation. A contest between very different proposed directions for Latin American Jewish life is ongoing at this time; two of several opposed religious visions are described here. The choices made will shape the way in which Jews adapt to, and are acยญcepted by, Latin American societies.
Renewal
As leader of the newly founded Comunidad Bet El of Buenos Aires in the 1960s and 1970s, American rabbi Marshall Meyer took as his mission the renewal of Judaism and the reattachment of young secular Jews to Jewishness. Influenced by Liberation Theology-the realization of religious belief through social connection-Meyer worked to move the synagogue from the periphery or Argentine Jewish life to its center. He began by generating an atmosphere that would attract the entire family: men and women lo be incorporated into the religious service, and Hebrew prayers translated into Spanish. These innovations had been rejected when Meyer proposed them at Congregaciรณn Israelita de la Repรบblica Argentina (CIRA) and were the cause of the congregational split.
Although he himself was educated in the Conservative movement, Meyer enlisted a Moroccan rabbi to provide himself with an Orthodox anchor. (Conservatism bridges Orthodoxy and Reform, retaining essential teachings of Judaism while allowing customs that are deemed obsolete to lapse.) With his help, Meyer founded a Seminario Rabinico to begin training young men (and eventually women) to fill the need for Spanish-speaking religious personnel educated in both religious and secular modes. Unlike rabbis imported from abroad, students at the Buenos Aires seminary would also matriculate at an Argentine university, closing the gap that formerly had existed between congregations and their spiritual leaders. The seminario opened a day school for elementary through high school grades, initiated adult education courses and a teacher training program, established a library of Judaica and Hebraica, and arranged for the translation of basic religious works from Hebrew into Spanish. The seminario began the revival of moribund congregational life by legitimizing a conversion process (still controversial) that brought spouses who had not been born Jewish into the community, instead of excluding members who married non-Jews. . .
Unlike would-be reformers of the Catholic Church, Conservative Jews had no institutional opponent in their effort to liberate Jews from a tradition they beยญlieved had lost its relevance to the modem world. In 1970, the Seminario Rabinico achieved full status as a seminary for the training of rabbis and became an affiliate of the Jewish Theological Seminary of New York, the academic, cultural, and religious center for Conservative Judaism. From then on, students and faculty transitioned between the Seminario and Comunidad Bet El. By 1988, some fifty Conservative congregations were functioning in Argentina, Chile, Peru, Brazil, Colombia, and Mexico, thirty of these with Seminario-trained rabbis and embraced over on hundred thousand congregants. By 2013, Seminary had ordained ninety rabbis, including 10 women. This growth was not the result of missionary activity, but occurred when existing synagogues realized that their survival depended on attracting new congregants and that these were joining the Conservative wave. At that point, many requested the seminario to recommend a rabbi to guide the conversation to a progressive interpretation of Judaism.
Marshall Mayerโs version of Conservative Judaism, combining religious faith and social action, filled a specific need in Argentine society. It attracted the children and grandchildren of leftist and secular Jews who had been alienated from religion because of its apparent disconnection from the problems of the day. Importantly, it provided an outlet for politically and socially aware Jews at a time when military oppression made political and social action dangerous. Meyer and the Seminario began a process from converting Judaism in Latin America from a set of rules and obligations without apparent relevance to the modern world to an ethical way of life informed by the past and applicable to contemporary life. By founding a rabbinical seminary for the training of spiritual leaders in a progressive mode, who are prepared to assume leadership roles in in their communities, Meyer also made it possible for Argentine Jews to accept an overture by the Church, should an opening occur.
Return
The contemporary turn to ultra-Orthodoxy, viewed as a return or tshuvah originated in the 1940s as an attempt to explain the ongoing horror of the Holocaust. As interpreted by Menahem Mendel Schneerson (1902-1994), seventh rebbe of the Chabad Lubavich dynasty, Jewish are going through a โspiritual holocaust: the secularization of Jewish life in America.” This spiritual impoverishment can be reversed by a return to authentic Jewish tradition, and only that return with bring about the advent of the Messianic Age. Under this banner, Chabad and other ultra-religious sects pioneered a global mission to transform seculars, liberals, and unbelievers into Orthodox Jews (these groups have no interest in converting non-Jews to Judaism) . . .
Orthodox emissaries are dispatched to live in areas where secularism and liberalism are believed to be decimating Jewish life. Chabad, writes Mary Topel, to awaken the spark of divinity, has transformed itself into a transnational empire with an aggressive policy of proselytization. These emissaries must keep the religious precepts themselves, setting an example of the moral life by fulfilling the commandments of halacha, including marrying and raising large families. Militants regard themselves as waging a spiritual war to awaken the spark of divinity that resides in every Jew but that has been covered over by the influence of the larger society. This militancy in the service of a righteous cause impels young missionaries to places like Mumbai, Kinshasa or Sรฃo Paulo in order to locate non-observant Jews and them into a life of Jewish spirituality. The goal is the creation of new orthodox families and communities. These missions have been success in many cities across the Americas, of which Sรฃo Paulo provides an example. In 1985, there were four orthodox rabbis in that city. In 2000, following the arrival of the Chabad missions, more than one hundred rabbis were active there. There were also fifteen new synagogues, three yeshivas, two religious academies for adults, facilities for kosher slaughter of meat, ritual baths, and five childrenโs schools, which had eclipsed the existing three secular schools. Kosher restaurants, bookstores and study centers had appeared by the 1990s, and rabbis were organizing youth activities, seminars, pizza parties, and other activities that attracted people who might not have been thinking about teshuva but who enjoyed getting together with other people like themselves. As more people connected to the hospitable Chabad Houses, Jewish spaces that had formerly been secular became Orthodox.
โโThe movement responded to the needs of Jews who might have made it in the material world, but who were searching for transcendence in their spiritual lives, which they could not find in the Catholic ambience. Within Jewish spaces where they felt a sense of belonging, they accepted the leadership of rabbis who gave assurance of the unchanging values of Judaism, which had guided their ancestors and still could teach one how to live in the modem world. The evolution of the Hebrew schools, which in Sao Paulo, as elsewhere, had been secular, exemplifies Chabad’s proselytizing methods. In accord with an agreement with a philanthropist who contributed the necessary funds, the schools brought Orthodox teachers onto their staffs. Parents did not object: instead of making do with volunteer or underprepared teachers, their children would now be studying Judaism from knowledgeable rabbis. Charismatic teachers gained the students’ attention and their parents’ support. But these well-regarded teachers soon refused to teach girls in the existing mixed classes; then objected to teaching the children of mixed marriages, whom they did not consider Jewish. Bat mitzvah (the coming-of-age ceremony for girls, parallel to the bar mitzvah for boys) was downgraded by assigning the girls to a separate room and not allowing them to voice their prayers aloud. Principals who objected to these changes were silenced by their board in the interest of retaining the conditional financing. Unlike the comparable situation in Israel, where attempts to impose orthodoxy on the population have met with resistance, by the year 2000, Sao Paulo Jews were on their way to accepting orthodoxy.
Chabad was an early and enthusiastic adopter of technology. Its website carries a directory of Chabad centers worldwide (in 2012, there were eleven in Brazil, fifteen in Argentina, two in Venezuela, and one in Paraguay). Tabs on this site conveniently bring up lessons in Jewish law, sermons, kosher cookery, as well as the humorous stories that Hasidim tell to intrigue listeners and personalize religious concepts The tab marked “ask the rabbi” was deleted because it was receiving thousands of queries from non-Jews. Three groups Chabad particularly avoids: Pentecostals, people who believe they are descended from Marranos, and those who wish to convert to Judaism in order to qualify for emigration to Israel.
La ausencia de un nรบcleo religioso en la vida judรญa llegรณ a ser vista como la razรณn principal del ritmo acelerado de la exogamia, que trajo consigo la perspectiva de la desapariciรณn del judaรญsmo del continente. Por supuesto, la desapariciรณn del judaรญsmo no es lo mismo que la desapariciรณn fรญsica de los judรญos, y los judรญos difieren en cuanto al valor perdurable del judaรญsmo. Las personas “de ascendencia judรญa” continรบan viviendo y prosperando (o no) como ciudadanos de su paรญs de adopciรณn, mientras que los recuerdos de la vida en kehillah se alejan cada vez mรกs de los horizontes de los padres y abuelos. Un nรบmero cada vez mayor de judรญos se funden en versiones nacionales del crisol, mientras que los judรญos ortodoxos retroceden ante el “horror” de la asimilaciรณn. En este momento estรก en curso una pugna entre direcciones propuestas muy diferentes para la vida judรญa latinoamericana. Aquรญ se describen dos de varias visiones religiosas opuestas. Las decisiones que se tomen determinarรกn la forma en que los judรญos se adapten a las sociedades latinoamericanas y sean aceptados por ellas.
Renovaciรณn
Como lรญder de la reciรฉn fundada Comunidad Bet El de Buenos Aires en las dรฉcadas de 1960 y 1970, el rabino estadounidense Marshall Meyer asumiรณ como misiรณn la renovaciรณn del judaรญsmo y la reinserciรณn de los jรณvenes judรญos seculares al judaรญsmo. Influenciado por la Teologรญa de la Liberaciรณn (la realizaciรณn de la creencia religiosa a travรฉs de la conexiรณn social), Meyer trabajรณ para trasladar la sinagoga de la periferia de la vida judรญa argentina a su centro. Comenzรณ por generar un ambiente que atrajera a toda la familia: hombres y mujeres incorporados al servicio religioso, y oraciones hebreas traducidas al espaรฑol. Estas innovaciones habรญan sido rechazadas cuando Meyer las propuso en la Congregaciรณn Israelita de la Repรบblica Argentina (CIRA) y fueron la causa de la divisiรณn entre congregaciones.
Aunque รฉl mismo fue educado en el movimiento conservador, Meyer reclutรณ a un rabino marroquรญ para que le proporcionara un ancla ortodoxa. (El conservadurismo une la ortodoxia y la reforma, conservando las enseรฑanzas esenciales del judaรญsmo y al mismo tiempo permitiendo que caduquen costumbres que se consideran obsoletas). Con su ayuda, Meyer fundรณ un Seminario Rabรญnico para comenzar a capacitar a hombres jรณvenes (y eventualmente a mujeres) para satisfacer la necesidad de estudiantes de habla hispana. personal religioso educado tanto en modalidad religiosa como secular. A diferencia de los rabinos importados del extranjero, los estudiantes del seminario de Buenos Aires tambiรฉn se matricularรญan en una universidad argentina, cerrando la brecha que antes existรญa entre las congregaciones y sus lรญderes espirituales. El seminario abriรณ una escuela diurna para los grados de primaria a secundaria, iniciรณ cursos de educaciรณn para adultos y un programa de formaciรณn de profesores, estableciรณ una biblioteca de judaica y hebraica y organizรณ la traducciรณn de obras religiosas bรกsicas del hebreo al espaรฑol. El seminario iniciรณ el resurgimiento de la moribunda vida congregacional al legitimar un proceso de conversiรณn (aรบn controvertido) que incorporรณ a la comunidad a cรณnyuges que no habรญan nacido judรญos, en lugar de excluir a los miembros que se casaron con no judรญos. . .
โโ A diferencia de los aspirantes a reformadores de la Iglesia catรณlica, los judรญos conservadores no tenรญan ningรบn oponente institucional en su esfuerzo por liberarlos de una tradiciรณn que creรญan que habรญa perdido su relevancia para el mundo moderno. En 1970, el Seminario Rabรญnico alcanzรณ el estatus pleno de seminario para la formaciรณn de rabinos y se convirtiรณ en afiliado del Seminario Teolรณgico Judรญo de Nueva York, el centro acadรฉmico, cultural y religioso del judaรญsmo conservador. A partir de entonces, los estudiantes y profesores hicieron la transiciรณn entre el Seminario y la Comunidad Bet El. En 1988, funcionaban unas cincuenta congregaciones conservadoras en Argentina, Chile, Perรบ, Brasil, Colombia y Mรฉxico, treinta de ellas con rabinos formados en el Seminario y acogรญan a mรกs de cien mil feligreses. En 2013, el Seminario habรญa ordenado noventa rabinos, incluidas diez mujeres. Este crecimiento no fue el resultado de la actividad misionera. Pero ocurriรณ cuando las sinagogas existentes se dieron cuenta de que su supervivencia dependรญa de atraer nuevos feligreses y que รฉstos se estaban uniendo a la ola conservadora. En ese momento, muchos pidieron al seminario que recomendara un rabino para guiar la conversaciรณn hacia una interpretaciรณn progresista del judaรญsmo.
La versiรณn del judaรญsmo conservador de Marshall Mayer, que combinaba fe religiosa y acciรณn social, satisfizo una necesidad especรญfica de la sociedad argentina. Atrajo a los hijos y nietos de judรญos izquierdistas y seculares que habรญan sido alienados de la religiรณn debido a su aparente desconexiรณn de los problemas de la รฉpoca. Es importante destacar que proporcionรณ una salida para judรญos polรญtica y socialmente conscientes en un momento en que la opresiรณn militar hacรญa peligrosa la acciรณn polรญtica y social. Meyer y el Seminario iniciaron un proceso para convertir el judaรญsmo en Amรฉrica Latina de un conjunto de reglas y obligaciones sin relevancia aparente para el mundo moderno a una forma de vida รฉtica informada por el pasado y aplicable a la vida contemporรกnea. Al fundar un seminario rabรญnico para la formaciรณn de lรญderes espirituales de manera progresista, que estรฉn preparados para asumir roles de liderazgo en sus comunidades, Meyer tambiรฉn hizo posible que los judรญos argentinos aceptaran una propuesta de la Iglesia, en caso de que se produjera una apertura.
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O desafio da religiรฃo
A ausรชncia de um nรบcleo religioso na vida judaica passou a ser vista como o principal motivo do ritmo acelerado da exogamia, que trouxe consigo a perspectiva do desaparecimento do judaรญsmo do continente. ร claro que o desaparecimento do Judaรญsmo nรฃo รฉ o mesmo que o desaparecimento fรญsico dos Judeus, e os Judeus divergem quanto ao valor duradouro do Judaรญsmo. As pessoas โde ascendรชncia judaicaโ continuam a viver e a prosperar (ou nรฃo) como cidadรฃos do seu paรญs de adoรงรฃo, enquanto as memรณrias da vida em kehillah se afastam cada vez mais dos horizontes dos pais e avรณs. Um nรบmero crescente de Judeus funde-se em versรตes nacionais do caldeirรฃo cultural, enquanto os Judeus Ortodoxos recuam perante o โhorrorโ da assimilaรงรฃo. Atualmente estรก em curso uma luta entre propostas de direรงรตes muito diferentes para a vida judaica latino-americana; Duas das vรกrias visรตes religiosas opostas sรฃo descritas aqui. As decisรตes tomadas determinarรฃo como os judeus se adaptarรฃo e serรฃo aceitos pelas sociedades latino-americanas.
Renovaรงรฃo
Como lรญder da recรฉm-fundada Comunidade Bet El de Buenos Aires nas dรฉcadas de 1960 e 1970, o rabino americano Marshall Meyer assumiu como missรฃo renovar o judaรญsmo e reintegrar jovens judeus seculares ao judaรญsmo. Influenciado pela Teologia da Libertaรงรฃo (a realizaรงรฃo da crenรงa religiosa atravรฉs da conexรฃo social), Meyer trabalhou para mover a sinagoga da periferia da vida judaica argentina para o seu centro. Comeรงou criando um ambiente que atraiu toda a famรญlia: homens e mulheres incorporados ao serviรงo religioso e oraรงรตes hebraicas traduzidas para o espanhol. Estas inovaรงรตes foram rejeitadas quando Meyer as propรดs na Congregaรงรฃo Israelita da Repรบblica Argentina (CIRA) e foram a causa da divisรฃo congregacional.
โโEmbora ele prรณprio tenha sido criado no movimento conservador, Meyer recrutou um rabino marroquino para lhe fornecer uma รขncora ortodoxa. (O conservadorismo une a Ortodoxia e a Reforma, preservando os ensinamentos essenciais do Judaรญsmo, ao mesmo tempo que permite que os costumes considerados obsoletos expirem.) Com a ajuda deles, Meyer fundou um Seminรกrio Rabรญnico para comeรงar a treinar jovens (e eventualmente mulheres) para atender ร necessidade de estudantes de lรญngua espanhola. pessoal religioso educado nos modos religioso e secular. Ao contrรกrio dos rabinos importados do estrangeiro, os seminaristas de Buenos Aires tambรฉm se matriculariam numa universidade argentina, fechando a lacuna que existia anteriormente entre as congregaรงรตes e os seus lรญderes espirituais. O seminรกrio abriu uma escola diurna para o ensino fundamental atรฉ o ensino mรฉdio, iniciou cursos de educaรงรฃo de adultos e um programa de formaรงรฃo de professores, estabeleceu uma biblioteca judaica e hebraica e organizou a traduรงรฃo de obras religiosas bรกsicas do hebraico para o espanhol. O seminรกrio iniciou o renascimento da vida congregacional moribunda ao legitimar um processo de conversรฃo (ainda controverso) que trouxe para a comunidade cรดnjuges que nรฃo nasceram judeus, em vez de excluir membros que se casaram com nรฃo-judeus. . .
โโAo contrรกrio dos pretensos reformadores da Igreja Catรณlica, os judeus conservadores nรฃo tinham oponentes institucionais no seu esforรงo para os libertar de uma tradiรงรฃo que acreditavam ter perdido a sua relevรขncia para o mundo moderno. Em 1970, o Seminรกrio Rabรญnico alcanรงou o status pleno de seminรกrio para a formaรงรฃo de rabinos e tornou-se afiliado do Seminรกrio Teolรณgico Judaico de Nova York, o centro acadรชmico, cultural e religioso do Judaรญsmo Conservador. A partir de entรฃo, alunos e professores fizeram a transiรงรฃo entre o Seminรกrio e a Comunidade Bet El. Em 1988, cerca de cinquenta congregaรงรตes conservadoras funcionavam na Argentina, Chile, Peru, Brasil, Colรดmbia e Mรฉxico, trinta delas com rabinos formados no Seminรกrio. e acolheu mais de cem mil paroquianos. Em 2013, o Seminรกrio ordenou noventa rabinos, incluindo dez mulheres. Este crescimento nรฃo foi resultado da atividade missionรกria. Mas isso aconteceu quando as sinagogas existentes perceberam que a sua sobrevivรชncia dependia da atraรงรฃo de novos fiรฉis e que estavam a aderir ร onda conservadora. Na รฉpoca, muitos pediram ao seminรกrio que recomendasse um rabino para orientar a conversa em direรงรฃo a uma interpretaรงรฃo progressista do Judaรญsmo.
A versรฃo do judaรญsmo conservador de Marshall Mayer, que combinava fรฉ religiosa e aรงรฃo social, atendeu a uma necessidade especรญfica da sociedade argentina. Atraiu filhos e netos de judeus esquerdistas e seculares que haviam sido alienados da religiรฃo devido ร sua aparente desconexรฃo com as questรตes da รฉpoca. ร importante ressaltar que proporcionou uma saรญda para judeus polรญtica e socialmente conscientes numa รฉpoca em que a opressรฃo militar tornava perigosa a acรงรฃo polรญtica e social. Meyer e o Seminรกrio iniciaram um processo para converter o Judaรญsmo na Amรฉrica Latina de um conjunto de regras e obrigaรงรตes sem relevรขncia aparente para o mundo moderno para um modo de vida รฉtico informado pelo passado e aplicรกvel ร vida contemporรขnea. Ao fundar um seminรกrio rabรญnico para a formaรงรฃo de lรญderes espirituais de forma progressiva, preparados para assumir funรงรตes de lideranรงa em suas comunidades, Meyer tambรฉm possibilitou que os judeus argentinos aceitassem uma proposta da Igreja, em caso de abertura.
___________________________________
Retorno
El giro contemporรกneo hacia la ultra-ortodoxia, visto como un retorno o tshuvรก, se originรณ en la dรฉcada de 1940 como un intento de explicar el horror actual del Holocausto. Segรบn lo interpreta Menahem Mendel Schneerson (1902-1994), sรฉptimo Rebe de la dinastรญ Jabad Lubavich, los judรญos estรกn atravesando un โholocausto espiritual: la secularizaciรณn de la vida judรญa en Estados Unidos.” Este empobrecimiento espiritual puede revertirse mediante un retorno a la autรฉntica tradiciรณn judรญa, y sรณlo ese retorno traerรก el advenimiento de la Era Mesiรกnica. Bajo esta bandera, Jabad y otras sectas ultra-religiosas fueron pioneras en una misiรณn global para transformar a seculares, liberales e incrรฉdulos en judรญos ortodoxos (estos grupos no tienen ningรบn interรฉs en convertir a los no judรญos al judaรญsmo). . .
Se envรญan emisarios ortodoxos a vivir en zonas donde se cree que el secularismo y el liberalismo estรกn diezmando la vida judรญa. Jabad, escribe Mary Topel, para despertar la chispa de la divinidad, se ha transformado en un imperio transnacional con una agresiva polรญtica de proselitismo. Estos emisarios deben guardar los propios preceptos religiosos, dando ejemplo de vida moral cumpliendo los mandamientos de la halajรก, incluido casarse y formar familias numerosas. Los militantes se consideran a sรญ mismos librando una guerra espiritual para despertar la chispa de la divinidad que reside en cada judรญo pero que ha sido cubierta por la influencia de la sociedad en general. Esta militancia al servicio de una causa justa impulsa a jรณvenes misioneros a lugares como Mumbai, Kinshasa o Sรฃo Paulo para ubicar a los judรญos no observantes y a ellos en una vida de espiritualidad judรญa. El objetivo es la creaciรณn de nuevas familias y comunidades ortodoxas. Estas misiones han tenido รฉxito en muchas ciudades de Amรฉrica, de las cuales Sรฃo Paulo es un ejemplo. En 1985 habรญa cuatro rabinos ortodoxos en esa ciudad. En el aรฑo 2000, tras la llegada de las misiones de Jabad, mรกs de cien rabinos estaban activos allรญ. Tambiรฉn hubo estaban activos allรญ. Tambiรฉn habรญa quince nuevas sinagogas, tres ieshivรก, dos academias religiosas para adultos, instalaciones para el sacrificio de carne kosher, baรฑos rituales y cinco escuelas para niรฑos, que habรญan eclipsado a las tres escuelas seculares existentes. En la dรฉcada de 1990 habรญan aparecido restaurantes, librerรญas y centros de estudio kosher, y los rabinos organizaban actividades para jรณvenes, seminarios, fiestas con pizza y otras actividades que atraรญan a personas que quizรก no estaban pensando en la teshuvรก pero que disfrutaban de reunirse con otras personas como ellos. A medida que mรกs personas se conectaron a las hospitalarias Casas de Jabad, los espacios judรญos que antes habรญan sido seculares se volvieron ortodoxos.
โโโEl movimiento respondiรณ a las necesidades de los judรญos que podrรญan haber triunfado en el mundo material, pero que buscaban una trascendencia en su vida espiritual que no podรญan encontrar en el ambiente catรณlico. Dentro de los espacios judรญos donde sintieron un sentido de pertenencia, aceptaron el liderazgo de rabinos que les daban seguridad de los valores inmutables del judaรญsmo, que habรญan guiado a sus antepasados โโy todavรญa podรญan enseรฑarles a uno cรณmo vivir en el mundo moderno. La evoluciรณn de las escuelas hebreas, que en Sao Paulo, como en otros lugares, habรญa sido secular, ejemplifica los mรฉtodos proselitistas de Jabad. Segรบn un acuerdo con un filรกntropo que aportรณ los fondos necesarios, las escuelas incorporaron profesores ortodoxos a su plantilla. Los padres no pusieron objeciones: en lugar de conformarse con maestros voluntarios o mal preparados, sus hijos ahora estudiarรญan judaรญsmo con rabinos expertos. Maestros carismรกticos obtuvieron ron la atenciรณn de los estudiantes y el apoyo de sus padres. Pero estos profesores bien considerados pronto se negaron a enseรฑar a niรฑas en las clases mixtas existentes; Luego se opuso a enseรฑar a los hijos de matrimonios mixtos, a quienes no consideraban judรญos. Bat mitzvah (la ceremonia de mayorรญa de edad para las niรฑas, paralela al bar mitzvah para los niรฑos) fue degradada al asignar a las niรฑas a una habitaciรณn separada y no permitirles expresar sus oraciones en voz alta. Los directores que se opusieron a estos cambios fueron silenciados por su junta directiva con el fin de conservar la condicional financiaciรณn. A diferencia de la situaciรณn comparable en Israel, donde los intentos de imponer la ortodoxia a la poblaciรณn han encontrado resistencia, en el aรฑo 2000 los judรญos de Sao Paulo estaban en camino de aceptar la ortodoxia.
โโJabad fue uno de los primeros y entusiastas en adoptar la tecnologรญa. Su sitio web contiene un directorio de centros de Jabad en todo el mundo (en 2012, habรญa once en Brasil, quince en Argentina, dos en Venezuela y uno en Paraguay). Pestaรฑas en este sitio ofrece convenientemente lecciones de ley judรญa, sermones, cocina kosher, asรญ como historias humorรญsticas que los jasidim cuentan para intrigar a los oyentes y personalizar conceptos religiosos. La pestaรฑa marcada “pregรบntale al rabino” se eliminรณ porque estaba recibiendo miles de consultas de no -judรญos. tres grupos. Jabad evita particularmente: los pentecostales, las personas que creen que descienden de los marranos y aquellos que desean convertirse al judaรญsmo para calificar para emigrar a Israel.
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O desafio de la religiรฃo
A ausรชncia de um nรบcleo religioso na vida judaica passou a ser vista como o principal motivo do ritmo acelerado da exogamia, que trouxe consigo a perspectiva do desaparecimento do judaรญsmo do continente. ร claro que o desaparecimento do Judaรญsmo nรฃo รฉ o mesmo que o desaparecimento fรญsico dos Judeus, e os Judeus divergem quanto ao valor duradouro do Judaรญsmo. As pessoas โde ascendรชncia judaicaโ continuam a viver e a prosperar (ou nรฃo) como cidadรฃos do seu paรญs de adoรงรฃo, enquanto as memรณrias da vida em kehillah se afastam cada vez mais dos horizontes dos pais e avรณs. Um nรบmero crescente de Judeus funde-se em versรตes nacionais do caldeirรฃo cultural, enquanto os Judeus Ortodoxos recuam perante o โhorrorโ da assimilaรงรฃo. Atualmente estรก em curso uma luta entre propostas de direรงรตes muito diferentes para a vida judaica latino-americana, Duas das vรกrias visรตes religiosas opostas sรฃo descritas aqui. As decisรตes tomadas determinarรฃo como os judeus se adaptarรฃo e serรฃo aceitos pelas sociedades latino-americanas.
Renovaรงรฃo
Como lรญder da recรฉm-fundada Comunidade Bet El de Buenos Aires nas dรฉcadas de 1960 e 1970, o rabino americano Marshall Meyer assumiu como missรฃo renovar o judaรญsmo e reintegrar jovens judeus seculares ao judaรญsmo. Influenciado pela Teologia da Libertaรงรฃo (a realizaรงรฃo da crenรงa religiosa atravรฉs da conexรฃo social), Meyer trabalhou para mover a sinagoga da periferia da vida judaica argentina para o seu centro. Comeรงou criando um ambiente que atraiu toda a famรญlia: homens e mulheres incorporados ao serviรงo religioso e oraรงรตes hebraicas traduzidas para o espanhol. Estas inovaรงรตes foram rejeitadas quando Meyer as propรดs na Congregaรงรฃo Israelita da Repรบblica Argentina (CIRA) e foram a causa da divisรฃo congregacional.
โโEmbora ele prรณprio tenha sido criado no movimento conservador, Meyer recrutou um rabino marroquino para lhe fornecer uma รขncora ortodoxa. (O conservadorismo une a Ortodoxia e a Reforma, preservando os ensinamentos essenciais do Judaรญsmo, ao mesmo tempo que permite que os costumes considerados obsoletos expirem.) Com a ajuda deles, Meyer fundou um Seminรกrio Rabรญnico para comeรงar a treinar jovens (e eventualmente mulheres) para atender ร necessidade de estudantes de lรญngua espanhola. pessoal religioso educado nos modos religioso e secular. Ao contrรกrio dos rabinos importados do estrangeiro, os seminaristas de Buenos Aires tambรฉm se matriculariam numa universidade argentina, fechando a lacuna que existia anteriormente entre as congregaรงรตes e os seus lรญderes espirituais. O seminรกrio abriu uma escola diurna para o ensino fundamental atรฉ o ensino mรฉdio, iniciou cursos de educaรงรฃo de adultos e um programa de formaรงรฃo de professores, estabeleceu uma biblioteca judaica e hebraica e organizou a traduรงรฃo de obras religiosas bรกsicas do hebraico para o espanhol. O seminรกrio iniciou o renascimento da vida congregacional moribunda ao legitimar um processo de conversรฃo (ainda controverso) que trouxe para a comunidade cรดnjuges que nรฃo nasceram judeus, em vez de excluir membros que se casaram com nรฃo-judeus. . .
โAo contrรกrio dos pretensos reformadores da Igreja Catรณlica, os judeus conservadores nรฃo tinham oponentes institucionais no seu esforรงo para os libertar de uma tradiรงรฃo que acreditavam ter perdido a sua relevรขncia para o mundo moderno. Em 1970, o Seminรกrio Rabรญnico alcanรงou o status pleno de seminรกrio para a formaรงรฃo de rabinos e tornou-se afiliado do Seminรกrio Teolรณgico Judaico de Nova York, o centro acadรชmico, cultural e religioso do Judaรญsmo Conservador. A partir de entรฃo, alunos e professores fizeram a transiรงรฃo entre o Seminรกrio e a Comunidade Bet El. Em 1988, cerca de cinquenta congregaรงรตes conservadoras funcionavam na Argentina, Chile, Peru, Brasil, Colรดmbia e Mรฉxico, trinta delas com rabinos formados no Seminรกrio. e acolheu mais de cem mil paroquianos. Em 2000, o Seminรกrio ordenou noventa rabinos, incluindo dez mulheres. Este crescimento nรฃo foi resultado da atividade missionรกria. Mas isso aconteceu quando as sinagogas existentes perceberam que a sua sobrevivรชncia dependia da atraรงรฃo de novos fiรฉis e que estavam a aderir ร onda conservadora. Na รฉpoca, muitos pediram ao seminรกrio que recomendasse um rabino para orientar a conversa em direรงรฃo a uma interpretaรงรฃo progressista do Judaรญsmo.
A versรฃo do judaรญsmo conservador de Marshall Mayer, que combinava fรฉ religiosa e aรงรฃo social, atendeu a uma necessidade especรญfica da sociedade argentina. Atraiu filhos e netos de judeus esquerdistas e seculares que haviam sido alienados da religiรฃo devido ร sua aparente desconexรฃo com as questรตes da รฉpoca. ร importante ressaltar que proporcionou uma saรญda para judeus polรญtica e socialmente conscientes numa รฉpoca em que a opressรฃo militar tornava perigosa a acรงรฃo polรญtica e social. Meyer e o Seminรกrio iniciaram um processo para converter o Judaรญsmo na Amรฉrica Latina de um conjunto de regras e obrigaรงรตes sem relevรขncia aparente para o mundo moderno para um modo de vida รฉtico informado pelo passado e aplicรกvel ร vida contemporรขnea. Ao fundar um seminรกrio rabรญnico para a formaรงรฃo de lรญderes espirituais de forma progressiva, preparados para assumir funรงรตes de lideranรงa em suas comunidades, Meyer tambรฉm possibilitou que os judeus argentinos aceitassem uma proposta da Igreja, em caso de abertura.
Retornar
A viragem contemporรขnea em direcรงรฃo ร ultraortodoxia, vista como um regresso ou tshuva, teve origem na dรฉcada de 1940 como uma tentativa de explicar o actual horror do Holocausto. Conforme interpretado por Menahem Mendel Schneerson (1902-1994), sรฉtimo Rebe da dinastia Chabad Lubavich, os judeus estรฃo passando por um โholocausto espiritual”: a secularizaรงรฃo da vida judaica na Amรฉrica. Este empobrecimento espiritual pode ser revertido atravรฉs de um regresso ร autรชntica tradiรงรฃo judaica, e sรณ esse regresso provocarรก o advento da Era Messiรขnica. Sob esta bandeira, Chabad e outras seitas ultra-religiosas foram pioneiras numa missรฃo global para transformar seculares, liberais e incrรฉdulos em judeus ortodoxos (estes grupos nรฃo tรชm interesse em converter nรฃo-judeus ao judaรญsmo…
Emissรกrios ortodoxos sรฃo enviados para viver em รกreas onde se acredita que o secularismo e o liberalismo estรฃo dizimando a vida judaica. Chabad, escreve Mary Topel, para despertar a centelha da divindade, foi transformado num impรฉrio transnacional com uma polรญtica agressiva de proselitismo. Estes emissรกrios devem manter os seus prรณprios preceitos religiosos, dando um exemplo de vida moral ao cumprir os mandamentos da halacha, incluindo casar-se e constituir famรญlias numerosas. Os militantes consideram-se travadores de uma guerra espiritual para despertar a centelha de divindade que reside em cada judeu, mas que foi ofuscada pela influรชncia da sociedade em geral. Esta militรขncia a serviรงo de uma causa justa leva jovens missionรกrios a lugares como Mumbai, Kinshasa ou Sรฃo Paulo para colocar judeus nรฃo-observantes e eles mesmos em uma vida de espiritualidade judaica. O objetivo รฉ a criaรงรฃo de novas famรญlias e comunidades ortodoxas. Essas missรตes tรชm tido sucesso em muitas cidades da Amรฉrica, das quais Sรฃo Paulo รฉ um exemplo. Em 1985 havia quatro rabinos ortodoxos naquela cidade. Em 2000, apรณs a chegada das missรตes Chabad, mais de cem rabinos atuavam ali. Tambรฉm estavam ativos lรก. Havia tambรฉm quinze novas sinagogas, trรชs yeshivas, duas academias religiosas para adultos, instalaรงรตes kosher para sacrifรญcio de carne, banhos rituais e cinco escolas para crianรงas, que eclipsaram as trรชs escolas seculares existentes. Na dรฉcada de 1990, surgiram restaurantes, livrarias e centros de estudo kosher, e os rabinos organizaram atividades para jovens, seminรกrios, festas de pizza e outras atividades que atraรญram pessoas que talvez nรฃo estivessem pensando em teshuvรก, mas que gostavam de se encontrar com eles. eles. ร medida que mais pessoas se conectavam ร s hospitaleiras Casas Chabad, os espaรงos judaicos que antes eram seculares tornaram-se ortodoxos.
โโO movimento respondeu ร s necessidades dos judeus que poderiam ter tido sucesso no mundo material, mas que procuravam uma transcendรชncia nas suas vidas espirituais que nรฃo conseguiam encontrar no ambiente catรณlico. Dentro dos espaรงos judaicos onde eles sentiram um sentimento de pertencimento, aceitaram a lideranรงa dos rabinos que lhes deram garantias dos valores imutรกveis โโdo Judaรญsmo, que guiaram seus ancestrais e ainda poderiam ensinar como viver no mundo moderno. A evoluรงรฃo das escolas hebraicas, que em Sรฃo Paulo, como em outros lugares, tinha sido secular, exemplifica os mรฉtodos de proselitismo de Chabad. Sob um acordo com um filantropo que forneceu os fundos necessรกrios, as escolas acrescentaram professores ortodoxos ao seu quadro de funcionรกrios. Os pais nรฃo levantaram objecรงรตes: em vez de se contentarem com professores voluntรกrios ou mal preparados, os seus filhos estudariam agora o Judaรญsmo com rabinos experientes. Professores carismรกticos ganharam a atenรงรฃo dos alunos e o apoio dos pais. Mas estes professores conceituados logo se recusaram a ensinar meninas nas classes mistas existentes; Ele entรฃo se opรดs a ensinar filhos de casamentos mistos, que eles nรฃo consideravam judeus. O bat mitzvah (a cerimรดnia de maioridade para as meninas, paralela ao bar mitzvah para os meninos) foi degradado ao designar as meninas para uma sala separada e nรฃo permitir que elas fizessem suas oraรงรตes em voz alta. Os administradores que se opuseram a estas mudanรงas foram silenciados pelo seu conselho de administraรงรฃo, a fim de preservar o financiamento condicional. Ao contrรกrio da situaรงรฃo comparรกvel em Israel, onde as tentativas de impor a Ortodoxia ร populaรงรฃo encontraram resistรชncia, no ano 2000 os judeus de Sรฃo Paulo estavam no caminho da aceitaรงรฃo da Ortodoxia.
โโChabad foi um dos primeiros e entusiasmados adotantes da tecnologia. Seu site contรฉm um diretรณrio de centros Chabad em todo o mundo (em 2012, havia onze no Brasil, quinze na Argentina, dois na Venezuela e um no Paraguai). As guias deste site oferecem convenientemente aulas de lei judaica, sermรตes, culinรกria kosher, bem como histรณrias humorรญsticas que os hassidim contam para intrigar os ouvintes. A aba marcada โpergunte ao rabinoโ foi removida porque estava recebendo milhares de perguntas de nรฃo-judeus. trรชs grupos. Chabad evita particularmente: os pentecostais, pessoas que acreditam ser descendentes dos marranos e aqueles que desejam se converter ao judaรญsmo para se qualificarem para imigrar para Israel.
Shlomit Baytelman naciรณ en Afula, Israel. Cuando tenรญa dos aรฑos, su familia se trasladรณ a Santiago, Chile. En pleno perรญodo de crisis polรญtica en el paรญs y en momentos en que la producciรณn local estaba en paupรฉrrimas condiciones tras el golpe de estado, se convierte inesperadamente en el primer sรญmbolo sexy del cine chileno. Su personaje de la prostituta adolescente de Julio comienza en julio (1984), que inicia sexualmente al joven protagonista, la instala en la imaginerรญa erรณtica de los chilenos y hasta hoy se recuerdan sus escenas de desnudos, prรกcticamente inรฉditas en la his Antes de ese trabajo, su รบnica experiencia cinematogrรกfica era una breve participaciรณn en Estado de sitio, de Costa-Gavras (1973), rodada en Chile. En 1971 egresa de la Escuela de Teatro de la Universidad de Chile y hace sus primeras actuaciones en La remolienda y Tres tristes tigres, de Alejandro Sieveking, y El misรกntropo, de Moliere. Su carrera en la televisiรณn local se ha mantenido por mรกs de treinta aรฑos, participando como protagonista o como actriz invitada en diversos series de humor y teleseries; entre estas รบltimas, sus principales roles son los de Sol Tardรญo,ย El secreto de Isabel,ย Casagrande,ย La Gran Mentiraย yย El Juego de la Vida. Uno de los trabajos destacados, fuera de las teleseries, es haber integrado el elenco de โLa manivelaโ, prestigiado programa de humor. Como reconocimiento a su labor, en 1981 es elegida mejor actriz del aรฑo y en los aรฑos 1982 y 1983, es considerada la actriz mรกs popular. A comienzo de los noventa participa activamente en la creaciรณn del Movimiento Universal Anti Censura (MUAC), a travรฉs del cual los trabajadores del cine chileno dan una batalla para eliminar uno de los residuos dictatoriales en la cultura: la censura previa en el cine, que permitรญa prohibir la exhibiciรณn de filmes nacionales y extranjeros en las salas locales. En 1992 y 1994 publica dos libros de poemas: Escritos para un amor inconcluso y Textos de anticipo.
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hlomit Baytelman was born in Afula, Israel. When he was 2 years old, her family moved to Santiago, Chile. In the midst of a political crisis in the country and at a time when local production was in very poor conditions after the coup d’รฉtat, she unexpectedly became the first sex symbol of Chilean cinema. Her character as the teenage prostitute Julio begins in July (1984), which sexually initiates the young protagonist, installs her in the erotic imagery of Chileans and to this day her nude scenes are remembered, practically unpublished in the country’s cinematographic history. In 1971 she graduated from the Theater School of the University of Chile and did performances in La remolienda and Tres tristes tigres, by Alejandro Sieveking, and El misรกntropo, by Moliere. Her career in local television has continued for more than thirty years, participating as a protagonist or as a guest actress in various comedy series and television series; Among the latter, her main roles are those of Tardรญo Sol, El secreto Isabel’. Casagrande, La gran mentira and El juego de la vida. One of the notable performances, other than soap operas, was joinin the cast of โLa manivelaโ, a prestigious comedy program on Chilean television. In recognition of her work, in 1981 she was chosen best actress of the year and in 1982 and 1983, she was considered the most popular actress. At the beginning of the nineties, she actively participated in the creation of the Universal Anti-Censorship Movement (MUAC), through which Chilean film workers waged a battle to eliminate the dictatorial residues in culture: prior censorship in cinema, which would allow prohibiting the exhibition of national and foreign films in local theaters. In 1992 and 1994 she published two books of poems: Escritos para un amor inconcluso y Textos de anticipo.
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Me llamo Shlomit
Me llamo Shlomit. Nacรญ en Afula, en la Galilea.
Me contaban que, en el mismo tiempo, en el mismo lugar
naciรณ un niรฑo arabe.
Vivรญ en en Ramoth Meneshe, el kibutz donde mis padres
sacabanโpiedras todavรญa.
Me trajeron a la Amรจrica del Sur, la tierra
donde ellos habรญan nacidos de padres extranjeros.
Asรญ la historia vuelve y se va; gira hacia
uno y otro lado, nos lleva sobre aguas torrentosas.
Naufrago anclado en Buenos Aires, para tomar el
interminable tren transandino calado por el frรญo
del carro de 2a.
Y aquรญ encuentro en Santiago
explicando este nombre que tiene algo de Biblia y piedra
y calor del aire del desierto y una mรบsica.
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My Name is Shlomit
My name is Shlomit. I ws born in Afula, in the Galilee.
I am told that an Arab child
was born in the same time, at the same place.
I lived in Ramoth Menashe, the kibbutz where my parents
are still pulling stones from the ground.
They brought me to South America, the land
where they were born, of foreign parents.
So does history turn and come back, it winds around
one and another side, it carries us over rushing waters.
Shipwreck anchored in Buenos Aires, to catch the
interminable train across the Andes, chilled to the bone
in the second class, coach car.
And I find myself in Santiago
explaining the name that has a lot of the Bible and stone
and the heat of the desert air and music.
Translation by Elizabeth Horan
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Las caras de Shlomit Baytelman/The Faces of Shlomit Baytelman
Gustavo Grisoski naciรณ en Buenos Aires en 1963. Se graduรณ como Arquitecto de la Universidad de Buenos Aires. Realizรณ exposiciones en el Centro Cultural Recoleta y otras gallerias en Buenos Aires y el exterior. Fue seccionado para el Premio del Salรณn Nacional de Artes Visuales 2000 (Palais de Glace, Bs. As.)
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Gustavo Grisoski was born in Buenos Aires in 1963. He is an Architect, having graduated fromโthe University of Buenos Aires. He has had shows in the Recoleta Cultural Center and in other galleries and museums in Buenos Aires. Grisoski was awarded by the National Salon Prize for Visual Arts at the โPalais de Glaceโ in Buenos Aires.
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Gustavo Grisoski les pinta, con afecciรณn y algo de surrealismo, a los judรญos devotos/โGustavo Grisoski paints, with affection an a bit of surrealism, the devote Jews.
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Sin tรญtulo/No title
Mรกs allรก de sรญ mismos/Beyond themselves
Mรกs allรก de sรญ mismos-2/Beyond themselves-2
Notas mรญsticas/Mystical Notes
Se abre el camino/Opening the Way
Dรณnde estoy?/Where Am I?
No temas/Don’t fear
Duelo/Grief
Expansiones/Espansions
Between Heaven and Earth/Entre el cielo y la tierra
Las novelas de Cecilia Absatz (Argentina, 1943), periodista, editora y escritora creativa, destacan por las voces sardรณnicas de sus heroรญnas y narradoras, su desenfadada franqueza sobre la sexualidad y el cuerpo, su mordaz sรกtira y su postura antiautoritaria y feminista. . Absatz viviรณ el represivo rรฉgimen militar argentino de 1976-83, y el valor de sus escritos radica en parte en las ideas que proporciona sobre ese perรญodo. En lugar de representar violaciones extremas de los derechos humanos, como desapariciones y torturas, su ficciรณn comunica las contradicciones y ansiedades de la existencia cotidiana en una Argentina bajo un gobierno autoritarioโฆ Su novela breve Feiguele, publicada en 1976 junto con cuentos como Feiguele y otras. mujeres ‘Feiguele y otras mujeres’, cuya primera ediciรณn fue suprimida por el gobierno militar, (1) y dos novelas completas, Te con canela (1982) y Los aรฑos pares (1985). Aรฑos numerados.’ (2)
Naomi Lindstrom
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The novels of Cecilia Absatz (Argentina, 1943), journalist, editor, and creative writer, stand out for the sardonic voices of their heroines and narrators, their casual frankness about sexuality and the body, their mordant satire, and their antiauthoritarian and feminist stance. Absatz lived through the repressive Argentine military regime of 1976-83, and the value of her writing lies partly in the insights it provides into that period. Rather than representing extreme violations of human rights, such as disappearances and torture, her fiction communicates the contradictions and anxieties of everyday existence in an Argentina under authoritarian rule…Her brief novel Feiguele, published in 1976 along with short stories as Feiguele y otras mujeres ‘Feiguele and other women,’ the first edition of which was suppressed by the military government, (1) and two full-length novels, the 1982 Te con canela ‘Tea with cinnamon’ and the 1985 Los anos pares ‘The Even-Numbered Years.’ (2)
Naomi Lindstrom
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โLa siestaโ
Hace calor. Quรฉ calor que hace. Las baldosas del patio refrescan, pero por un rato nada mรกs. Hay que echarse y al ratito correrse un poco para encontrar baldosas nuevas, fresquitas. No hay nadie. Todos duermen o no estรก. Yo no puedo dormir, tengo mucho calor y otras cosas que no puedo explicar. Estoy en bombacha y nada mรกs. Aprovecho que no estรก mamรก que dice que ya estoy grande para andar asรญ, si viene alguien, que tu hermano, que tu padre. Estoy en bombachas y me miro al espejo. Vuelvo a acostarme sobre las baldosas sobre las baldosas y hago una especie de danza mirando al cielo blanco de la siesta. Fresquito en los talones, en las pantorrillas. En la parte de atrรกs de las rodillas no se puede. Los muslos, la cola (la cola todo el tiempo). La cintura y la cola, de un costado y del otro. Me siento rara. Al llegar a la espalda ya me aburrรญ. Hace demasiado calor para moverse.
Voy a ir a buscarlo a Luisito.
(Luisito comparte conmigo la cuadra desde que puedo recordar, Tambiรฉn los juegos, las excursiones a la cocina para cocinar panqueques de dulce de leche con campeonatos de revoleo por el aire, y el cine Rivoli con tres pelรญculas y la pizza despuรฉs). (A Luisito le dicen maricรณn porque estรก siempre conmigo y juega a disfrazarse y a bailar) (Pero no es maricรณn: un dรญa me dio un beso todo pegajosa. Como no nos gustรณ ni a รฉl ni a mรญ, no lo repetimos.)
Voy a ir a la casa de Luisito a ver quรฉ hacemos.
La casa de Luisito es una zapaterรญa con un vestรญbulo. En los aรฑos que fuimos amigos casi nunca entrรฉ a la habitaciรณn de adentro, donde dormรญan los padres. La casa de Luisito era el vestรญbulo, fresco y humilde con un sofรก que a la noche se convertรญa en dos camas para รฉl y su hermano Salo, y dos sillones de un cuerpo.
Tambiรฉn habรญa una escalera que no llevaba a ninguna parte. Era para โcuando construyamosโ.
Me pongo algรบn vestido encima y camino los veinte metros que me separan de Luisito. La calle, el barrio, el mundo, todo habรญa muerto de calor.
Abro sin llamar, como siempre -creo que no habรญa timbre-y me encuentro con lo รบltimo que hubiera esperado: Luisito, el papรก de Luisito. La mamรก de Luisito, y el hermano de Luisito, muy correctos todos, conversando con un seรฑor y una seรฑora nuevos. Me queo inmรณvil sin entender nada. รก
Los tรญos de Tucumรกn. Vinieron los tรญos de Tucumรกn. Mirรก que bien. Hago ademรกn de irme, pero la tรญa quiere conocer a la amiguita de Luisito y me invitan con un poco de Komari con soda. Es agrio, pero no lo digo porque todos estamos muy
Prolijito hablando de la escuela y todo eso. Salo se levanta del sillรณn y me lo ofrece y รฉl se queda de pie -al lado, un poco mรกs atrรกs con la mano apoyada en el borde superior del respaldo. En el vestรญbulo estรก fresco.
Estoy sintiendo una cosa, pero no estoy segura.
Debe ser una impresiรณn mรญa. El calor. O no, no sรฉ. Por las dudas me quedo muy quieta. Alguien me estรก hablando y yo no escuchรฉ. ยฟCรณmo? Ah, sรญ. Vivo en la esquina. No esto no es una impresiรณn mรญa. Estรก sucediendo: es una cosquilla, muy leve, muy leve, que me nace en la nuca, debajo del cabello. Un bichito chiquito que me hace una caricia, se me entra por la espalda, me recorre toda la espalda, me trae un calor, pero distinto, algo nuevo, terrible, no lo puedo resistirโฆ
Es Salo que me estรก acariciando la nuca. No baja de ahรญ, pero baja. La piel me estรก gritando cosas de todos los colores, tengo hormigas que me caminan entre las piernas, tengo algodรณn en el fondo de la boca, ya no veo nada.
Ellos siguen conversando.
Siento que la cara me estรก ardiendo y que
Todos se van a dar cuenta de lo que me pasa. No me atrevo a girar la cabeza para mirarlo a Luisito. Tengo miedo de que se descubra la mano de Salo aclareciรฉndome. Empiezo a ver todo nublado y ya no escucho lo hablan. Tengo pรกjaros revoloteando dentro de mi vientre. Las hormigas ahora estรกn en las axilas. Estoy absolutamente quieta, sorda y ciega. Por fuera.
Por dentro tengo un demonio, siete infiernos y mil tormentos. Tengo savia, torrentes y manantiales fluyendo entre las piernas.
La invasiรณn de las hormigas es total. Me estรกn devorando. Tengo las palmas de las manos mojadas, mojados los ojos, mojadas las piernas. Tengo un hombre acariciรกndome la nuca, y hace tanto calor.
Una rรกfaga de aire frรญo interrumpe el รญntimo incendio. Salo fue a servir mรกs Komari, el ventilador me mirรณ. Lentamente empiezo a recobrar el oรญdo. Y la vista. Todo sigue igual. Se habla de Tucumรกn. Luisito no se dio cuenta de nada.
Me levanto como puedo y aunque me propongo exactamente lo contrario, entro al dormitorio, y aunque me da vergรผenza enfrentarme a Salo, le acerco mi vaso, y aunque no los miro, รฉl me levanta la cabeza con una mano y me pregunta:
–ยฟNunca te besaron en la boca?
Tengo miedo de hablar porque sรฉ que la voz no me va a salir bien y entonces niego con la cabeza.
–Claro, sos chica, reflexionรณ.
Y al rato: –Maรฑana se van todos a Morรณn y me quedo solo. Venรญ que te voy a besar en la boca.
Hago como no oigo o no entiendo, o en รบltima estancia no me importa, y me vuelvo al vestรญbulo con el vaso de Komari que ahora me satisface porque, aunque es agrio estรก frรญo. Saludo a todos y me voy.
Vuelvo a casa y no me atrevo a tirarme sobre las baldosas. Ahora ya hay mรกs ruido en la casa y en resumen, tengo miedo de que se me vaya la sensaciรณn que tengo en todo el cuerpo. El resto del dรญa no hago nada que acostumbrarme porque cada vez que recuerdo lo que pasรณ me aparece un apretรณn en el vientre que se diluye por los muslos. Y lo recuerdo otra vez y otra vez aparece el apretรณn y me gusta y asรญ de algรบn modo voy a dormir la noche y duermo abrazada a la almohada que ahora se llama Salo y por suerte es bastante larga y puedo abrazarla con los brazos y con las piernas. Bien fuerte.
Toda la maรฑana me propongo no ir. No porque no quiera. Lo que no quiero es que รฉl sepa que estoy asรญ por รฉl. Ya casi estoy convencida de no ir en el almuerzo, hasta que todos desaparecen a la siesta.
Otra vez hace calor. Quรฉ calor que hace otra vez. Pero hoy tengo un apretรณn en el vientre y no me atrevo a tirarme sobre las baldosas,
Pienso, pienso un ratito y en seguida me doy cuenta de que Luisito tiene mi compรกs, y que si voy a buscar el compรกs a la mejor no nota tanto para quรฉ voy.
Aunque si se nota. Pero no puedo ir, abrir la puerta y decirle: acรก estoy, bรฉsame en la boca. Voy a buscar el compรกs que es lo mejor. Voy y abro la puerta. รl estรก escuchando la novela por la radio, (a รฉl no le dicen maricรณn, aunque escucha la novela por la radio, pero a รฉl no le gusta bailar ni representar y tampoco se le falsea la voz como Luisito). รl es grande, ya tiene 16 aรฑos.
Como si nada hubiera pasado me pongo a mirar la repisa: โLuisito tiene un compรกs mรญo, ยฟno lo viste? Lo necesitoโ. No miro nada, no busco nada, nada en el mundo, me importa menos que el compรกs. Trato de hablar fuerte para que รฉl no escuche los ruidos que tengo por dentro: los del corazรณn, como en las novelas, pero otros que nunca estรกn en las novelas, ruiditos de la panza, ruiditos de la garganta al tragar con tanta dificultad saliva y una repentina, terrible necesidad de ir al baรฑo. Lo peor.
Todo se detiene cuando รฉl por fin me agarra del brazo y me hace sentar al lado de รฉl y me dice โdespuรฉs lo buscรกsโ. Tengo vergรผenza de mirarlo y รฉl se estรก sonriendo. Lo matarรญa. O por lo menos me irรญa si pudiera. Si quisiera. Pero lo รบltimo que quiero en el mundo es irme.
–Asรญ que nunca te besaron en la boca.
Boca me sonaba a mala palabra. Hubiera preferido que dijera โen los labiosโ. Pero dice boca como a propรณsito y me mira la boca y entonces me siento incรณmoda y me salen muecas porque รฉl me mira en la boca.
Me toma el mentรณn y lentamente, lentamente me atrae la cara hacia la de รฉl. Yo pienso a toda velocidad: abro los ojos o los cierro cรณmo era en las pelรญculas cierro la boca o la abro en las pelรญculas, pero cuando uno da un beso junta los labios y aprieta en las pelรญculas abrirรกn los labios porque los actores no se conocen o no sรฉ por quรฉ, pero tengo que decidirme ya mismo, รฉl tiene los ojos cerrados yo los cierro quรฉ hago con la boca yo la cierro siempre que di un beso lo di con la boca cerrada bueno ya me toca la cierro y listo.
Junta los labios a los mรญos y todo lo que siento es unos labios juntos a los mรญos. Por las dudas abro los ojos y veo una parte del techo, torcido por la inclinaciรณn de mi cabeza, despuรฉs un pedazo de puerta con vidrio esmerilado y por รบltimo con los ojos cerrados y expresiรณn absurda. Quien es este seรฑor.
Se separa casi enojado y me dice: –ยฟPor quรฉ no abrรญs los labios? Estรบpida, estรบpida, estรบpida. Si en las pelรญculas abren los labios debe ser porque se besa con los labios abiertos. Me avergรผenzo y no puedo justificarme. No es mรกs que ignorancia y รฉl se da cuenta.
–Venรญ -ahora me abrazaโpero ahora abrรญ los labios.
Abro los labios tรญmidamente y mi boca hueca se encuentra con otra boca y no me resisto a abrir los ojos otra vez. Esto es algo horrible. Salo se aparta. Estรก enojado.
De pronto me agarra de un brazo, me aprieta fuerte y me besa ahora furiosa y me mete la lengua bien adentro de mi boca y empiezan a renacer los demonios y tiembla todo el cuerpo y me abandono y escucho sinfonรญas desafinadas y violentas y me vibra el vientre, ya no tengo ganas de ir al baรฑo ni pienso en las futuras siestas de besos, de Luisito sospechando y espiando, de empezar a conocer el sentido del pecado, de sentir cada pedazo de cuerpo gritar desesperando, de Luisito peleรกndose a trompadas con Salo, de tener la certera percepciรณn de cambio dentro de la piel y de saber que todo queda ahรญ y sรณlo se apaga en casa, de noche, con la complicidad de la almohada. Y despuรฉs Salo se aparta.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Entonces me tengo que ir. Me olvidรฉ del compรกs y casi no lo saludo porque me da vergรผenza, y camino muy derecha hasta casa.
It’s hot. It’s really hot. The patio tiles are cooling, but for a while nothing more. You have to lie down and after a while move around a little to find new, fresh tiles. No one. Everyone is sleeping or he is not there. I can’t sleep, I’m very hot and other things that I can’t explain. I’m in panties and nothing else. I take advantage of the fact that my mother is not here, and she says that I’m too old to walk like this, if someone comes, your brother, your father. I’m in panties and I look in the mirror. I lie down again on the tiles on the tiles and do a kind of dance looking at the white sky of the nap. Cool on the heels, on the calves. You can’t do it on the back of your knees. The thighs, the tail (the tail all the time). The waist and the tail, on one side and the other. I feel weird. When I got to the back I was already bored. It’s too hot to move.
โโI’m going to go look for him in Luisito.
โโ(Luisito has shared the block with me for as long as I can remember. Also the games, the trips to the kitchen to cook dulce de leche pancakes with fluttering championships in the air, and the Rivoli cinema with three movies and the pizza afterwards). (They call Luisito a faggot because he is always with me and plays dress-up and dances) (But he is not a faggot: one day he kissed me all sticky. Since neither he nor I liked it, we didn’t repeat it.)
โโI’m going to go to Luisito’s house to see what we do.
โโLuisito’s house is a shoe store with a hall. In the years we were friends I almost never went into the inside room, where the parents slept. Luisito’s house was the hall, cool and humble with a sofa that at night became two beds for him and his brother Salo, and two single armchairs.
โโThere was also a staircase that led nowhere. It was for โwhen we build.โ
โโI put on some dress over it and walk the twenty meters that separate me from Luisito. The street, the neighborhood, the world, everything had died from the heat.
โโI open without knocking, as always – I think there was no bell – and I find the last thing I would have expected: Luisito, Luisito’s father. Luisito’s mother and Luisito’s brother, all very correct, talking with a new man and woman. I remain motionless without understanding anything. to
โโThe aunt and uncle from Tucumรกn. The uncles from Tucumรกn came. Look how good. I also leave, but the aunt wants to meet Luisito’s friend and they invite me with some Komari and soda. It’s sour, but I don’t say it because we are all very
โโLong-winded talking about school and all that. Salo gets up from the chair and offers it to me and he remains standing next to it, a little further back with his hand resting on the upper edge of the backrest. It’s cool in the lobby.
โโI’m feeling something, but I’m not sure.
โโIt must be my impression. The heat. Oh no, I don’t know. Just in case I stay very still. Someone is talking to me and I didn’t listen. As? Oh Yes. I live on the corner. No, this is not my impression. It’s happening: it’s a tickle, very slight, very slight, that comes from the nape of my neck, under my hair. A tiny bug that caresses me, enters my back, runs all over my back, brings me warmth, but different, something new, terrible, I can’t resist it…
โโIt’s Salo who is caressing the back of my neck. It doesn’t go down from there, but it goes down. My skin is screaming things of all colors at me, I have ants crawling between my legs, I have cotton in the back of my mouth, I can’t see anything anymore.
โโThey continue talking.
โโI feel like my face is burning and
โโEveryone is going to realize what’s happening to me. I don’t dare turn my head to look at Luisito. I’m afraid that Salo’s hand will be revealed by clarifying me. I begin to see everything cloudy and I no longer hear what they are saying. I have birds fluttering inside my belly. The ants are now in the armpits. I am absolutely still, deaf and blind. Outside.
โโInside I have a demon, seven hells and a thousand torments. I have sap, torrents and springs flowing between my legs.
The invasion of ants is total. They are devouring me. My palms are wet, my eyes are wet, my legs are wet. I have a man caressing the back of my neck, and it’s so hot.
โโA gust of cold air interrupts the intimate fire. Salo went to serve more Komari, the fan looked at me. Slowly I begin to regain my hearing. And the view. Everything remains the same. They talk about Tucumรกn. Luisito didn’t notice anything.
โโI get up as best I can and although I intend exactly the opposite, I enter the bedroom, and although I am embarrassed to face Salo, I bring my glass to him, and although I don’t look at them, he lifts my head with one hand and asks me:
โโ–Have they never kissed you on the mouth?
โโI’m afraid to speak because I know my voice won’t come out well and so I shake my head.
โโ–Of course, you’re a girl, he reflected.
โโAnd after a while: –Tomorrow everyone is going to Morรณn and I’ll be alone. Come, I’m going to kiss you on the mouth.
โโI act like I don’t hear or I don’t understand, or in the last moment I don’t care, and I return to the lobby with the glass of Komari that now satisfies me because, although it is sour, it is cold. I greet everyone and leave.
โโI come home and I don’t dare throw myself on the tiles. Now there is more noise in the house and in short, I am afraid that the feeling I have throughout my body will go away. The rest of the day I do nothing but get used to it because every time I remember what happened I get a tight feeling in my belly that dissipates through my thighs. And I remember it again and again the squeeze appears, and I like it and so somehow, I go to sleep at night and I sleep hugging the pillow that is now called Salo and luckily it is quite long and I can hug it with my arms and with my hands. legs. So strong.
โโAll morning I resolve not to go. Not because I don’t want to. What I don’t want is for him to know that I’m like this for him. I’m almost convinced not to go at lunch, until everyone disappears for nap.
โโIt’s hot again. How hot it is again. But today I have a tight feeling in my stomach and I don’t dare throw myself on the tiles,
โโI think, I think for a little while and immediately I realize that Luisito has my compass, and that if I go to look for the compass he might not notice so much what I’m going for.
โโAlthough it is noticeable. But I can’t go, open the door and say: here I am, kiss me on the mouth. I’m going to look for the beat that is best. I go and open the door. He is listening to the novel on the radio (they don’t call him a faggot, although he listens to the novel on the radio, but he doesn’t like to dance or perform and he doesn’t falsify his voice like Luisito). He is big, he is already 16 years old.
โโAs if nothing had happened, I start looking at the shelf: โLuisito has a compass of mine, didn’t you see it? I need it”. I don’t look at anything, I don’t look for anything, nothing in the world, I care less than the beat. I try to speak loudly so that he doesn’t hear the noises I have inside: those of my heart, like in novels, but others that are never in novels, little noises from my belly, little noises from my throat when swallowing saliva with such difficulty and a sudden, terrible need to go to the bathroom. Worst.
โโEverything stops when he finally grabs my arm and makes me sit next to him and tells me โyou’ll look for him later.โ I’m embarrassed to look at him and he’s smiling. I would kill him. Or at least I would leave if I could. If I wanted. But the last thing in the world I want is to leave.
โโ–So they never kissed you on the mouth.
โโMouth sounded like a bad word to me. I would have preferred it to say โon the lips.โ But he says mouth on purpose and looks at my mouth and then I feel uncomfortable, and I make faces because he looks at my mouth.
โโHe grabs my chin and slowly, slowly pulls my face towards his. I think at full speed: I open my eyes or close them as it was in the movies, I close my mouth or open it in the movies, but when you give a kiss you put your lips together and press together, in the movies they will open their lips because the actors don’t know each other. Or I don’t know why, but I have to decide right now, he has his eyes closed, I close them, what do I do with my mouth? I close it whenever I gave a kiss, I did it with my mouth closed, well, it’s my turn to close it and that’s it.
โโHe puts his lips to mine and all I feel is lips to mine. Just in case I open my eyes and see a part of the ceiling, twisted by the inclination of my head, then a piece of door with frosted glass and finally with my eyes closed and an absurd expression. Who is this gentleman?
โโHe breaks away almost angrily and says to me: –Why don’t you open your lips? Stupid, stupid, stupid. If they open their lips in movies, it must be because they kiss with open lips. I am ashamed and I cannot justify myself. It’s nothing more than ignorance and he realizes it.
โโ–Come – now he hugs me – but now I opened my lips.
โโI shyly open my lips and my hollow mouth meets another mouth and I can’t resist opening my eyes again. This is something horrible. Salo moves away. He’s angry.
โโSuddenly he grabs me by the arm, squeezes me hard and kisses me now furiously and he puts his tongue deep inside my mouth and the demons begin to be reborn and my whole-body trembles and I let myself go and I listen to out of tune and violent symphonies and my heart vibrates. belly, I no longer feel like going to the bathroom nor do I think about the future naps of kisses, of Luisito suspecting and spying, of beginning to know the meaning of sin, of feeling every bit of my body scream in despair, of Luisito fighting with Salo, of having the certain perception of change within the skin and of knowing that everything stays there and only goes off at home, at night, with the complicity of the pillow. And then Salo moves away.
Then I have to go. I forgot the compass and I almost don’t greet him because I’m embarrassed, and I walk very straight home.
Alejandra Pizarnik (nacida el 16 o 29 de abril de 1936 en Buenos Aires, Argentina; fallecida el 25 de septiembre de 1972 en Buenos Aires), poeta argentina cuyos poemas son conocidos por su sofocante sentido de exilio y desarraigo. Pizarnik naciรณ en una familia de inmigrantes judรญos de Europa del Este. Asistiรณ a la Universidad de Buenos Aires, donde estudiรณ filosofรญa y literatura. Posteriormente incursionรณ en la pintura, estudiando con el pintor catalรกn argentino Juan Batlle Planas. En 1960 se mudรณ a Parรญs, donde trabajรณ para editoriales y revistas francesas, publicรณ poesรญa y tradujo al espaรฑol obras de escritores como Henri Michaux, Antonin Artaud, Marguerite Duras e Yves Bonnefoy. En 1965 regresรณ a Buenos Aires y publicรณ tres de sus ocho poemarios, Los trabajos y las noches (1965; โThe Works and the Nightsโ), Extracciรณn de la piedra de la locura (1968; โExtraction of the Stone of Madness [or Folly]โ), y El infierno musical (1971; โThe Musical Hellโ), asรญ como su famosa obra en prosa La condesa sangrienta (1965; โThe Bloody Countessโ), sobre la condesa hรบngara Elizabeth Bรกthory. Los escritos de Pizarnik estรกn llenos de angustia, desesperaciรณn y referencias recurrentes al suicidio, y en este sentido algunos crรญticos la han agrupado con los poรจtes maudit (โpoetas malditosโ), tรฉrmino utilizado habitualmente para referirse a Paul Verlaine y Arthur Rimbaud. En 1972 se quitรณ la vida.โโโโ________________________________________________
Alejandra Pizarnik, was born in Buenos Aires in 1936, Argentine poet whose poems are known for their stiffling sense of exile and rootlessness.โPizarnik was born into a family of Jewish immigrants from eastern Europe. She attended the University of Buenos Aires, where she studied philosophy and literature. Later she ventured into painting, studying with the Catalan Argentine painter Juan Batlle Planas. In 1960 she moved to Paris, where she worked for French publishing houses and magazines, published poetry, and translated into Spanish works of such writers as Henri Michaux, Antonin Artaud, Marguerite Duras, and Yves Bonnefoy. In 1965 she returned to Buenos Aires and published three of her eight collections of poetry, Los trabajos y las noches (1965; โThe Works and the Nightsโ), Extracciรณn de la piedra de la locura (1968; โExtraction of the Stone of Madness [or Folly]โ), and El infierno musical (1971; โThe Musical Hellโ), as well as her famous prose work La condesa sangrienta (1965; โThe Bloody Countessโ), about the Hungarian countess Elizabeth Bรกthory. Pizarnikโs writing is filled with anguish, despair, and recurrent references to suicide, and in this respect she has been grouped by some critics with the poรจtes maudit (โaccursed poetsโ), a term usually used to refer to Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud. In 1972 she took her own life.
Britannica.com
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Poesรญa de Alejandra Pizarnik/Poetry by Alejandra Pizarnik
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Salvaciรณn
Se fuga la isla Y la muchacha vuelve a escalar el viento y a descubrir la muerte del pรกjaro profeta Ahora es el fuego sometido Ahora es la carne la hoja la piedra perdidos en la fuente del tormento como el navegante en el horror de la civilaciรณn que purifica la caรญda de la noche Ahora la muchacha halla la mรกscara del infinito y rompe el muro de la poesรญa.
the island escapes And the girl climbs the wind again and to discover the death of the prophet bird Now is the fire subdued Now It’s meat the sheet the stone lost in the fountain of torment like the navigator in the horror of civilization that purifies the fall of night Now the girl finds the mask of infinity and breaks the wall of poetry.
___________________________________
La enamorada esta lรบgubre manรญa de vivir esta recรณndita humorada de vivir te arrastra alejandra no lo niegues.
hoy te miraste en el espejo y te fue triste estabas sola la luz rugรญa el aire cantaba pero tu amado no volviรณ
enviarรกs mensajes sonreirรกs tremolarรกs tus manos asรญ volverรก tu amado tan amado
oyes la demente sirena que lo robรณ el barco con barbas de espuma donde murieron las risas recuerdas el รบltimo abrazo oh nada de angustias rรญe en el paรฑuelo llora a carcajadas pero cierra las puertas de tu rostro para que no digan luego que aquella mujer enamorada fuiste tรบ
te remuerden los dรญas te culpan las noches te duele la vida tanto tanto desesperada ยฟadรณnde vas?
desesperada ยกnada mรกs!โ
________________________________
Peregrinaje
…………………………………..a Elizabeth Azcona Cranwell
Llamรฉ, llamรฉ como la nรกufraga dichosa a las olas verdugas que conocen el verdadero nombre de la muerte.
He llamado al viento, le confiรฉ mi deseo de ser.
Pero un pรกjaro muerto vuela hacia la desesperanza en medio de la mรบsica cuando brujas y flores cortan la mano de la bruma. Un pรกjaro muerto llamado azul.
No es la soledad con alas, es el silencio de la prisionera, es la mudez de pรกjaros y viento, es el mundo enojado con mi risa o los guardianes del infierno rompiendo mis cartas.
………………………………………………………….to Elizabeth Azcona Cranwell
I called, I called like the happy castaway to the verdant waves who know the real name of death.
I have called the wind I entrusted my desire to be.
but a dead bird fly into despair in the middle of the music when witches and flowers they cut the hand of mist. A dead bird called blue.
It is not loneliness with wings, It is the silence of the prisoner is the silence of birds and wind, is the world angry with my laughter or the guardians of hell tearing up my cards
Seรฑor La jaula se ha vuelto pรกjaro y se ha volado y mi corazรณn estรก loco porque aรบlla a la muerte y sonrรญe detrรกs del viento a mis delirios
Quรฉ harรฉ con el miedo Quรฉ harรฉ con el miedo
Ya no baila la luz en mi sonrisa ni las estaciones queman palomas en mis ideas Mis manos se han desnudado y se han ido donde la muerte enseรฑa a vivir a los muertos
Seรฑor El aire me castiga el ser Detrรกs del aire hay monstruos que beben de mi sangre
Es el desastre Es la hora del vacรญo no vacรญo Es el instante de poner cerrojo a los labios oรญr a los condenados gritar contemplar a cada uno de mis nombres ahorcados en la nada.
Seรฑor Tengo veinte aรฑos Tambiรฉn mis ojos tienen veinte aรฑos y sin embargo no dicen nada
Seรฑor He consumado mi vida en un instante La รบltima inocencia estallรณ Ahora es nunca o jamรกs o simplemente fue
ยฟCรณmo no me suicido frente a un espejo y desaparezco para reaparecer en el mar donde un gran barco me esperarรญa con las luces encendidas?
ยฟCรณmo no me extraigo las venas y hago con ellas una escala para huir al otro lado de la noche?
El principio ha dado a luz el final Todo continuarรก igual Las sonrisas gastadas El interรฉs interesado Las preguntas de piedra en piedra Las gesticulaciones que remedan amor Todo continuarรก igual
Pero mis brazos insisten en abrazar al mundo porque aรบn no les enseรฑaron que ya es demasiado tarde
Seรฑor Arroja los fรฉretros de mi sangre
Recuerdo mi niรฑez cuando yo era una anciana Las flores morรญan en mis manos porque la danza salvaje de la alegrรญa les destruรญa el corazรณn
Recuerdo las negras maรฑanas de sol cuando era niรฑa es decir ayer es decir hace siglos
Seรฑor La jaula se ha vuelto pรกjaro y ha devorado mis esperanzas
Seรฑor La jaula se ha vuelto pรกjaro Quรฉ harรฉ con el miedo
_________________________________
Awakening
…………………………………..to Leon Ostrov Mister The cage has become a bird and it has flown and my heart is crazy because it howls at death and smile behind the wind to my delusions
What I will do with the fear What I will do with the fear
The light no longer dances in my smile nor do the seasons burn doves in my ideas My hands have been undressed and they have gone to death teaches the dead to live
Mister The air punishes my being Behind the air there are monsters who drink my blood
is the disaster It is the hour of the void not empty It is the moment to lock the lips hear the damned scream contemplate each of my names drowned in nothing
Mister Am twenty years old Also my eyes are twenty years old and yet they say nothing
Mister I have consummated my life in an instant The last innocence broke out Now it’s never or never or was it just
How do I not commit suicide in front of a mirror and I disappear to reappear in the sea where a big ship would wait for me with the lights on?
How do I not remove my veins and I make a scale with them to flee to the other side of the night?
The beginning has given birth to the end everything will stay the same the worn smiles interested interest stone to stone questions The gesticulations that imitate love everything will stay the same
But my arms insist on embracing the world because they haven’t been taught yet it’s already too late
Mister Throw away the coffins of my blood
I remember my childhood when i was an old lady The flowers died in my hands because the wild dance of joy broke their hearts
I remember the black sunny mornings When i was a child that is to say yesterday that is to say centuries ago
Mister The cage has become a bird and has devoured my hopes
Mister The cage has become a bird What I will do with the fear
______________________________
Aquรญ Alejandra
Bicho aquรญ, aquรญ contra esto, pegada a las palabras pegadate reclamo.
Ya es la noche, venรญ, no hay nadie en casa
salvo que ya estรกn todas como vos, como ves, intercesoras,
Afuera hay sol. No es mรกs que un sol pero los hombres lo miran y despuรฉs cantan.
Yo no sรฉ del sol. Yo sรฉ de la melodรญa del รกngel y el sermรณn caliente del รบltimo viento. Sรฉ gritar hasta el alba cuando la muerte se posa desnuda en mi sombra.
Yo lloro debajo de mi nombre. Yo agito paรฑuelos en la noche y barcos sedientos de realidad bailan conmigo. Yo oculto clavos para escarnecer a mis sueรฑos enfermos.
Afuera hay sol. Yo me visto de cenizas.
_______________________
The Cage
It’s sunny outside. It’s just a sun but men look at it and then they sing.
I don’t know about the sun. I know of the angel’s melody and the hot sermon of the last wind I know how to scream until dawn when death poses naked in my shadow
I cry under my name. I wave tissues at night and ships thirsty for reality they dance with me I hide nails to mock my sick dreams.
Esta manรญa de saberme รกngel, sin edad, sin muerte en quรฉ vivirme, sin piedad por mi nombre ni por mis huesos que lloran vagando.
ยฟY quiรฉn no tiene un amor? ยฟY quiรฉn no goza entre amapolas? ยฟY quiรฉn no posee un fuego, una muerte, un miedo, algo horrible, aunque fuere con plumas, aunque fuere con sonrisas?
Siniestro delirio amar a una sombra. La sombra no muere. Y mi amor sรณlo abraza a lo que fluye como lava del infierno: una logia callada, fantasmas en dulce erecciรณn, sacerdotes de espuma, y sobre todo รกngeles, รกmgeles bellos como cuchillos que se elevan en la noche y devastan la esperanza.
This mania of knowing myself as an angel, ageless, without death in which to live, no mercy on my name nor for my bones that cry wandering.
who has not got a love? And who does not enjoy among poppies? And who does not possess a fire, a death, a fear, something horrible, even with feathers, even with smiles?
Sinister delirium love a shadow. The shadow does not die. And my love just embrace what flows like lava from hell: a quiet lodge, ghosts in sweet boner, foam Priests, and above all angels, angels beautiful as knives that rise in the night and devastate hope.
Poemas y traducciones por Open Access/Poems and Translation by Open Access
Max Dickmann naciรณ de padres judรญos inmigrantes en 1902 en Buenos Aires, Fue escritor argentino, periodista, novelista. Premio literario municipal por Madre Amรฉrica, 1935; Gente,1936; Los Frutos amargos, novela, 1942; Esta generaciรณn perdida, novela, 1945; Tambiรฉn traducciones de John dos Passos, William Faulkner, PC Wren, Elmer Rice y Robert Sherwood. Miembro: Sociedad Argentina de Escritores, PEN Club.
_______________________________________
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 Amรฉrica, 1935; Gente, 1936; Los frutos amargos, novel, 1942; La generaciรณn 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 mayorรญa de los escritores judรญos de la Argentina de las dรฉcadas de 1930 a 1940, Max Dickmann no escribiรณ para un pรบblico judรญo. Sus novelas fueron รฉxitos de ventas en todo el paรญs y fueron populares entre todo tipo de persona. Lo que no se sabe es dรณnde aprendiรณ tanto sobre la gente del rรญo.
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 Amรฉrica. Buenos Aires: Santiago Rueda Editores, 1935.
“La carta”
Gabriel hizo un esfuerzo y consiguiรณ sacar una pierna del barro que la aprisionaba, mientras la otra se le hundรญa con burbujeรณ, hasta la rodilla. El agua borrosa recalentaba por el sol de mediodรญa. Un alto juncal cerraba el horizonte a los pocos metros. El Mabensรญ flotaba cerca con proa llena de roncos finos, largos, verdosos, con un trajo oblicuo de la hoz en el extremo.
โโEsa hoz de juncos con crostas de barro, habรญa costado a Gabriel toda una maรฑana 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. Temรญa la espalda ardiendo, despuรฉs 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.
โChapoteรณ en el agua que se arremolinaba en torno a sus piernas y alcanzรณ la borda del Mabensรญ. Cayeron adentro con ruido sordo, la hoz y el ancho cinturรณn de cuero. Bajo el casco, el agua era fresca. Lentamente, como para no sorprender el lanchรณn semidormido. Gabriel fue izรกndose hasta quedar sentado en la borda. Ahora sus pies flotaban como dos informes trozos de barro desleรญdo, que hubieron ido subiendo desde el lecho del rรญo, tiรฑendo el agua de concรฉntricos cรญrculos terrosos. Hubo un rรกpido sonido acuoso y en torno al Mebensรญ flotaron luminosas burbujas.
โAdentro, 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 caรญa el follaje verdinegro de un arbolado. A lo lejos, entre cielo y hoja, habรญa de tortora espadaรฑa y paja colorada.
ย โโLa proa levantaba del Mabensรญ resbala en el agua sin ruido. Atrรกs, el remo gorgoteaba y la onda se dilataba hasta meterse en los pajonales. Hubo un corto aleteo y el silencio se rasgรณ en trizas cuando cantรณ el mirlo negro. El eco tableteรณ a lo lejos. Despuรฉs todo volviรณ a ser un solo y blando zumbido en el que se oรญa el roncar de las moscas bravas en el agua de las charcas.
โโโEl riacho fue ensanchรกndose entre barrancas, en las que los juncos habรญan sido cortados a ras del agua.
โโโEl verde jugoso de la cortadera con sus hojas aserradas brillaba como gotas de esmeralda.
โโ Gabriel enfilรณ el Mabensรญ en direcciรณn de una barrera de รกlamos entre los que florecรญan algunas viejas sauces. La barranca se abrรญa en un angosto tajo en la desembocadura de un arroyo.
โโ En el agua quieta los tallos tiernos del irupรฉ rodeaban las inmensas bandejas vere amarillentas y su flor carmesรญ. La sombra del follaje caรญa entre lampos de sol sobre la cabeza y los brazos desnudos de Gabriel.
โSintiรณ sobre la piel un leve frescor, un honda bienestar que penetraba todo el cuerpo, como si de la sombra fuera descolgรกndose un invisible chorro de agua fresca,
Mascรณ con avidez, tirando en el fondo del lanchรณn, las anchas rebanadas de pan y carne que le habรญa preparadp Camelia muy de maรฑana, rezongando porque รฉl le decรญa siempre que era poco y que ella querรญa matarlo de hambre. Cerrรณ los ojos y esperรณ 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 sarcรกsticos risitas. โPara llevarte todo esto mรกs que volvรกs a comerโฆยฟo es que creรฉs que voy a estarme preparรกndote estas viandas?…ยกNo, seรฑorโโฆ, y se plantaba frente a รฉl con las manos en las caderas y los ojos bizcos tratando de mirar en la misma direcciรณn. Alrededor de ella, los perros olisqueaban batiendo la cola. Por la angosta puerta de la cocina entraba el fresco de la maรฑana 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 recibรญa con รญntima satisfacciรณn, que se empeรฑaba en disimular con todo gรฉnero de protestas. Entonces el pan volvรญa a dividirse en rebanadas y gruesas lonjas de carne frรญa de la noche anterior cubrรญan la miga de manchas sanguinolentas. โTres, cuatro, cinco; ยฟte alcanzarรก con esto? โ preguntaba Camelia con voz amableโy si no te alcanza a aguantarte el hambre, venรญ a comer aquรญ en lugar de andar vagando por los arroyos como si buscara a alguienโ โฆ
La cara de Gabriel volviรณ 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 pรกlido. Los sauces pendรญan sobre el agua vigilados por los รกlamos erguidos. El Mabensรญ se contorneรณ pesadamente y el agua chapoteรณ 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 acostรกndose como gajos sin fuerza.
Gabriel se sentรณ y afirmรณ el bichero en unas estacas que habรญa entre los yuyos. Le pareciรณ oรญr el chapoteo de un remo y el arrastre de una chalana en el agua quita de algรบn arroyo. Venรญa el sonido como dando tumbos en la maleza y caรญa como un eco ahogado y lejano. Por instantes el silencio lo cubrรญa todo; un silencio de espera, que palpitaba como un inmenso cuerpo vivo agazapado entre los รกrboles 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 rรญtmico de un remo. Entre los juncos asomรณ la proa de una chalana cargada de troncos y estacones. Gabriel la reconociรณ en seguida. Silbรณ con los dedos en la boca y gritรณ parรกndose en la popa del Mabensรญ.
–ยกNazareno!
–ยฟQuiรฉn va? โ preguntรณ una voz muy carca.
La embarcaciรณn desembocรณ en el riacho a espaldas de Gabriel. En pocas remadas se colocรณ en el medio del cauce y fue arrimรกndose hasta el Mabensรญ.
Gabriel vio que Nazareno tenรญa el sombrero echado sobre los ojos.
ย ย ย ย ย ย –Buena sombra te buscas, para esconderte โ dijo el otro cuando se acercรณ.
โโ–Y vos quรฉ haces al sol, ยฟsecarte mรกs todavรญa? โ sonriรณ Gabriel
–ยฟCรณmo quรฉ hago? Me lo preguntas todavรญa, no ves que llevo estos carajosโฆ
–ยฟAdรณnde?
–Adonde iba a ser sino a lo de Basualdo.
Nazareno se sentรณ en el fondo de la chalana. Al quitarse el sombrero la frente apareciรณ hรบmeda y negra de pelos, como pegados por el sudor. Se olisqueรณ las manos y encongiendo la nariz: โestos cercos de thuya dejan un olor a resina que voltea โ dijo, al tiempo que des un repasador a cuadros y se ponรญa a comer unos tomates grandes como puรฑos.
Gabriel lo vio tragar durante un rato. Despuรฉs sacรณ una botella y limpiando el gollete con el puรฑo de la camisa, bebiรณ haciendo gorgoritos. La nuez subรญa bajaba por el por el cuello flaco a cada trago. Volviรณ 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 seรฑalรณ Nazareno. Tragรณ un vino agrio y tibio que le volviรณ hasta la garganta en largos eructos.
–Has cortado bastanteโdijo Nazareno, apuntando a los juncos–, pero muy amarillos.
–Es lo mejor que habรญa; pero con cuatro dรญas de sol estarรกn como ls buenos. Para cortar negro y verde hay que meterse en el barro hasta la barriga.
–Che—-ยฟy te da algo el tรญo por los manojos?
–Si saca veinte centavos por cada unoโฆ. Quรฉ querรฉs que me dรฉโฆ –encogiรฉndose de hombros.
-Que te dure la vocaciรณn, entonces โsonriรณ el otroโY ya que de juncos se trata, dime Gabrielitoโฆ –bajando la voz– ยฟno te ha dado la bizca nadaโa mรญ, eh?โโโ โy guiรฑรณ un ojo.
Gabriel hizo como que buscaba algo en los bolsillos del pantalรณn, despuรฉs en el fondo del Mabensรญ y hasta debajo del asiento. Nazareno lo miraba moverse, suspenso el aliento y los ojos fijos en los manos,
–Nada, cheโฆ; hoy no se acordaba de vosโrespondiรณ Gabriel con sorna.
–ยกPuรฑetas! ยฟY para eso revisas todo y me tienes esperando? โprotestรณ el otro, acostรกndose en el fondo de la canoa.
Gabriel largรณ una carcajada y le tirรณ un manotรณn. Nazareno se tapรณ los ojos con el chamburgo y fingiรณ dormir. Despuรฉs de un rato dijo:
–Crece con ganas hoy este puรฑetero rรญรณโฆ, y yo debo ir aguas arriba.
–Trajiste hoy โEs mi ilusiรณnโ, porque esperabas carta de Camelia.
โโ –Que me lleve el diablo si he penado de ella.que con รฉsta me parece que voy volandoโฆ y cargo menos, dos cosas dignas de tenerse en cuenta.
–Sรญ โฆ es mejor que el Mabensรญ โreflexionรณ Gabriel.
****************
Nazareno agarrรณ el remo y sentรกndose en la popa empujรณ la chalana rรญo abajo. Gabriel lo siguiรณ.
*******************
Camelia miraba comer a Gabriel, apoyando en un de los troncos de la enramada. Tenรญa la cabeza inclinaba sobre un hombro y decรญa en voz muy baja.
–Se te ha perdido en el fondo de un bolsillo o en el Mabensรญ, y vos decรญs no lo has visto.
Gabriel sacudiรณ la cabeza a la izquierda a la derecha. Tenรญa la boca llena de unos fideos duros y fritos, que apenas podรญa tragar.
–No, no te creo. Ya me diste lo mismo muchas vecesโprotestรณโella.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Hubo una nueva negativa y el ruido de una cuchara que caรญa en el plato.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย –ยฟHay otra cosa mejor, para comer? โpreguntรณ โcon la boca llenaโฆEstos fideos de ayer son incomibles.
–ยฟY quรฉ ha de haber? Lo de siempre y un poco menosโrespondiรณ Camelia sin moverse.
–Si querรฉs yo te escribo una carta una carta en lugar de Nazareno, y le dejรณ un lugar abajo la firma para el beso.
Camelia pateรณ con fastidio.
–Si yo sรฉ que lo tenรฉs guardada.
ย ย ย ย ย ย –Ya no se acuerda mรกs de vos, anda detrรกs de otra, asรญ que para quรฉ te va a escribir.
–ยกSos un cochino si decรญs eso de Nazareno!
Los ojos gris plomo de la muchacha se pusieron horriblemente bizcos.
–ยฟQuerรฉs que lo sigamos un dรญa para saber adรณnde va?
–A รฉl no le sigue nadieโฆ Y ademรกs no sรฉ con quรฉ lo vas a seguir. Con el Mabensรญ, acaso โrรญรณ ella, despectiva.
–Con la chalana โEs mi ilusiรณnโ. โGabriel guiรฑรณ 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 Mabensรญ floated nearby with a prow full of thin, long, greenish logs, with an sharp growth of reeds around the end of the boat.
ย ย ย ย 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 Mabensรญ. 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.
โThe raised bow of the Mabensรญ 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.
ย ย ย โThe stream widened to a ravine, in which the reeds had been cut flush to the water.
โThe juicy green of the Cortadera with its serrated leaves shone like emerald drops.
โGabriel headed the Mabensรญ 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 irupรฉ 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.
ย ย ย ย Camelia was slicing the long piece of bread with a dull knife.โHer busy hands and the wide mouth full of dirty words and sarcastic giggles. โTaking all of this away, it would be better if you eat hereโฆ.or do you think I’m going on preparing these meals for you?โฆNo, sirโโฆ, 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 Mabensรญ 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.
โโGabriel 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 Mabensรญ.
–Nazareno!
–Who’s there? โ 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 Mabensรญ.
Gabriel saw that Nazareno had his hat pulled over his eyes.
ย ย ย “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? โ 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.
โ 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: โThese thuya hedges leave a smell of resin that is overwhelming,โ 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.
โโGabriel put a finger where Nazareno pointed. He swallowed the warm, sour wine that returned to his throat in long belches.
โโ”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? –
โโ-If he gives me twenty cents for each one… –What do you want him to give me … –shrugging his shoulders.
โโ –“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.
โโGabriel pretended to be looking for something in his pants pockets, then in the hull of the Mabensรญ and even under the seat. Nazareno watched him move, his breath suspended and his eyes fixed on his hands,
โโ –Nothing, che…; “She didn’t remember you today,” Gabriel replied sarcastically.
โโ–Damn! And that’s why you check everything and keep me waiting? โthe other protested, lying down in the bottom of the boat.
โGabriel laughed sarcastically and shook his hand. Nazareno covered his eyes with his hat and pretended to sleep. After a while he said
โโ–This bloody river is growing with spirit today…, and I have to go upstream.
โโ–You brought โIt’s My Dreamโ today because you were expecting a letter from Camelia.
โโ –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.
โโโYesโฆ it is better thanโthe Mabensรญ โGabriel reflected.
โโโโโโโโโโโ****************
โโNazareno grabbed the oar and, sitting on the stern, pushed the barge down the river. Gabriel followed him.
โโโโโโโโโโ******************
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.
โ –It was lost at the bottom of a pocket or in the Mabensรญ, 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.
โ –No, I don’t believe you. “You already gave me the same bull many times,” she protested.
โThere was another rejection and the sound of a spoon falling onto the plate.
โโ–Is there anything better to eat? โhe asked โwith his mouth fullโฆThese noodles from yesterday are inedible.
โโ–What should there be? The usual and a little lessโCamelia responded without moving.
โโ –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.
โโ–Yes, I know that you have it.
โโ–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!
โโThe girl’s lead gray eyes went horribly cross-eyed.
โโ–Do you want us to follow him one day to find out where he is going?
–With the barge โIt’s My Dream.โ โGabriel winked maliciously.
โโ–No one catches him… And besides, I don’t know what you’re going to catch him with. With the Mabensรญ, perhaps โ-he laughed, contemptuously.
Paulina Pinsky nasceu em 1948, filha de sobreviventes do Holocausto cujas famรญlias โ cรดnjuges e filhos, inclusive โ foram assassinadas pelos nazistas. Teve uma infรขncia itinerante, mudando-se da Alemanha para Israel, Itรกlia e Bolรญvia, antes de finalmente se estabelecer no Brasil. Em 1967, Paulina passou um ano no Kibutz Brur Chayil e, apรณs seu casamento (em Sรฃo Paulo, em 1970) com Moises Pinsky, passou vรกrios anos estudando e lecionando em Israel, antes de retornar ao Brasil, onde vive atรฉ hoje. . Em 1988, depois de ter passado muitos anos como professora de inglรชs e designer de interiores, Paulina voltou-se para a pintura em busca de realizaรงรฃo emocional e espiritual. Sem formaรงรฃo, ela comeรงou a pintar cenas simples de uma maneira refrescantemente inocente e infantil, entrando assim no mundo mรกgico da arte ingรชnua. Paulina Pinsky โ uma artista indelevelmente influenciada por suas origens europeias e tradiรงรตes judaicas โ รฉ a ingรชnua brasileira como nenhuma outra.
Dan Chill, October 2004, GINA Gallery of International Naรฏve Art
____________________________
Paulina Pinsky was born on 1948 to Holocaust survivors whose families โ spouses and children, included โ had been murdered by the Nazis. She had a peripatetic childhood, moving from Germany to Israel, Italy and Bolivia, before finally settling in Brazil. ln 1967, Paulina spent a year at Kibbutz Brur Chayil, and, after her marriage (in Sao Paulo in 1970) to Moises Pinsky, spent several years studying and teaching in Israel, before returning to Brazil, where she has been living to this day. In 1988, after having spent many years as an English teacher and an interior designer, Paulina turned to painting for emotional and spiritual fulfillment. Being without training, she began painting simple scenes in a refreshingly innocent, childlike manner, thereby entering the magical world of naรฏve art ln Paulina Pinsky โ an artist indelibly influenced by her European origins and Jewish traditions โ is the Brazilian naif like none other.
Dan Chill, October 2004, GINA Gallery of International Naรฏve Art
Elvira Levy Periodista y poeta. Residiรณ durante casi veinte aรฑos fuera de su paรญs: Barcelona y Madrid (1973 a 1986), y Jerusalรฉn (2001 a 2007). Poeta, narradora, ensayista y crรญtica, coordinadora de talleres y seminarios literarios y de artes plรกsticas. Cofundadora de la Asoc. Prometeo de Poesรญa de Madrid; miembro de SEA (Sociedad de Escritoras y Escritores de Argentina) y de AIELC (Asoc. Israelรญ de Escritores en Lengua Castellana); miembro de jurados, panelista y participante de congresos de literatura, en los que ha presentado y publicado ponencias. Ensayos publicados: Aspectos parciales de la obra de Octavio Paz (1983, con Josรฉ Luis Crespo), y Los judรญos y el descubrimiento de Amรฉrica (1992, Premio “Jerusalem 1990/91”, con Alicia Casais. Poemarios: Eva y el espejo (1981), Crรณnica de una ausencia (1988), Hablando con Borges (1998), Bifurcaciรณn de la memoria (Tel-Aviv, 2005).
______________________________
_______________________________________
Elvira Levy ArgentineJournalist and poet. She lived outside his country for almost twenty years: Barcelona and Madrid (1973 to 1986), and Jerusalem (2001 to 2007). Poet, narrator, essayist and critic, coordinator of literary and plastic arts workshops and seminars. Co-founder of the Prometeo Poetry Association of Madrid; member of SEA (Society of Writers of Argentina) and AIELC (Israeli Association of Writers in the Spanish Language); member of juries, panelist and participant in literature conferences, in which he has presented and published papers. Published essays: Partial aspects of the work of Octavio Paz (1983, with Josรฉ Luis Crespo), and The Jews and the discovery of America (1992, “Jerusalem 1990/91” Prize, with Alicia Casais. Poems: Eva and the mirror ( 1981), Chronicle of an Absence (1988), Talking with Borges (1998), Bifurcation of Memory (Tel-Aviv, 2005).
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Poemas de amor y otros/Poems of love and others
Es temprano aรบn
Es temprano aรบn,
Me dicen,
y vuelvo la mirada hacia atrรกs
Y veo pedazos de vida
Aquรญ y allรก, dispersos, exhaustos.
Tienes el blanco y el negro en tus manos,
me dicen,
y miro hacia delante
y una impรกvida oscuridad
cubre la luz tenebrosa.
Las palabras nacen y caen en el papel
sembrando frases ilusorias.
Apenas suenan en los oรญdos
perdieron su ritmo interno.
La mรบsica muriรณ en el tumulto.
El aroma de la flor se extraviรณ
en el laberinto de las especias.
Mas es temprano aรบn,
me dicen,
y crece la incertidumbre
ante las horas que llegan.
_____________________________
It is Still Early
It is still early,
they tell me,
and see pieces of life,
here and there, scattered, exhausted.
You have black and white in your hands,
they tell me,
and I look forward,
and an unflinching darkness
covers the tremulous light.
Words are born and fall on the paper
sowing illusory phrases.
They barely sound in your ears:
They have lost their internal rhythm.
The music died in the tumult.
The flowers aroma got lost
in the labyrinth of spices.
But it is still early,
they tell me,
and uncertainty grows
before the approaching hours.
_________________________________
Paulatinamente
Paulatinamente,,
el amor nace,
crece en mรญ.
Al fin estalla,
Rebasa los lรญmites de mis manos
Mas, inรบtil fruta madura,
Queda en mรญ.
La soledad vela fuegos insomnes.
Y asรญ pertenezco,
con la constante tristeza del presente,
aguardando un gesto, un llamado.
Oh si fuera capaz
matarรญa el amor,
las palabras que siguen vibrando,
volverรญa a la luz.
Pero no,
desde la inquietud de las sombras,
Desde la impotencia de nacida del todo,
aรบn espero.
____________________________________
Gradually
Gradually,
Love is born,
it grow in me.
Finally it explodes,
exeeeds the limits of my hands
but, unless ripe fruit,
remains with me.
Loneliness watches over the sleepless fires.
And so I remain,
with the constant sadness of the protest,
awaiting a gesture, a summons.
Oh if I were able
I would slay love,
in the words which continue vibrating,
I would return to the light.
But no,
from the restlessness of shadows,
from the impotence born of reality,
still I hope.
______________________________________
La blanca ausencia
Y aquรญ tambiรฉn esa desconocida
y ansiosa y breve cosa que es la vida.
Jorge Luis Borges
Rรกpida,
ferozmente,
un monstruo de metal
destruyรณ tu vida.
Y allรก, en el Sur,
en una calle de Buenos Aires,
comenzรณ a florecer
la blanca ausencia.
La lluvia cayรณ sobre la ciudad.
La tristeza empapรณ la tierra,
rodรณ por las avenidas,
llegรณ a los ojos.
Se perdieron nuestros pasos en el camino
y vos,
te quedaste sola en un campo de verde silencio.
Multitud de hojas empezaron
a borrar la huella de tu cuerpo,
mientras sรณlo crecรญan lรกgrimas entre la hierba.
Y vinieron las horas,
las sombras sobre las sombras,
los rumores se extendieron,
la luz abriรณ de nuevas sus alas:
La vida recobrรณ la muerte
tendida en el asfalto.
Todo eso sucediรณ,
hermana,
pero aรบn continรบa lloviendo en Buenos Aires.
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The White Absence
Y aquรญ tambiรฉn esa desconocida
y ansiosa y breve cosa que es la vida.
Jorge Luis Borges
Rapidly,
ferociously,
a monster of metal
destroyed your life.
And there, in the South,
on a Buenos Aires Street.
the white absence began to flourish.
The rain fell on the city.
Sadness soaked the dirt,
rolled down the avenues,
arrived at the eyes.
Our steps were lost along the way,
and you,
stayed alone in a field of green silence.
A multitude of leaves began
to erase the traces of your body,
while only tears grew between the grass.
And the hours came,
the shadows on the shadows,
the sounds spread out,
the light opened its wings again:
Life recovered death
Stretched out on the asphalt.
All that happened,
sister,
but it still goes on raining in Buenos Aires.
____________________________________
Tienes miedo de mรญ
y huyes.
Conmovido, penetras en la lรณgica de las telaraรฑas.
Ya no existo en ti.
Sin embargo,
ยฟquiรฉn mecerรก tus noches vacรญas de olvido?
ยฟQuiรฉn oirรก la mรบsica
que nace del incendio de tu carne?
ยฟQuiรฉn te darรก mรกs vida
que mi misma vida?
Un silencio iracundo te rodea,
corroe los hambrientos pasadizos de la ausencia,
los anillos perdidos renacen en tus dedos.
Tu cuerpo arde. Se quemarรก
sin que nadie presencie el esplendor de las llamas.
Entonces,
ยฟquiรฉn saciarรก tu sed,
despuรฉs de apagar la hoguera?
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You Fear Me
And you flee.
Moved, you penetrate the logic of the spider webs.
I no longer exist in you.
Nevertheless,
who will rock your nights empty of forgetting?
Who will hear the music
that is born in the fire of your flesh?
Who will give you more life
than my life itself?
An angry silence surrounds you,
corrodes the hunger passageways of the absence,
the lost rings are reborn on your fingers.
Your body burns. It will be burnt,
without anyone witnessing the splendor of the flames.
Then,
who will satiate your thirst,
after extinguishing the bonfire.
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Poema Preliminar
Ayer viajรฉ a Egipto y me dirigรญ a la corte del faraรณn.
Allรญ pedรญ hablar con Josรฉ y, postrรกndome ante รฉl,
urgรญ que interpretara mis sueรฑos,
mas como le habรญan cortado las orejas,
no pudo oรญrme.
Sรณlo alcanzรณ a ver el insomnio en mis ojos.
Fue entonces que me preguntรณ:
“ยฟPor quรฉ la vigilia de tus noches?,ยฟcuรกles son tus secretos?,
ยฟpor quรฉ deliras por las naves que se alejan?,
ยฟpor quรฉ aรบn sientes el cosquilleo de una hormiga en tus manos?
Tal vez hay algo diminuto en el aire que te perturba:
ยฟUna mota de polvo?,ยฟuna gota de lluvia?,ยฟun murmullo?
Dime ยฟte atreverรกs a buscar las respuestas?
Recuerda que Aleppo estรก cerca.
Y tus ancestros podrรญan ayudarte en la bรบsqueda,
y cuando el insomnio te abandone,
sueรฑa, sueรฑaโฆ
Recuerda que alguien dijo:
De toda la memoria sรณlo vale
el don preclaro de evocar los sueรฑos.”
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Preliminary Poem
Yesterday, I travelled to Egypt, and I went directly to Pharoahโs Court.
There I asked to speak with Joseph and prostrating myself before him,
I pressed him to interpret my dreams.
However, as they had cut off his ears,
he couldnโt hear me.
he only was able to see the insomnia in my eyes.
It was then, that he asked me:
โWhy do you make vigil at night? What are your secrets?
Why do you rave for the ships that go away?
Why do you still feel the tickling of a bug in your hands?
There is something very small thing in the air that perturbs you:
A speck of dust? A drop of rain? A murmur?
Tell me: do you dare to seek the answers?
Remember that Aleppo is nearby.
And your ancestors would be able to help in your search,
And when insomnia abandons you,
Sleep, sleepโฆ
Remember that someone said:
Of all memory is only valuable
The illustrious gift to evoke dreams.โ
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El cardรณn
(Trichocereus Terschecckii)
Yo, cactus, ocre vegetal que anida en los cerros, me declaro inocente.
Perdรณn por mi apariencia. No tengo voz ni voto para decir al mundo que mis espinas ocultan albor y ternura. Crecรญ en soledad como la piedra y el hombre. Entre zozobras y la emociรณn de ser amado intentรฉ sembrar hallazgos, y solamente obtuve ausencias.
Perdรณn por mi apariencia. Abran mi pecho. ยกMiren la flor que brota de mi tronco, mis brazos que se elevan a Dios!
(La lluvia me ha olvidado. Un dรญa se asomรณ y me enamorรฉ de ella.)
Yo, cactus, seco ermitaรฑo de sierras y quebradas, sรฉ que la ciudad de luz y colores desdeรฑosamente me observa, poseedora de lluvia.
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The Large Cardon Cactus
(Trichocereus Terschecckii)
I, cactus,
vegetable ocher, rare in the mountains.
declare myself innocent.
Excuse me for my appearance.
I donโt have even a voice nor a vote to say to the world,
that my spines hide dawn and tenderness.
I grew in solitude,
like rock and man.
Between anxieties
and the emotion of being loved,
I intended to plant discoveries,
and I only obtained absences.
Excuse my appearance.
Open my chest.
Look at the flower that sprouts from my trunk,
My arms that raise themselves to God!
(Rain had forgotten me.
One day it appeared, and I fell in love with it.)
I, cactus,
dry hermit of mountains and gorges,
I know that the city of light and colors
observes me with distain,
possessor of rain.
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La pasiรณn de creer en un destino รบnico
La pasiรณn de creer en un destino รบnico
รกngulo verdesur de la tierra-
cambiรณ por crueldad
La inocencia de un pueblo.
La risa se convirtiรณ en muecas.
El รณxido corrompiรณ
el brillo de los eslabones.
Negra cadena que enlutรณ su historia
porque crecieron apetitos
y vientos siniestros soplaron
desde el poder y las calles.
Tรกnatos venciรณ a Eros.
La avidez de los hombres coronรณ la muerte.
ยฟCuรกndo se iniciรณ el espanto?
ยฟLos dรญas breves, el soliloquio?
ยฟCuรกndo volverรก a sonreรญr el poeta,
transformando el aire?
______________________________
The passion of believing in a unique destiny
The passion of believing in a unique destiny-
Green-south angle of the earth-
changed by cruelty
the innocence of a people.
Laughter changed into grimaces.
The rust corrupted
The brilliance of the steps.
Black chain that grieved its history
Because appetites grew and winds blew
From powder and the streets.
Thanatos defeated Eros.
The avidness of men crowned death.
When was shock initiated?
The brief days, the soliloquy?
When will the poet smile again,
transforming art.
Translations by Stephen A. Sadow
________________________________________
Poemarios de Elvira Levy/Poetry Books by Elvira Levy
Vรญctor Perera, escritor guatemalteco. Nacido en Guatemala de padres judรญos sefardรญes que habรญan emigrado de Jerusalรฉn, Perera emigrรณ a los Estados Unidos a los doce aรฑos. Educado en Brooklyn College (B.A., 1956) y en la Universidad de Michigan (M.A., 1958), se convirtiรณ en reportero, escritor y editor del New Yorker, New York Times Magazine, Atlantic, Harper’s y muchas otras revistas. Sus artรญculos, cuentos y ensayos, que a menudo tratan sobre Amรฉrica Latina y temas judรญos, se destacan por su sensibilidad y perspicacia. A su primera novela, La conversiรณn (1970), le siguieron obras de no ficciรณn, entre ellas Los รบltimos seรฑores de Palenque: los mayas lacandones de la selva tropical mexicana (con Robert D. Bruce, 1982), Ritos: una niรฑez guatemalteca (1986), y Promesas rotas: la tragedia guatemalteca (1991). Recibiรณ la beca de escritura creativa NEA (1980), el premio de ficciรณn sindicado PEN (1986) y el premio de escritura Lila Wallace-Reader’s Digest Fund (1992โ94). Su รบltimo proyecto fue un libro sobre ballenas. Sufriรณ un derrame cerebral en 1998 y nunca se recuperรณ por completo.
__________________________
___________________________
Vรญctor Perera, Guatemalan writer. Born in Guatemala to Sephardic Jewish parents who had emigrated from Jerusalem, Perera immigrated to the United States at age twelve. Educated at Brooklyn College (B.A., 1956) and the University of Michigan (M.A., 1958), he became a reporter, writer, and editor for the New Yorker, New York Times Magazine, Atlantic, Harper’s, and many other magazines. His articles, stories and essays, which often deal with Latin America and Jewish themes, are noted for their sensitivity and insight. His first novel, The Conversion (1970), was followed by nonfiction works, including The Last Lords of Palenque: The Lacandon Maya of the Mexican Rainforest (with Robert D. Bruce, 1982), Rites: A Guatemalan Childhood (1986), and Broken Promises: The Guatemalan Tragedy (1991). He received the NEA Creative Writing Fellowship (1980), the PEN Syndicated Fiction Award (1986), and the Lila Wallace-Reader’s Digest Fund Writing Award (1992โ94). His last project was a book about whales. He suffered a stroke in 1998 and never fully recovered.
__________________________________________
From: Rites: A Guatemalan Boyhood. San Francisco: Mercury House, 1996.
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Mar Abramowitz
Poco despuรฉs de mi decimo cumpleaรฑos, el rabino Musan advirtiรณ a papรก que su descuido de mi formaciรณn religiosa amenazaba con convertirme en un hereje ateo. Alarmado, papรก alzรณ la mirada de sus registros e inventarios y comprobรณ que el rabino tiene razรณn. Su primogรฉnito y รบnico hijo varรณn, a tres aรฑos de bar-mitzvah no sabรญa leer una sola palabra de Torah. Esto no era del todo culpa mรญa. Nuestro medio de comunicaciรณn hogareรฑo era una olla podrida de vernรกculo indรญgena y judeo-espaรฑol: โMangia tu okra, isto: escapa ya tus desmodresโ, gritaba mamรกโ, siendo รฉsta una de sus idiosincrasias que me inculcaba con gestos amenazantes. (โLa letra con sangre entraโ reza uno de los dichos consagradas por nuestros ancestros.) En casa, el hebreo lo usaban mis Papรกs para chistes sucios y secretos entre ellos.
La alarma de Papรก creciรณ al enterarse que su รบnico hijo heredero varรณn era un renuente que se colocaba clandestinamente en la catedral; cuyo mejor amigo era un goy mestizo de escasos mรฉritos acadรฉmicosโun heredero varรณn, para colmo. Que le miraba boquiabierto como un imbรฉcil cuando le citaban el Talmud o le pedรญan que recitara los diez mandamientos.
La primera medida que tomรณ Papรก fue de enseรฑarme una oraciรณn en hebreo que yo debรญa recitar cada noche antes de acostarme. La segunda medida fue mรกs drรกstica. Tras aรฑos de identificarnos como โjudรญos de las tres fiestasโ comenzamos a celebrar Shabbat. Los viernes en la tarde al ponerse el sol, Papรก me llevaba a la sinagoga, donde pretendรญa enseรฑarme el aleph-bet. Pero รฉl no derrochaba demasiada paciencia conmigo y su atenciรณn acababa por desviarse hacia asuntos de la tienda. Si yo no pronunciaba las sรญlabas extraรฑas con exactitud en mi segundo o tercero intento รฉl me rozaba las narices con la punta de su talit o cerraba el libro violentamente, lo cual cerraba mi cerebro con cual violencia y me emplomaba la lengua. Despuรฉs de cinco o seis sesiones logrรฉ memorizar el rezo al Torah que concluye: โBaruch attah Adonai noten hatorahโ (Bendito seas Seรฑor que nos das el Torah). El Shabbat siguiente el rabino Musan me llamรณ al bimah y recitรฉ la bendiciรณn antes y despuรฉs de fingir leer un trozo del Torah, moviendo mis labios sรญncronamente con los del rabino como muรฑeco del ventrรญlocuo.
Las lecciones de Papรก duraban solamente hasta Yom Kippur, cuando los inventarios prenavideรฑos lo obligaron quedarse en la tienda los viernes y el dรญa entero del sรกbado. Papรก renunciรณ a enseรฑarme personalmente y contratรณ para mi instrucciรณn religiosa a un refugiado de guerra Mar Israel Abramowitz.
Mar Abramowitz no asistรญa a los servicios de nuestro templo. รl y una docena de correligionarios askenazรญes de Europa Oriental rezaban en una pequeรฑa galerรญa citadina de la cual se rumoraba, por personas que nunca habรญan entrado en ella, que olรญa a mantequilla rancia y arenque curtido. รnicamente durante las fiestas importantes se permitรญa a los polacos y los litvaks acudir a nuestra sinagoga, ademรกs se les obligaba a sentarse detrรกs de las mujeres.
Aunque no aprendรญ hebreo hasta que pasaron otros ocho aรฑos, de muy niรฑos fui instruido en el evangelio de la casta sefardรญ. Si todos los judรญos eran electos, รฉramos la รฉlite de los electos. Nosotros los sefardรญes รฉramos herederos รบnicos de una lejana pero gloriosa Edad de Oro, de cuyo legado podรญamos alimentarnos, sin mejor esfuerzo de nuestra parte, hasta el dรญa del Juicio Fina. Al final de la Edad de Oro habรญamos sufrido con insigne nobleza la Inquisiciรณn, que culminรณ con la Expulsiรณn y nuestro consiguiente reasentamiento en un lugar llamado la Diรกspora. En un dรญa ya seรฑalado habรญamos de reunirnos todos en la tierra santa, Eretz Israel, donde emprenderรญamos nuestra segunda y aรบn mรกs gloriosa Edad de Oro, con la bendiciรณn de Dios.
La primera prueba primicia de nuestro legado se manifiesta durante Yom Kippur. En el momento รกlgido de la liturgia, poco antes de que sonaron el shofar o cuerno de carnero que indicaba la presencia de Dios entre nosotros, dos congregantes comparecรญan delante del Arca: el flaquรญsimo y sin-quijada Eliezar Cohen, y el gordo famosamente cornudo Shlomo Kahan, cuyos patronรญmicos los identificaron como miembros de la รฉlite sacerdotal, empezaban rezando en voz delante del Arca. A la seรฑal del rabino los dos hombres se cubrรญan los sombreros con sus talit o mantos de rezo y se enfrentaban a la congregaciรณn con rostros tapados. Al instante se transformaban en intermedios sacerdotales, encarnaciones vivientes del misterio de Dios; meciรฉndose al unรญsono con los brazos enarbolados, recitaban las palabras de Adonai en frases sonoras y altisonantes.
Por supuesto, jamรกs se me ocurriรณ que los Ashkenazim pudieran hacer gala de sus propios Cohens y Kahans para comunicar la bendiciรณn de Dios.
Mar Israel Abramowitz habรญa sido un abogado exitoso en Varsovia antes de que fuera invadida por las Nazis. Papรก dijo que habรญa estado en un campo de concentraciรณn, pero Mar Abramowitz evitaba mencionar este tema y nunca se me ocurriรณ preguntarle. Yo no estaba del todo seguro de quรฉ era un campo de concentraciรณn, y me flaqueaba la curiosidad de averiguarlo. Lo que sรญ sabรญa es que se trataba de un lugar donde los judรญos sufrรญan.
El sufrimiento parecรญa ser la vocaciรณn primordial de Mar Abramowitz. Era un hombre grueso y cincuentรณn, con penachos blancos a ambos lados de su cabeza cuadrada y calva. Lentes gruesos de doble enfoque magnificaban sus ojos negros y brillantes de penitente angustiados. Su hรกlito era maloliente la mayorรญa de las veces, y su dentadura de apariencia negruzca y deforme. Ademรกs, Mar Abramowitz no cesaba de sobarse la uรฑa de su pulgar derecho. Transcurrieron varias semanas antes de convencerme de que los gemidos y suspiros que marcaban sus lecciones no tenรญan nada que ver conmigo.
Mar Abramowitz logrรณ aleccionarme en el Aleph-bet hasta que pude leer algo de Las Escrituras, pero su sufrimiento se apoderรณ de รฉl antes de iniciarme en la comprensiรณn. No tardรฉ en aprender a tomar ventaja de sus vulnerabilidades. Si su hรกlito hedรญa mรกs que de lo usual y se sobaba la uรฑa del pulgar sin cesar, yo sabรญa que podรญa zafarme de los ejercicios y persuadirlo que en su lugar me contase historias de la Biblia. Me gustaban estos cuentos exรณticos que Mar Abramowitz pronunciaba con su acento eslรกvico y su aspecto trรกgico y afligido. Segรบn se adentraba en el tema, sin embargo, sus ojos amansaban y su voz crecรญa en elocuencia a pesar de su castellano escaso. Las historias del Antiguo Testamento evidentemente mitigaban su sufrimiento a la vez que alimentaban mi afรกn de delincuente al saberme absuelto de estudiar en serio.
Como joven sagaz que yo mismo me consideraba, reconocรญa que la Biblia trataba mayormente de fรกbulas. No le prestabas ni mรกs ni menos credibilidad una serpiente que hable con la gente, o a un arbusto que arde espontรกneamente o a un Mar Rojo cuyas aguas se dividen para dar paso a los israelitas, de la que prestarรญa al prรญncipe que se convirtiรณ en sapo o a un Billy Batson capaz de transmutarse en el Capitรกn Maravilla con la simple menciรณn del rubro mรกgico โShazamโ.
Las guerras y matanzas, por lo contrario, no necesitaban de racionalizaciรณn alguna. David y Goliat, Holofernes y Judit, las canaanitas y los babilonios, todos ellos me resultaron perfectamente comprensibles. Las batallas encarnizadas entre las fuerzas del bien y del malโesto era algo que sabรญa igual que lo sabรญan Tarzรกn y Kit Carson y Buck Rogers y lo reconocรญa nada menos que el Presidente Rooseveltโeran interminables, pues pertenecen al legado primordial de la raza humana.
Existรญa la costumbre de nuestro templo de hacer subasta de los honores rituales durante las fiestas altas. El rabino Musan o su asistente se pasaban por los pasillos, recitando las ofertas en hebreoโy llevando la cuenta con las hebras de su talitโde manera que a duras penas se diferenciaban de las sรญlabas litรบrgicas: โTengo treinta y cinco para abrir el Arca de nombre de Isaac Sultรกn en bendiciรณn del Seรฑorโฆcuarentaโฆcuarenta y cinco de Lรกzaro Sabbaj en bendiciรณn del Seรฑor. Shemuel Benchom ofrece cincuenta quezalim para abrir las puertas del Arca en bendiciรณn del Seรฑor sea su Nombreโฆโ
Para Simjat Torah, en recompensa por las escasas frases de hebreo que Mar Abramowitz logrรณ implantarme en el cerebro sin pena ni sangre, Papรก me comprรณ el honor de transportar el Torah desde el Arca hasta la Bimah, o Altar. Me deslice por los pasillos del temple con el pergamino forrado de terciopelo rojo aplastado contra el pecho co un escudo acanalado, cadenas de plata y otros ornamentos pagados por miembros de la congregaciรณn. Mi temor atroz de dejar caer el Torah y profanar la Escritura Sagrada me hacรญan temblar los pies dentro de las botas ortopedas que usaba para corregir mis plantas planas.
Mi complemento de este honor ceremonial evidentemente calmรณ la conciencia de Papรก, pues resultรณ el รบnico que me comprรณ.
La semana siguiente Mar Abramowitz faltรณ a nuestra lecciรณn porqueโsegรบn me dijo Mamรกโno se sentรญa bien. (Ella usรณ el modismo judeo-espaรฑol โhazinoโ para dignificar su padecimiento.) Pero yo adivinรฉ que de lo รบnico que padecรญa era de sufrimiento. Lo imaginรฉ acurrucado en un rincรณn de su habitaciรณn, exhalando su hรกlito maloliente y sobรกndose la uรฑa del dedo pulgar. Los ojos angustiados hundidos en las cuencas. Mar Abramowitz tampoco se presentรณ la semana siguiente ni la que seguรญa. Cuando al fin compareciรณ, apenas lo reconocรญ. Se habรญa transformado fe hombre corpulento y maduro en un anciano encorvado. Los hombros caรญdos por debajo de su chaqueta mal tallada le deban el aspecto abandonado de un mendigo. El รบnico rasgo de ser viviente estaba en el brillo de sus ojos negros y consumidos. Los lentes de doble enfoque exageraban lo que supe identificar aรบn entonces como la mirada fulgurante y fantasmal de un demente.
Mar Abramowitz habรญa venido a excusarse por no poder continuar nuestras lecciones debido a su enfermedad. Sus excusas eran incoherentes y se prolongaban aรบn despuรฉs de que Mamรก le aseguraba que comprendรญa perfectamente y que lo habรญa disculpado. De repente, Mar Abramowitz empezรณ a gemir y llorar en voz alta en medio de nuestra antesala, causando reverberaciones en toda la casa que me llenaron de congoja. Mamรก buscรณ su cartera y puso en la mano hรบmeda y huesuda de Mar Abramowitz un billete plegado en cuatro. Restregรกndose los ojos se embolsรณ el billete, inclinรกndose para besar la mano de Mamรก antes de dar la vuelta y salir a la calle con su paso lento y encorvado.
Tres aรฑos mรกs tarde, al regresar de un viaje a los Estados Unidos, supimos que Mar Abramowitz se ha degollado.
Traducciรณnpor Stephen A. Sadow
________________________________________________
โMar Abramowitzโ
Soon after my tenth birthday, Rabbi Toledano warned Father that he had neglected my religious education and said that I was in danger of growing up a godless heathen. Alarmed, Father looked up from his ledgers and registers and say that Rabbi Toledano was right. His first-born and only son, three short years from Bar Mitzvah, could not read a word of Scripture. This was hardly my fault. Our lingual tender at home was a secular hash of native slang and Ladino Spanish: โManga tu okra, ishto: โscapa ya tus desmodresโ (Eat your okra, animal, enough of your foolishness). Hebrew was for off-color jokes and adult secrets.
Fatherโs alarm grew when he learned that his only male heir was a renegade who stole visits inside the cathedral, whose best friend was a mestizo goy of scant scholastic attainmentsโa male heir, furthermore, who gaped imbecility when you quoted Talmud at him or asked him to recite the Commandments.
Fatherโs first step was to teach me a Hebrew prayer that I was to repeat every night before retiring. The second was more drastic. After years of getting by as three-holiday Jews, we began to observing Sabbath. At dusk on Friday evenings, Father took me to the synagogue, where he tried to teach me my Aleph-Bet. But his patience was short, and his mind would drift continually to business matters. If I did not pronounce the strange syllables on my second or third attempt, he would snap his prayer shawl in my face or slam the book shut, which instantly slammed my mind shut and turned my tongue to lead. After a half-dozen lessons, I succeeded in memorizing the blessing to the Torah, which ends: โBaruch attah Adonai, noten hatorahโ (Blessed art Thou, oh Lord, who giveth the Torah). On the following Sabbath Rabbi Toledano called me to the altar and I recited the blessing before and after, pretending to read a passage from the scroll, moving my lips to Rabbi Toledanoโs words like a ventriloquistโs dummy.
Fatherโs lessons lasted only through Yom Kippur, after which the Christmas rush set in and he had to be in the store late on Friday evenings and all day on Saturdays. He gave up trying to teach me himself and engaged for my religious a Polish war refugee, Mar Israel Abramowitz.
Mar Abramowitz did not attend service in our temple. With a dozen or so Ashkenazi refugees from Eastern Europe, he worshiped in a tiny downtown loft that was said, by those who had never been inside it, to smell of rancid butter and pickled herring. Only on the High Holidays were the Poles and the Litvaks allowed to defile out synagogue, and they had to sit toward the rear, next to the women.
Although I did not learn Hebrew for another two years, I was very early inculcated with the gospel of the Sephardic caste. If all other Jews were Chosen, we were the Elect. We Sephardim were sole heirs to a remote but glorious Golden Age whose legacy we could batten on, without any effort on our part, until of the Day of Judgment. At the end of the Golden Age, we had nobly suffered the Inquisition, which resulted in the Expulsion from Spain and resettlement in a place called Diaspora. One day we would all reunite in the Promised Land, Eretz Israel, and begin an even more glorious second Golden Age, with Godโs blessing.
My earliest remembered โproofโ of our legacy cam at Yom Kippur. Toward the middle of the liturgy, before the blowing of the ramโs horn that signaled Godโs presence among us. Two men were summoned to the Ark: chin-less, rail-thin Eliezar Cohen, a failure at business, and fat, famously hen-pecked Sholomo Kahan, whose names identified them as the priestly elite, first prayed in unison before the Ark. At a signal from Rabbi Toledano, they draped their prayer shawls over their homburgs and turned to the congregation faceless. They were instantly transformed into hieratic mummers, impersonators of Godโs mystery, as they swayed from side to side with both arms raised, chanting His words in antiphonal responses.
Of course, it never occurred to me that Ashkenazim might have their own Cohens and Kahans to communicate Godโs blessing.
Mar Israel Abramowitz had been a successful lawyer in Warsaw before the Nazis came. Father said that he had spent years in a concentration camp, but Mar Abramowitz did not talk of this, and I never thought to ask him. I was not at all certain what a concentration camp was, and I had no special curiosity to find out. I only knew that it was a place where Jews suffered.
Suffering seemed to be Mar Abramowitzโs chief occupation. He was a thick-set man in his middle fifties, with tufts of gray hair at either side of a squarish head. His bifocal glasses magnified a hollow look of grief in his eyes. His breath stank most of the time; nearly all his remaining teeth were black stumps. He had an ingrown right thumbnail, which he continually stroked. It was several sessions before I understood the sighs and moans punctuating our lessons had no connection to me.
Mar Abramowitz managed to teach me enough Aleph-Bet so I could read a little Hebrew, but his suffering got the better of him before we could start on comprehension. I soon learned to take advantage of his infirmity. If his breath smelled especially rank and he stroked his nail more than usual, I knew I could get out of doing the drills and coax him into telling Bible stories instead. I liked these exotic tales, which Mar Abramowitz delivered with a heavy Slavic accent and his usual grieved expression. As soon as he got into them, however, his eyes would soften and he would grow almost eloquent, despite his poor Spanish. The Old Testament stories seemed to ease his suffering as much as they enhanced my tonic sense of truancy from serious study.
I my youthful wisdom, I knew they were mostly fables. I lent no more credence to a talking snake, the burning bush, the parting of the Red Sea than I gave the prince who turned into a frog, or to Billy Batsonโ instant metamorphosis into Captain Marvel with the magical word Shazam. The fighting and the killing, on the other hand, I understood perfectly: David and Goliath, Holofernes and Judith, the Canaanites, and the Babylonians, these made eminent sense. The battle between the forces of good and evil, as I realized and Kit Carson and Buck Rogers and President Roosevelt, I realized was unendingโand part of manโs natural estate.
There was a custom on our temple of auctioning of ritual honors on the High Holidays. Rabbi Toledano or his sexton would pass up and down the aisles, chanting the bids aloud in Hebrew (while keeping the score on the fringes of his shawl) so they sounded to my ears indistinguishable from the liturgy: โI have thirty-five to open the Ark from Isaac Sultan in praise of the LordโฆFortyโฆforth-five from Lรกzaro Sabbaj in praise of the Lord bids fifty qetezalim to open the Ark in praise of the Lord, blessed be his Nameโฆโ
On Simchat Torah, in reward for the scant Hebrew phrases Mar Abramowitz had dinned to my head, Father brought me the bearing of the Scroll from Ark to the Bimah. I crept along the aisle with the red velvet Torahโjunior sizeโhugged to my chest as the worshipers crowed around to kiss it. The Scroll was weighed down with a chased shield, chains, silver horn, and other ornaments, each separately bid for by the congregation. My fear of dropping the Torah and profaning the Holy Scripture caused my feet to throb inside corrective boots I wore for fallen arches.
My performance of this ceremonial honor evidentlyassuaged Fatherโs conscious, for he never bought me another.
One week Mar Abramowitz if noy did not show up for our lesson, because Mother said he wasnโt feeling well. (She used the Ladino hazino to dignify his unwellness.) But I guessed ha was only suffering. I pictured him crouched in a corner of his room, breathing his foul breath, stroking his ingrown toe bail, the grief-stricken sunk deeper than ever in their sockets. He failed to come the following week and the week after that. When he finally arrived, I hardly recognized him. He had shrunk from a corpulent middle-aged man to a wizened gnome. The sag of his shoulders inside the loose-fitting jacket gave him the derelict look of a tramp. Only his sunken black eyes had life. The bifocals exaggerated what I recognized even though as the haunted, pinpoint gleam of madness.
Mar Abramowitz had come to excuse himself that he could no longer keep up my lessons because of his illness. His apology was rambling and disconnected and went on long after Mother assured him that she quite understood, and he was forgiven. Then, to my immense shame, Mar Abramowitz began to moan and cry aloud, right in our hallway, so that the sounds reverberated throughout the house. Mother fetched her handbag and placed int Mar Abramowitzโs bony hand a folded bill. Brushing his eyes, he executed a courtly bow, pocketed the bill, and kissed Motherโs hand before he shuffled out the door.
Three years later, on returning from the States, we learned that Mar Abramowitz had hanged himself.
Silvia Plager naciรณ en Buenos Aires. Entre sus obras de ficciรณn se cuentan Amigas, Prohibido despertar, Boca de tormenta, A las escondidas, Alguien estรก mirando, Mujeres pudorosas, La baronesa de Fiuggi, la novela histรณrica Malvinas, la ilusiรณn y la pรฉrdida –escrita en coautorรญa con Elsa Fraga Vidal-, El cuarto violeta, Boleros que matan (thriller seleccionado para competir por el Premio del Lector de la Feria del Libro 2012), La rabina, Las mujeres ocultas de El Greco y Complacer. Tambiรฉn publicรณ Nosotras y la edad (ensayo) y un libro de cocina y relatos, Mi cocina judรญa. Incursionรณ en el humor con Al mal sexo buena cara y Como papas para varenikes. Obtuvo, entre otros, los premios Corregidor-Diario El Dรญa de La Plata, Tercer Premio Municipal, Faja de Honor de la SADE, y resultรณ finalista del Concurso Planeta 2005. Fue distinguida como “Mujer destacada en al รกmbito nacional” por la Honorable Cรกmara de Diputados de la Naciรณn (1994) y con la Medalla al Mรฉrito por la Comisiรณn Permanente de Homenaje a la Mujer Bonaerense (2002). Colabora con diarios y revistas y coordina talleres literarios. Varios de sus textos han sido incluidos en antologรญas publicadas en la Argentina y en el extranjero.
Silvia Plager was born in Buenos Aires. Amigas, Prohibido despertar, Boca de tormenta, A las escondidas, Alguien estรก mirando, Mujeres pudorosas, La baronesa de Fiuggi, the historical novel Malvinas, la ilusiรณn y la pรฉrdida –written with Elsa Fraga Vidal-, El cuarto violeta, Boleros que matan La rabina, Las mujeres ocultas de El Greco y Complacer. Tambiรฉn publicรณ Nosotras y la edad (ensayo) y un libro de cocina y relatos, Mi cocina judรญa. She wrote humor in Al mal sexo buena cara y Como papas para varenikes. She obtained, among others, the Corregidor-Diario El Dรญa de La Plata awards, Third Municipal Prize, SADE Honor Sash, and was a finalist in the 2005 Planeta Contest. She was distinguished as “Outstanding Woman at the National Level” by the Honorable Chamber of Deputies of the Nation (1994) and with the Medal of Merit by the Permanent Commission of Tribute to Buenos Aires Women (2002). She collaborates with newspapers and magazines and coordinates literary workshops. Several of his texts have been included in anthologies published in Argentina and abroad.
Penguin Books
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“Latkes de papa”
INGREDIENTES:
1 Kg de papas
1 cebolla
2 huevos
Sal y pimienta a gusto,
4 cucharadas de harina,
Aceite, cantidad necesaria
PREPARACIรN
Pele y lave las papas, sรฉquelas y rรกllelas, Ralle tambiรฉn la cebolla y ponga todo en un bol, con los huevos, la sal y la pimienta. Agregue la harina y mezcle hasta obtener una masa ni muy espesa ni muy chirle. Caliente el aceite en un sartรฉn y vierta la preparaciรณn por cucharadas. Frรญa los latkes hasta que estรฉn dorados de ambos lados.
Evocaciรณn y realizaciรณn
La historia de los famosos latkes de Cathy Rosenfeld comenzรณ cuando Catalina Goldsmith le dijo a su mamele que David, el muchacho que habรญa conocido en Hebraica, vendrรญa a cenar.
Ustedes se estarรกn diciendo que los latkesโcomo cualquier persona u objetoโtienen su propia historia. Pero la pasiรณn amorosa entre la muchacha de diecisiete aรฑos y la comida judรญa naciรณ en este acontecimiento.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย <<Se rallan asรญ>>, decรญa doรฑa Berta, moviendo arriba y abajo su mano derecha. En los aรฑos sesenta no habรญa procesadora y se cocinaba como se pensaba: directo y sin vueltas. David habรญa aceptado la invitaciรณn: candidato seguro. Doรฑa Berta repitiรณ del rallado con una cebolla y volviรณ a enseรฑarle a la hija la energรญa con que le debรญa a cabo el fundamental primer paso. Cata la imitรณ, primero con la papa y despuรฉs con el resto. La madre al comprobar la destreza heredada llevรณ la mano izquierda al corazรณn y lanzรณ su oi vei que sonรณ a lamento pero que Cata supo interpretar; los oi veis de doรฑa Berta tenรญan matices que sรณlo los familiares y amigos lograban descifrar; รฉste era de satisfacciรณn, alegrรญa, placer, orgulloโฆ
Tres dรฉcadas mรกs tarde, Catalina lanzรณ un suspiro que la asemejรณ a la mamaโa pesar de los veinticinco aรฑos y los veinticinco kilos de diferenciaโal contemplar a los emperifollados mozos que, como polรญticos, salรญan del ala de la cocina rumbo al salรณn y los doscientos comensales. El estandarte de batalla que portaban en alto contenรญa crocantes latkes, los habรญa de papa, de berenjena, de harina de matzรก, de harina de garbanzosโฆ
La sofisticaciรณn en las recetas llegaba a puntos inimaginables. Tan inimaginables como el goce que el rostro de Cathy Rosenfeld intentรณ disimular. Y sรญ, su descarga era รฉsa. Los manjares salรญan y en ella entraban aromas, sabores, texturas. Desde hacรญa cinco aรฑos era lo รบnico bueno que le entraba; lo otro bueno se habรญa muerto con David, su esposo.
Ella jurรณ ser fiel. No habรญa otro hombre en su vida. Toda su energรญaโque era mucha y vorazโla volcarรญa en la cocina. Y asรญ creciรณ su fama y su fortuna. Pero ยฟera feliz? No. Un no rotundo y duro como beiale viejo.
Las buenas lenguas comentaban que el finado. ยกpobre!, no habรญa sabido decirle que no en la mesa ni en la cama y, que ella, con los ingredientes afrodisรญacos que utilizaba en sus comidas, acabรณ por acabarlo. En sentido figurado, es claro, porque David siempre acababa ferverosamente lo que su mujer le ofrecรญa, y sin chistar. Nueces y dรกtiles adornaban las mesitas de luz del dormitorio matrimonial. Y la pimienta y la nuez moscada se sumaban a mรบltiples especias para sazonar caldos, blintzes, prakes, knishes, varenikes, budines, pescados, kneidlejโฆ
Catalina, Cata, Cathy, obtuvo consuelo diciendo que รฉl, finalmente, habรญa partido con el gesto plรกcito del bebรฉ que se adormece mamando. Recordรณ el menรบ de la noche fatal, y el camisรณn de encaje con el que lo sorprendiรณ. Despuรฉs de comer pastrรณn casero, el cepillado de dientes debe ser profundo y minucioso; las fibras de carne restante de fibras pueden causar mal aliento, ademรกs de otros males. Eso pensรณ Cata que tal vez habrรญa pensado su Davidโque no abandonรณ ni el cepillo ni la pileta ni el espejo del botequรญnโante la deslumbrante presencia de encaje negro.
รl se miraba la dentadura y ella le miraba el torso desnudo.
Ella bajรณ breteles del camisรณn y sus ubres calientes se apoyaron en la ancha espalda. รl cepillaba y cepillaba y ella frotaba, frotaba. รl apretado, apretado contra la pileta; ella, contra รฉl. David solรญa comparar los pechos de su mujer con los sabrosos pechitos ahumados que ella le cocinaba todos los miรฉrcoles.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Los otros dรญas tambiรฉn se cumplimentaban con manjares, pero eran una sorpresa. Los miรฉrcoles, la sorpresa venรญa despuรฉs; siempre un camisรณn nuevo y una nueva forma de hacerlo, el amor, no el camisรณn, que solรญa estar hecho en Parรญs como casi toda la ropa interior de Catalina Rosenfeld. Porque Cathy, aun cuando era Catalina Goldsmith, tenรญa sus exigencias. Sรกbanas, manteles, soutienes y calzones debรญan ser suaves y perfectos. Perfecciรณn que despuรฉs del ya mencionado episodio de la primera cena y los latkes del debut (en todo sentido) llegarรญa a las cumbres. Cumbre que no sรณlo escalรณ David, sino que tuvo a parientes y amigos como devotos alpinistas. Nadie podรญa resistir a la seducciรณn de sus comidas. Era como negarse a una puesta del sol en la playa o a la magia del beso bajo la luna. Todos soรฑaban con compartir su mesa, y hasta habรญa atrevidos que soรฑaban compartir su cama. Olvidรฉ decir que Catalina habรญa sido una buena idish meidele y aรบn continuaba siรฉndolo. Madura. Pero jugosas y fragrante como una fuente de guindas. Y justamente รฉse fue el postre que habรญa convenido con los padres de Jesica Weitzman. En el clรญmax de su euforia gustativa del bat-mitzva, la carne de las guindas flambeadas encenderรญa los paladares y la entrepierna. Ella ya lo habรญa experimentado. Y se encendiรณ anticipadamente, sin apartar el ojo de ollas, sartenes y cacharros. Sobre la mesada, las fuentes con arenques le representaron su propia existencia toda la sal, toda la exquisitez, todo el aroma, pero nada de color. Comenzรณ a disponer, alrededor de los solitarios arenques, rodajas de cebolla, de tomate y las puposas e imprescindibles aceitunas negras. Adorno como si estuviera adornรกndose, ella misma, para la visita del hombre. Miradas, tal vez, pero visitasโฆEl vestido de raso negro convertรญa a Cathy en otra aceituna que provocaba la mordida. El chef pasรณ a su lado como rozรกndola sin querer. Pero querรญa. Catalina tambiรฉnโa pesar de su promesa de castidad que se lo prohibรญaโy dijo oi vei por lo bajo. El chef, un cincuentรณn fornido, entendiรณ que no era un suspiro de cansancio se tragรณ el oi mame porque su mame, desde el mรกs allรก, le habrรญa reprochado que un padre con hijas casaderas ocupara su mente en otra cosa que casarlas, El que deseaba casarse era รฉl, pero ya estaba casado. Y el objeto de su deseo y tormento habรญa dedicado su viudez a la gastronomรญa. Una lรกgrima que se confundiรณ con el sudor humedeciรณ las bien rasuradas mejillas de Saรบl Steinberg. รl era un hombre limpio y un eficiente cocinero. Con eficiencia limpiรณ su cara y sus pensamientos antes de dedicarse a batir la crema (no fuera a ser que se le cortara).
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Catalina, todavรญa conmocionada por el roce, concentrรณ sus favores y fervores en la decoraciรณn de guefilte fish. Sobre cada bola de pescado, colocรณ un rodaje de zanahoria hervida, no pudo evitar asociaciones. El simple ademรกn le recordรณ otros ademanes y otras redondeces, aรฑos atrรกs, junto al bargueรฑo estilo francรฉs de su hogar materno. En esa casa habรญa aprendido los secretos de la cocina y del amor. Porque la madre, siempre atareada, el padre, siempre distraรญdo, y los hermanos, siempre estudiando o en el club, les dejaban comedor libre.
Ella disponรญa vajilla y manjares sobre el blanco mantel; y David disponรญa a su antojo. Asรญ le habรญan mezclado a Catalina los placeres del sexo con los de la comida. Y caricia va, bocado viene, los labios superiores e inferiores sincronizaron acciones y succiones. Asรญ, elaborando y saboreando, se le habรญa parte de su vida. Evocรณ las enseรฑanzas escolares y se dijo que ellaโcon el respeto merecidoโera igual que sus admirados poetas mรญsticos. Se sintiรณ Sor Juana, Santa Teresa, sรณlo que ella habรญa sustituido la pluma por el cucharรณn. En todo eso pensaba mientras sumergรญa la cuchara en la salsa con la que baรฑarรญa los blintzes de pollo y oรญa el ruido de la batidoraโque habรญa puesto en marcha Saรบlโcomo si se tratara de un corazรณn suplementario.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Con quรฉ velocidad lata. El culpable era el vaho del vino que acababa de echar en la salsa. Quizรกs ese vaho habรญa llegado hasta Eduviges, que pelaba almendras sentada en un rincรณn. Eduviges se santiguรณ. Debรญa ser cosa del diablo; ella, resignada a la solterรญa, al trabajo y a las tareas de caridad, desde el dรญa en que habรญa puesto el pie en Recepciones Cathy Rosenfeld, no tenรญa sosiego, ยฟQuรฉ eran estos calores? El mรฉdico diagnosticรณ: menopausia. Su conciencia, calentura. Estaba como gato en el celo; especialmente cuando la seรฑora entraba en la cocina, con manos de hada, picaba, sazonaba, rebozaba, horneabaโฆ Los aromas y las recetasโque constantemente hacรญa probar a sus ayudantesโmareaba mรกs que el licor de mandarinas casero, รบnico vicio de Eduviges. Cuando la seรฑora le decรญa, quรฉ manera de transpirar, Eduviges, ella se ruborizaba. Claro que la seรฑora la habรญa visto empaparse de sudor, sacudirse como so le dieran fiebres y despuรฉs exclamar, oi vei. Eduviges pensรณ que decir oi vei era una especie de exorcismo porque enseguida de decirlo, a la seรฑora le cambiaba la cara. Entonces Eduviges aprendiรณ a decir oi vei. Cathy estaba contenta con la ayudante que, ademรกs de haber interpretado el espรญritu de la comida judรญa, habรญa adoptado modismos y dichos.
Peel and wash the potatoes, dry, and grate them. Also grate the onion and put everything in a bowl, with the eggs, salt, and pepper. Add the flour and mix until you obtain a dough that is neither too thick nor too thin. Heat the oil in a frying pan and pour the preparation by tablespoons. Fry the latkes until golden brown on both sides.
Evocation and Fulfillment
The story of Cathy Rosenfeld’s famous latkes began when Catherine Goldsmith told her mamele that David, the boy she had met at Hebraica, was coming to dinner.
You may be telling yourselves that latkesโlike any person or objectโhave their own history. But the love affair between the seventeen-year-old girl and Jewish food was born in this event.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย <<They are grated like this>>, said Doรฑa Berta, moving her right hand up and down. In the sixties there was no processor, and food was cooked as it was thought to be: direct and without twists. David had accepted the invitation: a sure candidate. Doรฑa Berta repeated the grating with an onion and once again showed her daughter the energy with which she had to carry out the fundamental first step. Cata imitated her, first with the potato and then with the rest. The mother, upon verifying the inherited skill, placed her left hand to her heart and uttered her oi vei, which sounded like a lament, but which Cata knew how to interpret; Doรฑa Berta’s oi veis had nuances that only family and friends could decipher; This was one of satisfaction, joy, pleasure, pride…
Three decades later, Catalina heaved a sigh that made her resemble her motherโdespite their twenty-five years and twenty-five kilos differenceโwhen she contemplated the dressed-up young men who, like politicians, left the kitchen wing towards the living room and the two hundred diners. The banner of battle they carried high contained crispy latkes, there were potato latkes, eggplant latkes, matzah flour latkes, chickpea flour latkes…
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย There sophistication in the recipes reached unimaginable levels. As unimaginable as the enjoyment that Cathy Rosenfeld’s face tried to hide. And yes, that was her weakness. The delicacies came out and aromas, flavors, textures entered. For five years it was the only good thing she had. The other good thing had died with David, her husband.
She swore to be faithful. There was no other man in her life. All her energyโwhich was a lot and voraciousโwould be poured into the kitchen. And so, her fame and fortune grew. But was she happy? No. A resounding and hard no like an old beiale.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Flapping tongues commented that the deceased, poor thing, hadn’t known how to say no to her at the table or in bed, and she, with the aphrodisiac ingredients she used in her meals, ended up putting an end to it. In a figurative sense, it is clear, because David always fervently finished what his wife offered him, and without saying a word. Walnuts and dates adorned the nightstands in the double bedroom. And pepper and nutmeg were added to multiple spices to season broths, blintzes, prakes, knishes, varenikes, puddings, fish, kneidlej…
Catalina, Cata, Cathy, gained consolation by saying that he had left finally with the placid gesture of a baby who falls asleep while breastfeeding. He remembered the menu of the fatal night, and the lace nightgown with which she surprised him. After eating homemade pastrami, brushing your teeth should be deep and thorough; Remaining meat fibers can cause bad breath in addition to other ailments. That’s what Cata thought, what perhaps her David would have thoughtโhe didn’t abandon the brush, the sink, or the bottle mirrorโin the dazzling presence of black lace.
He looked at his teeth and she looked at his naked torso.
She lowered the straps of the nightgown and her warm udders rested on his broad back. He brushed and brushed, and she rubbed and scrubbed. He pressed, pressed against the sink; her, against him. David used to compare his wife’s breasts with the tasty smoked breasts that she cooked for him every Wednesday.
ย ย ย ย ย ย The other days were also filled with delicacies, but they were a surprise. On Wednesdays, the surprise came later; always a new nightgown and a new way of doing it, love, not the nightgown, which was made in Paris like almost all of Catherine Rosenfeld’s underwear. Because Cathy, even when she was Catherine Goldsmith, had her demands. Sheets, tablecloths, soutienes and underwear had to be soft and perfect. Perfection that after the aforementioned episode of the first dinner and the latkes of the debut (in every sense) would reach the peaks. Summit that not only David climbed, but also had relatives and friends as devoted mountaineers. No one could resist the seduction of her meals. It was like refusing a sunset on the beach or the magic of a kiss under the moon. Everyone dreamed of sharing her table, and there were even daring people who dreamed of sharing her bed. I forgot to say that Catherine had been a good Yiddish meidele and still continued to be. Mature. But juicy and fragrant like a fountain of cherries. And that was precisely the dessert that had been agreed upon with Jesica Weitzman’s parents. At the climax of their bat-mitzva gustatory euphoria, the flesh of the flambรฉed cherries would ignite the palates and the crotch. She had already experienced it. And it was lit in advance, without taking her eye off the pots, pans and dishes. On the counter, the platters with herrings represented her own existence, all the salt, all the exquisiteness, all the aroma, but no color. She began to arrange, around the solitary herrings, slices of onion, tomato, and the plump and essential black olives. She adorns the plate as if she were adorning herself for a man’s visit. Looks, perhaps, but visits…The black satin dress turned Cathy into another olive that provoked the bite. The chef passed by her as if accidentally brushing against her. But he wanted to. Catalina tooโdespite her promise of chastity that forbade itโand said oi vei under her breath. The chef, a burly fifty-year-old man, understood that it was not a sigh of fatigue, he swallowed the oi mame, because his mother, from beyond, would have reproached him as an iconic father with marriageable daughters who occupied his mind with anything other than marrying them, the one who wanted to get married was him, but he was already married. And the object of her desire and torment had dedicated her widowhood to gastronomy. A tear that was confused with sweat moistened Saรบl Steinberg’s well-shaven cheeks. He was a clean man and an efficient cook. She efficiently cleaned her face and her thoughts before setting about whipping the cream (lest it break up).
Catalina, still shocked by the brushing by, concentrated her favors and fervor on the decoration of guefilte fish. On each fish ball, she placed a slice of boiled carrot, she could not avoid associations. The simple gesture reminded her of other gestures and other roundness, years ago, next to the French-style cabinet in his maternal home. In that house he had learned the secrets of cooking and love. Because the mother, always busy, the father, always distracted, and the brothers, always studying or at the club, left them a free dining room.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย She arranged dishes and delicacies on the white tablecloth; and David disposed as he pleased. This is how they had mixed the pleasures of sex with those of food for Catalina. And caress goes, bite comes, the upper and lower lips synchronized actions and sucks. Thus, making and savoring, it became part of his life. It evoked school teachings and implied that sheโwith all due respectโwas just like her admired mystical poets. She felt like Sor Juana, like Saint Teresa, except that she had replaced the pen with the ladle. She thought about all of this as she dipped the spoon into the sauce with which she would coat the chicken blintzes and listened to the noise of the mixerโwhich Saรบl had startedโas if it were an extra heart. How fast does it beat? The culprit was the vapor from the wine that had just been poured into the sauce. Perhaps that mist had reached Eduviges, who was shelling almonds sitting in a corner. Eduviges crossed herself. It must have been the devil’s work; She, resigned to being single, to work and to charitable tasks, had no peace since the day she had set foot in Cathy Rosenfeld Receptions. What were these hot flashes? The doctor diagnosed: menopause. His conscience, fever. She was like a cat in heat; especially when the lady entered the kitchen and, with fairy hands, chopped, seasoned, coated, bakedโฆ The aromas and the recipesโwhich she generously made her assistants tryโmade her dizzier than the homemade tangerine liqueur, Eduviges’ only vice. When the lady told her how to sweat, Eduviges blushed. Of course, the lady had seen her get drenched in sweat, shake herself as if she had a fever and then exclaim, oi vei. Eduviges thought that saying oi vei was a kind of exorcism because as soon as he said it, the lady’s face changed. Then Eduviges learned to say oi vei. Cathy was happy with the helper who, in addition to having interpreted the spirit of Jewish food, had adopted idioms and sayings.
Carlos Kravetz (1953-) viviรณ en Israel y Alemania. Se formรณ en Avni Institute of Fine Arts, Tel Aviv, en talleres con Emilio Renart y M. Stempelsztejn, y en estudios con diversos teรณricos del arte. Tambiรฉn estudiรณ Arquitectura en la FADU (UBA) y en el Technion, Haifa. Expone en Argentina desde 1979 y fuera del paรญs desde 1991.
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Carlos Kravetz (1953-) lived in Israel and Germany. He trained at Avni Institute of Fine Arts, Tel Aviv, in workshops with Emilio Renart and M. Stempelsztejn, and in studies with various art theorists. He also studied Architecture at FADU (UBA) and at the Technion, Haifa. He has exhibited in Argentina since 1979 and outside the country since 1991.
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Carlos Kravetz comenta sobre su arte:
Me preocupa mostrar, aunque sea parcialmente, la realidad que me circunda, las cosas que me pasan a mรญ y a otros… Buenos Aires es un marco de fondo, pero que condiciona: la gente expresa de alguna manera la presiรณn a que la somete la vida en nuestra ciudad. Eso se percibe en cada gesto si observamos con atenciรณn. Me preocupa tambiรฉn el paso del tiempo, modificรกndonos. ะฃ exagerando nuestros valores o defectos. Y me preocupan la locura y ese espacio sutil entre ella y aquello considerado normal. Quiero mostrar eso sin ‘lavar’ mi obra, expresando plรกsticamente toda la belleza contenida en la fealdad, la vejez o la locura, que no es justamente la belleza clรกsica. Me interesa mostrar una parte de la realidad: dar mi aporte para que el arte estรฉ menos separado de la vida: no me interesa para nada un arte de especulaciรณn metafรญsica, sino de una reflexiรณn sobre lo cotidiano que permita que nos reconozcamos en รฉl; un arte que no se disocie devolviendo imรกgenes que no nos pertenecen. . .
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Carlos Kravetz comments on his art:
I am concerned about showing, even partially, the reality that surrounds me, the things that happen to me and othersโฆ Buenos Aires is a background setting, but one that conditions: people express in some way the pressure to which they are subjected by life in our city. This can be perceived in each gesture if we look carefully. I am also concerned about the passage of time, changing us, exaggerating our values โโor defects. And I am concerned about madness and that subtle space between it and what is considered normal. I want to show that without ‘washing’ my work, plastically expressing all the beauty contained in ugliness, old age or madness, which is not exactly classical beauty. I am interested in showing a part of reality: giving my contribution so that art is less separated from life: I am not at all interested in an art of metaphysical speculation, but rather a reflection on the everyday that allows us to recognize ourselves in it; an art that does not dissociate itself by returning images that do not belong to us. . .
Nacรญ en la Ciudad de Mรฉxico en 1954. El arte me ha acompaรฑado a lo largo de mi vida: la palabra escrita, la fotografรญa, la pinturaโy el tango. Mi pasiรณn es la narrativa.
Fundรฉ con Gumercinda Camino, La Gramรกtica de la Fantasรญa (1984), el primer taller en Mรฉxico de cuento infantil, dirigido por Guillermo Samperio.
Un Asalto Mayรบsculo (VN 1985), cuento para niรฑos, obtuvo el Premio Ezra Jack Keats (Nueva York, 1986). Se encuentra en la biblioteca de la ONU.
Publiquรฉ โAntianuncios y Recetario para ser felizโ (revista Comercio) y cuento corto (revistas El Cuento y Cronopio).
Participรฉ en los talleres de los escritores Agustรญn Monsreal, Ricardo Diazmuรฑoz, Elena Poniatowska, Ricardo Garibay y recientemente Josรฉ Kozer.
Vida Propia (novela, Miguel รngel Porrรบa, 2000) fue finalista en el V Premio Nacional de Novela. La escritora Esther Seligson comentรณ: โNovela obligada en la mesa de noche de cualquier persona que se considere feminista.โ
Quiรฉn es otro (cuento, El Bรบho, 2002) obtuvo el primer lugar del Premio Nacional de Literatura y Artes.
Publiquรฉ Lilith, la Otra Carta de Dios (narrativa poรฉtica, Miguel รngel Porrรบa, 2002).
Desde 2010 publico y participo en la ediciรณn del San Diego Poetry Annual.
Escribรญ las letras de las canciones infantiles de Las Nubes Panzonas (CD grabado en 2012). La canciรณn โA ti mi lingua floridaโ (en ladino) fue catalogada en la colecciรณn de mรบsica sefaradรญ de la Biblioteca Nacional en Jerusalรฉn.
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).
Aquรญ tambiรฉn entrego selecciones de Otros Peligros Circulares (poesรญa, 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 โ and tango. My passion is narrative.
With Gumercinda Camino, I founded La Gramatica de la Fantasรญa (1984), the first childrenโs story workshop in Mexico, directed by Guillermo Samperio.
Un Asalto Mayรบsculo (VN 1985), a childrenโs 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 Agustรญn Monsreal, Ricardo Diazmuรฑoz, Elena Poniatowska, Ricardo Garibay and recently Josรฉ Kozer.
Vida Propia (novel, Miguel รngel Porrรบa, 2000) was a finalist in the V National Novel Prize. Writer Esther Seligson commented: โA must-have novel on the nightstand of anyone who considers himself a feminist.โ
Quiรฉn es otro (short story, El Bรบho, 2002) won first place in the Premio Nacional de Literatura y Artes.
I published Lilith, la Otra Carta de Dios (poetic narrative, Miguel รngel Porrรบa, 2002).
Since 2010 I have published and participated in the edition of the San Diego Poetry Annual.
I wrote the lyrics for the childrenโs songs of Las Nubes Panzonas (CD recorded in 2012). The song โA ti mi lingua floridaโ (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 รngel Porrรบa, 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 niรฑa, 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 demandรณ la tu mano.
El tono me deja fosil.
–No te uvligo, ยกhas be jalila! Yo pensรณ ke es mazal bono para ti, ma tรบ dirรกsh.
Con voz fragmentada, desarticulada toda:
-Pero Papรก quรฉ me estรก usted diciendo.
-Max es hombre trabajador y mucho, muy honrado, ยฟacaso no buscas un joven que no demandara dote? Aรญde, aรญ lo tenรฉsh.
-No, papรก, por favor, no me haga usted eso. Quiero regresar a casa. No me deje aquรญ sola, papรก, ยฟy mis hermanos, mis estudios? ยฟy lo que hablamos en el barco?, yo creลฟ que lo considera.
-Allรญ, te dio kon esto de studiar, ya me perforaste el meoyo; aranka tiralanyas de quekavesa i pone las patchรกs en la tierra. Ya tengo culpa por prestar oลฟdos a tanta bobada.
Se me demora el aliento. Por fracciรณn de segundos qued desfallecida. Quiero recurrir a la memoria, esta seca, deshabitada. Mi vida, mi pasado, han desaparecido, no me pertenecen. En ese cascarรณn hueco no hay nada, no solo retazo pensamiento, ni una palabra brรบjula. 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, papรก, a usted nunca le ha interesado mis cosas. Jamรกs me ha escuchado, no conoce la mรกs 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 lรญnea marcada. Mujeres dรณciles, 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 poseรญdas, denotadas asรญ, aรบn mรกs, su condiciรณn de esclavas. Mujeres cuyo cometido es llenar y rellenarse las entraรฑas; hacedoras de hijos, transmisoras del germen.
-No, papรก, no me obligue a seguir los pasos de mi madre, de la nona, de las guardianas. Sรกleme de estar procesiรณn de sonรกmbulas.
–Faz komo kerรกsh โ y mi padre se pone serio, ya te lo dije: no te obligo a nada, pero llegando a casa olvรญdate de la escuela. Es ora de bushkar marido i bash a kontentarse con el mazal ke te tope.
-Papรก, usted no comprende, si me deja aquรญ me muero.
–Pensรกs kel tu padre ba desharte onde vos akonteshka entuerto? No estรกs sola, el tรญo Beny va a ver por ti como si fuera su hija. Alma mรญa, comprende, yo sรฉ lo que te digo, al lado de Max, nada te va a mankar, vas a tener vida buena y abundante. ยฟA kuรกlo tornar a Temuko, kerida? Pero piรฉnsalo inteligentemente, recuerda que tรญo Beny y tu padre sรณlo buscamos tu bien, de otro modo no tenรญamos por que haber venido hasta Mรฉxico.
Papรก 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 mamรก. Sentada sobre la cama revivo la maรฑana de nuestra despedida. La memoria regresa con sorprendentes brillos. Su llanto, su turbaciรณn, esa extraรฑa manera en que fue cariรฑosa, el รกlbum de fotografรญas. Ella lo sabรญa todo, por eso nada me consola al seรฑor Konenfeld como se salda una cabeza de ganado. ยกQuรฉ engaรฑo!, y ese tal seรฑor Konenfeld con su cara de pollo desplumado, tambiรฉn es cรณmplice de este plan maldito. Pienso tambiรฉn en la conversaciรณn con รฉmi padre en el barco: โPide lo ke te kersh alma mรญaโ 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 secreciรณn antigua, asiento de aรฑosos caldos. Laten las sienes con fuerza inaudita, los ojos se nublan, quedo ciega. Todo es culpa de esa luna que sangra cada veintiocho dรญas, que me pesa conciencia sierpe; luna hembra, estรบpida luna, nos ha embaucado. Ha caรญdo en una treta conocido a fuego manso. Una mรกs de sus maniobras comerciales, timadores de ingenuos. Amabilidades y atenciones cargadas de propรณsito: una buena venta. Con razรณn el seรฑor Max no se despega, รฉl es el cliente interesado. Ese hombre recluido en su caparazรณn de lana gris, estrangulado por la negrura de su luto, al igual de los demรกs, forma parte del engaรฑo. No puedo creer que algo asรญ me suceda, no quiero; pero esta vaquilla no se va a dejar poner el cencerro asรญ no mรกs. Por quรฉ me tenรญa que pasar esto, por quรฉ yo. Es un castigo. Claro, no puede ser otra cosa. Asรญ 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 condiciรณn femenina, por cuestionarme y cuestionarlos. Sabรญa muy bien que Dios no pasarรญa por alto de lo espejo, ha lanzado contra mรญ 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, quizรก asรญ, por obra de su merced, quede a salvo del destino. Guardo en el baรบl la luz de tanto sueรฑo inรบtil, hasta el รบltimo pespunte de anhelos malogrados. Esa luz conformada de recuerdos, de nostalgias, de ojos y bocas y manos y gargantas. Queda โEl Porvenirโ en el pasado, confitado โPorvenirโ flotando en la periferia de mi pueblo, de mi casa de mi niรฑez clara.
Me paro frente a la ventana, miro hacia arriba, una extraรฑa decanta:
-Eres Tรบ, Dios, el responsable de lo que me ha sucedido. Tรบ les enseรฑaste a vender mujeres, es Tu ley la que obedecen estos hombres disfrazados de justos, pueblo de elegidos, ยฟelegidos?, si acaso ellos, lo dudo. ยกTรบ me vendiste! Entonces รฉsta era la sorpresa que me aguardaba, para eso trinรฉ en las maรฑanas nuevos cantos, ยฟEn quรฉ momento se nos escurren las cosas, leche tibia entre las manos?, adรณnde se van los sueรฑos que se pierden?
ยฟVas a castigarme por irreverente? ยฟQuรฉ vas a hacerme ahora?, ยฟdesmenuzar mi cuerpo con polilla?, ยฟdejarme ciega, muda? Anda, ยกhazlo! Que de nada me han servido ni los ojos ni mi boca. No me importa. Me has expulsado ya tantas veces del paraรญso: soy Eva, serpiente en quien recae el dolor de la raza humana, y Edith, la curiosa piedra salada. Jamรกs escuchรฉ que Adรกn haya recibido castigo alguno por mรฉritos propios; o que a Lot le hayas hecho algo cuando ofreciรณ a sus hijas vรญrgenes, inocentes. ยฟQuรฉ leyes rigen este pueblo de elegidos? ยฟQuรฉ va a pasarme da mรญ? Dios mรญo, por el amor de Dios no me hagas esto.
Dejo de temblar, me paro firme, el dolor se ha transformado en una extraรฑa sensaciรณn de triunfo.
-Asรญ que se trata de un negocio entre hombres y no tengo escapatoria; muy bien, no te olvides que yo tambiรฉn sรฉ negociar, y voy a ver por mis conveniencias. Al buen sol hay que abrirle la puerta y el seรฑor Konenfeld es una magnรญfica oportunidad. ยฟNo es cierto, Dios?
Los sentimientos dan cauce a las palabras y puedo continuar mi diรกlogo mรกs diรกfano.
-ยฟTal vez has olvidad la clase de futuro que me espera en Temuco? ยฟIgnoras que sin dote me casarรกn con el primero que se asome?, con un tonto que me llenarรก de hijos y me encarcelarรก en la pequeรฑa existencia de mi pequeรฑo pueblo. ยฟIgnoras que a los diecinueve aรฑos ya no soy una moza y pronto me convertirรฉ en vergรผenza para mis padres, un peso? Yo tambiรฉn voy a sacar provecho de las oportunidades, Dios. Si no me subo en este tren, acabarรฉ siendo una infeliz solterona dedicada a labores sin provecho y sin maรฑana.
Cierro los ojos con fuerza y deseo que la furia de Dios azote sobre mรญ y corte de golpe la pena.
Abro la ventana, un olor azul de diciembre me lastima, miro al cielo, hay trรกnsito de nubes, chocan unas contra otras:
– ยฟTe olvida, Dios, ยฟdel trabajo que papรก y mamรก todavรญa tienen por delante con sus siete hijos?, siete escuelas, dotes, matrimonios que negociar. Despuรฉs de todo, no amo tanto mi tierra no los bosques, ni tambiรฉn 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 mamรก 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 Mรฉxico por mi propio bien, por mi propio bien. Soy malazuda, malazuda, malazuda. Lo repito tantas veces como las fuerzas la permiten. Sรณlo asรญ logro aplacar la rabia. Comprendo que no hay otro camino, que se acabarรกn por siempre las carencias, que ahora estarรฉ en posiciรณn de ayudar a mi familia. Sรญ, รฉsta es mi oportunidad. Casada con un hombre rico asegurarรฉ beneficios incalculables; una entradita mensual, un negocio, dotes, buenos partidos para mis hermanas. Con el apoyo de tรญo Beny y de Max sacarรฉ a papรก de pobre. Casada con un hombre prominente y educado, me educarรฉ, conocerรฉ el mundo. Quรฉ importa si el seรฑor Konenfeld es callado, si viste de oscuro y nunca sonrรญe. Cambiarรก con los aรฑos, espero. A su lado habrรก abundancia, nada nos faltarรก nada.
Anestesiada por la ilusiรณn, atraรญda como insecto alrededor de un foco que deslumbra, me entristece reconocer que en mi boda no estarรกn mi familia ni amigos, la fiesta serรก linda, no lo dudo, pero sin los mรญos, los mรญos. Buenos, no se puede todo en esta vida, les mandarรฉ por correo las fotos; ya me imagino la cara que pondrรก Susana Alaballi cuando las vea; se dotarรก de envidia. En poco tiempo visitarรฉ mi pueblo, convertida en Doรฑa Esther Negrรญn de Konenfeld. Con ese pensamiento me introduzco en la cama. Caigo, caigo profunda en el encandilamiento del sueรฑo.
Temuco, Chile en la รฉpoca de la novela/Temuco, Chile at the time of the novel
Colonia Roma, Ciudad Mรฉxico, en la รฉpoca 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, โ
el Sr. Komenfeld me demandรณ la tu mano.
His tone left me like a fossil.
-No te uvligo, ยกhas be jalila! Yo pensรณ ke es mazal bono para ti, ma tรบ dirรกsh.
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. ยฟWere you looking for a man who wouldnโt ask for a dowry? Aรญde, aรญ lo tenรฉsh.
-No, papa, please donโt do that to me I want to go home. Donโt 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?
-Allรญ, te dio kon esto de studiar, ya me perforaste el meoyo; aranka tiralanyas de quekavesa i pone las patchรกs en la tierra. Itโs 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 donโt 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:
-Thatโs a lie, papa. You have never been interested in my things. You have never listened to me. You donโt know the smallest bit of my emotions. You think that I am the same as the others in my town. Thatโs 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, donโt forcรฉ me to follow in my motherโs footsteps, of nona, of the gaurdians. Let me out of this procession of sleepwalkers.
–Faz komo kerรกsh -and my father became serious. -I already told you that I donโt 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 donโt understand, Iโll die, if you leave me here.
–Pensรกs kel tu padre ba desharte onde vos akonteshka entuerto? You arenโt alone. Uncle Beny will watch you as if you were his own daughter. My Soul, understand, I know what Iโm saying to you, with Max, nada te va a mankar. You will have a good and abundant life. ยฟA kuรกlo tornar a Temuko, kerida? But think about it intelligently, remember that Uncle Beny and your father are looking out for benefit. We didnโt 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 canโt 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 didnโt 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 canโt believe that something like this is happening to me, I donโt 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? Itโs a punishment. Of course, it canโt be anything else. Itโs Godโs 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 canโ 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. โEl Porvenirโ remains in the past, a preserved โFutureโ 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 Doรฑa Esther Negrรญn de Konenfeld. With that thought I get into bed. I fall, I fall deep into the daze of sleep
Marjorie Agosรญn, una poeta, profesora en Wellesley College, novelista, ensayista y activista de los derechos humanos chilena-estadounidense, ha gozado de una carrera distinguida escribiendo sobre temas importantes y vigentes como el exilio, la memoria, la experiencia judรญa y el poder del lenguaje. Tambiรฉn ha hecho mucho para divulgar y hacer hincapiรฉ en las escritoras latinoamericanas en colecciones bilingรผes. Marjorie Agosรญn, una escritora y pensadora incansable, tiene un amplio alcance y tiene algo que ofrecerles a lectores de todas edades y de todos los รกmbitos de la vida, desde los acadรฉmicos que estudian las culturas y literaturas judรญas y latinoamericanas hast los lectores jรณvenes que han disfrutado de las historias de Celeste Marconi en la aclamada novela para adultos jรณvenes, I Lived on Butterfly Hill.
Allison Ridley
Marjorie Agosรญn, a Chilean-American poet, professor en Wellesley College, novelist, essayist, and human rights activist, has enjoyed a distinguished career writing on important and timely topics such as exile, memory, the Jewish experience, and the power of language. She has also done much to disseminate and highlight Latin American women writers in bilingual collections of their work. A tireless writer and thinker, Marjorie Agosรญn is wide-ranging and has something to offer readers of all ages and from all walks of life, from academics who study Jewish and Latin American cultures and literatures to young readers who have enjoyed Celeste Marconi’s stories in the acclaimed young adult novel, I Lived on Butterfly Hill.
Allison Ridley
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Compiled and edited by Celeste Kostopulos-Cooperman
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Esta entrada es dedicada a los vรญctimas en Israel el 7 de octubre./This post is dedicated to the October 7 victims in Israel.
Poemas/Poems
Busquรฉ un huerto de huesos
Vengo s buscar estos
huesos,
se parecรญan a la piel vencida
de los animales difuntos.
Pero los quiero
para mi huerto.
Para amarrarlos
junto a los rosales.
Le digo
que son mis huesos,
los huesos de mi hijo,
Juliรกn,
quiero que conozcan
la lluvia
los sueรฑos
de la paz,
por eso, seรฑor, me los
vengo a llevar
aquรญ en las faldas,
esos huesos quiero
yo
porque
ya dejaron de ser suyos
porque esa vida jamรกs
fue suya.
Porque Ud. sรณlo supo hablar de los rostros de la muerte
porque no tiene nada que ver con la vida.
Deme mis huesos, mi capitรกn.
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I Sought a Garden of Bones
Iโve come seeking these
bones, and though they call to mind the defeated
flesh of dead animals,
I want them for my garden,
to string them up
beside the rose bushes.
Iโm telling you
they are my bones,
the bones of my son,
Juliรกn,
and I want them to know
the rain,
the dreams
of peace,
therefore, seรฑor, Iโve come here
to carry off these bones
I love
in the pleats of my skirt,
because
they have ceased
being yours.
because that life never
was yours
Because you only knew how to talk about deathโs faces
because you and life have nothing in common.
Give me my bones, my captain.
Translation by Richard Schaaf
De:/From: Hacia la ciudad esplรฉndida / Toward the Splendid City
El carรกcter de Lilith ha evolucionado a lo largo de los aรฑos. Comenzรณ como un demonio femenino comรบn en muchas culturas del Medio Oriente, apareciendo en el libro de Isaรญas, el Talmud de Babilonia y cuencos de encantamiento del antiguo Irak e Irรกn. Se la describe como una amenaza para los aspectos sexuales y reproductivos de la vida, especialmente el parto. Un texto judรญo medieval llamado Alfabeto de Ben Sira la describe como la primera esposa de Adรกn que lo desobedeciรณ a รฉl y a Dios y afirmรณ su igualdad con Adรกn, dando un origen legendario a su comportamiento demonรญaco. Ella tambiรฉn aparece en la Cabalรก como un reflejo maligno del aspecto femenino de Dios junto con Samael. Las feministas judรญas, aprovechando su afirmaciรณn de igualdad, han reclamado a Lilith como sรญmbolo de autonomรญa, independencia y liberaciรณn sexual.
Jewish Women’s Encyclopedia
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Lilithโs character has evolved throughout the years. She began as a female demon common to many Middle Eastern cultures, appearing in the book of Isaiah, Babylonian Talmud, and incantation bowls from ancient Iraq and Iran. She is described as threatening the sexual and reproductive aspects of life, especially childbirth. A medieval Jewish text called the Alphabet of Ben Sira describes her as Adamโs first wife who disobeyed him and God and asserted her equality to Adam, giving a legendary origin to her demonic behavior. She also appears in Kabbalah as an evil reflection of the feminine aspect of God along with Samael. Jewish feminists, seizing upon her assertion of equality, have reclaimed Lilith as a symbol of autonomy, independence, and sexual liberation.
Lilith brota cual serpiente, le brotaron alas de muerte en su afรกn de sellar con un beso de muerte los bostezos de los hijos de Eva, aรบn con restos de leche en los labios. No hay quien vuele como Lilith, amante de Samael, รกngel caรญdo. Nadie trenza su pelo bajo las estrellas, nadie contempla sus ojos al brillo de la luna, sin morir de espanto. Bruja de los cuentos chilla frente a los amuletos que llevan su nombre, su imagen rebelde. Espejo, espejito: ยฟquiรฉn es la mรกs poderosa? Espejo Espejito: ยฟQuiรฉn huye de su propio rostro para no perderse en la nada, para no ver morir a los engendros de su vientre? Lilith, madrastra de Blanca Nieves, huye a los espejos: hablan mรกs de la cuenta hay que silenciarlos con la huida o con la muerte.
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Pandoraโs Womb
VI
Lilith emerges as a serpent;
the wings of death emerge from her in her eagerness to seal
with a kiss of death
the yawns of the sons of Eve
with the leftovers of milk still on their lips.
There is no one who flies like Lilith,
lover of Samael, fallen angel
No one weaves her braids,
under the stars.
No one looks into her eyes,
by the light of the moon, without dying of terror.
Witch of the fairy tales
shrieks in the presence of the amulets that bear her name,
Her rebellious image.
Mirror, little mirror:
who is the most powerful?
Mirror, Little mirror:
Who flees her own face,
so as not lose herself in nothingness,
to not see die the spawn of her womb?
Lilith, stepmother of Snow White,
flees the mirrors:
they speak more than enough
itโs necessary silence them with fleeing or with death.
Translated by Stephen a Sadow
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Elina Wechsler – Argentina*
Lilith, primera compaรฑera de Adรกn
Una suerte de fijeza al รกrbol genealรณgico, a los muertos, invita en ocasiones a perderse en la Boca de los Siglos. Como un sapo irreverente a la orilla del rรญo, como el imรกn que me lleva a tu cuerpo y a tu oรญdo. Si Eva no fue la primera quรฉ desorden de la letra, quรฉ traspiรฉ en el poder del jeroglรญfico. Una suerte de fijeza, Gioconda mirando al infinito. Una madre serรก por todas las madres, Eva robarรก las tentaciones de Lilith, las suyas, por un pequeรฑo error bรญblico.
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Lilith, Adamโs First Partner
A kind of obsession with the family tree, to the dead, an invitation to spiral down the Mouth of the Centuries. Like a disdainful toad on the riverbank, like a magnet leading me to your body, your ear. If Eve wasnโt the first what confusion of the word, what a blunder in the power of the hieroglyph. A kind of fixation, Gioconda peering into infinity. A mother for all mothers, Eve will steal Lilithโs temptations, her own, because of a small biblical error.
Translated by Carlie Hoffman
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*Elina Wechsler es una poeta argentina. Nacida en Buenos Aires, es psicoanalista de profesiรณn. Abandonรณ Argentina en 1977 como consecuencia de la dictadura militar que desatรณ una extrema represiรณn polรญtica y violencia y fijรณ su residencia en Madrid. Wechsler es autor de cuatro poemarios: El fantasma (1983), La larga marcha (1988), Mitomanรญas amorosas (1991) y Progresiones en un cierto mes de julio (1995)
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*Elina Wechsler is an Argentinean poet. Born in Buenos Aires, she is a psychoanalyst by profession. She left Argentina in 1977 as a consequence of the military dictatorship that unleashed extreme political repression and violence and took up residence in Madrid. Wechsler is the author of four collections of poetry: El fantasma (1983), La larga marcha (1988), Mitomanรญas amorosas (1991), and Progresiones en un cierto mes de julio (1995).
La defensa del medio ambiente sustenta el tema pictรณrico de Orestes Larios Zaak, (1953-) quien por la obra de la vida recibiรณ en esta ciudad el premio โFidelio Ponce de Leรณnโ, principal lauro que concede el Consejo Provincial de las Artes Plรกsticas. Ese autor con 37 aรฑos de labor profesional acumula, ademรกs, entre otros galardones, el de tres concursos internacionales, incluido uno auspiciado por el Programa Mundial de Alimentos, de la Organizaciรณn de las Naciones Unidas para la Agricultura y la Alimentaciรณn. Plantas y animales son los protagonistas de sus cuadros, con los cuales es el creador camagรผeyano en la esfera de las artes con la mรกs voluminosa y sistemรกtica dedicaciรณn a defender la naturaleza. Fue el mayor promotor de la existencia de la Galerรญa-Taller Larios, de la que es el director-fundador. Situada en una casona colonial en el sector de esta ciudad declarado Patrimonio Cultural de la Humanidad, la instituciรณn desempeรฑa acciones de impacto comunitario, y constituye un foco cultural en vertientes como la plรกstica y las actuaciones musicales. Larios Zaak ha participado en mรกs de 60 exposiciones, incluidas 15 personales, en Cuba, Italia, Estados Unidos de Amรฉrica y Espaรฑa, entre otros paรญses. (AIN)
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The defense of the environment is the motivating force for Orestes Larios Zaak, (1953-) who for his life’s work received in this city the โFidelio Ponce de Leรณnโ prize, the main award awarded by the Provincial Council of the Plastic Arts. This author, with 37 years of professional work, also has other awards international competitions, including one sponsored by the World Food Program of the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations. Plants and animals are the protagonists of his paintings. He is the Camagรผey, Cuba-based artist who has the most voluminous and systematic dedication to defending nature. He is the founding director of the Larios Gallery-Workshop, which is located in a colonial mansion in the sector of the city that was declared a part of the Cultural Heritage of Humanity. The institution has community impact and constitutes a cultural focus for art and musical performances. Larios Zaak has participated in more than 60 exhibitions, including 15 personal ones, in Cuba, Italy, the United States of America and Spain, among other countries.(AIN)
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Pinturas inspiradas por la naturaleza/Paintings inspired by nature
Nora Glickman es profesora emรฉrita de Literatura Hispรกnica en Queens College y en el Graduate Center, CUNY. Su obra crรญtica incluye โRegeneraciรณnโ de Leib Malach y la trata de blancas, The Jewish White Slave Trade: The Case of Raquel Liberman, El inglรฉs en el teatro y el cine rioplatense, y los cuentos, Puerta entre abierta; Mujeres, memorias, malogros; Uno de sus Juanes; Hilvรกn de instantes. Varias de sus obras estรกn reunidas en el Teatro de Nora Glickman y en su antologรญa bilingรผe. De Suburban News recibiรณ el Premio Jerome para jรณvenes dramaturgos en 1990. Dos Charlottes aparece en Dramaturgas en la escena del mundo. Es co-editora de las Publicaciones de la Asociaciรณn de Estudios Judรญos Latinoamericanos y de Enclave: Revista de Creaciรณn Literaria en Espaรฑol. Entre 1998 y 2010 fue editora asociada de Modern Jewish Studies/Yiddish. Se desempeรฑa como editora de reseรฑas de libros para la revista Latin American Jewish Studies.
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Nora Glickman is a professor emerita of Hispanic Literature at Queens College and at the Graduate Center, CUNY. Her critical work includes โRegeneraciรณnโ de Leib Malach y la trata de blancas, The Jewish White Slave Trade: The Case of Raquel Liberman, El inglรฉs en el teatro y el cine rioplatense, and the short stories, Puerta entre abierta; Mujeres, memorias, malogros; Uno de sus Juanes; Hilvรกn de instantes. Several of her plays are gathered in Teatro de Nora Glickman, and in her bilingual anthology. From Suburban News, she received the Jerome Award for young dramatists in 1990. Dos Charlottes appears in Dramaturgas en la escena del mundo. She is the co-editor of the Latin American Jewish Studies Association Publications, and of Enclave: Revista de Creaciรณn Literaria en Espaรฑol. Between 1998 and 2010 she was Associate Editor of Modern Jewish Studies/Yiddish. She serves as Book Review Editor for the journal Latin American Jewish Studies.
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De:/From: Nora Glickman. Hilvรกn de instantes. Santiago de Chile: RIL Editores, 2015.
Casi un Shiduj
DE HABERL0 SABIDOโฆ hubiera sido el shiduj perfecto. Lo digo yo, que sรฉ de shidujim. Veo un hombre solo, culto, refinado. Y enseguida pienso en alguna mujer sola, culta, refinada, con algรบn pequeรฑo vicio que mantendrรก, como รฉl, discretamente guardado. Los conecto; juntos se encontrarรกn bien: armonizan en su estilo de vida, se mueven en un mismo ambiente. Dos almas en armonรญa.
Ellos podrรกn insistir, si quieren, que estรกn perfectamente satisfechos de seguir solteros; pero yo no los creo. Somos animales sociales; macho y hembra necesitamos el calor de nuestro sexo y del opuesto; para mรญ, que unidos oficialmente como pareja casada, tendrรกn mรกs oportunidades. Separados, digo, no saben lo que se pierden; la voz de ella desde el aeropuerto para tranquilizarlo, avisรกndole que ya estรก de vuelta a casa; un comentario gracioso de รฉl, que ella le celebre, aunque lo haya oรญdo antes mรกs de una vez.
De todos modos, los junto sin que nadie los pida. Instinto de shadjente, digo yo, Manรญa de casamentera. A veces, claro, me equivoco, como con Ema y Julio, la pareja perfecta. El pelo caprichosamente rizado de ambos, el de Ema mรกs clara y sedoso; la mirada pรญcara de Julio, que ella festeja a cada paso. Los dos aficionados de la mรบsica clรกsica, los dos locos por el cine y por hacer largas caminatas en la costanera. ยฟQuiรฉn hubiera podido adivinar que eran, en efecto, hermanos sanguรญneos, distanciados al nacer? Eso era digno de una telenovela. Cleopatra, o Calรญgula, de enterarse que tenรญan un hermano por esposo, me hubieran nombrado embajadora por haber urgido su matrimonio. Ema y Julio, en cambio, lejos de agradecerme, se sienten culpables haberse enamorados y me reprochan por haber propiciado un amor incestuoso.
Sin embargo, yo persevero aunque no doy siempre con la tecla. Aun al mejor cazador se le escapa el libre. ยกQuรฉ fracaso, mi รบltimo intento! Cuando a Richler lo abandonรณ su esposa por otra mujer, convinimos que, en las primeras semanas, no lo agobiarรญamos con llamadas, pero que Beatriz se ocuparรญa por รฉl para aliviar su depresiรณn, tal vez su vergรผenza, porque Richler no podรญa comprender lo que le habรญa pasado. Mientras tanto yo le iba preparando candidatas para cuando se sintiera repuesto. Luego de treinta y cinco aรฑos de casado, Richler no sabรญa arreglรกrselas solo. Ese primer aรฑo le costรณ mucha salud, fรญsica y mental: una pulmonรญa lo dejรณ postrado por semanas enteras. Su cuรฑada lo atendiรณ en el hospital, y sus hijos, solteros que vivรญan cerca de su casa, lo visitaban seguido.
Nos alarmรณ verlo cuando al comenzar el semestre Richler llegรณ a la universidad desaliรฑado y mรกs encorvado que nunca. Pobre Richler. Para reanimarlo, Beatriz y yo, y sus colegas, le planeamos una dieta macrobiรณtica y caminatas vigorosas en el parque. Lo invitamos a ver una obra de Calderรณn de la Barca que รฉl habรญa enseรฑado durante varios aรฑos. Aunque la representaciรณn era de aficionados, a รฉl le pareciรณ muy educativa. Luego de notar los olvidos y las pausas innecesarias de algunos actores, aprovechรณ la ocasiรณn para opinar con elocuencia sobre la intenciรณn del dramaturgo y la interpretaciรณn desmesurada del director de la obra. Richler saliรณ entusiasmado del espectรกculo, asรญ que cuando nos despedimos en la estaciรณn del subte, nos prometiรณ que la prรณxima vez, รฉl nos llevarรญa a ver <<Il Travatore>>. Aceptamos encantadas.
Aunque รบltimamente Beatriz estaba mรกs y mรกs ocupada con David, un novio antipรกtico que la tenรญa dominada, y no tenรญa tiempo para Richler. Yo pasรฉ un par de meses fuera de Nueva York, por lo que tuve que interrumpir la rutina de llamarlo cada semana. A mi regreso, me encontrรฉ con una invitaciรณn de Tita, para celebrar en su casa la jubilaciรณn de Richler, y tambiรฉn su compromiso, el martes 14 de octubre. Me quedรฉ pasmada.
–ยฟCรณmo tan pronto? ยฟCuรกndo decidiรณ jubilarse? ยฟY con quiรฉn se compromete?
–Con una maestra dominicana de Arizona, amiga de su cuรฑada. En un mes se casan y se van a vivir a Phoenixโme explicรณ Beatriz.
Para un judรญo gringoโneoyorquinoโde sesenta y cinco aรฑos, casarse con una latina de cuarenta y pico y mudarse a un estado tan remoto como Arizona debe ser una odisea. Llamo a Rita y ella me explica que el clima seco y templado de Arizona es ideal para aliviar el asma de Richler. Con Beatriz luego comentamos mientras nosotras todavรญa nos condolรญamos el estado miserable de Richler, รฉl habรญa conseguido rehacer su vida. Solito, sin nuestra ayuda, habรญa encontrado a su pareja: <<Entoncesโnos dijimos,–misiรณn cumplida>>.
Para la fiesta de Rita me toca llevar a varios colegas en el auto. Raquel viene tambiรฉn. Se sienta adelante conmigo, asรญ podemos conversar. No nos vemos desde hace mรกs de quince aรฑos cuando Raquel dejรณ de enseรฑar en la secundaria para hacerse cargo de una biblioteca en Bronxville. El cambio le favorece; Raquel habรญa perdido peso y se ve mรกs sofisticada. Sabรญa que Richler se jubilaba, pero solo ahora, camino a New Jersey, viene a enterarse de su compromiso.
–ยฟQuรฉ estรกs diciendo? โme susurra, incrรฉdula–. ยฟAcaso Richler no estรก casado y tiene dos hijos?
–Estaba casado, pero hace meses que estรก solo. Su hijo menor vive en el dormitorio de la universidad, y el mayor consiguiรณ empleo en Boston. ยฟPero cรณmo no enteraste, Raquel, que su mujer lo abandonรณ, y รฉl se pescรณ una pulmonรญa, y que Beatriz y yo lo ayudamos a reponerse?
Raquel esconde la cara bajo la solapa de su saco para ocultar su reacciรณn, Suspira como si le faltaba aire; le saliรณ un hipo entrecortado. Sin duda quiere hacerme mรกs preguntas y no sabe por dรณnde empezar. Menea lentamente la cabeza como si pasara lista de lo que ella habรญa estado en el interรญn, mientras Richler se enamoraba de la dominicana y decidรญa dar el gran paso. Me duele ver a Raquel sufrir asรญ, y tambiรฉn me fastidiaba. Pero, en fin, ya es demasiado tarde para cambiar las cosas.
–Simplemente, Raquel, se me pasรณ por alto. Mil perdones.
ยกQuรฉ imbรฉcil fui! ยฟCรณmo pude olvidarme durante todo este tiempo del gran metejรณn que Raquel habรญa sentido por Richler cuando las dos estudiรกbamos juntas en la universidad? Nos leรญamos las cartas apasionadas que escribรญamos a amantes ficticios y reales y nos reรญamos para cubrir el rubor de comportarnos como colegiales pavotas.
Por lo visto, el amor de Raquel por Richler durรณ mucho mรกs de la cuenta. En esos dรญas fantaseaba con raptarlo; planeaba formas de alejarlo de su mujer, de seducirlo con su profundo conocimiento de Calderรณn, y con otras estratagemas para que me llegaron a parecer tediosas. Y Richler, naturalmente, inmerso en sus teorรญas y dedicado a su materia, nunca sospechรณ que Raquel planeara seducirlo ni que su mujer pensara abandonarlo.
La voz grave y sorda de Raquel revela todo su rencor:
–No te lo puedo perdonar, Tere. ยกยฟCรณmo no me avistaste al instante?!โy mรกs bajita todavรญa agrega–: Lo siento como una traiciรณn.
–Te juro que con tanto trajรญn se me olvidรณ, Raquelita. Como Beatriz fue la primera en ayudarlo salir de su crisis, en parte me despreocupรฉ del asunto, ยฟcomprendes? Claro, de haberme acordado te habrรญa llamado, no me quepa la menor duda, pero no me acordรฉ. Lo siento.
–ยฟTuvo algo con Beatriz?
–Que yo sepa, nada. ยกNo! ยกQuรฉ ocurrencia la tuya, si Beatriz estรก loca por David, ese novio tan creรญdo que la tiene atrapada!
–Contigo tampoco, supongoโฆ
–ยกPor Dios, Raquel! Lo quiero como a un tรญo.
El viaje a New Jersey se me hace interminable. De cuando en cuando los pasajeros de atrรกs nos interrumpen para darnos nuevas instrucciones para el camino, y enseguida resumen su charla animosa sobre las prรณximas elecciones.
–Por favor, Teresa, dรฉjame bajar en la prรณxima salida. No quiero ir a la fiesta.
No te pongas melodramรกtica, Raquel, y cรกlmate. En New Jersey no hay mรกs que carreteras para autos y camiones. El servicio pรบblico no funciona por acรก y estamos demasiado lejos de todo para que busques un taxi.
Le paso la botellita de colonia que guardo en la gaveta, con mi cosmรฉtica.
–รchate unas gotas encima. Es muy suave. Te sentirรกs mejor.
Por las dudas, aseguro las puertas y aminoro la marcha. Los de atrรกs viajan apretados, seguramente incรณmodos pero contentos de poder reponerse del largo intervalo sin haberse visto. Ahora discuten la huelga universitaria:
–La harรกn durante la primavera, como siempre, asรญ vale la pena interrumpir las clases y echarse a dormir sobre el cรฉsped.
–Pero tรบ, Ricardo, serรกs el que toca la alarma, y todos saldremos echando la culpa a algรบn estudiante dรญscoloโฆ jajajรกโฆ
Raquel se aguanta el resto del camino sin decir palabra. En cuanto llegamos a la casa de Rita, Raquel se baja del auto y se encierra en el baรฑo. La sigo y al rato llamo a la puerta.
–Dรฉjame en paz, Tere. No me siento bien.
Se demora mรกs de media hora. Por fin sale con los ojos hinchados y demasiado maquillada. No entra el salรณn sino va directo al dormitorio, desde donde llama a un taxi. Se disculpa ante Rita, y le encarga que felicite a Richler y su novia cuando lleguen a su casa. Y a mรญ me previene:
Cuidadito, Tere, con abrir la boca.
Me siento culpable y traicionera, como ella quiere que me sienta,
–ยฟMe perdonas, Raquel? Quiรฉn sabe si Richler te habrรญa atraรญdo todavรญa, despuรฉs de tanto tiempo. Se ve muy ajado, ยฟsabes? Supongo que estos dรญas estarรกs saliendo con gente mucho mรกs joven que รฉl.
Cuanto mรกs hablo, mรกs la empeoro. Mejor me callo. Raquel sabe y yo sรฉ que hubiera sido el shiduj perfecto. Richler se hubiera quedado en Manhattan, su ciudad favorita. Al principio, al menos, Raquel le hubiera celebrado cada una de sus pedanterรญas, lo hubiera llamado desde el aeropuerto tan solo para oรญr su voz, de regreso de una conferenciaโฆ ยกDe haberlo previsto!
A la vuelta de la fiesta llamo a Raquel varias veces. Su mรกquina contestadora repite siempre lo mismo: <<Disculpe, no puedo atenderle en este momento>>. Pero no dice lo que temo oรญr: <<Me estoy cortando las venas; esto metiendo la cabeza en el horno; me estoy tragando el frasco de somnรญferos>>. Cada vez le dejo el mismo mensaje: <<Por favor, Raquel, dame una llamadita para que me quede tranquila>>. La llamo desde Miami, demasiado lejos para ir a verla. Beatriz no estรก en Nueva York y no sรฉ a quiรฉn mรกs recurrir. Consigo el nรบmero del super de su edificio, pero este me dice que si no contesta es que no estรก en casa y se niega a forzar la puerta. Se me ocurre que deberรญa avisar a la policรญa para cerciorarme de que todo estรก en orden.
A la maรฑana siguiente Raquel devuelve mis llamadas.
–Acabo de llegar a casaโฆ Lamento que te hayas preocupado tanto por mรญ. Me fui a casa de Ben, mi novio, por unos dรญas.
–Disculpa, Raquelโฆ, como te habรญa afectado tanto, temรญ queโฆ
–ยกQue me iba a suicidar por una infatuaciรณn tan antigua! ยกQue iba a hacer una escena de pelรญcula! ยกVamos, Tere! ยฟNo comentaste nada en la fiesta, verdad? Dime que no dijiste nada.
–Te lo juro. Nadie se enterรณ. Tuviste una simple jaqueca decimonรณnica. De haberte visto, Richler te hubiera comparado con una heroรญna de Echegaray. ยกAhยก, casi me olvido. Me recordรณ que fuiste una de sus mejores estudiantes; te envรญa un gran abrazo y me pide que le escribas.
–Gracias, pero no, graciasโฆ Y no se toque mรกs el tema. ยฟEstamos?
IF I HAD KNOWN โฆit would have been a perfect shiduch.
In my opinion, and I know about shiduchim. I see a man alone, cultured, refined. And immediately I think of a woman, alone, cultured, refined, with a small vice that she will keep just like he will, discretely hidden. I bring them together; together they converge, they harmonize in their lifestyle. They move in the same environment. Two souls in harmony.
They can insist, if they wish, that they are perfectly satisfied to remain unmarried; but I donโt believe them. We are social animals: male and female we need warmth of our sex and the opposite sex; for me, that officially united as a married couple, they will have more opportunities. Separate, I say, they donโt know what they are missing, her voice from the airport to calm him, letting him know that she is already on the way home; am amusing comment from him, that pleased her, although she had heard it more than once.
Of course, I bring them together without anyone asking them. The shadchenteโs instinct, I say. A Matchmakerโs mania. Sometimes, or course, when I make a mistake, as with Emma and Julio, the perfect couple. The hair capriciously curly hair of both, Emmaโs lighter and silkier; Julioโs mischievous look, that she celebrates at every chance. The two of them fans of classical music, the two are crazy about the movies and taking long walks along the seaside. Who could have guested that they were, in fact, twins separated at birth? That was worthy of a soap opera, Cleopatra, or Caligula. On learning that they had a brother for a husband, they might have named me ambassador for having urged on their marriage. Emma and Julio, on the other hand, feel guilty for having fallen in love, and they reproached me for having facilitated an incestuous love.
Nevertheless, I persevere, although I donโt always hit the mark. The rabbit escapes the best hunter. My last try was such a disaster! When Richler left his wife for another woman, we agreed that, during the first weeks, we would not wear ourselves out with phone calls, but Beatriz would take care of him to alleviate his depression, perhaps his shame, because Richler couldnโt comprehend what had happened to him. Meanwhile, I was preparing for him candidates, for the time when felt recovered. After thirty-five years of marriage, Richler didnโt know how to arrange for them alone. The first year cost him a great deal of physical and mental health: a case of pneumonia left him prostrate for entire weeks. His sister-in-law took care of him in the hospital, and his children, unmarried who lived close to his house, visited him often.
It alarmed us to see him when at the beginning of the next semester, Richler arrived, disheveled and more bent over than ever. Poor Richler. To get him going, Beatriz and I, and his colleagues, plan for him a macrobiotic diet and vigorous walks in the park. We invited him to see a work by Calderรณn de la Barca that he had taught for several years. Although the production was for amateurish, it seemed to him to be very educational. After noting what was left out and the unnecessary pauses by some actors, he took the occasion to eloquently give his opinions about the playwrightโs intentions and the overblown interpretation of the workโs director. Richler left the show excited, so that when we said goodbye at the subway station, he promised to take us to see โIl Travatore.โ Delighted, we agreed.
Although lately Beatriz was more and more occupied with David, a disagreeable boyfriend who dominated her. She didnโt have time for Richler. I spent a couple of months away from New York, so that I had to interrupt my routine of calling him every week. At my return, I found an invitation from Tita, to celebrate Richlerโs retirement, and also, his engagement for Tuesday, October 14. I was shocked.
โWhy so quickly? When did he decide to retire? And with whom is he engaged?โ
โWith a Dominican teacher from Arizona, a friend of his sister-in-law. They will get married in a month, and they will go to live in Phoenix,โ Beatriz explained to me.
For a Jewish gringoโa New Yorkerโsixty-five years old, to marry a Latina, a bit past forty and to move to a state as remote as Arizona had to be and Odyssey. I call Rita, and she explained to me that the dry and temperate climate is ideal for alleviating Richlerโs asthma. The two of us and Beatriz commented on the fact, that while we still felt sorry for Richlerโs miserable state, he had been able to remake his life. By himself. Without our help, he had found his mate. โThen,โ we said to each other, โmission accomplished.โ
For Ritaโs party, I was my turn to be to drive several colleagues in my car. Raquel came too. She sat in the front with me, so that we could chat. We havenโt seen each other for more than fifteen years, when Raquel left high school teaching to take charge of a library in Bronxville. The change is good for her; Raquel has lost weight and appears more sophisticated. She knew that Richler was retiring, but only now, on route to New Jersey, she finds out about the engagement.
โWhat are you saying?โ she whispers to me, incredulous.โ โIsnโt Richler married with two children?โ
โHe was married, but for months, he has been alone. His younger son lives in the university dorms, and the older son got a job in Boston. But how is it you didnโt know, Raquel, that his wife left him, that he caught pneumonia, and that Beatriz and I helped him recover?โ
Raquel hid her face under the lapel of her jacket to hide her reaction. She whispers as if she needed air. She let out a cutoff hiccup. Without a doubt, she wants to ask me more questions, and she doesnโt know where to start. She slowly shakes her head as if she were taking stock of what had happened to her in the interim, while Richler fell in love with the Dominican and decided to take the big step. It hurts me to see Raquel suffer so, and it also disgusts me, But, still, it is too late to change things.
โSimply put, Raquel, I didnโt think of it. Iโm so sorry.โ
What an idiot I was! How could I have forgotten the great love that Raquel had felt for Richler when the two of us studied together at the university? We read each other passionate letters that we write to made-up or real lovers, and we laughed to cover the blushing from acting like silly schoolgirls.
Apparently, Raquelโs love for Richler lasted far too long. In those days, she fantasized raping him; she planned ways to get him away from his wife, to seduce him with her profound knowledge of Calderรณn, and with other strategies that for me became tedious. And Richler, naturally, immersed in his theories and dedicated to his subject, never suspected that Raquel planned to seduce him or that his wife thought of leaving him.
Raquelโs deep and muffled voice reveals all her rancor:
โI canโt pardon you, Tere. How could you not have let me know the instant it happened?!โ And lower yet, she added, โI feel it as a betrayal.โ
โI swear to you with so much going on, I forgot, Raquelita. As Beatriz was the first to help him pass through his crisis. To a degree, I stopped worrying about the situation, do you understand? Of course, if I had remembered, I would have called you, Iโm absolutely sure, but I didnโt remember. Iโm sorry.โ
โDid he have anything going with Beatriz?โ
โAs far as I know, nothing! What a notion youโve come up with, if Beatriz is crazy about David, that boyfriend so conceited that he has her trapped.โ
โWith you either, I supposeโฆโ
โFor Godโs sake, Raquel! I love him like an uncle.โ
The trip to New Jersey is interminable for me. From time to time the passengers in the back interrupted us to give us new directions for the trip, and immediately resume their animated discussion of the coming elections.
โPlease, Teresa, please let me get out at the next exit. I donโt want to go to the party.โ
โDonโt be melodramatic, Raquel, and calm down. In New Jersey, there are only highways for cars and trucks. Rapid transit doesnโt function here, and we are too far from anything for you to try to get a taxi.โ
I passed to her a little bottle of cologne that I keep in the drawer, with my cosmetics.
โThrow on a few drops. Itโs very soft. Youโll feel better.โ
Just in case, I lock the doors and slow down. Those in the back, travel cramped, surely uncomfortable, but content to catch up after the long interval without seeing each other. Now, they discuss the university strike.
โThey will do it in Spring, as always, so itโs worth the trouble to interrupt classes and go to sleep on the grass.โ
โBut you, Ricardo, you will be the one to hit the alarm, and we will all go out and blame some unruly studentโฆha, ha, haโฆ
Raquel endured the rest of the trip without saying anything. As soon as we arrive at Ritaโs house, Raquel gets out of the car and shuts herself into the bathroom. I follow her and after a while, knock on the door.
โLeave me in peace, Tere, I donโt feel well.โ
She delays for more than a half hour. Finally, she leaves with her eyes swollen and too much makeup. She doesnโt enter the living room, but goes directly to the bedroom, from where, she calls a taxi. She apologizes to Rita, and charges her with congratulating Richler and his fiancรฉe when they arrive at her house.
โBe careful, Tere, about opening your mouth.โ
I feel guilty and treacherous, just as she wants me to feel.
โDo you pardon me, Raquel? Who knows if you would have found Richler attractive, still, after so much time. He looks very old. Who knows? I suppose that these days youโre going out with people much younger than he.โ
The more I speak, the more I make things worse. Itโs better if I keep quiet. Raquel knows and I know that it would have been a perfect shiduch. Richler would have remained in Manhattan, his favorite city. At first, at least, Raquel would have celebrated every one of his pedantries, she would have called him from the airport only to hear his voice, on the way back from a conferenceโฆ To have foreseen it!
Returning from the party, I call Raquel several times.
Her answering machine always repeats the same thingโ โIโm sorry, I canโt speak to you right now.โ But it doesnโt say what I fear to hear: โIโm cutting my veins: Iโm putting my head in the oven; I am swallowing a vial of sleeping pills.โ Each time, I leave her the same message: โPlease, Raquelita, give me a little call so that I wonโt worry. I call her from Miami, too far away to go to see her. Beatriz is not in New York, and I donโt know who else to turn to. I obtain the number of the super of her building, but he tells me that if she doesnโt answer, itโs because sheโs not home, and he refuses to force the door. I occurs to me that I should contact the police to assure myself that everything is in order.
The next morning, Raquel returned my calls.
โI just got home… Iโm sorry that you have been so worried about me. I went to Ben, my boyfriendโs house for a few days,
โI apologize, Raquelโฆ, since it had affected you so, I feared thatโฆโ
โThat I was going to commit suicide for such an old infatuation. That I was going to create a scene from a movie! Come on, Tere! You didnโt say anything at the party, right? Tell me that you didnโt say anything.โ
โI swear to you. Nobody found out. You had a simple old-fashioned migraine. If he had seen you, Richler would have compared you to a Echegaray heroine. Ah, I almost forgot. He reminded me that you were one of his best students; he sends you a big hug, and he asks me to have you write him.โ
โThanks, but no thanksโฆ and letโs not mention this topic again. Agreed?โ
Bernardo Jobson (Vera, provincia de Santa Fe, 1928-Buenos Aires, 1986) fue periodista en los diarios La Opiniรณn y Tiempo Argentino entre otros, traductor y redactor publicitario. Escribiรณ los libros Memorias de un soldado raso y Veinticinco watts, aunque los originales se extraviaron, por lo que estos se consideran irrecuperables; lo mismo sucediรณ con El carnet de Dios, el guiรณn de una de sus obras de teatro inรฉditas, y la recopilaciรณn de notas humorรญsticas Diccionario enciclopรฉdico argentino. Fue miembro de las revistas El Escarabajo de Oro y El Ornitorrinco. El fideo mรกs largo del mundo (Buenos Aires, 1972) es su รบnico libro publicado.
Bernardo Jobson (Vera, Santa Fe province, 1928-Buenos Aires, 1986) was a journalist for the newspapers La Opiniรณn and Tiempo Argentino, among others, as well as a translator and advertising editor. He wrote the books Memoirs of a Private and Twenty-five Watts, although the originals were lost, so they are considered unrecoverable; The same happened with El carnet de Dios, the script for one of his unpublished plays, and the compilation of humorous notes Argentine Encyclopedic Dictionary. He was a member of the magazines El Escarabajo de Oro and El Ornitorrinco. El fideo mรกs largo del mundo (Buenos Aires, 1972) is his only published book.
__________________________________________
From: El fideo mรกs largo del mundo. Buenos Aires: Capital Intelectual, 2008
“Te recuerdo como eras en el รบltimo otoรฑo”
El problema es que el jefe no me lo va a creer. Le he hecho tragar ya tantas milanesas, tantas albรณndigas super-condimentadas, que esto no me lo va a creer. Pienso en alguna excusa potable, pero me da un poco de bronca: ยฟuna vez que tengo una razรณn valedera para ausentarme de la oficina, voy a tener que apelar a una mentira? ยฟTan mal anda el mundo? me pregunto. Pero toda esta filosofรญa de apuro no me absuelve del dolor que tengo desde que me levantรฉ y amenaza con la posibilidad de que la gente me crea un deforme o algo asรญ, al margen de unos chillidos austeros pero evidentes que me transformaron en la mรกxima atracciรณn del dรญa en el subte. En ese momento vuelvo a sentarme y siento como si una tachuela me hubiese penetrado hasta la garganta. Por supuesto, las tachuelas se supone que lo pinchan a uno en el culo y รฉsta es una tachuela de lo mรกs ortodoxa. No me puedo sentar, no me puedo quedar parado, no puedo quedarme un minuto mรกs en ninguna posiciรณn. Y te guste o no, jefecito, allรก voy. Con la verdad no temo ni ofendo y me paro frente al escritorio del salmรณnido.
โPlata no hay โme atajaโ. Y si necesitรกs plata porque se te muriรณ algรบn pariente, antes me traรฉs el certificado de defunciรณn. Mira, ni siquiera con el certificado. รnicamente contra presentaciรณn del cadรกver.
โJefe, no quiero plataโฆ โpor ahora, porque en ese momento pienso que en una de รฉsas voy a tener que comprar un remedio y ante Duraciรณn 23โ04โโ presentaciรณn de receta no me va a decir que no. Mirรก vos, me digo, ยฟcรณmo no se me ocurriรณ antes este yeite?
โNi ahora ni nunca, ni siquiera a fin de mes. ยฟSabรฉs que sos el รบnico en la historia de esta empresa que cobra por adelantado? Ya tenรฉs un mes de sueldo en vales.
โJefe, perdรณneme, pero no estoy de humor hoy. Todo lo que quiero es permiso para ir al hospital. Hay que ver el conflicto que esto le produce. ยฟQuiรฉn serรก: un pariente, un amigo, algรบn amor lejano? Pero reacciona a tiempo.
โSangre diste la semana pasada. Te fuiste a las 9 y no apareciste en todo el dรญa.
โJefe, usted se equivoca por el fรญsico con que me ha dotado la naturaleza. Que yo mida 1,95 m y pese 102 kilos, no quiere decir que si me sacan medio litro del vital elemento, no quede medio dopado.
โBueno, no sรฉ, pero parientes vivos ya no te quedan, segรบn me consta. ยฟQuiรฉn es el moribundo hoy?
โNadie. Soy yo el que quiere ir al hospital, ahora mismo.
โยฟQuรฉ te pasa? โpregunta enojรกndose consigo mismo porque ya estรก entrando por la variante. Conflictos internos. ยฟY el que yo tengo ahora? ยฟCรณmo le digo la verdad, la cruda verdad?
โJefe, no me lo va a creer. No me lo va creer. No sรฉ quรฉ cara pongo, pero sรญ la que pone รฉl. Se asusta. ยกCorazรณn, hรญgado, pulmรณn! Al mismo tiempo, busca el tรฉrmino รฉse, difรญcil, que cuanto mejor lo dice mรกs gente piensa quรฉ gran mรฉdico se perdiรณ la sociedad.
โยฟAlgรบn trastorno cardiovascular?
Niego con la cabeza.
โยฟVisceral? Tampoco. Como ya estรก a punto de agotar su diagnรณstico precoz, apela a lo increรญble, a lo que no puede ser, ยกen esta รฉpoca!
โMe imagino que no tendrรก nada que ver con el sistema gรฉnitourinario, ยฟno?
โY, mรกs o menos โle contestoโ. Tengo un grano en el culo. Diez minutos despuรฉs estoy parado en el hall del hospital, mirando la guรญa de consultorios externos. Parezco un tailandรฉs reciรฉn llegado, buscando la temperatura media de Jujuy en la guรญa de telรฉfonos. No sรฉ quiรฉn me toca a mรญ: ยฟenfermedades secretas, culologรญa, anologรญa? No figura ninguna, y a esa enfermera de la mesa de entradas no se lo pienso preguntar. Si fuera vieja y buena, todavรญa, pero no tiene mรกs de 25 y hay que ver lo bien que estรก. El portero o algo asรญ acude en mi ayuda. Y como todos los porteros tienen obligaciรณn de ser mรฉdicos frustrados, cancheros viejos, empรญricos de la medicina que lo ven a uno y ya saben lo que uno tiene, me pregunta:
โยฟAlgรบn problema, seรฑor? ยฟBusca a alguien?
โSรญ, la verdad que sรญ. Pero no sรฉ exactamente a quiรฉn. Juro que mi respuesta es totalmente natural, pero รฉl ya sospecha algo turbio.
โยฟAlguno de los doctores?
โSรญ, pero no sรฉ cuรกl puede serโฆ Los puntos suspensivos son benรฉvolamente acogidos por el portero y los estudia unos segundos.
โยฟAlgรบn problemaโฆ? โy la definiciรณn mรฉdica del problema la explica con la mano y apoyรกndose en una sonrisa comprensiva y paternalโ.
–Me parece que usted busca dermatologรญa. Primer piso, consultorio 23. Dรญgale al doctor que lo mando yo.
โยฟPerdรณn, dermatologรญa? Yโฆ ยฟquรฉ atienden allรญ? Quiero decir, si uno tieneโฆ
โEh, por favor โme asegura canchero al extremoโ. Yo tambiรฉn tuve que ir cuando era jovenโฆโy luego de asegurarse de que nadie pueda verlo, agrega: โ Tres veces. Claro, eran otros tiempos, ยฟno?
โY sรญ, no va a comparar โle ratifico, mientras pienso que dermatologรญa no puede ser. Que la pared del culo me duele, no hay duda, pero no le veo relaciรณn. Encima, me duele cada vez mรกs y antes de tener que relatar, por segunda vez, la cruda verdad, me tiro un lance y le digo:
โCreo que es ortopedia. Como a cualquier personaje orillero, lo tumba el asombro.
โยฟOrtopedia? Pero si usted camina lo mรกs bien. โNo vaya a creer. Hay momentos en que no puedo. Estรก totalmente decepcionado. Todo un caso social que รฉl creรญa tener como primicia absoluta se le va diluyendo.
โOrtopedia โle insistoโ: ยฟNo quiere decir que a uno lo curan delโฆ?
โDรญgame, seรฑor โme pregunta ya totalmente ofendidoโ ยฟA usted quรฉ le duele? โBueno, para serle franco, me duele el culo, ยฟquรฉ quiere que le haga? No tiene ninguna anรฉcdota al respecto y no sรฉ si me la contarรญa aรบn en el caso contrario. Ya me odia, directamente.
โVaya a la guardia. Ahรญ lo van a atender. Parece mentira. Cuando me dispongo a irme, la vocaciรณn lo traiciona y me dice: โTรณmese un Geniol. O dos. Le agradezco la receta magistral y enfilo para la guardia. El continente americano se ha enfermado hoy y me pongo en la cola.
Delante mรญo hay un tipo justo para que lo atienda el portero. La dimensiรณn de la fila me hace dudar sobre si llegarรฉ vivo a que me atiendan, pero pienso que esto me da el tiempo suficiente para ver quรฉ le digo a la mina que estรก sentada en un escritorio y distribuyendo el juego como un hรกbil mediocampista: usted allรญ, usted acรก, hoy estรก prohibido enfermarse del hรญgado, el reumatรณlogo tiene hepatitis. Pienso en lo que voy a decirle: โMe duele el recto (y todo el mundo pensando quรฉ lรกstima, un muchacho con ese fรญsico y maricรณn).
โQuiero que me revisen el recto (y la misma conclusiรณn, ahora ya sin ninguna duda sobre mi desviaciรณn sexual).
โBusco al rectรณlogo (y lo mismo, รฉste quiere disimular que es maricรณn, lo cual no deja de ser peor. Por lo menos, que afronte su desgracia con altivez, caramba). Cuando faltan dos tipos, no sรฉ todavรญa quรฉ voy a decirle, pero el punto que estรก delante mรญo me puede salvar. A ver cรณmo le explica รฉl que tiene los bichitos juguetones y entonces yo aprovecho la bolada, el ambiente turbio ya que tiene antecedente y lo mรญo no trasciende. Cuando le llega el turno, la enfermera le pregunta nombre, apellido, edad, domicilio y por poco hincha de quiรฉn. Con soberbia cara de otario, me acerco para escuchar el crucial diรกlogo.
โยฟQuรฉ problema tiene? A punto de caรฉrsele la cara de vergรผenza por lo frรกgil ser humano que es, responde:
โTengo una uรฑa encarnada. Pienso en la famosa clรญnica del diagnรณstico que podrรญamos fundar el portero y yo y luego de dar mi filiaciรณn, me mira y me pregunta con la mirada, quรฉ problema tengo. Yo, mudo. Finalmente, accede al ritual.
โยฟQuรฉ problema tiene, seรฑor?
โBueno, tengo un dolor. Apoya la cabeza en la palma y me vuelve a mirar. Estรก esperando que yo le diga dรณnde.
โยฟSรญ? โme pregunta dejando en el aire: quรฉ me dice.
โSรญ โle contesto. El agitadรญsimo diรกlogo no deja de constituir una escena pintoresca que matiza la espera de todos los pacientes. Todos miran. Detrรกs mรญo, no hay nadie. Esto puede durar todo el dรญa, pienso. Ayรบdame, miss Nightingale. Vos sabรฉs de estas cosas.
โยฟDolores durante la micciรณn? โme pregunta sutilmente. Dolores durante la micciรณn. Parece el nombre de una mina de la sociedad colombiana, pienso.
โNo โle contesto. Y con un gesto le indico que siga intentando.
โยฟDolores gรฉnito-urinarios? โme pregunta un poco enojada, y antes de que se le ocurra la prรณxima posibilidad dolorosa, un sifilรณlogo frustrado opina en voz baja para que lo oigan todos: โDebe ser para dermatologรญa, seรฑorita.
โSeรฑor, por favor, no podemos estar todo el dรญa con esto. Si usted no me dice lo que le pasaโฆ
–ยฟProblemas gรฉnito-urinarios? โinsiste. โSeรฑorita โle digo con tono lastimeroโ. No son gรฉnito-urinarios, peroโฆ alguna relaciรณn tiene, no sรฉ. El recto, ยฟtiene algo que ver con el sistema? Claro, la palabra era un cheque al portador. La noticia recorre todo el hospital, pero el epicentro del fenรณmeno se centra en la guardia. El tipo de la uรฑa encarnada me mira diciรฉndome con los ojos no te da vergรผenza, si yo fuera tu padre, te volvรญa a romper el culo, pero a patadas, y una madre le dice a su hijo, vos venรญ para acรก y lo protege instintivamente del deleznable sujeto. La enfermera, repuesta de la noticia, anota en la planilla y me dice que me siente. Pienso que si me siento, muero, ahรญ nomรกs, sumariamente. El mรฉdico pasa por allรญ en ese momento, y la enfermera lo detiene.
Noto que habla de mรญ, el tipo me mira, le dice que sรญ, enseguida vuelvo y sale. Como, pese a todo, ella me ama, me informa que enseguida me van a atender. La decisiรณn provoca la tradicional reacciรณn popular, hay murmullos contra la aborrecible enfermera, pero en medio de la indignaciรณn general, surge la voz de la madre del niรฑo que dirigiรฉndose a nadie, es decir, a todos, dice:
โClaro, y encima los atienden primero.
La configuraciรณn edilicia de la guardia propiamente dicha es un monumento a la discreciรณn. Con un grabador y una filmadora uno podrรญa, en diez minutos, escribir los diez tomos del Testut. El mรฉdico me pregunta quรฉ me pasa. Debe tener 22 aรฑos a lo sumo. ยฟEn quรฉ aรฑo estarรกs? ยฟYa rendiste Culo vos?, me pregunto.
โMire โle explicoโ. Desde ayer tengo un dolor bรกrbaro en el ano. Y ahora ya no puedo mรกs. No puedo sentarme, no puedo estar parado, me duele si hablo.
โBueno, vamos a ver. Venga por aquรญ. Y a medida que recorremos el pasillo, va descorriendo las cortinas de los boxes, no sin provocar frecuentes chillidos, indignados por favores y actitudes insensatas de quienes se ven sorprendidos con paรฑos menores a media asta. Encontramos uno vacรญo y me ordena que me desnude mientras รฉl enseguida vuelve. En el box de al lado, el de la uรฑa encarnada pega un grito y se traga una puteada que hubiera involucrado hasta el mรกs remoto antecesor de la enfermera. Pienso que la verdad esto es mejor tomรกrselo a joda y cagarse de risa. A la sola menciรณn del verbo defectivo, reflejo condicionado dirรญa Pavlov, me entran ganas de ir al baรฑo, vรญa recto. Lo รบnico que faltaba, me digo, que me agarren ganas de cagar. El grito del de la uรฑa encarnada va a parecer un susurro de amor comparado con el mรญo. Frรกgil espiritual que es uno trato de engaรฑarme y me digo que ya caguรฉ. Mentira, me grita mi conciencia, mientras pienso que algรบn dรญa debo escribir un ensayo sobre la vida y la caca: dos cosas difรญciles de aguantar.
La temperatura ambiente no es la mรกs propicia para quedarse totalmente en pelotas, y me dejo puesta la camisa y los zapatos. Me siento en la camilla y me observo el sistema gรฉnito-urinario que dirรญa el portero. Da lรกstima: parece el experimento de un jรญbaro que ha reducido un bandoneรณn. Cuando el de la uรฑa encarnada opina que prefiere que le corten el pie antes de que se atrevan a tocarle la uรฑa otra vez, entra el futuro mรฉdico, orgullo de la familia.
โPรณngase en cuclillas โme ordena.
Me pongo en cuclillas y pienso que lo รบnico que falta es que suene un disparo y salga a buscar la meta.
โAbra un poco mรกs las nalgas. Las abro.
โUn poco mรกs โinsiste.
โDoctor, no crea que no quiero colaborar con la ciencia, pero mido 1,95. El tipo se rรญe y me dice que estรก bien.
Para distraerme un poco, bajo la cabeza y miro hacia atrรกs. Me pregunto cรณmo no larga todo y se manda mudar. El espectรกculo es deplorable, pero siento dos manos frรญas en ambos glรบteos y dos pulgares acercรกndose sugestivamente por ambos flancos. Instintivamente, me hago el estrecho.
โNo, por favor, quรฉdese tranquilo. Asรญ no puedo hacer nada.
Le pido perdรณn y rindo la ciudadela. Los pulgares se asumen y se acercan a las puertas de palacio ya. Vos tรณcame nomรกs, tรณcame apenas y que Dios te ampare, pienso. Ostensiblemente acuciadas por la posiciรณn decรบbito panzal, las ganas de ir al baรฑo se acentรบan y ahora sรญ, me niego rotundamente.
El tipo se me enoja y como ya ha entrado en confianza โdespuรฉs de todo me ha tocado el culoโ me dice che, dรฉjese de embromar, parece mentira. De golpe sospecha algo y me pregunta:
โยฟQuรฉ le pasa? โDoctor, perdรณneme, ยฟpero usted quiere creer que justo ahora? Se agarra la cabeza y vuelve a reรญr.
โEstรก bien, pero aguรกntese. No hay otra soluciรณn. Yo necesito solo unos segundos para palparlo.
Tengo ganas de contestarle que yo tambiรฉn, pero para cagarme. No creo que el chiste le caiga bien.
Como soy un gil, me pregunta cosas a medida que empieza otra vez la invasiรณn.
โยฟEs la primera vez que le pasa?
โY la รบltima. Aunque tenga que cagar por la oreja el resto de mi vida. En ese momento, siento un alambre de pรบa recorriendo con libre albedrรญo las paredes iniciales del recto. Y pienso lo que debe estar gozando el de la uรฑa encarnada. Pego un grito.
โQuรฉdese como estรก โme ordenaโ. Relaje los mรบsculos. Enseguida vuelvo. Escucho que en el pasillo le pregunta a la enfermera dรณnde hay vaselina. La mera menciรณn del noble lubricante para usos o aberraciones varias me incita a salir corriendo despavorido, cuando escucho que la cortinita se corre y entra alguien, doctora ella, pasea la mirada por los hermosos y lascivos glรบteos, luego va hacia el sistema gรฉnito urinario propiamente dicho, me mira inquisitivamente, se echa hacia atrรกs y vuelve a investigar la decoraciรณn en general, tuerce la cabeza convencida de que no hay nada que hacer, todo serรญa inรบtil, pide perdรณn y sale. En cualquier momento deciden dejarme acรก toda la maรฑana y cobran entrada, pienso. Se vuelve a correr la cortinita y entra mi anรณlogo de cabecera con un frasco de vaselina como para revisar un mamut. Lo deja sobre una mesita y procede a colocarse unos guantes de goma.
โยฟEs para evitar el embarazo? โle digo haciรฉndome el gracioso. No me contesta porque los guantes son mรกs viejos que el tobillo y no sabe por dรณnde empezar. Cuando logra ponรฉrselos, le asoman dos dedos, lรกnguidos y desnudos.
โUn momentito โme ruega.
โDoctor โlo paroโ ยฟtengo que quedarme asรญ obligatoriamente? Me duelen los brazos, sin contar con que cualquiera puede entrar como reciรฉn. El show, francamente, es un asco.
โNo, quรฉdese asรญ. Y abra las nalgas todo lo que pueda. Sale y enseguida vuelve, esta vez acompaรฑado de un colega, futuro anรณlogo.
โยฟFรญstula? โNo sรฉ. Todavรญa no pude palpar.
โยฟDolor?
โSรญ.
โNo se ve inflamaciรณn โdice el reciรฉn llegado desde la frontera con Bolivia.
โยฟQuรฉ te parece?
โNo sรฉ. Palpรก a ver quรฉ pasa. Yo Ano cinco todavรญa no di.
El colega desaparece. De pronto, la situaciรณn se hace tensa. Me vuelve a abrir sin mรกs trรกmite, se acerca todo lo que puede y, jugado, decide auscultar de zurda. Le miro el tamaรฑo del dedo, manos de pianista mรกs bien no tiene.
โEscรบcheme bien. Ahora va en serio. O se deja palpar o se va a su mรฉdico.
โMe dejo palpar. Cuando las galaxias explotaron en el nรบcleo central del universo, todo fue, durante un instante, un rojo que nunca se volverรก a repetir, una explosiรณn desde el seno mรกs รญntimo de cada una de las estrellas que se expandieron junto con nuestro sol por el espacio buscando con sus puntas el borde pascaliano de la esfera cรณsmica, horadando el infinito como espadas de Dios, mientras el sol, vagabundo desde la eternidad, buscaba exactamente el centro de su pequeรฑo sistema, calcinando todo lo que encontraba a su paso en una carrera devastadora que separรณ continentes, desequilibrรณ el eje de rotaciรณn de los astros, emergieron volcanes que durante millones de siglos se aburrieron en las entraรฑas de la tierra y estallaron al fin como bestias, una estampida de bรบfalos inconmensurables vomitando el rojo inicial, hasta que Dios dijo basta, paremos aquรญ si lo que queremos es crear un planeta.
Salgo del quirรณfano ad hoc, horadado y profanado en lo mรกs รญntimo, con la orden de volver maรฑana para ser observado por el especialista en el asunto, sujeto que me aplicarรก un aparato que se llamarรก todo lo rectoscopio que quiera, pero que no deja de ser un fierro en el culo. En ese momento, el tipo de la uรฑa encarnada, apoyรกndose lastimosamente en uno de los talones, va tambiรฉn hacia la salida. Todavรญa no he podido saber por quรฉ, le sonrรญo diciรฉndole quรฉ dรญa, ยฟno?, al tiempo que camino con un ritmo que ya lo quisiera Marรญa Fรฉlix yendo al encuentro de su amante para matarlo con premeditaciรณn y alevosรญa.
Sorpresivamente, siento una de las famosas puntadas y me agarro del desuรฑado para no caerme, gesto civil y sin implicancias que el tipo interpreta como amor a primera vista, se me vuelve a escapar otra sonrisa, actitud que no deja de empeorar las cosas y el tipo โmufa, impotencia, dolor y asco medianteโ levanta instintivamente el pie desuรฑado y Bernabรฉ Ferreyra en su tarde mรกs gloriosa me encaja una patada en el centro mismo del culo. Por un instante nos miramos, sorprendidos.
Un segundo despuรฉs, los dos, al unรญsono, pegamos el grito inicial, el llamado de amor indio, Tarzรกn navegando de liana en liana y convocando a todo el continente africano con voz tomada por un intempestivo resfrรญo e inmediatamente damos comienzo oficial al primer festival mundial de cante jondo, no sin matizarlo con pasos de baile calรฉ, y danza rabiosamente moderna, todo por bulerรญas.
De: El fideo mรกs largo del mundo, Capital Intelectual, 2008
The problem is that the boss is not going to believe me, I have already made him swallow so many schnitzels, so many super-spiced meat balls, that he is not going to believe this on. I think about an acceptable excuse, but it makes me a bit angry. For once, I have a worthwhile excuse for to be out of the office. Am I going to have to resort to a lie? Is the world in that bad shape? I wonder.
But all this hurried philosophy doesnโt absolve me from the pain that I have had since I woke up and the threat that people consider me deformed or something like that, on the edge of some austere but evident squeeling that transformed me into the greatest attraction on the subway. At that moment I sit down again, and I feel as if a tack had penetrated me as far as my throat. Of course, tacks suppose that they stab you in the ass, and this is a thumbtack of the most orthodox style. I canโt remain standing another minute in any position.
And like it or no, my dear boss, here I come. With the truth on my side, I donโt fear or offend, and I stop in front of the desk of the big fish.
โThereโs no more money,โ he stopped me. โAnd if you need money because some relative or another died, donโt even bring me the death certificate; only when I want to see the cadaver.
โBoss, I donโt need moneyโฆ nor right now, because when the time comes, I will have to buy a remedy, and with the prescription for โDuration 23-4, you wonโt be able to say no. Look, I say to myself, how come I didnโt think of that trick earlier.
โNot now, not ever, not even at the end of the month. Do you know that you are the only one in the history of this firm who gets his money in advance?โ
โBoss, pardon me, but Iโm not on a good mood today. All I want is permission to go to the hospital. You must understand what a problem this causes. Who might it be: a relative, a friend, a former lover? But ask fast.
โLast week, you gave blood. You left at 9, and you didnโt reappear for the rest of the day.โ
โBoss, you are mistaken about the body that nature gave me. That I measure 1, 95
and weigh 102 kilos, doesnโt mean that if they tale half a liter of the element of life, I donโt come out half doped.โ
โOkay, I donโt know but you no longer have any living relatives, as I understand. Who is the dying one today?โ
โNobody, I am the one who needs to go to the hospital, right now.โ Internal conflicts. And what do I have now? How can I tell you the truth, the crude truth?
โBoss, you are not going to believe me. I donโt know which face to put on it, but I do I but I do know what it does. Shocking. Heart, liver, lung! At the same time, Iโm looking for the right term, difficult, that the better itโs said, people think that the great doctor finished off society.
โAny cardiovascular disorder?
I shake my head.
-Visceral? Neither. As he is about to exhaust his early diagnosis, he appeals to the incredible, to what cannot be, at this time!
โI imagine it has nothing to do with the genitourinary system, right?
โAnd, more or less โI answerโ. I have a pain in my ass. Ten minutes later I am standing in the hospital hall, looking at the outpatient clinic directory. I look like a recently arrived Thai, looking for the average temperature of Jujuy in the phone book. I do not know who touches me: me toca a mรญ: secret diseases, culology, anology? There isn’t one listed, and I’m not going to ask that nurse at the admissions desk. If she were old and good, still, but she is not more than 25 and you have to see how good she is. The doorman or something like that comes to my aid. And since all the doormen have to be frustrated doctors, old cancheros, medical experts who see you and already know what you have, he asks me:
โAny problem, sir? Look for someone?
-Yes, indeed. But I don’t know exactly who. I swear my answer is totally natural, but he already suspects something shady.
โAny of the doctors?
โYes, but I don’t know what it could be… The ellipsis is benevolently welcomed by the doorman and he studies them for a few seconds.
-Any problemโฆ? โand the medical definition of the problem is explained with his hand and supported by an understanding and paternal smileโ.
–It seems to me that you are looking for dermatology. First floor, office 23. Tell the doctor I sent him.
โExcuse me, dermatology? And… what do they serve there? I mean, if one has…
โHey, please,โ Canchero assures me to the extreme. I also had to go when I was youngโฆ โ and after making sure that no one can see it, he adds: โ Three times. Of course, those were different times, right?
โAnd yes, it is not going to compare โI confirm, while I think that dermatology cannot be. That the wall of my ass hurts, there is no doubt, but I don’t see any connection. On top of that, it hurts me more and more and before I have to tell the harsh truth for the second time, I take a chance and tell him:
โI think it’s orthopedics. Like any coastal character, he is struck down by astonishment.
-Orthopedics? But if you walk the best. โDon’t believe it. There are times when I can’t. He is totally disappointed. An entire social case that he thought he had as an absolute first is being diluted.
โOrthopedics โI insistโ: Doesn’t that mean that one is cured ofโฆ?
“Tell me, sir,” he asks me, now totally offended, “what hurts you?” โWell, to be honest, my ass hurts, what do you want me to do to it? He doesn’t have any anecdotes about it and I don’t know if he would tell me even if he didn’t. He already hates me, directly.
โGo to the guard. They will attend to him there. It seems like a lie. When I’m about to leave, his vocation betrays him and he tells me: -Take a Geniol. Or two. I thank you for the masterful recipe and I head for the guard. The American continent got sick today and I’m getting in line.
In front of me there is a guy just right for the doorman to attend to. The size of the line makes me doubt whether I will arrive alive to be treated, but I think this gives me time enough to see what I say to the girl who is sitting at a desk and distributing the game like a skilled midfielder: you there, you here, today it is forbidden to get liver disease, the rheumatologist has hepatitis. I think about what I’m going to say to him: โMy rectum hurts (and everyone thinking what a shame, a boy with that physique and a faggot).
โI want them to check my rectum (and the same conclusion, now without any doubt about my sexual deviation).
โI’m looking for the rectologist (and the same thing, he wants to hide that he’s a faggot, which is worse. At least, let him face his misfortune with haughtiness, geez). When two guys are missing, I still don’t know what I’m going to say to him, but the point in front of me can save me. Let’s see how he explains that he has playful little bugs and then I take advantage of the nonsense, the murky atmosphere since it has a history and mine does not transcend. When her turn comes, the nurse asks her name, surname, age, address and almost who she is a fan of. With the proud face of an otario, I approach to listen to the crucial dialogue.
โWhat problem do you have? On the verge of losing his face with shame at what a fragile human being he is, he responds:
โI have an ingrown toenail. I think about the famous diagnostic clinic that the doorman and I could found and after giving my affiliation, he looks at me and asks me with his eyes, what problem I have. I, dumb. Finally, agree to the ritual.
โWhat problem do you have, sir?
โWell, I have a pain. He rests his head on his palm and looks at me again. He’s waiting for me to tell him where.
-Yeah? โhe asks me, leaving it hanging in the air: what are you saying to me?
โYes โI answer. The very hectic dialogue still constitutes a picturesque scene that qualifies the wait of all the patients. Everyone looks. Behind me, there is no one. This could last all day, I think. Help me, Miss Nightingale. You know about these things.
โPain during urination? โI ask myself subtly. Pain during urination. It seems like the name of a mine in Colombian society, I think.
-I do not answer. And with a gesture he tells him to keep trying.
โGenito-urinary pain? โshe asks me a little angrily, and before the next painful possibility occurs to her, a frustrated syphilologist gives his opinion in a low voice so that everyone can hear: โIt must be for dermatology, miss.
โSir, please, we can’t spend all day with this. If you don’t tell me what’s wrong…
–Genito-urinary problems? – she insists. โMiss,โ I say in a pitiful tone. “They are not genito-urinary, but… there is some relationship, I don’t know. Does the rectum have anything to do with the system? Of course, the word was a bearer check. The news spread throughout the hospital, but the epicenter of the phenomenon is centered on the guard. The guy with the ingrown toenail looks at me telling me with his eyes, you’re not ashamed, if I were your father, I’d beat your ass back, but with kicks, and a mother tells her son, come here and protect him instinctively despicable subject. The nurse, informed of the news, makes a note on the form and tells me to sit down. I think that if I sit down, I die, right there, summarily. The doctor passes by at that moment, and the nurse stops him.
I notice that he is talking about me, the guy looks at me, says yes, I immediately come back, and he leaves. Since, despite everything, she loves me, she informs me that they will take care of me right away. The decision provokes the traditional popular reaction, there are murmurs against the hateful nurse, but in the midst of the general indignation, the voice of the child’s mother emerges and, addressing no one, that is, everyone, says:
โOf course, and on top of that they serve them first.
The building configuration of the guard itself is a monument to discretion. With a tape recorder and a video recorder one could, in ten minutes, write the ten volumes of the Testut. The doctor asks me what’s wrong. Must be 22 years old at most. What year will you be in? Have you already given up your ass? I wonder.
โLook โI explainโ. Since yesterday I have had tremendous pain in my anus. And now I can’t take it anymore. I can’t sit, I can’t stand, it hurts if I talk.
-Well let’s see. Come here. And as we walk down the hallway, he draws back the curtains of the boxes, not without causing frequent squeals, outraged by the favors and senseless attitudes of those who are surprised with lower cloths at half-mast. We find an empty one and he orders me to undress while he immediately returns. In the next box, the one with the ingrown toenail screams and swallows a bullshit that would have involved even the nurse’s most remote ancestor. I think the truth is it’s better to take it lightly and laugh your ass off. At the mere mention of the defective verb, a conditioned reflex, Pavlov would say, I feel like going to the bathroom, straight ahead. The only thing missing, I tell myself, was to make me want to shit. The cry of the one with the ingrown toenail is going to seem like a whisper of love compared to mine. Fragile spiritual person that he is, I try to deceive myself and tell myself that I already screwed up. Lie, my conscience screams at me, as I think that one day I must write an essay about life and poop: two things that are difficult to endure.
The ambient temperature is not the most conducive to staying completely naked, and I leave my shirt and shoes on. I sit on the stretcher and observe the genito-urinary system as the porter would say. It’s a shame: it seems like the experiment of a jรญbaro who has reduced a bandoneรณn. When the one with the ingrown toenail thinks that he prefers to have his foot cut off before anyone dares to touch his toenail again, the future doctor, the pride of the family, enters.
“Squat down,” he orders me.
I squat down and think that the only thing left is for a shot to ring out and go out to find the goal.
โOpen your buttocks a little more. I open them.
โA little more โhe insists.
โDoctor, don’t think that I don’t want to collaborate with science, but I’m 1.95 tall. The guy laughs and tells me it’s okay.
To distract myself a little, I lower my head and look back. I wonder how he doesn’t just leave everything and order a move. The spectacle is deplorable, but I feel two cold hands on both buttocks and two thumbs approaching suggestively from both sides. Instinctively, I play dumb.
โNo, please, stay calm. So I can’t do anything.
I ask your forgiveness and surrender the citadel. The thumbs are assumed and they approach the palace doors now. Just touch me, just touch me and may God protect you, I think. Ostensibly urged by the prone position, the urge to go to the bathroom is accentuated and now, I flatly refuse.
The guy gets angry at me and since he has already gained confidence – after all he has touched my ass – he tells me hey, stop joking, it seems like a lie. Suddenly he suspects something and asks me:
-What happens? โDoctor, forgive me, but do you want to believe that right now? He grabs his head and laughs again.
โListen to me well. Now it’s serious. Either let yourself be palpated or go to your doctor.
โI let myself be felt. When the galaxies exploded in the central core of the universe, everything was, for an instant, a red that will never be repeated, an explosion from the most intimate core of each of the stars that expanded together with our sun through space. searching with its points for the Pascalian edge of the cosmic sphere, piercing the infinity like swords of God, while the sun, wandering since eternity, sought exactly the center of its small system, burning everything in its path in a devastating race. that separated continents, unbalanced the axis of rotation of the stars, volcanoes emerged that for millions of centuries were bored in the bowels of the earth and finally exploded like beasts, a stampede of immeasurable buffaloes vomiting the initial red, until God said enough , let’s stop here if what we want is to create a planet.
I leave the ad hoc operating room, pierced and desecrated in my most intimate part, with the order to return tomorrow to be observed by the specialist in the matter, a subject who will apply a device to me that will be called whatever rectoscope you want, but which does not stop be an iron in the ass. At that moment, the guy with the ingrown toenail, resting pitifully on one of his heels, also goes towards the exit. I still haven’t been able to figure out why, I smile at him telling him what a day, right?, at the same time that I walk with a rhythm that Marรญa Fรฉlix would want, going to meet her lover to kill him with premeditation and treachery.
Surprisingly, I feel one of the famous stitches and I hold on to my nail to keep from falling, a civil gesture without implications that the guy interprets as love at first sight, another smile escapes me again, an attitude that keeps making things worse and the type โ mufa, impotence, pain and disgust through โ instinctively raises his bare foot and Bernabรฉ Ferreyra in his most glorious afternoon kicks me in the very center of the ass. For a moment we looked at each other, surprised.
ย ย ย ย ย ย A second later, the two of us, in unison, gave the initial cry, the call of Indian love, Tarzan sailing from vine to vine and summoning the entire African continent with a voice taken by an untimely cold and immediately we officially began the first world festival of cante jondo, not without qualifying it with calรฉ dance steps, and rabidly modern dance, all by bulerรญas.
Samuel, o Shmuel, Rollansky naciรณ en 1902, en una familia Litvish (es decir, E. Litvak) que residรญa en Varsovia. Tuvo una educaciรณn judรญa tradicional, asรญ como una educaciรณn secular en el gimnasio, algo un poco inusual para los inmigrantes en Argentina, donde llegรณ en 1922. De 1934 a 1973 escribiรณ una columna diaria para Di Yidishe Tsaytung de Buenos Aires. Rollansky dirigiรณ la rama argentina de la YIVO o IWOโฆ Ademรกs, fue autor de sketches teatrales, cuentos, ensayos e historias de la literatura y la prensa yiddish en Argentina y otros lugares. Es mejor recordado como el editor de Musterverk fun der Yidisher literatura, una serie de 100 volรบmenes de los clรกsicos de la literatura yiddish.
_____________________________________
Samuel, or Shmuel, Rollansky was born in 1902, into a Litvish (i. E. Litvak) family residing in Warsaw. He had a traditional Jewish as well as a secular gymnasium education, something slightly unusual for immigrants to Argentina, where he arrived in 1922. From 1934 to 1973 he wrote a daily column for Di Yidishe Tsaytung of Buenos Aires. Rollansky directed the Argentinean branch of the YIVO or IWO… In addition, he authored theater sketches, short stories, essays and histories of Yiddish literature and press in Argentina and elsewhere. He is best remembered as the editor of Musterverk fun der yidisher literatur, a 100-volume series of the classics of Yiddish literary classics.
Dos manos se apretaron cรกlidamente, entrelazados en el tradicional saludo de paz.
Los ojos opacos de Salomรณn de pronto se relucieron. En sus mejillas apareciรณ, como surgido desde adentro, un tono rosado. Se sintieron reconfortado, como un errante en tierra lejana y reseca, que ha encontrado un manantial, y la sombra de una arboleda. Su corazรณn emitรญa mรบsica, latรญa impetuosamente, en la espera de algo.
–Una montaรฑa no se encuentra a la otraโฆ
–ยฟPero un ser humano a su semejante?
— ยฟQuiรฉn podrรญa creerlo?
–Realmente, ยกMe alegra haberlo encontrado!
Salomรณn sonrรญa que la expresiรณn โme alegra verloโ. Pronunciada con sincera satisfacciรณn, parecรญa besarlo. Comenzรณ a ingerir aquellas palabras y tuvo la impresiรณn de que el hombre que lo habรญa dominado, se estaba aquietando en sus adentros, y que su agotamiento se disolvรญa. Estaba cansado a causa del prolongado caminar por las calles. Le parecรญa, a veces, que ya no se dirigรญa a lugares que habรญa anotado durante su lectura del diario, sino que se habรญa extraviado y caminaba errando, puesto que esas andanzas terminaban en la nada, puesto que esas andanzas lo recibรญan con desconfianza y como si sospecharan de รฉl, quizรกs porque allรญ la lengua que se le trababa, como si habรญese soรฑando y dormido. No encontraba aquello que buscaba; mientras lo que lo que sรญ hallaba, no concordaba con con la finalidad de sus indagaciones. Lo que se proponรญa era introducirse en la rueda de trabajos y ocupaciones que le eran ajenos; no obstante, no habรญa logrado formar parte de ella. Sus palabras solรญan enredarse y suscitaban desconfianza y sospechas.
Pese a todo, รฉl, Salomรณn, no se rendรญa. Proseguรญa sus andanzas y bรบsquedas. Mรกs bien caminaba errado.
–No siempre le va mal a uno โsolรญa consolarse a sรญ mismo. Es verdad que hace ya ocho semanas que estoy sin trabajo, pero uno no debe perder el รกnimo.
Su madre le habรญa enseรฑado la sentencia: โLa pรฉrdida de dinero es tan sรณlo perdida a medias; la pรฉrdida del รกnimo es pรฉrdida total y absolutaโ.
Y con este รกnimo, habรญa golpeado en una puerta ajena. Golpeaba con poca esperanza. No obstante, llegรณ a golpear.
Le abriรณ la puerta una joven, aparentemente no judรญa, cuyo cabello formaba bucles negros y brillosos. Despuรฉs de haber escuchado sus ruegos, dio la vuelta como si estuviera danzando, mostrรณ la elasticidad de su cintura y desapareciรณ de una puerta. Luego, le dijo que esperara y desapareciรณ detrรกs de una puerta, a la que cerrรณ con la traba.
Salomรณn quedรณ parado, como si fuese un mendigo. Se sentรญa contrariado a causa de esta larga espera frente a la puerta y ya estaba contemplando la posibilidad de alejarse sin decir nada a nadie. Pero con su mente cruzรณ la imagen de su esposa y de la criatura, que estaban esperando, confiando en que al y al cabo podrรญa conseguir algรบn trabajo y trajera algo a la casa; de ahรญ que su paciencia se fortaleciรณ y รฉl se tornรณ mรกs perseverante.
–ยฟQuรฉ se puede hacer โ se dijo a sรญ mismoโcuando el destino de uno depende de otros? Luego de una prolongada y paciente espera, la puerta se abriรณ. Para sorpresa de Salomรณn, la persona que habรญa salido a su encuentro era un hombre, circunstancia que le causรณ mucha alegrรญa desde el primer momento. De inmediato, dos manos se apretaron fuertemente, saludรกndose con el tradicional Sholem Aleรญjem.
–ยฟA quiรฉn ven mis ojos? jSeรฑor Salomรณn!
–Seรฑor Herman! Mendelโฆ
–Manuel โcorrigiรณ el dueรฑo de la casaโManuelโฆ
–Manuelโฆ quรฉ sorpresaโฆ
–Es realmente una sorpresa. jEntre, entre por favor! Entre y siรฉnteseโฆ asรญโฆ ahora, cuรฉnteme quรฉ es lo que lo que trae por aquรญ y cรณmo dio usted con mi direcciรณn. Quiere bebe algoโฆ –Gracias. Gracias โmientras hablaba, Salomรณn se sentรญa mรกs animado y fuerte—, he aquรญ que usted mismo puede ver cรณmo la vida lleva encuentros inesperados. Una montaรฑa no se encontrarรก con otra montaรฑa, pero un ser humano sรญ se encontrarรก con otro.
–Pero ยฟcรณmo encontrรณ mi direcciรณn? Seguramente por la guรญa telefรณnicaโฆ
–Eh, ยกel pan cotidiano es de uno es la mejor guรญa telefรณnica!
–ยฟUsted trabaja?
–Precisamente por este asunto vengo a visitarlo a su fรกbrica.
–ยฟAlgรบn negocio?
Salomรณn sonriรณ. Hubo amargura en esta sonrisa.
–Sรญโฆ negocioโฆ vengo a vender mis manosโฆ ยฟdarรญa algo por ellas?
El industrial quiso manifestar que era una persona amable y de confianza y dijo: –Tonterรญasโฆ comprar, no comprarโฆ ยกUsted sigue siendo un poeta!
–Y ยกquรฉ clase de poeta! โrepuso Salomรณn, dirigiendo las palabras mรกs a sรญ mismo que al dueรฑo de la casa e inclinรณ la cabeza.
Esta sรญ que es una vida con poesรญa. Mi vida es pura poesรญa โdijo con amargura.
Manuel Herman, reciรฉn afeitado, llevaba un traje bien planchado y su cabeza brillaba, por el fijador con que el que habรญa untado sus cabellos. Mantenรญa las manos en los bolsillos, mientras escuchaba a su visitante. Se mostrรณ compasivo.
–Asรญ es, asรญ esโฆ cuando llegamos en el mismo barco. Todos pensaban que usted se iba ganar todo el oro de esta Amรฉricaโฆ Un hombre que sabe usar su pluma, cuya lengua es infatigableโฆ ยฟQuiรฉn soy yo en comparaciรณn con usted? Mendel el zapatero e hijo de zapaterosโฆ
Salomรณn sacรณ un paรฑuelito, se secรณ el rostro, como si hubiera cansado de tanto hablar. Hizo un intento de manifestar su bondad y finura:
–Yo no lo envidio y lo felicito de todo corazรณn, seรฑor Herman. Si hablamos de envidia, los hay muchos mรกs grande que usted, para mostrarle mi envidia, Como dice el refrรกn โCuando uno se decide ya a comer porcino, la grasa deberรญa llenarle la boca y gotear el mentรณnโ. Por otra parte, la envidia es para mรญ lo mismo que para la carne porcina para un judรญo muy religioso. Yo me alegro por sus logros, de todo corazรณn. El que lo envidia a usted, ยกojalรก que no tenga nada! Lo que usted tiene, no me quitรณ a mรญ y ยกque lo aproveche!
–Gracias.
–Y bien, ยฟes decir que su fรกbrica es grande?
El โcompaรฑero de viajeโ llevรณ a Salomรณn mรกs adentro del patio, bajo un techo de lata, numerosas mรกquinas, mesitas y estanterรญas sobre las paredes. Alrededor una multitud de hombres y mujeres, sumidos en su trabajo. Los estantes estaban abarrotados con grandes y pesados bultos, tan numerosos que cubrรญan el local a lo alto, a lo ancho y a lo largo.
–โ ยกSin mal de ojo! โdijo Salomรณn, fascinado–.
Usted lo hizo todo a lo grande, con planes muy ambiciosos, como puede verse bien. Bienโฆ yoโฆ yoโฆ ยฟtal vez podrรญa conseguir aquรญ pequeรฑo puesto, algo para hacer? Soy del oficio. Ya habรญa trabajadoโฆ
–Lamentablemente โฆ como puede verloโฆ la fรกbrica es grande… pero, tal vez como ve, todos los puestos se encuentran ocupados.
–Sin embargo โcomenzรณ o rogar Salomรณn–. ยฟQuรฉ importancia tiene, en una fรกbrica tan grande como รฉsta, una sola persona mรกs? ยฟAcaso significa algo?
–ยกEntiรฉndame โdijo de pronto el fabricante de tonoโen una fรกbrica grande como รฉsta, una persona significa poco o nada! Peroโฆ ยฟCรณmo decรญrselo? ยฟUsted comprende? Yo no podrรญa soportar ser su patrรณn. Mi corazรณn no me permite ser su patrรณn. Es un juego muy claro y comprensible. Fuimos, en un tiempo, compaรฑeros de viaje, lo que se dice schrif-brider o sea โhermanos de barcoโ. Usted โun descendiente de una familia de richachonesโy yo, un zapatero. Y bien, mi corazรณn no me permiteโฆ
Eh, ยกEsto carece de importancia! โintentรณ Salomรณn minimizar el asunto– ยฟQuรฉ valor tiene hoy en dรญa la alcurnia? ยฟA quiรฉn le interesa actualmente la ascendencia de uno? ยฟAcaso se puede con alcurnia obtener un crรฉdito en algรบn banco? Los tiempos de ahora son otros. Es otra รฉpoca. ยกQuรฉ tiene que ver todo esto con el asunto yo vine a verlo? Soy un obrero que necesita trabajo; usted, un empresario que podrรญa dรกrmelo. Es muy simple. Nada mรกs
–Ah, seรฑor Salomรณn, trabajo es mucho mรกsโฆ
–Claro que es mucho mรกs. Trabajo es pan. Y yo necesito pan. Mi mujer y mi niรฑ0 esperan que yo les lleve ese pedacito de pan.
El industrial, con las manos en los bolsillos, intentรณ estirar su cuerpo como se hubiese querido, poniรฉndose en punto de pies, aparecer mucho mรกs alto de lo que en realidad era, como se pretendiera otorgar una dimensiรณn a sus palabras, moviendo la cabeza, dijo en tono decisivo: –ยกNo puedo, querido amigo! Todo lo que quieras, pero esto no. Si pudiera, harรญa por ti cualquier cosa. Pero mi corazรณn no admite la posibilidad, de que yo me convierta en su patrรณn. Simplemente, no lo puedo hacer. Y, ยฟquรฉ mรกs quiere que te diga?
Traducido del idish por Simja Sneh.
Del libro: Hungier tsu der Zet. โHambre hasta saciarseโ.
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“Ship Brothers”
“Oh, who do I see?” Two hands were warmly squeezed, entwined in the traditional greeting of peace. Solomon’s opaque eyes suddenly glittered. A rosy hue appeared on her cheeks, as if from within. They felt comforted, like a wanderer in a distant and parched land, who has found a spring and the shade of a grove. His heart was making music, beating wildly, waiting for something.
“One mountain does not meet the other… –But a human being does?”
“Who could believe it?”
“Really, I’m glad I found you!”
Solomon smiles than the expression โI’m glad to see youโ. pronounced with sincere satisfaction, it seemed to kiss him. He began to swallow those words and gave the impression of a man who had mastered himsel. He was quieting down inside, andhis exhaustion dissolved. He was tired from the long walk through the streets. It seemed to him, at times, that he was no longer going to places that he had written down while reading the diary, but that he had gotten lost and wandered, since these wanderings ended in nothing, since these wanderings received him with distrust and as if they suspected him, perhaps because his tongue was stuck there, as if he had been dreaming and asleep. He did not find what he was looking for; while what he did find did not agree with the purpose of his inquiries. What he proposed was to enter the wheel of jobs and occupations that were foreign to him; however, he had not managed to become part of it. His words used to get tangled up and aroused mistrust and suspicion. Despite everything, he, Solomon, did not give up. He continued his wanderings and searches. Rather he was walking in the wrong direction.
“It doesn’t always go badly for one,” he used to console himself. It is true that I have been without work for eight weeks now, but one must not lose heart. His mother had taught him the sentence: โThe loss of money is only half lost; loss of spirit is total and utter loss.โ And in this spirit, he had knocked on someone else’s door. He struck with little hope. However, he came to knock. The door was answered by a young woman, apparently not Jewish, whose hair was in shiny black ringlets. Having listened to his request, she turned around as if she were dancing, showed the elasticity of her waist, and disappeared from a door. Then, she told her to wait and disappeared behind a door, which she locked with the latch. Solomon was left standing, as if he were a beggar. He was annoyed by this long wait in front of the door and was already contemplating the possibility of walking away, without saying anything to anyone. But with his mind he crossed the image of his wife and the child, who were waiting, trusting that after all he could get a job and bring something home; hence his patience strengthened and he became more persevering. “What can be done,” he said to himself, “when one’s destiny depends on others?”
“Who do my eyes see? Mr. Solomon!” “Mr. Herman! Mendelโฆ” “Manuel,” corrected the owner of the house, “ManuelโฆManuelโฆ what a surpriseโฆ” “It’s really a surprise. Come in, come in please! Come in and sit downโฆ like thisโฆ now, tell me what you bring here and how you found my address. Want to drink somethingโฆ” “Thank you. Thanks.” As he spoke, Solomon felt more animated and strong, behold, you can see for yourself how life brings unexpected encounters. A mountain will not meet another mountain, but a human being will meet another. “But how did you find my address?” Probably from the phone bookโฆ “Eh, the daily bread is one’s is the best telephone directory!” “You work?” “Precisely for this matter I come to visit you at your factory.” “Any business? Solomon smiled. There was bitterness in this smile.
“Yesโฆ businessโฆ I come to sell my handsโฆ would I give anything for them?” The industrialist wanted to show that he was a kind and trustworthy person and said: “Nonsenseโฆ buy, don’t buyโฆ You’re still a poet!” “And what class of poet!” Solomon replied, directing the words more to himself than to the owner of the house and bowed his head. “This is indeed a life with poetry. My life is pure poetry,” he said bitterly. Manuel Herman, freshly shaved, was wearing a well-pressed suit and his head was shiny from the cream which he had put on his hair. He kept his hands in his pockets as he listened to his visitor. He was compassionate.
“That’s right, that’s right… when we arrived on the same boat. Everyone thought that you were going to win all the gold in this America… A man who knows how to use his pen, whose tongue is indefatigable… Who am I compared to you? Mendel the shoemaker and son of shoemakers…”
Solomon took out a handkerchief, wiped his face, as if he had gotten tired of talking so much. He made an attempt to manifest his kindness and finesse:
“I do not envy you, and I congratulate you with all my heart, Mr. Herman. If we talk about envy, there are many bigger than you, to show you my envy, As the saying goes “When one decides to eat pork, the fat should fill his mouth and drip down his chin.” On the other hand, envy is the same for me as it is for pork for a very religious Jew. I am glad for your achievements, with all my heart. He who envy you, I hope he has nothing! What you have, you did not take from me and make the most of it!”
“Thank you.”
“Well, do you mean that your factory is big?”
The โship bother” took Solomon further into the courtyard. Under a tin roof were numerous machines, small tables and shelves on the walls. Around them, a crowd of men and women, immersed in their work. The shelves were crammed with great, heavy bundles, so numerous that they covered the height, width, and length of the room.
โKeep away the evil eye!”
Solomon said, fascinated. You did everything in a big way, with very ambitious plans, as can be seen. Wellโฆ Iโฆ Iโฆ maybe I could get here a little place, something to do? I’m from the trade. I have already worked…”
“Unfortunately… as you can see… the factory is big… but, perhaps as you can see, all the positions are occupied.”
“However,” Solomon began to plead. “What is the importance, in a factory as big as this, of just one more person? Does it mean something?”
โUnderstand me,โ his tone changed suddenly, โin a big factory like this, one person means little or nothing! But… How to tell him? You understand? I couldn’t bear to be your boss. My heart does not allow me to be your boss. It is a very clear and understandable game. We were, at one time, travel companions, what is called schrif-brider or โship brothersโ. Youโa descendant of a wealthy familyโand I, a shoemaker. Well, my heart does not allow me…”
“Hey, that is unimportant!” Solomon tried to minimize the matter. “What value does lineage have today? Who is currently interested in one’s ancestry? Is it possible with lineage to obtain a loan in any bank? The times of now are different. It is another era. What does all this have to do with the matter I came to see you? I am a worker who needs work; you, a businessman who could give it to me. It’s very simple. Nothing else “
“Ah, Mr. Salomon, work is much more… “
“Of course it is much more. Work is bread. And I need bread. My wife and my child are waiting for me to bring them that little piece of bread.”
The industrialist, with his hands in his pockets, tried to stretch his body as he wanted, standing on his feet, appearing much taller than he really was, as if to give dimension to his words, shaking his head, said decisively:
“I can’t, dear friend! Anything you want, but not this. If I could, I would do anything for you. But my heart does not admit the possibility that I become his employer. I just can’t do it. And what else do you want me to tell you?”
From book: Hungier tsu der Zet. Hunger, Until You’re Satisfied (Translation from Yiddish by Simja Sneh)
Deborah Leipziger (Brasil) รฉ poetisa, autora e consultora de sustentabilidade. Ela atualmente reside em Boston, Estados Unidos. ร autora da coleรงรฃo de poemas Flower Map, publicada pela Finishing Line Press (2013). quatro de seus poemas foram indicados ao prรชmio Pushcart. Seus poemas foram publicados no Reino Unido, Estados Unidos, Israel, Canadรก e Holanda, e em revistas e jornais como Salamander, Lily Poetry Reviewe POESY. Ela รฉ co-fundadora da Soul-Lit, uma revista online de poesia. E autor de vรกrios livros sobre sustentabilidade e direitos humanos, alguns dos quais traduzidos para chinรชs, coreano e portuguรชs. Ela estรก trabalhando em um projeto sobre โa linguagem da sustentabilidadeโ, onde combina seu amor pela linguagem e pela natureza.
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Deborah Leipziger (Brasil) es poeta, autora y asesora en Sostenibilidad. En la actualidad, reside en Boston, Estados Unidos. Es autora del poemario Flower Map, publicado por Finishing Line Press (2013). Cuatro de sus poemas han sido nominados al premio Pushcart. Sus poemas se han publicado en el Reino Unido, Estados Unidos, Israel, Canadรก y los Paรญses Bajos, y en revistas y periรณdicos como Salamander,Lily Poetry Review y POESY. Es cofundadora de Soul-Lit, una revista virtual de poesรญa. Y autora de varios libros sobre sostenibilidad y derechos humanos, algunos de los cuales han sido traducidos al chino, coreano y portuguรฉs. Estรก trabajando en un proyecto sobre โel lenguaje de la sostenibilidadโ, donde combina su amor por el lenguaje y la naturaleza.
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Deborah Leipziger (Brazil) is a poet, author and consultant on Sustainability. He currently resides in Boston, United States. She is the author of the Flower Map collection of poems, published by Finishing Line Press (2013). Four of her poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Her poems have been published in the UK, USA, Israel, Canada and the Netherlands, and in magazines and newspapers such as Salamander,Lily Poetry Review and POESY. She is co-founder of Soul-Lit, an online poetry magazine. And author of several books on sustainability and human rights, some of which have been translated into Chinese, Korean and Portuguese. He is working on a project about โthe language of sustainabilityโ, where she combines her love for language and nature.
Lobo
For Paulo Paulino Guajajara, known as โLoboโ, who was a โGuardian of the Amazonโ, killed by illegal loggers
I guard the forest
its canopy of reflected stars
the morpho butterflies the blue moons
bromeliads the fish
the roots of trees
drinking in the river
I guard the forest
the children of the tribe
I guard the canopy with its toucans parakeets
emerald
I guard the forest floor with its snakes
I guard the mating jaguars
I knew
they would kill me.
I could not have imagined
that it would be a shot to the
face that my body would be
left in the forest
Now
You guard the forest
its canopy of reflected stars
the morpho butterflies the blue moons
bromeliads the fish
the roots of trees
drinking in the river
You guard the forest
the children of the tribe
You guard the canopy with its toucans parakeets
emerald
You guard the forest floor with its snakes
You guard the mating jaguars
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Lobo
Escrito em homenagem ร Paulo Paulinho Guajajara, que era um โGuardiรฃo da Amazรดniaโ, morto por madeireiros ilegais
Sou sentinela da floresta
da sua copa de estrelas espelhadas
suas borboletas, das luas azuis
dos piriquitos, das bromรฉlias, dos peixes
das raรญzes das รกrvores
bebendo do rio.
Sou sentinela da selva
das crianรงas gujajara.
Protejo a copa da floresta,
os tucanos, os beija flores.
Protejo a mata, suas cobras.
Sou guarda
dos jaguares se juntando.
Sempre soube
que iriam me matar,
porรฉm nunca imaginaria
que iriam me balear
no rosto,
que deixariam o meu corpo
na selva.
Agora vocรช
serร a sentinela da selva
sua copa de estrelas espelhadas
suas borboletas, das luas azuis
dos piriquitos, das bromelias, dos peixes
das raรญzes das รกrvores
bebendo do rio.
Sou sentinela da selva
das crianรงas guajajara.
Protejo a copa da floresta,
os tucanos, os beija flores.
Protejo a mata, suas cobras.
Sou guarda
dos jaguares se juntando.
Traduรงรฃo de Deborah Leipziger
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The Green Ravine
In the ravaged city the Green Ravine
cools you
after the heat island.
The dragonflies intertwine their bodies in the shape of infinity.
You hear the heat
lift the cenzontle birds.
You sense the lizards.
You feel the water lifted into air. This is where water is born.
Inspired by a virtual field trip with Lucrecia Masaya, of the Green Ravine in Guatemala City at the Nature of Cities Conference, 2021, during the COVID-19 pandemic.
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A ravina verde
Na cidade devastada a ravina verde
te refresca
depois da ilha de calor
As libรฉlulas se entrelaรงam criando o sรญmbolo do infinito.
Escuto o calor
levantando os pรกssaros centzotles
Vocรช sente a presenรงa das lagartas.
Vocรช sente a รกgua levantando no ar. ร aqui que a รกgua nasce.
Inspirado por uma viagem de campo virtual com Lucrecia Masaya, do Green Ravine na Cidade da Guatemala na Nature of Cities Conference, 2021, durante a pandemia de COVID-19.
Traduรงรฃo de Deborah Leipziger
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Al espaรฑol:
Written on Skin
In cursive and script your kiss
is indelibly written on skin.
Even now, the cut from your birth
echoing the rain is written on skin.
The numbers from a time of horror
are held written on skin.
Just as the rings record the age of the tree
my ages and phases are written on skin.
The wood from the forest for the violin
its music etched in wood, written on skin.
The umbilical cord coiled around my neck
is still there, pulsating purple, written on skin.
The parchment of history of storied sacrifice
is written on hides, written on skin.
In ink and dust, blood and bruise
my history is written on skin.
The newspaper stories of massacre
collapse and famine are written on skin.
Gems with facets etched by stone
hidden in garments, written on skin.
Your touch on my earlobe, fingerprints on my face
words and deeds unbidden, written on skin.
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Escrito en la piel
En letra cursiva y guion tu beso
estรก escrito indeleble en la piel
incluso ahora, el corte de su nacimiento
que hace eco de la lluvia estรก escrito en la piel
Los nรบmeros de una รฉpoca de horror
se llevan escritos en la piel
Asรญ como los anillos registran la edad del รกrbol
mis edades y fases estรกn escritas en la piel
La madera del bosque para el violรญn
su eco grabada en la madera, escrito en la piel
El cordรณn umbilical enrolladlo alrededor de mi cuello
sigue ahรญ, pulsante de color pรบrpura, escrito en la piel
El pergamino de la historia del sacrificio histรณrico
estรก escrito en pieles, escrito en la piel
En tinta y polvo, sangre y magulladura
mi historia estรก escrita en la piel
Las noticas sobre masacres
el colapso y el hambre estรกn escritos en la piel
Gemas con facetas grabadas por piedra
escondidas en prendas, grabadas en la piel
Tu caricia en mi lรณbulo de la oreja, huellas dactilares en mi rostro
las palabras y acciones espontรกneas, escritas en la piel
Translated by Marรญa Del Castillo Sucerquia
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Sugaring
After Safia Elhillo
i was made of almonds and sugar
of giving and receiving
of coast lines dug deep with departure
and arrival, of boats and boundaries seeking refuge
for my Nonna, all desserts began
with grating almonds and sugar recreating home
with latticework in marizipan
i was born under dictatorship under the light
of the southern cross
tasting of sugar dissolving into coconut and clove tangled
in the umbilical cord
my mother told me no one
would ever love me
like she did. now I know
she was right and wrong
my daughters born of gingerbread
under a coup dโivorce
hold the light, the dark
of my countries
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Azucarada
Despuรฉs de Safia Elhillo
Yo estaba hecha de almendras y azรบcar
de dar y recibir
de literales excavadas hondas con partida
y llegada de barcos y fronteras en busca de refugio
para mi Nonna, todos los postres โ โ empezaban
con ralladura de almendras y azรบcar โ โ recreando el hogar
con celosรญas en el mazapรกn
nacรญ bajo la dictadura bajo la luz
de la cruz del sur
saboreando el azรบcar que se disuelve en el coco y el clavo de enredado
en el cordรณn umbilical
mi madre dijo que nadie
me amarรญa
como ella lo hizo ahora yo
sรฉ que tenรญa razรณn y no
mis hijas nacieron de pan de jengibre
bajo el coup dโivorce
sostienen la luz, la oscuridad
de mis paรญses
Translation by Marรญa Del Castillo Sucerquia
_______________________________________
You as a forest
I listen to the shelter of you
the sweeping canopy
cradling the day and night of me t
he moon rising in your branches
the stars falling into the sweep of your hair.
I see the feet of your forest the fingers,
the limbs the concave and convex of you,
the light that falls around us.
I smell your maple, fern, ivy.
The light serpentine falling through the rings of redwoods
__________________________________________
Tรบ, un bosque
Escucho el refugio de ti
el amplio toldo que acuna el dรญa
y la noche de mรญ
la luna asomรกndose en tus ramas
las estrellas cayendo
en la silueta de tu pelo
veo los pies de tu bosque
los dedos, los muslos
lo cรณncavo y convexo de ti
huelo tu aroma de arce
helecho, hiedra
la luz serpentina cayendo
entre los anillos de la roja se secuoya
Translated by Marรญa Del Castillo Sucerquia
__________________________________________
Honeycomb
I fell asleep inside the honeycomb
the bees called to me humming, thrumming
I fell asleep inside the honeycomb
the hive alive the singing, the stinging
all night the bees taught me the language
of pollen,
the scent of stamen
the ringing,
the brimming
And the sun rose inside the honeycomb
and I awoke inside the honeycomb the dripping, the sipping
I awoke inside the honeycomb with the stunning, the becoming
________________________________________________
Panal
Me dormรญ dentro del panal
me llamaron las abejas, tarareando, tamborileando
Me dormรญ dentro del panal
la colmena viva el canto, el picor
toda la noche las abejas me enseรฑaron el idioma del polen
el olor del estambre
el zumbido, el rebosante
el sol se levantรณ dentro del panal
y me despertรฉ dentro del panal el goteo, los sorbos
me despertรฉ dentro del panal con el asombro, el definir
Translated by Marรญa Del Castillo Sucerquia
____________________________________________
The Creation of Turquoise
it didnโt happen all at once
the elders would say later
then again, it seldom does
every creation is intentional
even destruction can take its time,
rather it was the inexorable
chipping away of the sky
one kernel at a time
small fragments of
rupture, rapture
and when the sky touched the earth
the impact created
veins in the stone
so each turquoise would tell a story
of sky and earth, colliding
__________________________________________________________________
La creaciรณn de la turquesa
no sucediรณ
dirรญan los ancianos mรกs tarde
por otra parte, rara vez sucede
toda creaciรณn es intencional
incluso la destrucciรณn requiere de tiempo
mรกs bien, fue le inexorable
astillamiento del cielo
un grano a la vez
pequeรฑos fragmentos de ruptura, รฉxtasis
la caricia del cielo a la tierra
ahora, la turquesa
cuenta la historia del cielo y la tierra, aquel impacto
Translated by Marรญa Del Castillo Sucerquia
________________________________________________________________
Blue FugueWhen you were born, the Room turned Blue.
I became Blue cold veins frozen.
The Blue became a Room.
Both of you Blue whisked Away
I, cut open.
When you were born, the Room turned Blue.
In a Blue gown,
My mouth, unable to form ice words.
The Blue became a Room.
When I was born, I was Blue.
The womb was Blue, the Blue cord around my neck.
When you were born, the Room turned Blue.
Alone, waiting, warming,
Until they brought you back.
The Blue sky becomes a Room.
_________________________________________________________________
La fuga azul
cuando naciste
se tornรณ Azul la habitaciรณn
mis venas se tomaron Azul y รกlgidas
el Azul se volviรณ una Habitaciรณn
los dos Azules se alejaron pronto
yo, un corte abierto
cuando naciste
se tornรณ Azul la Habitaciรณn
con una bata Azul
mi boca es incapaz de formar
palabras de hielo
el Azul se volviรณ una Habitaciรณn
cuando nacรญ, era Azul
el รบtero, Azul
un cordรณn Azul rodeando mi nuca
cuando naciste se tornรณ Azul la Habitaciรณn
sola
esperaba
calentarme
te trajeron de suelto
el Cielo Azul se tornรณ
el Cielo Azul de Vuelta
Translated by Marรญa Del Castillo Sucerquia
______________________________________________________
Mi nombre es Fanny Haiat, soy una escultora y pintora mexicana nacida en 1940. Mi carrera artรญstica comenzรณ en 1980, logrando una destacada exposiciรณn nacional e internacional. En 1988 ganรณ la prestigiosa Bienal de Florencia en Italia. Mis esculturas son un elemento importante para el paisaje urbano de la Ciudad de Mรฉxico; ubicados en รกreas que, durante muchos aรฑos, han sido parte del nรบcleo de la ciudad. A nivel internacional y en conjunto con la embajada de Mรฉxico, tengo esculturas monumentales en Sofรญa, Bulgaria y en Roma, Italia. Un gran nรบmero de coleccionistas, museos y galerรญas tienen mis piezas especiales. Estuve en la exposiciรณn de Wynnewood de 2017 durante el festival internacional de las artes. Hasta el momento tengo 28 exposiciones individuales y 15 exposiciones colectivas en la Ciudad de Mรฉxico y otras partes del mundo. En mi opiniรณn, el arte es la forma mรกs pura de comunicaciรณn en la que el artista tiene una conexiรณn franca con el espectador. De “UniqLuxury”.
____________________________
My name is Fanny Haiat. I am a Mexican sculptor and painter born in 1940. My artistic career began in 1980, achieving outstanding national and international exposure. In 1988 she won the prestigious Florence Biennale in Italy. My sculptures are an important element for the urban landscape of Mexico City; located in areas that, for many years, have been part of the core of the city. Internationally and in conjunction with the Mexican embassy, I have monumental sculptures in Sofia, Bulgaria and in Rome, Italy. A great number of collectors, museums and galleries have my special pieces. I was at the 2017 Wynnewood exhibition during the international arts festival. So far I have 28 solo exhibitions, and 15 group exhibitions in Mexico City and other parts of the world. In my opinion, art is the purest form of communication in which the artist has a frank connection with the viewer. From “UniqLuxury”
Licenciado en Derecho y Ciencia Polรญtica. Milton C. Henrรญquez ha sido diputado a la Asamblea Nacional de Panamรก, ministro de Gobierno (Interior y Justicia) y embajador ante el Reino de Espaรฑa, entre otros muchos cargos. En diferentes momentos, ha sido consultor o asesor del presidente de la Repรบblica, del presidente de la Asamblea Nacional y de la presidente de la Corte Suprema de Justicia de Panamรก. Ha dirigido revistas, periรณdicos informativos de radio y de televisiรณn. Ha dirigido y ha asesorado campaรฑas electorales y ha sido profesor en escuela secundaria y en universidades en Panamรก y en Espaรฑa. En 2023, participรณ en la inauguraciรณn 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 Panamรก en 2018.
Graduate in Law and Political Science, Milton C. Henrรญquez 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 pensรฉ que me dijo โpardiezโ. o sea, la exclamaciรณn de โยกpor Dios!โ en espaรฑol antiguo, pero cuando le preguntรฉ alarmado: ยฟQuรฉ insensatez dije?โ, soltรณ una carcajada y respondiรณ:
–ยกNinguna! Al contrario, acaba usted de toparse con el huerto.
Ante mi cara de absoluta perplejidad, continuรณ: —PaRDรฉS, en hebreo, significa โhuertoโ. Pero tambiรฉn se refiere a un mรฉtodo 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 descripciรณn de Pedrarias sobre le ritual del ataรบd. Me pidiรณ que investigara al regresar, quรฉ significaba cada palabra y el mรฉtodo PaRDรฉS, pero querรญa continuar la sesiรณn.
—Como le mencionรฉ, hace unas semanas hemos pasado los Yamim Noraim, y las grandes festividades de Rosh Hashanรก y Yom Kipur. No las llaman fiestas porque no son fiestas de Aรฑo Nuevo con las que de seguro usted celebra; a lo sumo son comidas festivas o hasta banquetes en Rosh Hashanรก, 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 perdรณn. Yo asentรญ con respeto para indicar que comprendรญa.
–El mes que empieza ahora, de acuerdo con el ciclo agrรญcola en Israel, se inicia con la plantaciรณn de las semillas. Si llevamos esto a un plan espiritual, serรญa el perรญodo de la siembra de los nuevos propรณsitos que asumimos luego de la introspecciรณn y el perdรณn del mes anterior, en el cual habรญamos limpiado el terreno espiritual de las malas hierbas y otros contaminantes a travรฉs de la expiaciรณn.
–ยฟY quรฉ tan completa es esa limpieza? — preguntรฉ.
–Tan completo como es capaz un ser humano. Pero quiero hacerle recordar otra peculiaridad de Rosh Jodesh Jeshvรกn que mencionรฉ hace un momento y no sรฉ si fui claro. Esta cabeza del mes ยกes bicรฉfala! En ese momento pensรฉ: โEsto ya estรก rayado en lo ridรญculoโ. Pero como el rabino estaba bastante divertido con esto y yo estaba allรญ buscando entender los delirios de Pedrarias, no me iba a hacer ver como el mรกs racional en ese punto.
–ยฟY quรฉ le quiero decir con esto? Pues bien, como lo mencionรฉ antes, este Rosh Jodesh, o dรญa inicial de nuevo mes, no solo es de dos dรญas ยกsino que empieza en el รบltimo dรญa del mes anterior y termina al final del primer dรญa de este mes! โยกAhora sรญ la botaron!โ. Pensรฉ, pero seguรญ escuchando en silencio. –
-ยฟY quรฉ deberรญamos entender de esto? Pues nos indica que hay una simbiosis entre el perรญodo de limpieza con el de siembra; nos dice que de nada vale lo primero, o sea, limpiar el terreno, si en el nuevo aรฑo sembramos las mismas semillas que nos llevaron a pecar el aรฑo anterior. Me miro ca los ojos, fijamente, redujo su intensidad emocional a niveles usuales y seรฑalรณ de forma muy pausada
–Siento que antes de poder sembrar nuevos conocimientos en mi mente en su mente y su corazรณn, mediante el descubrimiento que usted estรก por hacer, debemos asegurarnos de que esa tierra espiritual sobre la cual van a ser cultivados. Asรญ como las propias semillas de conocimientos que serรกn insertadas, no contengan impurezas. Considero indispensable, por lo tanto, que usted lleve a cabo una terapia de perdรณn.
Me intrigรณ ese concepto, pero le insistรญ que yo no era judรญo ni seguรญa sus festividades y que nada de eso lo habรญa visto en las Leyes noรกjidas. El jajรกm HaLevi sonriรณ de forma comprensiva y me explicรณ:
–Si bien para la รฉpoca del perรญodo de Yanim Noraim que acaba de pasar, yo no pensaba que usted iba a estar espiritual ni intelectualmente en donde estรก 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 mรญstico de depuraciรณn espiritual. Este es indispensable para poder recibir, sin hacerse daรฑo, la verdad que es posible para que usted vaya a encontrar en sus investigaciones y meditaciones.
El rabino HaLevy continuรณ su argumentaciรณn mientras yo trataba de comprender lo que acaba de decir. โยกEntonces sรญ habรญa algo muy valioso en ese cuaderno viejo!โ, 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 perdรณn, podrรญa ser peligroso para su alma, porque puede recibir cosas equivocadas o dejar de captar perlas de conocimiento verdadero.
Cuestionรฉ, todavรญa un poco dudoso, si esta terapia serรญa lo รบltimos antes de entrar la investigaciรณn; el jajรกm HaLevy guardรณ uno de esos silencios eternos dentro de una mirada fija y penetrante a mis ojos, y luego de unos segundos me preguntรณ quรฉ pensaba yo. Sonreรญ con picardรญa y le dije:
–De seguro no serรก lo รบltimo. Pero estรก bien, lo voy a hacer y le pido perdรณn por mi resistencia; no estoy acostumbrado a no estar en control. Con una expresiรณn provocadora preguntรณ el rabino Ha Levy: –ยฟHa pensado usted en ser presidente? Presidente de la Repรบblica, quise decir.
–ยฟSer presidente?–
-ยกPero si yo los hago!–
El jajรกm Ha Levy me clavรณ una de esas largas e inexpresivas miradas y continuรณ:
–Como le dije hace un momento Kabbalah es literalmente โrecibirโ; no se puede recibir en una vasija cerrada. Controlar supone que uno sabe todo, que se cierra a lo demรกs. Controlando todo no se logra recibir la verdad; solo al liberarse del control del ego es uno capaz de recibirla.
–Agradezco la explicaciรณn y le aseguro que pondrรฉ mi mayor esfuerzo en seguir sus instruccionesโdije con total seguridad.
–Se las darรฉ en su momento, pero antes quiero sugerirle el nombre de la persona que vive entre Espaรฑa y Francia, que podrรญa reunirse con usted mientras estรฉ en Europa para guiarle en proceso de depuraciรณn en el que estรก. Le confirmรฉ al rabino que me interesaba mucho la idea.
-Es una dama de familia cristiana, pero es cabalista. Ademรกs, 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 Rabรญ Cervantes cabalista. Luchรณ en la Segunda Guerra Mundial dentro de la Resistencia Francesa contra los nazis; abogรณ porque Espaรฑa aboliera el Decreto de la Expulsiรณn de 1492 contra los judรญos y es una profunda conocedora de la verdad que nos unifica a todos. El jajรกm HaLevy me informรณ que su nombre era Marianne Perrin pero preferรญa usar su nom de plume: Dominique Queshott. รl ya la habรญa contactado y ella se mostrรณ dispuesta a recibirme, pero estaba perdiendo la vista y le costaba mucho trasladarse. Tendrรญa que ir yo hasta Carboneras en Andalucรญa o trasladarla y alojarla en Madrid.
Aceptรฉ de buen grado y agradecรญ al rabino por esto. Me advirtiรณ, sin embargo, que no debรญa abusar de la buena disposiciรณn de la seรฑora Perrin no tampoco descuidar a mi esposa y el tiempo de familia. Acordรฉ que asรญ serรญa.
“Pardรฉs!” 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? โ, 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:
–PaRdรฉS, in Hebrew, means โorchardโ. 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 PaRDรฉS 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. โSo there was something very valuable in that old notebook!โ 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.
Porto-alegrense radicado em Sรฃo Paulo hรก quase uma dรฉcada, Leandro Sarmatz รฉ jornalista e Mestre em Letras. Depois de jรก ter integrado antologias coletivas, seu primeiro livro de poesias, Logocausto, lanรงado em 2009, foi recebido pela crรญtica com elogios. Agora Leandro faz sua estrรฉia na prosa com o livro de contos UMA FOME, uma obra madura e segura, que traz relatos em que o autor enfoca, entre outros temas, a vida de judeus durante a Segunda Guerra, assim como de seus descendentes.Neto de imigrantes judeus do leste europeu que se estabeleceram no Sul do Brasil no finalzinho da dรฉcada de 20, o autor conta que a cultura judaica sempre foi uma presenรงa importante em sua formaรงรฃo. A mesma cultura que impregnou autores tรฃo diferentes entre si como Kafka e Bashevis Singer, Philip Roth e Aaron Appelfeld, que fazem parte de sua formaรงรฃo de leitor.Dono de โuma sabedoria artรญstica rarรญssima entre escritores jovensโ e de โestilo sรณbrio, mas jamais de mera transparรชnciaโ, como declara o escritor Joรฃo Gilberto Noll no texto de orelha do livro, Leandro oscila entre o humor sutil, refinado, quase cerebral e uma indissolรบvel melancolia.
____________________________________________
Born in Porto Alegre and living in Sรฃo Paulo for almost a decade, Leandro Sarmatz is a journalist and Master in Letters. After having already integrated collective anthologies, his first poetry book, Logocausto, launched in 2009, was received by critics with praise. Now Leandro makes his debut in prose with the book of short stories UMA FOME, a mature and confident work, which brings stories in which the author focuses, among other themes, on the lives of Jews during the Second World War, as well as their descendants. Jewish immigrants from Eastern Europe who settled in southern Brazil at the end of the 1920s, the author says that Jewish culture has always been an important part of his upbringing. The same culture that permeated authors as different from each other as Kafka and Bashevis Singer, Philip Roth and Aaron Appelfeld, who form part of his reader training. of mere transparencyโ, as the writer Joรฃo Gilberto Noll declares in the text of the ear of the book, Leandro oscillates between subtle, refined, almost cerebral humor and an indissoluble melancholy.
Entรฃo alguรฉm disse, ao ver que tais livros constituรญamA minha dieta, que eu poderia ser
tomado por uma espรฉcie
de Dom Quixote do Holocausto
…..
Morreu Zamler, que ficou conhecidoโnรฃo sem alguma ironia, รฉ custoso observarโcomo o โDom Quixote do Holocausto … Deixou-se morrer. . .
Zamler โ nascido em Israel de pais brasileiros que militavam no movimento sionista โ ganhou notoriedade ainda quanto era um estudante de pรณs-graduaรงรฃo nos Estados Unidos que mergulhara em toda uma bibliografia do Holocausto. Anne Frank, Primo Levi, Victor Klemperer, Aharon Appelfeld, a infinidade de diรกrios, registros e cartas que testemunham a longa noite de vida da vida judaica na Europa de Hitler. Saiu-se com uma tese a um sรณ tempo e enciclopรฉdia, cobrindo um vasto escopo….
Foi entรฃo que tudo comeรงou. O primeiro artigo apareceu nas pรกginas de um velo jornal iรญdish em Nova York (desde os anos 70 editado em lรญngua inglesa) …Assinado apenas como โArielโ, seu autor dizia, em suma, que um novo Holocausto judaica estava em curso naqueles dias, e que era preciso denunciรก-lo, antes que os primeiros comboios partissem em direรงรฃo os campos de concentraรงรฃo. Houve quem tomasse o texto como uma peรงa de humor negro, outros enxergaram apenas mau-gosto, mas tambรฉm houve quem, alarmado por tais prediรงรตes, levasse a conversa de Ariel a sรฉrio. Todo Quixote tem seu prรณprio Sancho, e Phil Glukman, recรฉm-saรญdo de uma adolescรชncia problemรกtica em Little Odessa, logo iria se aproximar do autor da denรบncia. Havia agora duas vozes a alardear a grande tragรฉdia ร vista.
Porรฉm o artigo, que poderia ter ficado restrito ao gueto intelectual judaico, ganhou ressonรขncias quando o repรณrter de um grande jornal doa cidade o descobriu algumas semanas depois durante uma visita ร casa de seus pais, num subรบrbio elegante. Aquilo lhe pareceu um desses achados que fazem a sorte de um jornalista, catapultando-o para degraus mais altos na carreira. Quem quer que fosse, Ariel era um personagem singular.
Valia uma entrevista… Como entrevistado, Ariel foi entrevistado, Ariel foi eloquente, inflamado e- por mais estapafรบrdia que se seja a hipรณtese โ convincente. Ele parecia realmente acreditar no que dizia, anotou o repรณrter, e no domingo seguinte a matรฉria ganhou diversas pรกginas do jornal. Havia ali muito da habitual comรฉdia jornalista, que suas simplificaรงรตes e atribuiรงรตes errรดneas, porรฉm alguรฉm com pouco senso de humor junto ร s autoridades policiais comeรงou a monitorar os passos de Ariel…
Nรฃo foi difรญcil encontrรก-lo. Morava no pequeno apartamento alugado nos confins do Brooklyn….
Como entrevistado, Ariel foi eloquente, articulado, inflamado eโpor mais estapafรบrdia q seja hipรณteseโconvincente. Ele parecia realmente acreditar no que dizia, anotou o repรณrter, e no domingo seguinte matรฉria ganhou diversas pรกginas do jornal. Havia ali muito da habitual comรฉdia jornalรญstica, com suas simplificaรงรตes e atribuiรงรตes errรดneas, porรฉm alguรฉm com pouco senso de humor junto ร s autoridades policiais comeรงou a monitorar os passos de Ariel.
Durante pelo menos dois anos, antes de ser emigrar para Brasil, Ariel, percorreu boa parte do territรณrio americano a denunciar o Holocausto que estava prรณximo. Deixou de ser uma figura algo folclรณrico da comunidade judaica e passou a dar palestras, oferecer palestras, oferecer testemunhos e encabeรงar enormes eventos nos mais diversos lugares. Universidades do Meio-Oeste. A sede de uma milionรกria igreja coreana…Era imitado por atores em programas humorรญsticos. Convertera-se numa personalidade.
Atรฉ que foi preciso fugar. A polรญcia federal nรฃo o deixara em paz…
Doente, cansado de bradar pelo novo fim do povo judeu, com a moral combalida e acreditando realmente que o Brasil, que antes recebera Zweig e outros, realmente poderia ser um porto seguro, refugiu-se na casa de seus pais. Jรก era tarde, contudo. Tendo desistido de se cuidar, logo seu corpo iria se ressentir disso, e Ariel Zamler, โo Quixote de Holocaustoโ, mergulharia em um sono sem fin. Seu pesadelo havia acabado.
Then someone said, seeing that such books constituted my diet, that I could be taken
for a type of Don Quixote
of the Holocaust.
…..
Zamler died, he who had become knownโnot without some irony, it is difficult to observeโas the โDon Quixote of the Holocaust… He let himself die. . .
Zamler โ born in Israel to Brazilian parents who were active in the Zionist movement โ โโgained notoriety even as a graduate student in the United States who delved into an entire bibliography of the Holocaust. Anne Frank, Primo Levi, Victor Klemperer, Aharon Appelfeld, the multitude of diaries, records and letters that testify to the long night of Jewish life in Hitler’s Europe. He came out with both a thesis and an encyclopedia, covering a vast scope….
It was then that it all started. The first article appeared on the pages of a Yiddish newspaper in New York (published in English since the 1970s) … Signed only as โArielโ, its author said, in short, that a new Jewish Holocaust was under way in those days. days, and that it was necessary to denounce it before the first convoys left for the concentration camps. There were those who took the text as a piece of black humor, others saw it as just bad taste, but there were also those who, alarmed by such predictions, took Ariel’s conversation seriously. Every Quixote has his own Sancho, and Phil Gluckman, fresh out of a troubled teen years in Little Odessa, would soon get close to the whistleblower. There were now two voices trumpeting the great tragedy in sight.
Worth an interview…
It wasn’t difficult to find him. He lived in the small, rented apartment in the wilds of Brooklyn….
But the article, which could have been confined to the Jewish intellectual ghetto, gained resonance when a reporter for a major city newspaper discovered it a few weeks later during a visit to his parents’ home in an upscale suburb. It struck him as one of those finds that make a journalist lucky, catapulting him to higher career ladders.
Whoever he was, Ariel was a singular character. As an interviewee, Ariel was eloquent, articulate, fiery, andโas far-fetched as it may beโconvincing. He seemed to really believe what he was saying, noted the reporter, and the following Sunday, the article made several pages in the newspaper. There was much of the usual journalistic comedy there, with its simplifications and misattributions, but someone with little sense of humor among the police authorities began to monitor Ariel’s steps.
For at least two years, before emigrating to Brazil, Ariel traveled through much of the American territory to denounce the Holocaust that was at hand. He ceased to be something of a folk figure in the Jewish community and started to give lectures, offer lectures, offer testimonies, and head huge events in the most diverse places. Midwest Universities. The headquarters of a millionaire Korean church… He was imitated by actors in comedy programs. He had become a personality.
Until it was necessary to escape. The federal police would not leave him alone…
Sick, tired of crying about the new end of the Jewish people, with shaky morale and truly believing that Brazil, which had previously received Zweig and others, could really be a safe haven, he took refuge. if at your parents’ house. It was too late, however. Having given up on taking care of herself, soon his body would resent it, and Ariel Zamler, โthe Quixote of Holocaustโ, would sink into an endless sleep. Her nightmare was over.
Translation by Stephen A. Sadow
________________________________________
__________________________________
Livros de Leandro Sarmatz/Books by Leandro Sarmatz
Gustavo Efron es Lic. en Ciencias de la Comunicaciรณn (UBA) y Magรญster en Ciencias Sociales c/or. en Educaciรณn (FLACSO). Se especializa en temรกticas de juventud, nuevas tecnologรญas y educaciรณn. Su tesis de maestrรญa fue sobre โLa re-configuraciรณn identitaria de los jรณvenes y su representaciรณn de la Educaciรณn en la pos-modernidad o modernidad tardรญaโ. Es profesor titular de la materia โAdolescencias, Juventudes y Escuelaโ, en la Especializaciรณn en Docencia Secundaria, de la Universidad de Buenos Aires y en el Curso El Rol del Preceptor, Perspectivas de Anรกlisis, de la misma instituciรณn. Es profesor-tutor en la Diplomatura โEducaciรณn, imรกgenes y mediosโ de FLACSO Argentina; y actualmente es responsable de Capacitaciรณn de la Direcciรณn de Jรณvenes y Adultos del Ministerio de Educaciรณn Nacional. Fue creador y director de la Licenciatura en Ciencias de la Comunicaciรณn de la Universidad de Flores (UFLO). Desde 2010, Gustavo Efron es Director del Periรณdico Nueva Siรณn en Buenos Aires. Su primero libro de poesรญa es Hay Un Silencio (2023).
Gustavo Efron has a degree in Communication Sciences (UBA) and a Master’s in Social Sciences c/or. in Education (FLACSO). He specializes in youth issues, new technologies and education. His master’s thesis was on “The identity reconfiguration of young people and their representation of Education in post-modernity or late modernity.” He is a tenured professor of the subject “Adolescents, Youth and School”, in the Specialization in Secondary Teaching, of the University of Buenos Aires and in the Course “The Role of the Preceptor, Perspectives of Analysis,” of the same institution. He is a professor-tutor in the Diploma plan “Education, images and media” of FLACSO Argentina; and is currently responsible for Training of the Directorate of Youth and Adults of the Ministry of National Education. He was the creator and director of the Bachelor of Communication Sciences at the University of Flores (UFLO). Since 2010, Gustavo Efron is Director of the Nueva Siรณn Newspaper in Buenos Aires. His first book of poetry is Hay Un Silencio (2023).
Lo inabordable
Aunque pueda decir mucho
aunque pretenda comprender
aunque me esfuerce en expresar
aunque logre comunicar
Y aunque el mundo se presente ante mi como transparente,
abierto, integrador...
siempre habrรก significados escurridizos
algo que se escape y se resista a ser traducido
una expresiรณn inabordable
una esencia inclasificable
un pensamiento que desborde los moldes.
Porque el mundo no resiste un sentido รบnico
un objetivo final
una explicaciรณn coherente
una conclusiรณn tranquilizadora
una soluciรณn integral al conflicto.
Y no lloro ni me lamento por ello
mรกs bien brindo y lo reivindico
como el รบnico ejercicio posible de la libertad
como una riqueza sustentada en lo diverso y lo dinรกmico
como una proyecciรณn hacia lo inesperado y lo sorprendente
como un plus insospechado que promete vida
Una vida que supere esta vida.
________________
The Unapproachable
Even if I may talk a lot
even if I try to understand
even if I force myself to speak
even if Iโm successful in communicating
And even if the world shows itself to me as
transparent,
open, ingratiatingโฆ
There will always be slippery meanings
something that escapes and resists translation
an unapproachable expression
an unclassifiable essence
a thought that overflows the mold
Because the world resists one meaning
a final objective
a coherent explanation
a tranquilizing conclusion
an integral solution
I donโt cry about it or lament
rather I raise a toast and vindicate it
as the only possible exercise of liberty
as wealth supported in the diverse and the dynamic
like a projection toward the unexpected and the
surprising
like an unsuspected plus that promises life
A life that surpasses this life.
___________________________________________
Juego
Juego
a que soy diferente
a que la vida no me moldea
a que resisto
a que cambio
a que puedo
a que no abandono las luchas
a que me involucro en algo
a que siento en carne propia
Y no sรฉ los lรญmites de ese juego
los lรญmites entre lo real y lo verosรญmil
entre la postura y lo postulado
entre la autoconciencia y la autoafirmaciรณn
entre la exigencia y la complacencia
simplemente, juego
y en todo juego
como en todo simulacro
detrรกs de la bruma
trasuntan vestigios de verdad
de una verdad escurridiza.
a que siento en carne viva cada infamia
a que me rebelo
a que escapo a lo consolidado
a que invento
a que sueรฑo.
________________________________
I Play
I play
at being different
at life's not molding me
at resisting
at changing
at what I can do
at not giving up the fight
at getting involved
at feeling in my own body
and not knowing the boundaries of the game
the boundaries between the real and what seems real
between posing and the postulate
between self-consciousness and self-affirmation
between exigence and complacency
Simply put, I play
and in every game
as in every simulation
behind the fog
leftovers of the truth
a slippery truth appear.
at feeling in my living body every infamy
at rebelling
at escaping to stability
at inventing
at dreaming.
______________________________________________
Fugacidades
Sรณlo un relรกmpago del mundo me pertenece
las tormentas me son ajenas
tengo el sabor de los frutos
no los dulces que empalagan hasta el exceso.
A veces mi porciรณn es tan generosa
otras tan ridรญcula
y sin embargo es siempre la misma.
Algunas tardes me apropio de una nube
la hago mรญa por un instante y luego la abandono a los vientos.
En ocasiones atrapo una sonrisa furtiva
pero se escapa, no puedo retenerla
y la dejo huir a uno de esos lugares donde respira el vacรญo.
Vengo con mis poemas llenos de sรณrdidos encantos
y de sensaciones agotadas que reaparecen
sรณlo un fugaz suspiro del mundo me pertenece.
____________________________________________
Ephemeralities
Only a lightning bolt from earth belongs to me
storms are foreign
I have a taste for fruits
not the sweet ones that make you sick.
At times my portion is so generous
at others so ridiculous
and none the less always the same.
Some afternoons I take over a cloud
make it mine for an instant and then abandon it to the
winds.
On occasion I trap a furtive smile
but it escapes, I canโt hold on to it
and I let it flee to one of those places where it breathes
emptiness.
I arrive with my poems full of sleazy enchantments
and drained sensations that reappear
only a fleeting whisper of the world belongs to me.
_____________________________________
Canaleta
Entre la locura y la costumbre
entre la magia y el aburrimiento
entre el esplendor y el desamparo
voy construyendo una canaleta
pequeรฑas rendijas donde se cuela el alma.
ยฟcuรกnto hay que llorar para seguir riendo?
ยฟcuรกnto hay que morir para seguir viviendo?
ยฟcuรกnto hay que vivir para seguir muriendo?
______________________________________________
Channel
Magic and boredom
Come between madness and custom
between splendor and abandonment
I keep constructing a channel
small cracks where the soul seeps in.
how much must you cry to go on laughing?
How much must you die to go on living?
How much must you live to go on dying?
__________________________________________
Sentires
Quiero contarte mis colores
esos de adentro
pero mis palabras son vagas
mis tonos son ocres
y el reflejo tan pรกlidoโฆ
Quiero convidarte mis sabores
y no puedo
no me sale
no son esos que siento ahรญ
a la vuelta de las pulsaciones.
Quiero contagiarte mis locuras
pero son tan ridรญculamente mรญas
que sรณlo podrรกn causar tu curiosidad
a lo sumo tu ternura.
Si pudiera mostrarte
aunque sea un horizonte fugaz donde mirarme
mancharte en aquel charco donde se sumergen mis desperdicios
dibujar una mirada que deje ver los claroscuros
y llevarte a la esquina de mis latidos...
Pero no hay colores
no hay sabores ni locuras
ni horizontes ni charcos
ni miradas ni esquinas
sรณlo mis versos y mi almohada
y un tรญmido despertar.
______________________________________
Feelings
I want to tell you my colors
those inside me
but my words are vague
my tones are ochre
and the reflection so paleโฆ
I want to introduce you to my tastes
and I canโt
they donโt emerge from me
they arenโt those that I feel there
on the way to my heartbeats.
I want to infect you with my delusions
but the tastes are so ridiculously mine
they can only engage your curiosity
at most your affection.
If I could show you
Even if it is a quick sightline where you can find me
Stain you in that puddle where my effluent is drowned
To sketch a gaze that lets me see chiaroscuros
And carry you to the street corner of my heartbeatsโฆ
But there are no colors
no tastes no delusions
no horizons no puddles
no views no corners
only my poems and my pillow
and a faint-hearted awakening.
___________________________________________
Ruta desolada
Encontrarse es perderse
es deambular en el humo del contrasentido
perdiendo la comodidad en la contradicciรณn
perdiendo el simulacro en la incongruencia
perdiendo la sobriedad en la frescura
perdiendo la impostura en la ridiculez.
En ese lodo que te ensucia y te deja pegoteado
en esa rรกfaga que sorprende tu cabeza acostumbrada
en ese ruido que perturba tu silencio ausente.
Un encuentro con el desencuentro
con la inmadurez de esa ruta desolada
con la insoportabilidad de esa fiera dormida
que no sabe si algรบn dรญa va a despertar.
_____________________________
Desolate Route
Finding yourself is losing yourself
it is strolling in the smoke of nonsense
losing comfort in contradiction
losing semblance in incongruence
losing sobriety in freshness
losing fraud in absurdity.
In all that defiles you and leaves you held back
in that gust that surprises your ordinary head
In that noise that perturbs your absent silence.
An agreement with a disagreement
with the immaturity of that desolate route
with the unbearable quality of that sleeping beast
that doesnโt know if it will someday awake.
_______________________________________________
Tengo una palabra
Tengo una palabra que ya no dice nada
una palabra que puja
contenida en su propia telaraรฑa
que busca una nueva manera de hablar
sin saber cรณmo.
Una palabra que dibuja el vacรญo
que agota el sentido
y que en ese devenir cansado ya es un enigma
de esos que no se pueden desentraรฑar.
Una palabra que condensa el sonido y el silencio
una y otra vez
que revela tanto como lo que esconde
una palabra sumisa
que flota en el viento con todo su espesor
y sus espinas.
ยฟDรณnde vivirรก esa palabra?
ยฟDรณnde morirรก?
_____________________________________
I Have a Word
I have a word that no longer means anything
a word that entangles
content in its own spiderweb
and looks for a new way to speak
without knowing how.
A word that sketches emptiness
That uses up meaning
and that in becoming tired is already a riddle
of those that cannot be unraveled.
A word that condenses sound and silence
again and again
that reveals as much as it hides
a submissive word
that floats in the wind with all its density
and its thorns.
Where will that word live?
Where will it die?
__________________________________________
Yo no escribo poesรญa
Yo no escribo poesรญa
la poesรญa me escribe a mรญ
me escribe como una respiraciรณn del tiempo
que se revela, y me rebela en su desparpajo y su tozudez.
Crรฉanme, yo no escribo poesรญa
la poesรญa me escribe como una cachetada del mar
como escribe el exabrupto del fuego
siempre a los saltos y en descomposiciรณn.
Y me escribe sin querer escribirme
Y me nombra sin querer nombrarme
Y me mata sin querer matarme
para poder seguir viviendo.
_______________________________________________
I don't write poetry
I don't write poetry
poetry writes to me
writes me like a breath of time
that reveals itself, and rebels in its self-confidence and stubbornness.
Believe me, I don't write poetry.
poetry writes me like a slap from the sea
writes like the outbreak of fire
always jumping and decomposing.
And it writes me without wanting to write me
And it names me without wanting to name me
And it kills me without wanting to kill me
to be able to go on living.
____________________________________________
Hay un silencio
Hay un silencio que me nombra
que me desnuda
que me revela
que me ilumina.
Y es siempre el mismo silencio
un silencio a veces incรณmodo
a veces inhรณspito
a veces acogedor.
Es un silencio que habla de muchos silencios
del alma hurgando en un atardecer
de una mรบsica que ya no puedo recordar
de un aroma que se me escapa
de un viento que se filtra en la ventana.
Un silencio que se esconde de la mirada
y en los ritmos intensos de la palabra furtiva.
___________________________________________
There is a Silence
There is a silence that names me
undresses me
reveals me
illuminates me.
And it is always the same silence
a silence at times uncomfortable
at times inhospitable
at times welcoming.
It is a silence speaking of many silences
of the soul rummaging in a dusk
of music I can no longer remember
of an aroma that escapes me
of a wind that filters through the window.
A silence that hides the gaze
even in the intense rhythms of the furtive word.
_________________________________________________________
Translated from the Spanish by Stephen A. Sadow and J. Kates
De: Cyntha Rimsky. La Puerta en el muro. La novela: Santiago de Chile, Sangrรญa, 2009.
Poco despuรฉs de la dictadura en Chile, una chilena se encuentra en ex Yugoslavia:
La cara interior de la puerta estรก tapiada por una gran bandera de la ex Yugoslavia. En vez de medalla, el hombre pegรณ sobre la tela recortes de periรณdicos. Me dejรณ guiar por la fotografรญa de la reuniรณn en que el traidor sellรณ la paz, la del criminal de guerra con un grupo de soldados, la del bombardeo de Dubrovnik, la fotografรญa de la matanza de civiles en Mostar y la de รฉl mismo, soldado entre los bรกrbaros. El hombre que se comprometiรณ de palabra ante la bandera de Yugoslavia a dar la vida por su paรญs, que creyรณ a su Presidente cuando anunciรณ por cadena nacional que el paรญs estaba en peligro, que luchรณ en el ejรฉrcito serbio, que en medio de una guerra se dio cuenta de que su Presidente habรญa mentido y, en vez de participar en una guerra, estaba participando en un genocidio; el hombre que desertรณ y abandonรณ a sus amigos, muchos de los que murieron en la lรญnea de fuego, me narra los รบltimos aรฑos de su recortes de periรณdicos, la imagen enmarcada de su santo. Todos los dรญas, entre la medianoche y las dos de la tarde, este hombre contempla al hombre que comete traiciรณn.
โHasta la religiรณn cree en el arrepentimientoโ, pienso mirando al santo a los ojos.
El hombre que perdiรณ el honor dos veces, al combatir y al desertar, me enseรฑa las arrugadas palabras del dictamen legal que acusa su cobardรญa. La sentencia a pasar ocho aรฑos en una celda y el dictamen de la junta mรฉdica que atribuye su deserciรณn 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.
–ยฟY pido justicia con la mano que empuรฑรฉ el fusil?
–Podrรญamos arrendar una casa deshabitada en Perast y ofrecer alojamiento a los turistas, o abrir un restaurante que sirva comida y bebida todo el aรฑo, no como hacen aquรญ. –Eres buena para esas cosas. Cuento el hombre que en este viaje aprendรญ 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 plรกsticos.
–Yo puedo hacer esoโreplica sorprendido
โNo es difรญcilโle digo.
–ยฟEstรกs seguro?
–Si es lo que es lo que quiero, podrรฉ hacerlo. ยกY eso quiero! – exclama.
–Tendrรกs que llevar sรณlo lo necesarioโle digo. El hombre contempla la bandera del paรญs que ya no existe, los recortes de periรณdico con las fotografรญas de los asesinos, la imagen enmarcada del santo, los dibujos animados que emiten despuรฉs de las noticias, la jarra con jugo en polvo, los libros de derecho, filosofรญa y รฉtica que no volviรณ a leer desde la guerra. Le hablo de los libros del esposo de Moira, de las estanterรญas del Cafรฉ Literario, del jugo de chirimoyas, del bar de abajo, de las peleas de mi vecina y su esposo, el rรญo Mapocho, del parque Forestal, de mi amiga cuyo hijo se arrojรณ a la lรญnea fรฉrrea despuรฉs 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/Croaciaโฆ.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 cayรณ sobre un monumento histรณrico, una calle, una casa, un cuarto de la casa; si destruyรณ los cimentos, el techo, el techo y los muros o sรณlo los muros. Desde el cuarto del hombre que desertรณ 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 colchรณn.
Split. Estรก lloviendo, no reconozco por quรฉ calles ando. ยฟDiez de Julio, Coquimbo, Maipรบ, San Diego? Al final de un pasaje penumbroso creo distinguir una tienda que vende paรฑuelos bordados, trozos de gรฉnero, vestidos de terciopelo, un abrigo de astracรกn, 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 pastelerรญa. Aspiro el aroma de los bullicios de espinacas, papa y quesillo. Tengo la sensaciรณn de que desde mi llegada una mano me guรญa 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 Repรบblica, en Santiago. La mano invisible me conduce hasta un edificio neoclรกsico de impresionante fachada que confundo con un hospital, que confundo con una oficina pรบblica. Las letras esculpidas me advierten que estoy ante la Facultad de Derecho de Split, donde estudiรณ el hombre junto al que me sentรฉ en el bar de Kotor hasta que abandonรฉ la ciudad por la puerta abierta en el muro. De la escala de mรกrmol paso un espacioso vestรญbulo. 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 dejรฉ en Kotor acudiรณ diariamente antes que lo enviaran a cumplir con su palabra. La escalera que subiรณ y bajรณ, la oscura pieza donde sacรณ fotocopias, los avisos que publican las notas que lo hicieron pasar de curso, la secretaria que no quiso ayudarle a retirar su diploma. Desde aquรญ 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, Sangrรญa, 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.
โEven religion believes in repentance,โ I think, looking at the saintโs 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 doesnโt sleep are not mentioned.
โGo back to work as a lawyer.โ
โAnd I ask for justice with the hand that held the rifle?โ
“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.โ
โYou are good at such things. โ 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.
โI can do that,โ he replies, surprised. โItโs not difficult,โ I tell him.
โAre you sure?โ
โIf thatโs what I want, I will be able to do it. And I want that!โ he exclaims.
โYou will have to carry only what is necessary, โ 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 hasnโt read since the war began. I tell him about Moiraโs husbandโs books, of the shelves in the Literary Cafรฉ, 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 doesnโt need words, only the compassionate caring that provides a faith that I no longer have.
The Frontier: Montenegro/Croatiaโฆ
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, itโs 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. Itโs raining, I donโt recognize the streets where I walk. Diez de Julio, Coquimbo, Maipรบ, 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 oโclock.
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 Repรบblica 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 donโt 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 didnโt want to help him pick up his diploma. From here, itโs 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 didnโt reach it.
