Tag: Jewishlatinamerica

Vicky Nizri — Escritora judío-mexicana/Mexican Jewish writer — “Vida propia”/”Her Own Life”– fragmento de novela sobre el casamiento/excerpt from a novel about marriage

Vicky Nizri

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Soy Vicky Nizri.

Nací en la Ciudad de México en 1954. El arte me ha acompañado a lo largo de mi vida: la palabra escrita, la fotografía, la pintura—y el tango. Mi pasión es la narrativa.

  • Fundé con Gumercinda Camino, La Gramática de la Fantasía (1984), el primer taller en México de cuento infantil, dirigido por Guillermo Samperio.
  • Un Asalto Mayúsculo (VN 1985), cuento para niños, obtuvo el Premio Ezra Jack Keats (Nueva York, 1986). Se encuentra en la biblioteca de la ONU.
  • Publiqué “Antianuncios y Recetario para ser feliz” (revista Comercio) y cuento corto (revistas El Cuento y Cronopio).
  • Participé en los talleres de los escritores Agustín Monsreal, Ricardo Diazmuñoz, Elena Poniatowska, Ricardo Garibay y recientemente José Kozer.
  • Vida Propia (novela, Miguel Ángel Porrúa, 2000) fue finalista en el V Premio Nacional de Novela. La escritora Esther Seligson comentó: “Novela obligada en la mesa de noche de cualquier persona que se considere feminista.”
  • Quién es otro (cuento, El Búho, 2002) obtuvo el primer lugar del Premio Nacional de Literatura y Artes.
  • Publiqué Lilith, la Otra Carta de Dios (narrativa poética, Miguel Ángel Porrúa, 2002).
  • Desde 2010 publico y participo en la edición del San Diego Poetry Annual.
  • Escribí las letras de las canciones infantiles de Las Nubes Panzonas (CD grabado en 2012). La canción “A ti mi lingua florida” (en ladino) fue catalogada en la colección de música sefaradí de la Biblioteca Nacional en Jerusalén.
  • Improbables (Editorial Acapulco, 2017, cuento corto), fue co-autorado con pinturas de Marianela de la Hoz.
  • En este blog, desde 2018, hago entregas mensuales de Harinas de Otro Costal, (minificciones al grano, ediciones En El Horno).
  • Aquí también entrego selecciones de Otros Peligros Circulares (poesía, 2021, por publicar), y antiguos y nuevos textos.

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I am Vicky Nizri.


I was born in Mexico City in 1954. Art has accompanied me throughout my life: the written word, photography, painting — and tango. My passion is narrative.

  • With Gumercinda Camino, I founded La Gramatica de la Fantasía (1984), the first children’s story workshop in Mexico, directed by Guillermo Samperio.
  • Un Asalto Mayúsculo (VN 1985), a children’s story, won the Ezra Jack Keats Award (New York, 1986). It is in the UN library.
  • I published Antianuncios y Recetario para ser Feliz (Comercio magazine) and short story (El Cuento and Cronopio magazines).
  • I participated in the workshops of the writers Agustín Monsreal, Ricardo Diazmuñoz, Elena Poniatowska, Ricardo Garibay and recently José Kozer.
  • Vida Propia (novel, Miguel Ángel Porrúa, 2000) was a finalist in the V National Novel Prize. Writer Esther Seligson commented: “A must-have novel on the nightstand of anyone who considers himself a feminist.”
  • Quién es otro (short story, El Búho, 2002) won first place in the Premio Nacional de Literatura y Artes.
  • I published Lilith, la Otra Carta de Dios (poetic narrative, Miguel Ángel Porrúa, 2002).
  • Since 2010 I have published and participated in the edition of the San Diego Poetry Annual.
  • I wrote the lyrics for the children’s songs of Las Nubes Panzonas (CD recorded in 2012). The song “A ti mi lingua florida” (in Ladino) was cataloged in the Sephardic music collection of the National Library in Jerusalem.
  • Improbables (Editorial Acapulco, 2017, short story), was co-authored with paintings by Marianela de la Hoz.
    In this blog, since 2018, I make monthly deliveries of Harinas de Otro Costal, (mini-fictions to the grain, En El Horno editions).
  • Here I also deliver selections from Otros Peligros Circulares (poetry, 2021, to be published), and old and new texts.

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“Vida propia:

Basada en la vida de Esther Shoenfeld”

por Vicky Nizri

De:/From: Vicky Nizri. Vida propia: Basada en the vida de Esther Shoenfeld. CDMX: Miguel Ángel Porrúa, 2000. Kindle.

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-Ben, kerida, kero charlar con vos.

Enreda sus brazos por mis hombros, me acerca, me toma la mano, suspira, acaricia mi pelo como cuando niña, mis mejillas, suspira. Sin darse cuenta tararea, calladito, por adentro. Me acaricia, suspira:

–Esterika –dice, por fin, luego de una pausa-, el Sr. Komenfeld me demandó la tu mano.

El tono me deja fosil.

–No te uvligo, ¡has be jalila! Yo pensó ke es mazal bono para ti, ma tú dirásh.

Con voz fragmentada, desarticulada toda:

-Pero Papá qué me está usted diciendo.

-Max es hombre trabajador y mucho, muy honrado, ¿acaso no buscas un joven que no demandara dote? Aíde, aí lo tenésh.

-No, papá, por favor, no me haga usted eso. Quiero regresar a casa. No me deje aquí sola, papá, ¿y mis hermanos, mis estudios? ¿y lo que hablamos en el barco?, yo creſ que lo considera.

-Allí, te dio kon esto de studiar, ya me perforaste el meoyo; aranka tiralanyas de quekavesa i pone las patchás en la tierra. Ya tengo culpa por prestar oſdos a tanta bobada.

Se me demora el aliento. Por fracción de segundos qued desfallecida. Quiero recurrir a la memoria, esta seca, deshabitada. Mi vida, mi pasado, han desaparecido, no me pertenecen. En ese cascarón hueco no hay nada, no solo retazo pensamiento, ni una palabra brújula. Cuando todo se calla, el silencio vocifera zumbidos perpetuos, ensordece. Estoy ensordecida. La garganta \, calzada de fluidos amargos, asesina las palabras. Quedo muda. Temblando por el miedo de faltarle respeto, logro concentrar un pensamiento, atemorizada lo transmito:

-Mentira, papá, a usted nunca le ha interesado mis cosas. Jamás me ha escuchado, no conoce la más menuda de mis emociones. Usted se conforma con que yo sea igualita a las de mi pueblo. Con eso tiene de sobra.

Guardo silencio.  

Vengo de una raza de mujeres condenadas a movimientos circulares donde no hay lugar para las alas, para el vuelo hacia otros universos. Prohibido avanzar o retroceder la línea marcada. Mujeres dóciles, quietas, obedientes, pero sobre todo inconclusas, dadas a perderse en ellos, a reflejar a la luz de ellas, astros relucientes; mujeres incapaces de apropiarse de nada, ni siquiera de sus pensamientos. Incubradoras de un solo anhelo: ser poseídas, denotadas así, aún más, su condición de esclavas. Mujeres cuyo cometido es llenar y rellenarse las entrañas; hacedoras de hijos, transmisoras del germen.

-No, papá, no me obligue a seguir los pasos de mi madre, de la nona, de las guardianas. Sáleme de estar procesión de sonámbulas.

–Faz komo kerásh – y mi padre se pone serio, ya te lo dije: no te obligo a nada, pero llegando a casa olvídate de la escuela. Es ora de bushkar marido i bash a kontentarse con el mazal ke te tope.

-Papá, usted no comprende, si me deja aquí me muero.

–Pensás kel tu padre ba desharte onde vos akonteshka entuerto? No estás sola, el tío Beny va a ver por ti como si fuera su hija. Alma mía, comprende, yo sé lo que te digo, al lado de Max, nada te va a mankar, vas a tener vida buena y abundante. ¿A kuálo tornar a Temuko, kerida? Pero piénsalo inteligentemente, recuerda que tío Beny y tu padre sólo buscamos tu bien, de otro modo no teníamos por que haber venido hasta México.

Papá me abraza, me besa, cada quien a su cuarto. Arde la garganta de contener la ira. Este destino que me anuncia me naufraga. Quiero hablar con alguien, con mamá. Sentada sobre la cama revivo la mañana de nuestra despedida. La memoria regresa con sorprendentes brillos. Su llanto, su turbación, esa extraña manera en que fue cariñosa, el álbum de fotografías. Ella lo sabía todo, por eso nada me consola al señor Konenfeld como se salda una cabeza de ganado. ¡Qué engaño!, y ese tal señor Konenfeld con su cara de pollo desplumado, también es cómplice de este plan maldito. Pienso también en la conversación con émi padre en el barco: “Pide lo ke te kersh alma mía” y yo confiada que este viaje es un privilegio otorgado por primogenitura. Es una trampa, una astucia urdida por expertos mercaderes. Zurcido invisible. Golpeo y muerdo la almohada, mi piel escupe un sudor envenenado; mi cuerpo una secreción antigua, asiento de añosos caldos. Laten las sienes con fuerza inaudita, los ojos se nublan, quedo ciega. Todo es culpa de esa luna que sangra cada veintiocho días, que me pesa conciencia sierpe; luna hembra, estúpida luna, nos ha embaucado. Ha caído en una treta conocido a fuego manso. Una más de sus maniobras comerciales, timadores de ingenuos. Amabilidades y atenciones cargadas de propósito: una buena venta. Con razón el señor Max no se despega, él es el cliente interesado. Ese hombre recluido en su caparazón de lana gris, estrangulado por la negrura de su luto, al igual de los demás, forma parte del engaño. No puedo creer que algo así me suceda, no quiero; pero esta vaquilla no se va a dejar poner el cencerro así no más. Por qué me tenía que pasar esto, por qué yo. Es un castigo. Claro, no puede ser otra cosa. Así son los designios divinos, basta con desear algo con toda el alma para que suceda lo contrario, bien merecido lo tengo que desearlo tanto, universidad, amor, amigos; por renegar de los rezos y rechazar mi condición femenina, por cuestionarme y cuestionarlos. Sabía muy bien que Dios no pasaría por alto de lo espejo, ha lanzado contra mí su castigo: esa es mi suerte sierpe, no puedo escaparla; estoy vendida. Tal vez, si ofrezco un sacrificio, algo grande a cambio de mi libertad, quizá así, por obra de su merced, quede a salvo del destino. Guardo en el baúl la luz de tanto sueño inútil, hasta el último pespunte de anhelos malogrados. Esa luz conformada de recuerdos, de nostalgias, de ojos y bocas y manos y gargantas. Queda “El Porvenir” en el pasado, confitado “Porvenir” flotando en la periferia de mi pueblo, de mi casa de mi niñez clara.

Me paro frente a la ventana, miro hacia arriba, una extraña decanta:

-Eres Tú, Dios, el responsable de lo que me ha sucedido. Tú les enseñaste a vender mujeres, es Tu ley la que obedecen estos hombres disfrazados de justos, pueblo de elegidos, ¿elegidos?, si acaso ellos, lo dudo. ¡Tú me vendiste! Entonces ésta era la sorpresa que me aguardaba, para eso triné en las mañanas nuevos cantos, ¿En qué momento se nos escurren las cosas, leche tibia entre las manos?, adónde se van los sueños que se pierden?

¿Vas a castigarme por irreverente? ¿Qué vas a hacerme ahora?, ¿desmenuzar mi cuerpo con polilla?, ¿dejarme ciega, muda? Anda, ¡hazlo! Que de nada me han servido ni los ojos ni mi boca. No me importa. Me has expulsado ya tantas veces del paraíso: soy Eva, serpiente en quien recae el dolor de la raza humana, y Edith, la curiosa piedra salada. Jamás escuché que Adán haya recibido castigo alguno por méritos propios; o que a Lot le hayas hecho algo cuando ofreció a sus hijas vírgenes, inocentes. ¿Qué leyes rigen este pueblo de elegidos? ¿Qué va a pasarme da mí? Dios mío, por el amor de Dios no me hagas esto.

Dejo de temblar, me paro firme, el dolor se ha transformado en una extraña sensación de triunfo.

-Así que se trata de un negocio entre hombres y no tengo escapatoria; muy bien, no te olvides que yo también sé negociar, y voy a ver por mis conveniencias. Al buen sol hay que abrirle la puerta y el señor Konenfeld es una magnífica oportunidad. ¿No es cierto, Dios?

Los sentimientos dan cauce a las palabras y puedo continuar mi diálogo más diáfano.

-¿Tal vez has olvidad la clase de futuro que me espera en Temuco? ¿Ignoras que sin dote me casarán con el primero que se asome?, con un tonto que me llenará de hijos y me encarcelará en la pequeña existencia de mi pequeño pueblo. ¿Ignoras que a los diecinueve años ya no soy una moza y pronto me convertiré en vergüenza para mis padres, un peso? Yo también voy a sacar provecho de las oportunidades, Dios. Si no me subo en este tren, acabaré siendo una infeliz solterona dedicada a labores sin provecho y sin mañana.

Cierro los ojos con fuerza y deseo que la furia de Dios azote sobre mí y corte de golpe la pena.

Abro la ventana, un olor azul de diciembre me lastima, miro al cielo, hay tránsito de nubes, chocan unas contra otras:

– ¿Te olvida, Dios, ¿del trabajo que papá y mamá todavía tienen por delante con sus siete hijos?, siete escuelas, dotes, matrimonios que negociar. Después de todo, no amo tanto mi tierra no los bosques, ni también la escarcha no los volcanes ni el viento helado, ni tampoco me hace falta el silencio de praderas. Mejor si ya no me asoma a la nieve a mi ventana y mis hermanos no arrebatan mi pan y mamá no me obliga a las interminables faenas de la casa,

Con la tristeza vuelve el llanto. Trato de convencerme:

No es un castigo, no es un castigo. Quedo en México por mi propio bien, por mi propio bien. Soy malazuda, malazuda, malazuda. Lo repito tantas veces como las fuerzas la permiten. Sólo así logro aplacar la rabia. Comprendo que no hay otro camino, que se acabarán por siempre las carencias, que ahora estaré en posición de ayudar a mi familia. Sí, ésta es mi oportunidad. Casada con un hombre rico aseguraré beneficios incalculables; una entradita mensual, un negocio, dotes, buenos partidos para mis hermanas. Con el apoyo de tío Beny y de Max sacaré a papá de pobre. Casada con un hombre prominente y educado, me educaré, conoceré el mundo. Qué importa si el señor Konenfeld es callado, si viste de oscuro y nunca sonríe. Cambiará con los años, espero. A su lado habrá abundancia, nada nos faltará nada.

Anestesiada por la ilusión, atraída como insecto alrededor de un foco que deslumbra, me entristece reconocer que en mi boda no estarán mi familia ni amigos, la fiesta será linda, no lo dudo, pero sin los míos, los míos. Buenos, no se puede todo en esta vida, les mandaré por correo las fotos; ya me imagino la cara que pondrá Susana Alaballi cuando las vea; se dotará de envidia. En poco tiempo visitaré mi pueblo, convertida en Doña Esther Negrín de Konenfeld. Con ese pensamiento me introduzco en la cama. Caigo, caigo profunda en el encandilamiento del sueño.

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Temuco, Chile en la época de la novela/Temuco, Chile at the time of the novel

Colonia Roma, Ciudad México, en la época de la novela/Colonia Roma, Mexico City, at the time of the novel

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“Vida propia: Basada en la vida de Esther Shoenfeld”

By

Vicky Nizri

X, I

-Ben, kerida, kero charlar con vos.

He puts his arms over my shoulder, approaches me, takes my hand, sighs, caresses my hair as when I was a little girl, my cheeks, he sighs. Without realizing it, he hums, very quietly, inside. He caresses me, sighs.

–Esterika, he says, finally, after a pause, “

el Sr. Komenfeld me demandó la tu mano.

His tone left me like a fossil.

-No te uvligo, ¡has be jalila! Yo pensó ke es mazal bono para ti, ma tú dirásh.

With a fragmented voice, everything in bits:

-But Papa, what are you saying to me?

-Max is a hard-working man and very, very honorable. ¿Were you looking for a man who wouldn’t ask for a dowry? Aíde, aí lo tenésh.

-No, papa, please don’t do that to me I want to go home. Don’t leave me here alone, And what about my brothers and sisters, my studies? And what we talked about in the ship? I believed that you were considering them?

-Allí, te dio kon esto de studiar, ya me perforaste el meoyo; aranka tiralanyas de quekavesa i pone las patchás en la tierra. It’s my fault for listening to such nonsense.

My breath slows, For a fraction of a second. I felt feel faint. My life, my past have disappeared. They don’t belong to me. In this empty shell, there is nothing, not even a bit of thought nor a guiding word. When everything quiets down, the silence shouts out unending buzzing; it is deafening. I am deaf. My throat, full of bitter fluid, murders the words. I remain mute. Trembling in fear of showing him a lack of respect, I succeed in composing a thought, terrified, I say it:

-That’s a lie, papa. You have never been interested in my things. You have never listened to me. You don’t know the smallest bit of my emotions. You think that I am the same as the others in my town. That’s more than enough for you.

I am silent.

I come from a race of women condemned to circular movements where there is no place for wings, for the flight toward other universes. Prohibited to advance or pull back from the marked line. Docile, quiet, obedient women, but above all incomplete, given to lose themselves, to reflect their light, shining stars: women uncapable of taking advantage of anything, not even their thought, incubators of only one wish: to be possessed, denoted so, even more, their condition as slaves. Women whose job it is to fill and refill the guts, maker of sons, transmitter of the seed.

–No, papa, don’t forcé me to follow in my mother’s footsteps, of nona, of the gaurdians. Let me out of this procession of sleepwalkers.

–Faz komo kerásh -and my father became serious. -I already told you that I don’t oblige you to do anything, but coming home, forget school.Es ora de bushkar marido i bash a kontentarse con el mazal ke te tope.

-Papa, you don’t understand, I’ll die, if you leave me here.

–Pensás kel tu padre ba desharte onde vos akonteshka entuerto? You aren’t alone. Uncle Beny will watch you as if you were his own daughter. My Soul, understand, I know what I’m saying to you, with Max, nada te va a mankar. You will have a good and abundant life. ¿A kuálo tornar a Temuko, kerida? But think about it intelligently, remember that Uncle Beny and your father are looking out for benefit. We didn’t have another reason to have come to Mexico.

 My breasts beat with intense force, my eyes fog over, I am blind. It is all the fault of that moon that bleeds every twenty-eight days, that weighs on me as a serpent consciousness, female moon, stupid moon, has duped us. It has fallen into a trap, known for docile fire. One more of the commercial maneuvers, trickers of the ingenuous. I can’t believe that something like that is happening to me. Acts of kindness and affection effected for a reason: a good sale. With good reason, Mr. Max didn’t pull away; he is the interested client. That man, shut up in that shell of gray wool, strangle by the blackness of his grief, just like the rest of them, part of the trick. I can’t believe that something like this is happening to me, I don’t want it, but on this little cow will not put on the cowbell, just like that. Why does this have to happen to me. Why me? It’s a punishment. Of course, it can’t be anything else. It’s God’s will, enough about desiring something with all your soul so that the opposite happen, well-deserved, I want it all so much: university, love, amigos, to renege on the prayers and reject my feminine condition. I know very well that God would not ignore what happened with the mirror. He has thrown toward me his punishment. That is my severe punishment. I can’ escape it; I am sold. Perhaps, if I offer a sacrifice, something great in exchange for my freedom, perhaps then, through the work of your mercy, I will be safe from fate. I keep in the trunk the light of so much useless dream, until the last stitch of failed desires. That light made up of memories, nostalgia, eyes and mouths and hands and throats. “El Porvenir” remains in the past, a preserved “Future” floating on the periphery of my town, of my clear childhood home.

I stand in front of the window, look up, a strange decantation:

-You, God, are responsible for what has happened to me. You taught them to sell women, it is Your law that these men obey, disguised as just, a people of the chosen, chosen? If anything, I doubt it. You sold me! So this was the surprise that awaited me, for that I trilled new songs in the mornings, At what moment do things slip away from us, warm milk between our hands? Where do the dreams that are lost go? Are you going to punish me for being irreverent? What are you going to do to me now? Shred my body with moths? Leave me blind, mute? Come on, do it! That neither my eyes nor my mouth have been of any use to me. I don’t mind. You have already expelled me from paradise so many times: I am Eve, the serpent on whom the pain of the human race falls, and Edith, the curious salty stone. I have never heard that Adam received any punishment for his own merits; or that you did something to Lot when he offered his virgin, innocent daughters. What laws govern this chosen town? What is going to happen to me? Oh my God, for the love of God don’t do this to me.

I stop shaking, I stand firm, the pain has transformed into a strange sensation of triumph.

-So this is a business between men and I have no escape; very good, don’t forget that I also know how to negotiate, and I’m going to see what suits me best. You have to open the door to the good sun and Mr. Konenfeld is a magnificent opportunity. Isn’t that true, God? Feelings give channel to words and I can continue my clearest dialogue.

-Perhaps you have forgotten the kind of future that awaits me in Temuco? Do you not know that without a dowry they will marry me to the first person who appears? To a fool who will fill me with children and imprison me in the small existence of my small town. Do you not know that at nineteen I am no longer a girl and will soon become an embarrassment to my parents, a burden? I’m also going to take advantage of opportunities, God. If I don’t get on this train, I will end up being an unhappy spinster dedicated to work without profit and without tomorrow.

I close my eyes tightly and wish that the fury of God would strike me and cut off the pain.

I open the window, a blue smell of December hurts me, I look at the sky, there are clouds passing by, they collide against each other:

– Have you forgotten, God, the work that dad and mom still have ahead of them with their seven children? Seven schools, dowries, marriages to negotiate. After all, I don’t love my land so much, not the forests, nor the frost, the volcanoes, nor the icy wind, nor do I need the silence of the meadows. Better if the snow no longer looks out my window and my brothers don’t snatch my bread and mom doesn’t force me to do endless chores around the house.

With sadness the crying returns.

I try to convince myself:

It’s not a punishment, it’s not a punishment. I stay in Mexico for my own good, for my own good. I’m bad, bad, bad. I repeat it as many times as my strength allows. Only in this way can I calm my anger. I understand that there is no other way, that lack will forever end, that now I will be in a position to help my family. Yes, this is my chance. Married to a rich man I will ensure incalculable benefits; a monthly income, a business, dowries, good matches for my sisters. With the support of Uncle Beny and Max I will get dad out of poverty. Married to a prominent and educated man, I will educate myself, I will see the world. What does it matter if Mr. Konenfeld is quiet, if he dresses in dark clothes and never smiles. It will change over the years, I hope. At his side there will be abundance, we will lack nothing.

Anesthetized by the illusion, attracted like an insect around a dazzling spotlight, it saddens me to recognize that my family and friends will not be at my wedding, the party will be nice, I don’t doubt it, but without mine, mine. Well, you can’t do everything in this life, I’ll send you the photos by email; I can already imagine the face that Susana Alaballi will make when she sees them; will be endowed with envy. In a short time I will visit my town, becoming Doña Esther Negrín de Konenfeld. With that thought I get into bed. I fall, I fall deep into the daze of sleep

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Libros de Vicky Nizri/Books by Vicky Nizri

Lilith, la primera esposa de Adán en la poesía judío-latinoamerica/Lilith, Adam’s first wife, in Latin American Jewish Poetry

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El carácter de Lilith ha evolucionado a lo largo de los años. Comenzó como un demonio femenino común en muchas culturas del Medio Oriente, apareciendo en el libro de Isaías, el Talmud de Babilonia y cuencos de encantamiento del antiguo Irak e Irán. Se la describe como una amenaza para los aspectos sexuales y reproductivos de la vida, especialmente el parto. Un texto judío medieval llamado Alfabeto de Ben Sira la describe como la primera esposa de Adán que lo desobedeció a él y a Dios y afirmó su igualdad con Adán, dando un origen legendario a su comportamiento demoníaco. Ella también aparece en la Cabalá como un reflejo maligno del aspecto femenino de Dios junto con Samael. Las feministas judías, aprovechando su afirmación de igualdad, han reclamado a Lilith como símbolo de autonomía, independencia y liberación sexual.

Jewish Women’s Encyclopedia

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Lilith’s 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 Adam’s 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.

Jewish Women’s Encyclopedia

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Poemas/Poems

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Rosita Kalina  – Costa Rica

Rosita Kalina

Lilith

Lil de cabellos de pino

Y aterciopelada túnica

Ropaje del insomnio.

Mitad mujer

Mitad diosa

Divinidad temida

¿Cómo eres Lilith-Istar?

Lil caballera nocturna

Tierra roja de tierra roja.

Engendradora de monstruos

En cóncaves oleajes.

Sólo en ti es real el espejo.

Lil mejillas de luna:

lechuza ciego y vidente

iluminan sus ojeras

las noches embrujadas del exilio

¡Suelta tu undulado pelo

       y emerge, luz-relámpago,

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Lilith

Lil of hairs of pine

And velveted tunic.

Clothing of insomnia.

Half woman.

Half goddess.

Feared divinity.

How is it you are Lilith—Istar?

Lil nocturnal hair,

Red land of read land.

Engenderer of monsters

In concave swells

For you only the mirror is real.

Lil cheeks of moon

Blind and seeing owl.

Illuminate your dark circles under your eyes.

The nights bewitched by exile.

Set free your undulating hair      

and emerge, light-thunderbolt

from your black lagoon.

Translated by Stephen A. Sadow

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Daniel Chirom – Argentina

Daniel Chirom

Lilith

La luna es nueva

y el río ya no es el mismo

pero tus ojos permanecen iguales;

sólo quien viajara hacia el fondo de su mirada

descubriría algo más que el paso del tiempo:

un animal enfurecido contra la jaula del horizonte.

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Lilith

The moon is new

And the river is no longer the same

but your eyes remain unchanged:

only who might travel to the depth of your gaze

would discover something more than the passage of time:

an enraged animal against the jail of the horizon.

Translated by Stephen A. Sadow

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Sara Rifka B’raz Erlich  – Brasil

Sara Riwka B’raz Erlich

Lilith

Eu vi Lilith.

não a Lilith de Borges,

e dos textos midrashicos.

Antes de vê-lá,

intuí a em mim,

nos meus sonhos.

Lilith evocada

não como a Lilith satánica,

tão pouco a que se assemelha a Eva,

submissa, na sombra.

Evas de qualquer tempo,

origem,

cor,

raça,

religião.

Sonhei e vi

Lilith/Eva/Mulher,

a que quer respirar

Vida, Paraíso, Inferno,

sem subserviência

sem subjugação.

Companheira,

Inspirada e inspiradora

esperando a Reparação.

A que não quis repetir a História,

repetir Lilith,

a que desejou e não deixaram  Ser viver

com Adâo.

Evas submersas, sufocadas,

Não libertadas ainda.

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Lilith

I saw Lilith

Not the Lilith of Borges

and nor of the Midrashic texts.

Before I saw her,

I sensed within myself.

in my dreams.

Lilith evoked

not as a satanic Lilith,

neither the one that she resembles Eve,

submissive, in the shadows.

Eves of any time,

origin,

color,

race,

religion.

I dreamt of, and I saw

Lilith/Eve/Woman.

Who wants to breath

Life, Paradise, Hell,

without subservience

without subjugation.

Mate,

Inspired and inspiring,

awaiting reparation.

Who doesn’t want to repeat History.

who wished and wasn’t allowed To be to live

with Adam.

Eves submerged, suffocated,

Still not liberated.

Translated Stephen A. Saoow with Regina Igel

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Becky Rubinstein F. – México

Becky Rubinstein F.

El vientre de Pandora

A todas las Evas

VI

Lilith brota cual serpiente,
le brotaron alas de muerte en su afán de sellar
con un beso de muerte
los bostezos de los hijos de Eva,
aún con restos de leche en los labios.
No hay quien vuele como Lilith,
amante de Samael, ángel caído.
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:
¿quién es la más poderosa?
Espejo Espejito:
¿Quién 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 más de la cuenta
hay que silenciarlos con la huida o con la muerte.

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Pandora’s 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

it’s necessary silence them with fleeing or with death.

Translated by Stephen a Sadow

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Elina Wechsler – Argentina*

Lilith, primera compañera de Adán

Una suerte de fijeza al árbol genealógico,
a los muertos,
invita en ocasiones a perderse
en la Boca de los Siglos.
Como un sapo irreverente a la orilla del río,
como el imán que me lleva a tu cuerpo y a tu oído.
Si Eva no fue la primera
qué desorden de la letra,
qué traspié en el poder del jeroglífico.
Una suerte de fijeza,
Gioconda mirando al infinito.
Una madre será por todas las madres,
Eva robará las tentaciones de Lilith,
las suyas,
por un pequeño error bíblico.

_____________________________

Lilith, Adam’s 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 wasn’t 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 Lilith’s 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 profesión. Abandonó Argentina en 1977 como consecuencia de la dictadura militar que desató una extrema represión política y violencia y fijó su residencia en Madrid. Wechsler es autor de cuatro poemarios: El fantasma (1983), La larga marcha (1988), Mitomanías amorosas (1991) y Progresiones en un cierto mes de julio (1995)

_________________

*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), Mitomanías amorosas (1991), and Progresiones en un cierto mes de julio (1995).

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Nora Glickman — Cuentista judío-argentina-norteamericana/Argentine American Short-story Writer–“Casi un shiduj”/Almost a shidduch”–Un cuento de una casamentera moderna/A story of a modern marriage broker

Nora Glickman

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Nora Glickman es profesora emérita de Literatura Hispánica en Queens College y en el Graduate Center, CUNY. Su obra crítica incluye “Regeneración” de Leib Malach y la trata de blancas, The Jewish White Slave Trade: The Case of Raquel Liberman, El inglés en el teatro y el cine rioplatense, y los cuentos, Puerta entre abierta; Mujeres, memorias, malogros; Uno de sus Juanes; Hilván de instantes. Varias de sus obras están reunidas en el Teatro de Nora Glickman y en su antología bilingüe. De Suburban News recibió el Premio Jerome para jóvenes dramaturgos en 1990. Dos Charlottes aparece en Dramaturgas en la escena del mundo. Es co-editora de las Publicaciones de la Asociación de Estudios Judíos Latinoamericanos y de Enclave: Revista de Creación Literaria en Español. Entre 1998 y 2010 fue editora asociada de Modern Jewish Studies/Yiddish. Se desempeña como editora de reseñas 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 “Regeneración” de Leib Malach y la trata de blancas, The Jewish White Slave Trade: The Case of Raquel Liberman, El inglés en el teatro y el cine rioplatense, and the short stories, Puerta entre abierta; Mujeres, memorias, malogros; Uno de sus Juanes; Hilván 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 Creación Literaria en Español. 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. Hilván de instantes. Santiago de Chile: RIL Editores, 2015.

Casi un Shiduj

DE HABERL0 SABIDO… hubiera sido el shiduj perfecto. Lo digo yo, que sé de shidujim. Veo un hombre solo, culto, refinado. Y enseguida pienso en alguna mujer sola, culta, refinada, con algún pequeño vicio que mantendrá, como él, discretamente guardado. Los conecto; juntos se encontrarán bien: armonizan en su estilo de vida, se mueven en un mismo ambiente. Dos almas en armonía.

       Ellos podrán insistir, si quieren, que están 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 mí, que unidos oficialmente como pareja casada, tendrán más oportunidades. Separados, digo, no saben lo que se pierden; la voz de ella desde el aeropuerto para tranquilizarlo, avisándole que ya está de vuelta a casa; un comentario gracioso de él, que ella le celebre, aunque lo haya oído antes más de una vez.

       De todos modos, los junto sin que nadie los pida. Instinto de shadjente, digo yo, Manía de casamentera. A veces, claro, me equivoco, como con Ema y Julio, la pareja perfecta. El pelo caprichosamente rizado de ambos, el de Ema más clara y sedoso; la mirada pícara de Julio, que ella festeja a cada paso. Los dos aficionados de la música clásica, los dos locos por el cine y por hacer largas caminatas en la costanera. ¿Quién hubiera podido adivinar que eran, en efecto, hermanos sanguíneos, distanciados al nacer? Eso era digno de una telenovela. Cleopatra, o Calígula, de enterarse que tenían 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. ¡Qué fracaso, mi último intento! Cuando a Richler lo abandonó su esposa por otra mujer, convinimos que, en las primeras semanas, no lo agobiaríamos con llamadas, pero que Beatriz se ocuparía por él para aliviar su depresión, tal vez su vergüenza, porque Richler no podía comprender lo que le había pasado. Mientras tanto yo le iba preparando candidatas para cuando se sintiera repuesto. Luego de treinta y cinco años de casado, Richler no sabía arreglárselas solo. Ese primer año le costó mucha salud, física y mental: una pulmonía lo dejó postrado por semanas enteras. Su cuñada lo atendió en el hospital, y sus hijos, solteros que vivían cerca de su casa, lo visitaban seguido.  

       Nos alarmó verlo cuando al comenzar el semestre Richler llegó a la universidad desaliñado y más encorvado que nunca. Pobre Richler. Para reanimarlo, Beatriz y yo, y sus colegas, le planeamos una dieta macrobiótica y caminatas vigorosas en el parque. Lo invitamos a ver una obra de Calderón de la Barca que él había enseñado durante varios años. Aunque la representación era de aficionados, a él le pareció muy educativa. Luego de notar los olvidos y las pausas innecesarias de algunos actores, aprovechó la ocasión para opinar con elocuencia sobre la intención del dramaturgo y la interpretación desmesurada del director de la obra. Richler salió entusiasmado del espectáculo, así que cuando nos despedimos en la estación del subte, nos prometió que la próxima vez, él nos llevaría a ver <<Il Travatore>>. Aceptamos encantadas.

       Aunque últimamente Beatriz estaba más y más ocupada con David, un novio antipático que la tenía dominada, y no tenía tiempo para Richler. Yo pasé un par de meses fuera de Nueva York, por lo que tuve que interrumpir la rutina de llamarlo cada semana. A mi regreso, me encontré con una invitación de Tita, para celebrar en su casa la jubilación de Richler, y también su compromiso, el martes 14 de octubre. Me quedé pasmada.

       –¿Cómo tan pronto? ¿Cuándo decidió jubilarse? ¿Y con quién se compromete?

       –Con una maestra dominicana de Arizona, amiga de su cuñada. En un mes se casan y se van a vivir a Phoenix—me explicó Beatriz.

       Para un judío gringo—neoyorquino—de sesenta y cinco años, 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 todavía nos condolíamos el estado miserable de Richler, él había conseguido rehacer su vida. Solito, sin nuestra ayuda, había encontrado a su pareja: <<Entonces—nos dijimos,–misión cumplida>>.

       Para la fiesta de Rita me toca llevar a varios colegas en el auto. Raquel viene también. Se sienta adelante conmigo, así podemos conversar. No nos vemos desde hace más de quince años cuando Raquel dejó de enseñar en la secundaria para hacerse cargo de una biblioteca en Bronxville. El cambio le favorece; Raquel había perdido peso y se ve más sofisticada. Sabía que Richler se jubilaba, pero solo ahora, camino a New Jersey, viene a enterarse de su compromiso.

       –¿Qué estás diciendo? —me susurra, incrédula–. ¿Acaso Richler no está casado y tiene dos hijos?

       –Estaba casado, pero hace meses que está solo. Su hijo menor vive en el dormitorio de la universidad, y el mayor consiguió empleo en Boston. ¿Pero cómo no enteraste, Raquel, que su mujer lo abandonó, y él se pescó una pulmonía, y que Beatriz y yo lo ayudamos a reponerse?

       Raquel esconde la cara bajo la solapa de su saco para ocultar su reacción, Suspira como si le faltaba aire; le salió un hipo entrecortado. Sin duda quiere hacerme más preguntas y no sabe por dónde empezar. Menea lentamente la cabeza como si pasara lista de lo que ella había estado en el interín, mientras Richler se enamoraba de la dominicana y decidía dar el gran paso. Me duele ver a Raquel sufrir así, y también me fastidiaba. Pero, en fin, ya es demasiado tarde para cambiar las cosas.

       –Simplemente, Raquel, se me pasó por alto. Mil perdones.

       ¡Qué imbécil fui! ¿Cómo pude olvidarme durante todo este tiempo del gran metejón que Raquel había sentido por Richler cuando las dos estudiábamos juntas en la universidad? Nos leíamos las cartas apasionadas que escribíamos a amantes ficticios y reales y nos reíamos para cubrir el rubor de comportarnos como colegiales pavotas.

       Por lo visto, el amor de Raquel por Richler duró mucho más de la cuenta. En esos días fantaseaba con raptarlo; planeaba formas de alejarlo de su mujer, de seducirlo con su profundo conocimiento de Calderón, y con otras estratagemas para que me llegaron a parecer tediosas. Y Richler, naturalmente, inmerso en sus teorías y dedicado a su materia, nunca sospechó 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. ¡¿Cómo no me avistaste al instante?!—y más bajita todavía agrega–: Lo siento como una traición.

       –Te juro que con tanto trajín se me olvidó, Raquelita. Como Beatriz fue la primera en ayudarlo salir de su crisis, en parte me despreocupé del asunto, ¿comprendes? Claro, de haberme acordado te habría llamado, no me quepa la menor duda, pero no me acordé. Lo siento.

–¿Tuvo algo con Beatriz?


       –Que yo sepa, nada. ¡No! ¡Qué ocurrencia la tuya, si Beatriz está loca por David, ese novio tan creído que la tiene atrapada!

       –Contigo tampoco, supongo…

       –¡Por Dios, Raquel! Lo quiero como a un tío.

       El viaje a New Jersey se me hace interminable. De cuando en cuando los pasajeros de atrás nos interrumpen para darnos nuevas instrucciones para el camino, y enseguida resumen su charla animosa sobre las próximas elecciones.

       –Por favor, Teresa, déjame bajar en la próxima salida. No quiero ir a la fiesta.

       No te pongas melodramática, Raquel, y cálmate. En New Jersey no hay más que carreteras para autos y camiones. El servicio público no funciona por acá y estamos demasiado lejos de todo para que busques un taxi.

       Le paso la botellita de colonia que guardo en la gaveta, con mi cosmética.

       –Échate unas gotas encima. Es muy suave. Te sentirás mejor.

       Por las dudas, aseguro las puertas y aminoro la marcha. Los de atrás viajan apretados, seguramente incómodos pero contentos de poder reponerse del largo intervalo sin haberse visto. Ahora discuten la huelga universitaria:

       –La harán durante la primavera, como siempre, así vale la pena interrumpir las clases y echarse a dormir sobre el césped.

       –Pero tú, Ricardo, serás el que toca la alarma, y todos saldremos echando la culpa a algún estudiante díscolo… jajajá…

       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 baño. La sigo y al rato llamo a la puerta.

       –Déjame en paz, Tere. No me siento bien.

       Se demora más de media hora. Por fin sale con los ojos hinchados y demasiado maquillada. No entra el salón 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 mí me previene:

       Cuidadito, Tere, con abrir la boca.

       Me siento culpable y traicionera, como ella quiere que me sienta,

       –¿Me perdonas, Raquel? Quién sabe si Richler te habría atraído todavía, después de tanto tiempo. Se ve muy ajado, ¿sabes? Supongo que estos días estarás saliendo con gente mucho más joven que él.

Cuanto más hablo, más la empeoro. Mejor me callo. Raquel sabe y yo sé 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 pedanterías, lo hubiera llamado desde el aeropuerto tan solo para oír su voz, de regreso de una conferencia… ¡De haberlo previsto!

       A la vuelta de la fiesta llamo a Raquel varias veces. Su máquina contestadora repite siempre lo mismo: <<Disculpe, no puedo atenderle en este momento>>. Pero no dice lo que temo oír: <<Me estoy cortando las venas; esto metiendo la cabeza en el horno; me estoy tragando el frasco de somníferos>>. 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 está en Nueva York y no sé a quién más recurrir. Consigo el número del super de su edificio, pero este me dice que si no contesta es que no está en casa y se niega a forzar la puerta. Se me ocurre que debería avisar a la policía para cerciorarme de que todo está en orden.

       A la mañana siguiente Raquel devuelve mis llamadas.

       –Acabo de llegar a casa… Lamento que te hayas preocupado tanto por mí. Me fui a casa de Ben, mi novio, por unos días.

       –Disculpa, Raquel…, como te había afectado tanto, temí que…

       –¡Que me iba a suicidar por una infatuación tan antigua! ¡Que iba a hacer una escena de película! ¡Vamos, Tere! ¿No comentaste nada en la fiesta, verdad? Dime que no dijiste nada.

       –Te lo juro. Nadie se enteró. Tuviste una simple jaqueca decimonónica. De haberte visto, Richler te hubiera comparado con una heroína de Echegaray. ¡Ah¡, casi me olvido. Me recordó que fuiste una de sus mejores estudiantes; te envía un gran abrazo y me pide que le escribas.

       –Gracias, pero no, gracias… Y no se toque más el tema. ¿Estamos?

       –Estamos.

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Almost a Shiduch

IF I HAD KNOWN …it 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 don’t 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 don’t 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 shadchente’s instinct, I say. A Matchmaker’s mania. Sometimes, or course, when I make a mistake, as with Emma and Julio, the perfect couple. The hair capriciously curly hair of both, Emma’s lighter and silkier; Julio’s 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 don’t 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 couldn’t 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 didn’t 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 Calderón 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 playwright’s intentions and the overblown interpretation of the work’s director. Richler left the show excited, so that when we said goodbye at the subway station, he promised to take us to see “Il Travatore.” Delighted, we agreed.

Although lately Beatriz was more and more occupied with David, a disagreeable boyfriend who dominated her. She didn’t 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 Richler’s retirement, and also, his engagement for Tuesday, October 14. I was shocked.

      “Why so quickly? When did he decide to retire? And with whom is he engaged?”

       “With 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,” Beatriz explained to me.

For a Jewish gringo—a New Yorker—sixty-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 Richler’s asthma. The two of us and Beatriz commented on the fact, that while we still felt sorry for Richler’s miserable state, he had been able to remake his life. By himself. Without our help, he had found his mate. “Then,” we said to each other, “mission accomplished.”

  For Rita’s 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 haven’t 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.

“What are you saying?” she whispers to me, incredulous.” “Isn’t Richler married with two children?”

       “He 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 didn’t know, Raquel, that his wife left him, that he caught pneumonia, and that Beatriz and I helped him recover?”

       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 doesn’t 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.

       “Simply put, Raquel, I didn’t think of it. I’m so sorry.”

       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, Raquel’s 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 Calderón, 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.

       Raquel’s deep and muffled voice reveals all her rancor:

       “I can’t pardon you, Tere. How could you not have let me know the instant it happened?!” And lower yet, she added, “I feel it as a betrayal.”

       “I 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, I’m absolutely sure, but I didn’t remember. I’m sorry.”

       “Did he have anything going with Beatriz?”

       “As far as I know, nothing! What a notion you’ve come up with, if Beatriz is crazy about David, that boyfriend so conceited that he has her trapped.”

       “With you either, I suppose…”

       “For God’s sake, Raquel! I love him like an uncle.”

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.

       “Please, Teresa, please let me get out at the next exit. I don’t want to go to the party.”

       “Don’t be melodramatic, Raquel, and calm down. In New Jersey, there are only highways for cars and trucks. Rapid transit doesn’t function here, and we are too far from anything for you to try to get a taxi.”

       I passed to her a little bottle of cologne that I keep in the drawer, with my cosmetics.

      “Throw on a few drops. It’s very soft. You’ll feel better.”

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.

       “They will do it in Spring, as always, so it’s worth the trouble to interrupt classes and go to sleep on the grass.”

       “But you, Ricardo, you will be the one to hit the alarm, and we will all go out and blame some unruly student…ha, ha, ha…

       Raquel endured the rest of the trip without saying anything. As soon as we arrive at Rita’s house, Raquel gets out of the car and shuts herself into the bathroom. I follow her and after a while, knock on the door.

       “Leave me in peace, Tere, I don’t feel well.”

She delays for more than a half hour. Finally, she leaves with her eyes swollen and too much makeup. She doesn’t 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 fiancée when they arrive at her house.

       “Be careful, Tere, about opening your mouth.”

       I feel guilty and treacherous, just as she wants me to feel.

       “Do 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 you’re going out with people much younger than he.”

      The more I speak, the more I make things worse. It’s 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 conference… To have foreseen it!

       Returning from the party, I call Raquel several times.

Her answering machine always repeats the same thing” “I’m sorry, I can’t speak to you right now.” But it doesn’t say what I fear to hear: “I’m cutting my veins: I’m putting my head in the oven; I am swallowing a vial of sleeping pills.” Each time, I leave her the same message: “Please, Raquelita, give me a little call so that I won’t worry. I call her from Miami, too far away to go to see her. Beatriz is not in New York, and I don’t know who else to turn to. I obtain the number of the super of her building, but he tells me that if she doesn’t answer, it’s because she’s 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.

       “I just got home…  I’m sorry that you have been so worried about me. I went to Ben, my boyfriend’s house for a few days,

       “I apologize, Raquel…, since it had affected you so, I feared that…”

       “That 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 didn’t say anything at the party, right? Tell me that you didn’t say anything.”

       “I 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.”

       “Thanks, but no thanks… and let’s not mention this topic again. Agreed?”

       “Agreed.”

Translation by Stephen A. Sadow

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Libros de Nora Glickman/Books by Nora Glickman

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Deborah Leipziger–Consultora y poeta brasileña-judaica, vivendo en Estado Unidos/Brazilian Jewish consultant and poet, living in the United States–“Lobo”/”Wolf”and other poems/”Lobo” e outros poema/”Lobo” y otros poemas

Deborah Leipziger

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Deborah Leipziger (Brasil) é poetisa, autora e consultora de sustentabilidade. Ela atualmente reside em Boston, Estados Unidos. É autora da coleção de poemas Flower Map, publicada pela Finishing Line Press (2013). quatro de seus poemas foram indicados ao prêmio Pushcart. Seus poemas foram publicados no Reino Unido, Estados Unidos, Israel, Canadá e Holanda, e em revistas e jornais como Salamander, Lily Poetry Review e POESY. Ela é co-fundadora da Soul-Lit, uma revista online de poesia. E autor de vários livros sobre sustentabilidade e direitos humanos, alguns dos quais traduzidos para chinês, coreano e português. Ela está trabalhando em um projeto sobre “a linguagem da sustentabilidade”, 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, Canadá y los Países Bajos, y en revistas y periódicos como Salamander, Lily Poetry Review y POESY. Es cofundadora de Soul-Lit, una revista virtual de poesía. Y autora de varios libros sobre sostenibilidad y derechos humanos, algunos de los cuales han sido traducidos al chino, coreano y portugués. Está trabajando en un proyecto sobre “el lenguaje de la sostenibilidad”, 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 “the language of sustainability”, where she combines her love for language and nature.

Book on Amazon:Story and Bones

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Deborah Leipziger escreveu seus poemas em inglês/ Deborah Leipziger escribió sus poemas en inglés/Deborah Leipziger wrote her poems in English

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Poetry/Poesia/Poesía

Al português

Lobo

For Paulo Paulino Guajajara, known as “Lobo”, who was a “Guardian of the Amazon”, 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 
____________________________________

Lobo

Escrito em homenagem à Paulo Paulinho Guajajara, que era um “Guardião da Amazônia”, morto por madeireiros ilegais 

Sou sentinela da floresta
da sua copa de estrelas espelhadas
suas borboletas, das luas azuis
dos piriquitos, das bromélias, dos peixes
das raízes das árvores
bebendo do rio.
 
Sou sentinela da selva 
das crianças 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,
porém nunca imaginaria 
que iriam me balear
no rosto,
que deixariam o meu corpo 
na selva. 
 
Agora você
serà a sentinela da selva 
sua copa de estrelas espelhadas
suas borboletas, das luas azuis
dos piriquitos, das bromelias, dos peixes
das raízes das árvores
bebendo do rio.
 
Sou sentinela da selva 
das crianças guajajara.
Protejo a copa da floresta,
os tucanos, os beija flores.
Protejo a mata, suas cobras.
Sou guarda 
dos jaguares se juntando.

Tradução de Deborah Leipziger
_______________________________
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 libélulas se entrelaçam criando o símbolo do infinito. 

Escuto o calor 
levantando os pássaros centzotles 

Você sente a presença das lagartas. 

Você sente a água levantando no ar.  É aqui que a água 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.

Tradução de Deborah Leipziger

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Al español: 

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. 
_____________________________________________________

Escrito en la piel 

En letra cursiva y guion tu beso
está escrito indeleble en la piel 


incluso ahora, el corte de su nacimiento 
que hace eco de la lluvia está escrito en la piel 

Los números de una época de horror
se llevan escritos en la piel 

Así como los anillos registran la edad del árbol 
mis edades y fases están escritas en la piel 

La madera del bosque para el violín 
su eco grabada en la madera, escrito en la piel 

El cordón umbilical enrolladlo alrededor de mi cuello
sigue ahí, pulsante de color púrpura, escrito en la piel 

El pergamino de la historia del sacrificio histórico 
está escrito en pieles, escrito en la piel

En tinta y polvo, sangre y magulladura
mi historia está escrita en la piel 

Las noticas sobre masacres
el colapso y el hambre están escritos en la piel 

Gemas con facetas grabadas por piedra
escondidas en prendas, grabadas en la piel 

Tu caricia en mi lóbulo de la oreja, huellas dactilares en mi rostro 
las palabras y acciones espontáneas, escritas en la piel
                                                          
                                                           Translated by María 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 d’ivorce
hold the light, the dark
of my countries
____________________________________                                                      

Azucarada 

                                                         Después de Safia Elhillo 

Yo estaba hecha de almendras y azúcar 
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 ⠀⠀empezaban 
con ralladura de almendras y azúcar ⠀⠀ recreando el hogar 
con celosías en el mazapán

nací bajo la dictadura    bajo la luz 
de la cruz del sur 
saboreando el azúcar que se disuelve en el coco y    el clavo de     enredado
en el cordón umbilical 

mi madre dijo que     nadie 
me amaría 
como ella lo hizo   ahora yo 
 sé que tenía razón        y no

mis hijas nacieron de pan de jengibre 
bajo el coup d’ivorce  
sostienen la luz, la oscuridad 
de mis países 



                                        Translation by María 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 

__________________________________________
Tú, un bosque

Escucho el refugio de ti

el amplio toldo que acuna el día

y la noche de mí

la luna asomándose en tus ramas

las estrellas cayendo

en la silueta de tu pelo

veo los pies de tu bosque

los dedos, los muslos

lo cóncavo 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 María Del Castillo Sucerquia
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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 dormí dentro del panal

me llamaron las abejas, tarareando, tamborileando 

Me dormí dentro del panal

la colmena viva el canto, el picor
toda la noche las abejas me enseñaron el idioma del polen
el olor del estambre
el zumbido, el rebosante

el sol se levantó dentro del panal

y me desperté dentro del panal el goteo, los sorbos

me desperté dentro del panal con el asombro, el definir

                                                              Translated by María Del Castillo Sucerquia
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The Creation of Turquoise 

it didn’t 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 creación de la turquesa

no sucedió
dirían los ancianos más tarde
por otra parte, rara vez sucede
toda creación es intencional
incluso la destrucción requiere de tiempo
más bien, fue le inexorable
astillamiento del cielo
un grano a la vez
pequeños fragmentos de ruptura, éxtasis
la caricia del cielo a la tierra
ahora, la turquesa
cuenta la historia del cielo y la tierra, aquel impacto

                                                  Translated by María Del Castillo Sucerquia
________________________________________________________________

Blue Fugue

When 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 tornó Azul la habitación
mis venas se tomaron Azul y álgidas
el Azul se volvió una Habitación

los dos Azules se alejaron pronto
yo, un corte abierto
cuando naciste
se tornó Azul la Habitación

con una bata Azul
mi boca es incapaz de formar 
palabras de hielo
el Azul se volvió una Habitación

cuando nací, era Azul
el útero, Azul
un cordón Azul   rodeando mi nuca
cuando naciste se tornó Azul la Habitación

sola
	esperaba
		calentarme
te trajeron de suelto
el Cielo Azul se tornó
el Cielo Azul de Vuelta
                                         Translated by María Del Castillo Sucerquia

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Milton Cohen Henríquez–Novelista judío-panameño/Panamanian Jewish Novelist–“Los cuadernos delirantes de Pedrarias”/ “Pedrarias’ Delirious Notebooks” – fragmento de la novela histórica y mística/excerpt from the historical and mystical novel

Milton Cohen Henríquez

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Licenciado en Derecho y Ciencia Política. Milton C. Henríquez ha sido diputado a la Asamblea Nacional de Panamá, ministro de Gobierno (Interior y Justicia) y embajador ante el Reino de España, entre otros muchos cargos. En diferentes momentos, ha sido consultor o asesor del presidente de la República, del presidente de la Asamblea Nacional y de la presidente de la Corte Suprema de Justicia de Panamá. Ha dirigido revistas, periódicos informativos de radio y de televisión. Ha dirigido y ha asesorado campañas electorales y ha sido profesor en escuela secundaria y en universidades en Panamá y en España. En 2023, participó en la inauguración de la “Brandeis University Initiative on the Jews of the Americas (JOTA)”. Ha publicado varios ensayos Su primera novela Los cuadernos delirantes de Pedrarias .fue publicada en Panamá en 2018.

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Graduate in Law and Political Science, Milton C. Henríquez has been a deputy to the National Assembly of Panama, Minister of Government (Interior and Justice) and ambassador to the Kingdom of Spain, among many other positions. At different times, he has been a consultant or adviser to the President of the Republic, the President of the National Assembly and the President of the Supreme Court of Justice of Panama. He has directed magazines, informative newspapers on radio and television. He has directed and advised electoral campaigns and has been a teacher in secondary schools and in universities in Panama and Spain. In 2023, he participated in the inauguration of the “Brandeis University Initiative on the Jews of the Americas (JOTA).” He has published several essays. His first novel Los Cuadernos delirantes de Pedrarias was published in Panama in 2018.

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Pedro D’Avila — “Pedrarias” Escritor de los cuadernos/Author of the Notebooks

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“Los cuadernos delirantes de Pedrarias”

–¡Pardés!-dijo el jajám HaLevy.

Yo pensé que me dijo “pardiez”. o sea, la exclamación de “¡por Dios!” en español antiguo, pero cuando le pregunté alarmado: ¿Qué insensatez dije?”, soltó una carcajada y respondió:  

–¡Ninguna! Al contrario, acaba usted de toparse con el huerto.  

Ante mi cara de absoluta perplejidad, continuó:   —PaRDéS, en hebreo, significa “huerto”. Pero también se refiere a un método de lectura de los textos sagrados. La palabra se construye con las cuatro consonantes iniciales de las palabras Peshat, Remez, Derash y Sod, y usted lo acaba de aplicar ante la descripción de Pedrarias sobre le ritual del ataúd.   Me pidió que investigara al regresar, qué significaba cada palabra y el método PaRDéS, pero quería continuar la sesión.  

—Como le mencioné, hace unas semanas hemos pasado los Yamim Noraim, y las grandes festividades de Rosh Hashaná y Yom Kipur. No las llaman fiestas porque no son fiestas de Año Nuevo con las que de seguro usted celebra; a lo sumo son comidas festivas o hasta banquetes en Rosh Hashaná, y una cena especial al terminar el ayuno de rezos y recogimiento espiritual, de humilde sometimiento a al Creador y centrado en la misericordia y el perdón.  Yo asentí con respeto para indicar que comprendía.  

–El mes que empieza ahora, de acuerdo con el ciclo agrícola en Israel, se inicia con la plantación de las semillas. Si llevamos esto a un plan espiritual, sería el período de la siembra de los nuevos propósitos que asumimos luego de la introspección y el perdón del mes anterior, en el cual habíamos limpiado el terreno espiritual de las malas hierbas y otros contaminantes a través de la expiación.  

–¿Y qué tan completa es esa limpieza? — pregunté.  

–Tan completo como es capaz un ser humano. Pero quiero hacerle recordar otra peculiaridad de Rosh Jodesh Jeshván que mencioné hace un momento y no sé si fui claro. Esta cabeza del mes ¡es bicéfala! En ese momento pensé: “Esto ya está rayado en lo ridículo”. Pero como el rabino estaba bastante divertido con esto y yo estaba allí buscando entender los delirios de Pedrarias, no me iba a hacer ver como el más racional en ese punto.  

–¿Y qué le quiero decir con esto? Pues bien, como lo mencioné antes, este Rosh Jodesh, o día inicial de nuevo mes, no solo es de dos días ¡sino que empieza en el último día del mes anterior y termina al final del primer día de este mes!   “¡Ahora sí la botaron!”. Pensé, pero seguí escuchando en silencio.   –

-¿Y qué deberíamos entender de esto? Pues nos indica que hay una simbiosis entre el período de limpieza con el de siembra; nos dice que de nada vale lo primero, o sea, limpiar el terreno, si en el nuevo año sembramos las mismas semillas que nos llevaron a pecar el año anterior.   Me miro ca los ojos, fijamente, redujo su intensidad emocional a niveles usuales y señaló de forma muy pausada  

–Siento que antes de poder sembrar nuevos conocimientos en mi mente en su mente y su corazón, mediante el descubrimiento que usted está por hacer, debemos asegurarnos de que esa tierra espiritual sobre la cual van a ser cultivados. Así como las propias semillas de conocimientos que serán insertadas, no contengan impurezas. Considero indispensable, por lo tanto, que usted lleve a cabo una terapia de perdón.  

Me intrigó ese concepto, pero le insistí que yo no era judío ni seguía sus festividades y que nada de eso lo había visto en las Leyes noájidas. El jajám HaLevi sonrió de forma comprensiva y me explicó:  

–Si bien para la época del período de Yanim Noraim que acaba de pasar, yo no pensaba que usted iba a estar espiritual ni intelectualmente en donde está en este momento, tampoco es cierto que no le estoy pidiendo un rito religioso ajeno a sus creencias. Lo que deseo que haga es un proceso místico de depuración espiritual. Este es indispensable para poder recibir, sin hacerse daño, la verdad que es posible para que usted vaya a encontrar en sus investigaciones y meditaciones.     

El rabino HaLevy continuó su argumentación mientras yo trataba de comprender lo que acaba de decir. “¡Entonces sí había algo muy valioso en ese cuaderno viejo!”, me dije, y de una vez me re-enfoque en las palabras del rabino.  

–Mire don Pablo, Kabbalah significa literalmente, el acto de recibir, y no haberse purificado mediante el proceso de del perdón, podría ser peligroso para su alma, porque puede recibir cosas equivocadas o dejar de captar perlas de conocimiento verdadero.  

Cuestioné, todavía un poco dudoso, si esta terapia sería lo últimos antes de entrar la investigación; el jajám HaLevy guardó uno de esos silencios eternos dentro de una mirada fija y penetrante a mis ojos, y luego de unos segundos me preguntó qué pensaba yo. Sonreí con picardía y le dije:  

–De seguro no será lo último. Pero está bien, lo voy a hacer y le pido perdón por mi resistencia; no estoy acostumbrado a no estar en control.   Con una expresión provocadora preguntó el rabino Ha Levy:   –¿Ha pensado usted en ser presidente? Presidente de la República, quise decir.  

–¿Ser presidente?–

-¡Pero si yo los hago!–  

El jajám Ha Levy me clavó una de esas largas e inexpresivas miradas y continuó:

–Como le dije hace un momento Kabbalah es literalmente “recibir”; no se puede recibir en una vasija cerrada. Controlar supone que uno sabe todo, que se cierra a lo demás. Controlando todo no se logra recibir la verdad; solo al liberarse del control del ego es uno capaz de recibirla.  

–Agradezco la explicación y le aseguro que pondré mi mayor esfuerzo en seguir sus instrucciones—dije con total seguridad.  

–Se las daré en su momento, pero antes quiero sugerirle el nombre de la persona que vive entre España y Francia, que podría reunirse con usted mientras esté en Europa para guiarle en proceso de depuración en el que está.   Le confirmé al rabino que me interesaba mucho la idea. 

-Es una dama de familia cristiana, pero es cabalista. Además, aunque es francesa, es experta en es castellano antiguo y en ladino; ha publicado varios libros de estos temas, siendo de mayor impacto uno llamado Rabí Cervantes cabalista. Luchó en la Segunda Guerra Mundial dentro de la Resistencia Francesa contra los nazis; abogó porque España aboliera el Decreto de la Expulsión de 1492 contra los judíos y es una profunda conocedora de la verdad que nos unifica a todos.   El jajám HaLevy me informó que su nombre era Marianne Perrin pero prefería usar su nom de plume: Dominique Queshott. Él ya la había contactado y ella se mostró dispuesta a recibirme, pero estaba perdiendo la vista y le costaba mucho trasladarse. Tendría que ir yo hasta Carboneras en Andalucía o trasladarla y alojarla en Madrid.

Acepté de buen grado y agradecí al rabino por esto. Me advirtió, sin embargo, que no debía abusar de la buena disposición de la señora Perrin no tampoco descuidar a mi esposa y el tiempo de familia. Acordé que así sería.

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“The Delirious Notebooks of Pedrarias”

“Pardés!” said Haham HaLevy. I thought he told me “pardiez”. that is, the exclamation “By God!” in old Spanish, but when I asked him alarmed: What nonsense did I say? ”, he gave a hearty laugh and replied:

–None! On the contrary, you have just come across the orchard.

Before my face of utter perplexity, he continued:

–PaRdéS, in Hebrew, means “orchard”. But it also refers to a method of reading sacred texts. The word is built with the four initial consonants of the words Peshat, Remez, Derash and Sod, and you have just applied it to Pedrarias’ description of the coffin ritual.

He asked me to investigate when I returned, what each word meant and the PaRDéS method, but I wanted to continue the session.

–As I mentioned, a few weeks ago we celebrated the, Yomim HaNaorim and the great festivals of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. They are not called parties because they are not like the New Year’s parties with which you surely celebrate; at most, there are festive meals or even banquets on Rosh Hashanah, and a special dinner at the end of the fast of prayers and spiritual absorption, of humble submission to the Creator and focused on mercy and forgiveness.

I nodded respectfully to indicate that I understood.

–The month that begins now, according to the agricultural cycle in Israel, begins with the planting of the seeds. If we take this to the level of a spiritual plan, it would be the period of planting the new purposes that we assume after the introspection and forgiveness of the previous month, in which we had cleaned through atonement the spiritual terrain of weeds and other contaminants .

–And how complete is that cleaning? — I asked.

–As complete as a human being is capable of. But I want to remind you of another peculiarity of Rosh Chodesh Cheshvan that I mentioned a moment ago and I don’t know if I was clear. This head of the month is two-headed! At that moment I thought: “This is already bordering on ridiculous.” But since the rabbi was quite amused about this point, and I was there seeking to understand Pedrarias’s delusions, I wasn’t going to make myself sound like the more rational on that point.

–And what do I want to say with this? Well, as I mentioned before, this Rosh Chodesh, or beginning day of a new month, is not only two days long, but it begins on the last day of the month before, and ends at the end of the first day of this month!

“Now they really blew it!” I thought, but kept listening in silence.

–And what should we understand from this? Well, it tells us that there is a symbiosis between the cleaning period with the sowing period; It tells us that the first act is worthless, that is, clearing the ground, if in the new year, we sow the same seeds that led us to sin the previous year.

He looked me straight in the eye, reduced his emotional intensity to usual levels and pointed very slowly.

–I feel that before we can sow the new knowledge that is in my mind, into your mind and into your heart, through the discovery that you are about to make, we must make sure of the spiritual soil on which they are going to be cultivated. And also, that the seeds of knowledge that will be planted, do not contain impurities. Therefore, I consider it essential that you carry out a forgiveness therapy.

I was intrigued by that concept, but I insisted that I was not a Jew nor did I follow their festivals, and that I had not seen anything like that in the Noahide Laws. Haham HaLevi smiled sympathetically and explained to me:

–Although at the time of the Yanim Noraim period that just passed I did not think that you were going to be spiritually or intellectually where you are at this moment, I’m not asking you to carry out a religious rite alien to your beliefs. What I want you to do is a mystical process of spiritual cleansing. This is essential for your to be able to receive, without hurting yourself, the truth that for you can find in your investigations and meditations.

Rabbi HaLevy continued his argument while I tried to understand what he just said. “So there was something very valuable in that old notebook!” I said to myself, and then at once I refocused on the rabbi’s words.

–Look Don Pablo, Kabbalah literally means the act of receiving, and not having been purified through the forgiveness process could be dangerous for your soul, because you can receive wrong things or stop capturing pearls of true knowledge.

I questioned, still a little doubtful, if this therapy would be the last step before entering the investigation; the jajam HaLevy kept one of those eternal silences with a fixed and penetrating look at my eyes, and after a few seconds he asked me what I thought. I smiled mischievously and said:

I smiled mischievously and said: –Surely it won’t be the last. But that’s okay, I’m going to do it and I apologize for my resistance; I’m not used to not being in control. With a provocative expression, Rabbi Ha Levy asked: “Have you thought about being president?

President of the Republic,? I wanted to say.

–Be president?

–Yes, have!

Haham Ha Levy gave me one of those long, blank stares and continued:

–As I told you a moment ago, Kabbalah is literally “receive”; it cannot be received by a closed vessel. To control supposes that one knows everything, that one is closed to the rest. by controlling everything, it is not possible to receive the truth; only by freeing oneself from the control of the ego is one able to receive it.

“I appreciate the explanation and I assure you that I will do my best to follow your instructions,” I said confidently.

–I will give them to you at the time, but first I want to suggest the name of the person who lives between Spain and France, who could meet with you while you are in Europe to guide you in your purification process. I confirmed to the rabbi that I was very interested in the idea.

–She is a lady from a Christian family, but she is a Kabbalist. In addition, although she is French, she is an expert in Old Castilian and Ladino; She has published several books on these topics, the one with the most impact being Rabbi Cervantes, Kabbalist. She fought in World War II within the French Resistance against the Nazis; she advocated for Spain to abolish the Expulsion Decree of 1492 against the Jews and is a profound connoisseur of the truth that unifies us all. Haham HaLevy informed me that her name was Marianne Perrin but that she preferred to use her nom de plume: Dominique Queshott. He had already contacted her, and she was willing to meet with me, but she was losing her sight, and it was very difficult for her to travel. I would have to go to Carboneras in Andalusia or move her and lodge her in Madrid. I gladly agreed and thanked the rabbi for this. He warned me, however, not to abuse Mrs. Perrin’s good disposition, nor to neglect my wife and my family time. I agreed that it would be like that.

Translation by Stephen A. Sadow

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Leandro Sarmatz–Escritor e editor brasileiro-judaico/Brazilian Jewish Writer and Editor– “Ariel, Quixote do Holocausto”/”Ariel, Quixote of the Holocausto”– do um conto/Excerpts from a short-Story

Leandro Sarmatz

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Porto-alegrense radicado em São Paulo há quase uma década, Leandro Sarmatz é jornalista e Mestre em Letras. Depois de já ter integrado antologias coletivas, seu primeiro livro de poesias, Logocausto, lançado em 2009, foi recebido pela crítica com elogios. Agora Leandro faz sua estréia 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 década de 20, o autor conta que a cultura judaica sempre foi uma presença importante em sua formação. A mesma cultura que impregnou autores tão diferentes entre si como Kafka e Bashevis Singer, Philip Roth e Aaron Appelfeld, que fazem parte de sua formação de leitor.Dono de “uma sabedoria artística raríssima entre escritores jovens” e de “estilo sóbrio, mas jamais de mera transparência”, como declara o escritor João Gilberto Noll no texto de orelha do livro, Leandro oscila entre o humor sutil, refinado, quase cerebral e uma indissolúvel melancolia.

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Born in Porto Alegre and living in São 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 transparency”, as the writer João Gilberto Noll declares in the text of the ear of the book, Leandro oscillates between subtle, refined, almost cerebral humor and an indissoluble melancholy.

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“Ariel, Quixote do Holocausto”             

Então alguém disse, ao ver que tais livros constituíamA minha dieta, que eu poderia ser

tomado por uma espécie                                 

de Dom Quixote do Holocausto       

…..  

Morreu Zamler, que ficou conhecido—não sem alguma ironia, é custoso observar—como o “Dom Quixote do Holocausto … Deixou-se morrer. . .  

Zamler – nascido em Israel de pais brasileiros que militavam no movimento sionista – ganhou notoriedade ainda quanto era um estudante de pós-graduação nos Estados Unidos que mergulhara em toda uma bibliografia do Holocausto. Anne Frank, Primo Levi, Victor Klemperer, Aharon Appelfeld, a infinidade de diários, registros e cartas que testemunham a longa noite de vida da vida judaica na Europa de Hitler. Saiu-se com uma tese a um só tempo e enciclopédia, cobrindo um vasto escopo….  

Foi então que tudo começou. O primeiro artigo apareceu nas páginas de um velo jornal iídish em Nova York (desde os anos 70 editado em língua inglesa) …Assinado apenas como “Ariel”, seu autor dizia, em suma, que um novo Holocausto judaica estava em curso naqueles dias, e que era preciso denunciá-lo, antes que os primeiros comboios partissem em direção os campos de concentração. Houve quem tomasse o texto como uma peça de humor negro, outros enxergaram apenas mau-gosto, mas também houve quem, alarmado por tais predições, levasse a conversa de Ariel a sério. Todo Quixote tem seu próprio Sancho, e Phil Glukman, recém-saído de uma adolescência problemática em Little Odessa, logo iria se aproximar do autor da denúncia. Havia agora duas vozes a alardear a grande tragédia à vista.  

Porém o artigo, que poderia ter ficado restrito ao gueto intelectual judaico, ganhou ressonâncias quando o repórter de um grande jornal doa cidade o descobriu algumas semanas depois durante uma visita à casa de seus pais, num subúrbio 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 estapafúrdia que se seja a hipótese – convincente. Ele parecia realmente acreditar no que dizia, anotou o repórter, e no domingo seguinte a matéria ganhou diversas páginas do jornal. Havia ali muito da habitual comédia jornalista, que suas simplificações e atribuições errôneas, porém alguém com pouco senso de humor junto às autoridades policiais começou a monitorar os passos de Ariel…  

Não foi difícil encontrá-lo. Morava no pequeno apartamento alugado nos confins do Brooklyn….  

Como entrevistado, Ariel foi eloquente, articulado, inflamado e—por mais estapafúrdia q seja hipótese—convincente. Ele parecia realmente acreditar no que dizia, anotou o repórter, e no domingo seguinte matéria ganhou diversas páginas do jornal. Havia ali muito da habitual comédia jornalística, com suas simplificações e atribuições errôneas, porém alguém com pouco senso de humor junto às autoridades policiais começou a monitorar os passos de Ariel.  

Durante pelo menos dois anos, antes de ser emigrar para Brasil, Ariel, percorreu boa parte do território americano a denunciar o Holocausto que estava próximo. Deixou de ser uma figura algo folclórico da comunidade judaica e passou a dar palestras, oferecer palestras, oferecer testemunhos e encabeçar enormes eventos nos mais diversos lugares. Universidades do Meio-Oeste. A sede de uma milionária igreja coreana…Era imitado por atores em programas humorísticos. Convertera-se numa personalidade.

Até que foi preciso fugar. A polícia federal não 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. Já era tarde, contudo. Tendo desistido de se cuidar, logo seu corpo iria se ressentir disso, e Ariel Zamler, “o Quixote de Holocausto”, mergulharia em um sono sem fin. Seu pesadelo havia acabado.

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      “Ariel, Quixote of the Holocaust” 

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 known—not without some irony, it is difficult to observe—as the “Don Quixote of the Holocaust… He let himself die. . .  

Zamler – born in Israel to Brazilian parents who were active in the Zionist movement – ​​gained 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 “Ariel”, 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, and—as far-fetched as it may be—convincing. 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, “the Quixote of Holocaust”, would sink into an endless sleep. Her nightmare was over.

Translation by Stephen A. Sadow

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Livros de Leandro Sarmatz/Books by Leandro Sarmatz

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