El destacado fue un escritor y ensayista Efraรญm Szmulewicz ampliamente conocido en el รกmbito nacional y la hispanoamericana. Su vida obedeciรณ mรกs que nada al interรฉs de la Secretaria de Relaciones Culturales de Gobierno por promover entre los estudiantes el hรกbito de la buena lectura y tambiรฉn informar acerca del desarrollo literario nacional y sus proyecciones futuras. Szmulewicz es un escritor que avanza con claridad de consagrado y es humanista cabal. Tiene una amplia cultura, de diรกlogo ameno y de una experiencia vital en tratar los problemas que tiene la literatura contemporรกnea, como de las nuevas tรฉcnicas aplicadas para su mejor comprensiรณn… Szmulewicz es un escritor cuyo objetivo no complica las obras y tiene un tono claro y muy personal compostura su sentir. Polaco de nacimiento, de amplias lecturas y una memoria poderosa. Ganรณ el Premio Municipal por su Biografรญa de Pablo Neruda. Escribiรณ biografรญas de Gabriela Mistral y Vicente Huidobro y tambiรฉn de su Diccionario de la literatura chilena. Un hijo judรญo es una de sus cuatro novelas. — adaptado de Federico Tatter
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The distinguished writer and essayist Efraรญm Szmulewicz was a figure widely renowned figure both nationally and throughout the Hispanic American sphere. His life was driven, above all, by the interest of the Governmentโs Secretariat of Cultural Relations in fostering the habit of quality reading among students, as well as in providing insight into the development of national literature and its future trajectory. Szmulewicz is a writer who moves with the assured clarity of an established master, and he is, at heart, a consummate humanist. Possessing a vast breadth of knowledge, he is a delightful conversationalist with a wealth of lived experience in addressing the challenges facing contemporary literatureโincluding the new techniques applied to facilitate its deeper understanding. Szmulewicz is an objective writer who avoids overcomplicating his subjects; his tone is lucid, and his style reflects a deeply personal sensibility. Polish by birth, he is a voracious reader endowed with a powerful memory. He was awarded the Municipal Prize for his biography of Pablo Neruda. He has also authored biographies of Gabriela Mistral and Vicente Huidobro, as well as his Dictionary of Chilean Literature. Un hijo judรญo (A Jewish Son) is one of his four novels. โ Adapted from Federico Tatter
De: Santiago de Chile:ย Empresa Editora Zig-Zag,ย (1940). 192 pp.ย con 6 b/n grabados de Carlos Hermosilla Alvarez. Gracias a Joel y Lilian Rosenthal por su ayuda en esta entrada/192 pp.ย con 6 b/w woodcuts by Carlos Hermosilla Alvarez./Thanks to Joel and Liliana Rosenthal for their help on this post.
JOSEF tenรญa seis aรฑos y dormรญa con su madre. Los compaรฑeros del “Cheider” (1) se burlaban de รฉlโฆ “tan grande y todavia duerme con la mamรก; ยฟserรก porque tiene miedo a las รกnimas?”. Las burlas de liviano humor precedรญan a las criticas hirientes y de mala intenciรณn. Muchas veces el niรฑo tuvo que morderse los puรฑos y apretar los dientes para no llorar, al encontrarse con sus compaรฑeros. Una pelea con Wolf, un niรฑo de siete aรฑos y de la misma escuela, fue uno de los motivos que decidieron el comienzo del aislamiento parcial de Josef.ย ย ย ย ย ย .
Wolf era un chiquillo robusto y vivรญa en el mismo edificio que Josef. Jugaban con botones. Los dos iban aumentando su desagrado por la compaรฑรญa mutua. Habla entre ellos una rivalidad oculta, que se exteriorizaba en diversas ocasiones. Las tareas escritas y orales del hebreo daban generalmente un resultado de empate entre los dos. Wolf llevaba el tercer aรฑo de estudios, mientras que Josef cursaba el segundo. La lectura del Pentateuco con 1108 comentarios de Rashay era el punto รกlgido de la discordia. El profesor trataba de calmar los รกnimos de los muchachos, dando a cada uno una tarea diferente para desarrollar, pero su esfuerzo era inรบtil.
En una tarde calurosa, cuando Josef le iba ganando todos los botones a su rival, รฉste intentรณ hacer trampa, corriendo uno de los botones para que la palma de Josef no alcanzase a abarcarlos. El tramposo fue descubierto por
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(1) Escuela religiosa judรญa, donde los niรฑos se aprenden a leer la Biblia y a rezar, segรบn los dictรกmenes de Moisรฉs
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otro compaรฑero que estaba presente. Se entablรณ una pelea entre los dos jugadores. El rencor acumulado durante mรกs de medio aรฑo se convirtiรณ en una acciรณn directa y decisiva. El combate se prolongรณ por la escalera de la casa de Wolf; y allรญ, รฉste, al ver salir a su padre, empezรณ a pegar con mรกs furia. Josef estaba desesperado. Los golpes que recibiรณ le enfurecieron mรกs. En un momento de inconsciencia se dejรณ caer con los dientes en el muslo del rival. Wolf lanzรณ un grito angustia y le golpeรณ con el otro pie en plena cara. Josef cayรณ de la escalera con las narices y la boca ensangrentadas.ย Acudieron su padre y su hermano.ย El primero, al verle en ese estado, le pegรณ en presencia de su adversario; le tomรณ por una oreja y lo arrastrรณ a la casa. Allรญ. quedรณ arrinconado en el patio, llorando furiosamente con una impotencia que le hacรญa renegar de su padre. Jurรณ vengarse,no tanto por los golpes, sino por la enorme humillaciรณn en que su padre tuvo una parte considerable de culpa. Lasheridas de su amor propio haciรฉndole olvidar las fรญsicas. En este corazรณn tan pequeรฑo se trababa en estos instantes una lucha feroz. De un laido, la niรฑez inconsciente con el estupor de ojos redondeados; del otro, la vergรผenza de la derrota. รl era algo. Ya habรญa sufrido un fracaso. Era el momento de hacerse fuerte para vencer a tanto enemigo. Consideraba que todo el mundo era su enemigo personal y que su misiรณn no consistรญa en aclarar su inocencia, sino en vencer al “enemigo”. Las Ideas se sucedรญan con la rapidez de un rayo. . . “Cuando yo sea grande … ” No sabรญa a ciencia cierta lo que harรญa cuando fuese grande…, “de cualquier modo cobrarรฉ por la derrota … Todos vendrรกn a mi …ย Ademรกs, serรฉ un gran hombre…”
Llegรณ la tia Jaya, trayรฉndole dulces. No aceptรณ ninguno; y cuando ella fue a conversar con los padres, el dolor habla vencido a la soberbia. Josef lloraba ardorosamente y en silencio.
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CAPรTULO TERCERO
PARA Josef todo habรญa cambiado. La preocupaciรณn por sus compaรฑeros se hacรญa mรกs escasa. Frecuentaba el par-que de la ciudad. Las burlas iban disminuyendo a medida que รฉl se despreocupaba de ellas. Su rostro cobrรณ unaย atmรณsfera grave y de preocupaciรณn interior. Seguรญa durmiendo con su madre, pero ya sabรญa que no estรก por miedo a los espรญritus malos ni por ser muy niรฑo, sino porque amaba mucho a su querida “mameshi” (1). Jugaba raramente con botones y al escondite. La madre le daba permiso para salir y รฉl aprovechaba el tiempo. Iba al parque, tratando de no encontrarse con alguno de sus compaรฑeros. Allรญ se ten-dรญa sobre el pasto, de cara al cielo, mirando distraรญdamente a las blancas ovejitas que pastaban por las hierbas azules del firmamento. No siempre habla ovejas; entonces escuchaba el murmullo eterno del rio, que corrรญa a ras de la avenida y por el que, con frecuencia, se deslizaban elรกsticamente botes con parejas o grupos. El agua estaba siempre transparente y tranquila; pero no asรญ el cielo; รฉste se enfurecรญa a veces con una tormenta.
El rรญo hablaba largo. El cielo tenla muchas ovejas e inagotable pasto. El sol desaparecรญa lentamente detrรกs de la barraca de Gotfried y las primeras estrellas le guiaban como para advertirle de la avanzada hora. Llegaba a la casa sin sentir el camino. El padre le reprendรญa por su indisciplina:
– ยฟSon รฉstas horas de llegar a comer? La sopa y las papas estรกn frรญas.
La madre le defendรญa con argumentos un poco humillantes para รฉl. Que era un niรฑo todavia y que necesitaba distraerse. Le molestaba, a ratos, โขesta clase de defensa de parte de su madre; pero se lo perdonaba generosamente. Siempre sucedรญa lo mismo: el padre lo resondraba y la madre lo defendรญa. Por esto รฉl amaba mรกs a su madre que al padre. A รฉste le respetaba y le temรญa. A veces sentรญa un verdadero orgullo por el respeto que le inspiraba. Por cierto, que no se lo daba a entender. La diferencia en los afectos consistรญa en que a su madre la amaba; la amaba con toda franqueza, con todas las atribuciones manifiestas, mientras que al padre lo veneraba ocultamente con una adoraciรณn mรญstica; como los adultos adoran y temen, al mismo tiempo, a Dios, quien resuelve todos los problemas y quien lo sabe todo. El padre de Josef sabia todo; y, mรกs que eso, era convincente y se hacรญa obedecer.
Al acostarse, rezaba la รบltima plegaria del dรญa, y en silencio, rogaba a Jehovah para la salud de sus padres y por la de su hermano. Le imploraba que no mandara el รกngel malo para quitarle los botones y las pelotitas de trapo (tambiรฉn tenรญa una de goma) durante el sueรฑo. Josef supo que todo lo que era de รฉl y lo que e encontraba a su alrededor pertenencia a Jehovah. No recordaba si esto se lo hablan contado o si lo tenรญa en la conciencia antes de nacer. Dios estaba en condiciones de quitarle el rio, los juguetes, las ovejitas del cielo, el profesor y aun sus propios padres. Bastaba un solo aliento de su boca divina.
Jehovah era el gran Dios que habitaba el inmenso terreno azul por donde se paseaban las ovejas blancas. El profesor le habla dicho que eran siete las esferas celestes y que en la รบltima se encontraba la habitaciรณn dorada del Altรญsimo. Adonay, estaba siempre rodeado de una legiรณn de รกngeles. Cada uno de ellos poseรญa seis alas: dos para tapar la vergรผenza, Dos para cubrir la cara, a fin de no perder la vista ante la deslumbrante claridad del espรญritu de รl; y, por รบltimo, dos alas para volar. Rabรญ Jaim (asรญ se llamaba el profesor) enseriaba a los alumnos una cantidad de tarjetas con las imรกgenes de Dios, de los รกngeles y de otras celebridades celestes. Rabรญ Jalm decรญa que Dios era bueno; pero que no se debla abusar de su bondad, pues entonces se transformaba en implacable. Josef tenla mucho el enojo de Jehovah; mรกs que el de su padre. Conocรญa el castigo que le esperaba al faltarle el respeto a รฉste, mientras que la pena del primero no 1a conocรญa. Siempre que el cielo se ponรญafurioso y lanzaba fuego y aguacero, Josef pronunciaba la frase hebrea que debiera servir, segรบn las palabras del maestro, para espantar los truenos y relรกmpagos. Rezaba todos los dรญas las tres plegarias de rigor, fuera de las frases pronunciadas en la cama, antes de dormirse, despuรฉs de las cuales no era permitido hablar mรกs aquel dรญa. En estas รบltimas frases el niรฑo ponla todo su ardor de creyente. Era para implorar que el dรญa siguiente no lo encontrase sin los juguetes. Como era de esperar, el buen Dios no le quitaba las chucherรญas ni el alma que Josef hablaba confiado durante el sueรฑo. Asรญ transcurrieron los dรญas y el muchacho seguรญa creyendo con mรกs fervor en รl repetรญa diariamente las oraciones reglamentarias.
Otra duda representaba su nombre.
Que a รฉl le llamaban Josef, no cabรญa duda; pero no sabรญa si este nombre serรญa siempre suyo, o si de un dรญa a otro se lo cambiarรญan. Era natural que su madre se llamara “madยญre” y su padre, “padre”. Ellos eran grandes y los grandes lo saben y lo comprenden todo. Despuรฉs de varios dรญas de continua preocupaciรณn se atreviรณ a formular la pregunta a su mamรก.
-Por supuesto que si: siempre te llamarรกn del mismo modo. Nunca te cambiarรกn el nombre. Ademรกs, yo no me llamo “madre”. Tengo otro nombre. ยฟNo oyes acaso que las vecinas me llaman Denora? Lo mismo sucede con tu padre; su nombre es David. Somos padres de ustedes y de nadie mรกs. Algรบn serรกs padre y entenderรกs lo que esto significa.
No entendรญa las รบltimas palabras de su madre; pero le bastaban las primeras. Se sentรญa sobre un terreno firme con su nombre propio; era algo asรญ como una personalidad.
Se acostรณ temprano y se durmiรณ pensando en su nombre. El aire se hizo vago y comenzรณ a soรฑar:
Recostado sobre el pasto del parque, miraba hacia el cielo. El rio estaba quieto y los รกrboles cantaban gloria al Altรญsimo. De pronto sintiรณse un ruido y algo anublรณ ligeramente la atmรณsfera. Josef dirigiรณ los ojos hacia el rio. Ante รฉl .se encontraba un hombre vestido de negro y con un enorme cuchillo en una mano. Su rostro estaba cubierto con la misma tela que el cuerpo. Sรณlo se le velan los ojos a travรฉs de dos huecos. Eran profundos y penetraban con agudeza. los contornos de la cara, como tambiรฉn los del cuerpo, eran huesudos. Al hombre le seguรญa una sombra, que no estaba acostada sobre el prado. Andaba detrรกs de รฉl, parada como si fuera otra persona. Josef tratรณ de levantarse, pero no pudo. Una fuerza poderosa 1e sujetaba a la tierra. Apenas consiguiรณ incorporar la cabeza; vio entonces que debajo de รฉl estaba su propia sombra y que รฉsta no le dejaba levantarse. Mientras tanto, el extraรฑo huรฉsped se acercรณ y le hablรณ de ยทesta manera:
-Bienvenido a mi tierra, amigo. Llegaste en hora oportuna. Tendrรฉ el mayor placer en librarte de tu sombra con este cuchillo, pues de otra manera ella continuarรก reteniรฉndote en el suelo toda la vida; pero junto con la sombra perderรกs tu nombre y te llamarรกs “padre”. Aquรญ, en mi reino, todos andamos sin las sombras pegadas a los cuerpos. Ellas nos siguen detrรกs. Si quieres convencerte de mis palabras, llamarรฉ a los mรญos.
Ysin esperar la respuesta de Josef, lanzรณ un silbido agudo y estridente.
De todas partes comenzaron a brotar hombres semejantes a รฉl. El ruido era como las enormes alas. Detrรกs de ellos seguรญa un ejรฉrcito de sombras livianas y transparentes a la luz de la luna.
-ยฟVes?, todos son felices. ยฟNo es verdad? -se dirigiรณ a los suyos.
-ยกSรญรญรญรญรญ!! Se oyรณ un vocerรญo terrible.
Josef tiritaba. Intentรณ gritar, pero no pudo sacar de la garganta mรกs que un sonido sordo. Desesperado veรญa el muchacho el hombre acercรกrsele con su enorme cuchillo en la mano y rodeado de sus amigos. El muchacho movรญa la cabeza derecha a izquierda. No, querรญa que le cortasen la sombra y le quitasen el nombre; pero el otro no le hizo caso y se dispuso a realizar su tarea.
Un sudor de escarcha envolvรญa todo el cuerpo del niรฑo. La madre estaba al lado ide la cama. Josef la abrazรณ apoyando su cabeza en el pecho de ella, y murmurรณ:
–iMadre! -y su cuerpo cayรณ sobre el 1echo.
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“Child is Born Jewish”
(The story takes place in Poland)
Josef was six years old and still slept with his mother. His classmates at the Cheider (1) would mock him: “So big, yet he still sleeps with his mommy? Is it because heโs afraid of ghosts?” These lighthearted taunts soon gave way to hurtful, malicious criticism. Often, upon encountering his classmates, the boy had to bite his fists and clench his teeth to keep from crying. A fight with Wolfโa seven-year-old boy from the same schoolโwas one of the events that marked the beginning of Josefโs partial isolation.
Wolf was a sturdy little boy who lived in the same building as Josef. They used to play games with buttons. As time went on, their mutual dislike for one another grew. A hidden rivalry simmered between them, surfacing on various occasions. Their written and oral Hebrew assignments usually ended in a tie. Wolf was in his third year of studies, while Josef was in his second. Reading the Pentateuchโalong with the commentaries by Rashiโwas the primary flashpoint of their discord. Their teacher tried to calm the boys down by assigning each a different task to complete, but his efforts were in vain.
One sweltering afternoon, just as Josef was winning all of his rivalโs buttons, Wolf tried to cheat by nudging one of the buttons out of place so that Josefโs outstretched palm could not cover them all. The cheater was caught by
(1) A Jewish religious school where children learn to read the Bible and pray, in accordance with the precepts of Moses.
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another classmate who happened to be present. A brawl broke out between the two players. The resentment that had been festering for over six months finally erupted into direct, decisive action. The fight spilled out onto the stairwell of Wolfโs building; there, upon seeing his father emerge, Wolf began to strike with even greater fury. Josef was in despair. The blows he received only fueled his rage. In a moment of blind fury, he threw himself forward and sank his teeth into his opponent’s thigh. Wolf let out a cry of anguish and kicked him squarely in the face with his other foot. Josef tumbled down the stairs, his nose and mouth streaming with blood. His father and brother rushed to his side. The former, upon seeing him in such a state, struck him right there in the presence of his adversary; he grabbed him by the ear and dragged him into the house. There, he was left cornered in the courtyard, weeping furiouslyโa weeping born of a sense of helplessness that made him curse his own father. He vowed revengeโnot so much for the blows themselves, but for the immense humiliation for which his father bore a considerable share of the blame. The wounds to his pride made him forget his physical injuries. Within that small heart, a fierce battle was being waged in those very moments. On one side stood unthinking childhood, with its wide-eyed bewilderment; on the other, the shame of defeat. He was somebody. He had already suffered a failure. Now was the moment to steel himself, to grow strong enough to vanquish so many enemies. He came to view the entire world as his personal foe, and his mission not as proving his innocence, but as defeating the “enemy.” Thoughts flashed through his mind with the speed of lightningโฆ “When I grow upโฆ” He did not know for certain what he would do when he grew upโฆ “but one way or another, I will exact my price for this defeatโฆ Everyone will come to meโฆ And whatโs more, I will be a great manโฆ”
CHAPTER THREE
For Josef, everything had changed. His concern for his schoolmates was waning. He began frequenting the city park. The taunts diminished as he ceased to care about them. His face took on an air of gravity and inner preoccupation. He still slept with his mother, though he now knew that this was not out of fear of evil spirits, nor because he was still a little boy, but simply because he loved his dear “Mameshi” (1) so very much. He rarely played with buttons or at hide-and-seek anymore. His mother gave him permission to go out, and he made the most of the time. He would go to the park, trying to avoid running into any of his schoolmates. There, he would lie stretched out on the grass, face turned toward the sky, gazing absently at the little white sheep grazing amidst the blue grasses of the firmament. There were not always sheep; at such times, he would listen to the eternal murmur of the river, which flowed right alongside the avenueโa river along which boats carrying couples or groups would frequently glide with fluid ease. The water was always transparent and calm; the sky, however, was not; at times, it would rage with a storm.
The river spoke at great length. The sky held many sheep and inexhaustible pastures. The sun would slowly vanish behind Gotfriedโs shed, and the first stars would guide him home, as if to warn him of the late hour. He would arrive at the house without even noticing the journey. His father would scold him for his lack of discipline:
“Is this a proper time to show up for dinner? The soup and potatoes are cold.”
His mother would defend him with arguments that, at times, felt somewhat humiliating to himโinsisting that he was still just a child and needed to find ways to amuse himself. Occasionally, this manner of defense on his motherโs part would irk him; yet he would always forgive her for it with generous affection. It always played out the same way: his father would scold him, and his mother would defend him. For this reason, he loved his mother more than his father. The latter, he respected and feared. At times, he felt a genuine sense of pride in the respect his father inspired. Of course, he never let on. The difference in his affections lay in this: he loved his motherโloved her with utter openness, with all the overt expressions of affectionโwhereas he venerated his father in secret, with a mystical adoration; much as adults simultaneously worship and fear GodโHe who resolves all problems and knows all things. Josefโs father knew everything; and, more than that, he was commanding and ensured he was obeyed.
Upon going to bed, he would recite his final prayer of the day, silently beseeching Jehovah to grant good health to his parents and to his brother. He implored Him not to send the “bad angel” to take away his buttons and his little cloth balls (he had a rubber one, too) while he slept. Josef knew that everything he possessedโand everything that surrounded himโbelonged to Jehovah. He could not recall whether he had been told this, or if the knowledge had been imprinted upon his consciousness even before he was born. God had the power to take away the river, his toys, the little sheep in the sky, his teacher, and even his own parents. A single breath from His divine mouth would suffice.
Jehovah was the great God who dwelt in the immense blue expanse where white sheep roamed. The teacher had told him that there were seven celestial spheres, and that within the last of them lay the golden chamber of the Most High. Adonai was always surrounded by a legion of angels. Each of them possessed six wings: two to conceal their nakedness, two to cover their facesโlest they lose their sight before the dazzling brilliance of His spiritโand, finally, two wings for flight. Rabbi Chaim (for that was the teacherโs name) would show his students a collection of cards bearing images of God, the angels, and other celestial luminaries. Rabbi Chaim taught that God was good, yet one must not take His goodness for granted, for then He would become implacable. Josef feared Jehovahโs wrath deeplyโeven more so than his own fatherโs. He knew the punishment that awaited him should he disrespect the latter, whereas the penalty exacted by the former remained an unknown quantity. Whenever the heavens grew furious, unleashing fire and torrential rain, Josef would recite the Hebrew phrase thatโaccording to his teacherโwas meant to ward off thunder and lightning. He recited the three obligatory prayers every day, in addition to the phrases spoken from his bed just before falling asleepโafter which, no further speech was permitted for the remainder of the day. In these final utterances, the boy poured out the full fervor of his faith. They were meant to implore that the coming day would not find him bereft of his toys. As was to be expected, the good Lord never took away his trinketsโnor the soul that Josef, in his slumber, had entrusted to His care. Thus the days passed, and the boy continued to believe in Him with ever-increasing fervor, reciting his prescribed prayers day after day.
CHAPTER FOUR
Doubts arose quite frequently; yet, because his mother would invariably smile whenever he posed a question, he tended to harbor those doubts within his memory for a very long time. This gave him an air of eternal abstraction. His mother had told him that his questions were naive, but he could not understand why. He meditated upon all thingsโthe stars, the rainโbut above all, he dreamed of solving the problem of knowing the good Lord. Jehovah ought to be more condescending toward obedient children like him. Aunt Jaya had warned him that if he continued to insist on seeing Adonai, she would be able to grant him his wish; however, he must bear in mind that death would follow upon seeing Him, for such was the law. From that moment on, he never asked about God again.
Another doubt was about his name.
That they called him Josef, there was no doubt; but he did not know if this name would always be his, or if it would be changed from one day to the next. It was natural that his mother was called “mother” and his father, “father.” They were grown-ups, and grown-ups know and understand everything. After several days of constant worry, he dared to ask his mother the question.
“Of course,” she said, “they’ll always call you the same thing. They’ll never change your name. Besides, my name isn’t ‘mother.’ I have another name. Don’t you hear the neighbors calling me Denora? The same goes for your father; his name is David. We are your parents and no one else’s. Someday you’ll be a father, and you’ll understand what this means.”
He didn’t understand his mother’s last words, but the first ones were enough. He felt on solid ground with his own name; it was something like a personality.
He went to bed early and fell asleep thinking about his name. The air grew thin, and he began to dream:
Lying on the grass in the park, he gazed up at the sky. The river was still, and the trees sang glory to the Almighty. Suddenly there was a noise, and something slightly clouded the atmosphere. Josef turned his eyes toward the river. Before him stood a man dressed in black, holding an enormous knife in one hand. His face was covered with the same cloth as his body. Only his eyes were visible through two slits. They were deep and piercing. The contours of his face, like those of his body, were bony. A shadow followed the man, not lying on the meadow. It walked behind him, standing as if it were another person. Josef tried to get up, but he couldn’t. A powerful force held him to the ground. He barely managed to raise his head; then he saw that his own shadow was beneath him, preventing him from rising. Meanwhile, the strange guest approached and spoke to him thus:
“Welcome to my land, friend. You have arrived at an opportune time.” I will take the greatest pleasure in freeing you from your shadow with this knife, for otherwise it will continue to hold you to the ground for the rest of your life; but along with the shadow, you will lose your name and be called “father.” Here, in my kingdom, we all walk without shadows clinging to our bodies. They follow behind us. If you wish to be convinced of my words, I will summon my people.
And without waiting for Josef’s reply, he let out a sharp, piercing whistle.
Men like himself began to sprout from all sides. The noise was like enormous wings. Behind them followed an army of shadows, light and transparent in the moonlight.
“You see? Everyone is happy. Isn’t that right?” he said to his people.
“Yessss!” A terrible roar erupted.
Josef trembled. He tried to shout, but could only manage a muffled sound. Desperate, the boy watched the man approach him, his enormous knife in hand, surrounded by his friends. The boy shook his head from side to side. No, he didn’t want them to cut off his shadow and take his name; but the other man paid him no heed and proceeded to carry out his task.
A frosty sweat enveloped the boy’s entire body. His mother was beside the bed. Josef embraced her, resting his head on her chest, and murmured:
Krina Ber naciรณ en Polonia en 1948, creciรณ en Israel, se graduรณ en arquitectura en la EPFL (Suiza) y se casรณ en Portugal antes de mudarse, en 1975, a Caracas, donde ella y su esposo fundaron Kreska C.A., una empresa especializada en diseรฑo de acero, aluminio y vidrio. Comenzรณ a escribir en 2001. Sus cuentos, incluidos en casi todas las antologรญas de cuentos cortos venezolanos y premiados en importantes concursos nacionales, se recogen en Cuentos con agujeros (Monte รvila, 2005), Para no perder el hilo (Mondadori, 2009) y La hora perdida (รgneo, 2015). Su primera novela, Nube de polvo (Equinoccio 2015), recibiรณ el Premio de la Crรญtica, y en 2020 Ficciones asesinas ganรณ el XIX Concurso Transgenรฉrico, otorgado por la Fundaciรณn para la Cultura Urbana.
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Krina Ber was born in Poland in 1948, grew up in Israel, graduated with a degree in architecture from EPFL (Switzerland), and got married in Portugual before moving, in 1975, to Caracas, where she and her husband founded Kreska C.A., a business specialized in steel, aluminum, and glass design. She started writing in 2001. Her short storiesโwhich are included in almost all anthologies of Venezuelan short fiction and have received prizes in important national competitionsโare collected in Cuentos con agujeros (Monte รvila, 2005), Para no perder el hilo (Mondadori, 2009), and La hora perdida (รgneo, 2015). Her first novel, Nube de polvo (Equinoccio 2015), received the Premio de la Crรญtica, and in 2020 Ficciones asesinas won the nineteenth Concurso Transgenรฉrico, awarded by the Fundaciรณn para la Cultura Urbana.
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Benjamรญn y la caminadora
Caminando, caminando y ni te acuerdas, eso es lo que le dice siempre. Bueno, no exactamente en esos tรฉrminos. Generalmente se trata de un reclamo mรกs directo: no llamaste a Pacheco, no revisaste el contrato de Supercable, no llevaste el carro al taller, se te pasรณ la hora de la cena, te olvidaste de nuestro aniversario de bodas o de comprar el champรบ que te pedรญ. Ella no espera respuestas y Benjamรญn sabe que serรญa inรบtil contestar. Tambiรฉn sabe que tras esa letanรญa de pequeรฑos olvidos se alza, liso e implacable como un tepuy, el verdadero reproche, existencial, imperdonable. El de no recordar. Hay una enorme diferencia entre olvidar y no recordar.
Un reproche que, por supuesto, nunca ha sido pronunciado directamente. El peso acusador de lo que Benjamรญn no recuerda โo pretende no recordarโ desencadenarรญa tamaรฑo terremoto en todas las capas geolรณgicas que amontonaron con paciencia durante aรฑos hasta formar un terreno estable donde pueden soportarse mutuamente. Benjamรญn no se acuerda del futuro que quedรณ en el pasado, de ese futuro glorioso, brillante como el sol, cuyos contornos desaparecรญan misteriosamente a medida que se adentraban en รฉl. Treinta y cinco aรฑos es suficiente tiempo para comprobarlo.
Lo peor es no recordar, dice ella sin decirlo, pues habla tan solo del mecรกnico y del champรบ. Se te olvida todo, dice. La vida que me prometiste (eso no lo dice). Caminar y caminar no lo resuelve, dice, y รบltimamente es todo lo que haces.
Como si no supiera que Benjamรญn se puso a caminar por orden del mรฉdico. El santo remedio para la edad que tiene, el colesterol alto, el hรญgado perezoso, las arterias obstruidas, y el corazรณn tan poco activo como el dueรฑo de esos รณrganos estropeados. Asรญ que se acostumbrรณ a caminar. Ahora su mujer sospecha que le gusta hacerlo y esto no lo puede permitir; no es justo, mientras ella vive con la desdicha de acordarse a diario de ese luminoso futuro comรบn que se desdibujรณ en el presente y nada mรกs.
โYa basta de caminar tanto, Benjamรญn. ยกAbre la puerta por favor! Mauricio viene hoy a cenar con tus nietos, nunca sabe que hacer con los chicos cuando le toca cuidarlos, hay que decir que se volvieron insoportables desde el divorcio, se les nota la educaciรณn de su madre (mejor no hablo de ella) y Sandrita estรก durmiendo, asรญ que tienes que dar un salto a la panaderรญa. Y podrรญas poner la mesa tambiรฉn, ยฟquรฉ te parece? Siempre yo sola con todo. Y tรบ, ยกcaminando y caminando!
Los guijarros crujen bajo sus pies y el aire de primavera rebosa del trinar de invisibles pรกjaros. Benjamรญn sube el volumen; desde muy lejos le llega el relincho de un caballo. Un sonido delicioso.
Le rodea un mundo verde y vegetal, ahora como al principio, cuando se dirigiรณ a los sitios con derecho comรบn a la caminata: la Autopista cerrada los domingos, Los Caobos, El Parque del Este. Se comprรณ un โwalkmanโ y por un tiempo metรญa la panza y erguรญa la cabeza, como corresponde a quien forma parte de una comunidad saludable y deportiva, donde los exitosos hombres de negocios se ponen democrรกticamente el mismo short que los fracasados; reino de piernas largas y musculosas preparรกndose para un maratรณn, ceรฑidas mallas, impecables traseros, cuerpos brillantes de crema y sudor. Hasta que llegรณ el dรญa inevitable en que se dio cuenta de que los demรกs corrรญan o trotaban, y aรบn los que caminaban como รฉl, lo pasaban con facilidad, una y otra vez. Pisando fuerte el cemento de umbrosos senderos parecรญan dirigirse apurados hacia algรบn destino importante, desconocido para รฉl. Benjamรญn, en cambio, solo daba vueltas. Se quedaba atrรกs, como siempre. Y eso le recordaba de alguna manera el reproche nunca pronunciado por su mujer, implacable como un tepuy. De modo que guardรณ el walkman en la gaveta, (siempre compras cosas y despuรฉs no las usas) y optรณ por cederle definitivamente el carro y caminar a su trabajo, de ida y de vuelta.
โMe oรญste, Benjamรญn, ยกbasta ya! โdice ellaโ. ยกรbreme esta puerta! Van a cerrar la panaderรญa.
Benjamรญn aprieta el paso. Aรบn le queda camino por recorrer.
Su oficina se encuentra en el mismo viejo edificio donde รฉl la instalรณ cuando este era nuevo, mucho antes de que la ciudad le pasara por encima y lo dejara olvidado al final de una calle peatonal, hoy invadida por buhoneros y artesanos ambulantes.
Caminar por allรญ implicaba perderse entre los tenderetes y bandejas, en el abigarramiento de joyas de plรกstico, perfumes de Taiwรกn, bluyines de contrabando y pantaletas de lycra con encaje. Benjamรญn remoloneaba hojeando libros de segunda mano y manoseadas revistas pornogrรกficas desplegadas sobre la acera; a veces compraba dulce de leche o un kilo mal pesado de mandarinas a una joven mulata, cuyo bebรฉ color puro chocolate dormรญa entre chucherรญas. Ella le hablaba con amabilidad, decรญa que estรกn dulcitas las mandarinas, le decรญa โmi amorโ, y el vendedor de revistas, alemรกn de pelo blanco y acento colombiano, compartรญa con รฉl profundas reflexiones acerca de la situaciรณn del paรญs con las cuales Benjamรญn no podรญa discrepar.
Aquรญ no existรญa pasado ni futuro alguno, mucho menos un futuro que ya pasรณ. Era fรกcil vagar sin metas ni equipaje por ese presente instantรกneo, efรญmero y eterno a la vez, que se deshacรญa en gritos y revoloteo de colchas apenas se asomaban los agentes uniformados en la esquina quedando la calle sรบbitamente vacรญa con sus fachadas desconchadas, pipotes atestados de basura y remiendos de asfalto entre los adoquines; pero nada de esto era trรกgico ni definitivo: minutos despuรฉs reaparecรญan los colores y se reanudaba el bullicio.
Muy pronto el camino de ida y vuelta a su oficina se convirtiรณ en el placer de cada dรญa. Benjamรญn lo mantenรญa en secreto, por supuesto. Sabรญa bien que no tenรญa ese derecho, mientras a Mauricio lo limpiara la arpรญa de su ex, y Sandrita se metiera ese polvo en la nariz que la pone incoherente y chillona. Y ella, pobrecita, en la casa: sola y recordando.
Al fin terminaron por descubrirlo. Era inevitable. Tardaba en llegar al trabajo y le mentรญa a su vieja secretaria. Para colmo, atracaron a su cuรฑado allรญ mismo, en la salida de la Notarรญa. Le rompieron el saco, le quitaron la cartera y al parecer se enojaron bastante al abrirla, ya que fueron golpes y mรกs golpes. De modo que su mujer y el doctor le prohibieron caminar por la calle. Desde varios puntos de vista era malo para la salud.
Era un hecho indiscutible que su colesterol aumentรณ considerablemente y el ritmo cardรญaco no se beneficiaba mucho con el inรบtil vagar de esas caminatas. De nada sirve, le decรญan, caminar con el paso tan lento. Ahora se preocupan: al parecer lo hace demasiado deprisa. A su edad, es peligroso; le puede dar un infarto.
โBenjamรญn, ยกabre ya la puerta! โVoces de Sandra y de su mujer. Pero รฉl se hace el loco, y camina, camina, camina, cada vez mรกs rรกpido. Sus piernas se han hecho fuertes y la panza bajรณ de volumen; sin embargo, estรก sudado y jadeante, el corazรณn le retumba en el pecho. No importa, algรบn dรญa tiene que llegar al final del recorrido. Por una vez en la vida estรก haciendo lo correcto: fijarse objetivos y alcanzarlos.
De hecho, todos ellos son responsables tambiรฉn. Le sugirieron esta soluciรณn y se mostraron complacidos cuando la Caminadora llegรณ a casa, aunque les extraรฑรณ un poco la inusual iniciativa que habรญa demostrado al comprarla sin consultar a nadie. Aรฑos hacรญa que Benjamรญn, รฉl solo, no se compraba ni una camisa. รl mismo no logra entender cรณmo descubriรณ aquel artefacto en una tienda por departamentos, ni cรณmo se dejรณ seducir de inmediato por las explicaciones del vendedor, quiรฉn โcosa raraโ, ni cuenta se daba del poder de su propia mercancรญa. Casi sin proponรฉrselo, Benjamรญn se hizo dueรฑo de una mรกquina para caminar, la mejor del mercado, el รบltimo modelo. Menos mal que nunca sabrรกn cuรกnto le costรณ esta extravagancia.
Acto seguido convirtiรณ al dormitorio de huรฉspedes (totalmente inรบtil, dicho sea de paso) en una especie de gimnasio privado. Allรญ, siguiendo penosamente las instrucciones del manual, instalรณ La Caminadora con su baterรญa de altavoces y proyectores.
Comenzรณ a practicar con la velocidad mรกs baja y desde el principio sintiรณ una gran afinidad con ese ejercicio que parece haber sido diseรฑado especialmente para รฉl. Hay un deje melancรณlicamente familiar en eso de caminar y caminar para quedarse siempre en el mismo sitio. Algo asรญ habรญa hecho durante toda su vida.
Con la salvedad de que ahora tiene algo mรกs: la cinta de vรญdeo que vino con el paquete. Desde la primera proyecciรณn supo que algo nuevo e importante estaba irrumpiendo en su vida. La pared blanca frente a รฉl se llenรณ de paisajes verdes que desfilaban de รกrbol en รกrbol entre fuentes cristalinas y parterres de flores, mientras los altavoces reproducรญan a la perfecciรณn el piar de los pรกjaros y el crujido de la grava bajo sus pasos. Estaba solo, maravillosamente solo, indiscutible rey de tanta belleza. Mandรณ instalar una cerradura Multilock a su improvisado gimnasio. Custodiaba la llave con recelo, hasta dormรญa con ella en el bolsillo de su pijama; tu padre se ha vuelto loco, dice ella, y la limpieza ยฟquรฉ?.
รl aclaraba con paciencia que encontrรณ finalmente un sistema idรณneo para caminar, y que necesitaba concentrarse para practicar. Estaba tan animado que su mujer frunciรณ las cejas, sospechosa, pero se abstuvo de comentarios. Al fin y al cabo se trataba de una actividad saludable, aburrida y recomendada por el doctor. No reconociรณ las seรฑales de peligro.
Benjamรญn en cambio intuรญa que su vida adquirรญa una nueva dimensiรณn, aunque tan sรณlo al cabo de dos o tres semanas advirtiรณ ligeras alteraciones en el paisaje que recorrรญa en el video. Al principio fueron ruidos inexplicables, sugiriendo apenas perceptibles presencias animales. Comenzรณ con aquella chicharra cuyo desagradable zumbido pertinaz lo acompaรฑรณ durante un buen trecho del camino. Convencido de que รฉsta habรญa encontrado una manera de escurrirse por la ventana, Benjamรญn interrumpiรณ la sesiรณn con el firme propรณsito de deshacerse del intruso y constatรณ con asombro que el zumbido cesรณ en el mismo instante en que parรณ la cinta. Se trataba de una extraรฑa coincidencia o de un insecto particularmente inteligente, pues reanudรณ su vuelo al reiniciarse el video. Nunca mรกs habรญa vuelto. Y Benjamรญn terminรณ por olvidarlo concentrรกndose en caminar โlo hacรญa cada vez mรกs rรกpido y mejorโ hasta el dรญa en que se parรณ, pensativo, al borde del tercer estanque. Hubiese jurado que cada vez cuando pasaba por allรญ un imponente chorro cristalino brotaba en su centro; sin embargo, hoy la fuente estaba cerrada, el agua adquirรญa profundos tonos verdes y un pequeรฑo pato silvestre jugueteaba en la orilla. Perplejo , Benjamรญn dejรณ que la cinta se rebobinara, luego la colocรณ desde el principio y volviรณ a sus propios pasos. Esta vez el chorro de agua brotaba a borbotones, no habรญa duda sobre esto, pero el patito seguรญa en su sitio. Era extraรฑo que nunca antes advirtiera su presencia.
Por primera vez se dio cuenta de que jamรกs habรญa llegado mรกs allรก de aquel estanque, y sintiรณ curiosidad. Prolongรณ la duraciรณn de sus caminatas, luego se empeรฑรณ en aumentar la velocidad. La cinta recompensรณ su esfuerzo: efectivamente, mรกs lejos el paisaje cambiaba. Los รกrboles del parque comenzaron a rarificarse, y por ambos lados del camino aparecรญan ahora elaboradas verjas de hierro dejando entrever opulentas mansiones de dos y tres pisos en medio de sus jardines. Al tercer dรญa llegรณ, jadeando de cansancio, a una casa particularmente hermosa, toda de madera recubierta de viรฑa silvestre. Le pareciรณ vagamente conocida. Deseรณ saber quien vivรญa allรญ, tocar el timbre y entrar, pero la ley de la Caminadora no permitรญa tales extravagancias. Sรณlo pudo seguir caminando lentamente, sin quitar los ojos de las ventanas que protegรญan su misterio con alegres cortinas amarillas y aguzaba el oรญdo para captar la tenue risa de unos niรฑos jugando en algรบn lugar del jardรญn. De pronto surgiรณ el recuerdo: ella, joven y deslumbrante, recortando imรกgenes de revistas, el hogar soรฑado para su futuro comรบn. En su fuero interno supo que no podรญa ser solamente una coincidencia, un azar del vรญdeo. Aquella casa estaba allรญ para รฉl cual trampa divina. Benjamรญn acusรณ el golpe. Tuvo que parar el ejercicio y la imagen se desvaneciรณ, dejรกndolo sudado y resollando frente a la desoladora pared blanca del ex cuarto de huรฉspedes.
Aquella noche no pudo conciliar el sueรฑo. Hasta los irregulares ronquidos de ella y los sonidos de parranda que se filtraban desde la habitaciรณn de Sandra aumentaban el estado de embeleso febril en el cual se encontraba sumido. No veรญa la hora de volver a ese lugar y a las cinco de la maรฑana ya estaba ataviado con su mono de gimnasia ยฟte caรญste de la cama, o quรฉ?
En un sรบbito impulso le propuso acompaรฑarlo โven conmigo, quiero mostrarte algo. Ella le dio la espalda, implacable con las extravagancias ยฟA esta hora? Estรกs loco. De modo que Benjamรญn acariciรณ brevemente los suaves rollos de goma espuma sobre la cabeza de su mujer y renunciรณ a compartir su hallazgo con ella.
Menos mal: lo hubiera juzgado loco. De la tercera fuente brotaba con fuerza un chorro cristalino y en el estanque nadaba ahora toda una familia de patos, pero no hubo ni rastro de la casa cubierta de viรฑa. En vano la buscรณ caminando rabiosamente. Atrรกs quedaron las verjas y las mansiones y una carretera de dos vรญas reemplazรณ al sendero en medio de un paisaje anodino y campestre. Suaves colinas azuladas ondulaban el horizonte. Sobre una de ellas estaba la ciudad, cual dibujo lejano. Al cabo de unos dรญas desistiรณ de buscar la casa y concentrรณ todos sus esfuerzos en llegar allรญ.
Pero ยฟquรฉ te pasa?, decรญa ella. Estรกs mรกs distraรญdo que nunca. Tienes la misma mirada vidriosa que Sandrita cuando estaba en esa instituciรณn. Y se te olvidรณ llamar al banco para mi tarjeta de crรฉditoโฆ Estรกs peor que nunca. Se te olvida todo. ยกTodo!
Esta vez era cierto: se le olvidaba todo. Pero estaba mejor que nunca. Con una secreta excitaciรณn Benjamรญn acariciaba la llave en el bolsillo de su pantalรณn y no veรญa la hora de reiniciar su sesiรณn de ejercicios. Ahora caminaba varias veces al dรญa y cada vez se encerraba mรกs tiempo con la Caminadora. Por desgracia, la cinta de video estaba estudiada para promover un progresivo aumento del esfuerzo: no habรญa manera de reiniciarla en cualquier punto del camino, de algรบn modo siempre se devolvรญa sola al inicio. Si querรญa llegar al final, donde la lejana ciudad se erguรญa sobre la colina o, ยฟquiรฉn sabe? mรกs lejos aรบn, tenรญa que volver cada vez al punto de partida, atravesar el parque, recorrer los estanques, el sendero, la urbanizaciรณn de quintasโฆ La carretera que seguรญa se le antojaba interminable.
Te has vuelto loco, decรญa ella. Mรญrate, como sales de allรญ. Pรกlido. Apenas puedes respirar del cansancio. El doctor dijo que es peligroso, no puedes hacer esto. Es peor que una prueba de esfuerzo. Nadie puede hacer pruebas de esfuerzo sin supervisiรณn mรฉdica.
Era cierto. En algรบn lugar recรณndito de la conciencia Benjamรญn sabe que deberรญa bajar el ritmo. Sus piernas se han fortalecido pero el corazรณn reacciona bastante mal. Anoche sintiรณ otro dolor en el pecho; tuvo que parar la mรกquina y se recostรณ, jadeante, al borde del camino, sin apartar la vista de las lejanas colinas hasta que estas se apagaron en la blancura del horizonte. La pared se le vino encima mientras trataba de incorporarse sobre la alfombra, en sus oรญdos el zumbido inexorable de la cinta que se rebobinaba otra vez hacia el inicio del trayecto.
Estรกn aporreando la puerta ahora. Se oyen voces, la risita estรบpida de Sandra, los gritos de los muchachos de Mauricio, sal papรก, sal abuelo, ยกqueremos comer!
โBenjamรญn, ยกya basta! No importa la mesa, la puse yo misma, tan sรณlo sal. Viejo exagerado. Voy a vender esta maldita mรกquina, tan sรณlo te hace daรฑo.
Benjamรญn acaba de llegar al pie de la primera colina e inicia la ansiada subida. El dolor vuelve, agudo, esta vez en el brazo izquierdo y le nubla un poco la vista, pero la ciudad no estรก tan lejos ya. Su รบltima posibilidad de escape. Allรญ habrรก otra calle donde los vendedores ambulantes desplegarรกn sobre la acera, sรณlo para รฉl, sus efรญmeras maravillas. Tal vez otra oficina. Tal vez otra casa. Ojalรก pase algรบn vehรญculo para darle un aventรณn, porque el tiempo apremia.
โBenjamรญn โruega ella, ahora con voz de angustiaโ abre, Benjamรญn; Mauricio dice algo del cerrajero que ya estรก en camino. Benjamรญn anhela el asilo de la ciudad desconocida. Menuda sorpresa tendrรกn cuando terminen de tumbar la puerta.
Sabe que si llega a tiempo, no podrรกn quitarle la Caminadora. Ni nada mรกs. Llegar al final es necesario, indispensableโฆ Una meta, al fin. Si se ejercita lo suficiente, llegarรก. Es una mera cuestiรณn de entrenamiento.
La vista fija en su meta, Benjamรญn aprieta el paso.
Del libro: Cuentos con agujeros (Monte Avila, 2001)
“Walking, walking, and you don’t even remember,” that’s what she always says to him. Well, not exactly in those terms. It’s usually a more direct complaint: you didn’t call Pacheco, you didn’t check the Supercable contract, you didn’t take the car to the mechanic, you missed dinner, you forgot our wedding anniversary or that you didn’t buy the shampoo I asked you for. She doesn’t expect answers, and Benjamin knows it would be pointless to reply. He also knows that behind this litany of minor oversights rises, smooth and implacable like a tepui, the true reproach, existential, unforgivable. The reproach of not remembering. There’s a huge difference between forgetting and not remembering.
A reproach that, of course, has never been uttered directly. The accusing weight of what Benjamin doesn’t rememberโor pretends not to rememberโwould unleash such a massive earthquake in all the geological layers that patiently accumulated over the years to form a stable ground where they can support each other. Benjamin doesn’t remember the future that’s now in the past, that glorious future, bright as the sun, whose outlines mysteriously vanished as they moved deeper into it. Thirty-five years is enough time to see that.
The worst part is not remembering, she says without saying it, since she only talks about the mechanic and the shampoo. You forget everything, she says. The life you promised me (she doesn’t say that). Walking and walking doesn’t fix it, she says, and lately it’s all you do.
As if she didn’t know that Benjamin started walking on the doctor’s orders. The perfect remedy for his age, his high cholesterol, his sluggish liver, his clogged arteries, and a heart as inactive as the owner of those damaged organs. So he got used to walking. Now his wife suspects he enjoys it, and she can’t allow that. It’s not fair, while she lives with the misery of remembering every day that bright future they shared, a future that has faded into the present and nothing more.
“Enough walking, Benjamin. Open the door, please! Mauricio is coming for dinner tonight with your grandchildren. He never knows what to do with the kids when it’s his turn to babysit. I have to say, they’ve become unbearable since the divorce. You can see their mother’s upbringing in them (best not to mention her). And Sandrita is asleep, so you have to run to the bakery. And you could set the table too, what do you think? I’m always the one doing everything. And you, walking and walking!”
The pebbles crunch under their feet, and the spring air is filled with the chirping of invisible birds. Benjamin turns up the volume; from far away, he hears the whinny of a horse. A delightful sound.
He was surrounded by a green and verdant world, now as he had been in the beginning, when he frequented the places where walking was commonplace: the highway closed on Sundays, Los Caobos, Parque del Este. He bought a Walkman and for a while, he sucked in his stomach and held his head high, as befits someone who belongs to a healthy and athletic community, where successful businessmen democratically wear the same shorts as the unsuccessful; a realm of long, muscular legs preparing for a marathon, tight leggings, flawless backsides, bodies glistening with lotion and sweat. Until the inevitable day arrived when he realized that everyone else was running or jogging, and even those who walked like him, easily passed him, time and time again. Footsteps pounding on the concrete of shady paths, they seemed to be hurrying toward some important destination, unknown to him. Benjamin, on the other hand, just wandered around. He fell behind, as always. And that somehow reminded him of his wife’s unspoken reproach, as implacable as a tepui. So he put the Walkman away in the drawer (you always buy things and then never use them) and decided to finally give her the car and walk to work, both ways.
“Did you hear me, Benjamin? That’s enough!” she says. “Open this door! They’re about to close the bakery.”
Benjamin quickens his pace. He still has a long way to go.
His office is in the same old building where he set it up when it was new, long before the city overran it and left it forgotten at the end of a pedestrian street, now overrun by street vendors and itinerant artisans.
Walking there meant getting lost among the stalls and trays, in the jumble of plastic jewelry, Taiwanese perfumes, contraband jeans, and lace-trimmed lycra panties. Benjamin lingered, leafing through secondhand books and well-worn pornographic magazines spread out on the sidewalk; sometimes he bought dulce de leche or a roughly weighed kilo of tangerines from a young mulatto woman whose pure chocolate-colored baby slept among sweets. She spoke to him kindly, saying the tangerines were sweet, calling him “my love,” and the magazine vendor, a white-haired German with a Colombian accent, shared profound reflections with him about the country’s situation.
Comments. After all, it was a healthy, boring activity recommended by the doctor. He didn’t recognize the warning signs.
Benjamin, on the other hand, sensed that his life was taking on a new dimension, although only after two or three weeks did he notice slight alterations in the landscape he was traversing in the video. At first, they were inexplicable noises, suggesting barely perceptible animal presences. It began with that cicada whose unpleasant, persistent buzzing accompanied him for a good part of the journey. Convinced that it had found a way to slip out the window, Benjamin interrupted the session with the firm intention of getting rid of the intruder and noted with astonishment that the buzzing stopped the very instant he stopped the tape. It was a strange coincidence or a particularly intelligent insect, because it resumed its flight when the video restarted. It never returned. And Benjamin eventually forgot about it, concentrating instead on walkingโhe walked faster and better each timeโuntil the day he stopped, lost in thought, at the edge of the third pond. He would have sworn that every time he passed by, an impressive jet of crystal-clear water gushed from its center; however, today the fountain was closed, the water took on deep shades of green, and a small wild duck frolicked on the bank. Perplexed, Benjamin let the tape rewind, then put it back in from the beginning and retraced his steps. This time the jet of water gushed forth, there was no doubt about that, but the duckling was still there. It was strange that he had never noticed it before.
For the first time, he realized that he had never gone beyond that pond, and he felt curious. He lengthened his walks, then he set about increasing his speed. The tape rewarded his effort: indeed, the further he went, the more the landscape changed. The trees in the park began to thin out, and on both sides of the path, elaborate iron gates now appeared, offering glimpses of opulent two- and three-story mansions nestled in their gardens. On the third day, panting with exhaustion, he arrived at a particularly beautiful house, all wood covered in wild vines. It seemed vaguely familiar. He longed to know who lived there, to ring the bell and go inside, but the law of the Walker forbade such extravagances. He could only continue walking slowly, his eyes fixed on the windows that shielded their mystery with cheerful yellow curtains, his ears straining to catch the faint laughter of children playing somewhere in the garden. Suddenly, the memory surfaced: her, young and dazzling, cutting out pictures from magazines, the dream home for their future together. Deep down, he knew it couldn’t be just a coincidence, a random trick of the video. That house was there for him like a divine trap. Benjamin felt the blow. He had to stop exercising, and the image faded, leaving him sweaty and panting in front of the desolate white wall of the former guest room.
That night he couldn’t sleep. Even her irregular snores and the sounds of revelry filtering from Sandra’s room intensified the feverish rapture he was in. He couldn’t wait to return to that place, and by five in the morning he was already dressed in his gym clothes. “Did you fall out of bed or what?”
On a sudden impulse, he suggested she come with him. “Come with me, I want to show you something.” She turned her back on him, unmoved by such eccentricities. “At this hour? Are you crazy?” So Benjamin briefly stroked the soft foam rolls on his wife’s head and gave up on sharing his discovery with her.
Thank goodness: she would have thought him mad. From the third fountain gushed a powerful stream of crystal-clear water, and a whole family of ducks swam in the pond, but there was no sign of the vine-covered house. He searched for it in vain, walking furiously. Behind him lay the gates and mansions, and a two-lane road replaced the path amidst a bland, rural landscape. Gentle blue hills rippled the horizon. On one of them stood the city, like a distant drawing. After a few days, he gave up looking for the house and concentrated all his efforts on getting there.
“But what’s wrong with you?” she would say. “You’re more distracted than ever. You have the same glazed look Sandrita had when she was in that institution. And you forgot to call the bank about my credit cardโฆ You’re worse than ever. You forget everything. Everything!”
This time it was true: he forgot everything. But he was better than ever. With a secret excitement, Benjamin stroked the key in his pants pocket and couldn’t wait to restart his exercise session. Now he walked several times a day, and each time he spent more time on the treadmill. Unfortunately, the treadmill was designed to promote a progressive increase in effort: there was no way to reset it at any time.
Yishai Jusidman es un pintor contemporรกneo y crรญtico de arte ocasional. Naciรณ en la Ciudad de Mรฉxico, reside en Los รngeles y pronto emigrarรก al moshav Tal Shachar. Su obra se ha exhibido en prestigiosas exposiciones internacionales en todo el mundo. Una serie reciente, “Azul de Prusia”, aborda los desafรญos estรฉticos de la conmemoraciรณn del Holocausto a travรฉs del arte y se exhibe en el Museo Memorial de Auschwitz-Birkenau hasta octubre de 2026. Sus escritos se han publicado en Artforum, Art Issues, Los Angeles Times, Cleveland Review of Books y mรกs.
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Yishai Jusidman is a contemporary painter and occasional art critic, born in Mexico City, based in Los Angeles and soon migrating to moshav Tal Shachar. His artwork has been shown worldwide in prestigious international exhibitions. A recent series, “Prussian Blue”, deals with the aesthetic challenges of Holocaust remembrance through art, and it is on view at the Auschwitz-Birkenau Memorial Museum through October 2026. His writing has been published in Artforum, Art Issues, Los Angeles Times, Cleveland Review of Books, and more.
En mi serie Azul de Prusia, abordo el Holocausto en la pintura buscando generar la impresiรณn pictรณrica de un silencio tan solemne y directo como elocuente, ofreciendo asรญ una alternativa a las restricciones fatalistas que han frenado la producciรณn de obras que abordan este tema.
Pintura azul de Prusia: El producto Zyklon B, utilizado como agente letal entre 1940 y 1945, solรญa producir manchas azules en las paredes de las cรกmaras de gas debido a una reacciรณn quรญmica con el ladrillo y el mortero. Dichas manchas aรบn son muy visibles en las estructuras de Majdanek. El compuesto de cianuro y hierro de estas manchas es quรญmicamente idรฉntico al pigmento del pintor, conocido como Azul de Prusia. — Yisgai Jusidman
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In my Prussian Blue series, I address the Holocaust in painting by seeking to generate the pictorial impression of a silence as solemn and forthright as it is eloquent, thus furnishing an alternative to the fatalistic strictures that have stifled the production of works dealing with this subject.
Prussian blue paint: The Zyklon B product that was used as a killing agent from 1940 through 1945 often produced blue stains on the walls of the gas chambers by way of a chemical reaction with the brick and mortar. Such stains are still very much apparent in the structures at Majdanek. The cyanide-iron compound of these stains is chemically identical to the painterโs pigment known as Prussian Blue.
Mutatis Mutandi
He manipulado elementos basados โโen objetos y tecnologรญa para llamar la atenciรณn sobre el efecto pictรณrico, colocando lo tรกctil contra lo รณptico, lo literal contra lo metafรณrico, los fenรณmenos contra el discurso. โ Yisgai Jusidman
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I have manipulated object-based and technology-based elements so as to call attention to the painterly effect, by placing the tactile against the optical, the literal against the metaphorical, phenomena against discourse. — Yisgai Jusidman
Eduardo Mosches es mexicano de origen argentino. Naciรณ en Buenos aires en 1944. Viviรณ en Israel de 1963 a 1970. Tomรณ un aviรณn en 1970 hacia Berlรญn, donde estudiรณ Ciencias Sociales en la Universidad Libre en, Alemania y se dirigiรณ hacia Argentina en 1974. Despuรฉs en 1976, se fue rumbo a Mรฉxico, donde entablรณ varios retos, entre otros el de estudiar Cinematografรญa en la UNAM. Reside en Mรฉxico desde ese aรฑo. Fue coordinador editorial en la Universidad Autรณnoma de la Ciudad de Mรฉxico(2002-2012). Fundador y director de la revista literaria Blanco Mรณvil, desde 1985. Ha publicado los poemarios Los lentes y Marx, Los tiempos mezquinos, Cuando las pieles riman, Viaje a travรฉs de los etcรฉteras, Como el mar que nos habita, Molinos de Fuego, Susurros de la memoria,Avatares de la memoria (antologรญa poรฉtica 1979-2006) , El ojo histรณrico (2014), Los enemigos del silencio ( 2014) y el libro de prosa Caminos sin ruta. Ha colaborado en periรณdicos y revistas en Mรฉxico, Argentina, Alemania, Brasil, Espaรฑa, Estados Unidos, Israel, Italia, Chile, entre otros. Ha recibido varios premios nacionales como poeta y editor de revistas literarias. Ha sido traducido al alemรกn, italiano, portuguรฉs, hebreo e inglรฉs.
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Eduardo Mosches is a Mexican of Argentine origin. He was born in Buenos Aires in 1944. He lived in Israel from 1963 to 1970. In 1970, he went to Berlin, where he studied Social Sciences at the Free University of Berlin, Germany, and then returned to Argentina in 1974. In 1976, he went to Mexico, where he undertook several challenges, including studying Cinematography at the National Autonomous University of Mexico (UNAM). He has resided in Mexico since that year. He was the editorial coordinator at the Autonomous University of Mexico City (2002-2012). Founder and editor of the literary magazine Blanco Mรณvil since 1985. He has published the poetry collectionsLos lentes y Marx, Los tiempos mezquinos, Cuando las pieles riman, Viaje a travรฉs de los etcรฉteras, Como el mar que nos habita, Molinos de Fuego, Susurros de la memoria, Avatares de la memoria (poetic anthology 1979-2006), El ojo histรณrico (2014), Los enemigos del silencio (2014), and the prose work Caminos sin ruta. He has contributed to newspapers and magazines in Mexico, Argentina, Germany, Brazil, Spain, the United States, Israel, Italy, Chile, and other countries. He has received several national awards as a poet and editor of literary magazines. His work has been translated into German, Italian, Portuguese, Hebrew, and English.
Las gotas de lluvia golpeaban en un ritmo pausado de somnolencia, las veladuras de grises ingresaban a travรฉs del cristal, enfriaban las tazas de un cafรฉ por beberse a sorbos lentos mientras la mano tatuada por venas infladas, rรญos congelados por la pesada edad, desnudas de lรญquido, descansan un momento tomadas entre sรญ, como trapecios en el descanso. El rรญo de las venas se oculta mientras los รกrboles crecen al ritmo que los pantalones se achican. Nubes de conversaciones se inclinan como ramas cargadas de frutos carnosos, envueltos en la piel de recuerdos. Los caballos se lanzan veloces a galopar en el patio empedrado, giran como en un carrusel con que se arma el pentagrama de los sucesos infantiles, donde la figura del abuelo, alta y ceremoniosa, juez de la vida y las hazaรฑas, se va dibujando en trazos finos deslavados, para ir llegando a toparse con la mรญtica imagen de espalda tan amplia como una meseta, la que sostiene la caรญda ominosa de terrosas bolsas de granos. La voz lenta, animosa, nos dice de cรณmo salva la vida del hermano, en su niรฑez de rodillas raspadas y uรฑas mordidas, el cual aรฑos mรกs tarde, muere en un salto desde un techo sin violรญn alguno. Narrando estรก mi padre, mientras el cafรฉ en la taza va adquiriendo una tonalidad muy negruzca, azulada, como la noche que avanza sobre el crepรบsculo de un dรญa de invierno, en alguna ciudad puerto.
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Clouds and Veins
The raindrops pattered with a languid, sleepy rhythm, veils of gray seeped through the glass, chilling the cups of coffee sipped slowly while the hand, tattooed with swollen veins, rivers frozen by the weight of age, bare of liquid, rested for a moment, clasped together, like trapezes at rest. The river of veins hides as the trees grow at the same pace as the trousers shrink. Clouds of conversation bend like branches laden with fleshy fruit, wrapped in the skin of memories.
The horses burst into a gallop across the cobbled courtyard, circling like a carousel, forming the musical staff of childhood memories. There, the figure of the grandfather, tall and ceremonious, judge of life and deeds, is sketched in fine, faded strokes, eventually colliding with the mythical image, his back as broad as a plateau, supporting the ominous fall of earthen sacks of grain. His slow, spirited voice tell he saved his brother’s life in his childhood, knees scraped and his nails bitten, a brother who, years later, died jumping from a roof, without a violin in sight.
My father is narrating, while the coffee in the cup takes on a very dark, bluish hue, like the night advancing over the twilight of a winter’s day in some port city.
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Susurros de la memoria (fragmento)
VII
Momento de gateo refugio del pavor el eco de los gritos o la oscuridad las horas y el angustiado temor del hambre calor cobijador de ciertas patas caninas Aroma de recuerdo bosque de abedules perfumadas tardes acompaรฑadas de pardos eucaliptos mientras el frรญo se omitรญa crecรญan en el vaho nubes de vapores otoรฑales la lluvia se deslizaba en su sonido parco sueรฑo logrado por el vientre protector que compartiรณ su refugio con ese niรฑo que era yo
Ven perro, perro, sin un ladrido, desolaciรณn
El recuerdo es acciรณn del cuento oral algunas horas barridas en la angustia de los otros mientras soรฑaba con suma placidez tranquilidad del reposo sobre el perro almohada de pelos cรกlidos oscuridad y tibieza Es posible que cierto lejano familiar mordiese muslos que bajaban de los trenes en Treblinka o Auschwitz rasgase pantalones junto con los mรบsculos en algรบn lugar cercado por el miedo: Altamirano Trelew o Kosovo
Todo esto fue antes que creciera la sombra de un bigote y enfrentase otros dientes amenazantes en alguna manifestaciรณn en contra o a favor.
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Whispers of Memory (fragment)
VII
Moment of crawling
refuge from terror
the echo of screams or the darkness
the hours and the anguished fear of hunger
the comforting warmth of certain canine paws
Scent of memory, birch forest
perfumed afternoons accompanied by brown eucalyptus trees
while the cold was omitted
clouds of autumnal vapors grew in the mist
the rain slid in its sparse sound
sleep achieved by the protective womb
that shared its refuge
with that child who was me
Come, dog, dog, without a bark, desolation
Memory is the action of oral storytelling
some hours swept away in the anguish of others
while I dreamed with utmost placidity
the tranquility of repose
on the dog, a pillow of warm fur
darkness and warmth
It is possible that a certain distant relative
bite thighs that came down from the trains
in Treblinka or Auschwitz
ripping trousers along with the muscles
somewhere surrounded by fear:
Altamirano, Trelew, or Kosovo
All this was before
the shadow of a mustache grew
and faced other threatening teeth
in some demonstration for or against.
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Los tiempos mezquinos (fragmento)
V
Los olivos murmuran sobre las zanjas que fueron casas o en los trozos de loza que alguna vez cobijaron redondos panes รกrabes que sonreรญan blanco a los dientes. Un trago lento y leve de agua fresca lavado el paladar de ese cafรฉ pastoso un corto ademรกn de entretejerse dedos en el mismo momento en que la explosiรณn hacรญa hondo el instante del silencio.
Las bocas de todos los asesinados fragmentan a la historia en un gemido largo.
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The Mean Times (excerpt)
V
The olive trees murmur
over the ditches that were once houses
or on the pieces of pottery
that once
sheltered round
Arabian loaves that smiled white
at the teeth.
A slow, light sip
of fresh water washes the palate
of that thick coffee, a brief gesture
of interlacing fingers
at the very moment
when the explosion
deepened
the instant of silence.
The mouths of all the murdered
fragment history
in a long moan.
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Dejando atrรกs
La ciudad se cubre los ojos respira agitada entre el temor y la angustia.
Las nubes se llenan de pรกjaros oscuros revolotean sobre los cadรกveres que van a existir.
La letanรญa de los mensajes penetra por las uรฑas, se deslizan a travรฉs de las venas, surcan el cuerpo afiebrando al miedo.
Huir de los otros cuerpos, no acariciarse, los ojos esquivos, mirar ese otro cuerpo los otros cuerpos, las manos y sus pies con las nรกuseas del posible sufrimiento.
Las lajas de los cementerios cubren con pesadez el espรญritu de los vecinos. Las bocas respiran a travรฉs del tejido no hablar no comer no besarse.
Los caballos atraviesan el horizonte a trote cansino, pisan pesadamente en las osamentas de los deseos, el cerrojo de las prohibiciones abre su boca รกvida, hundir los dientes revolotean los vampiros las alas se llenan de tabรบes, mientras las sotanas marchan y marchan al sonido de los tambores del pasado.
La ciudad y su gente se revuelve arrullada por las hojas de los รกrboles afiebrados, una nube abre su ojo y la lluvia humedece los hombros las cabelleras los huesos los tejidos, toda flota sobre ese rรญo de las nubes.
El sol entibia los cuerpos, el mรญo y el de ella y jugamos al no me importa mientras las pieles se sonrรญen, se rebelan pintando nuevas pecas gozosas, componen la mรบsica de los susurros y quejidos dejan atrรกs las letanรญas de las prohibiciones.
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Leaving Behind
The city covers its eyes,
breathes raggedly between fear and anguish.
The clouds fill with dark birds,
fluttering above the corpses that are yet to come.
The litany of messages seeps through the fingernails,
slides through the veins,
rides the body, feverish with fear.
Fleeing from other bodies,
not touching each other,
eyes averted,
looking at that other body, those other bodies,
hands and feet,
with the nausea of โโpossible suffering.
The flagstones of the cemeteries
heavily cover
the spirits of the neighbors.
Mouths breathe through the fabric,
not speaking, not eating, not kissing.
Horses cross the horizon at a weary trot,
their feet crunch heavily on the bones of desires,
the bolt of prohibitions opens its eager mouth,
vampires flutter, sinking their teeth,
their wings fill with taboos,
while the cassocks march on and on
to the beat of the drums of the past.
The city and its people stir,
lulled by the leaves of feverish trees,
a cloud opens its eye and the rain dampens
shoulders, hair, bones, fabrics,
everything floats on that river of clouds.
The sun warms our bodies,
mine and hers,
and we play at not caring,
while our skin smiles,
rebels, painting new, joyful freckles,
composing the music of whispers and moans,
leaving behind the litanies of prohibitions
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Dolor y tiempo
El dedo pulgar de esa mano izquierda refrendaย el dolor de una cantidad ampliada de dรญas
La pinza de esos dedos ha aprisionado no pocas veces frutos coloridos y jugosos alguna carta que ha llegado del pasado en esa larga travesรญa de los mares amorosos para crear la cueva cรกlida de mano con mano y atravesar la corriente frรญa de las despedidas Una vuelta en el cerrojo de la propia puerta
El atardecer se carga en el vaho aceitoso de los automรณviles circulando en las calles de esta ciudad que anuda en su misterio diario a muchos otros pulgares
Noรฉ Jitrik naciรณ en Rivera, provincia de Buenos Aires, en 1928. Fue profesor en diversas universidades y, desde 1997, director del Instituto de Literatura Hispanoamericana de la Universidad de Buenos Aires. Dirigiรณ la obra Historia Crรญtica de la Literatura Argentina, que se publicรณ en doce tomos. Es autor de mรกs de 50 libros (ensayos, novelas, poemarios y relatos). Colaborรณ en diversos medios, entre otros en LA GACETA Literaria. Ganรณ tres premios Konex y recibiรณ doctorados honoris causa de varias universidades. Falleciรณ en 2022.
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Para muchos, es el crรญtico literario mรกs importante de Argentina. En este texto, analiza el proceso de convertirse en lector y las consecuencias de una concepciรณn errรณnea de su naturaleza. Tambiรฉn aborda las ideas equivocadas sobre el descubrimiento de Amรฉrica y su propia concepciรณn del cristianismo como resultado de un acontecimiento poรฉtico. Alejandra Crespรญn Argaรฑaraz – LA GACETA
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Noรฉ Jitrik was born in Rivera, Buenos Aires Province, in 1928. He was a professor at various universities and, since 1997, director of the Institute of Hispanic American Literature at the University of Buenos Aires. He edited the twelve-volume work Critical History of Argentine Literature. He is the author of more than 50 books (essays, novels, poetry collections, and short stories). He contributed to various publications, including LA GACETA Literaria. He won three Konex Awards and received honorary doctorates from several universities. He passed away in 2022.
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He is, for many, Argentina’s greatest literary critic. Here he analyzes the process of becoming a reader and the consequences of a mistaken conception of its nature. He also discusses the misconceptions related to the discovery of America and his conception of Christianity as the result of a poetic event. Alejandra Crespรญn Argaรฑaraz – LA GACETA.
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Entrevista, 31 Enero 2016
-ยฟPor quรฉ afirma que โel lector no existeโ?
-Sรญ, es una expresiรณn un poco escandalosa, pero creo que tiene sustento. La crรญtica mรกs habitual hace una pequeรฑa operaciรณn mencionando la palabra โlectorโ, entonces el crรญtico cuando algo no le gusta o no entiende dice โel lector no entiende…โ Como si el lector fuera una categorรญa objetiva, mensurable, que se sabe quiรฉn es. Y eso influye sobre las editoriales que empiezan a caracterizar a los lectores en un momento determinado y publican libros para los que ellos creen que son esos lectores. Pero resulta que el lector estรก cuando lee, no es algo de existencia previa a la lectura. ยฟPor quรฉ suponer que la gente que pasa por la calle son lectores? Probablemente sepan leer, pero no necesariamente son lectores en el sentido literario de la palabra. Entonces, se convierten en lectores cuando empiezan a leer y cuando empiezan a leer literatura, por lo tanto, no existen previamente. Es el libro el que los crea, empieza uno a ser lector cuando se conecta con un texto. Entonces el texto es el que hace la operaciรณn natalicia, se nace a cada momento como lector si en cada uno de esos momentos hay un nuevo texto que se pone ante sus ojos. Es una manera de dar una existencia que tiene luego una ubicaciรณn perversa, porque supone toda una red tรญpicamente comercial en relaciรณn con el libro, de una crรญtica fรกcil, de la arrogancia de pretender saber quiรฉnes son los lectores y quรฉ quieren leer. La lectura es una operaciรณn compleja y lo interesante de esa operaciรณn es que no puede renunciar a esa complejidad y, por el contrario, hay que provocarla. Porque mediante el acercamiento a esa complejidad y el intento de desentraรฑar la red que implica esa complejidad el que lee, ya convertido en lector, empieza a ser una persona de otra naturaleza.
-Y ahรญ nos adentramos en la filosofรญa…
-Sรญ, la literatura nos cambia. En realidad, el lector no existe, es el texto el que genera al lector. Esa es la provisoria explicaciรณn de un concepto que suele chocar a mucha gente porque estรกn mรกs acostumbrados a lugares comunes. Yo escribรญ un libro en Mรฉxico sobre el diario de Colรณn cuyo tรญtulo era Los dos ejes de la cruz. Una vez que apareciรณ fui a buscarlo a una librerรญa muy buena, Gandhi, que en Mรฉxico tiene miles de consumidores, y lo habรญan puesto en religiรณn porque se suponรญa que si dice โcruzโ es para lectores de religiรณn. Es decir, presuponรญan el universo de lectores. El libro no merecรญa esa suerte porque no tenรญa nada que ver con religiรณn salvo develar la relaciรณn que hubo en el momento llamado โdescubrimientoโ entre la fe, la empresa, la mirada, el mundo que se abrรญa y todo eso.
-ยฟFue realmente un descubrimiento el descubrimiento de Amรฉrica?
-Es una palabra que trata de sintetizar lo que implicรณ la llegada de los europeos a este continente cuya existencia ignoraban. Hay algunas teorรญas segรบn las cuales la parte norte ya habรญa sido conocida por viajeros nรณrdicos, pero eso no tuvo trascendencia. Lo que tuvo transcendencia fue la llegada de Colรณn y como esa tierra no era conocida -porque Colรณn suponรญa que por ese trayecto llegaba al Oriente-, entonces se hablรณ de descubrimiento. Es una palabra tรญpica no del que es descubierto sino del descubridor; es la palabra que el que llega a un lugar puede emplear para explicar lo que se le estรก presentando, pero el que estรก en ese lugar no siente necesariamente que le corresponda, no se siente descubierto necesariamente. Lo que pasa es que tampoco hay testimonios de cรณmo se sintieron los naturales de estas islas cuando vieron a los espaรฑoles, lo รบnico que se sabe es lo que los espaรฑoles dijeron. Hubo tentativas de recuperar palabras de los pueblos originarios, en Mรฉxico sobre todo, en la poesรญa, en mitos, en las inscripciones, en los templos. Hay fuertes tradiciones que existรญan antes de que los espaรฑoles llegaran, pero fueron ocultadas o borradas o tardaron en conocerse, y se necesitaron investigaciones muy profundas mucho tiempo despuรฉs. Pero lo que sabemos de todo eso es lo que dijeron los llamados descubridores.
-ยฟCuรกl es tรบ opiniรณn respecto a los pueblos originarios?
-Si los espaรฑoles hubieran llegado a las costas de Cuba, a las islas, al continente, cien aรฑos despuรฉs, hubiera sido otra cosa. Habrรญan tenido que reconocer la existencia de mundos organizados como era el de los Mayas, de los Aztecas o de los Incas que eran imperios con estructura, organizaciรณn, lenguaje y hasta incluso en momentos con comienzo de escritura. Cien aรฑos despuรฉs la historia hubiera sido completamente diferente, que es lo que les ocurriรณ cuando llegaron a Oriente, donde habรญa culturas ya consolidadas. Ellos llegaron en un momento en el que arrasaron con todo y lo preexistente fue liquidado o reducido, convertido hasta cierto punto, pero no pudieron terminar con todo. Introdujeron enfermedades, esclavitud, servidumbre, cosas que pueden ser entendidas como el primitivismo, el salvajismo de sociedades para las que la apropiaciรณn es como la razรณn de ser. Al mismo tiempo, esa operaciรณn es como una de las penรบltimas de los comportamientos que vienen de la antigรผedad mรกs remota, porque siempre hubo pueblos que se apropiaron de otros, que esclavizaron y crearon imperios sobre la base de la ocupaciรณn de territorios. Eso fue como un penรบltimo coletazo de esa inveterada costumbre de la historia europea de ocupar tierras, apropiarse de ellas y de la gente.
-Hablamos de la โcruzโ ยฟquรฉ concepto tiene de Dios?
-Hace un tiempo saquรฉ un artรญculo en Pรกgina 12, que se llama โPasionesโ, donde comento la pasiรณn segรบn San Mateo de Juan Sebastiรกn Bach en particular, de ahรญ voy y me meto mรกs en la redacciรณn de los evangelios y la creaciรณn del cristianismo. La hipรณtesis que marco ahรญ es que la creaciรณn probablemente mรกs importante de la civilizaciรณn humana, la Iglesia Catรณlica, surge de un hecho poรฉtico. El hecho poรฉtico es la versiรณn que dan los evangelios de un episodio ocurrido, que habรญan recogido por tradiciones orales y que correspondรญa a un pequeรฑo lugar de un inmenso planeta, el universo judรญo, en el cual un sujeto hablรณ de la paternidad de Dios Padre, que era el de objeto de culto de ese lugar tan pequeรฑo y que se distinguรญa de todo lo que lo rodeaba. En ese universo surgieron muchรญsimos tipos, algunos probablemente esquizofrรฉnicos, otros iluminados, profetas. Uno de ellos pudo despuรฉs ser conocido como Cristo. Esos actos que habrรญan ocurrido en ese momento fueron recogidos por poetas y escritores que les dieron una estructura y eso dio lugar a la creaciรณn mรกs poderosa de la civilizaciรณn humana. El fundamento de eso es una creencia previa, la existencia de Dios, que recorre toda la genรฉtica humana desde tiempos remotos y que surge como una necesidad primaria de una explicaciรณn que se va concretando en mitos y leyendas, que poco a poco comienzan a ordenar la vida de la gente y a tener cabida en el orden de la escritura que la recoge. Entonces la palabra โDiosโ, en realidad, es una explicaciรณn de un conjunto de causas que no solo son inexplicables sino que generan angustia. Esa explicaciรณn calma la angustia, sobre todo si se ordena en forma de un rito especรญfico que es el que establece una conexiรณn con uno mismo y que sofoca la angustia del tiempo, de la muerte, de la existencia, del otro. Eso pone las cosas en un terreno y deja de lado el otro aspecto de la cuestiรณn que es la natural tendencia que tenemos todos a tratar de sofocar esa angustia que nos hace pensar que hay enigmas, pero que no son de carรกcter necesariamente mรญstico. Esos enigmas generan una actitud que podemos llamar de religiosidad, la voluntad, la conexiรณn con esos enigmas y la voluntad de entregarse a ellos aceptรกndolos, considerando que existen y que son inabordables y que eso determina una cierta actitud de respeto frente a lo desconocido.
ยฉ LA GACETA
-Why do you claim that โthe reader doesn’t existโ?
-Yes, it’s a somewhat provocative statement, but I think it’s well-founded. The most common form of criticism performs a subtle manipulation by using the word โreader.โ When a critic dislikes or doesn’t understand something, they say, โthe reader won’t understandโฆโ As if the reader were an objective, measurable category, whose identity is known. And this influences publishers, who begin to characterize readers at a given moment and publish books for those they believe these readers to be. But the truth is, the reader exists only when they are reading; their existence isn’t prior to the act of reading. Why assume that the people walking down the street are readers? They probably know how to read, but they aren’t necessarily readers in the literary sense of the word. They become readers when they start reading, and when they start reading literature; therefore, they don’t exist beforehand. It is the book that creates them; one becomes a reader when one connects with a text. So the text is what performs this act of creation; one is born as a reader at every moment if, in each of those moments, there is a new text placed before one’s eyes. It’s a way of granting an existence that then takes on a perverse dimension, because it implies an entire network, typically commercial, in relation to the book, of facile criticism, of the arrogance of pretending to know who readers are and what they want to read. Reading is a complex operation, and the interesting thing about this operation is that it cannot relinquish that complexity; on the contrary, it must be embraced. Because through approaching that complexity and attempting to unravel the network that this complexity entails, the person who reads, now transformed into a reader, begins to be a person of a different nature.
-And that’s where we delve into philosophyโฆ
-Yes, literature changes us. In reality, the reader doesn’t exist; it’s the text that creates the reader. That’s the provisional explanation of a concept that often surprises many people because they’re more accustomed to clichรฉs. I wrote a book in Mexico about Columbus’s diary, titled The Two Axes of the Cross. Once it was published, I went to look for it at a very good bookstore, Gandhi, which has thousands of customers in Mexico, and they had placed it in the religion section because they assumed that if it said “cross,” it was for readers interested in religion. In other words, they presupposed the universe of readers. The book didn’t deserve that fate because it had nothing to do with religion except for revealing the relationship that existed at the time of the so-called “discovery” between faith, enterprise, perspective, the world that was opening up, and all of that.
-Was the discovery of America truly a discovery?
-It’s a word that tries to summarize what the arrival of the Europeans on this continent, whose existence they were unaware of, entailed. There are some theories according to which the northern part had already been known by Nordic travelers, but that didn’t have any lasting impact. What did have an impact was the arrival of Columbus, and since this land was unknownโbecause Columbus thought that this route would take him to the Eastโthe term “discovery” was used. It’s a word typical not of the discovered but of the discoverer; it’s the word that the one who arrives at a place can use to explain what is being presented to him, but the one who is already in that place doesn’t necessarily feel that it applies to them, doesn’t necessarily feel discovered. The thing is, there are no accounts of how the natives of these islands felt when they saw the Spaniards; all we know is what the Spaniards said. There have been attempts to recover words from the indigenous peoples, especially in Mexico, in poetry, in myths, in inscriptions, in temples. There are strong traditions that existed before the Spaniards arrived, but they were hidden or erased or took a long time to become known, and very in-depth research was needed much later. But what we know about all of this is what the so-called discoverers said.
-What is your opinion regarding the indigenous peoples?
-If the Spanish had arrived on the coasts of Cuba, the islands, the continent, a hundred years later, it would have been a different story. They would have had to recognize the existence of organized worlds such as those of the Mayans, the Aztecs, or the Incas, which were empires with structure, organization, language, and even, at times, the beginnings of writing. A hundred years later, history would have been completely different, which is what happened when they arrived in the East, where there were already established cultures. They arrived at a time when they swept everything away, and what pre-existed was liquidated or reduced, transformed to a certain extent, but they couldn’t completely eradicate everything. They introduced diseases, slavery, servitude, things that can be understood as the primitivism, the savagery of societies for which appropriation is like their reason for being. At the same time, that operation is like one of the penultimate manifestations of behaviors that come from the most remote antiquity, because there have always been peoples who appropriated others, who enslaved and created empires based on the occupation of territories. That was like a penultimate gasp of that inveterate custom of European history of occupying lands, appropriating them and the people.
-We talked about the “cross,” what is your concept of God?
-Some time ago I published an article in Pรกgina 12, called “Passions,” where I discuss the Passion according to Saint Matthew by Johann Sebastian Bach in particular, and from there I delve further into the writing of the Gospels and the creation of Christianity. The hypothesis I put forward there is that the probably most important creation of human civilization, the Catholic Church, arises from a poetic event. The poetic event is the version given by the Gospels of an episode that occurred, which they had gathered through oral traditions and which corresponded to a small place on an immense planet, the Jewish world, in which a man spoke of the fatherhood of God the Father, who was the object of worship in that very small place and who was distinguished from everything that surrounded it. In that universe, many different types of people emerged, some probably schizophrenic, others enlightened, prophets. One of them would later become known as Christ. The events that supposedly occurred at that time were recorded by poets and writers who gave them structure, and this led to the most powerful creation of human civilization. The foundation of this is a prior belief, the existence of God, which runs through all of human genetics from ancient times and arises as a primary need for an explanation that gradually takes shape in myths and legends, which little by little begin to order people’s lives and find their place in the written tradition that records them. So the word “God,” in reality, is an explanation for a set of causes that are not only inexplicable but also generate anxiety. This explanation calms the anxiety, especially if it is structured in the form of a specific ritual that establishes a connection with oneself and suppresses the anxiety of time, of death, of existence, of the other. This places things on a certain footing and sets aside the other aspect of the matter, which is the natural tendency we all have to try to suppress this anxiety that makes us think there are enigmas, but which are not necessarily mystical in nature. These enigmas generate an attitude that we can call religiosity, the will, the connection with these enigmas, and the willingness to surrender to them, accepting them, considering that they exist and are unfathomable, and that this determines a certain attitude of respect towards the unknown.
Pedro Meyer naciรณ en Madrid (1935) hijo de padres judรญos exiliados republicanos de Espaรฑa. Obtuvo la nacionalidad mexicana a los 7 aรฑos. Lleva cuarenta aรฑos en el mundo del arte fotogrรกfico y es uno de los grandes representantes de la fotografรญa mexicana contemporรกnea. Como declarรณ en una entrevista nunca deja de aprender, porque se debe estar aprendiendo todos los dรญas, โlas circunstancias nos obligan a ello, ya que los cambios tecnolรณgicos afectan a todoโ, dijo. Ha sido pionero en el lenguaje digital, autor de varios libros, curador y director de ZoneZero, famoso sitio virtual que recoge portafolio de mรกs de mil fotรณgrafos alrededor del mundo. Meyer ha expuesto su trabajo en mรกs de doscientas muestras en diversos paรญses y su obra hace parte de importantes colecciones privadas y de los mรกs prestigiosos museos.Ha presentado su obra en mรกs de 200 exposiciones que han recorrido paรญses como China, Inglaterra, Francia, Estados Unidos, Cuba e Italia. Entre sus principales contribuciones se encuentran la fundaciรณn del Consejo Mexicano de Fotografรญa y la organizaciรณn de los tres primeros Coloquios Latinoamericanos de Fotografรญa. Tambiรฉn es director de la Fundaciรณn Pedro Meyer, con la que busca โcontribuir a la reflexiรณn, interpretaciรณn e investigaciรณn en lo que se refiere a la imagen fotogrรกfica dentro del marco de las nuevas tecnologรญasโ. En 2014 erige el Foto Museo 4 Caminos que tiene como principal objetivo la educaciรณn en el รกmbito fotogrรกfico.
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Pedro Meyer was born in Madrid in 1935, the son of exiled Jewish Republicans from Spain. He obtained Mexican citizenship at the age of seven. He has been involved in the world of photographic art for forty years and is one of the leading figures in contemporary Mexican photography. As he himself stated in an interview, one should never stop learning, because continuous learning is essential every day, “circumstances demand it, since technological changes affect us all,” he said. He has been a pioneer in digital photography, the author of several books, a curator, and the director of ZoneZero, a renowned online platform that features a portfolio of more than a thousand photographers from around the world. Meyer has exhibited his work in over 200 exhibitions in various countries, and his work is part of important private collections and the most prestigious museums. He has presented his work in more than 200 exhibitions that have traveled to countries such as China, England, France, the United States, Cuba, and Italy. Among his main contributions are the founding of the Mexican Council of Photography and the organization of the first three Latin American Photography Colloquiums. He is also the director of the Pedro Meyer Foundation, whose objective is to contribute to reflection, interpretation, and research on the photographic image within the framework of new technologies. In 2014, he founded the Foto Museo 4 Caminos, whose main objective is education in the field of photography.
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Pedro Meyer insists that all photographs โ manipulated or not โ are equally true and untrue. Meyer argues that digital manipulation continues the tradition of so-called โstraight photographyโ in which unwanted details are cropped out, or the photographer directs the scene from behind the camera, asking his subject to step out of the shadows into better light. In addition, Meyer contends that unseen elements like memory or emotion present themselves with a physical reality equal to visible objects. In his photographs, these elements often appear with a clarify that connects his work to the tradition of Magical Realism. — Lehigh University Arts
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Pedro Meyer insists that all photographs โ manipulated or not โ are equally true and untrue. Meyer argues that digital manipulation continues the tradition of so-called โstraight photographyโ in which unwanted details are cropped out, or the photographer directs the scene from behind the camera, asking his subject to step out of the shadows into better light. In addition, Meyer contends that unseen elements like memory or emotion present themselves with a physical reality equal to visible objects. In his photographs, these elements often appear with a clarify that connects his work to the tradition of Magical Realism. — Lehigh University Arts
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Fotografรญa digital y no realista de Pedro Meyer/
Digital and non-realist photography by Pedro Meyer
Marina Mariasch Nace en Buenos Aires en una familia judรญa. Licenciada en Letras y docente en la carrera de Artes de la Escritura (UNA). En los aรฑos 90 fundรณ el sello editorial Siesta. Publicรณ poesรญa (El zig zag de las instituciones, Paz o amor, Mutual sentimiento, entre otros), novela (El Matrimonio, Estamos unidas, Efectos personales), cuentos y ensayos que fueron traducidos al alemรกn, inglรฉs, finlandรฉs. Escribe e interviene en diversos medios culturales.
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Marina Mariasch was born in Buenos Aires to a Jewish family, She holds a degree in Literature and teaches in the Creative Writing program at the National University of the Arts (UNA). In the 1990s, she founded the publishing house Siesta. She has published poetry (El zig zag de las instituciones, Paz o amor, Mutual sentimiento, among others), novels (El Matrimonio, Estamos unidas, Efectos personales), short stories, and essays that have been translated into German, English, and Finnish. She writes for and contributes to various cultural media outlets.
sparks, locks of hair. Anguished, she came and went
carrying and bringing boxes and orders
and my mother already a ghost but still
alive shook her head
looked at my friends, shook her head
that that was something to do to
a friend the day that you enter
a new house. Trouble
recently sown. In the hall
there was a a virgin from some religion or other
a fertility goddess and a cross
on a bright-colored rosary
I decided to keep them, to throw them away
I thought of what survives
and has a name before you do.
I wanted only that the days
Psss, go around in baggy pants,
tee shirt and a mug of coffee with milk,
what is called around the house, although
that sounds silly, the words are
useless devises for the
morning peace. Itโs not that
I venerate them. I had bought
ghosts, long before
itโs necessary to hate a bit
what you love. They continue here
among us, seeing how
they love us and leave,
they bring flowers of those
that rot and others that
stay alive every season.
The variable becomes
static never permanent
durable, things arrived
from other homes. The
epoch changed. It ceased being the
same, there are no hammocks
or games that arenโt
mental, table.
The house of honey
is this one, not the one to the side
it isnโt the one in front.
That closed, the other navigates
a drunken ship. Here the honey
is never lacking, it is ours
crossed three houses
three avenues toward poverty
it is our amalgam
our amalga, the word that never
appears when I want to
name it. It remains.
IO the chain of trembling
that we walk in pajamas
with cups of cover in hand
some things continue here
we continue here, we not
the same, but not so much
either, going to sleep
getting up, without knowing
very well when it ends
but knowing well
when we move together
near the oven to get
warm, when we share
drying washed hair
by hands, that ends
in a different path.
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No le tengas miedo a las tormentas. Los truenos son espectaculares tienen que ver con el cine. Si tenรฉs miedo, venรญ a mi cama nos tapamos con dos frazadas. Los relรกmpagos. El flash de una cรกmara que le saca una foto a la ciudad. Los balcones se iluminan por un segundo y se apagan como cuando es navidad. Las tormentas son buenas. un preรกmbulo o conclusiรณn que tranquiliza porque llegรณ.
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Donโt be afraid of the storms.
The thunder
Is spectacular
They are like the movies.
If you are afraid, come to my bed
Weโll cover ourselves with two blankets.
The lightening bolts. The flash of a camera
that takes a photo of the entire city.
The balconies are illuminated for a second
and go dark
as when it is Christmas.
The storms are good.
A preamble or a conclusion
that quiets because it arrived.
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Hace calor a esta hora. En el patio de abajo corre viento como en los lugares de playa. La perra lame sus cachorros para refrescarlos. despuรฉs de comer nos tiramos en la cama hacemos la siesta, la cama es un barco la alfombra es el mar. Las sierras de la obra hacen de chicharras los obreros tocan el toc-toc.
Itโs hot at this hour.
In the patio below
wind runs
as in those places on the beach.
The bitch licks its pups
to cool them off.
after eating
we throw ourselves on the bed
we take a siesta
the bed is a ship
the rug is the sea
The mountains of the work
act like cicadas
the workers play knock-knock.
Estรกs sentado, estรกs leyendo En la mesa del comedor hay una canasta con pan y manteca Y vos-naranja Sos suavecito en los dedos cuando hablรกs por telรฉfono Si estamos resfriados nos damos besos aรฉreos Si estamos mojados nos damos besos mojados. Clic-clic es el ruido de la puerta cuando me late mรกs fuerte y cruzo las piernas. De los gajos de una naranja saliรณ el ombligo.
Los dรญas nublados tenรฉs los ojos como pasto mojado. Tu piel es suave como la parte de adentro de los brazos y tenรฉs pecas en la boca, ยฟte comiste una torta de pecas? Ahora te mirรกs en un espejo chiquito te saca la lengua, te devuelve una risa. Cerca de casa hay un รกrbol de moras. Un dรญa voy a ir a la maรฑana Y te voy a juntar muchas moras para el desayuno. Cuando llegue el invierno cada uno tendrรก sus pantuflas tendrรก los pies tibios.
You are seated, you are reading
On the dining room table
there is a basket
with bread and butter
and you-orange
You are very soft with your fingers
When you speak
on the telephone
If we have a cold
We give each other air kisses
If we are damp
We give each other damp kisses.
Click-click is the sound of the door
when it throbs in me stronger
and I cross my legs.
Some of the orange peel
came out of my belly button.
On cloudy days you have
Eyes like damp grass.
Your skin is soft like the part
Inside your arms and you have
freckles on your tongue. Did you eat a
freckles cake?
Now you look at yourself
In a small mirror
It takes out your tongue
It gives back to your smile.
Near the house there is a blackberry
Bush. One day
Iโm going to go in the morning
and Iโll gather for you many blackberries
for breakfast.
When the winter comes
each one of us will have slippers
will have warm feet.
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Libros de Marina Mariasch/Books by Marina Mariasch
Tatiana Salem Levy, nascida em Lisboa em 1979, รฉ uma escritora brasileira de ascendรชncia portuguesa e judaico-turca. Vive em Lisboa, onde trabalha como pesquisadora na Universidade Nova. ร tambรฉm colunista do jornal Valor Econรดmico. Estudou Letras na Universidade Federal do Rio de Janeiro e na Pontifรญcia Universidade Catรณlica do Rio de Janeiro. Ao longo da vida, viveu nos Estados Unidos e na Franรงa. Sua obra literรกria inclui diversos romances, alguns dos quais foram traduzidos para o espanhol, como A Chave de Esmirna (vencedor do Prรชmio Sรฃo Paulo de Melhor Estreia em 2008) e Vista Chinesa.
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Tatiana Salem Levy, born in Lisbon in 1979, is a Brazilian writer of Portuguese and Jewish-Turkish descent. She lives in Lisbon, where she works as a researcher at Nova University. She is also a columnist for the newspaper Valor Econรดmico. She studied Literature at the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro and the Pontifical Catholic University of Rio de Janeiro. Throughout her life, she has lived in the United States and France. Her literary work includes several novels, some of which have been translated into Spanish, such as A Chave de Esmirna (winner of the Sรฃo Paulo Prize for Best Debut in 2008) and Vista Chinesa.
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A chave da casa
Conto (crio) essa histรณria dos meus antepassados, essa histรณria das imigraรงรตes e suas perdas, essa histรณria da chave de casa, da esperanรงa de retornar ao lugar de onde eles saรญram, mas nรณs duas (sรณ nรณs duas) sabemos ser outro o motivo da minha paralisia. Conto (crio) essa histรณria para dar algum sentido ร imobilidade, para dar uma resposta ao mundo e, de alguma forma, a mim mesma, mas nรณs duas (sรณ nรณs duas) conhecemos a verdade. Eu nรฃo nasci assim. sair.
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Nรฃo havia nada de religioso no ritual. Para mim, faltava sempre alguma coisa. Faltava verdade. Tudo nรฃo passava de uma grande encenaรงรฃo: รฉramos judeus um dia por ano. Festejรกvamos o ano-novo, mas para nรณs o ano sรณ comeรงava no dia primeiro de janeiro. O ano nunca comeรงou em setembro ou outubro. Entรฃo, por que a celebraรงรฃo? Por que esse teatro para nรณs mesmos? [Nรฃo entendo por que dizer que nรฃo havia verdade. Deus nรฃo estava na mesa, concordo, foi a nossa escolha. Nรฃo era a religiรฃo o que nos importava, mas a tradiรงรฃo. Nรฃo querรญamos simplesmente jogar na lata de lixo aquilo que nossos antepassados se esforรงaram para guardar. O importante era manter a simbologia. Eu queria transmitir um pouquinho do que aprendi para os que vieram depois.] Eu sei. Entendo seu gesto, entendo sua intenรงรฃo. Romper definitivamente com o passado รฉ mais difรญcil do que imaginamos, gera culpa, uma culpa que pode se tornar mortal. Penso que รฉ por isso que somos judeus mesmo quando nรฃo o somos. Dizemos que se trata de uma questรฃo genealรณgica, mas รฉ sobretudo uma questรฃo de medo: temos medo de esquecer o passado e ser responsรกveis por isso. [O passado nรฃo รฉ para ser esquecido.] Se nรฃo esquecemos o passado nรฃo vivemos o presente. Vocรช sabe, essa dor que sinto no corpo, os ombros pesados, รฉ o passado nรฃo esquecido que carrego comigo. O passado de geraรงรตes e geraรงรตes. [Nรฃo, minha filha, o que vocรช suporta em seu dorso frรกgil sรฃo os silรชncios do passado. Vocรช carrega o que nunca foi falado, o que nunca foi ouvido. O silรชncio รฉ perigoso, eu a alertei.] Mas a culpa nรฃo รฉ minha, nรฃo fui eu quem guardou os segredos. Eles chegaram a mim sem licenรงa, e eu nem os conheรงo. [Sim, vocรช os conhece: seu corpo conhece todos os segredos, todos os silรชncios, muito mais do que vocรช imagina.] Vocรช confirma entรฃo que se trata de uma heranรงa? Que herdei da famรญlia todas as dores? Que belo presente! [Nรฃo se irrite, de nada adianta. Tampouco se ausente de sua responsabilidade. Vocรช tambรฉm รฉ responsรกvel pelo seu passado, รฉ responsรกvel pelo que carrega nas costas e, principalmente, pela maneira como o carrega. Existem diferentes formas de lidar com a heranรงa, e vocรช certamente escolheu uma das mais pesadas, mais doloridas.] Nรฃo escolhi nada, jรก disse: vim ao mundo com esse fardo. [Eu estava lรก quando vocรช nasceu e me lembro bem: vocรช era um bebรช gorducho e fofo, nรฃo havia nada de pesado em seu corpo mole.] Nรฃo seja irรดnica, vocรช sabe do que estou falando. [Nรฃo se trata de ironia. Quero apenas que tente enxergar as coisas como elas sรฃo, que acredite nessa viagem, que acredite que pode e merece ser feliz. Quero que entenda que nรฃo precisa ter a famรญlia nas costas, que pode se livrar do passado. Mas para isso nรฃo pode ignorรก-lo: pelo simples fato de que vocรช nunca o ignorou atรฉ agora e, por isso, precisa entendรช-lo, precisa nomeรก-lo.] Jรก o nomeei: o passado se chama medo. [Nunca conheci ninguรฉm tรฃo cabeรงa-dura. Mesmo quando vocรช toma decisรตes, sempre as estรก questionando. A cada passo que avanรงa, parece que recua outro. O passado nรฃo se chama medo. Nรฃo questione tanto, minha filha, apenas prossiga a viagem e verรก as surpresas que a aguardam, verรก o quรฃo leve a vida pode ser.] Vocรช me diz isso agora, mas nรฃo se esqueรงa de que foi vocรช quem me ensinou que antes da maรงรฃ doce precisamos comer o pรฃo seco. [ร assim mesmo. A matzรก serve para nos lembrar do passado sofrido. O pรฃo seco fala da dor, da misรฉria. E a maรงรฃ com mel garante que nรฃo precisamos repetir o passado.] Se falam do passado, entรฃo por que trago comigo seus silรชncios? [Compreendo suas inquietaรงรตes. Hรก muitas coisas que nรฃo foram ditas. . .
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Serรก que encontraria a casa dos meus antepassados? Que a chave ainda seria a mesma? Eu tentava acreditar nessa histรณria que tinha inventado para mim mesma, nessa histรณria que ainda invento e que รฉ a รบnica capaz de me dar alguma resposta. Nessa histรณria que pode ser a mais descabida, mas tambรฉm a mais real. Nรฃo sei atรฉ que ponto sรฃo verdadeiras as histรณrias do meu avรด, atรฉ que ponto รฉ verdadeiro o que vivo agora. Nem mesmo sei se รฉ verdadeira a minha viagem. Parece que quanto mais me aproximo dos fatos mais me afasto da verdade.
Levy, Tatiana Salem. A chave de casa, Kindle Edition.
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The Key to the House
I tell (create) this story of my ancestors, this story of immigration and its losses, this story of the house key, of the hope of returning to the place they left, but the two of us (only the two of us) know that the reason for my paralysis is something else. I tell (create) this story to give some meaning to the immobility, to give an answer to the world and, in some way, to myself, but the two of us (only the two of us) know the truth. I wasn’t born this way.
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There was nothing religious about the ritual. For me, something was always missing. Truth was missing. It was all just a big charade: we were Jewish one day a year. We celebrated the new year, but for us the year only began on January first. The year never started in September or October. So why the celebration? Why this theater for ourselves? [I don’t understand why you say there was no truth. God wasn’t at the table, I agree, that was our choice. It wasn’t religion that mattered to us, but tradition. We didn’t want to simply throw away what our ancestors had strived to preserve. The important thing was to maintain the symbolism. I wanted to pass on a little of what I learned to those who came after.] I know. I understand your gesture, I understand your intention. To break from dealing with the past is definitely more difficult than we imagine; it generates guilt, a guilt that can become deadly. I think that’s why we are Jewish even when we’re not. We say it’s a genealogical matter, but it’s above all a matter of fear: we are afraid of forgetting the past and being responsible for it. [The past is not to be forgotten.] If we don’t forget the past, we don’t live in the present. You know, this pain I feel in my body, the heavy shoulders, is the unforgotten past that I carry with me. The past of generations and generations. [No, my daughter, what you bear on your fragile back are the silences of the past. You carry what was never spoken, what was never heard. Silence is dangerous, I warned you.] But the guilt isn’t mine, I wasn’t the one who kept the secrets. They came to me without permission, and I don’t even know them. [Yes, you know them: your body knows all the secrets, all the silences, much more than you imagine.] So you confirm that it’s an inheritance? That I inherited all the pain from my family? What a beautiful gift! [Don’t get angry, it’s no use. Nor should you shirk your responsibility. You are also responsible for your past, you are responsible for what you carry on your back and, above all, for the way you carry it. There are different ways to deal with the inheritance, and you certainly chose one of the heaviest, most painful ones.] I didn’t choose anything, I already said: I came into the world with this burden. [I was there when you were born and I remember well: you were a chubby and cute baby, there was nothing heavy about your soft body.] Don’t be ironic, you know what I’m talking about. [It’s not irony. I just want you to try to see things as they are, to believe in this journey, to believe that you can and deserve to be happy. I want you to understand that you don’t need to have your family on your back, that you can free yourself from the past.] But to do that, you can’t ignore it: for the simple reason that you’ve never ignored it until now, and therefore you need to understand it, you need to name it.] I’ve already named it: the past is called fear. [I’ve never met anyone so stubborn. Even when you make decisions, you’re always questioning them. With every step you take forward, you seem to take another step back. The past is not called fear. No.] “Don’t question so much, my daughter, just continue the journey and you will see the surprises that await you, you will see how light life can be.” You tell me this now, but don’t forget that it was you who taught me that before the sweet apple we must eat the dry bread. [That’s right. The matzah serves to remind us of the suffering of the past. The dry bread speaks of pain, of misery. And the apple with honey ensures that we don’t need to repeat the past.] If they speak of the past, then why do I carry their silences with me? [I understand your anxieties. There are many things that were left unsaid…
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Would I find my ancestors’ house? Would the key still be the same? I tried to believe in this story I had invented for myself, this story I still invent and which is the only one capable of giving me any answers. This story that may be the most far-fetched, but also the most real. I don’t know to what extent my grandfather’s stories are true, to what extent what I’m experiencing now is true. I don’t even know if my journey is real. It seems that the closer I get to the facts, the further I get from the truth.
Translated by Stephen A. Sadow
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Livros de Tatiana Salem Levy/Books by Tatiana Salem Levy
Olga Fisch (1901-1990) fue una artista, marchante de arte y promotora cultural extraordinaria. Nacida en Hungrรญa, viajรณ por el mundo explorando las selvas de Sudamรฉrica y viviendo en Marruecos, donde reuniรณ su primera colecciรณn de artesanรญas. En 1932, se casรณ con su segundo esposo, Bela Fisch. La pareja emigrรณ de Europa debido a las tensiones polรญticas en la Alemania nazi, particularmente peligrosas por su origen judรญo. En Ecuador, Fisch comenzรณ a enseรฑar en la Escuela de Bellas Artes y se involucrรณ profundamente en el arte popular ecuatoriano. Para 1943, su colecciรณn de artefactos y obras de arte atrajo la atenciรณn internacional. Lincoln Kirstein, director del Museo de Arte Moderno de Nueva York (MoMA), visitรณ Ecuador para ver la colecciรณn. Este encuentro la catapultรณ a la fama y la llevรณ a tener a la ONU y al MoMA como sus primeros clientes. Durante la dรฉcada de 1950, Fisch diseรฑรณ varias lรญneas de alfombras de gran รฉxito. En la dรฉcada de 1960, su exclusivo negocio de alfombras, dirigido por mujeres y basado en encargos, era un รฉxito rotundo. Tambiรฉn fundรณ un museo sin fines de lucro dedicado a la cultura ecuatoriana y una tienda de artesanรญas llamada “Folklore”, que aรบn hoy es un referente cultural en Quito. Incluso en sus รบltimos aรฑos, Fisch conservรณ un agudo sentido del estilo, combinando con maestrรญa la inspiraciรณn arqueolรณgica y los motivos precolombinos con influencias clรกsicas coloniales.
Olga Fisch (1901-1990) was an extraordinary artist, art dealer and cultural advocate. Born in Hungary, Olga Fisch traveled the world exploring the jungles of South America and living in Morocco where she assembled her first collection of cultural handicrafts. In 1932, Olga married her second husband Bela Fisch. The couple emigrated from Europe due to political tensions in Nazi Germany, particularly dangerous due to their Jewishย heritage. In Ecuador, Fisch began teaching at the School of Fine Arts. Fisch became deeply involved in Ecuadorian folk art. By 1943, Fischโs collection of cultural artifacts and art attracted international attention. Lincoln Kirstein, the director of New Yorkโs Museum of Modern Art, visited Ecuador to view the collection. This meeting catapulted Fisch into the spotlight and resulted in the U.N. and MoMA becoming her first clients. During the 1950s, Fisch designed several successful area carpetย lines. By the 1960โs, Fischโs exclusive women-run commission-based carpet business was a resounding success. She also started a non-profit museum dedicated to Ecuadorian cultural and a handicraft shop called “Folklore” that is still a cultural landmark in Quito. Even in her older years, Fisch retained a keen sense of style that artfully combined archaeological inspiration and Pre-Colombian motifs with classical colonial influences.
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De la serie “Caverna”:/From the “Caverna” series
Diseรฑos especiales/Special Designs
Gente del Ecuador, en la colonia y en la actualidad de la artista/Ecuadorian people in the Colonial period and time of the artist
Nascida na Argentina, filha de imigrantes judeus poloneses, em 1933, Anna Bella Geiger vive e trabalha no Rio de Janeiro. De 1950 a 1953, Geiger frequentou aulas gratuitas de desenho, pintura e gravura no Instituto Fayga Ostrower, onde seu trabalho tendeu ร abstraรงรฃo. Viajou para Nova York para estudar histรณria da arte e sociologia na Universidade de Nova York e no Metropolitan Museum of Art; Geiger retornou ao Rio de Janeiro em 1954. Ao longo da dรฉcada de 1960, continuou a receber prรชmios em exposiรงรตes nacionais. Em 1964, Geiger se desencantou com a abstraรงรฃo informal. Seu trabalho comeรงou a refletir as formas orgรขnicas do corpo. No final da dรฉcada de 1960, sentiu a necessidade de responder ao clima sociopolรญtico de seu paรญs. Participou de um boicote ร 10ยช Bienal de Sรฃo Paulo (1969) e empregou colagem e assemblage para explorar a identidade brasileira e as noรงรตes de periferia. Cartografia e topografia logo se tornaram motivos importantes em sua obra. Na dรฉcada de 1980, seu interesse pela pintura foi renovado, enquanto na dรฉcada de 1990 ela retornou ร escultura multimรญdia com formas cartogrรกficas. Em 1987, em parceria com o artista, crรญtico e professor Fernando Cocchiarale, foi coautora de Abstraรงรฃo Geomรฉtrica e Informal: A Vanguarda Brasileira nos Anos 50. Geiger participou de bienais internacionais realizadas em Sรฃo Paulo, Veneza (1980), Havana (1997) e Porto Alegre, Brasil (1997). Recebeu uma bolsa da Fundaรงรฃo Memorial John Simon Guggenheim (1982) e foi premiada diversas vezes, incluindo a Bolsa da Fundaรงรฃo Vitae, o Prรชmio SESC Rio de Fomento ร Cultura (2010) e o Prรชmio Ibram de Arte Contemporรขnea (2011). — Courtney Smith
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Born in Argentina to Polish Jewish immigrant parents in 1933, Anna Bella Geiger lives and works in Rio de Janeiro. From 1950 to 1953 Geiger attended free classes in drawing, painting, and engraving at Instituto Fayga Ostrower, where her work tended toward abstraction. She traveled to New York to study art history and sociology at New York University and the Metropolitan Museum of Art; Geiger returned to Rio de Janeiro in 1954, Through the 1960s she continued to receive awards at national exhibitions. By 1964 Geiger became disenchanted with informal abstraction. Her work began to reflect the body’s organic forms. By the late 1960s she felt the need to respond to the sociopolitical climate of her country. She participated in a boycott of the 10th Bienal de Sรฃo Paulo (1969) and employed collage and assemblage to explore Brazilian identity and notions of the periphery. Cartography and topography soon became important motifs in her work. The 1980s saw her renewed interest in painting, while in the 1990s she returned to multimedia sculpture of cartographic forms. In 1987, with the artist, critic, and professor Fernando Cocchiarale, she coauthored Geometric and Informal Abstractionism: The Brazilian Avant-garde in the Fifties. Geiger participated in international biennials held in Sรฃo Paulo Venice (1980), Havana (1997), and Porto Alegre, Brazil (1997). She received a John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation Fellowship (1982) and won several awards, including the Bolsa da Fundaรงรฃo Vitae, Prรชmio SESC Rio de Fomento ร Cultura (2010), and Prรชmio Ibram de Arte Contemporรขnea (2011). — Courtney Smith
Arquitecto y pintor, Josรฉ Grinberg se graduรณ de arquitecto en la Universidad Nacional Autรณnoma de Mรฉxico (UNAM). Fundador y director de Grinberg & Topelson Arquitectos en la Ciudad de Mรฉxico en 1978, ha desarrollado una diversidad de proyectos residenciales, educativos, de salud, culturales, de vivienda social y de desarrollo urbano. Ha construido mรกs de cien residencias y diseรฑado complejos urbanos de vivienda social con mรกs de 20,000 unidades. Fue profesor de Diseรฑo Arquitectรณnico y Urbano durante 26 aรฑos en la Universidad Anรกhuac. Miembro del Consejo de Mรฉrito del Colegio de Arquitectos de Mรฉxico. Miembro de la Academia Mexicana de Arquitectos y de la Academia Nacional de Arquitectos de Mรฉxico. En la obra de Josรฉ Grinberg, las soluciones arquitectรณnicas y urbanรญsticas se fundamentan en el anรกlisis del contexto, el programa, las implicaciones sociales y las tecnologรญas constructivas, en estrecha relaciรณn con su tiempo y lugar.
Architect and Painter, Josรฉ Grinberg received his architectural degree form the National University UNAM. Founder and principal of Grinberg & Topelson Architects in Mexico City 1978, he has developed a diversity of projects, residencial, educational, health, cultural, social housing and urban development. He has built more than one hundred residencies, and designed urban complexes of social housing holding more than 20,000 units. Professor of Architectural & Urban Design during 26 years at the Universidad Anahuac. Member of the Merit Board at the Colegio de Arquitectos de Mexico. Fellow of the Mexican Academy of Architects and the National Academy of Architects of Mexico. In the works of Jose Grinberg, the architectural and urban solutions are rooted in the analysis of the context, program, social implications and building technologies, in close relation to their time and place.
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Sara Topelson de Grinberg se graduรณ como arquitecta en la Universidad Nacional Autรณnoma de Mรฉxico (UNAM). Nombrada Mujer del Aรฑo en Mรฉxico en 1996, Topelson fue presidenta de la Uniรณn Internacional de Arquitectos (UIA) de 1996 a 1999. Durante su trayectoria como socia del estudio de arquitectura Grinberg & Topelson, ha desarrollado proyectos en los รกmbitos de vivienda, industria, educaciรณn, cultura y vivienda social. Ademรกs de su labor en la prรกctica privada, Sara ha sido profesora en la Universidad Anรกhuac, donde impartiรณ clases de historia de la arquitectura durante 25 aรฑos. De 2001 a 2003, fue directora de Arquitectura del Instituto Nacional de Bellas Artes de Mรฉxico, donde impulsรณ la conservaciรณn de la arquitectura del siglo XX mediante registros, publicaciones y exposiciones en el Museo Nacional de Arquitectura. Coordina el Centro de Documentaciรณn e Investigaciรณn sobre Vivienda (CIDOC) de Mรฉxico, fundado en 2000, donde ha promovido proyectos de investigaciรณn, entre ellos ยซLa vivienda en el Estado de Mรฉxicoยป, en colaboraciรณn con el Centro Conjunto de Estudios de Vivienda de la Universidad de Harvard. Fue Directora General de Desarrollo Urbano del Distrito Miguel Hidalgo en la Ciudad de Mรฉxico desde octubre de 2006 hasta enero de 2007. Se desempeรฑรณ como Subsecretaria de Desarrollo Urbano y Regional del Gobierno Federal en Mรฉxico.
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Sara Topelson de Grinberg received her architectural degree from the National University of Mexico (UNAM). Named Mexico’s Woman of the Year 1996, Topelson was President of the International Union of Architects (UIA) 1996 โ 1999. During her career as a partner in the architectural firm Grinberg & Topelson, she has developed projects in the fields of housing, industry, education, culture and low-income housing. In addition to her work in private practice, Sara has been a professor at the Universidad Anahuac, teaching history of architecture for 25 years. From 2001 to 2003, she was Director of Architecture of the National Institute of Fine Arts of Mexico; promoting conservation of XX Century architecture through registers, publications and exhibitions ar the National Museum of Architecture. She coordinates the Housing Documentation and Research Center (CIDOC), Mรฉxico, founded in 2000 where she has promoted research projects, among them “The State of Mexico’s Housing” in collaboration with the Joint Center for Housing Studies of Harvard University. She was General Director of Urban Development for the Miguel Hidalgo District in Mexico City from October 2006 to January 2007. She has served as Undersecretary for Urban and Regional Development for the Federal Government in Mexico.
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Museo Pre-historico — Corea del Sur/The Prehistoric Museum — South Korea
Edificio Anahuac/Anahuac Building
Biblioteca Pรบblica de Jalisco
Comisiรณn nacional de vivienda/National Housing Commission
Ruth Behar naciรณ en La Habana, Cuba, y creciรณ en Nueva York. Ahora es James W. Fernandez Distinguished University Professor of Anthropology and Professor of Anthropology en la Universidad de Michigan. Ruth ha trabajado como etnรณgrafa en Espaรฑa, Mรฉxico y Cuba, y es conocida por su enfoque humanista para comprender la identidad, la inmigraciรณn y la bรบsqueda de un hogar en nuestra era global. Sus libros incluyen The Presence of the Past in a Spanish Village; Translated Woman: Crossing the Border with Esperanzaโs Story; The Vulnerable Observer: Anthropology That Breaks Your Heart; y An Island Called Home: Returning to Jewish Cuba. Es co-editora de Women Writing Culture, editora de Bridges to Cuba/Puentes a Cuba y co-editora de The Portable Island: Cubans at Home in the World. Su documental, Adio Kerida/Goodbye Dear Love: A Cuban Sephardic Journey, se ha exhibido en festivales de todo el mundo. Tambiรฉn es poeta; su obra ha aparecido recientemente en Burnt Sugar/Caรฑa Quemada:Poesรญa Cubana Contemporรกnea en Inglรฉs y Espaรฑol y en The Norton Anthology of Latino Literature. Everything I Kept/Todo lo que guardรฉ es su primer libro de poesรญa.
Premios
Premio de la Fundaciรณn MacArthur
Premio de la Fundaciรณn en Memoria de John Simon Guggenheim
Beca Fulbright Senior
Instituto de Humanidades, Beca de la Familia Hunting, Universidad de Michigan
Universidad Wesleyana, Premio a la Exalumna Distinguida en Reconocimiento a sus Logros y Servicios Destacados
Doctora honoris causa en Letras Humanitarias, Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion
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Ruth Behar was born in Havana, Cuba, and grew up in New York. She is now James W. Fernandez Distinguished University Professor of Anthropology and Professor of Anthropology at the University of Michigan. Ruth has worked as an ethnographer in Spain, Mexico, and Cuba, and is known for her humanistic approach to understanding identity, immigration, and the search for home in our global era. Her books include The Presence of the Past in a Spanish Village; Translated Woman: Crossing the Border with Esperanzaโs Story; The Vulnerable Observer: Anthropology That Breaks Your Heart; and An Island Called Home: Returning to Jewish Cuba. She is co-editor of Women Writing Culture, editor of Bridges to Cuba/Puentes a Cuba, and co-editor of The Portable Island: Cubans at Home in the World. Her documentary, Adio Kerida/Goodbye Dear Love: A Cuban Sephardic Journey, has been shown in festivals around the world. A poet as well, her work has appeared recently in Burnt Sugar/Caรฑa Quemada: Contemporary Cuban Poetry in English and Spanish and The Norton Anthology of Latino Literature. Everything I Kept/Todo lo que guardรฉ is her first book of poetry.
Award(s)
MacArthur Foundation Fellows Award
John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation Award
Fulbright Senior Fellowship
Institute for the Humanities, Hunting Family Faculty Fellowship, University of Michigan
Wesleyan University, Distinguished Alumna Award in Recognition of Outstanding Achievement and Service
Doctor of Humane Letters, honoris causa, Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion
Estos poemas fueron escritos en inglรฉs y traducidos al espaรฑol por la poeta/ These poems were written in English and translated into Spanish by the poet.
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ALUMNA OBEDIENTE
Fui una alumna obediente. Cuando mis profesores me dijeron
que no llegarรญa a ser una buena poeta, dejรฉ de escribir. Preferรญ
cortarme la lengua que insultar a las Musas. Pero adoraba las
palabras como adoro el fuego en el invierno, el cielo estrellado
y el mar tranquilo. Dirรกn que estos poemas son tรญmidos; como
la invรกlida que se levanta de su cama despuรฉs de una larga
convalecencia. Pero asรญ ando, abrazรกndome a las paredes que
encuentro en mi camino.
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OBEDIENT STUDENT
I was an obedient student. When my teachers told me I
wouldnโt make a good poet, I stopped writing. I preferred to
cut out my tongue than insult the Muses. But I adored words,
like I adore fire in winter, the starry sky, and the calm sea. These
poems might be timid: like the invalid who rises from her bed
after a long convalescence. But I still walk, embracing the walls
along the way.
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MIEDOS
Tengo tantos miedos: de la noche, de envejecer, de ver a los
que he querido,
enfermar o morir, de mi propia muerte. Son
los miedos de todos. Pero me atormentan tambiรฉn miedos mรกs
raros: de que mi corazรณn se pone a latir mรกs rรกpido;
de volverme ciego de repente y no poder llegar a casa: de perder mi
memoria antes de encontrar tiempo de escribir los cuentos
dormidos dentro de mรญ; de inviernos enfurecidos que jamรกs
terminan. Tambiรฉn tengo miedo a mojarme en la lluvia, a
pararme de cabeza, a bajar las escaleras de prisa. Las policรญas,
los soldados, y los oficiales de inmigraciรณn me espantan.
Si me quitaron los miedos, no pesarรญa nada y serรญa libre. Me verรญas
bailar como una hoja parda, seca, y despuรฉs me soplarรญa el
viento de otoรฑo.
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FEARS
I have so many fears: of the night, of growing old, of seeing
those I have loved fall ill or die, of my own death. Those are
fears that everyone has. But I am also tormented by stranger fears:
of my heart pounding too quickly; of unexpectedly going blind
and not finding my way home: of losing my memory before I
find the time to write the stories still dormant in me: of raging winters
which will never end. I am also afraid of getting wet in
the rain, standing in my head, running down staircases.
Police, soldiers, and immigration officers terrify me. If you took
my fears away, I would be weightless and free. You would see
me dance like a brown leaf and then Iโd blow away in the
Como tantos otros que la conocieron, yo querรญa mucho a Marjorie. Solo nos veรญamos de vez en cuando, en sus lecturas en Cambridge y Maine, y en mis visitas a su casa en Wellesley. Pero siempre que la veรญa, nuestra conversaciรณn parecรญa retomar el hilo donde la habรญamos dejado. Marjorie me decรญa que sentรญa a sus familiares fallecidos caminar con ella; podรญa acudir a ellos en busca de consuelo y consejo. Echarรฉ de menos su consuelo y sus consejos.
Por Steve Sadow, Director del Blog
____________________________
Like so many others who knew her, I loved Marjorie. We only saw each other from time to time, at her readings in Cambridge and Maine and my visits to her home in Wellesley. But whenever I would see her, our conversation would seem to begin where we had just left off. Marjorie told me she could feel her deceased relatives walk along with her; she could turn to them for comfort and advice. I will miss her comfort and advice.
_______________________________
Por Ruth Behar, Profesor de Antropologรญa. University of Michigan
Un tributo a Marjorie Agosรญn
Escribo esta esquela con el corazรณn roto para recordar y rendir homenaje a mi amiga, la renombrada poeta y escritora Marjorie Agosรญn. Hace apenas unos meses hablรกbamos por telรฉfono sobre la idea de esperar hasta los 70 aรฑos para dejar la vida laboral, y ella me dijo que despuรฉs ya no querรญa viajar, solo querรญa quedarse en casa y escribir.
Marjorie falleciรณ el 10 de marzo de 2025, a los 69 aรฑos, solo tres meses antes de su setenta cumpleaรฑos, en su hogar en Wellesley, MA. Luchรณ contra el cรกncer durante casi un aรฑo, eligiendo con coraje mantener secreta su enfermedad, compartiรฉndola solo con su esposo. Escribiรณ hasta el รบltimo dรญa de su vida.
Cualquiera que estรฉ familiarizado con la inmensa obra de Marjorie estarรก de acuerdo en que hemos perdido a una gigante de la literatura en el รกmbito de los estudios Judeo-Latinoamericanos. Sin duda, se destacรณ como la poeta y escritora Judeo-Latinoamericana mรกs elocuente, erudita, profunda y prolรญfica que residรญa en los Estados Unidos.
Su voz fue esencial en la redefiniciรณn de la frontera entre America y Amรฉrica, desafiando todas las suposiciones establecidas con anterioridad.
Fue una figura clave en la fundaciรณn del campo de la escritura judรญa latina y la escritura judรญa latinoamericana, tejiendo originales conexiones entre patrias y diรกsporas. Mucho antes de que se volviera un tema mรกs frecuente, puso de relieve la singular hibridez de la identidad Jewtina y construyรณ una comunidad literaria para escritoras que compartรญan este legado mixto.
En sus mรบltiples e impresionantes facetas como poeta, narradora, editora, acadรฉmica, educadora y activista en el รกmbito de los derechos humanos y los derechos de las mujeres, Marjorie sobresaliรณ como escritora creativa, pensadora valiente y mujer de integridad, pasiรณn, generosidad y brillantez.
Fue una fuente de inspiraciรณn y fortaleza, un modelo a seguir para las latinas en el mundo acadรฉmico que, como ella, sentรญan orgullo de su herencia judรญa. Creรญa en el poder de la escritura como un medio para buscar justicia y fue reconocida por su labor con un premio excepcional y prestigioso de las Naciones Unidas, que le otorgรณ el Leadership Award in Human Rights.
Nacida en Bethesda, Maryland, en 1955, Marjorie Agosรญn creciรณ en Chile, adonde regresรณ con apenas tres meses de edad junto a sus padres, Moisรฉs Agosรญn y Frida Halpern, una familia judรญa chilena.
Se establecieron en Santiago, rodeados de su familia extendida, y vacacionaban en El Quisco, un pueblo cercano a Isla Negra, donde alguna vez residiรณ Pablo Neruda. Junto a su hermana Cynthia (n. 1952) y su hermano menor Mario (n. 1963), Marjorie pasรณ su infancia y primera adolescencia en Chile durante la dรฉcada de 1960, estudiando en el Instituto Hebreo de Santiago de Chile.
En 1971, a los diecisรฉis aรฑos, Marjorie se trasladรณ con su familia a Athens, Georgia.Su padre, mรฉdico y bioquรญmico, aceptรณ un puesto como profesor de quรญmica en la universidad, sin imaginar cuรกnto tiempo permanecerรญan allรญ. Sin embargo, tras el golpe militar de Augusto Pinochet y el derrocamiento del gobierno democrรกtico de Salvador Allende, la familia comprendiรณ que no podrรญa regresar a Chile.
Marjorie, se sentรญa fuera de lugar en Estados Unidos, donde constantemente tenรญa que explicar su identidad a personas que no entendรญan cรณmo podรญa ser rubia, hablar espaรฑol sin parecer latina y, ademรกs, ser judรญa.
Escribรญa cartas a sus amigas en Chile, evocando flores, fragancias y todo lo que habรญa perdido. Con el tiempo, al asumir la escritura como su vocaciรณn, comprendiรณ que era una escritora en el exilio, para quien โla memoria se convierte en su aliada mรกs preciada, asรญ como en su obsesiรณn mรกs perturbadoraโ, como expresรณ en su libro de ensayos Ashes of Revolt (1996).
Obtuvo su licenciatura en Filosofรญa y Literatura Espaรฑola en la Universidad de Georgia en 1976. Posteriormente, en 1982, completรณ su maestrรญa y doctorado en Literatura Latinoamericana en la Universidad de Indiana.
Ese mismo aรฑo, comenzรณ a enseรฑar en el Departamento de Espaรฑol del Wellesley College, donde ofreciรณ cursos sobre escritoras judรญas, Amรฉrica Latina y escritura creativa. Con el tiempo, fue distinguida con el tรญtulo de Andrew Mellon Professor in the Humanities.
Disfrutaba impartiendo seminarios pequeรฑos en Wellesley y estableciendo vรญnculos cercanos con sus estudiantes. Sin embargo, nunca dejรณ de regresar a su amado Chile, que la honrรณ con el Premio Gabriela Mistral a la Trayectoria Distinguida.
Marjorie escribรญa en espaรฑol.Siempre en busca de un hogar, un tema que impregnรณ toda su obra, encontraba en su lengua materna el refugio mรกs autรฉntico, aunque en su infancia escuchรณ hablar en yidis, dominaba el hebreo y hablaba el inglรฉs con un acento musical. Eligiรณ que sus textos fueran traducidos al inglรฉs para sus lectores en Norteamรฉrica. Querรญa ser reconocida a travรฉs de la traducciรณn, ser una mujer traducida. Como expresรณ en El alfabeto en mis manos: una vida de escritura (1999): โSoy una escritora judรญa que escribe en espaรฑol y vive en Amรฉricaโ.
Explorรณ mรบltiples gรฉneros, desde la poesรญa hasta la memoria, el ensayo, la narrativa y la literatura infantil. Su voz era lรญrica en cualquier forma de escritura, y la poesรญa era indispensable en su vida. En sus versos abordรณ los temas de la memoria, la historia, la pรฉrdida y el exilio, centrรกndose a menudo en los deseos y sueรฑos de las mujeres.
No evitรณ los temas difรญciles: escribiรณ sobre el horror de las torturas, las desapariciones y los desmembramientos ocurridos en Chile, asรญ como sobre su propia conciencia de la culpa del sobreviviente. En Las zonas del dolor (1989), dio voz a una desaparecida, una mujer que decรญa de sรญ misma:
โNo tuve testigos / de mi muerte, / nadie realizรณ rituales, escribiรณ epitafiosโฆ / y cuando llamen mi nombre / aparecerรฉ / porque nunca fui a mi / propio funeral.โ
Marjorie veรญa una conexiรณn entre el genocidio perpetrado por las dictaduras latinoamericanas en los aรฑos 70 y las vรญctimas judรญas del genocidio nazi.
Este tema aparece en sus escritos sobre Ana Frank. Creciรณ contemplando una pequeรฑa fotografรญa de Ana, que le habรญa entregado su abuelo Josรฉ, un judรญo vienรฉs que vivรญa en Santiago de Chile. Al escribir los poemas de su libro Querida Ana Frank (1994), se convirtiรณ en la niรฑa a la que habรญa mirado durante tanto tiempo: โSoy Ana Frank, / tengo trece aรฑos / pero tambiรฉn miles de aรฑos. / Huelo a humo y vejez / cubriendo los rostros del miedo.โ
Sintiendo un vรญnculo espiritual con el exilio de los sefardรญes, escribiรณ una serie de poemas onรญricos en Las islas blancas (The White Islands, 2016), en los que lamenta la expulsiรณn de los judรญos de Espaรฑa y al mismo tiempo que celebra las memorias imborrables que dejaron.
Se inspirรณ en conversaciones con descendientes que encontraron un hogar en Salรณnica y en las islas griegas de Rodas y Creta, asรญ como en los Balcanes, lugares a los que viajรณ para conocer las historias de muchos que perecieron en el Holocausto.
โSolo quise escribir sobre ellos,/narrar su feroz audacia,/sus travesรญas por los corredores del Mediterrรกneo.โMarjorie amaba los mares del mundo y era consciente de las penas que guardaban. Escribiรณ:โSe llevaron a todos los judรญos de Rodas/en un dรญa soleado,como todos los dรญas apacibles del mar Egeo.โY se preguntรณ:โยฟQuรฉ hay mรกs allรก de las palabras?/ยฟQuรฉ miras mรกs allรก del horizonte,/donde el mar se funde con el cielo?โ
Luego, durante la pandemia de Covid-19 cuando viajar no era posible, encontrรณ la lucidez para escribir Mรกs allรก del tiempo de las palabras (Beyond the Time of Words, 2022), con el propรณsito de brindar consuelo a los lectores y ofrecer un santuario de poemas. Capturรณ la desesperaciรณn de aquel tiempo en estos versos conmovedores: โSolo la ausencia habita en mรญ,/ todo lo que fue y lo que no serรก,/ cosas arrebatadas y olvidadas./ Poseo el alma de un nรกufrago/ que todo lo anhela.โ
Las voces y las historias de sus ancestros siempre estuvieron cerca de su corazรณn, entre ellas las de sus bisabuelas, quienes escaparon de Viena y Odesa para encontrar un nuevo hogar en Chile.
Lamentablemente, el antisemitismo del que huyeron las siguiรณ al otro lado del mar, avivado por los colonos alemanes que se establecieron en el sur de Chile y por los criminales de guerra nazis que llegaron despuรฉs de la Segunda Guerra Mundial.
Marjorie tambiรฉn escribiรณ sobre muchos otros miembros de su familia: sus abuelos, sus tรญos y tรญas, cuyas historias quedaron grabadas en su memoria. Sus memorias, Una cruz y una estrella: recuerdos de una niรฑa judรญa en Chile (1997; 2022) y Siempre de otra parte: mi padre judรญo (1998), son relatos conmovedores de la vida de su madre y su padre.
En estas obras, buscรณ expresar la importancia fundamental de dar testimonio tanto del trauma como de la resiliencia judรญa. En Una cruz y una estrella, narrada en fragmentos que reflejan el vaivรฉn de la memoria, dio voz al peso del miedo intergeneracional que cargaban su madre y otros miembros de su familia:
โEn las pesadillas, los judรญos sueรฑan con estaciones de tren flotando entre la niebla y con puertas que se cierran contra las cenizas.โ
Entre las exigencias de la docencia y su propia escritura, Marjorie mantuvo un firme compromiso con la difusiรณn de la obra de escritoras judรญas latinoamericanas, acercรกndolas a lectores de Estados Unidos y del mundo.
Las numerosas antologรญas que editรณ son testimonio de su esfuerzo por construir comunidades de escritoras y explorar las diversas formas en que la identidad judรญa se narra en distintos contextos latinoamericanos. La casa de la memoria: relatos de escritoras judรญas de Amรฉrica Latina (publicada originalmente en 1999 y reeditada en 2022) fue la primera antologรญa de su tipo en inglรฉs. En ella reuniรณ treinta relatos de escritoras judรญas de diversas nacionalidades, entre ellas Mรฉxico, Argentina, Chile, Brasil y Cuba. Posteriormente, publicรณ un volumen dedicado a la poesรญa, Las hijas de Miriam: poetas judรญas latinoamericanas (2001), que permitiรณ a los lectores descubrir una asombrosa diversidad de voces poรฉticas.
Su curiosidad por las historias de vida de otras escritoras judรญas la llevรณ a realizar entrevistas para su libro Viajeras inciertas: conversaciones con mujeres judรญas inmigrantes en Amรฉrica (1999). Tuve el honor de ser entrevistada por Marjorie y de convertirme en el sujeto de su mirada antropolรณgica, una experiencia que atesoro profundamente.
En aรฑos recientes, buscรณ crear antologรญas que cruzaran fronteras y dieran voz a inmigrantes y exiliados desde una รกrea geogrรกfica mรกs amplia.
En el volumen Hogar: un paisaje imaginado (2016), reuniรณ a escritores de diversos lugares, incluyendo Grecia, Hungrรญa, Jamaica y Egipto, cada uno narrando el viaje รบnico que los llevรณ a construir un nuevo hogar en Estados Unidos. Siempre consciente de que los hogares son tanto reales como imaginados, escribiรณ: โEl hogar es un barco que viaja incesantemente, que arriba, pero zarpa en los puertos de nuestra imaginaciรณn.โ
En la รบltima etapa de su carrera, Marjorie se adentrรณ en la literatura para preadolescentes creando la hermosa novela Vivรญ en el Cerro Mariposa (2012), por la cual la Asociaciรณn de Bibliotecas de Amรฉrica (ALA) le otorgรณ la Medalla Pura Belprรฉ, un reconocimiento a obras que celebran la identidad latina. Mรกs tarde, publicรณ una impresionante secuela, Los mapas de la memoria: regreso al Cerro Mariposa (2020), donde abordรณ el complejo tema del trauma polรญtico y su impacto en jรณvenes que intentan comprender el pasado y el presente en Chile. Poco antes de su fallecimiento, finalizรณ el manuscrito de la tercera novela de la serie Cerro Mariposa.
Marjorie tenรญa una profunda espiritualidad en su forma de vivir. Aunque no era religiosa en el sentido tradicional, su identidad judรญa era inquebrantable, al mismo tiempo que mantenรญa una apertura hacia la interconexiรณn y la fluidez entre las diferentes creencias. Como recordรณ en El alfabeto en mis manos (1999), la celebraciรณn de Pรฉsaj en Chile formaba parte de la mezcla de culturas judรญa y catรณlica con la que creciรณ: โTodo en Pรฉsaj tenรญa el aroma de violetas, y luego llegaba la Semana Santa, y comรญamos pescado del Pacรญfico que, como el pan รกcimo, habรญan descendido del cielo.โ
Marjorie Agosรญn deja su legado en su esposo, John Wiggins, a quien conociรณ en la Biblioteca de la Universidad de Georgia en la primavera de 1973; su hijo, Joseph Wiggins Agosรญn; su hija, Sonia Wiggins Agosรญn; su hermano, Mario Agosรญn; su hermana, Cynthia Agosรญn, y su familia extendida en Chile. Tambiรฉn deja una inmensa red de amigas y amigos, colegas, estudiantes y lectores que aman su obra y agradecen el mundo que creรณ con su imaginaciรณn y sus palabras.Hace aรฑos, Marjorie escribiรณ un poema, โMรกs que la pazโ, en Las zonas del dolor, que quizรกs refleja lo que ella deseaba una vez que partiera.Que todos los que la extraรฑamos profundamente podamos desearle la paz que ella describiรณ con tanta claridad.
[Traducido al espaรฑol por Vivianne Schnitzer]
__________________________
“Mรกs que la paz”
No quiero nombres
ni tumbas
para mis muertos
ni compartir cementarios
con huesos extraviada
sรณlo denme
mi colchรณn de hojas
sรณlo dรฉjenme
regresar a mis bosque
___________________________
By Ruth Behar, Professor of Anthropology, University of Michigan
A Tribute to Marjorie Agosรญn
It is with a broken heart that I sit down to write this obituary to remember and praise my friend, the renowned poet and writer Marjorie Agosรญn. Just a few months ago we were speaking on the phone about waiting to retire until turning 70, and she said that afterward she didnโt want to travel, she just wanted to stay home and write.
Marjorie died on March 10, 2025 at the age of 69, just three months shy of her 70th birthday, at her home in Wellesley, MA. She suffered from cancer for close to a year, courageously choosing to keep her illness a secret that she shared only with her husband. She kept writing until the end of her days.
Anyone familiar with the vast corpus of Marjorieโs work will agree that we have lost a literary giant in the field of Latin American Jewish Studies. Without a doubt, she stood out as the most eloquent, knowledgeable, profound, and prolific Latin American Jewish woman poet and writer residing in the United States.
Hers was an essential voice in redefining the border between America and Amรฉrica in ways that challenged all presuppositions.
She was a key founder of the field of Jewish Latina writing and escritura judรญa latinoamericana, connecting homelands and diasporas in original ways. Long before it became commonplace, she called attention to the unique hybridity of โJewtinaโ identity and built a literary community for women writers who shared this mixed heritage.
In her many impressive roles as a poet, storyteller, editor, scholar, educator, and activist in the field of human rights and womenโs rights, Marjorie shone as a creative writer and brave thinker and a woman of integrity, passion, generosity, and brilliance.
She offered inspiration, strength, and a model of how to be a Latina in the academy who took pride in her Jewish heritage. She believed in the power of writing as a means of seeking justice and was recognized for her work in a rare and prestigious award from the United Nations, which presented her with a Leadership Award in Human Rights.
Born in Bethesda, Maryland, in 1955, Marjorie Agosรญn grew up in Chile, where she returned at the age of three months with her Jewish Chilean parents, Moisรฉs Agosรญn and Frida Halpern, to live amid their extended Jewish family in Santiago and vacationing in el Quisco, a village near Isla Negra, where Pablo Neruda once resided. Marjorie, together with her sister, Cynthia (b. 1952) and younger brother, Mario (b. 1963), spent her childhood and early adolescence in Chile in the 1960s, studying at the Hebrew Institute of Santiago de Chile.
In 1971, when she was sixteen, Marjorie moved with her family to Athens, Georgia. Her father, a doctor and a biochemist, took a job as a professor of chemistry at the university, not realizing how long they would be staying. After Augusto Pinochet staged a military coup, overthrowing the democratic government of Salvador Allende, the family knew they could not return to Chile.
Marjorie felt out of place in the United States, where she had to continually explain her identity to people who could not understand how she could be blonde, speak Spanish without looking Latina, and also be Jewish.
She wrote letters to her girlfriends in Chile, reminiscing about flowers, fragrances, all she had lost, and realized when she took up writing as her vocation that she was an exiled writer, for whom โmemory becomes her most precious ally, as well as her most disturbing obsession,โ as she put it in her book of essays, Ashes of Revolt (1996).
She received her B.A. in Philosophy and Spanish Literature from the University of Georgia in 1976. She then obtained her M.A. and PhD in Latin American Literature from Indiana University in 1982.
She began teaching in the Spanish Department at Wellesley College in 1982, offering courses on Jewish women writers and on Latin America, as well as creative writing, eventually being named an Andrew Mellon Professor in the Humanities.
She enjoyed teaching small seminars at Wellesley and getting to know her students. Yet she never stopped returning to her beloved Chile, which awarded her the Gabriela Mistral Lifetime Achievement Award.
Marjorie wrote in Spanish. Always in search of home, a topic that informed all of her writing, it was in her native language that she felt most truly at home, though she heard Yiddish growing up and was fluent in Hebrew and spoke a musically accented English. She chose for her work to be translated into English for her North American readers. She wanted to be known in translation, to be a translated woman. As she put it in The Alphabet in My Hands: A Writing Life (1999), โI am a Jewish writer who writes in Spanish and lives in America.โ
She wrote in many genres, from poetry to memoir to essays to fiction to childrenโs literature. Her voice was lyrical in whatever genre she wrote in and so poetry was indispensable. In her poetry she explored the themes of memory, history, loss, and exile. She frequently focused on the desires and dreams of women.
She didnโt shy away from hard topics, such as the horror of tortures, disappearances, dismemberments that took place in Chile and the awareness of her own survivorโs guilt. In Zones of Pain/Las zonas del dolor (1989), she wrote about a desaparecida, a disappeared woman, who said of herself: โI had no witnesses/to my death,/Nobody carried out rituals, wrote epitaphsโฆ/and when they call my name/I will appear/because I never went to my/own funeral.โ
Marjorie saw a connection between the genocide committed by Latin Americaโs dictatorships in the โ70s and the Jewish victims of Nazi genocide.
This theme comes up in her writing about Anne Frank. She grew up gazing at a little photograph of Anne Frank passed on to her by her grandfather Josรฉ, a Viennese Jew living in Santiago de Chile. When she wrote the poems in the volume, Dear Anne Frank (1994), she became the girl sheโd spent so much time gazing at: โI am Anne Frank/I am thirteen years old/but I am also thousands of years old./I smell of smoke and old age/covering the faces of fear.โ
Feeling a spiritual bond with the exile of the Sephardim, she wrote a series of dreamlike poems in The White Islands/Las islas blancas (2016) that lament the expulsion of the Jews from Spain while also celebrating the remembrances that remain.
She drew on conversations with descendants who found a home in Salonika and the Greek Islands, Rhodes, Crete, as well as the Balkans, places to which she traveled, learning the stories of many who perished during the Holocaust.
โI only wanted to write about them,/Narrate their fierce audacity,/Their voyages through the channels of the Mediterranean.โ Marjorie loved the seas of the world and was aware of the sorrows they held. She wrote, โThey took all the Jews of Rhodes/On a sunny day like all of the gentle days of the Aegean Sea.โ And she asked herself, โWhat is there beyond the words?/What are you gazing at beyond the horizon/Where the sea meets the sky?โ
Then, when it wasnโt possible to travel during the Covid 19 pandemic, she found the presence of mind to write Beyond the Time of Words/Mรกs allรก del tiempo de las palabras (2022), to give solace to readers and offer a sanctuary of poems. She captured the desperation of that time in these haunting lines: โOnly absence dwells in me,/Everything that was and that will not be,/Things snatched away and forgotten./I possess the soul of a castaway/Who longs for everything.โ
Close to her heart always were the voices and stories of her ancestors, among them her great-grandmothers who had escaped Vienna and Odessa, and found a new home inChile.
Sadly, the antisemitism they fled followed them across the sea, spurred by German colonists who settled in southern Chile, as well as Nazi war criminals who arrived after World War II.
Marjorie also wrote about many other family members, her grandparents, her aunts and uncles, whose stories were etched in her memory. Her memoirs, A Cross and a Star: Memoirs of a Jewish Girl in Chile (1997; 2022) and Always from Somewhere Else: My Jewish Father (1998), are moving accounts of the life stories of her mother and father.
In these works, she sought to express the crucial importance of bearing witness to Jewish trauma as well as Jewish resilience. In A Cross and a Star, told in fragments that mirror the ebb and flow of remembrances, she gave voice to the weight of inter-generational fear carried by her mother and other family: โIn nightmares, Jews dream about train stations floating in the mist and about doors shutting against the ashes.โ
Amid the demands of teaching and her own writing, she was committed to bringing a wide range of Latin American Jewish womenโs writing to the attention of U.S. and international readers.
The many anthologies she edited are a testament to her efforts to build communities of writers and understand the stories of Jewishness told in different Latin American settings. The House of Memory: Stories by Jewish Women Writers of Latin America (orig. 1999; 2022) was the first anthology of its kind to be published in English, and brought together thirty stories from Jewish writers of many nationalities, including Mexico, Argentina, Chile, Brazil, and Cuba. A volume focusing on poetry, Miriamโs Daughters: Jewish Latin American Women Poets (2001) followed, introducing readers to a stunning variety of poetic voices.
She was curious about the life stories of fellow Jewish women writers and carried out interviews for her book, Uncertain Travelers: Conversations with Jewish Women Immigrants to America (1999). I had the honor of being interviewed by Marjorie and enjoyed becoming the subject of her anthropological gaze.
More recently, she sought to create anthologies that crisscrossed borders and addressed immigrant and exile voices from a wider geographical area. In the volume, Home: An Imagined Landscape (2016), she brought together writers from a range of places, including Greece, Hungary, Jamaica, and Egypt, each addressing the unique journey that led them to build a new home in the United States. Ever aware of how homes are both real and imagined, she noted, โHome is an ever-traveling ship that arrives yet also takes sail in the harbors of our imagination.โ
In the last phase of her career, Marjorie dove into young adult literature, producing the beautiful novel, I Lived on Butterfly Hill (2012), for which the American Library Association awarded her the Pura Belprรฉ Medal for a work that celebrates Latina/Latino identity. She later brought out a stunning sequel to this novel, The Maps of Memory: Return to Butterfly Hill (2020), that takes on the complex subject of political trauma as it affects a range of young people trying to make sense of the past and the present in Chile. Just before her death, she completed the manuscript of the third novel in the Butterfly Hill series.
Marjorie was immensely spiritual in her approach to life. Though not religious in the traditional sense, she was unwaveringly Jewish while being open to the interconnectedness and fluidity of faiths. As she noted in The Alphabet in my Hands (1999), she remembered Passover in Chile being part of the mix of Jewish and Catholic cultures with which she grew up: โEverything about Passover had the fragrance of violets and then Easter week would arrive and we would eat fish from the Pacific that, like unleavened bread, had come from the heavens.โ
Marjorie Agosรญn is survived by her husband, John Wiggins, whom she met at the University of Georgia Library in the spring of 1973, her son Joseph Wiggins Agosรญn, her daughter Sonia Wiggins Agosรญn, her brother Mario Agosรญn, and sister Cynthia Agosรญn, and her extended family in Chile. She is also survived by a vast network of friends, colleagues, students, and readers who love her writing and are grateful for the world she brought into being with her imagination and her words.
Years ago, Marjorie wrote a poem, โMรกs que la pazโ (More than peace), in Zones of Pain that suggests what she perhaps wished for once she passed. May all of us who miss her deeply be able to wish her the peace she described with such clarity: ___________________
“More than Peace”
I want neither names
nor tombs
for my deaths
nor to share cemeteries
with bones
gone astray
just give me
my pillow
of leaves
just let me
go back to my
forests.
Translation by Ruth Behar
_______________________________ Estas elegรญas fueron publicado en inglรฉs recientemente por LAJSA/These elegies were recently published in English by LAJSA ___________________________________
Adelina, un cuento
Emma Weiss jamรกs habรญa visto el mar aunque se lo imaginaba cobrizo como los caballos indomables de sus antepasados vieneses y de su madre, Frida Weiss, quien lo llevaba recogidos en un lazo azul como si en guardaba los secretos anudados de sus de sus travesรญa y rivales. Siempre el mar aparecรญa como un horizonte insondable o como sueรฑos y con mรบsica de fondo de agua que Emma Weiss inventaba cada anochecer en los remotos paisajes Osorno, Chile, donde el silencio y la oscuridad de las planicies pululaban y el silencio, y el silbado de animales presagiaba el cambio y los nacimientos de niรฑos y รกrboles.
Su padre habรญa escapado mucho antes de los tatuajes se la guerra; dicen que lo habรญa hecho por un acto de amor y fe. Enamorado de una exquisita y valiente cantante de cabaret en los trasnochados barrios de la ciudad. Habรญa decidido a dar fin a ese ilรญcito amor, y en el mes de junio, cuando era posible pasearse al aire libre y el olor incompresible de las flores silvestres, redundaba la redondez del aire, Josรฉ Weiss decidiรณ emigrar al รบltimo rincรณn del mundo. Fue a Valparaรญso, ciudad de puertos y colinas iluminadas. Entonces se despidiรณ temeroso de Adelina, de sus piernas fugaces y su traje de brillo, ya que presagiaba por su uso enloquecido, sus arrugas insinuantes y vencidas, los comienzos del estropicio, los bombardeos sin sentido y el fracaso indiscutible de toda amenaza y guerra. Se despidieron en la plaza con esa certeza de los que permanecen queriรฉndose, cercanos a la tierra y a la curvatura de los besos. Eligieron aรบn la festividad del lugar, donde familias enteras gozaban como si fueran inmortales porque habรญa sol y niรฑos en las bancas de antiguas maderas.
Emma Weiss se preparaba para viajar a Valparaรญso por primera vez, acercarse a oler el mar, verlo alzando y misterioso en todo su esplendor y delirio. Tambiรฉn Emma conocerรญa a su abuela Helena, quien habรญa permanecido encerrada en el sรณtano de la casa de casa de Adelina porque era la madre de Josรฉ Weiss, porque era judรญa. Habรญa que cuidar la ciudad, rondar las calles antes de dirigirse al sรณtano, fijarse muy amanecida que nadie los acechaba y Adelina solรญa entrar como a hurtadillas para brindar la paz y su sonrisa como alimento que entregaba en las delgadas de Helena.
Juntas recordaban a Josรฉ Weiss y cerraban postigos para encender una vela. Iluminar las almas muertas y recordar aquel navegante judรญo quien llegรณ como un alma en pena, descendiendo desde lo mรกs hondo de su ahuecado destino a las extraรฑas faldas de Valparaรญso con una hija de meses en los brazos.
La noche del viaje en tren, desde Osorno hasta Valparaรญso, Emma Weiss planchรณ su vestido de lino color violeta, cepillรณ una y otra vez su espeso y sombrรญo cabello par soรฑar nada mรกs que con su abuela Elena y con el mar. Imaginaba al mar, con la inocencia de las primeras cosas, como cuando se mirรณ desnuda bajo los postigos de su cuarto y se puso bella en una redondez que amanecรญa. Imaginaba baรฑada el รฉl, dejando que el agua la llenara de vida y la poblaba de algas, y durmiรณ como si el mar hubiera entrado en sus ojos, como si las historias de terror de los niรฑos enviados en los trenes de la demencia se hubieran hundido en la corteza misma del sargazo.
En el tren, recorrieron enormes pastizales, animales humildes y derrotados y el olor a humo que impregnaba el paisaje. Ya nadie les recordaba a la Europa partida en dos porque supieron salvarse a tiempo y gracias al amor de Adelina que permitiรณ que Josรฉ Weiss llegara a las costas chilenas antes de recibir la orden de arresto.
A Emma le transpiraba la mano. Muy rara vez miraba a su padre, que aรบn llevaba su sombrero de Vienna y la mirada de Adelina en sus ojos de un verde espeso.
El puerto de Valparaรญso parecรญa desordenado, como si Dios o los constantes terremotos se hubieran olvidado a propรณsito de armarlo, y la ciudad parecรญa mรกs bien un cordel de melenas despeinadas y los cerros eran de tamaรฑo de las personas. Tal vez por eso no le extraรฑรณ a Emma ver un ataรบd bajando del cerro o una novia corriendo por los pedregales.
El dรญa era azul intenso y el cielo se confundรญan. Josรฉ ya habรญa divisado el barco su madre Elena a quien no habรญa visto desde hace trece aรฑos. No pudo dejar de recordar cuando fue ella misma, quien tenรญa la intuiciรณn de una clarividente, le iniciรณ a partir y besรกndole el cuello en silencio, le brindรณ la bendiciรณn del viajero. Pero Josรฉ Weiss pensaba en Adelina en su blusa brillosa que solรญa ponerse en noches, antes de los espectros de la muerte y de bombas que parecรญan palomas negras envestidas de mala fortuna.
Las manos de Emma Weiss sudaban: ella se desatรณ el lazo violeta y su cabello se asemejaba cada vez m s a las algas cobrizas. Alguien le tirรณ unas serpentinas y ella tรญmida las tirรณ al mar, pensado que tal vez caerรญan en el cabello de su abuela. Y ahรญ estaba el mar piadoso, recibiendo a los emigrantes, sujetando las naves y los candados del alma, y ella ya le permanecรญa porque habรญa soรฑado que su cuerpo era una cuna de peces en el regazo. Entonces, de pronto, Josรฉ divisรณ a Emma Weiss: venรญa con el mismo sombrero de tul, mรกs pequeรฑa y mรกs delgada su cara, y su pelo, cargaba el recuerdo de muchos muertos. Pero comprendรญa que se habรญa decidido por la vida y que verรญa a Josรฉ con su sonrisa tambiรฉn de verano y sus ojos parecidos a los bosques.
Ansiosos los familiares tiraban serpentinas. Otros tocaban pequeรฑas cornetas de papel aรฑejo que resonaban en el esplendor de los cerros. Era extraรฑo y alado Valparaรญso, loco en su cordura y al que llegaban los marineros, los que se despedรญan de los amores y los abatidos cuerpos despuรฉs de las iras de la guerra.
Entonces, Elena, digna, erguida, descendiรณ de la cubierta y distinguiรณ los ojos de su hijo, distinguiรณ a su nieta Emma que la miraba con todo el delirio y la ilusiรณn de sus trece aรฑos. Los besรณ tranquila porque sabรญa que habรญa llegado a tierra segura, les pidiรณ un sorbo de agua, y le entregรณ a Josรฉ un pequeรฑo sobre doblado.
Emma Weiss se sintiรณ feliz de poder de tener a su abuela, de haber abrazado y visto a su padre que le obsequiaba una blusa dorada que tenรญa la extraรฑa mezcla de esplendor y pobreza como sus lazos de familia.
_____________________________________
Adelina, a short-story
Emma Weiss had never seen the sea, although she imagined it coppery like the untamed horses of her Viennese ancestors and her mother, Frida Weiss, who wore them tied up in a blue ribbon as if guarding the knotted secrets of her journeys and rivals. The sea always appeared like an unfathomable horizon or like dreams, with the background music of water that Emma Weiss invented every evening in the remote landscapes of Osorno, Chile, where the silence and darkness of the plains swarmed, and the silence and the whistling of animals foreshadowed change and the births of children and trees. Her father had escaped the war long before the tattoos; they say he had done it as an act of love and faith. He had fallen in love with an exquisite and brave cabaret singer in the city’s nightlife neighborhoods. He had decided to end that illicit love, and in the month of June, when it was possible to walk in the fresh air and the incomprehensible scent of wildflowers filled the air, Josรฉ Weiss decided to emigrate to the farthest corner of the world. He went to Valparaรญso, a city of ports and illuminated hills. Then he fearfully said goodbye to Adelina, to her fleeting legs and her shiny dress, for it foreshadowed, through its frantic use, its suggestive and defeated wrinkles, the beginnings of destruction, the senseless bombings, and the undeniable failure of all threats and wars. They said goodbye in the plaza with the certainty of those who remain in love, close to the earth and the curve of kisses. They also chose the festivities of the place, where entire families rejoiced as if they were immortals because there was sunshine and children on the ancient wooden benches. Emma Weiss was preparing to travel to Valparaรญso for the first time, to come and smell the sea, to see it rising and mysterious in all its splendor and delirium. Emma would also meet her grandmother Helena, who had remained locked in the basement of Adelina’s house because she was Josรฉ Weiss’s mother, because she was Jewish. They had to take care of the city, patrol the streets before heading to the basement, making sure very early in the morning that no one was watching them, and Adelina would sneak in to offer peace and her smile like nourishment, which she delivered to Helena’s delicate lips. Together they remembered Josรฉ Weiss and closed the shutters to light a candle. To illuminate the dead souls and remember that Jewish navigator who arrived like a lost soul, descending from the depths of his hollow destiny to the strange slopes of Valparaรญso with a months-old daughter in his arms. The night of the train ride from Osorno to Valparaรญso, Emma Weiss ironed her violet linen dress, brushed her thick, dark hair over and over, dreaming of nothing but her grandmother Elena and the sea. She imagined the sea, with the innocence of the first things, like when she had looked at herself naked under the shutters of her room and become beautiful in a dawning roundness. She imagined herself bathed in it, letting the water fill her with life and populate her with seaweed, and she slept as if the sea had entered her eyes, as if the horror stories of children sent on the trains of dementia had sunk into the very crust of the sargassum. On the train, they traveled through vast pastures, humble and defeated animals, and the smell of smoke that permeated the landscape. No one reminded them of the Europe split in two because they knew how to save themselves in time, thanks to Adelina’s love, which allowed Josรฉ Weiss to reach the Chilean shores before receiving the arrest warrant. Emma’s hand was sweating. She rarely looked at her father, who still wore his Vienna hat and Adelina’s gaze in his thick green eyes. The port of Valparaรญso seemed in disarray, as if God or the constant earthquakes had deliberately forgotten to put it together, and the city looked more like a string of disheveled hair, and the hills were the size of people. Perhaps that’s why Emma wasn’t surprised to see a coffin being lowered from the hill or a bride running through the scree. The day was intensely blue, and the sky was a blur. Josรฉ had already spotted the ship, his mother Elena, whom he hadn’t seen for thirteen years. She couldn’t help but remember when it was she herself, with the intuition of a clairvoyant, who had initiated him to leave and, silently kissing his neck, offered him the traveler’s blessing. But Josรฉ Weiss was thinking of Adelina in her shiny blouse that she used to wear at night, before the specters of death and bombs that looked like black doves bearing ill fortune. Emma Weiss’s hands were sweating; she untied her violet ribbon, and her hair was becoming more and more like coppery seaweed. Someone threw some streamers to her, and she timidly threw them into the sea, thinking that perhaps they would fall into her grandmother’s hair. And there was the merciful sea, welcoming the emigrants, holding the ships and the locks of the soul, and she now remained with him because she had dreamed that her body was a cradle of fish in her lap. Then, suddenly, Josรฉ saw Emma Weiss: she was wearing the same tulle hat, her face smaller and thinner, and her hair carried the memory of many dead people. But he understood that she had decided for life and that she would see Josรฉ with his summer smile and his eyes like forests. Anxious family members threw streamers. Others blew small horns made of old paper that resonated in the splendor of the hills. Valparaรญso was strange and winged, mad in its sanity, where sailors arrived, those who said goodbye to their loves and their battered bodies after the wrath of war. Then, Elena, dignified and upright, descended from the deck and saw her son’s eyes, saw her granddaughter Emma looking at her with all the delirium and excitement of her thirteen years. She kissed them calmly because she knew she had reached safe land, asked them for a sip of water, and handed Josรฉ a small folded envelope. Emma Weiss felt happy to have her grandmother with her, to have hugged and seen her father giving her a golden blouse that had the strange mixture of splendor and poverty like their family ties.
Translation by Steve Sadow
____________________________
Algunos libros de Marjorie Agosรญn/Some of Marjorie Agosรญn’s Books
Selected Works of Marjorie Agosรญn
Novels
Las arpilleras: Una historia con hilo y aguja. Santiago, Chile: Editorial Mis Raices, 2021.
The Flowering Tree. Illustrated by Francisca Yanez, translated by Alison Ridley. Santiago, Chile: Editorial Mis Raices, 2018.
El arbol florido. Santiago, Chile: Editorial Mis Raices, 2018.
Ana Reimaginando:El Diario De Ana Frank. Santiago, Chile: Das Kapital Ediciones, 2015.
Young Adult Novels
The Maps of Memories: Returning to Butterfly Hill. New York: Simson & Schuster, 2020.
I Lived on Butterfly Hill. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2012.
Memoirs
Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 2000. With Emma Sepรบlveda.
The Alphabet in My Hands: A Writing Life. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2000.
Always from Somewhere Else: My Jewish Father. New York: Feminist Press, 1998.
A Cross and a Star: Memoirs of a Jewish Girl in Chile. New York: The Feminist Press, 1997; United Kingdom: Garnet Publishing, 1997; Albuquerque, NM: University of New Mexico Press, paperback edition, 2022 (with a foreword by Ruth Behar).
The Guardian of Memory: Aldo Izzo and the Ancient Jewish Cemetery of Venice. Dorset, England: Solis Press, 2023.
Books of Poetry
Mollica, Richard, and Marjorie Agosรญn. A Manifesto: Healing a Violent World. Tunbridge Wells, UK: Solis Press, 2019.
The White Islands / Las Islas Blancas. Translated by Jacqueline C. Nanfito. Chicago: Swan Isle Press, 2016.
Harbors of Light / Puertos De Luz. Translated by E. O. OโConnor. Buffalo, NY: White Pine, 2016.
The light of desire. Chicago: Swan Isle Press, 2009.
At the Threshold of Memory: New and Selected Poems. Buffalo, NY: White Pine Press, 2003.
Noche estrellada. Santiago, Chile: Lom Ediciones, 1996; Miami, FL: University of Miami North South Center, 1996.
Dear Anne Frank. Washington, DC: Azul Edition, 1994.
Circles of Madness. Fredonia, NY: White Pine Press, 1992.
Zones of Pain. Fredonia, NY: White Pine Press, 1989.
Brujas y Hogueras: Mexico: Antologรญa Poรฉtica, La Mรกquina Elรฉctrica, 1988.
Anthologies Edited
A Sea of Voices: Women Poets of Israel, an International Anthology. Santa Fe, NM: Sherman Asher, 2009.
From Chile to the World: 70 Years of Gabriela Mistralโs Nobel Prize: De Chile Al Mundo: 70 Aรฑos Del Premio Nobel De Gabriela Mistral. Edited by Marjorie Agosรญn, Gloria Garafulich Grabois. New York: Gabriela Mistral Foundation, 2015.
Home: An Imagined Landscape. Tunbridge Wells, UK: Solis Press, Kent, 2016.
Writing towards Hope: Human Rights in Latin America. New Haven: Yale University Press 2006.
Memory and Oblivion: The Modern Jewish Culture in Latin America Today. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 2004.
Miriamโs Daughters: Jewish Latin American Women Poets. Santa Fe, NM: Sherman Asher Publishing, 2000.
Uncertain Travelers: Jewish Women Emigrants to the Americas. Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 1999.
The House of Memory: Jewish Stories from Jewish Women of Latin America. New York: The Feminist Press, 1999.
A Map of Hope: Women Writers and Human Rights. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1999.
A Map of Hope: Women Writers and Human Rights. London: Penguin Books, 1999.
These Are Not the Sweet Girls: 20th Century Latin American Women Poets. Fredonia, NY: White Pine Press, 1993.
A Gabriela Mistral Reader. Fredonia, NY: White Pine Press, 1993.
Surviving Beyond Fear: Women, Children and Human Rights in Latin America. Fredonia, NY: White Pine Press, 1993.
Landscapes of a New Land: Short Stories by Latin American Women Writers. Fredonia, NY: White Pine Press, 1989. Second edition, February 1993.
Jacqueline Goldberg. Es una escritora, periodista y editora venezolana. Naciรณ en 1966, en Maracaibo. Es Licenciada en Letras, por la Universidad del Zulia (1990) y Doctora en Ciencias Sociales, por la Universidad Central de Venezuela (1998). Desde comienzos de los aรฑos noventa su trabajo discurre entre la literatura y el periodismo. En mรกs de una veintena de libros abarca la narrativa, la poesรญa, la literatura infantil, el reportaje, el ensayo, la crรญtica de artes visuales, el periodismo gastronรณmico y el gรฉnero testimonial. En su obra poรฉtica se encuentran los libros: Treinta soles desaparecidos (1986), De un mismo centro (1986), En todos los lugares bajo todos los signos (1987), Luba (1988), Mรกscaras de familia(1990), Trastienda (1992), Insolaciones en Miami Beach (1995), Carnadas(1998), Vรญspera (2000), La salud(2002), Una sal donde estoy de pie. Antologรญa (2003), El orden de las ramas(2003), Verbos predadores. Poesรญa reunida (1986-2006)(2007), Amphycles, los bogavantesโ (2011), Dรญa del perdรณn (2011), Postales negras (2011), Limones en almรญbar (2014), Nosotros, los salvados(2015), El libro de lo salvado (2020). Su trabajo poรฉtico aparece incluido y reseรฑado en antologรญas en Italia, Rumania, Corea del Sur, Espaรฑa, Puerto Rico, Chile, Perรบ, Argentina, Colombia, Estados Unidos, Cuba, Mรฉxico, Brasil y Venezuela.
De: Vomitรฉ un conejito
_______________________
Jacqueline Goldberg is a Venezuelan writer, journalist, and editor. She was born in 1966 in Maracaibo. She holds a Bachelor’s degree in Literature from the University of Zulia (1990) and a PhD in Social Sciences from the Central University of Venezuela (1998.). Since the early 1990s, her work has intersected literature and journalism. In more than twenty books, she covers fiction, poetry, children’s literature, reportage, essays, visual arts criticism, food journalism, and testimonials. Her poetic work includes the following books: Treinta soles desaparecidos (1986), De un mismo centro (1986), En todos los lugares bajo todos los signos (1987), Luba (1988), Mรกscaras de familia(1990), Trastienda (1992), Insolaciones en Miami Beach (1995), Carnadas(1998), Vรญspera (2000), La salud(2002), Una sal donde estoy de pie. Antologรญa (2003), El orden de las ramas(2003), Verbos predadores. Poesรญa reunida (1986-2006)(2007), Amphycles, los bogavantesโ (2011), Dรญa del perdรณn (2011), Postales negras (2011), Limones en almรญbar (2014), Nosotros, los salvados(2015), El libro de lo salvado (2020.) Her poetic work appears included and reviewed in anthologies in Italy, Romania, South Korea, Spain, Puerto Rico, Chile, Peru, Argentina, Colombia, United States, Cuba, Mexico, Brazil and Venezuela.
From: Vomitรฉ un conejito
___________________
_____________________________________
Poemas/Poems
El lugar de las precariedades
Sobre el escritorio reposa la fotografรญa de mi รบtero descolgado, amasijo que tan poco dice de la tenencia y de sus fibras.
He procurado permanecer cada tarde frente a la imagen, convencerme de que ese bocado sacrificial estuvo alguna vez atenazado en mi vientre. Que su superficie lisa y brillante se escurriรณ de mรญ en apenas un par de horas de quirรณfano. Que en adelante serรก mansedumbre.
Aรบn siento mordimientos en el abdomen, cansancio al retroceder.
Es difรญcil arremeter contra ciertos desenlaces: las heridas no son diques, no acunan, no revierten.
Quizรก reproduzca la imagen en una postal barnizada y la obsequie a los amigos. En su dorso escribirรฉ: ยซcuerpo uterino piriforme de 7 x 6 centรญmetros, en el cual se diagnosticรณ fibromatosis, adenomiosis y endometrio proliferativo, extraรญdo de Jacqueline Goldberg el martes 21 de febrero del aรฑo 2006ยป.
Que se vea. Se admire. Se abomine.
Me importa su cumplimiento de rastrojo.
Se trata de un retrato primordial, procedencia sin fin. Mis viejas fauces.
______________________________________
A Place of Precariousness
On the desk sits a picture of my excised uterus, a mess that says so little about its fibers, the properties.
Iโve tried to spend time with the image every afternoon, convincing myself that this sacrificial lump was once attached to my belly. Its smooth, glistening surface slipped away in a few short hours of surgery. Hereafter, there will be a gentleness.
I still feel twinges in my abdomen, fatigue when I slow down.
Itโs hard to lash out against certain outcomes: wounds arenโt dikes, they donโt cradle, donโt regress.
Maybe Iโll reproduce the image on a glossy postcard and give it away to my friends. On the back Iโll write: โpyriform uterine body of 7 x 6 centimeters,
in which fibromatosis was diagnosed adenomyosis and proliferative endometrium, extracted from Jacqueline Goldberg, on Tuesday February 21 of the year 2006.โ
Let it be seen. Admired. Detested.
The compliant stubble matters to me.
Itโs an essential portrait, a port of origin without end. My old maw.
___________________
Estado de exilio
Hay una retahรญla de verbos emancipados, sin cielo.
Todo es mรญo. Lo pestilente y lo liviano. Todo lo amasรฉ, lo mordรญ, lo acunรฉ.
Son mรญas las imprecisiones, el barro que no amaina, los hilos de sangre que cuajan el hogar.
Mรญo lo que despoja, savia de una tarde avara, huesos desmoronados en el รบtero.
Las minucias me las llevo al asco, al exilio de mรญ.
Las pรฉrdidas no me arrancarรกn el mal, no me harรกn dadivosa ni puntual.
Si me voy cargo con todo, armo el miedo en otro puerto, me ensucio para nuevas esperanzas.
____________________________
State of Exile
There is a string of emancipated verbs, without sky.
Everything is mine. The pestilent and lightweight things. I kneaded it all, bit it all, cradled it.
Mine are the inaccuracies, the mud doesnโt subside, threads of blood coagulate the home.
Mine is whatever despoils, sap of one greedy afternoon, crumbling bones in the womb.
I carry minutiae to my disgust, to my exile.
The losses wonโt pull the evil out of me, they wonโt make me generous or punctual.
If I go I will carry everything,
assemble fear in another port, sully myself for new hope.
________________________________
El moribundo nos convoca
el moribundo nos convoca para recapitular su vida
forzado como estรก a respirarse a sรญ mismo hasta el fin su confesiรณn es de segunda mano carece de voluntad para ocultar ciertas lealtades
en la vastedad del adiรณs la verdad es siempre un escรกndalo
__________________________________________
The Dying Man Summons Us
the dying man summons us, to recapitulate his life
forced as he is to breathe for himself until the end his confession is a second hand one lacks the will to conceal certain loyalties
in the vastness of farewells truth is always a scandal
Translated by Consuelo Mรฉndez, with William Blair
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VรSPERA (2000)
Si quedara un hombre
un sรณlo hombre
para despuรฉs y la eternidad
corregido en su mรญnima condiciรณn
desechado si quedara para mรกs nunca
postergado al tropiezo la triza infinita
si existiera y nos viรฉramos
y me explicara
el secreto que lo mantiene solo
alumbrado y solo pleno de encierros
si existiera
y pudiera irme lejos
no desear arrimarme รบnica
sola sin palabras
_______________________________
EVE (2000)
If there was a man
only one man
for later and eternity
corrected in his minimum condition
discarded if he remained for never again
postponed to stumble over the infinite fragment
if he existed and we saw each other
and he would explain to me
the secret that keeps him alone
lighted and alone full of confinements
if he existed
and I could go far away
not yearn get closer, unique
alone in words
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INSOLACIONES EN MIAMI BEACH (1995)
El balcรณn es un pedazo de Collins Avenue
vista reducida a extremos
que nadie atiende durante las horas del lunch
miramos su amasijo en traje de baรฑo disponemos toallas
sandwiches de tuna coca cola de dieta
encallamos al disparo seco
de una avioneta sobre la bahรญa
__________________________
The balcony is a piece of Collins Avenue a view reduced to extremes that no one notices during lunch we watch its jumble in bathing suits arrange towels tunafish sandwiches diet cokes become paralyzed at the dry shot
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ยซLUBAยป (1988)
Tomo su herencia
de edades en quiebra
los oficios tristes del abandono sus muertos
I take on her inheritance
of crumbling ages
the sad trades of neglect her dead ones
Diรกlogo de pasillos diurnos
raรญz memoria que soy
Dialogues in Daytime Hallways
root memory that I am
Duelen estas gana de luto
de amanecer
recogiendo plumas
en patios ajenos ganas
de ser ella
This Yearning of Mourning Hurts
of gathering feathers
at dawn
in alien courtyards
desire to be her
Luba asiste a cuanto soy
detiene sus raรญces
sufre de nuevo
Luba Delivers All I Am
stalls her roots
she suffers anew
__________________________________
ย (Verbos Predadores/โPredatory Verbsโ, 2007)
JardรญnBotรกnico
Muestro al hijo semillas hincadas en el musgo.
Seรฑalo una palmera,
la flor que renacerรก en sesenta aรฑos.
รl pregunta por las ramas del รกrbol invisible,
persigue dinosaurios,
remienda el carruaje de un fantasma.
Sigo los pretiles de mi angustia.
<<(Mira las aves de rapiรฑa,
No esan lejos de la bellezaยป, digo.
I<<Mira la quietud de los troncos,
manos condescendientesยป, digo.
Demasiados รกngulos para un mismo blindaje.
Sentencio ยซhe ahรญ un jabillo, una bromeliaยป.
Nombro tambiรฉn destrozos, para no engaรฑar.
El hijo no entiende, crepita en otro rubor.
Su maรฑana no es la mรญa. No es pรกlida. No es efรญmera.
Su maรฑana no cabe en mi reposo.
Lo conduzco para comparar nuestros ocรฉanos,
De tiempo viudo, idรฉntica admiraciรณn.
Jabillo: Name given in Venezuela to the tree Hura crepitans.
_______________________________________
โBotanical Gardenโ
I show my son the sunken seeds in the moss. I point at a palm tree, at the flower that will be reborn in sixty years.
He asks about the branches of the invisible tree, he chases dinosaurs, restores the carriage of a ghost.
I follow the barrier of my anxiety.
โLook at the vultures, not too far away from beautyโ I say.
โLook at the tranquility of the trunks,
condescendent handsโ I say.
Too many angles for a unique shielding.
I proclaim, โBehold a Jabillo, a Bromeliaโ,
I also name damage, not to cheat.
The son understands, he crackles in another flush. His morning is not mine. His isnโt pale. Nor ephemeral. His morning doesnโt fit my rest.
I drive him to compare our oceans, the being of a widowed time and an identical admiration.
Jabillo: Name given in Venezuela to the tree Hura crepitans.
Memo รnjel (Josรฉ Guillermo รngel) naciรณ en Medellรญn, Colombia, como hijo de inmigrantes argelinos sefardรญes en 1954. Ademรกs de su oeuvre literario, รnjel ha trabajado por muchos aรฑos como professor of de Comunicaciรณn Social en la Universidad Pontificia Bolivariana en Medellรญn.
Algunos de sus libros: La luna verde de Atocha (novela); La casa de las cebollas (novela), Todos los sitios son Berlรญn (novela), Libreta de apuntes de Yehuda Malaji, relojero sefardรญ (Ejercicios de imaginaciรณn sobre la conformaciรณn de los pecados), Zurich es una letra alef (novela), Tanta gente (novela), El tercer huevo de la gallina (novela) y Calor intenso (cuentos).
Considera la escritura como una actividad existencial, algo que le ayuda a analizarse a sรญ mismo y a reconocer la naturaleza de los demรกs. Profundamente en el sentido de la tolerancia y la vida misma. Segรบn Anjel, solo el conocimiento necesario de lo que nos rodea nos permite sobrevivir y dar a nuestra existencia la suficiente transparencia.
รnjel es uno de un grupo de autores colombianos modernos que ya no piensan y escriben de una manera especรญficamente colombiana, sino universal. โEn todo el mundo, las personas tienen experiencias similares, ya sea que vivan en Colombia o en Alemania: tienen familia, trabajan, sufren y experimentan las mismas tragedias, la guerra y la emigraciรณnโ.
รnjel ha realizado un intenso estudio de los clรกsicos judรญos, y en muchas de sus obras examina su propia historia sefardรญ y la cuestiรณn de lo que significa ser un judรญo sefardรญ en la cultura de asimilaciรณn actual. Ha escrito varios ensayos sobre la contribuciรณn de la cultura รกrabe al desarrollo de la civilizaciรณn occidental y el papel de la cultura y la historia judรญas en las ideas literarias y filosรณficas contemporรกneas.
Memo Anjel (Josรฉ Guillermo รngel) was born in Medellรญn, Columbia, as the child of Sephardic Algerian immigrants in 1954. Besides his literary oeuvre, Anjel has worked for many years as a professor of social communication at the Universidad Pontificia Bolivariana in Medellรญn.
Some of his books: La luna verde de Atocha (novel) La casa de cebollas (novel), Todos los sitios son Berlรญn (novel), Libreta de apuntes de Yehuda Malaji, relojero sefardรญ (Ejercicios de imaginaciรณn sobre la conformaciรณn de los pecados), Zurich es una letra alef (novel), Tanta gente (novel), El tercer huevo de la gallina (novel) and Calor intenso (stories).
He regards writing as an existential activity, something that helps him to analyse himself and to recognise the nature of others, in order to look deeply at the meaning of tolerance and life itself. According to Anjel, only the necessary knowledge of what surrounds us enables us to survive at all and to give our existence sufficient transparency.
รnjel is one of a group of modern Colombian authors who no longer think and write in a specifically Columbian, but rather universal way. โAll over the world, people have similar experiences ? whether they live in Columbia or Germany: they have a family, work, suffer, and experience the same tragedies, war and emigration.โ
Anjel has made an intense study of Jewish classics, and in many of his works he examines his own Sephardic history and the question of what it means to be a Sephardic Jew in todayโs culture of assimilation. He has written several essays on the contribution of Arabic culture to the development of occidental civilisation and the role of Jewish culture and history in contemporary literary and philosophical ideas.
Adapted from Berliner Kรผnstlerprogramm des Daad
_________________________________________________
Un hombre de suerte
El doctor Isaac Siegelboim se presentaba siempre como un maestro y un amante del fracaso. Iniciaba sus conferencias diciendo estoy aquรญ para decirles cรณmo deben y necesitan fracasar hombres y mujeres. Y ante el silencio de los asistentes, primero definรญa lo que era el fracaso y luego enumeraba las diferentes formas de fracasar, imperativas, segรบn el doctor, para sentir la vida a plenitud y dejar de lado toda esperanza, esto que tanto dolor genera porque esperar es asumir una frustraciรณn cercana en tanto que desesperar es negarse a sufrir por un imaginario. Al final del desespero, uno se siente libre. Y si bien las tesis que exponรญa no eran originales, pues ya otros las habรญan teorizado y รฉl lo รบnico que hacรญa era ampliarlas y conectarlas para que no hubiera incoherencias, sรญ lo era la dulzura con la que hablaba de esa necesidad imperiosa de asumir los momentos de fracaso y caos y vivir recordรกndolos cada tanto para sentir que la vida no habรญa pasado en vano, que todo lo destruido o dejado de hacer era parte de haber vivido, pues sin la confusiรณn y el desengaรฑo no existรญa un concepto claro sobre el hombre, etcรฉtera. Hablaba como si diera consejos a un amigo, como si pintara un mapa y dijera dรณnde estaban las ciudades necesarias y los tiempos propicios para hacer un viaje. Y mientras hablaba, movรญa las manos y parecรญa que corriera los velos que cubren a esa diosa de la verdad de la que hablaba Parmรฉnides. La gente se emocionaba con este acto. Isaac Siegelboim tenรญa cincuenta aรฑos y tres matrimonios que, con la habilidad de un cirujano, se habรญa encargado de destruir o de no asumir, es decir, habรญa fracasado vรญvidamente en ellos, segรบn รฉl, siguiendo su teorรญa. Y esto no lo entendรญa yo muy bien, porque un hombre como el doctor parecรญa capaz de todo menos de daรฑar a nadie o de acabar con lo que habรญa construido. Pero lo habรญa hecho y cuando contaba sobre estas destrucciones hablaba como si se estuviera refiriendo a una crรญa de palomas o a un viaje en barco donde lo habรญa pasado muy bien. Sus alumnos dijimos que debรญa ser un masoquista o un sรกdico, un buscador de dolor. Pero no era asรญ. Las tres mujeres con las que habรญa vivido encontraron en la destrucciรณn de la relaciรณn algo bueno y apetitoso, algo asรญ como un acto de ciencia y la satisfacciรณn a una necesidad bรกsica. Y no lo odiaban ni querรญan, sino que lo admitรญan en sus vidas igual que se admite la existencia de un reloj o una pelรญcula que se recuerda por sus escenas de y por la mรบsica. Ellas hablaban de sus fracasos matrimoniales con cierta alegrรญa.
La primera mujer de Siegelboim, una polaca de cuerpo menudo y ojos negros coquetas, habรญa durado un aรฑo con รฉl. Y en ese tiempo, que no fue el mejor porque el doctor habรญa abandonado su trabajo como analista de procesos de calidad y se habรญa sentado frente a una mirada a mirar a la calle por dรญas, para ver com Dโs fracasaba con รฉl. pasaron juntos muchas necesidades. Rivka, asรญ se llamaba la mujer, trabajรณ en oficios, ya como secretaria, ya como empleada del vagรณn del tren que hacรญa el recorrido entre Frankfort y Milรกn. Y agotรณ todas las maneras de amarlo. Cuando lo dejรณ, despuรฉs de un divorcio rรกpido, quedรณ en visitarlo un dรญa cada mes. รl dijo que estaba bien, pero si lo querรญa, podrรญa visitarlo en las maรฑanas. Rivka sonrรญa contando esta historia de un aรฑo perdido en su vida y no realmente perdido sino vivido en aras de la teorรญa del fracaso. Era una mujer muy bella y de dedos muy delgados. Y muy difรญcil de definir porque se movรญa todo el tiempo.
El doctor Siegelboim se habรญa especializado en procesos de producciรณn y hacรญa proyectos para fรกbricas diversas. Proyectos que incrementaban la productividad. Y esto era una contradicciรณn, pensรกbamos nosotros, pero no lo era. Siegelboim decรญa, mejoro un fracaso, lo hago mรกs interesante, le agrego codicia. Y mis asesorados entran de cabezas en el proyecto, siguiendo mis instrucciones, y hacen realidad lo que les propongo, basado en un cambio de direcciรณn a eso en lo que han fallado. Esto dura varios meses. ยฟCรณmo se explican ustedes que se persista en lo mismo, que se empeรฑen en mejorar eso que hacen sabiendo (en este caso negรกndose) de antemano que todo, productos y administraciรณn, tiende a destruirse? Siegelboim nos miraba rascarnos la cabeza y admitir con desgano lo que no entendรญamos bien, pero que sus mujeres sรญ habรญan entendido. Quizรกs debiรฉramos vivir mรกs tiempo con el doctor, estar en la misma casa que รฉl, acompaรฑarlo cuando salรญa al cine o a mirar los barcos que iban por el rรญo. Pero a Siegelboim no le gustaba que sus alumnos le hiciรฉramos la corte y por eso nos citaba y nos incumplรญa. En ocasiones aparecรญa en el salรณn de clases y nos decรญa vengo en un momento y no regresaba. Muchos de sus alumnos no resistieron y lo denunciaron a la decanatura, pero echar a Siegelboim de la universidad hubiera sido admitir su teorรญa del fracaso y esto no lo iban a aceptar los directores. Asรญ que quedamos unos pocos que asistรญamos a sus clases y a los vacรญos que รฉl dejaba en ellas. A mรญ especialmente me gustaba que รฉl nos hiciera fallar, que nos creara el caos y la confusiรณn no acertando. Llegarรญa un dรญa, pensaba, en que sabrรญa lo que รฉl y le dirรญa, profesor Siegelboim, quiero ser su asistente. La teorรญa que mรกs trabajaba era la de dejarse vencer por las cosas simples que podemos hacer. Segรบn el profesor, admitir que lo que estรก a nuestro alcance es superior a nosotros, que eso que solo necesita de un poco de paciencia y orden nos desborda, es el fracaso que mรกs conmueve. La inutilidad nuestra frente a la simpleza, esto de no ser capaces delante de un acontecimiento elemental, nos lleva a crear nuestra propia vida, esa que no es la que la realidad nos evidencia, sino la que inventamos descaradamente y con la que siempre incumplimos porque hay otros pequeรฑos fracasos que nos llaman para que trabajemos en ellos, pero no para resolverlos, sino buscando estar mรกs confusos. El fracaso continuado, ese que nos admitimos porque imaginamos asumir un fracaso mayor, es el que nos lleva a reconocer lo caรณtico y nuestra participaciรณn (activa, le gustaba esta palabra) en รฉl. Y en el caos, estamos en continuo proceso de creaciรณn, revisรกndonos, sabiendo quรฉ somos y no somos. Nos emocionรกbamos con estas palabras y dejรกbamos de escribir para solo escucharlo y al final salir confundidos con lo que decรญa.
La segunda mujer de Siegelboim, Marta Klezmer, era dos aรฑos mayor que รฉl y manejaba un pequeรฑo almacรฉn de lencerรญa en cercanรญas del mercado de las especias. Y era muy distinta a Rivka, mรกs alta y robusta. Cuando la conocรญ (fui a pedido de Siegelboim) le habรญan tapado un ojo para corregirle un defecto de visiรณn. El ojo que se le veรญa era redondo y azul. Se notaba que habรญa sido muy bella y todavรญa tenรญa unos dientes bonitos y unos labios atrayentes. Y no se veรญa que hubiera fracasado con Siegelboim porque todavรญa estaba enamorada de รฉl, como me dijo, a pesar de que ya se habรญa casado con otro y tenรญa tres hijos. Me mostrรณ las fotos en las que aparecรญa su nuevo marido, un hombre con dientes de conejo y pelo abundante. Al lado de รฉl se veรญan tres y ojos muy parecidos a los de la madre. Son muy bellos los niรฑos, dije. Ya no lo son, han crecido, dijo Marta. Movรญa las manos con nerviosismo, como si de repente la palabra bellos le hubiera entrado en la sangre poniendo en movimiento recuerdos o momentos, no lo supe bien. Segรบn Siegelboim, un recuerdo se diferenciaba de un momento. En el primero se podรญa inventar o al menos adornar con imaginaciones lo recordado, en tanto que el segundo necesariamente habรญa que vivirlo, incluso negรกndolo. Entonces, ยฟestaba Marta Klezmer recordando algo o estaba sintiendo? Para que sus manos dejaran de moverse puse las mรญas en las de ella y me mirรณ agradecida con el ojo que le quedaba libre. Me sonriรณ y puso cara de niรฑa. Apretรฉ sus manos y quise besarla, pero me levantรฉ aterrado por lo que habรญa acabado de hacer o por haber sentido el momento o el recuerdo de Marta, no lo tengo claro, y salรญ a la calle. La teorรญa sobre el fracaso, que ya casi memorizaba y me hacรญa un incondicional de Siegelboim, estuvo presente toda la noche. Hasta que el sueรฑo me venciรณ y no supe si habรญa acertado en lo que realmente habรญa sucedido entre la mujer de la lencerรญa y el profesor. Dormรญ mal la noche que conocรญ a Marta Klezmer y me levantรฉ de mal humor. Pero no dejรฉ de visitarla los dรญas siguientes para mirarla y ver si movรญa esas manos que necesitaba tener de nuevo entre las mรญas. Estuve yendo donde ella un mes entero, pero ella, que me recibรญa sonriendo, no dejรณ que pasara nada. O sรญ, me aprendรญ la cara del marido de memoria mientras ella me contaba cรณmo se habรญa hundido su primer matrimonio. Siegelboim la invitaba a ciertos lugares decadentes y allรญ la dejaba sola. Tambiรฉn pasaba que dejaba de hablarle por dรญas y en ese tiempo se disfrazaba para asustarla o acusarla de adulterio. Las crisis fueron abundantes. Al momento del divorcio, el profesor disertรณ sobre el fracaso poniendo como ejemplo la รบltima flor en el yugo de una novia. El juez quedรณ impresionado. Y Marta, como me dijo, se sintiรณ agradecida. Mire que hacer parte de una teorรญa exitosa…
Isaac Siegelboim tenรญa las cejas desordenadas y fumaba mucho. Este aspecto, que habรญa pasado por alto, es muy importante para definir bien al profesor. O al menos asรญ me parece, porque de esta manera entiendo que el profesor era un hombre que estaba saliendo del infierno o de algo parecido, pero con diablos. diablos. รฉl de esto porque era un hombre con el que no se debรญa hablar de algo que no estuviera comprobado. Existe la historia del deseo de conocer a Dโs, pero esa historia no es Dโs, habรญa dicho en una conferencia. Y en esa historia estรก presente el deseo de que existan cielos e infiernos, รกngeles y demonios, salvados y condenados. Pero realmente no hay nada de esto sino el fracaso, la imposibilidad, las palabras que no definen, sino que solo terminan creando รญdolos. La teologรญa es una de las formas que tiene la literatura de ficciรณn. Y hay quienes, sabiendo que van a fracasar, se enfrascan en ella. Pero es un fracaso sin sentido porque se sabe ya que el intento es enorme, que aun pereciendo en รฉl se sale vencedor si se usa la filosofรญa que dice que, si existe una palabra, ya existe la cosa que nombra. Propongo entonces, para que el fracaso tenga sentido, que nosotros seamos dioses y demonios, รกngeles y dibbuks, asรญ tendremos a mano lo que buscamos por fuera de nosotros, destruyรฉndolo. Los directores, que estaban presentes en la conferencia, fueron los primeros en aplaudir. Siegelboim los mirรณ con cara radiante. Despuรฉs de la conferencia estuvimos bebiendo cerveza y oyendo valses. Y en ese bar le notรฉ las cejas, las distintas direcciones de los pelos, la manera como fumaba un cigarrillo tras de otro, botando el humo de distintas maneras. Salรญa de una situaciรณn infernal o de algo que tenรญa diablos, volvรญ a pensar, pero no tuve el valor de decirle nada. Solo murmurรฉ que habรญa conocido a Marta Klezmer. Y al oรญrme, rio mucho. Y cantรณ, cosa que nunca le habรญamos visto hacer. El piso donde vivรญa Isaac Siegelboim era pequeรฑo pero muy ordenado. Cada cosa estaba en su lugar y olรญa a รณleo todo el tiempo. Extraรฑo, porque รฉl no pintaba ni vivรญa ya con su tercera mujer, que sรญ pintaba. Podrรญa decir entonces que era el olor de ella que se mantenรญa ahรญ, entre los muebles y los libros del profesor. Pero no era asรญ, la vida de Siegelboim con Irene Moscatel habรญa sido en Estambul y no aquรญ. Y de ella no habรญa ningรบn rastro en el piso del profesor, como sรญ lo habรญa de Rivka y Marta. De las dos primeras mujeres, Siegelboim tenรญa fotografรญas y prendas. En este mueble tengo ropa de Rivka y en este otro de Marta. Nunca quisieron llevรกrsela, aunque quedamos en que, una vez divorciados, cada uno se llevarรญa sus propias cosas. Hablaba con tono divertido acerca de lo que tenรญa de sus dos primeras mujeres (que miraba cada tanto) y especialmente de los dos muebles con prendas de ellas, que estaban ubicados el uno frente al otro y en medio de ellos un sillรณn en el que se sentaba Siegelboim. Me gusta verme entre lo que queda de Rivka y Marta, dijo. Cuando hablaba de Irene, abrรญa la ventana. Estรก en algรบn lugar del aire, decรญa.
En ese piso, al que dos o tres veces cada semestre nos invitaba a mirar sus libros para que no solo supiรฉramos quรฉ habรญa leรญdo sino para que leyรฉramos sus acotaciones a un lado de las pรกginas, en una letra pequeรฑa y redonda, nunca hablรณ de sus teorรญas. Charlรณ sobre quesos italianos y vinos franceses, panes y embutidos de Alemania, arte persa y fรญsica aplicada en la construcciรณn o a la velocidad de los trenes, pero nunca del fracaso. รbamos allรญ solo a leer sus acotaciones y a escuchar su mรบsica. Y a verlo dormir en un sillรณn forrado en una tela de flores grandes, herencia de su abuela que habรญa vivido en Marsella, donde quedรณ viuda. ยฟHacรญa un ensayo con nosotros? ยฟEstaba probando algo? Dormido, se le ampliaban las cejas.
A Irene la encontrรฉ unos aรฑos despuรฉs, cuando yo ya no era alumno de Siegelboim y habรญa fracasado en ser su asistente. O sea que la encontrรฉ cuando ya no era necesaria para lo que querรญa probar: que el fracaso mayor era no poder fracasar. Irene era una mujer de estatura media, pelo rizado y boca fina. Y aunque era delgada, tenรญa las caderas anchas y unas piernas fuertes. Parecรญa mรกs un ama de casa que una pintora. Se notaba en el orden exagerado que habรญa en su piso y un aseo tal que obligaba a moverse con cuidado. Mientras hablรฉ con ella, me cuidรฉ de no ir a tocar nada. Pero me habรญa hecho una mala idea de la mujer. Si bien le gustaba que todo reluciera y que nada estorbara el paso, tambiรฉn aceptaba que las cosas se tenรญan que ensuciar y envejecer y que vivรญa momentos de desorden (necesarios, los llamรณ) para no momificarse. En este รบltimo punto estaba de acuerdo con Siegelboim, o al menos sufrรญa cierta influencia de รฉl. Igual que yo, que estaba en Estambul de paseo con mi mujer y en un momento determinado sentรญ la necesidad apremiante de dar con Irene Moscatel. Asรญ que salรญ y dejรฉ a Inga en el hotel, sin explicarle para dรณnde iba ni cuรกndo vendrรญa. Salรญ corriendo y, al llegar a la calle, lo primero que hice fue tomar un directorio telefรณnico que colgaba de una cadena en una caseta de telรฉfonos y buscar el nombre de ella. No figuraba en el listรญn. Busquรฉ entonces algo que tuviera que ver con judรญos y despuรฉs de llamar a cuatro partes y hacerme entender en un mal turco, alguien me dijo que sรญ, que conocรญa a Irene. Luego me dijo algo que no entendรญ. En esa situaciรณn pude haber desistido y fracasar, lo habrรญa hecho en honor a Siegelboim, pero lo defraudรฉ y decidรญ ir a la direcciรณn a donde habรญa llamado. Me atendiรณ un hombre viejo que, con mรกs seรฑas que palabras, me indicรณ el piso de Irene. Y lleguรฉ allรญ, alegre de no haber fracasado. Este acontecimiento habrรญa desencantado a Siegelboim, pero yo no era รฉl ni era ya su alumno. En este punto me contradigo porque ser un fracaso para รฉl era lo correcto, lo que buscaba de nosotros, que no pudiera acertar y entonces nos viera y fuera el caos.
Irene vivรญa sola y seguรญa pensando en que algรบn dรญa Siegelboim bajarรญa del tranvรญa y, cargando una maleta y una bolsa de papel (esa era la imagen que la mujer tenรญa del profesor), subirรญa las escaleras. Ella lo estarรญa esperando en la puerta. Es que los matrimonios judรญos no se borran, lo que me extraรฑรณ porque creรญa que ella y el profesor (รฉl nos lo dijo) se habรญan casado por lo civil, lo que me hizo pensar que la mujer me estaba mintiendo o que quizรกs no fuera la verdadera Irene sino otra. No habรญa visto ningรบn cuadro en la pared y menos la seรฑal de que ella pintara o de que allรญ tuviera un estudio. Pero fue solo una confusiรณn momentรกnea, porque me invitรณ a unas galletas con tรฉ y mientras ponรญa la mesa me pasรณ un รกlbum donde habรญa recortes de periรณdicos que hablaban de ella y de sus exposiciones. Abundaban las fotografรญas de su cara y me pareciรณ que tenรญa una nariz muy recta para ser judรญa.
Regresรฉ al hotel casi a la media noche, despuรฉs de caminar por las calles y pensar que todo lo que teรณricamente relacionaba a Irene con Siegelboim era una farsa y que me habรญa metido en ella cuando ya no podรญa hacerle ningรบn reclamo al profesor, que en realidad sรญ se habรญa casado por lo judรญo como vi en una fotografรญa y que ella conservaba todavรญa el contrato de matrimonio, sin acotaciones posteriores de ningรบn rabino. Y si con Irene habรญa descubierto a un Siegelboim que mentรญa, que no se habรญa separado de ella, sino que seguรญa unido a la mujer y casado legalmente, ese descubrimiento me llevรณ a pensar que habรญa perdido todo el tiempo empleado en ir a sus clases. Pagar por escuchar a un mentiroso, me dije con rabia. Pero con el frรญo de la noche, el calor que hacรญa bullir mis ideas comenzรณ a descender hasta convertirlas en una nada en la que yo flotaba como un globo de helio soltado por un niรฑo. Inga, cuando le contรฉ la historia, dijo que no entendรญa que la hubiera dejado sola. Me dio miedo oรญrle decir estas palabras.
Con los dรญas volvรญ a recuperar mi confianza en Siegelboim. Mentir era una forma de asumir el fracaso, de llegar hasta una certidumbre y negarla. Si decรญa la verdad, si acertaba con algo, su teorรญa se venรญa al suelo. Aceptรฉ de nuevo que el profesor era consecuente con lo que enseรฑaba y que no haber llegado a ser su asistente era una muestra de que yo no tenรญa la preparaciรณn suficiente para entender la necesidad de un caos permanente. En efecto no habรญa nacido para caminar por encima de una cuerda floja. Yo necesitaba el dominio sobre algo, el acierto, no los riesgos y la incertidumbre. Y menos el fracaso, porque yo era un hombre exitoso. Todos hablaban bien de mรญ, en especial mi madre que contaba a sus amigas cรณmo me habรญan ascendido a jefe de secciรณn sin tener la edad, y cรณmo habรญa embarazado a Inga cuando estuvimos en Estambul. Pero pensar en esto me pone mal. No tengo la suerte de Siegelboim, esa seguridad de que รฉl fracasa permanentemente y por eso estรก vivo, cuando abrazo a Inga me da miedo de que yo sea un ciudadano peligroso. Pero este miedo me da confianza y entonces la amo. Y todo se ordena.
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A Lucky Man
Dr. Isaac Siegelboim always presented himself as a master and a lover of failure. He began his lectures by saying, “I am here to tell you how men and women should and need to fail.” And before the silence of the audience, he first defined failure and then enumerated the different forms of failure, imperative, according to the doctor, to experience life to the fullest and to let go of all hope, which causes so much pain because to hope is to accept an imminent frustration, while to despair is to refuse to suffer for an imaginary one. At the end of despair, one feels free. And while the theses he expounded weren’t original, as others had already theorized them and all he did was expand on them and connect them so there were no inconsistencies, what was striking was the sweetness with which he spoke of that imperative need to accept moments of failure and chaos and live by remembering them from time to time to feel that life hadn’t passed in vain, that everything destroyed or left undone was part of having lived, because without confusion and disillusionment, there was no clear concept of man, and so on. He spoke as if giving advice to a friend, as if painting a map and indicating where the necessary cities were and the propitious times for a journey. And as he spoke, he moved his hands, seeming to draw back the veils that cover that goddess of truth of whom Parmenides spoke. People were moved by this act. Isaac Siegelboim was fifty years old and had three marriages, which, with the skill of a surgeon, he had undertaken to destroy or not acceptโthat is, he had vividly failed at them, according to his theory. And I didn’t quite understand this, because a man like the doctor seemed capable of everything except harming anyone or destroying what he had built. But he had done it, and when he talked about these destructions, he spoke as if he were referring to a brood of pigeons or a boat trip where he had had a wonderful time. His students said he must be a masochist or a sadist, a pain-seeker. But that wasn’t the case. The three women he had lived with found in the destruction of the relationship something good and appetizing, something like an act of science and the satisfaction of a basic need. And they didn’t hate it or want it, but rather admitted it into their lives just as one admits the existence of a watch or a film remembered for its scenes and music. They talked about their marital failures with a certain joy. Siegelboim’s first wife, a Polish woman with a petite body and flirtatious black eyes, had been with him for a year. And during that time, which wasn’t the best because the doctor had abandoned his job as a quality process analyst and had sat across the street for days, watching God fail him, they endured many hardships together. Rivka, that was his name, worked in trades, sometimes as a secretary, sometimes as a train car employee that ran between Frankfurt and Milan. And she exhausted every way to love him. When she left him, after a quick divorce, she agreed to visit him one day a month. He said it was fine, but if she wanted, she could visit him in the mornings. Rivka smiled as she told this story of a lost year in her lifeโnot really lost, but lived for the sake of the theory of failure. She was a very beautiful woman with very slender fingers. And very difficult to define because it was constantly moving. Dr. Siegelboim had specialized in production processes and designed projects for various factories. Projects that increased productivity. And this was a contradiction, we thought, but it wasn’t. Siegelboim said, “I’ll improve on a failure, I’ll make it more interesting, I’ll add greed.” And my advisors dive headfirst into the project, following my instructions, and make what I propose a reality, based on a change of direction in what they’ve failed at. This lasts for several months. How do you explain that they persist in the same thing, that they insist on improving what they do, knowing (in this case, refusing) in advance that everything, products and management, tends to be destroyed? Siegelboim watched us scratch our heads and reluctantly admit what we didn’t quite understand, but that his wives had. Perhaps we should have lived with the doctor longer, been in the same house as him, accompanied him when he went to the movies or to watch the boats sailing on the river. But Siegelboim didn’t like his students courting him, and that’s why he would make appointments and break them. Occasionally, he would appear in the classroom and say, “I’ll be right back,” and then never return. Many of his students couldn’t resist and reported him to the dean’s office, but expelling Siegelboim from the university would have been to admit his theory of failure, and the directors weren’t going to accept that. So a few of us remained, attending his classes and the gaps he left in the classroom. and the gaps he left in them. I especially liked that he made us fail, that he created chaos and confusion by failing to get it right. One day, I thought, I would find out what he meant and say, Professor Siegelboim, I want to be your assistant. The theory I worked on most was that of letting ourselves be overcome by the simple things we can do. According to the professor, admitting that what is within our reach is beyond us, that what only requires a little patience and order overwhelms us, is the failure that moves us the most. Our uselessness in the face of simplicity, this inability to face an elementary event, leads us to create our own life, one that is not the one reality shows us, but the one we shamelessly invent and with which we always fail because there are other small failures that call us to work on them, not to resolve them, but rather to seek to be more confused. Continued failure, the kind we admit to ourselves because we imagine assuming a greater failure, is what leads us to recognize chaos and our (active, he liked this word) participation in it. And in chaos, we are in a continuous process of creation, revising ourselves, knowing what we are and are not. We were moved by these words and stopped writing to just listen to him, ultimately leaving confused by what he was saying. Siegelboim’s second wife, Marta Klezmer, was two years older than him and ran a small lingerie store near the spice market. And she was very different from Rivka, taller and more robust. When I met her (at Siegelboim’s request), one of her eyes had been covered to correct a vision defect. The eye that was visible was round and blue. It was clear that she had been very beautiful and still had nice teeth and attractive lips. And it didn’t seem like she had failed with Siegelboim because she was still in love with him, as she told me, even though she had already married someone else and had three children. She showed me the photos of her new husband, a man with buck teeth and thick hair. Next to him were three children with eyes very similar to their mother’s. “Children are very beautiful,” I said. “They aren’t anymore, they’ve grown up,” Marta said. She moved her hands nervously, as if the word “beautiful” had suddenly entered her bloodstream, setting memories or moments in motion; I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. According to Siegelboim, a memory was different from a moment. In the former, one could invent or at least embellish what was remembered with imagination, while in the latter, one necessarily had to live it, even deny it. So, was Marta Klezmer remembering something or was she feeling something? To stop her hands from moving, I placed mine in hers, and she looked at me gratefully with her free eye. She smiled at me and put on a child’s face. I squeezed her hands and wanted to kiss her, but I got up, terrified by what I had just done, or by having felt the moment, or by the memory of MartaโI’m not sureโand went out into the street. The theory about failure, which I had almost memorized and had become a Siegelboim fanatic, was present all night. Until sleep overcame me and I didn’t know if I had guessed correctly what had really happened between the lingerie woman and the professor. I slept poorly the night I met Marta Klezmer and woke up in a bad mood. But I didn’t stop visiting her the following days to look at her and see if she would move those hands I needed to have in mine again. I went to her for a whole month, but she, who greeted me with a smile, didn’t let anything happen. Or maybe I did, I learned her husband’s face by heart while she told me how her first marriage had fallen apart. Siegelboim would invite her to certain decadent places and leave her alone there. He also happened to stop speaking to her for days, during which time he would dress up to scare her or accuse her of adultery. The crises were numerous. At the time of the divorce, the professor lectured on failure, using the last flower on a bride’s yoke as an example. The judge was impressed. And Marta, as she told me, was grateful. Look, being part of a successful theoryโฆ Isaac Siegelboim had untidy eyebrows and smoked a lot. This aspect, which I had overlooked, is very important to properly define the professor. Or at least that’s how it seems to me, because this way I understand that the professor was a man who was coming out of hell or something similar, but with devils. devils. He was a man with whom one shouldn’t talk about anything that wasn’t proven. There’s the story of the desire to know God, but that story isn’t God, he had said in a lecture. And in that story, there’s the desire for heaven and hell, angels and demons, the saved and the damned. But there’s really none of this, only failure, impossibility, words that don’t define, but only end up creating idols. Theology is one of the forms of fictional literature. And there are those who, knowing they will fail, immerse themselves in it. But it is a pointless failure because it is already known that the attempt is enormous, that even if it perishes in it, one emerges victorious if one uses the philosophy that says that, if a word exists, the thing it names already exists. I propose then, so that failure has meaning, that we be gods and demons, angels and dybbuks, so that we will have at hand what we seek outside ourselves, by destroying it. The conductors, who were present at the conference, were the first to applaud. Siegelboim looked at them with a radiant face. After the conference, we drank beer and listened to waltzes. And in that bar, I noticed his eyebrows, the different directions of his hair, the way he chain-smoked one cigarette after another, blowing the smoke out in different ways. I was getting out of a hellish situation or something that had me in my head, I thought again, but I didn’t have the courage to say anything. I just murmured that I had met Marta Klezmer. And when he heard me, he laughed a lot. And he sang, something we’d never seen him do before. The apartment where Isaac Siegelboim lived was small but very tidy. Everything was in its place and it smelled of oil paint all the time. Strange, because he didn’t paint and he no longer lived with his third wife, who did paint. I could say then that it was her scent that lingered there, among the furniture and the professor’s books. But it wasn’t like that; Siegelboim’s life with Irene Moscatel had been in Istanbul, not here. And there was no trace of her in the professor’s apartment, as there was of Rivka and Marta. Siegelboim had photographs and clothes of the first two women. In this piece of furniture I have clothes of Rivka’s and in this other one of Marta’s. They never wanted to take her, although we agreed that, once divorced, we would each take our own things. He spoke playfully about what he had from his first two wives (which he looked at every now and then) and especially about the two pieces of furniture containing their clothes, placed opposite each other, with an armchair in between where Siegelboim sat. “I like to see myself among what’s left of Rivka and Marta,” he said. When he talked about Irene, he opened the window. “She’s somewhere in the air,” he said.
In that apartment, where he invited us two or three times a semester to look at his books so that we would not only know what he had read but also read his notes on the side of the pages, in small, rounded print, he never spoke of his theories. He chatted about Italian cheeses and French wines, German breads and cured meats, Persian art, and applied physics in construction or the speed of trains, but never about failure. We went there just tos, where she was widowed. Was he rehearsing with us? Was he trying something out? As he slept, his eyebrows widened.
I found Irene a few years later, when I was no longer Siegelboim’s student and had failed as his assistant. In other words, I found her when she was no longer necessary for what I wanted to prove: that the greatest failure was not being able to fail. Irene was a woman of medium height, with curly hair and a thin mouth. And although she was slim, she had wide hips and strong legs. She looked more like a housewife than a painter. It was evident in the exaggerated order of her apartment and the cleanliness that required one to move carefully. While I spoke with her, I was careful not to touch anything. But I had gotten the wrong idea about the woman. While he liked everything to shine and nothing to get in the way, he also accepted that things had to get dirty and age, and that he lived through periods of disorder (necessary, he called them) to avoid becoming mummified. On this last point, he agreed with Siegelboim, or at least was somewhat influenced by him. Like me, I was in Istanbul on a trip with my wife and at a certain moment felt the urgent need to find Irene Moscatel. So I left and left Inga at the hotel, without telling her where I was going or when I would be back. I ran out, and when I got to the street, the first thing I did was grab a phone book hanging from a chain in a phone booth and look for her name. She wasn’t listed. I then looked for something related to Jews, and after calling four different places and making myself understood in broken Turkish, someone told me yes, they knew Irene. Then they said something I didn’t understand. In that situation, I could have given up and failed. I would have done it in honor of Siegelboim, but I let him down and decided to go to the address he had called. An old man answered me and, with more signs than words, directed me to Irene’s apartment. And I arrived there, glad that I hadn’t failed. This event would have disenchanted Siegelboim, but I was not him, nor was I his student anymore. On this point, I contradicted myself.
Irene lived alone and kept thinking that one day Siegelboim would get off the tram and, carrying a suitcase and a paper bag (that was the woman’s image of the professor), walk up the stairs. She would be waiting for him at the door. Jewish marriages aren’t erased, which surprised me because I thought she and the professor (he told us) had had a civil marriage, which made me think the woman was lying to me or that perhaps it wasn’t the real Irene but someone else. I hadn’t seen any paintings on the wall, much less any sign that she painted or that she had a studio there. But it was only a momentary confusion, because she invited me to have some biscuits and tea, and while she was setting the table, she handed me an album containing newspaper clippings about her and her exhibitions. There were many photographs of her face, and it seemed to me that she had a very straight nose for a Jew.
I returned to the hotel almost at midnight, after walking the streets and thinking that everything that theoretically linked Irene to Siegelboim was a farce, and that I had gotten myself into it when I could no longer complain to the professor, who had in fact gotten married Jewishly, as I saw in a photograph, and that she still had the marriage contract, without any subsequent comment from any rabbi. And if with Irene I had discovered a Siegelboim who was lying, who hadn’t separated from her, but was still united to the woman and legally married, that discovery made me think I had wasted all the time I’d spent attending his classes. Paying to listen to a liar, I told myself angrily. But with the night’s chill, the heat that had been boiling over my thoughts began to sink, turning them into nothingness in which I floated like a helium balloon released by a child. When I told Inga the story, she said she couldn’t understand why I had left her alone. I was frightened to hear her say those words.
As the days went by, I regained my trust in Siegelboim. Lying was a way of accepting failure, of reaching a certainty and then denying it. If I told the truth, if I was right about something, his theory collapsed. I accepted again that the professor was consistent with what he taught and that not having become his assistant was proof that I wasn’t sufficiently prepared to understand the need for permanent chaos. Indeed, I hadn’t been born to walk a tightrope. I needed mastery over something, success, not risks and uncertainty. And even less so failure, because I was a successful man. Everyone spoke well of me, especially my mother, who told her friends how I’d been promoted to section head before I was old enough, and how I’d gotten Inga pregnant when we were in Istanbul. But thinking about this makes me sick. I don’t have Siegelboim’s luck, that certainty that he’s constantly failing and that’s why he’s alive. When I hug Inga, I’m afraid I’m a dangerous citizen. But this fear gives me confidence, and then I love her. And everything falls into place.
_____________________________ Libros de Memo รnjel/Books by Memo รnjel
Ricardo Talesnik (Buenos Aires, Argentina 1935) es un premiado dramaturgo, autor y director argentino de ascendencia judรญo-polaca. En 1945 actuรณ en dos pelรญculas: La prรณdiga y Cuando en el cielo pasen lista. Saltรณ a la fama con la obra La fiaca (La pereza) de la que tambiรฉn se hizo una versiรณn cinematogrรกfica con Norman Briski. La pieza se estrenรณ en 1969 en Madrid dirigida e interpretada por Fernando Fernรกn Gรณmez. Su pieza Los japoneses no esperan estrenada en 1973 en Buenos Aires dirigida por David Stivel con Bรกrbara Mujica, Soledad Silveyra y Vรญctor Laplace, fue luego estrenada en Madrid, Caracas y Mรฉxico. En 1978 se hizo una versiรณn cinematogrรกfica en Mรฉxico dirigida por Rogelio A. Gonzรกlez protagonizada por Julio Alemรกn y Jacqueline Andere. Talesnik actuรณ en el filme Cuando en el cielo pasen lista (1945) dirigido por Carlos Borcosque. Estuvo casado con la actriz uruguaya Henny Trayles con quien escribiรณ el espectรกculo Trayles en 1974.Tiene dos hijas de su segunda esposa y su actual pareja. Publicรณ su biografรญa como Autobiografรญa NO autorizada de Ricardo Talesnik.
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Ricardo Talesnik (Buenos Aires, Argentina, 1935) is an award-winning Argentine playwright, author and director of Polish Jewish descent. In 1945 he acted in two films: La prรณdiga and Cuando en el cielo pasen lista. He rose to fame with the play La fiaca (Laziness), which was also made into a film version with Norman Briski. The play premiered in 1969 in Madrid, directed and performed by Fernando Fernรกn Gรณmez. His play Los japonesas no espera (The Japanese Don’t Wait), premiered in 1973 in Buenos Aires, directed by David Stivel with Bรกrbara Mujica, Soledad Silveyra and Vรญctor Laplace, and was later released in Madrid, Caracas and Mexico. In 1978, a film version was made in Mexico, directed by Rogelio A. Gonzรกlez, starring Julio Alemรกn and Jacqueline Andere. Talesnik acted in the film Cuando en el cielo pasen lista (1945), directed by Carlos Borcosque. He was married to Uruguayan actress Henny Trayles with whom he wrote the show Trayles in 1974. He has two daughters from his second wife and his current partner. He published his biography as Unauthorized Autobiography of Ricardo Talesnik.
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La fiaca
La fiaca se estrenรณ el 28 de diciembre 1967, en el Teatro San Telmo.
escena 1
Noche del domingo. Marta en la cama con el control remoto en la mano mira un programa de TV que estรฉ finalizado. El sonido es suave e ininteligible. Nรฉstor mira por una ventana. Comienza el programa de fรบtbol. Nรฉstor mira hacia la TV con desgano, piensa un segundo y vuelve mirar hacia la ventana. Marta baja el volumen.
Marta: ยฟNo vas a ver el fรบtbol?
Nรฉstor: No… hoy no. (Ella lo mira con extraรฑeza.)
Marta: ยฟNo te acostรกs?
Nรฉstor: Sรญ, ya voy… (Marta lo mira y apaga la tele.)
Marta: ยฟHasta maรฑana?
Nรฉstor: Chau.
Marta lo nota raro, pero se dispone a dormir. El ambiente queda con luz tenue. Nรฉstor va lento a la cama y se sienta. Enciende su luz y se quita las pantuflas. Levanta una, la observa, juega con ella infantilmente, como si Jitera un avionยญ cita, y la deja. Sigue sentado, pensando. Gira como para deยญ chirle algo Marta, pero no. Apoya medio cuerpo en el resยญ paldo y se come las uรฑas. Mira el reloj. Piensa. Lo vuelve a mirar. Baja de la cama. Se pasea inquieto. Reflexiona, mueve los labios. Imagina, argumenta, se convence, se arreยญpiente, recuerda, titubea, y al.fin, se decide. Va a la cama. Lento, trascendental, desprograma la alarma del reloj y lo guarda. Se acuesta para dormir, pero se incorpora enseguida. Toma el reloj, programa de nuevo la alarma y lo deja a la vista. Satisfecho, apoya la cabeza en la almohada y apaga la luz. Tiempo. Claridad de la maรฑana. Suena el desputado1: Nรฉstor despierta sobresaltado. Cuando estรก por mascullar la puteada de rutina, recuerda. Sonrรญe y detiene la alarma, encantado. Apoya la cabeza en la almohada. Trata de superar su excitaciรณn para saborear el momento. Sonยญ rรญe y cierra los ojos. Marta despierta.
Marta: ยฟQuรฉ hacรฉs?
Nรฉstor (abre los ojos, inquieto, pero se impone naturalidad): Nada. Aquรญ estoy.
Marta: ยฟQuรฉ hora es?
Nรฉstor: Las siete y cinco.
Marta: ยฟNo te levantรกs?
Nรฉstor (firme, sin mirarla): No… (Se aclara la garganta.)
No me levanto.
Marta (se incorpora): ยฟCรณmo?
Nรฉstor (Aparenta resoluciรณn y serenidad): Que no me levanto.
Marta:(seria, tranquila): Dale, Nรฉstor, levantate que vas egar tarde en seno. (Va hacia un supuesto baรฑo.)
Nรฉstor: ยกTengo fiaca en serio!
Marta (!e detiene y vuelve): ยฟQuรฉte pasa Nรฉstor? ยฟQue te agarro?
Nรฉstor: ยกFiaca, ยฟno te digo?! ยกNo tengo ganas de ir y
listo, no voy! โข
Marta: ยฟAsรญ porque sรญ?
Nรฉstor: Ni mรกs ni menos.
Marta (nerviosa): Son las siete y cuarto. Nรฉstor Vas a
llegar tarde!
Nรฉstor: No, no voy a llegar tarde… porque no pienso llegar.
Marta: ยฟY quรฉ vas a decir?
Nรฉstor: ยฟA quiรฉn?
Marta: ยฟComo a quiรฉn? ยฟNo pensรกs avisar?
Nรฉstor: No.
Marta: ยฟTe volviste loco? ยฟQuรฉ te pasa?
Nรฉstor: Nada, Marta, nada … No tengo ganas de trabajar… ยกNo es para tanto!
Marta: Decime la verdad, Nรฉstor, ยฟte sentรญs mal?
Nรฉstor: Escuchame, Marta …
Marta: ยกLevantate, Nรฉstor, por favor\
Nรฉstor (suave): Venรญ, Martita, oรญme… ( Marta se acerca con recelo.) Escuchame bien: no tengo ganas de ira traยญ bajar, tengo fiaca … ยฟTan grave te parece?
Marta: No te pasรณ nunca. Es la primera vez.
Nรฉstor (sonriente): Y bueno, algรบn dรญa tenรญa que ser.
Marta (se aparta brusca): ยกVos tenรฉs algo! (Va al telรฉfono.) ยกYo llamo a la oficina para que te manden el mรฉdico!
Nรฉstor (agresivo): ยกNi se te ocurra! (Marta se detiene impresionada. Menos agresivo.) Me siento mejor que nunca. No tengo nada mรกs que fiaca … ยฟentendรฉs? Fiaca.
La fiaca premiered on December 28, 1967, at the Teatro San Telmo.
Sunday night, Marta is in bed with the remote control in hand watches a TV program that is ending.The sound is soft and unintelligible. Nรฉstor looks out a window. The soccer program starts. Nรฉstor looks at the TV listlessly, thinks for a second, and looks back at the window. Marta turns down the volume.
Marta: Aren’t you going to watch soccer?
Nรฉstor: No… not today. (She looks at him strangely.)
Marta: Aren’t you going to bed?
Nรฉstor: Yes, I’m coming… (Marta looks at him and turns off the TV.)
Marta: See you tomorrow?
Nรฉstor: Bye.
Marta notices it’s strange, but she gets ready to sleep. The room is dimly lit. Nรฉstor slowly goes to bed and sits down. He turns on his light and takes off his slippers. He picks one up, looks at it, plays with it childishly, as if it were a rendezvous plane, and puts it down. He remains seated, thinking. He turns around as if Marta were trying to squeal something, but no. He leans half his body against the backrest and bites his nails. He looks at his watch. He thinks. He turns it back.
He gets out of bed. He paces restlessly. He reflects, moves his lips. He imagines, argues, convinces himself, regrets, remembers, hesitates, and finally, makes up his mind. He goes to bed. Slowly, transcendentally, he deschedules the alarm clock and puts it away. He lies down to sleep but gets up immediately. He takes the clock, sets the alarm again and leaves it in sight. Satisfied, he rests his head on the pillow and turns off the light. Time. Morning clarity. The alarm goes off: Nรฉstor wakes up startled. When he is about to mutter the routine curse, he remembers. He smiles and stops the alarm, delighted. He rests his head on the pillow. He tries to overcome his excitement to savor the moment. He laughs and closes his eyes. Marta wakes up.
Marta: What are you doing?
Nรฉstor (opens his eyes, restless, but imposes naturalness): Nothing. Here I am.
Marta: What time is it?
Nรฉstor: Seven-five.
Marta: Aren’t you getting up?
Nรฉstor (firmly, without looking at her): No… (He clears his throat.)
I’m not getting up.
Marta (stands up): What?
Nรฉstor (feigning determination and serenity): I’m not getting up.
Marta: I’m not…? What do you mean you’re not getting up…?
Nรฉstor: I don’t feel like it.
Marta (to herself, disconcerted): I feel like it…
Nรฉstor: I don’t feel like going to work. Marta: You’re kidding me!
Nรฉstor: No, seriously: I’m not going to the office.
Marta (plays along). Oh, s…? And why?
Nรฉstor: Because I have fiaca.
Marta (smiling): Faica?
Nรฉstor: Yes, sir!
Marta (serious, calm): Come on, Nestor, get up, you’re going to be late for school. (She goes to a supposed bathroom.)
Nestor: I have fiaca!
Marta (stops and turns around): What’s wrong Nestor? What got to you?
Fiaca, didn’t I tell you?! I don’t feel like going and I’m not going! โข
Marta: Just like that?
Nรฉstor: No more, no less.
Marta (nervous): It’s a quarter past seven, Nestor. You’re going to
be late!!
Nรฉstor No, I’m not going to be late… because I’m not going to be late.
Marta: And what are you going to say?
Nรฉstor: To whom?
Marta: Like to whom? Aren’t you going to let me know?
Nรฉstor: No.
Marta: Have you gone crazy? What’s wrong with you?
Nรฉstor: Nothing, Marta, nothing… I don’t feel like going to work… It’s not that bad!
Marta: Tell me the truth, Nestor, do you feel bad?
Nรฉstor: Listen to me, Marta…
Marta: Get up, Nestor, please!
Nรฉstor (softly): Come on, Marta, listen to me… (Marta approaches with suspicion.) Listen to me carefully: I don’t feel like going downstairs, I have fiaca… Does it seem that serious to you?
Marta: It’s never happened to you before. It’s the first time.
Nรฉstor (smiling): And well, it had to happen someday.
Marta (steps away abruptly): You have something! (Goes to the phone.) I’ll call the office so they can send you to the doctor!
Nรฉstor (aggressive): Don’t even think about it! (Marta stops, impressed. Less aggressive.) I feel better than ever. I have nothing but fiaca… do you understand?
Isaac Markus, nacido en Uruguay, es Contador Pรบblico y Master en Administraciรณn de Empresas. Paralelamente a su actividad profesional se ha sentido atraรญdo por la escritura de ficciรณn, habiendo publicado con el seudรณnimo Iche Marx los libros de cuentos Camino al Cementerio (Editorial Rumbo) en el aรฑo 2012, Mirada de Outsider (Editorial Apeirรณn, como finalista del concurso Gregorio Samsa) en el aรฑo 2020, e Historias Ambiguas (Editorial Pampia) en el aรฑo 2025.
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Isaac Markus, born in Uruguay, is a Certified Public Accountant and holds a Master’s degree in Business Administration. In parallel to his professional activity, he has been drawn to writing fiction, having published under the pseudonym Iche Marx the short story books Camino al Cementerio (Rumbo Publishing House) in 2012, Mirada de Outsider (Apeirรณn Publishing House, as a finalist in the Gregorio Samsa competition) in 2020, and Historias Ambiguas (Pampia Publishing House) in 2025.
El doctor Fernรกndez atendรญa ese dรญa a sus pacientes ginecolรณgicas, quienes aguardaban turno en la sala de espera y enfrentaban el aburrimiento mirando sus celulares o ensayando una mirada hรญbrida que simulabaย otear el horizonte donde solo habรญa paredes o cuadros, o echando un vistazo a las otrasย pacientes cuando creรญan que su examen no serรญa percibido.ย
Emanuela Colucci, una de ellas, no dejaba de observar con interรฉs a la paciente de la silla de enfrente. Era una mujer de edad mediana, esa edad en la que las mujeres se plantean el eventual conflicto entre la sexualidad y la maternidad, entre la productividad y el placer vรกlido por sรญ mismo, entre la juventud y la vejez, entre las energรญas desplegadas sin lรญmites y la necesidad de racionalizarlas o limitarlas, entre la vida como objetivo hedonista o รฉtico.
Pero mรกs allรก de las fuerzas que nos llevan a escudriรฑar a otras personas y preguntarnos por quรฉ son como son, algo atribuible a la simple curiosidad o a la bรบsqueda de chimentos o quizรกs de un modelo comparativo que permita evaluarnos a nosotros mismos, el interรฉs de Emanuela por la paciente de la silla de enfrente adolecรญa de cierta falta de inocencia.
Es que ella la habรญa visto en el centro comercial de la zona en compaรฑรญa del doctorย Fernรกndez, y ver a su ginecรณlogo en compaรฑรญa de una fรฉmina es algo que una mujerย no deja pasar por alto, quedando su rostro grabado en la memoria. En aquella ocasiรณnย hizo una rรกpida evaluaciรณn de sus caracterรญsticas, si era bonita, si era delgada, si estaba bien vestida y todos los aspectos queย considerรณ relevantes y que el tiempo disponible permitรญa.ย ย
Y ahora estaba allรญ, en la silla de enfrente, tal como la recordaba, apenas con algunos pequeรฑos cambios de vestimenta y maquillaje. Pero lo importante era saber quรฉ era lo que estaba haciendo allรญ. ยฟSerรญa acaso la esposa del doctor esperando ser atendida por alguna cuestiรณn domรฉstica, o tal vez su amante transfigurada en simple paciente, o, mรกs audaz aรบn, dispuesta a una sesiรณn amorosa en pleno consultorio simulando ser atendida como paciente?
La curiosidad era excesiva como para que Emanuela no intentara hacer algo que le permitiera obtener respuestas, por lo que lanzรณ:
โSe hace larga la espera, ยฟno?
La paciente de la silla de enfrente la observรณ durante algunos segundos y, sin que su mirada lograra ocultar un dejo de ironรญa, respondiรณ:
โSรญ. ยกAunque este doctor vale la pena! โยกPor supuesto!
–ยฟY hace mucho que se atiende con รฉl?
โMenos de un aรฑoโฆ ยกes excelente! Emanuela pensรณ que de ser la esposa del doctor habrรญa hecho alguna referencia,ย aunque debรญa corroborarlo. Sigilosamente buscรณ en las redes sociales en su celular algรบn rastro de la vida privada del doctor y encontrรณ fotos recientes en las que se encontraba rodeado de niรฑos, probablemente sus hijos, y con una mujer, probablemente su esposa, quien no era la mujer de la silla de enfrente. La posibilidad de que fuera su amante adquirรญa mayor fuerza. ยกAh, la muy zorra! ยกYa verรญa que podrรญa sonsacarle! Pero la mujer de la silla de enfrente, en lugar de mantener ese tipo de silencios prudentes que suelen acompaรฑar las culpabilidades, arremetiรณ con un comentario inesperado:ย
โNos conocemos de algรบn lado, ยฟverdad?
Emanuela pensรณ: ยฟDe quรฉ diablos estarรญa hablando? ยฟHabrรญa captado mi mirada insistente el dรญa en que la descubrรญ con el doctor en el centro comercial y tambiรฉn habrรญa grabado mi rostro en su memoria?
โPues en verdad no recuerdo. ยฟDe dรณnde nos conocemos?
โยฟTรบ eres la esposa del abogado Mรกrquez?
Emanuela se inquietรณ: ยฟDe dรณnde conocerรญa esta harpรญa a mi marido? ยฟNo le era suficiente con ponerle cuernos a la mujer del doctor? De pronto comenzรณ a sentir en su propia frente el surgimiento de una cierta excrecencia.
โSรญ, peroโฆ ยฟde dรณnde lo conoces?
โAhโฆ es una larga historiaโฆ Otro dรญa te la contarรฉ, el doctor Fernรกndez ya me estรก llamando para ingresar a la consulta…
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The woman in the opposite chair
That day, Dr. Fernรกndez was attending to his gynecological patients, who were waiting their turn in the waiting room and coping with boredom by looking at their cell phones or practicing a hybrid look that simulated scanning the horizon where there were only walls or pictures, or glancing at the other patients when they thought their exam would not be noticed.
Enanuela Colucci, one of them, could not stop observing with interest the patient in the chair in front of her. She was a middle-aged woman, that age in which women consider the eventual conflict between sexuality and motherhood, between productivity and pleasure valid in itself, between youth and old age, between energies deployed without limits and the need to rationalize or limit them, between life as a hedonistic or ethical objective.
But beyond the forces that lead us to scrutinize other people and ask ourselves why they are the way they are, something attributable to simple curiosity or the search for gossip or perhaps a comparative model that allows us to evaluate ourselves, Emanuela’s interest in the patient in the chair opposite her suffered from a certain lack of innocence.
She had seen her in the local shopping center in the company of Dr. Fernรกndez, and seeing her gynecologist in the company of a woman is something that a woman does not let go by, leaving her face engraved in her memory. On that occasion she made a quick evaluation of her characteristics, if she was pretty, if she was thin, if she was well dressed and all the aspects that she considered relevant and that the available time allowed.
And now she was there, in the chair opposite, just as she remembered her, with only a few small changes of clothing and makeup. But the important thing was to know what she was doing there. Was she perhaps the doctor’s wife waiting to be seen for some domestic matter, or perhaps his lover transfigured into a simple patient, or, even more daring, willing to have a love session in the middle of the office pretending to be seen as a patient?
Emanuela was too curious not to try to do something that would allow her to get answers, so she said:
โIt’s been a long wait, isn’t it?
The patient in the chair opposite looked at her for a few seconds and, without managing to hide a hint of irony, answered:
โYes. Although this doctor is worth it! โOf course!
And have you been seeing him for a long time?
โLess than a year… he’s excellent! Emanuela thought that if she were the doctor’s wife she would have made some reference, although she had to confirm it. She stealthily searched social media on her cell phone for a trace of the doctor’s private life and found recent photos in which he was surrounded by children, probably his children, and with a woman, probably his wife, who was not the woman in the chair in front of her. The possibility that she was his lover gained strength. Ah, the bitch! She would see what she could get out of him! But the woman in the chair in front of her, instead of maintaining that kind of prudent silence that usually accompanies guilt, lashed out with an unexpected comment:
โWe know each other from somewhere, right?
Emanuela thought: What the hell was she talking about? Had she caught my insistent glance the day I discovered her with the doctor in the shopping center and also recorded my face in her memory?
โWell, I really don’t remember. Where do we know each other from?
โAre you the wife of the lawyer Mรกrquez?
Emanuela worried: Where did this harpy know my husband from? Wasn’t it enough for her to cuckold the doctor’s wife? Suddenly he began to feel the emergence of a certain growth on his own forehead. Emanuela worried: Where did this harpy know my husband from? Wasn’t it enough for her to cuckold the doctor’s wife? Suddenly he began to feel the emergence of a certain growth on her own forehead.
–Yes, but… where do you know him from?
–Ah… It’s a long story… I’ll tell you about it another day. Dr. Fernandez is calling me to come in for a consultation..
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Sombras en Venecia
La dulce borrachera del champagne nos hizo unir a la pareja de turistas argentinos que cohabitaban en la gรณndola, y acompaรฑamos a grito pelado los cรกnticos napolitanos de los gondolieri. El eco de nuestras voces rebotando en los muros de esa ciudad irreal nos hacรญa sentir mรกs cercanos a ella, como si el desafinado intercambio sonoro creara una especie de intimidad compartida.
Descendimos de la gรณndola y caminamos por las estrechas callejuelas bajo el guiรฑo cรณmplice de las mรกscaras que desde los escaparates parecรญan invitar a un sensual baile de disfraces. La felicidad acechaba como algo fรกcil de acceder, pero el silencio entre nosotros nos hacรญa evocar las sombras del viaje.
“Los puentes, plazas y palacios se sucedรญan unos a otros sin dar indicio alguno…”.ย ย sin dar indicio alguno delย camino de retorno al hotel. A punto de de desfallecer de cansancio divisamos una confiterรญa ubicada en la intersecciรณn de dos canales.ย Un mozo de frac y moรฑita nos dio la bienvenida y nos condujo a una mesa desde la que se desplegaba una vista maravillosa. El dรญa era hermoso, sin las nubes y lluvias que oscurecen el alma de la ciudad. Los barcos navegaban por los canales asemejando una marina en el centro de un paisaje urbano, y las palomas se posaban a un costado de nuestra mesa transmitiendo un mensaje de paz. Entonces la mirรฉ y volvรญ a ser consciente de lo bella que era. Quise besarla, pero me rechazรณ diciendo:ย
โยฟCrees que Venecia puede hacer que todo desaparezca?
Se levantรณ y se fue. Pensรฉ que amar era transitar una infinidad de silencios e interpretaciones incorrectas. Solo en una ciudad que ahondaba mi melancolรญa, dejรฉ que misย pasos me condujeran hacia cualquier lugar.ย Una casa lucรญa en su fachada la palabra nefesh, la que segรบn la cรกbala era la dimensiรณnย del hombre centrada en la satisfacciรณn de los instintos. Quise alejarme de la tristeza y entrรฉ a la casa. Descendรญ por una escalera de caracol hasta una sala en la que una tenueย luz azulada iluminaba bellamente los cuerpos de hombres y mujeres desnudos penetrรกndose interminablemente…ย ย
Salรญ de la casa y continuรฉ caminado sin rumbo. Un cartel me hizo saber que habรญa llegado al ghetto donde habrรญa vivido Shylock en caso de haber existido. Preguntรฉ sobre รฉl a un rabino que pasaba a mi lado y me pidiรณ que lo acompaรฑara. Tras un extenuante ascenso por las escaleras de un vetusto edificio llegamos a la sinagoga. Al encenderse las luces recordรฉ los tiempos en que visitaba a mi padre el ยซdรญa del perdรณnยป y escuchรกbamos el lamento del shofar que nos hacรญa pensar en nuestros errores. ยฟTambiรฉn ahora estarรญa cometiendo un error? ยฟLas barreras que meย separaban de ella habrรญan sido creadas para que encontrara la forma de derribarlas? El rabino comenzรณ a leer viejos decretos que solo permitรญan a los judรญos ejercer elย oficio de prestamista al mismo tiempo se losย condenaba por ello. Pero ya no estaba allรญ. Cuando retornรฉ a la plaza central del ghetto, ella estaba observรกndome llegar como si siempre hubiera estado esperando.ย Una sonrisa se dibujรณ en sus labios; amor y odio podรญan coexistir bajo el manto de una fidelidad incorruptible. Venecia continuรณ hundiรฉndose en las tinieblas.
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Shadows in Venice
The sweet intoxication of champagne made us join the couple of Argentine tourists who were cohabiting in the gondola, and we accompanied the Neapolitan chants of the gondoliers at the top of our lungs. The echo of our voices bouncing off the walls of that unreal city made us feel closer to it, as if the out-of-tune sound exchange created a kind of shared intimacy.
โYes, but… where do you know him from? โAh… it’s a long story… Another day I’ll tell you about it, Dr. Fernandez is already calling me to come in for a consultation…
We got off the gondola and walked through the narrow streets under the knowing wink of the masks that seemed to invite us to a sensual costume ball from the shop windows. Happiness lurked as something easy to access, but the silence between us made us evoke the shadows of the trip.
without giving any indication of the way back to the hotel. About to faint from exhaustion we saw a confectionery located at the intersection of two canals. A waiter in a tuxedo and bow tie welcomed us and led us to a table with a wonderful view. The day was beautiful, without the clouds and rain that darken the soul of the city. The boats sailed through the canals, resembling a marina in the center of an urban landscape, and the pigeons perched on one side of our table, transmitting a message of peace. Then I looked at her and became aware of how beautiful she was. I wanted to kiss her, but she rejected me, saying:
โDo you think Venice can make everything disappear?
She got up and left. I thought that loving was going through an infinity of silences and incorrect interpretations. Alone in a city that deepened my melancholy, I let my steps lead me to any place. A house displayed on its facade the word nefesh, which according to the Kabbalah was the dimension of man centered on the satisfaction of instincts. I wanted toe escape sadness and entered the house. I went down a spiral staircase into a room where a soft blue light beautifully illuminated the bodies of naked men and women penetrating each other endlessly…
I left the house and continued walking aimlessly. A sign told me that I had arrived at the ghetto where Shylock would have lived if he had existed. I asked a rabbi who was passing by me about him and he asked me to accompany him. After an exhausting climb up the stairs of an old building we arrived at the synagogue. When the lights came on I remembered the times when I visited my father on the “day of forgiveness” and we listened to the wailing of the shofar that made us think of our mistakes. Was I making a mistake now too? Had the barriers that separated me from her been created so that I could find a way to break them down? The rabbi began to read old decrees that only allowed Jews to work as moneylenders while condemning them for it. But my mind was no longer there. When I returned to the central square of the ghetto, she was watching me arrive as if she had always been waiting. A smile appeared on her lips; love and hate could coexist under the cloak of an incorruptible fidelity. Venice continued to sink into darkness.
_________________________________
Camino al cementerio
Hay quienes se refugian en la fantasรญa de una vida despuรฉs de la muerte, pero, en mi caso, intento soportar la conciencia de tan amargo destino simulando su inexistencia. Procuraba mantenerme alejado de los cementerios, pero mi cercanรญa con el muerto de turno no me dejรณ mรกs alternativa que concurrir a su entierro.
Transitaba por una ruta que ya conocรญa desde que el paso del tiempo comenzรณ a cobrar sus vรญctimas entre amigos y parientes. Conducรญa absorto en mis pensamientos, cuando un suceso imprevisto me obligรณ a de tenerme. Los vehรญculos formaban delante del mรญo una larga cadena inmovilizada sin que nadie supiera quรฉ sucedรญa.
La necesidad de llegar a tiempo hizo que intentara salvar el obstรกculo tomando un ca mino lateral; confiaba que en algรบn momento se habilitarรญa una vรญa que permitirรญa retornar a la ruta. Pero el camino se esforzaba en mostrar su terquedad y parecรญa extenderse sin lรญmite alguno.
Cuando ya conservaba pocas esperanzas de retornar a la ruta, arribรฉ a una explanada que rodeaba una antigua casa de corte seรฑo rial. La solemnidad del edificio tenรญa algรบn parentesco con la que suele rodear la idea de la muerte, y esto me hizo pensar que me hallarรญa frente al atrio de acceso al cementerio.
Entrรฉ a la vieja casona, donde una multitud de seres se ocupaban de menesteres indefinidos. Al acercarse un sujeto elegantemente vestido y dotado de expresiรณn afable, le preguntรฉ por el camino que me conducirรญa a las tumbas. El hombre permaneciรณ en silencio varios minutos y luego se limitรณ a preguntar:ย
โยฟGusta tomar un cafecito
Aceptรฉ, advirtiรฉndole que disponรญa de poco tiempo. Mientras bebรญa el cafรฉ, el hombre me continuรณ observando en silencio. Habรญa algo irritante en su actitud, pero mi urgencia por llegar al entierro me hizo volver a preguntarle cรณmo acceder a las tumbas. Ante mi insistencia, la expresiรณn del hombre se transformรณ brutalmente, y su voz, engrosada por la ira, se disparรณ como un latigazo:
โยกTengo varios amigos castrados! ยฟPor quรฉ no les pregunta a ellos?
Aunque no comprendรญa su significado, la respuesta no auguraba momentos felices.ย Escapรฉ de allรญ con el corazรณn golpeando con fuerza, atravesando cuanto espacio vacรญo se abrรญa a mi paso. Sin certeza del lugar hacia el que me dirigรญa corrรญ hasta quedar exhausto y caer sobre una tierra recientemente removida. Ese hรบmedo contacto encendiรณ una leve luz en mi mente. Creรญ intuir lo que sucedรญa, pero las pesadas paladas de tierra que de inmediato cayeron sobre mรญ me hundieron en la oscuridad mรกs absoluta.
________________________________
On the way to the cemetery
There are those who take refuge in the fantasy of a life after death, but, in my case, I try to bear the awareness of such a bitter fate by pretending its nonexistence. I tried to stay away from cemeteries, but my proximity to the deceased on duty left me no alternative but to attend his burial.
I was traveling along a route that I already knew since the passage of time began to claim its victims among friends and relatives. I was driving absorbed in my thoughts, when an unexpected event forced me to stop. The vehicles in front of mine formed a long chain immobilized without anyone knowing what was happening.
The need to arrive on time made me try to overcome the obstacle by taking a side road; I hoped that at some point a path would open up that would allow me to return to the route. But the road tried to show its stubbornness and seemed to extend without any limit.
When I had little hope of returning to the route, I arrived at an esplanade that surrounded an old stately house. The solemnity of the building had some kinship with that which usually surrounds the idea of โโdeath, and this made me think that I would find myself in front of the entrance hall to the cemetery.
I entered the old house, where a multitude of beings were busy with undefined tasks. When an elegantly dressed man with a friendly expression approached, I asked him for the path that would lead me to the tombs. The man remained silent for several minutes and then simply asked:
–“Would you like to have a coffee?”
I accepted, warning him that I had little time. As I drank my coffee, the man continued to watch me in silence. There was something irritating about his attitude, but my urgency to get to the burial made me ask him again how to access the graves.
I agreed, warning him that I had little time. As I drank my coffee, the man continued to watch me in silence. There was something irritating about his attitude, but my urgency to get to the burial made me ask him again how to access the graves.
At my insistence, the man’s expression changed brutally, and his voice, thick with anger, shot out like a whip:
–“I have several castrated friends! Why don’t you ask them?”
Although I didn’t understand his meaning, the answer did not bode well for happy times. I escaped from there with my heart pounding, crossing every empty space that opened up before me. Unsure of where I was going, I ran until I was exhausted and fell on recently turned earth. That wet contact lit a faint light in my mind. I thought I sensed what was happening, but the heavy shovelfuls of earth that immediately fell on me plunged me into absolute darkness.
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Metamorfosis
La foto de perfil de Internet de uno de los porteros del edificio donde vivo era la de un lobo feroz. El portero en cuestiรณn (a quien desde que descubrรญ la foto comencรฉ a denominar โel Loboโ) era bรกsicamente muy afable, por lo que atribuรญ el hecho a un posible caso de doble personalidad o de personalidad encubierta.
Los otros porteros del edificio trataban de huir del lugar de vigilancia que se les habรญa asignado, pero โel Loboโ nunca levantaba su trasero del asiento. En ese sentido era muy eficiente, salvo cuando se le pedรญa una tarea que implicara moverse del lugar. En esas ocasiones, dejaba pasar el tiempo para que el portero subsiguiente se hiciera cargo, o para que el condรณmino terminara olvidando su peticiรณn.ย Serรญa injusto, sin embargo, no reconocer que โel Loboโ estaba siempre con una sonrisa a flor de labios, pero supuse que lo harรญa para poder atraparme y comerme crudo cuando me tuviera entre sus garras. Aquella foto del perfil de Internet no podรญa ser inocente; reflejaba probablemente lo que sucede cuando se oculta el lado profundo del ser humano; las fuerzas del odio, del resentimiento, en principio ocultas, van adquiriendo fuerzaย hasta explotar un dรญa en un ejercicio supremo de maldad.ย ย
No tenรญa pruebas que avalaran mis especulaciones. El Creador habรญa vedado al ser humano cualquier comprobaciรณn fehaciente, ineluctable, de sus pensamientos. Ser es ser percibido decรญan algunos, pero nadie aseguraba que la percepciรณn no fuera mรกs que el engaรฑo de un genio maligno.
Lo cierto es que a veces uno se harta de sus propias cavilaciones, y tantas dudas, tantos divagues, tanto escepticismo, tanto liberalismo, terminaron socavando mi posiciรณn primaria, y, en lugar de continuar con mi actitud preventiva, comencรฉ a apreciar su sonrisa como algo merecedor de simpatรญa, de afecto, de solidaridad humana.
Comencรฉ, a partir de ese momento, a hablar con รฉl sin lรญmite alguno, confiรกndole mis secretos mรกs รญntimos, tal como si fuera un amigo o un hermano. Ya estaba completamente entregado cuando lleguรฉ un dรญa al edificio y me topรฉ con un lobo de verdad sentado en la silla del portero, con sus fauces abiertas, sus colmillos blancos centelleantes entre tanta negrura y sus ojos inyectados de un odio profundo que no le perdonaban a la naturaleza el juego del que lo habรญa hecho parte.ย Y asรญ fue como me desvanecรญ a la primera mordida, perdiรฉndome el espectรกculo de un ser humano exponiendo sus tripas y su sangre jugosa, algo que podrรญa haber hecho las delicias de cualquier asador de animales.
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Metamorphosis
The Internet profile picture of one of the doormen in the building where I live was that of a ferocious wolf. The doorman in question (whom I began to call โthe Wolfโ since I discovered the photo) was basically very affable, so I attributed the fact to a possible case of double personality or undercover personality.
The other doormen in the building tried to escape from the surveillance spot that had been assigned to them, but โthe Wolfโ never lifted his butt from his seat. He was very efficient in that sense, except when he was asked to do a task that involved moving from the spot. On those occasions, he would let time pass so that the next doorman could take over, or so that the condominium owner would end up forgetting his request. It would be unfair, however, not to acknowledge that โthe Wolfโ always had a smile on his lips, but I assumed he would do it so he could catch me and eat me raw when he had me in his claws. That Internet profile picture couldnโt be innocent; It probably reflected what happens when the deep side of a human being is hidden; the forces of hatred and resentment, hidden at first, gradually gain strength until one day they explode in a supreme act of evil.
I had no proof to support my speculations. The Creator had forbidden human beings any reliable, inescapable verification of their thoughts. To be is to be perceived, some said, but no one claimed that perception was nothing more than the deception of an evil genius.
The truth is that sometimes one gets fed up with one’s own musings, and so many doubts, so many ramblings, so much skepticism, so much liberalism, ended up undermining my primary position, and, instead of continuing with my preventive attitude, I began to appreciate his smile as something worthy of sympathy, affection, human solidarity.
From that moment on, I began to talk to him without any limits, confiding my most intimate secrets to him, as if he were a friend or a brother. I was already completely devoted when I arrived at the building one day and came across a real wolf sitting on the doorman’s chair, with its jaws open, its white fangs flashing in the darkness and its eyes filled with a deep hatred that did not forgive nature for the game it had made it a part of. And that was how I fainted after the first bite, missing the spectacle of a human being exposing its guts and juicy blood, something that could have delighted anyone who roasts animals.
Mariana Yampolsky naciรณ en Chicago de padres judรญos. Como fotรณgrafa tomรณ fotografรญas de muchas personas y lugares mexicanos. A la edad de diecinueve aรฑos en 1944, se mudรณ sola a Mรฉxico y no hablaba nada de espaรฑol. โDesde el principio le gustรณ mucho Mรฉxico y su gente. Diez aรฑos despuรฉs tuvo que tomar una decisiรณn difรญcilโ. Mariana se nacionalizรณ mexicana en 1954. Oscar, su padre, le enseรฑรณ a seguir sus sueรฑos donde quiera que fuera. “รl le dio un fuerte sentimiento de confianza en sรญ misma que conservรณ toda su vida”. (Entrevista con Arjen Van der Sluis, 2/12/05) Mariana era artista, pero utilizรณ su arte como herramienta para hacer de Mรฉxico un lugar mejor para los pobres. Ella usรณ su arte para mostrar la belleza de Mรฉxico. Tomรณ fotografรญas de Mรฉxico y de los mexicanos durante cincuenta aรฑos. Creรณ diecisรฉis libros de su fotografรญa. Aunque Mariana Yampolsky era famosa, se preocupaba por las personas que fotografiaba. Ella siempre preguntaba antes de tomar fotografรญas por respeto a su privacidad. โCuando fotografรญa en el campo, Mariana Yampolsky se acerca a la gente de un pueblo como si llevara una bandera blanca en las manosโ. dice Vander de Sluis. Era maestra y ayudรณ a muchos huรฉrfanos a encontrar familias. Fue famosa en Mรฉxico y su arte se mostrรณ en otros paรญses: Italia, Inglaterra, Francia, Yugoslavia, Holanda, Ecuador, Islandia, Alemania, Cuba, Australia y Espaรฑa.
Mariana Yampolsky was born in Chicago of Jewish parents. As a photographer she took pictures of many Mexican people and places. At the age of nineteen in 1944, she moved to Mexico by herself and did not speak any Spanish. โRight from the beginning, she liked Mexico and its people very much. Ten years later she had to make a difficult decision.โ Mariana became a Mexican citizen in 1954. Oscar, her father, taught her to follow her dreams wherever she went. โHe gave her a strong feeling of self-confidence that she kept all her life.โ (Interview with Arjen Van der Sluis, 12/2/05) Mariana was an artist, but she used her art as a tool to make Mexico better for the poor people. She used her art was to show Mexicoโs beauty. She took pictures of Mexico and Mexican people for fifty years. She created sixteen books of her photography. Though Mariana Yampolsky was famous, she cared for the people she photographed. She always asked before taking pictures out of respect for their privacy. โWhen she photographs in the field, Mariana Yampolsky approaches the people in a village as if sheโs carrying a white flag in her hands.โ says Vander de Sluis. She was a teacher, and she helped many orphans find families. She was famous in Mexico, and her art was shown in other countries: Italy, England, France, Yugoslavia, Holland, Ecuador, Iceland, Germany, Cuba, Australia, and Spain.
Yaco Nowens naciรณ en Buenos Aires en 1938. Estudiรณ en la Escuela Nacional de Bellas Artes Manuel Belgrano y en los talleres de Josรฉ Maltz y Mรฉndez Terrero hasta 1965. Trabajรณ como dibujante en Clarรญn. Teรณrico de arte y coeditor de la revista de artes plรกsticas รleo y Mรกrmol junto con Teresa Pociello. Sus primeras muestras fueron como dibujante, junto a Quino, Garaycochea y Landrรบ. En 1964 o 1965 lo empiezan a invitar y Renรฉ Morรณn, su maestro y guรญa, lo obligรณ a exponer y asรญ comenzรณ. Dictรณ conferencias nacionales e internacionales. Miembro de Sociรฉtรฉ des Auteurs dans les Arts Graphiques et Plastiques de Parรญs. En 1972 invitado por la OEA viajรณ a Estados Unidos. Expuso en la Argentina, Estados Unidos, Israel, Corea, Venezuela, Espaรฑa, Ecuador, Francia y Cuba. โSu obra de los aรฑos 1960 era netamente confesional, desde el expresionismo, Mรกs adelante, impresionado por los informalistas del Grupo del Paso de Espaรฑa, Pollock y Kooning, su obra se mantiene dentro de una abstracciรณn lรญrica que nos permite adivinar el gesto de la pincelada manteniendo el todo dentro de composiciones de gran equilibrio geomรฉtrico y afรญn a las primeras etapas del cubismo. De colores restallantes, y de lรญneas que se entrecruzan a veces, para aludir a una marcada y cierta figuraciรณn paisajรญsticaโ, (Rafael Squirru). Tambiรฉn bajo la direcciรณn del artista plรกstico Yaco Nowens, el periรณdico judรญo y militante Nueva Presencia se seguirรญa editando desde 1987 hasta 1993, aรฑo en que Di Presse quebrรณ definitivamente.
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Yaco Nowens was born in Buenos Aires in 1938. He studied at the Manuel Belgrano National School of Fine Arts and in the workshops of Josรฉ Maltz and Mรฉndez Terrero until 1965. He worked as a draftsman for Clarรญn. He was an art theorist and co-editor of the visual arts magazine รleo y Mรกrmol together with Teresa Pociello. His first exhibitions were as a draftsman, alongside Quino, Garaycochea and Landrรบ. In 1964 or 1965 he began to receive invitations and Renรฉ Morรณn, his teacher and guide, forced him to exhibit and that’s how he began. He gave national and international lectures. He is a member of the Sociรฉtรฉ des Auteurs dans les Arts Graphiques et Plastiques in Paris. In 1972, invited by the OAS, he traveled to the United States. He exhibited in Argentina, the United States, Israel, Korea, Venezuela, Spain, Ecuador, France and Cuba. โHis work from the 1960s was clearly confessional, from an expressionist perspective. Later, impressed by the informalists of the Grupo del Paso in Spain, Pollock and Kooning, his work remained within a lyrical abstraction that allows us to guess the gesture of the brushstroke, keeping the whole within compositions of great geometric balance and akin to the early stages of cubism. With bright colours and lines that sometimes intersect, to allude to a marked and certain landscape figurationโ, (Rafael Squirru). Also, under the direction of the visual artist Yaco Nowens, the Jewish and militant newspaper Nueva Presencia continued to be published from 1987 to 1993, the year in which Di Presse went bankrupt definitively.
Retrato de Yaco Nowens por el gran artista judรญo-argentino Gyula Kosice/A Portrait of Yako Nowens by the great Argentine Jewish artist Gyula Kosice
Robert Schopflocher naciรณ en una familia judรญa alemana asimilada. Despuรฉs de que los nazis tomaron el poder, fue excluido de asistir a la escuela primaria humanรญstica en Fรผrth y en su lugar asistiรณ a un internado judรญo. En abril de 1937, su familia huyรณ a Argentina. Allรญ, Schopflocher asistiรณ a la Escuela Pestalozzi fundada por August Siemsen. He publicado varios artรญculos en la revista del exilio La Otra Alemania editada por Siemsen. Sin embargo, por motivos econรณmicos no pudo iniciar una carrera como periodista o autor. Despuรฉs de completar sus estudios de agronomรญa, Schopflocher trabajรณ como administrador agrรญcola y comerciante de importaciones. Escribiรณ varios libros de texto y obras especializadas sobre temas agrรญcolas. A partir de la dรฉcada de 1980 tambiรฉn comenzรณ a escribir literatura: ensayos, crรญticas, cuentos y poemas, todos escritos inicialmente en espaรฑol. El autor tenรญa mรกs de setenta aรฑos cuando empezรณ a escribir en alemรกn. El impulso para esto provino de sus experiencias al traducir sus propios escritos al alemรกn. Al hacerlo, Schopflocher tuvo la impresiรณn de que estaba eliminando un “Schicht” (“capa”) y revelando el “in der Muttersprache abgelagerte[n] Urtext” (“texto original depositado en mi lengua materna”, ed. trad, cita basado en Dirk Niefanger/Gunnar Och, Robert Schopflocher, der Erzรคhler [El narrador], 2018) A partir de ese momento, escribiรณ sus historias y novelas en alemรกn. En ensayos y conferencias, se comprometiรณ con su bilingรผismo como escritor. Roberto Schopflocher fue miembro honorario del Centro PEN de Escritores de Habla Alemana en el Extranjero. En 2008 la ciudad de Fรผrth le otorgรณ el premio Jakob Wassermann.
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Robert Schopflocherย was born into an assimilated German-Jewish family. After the Nazis seized power, he was excluded from attending the humanistic grammar school inย Fรผrthย and instead attended a Jewish boarding school. In April 1937, his family fled to Argentina. There,ย Schopflocherย attended the Pestalozzi School founded byย August Siemsen. He published several articles in the exile magazineย La otra Alemaniaย edited byย Siemsen. Yet, due to economic reasons, he was unable to begin a career as a journalist or author.
After completing his studies in Agronomy, Schopflocher worked as an agricultural administrator and import merchant. He wrote several textbooks and specialist works on agricultural topics. From the 1980s onwards, he also began to write literature โ essays, criticism, stories and poems, all initially written in Spanish. The author was into his seventies before he began to write in German. The impetus for this came from his experiences of translating his own writings into German. By doing so, Schopflocher had the impression that he was removing a โSchichtโ (โlayerโ) and revealing the โin der Muttersprache abgelagerte[n] Urtextโ (โoriginal text deposited in my mother tongueโ, ed. trans, Quotation based on Dirk Niefanger/Gunnar Och, Robert Schopflocher, der Erzรคhler [The Story-Teller], 2018) From that point on, he wrote his stories and novels in German. In essays and lectures, he engaged with his bilingualism as a writer.
Roberto Schopflocher was an honorary member of the PEN Centre of German-Speaking Writers Abroad. In 2008, the city of Fรผrth awarded him the Jakob Wassermann Prize.
Reencuentros La historia de un perdedor
Lo reconocรญ de inmediato, por mรกs que alcancรฉ a verlo tan sรณlo de espaldas. Y eso que habรญan pasado varios aรฑos sin que nuestros caminos se cruzaran: prรกcticamente, desde que fracaso nuestro negocio, el รบnico que habรญamos emprendido juntos. Quizรก por lo nerviosas brusquedad de sus movimientos o por esas orejas salientes, motivos de tantas burlas de escuela, el hecho fue que lo supe de inmediato: no podรญa otro que Marcos Silberman, Marquitos para sus allegados. La cola de sol resignados ciudadanos avanzaba lentamente.
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Mรกs de una vez mamรก me lo habรญa advertido: el chico aquรฉl es un tiro al aire y, acรณrdate de mis palabras, va a terminar mal. Nunca me enterรฉ en quรฉ fundaba sus presagios, acompaรฑado por una mirada lanzada al cielo y un suspiro, de รฉsos que sรณlo ella sabรญa emitir.
Marquitos ero un hijo de nuestros vecinos, el mรกs grande de los tres. Un chico lleno de ideas fascinantes. Sentรญa una profunda admiraciรณn por quien era para mรญ como ese hermano mayor, que yo no tenรญa. Debo aclarar que ser vecino significaba mucho en nuestra colonia, casi tanto como ser pariente. A veces, mรกs.
A primera vista, nuestras casas se parecรญan. Las mismas galerรญas. Imp de sus costados cerrado por enredaderas de flores olorosas: olorosas: madreselvas, jazmines, glicinas. Las mismas cocinas con dos hornallas, alimentadas a marlos y carbรณn de leรฑa. Idรฉnticas casillas de retrete, a treinta pasos detrรกs, el fondo del patio, en cuyo entro algunos paraรญsos, aplacaban con su sombra el fuego de las siestas estivales; de noche, nuestras gallinas dormรญan en sus ramas. Cortinas de crochet delante de las pequeรฑas ventanas; en la pared, las fotos de viejos barbudos de bajo del vidrio bombรฉ en marco ovalado. Con el correr de los aรฑos descubrรญ las diferencias. En la casa de los Silberman habรญa mรกs libros que en la nuestra. Hileras de libros. En cambio, nosotros algunos adornos adicionales; un centro de mesa de vidrio prensado en forma de cisne; dos รณleos; paisajes suizos con montaรฑas nevadas, alegres cabaรฑas y algunos cervatillos. Desde luego, cada familia poseรญa su propia historia, su propio lenguaje secreto y hasta sus propios chistes. Ahรญ se notaban las mayores diferencias entre los Silberman y nosotros, los Burdanek.
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Poco antes de tocarle el turno, Marcos se dio vuelta y me descubriรณ: ยกQuรฉ casualidad! Lo era de verdad, pues tragarme colas no formaba parte de mis costumbres. Mi tiempo vale oro. Me abrazรณ. Efusivamente, dirรญa yo. Quรฉ es tu vida, quise saber. Y entonces, en lugar de conformarme con cualquier contestaciรณn anodina, puso cara de misterio. Mรกs tarde te cuento, me prometiรณ. Lo mirรฉ con mayor detenciรณn. Registrรฉ el paรฑo lustroso de su traje, la camisa de cuello gastado, el portfolio raรญdo y deformado. A quรฉ tanto misterio, me dije algo fastidiado. Seguramente correteaba los artรญculos plรกsticos queโrecordรฉโfabricaba su suegro, un engreรญdo emigrante alemรกn, que tenรญa bien corto de riendas a ese yerno bohemio en sus severos ojos. De algo hay que vivir, solรญa vivir decir mi finado padre, de algo decente en lo posible. La รบltima vez que tropecรฉ con mi amigo fue en un negocio de muebles de jardรญn sobre la Panamericana, al cual; mi mujer me habรญa arrastrado para conseguir un juego de sillones de hierro, que consideraba de imperiosa necesidad para nuestra quita el club del campo. Fue varios aรฑos despuรฉs de haber perdido nuestre asesorรญa; yo estaba organizando mi shopping-center. Recurro a las etapas de mis negocios para medir el tiempo. Asรญ como otros emplean el crecimiento de sus hijos a modo de cronรณmetro. Cada uno tiene su mรฉtodo.
Entonces fui testigo de la derrota de mi amigo como vendedor de enanos de terracota, aquellos hombrecillos de gorro rojo que sonreรญan bondadosos detrรกs de barbas blancas y que en otros tiempos vigilaban los helechos en los patios y jugaban a las escondidas en la sombra de los jardines de la gente de โclase Media, mรกs bien bajaโ, como suele expresarse Yolanda, mi mujer.
La escena que me tocรณ presenciar en aquella
oportunidad fue bastante bochornosa. Doy gracias a Dios de que el anonadado Marquitos no se percatara de mi presencia. Lo vi inquieto en un rincรณn, sus catรกlogos y listas de precios en el regazo. El dueรฑo del negocio lo habรญa plantado para atender a un caballero, quien con culto susurro manifestaba su interรฉs por uno de esos curiosos enanos, figurillas divertidos, expresiรณn de arte popular, que estaban llegando del Lejano Oriente. El comerciante simulaba no entender; uno nunca sabe si no estรก tratando con algรบn inspector disfrazado, a la pesca de una coima. Por ese seรฑor de compartimento educado, casi se dirรญa tรญmido, mรกs bien se parecรญa al gerente de una antigua casa exportadora de cereales. Hasta podrรญa ser inglรฉs. O catedrรกtico. No se inmutรณ ante el trato elusivo recibido. Ponderรณ el ingenio oriental y el humor popular de un tal Rabelais, quien segรบn se explicaba, no sabรญa de falsos pudores. Citรณ la mitologรญa de Los Antiguos y el Kamasutra, para terminar con las pinturas erรณticas en los muros de las villas de Pompeya.
El comerciante, convencido por fin de la legitimidad del cliente, lo condujo al rincรณn mรกs apartado del salรณn de ventas, pasando por los toboganes y hamacas, sombrillas y colchonetas inflables, hasta llegar a unos enanos de aspecto inocente. De lejos reconocรญ el estilo: engendros de plรกstico reforzado, que portaban delantales de vinรญlica imitaciรณn cuero. El vendedor alzรณ el delantal de uno ellos con gesto dramรกtico, dejando al descubierto un falo obscenamente gigante.
El respetable caballero parecรญa satisfecho; elogiรณ la excelente muestra del arte oriental, como si fuese experto en la materia. Y ordenรณ que cargasen la figura en el coche, cuidando de que no se le quebrara nada. Sin chistar pagรณ el precio exigido.
ยฟSe dio cuenta? โse dirigiรณ el comerciante a Marcos, una vez que el cliente dejรณ el local. –ยฟPor quรฉ no se les ocurren ideas nuevas a los industriales nacionales?
La verdad, somos unos atrasados โ admitiรณ Marquitos con aparente contriciรณn — ยกLo que son los orientales!
Alcancรฉ a observar la cara burlona de mi amigo.
–Viera el รฉxito que tienen esos enanitos pornogrรกficos. Hay clientes que se los llevan de a dos o de a tres. Y parece mentira la clase de gente que viene. Algunos se las dan de sabios, se interesan por los aspectos antropolรณgicos del asunto; me dan cรกtedra sobre mitologรญa, hablan con tono doctoral de Creta, de la Mesopotamia, de los dioses la fertilidad. Se dan aire de profesores para justificar la compra de esa basura. Y me piden que tenga cuidado para a no se les quiebre nada. Crรฉame: yo los fajo que es un gusto; cobro mi impuesto a la lujuria.
El hombre parรณ de hablar. Con una sonrisa de simpatรญa miraba ese infeliz corredor de enanos pasados de moda. Rictus que, en realidad, no era mรกs que un tic nervioso; tal vez la consecuencia del trato demasiado รญntimo con tantos gnomos.
Y entonces sucediรณ algo que no olvidarรฉ por el resto de mi vida. El semblante de Marcos parecรญa iluminarse por dentro; era como si de repente se volviese transparente, dejando al descubierto su verdadera personalidad, oculta detrรกs de la mรกscara de humilde viajante:
–Lo que es importante es satisfacer los deseos de los seres humanos, para que vivan mรกs felices y reine la paz sobre la Tierra โ dijo como pensando en voz alta. Era patente que no se referรญa esos vulgares adefesios.
El comerciante no respondiรณ; se limitรณ a seguir mirรกndolo con se engaรฑosa pseudosonrisa.
Evoquรฉ la ceremonia nupcial en el shil, la pequeรฑa sinagoga de nuestra colonia. Con asombrosa nitidez me llegaron esos detalles minรบsculos, que, analizados en la retrospectiva, parecรญan presagiar los futuros acontecimientos. El leve tufo a sรณtano sin ventilar y la lumbre amarillenta que irradiaban los cirios, bajo el palio, se confundรญan en la luz รกcida de los Sol de Noche. Un clima irreal que me sacudiรณ. Cuando observรฉ a Anita, que tomaba del brazo de su padre que se dirigรญa al palio, acudiรณ a mi memoria una frase de Rabรญ Moshe Lieb: <<Nuestro camino en este mundo es como el filo de una navaja: de un lado estรก el mundo ilusorio y de aquel, el otro mundo. El camino de la vita estรก entre los dos>>. No se crea que yo soy un conocedor de la Cรกbala. Nada de eso: habรญa escuchado la cita aรฑos atrรกs de boca del abuelo de Marquitos. Fue en una de las tertulias que durante las noches de invierno se celebran en la casa de los Silberman. Mi piadoso abuelo Leiva, enemigo de todo lo que olรญa de misticismo, habรญa reprochado a su compaรฑero. ยกCitar semejantes herejรญas en presencia de los niรฑos! Hay que saberse, que mi abuela se aferraba al Shuljan Aruj, compendio que regula la vida de los judรญos conforme con la Ley de Moisรฉs, tal como fue codificada por los talmudistas. Como era lรณgico, contaba con el apoyo incondicional de nuestro shoijet, mientras que el gerente de la cooperativa integraba un dรบo apรณstata con el maestro de hebreo. Ninguno de los dos pertenecรญa al cรญrculo รญntimo de los viejos, y eso sรณlo por ser de otra generaciรณn. El maestro detestaba la rigidez de las leyes rabรญnicas que, segรบn รฉl, estaban asfixiando las fuerzas vitales de los judรญos, a los que รบnicamente el retorno a las fuentes vivas en la vieja-nueva patria podrรญan redimir. Y segรบn el gerente, todas las religiones no eran mรกs que opio para los pueblos. Recuerdo como los dos instaron a mi abuelo para que diera cumplimento a las leyes de la Torรก, lapidando sin mรกs trรกmite a todas las adรบlteras que conocรญa. El abuelo de Marcos se abstenรญa de intervenir en semejantes disputas. Segรบn supe aรฑos mรกs tarde, preferรญa enfrascarse en el estudio del Hemet yamin e ilustrarse asรญ sobre c cรณmo segur una vida conforme con la Cรกbala. A decir la verdad: nunca lleguรฉ a comprender los argumentos esgrimidos por los bebedores de tรฉ. Pero recuerdo la mรบsica de sus voces: la estridencia belicosa de mi irritable abuelo y el profundo cรกntico tranquilizador de Reb Abraham.
*
El servicio en el temple estaba a cargo de Reb Duvid, nuestro shoijet, cuyo fantasma se empeรฑรณ en saludarme mientras yo manejaba el coche. Un hombrecillo enjuto, el rostro pรกlido enmarcado por una barba rala, de nariz larga y filosa, que transmitรญa una impresiรณn de frรกgil espiritualidad. En mis recuerdos sigue canturreando las siete bendiciones de prรกctica. La novia da sus siete vueltas en turno al grupo reunido bajo el palio. Rodeos como lo exige la costumbre. Como siete son los dรญas de la semana y siete vueltas ce la correa alrededor del antebrazo para fijar la cรกpsula de las filacterias. Siete, nos explicaba el abuelo de Marquitos, pese a las protestas de su propia mujer: el valor de letra zeta, zaรญn, que conduce a zโman, el tiempo, con cuyas fibras estรก tejida nuestra identidad. El maestro de hebreo, ese truculente burlador, tenรญa preparada una explicaciรณn irreverente para las siete vueltas de la novia. :as da, pontificaba, para que la concurrencia se convenza de que la niรฑa no estรก embarazada. La entrega del anillo, luego, y la antiquรญsima fรณrmula consagratoria, pronunciada por el novio. Creo que fui uno de los pocos que advirtieron el pequeรฑo incidente que se produjo cuando Anita procurรณ levantar el velo para llevar el cรกliz a sus labios. El tul, prรฉstamo de la madre de Marcos, se enredรณ, y cuando Werner ayudรณ a subirlo se rasgรณ.
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Reunions The story of a loser
I recognized him immediately, even though I only managed to see him from behind. And that was after several years without our paths crossing: practically, since our business failed, the only one we had undertaken together. Perhaps because of the nervous abruptness of his movements or because of those protruding ears, the reason for so many school jokes, the fact was that I knew immediately: it could be none other than Marcos Silberman, Marquitos to his friends. The queue of resigned citizens moved slowly.
*
More than once my mother had warned me: that boy is a shot in the air and, remember my words, he is going to end badly. I never found out what she based her predictions on, accompanied by a look thrown to the sky and a sigh, one of those that only she knew how to emit. Marquitos was a son of our neighbors, the oldest of the three. A boy full of fascinating ideas. I felt a deep admiration for someone who was like that older brother to me, the one I didn’t have. I must clarify that being a neighbor meant a lot in our neighborhood, almost as much as being a relative. Sometimes, more. At first glance, our houses looked alike. The same verandas. The sides of the houses were closed by climbing plants of fragrant flowers: fragrant: honeysuckle, jasmine, wisteria. The same kitchens with two burners, fed by cornflowers and charcoal. Identical toilet stalls, thirty steps behind, the back of the patio, in whose interior some paradise trees soothed with their shade the fire of summer siestas; at night, our chickens slept in their branches. Crochet curtains in front of the small windows; on the wall, photos of bearded old men under the domed glass in an oval frame. As the years went by, I discovered the differences. In the Silberman house there were more books than in ours. Rows of books. On the other hand, we had some additional decorations; a pressed glass centrepiece in the shape of a swan; two oil paintings; Swiss landscapes with snow-capped mountains, cheerful cottages and a few fawns. Of course, each family had its own story, its own secret language and even its own jokes. That was where the biggest differences between the Silbermans and us, the Burdaneks, were evident.
* Shortly before it was his turn, Marcos turned around and discovered me: What a coincidence! It really was, because swallowing colas was not part of my customs. My time is money. He hugged me. Effusively, I would say. What is your life like, I wanted to know. And then, instead of settling for any bland answer, he put on a mysterious face. I’ll tell you later, he promised. I looked at him more closely. I checked the shiny cloth of his suit, the shirt with the worn collar, the worn and deformed briefcase. Why so much mystery, I said to myself, somewhat annoyed. Surely he was running around the plastic articles thatโI rememberedโhis father-in-law made, a conceited German immigrant, who kept that bohemian son-in-law on a tight leash in his severe eyes. You have to live off something, my late father used to say, something decent if possible. The last time I ran into my friend was in a garden furniture store on the Panamericana, where my wife had dragged me to get a set of iron chairs, which she considered imperative for our country club sale. It was several years after we lost our consultancy; I was organizing my shopping center. I use the stages of my businesses to measure time, just as others use the growth of their children as a stopwatch. Each one has his own method. Then I witnessed the defeat of my friend as a seller of terracotta dwarfs, those little men with red hats who smiled kindly behind white beards and who in other times watched over the ferns in the patios and played hide-and-seek in the shade of the gardens of people from the โmiddle class, rather lower class,โ as Yolanda, my wife, often says. The scene I witnessed on that occasion was quite embarrassing. I thank God that the stunned Marquitos did not notice my presence. I saw him fidgeting in a corner, his catalogues and price lists on his lap. The owner of the shop had left him to attend to a gentleman who, in a cultured whisper, expressed his interest in one of those curious dwarfs, funny little figures, an expression of popular art, that were arriving from the Far East. The merchant pretended not to understand; one never knows if one is not dealing with some disguised inspector, fishing for a bribe. From this gentleman with a polite manner, one could almost say shy, he looked more like the manager of an old grain exporting house. He could even be English. Or a professor. He did not flinch at the evasive treatment he received. He pondered the oriental wit and popular humour of a certain Rabelais, who, as he explained, knew nothing of false modesty. He quoted the mythology of the Ancients and the Kama Sutra, ending with the erotic paintings on the walls of the villas of Pompeii. The merchant, finally convinced of the legitimacy of the client, led him to the most remote corner of the sales room, past the slides and hammocks, umbrellas and inflatable mattresses, until he reached some innocent-looking dwarves. From a distance I recognized their style: reinforced plastic creatures, wearing imitation leather vinyl aprons.
The seller lifted the apron of one of them with a dramatic gesture, revealing an obscenely gigantic phallus. The respectable gentleman seemed satisfied; he praised the excellent example of oriental art, as if he were an expert in the matter. And he ordered the figure to be loaded onto the cart, taking care not to break anything. Without a murmur he paid the price demanded. Did you notice? โ the merchant addressed Marcos, once the client left the shop. –Why don’t the national industrialists come up with new ideas? The truth is, we are backward โ admitted Marquitos with apparent contrition โ What the orientals are! I managed to observe my friend’s mocking face. –Look at the success those pornographic dwarves have. There are clients who take them in twos or threes. And it seems incredible the kind of people who come. Some of them think of themselves as wise, they are interested in the anthropological aspects of the matter; They lecture me on mythology, they talk in a doctoral tone about Crete, Mesopotamia, the gods of fertility. They give themselves the air of professors to justify the purchase of this rubbish. And they ask me to be careful not to break anything. Believe me: I’ll beat them up for pleasure; I collect my tax on lust. The man stopped talking. With a sympathetic smile he looked at this unhappy corridor of old-fashioned dwarves. A grimace that, in reality, was nothing more than a nervous tic; perhaps the consequence of dealing too intimately with so many gnomes. And then something happened that I will not forget for the rest of my life. Marcos’s face seemed to light up from within; it was as if he suddenly became transparent, revealing his true personality, hidden behind the mask of a humble traveller: –What is important is to satisfy the desires of human beings, so that they live happier and peace reigns on Earth – he said as if thinking out loud. It was obvious that he was not referring to these vulgar monstrosities. The merchant did not reply, but simply continued to look at him with his deceptive pseudo-smile.
I recalled the wedding ceremony in the shil, the small synagogue in our colony. These tiny details came to me with astonishing clarity, and, in retrospect, seemed to foreshadow future events. The faint smell of an unventilated cellar and the yellowish light radiating from the candles under the canopy blended in with the acid light of the Sol de Noche. An unreal atmosphere that shook me. When I watched Anita, who took her father’s arm as he walked towards the canopy, a phrase from Rabbi Moshe Lieb came to mind: <>. Don’t think that I am a connoisseur of the Kabbalah. Not at all: I had heard the quote years ago from Marquitos’ grandfather. It was at one of the winter evening gatherings held at the Silbermans’ house. My pious grandfather Leiva, an enemy of everything that smacked of mysticism, had reproached his companion. Quoting such heresies in the presence of children! You have to know that my grandmother clung to the Shuljan Aruj, a compendium that regulates the life of the Jews in accordance with the Law of Moses, as it was codified by the Talmudists. Naturally, she had the unconditional support of our shoijet, while the manager of the cooperative was part of an apostate duo with the Hebrew teacher. Neither of them belonged to the inner circle of the old people, and that was only because they were from another generation. The teacher detested the rigidity of the rabbinical laws which, according to him, were suffocating the vital forces of the Jews, , who could only be redeemed by a return to the living sources in the old-new homeland. And according to the manager, all religions were nothing more than opium for the people. I remember how the two urged my grandfather to comply with the laws of the Torah, stoning without further ado all the adulteresses he met. Mark’s grandfather abstained from intervening in such disputes. As I learned years later, he preferred to immerse himself in the study of Hemet Yamin and thereby educate himself on how to lead a life in accordance with Kabbalah. To tell the truth, I never understood the arguments put forward by the tea drinkers. But I remember the music of their voices: the bellicose stridence of my irritable grandfather and the deep, soothing chant of Reb Abraham.
* The service at the temple was conducted by Reb Duvid, our shoichet, whose ghost insisted on greeting me as I drove the car. A thin little man, his pale face framed by a sparse beard, with a long, sharp nose, who conveyed an impression of fragile spirituality. In my memories he continues to hum the seven blessings of practice. The bride takes seven turns in the group gathered under the canopy. Turns as custom demands. As there are seven days in the week and seven turns of the strap around the forearm to secure the capsule of the phylacteries. Seven, Marquitos’ grandfather explained to us, despite the protests of his own wife: the value of the letter zeta, zain, which leads to z’man, time, with whose fibers our identity is woven. The Hebrew teacher, that truculent mocker, had prepared an irreverent explanation for the seven turns of the bride. :as da, he pontificated, so that the audience would be convinced that the girl was not pregnant. Then the delivery of the ring, and the ancient consecratory formula, pronounced by the groom. I think I was one of the few who noticed the little incident that occurred when Anita tried to lift the veil to bring the chalice to her lips. The tulle, borrowed from Marcos’ mother, got tangled, and when Werner helped her to raise it, it tore.
Carlos Poveda naciรณ en San Josรฉ, Costa Rica, en 1940. Su obra artรญstica comenzรณ a exponerse a principios de la dรฉcada del 60 en el continente americano. En 1965 obtuvo la Menciรณn Honorรญfica para Dibujo de la VIII Bienal de Arte de Sao Paulo, Brasil, y el Premio Nacional de Pintura de Costa Rica. En el 2004 recibe el Premio Nacional de Escultura de Costa Rica, y en el 2005 el Premio Unico Francisco Narvรกez de la VIII Bienal de Escultura Francisco Narvรกez en Venezuela. Luego de haber vivido 30 aรฑos en Venezuela, actualmente reside en Paris.
___________________________________________
Carlos Poveda was born in San Josรฉ, Costa Rica, in 1940. His artistic work began to be exhibited in the early 1960s in the American continent. In 1965 he received the Honorable Mention for Drawing at the VIII Sao Paulo Art Biennial, Brazil, and the National Painting Award of Costa Rica. In 2004 he received the National Sculpture Award of Costa Rica, and in 2005 the Francisco Narvรกez Unique Award of the VIII Francisco Narvรกez Sculpture Biennial in Venezuela. After having lived in Venezuela for 30 years, he currently resides in Paris.
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Dibujos y otras tรฉcnicas /Drawings and other Techniques
ALEXANDRA KOHAN naciรณ en Mar del Plata en 1971. Es psicoanalista y magรญster en Estudios Literarios por la Facultad de Filosofรญa y Letras de la Universidad de Buenos Aires. Integra, junto con Josรฉ Luis Juresa, el espacio de investigaciรณn y lectura Psicoanรกlisis Zona Franca. Colabora habitualmente en ElDiarioAr, las revistas Polvo y otros medios. Tiene una columna semanal en Dinero y Amor, programa de Blender. Es autora de Psicoanรกlisis: por una erรณtica contra natura (2019) y de los ensayos Y sin embargo, el amor (2020) y Un cuerpo al fin (2022), ambos traducidos al italiano.
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ALEXANDRA KOHAN was born in Mar del Plata in 1971. She is a psychoanalyst and has a masterโs degree in Literary Studies from the Faculty of Philosophy and Letters of the University of Buenos Aires. Together with Josรฉ Luis Juresa, she is a member of the research and reading space Psicoanรกlisis Zona Franca. She regularly collaborates with ElDiarioAr, the magazine Polvo and other media. She has a weekly column in “Dinero y Amor”, a program on Blender. She is the author of Psicoanรกlisis: por una erรณtica contra natura (2019) and the essays Y sin embargo, el amor (2020) and Un cuerpo al fin (2022), both translated into Italian.
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ElDiarioAR 7, Buenos Aires, de septiembre de 2021ย
“Y sin embargo, no dudo cuando digo soy judรญa”
Este aรฑo fui invitada por LimudBA a participar de esa lindรญsima celebraciรณn que se llama Rosh Hashanรก Urbano. Un acontecimiento que emociona por la alegrรญa que suscitan los lazos comunitarios que se construyen.
La idea, como siempre para Limud, es celebrar la diversidad. Me animarรญa a decir que se trata de sacar lo judรญo a la ciudad, de que se mezcle en lo pรบblico, de ser parte de algo que no se encierre en un โnosotrosโ -subrayo que no se encierre-. Fue una experiencia de vitalidad y entusiasmo en medio de una รฉpoca en la que no abundan. Siguen siendo momentos difรญciles para todos y considero que estos espacios nos muestran que, a pesar de todo lo que se rompiรณ, a pesar de que la pandemia no haya terminado, la vida sigue siendo posible, sigue siendo posibilidad. Voy a estar siempre agradecida a LimudBA por ese momento.
Una parte del texto que sigue fue leรญdo ese dรญa:
Yo no sabรญa que era judรญa cuando รญbamos a lo de mi tรญa Raquel a comer kreplaj y varenikes.
Yo no sabรญa que era judรญa cuando mi mamรก hacรญa un leicaj riquรญsimo, unos knishes espectaculares, o un guefilte fish exquisito.
Yo no sabรญa que era judรญa cuando veรญa el carnet de mi papรก de socio vitalicio de Hebraica.
Yo no sabรญa que era judรญa cuando mi papรก decรญa tujes o shikse.
Yo no sabรญa que era judรญa cuando preguntรฉ un dรญa quรฉ querรญa decir que mi hermano estuviera circuncidado.
Yo no sabรญa que era judรญa cuando mi papรก decรญa โ(tal) es paisanoโ.
Yo no sabรญa que era judรญa cuando iba al templo para los casamientos de los amigos de mi hermana.
Yo no sabรญa que era judรญa cuando iba a los Bar Mitzvah de algunos amigos.
Yo no sabรญa que era judรญa cuando escuchaba a mis amigos decir potz.
Yo no sabรญa que era judรญa porque en mi casa nadie habรญa dicho nunca โsos judรญaโ ni โsomos judรญosโ ni โsoy judรญoโ.
Sรฉ, por mi querido amigo Facundo Milman, que Emmanuel Levinas dice: โno se puede ser judรญo sin saberloโ, pero yo era judรญa, aunque no lo supiera, pero lo sabรญa: Como el inconsciente, que es un saber no sabido.
Y un dรญa supe quรฉ era un matrimonio โmixtoโ. Porque resulta que, para algunos judรญos, yo no era judรญa, por el vientre de mi mamรก, pero tampoco era catรณlica por el apellido de mi papรก. ยฟY entonces?
Y entonces pensรฉ que eso tambiรฉn era lo judรญo en mรญ: esa errancia, esa expulsiรณn, ese ir de un lugar al otro sin ser alojada del todo, manteniendo siempre una extraรฑeza en lo familiar, siendo un poco extranjera en lo propio.
En mi familia no se practicรณ jamรกs ningรบn ritual religioso, no se celebrรณ jamรกs ninguna fiesta judรญa.
Y sin embargo, no dudo cuando digo soy judรญa.
El psicoanรกlisis me enseรฑรณ que una identidad no es algo natural y dado y que, en cambio, se construye a partir de mรบltiples escrituras, identificaciones, legados, determinaciones, muchas de ellas, la mayorรญa, inconscientes. Sรฉ, porque estudiรฉ psicoanรกlisis, que la identidad es un palimpsesto que se construye con otros, en la alteridad. Que no hay Yo sin otro y que la identidad es siempre un poco precaria, movediza, inestable; que el ser es una ficciรณn -verdadera como toda ficciรณn-.
Y sin embargo, no dudo cuando digo soy judรญa.
La identidad es un palimpsesto que se construye con otros, en la alteridad. Que no hay Yo sin otro y que la identidad es siempre un poco precaria, movediza, inestable. Y sin embargo, no dudo cuando digo soy judรญa.
Las lecturas que hice a lo largo de mi vida me enseรฑaron que los esencialismos son una usina de prejuicios, que se trata de que sospechemos de eso que tiende a la naturalizaciรณn, que los esencialismos funcionan como un modo de obturar preguntas y coagular estereotipos, de conformar odios y segregaciones. Comparto lo que dice Milman: โser judรญo no es una esencia, es la imposibilidad de ser totalโ. Eso tambiรฉn me lo enseรฑรณ el psicoanรกlisis.
Y sin embargo, no dudo cuando digo soy judรญa.
Yo, que creo con vehemencia, que pensar es dudar, hacer vacilar las certidumbres; que pensar es hacer preguntas, abrir hiatos, interrogar las certezas, no dudo cuando digo soy judรญa.
Quizรกs porque no dudo del poder performativo de la palabra, acaso porque sรฉ que la palabra no es sรณlo un decir, sino que es un hacer, acaso porque sรฉ que el ser es un efecto del decir, acaso porque sรฉ que la palabra funciona en la medida en que se responda por ella, es que no dudo cuando digo soy judรญa.
Me gustรณ mucho lo que dijo Wally Liebhaber en otra ediciรณn del Rosh Hashanรก urbano: โel judaรญsmo es esa pregunta constante que no termina (…) nadie puede arrogarse el derecho a decir quiรฉn es judรญo y quiรฉn no (…) cada uno tiene su manera de ser judรญoโ. Gershom Scholem tambiรฉn habรญa dicho: โยฟquรฉ es ser judรญo? seguir preguntรกndoseloโ. Martรญn Kohan lo dice asรญ: โMe preguntaba, pues, por mi judaรญsmo. ยฟEra judรญo? ยฟhabรญa dejado de serlo? Claro que era judรญo, ยฟpero en quรฉ sentido lo era? Me hacรญa la pregunta, y no daba con la respuesta. Me llevรณ algรบn tiempo advertir que el judaรญsmo radicaba en la pregunta. En la pregunta, antes que en cualquier respuestaโ.
ยฟDe quรฉ estรก hecho mi judaรญsmo? y no ยฟquรฉ es mi judaรญsmo? Dice Diana Sperling: โel acento mรกs puesto en el hacer que en el ser, y el hacer no constituye identidad porque nunca se aquieta, es dinรกmicoโ. Me gusta pensar ahรญ, en eso que me fue legado sin saber, en eso que me fue transmitido sin aleccionamientos. Quizรกs porque en mi familia no hubo dogmatismos es que puedo decir soy judรญa sin tener que dar explicaciones. Quizรกs porque uno de los legados mรกs importantes de mi papรก fue el de practicar la diversidad. No solo casรกndose con una mujer no judรญa, sino evitando hacer de eso una รฉpica. Y es que sรญ, como dice Diana Sperling, โlo que caracteriza a lo judรญo es la diversidadโ.
Quizรกs porque en mi familia no hubo dogmatismos. Quizรกs porque uno de los legados mรกs importantes de mi papรก fue el de la diversidad. No solo casรกndose con una mujer no judรญa, sino evitando hacer de eso una รฉpica.
Acaso por ese amor, entendido como don, es que mi mamรก sabรญa cocinar tan bien comida judรญa. Y es asรญ que pienso que mi ser judรญa estรก hecho de esos pedazos, fragmentos, dispersiones, errancias, en las antรญpodas de cualquier identidad fรฉrrea.
Me gusta decir que la expresiรณn humor judรญo es un pleonasmo. Todos los chistes judรญos que sรฉ, los sรฉ o por mi papรก o por mi libro preferido de toda la obra de Freud: El chiste y su relaciรณn con lo inconsciente, que tiene muchรญsimos chistes judรญos y que iba a ser originalmente un libro sobre humor judรญo. Y es que el chiste funciona, justamente, para hacer caer la autoridad opresiva, hace trastabillar eso que se viene encima de manera fatal. El humor como legado.
Hay legados que se transmiten, muchas veces, sin saber. Por eso Freud cita a Goethe y dice โlo que has heredado de tus padres, adquiรฉrelo para que sea tuyoโ. Lo que supone una operaciรณn sobre eso que viene dado, sobre eso que nos l egan. ยฟQuรฉ se hace con eso que recibimos del otro? Los legados no se reciben pasivamente. Porque eso serรญa estar obligados a reproducirlos. โSer judรญoโ, sigue Milman, โtambiรฉn implica ser responsable de nuestras herenciasโ. Ahรญ hay una posiciรณn รฉtica: responder tambiรฉn por eso.
Para mรญ, pensar siempre es pensar con otros. Y entonces encuentro que Facundo Milman dice โpensamos desde la alteridad -desde la responsabilidad, desde la herencia de una tradiciรณn, desde el otro-, eso es ser judรญoโ. Podrรญa delimitar asรญ una zona en comรบn entre mi judaรญsmo y mi prรกctica del psicoanรกlisis. Justamente ahรญ donde considero que se pueden practicar en la medida en que no se erijan en un dogma, en la medida en que se los pueda seguir leyendo. Porque el judaรญsmo tambiรฉn es lectura, interpretaciรณn. Y leer estรก, para mรญ, en las antรญpodas de las repeticiones religiosas.
Sรฉ que decir โsoy judรญaโ es problemรกtico, que ahรญ empieza el problema. Pero necesito partir de ahรญ para poder expandir la pregunta, esa que sabemos que hace falta formular. Ese judaรญsmo no me fue legado, sino en la medida en que decidรญ tomarlo, no voluntariamente, sino contingentemente, mi judaรญsmo es un hallazgo. Quizรกs por eso mi recorrido es el inverso al de muchos testimonios, en los que se trata de sacarse de encima los dogmatismos para empezar a hacer una vida propia. En mi caso, la vida propia, porque no recibรญ dogmatismos, es con esos fragmentos de judaรญsmo y habiendo incorporado esa pregunta: quรฉ es ser judรญo. Una pregunta que no cesa y que tampoco estรก dada. Como dice Diana Sperling, โtambiรฉn hay que aprender a preguntarโ. Quizรกs ahรญ estรฉ el mayor legado: hacer preguntas que no tienen respuesta y, aun asรญ, seguir haciรฉndolas. Soportar estar en una pregunta sin aplastar nuestras existencias con respuestas, esas que se formularon saltรกndose la pregunta.
Freud se definiรณ a sรญ mismo como un judรญo sin dios. En el prรณlogo a la ediciรณn en hebreo de su texto Tรณtem y Tabรบ, dice que espera coincidir con sus lectores en el convencimiento de que la ciencia sin prejuicios no puede permanecer fuera del espรญritu del nuevo judaรญsmo. Al mismo tiempo, Freud no dejรณ de plantear que las resistencias al psicoanรกlisis tenรญan que ver, tambiรฉn, con que รฉl fuera judรญo. Lo dice asรญ: โquizรก tampoco sea simple casualidad el hecho de que el primer representante del psicoanรกlisis fuese un judรญo. Para profesar esta ciencia era preciso estar muy dispuesto a soportar el destino del aislamiento en la oposiciรณn, destino mรกs familiar al judรญo que a cualquier otro hombreโ. En una carta a la Bโnai Bโrith dice que โcomo judรญo estaba preparado para oponerme y arreglรกrmelas sin el acuerdo de la compacta mayorรญaโ. No caben dudas de que la subversiรณn del descubrimiento freudiano sigue, aรบn hoy, siendo resistido por la โcompacta mayorรญaโ.
Por รบltimo, querรญa retomar la idea de cรณmo la hostilidad y el odio de los otros nos lleva a constituirnos como judรญos en un gesto de resistencia. Lo dijo Hannah Arendt y lo realiza de manera magistral Woody Allen en la escena de Annie Hall llamada I Can’t Believe this Family: el protagonista conoce a la familia de Annie y la abuela, definida por รฉl como una clรกsica โjew haterโ, lo ve directamente como un rabino ortodoxo. Se puede ver acรก. Esa operaciรณn, la de Woody Allen, es exactamente eso: resaltar lo judรญo ante el odio del otro. Ese es un legado que me importa mucho. Peter Gay subraya cรณmo Freud se hacรญa mรกs judรญo en tiempos de hostilidad. En 1926, pensando en la situaciรณn polรญtica contemporรกnea, dice en una entrevista: โmi lengua es el alemรกn. Mi cultura, mis realizaciones, son alemanas Me considerรฉ intelectualmente alemรกn hasta que advertรญ el crecimiento del prejuicio antisemita en los alemanes y en la Austria alemana. Desde ese momento, prefiero llamarme judรญoโ.
Me apena muchรญsimo cuando alguien relativiza el antisemitismo de las redes sociales diciendo โes la redโ, como si la ficciรณn que armamos en nuestras autonarraciones no fueran verdaderas. Si alguien se hace el nazi, un poco nazi es. No hay mรกscara y detrรกs de la mรกscara, otra verdad mรกs real. La mรกscara es ya lo verdadero. Por eso, toda ficciรณn produce efectos de verdad. Creer que una ficciรณn es una mentira es no entender quรฉ es la ficciรณn, pero tambiรฉn es creer que la verdad acerca de uno podrรญa no ser ficcional -en el sentido en que estรก hecha de un modo no natural-. Hay demasiada tolerancia ante el antisemitismo. Dirรฉ que me espeluzna.
Shanรก Tovรก umetukรก.
es una iniciativa de alcance internacional presente en Argentina desde el aรฑo 2007, liderada por voluntarios. Producimos y desarrollamos distintos eventos de educaciรณn judรญa no formal en distintos formatos, con el fin de promover la tradiciรณn, valores y cultura judรญa.
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ElDiarioAR 7, Buenos Aires, de septiembre de 2021
“And, nevertheless, I don’t hesitate when I say I am Jewish.”
This year I was invited by LimudBA to participate in this beautiful celebration called Urban Rosh Hashanah. An event that excites because of the joy that comes from the community ties that are built.
The idea, as always for Limud, is to celebrate diversity. I would dare say that it is about bringing the Jewish into the city, about mixing it in the public, about being part of something that is not enclosed in a โweโ – I emphasize that it is not enclosed. It was an experience of vitality and enthusiasm in the midst of a time when they are not abundant. These are still difficult times for everyone and I believe that these spaces show us that, despite everything that was broken, despite the fact that the pandemic is not over, life is still possible, it is still a possibility. I will always be grateful to LimudBA for that moment.
A portion of the following text was read that day:
I didn’t know I was Jewish when we went to my aunt Raquel’s to eat kreplach and varenikes.
I didn’t know I was Jewish when my mom made delicious leikach, spectacular knishes, or exquisite gefilte fish.
I didn’t know I was Jewish when I saw my dad’s Hebraica lifetime membership card.
I didn’t know I was Jewish when my dad said tujes or shikse.
I didn’t know I was Jewish when I asked one day what it meant that my brother was circumcised.
I didn’t know I was Jewish when my dad said โ(so and so) is a countryman.โ
I didn’t know I was Jewish when I went to the temple for my sister’s friends’ weddings.
I didn’t know I was Jewish when I went to some friends’ Bar Mitzvahs.
I didnโt know I was Jewish when I heard my friends say potz.
I didnโt know I was Jewish because in my house no one had ever said โyou are Jewishโ or โwe are Jewsโ or โI am Jewish.โ
I know, from my dear friend Facundo Milman, that Emmanuel Levinas says: โyou cannot be Jewish without knowing it,โ but I was Jewish, even if I didnโt know it, but I knew it: Like the unconscious, which is an unknown knowledge.
And one day I learned what a โmixedโ marriage was. Because it turns out that, for some Jews, I was not Jewish, because of my motherโs womb, but I was not Catholic either because of my fatherโs last name. So what?
And then I thought that this was also what was Jews in me: this wandering, this expulsion, this going from one place to another without being fully welcomed, always maintaining a strangeness in the familiar, being a bit of a foreigner in my own.
In my family no religious ritual was ever practiced, no Jewish holiday was ever celebrated.
And yet, I do not hesitate when I say I am Jewish.
Psychoanalysis taught me that an identity is not something natural and given and that, instead, it is built from multiple writings, identifications, legacies, determinations, many of them, most of them, unconscious. I know, because I studied psychoanalysis, that identity is a palimpsest that is built with others, in otherness. That there is no I without another and that identity is always a bit precarious, shifting, unstable; that being is a fiction – true like all fiction.
And yet, I do not hesitate when I say I am Jewish.
Identity is a palimpsest that is built with others, in otherness. That there is no I without another and that identity is always a little precarious, shifting, unstable. And yet, I do not hesitate when I say I am Jewish.
The readings I have done throughout my life have taught me that essentialisms are a factory of prejudices, that it is about making us suspicious of that which tends to naturalization, that essentialisms function as a way of blocking questions and coagulating stereotypes, of forming hatreds and segregations. I share what Milman says: โbeing Jewish is not an essence, it is the impossibility of being total.โ Psychoanalysis also taught me that.
And yet, I do not hesitate when I say I am Jewish.
I, who vehemently believe that thinking is doubting, making certainties waver; that thinking is asking questions, opening gaps, questioning certainties, I do not hesitate when I say I am Jewish.
Perhaps because I do not doubt the performative power of the word, perhaps because I know that the word is not just a saying, but a doing, perhaps because I know that being is an effect of saying, perhaps because I know that the word works to the extent that it is answered by it, I do not doubt when I say I am Jewish.
I really liked what Wally Liebhaber said in another edition of the urban Rosh Hashanah: โJudaism is that constant question that never ends (โฆ) no one can claim the right to say who is Jewish and who is not (โฆ) โeach one has his own way of being Jewish.โ Gershom Scholem had also said: โwhat is it to be Jewish? keep asking yourself that.โ Martin Kohan puts it like this: โI wondered, then, about my Judaism. Was I Jewish? Had I stopped being Jewish? Of course I was Jewish, but in what sense was I? I asked myself the question, and I could not find the answer. It took me some time to realize that Judaism was rooted in the question. โIn the question, rather than in any answer.โ
What is my Judaism made of? and not what is my Judaism? Diana Sperling says: โthe emphasis is more on doing than on being, and doing does not constitute identity because it never quiets down, it is dynamic.โ I like to think about that, about what was passed down to me without knowing, about what was transmitted to me without teaching. Perhaps because there were no dogmatisms in my family, I can say I am Jewish without having to give explanations. Perhaps because one of my father’s most important legacies was to practice diversity. Not only by marrying a non-Jewish woman, but by avoiding making an epic out of it. And yes, as Diana Sperling says, โwhat characterizes being Jewish is diversity.โ
Perhaps because there were no dogmatisms in my family. Perhaps because one of my father’s most important legacies was diversity. Not only by marrying a non-Jewish woman, but by avoiding making an epic out of it.
Perhaps it was because of that love, understood as a gift, that my mother knew how to cook Jewish food so well. And so I think that my Jewish being is made of those pieces, fragments, dispersions, wanderings, at the antipodes of any ironclad identity.
I like to say that the expression Jewish humor is a pleonasm. All the Jewish jokes I know, I know them either because of my father or because of my favorite book of all Freud’s work: Jokes and Their Relationship to the Unconscious, which has many Jewish jokes and was originally going to be a book about Jewish humor . And the joke works, precisely, to bring down oppressive authority, it makes that which is coming upon us in a fatal way stumble. Humor as a legacy.
There are legacies that are transmitted, many times, without knowing. That is why Freud quotes Goethe and says โwhat you have inherited from your parents, acquire it so that it is yours.โ What this means is an operation on what is given, on what is bequeathed to us. What is done with what we receive from others? Legacies are not received passively. Because that would be obligated to reproduce them. โBeing Jewish,โ Milman continues, โalso implies being responsible for our inheritances.โ There is an ethical position: to answer for that as well.
For me, thinking is always thinking with others. And then I find that Facundo Milman says โwe think from otherness โ from responsibility, from the inheritance of a tradition, from the other โ that is being Jewish.โ I could thus delimit a common zone between my Judaism and my practice of psychoanalysis. Precisely there where I consider that they can be practiced to the extent that they are not erected into a dogma, to the extent that they can continue to be read. Because Judaism is also reading, interpretation. And reading is, for me, at the antipodes of religious repetitions.
I know that saying โI am Jewishโ is problematic, that the problem begins there. But I need to start from there in order to expand the question, the one that we know needs to be formulated. That Judaism was not bequeathed to me, but to the extent that I decided to take it, not voluntarily, but contingently, my Judaism is a discovery. Perhaps that is why my journey is the opposite of that of many testimonies, in which it is about getting rid of dogmatisms in order to start making a life of one’s own. In my case, my own life, because I did not receive dogmatisms, is with those fragments of Judaism and having incorporated that question: what is it to be Jewish? A question that does not cease and that is not given. As Diana Sperling says, “you also have to learn to ask.” Perhaps that is where the greatest legacy lies: asking questions that have no answer and, even so, continuing to ask them. Enduring being in a question without crushing our existences with answers, those that were formulated by skipping the question.
Freud defined himself as a Jew without a god. In the prologue to the Hebrew edition of his text Totem and Taboo, he says that he hopes to agree with his readers in the conviction that science without prejudice cannot remain outside the spirit of the new Judaism. At the same time, Freud did not fail to suggest that resistance to psychoanalysis was also related to the fact that he was Jewish. He put it this way: โPerhaps it is not a mere coincidence that the first representative of psychoanalysis was a Jew. To profess this science one had to be very willing to endure the fate of isolation in opposition, a fate more familiar to the Jew than to any other man.โ In a letter to Bโnai Bโrith he says that โas a Jew I was prepared to oppose and to manage without the agreement of the compact majority.โ There is no doubt that the subversion of Freudโs discovery continues, even today, to be resisted by the โcompact majority.โ
Finally, I wanted to return to the idea of โโhow the hostility and hatred of others leads us to constitute ourselves as Jews in a gesture of resistance. Hannah Arendt said it and Woody Allen does it masterfully in the scene from Annie Hall called I Can’t Believe this Family: the protagonist meets Annie’s family and the grandmother, defined by him as a classic “Jew hater”, sees him directly as an Orthodox rabbi. You can see it here. That operation, Woody Allen’s, is exactly that: highlighting the Jewish in the face of the hatred of the other. That is a legacy that is very important to me. Peter Gay underlines how Freud became more Jewish in times of hostility. In 1926, thinking about the contemporary political situation, he says in an interview: “My language is German. My culture, my achievements, are German. I considered myself intellectually German until I noticed the growth of anti-Semitic prejudice among Germans and in German Austria. From that moment on, I prefer to call myself Jewish.”
It saddens me greatly when someone relativizes the anti-Semitism of social networks by saying “it’s the network,” as if the fiction we create in our self-narrations were not true. If someone pretends to be a Nazi, he is a bit of a Nazi. There is no mask and behind the mask, another, more real truth. The mask is already the truth. That is why all fiction produces effects of truth. To believe that a fiction is a lie is to not understand what fiction is, but it is also to believe that the truth about oneself might not be fictional – in the sense that it is made in an unnatural way. There is too much tolerance for anti-Semitism. I will say that it creeps me out.
Shana Tova umetuka.
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Libros de Alejandra Kohan/Books by Alejandra Kohan
Andrea Jetanovic es narradora, ensayista y docente judรญo-chilena. De primera formaciรณn sociรณloga y luego Doctora en Literatura Hispanoamericana (Universidad de California en Berkeley). Es autora de siete libros. Entre los tรญtulos de ficciรณn estรกn Escenario de guerra, Geografรญa de la lengua, No aceptes caramelos de extraรฑos y Destinos errantes. En el campo del ensayo, publicรณ Conversaciones con Isidora Aguirre, Hablan los hijos y Escribir desde el trapecio. La mayorรญa de ellos cuentan con ediciones en diversos paรญses de habla hispana y han sido traducida al danรฉs, inglรฉs, portuguรฉs, serbio; entre otros. Su obra ha recibido diversos reconocimientos, entre los que destacan Pen Translates Awards (Reino Unido), Cรญrculo de Crรญticos de Arte de Chile, Consejo Nacional del Libro/Ministerio de las Culturas Chile, Premio Municipal, Juegos Literarios Gabriela Mistral. Ademรกs, ha sido invitada a residencias fuera de Chile por la DAAD, AECI- Espaรฑola, Fundaciรณn Ford y por universidades en Estados Unidos y Europa. Como investigadora ha trabajado en la lรญnea de la memoria y las pos-memorias en autores de Europa y el Cono Sur. Tambiรฉn, ha explorado en dramaturgia latinoamericana. En su afรกn de rescate de autoras y creadoras, ha fungido de antologadora del trabajo de Pรญa Barros (Una antologรญa Insumisa), de la brasilera Clarice Lispector y una extensa colaboraciรณn con la fotรณgrafa chilena Julia Toro. Combina su labor literaria con su rol docente en la Facultad de Humanidades de la Universidad de Santiago de Chile.
De su Website
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Andrea Jeftanovic is Chilean Jewish writer, author of the novels Escenario de Guerra , (published in UK by Charco Press) and Geografรญa de la lengua (Love in a Foreign Language), and of two volumes of short stories: No aceptes caramelos de extraรฑos (Donโt Take Candy from Strangers) and Destinos errantes (Roving Destinations). In addition, has published the essays Conversaciones con Isidora Aguirre (Dialogues with Isidora Aguirre), Hablan los hijos (Children Speak), y Escribir desde el trapecio (Write from the Trapezoid.) Her work has received several prizes, including the Chilean Art Critics Circle Award and the National Book and Reading Council Award, Pen Translates Awards. Her books has been translated into several languages and it appears in international as well as local anthologies. As a researcher, she has worked in the field of memory and post-memories in authors from Europe and the Southern Cone. She has also explored Latin American dramaturgy. In her quest to rescue female authors and creators, she has compiled anthologies of the work of Pรญa Barros (Una antologรญa insumisa) and the Brazilian Clarice Lispector, and has collaborated extensively with the Chilean photographer Julia Toro. She studied sociology at the Catholic University in Santiago de Chile and afterwards she did a PhD in Latin American Literature at the University of California, Berkeley. Jeftanovic is a theater critic, combines her literary work with academics at Universidad de Santiago de Chile. From her Website
Mรฉdico chileno con su paciente
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“Hasta se apaguen las estrellas”
Mi padre, un enfermo orientado en el tiempo y en el espacio, memoria de largo plazo impecable, confusos los รบltimos diez aรฑos, contacto visual, personalidad retraรญda, dificultad para expresarse oralmente, disfonรญa por rigidez en las cueras vocales. cuerdas vocales. Un tedioso gesto que perdรญa bajo los efectos de la marihuana, es mรกs, su habla se volvรญa nรญtida, modulada.
Despuรฉs de unas degluciones pensativas, esa forma que tienen los viejos de razonar con la boca.
Apuntaba con el dedo trรฉmulo y giraba el cuello como un muรฑeco a cuerda por la falta de dopamina. Sacรกbamos la cabeza por un extremo de la ventana, contรกbamos astros, adivinรกbamos galaxias, trazรกbamos la elipse de los planetas. Fantaseรกbamos con una visiรณn de telescopio. El cielo, un tejado para nuestras minรบsculas existencias. Mi padre con su conocimiento enciclopรฉdico me corregรญa, yo siempre confundรญa los planetas con las estrellas, erraba la ubicaciรณn de las constelaciones, no distinguรญa la luz de los satรฉlites del parpadeo de los aviones. Dejรกbamos derivar cuando tenรญamos la punta de la z demasiado helada.
Cuando fumรกbamos, mi padre tenรญa un tos fijo, se reรญa del calendario de la d, se quedaba quieto en el cinco de t o en el veintitrรฉs de octubre o el ocho de enero. Un anuario regalado el departamento de adulto mayor de la municipalidad, junto con la caja de vรญveres fin de aรฑo. Sus labios balbuceando algo.
Mi padre hecho de cosas por decir.
….
โยฟCรณmo se llama el caballero? Tu nombre, probablemente no completรฉ tu nombre.
โยฟUsted es su hija, no? El seรฑor estรก grave. ยฟQuรฉ opina de la ventilaciรณn mecรกnica? Yo, impรกvida, esperando que adivinara la respuesta que no me atrevรญa a emitir:
โFirme aquรญ, por favor.
โSi fuera mi padre, yo no firmarรญa asรญ.
La mano no me temblรณ frente al formulario, es tan difรญcil despedir a alguien durante tantos aรฑos, verlo consumirse, deteriorarse, dejar de ser la persona original, sentir lรกstima, ver su sufrimiento, el dolor encubierto, los dรญas largos y tediosos, perder a los amigos, perderse a sรญ mismo, ยฟQuรฉ dรญa es hoy? ยฟQuiรฉn es el presidente de Chile?
โPresidenta, Presidenta, papรก.
โNo importa, porque nosotros en Chacabuco…
โY tรบ dale con Chacabuco.
En cierto momento vi los ojos hรบmedos de mi padre, yo desnuda en mi frialdad, por suerte un paรฑuelo en mi bolso para sorber tristezas. Contรฉ uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco. No podรญa ser yo su madre si era su hija; no lo cogรญa en brazos porque no tenรญa la fuerza fรญsica necesaria; si lo acurrucaba, sentirรญa temor a que ordenasen que nos separรกramos de manos, de abrazos. Mis piernas acalambradas, mareada por el olor a medicinas, el doctor en el umbral de la puerta con una crucecita en la mitad del pecho.
โNo quiero molestar, pero debo examinarlo, seรฑor.
Mi padre contemplaba con fervor casi religioso a ese muรฑeco con bata y estetoscopio que empujaba con el dedo, balanceaba la barriga en un vaivรฉn nervioso, una corriente de aire estimulaba sus opiniones.
โEscucho una arritmia por ahรญ, los pulmones estรกn algo obstruidos, la orina demasiado oscura. ยฟHa podido evacuar? Mi padre asintiendo, el anรกlisis de azรบcar a la espera, el mรฉdico con el รญndice en el resultado; ยซsetenta y ocho aรฑos no son setenta y ocho meses, amigo, tenga paciencia, para esto estamos nosotros, usted tranquilo y esto es un disgusto, no es mรกs, un problema de la edad, cosas del paso del tiempo, resignarseยป.
โยฟSeรฑor, ha perdido el apetito?
Mi padre negando, mi padre sabiendo y no sabiendo su estado de gravedad, observando al mรฉdico antes de observarme a mรญ, admitiendo que era un conjunto de palitos de huesos, unas vรญsceras flรกcidas, el paciente de la cama de al lado vino a despedirse de nosotros. Esa noche la enfermera se quedรณ mรกs tiempo en la sala de pacientes crรญticos, el kinesiรณlogo vino sin interesarse en nada: ยซยฟPara quรฉ me llaman si este seรฑor ya no…?ยป Le dirigรญ una mirada de odio, porque mi padre estaba vivo y requerรญa ayuda para salir del anquilosamiento corporal tras tantos dรญas recostado. Le preguntรฉ con sorna si habรญa kinesiรณlogos forenses y me fui.
โDoctor, ยฟno podrรญa pasar dos veces al dรญa?
โEsto es algo entre un hospital y una clรญnica privada, tengo otros pacientes a la espera.
Sonrisa correcta, olor a jaboncillo, una mano que se extiende en un ยซbuenas nochesยป bajito. Le doy el alta maรฑana bajo su responsabilidad. Firme aquรญ, su pulgar, tendrรก que traerme una declaraciรณn notarial. Yo apoyaba la cabeza en el ventanal de esta clรญnica-hospital y echaba un vistazo a los adornos navideรฑos en los รกrboles, el rรญo Mapocho un delgado hilo zigzagueante, de reojo contemplaba la silla de la habitaciรณn con los exรกmenes finales de mis alumnos aรบn sin corregir. Tenรญa avidez de la ciudad afuera, contaba cinco estrellas, un reno, un viejo pascuero, dos pesebres. Calculaba los beneficios del plan del seguro, si son tres dรญas y el ochenta por ciento del dรญa cama, pero el cien por ciento de las medicinas, el setenta y cinco de los exรกmenes radiolรณgicos.
ยฟCuรกnto daba? ยฟCuรกnto ya debรญamos al establecimiento? ยฟY si lo traslado a otro centro mรฉdico con mejor cobertura? Despertรณ abruptamente y me abordรณ:
โยฟEn quรฉ piensas?
Mi padre girando el cuello con la rigidez del Parkinson.
Mi padre con el leve temblor de manos del Parkinson.
Mi padre caminando con los pasos arrastrados del Parkinson. Mi padre garabateando algo en la servilleta con la letra diminuta del Parkinson.
Mi padre hablando con las masticaciones del Parkinson.
En el Hogar la enfermera con labial color carmรญn se confesaba con cada pariente, se quejaba, ยซyo que no le he hecho mal a nadie para soportar el relato de estas vidas minรบsculasยป. Reanudaba la marcha obligando al hombre de la bolsa de orina a alcanzarla cuando estaba a punto de rebalsarse, palabras que luchaban unas con otras en las cartas inventando promesas. El hervidor se encenderรญa en un chasquido, un fulgor y nada, las enfermeras del turno de noche esperando las burbujas para un tรฉ deslavado, se notaba cรณmo engordaba por su cuello de iguana, una chispa; ellas conversando entre sรญ, quรฉ bien las entendรญa a pesar de su mudez. De vez en cuando, la enfermera depositaba un sobre en mi bolsillo. ยฟLa mensualidad? ยฟEl testamento de mi padre? ยฟLa cuenta de los insumos mรฉdicos de la รบltima neumonรญa? No me atrevรญa a abrir el sobre hasta llegar a casa. Los dรญas lunes era el control mรฉdico en el Hogar, una doctora tan anciana como ellos los examinaba uno a uno, balanzas de pesar esqueletos, porque no existรญan mรบsculos ni tendones, huesos sรญ, el cuerpo transformรกndose en otra cosa, las enfermeras les cogรญan las manos, los alineaban en la camilla exhibiendo evidencias de un sospechoso lunar en el hombro, otra verruga pequeรฑa, varices inflamadas. Todos salรญan con recetas de medicamentos y los familiares abordaban las farmacias de noche con frascos y cajas de laboratorios extranjeros.
โLe gustan mis dedos de pianista, ยฟno se nota? Las enfermeras buscaban los cierres de vestidos, de faldas, de los pantalones de caballero para permitir la revisiรณn de los abdรณmenes, de la piel, el control de la escara sacra en la zona alta de los glรบteos.
โAyรบdenos con los botones, ande, no sea malito. โA su papรก le faltan paรฑales, ya no alcanza con los tres diarios. La enfermera me lo dice en voz demasiado alta, mi padre siente vergรผenza y mira por la ventana.
โMaรฑana.
Mascullo en voz baja: ยซSabe, hace unos aรฑos, unas dos dรฉcadas atrรกs, este hombre que se orina en los pantalones se la habrรญa cogido, me escucha, porque era varonil, seductor, no, no era este viejito enclenque, medรญa mรกs de un metro ochenta porque caminaba erguido, su musculatura era fuerte porque practicaba deporte, tenis, atletismo, equitaciรณn, lo que le pidieran. No, no dependรญa de otros para baรฑarse ni para comer. Sรญ, la hubiese seducido y usted le habrรญa devuelto risas coquetas. En la escuela era campeรณn de cien metros planos, con o sin obstรกculos, volaba por los aires con sus zapatillas de clavo que rozaban las vallas. Uno, dos, tres, el disparo de la carrera que se redondeaba en doce segundos, un rรฉcord entre los colegios ingleses, vamos corre a la velocidad del rayo y cruza la meta rompiendo la tensa y delgada cuerda que se corta con el impulso del torso.ยป
Mi padre, una noche, extraรฑo, saltรกndose la rutina de la lectura de los diarios, el semblante mรกs definido tras varios redondeos:
โMe da vergรผenza decirlo, promete que no te enojarรกs conmigo. Hablaba con una revista delante de la cara: โNo me mires que si no, no me atrevo… Estoy enamorado.
โยฟDe quiรฉn?
โDe la Olguita, la de la habitaciรณn 314.
โยฟY desde cuรกndo?
โFue en el paseo a la playa.
โยฟY es mutuo?
โNo te rรญas, no sรฉ.
โNo, pero estoy sorprendida, y ยฟquรฉ vas a hacer?
Se encogiรณ de hombros. Hacia el fin de aรฑo organizaban un paseo a la costa, un bus municipal los llevaba por el dรญa, en la maรฑana habรญa trajรญn, los ancianos con sombreros de ala ancha, protector solar, algo de espรญritu de paseo de curso, de niรฑos preparรกndose para la aventura, vigilados por las enfermeras que no vestรญan delantales, sino pantalones de licra que dejaban al descubierto abdรณmenes abultados. La dueรฑa escoltรกndolos en una camioneta. Loncheras, medicamentos en cajitas, tanques de oxรญgeno, sillas de ruedas. Mi padre y su novia juntos sin importar lo que pudiesen decir, dos viejoscomo en las bodas verdaderas, caminando sendero arriba en medio de un torbellino de hortensias. Se protegรญan, se escondรญan de los demรกs, siempre tomados de la mano en el comedor, frente al televisor, en los talleres de memoria, de manualidades, de cine. Mi padre la observaba con ternura desde su corazรณn amorfo, su diabetes controlada, sus arterias del cerebro amenazadas por el colesterol, sus manos temblorosas, su cuello rรญgido por el Parkinson.
Visitaba a la Olguita en su habitaciรณn despuรฉs de varios cuidados: peinarse, el perfume, el paรฑuelito. Los observo con una pizca de celos. Su novia tiene ochenta aรฑos, la pobre, casi ochenta y es una niรฑa, separa del sofรก apoyรกndose en los codos y se detiene a mitad de camino oyendo no sรฉ quรฉ, asegura que es el telรฉfono y el telรฉfono nada; la semana pasada juraba que era la mรกquina de coser y ahora que es el motor del auto de su hija que no ha venido nunca a visitarla. Comparten la aficiรณn por las fotografรญas. Se sientan en el sofรก de dos cuerpos frente a un รกlbum que aprecian con lentitud, se detienen en algunas imรกgenes en una especie de sonrisa dirigida a la infancia. Pero, de pronto, alguna pรกgina se cierra de golpe y ella hunde la cabeza en el pecho de mi padre. Solloza, hipea, no la voz de mujer, sino la voz de una niรฑa acobardada. Mi padre acomodรกndose los lentes y haciรฉndonos seรฑas, el pulgar hacia la derecha y hacia la izquierda, un rumor en tus ojos que no quise percibir y la garganta tragando de nuevo, creรญ que mi nombre, ยฟfue en el almuerzo con los compaรฑeros, seรฑora?, ยฟquรฉ compaรฑeros? Al despedirnos, al momento en que creรญ oรญrte decir mi nombre, yo hice una pregunta que no entrรณ a tu campo auditivo.
Mi padre hecho de cosas por decir.
Susurrรกndome ยซsoy el que tiene la pierna rota, un relรกmpago en la manoยป. Me recuerdo paralizada, incapaz de fabular, hasta que observaba que la enfermera jefe, imperfecta en su carmรญn en los labios, era un perro de rebaรฑo conduciendo a aquellas ovejas a lo largo de los pocos dรญas que les quedaban. Un hombre sin nombre sustituyรณ al seรฑor de la cama prรณxima.
En las salas los muebles escasos amplificaban los ecos. Mirรฉ hacia la puerta, la enfermera jefe hizo el ademรกn de levantarse, pero siguiรณ sentada con la cabeza entre las manos. La enfermera y el carmรญn, el maquillaje disimula, la blusa nueva disimula, al cambiar de ropa el cuerpo cambia igualmente aunque estรฉ deprimida, pide un vaso de agua, aprovecha el descanso y hojea una revista, una segunda revista, se aburre de las revistas, pone mรบsica, la mรบsica la entristece, le caen unas lรกgrimas por las mejillas mofletudas. ยซNo me rรญo de nada.ยป
Me recuerda a no sรฉ quรฉ persona de hace varios lustros, de la รฉpoca en que yo aรบn era una niรฑa. Tambalea, le sugiero que vuelva a sentarse, perovella en medio del cuarto, lista para quejarse, despertando una ojeada inquisitiva.
โEstos viejos lo ensucian todo.
โTenga paciencia, es un mal dรญa.
โยฟHace cuรกnto tiempo que nadie se acerca a mรญ?
โยฟPor quรฉ hay tanto humo acรก?
โยฟFuman? ยฟQuรฉ fuman?
Mi padre no dejando de aspirar y exhalar, respirando la nube de humo y sonriendo, parlanchรญn, divagando para sรญ. Algunas disgregaciones con la quijada algo trabada.
โVรกyase, seรฑorita o seรฑora, o llamamos a la Jefa.
La enfermera pone los brazos en la cintura y me mira ofuscada.
โEsto es inconcebible, vรกyase a su casa.
Mi padre comenzรณ a hablar de cรณlicos, cerraba los ojos y le daba una punzada, en la oscuridad buscando con la palma sosegar su abdomen. ยฟOtra punzada? Mรกs malestar que nรกusea, un sabor รกcido, una languidez que desaparecรญa antes de los resultados. Dolores que estremecen, atento al cuarto del fondo, atravesando el pasillo, observando la puerta, demorรกndose, con las manos en los bolsillos, llaman a la enfermera del carmรญn, siguiรณ llamando durante hora, minutos, siglos, sigue llamando a las enfermeras y ellas asombradas conmigo. Despuรฉs del incidente, de haber sido citada por la dueรฑa del Hogar, comencรฉ a traer bizcochos rellenos de hierba. La marihuana mezclada con la harina y el huevo daba una contextura รกspera, pero igual de eficaz.
โยฟPapรก, has escuchado del Valle del Elqui?
โSรญ, claro, hippies y la Madre Cecilia; todos unos embusteros.
โYa se fueron, quiero llevarte allรก.
โยฟY quรฉ hay allรก?
โMuchas estrellas, el mejor cielo del planeta, las estrellas fugaces mรกs nรญtidas. Tambiรฉn hay laderas de viรฑas, olivos, rรญos, valles, caminos de tierra; te va a gustar.
โยฟY cuรกndo?
โEl viernes, en dos dรญas mรกs.
Lo escuchaba en el cuarto de baรฑo entre grifos rabiosos; yo, nerviosa por miedo que lo viesen salir con un pequeรฑo bolso sin permisos ni excusas. Yo, sentada en el banquito en el que deja ella en medio del cuarto, lista para quejarse, despertando una ojeada inquisitiva.
llevarte allรก.
โยฟY quรฉ hay allรก?
โMuchas estrellas, el mejor cielo del planeta, las estrellas fugaces mรกs nรญtidas. Tambiรฉn hay laderas de viรฑas, olivos, rรญos, valles, caminos de tierra; te va a gustar.
โยฟY cuรกndo?
โEl viernes, en dos dรญas mรกs.
Lo escuchaba en el cuarto de baรฑo entre grifos rabiosos; yo, nerviosa por miedo a que lo viesen salir con un pequeรฑo bolso sin permisos ni excusas. Yo, sentada en el banquito en el que deja ropa. Saliรณ a medio vestir, agitado. Llamรฉ a la enfermera para impedir que se pusiese los zapatos sin calcetines, los tobillos demasiado pรกlidos pidiendo ayuda, yo con un hilito de voz. La enfermera observando displicente.
โMi padre no anda descalzo, ยฟha oรญdo? La enfermera atando cordones y maniobrando calzadores, ya sin prestar atenciรณn:
โNo me toque, quรฉ cosa, dรฉjeme el cuello en paz.
โSeรฑor, no lo he rozado siquiera.
โMe ha rasgado el pantalรณn, me ha hecho daรฑo. Al final los calcetines en el bolsillo de la chaqueta, un retoque a las solapas, la corbata perfecta, el exceso de chaqueta en su cuerpo encogido. Escribe en una libreta una frase que no entiendo, articula palabras como si los diptongos fuesen bisagras.
โDespรญdete de la Olguita.
Mirรณ no con los ojos lรกnguidos, con las cuencas vacรญas.
โSon unas vacaciones, no dramatices. No vale la pena que te aflijas.
Expresรฉ un atisbo dubitativo.
โยฟDe todas maneras seguimos el plan?
โSรญ, claro. Lo dijo frunciendo las mejillas y los ojos grises tambiรฉn pasmados, sin valor de pedir que lo terminaran de vestir. Regresรณ varios minutos despuรฉs con los ojos acuosos, pero decidido. Las ambulancias en el garaje sin conectar las sirenas de pรกnico, la enferma despidiรฉndose en la puerta y la convicciรณn de no mรกs hospitales con hortensias, caminando con cautela debido al corazรณn, la diabetes, a una vena en el cerebro que al secarse podrรญa llevarse dos tercios de los recuerdos consigo. Creรญ que iba a llorar, pero no, comprobaba el paรฑuelo en el bolsillo de la chaqueta gastada.
En el asiento del copiloto una caja de perfume llena de hierba. Mi padre la tomรณ, la abriรณ, oliรณ con una profunda aspiraciรณn y sonrรญo.
โEscรณndela debajo del asiento, nos pueden parar los pacos. Mi padre y yo en el auto rumbeando hacia el norte, en el primer peaje preguntรณ.
โยฟPor cuรกnto tiempo nos vamos de viaje?
โยฟQuieres una medida de tiempo precisa? Encogiรณ los hombres, levantรณ una ceja y contemplรณ el trรฉbol de autopistas.
โHasta que se apaguen las estrellas.
Mi padre con su conocimiento enciclopรฉdico me corregรญa, yo
siempre confundรญa los planetas con las estrellas, erraba la
ubicaciรณn de las constelaciones, no distinguรญa la luz de los
satรฉlites del parpadeo de los aviones. Un mecanismo de
corazรณn precario que se atrasaba constantemente uno o dos
pasos en relaciรณn con la vida.
________________________________________
La Vรญa Lรกctea sobre el desierto de Atacama en Chile/The Milky Way over the Atacama Desert in Chile
___________________________________
Andrea Jeftanovic. No aceptes caramelos de extraรฑos. Editorial Comba. Barcelona. Kindle Edition
“Until the Stars Go Dark”
My father, a patient oriented in time and space, impeccable long-term memory, confusing the last ten years, eye contact, withdrawn personality, difficulty expressing himself orally, dysphonia due to rigidity in the vocal cords. vocal cords. A tedious gesture that he lost under the effects of marijuana, in fact, his speech became clear, modulated.
After some thoughtful swallows, that way old people have of reasoning with their mouths. He pointed with a trembling finger and turned his neck like a wind-up doll due to the lack of dopamine. We stuck our heads out of the window, counted stars, guessed galaxies, and traced the ellipse of the planets. We fantasized about a telescope vision. The sky, a roof for our tiny existences. My father, with his encyclopedic knowledge, corrected me, I always confused the planets with the stars, I misplaced the constellations, I did not distinguish the light of satellites from the flickering of airplanes. We let it drift when the tip of the z was too frozen. When we smoked, my father had a constant cough, he laughed at the D calendar, he would sit still on the fifth day or the twenty-third of October or January eighth. A yearbook was given to the municipality’s senior department, along with the end-of-year grocery box. His lips babbling something.
My father made of things to say.
….
โWhat is the gentleman’s name? Your name, I probably didn’t fill in your name.
โYou are his daughter, aren’t you? The gentleman is in a serious condition. What do you think about mechanical ventilation? Iโm impassive, waiting for him to guess the answer that I didn’t dare to give:
โPlease sign here.
โIf he were my father, I wouldn’t sign.
My hand didn’t shake in front of the form, it’s so difficult to say goodbye to someone for so many years, to see them waste away, deteriorate, stop being the original person, feel pity, see their suffering, the hidden pain, the long and tedious days, lose friends, lose yourself, what day is it today? Who is the Mr. President of Chile?
โMadam President. Madam President, Dad.
โIt doesn’t matter, because we in Chacabuco…
โCome on! Chacabuco!
At one point I saw my father’s wet eyes, I was naked in my coldness, luckily, I had a handkerchief in my bag to soothe my sadness. I counted one, two, three, four, five. I couldn’t be his mother, if I was his daughter; I didn’t hold him in my arms because I didn’t have the physical strength; if I hugged him, I would be afraid they would order us to separate–from holding hands, from hugging. My legs were cramped, I was dizzy from the smell of medicine, the doctor was standing in the doorway with a little cross in the middle of his chest.
โI don’t want to bother you, but I must examine you, sir.
My father looked with almost religious fervor at that doll with a lab coat and stethoscope that pushed with his finger, his belly swayed nervously, a current of air stimulated the doctorโs conclusions.
โI hear an arrhythmia there, his lungs are somewhat obstructed, his urine too dark. Have you been able to evacuate? My father nodding, waiting for the sugar test, the doctor with his index finger on the result; “seventy-eight years are not seventy-eight months, my friend, be patient, we are here for this, you can be calm, and this is a disappointment, it is nothing more, a problem of age, things that come with the passage of time, accept it.
โSir, have you lost your appetite?
My father denying it, my father knowing and not knowing about his serious condition, looking at the doctor before looking at me, admitting that he was a set of bone sticks, flaccid viscera, the patient in the next bed came to say goodbye to us. That night the nurse stayed longer in the critical patient room, the kinesiologist came without being interested in anything: โWhy are you calling me if this man is no longer…?โ I gave him a look of hatred, because my father was alive and needed help to get out of the bodily stiffness after so many days lying down. I asked him sarcastically if there were forensic kinesiologists and I left him
โDoctor, couldn’t you come by twice a day?
โThis is something between a hospital and a private clinic, I have other patients waiting.
Correct smile, smell of soap, a hand that extends a soft โgood night.โ Iโm discharging him tomorrow; you will be responsible for him. Sign here, your thumb, youโll have to bring me a notarized statement. I leaned my head against the window of this clinic-hospital and glanced at the Christmas decorations on the trees, the Mapocho River, a thin zigzag thread, out of the corner of my eye, I looked at the chair in the room with my studentsโ final exams still uncorrected. I was eager for the city outside, I counted five stars, a reindeer, a Santa Claus, two Nativity scenes. I calculated the benefits of the insurance plan, if itโs three days and eighty percent of the bed day, but one hundred percent of the medicines, seventy-five percent of the x-ray tests. How much would they give? How much did we already owe the establishment? What if I transfer him to another medical center with better coverage? He woke up abruptly and approached me:
โWhat are you thinking about?
My father turning his neck with the stiffness of Parkinson’s.
My father with the slight trembling of Parkinson’s hands.
My father walking with the shuffling steps of Parkinson’s. My father scribbling something on the napkin in the tiny handwriting of Parkinson’s.
My father speaking with the chewing of Parkinson’s.
At the Home, the nurse with the carmine-colored lipstick confessed to each relative, complained, “I who have done no harm to anyone have to bear the story of these tiny lives.” She would resume her march, forcing the man with the urine bag to catch up with her when it was about to overflow, words that fought each other in the letters inventing promises. The kettle would turn on with a click, a flash and nothing, the nurses on the night shift waiting for the bubbles for a watered-down tea, you could see how she was getting fatter on her iguana neck, a spark; They were talking to each other, I understood them so well despite their muteness. From time to time, the nurse would put an envelope in my pocket. The monthly payment? My father’s will? The bill for the medical supplies from the last pneumonia? I didn’t dare open the envelope until I got home. Mondays were the medical check-ups at the Home, a doctor as old as they were examined them one by one, scales weighing skeletons, because there were no muscles or tendons, bones yes, the body transforming into something else, the nurses took their hands, lined them up on the examination table displaying evidence of a suspicious mole on the shoulder, another small wart, swollen varicose veins. They all left with prescriptions for medicine, and the relatives approached the pharmacies at night with bottles and boxes from foreign laboratories.
โYou like my pianist fingers, didnโt you notice? The nurses looked for the zippers on dresses, skirts, or the men’s trousers to allow the examination of the abdomen, the skin, the control of the sacral scar in the upper part of the buttocks.
โHelp us with the buttons, come on, don’t be difficult. โYour father is out of diapers, the three a day are not enough. The nurse tells me in a very loud voice, my father feels ashamed and looks out the window.
โTomorrow.
I mutter in a low voice: ยซYou know, a few years ago, about two decades ago, this man who wets his pants would have fucked you, listen to me, because he was manly, seductive, no, he wasn’t this weak old man, he was more than six feet tall as he walked upright, his muscles were strong because he played sports, tennis, athletics, horseback riding, whatever they asked of him. No, he didn’t depend on others to bathe or eat. Yes, he would have seduced you, and you would have returned flirtatious laughter. At school he was a champion in the hundred-meter dash, with or without obstacles, he flew through the air with his spiked shoes that brushed the hurdles. One, two, three, the time of the race that was rounded off in twelve seconds, a record among English schools, come on, he runs at lightning speed and crosses the finish line breaking the tense, thin rope cut by the momentum of his torso. ยป
My father, one night, a stranger, skipping the routine of reading the newspapers, his face more defined after several rounds:
โI’m ashamed to say it, promise you won’t get angry with me. He spoke with a magazine in front of his face: โDon’t look at me, otherwise I wouldn’t dare… I’m in love.
โWith whom?
โWith Olguita, from room 314.
โAnd since when?
โIt was on the walk to the beach.
โAnd is it mutual?
โDon’t laugh, I don’t know.
โNo, but I’m surprised, and what are you going to do?
He shrugged. Towards the end of the year they organised a trip to the coast, a municipal bus took them for the day, in the morning there was hustle and bustle, the old people in wide-brimmed hats, sunscreen, a bit of a school trip spirit, children preparing for the adventure, watched over by nurses who didnโt wear aprons but Lycra trousers that left bulging abdomens exposed. The owner escorting them in a van. Lunch boxes, medicines in boxes, oxygen tanks, wheelchairs. My father and his fiancรฉe together, no matter what they might say, two old folks like at a real wedding, walking up the path in the middle of a whirlwind of hydrangeas. They protected each other, they hid from the others, always holding hands in the dining room, in front of the television, in the memory workshops, in crafts, in film. My father watched her tenderly from his amorphous heart, his controlled diabetes, his brain arteries threatened by cholesterol, his trembling hands, his neck stiff from Parkinson’s.
He visited Olguita in her room, after taking various preparations: combing his hair, perfume, handkerchief. I watch them with a hint of jealousy. His girlfriend is eighty years old, poor thing, almost eighty and she is a child, she moves away from the sofa leaning on her elbows and stops halfway listening to I don’t know what, she assures me it is the telephone and then not the telephone; last week she swore it was the sewing machine and now it is the engine of the car of daughter who has never come to visit her. They share the love of photography. They sit on the two-seater sofa in front of an album that they look at slowly, they stop at some images with a kind of smile directed at childhood. But suddenly, some page closes suddenly and she buries her head in my father’s chest. She sobs, hiccups, not a woman’s voice, but the voice
of a frightened child. My father adjusting his glasses and making signs to us, thumbs to the right and thumbs to the left,
a murmur in your eyes that I did not want to perceive and my throat swallowing again, I thought it was my name, was it at lunch with the colleagues, madam?, what colleagues? When we said goodbye, at the moment when I thought I heard my name, I asked a question that did not enter your hearing field.
My father full of things to say.
Whispering to me “I am the one with the broken leg, a lightning bolt in his hand.” I remember being paralyzed, unable to fabulate, until I observed that the head nurse, imperfect in her lipstick, was a flock dog leading those sheep throughout the few days they had left. A man without a name replaced the man in the next bed.
In the wards the sparse furniture amplified the echoes. I looked towards the door, the head nurse made the gesture of beginning to get up but remained seated with her head in her hands. The nurse and the lipstick, the makeup conceals, the new blouse conceals, when she changes clothes the body changes just the same even though she is depressed, she asks for a glass of water, takes advantage of the break and looks through a magazine, a second magazine, she gets bored of the magazines, she puts on music, the music saddens her, a few tears fall down her chubby cheeks. โI donโt laugh at anything.โ
She reminds me of someone from several decades ago, from the time when I was still a child. She staggers, I suggest she sit down again, but she stands in the middle of the room, ready to complain, awakening an inquisitive glance.
โThese old men dirty everything.
โBe patient, itโs a bad day.
โHow long has it been since anyone came near me?
โWhy is there so much smoke here?
โDo they smoke? What do they smoke?
My father, breathing in and out, smiling, chattering, rambling to himself. Some ramblings are with his jaw slightly locked.
โGo away, Miss or Madam, or we’ll call the Chief.
The nurse puts her arms on her waist and looks at me angrily.
โThis is inconceivable, go home.
My father began to talk about colic, he closed his eyes and felt a pang, in the darkness trying to calm his abdomen with his palm. Another pang? More discomfort than nausea, a sour taste, a languor that disappeared before the results. Pains that shake, attentive to the back room, crossing the corridor, watching the door, lingering, with hands in pockets, they call the nurse in lipstick, he continued calling for hours, minutes, centuries, he continues calling the nurses and they were amazed at me. After the incident, after having been summoned by the owner of the Home, I began to bring biscuits filled with pot. The marijuana mixed with flour and egg gave a rough texture, but it was just as effective.
โDad, have you heard of the Elqui Valley?
โYes, of course, hippies and Mother Cecilia; all liars.
โThey’ve already left, I want to take you there.
โAnd what’s there?
โLots of stars, the best sky on the planet, the clearest shooting stars. There are also slopes of vineyards, olive trees, rivers, valleys, dirt roads; you’ll like it.
โAnd when?
โOn Friday, in two days.
I listened to him in the bathroom between raging faucets; me, nervous for fear that they would see him leave with a small bag without permission or excuses. Me, sitting on the stool, she leaves in the middle of the room, ready to complain, awakening an inquisitive glance.
take you there.
โAnd what’s there?
โLots of stars, the best sky on the planet, the clearest shooting stars. There are also vineyard slopes, olive trees, rivers, valleys, dirt roads; you’ll like it.
โAnd when?
โOn Friday, in two days.
I listened to him in the bathroom between raging taps; me, nervous for fear of being seen leaving with a small bag without permission or excuses. Me, sitting on the stool where he leaves clothes. He came out half-dressed, agitated. I called the nurse to stop him from putting on his shoes without socks, his ankles too pale asking for help, me with a thread of voice. The nurse watching indifferently.
โMy father doesn’t walk barefoot, did you hear? The nurse tying laces and maneuvering shoehorns, no longer paying attention:
โDon’t touch me, what a thing, leave my neck alone.
โSir, I haven’t even touched it.
โHe ripped my pants, he hurt me. In the end, the socks were in the pocket of the jacket, a touch-up to the lapels, the perfect tie, the excess of jacket on his shrunken body. He writes in a notebook a sentence that I don’t understand, he articulates words as if the diphthongs were hinges.
โSay goodbye to Olguita.
He looked at me not with languid eyes, but with empty sockets.
โIt’s a vacation, don’t be dramatic. It’s not worth it for you to grieve.
I expressed a doubtful look.
โAre we going to continue with the plan anyway?
โYes, of course. He said it with his cheeks furrowed and his grey eyes also stunned, without the courage to ask to finish dressing him. He returned several minutes later with watery eyes but determined. The ambulances in the garage not turning on the panic sirens, the sick woman saying goodbye at the door and the conviction of no more hospitals with hydrangeas, walking cautiously because of the heart, diabetes, a vein in the worn-out brain that, when it dried out, could take two-thirds of the memories with it. I thought he was going to cry, but no, he was checking the handkerchief in the pocket of his worn jacket.
On the passenger seat was a perfume box full of pot. My father took it, opened it, sniffed deeply, and smiled.
โHide it under the seat, the cops might stop us. My father and I were in the car heading north, at the first toll booth. he asked.
โHow long are we going on the trip?
โDo you want a precise measure of time? He shrugged, raised an eyebrow, and looked at the cloverleaf of highways.
–Until the stars go out.
My father, with his encyclopedic knowledge, corrected me. I
Nessim Bassan naciรณ en la ciudad de Panamรก en 1950. Bassan comenzรณ a exponer desde muy temprano, en 1968, donde obtuvo un gran รฉxito. Su arte fue admirado y valorado por reconocidos crรญticos de arte y curadores como Thomas Messer del Museo Solomon R. Guggenheim de Nueva York y Lester Cooke de la Galerรญa Nacional de Arte de Washington DC. En 1970, Josรฉ Gรณmez-Sicre, lo invitรณ a exponer en la Organizaciรณn de Estados Americanos en Washington DC, lo que posteriormente propiciรณ su participaciรณn en la Bienal de Sao Paulo de 1981. Despuรฉs de este sorprendente comienzo en su carrera artรญstica, se tomรณ un descanso del mundo del arte, dedicรณ su tiempo a su familia y comenzรณ a pintar por sรญ mismo. A finales de la dรฉcada de 1990, comenzรณ a pintar todos los dรญas y dedicรณ plenamente su tiempo a su arte. . Comenzรณ a explorar mรกs a fondo el arte cinรฉtico, incorporando madera y pintura. Su visiรณn de la cinรฉtica tiene una fuerte estรฉtica abstracta geomรฉtrica moderna, que da como resultado cientos de capas de pintura y texturas entrelazadas, que evocan fantasรญas conceptuales. Esta tรฉcnica refleja ademรกs una perfecta armonรญa entre mediciones matemรกticas controladas, oscilando entre la gravedad y las ilusiones รณpticas que son aparentemente simples pero intrincadas. El atractivo de las infinitas composiciones de Bassan es que son delicadas y elegantes ilusiones รณpticas, con un impecable equilibrio y precisiรณn visual. Nessim Bassan tuvo una importante exposiciรณn que iniciรณ en noviembre de 2022, en el Museo de Arte Contemporรกneo de Panamรก, y viajรณ al Museo Nacional de Identidad de Honduras, el Museo de Arte de El Salvador finalizรณ en el Museo de Arte Moderno Carlos Mรฉrida en Guatemala. . El artista vive y trabaja en Panamรก.
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Nessim Bassan was born in Panamรก City in 1950. Bassan started exhibiting very early on, in 1968, where he found great success. His art was admired and valued by renowned art critics and curators such as Thomas Messer from the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum in New York and Lester Cooke from the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC. In 1970, Josรฉ Gรณmez-Sicre, invited him to exhibit at the Organization of American States in Washington DC, which later lead to his participation in the 1981 Sao Paulo Biennial. After this astonishing start to his artistic career, he took a break from the art world and dedicated his time to his family, and began painting for himself.During the late 1990s, he started painting every day, and fully dedicated his time to his art. He started to further explore kinetic art, incorporating wood and paint. His take on kinetics has a strong modern geometric abstract aesthetic, resulting in hundreds of layers of paint and interwoven textures, evoking conceptualfantasies. This technique further reflects a perfect harmony between controlled mathematical measurements, oscillating between gravity and optical illusions that are seemingly simple yet intricate. The allurement in Bassan’s infinite compositions is that they are delicate and elegant optical illusions, with an impeccable balance and visual precision. Nessim Bassan had a significant exhibition that began in November of 2022, at the Contemporary Art Museum in Panamรก, and traveled\ to the National Identity Museum of Honduras, The Museum of Art of El Salvador endedย at the Museum of Modern Art Carlos Mรฉrida in Guatemala. The artist lives and works in Panamรก.ย
Abrasha Rotenberg naciรณ en Ucrania, asรญ que su visiรณn de la vida allรญ, como de su vida despuรฉs en Berlรญn o en Buenos Aires, es nostรกlgica. Naciรณ en una aldea, Teofipol, fue trasladado a Moscรบ a los ocho aรฑos, en su familia se alternaban fanรกticos comunistas y anticomunistas. โEn la casa de mi abuelo se hablaba en voz baja, en la de mis tรญos se hablaba con alegrรญa, porque รฉstos creรญan que Stalin iba a sacarnos de la indigencia, que se iba a instaurar el hombre nuevoโ. Luego tuve โla enorme experiencia de vivir en una ciudad modelo de Stalin que se llamaba Magnitogorsk, la primera o la segunda ciudad mรกs contaminada del mundo. Cuando se hizo la revoluciรณn en lo que fue luego la Uniรณn Soviรฉtica, esa era una revoluciรณn contra natura. Rusia era un paรญs agrรญcola ganadero, que todavรญa tenรญa resabios del medioevo. Stalin quiso en diez o veinte aรฑos transformar esa Rusia agrรญcola, tambiรฉn algo ganadera, en una Rusia industrial. Proceso muy difรญcil. Pero Magnitogorsk era el sรญmbolo de eso. Vivรญamos en barracas, una vida horrible.Pero que a mi madre le dio el derecho de obtener una visa para Moscรบ. Y ahรญ tuve una maravillosa experiencia, porque vivรญa en una casa colectiva frente al Kremlin.Eso me dio ocasiรณn para asistir de niรฑo a los maravillosos espectรกculos que habรญa allรญ. Gente de todos los colores, todos en fila para visitar la tumba de Leninโ. Despuรฉs de โla Ucrania ambientaโ allรญ parecรญa haber oro, pero no habรญa. โEl hambre era muy duro, el hambre no te deja pensar. Comรญamos patatas, siempre patatas, o verdura. Jamรกs en los ocho aรฑos que vivรญ en la URSS comรญ carne, ni un trozo de carneโ. Pero la madre se las arreglรณ para viajar a Berlรญn. Allรญ el adolescente alcanzรณ a ver cรณmo Hitler armaba su ejรฉrcito. Pero ni Lenin ni Stalin fueron capaces de transformar el paรญs que heredaronโฆ Luego vino Nueva York. Y despuรฉs vino Argentina, alternada con una รฉpoca en Israel, quizรก su momento mรกs feliz, cuando se estaba haciendo, en 1952, el Estado de Israel. Despuรฉs vino Buenos Aires, y allรญ asentรณ Abrasha su peripecia de mal asiento, hasta que Videla y los suyos acabaron con su carrera de periodista(escritor, periodista, empresario) y abrazรณ un exilio que aquรญ, en Espaรฑa, durรณ 37 aรฑos, hasta que la vida lo devolviรณ a la que ahora es su tierra, despuรฉs de haber conocido, y padecido, y disfrutado, tantas que le fueron esquivas o propicias. Buenos Aires era, cuando mi padre llegรณ allรญ, el futuroโฆ Eran los aรฑos cuarenta. Y a mรญ me contaron que las calles de Buenos Aires no eran de adoquines, eran trozos de oro. Era una leyenda falsa. Ser un extranjero judรญo en la Argentina no era fรกcil. Yo vivรญa lo que era ser judรญo, porque digamos, no se hablaba. Me hice amigo de todos porque aprendรญ castellano rรกpido, por la radioโ. Abrasha se hizo argentino. โFue el azar, el azar, el azar. A los 14 aรฑos empecรฉ a trabajar en un aserradero y me paguรฉ las vacaciones. Cuando se estableciรณ el Estado de Israel, en la Argentina, en el 48, necesitaban personal y como yo habรญa estudiado hebreo, me contrataron. De ahรญ conseguรญ una beca para la Universidad de Jerusalรฉn. Yo estudiaba economรญa y me fui a estudiar. En Buenos Aires, de nuevo, conociรณ a la mujer de su vida, Dina, chilena, cantante, โella tenรญa dieciocho aรฑos, yo tenรญa veintitrรฉs. Setenta aรฑos juntosโ. Se le quiebra la voz al Abrasha que venรญa contando su vida como si fuera a caballo por la Pampa, pero llega hasta su รฉpoca como periodista, al frente, con Jacobo Timerman, de La Opiniรณn, masacrada por Videla. โFue terribleโ.
Adaptada de: Juan Cruz, “La historia insรณlito de Abrasha Rotenberg.” El Periรณdico de Espaรฑa. Madrid 29 de MAYO de 2023.
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La diversidad en el judaรญsmo ofrece un espacio fรฉrtil para la reflexiรณn crรญtica, donde la objetividad se convierte no solo en un ejercicio necesario, sino en un puente hacia el equilibrio entre los extremos. Este proceso nos permite vivir nuestra identidad de manera mรกs coherente y autรฉntica, alineando nuestras raรญces culturales con la realidad contemporรกnea, sin perder de vista la esencia de lo que somosยป. Abrasha Rotenberg
Diversity in Judaism offers a fertile space for critical reflection, where objectivity becomes not only a necessary exercise, but a bridge to balance between extremes. This process allows us to live our identity in a more coherent and authentic way, aligning our cultural roots with contemporary reality, without losing sight of the essence of who we are. Abrasha Rotenberg
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Abrasha Rotenberg
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Abrasha Rotenberg was born in Ukraine, so his vision of life there, as well as her life later in Berlin or Buenos Aires, is nostalgic. He was born in a village, Teofipol, he was moved to Moscow at the age of eight, his family alternated between communist and anti-communist fanatics. He writes, โIn my grandfather’s house we spoke in a low voice, in my uncles’ house we spoke happily, because they believed that Stalin was going to take us out of poverty, that the new man was going to be established.โ Then I had โthe enormous experience of living in a Stalin model city called Magnitogorsk, the first or second most polluted city in the world. When the revolution happen in what later became the Soviet Union, it was a revolution against nature. Russia was a country of agriculture and livestock, which still had traces of the Middle Ages. In ten or twenty years, Stalin wanted to transform that Russia, into an industrial Russia. A very difficult process. But Magnitogorsk was the symbol of that. We lived in barracks, a horrible life. But that gave my mother the right to obtain a visa to Moscow. And there I had a wonderful experience, because I lived in a collective house opposite the Kremlin. That gave me the opportunity to attend, as a child, the wonderful shows that took place. People of all colors, all lined up to visit Leninโs grave. After โthe Ukrainian ambiance.โ there seemed to be gold there, but there wasnโt. โHunger was very hard, hunger doesnโt let you think. We ate potatoes, always potatoes, or vegetables. Never in the eight years I lived in the USSR did I eat meat, not even a piece of meat.โ But the mother managed to travel to Berlin. There the teenager managed to see how Hitler assembled his army. But neither Lenin nor Stalin were able to transform the country they inheritedโฆ Then came New York. And then came Argentina, alternating with a period in Israel, perhaps his happiest moment, when the State of Israel was being created in 1952. Then came Buenos Aires, and there Abrasha settled into his uneasy adventure, until Videla and his people ended his career as a journalist (writer, journalist, businessman) and he embraced an exile that lasted 37 years in Spain, until life brought him back to what is now his land, after having known, and suffered, and enjoyed, so many things that were elusive or propitious to him. “Buenos Aires was, when my father arrived there, the futureโฆ It was the 1940s. And I was told that the streets of Buenos Aires were not made of cobblestones, they were pieces of gold. It was a false legend. Being a Jewish foreigner in Argentina was not easy. I lived what it was like to be Jewish, because, let’s say, they were not spoken. I became friends with everyone because I learned Spanish quickly, from the radio.โ Abrasha became Argentine. โIt was chance, chance, chance. At 14 I started working in a sawmill and I paid for my own vacations. When the State of Israel was established in Argentina in 1948, they needed staff and since I had studied Hebrew, they hired me. From there I got a scholarship to the University of Jerusalem. I was studying economics and I went to study. In Buenos Aires, he met the woman of his life, Dina, a Chilean singer, โshe was eighteen, I was twenty-three. Seventy years together.โ Abrashaโs voice breaks as he recounts his life as if he were riding a horse across the Pampas, but he goes back to his time as a journalist, at the front, with Jacobo Timerman, of La Opiniรณn, massacred by Videla. โIt was terrible.โ
Adapted from: Juan Cruz, “La historia insรณlito de Abrasha Rotenberg. El Periรณdico de Espaรฑa. Madrid 29 MAY 2023
De: Rotenberg, Abrasha. La amenaza (Spanish Edition) . Pampia Grupo Editor. Kindle Edition.
“La amenaza”
โEste hombre miente siempre, pero a veces se le escapa una verdad. Dale una รบltima chance โdijo dirigiรฉndose al Perro como si fuera su consejero. โVoy a hacerte una pregunta y tu futuro depende de tu respuesta โme advirtiรณ el Perroโ. Recordรก la despedida de los Eichenberger y decime si hubo algo mรกs que te llamรณ la atenciรณn. Yo sรฉ que lo recordรกs, pero temรฉs confesarlo porque puede comprometerte o porque se trata de un tema delicado. Si no lo confesรกs, tu vida corre peligro. Si lo confesรกs, podemos llegar a un acuerdo y te vas a ir en paz.
โNo sรฉ de quรฉ estรกs hablando. No recuerdo nada que pueda comprometerme. Todo lo que sรฉ ya te lo dije.
โHay demasiado casualidades en tu relato. Te las ingeniaste para vincularte con el Juez, con la seรฑora Edwina Eichenberger, conmigo y mi familia, con Rudy y sus amigos y estabas desesperado para que te invitemos a nuestra casa porque querรญas conocer a mi padre, el General. En realidad, fingรญas tu interรฉs por mi hermana para ocultar tu verdadero objetivo, que no era mi hermana sino mi padre, yo, Rudy y nuestros amigos. ยฟCasualidades? Confesรก la verdad antes de que yo te la arranque. Repito: ยฟquรฉ mรกs te llamรณ la atenciรณn en esa despedida?
โNo recuerdo nada mรกs. ยฟQuerรฉs que invente algo para satisfacerte? El Perro hizo un gesto a Charles Atlas y yo sentรญ que estaba perdido.
โLlevalo al rรญo โordenรณ con un tono de voz que denotaba indiferenciaโ. Nunca nos contarรก la verdad. Si se ahoga terminarรกn los problemas. Repentinamente Charles Atlas me inmovilizรณ con sus poderosas garras y con la ayuda del Alfeรฑique me arrancรณ de la silla y como si fuera una pluma me dejรณ inmรณvil y de pie, sin soltarme.
โNo sรฉ nadar โgritรฉ desesperado, dirigiรฉndome al rostro feroz del Perro.
โNo te creo. Vos sabรฉs nadar. Ahora vamos a saber si sos un mentiroso o decรญs la verdad.
โยฟQuรฉ querรฉs saber? ยฟAlgo del equipaje? ยฟEran muchas valijasโฆ? El Perro no me respondiรณ. Charles Atlas y el Alfeรฑique comenzaron a arrastrarme en direcciรณn al rรญo y yo seguรญ gritando: โยฟQuรฉ estรกs haciendo? Van a matarme. โยฟQuรฉ estoy haciendo?
Hago patria. Matar a un judรญo es hacer patria. Podรญas haberte salvado, peroโฆ โagregรณ con indiferencia, como si hubiera decidido aplastar una cucaracha con el pie. Entre Charles Atlas y el Alfeรฑique me llevaron hasta las orillas del rรญo y avanzaron unos metros dentro del agua. Yo estaba asustado porque la respiraciรณn, pero ยฟpor cuรกnto tiempo? El pecho comenzaba a dolerme y en unos segundos tendrรญa que abrir la boca y permitir que el agua me inundara. Era el fin. Me habรญa resignado a aceptar mi destino, pero, cuando ya estaba al borde de la resistencia, los secuaces comenzaron a subirme a la superficie. Confundido y mareado empecรฉ a toser, a vomitar el agua y, con dificultades, a respirar. Unos segundos mรกs tarde (que me parecieron interminables) sentรญ que habรญa vuelto a la vida y como ya nada me importaba gritรฉ con todas mis fuerzas:
โยฟQuรฉ quieren de mรญ? Les contรฉ todo lo que sรฉ. Dรฉjense de inventar historias de espionaje. Tengo diecisรฉis aรฑosโฆ
En ese momento, los dos Charles me ayudaron a ponerme de pie y a caminar en direcciรณn al Perro. Me sentaron en una silla, empapado y exhausto. No tenรญa fuerzas para hablar y me dominaba la sensaciรณn de que ya nada me importaba, ni siquiera morir. Al rato se acercรณ el Perro y con el rostro ceรฑudo y una violencia contenida me advirtiรณ:
โยฟVas a contar la verdad o la prรณxima te dejamos bajo el agua para siempre?
Mi corazรณn latรญa acelerado, no podรญa controlar la fatiga de mi cuerpo ni la libertad de mi lengua. Estaba resignado a aceptar mi destino, a someterme a la decisiรณn de un grupo de alienados que, no lo dudo, estaban convencidos de que yo los espiaba porque era parte de una conjura secreta.
โLes voy a decir toda la verdad y si no me creen hagan conmigo lo que quieran. No tengo vergรผenza en confesarlo: por primera vez en mi vida me enamorรฉ. No importa si era la persona inadecuada, pero yo me enamorรฉ.
ยฟAlguno de ustedes se enamorรณ alguna vez? Si les ocurriรณ saben que se trata de una locura, de una enfermedad que te condiciona. Todo el dรญa y toda la noche pensรกs en esa muchacha y harรญas cualquier barbaridad para estar cerca de ella. Yo me convertรญ en un mentiroso para estar cerca de ella, yoโฆ En ese momento se me quebrรณ la voz. Tratรฉ de contenerme y contener las lรกgrimas que se asomaban. Hice un enorme esfuerzo para no llorar y me mantuve en silencio mientras mis verdugos me observaban. Escuchรฉ que King Kong comentรณ:
โEste tipo estรก completamente loco. Luego vi cรณmo el Perro y su gente se alejaron unos metros y tuve la impresiรณn de que conversaban sobre mรญ o tal vez discutรญan. Estaba tan agotado que ni siquiera me interesรณ observarlos. Al rato me pareciรณ que el cรณnclave habรญa terminado y observรฉ que se encaminaban hacia mรญ. Era evidente que algo habรญan decidido, pero ya nada me afectaba.
โยฟQuerรฉs tomar algo? โpreguntรณ el Perro en un tono sorprendentemente amable.
โUn vaso de aguaโ respondรญ.
โReciรฉn tuviste todo un rรญo para beber ยฟy me pedรญs agua? ยฟQuiรฉn te entiende? โexclamรณ el Perro y lanzรณ una carcajada. โEs un chico delicado. Solo bebe agua en vasos. โAportรณ su ironรญa el bello Dorian Gray.
โTraรฉ una copa de vino, asรญ se reanima โordenรณ el Perro y King Kong fue a buscarla. Dorian Gray tomรณ la palabra:
โTe hicimos una broma pesada porque a veces, sin mala intenciรณn, nos descontrolamos. El Perro tiene una educaciรณn militar y en el ejรฉrcito este tipo humor agresivo es bastante habitual. No le temen a la violencia ni al dolor. Te pido que nos disculpes. โยฟUna broma pesadaโฆ? ยฟNada mรกs? El Perro se me acercรณ y tuve conciencia de que deberรญa haberme callado. Mis reproches le molestaron.
โยฟQuรฉ querรฉs saber?
โQuiero saber por quรฉ fui castigado.
โPonete de pie โordenรณ. Aunque yo sentรญa que me faltaban fuerzas obedecรญ en silencio. Estรกbamos frente a frente y รฉl, debo confesarlo, me intimidaba. โCreo que sos un gran farsante y un hรกbil manipulador. No puedo demostrarlo, pero estoy convencido de que nos engaรฑรกs, que nos estuviste espiando para los tuyos, que sos un hipรณcrita. Todos tus pecados poco importan frente al crimen que cargรกs sobre tu conciencia, un crimen imprescriptible que debes asumir: sos un judรญo asesino, un miembro del pueblo deicida que crucificรณ a nuestro Seรฑor y yo soy tu enemigo, un enemigo altruista que va a permitir que seas por unos instantes un cristiano virtuoso. ยฟQuรฉ ordenรณ Jesรบs en el Sermรณn de la Montaรฑa? โAl que te hiriere en una mejilla, ofrรฉcele tambiรฉn la otraโ. Siendo judรญo ahora tenรฉs la oportunidad de comportarte como un buen cristiano. Sin darme tiempo de entender sus palabras recibรญ una violenta cachetada en la otra mejilla, la que me hizo trastabillar y caer, muy adolorido y con la nariz nuevamente sangrando. Desde el suelo pude observar el rostro de cada uno de los presentes. Hice un gesto de incredulidad y preguntรฉ ยฟpor quรฉ? sin obtener respuesta. Los dos lacayos me ayudaron a ponerme de pie y me acomodaron en la silla. El Perro seguรญa frente a mรญ. Temรญ que me siguiera golpeando. โEscuchรก con atenciรณn lo que te voy a decir: si vuelvo a verte alguna vez, sea donde sea, date por muerto. No se trata de una amenaza sino de una sentencia postergada. ยฟEntendiste? Una sentencia postergada. Decidรญ callar. El Perro se encaminรณ hacia la casona y los demรกs lo siguieron en silencio, excepto Charles Atlas que me acercรณ su paรฑuelo para que me tapara la nariz que continuaba sangrando.
โยฟSabรฉs por quรฉ me quedo con vos?โ preguntรณ y yo comencรฉ a preocuparme.
โNo lo sรฉ โrespondรญ angustiado temiendo que mi martirio continuara. โPorque me di cuenta de que sos un tipo honesto. No dudo que te da vergรผenza ser judรญo. Te entiendo, te entiendo muy bien porque a mรญ me sucederรญa lo mismo. Tambiรฉn yo soy un hombre honesto. La frase me doliรณ mรกs que la cachetada. ยฟEra yo un judรญo vergonzante? Me quedรฉ en silencio sin responderle. Charles Atlas continuรณ:
โEscuchรก este consejo que te doy porque te aprecio: desaparecรฉ de inmediato y jamรกs vuelvas a este pueblo. El Perro nunca habla en vano. Otra vez mi cara se habรญa hinchado, tenรญa la nariz partida y un labio me sangraba.
โTe agradezco el consejo. Lo voy a seguir, pero recordรก que me prometieron una copa de vino. Otra vez serรก.
โQue no haya otra vez, te lo digo por tu bien. Hizo un gesto de despedida con la mano y agregรณ:
โTe regalo mi paรฑuelo. Me quedรฉ sentado en la oscuridad y con la mente vacรญa. Sin poder contenerme me desplomรฉ y comencรฉ a llorar. Estaba solo, daรฑado por fuera, dolorido por dentro y dominado por un miedo tardรญo. Podรญan haberme matado. Cuando logrรฉ controlar mi llanto, lentamente me puse de pie. Con gran dificultad empecรฉ a caminar hacia el hotel en medio de la noche cargada de sonidos. Mis temores comenzaron a disiparse. ยฟDe dรณnde habรญa sacado fuerzas para aguantar, fingir y callar?
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“The Threat”
From: Rotenberg, Abrasha. La amenaza (Spanish Edition) . Pampia Grupo Editor. Kindle Edition.
“This man always lies, but sometimes he lets the truth slip out. Give him one last chance,” he said, addressing the Dog as if he were his advisor.
“”I’m going to ask you a question and your future depends on your answer,” the Dog warned me. “Remember the farewell to the Eichenbergers and tell me if there was anything else that caught your attention. I know you remember it but you’re afraid to confess it because it could compromise you or because it’s a delicate subject. If you don’t confess it, your life is in danger. If you confess it, we can come to an agreement, and you’ll go in peace.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t remember anything that could compromise me. Everything I know I’ve already told you.”
“There are too many coincidences in your story. You managed to get in touch with the Judge, with Mrs. Edwina Eichenberger, with me and my family, with Rudy and his friends and you were desperate for us to invite you to our house because you wanted to meet my father, the General. In fact, you were pretending to be interested in my sister to hide your real objective, which was not my sister but my father, me, Rudy and our friends. Coincidences? Tell the truth before I tear it out of you. I repeat: what else caught your attention in that farewell?”
โI donโt remember anything else. Do you want me to invent something to satisfy you?โ The Dog gestured to Charles Atlas and I felt that I was lost.
โTake him to the river,โ he ordered in a tone of voice that denoted indifference. โHe will never tell us the truth. If he drowns, the problems will end.โ
Suddenly Charles Atlas immobilized me with his powerful claws and with the help of the Weakling he pulled me out of the chair and as if I were a feather he left me motionless and standing, without letting go.
โI donโt know how to swim,โ I shouted desperately, addressing the Dogโs ferocious face.
โI donโt believe you. You know how to swim. Now weโre going to find out if youโre a liar or telling the truth.โ โWhat do you want to know? Something about the luggage? Were there many suitcasesโฆ?โ The Dog didnโt answer me. Charles Atlas and The Weakling began to drag me towards the river, and I continued shouting:
โWhat are you doing? Theyโre going to kill me.โ
โWhat am I doing?โ Iโm serving my country. Killing a Jew is serving my country. You could have saved yourself, butโฆ,โ he added indifferently, as if he had decided to crush a cockroach with his foot. Charles Atlas and the Weakling took me to the banks of the river and advanced a few meters into the water. I was scared because I was breathing, but for how long? My chest was starting to hurt and in a few seconds I would have to open my mouth and allow the water to flood over me. It was the end. I had resigned myself to accepting my fate, but, when I was already at the edge of resistance, the henchmen began to pull me to the surface. Confused and dizzy, I began to cough, vomit the water and, with difficulty, breathe. A few seconds later (which seemed endless) I felt like I had come back to life and as nothing mattered to me anymore I shouted with all my strength:
“What do you want from me? I told you everything I know. Stop making up spy stories. I’m sixteen years oldโฆ” At that moment, the two Charleses helped me to stand up and walk towards the Dog. They sat me on a chair, soaked and exhausted. I had no strength to speak, and I was overcome by the feeling that nothing mattered to me anymore, not even dying. After a while the Dog came over and with a scowl on his face and restrained violence, he warned me:
“Are you going to tell the truth or next time we’ll leave you underwater forever?” My heart was beating fast, I couldn’t control the fatigue of my body or the freedom of my tongue. I was resigned to accept my fate, to submit to the decision of a group of lunatics who, I have no doubt, were convinced that I was spying on them because I was part of a secret conspiracy.
“I’m going to tell you the whole truth and if you don’t believe me, do with me what you want. I’m not ashamed to confess it: for the first time in my life, I fell in love. It doesn’t matter if it was the wrong person, but I fell in love. Have any of you ever fallen in love? If it happened to you, you know that it’s madness, an illness that conditions you. All day and all night you think about that girl and you would do anything to be near her. I became a liar to be near her, Iโฆ” At that moment my voice broke. I tried to hold back the tears that were coming. I made a I made a huge effort not to cry and remained silent while my executioners watched me. I heard King Kong comment:
โThis guy is completely crazy.โ Then I saw the Dog and his buddies move away a few meters and I had the impression that they were talking about me or maybe arguing. I was so exhausted that I didnโt even care to watch them. After a while it seemed to me that the conclave was over, and I saw that they were heading towards me. It was obvious that they had decided something, but nothing affected me anymore.
โDo you want to drink something?โ asked the Dog in a surprisingly friendly tone.
โA glass of water,โ I answered.
โYou just had a whole river to drink, and you ask me for water? Who understands you?โ exclaimed the Dog and burst out laughing. โHeโs a delicate boy. He only drinks water in glasses.โ The beautiful Dorian Gray added his irony.
โBring a glass of wine, that will cheer him up,โ ordered the Dog and King Kong went to get it. Dorian Gray spoke up:
โWe played a practical joke on you because sometimes, without any bad intentions, we lose control. The Dog has a military education, and in the army this type of aggressive humor is quite common. They are not afraid of violence or pain. I beg your pardon. A practical jokeโฆ? Nothing more?โ The Dog came up to me and I realized that I should have kept quiet. My reproaches annoyed him.
โWhat do you want to know?โ
โI want to know why I was punished.โ
โStand up,โ he ordered. Although I felt that I lacked strength, I obeyed silently. We were face to face and he, I must confess, intimidated me. โI think you are a great fraud and a skilled manipulator. I cannot prove it, but I am convinced that you are deceiving us, that you were spying on us for your own people, that you are a hypocrite.โ All your sins matter little compared to the crime you carry on your conscience, an imprescriptible crime that you must assume: you are a murderous Jew, a member of the deicide people who crucified our Lord and I am your enemy, an altruistic enemy who will allow you to be a virtuous Christian for a few moments. What did Jesus command in the Sermon on the Mount? โTo him who strikes you on one cheek, offer the other also.โ Being a Jew, you now have the opportunity to behave like a good Christian. Before I had time to understand his words, I received a violent slap on the other cheek, which made me stumble and fall, very sore and with my nose bleeding again. From the ground I could see the face of each one of those present. I made a gesture of disbelief and asked why? without getting an answer. The two lackeys helped me to stand up and placed me in the chair. The Dog was still in front of me. I feared that he would continue hitting me.
“Listen carefully to what I’m going to tell you: if I ever see you again, wherever it may be, consider yourself dead. This is not a threat but a delayed sentence. Do you understand? A delayed sentence.” I decided to remain silent. The Dog headed towards the mansion and the others followed him in silence, except Charles.
Atlas offered me his handkerchief to cover my nose, which continued to bleed. “Do you know why I’m staying with you?” he asked and I started to worry.
“I don’t know,” I responded, anguished, fearing that my martyrdom would continue. โBecause I realized that you are an honest guy. I have no doubt that you are ashamed to be Jewish. I understand you, I understand you very well because the same thing would happen to me. I am also an honest man. The phrase hurt me more than the slap. Was I a shameful Jew? I remained silent without answering him. Charles Atlas continued: “Listen to this advice that I give you because I appreciate you: disappear immediately and never return to this town. The Dog never speaks in vain.
My face was swollen again, my nose was broken, and my lip was bleeding. “I thank you for the advice. I’m going to follow it, but remember that they promised me a glass of wine. Another time.”
“Don’t let it happen again, I’m telling you for your own good.” He waved his hand and added: “I’m giving you my handkerchief.”
I sat in the dark with an empty mind. Unable to contain myself, I collapsed and began to cry. He was alone, damaged on the outside, hurt on the inside and dominated by a belated fear. They could have killed me. When I managed to control my crying, I slowly stood up. With great difficulty I began to walk towards the hotel in the middle of the night full of sounds. My fears began to dissipate. Where had I gotten the strength to endure, pretend and remain silent?
Translated by Stephen A. Sadow
_________________________________________________
Otros libros de Abrasha Rotenberg/Other books by Abrasha Rotenberg
Liliana Lukin naciรณ en Buenos. Aires en 1951 en una familia judรญa. Publicรณ los libros de poesรญa: Abracadabra, 1978); Malasartes, Descomposiciรณn, 1986; Cortar por lo Sano, 1987; Carne de Tesoro, 1990; Cartas, 1992; Las preguntas, 1998); retรณrica erรณtica , 2002) y Construcciรณn comparativa , 2003 y ortros. Recibiรณ entre otros Secretarรญa Cultura de la Naciรณn, Fundaciรณn Antorchas, 1989 y Beca del Fondo Nacional de las Artes, 1997. Entre 1988 y 1989 fue Asesora Literaria del Centro Cultural Gral. San Martรญn y organizรณ el Foro de Literatura Contemporรกnea y el 1ยบ Foro de Cine Argentino. Desde 1988 hasta 2001 fue Asesora Literaria de la Fundaciรณn Noble-Clarรญn , organizรณ XIII Encuentros de Escritores R.Noble, y editรณ los correspondientes โCuadernos de Narrativa Argentinaโ. Es Lic. en Letras de la Universidad de Bs.As., docente en la carrera de Crรญtica de Artes en el IUNA (Instituto Universitario Nacional de Arte) y coordina la Clรญnica de escritura poรฉtica de la Biblioteca Nacional de la Argentina. Si sitio web es http://www.lilianalukin.com.ar
_______________________________
Liliana Lukin was born in Buenos Aires in 1951 into a Jewish family. She published the following books of poetry: Abracadabra, 1978); Malasartes 1986, Decomposiciรณn, 1987; Cortar por lo Sano,, 1987); Tesoro de carne, 1990; Cartas, 1992; Las preguntas, 1998); retรณrica erรณtica, 2002; and Construcciรณn comparativa, 2003 and others. She received awards, among others, the Secretariat of Culture of the Nation, the Antorchas Foundation, 1989 and a Scholarship from the National Endowment for the Arts, 1997. Between 1988 and 1989 she was Literary Advisor to the General San Martรญn Cultural Center and organized the Contemporary Literature Forum and the 1st Argentine Film Forum. From 1988 to 2001 she was Literary Advisor of the Noble-Clarรญn Foundation, organized the XIII R.Noble Writers’ Meetings, and edited the corresponding โCuadernos de Narrativa Argentinaโ. She has a degree in Literature from the University of Buenos Aires, teaches in the Arts Criticism course at the IUNA (National University Institute of Art) and coordinates the Poetic Writing Clinic of the National Library of Argentina. Her website is http://www.lilianalukin.com.ar
___________________________________________
Poesรญa de Liliana Lukin/Poetry by Liliana Lukin
Sueรฑo con lobos, los corderos
persiguen mi sueรฑo,
quieren entrar en รฉl
como quien entra atropellando
en la jaula de su miedo.
*
El amor del lobo por la sangre
del cordero escribe
el drama del rebaรฑo:
ser el objeto de un deseo
que sรณlo se sacia en el sacrificio.
*
El cordero sabe que es la metรกfora
de otra cosa, que el lobo es
la metรกfora de otra cosa: comienza
con palabras como amor, y termina
con la muerte de alguna pasiรณn colectiva.
*
El pelaje del lobo estรก hecho para la caricia
que no conocerรก, inevitablemente el lobo ama
el amor en el cordero, pero mรกs los brazos que cargan
al cordero, las manos que se deslizan por su lomo,
la paz de ser el perseguido y no el perseguidor.
*
Toda marca al final del pacto, una firma
hecha con los dientes, aleja al mordedor
de la letra, ni el sรญmil entre piel y papel
permitirรก engaรฑarse: de lo humano imaginado
en el amor de esa marca no hay mรกs que terror.
De Ensayo Sobre el Poder, 2015
__________________________________________
___________________________________________
I dream of wolves, the lambs
pursue my dream
they want to enter it
like someone who enters abruptly
into a jail of his fear
*
The wolvesโ love for the lambโs
blood writes
the drama of the flock
to be the object of a desire
that is only sated with sacrifice.
*
The lamb knows that it is the metaphor
Of something else, that the wolf is the
metaphor forsomethingelse; it starts out
with words like love, and ends
with the death of some collective passion.
*
The wolfโs fur is made for the caress
that that it will not know, inevitably the wolf loves
the love in the lamb
but more the arms that carry
the lamb, hands that slide along its back,
the peace of being the pursued and not the pursuer.
*
Everything marks the end of the pact, a signature
made with teeth, moves away from the biter
of the letter, not even the simile between paper and paper
will permit it to deceive itself: of the imagined human
in the love of this mark there in only terror.
De Ensayo Sobre el Poder, 2015
**
Pandora huele
una palabra
si se guarda mucho tiempo
larga heces
materias hirientes
al ojo y al oรญdo
humedades
hace
sangre por varias de sus partes
no se pudre
dada su condiciรณn
de testigo de cargo
pero apesta
De Descomposiciรณn.1980-82,1987
**
Pandora smells
a word
if it watches out for it for a long time
lets out the dregs
materials hurtful
to the eye and the ear
dampness
it makes
blood through several of its parts
it doesnโt rot
given its condition
as witness of in charge
but it smells bad
De Descomposiciรณn.1980-82,1987
perder la orientaciรณn: eso hace
mi hermano como en medio del
mar, sin referencias fijas,
rodeado del relente de su
desolaciรณn, de la falta de
asociaciones llamadas correctas,
de algunas imรกgenes que evocan
aรฑos, rituales, pedazos,
pierde el sentido y anda sin rumbo,
por un pasaje estrecho, hรบmedo y seguro
*
to lose orientation, that my brother
does in the middle of the
sea, without fixed references,
surrounded by the relentlessness of his
desolation, by the lack of
associations called correct,
of some images that evoke
years, rituals, pieces,
he loses sense and moves without direction,
through a narrow, damp and sure passageway
*
mamรก trabaja para un naufragio
seco: prepara sus actos previendo agua
como en un ejercicio: insiste en ignorar
que algo se rompiรณ, que la ola
no existe pero estamos bajo su sonido
y su furia, rema, acumula baldes
que antes tuvieron plantas, para โachicarโ
el desborde, mantiene el ancla
*
mama works for a dry
ship wreak; prepares her actions anticipating water
as an exercise, she insists on ignoring
that something broke, that the wave
doesnโt exist, but rather we are under his sound
and fury, she accumulates pots
that before held plantsto โbail outโ
the overflow, to maintain the anchor
*
papรก va de la popa a la proa
como en un barco a la deriva, grita
ยกa babor!, ยกa estribor!, como si supiera
algo de navegar, de tormentas
en el centro del remolino,
de lo que no se puede saber
hasta que confunde, quema, moja: papรก es un viejo
capitรกn que mamรก sostiene soga en mano
*
papa goes from the stern to the prow,
as if in a boat adrift, he shouts
to the โport sideโ โto the starboardโ, as if he knew
something of the navigation of storms
in the center of the whirlpool,
of what one canโt know
until it confounds, burns, wets; papa is an old man
captain that mama sustains, rope in hand
**
carta II
mi querida: me dije algรบn poema tiene que haber
porque hay tanto ruido en el paรญs to
y en estos dรญas las metรกforas se cumplen
ya casi no hablamos mรกs
que de nosotras: metonimias de un paisaje de guerra
o pequeรฑos predios donde cultivar imรกgenes de sรญ
querida: se disuelve mi dogma a medida que amo
y aunque mi dogma sea de una especie razonable
padezco los efectos de esta fatal transformaciรณn:
no sรฉ nada ya de aquello que era
pero no olvido tampoco cรณmo era aquello ser
una foto de otra รฉpoca me muestra como a una muchacha
a la que he conocido: mi nostalgia de ella es infinita
aunque me diga que todo estรก muy bien y
aunque sea cierto que todo estรก (muy bien) ahora
algรบn poema tiene que haber me dije: en lugar
de una certeza siempre hay un poema
y en lugar de un poema siempre estoy
escribiendo cartas como un nรกufrago al revรฉs:
no corro peligro mรกs que de mรญ y el mundo
es una isla en la que sรณlo puedo sumergirme
mi querida en estos dรญas
en que la filosofรญa es un murmullo de la edad
sos el ruido de un paรญs en predios secos
donde un poema serรญa agua de beber.
De Cartas, 1992.
“Letter”
Mi querida: You told me about some poem that must exist
because there is so much noise in the country
and these days metaphors come to be
We hardly speak any more
about how we, metonymies of a battlefield
or small properties in which to cultivate images of your approval
dear: my dogma dissolves as I love
and although my dogma be of a reasonable sort
I suffer the effects of this fatal transformation.
I donโt yet know anything about what it was
but neither do I forget how that being was
a photo of another time shows me how a girl
that I have known, my nostalgia about her is infinite
even if I tell myself that everything is alright and
even if it be certain that everything is (very well) now
some poem must have, I told myself: instead of
a of certainty there is also a poem
and in place of a poem, I am always here
writing letters like a backwards ship wreak:
Iโm not in danger of more than myself and the whole world
is an island in which I can only immerse myself
my dearest during these days
in which philosophy is a murmur of the age
you are the noise of a country of dry lands
where a poem would be water to drink.
De Cartas, 1992
*
He descubierto una rama de odio
en la magnolia del parquecito:
no es de nadie el รกrbol, el paseo,
el descubrimiento.
De quiรฉn es el odio?
Ama la magnolia su brote,
su rama que estalla a punto
de floraciรณn bella y blanca?
Quรฉ estupor ver esa especie
creciendo, su inocencia
aparente en la forma de
encarnar,
quรฉ deseo de un
alerta a los sentados, los solos,
los amantes de la sombra,
decir: cuidado allรญ, cuidado asรญ
yo misma asustada
todavรญa, conjeturando sobre
modos sorpresivos de proliferaciรณn
de un sentimiento
en el reflejo del cristal que el hielo deja
en el tapiz, el musgo en la terraza,
dentro del poso de la taza de cafรฉ,
hay un odio que crece para alguien
en el cuajo de leche y en la cepa
del vino y en el hilo de coser
puede haber odio.
Camino hacia la zona de luz,
salgo del bosque casi artificial,
de utilerรญa, los bancos en la grava,
llevo la rama
pesada, todo lo que miro
se enturbia en el agobio
del recuerdo de un รกrbol.
Mala semilla durmiendo
entre nosotros, para siempre burlados
en la idea de un Jardรญn.
*
I have found a branch of hatred in
the magnolia of the little park:
the tree doesnโt belong to anyone, the promenade (short walk)
Poesรญa, reflexiรณn y arte unidos para conmemorar el 7 de octubre de 2023
Liderado por la destacada escritora, periodista y poeta judรญo-venezolana Raquel Markus – Finckler, este proyecto busca convertirse en un esfuerzo intelectual significativo que permitirรก recordar y honrar a las vรญctimas de los atentados, a sus familias, a todos los afectados directa o indirectamente por este pogromo. La publicaciรณn estรก dedicada al Estado de Israel, a sus habitantes y, en general, a todos los miembros del pueblo judรญo.
Por medio de la fusiรณn de palabra, voz e imagen, No alcanzan las palabras busca transmitir el dolor, la tristeza y la desesperaciรณn que la Naciรณn judรญa (en Israel y en el mundo) ha cargado desde aquel terrible dรญa, y al mismo tiempo, es un reconocimiento a su uniรณn, a la esperanza, fe y templanza que ha demostrado durante este tiempo. La obra es un reflejo de las sombras y luces de todos sus participantes que promete dejar una huella profunda en todos sus lectores y escuchas.
A propรณsito de este prรณximo lanzamiento, Raquel Markus โ Finckler expresรณ: โTenemos planificado realizar su difusiรณn en todas las comunidades judรญas hispanoparlantes de Amรฉrica Latina, Estados Unidos, Europa e Israel. Gracias a la colaboraciรณn de muchas personas involucradas en este proyecto, incluyendo a todos los artistas que participan, queremos llegar tan lejos como sea posible. Nuestra voz debe ser escuchada por el mundo, el pueblo y el Estado de Israel tienen derecho a la vida y tienen derecho a defender sus vidas. Este libro es un necesaria reivindicaciรณn de nuestro honor y de nuestro nombre. Aquรญ estamos de pie y orgullosos respondiendo a la proclama de Am Israel Jai, el pueblo de Israel viveโ.
Son muchos los artistas plรกsticos que aceptaron colaborar con este proyecto literario y artรญstico ad honorem y completamente comprometidos con su propรณsito. En orden de publicaciรณn, ellos son: Ricardo Benaim, Edith Shlesinger, Samantha Finckler, Irene Pressner, Monique Mendelovici, Susy Iglicki, Cecilia Hecht, Orlando Campos, Susan Hirschhaut, Lisette Waich, Luis Franco Gutiรฉrrez, Lihie Talmor, Geula Zylberman, Vanessa Baumgartner, Dahlia Dreszer, Vanessa Katz, Leah Reategui Rotker, Pรกjaro, Maruja Herrera Benzecri, Paola Levy, Raquel Soffer, Simรณn Weitzman, Lucy Keme, Silvia Cohen, Karla Kantorovich. Todos ubicados entre Venezuela, Estados Unidos e Israel y unidos bajo la consigna de Am Israel Jai (el pueblo de Israel vive).
El prรณlogo de esta obra estรก a cargo del reconocido acadรฉmico Stephen A, Sadow, profesor emรฉrito de Literatura Latinoamericana en la Northeastern University de Boston, autor de varios libros que tratan sobre la literatura y el arte judรญos latinoamericano, asรญ como creador de la reconocida pรกgina web jewishlatinamerica.com. Sadow dice:
Confrontar directamente una catรกstrofe requiere gran coraje. Convertir las emociones confusas del momento en literatura y arte requiere gran talento y estabilidad emocional. En su No alcanzan las palabras, la poeta judeo-venezolana Raquel Markus-Finckler โjunto a los artistas plรกsticos que en sus obras reaccionan a los poemas escritos por ellaโ tiene el coraje y talento requeridos. En este libro se crea una nueva forma de denuncia de una catรกstrofe judรญa. He aquรญ las interacciones entre la poรฉtica y el arte. Un grupo de gente talentosa se esfuerza para protestar en contra de los ataques del 7 de octubre sobre los kibutzim Kfar Aza, Beโeri, Ofakim, Sderot, Yad Mordejรกi, Yated, Kisufim y Urim, el festival musical Nova de Simjat Torรก y por los numerosos soldados israelรญes caรญdos, los rehenes tomados y el dolor sentido por el paรญs y la Diรกspora. Raquel Markus-Finckler extiende la tradiciรณn judรญa
โEn fin, No alcanzan las palabras es una profunda e incisiva respuesta a los horrorosos eventos del 7 de octubre de 2023. Se puede considerar como una reacciรณn de la kehilรก de Venezuela a un momento de gran agitaciรณn en el paรญs. No alcanzan las palabras estรก armado por los poemas de Raquel Markus-Finckler y por un conjunto de obras de distintos artistas plรกsticos. Ellos actรบan como representantes de una comunidad judรญa relativamente pequeรฑa de la Diรกspora, la venezolana, que muestra su solidaridad hacia los rehenes y sus familias, y hacia los que murieron y sufrieron el ataque del 7 de octubreโ.
En su contexto histรณrico, la analista internacional Beatriz W. de Rittigstein, expresa:
โLas atrocidades perpetradas por Hamรกs, la Yihad Islรกmica Palestina, otros grupรบsculos terroristas y miles de civiles gazatรญes en el territorio soberano de Israel aquel nefasto 7 de octubre, sin ninguna duda, constituye para el Estado y el pueblo judรญos un parteaguas, una lรญnea divisoria de un antes y un despuรฉs, un suceso que marca que ya nada serรก igual a lo previo. Va mรกs allรก de una guerra de religiones; se trata de una confrontaciรณn de civilizaciones entre el islam radical y la cultural judeocristiana, entre el mal y el bien, y, por la ventura de la humanidad, la cultura de la luz deberรก prevalecerโ.
El epรญlogo de la obra, a cargo del reconocido periodista, escritor y poeta Nรฉstor Garrido, expresa:
โConocida es la prolรญfica pluma de Raquel a la hora de traducir en versos sus pensamientos y sentimientos, como tambiรฉn su habilidad de hallar las palabras sencillas y tropos acertados; lo que sรญ no sabรญa era de su capacidad de convencer a un grupo de instituciones, artistas e intelectuales para seguirla en esta meta, habida cuenta de que se trataba de un trabajo ad honรณrem y por la sola satisfacciรณn de hace No alcanzan las palabras es una creaciรณn hecha yad beyad (mano con mano), a la que le sobraron conciencias para concretar una obra colectiva que se ejecutรณ desde el coraje y la temeridad. Su propรณsito principal es poder conmemorar, por medio de la poesรญa, la reflexiรณn yel arte el primer aniversario desde aquel trรกgico 7 de octubre.
A partir de su lanzamiento oficial, el 6, โNo alcanzan las palabrasโ estarรก disponible sin costo alguno en formato de ebook, como PDF para ser compartido por medio de correos y chats institucionales, y en veinte video poemas, publicados en la plataforma de YouTube en un canal que lleva por nombre: No alcanzan las palabras.
“Words Are Not Enough” by Raquel Markus โ Finckler Poetry, reflection and art united to commemorate October 7, 2023
Led by the prominent Jewish-Venezuelan writer, journalist and poet Raquel Markus – Finckler, this project seeks to become a significant intellectual effort that will allow us to remember and honor the victims of the attacks, their families, all those directly or indirectly affected by this pogrom. The publication is dedicated to the State of Israel, its inhabitants and, in general, to all members of the Jewish people.
Through the fusion of word, voice and image, “Words Are Not Enough” seeks to convey the pain, sadness and despair that the Jewish Nation (in Israel and in the world) has carried since that terrible day, and at the same time, it is a recognition of its union, the hope, faith and temperance that it has shown during this time. The work is a reflection of the shadows and lights of all its participants that promises to leave a deep mark on all its readers and listeners.
Regarding this upcoming release, Raquel Markus-Finckler said: โWe plan to distribute it in all Spanish-speaking Jewish communities in Latin America, the United States, Europe and Israel. Thanks to the collaboration of many people involved in this project, including all the participating artists, we want to reach as far as possible. Our voice must be heard by the world, the people and the State of Israel have the right to life and the right to defend their lives. This book is a necessary vindication of our honor and our name. Here we stand proudly responding to the proclamation of Am Israel Jai, the people of Israel live.โ
There are many visual artists who agreed to collaborate with this literary and artistic project ad honorem and are completely committed to its purpose. In order of publication, they are: Ricardo Benaim, Edith Shlesinger, Samantha Finckler, Irene Pressner, Monique Mendelovici, Susy Iglicki, Cecilia Hecht, Orlando Campos, Susan Hirschhaut, Lisette Waich, Luis Franco Gutiรฉrrez, Lihie Talmor, Geula Zylberman, Vanessa Baumgartner, Dahlia Dreszer, Vanessa Katz, Leah Reategui Rotker, Pรกjaro, Maruja Herrera Benzecri, Paola Levy, Raquel Soffer, Simรณn Weitzman, Lucy Keme, Silvia Cohen, Karla Kantorovich. All live in Venezuela, the United States and Israel and are united under the slogan Am Israel Jai (the people of Israel live).
The prologue to this work is by the renowned academic Stephen A. Sadow, professor emeritus of Latin American Literature at Northeastern University in Boston, author of several books dealing with Latin American Jewish literature and art, as well as creator of the renowned website jewishlatinamerica.com. Sadow says:
To confront a catastrophe directly requires great courage. To convert the confusing emotions of the moment into literature and art requires great talent and emotional stability. In her No alcanzan las palabras, the Jewish-Venezuelan poet Raquel Markus-Finckler โalong with the visual artists who in their works react to the poems written by herโ has the courage and talent required. In this book, a new form of denunciation of a Jewish catastrophe is created. Here are the interactions between poetics and art. A group of talented people is working hard to protest against the October 7 attacks on the kibbutzim Kfar Aza, Beโeri, Ofakim, Sderot, Yad Mordechai, Yated, Kisufim and Urim, the Nova Simchat Torah music festival and for the numerous fallen Israeli soldiers, the hostages taken and the pain felt by the country and the Diaspora. Raquel Markus-Finckler extends the Jewish tradition
โIn short, Words Are Not Enough is a profound and incisive response to the horrific events of October 7, 2023. It can be considered as a reaction of the kehilรก of Venezuela to a moment of great turmoil in the country. Words Are Not Enough is put together by the poems of Raquel Markus-Finckler and by a set of works by different visual artists. They act as representatives of a relatively small Jewish community in the Diaspora, the Venezuelan one, which shows its solidarity towards the hostages and their families, and towards those who died and suffered in the attack on October 7.โ
In its historical context, the international analyst Beatriz W. de Rittigstein, expresses:
โThe atrocities perpetrated by Hamas, the Palestinian Islamic Jihad, other terrorist groups and thousands of Gazan civilians in the sovereign territory of Israel on that fateful October 7, without a doubt, constitute for the Jewish State and people a watershed, a dividing line of a before and after, an event that marks that nothing will be the same as before. It goes beyond a war of religions; it is a confrontation of civilizations between radical Islam and Judeo-Christian culture, between evil and good, and, for the good of humanity, the culture of light must prevail.โ
The epilogue of the work, by the renowned journalist, writer and poet Nรฉstor Garrido, states:
โRaquel’s prolific pen is well-known when it comes to translating her thoughts and feelings into verse, as well as her ability to find simple words and successful tropes; what I did not know was her ability to convince a group of institutions, artists and intellectuals to follow her in this goal, given that it was an ad honorem work and for the sole satisfaction of doing it.
No alcanzan las palabras is a creation made yad beyad (hand in hand), which had more than enough conscience to realize a collective work that was executed from courage and recklessness. Its main purpose is to commemorate, through poetry, reflection and art, the first anniversary of that tragic October 7th.
From its official launch, โNo alcanzan las palabrasโ will be available free of charge in ebook format, as a PDF, that can also to be shared through institutional emails and chats, and in twenty video poems, published on the YouTube platform in a channel called: No alcanzan las palabras.
Eliezer Levin รฉ autor de livros de contos, crรดnicas e romances. O seu primeiro romance. Bom Retiro, publicado em 1972, constituiu-se por assim dizer, em sua temรกtica regionalista, um marco solitรกrio no panorama de nossa um livro sobre o bairro judaico de Sรฃo Paulo. Atรฉ entรฃo nenhum romance se ocupara especificamente do assunto. Conforme crรญtica da รฉpoca, o autor estreava em plano alto, o nรญvel de realizaรงรฃo literรกria que sugeria maturidade. Dono de estilo simples, claro, fluente, havia escrito โum livro envolvente, de evocativa beleza, digno dos escritores de raรงaโ
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Eliezer Levin es autor de libros de cuentos, crรณnicas y novelas. Tu primera novela. Bom Retiro, publicado en 1972, constituyรณ, por asรญ decirlo, en su temรกtica regionalista, un hito solitario en el panorama de nuestro libro sobre el barrio judรญo de Sรฃo Paulo. Hasta entonces, ninguna novela habรญa tratado especรญficamente el tema. Segรบn la crรญtica de la รฉpoca, el autor debutรณ en un nivel alto, el nivel de realizaciรณn literaria que sugerรญa madurez. Dueรฑo de un estilo sencillo, claro y fluido, habรญa escrito โun libro cautivador, de belleza evocadora, digno de escritores de razaโ.
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Eliezer Levin is the author of books of short stories, chronicles and novels. Your first novel. Bom Retiro, published in 1972, constituted, so to speak, in its regionalist theme, a solitary landmark in the panorama of our book on the Jewish neighborhood of Sรฃo Paulo. Until then, no novel had specifically dealt with the subject. According to the critics of the time, the author debuted at a high level, the level of literary achievement that suggested maturity. Owner of a simple, clear and fluid style, he had written โa captivating book, of evocative beauty, worthy of writers of his ethnicity.โ
O retrato ficava bern no meio da parede da nossa sala de jantar, en frente da mesa. Tratava-se de um desenho antiยญ go, feito a lรกpis-crayon, corn urna armaรงรฃo de vidro e urna grande moldura dourada de estilo. Nele, o meu avo aparecia exibindo a sua longa barba preta e um par de รณculos sem aro; os olhos, grandes e luminosos, dominavam o rosto. Algumas rugas na testa emprestavam-lhe um ar mais sรฉrio, em contrasยญ te com a expressรฃo da boca, que continha um meio-sorriso.
Desde que me conhecia por gente, o retrato esteve sempre lรก. Tรฃo acostumados estรกvamos com ele, que passava desยญ percebido, corno qualquer outra coisa comum da sala. Mas, no meu caso, nao era bem assim.
A grande mesa da sala era normalmente a mesa em que costumava fazer as Iiรงรตes. Diariamente, punha os livros e caยญdernos sobre ela, ficando ali debruรงado por vรกrias horas, atรฉ a conclusรฃo do trabalho. Por vezes, meio distraรญdo, olhava para o retrato, dando, entรฃo, com seus grandes olhos, que me fitaยญvam seriamente atrรกs das lentes. Tinha a impressรฃo de que esยญ tavam interessados em tudo o que eu fizesse; nao me deixaยญvam por um instante. Como eu tivesse o hรกbito de repetir os Ao observar os pontos andando de um lado para o outro da sala, eu conseguia atรฉ sentir como eles me seguiam; nรฃo apenas os olhos, mas o rosto inteiro. Eles se viravam em minha direรงรฃo e praticamente me seguiam. Eu sentia tanto a presenรงa do meu avรด que, com o tempo, comecei a ter, por assim dizer, um diรกlogo silencioso com ele. Eu lhe contava minhas dรบvidas, sugeria meus problemas, confiava meus planos e aventuras. รs vezes, na vรฉspera de provas, eu ficava acordado estudando atรฉ tarde da noite. A casa ficava muito silenciosa. Todos dormiam. Sozinho com meus livros, eu tentava rever os รบltimos pontos. Quando, exausto e cochilando, eu parava por um breve momento, pegava aqueles grandes olhos fixos em mim, como se me olhassem com curiosidade. Acho que poucas pessoas na casa se importavam com o retrato. De minha parte, eu o conhecia tรฃo bem que conseguia reproduzi-lo nos mรญnimos detalhes. Eu podia dizer de cor o nรบmero de rugas em sua testa, o corte de seu cabelo e barba, o estilo de seus รณculos, a luz em seus olhos, o formato de suas orelhas e nariz. No entanto, de vez em quando eu podia jurar que ele havia passado por algumas mudanรงas. As rugas ร s vezes pareciam mais profundas, ร s vezes menos; o meio sorriso nos cantos de seus lรกbios foi substituรญdo por uma expressรฃo diferente, quase triste; os รณculos montados em seu nariz tinham mudado ligeiramente de posiรงรฃo. Mas essas eram diferenรงas tรฃo insignificantes que fiquei em dรบvida. De uma coisa, no entanto, eu tinha certeza absoluta: sua barba. Eu sempre pensei que fosse preta; a barba preta de um profeta. Eu nรฃo tinha dรบvidas sobre isso. E foi um verdadeiro choque para mim quando, uma noite, enquanto olhava para o retrato, particularmente para a barba, descobri alguns reflexos. Fui atรฉ lรก e examinei seu rosto. Com certeza, havia alguns cabelos grisalhos. Eu nรฃo os tinha notado antes?
–Vocรช nรฃo percebeu nada no retrato?
–Que retrato?
–Do vovรด.
–O que eu temo retrato?
–Vocรช nรฃo acha que a barba estรก um pouco diferente?
–Diferente? Como?!
Ela levantou a cabeรงa, olhou para mim e depois olhou para o retrato.
–O que vocรช vรช de diferente?
–Vocรช nรฃo acha que estรฃo aparecendo alguns cabelos grisalhos?
–Ah, isso! Esses fios sempre foram brancos.
–Mas, mรฃe, a barba do vovรด era preta. Mamรฃe riu alto; Eu nรฃo insisti mais. Outra noite, abordei meu pai. No momento em que ele largou o jornal, entrei na conversa. Inicialmente perguntei quem havia desenhado o retrato e quando o trouxeram. Quando pensei que papai estava suficientemente preparado, fui direto ao assunto:
–Vocรช nรฃo percebe nenhuma diferenรงa nele?
–Assim?
–A barba possui fios brancos; nรฃo existia antes.
–Vocรช deve estar maluco, sempre haverรก cabelos grisalhos. Dizendo isso, deu uma rรกpida olhada no retrato e pegou novamente o jornal. Suas palavras foram incisivas, nรฃo deixando margem para dรบvidas. Mas nรฃo desisti das investigaรงรตes. Eu fui em frente. Eu tinha acabado de desistir do meu pai. E entรฃo passei para outro membro da famรญlia.
ร verdade que, com este, nรฃo tive nada a temer; Por outro lado, nรฃo parecia que eu iria conseguir muito. Meu irmรฃo Srulic.
–Srulic – disse a ele, quando estรกvamos sozinhos -, preste atenรงรฃo no que vou dizer. Dรช uma boa olhada no retrato do vovรด e me diga qual era a cor da barba dele.
Os olhos de Srulic brilharam, ele ficou orgulhoso por eu estar me dirigindo a ele de forma tรฃo educada.
–A cor?!
–Sim, a cor.
–Cor?!
–Entรฃo vocรช nรฃo sabe qual รฉ a cor? Branco, preto, azul, vermelho, roxo. Vocรช entende? Imediatamente vi que nรฃo, desisti dele.
Continuei minha investigaรงรฃo com as outras pessoas que costumavam entrar na casa. Falei com todos, sem exceรงรฃo, e todos, alรฉm de mostrarem uma expressรฃo de surpresa, estranhando a pergunta, foram unรขnimes em dizer que eu estava enganado. ร claro que, a essa altura, minhas convicรงรตes jรก davam sinais de abalar e comecei a aceitar a ideia de que estava enganado. E o pior de tudo รฉ que o fato passou a ser de domรญnio pรบblico, obrigando-me a aceitar ironias de ambos os lados.
–Descobriu mais algum cabelo grisalho? – perguntou meu pai. Decidi esquecer o assunto.
Quando passei no vestibular para o Ginรกsio Estadual, esse fato despertou muita alegria em casa; Naquela รฉpoca nรฃo era fรกcil conseguir uma vaga no ensino mรฉdio. Portanto, minha conquista teve sabor de vitรณria e me proporcionou uma verdadeira consagraรงรฃo da minha famรญlia. A notรญcia se espalhou rapidamente.
Dai a pouco, nossa casa ficou completamente cheia. Os vizinhos estavam chegando, cumprimentando meu pai, que estava um eufรณrico. Mamรฃe preparou os copos, estendeu a toalha branca na estava na mesa e nรฃo parava de trazer cupcakes da cozinha. Bu, que era o herรณi, naturalmente se divertiu com tudo. Mas no local, entre o grupo que me cercava, olhei casualmente para o retrato. Os olhos me olharam felizes. Vocรช tive e novamente aquela estranha impressรฃo de que a barba parecia mais grisalha. Um bom nรบmero de cabelos grisalhos se somaria aos que eu jรก pensava conhecer. Eu cheguei mais perto.
–Parabรฉns – meu avรด sussurrou para mim.
Alguns meses se passaram. Fizemos uma pequena reforma, trocamos alguns mรณveis, mamรฃe pintou a sala e trocou as cortinas. Durante a pintura, o vidro do retrato quebrou. Papai teve que levรก-lo ao vidraceiro; Enquanto isso, mamรฃe guardou no armรกrio. Depois, passou um bom tempo sem que tivรฉssemos notรญcias dele. Sรณ fui vรช-lo novamente depois de vรกrios meses, casualmente. Um dia (isso foi por volta dos meses finais da guerra), ao vasculhar o pequeno depรณsito, encontrei-o encostado num canto, um pouco empoeirado, junto com algumas bugigangas. Limpei o vidro, que ainda estava quebrado, com um pano e aproximei-o da janela para ver melhor ร luz. Lรก estava meu avรด: os รณculos sem aro, as rugas na testa, o meio sorriso no canto dos lรกbios. Os olhos me olharam com curiosidade. A barba estava completamente branca.
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El retrato
El retrato estaba ubicado en medio de la pared de nuestro comedor, frente a la mesa. Era un dibujo antiguo, hecho con crayones, con un marco de cristal y un marco dorado grande y elegante. En รฉl aparecรญa mi abuelo luciendo su larga barba negra y unas gafas sin montura; los ojos, grandes y luminosos, dominaban el rostro. Algunas arrugas en su frente le daban un aspecto mรกs serio, en contraste con la expresiรณn de su boca, que contenรญa una media sonrisa.
Desde que tengo uso de razรณn, el retrato siempre ha estado ahรญ. Estรกbamos tan acostumbrados que pasรณ desapercibido, como cualquier otra cosa comรบn en la habitaciรณn. Pero en mi caso no fue asรญ.
La mesa grande de la sala era normalmente la mesa donde solรญa dar mis lecciones. Todos los dรญas colocaba allรญ sus libros y cuadernos, permaneciendo allรญ durante varias horas, hasta completar el trabajo. A veces, un poco distraรญdo, miraba el retrato y luego, con sus grandes ojos, me miraba seriamente detrรกs del objetivo. Tuve la impresiรณn de que les interesaba todo lo que hacรญa; No me dejarรญan ni por un momento. Como tenรญa la costumbre de repetir los puntos al observar los puntos moviรฉndose de un lado a otro de la habitaciรณn, incluso podรญa sentir como me seguรญan; no sรณlo los ojos, sino todo el rostro. Se volvieron hacia mรญ y prรกcticamente me siguieron. Sentรญ tanto la presencia de mi abuelo que, con el tiempo, comencรฉ a tener, por asรญ decirlo, un diรกlogo silencioso con รฉl. Le contรฉ mis dudas, le sugerรญ mis problemas, me confiรฉ mis planes y aventuras. A veces, el dรญa antes de los exรกmenes, me quedaba estudiando hasta altas horas de la noche. La casa estaba muy silenciosa. Todos durmieron. A solas con mis libros, intentรฉ repasar los รบltimos puntos. Cuando, exhausto y adormecido, me detuve por un breve momento, vi esos grandes ojos mirรกndome fijamente, como si me miraran con curiosidad. Creo que a pocas personas en la casa les importaba el retrato. Por mi parte, lo conocรญa tan bien que podรญa reproducirlo hasta el mรกs mรญnimo detalle. Podรญa saber de memoria el nรบmero de arrugas de su frente, el corte de su cabello y barba, el estilo de sus gafas, la luz de sus ojos, la forma de sus orejas y nariz. Sin embargo, de vez en cuando podrรญa jurar que habรญa pasado por algunos cambios. Las arrugas a veces parecรญan mรกs profundas, a veces menos; la media sonrisa en las comisuras de sus labios fue reemplazada por una expresiรณn diferente, casi triste; Las gafas montadas en su nariz habรญan cambiado ligeramente de posiciรณn. Pero eran diferencias tan insignificantes que tenรญa dudas. Sin embargo, de una cosa estaba absolutamente seguro: de su barba. Siempre pensรฉ que era negro; la barba negra de un profeta. No tenรญa dudas sobre eso. Y fue un verdadero shock para mรญ cuando, una noche, mirando el retrato, especialmente la barba, descubrรญ algunos reflejos. Fui allรญ y examinรฉ su rostro. Efectivamente, habรญa algunas canas. ยฟNo los habรญa notado antes?
–ยฟNo notaste nada en el retrato?
–ยฟQuรฉ retrato?
–Del abuelo.
–ยฟA quรฉ le temo al retrato?
–ยฟNo crees que la barba se ve un poco diferente?
–ยฟDiferente? ยกยฟComo?!
Levantรณ la cabeza, me mirรณ y luego mirรณ el retrato.
–ยฟQuรฉ ves diferente?
–ยฟNo crees que te estรกn saliendo algunas canas?
–ยกAh, eso! Estos cables siempre han sido blancos.
–Pero mamรก, la barba del abuelo era negra. Mamรก se riรณ a carcajadas; No insistรญ mรกs. La otra noche me acerquรฉ a mi padre. En el momento en que dejรณ el periรณdico, me unรญ a la conversaciรณn. Al principio preguntรฉ quiรฉn habรญa dibujado el retrato y cuรกndo lo habรญan traรญdo. Cuando pensรฉ que papรก estaba lo suficientemente preparado, fui directo al grano:
–ยฟNo notas ninguna diferencia en รฉl?
–ยฟComo esto?
–La โโbarba tiene hilos blancos; antes no existรญa.
–Debes estar loco, siempre habrรก canas. Dicho esto, echรณ un rรกpido vistazo al retrato y volviรณ a coger el periรณdico. Sus palabras fueron incisivas y no dejaron lugar a dudas. Pero no abandonรฉ las investigaciones. Seguรญ adelante. Acababa de renunciar a mi padre. Y luego se lo pasรฉ a otro miembro de la familia.
Es cierto que con รฉste no tenรญa nada que temer; Por otro lado, no parecรญa que fuera a conseguir mucho. Mi hermano Srulic.
–Srulic โ le dije, cuando estรกbamos solos โ, presta atenciรณn a lo que voy a decir. Mira bien el retrato del abuelo y dime de quรฉ color era su barba.
Los ojos de Srulic se iluminaron, estaba orgulloso de que me dirigiera a รฉl con tanta educaciรณn.
–ยกยฟEl color?!
–Sรญ, el color.
–ยกยฟColor?!
–ยฟEntonces no sabes de quรฉ color es? Blanco, negro, azul, rojo, morado. ยฟLo entiendes? Inmediatamente vi que no, lo abandonรฉ.
Continuรฉ mi investigaciรณn con las otras personas que solรญan entrar a la casa. Hablรฉ con todos, sin excepciรณn, y todos, ademรกs de mostrar una expresiรณn de sorpresa, encontrando extraรฑa la pregunta, fueron unรกnimes en decir que me habรญa equivocado. Por supuesto, en este punto, mis convicciones
Ya daban seรฑales de temblar y comencรฉ a aceptar la idea de que estaba equivocado. Y lo peor de todo es que el hecho pasรณ a ser de dominio pรบblico, obligรกndome a aceptar la ironรญa de ambas partes.
–ยฟDescubriste mรกs canas? – preguntรณ mi padre. Decidรญ olvidarme del asunto. Cuando aprobรฉ el examen de ingreso al Gimnasio del Estado, este hecho provocรณ mucha alegrรญa en casa; En aquella รฉpoca no era fรกcil conseguir una plaza en el bachillerato. Por eso, mi logro tuvo sabor a victoria y me dio una verdadera consagraciรณn de mi familia. La noticia se difundiรณ rรกpidamente.
Pronto nuestra casa estuvo completamente llena. Los vecinos iban llegando, saludando a mi padre, quien estaba eufรณrico. Mamรก preparรณ los vasos, extendiรณ el mantel blanco sobre la mesa y siguiรณ trayendo pastelitos de la cocina. A Bu, que era el hรฉroe, naturalmente le divertรญa todo. Pero allรญ, entre el grupo que me rodeaba, mirรฉ casualmente el retrato. Los ojos me miraron felices. Una vez mรกs tuviste esa extraรฑa impresiรณn de que tu barba parecรญa mรกs gris. Un buen nรบmero de canas se sumarรญan a las que ya creรญa conocer. Me acerquรฉ.
–Felicidades โ me susurrรณ mi abuelo.
Pasaron unos meses. Hicimos una pequeรฑa renovaciรณn, cambiamos algunos muebles, mamรก pintรณ la sala y cambiรณ las cortinas. Durante la pintura, el cristal del retrato se rompiรณ. Papรก tuvo que llevarlo al vidriero; Mientras tanto, mamรก lo guardรณ en el armario. Despuรฉs pasรณ mucho tiempo sin que supiรฉramos nada de รฉl. Sรณlo volvรญ a verlo despuรฉs de varios meses, de manera casual. Un dรญa (esto fue en los รบltimos meses de la guerra), mientras buscaba en el pequeรฑo almacรฉn, lo encontrรฉ recostado en un rincรณn, un poco polvoriento, junto con algunas chucherรญas. Limpiรฉ el cristal, que aรบn estaba roto, con un paรฑo y lo acerquรฉ a la ventana para ver mejor con la luz. Allรญ estaba mi abuelo: las gafas sin montura, las arrugas en la frente, la media sonrisa en las comisuras de los labios. Los ojos me miraron con curiosidad. La barba estaba completamente blanca.
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The Portrait
The portrait was located in the middle of the wall in our dining room, opposite the table. It was an old drawing, made in crayon, with a glass structure and a large, stylish gold frame. In it, my grandfather appeared sporting his long black beard and a pair of rimless glasses; The eyes, large and luminous, dominated the face. Some wrinkles on his forehead gave him a more serious appearance, in contrast to the expression on his mouth, which contained a half smile. Ever since I met, the portrait has always been there. We were so used to it that it went unnoticed, like everything else in the room. But in my case, it wasn’t quite like that. The large table in the room was usually the table where I did the exercises. Every day, he placed the books and notebooks in it, remaining there for several hours, until the work was completed. Sometimes, a little distracted, he would look at the portrait, then, with his big eyes, he would look at me seriously through the lens. I had the impression that they were interested in everything I did; don’t let me go for a moment. As I watched the dots walking from one side of the room to the other, I could even feel how they were following me; not only their eyes, but their entire faces. They turned in my direction and virtually followed me. I felt my grandfather’s presence so much that, over time, I began to have, so to speak, a silent dialogue with him. I would tell him my doubts, suggest my problems to him, confide in him my plans and adventures. Sometimes, on the eve of exams, I would stay up studying until late at night. The house would be very quiet. Everyone was asleep. Alone with my books, I would try to review the last points. When, exhausted and nodding off from sleep, I would pause for a brief moment, I would catch those big eyes fixed on me, as if looking at me curiously. I think that few people in the house cared about the portrait. For my part, I knew him so well that I could reproduce him in the smallest detail. I could tell by heart the number of wrinkles on his forehead, the cut of his hair and beard, the style of his glasses, the light in his eyes, the shape of his ears and nose. However, from time to time I could swear that he had undergone some changes. The wrinkles sometimes seemed deeper, sometimes less so; the half-smile at the corners of his lips was replaced by a different, almost sad expression; the spectacles mounted on his nose had changed slightly in position. But these were such insignificant differences that I was left in doubt. Of one thing, however, I felt absolutely certain: his beard. I had always thought it was black; the black beard of a prophet. I had no doubt about that. And it was a real shock for me when, one evening, as I looked at the portrait, particularly at the beard, I discovered some reflections. I went over and examined her face. Sure enough, there were some gray hairs. Hadn’t I noticed them before?
–Didn’t you notice anything in the portrait?
–What portrait?
–Grandpa’s.
–What do I fear portrait?
–Don’t you think the beard looks a little different?
–Different? As?! She raised her head, looked at me, and then looked at the portrait.
–What do you see different?
–Don’t you think some gray hairs are appearing?
–Oh, that! These wires have always been white.
–But, mom, grandpa’s beard was black. Mom laughed loudly; I didn’t insist anymore. The other night, I approached my father. The moment he put down the newspaper, I joined the conversation. Initially I asked who had drawn the portrait and when they brought it. When I thought Dad was sufficiently prepared, I got straight to the point:
–You don’t notice any difference in him?
–Like this?
–The beard has white strands; it didn’t exist before. You must be crazy, there will always be gray hair. Saying this, she took a quick look at the portrait and picked up the newspaper again. Her words were incisive, leaving no room for doubt. But I didn’t give up on the investigations. I went ahead. I had just given up on my father. And then I passed it on to another family member.
It’s true that, with this one, I had nothing to fear; On the other hand, it didn’t seem like I was going to achieve much. My brother Srulic.
It’s true that, with this one, I had nothing to fear; On the other hand, it didn’t seem like I was going to achieve much. My brother Srulic.
–Srulic – I said to him, when we were alone -, pay attention to what I’m going to say. Take a good look at Grandpaโs portrait and tell me what the color of his beard was. Srulic’s eyes shone, he felt proud that I was addressing him so politely.
–The color?!
–Yes, the color.
–Color?!
–So, you don’t know what color is? White, black, blue, red, purple. Do you understand?
I immediately saw that no, I gave up on him. I continued my investigation with the other people who usually entered the house. I spoke to them all, without any exception, and all of them, in addition to showing a look of surprise, finding the question strange, were unanimous in saying that I was mistaken. Of course, by this time my convictions were already showing signs of shaking and I began to come to terms with the idea that I was mistaken. And the worst of all is that the fact had become public domain, forcing me to accept irony from both sides.
–Did you discover any more gray hairs? – asked my father. I decided to forget the matter. When I passed the entrance exams to the State Gymnasium, that aroused great joy at home; it wasn’t easy in those times to get a place in high school. Therefore, my achievement had the flavor of a victory and gave me true consecration from my family. The news spread quickly.
Bit by bit, our house became completely full. The neighbors were arriving, greeting my father, who was euphoric. Mom prepared the glasses, laid out the white tablecloth on the table and didn’t stop bringing cupcakes from the kitchen. But, he who was the hero, naturally reveled in everything. But at the scene, among the group that surrounded me, I looked casually at the portrait. The eyes looked at me happily. I once again had that strange impression that the beard appeared grayer. A good number of gray hairs would be added to those I already thought I knew. I got closer.
–Congratulations – my grandfather whispered to me. A few months passed. We had a small renovation, moved some furniture, mom painted the living room and changed the curtains.
During the painting, the glass of the portrait broke. Dad had to take him to the glazier; Meanwhile, Mom put it in the closet. Afterwards, a good period of time passed without us hearing from him. I only went to see it again after several months, casually. One day (this was around the final months of the war), when rummaging through the little storage room, I found it leaning in a corner, a bit dusty, along with some trinkets. I wiped the glass, which was still broken, with a cloth and brought it closer to the window to see it better in the light. There was my grandfather: the rimless glasses, the wrinkles on his forehead, the half-smile at the corner of his lips. The eyes looked at me curiously. The beard was completely white.
– O nosso hornero estรก no ponto? – perguntou maยญ mรฃe a meu pai, que estava lendo o jornal.
Lรก do meu canto, levantei as orelhas, porque era de mim que se falava. Faltava pouco para o dia do meu Bar-Mitzva e eu me encontrava preocupado, tanto quanto ela.
Afinal de contas, quem irรญa fazer no templo as brachot da Torรก e o longo discurso com citaรงรตes do Talmud era eu. Tambรฉm me pesava a idรฉia de que, com treze anos, conforme me tinham dito, eu completava a maioridade, me tornava um “hornero” e assumia urna carga de responsabilidades, para o que, em sa consciencia, nao me sentia com nenhum preparo.
Dava tratos a bola: como รฉ que um “homem” como eu poยญdรญa, por exemplo, ganhar a vida e sustentar-se, se fosse o caยญ so? Deus me livre se tivesse de ocupar a cadeira do chefe da famรญlia, tomar as rรฉdeas da casa e de tudo o mais.
Ter de enfrentar, nesse sรกbado, os vizinhos, o rabino, os chachomim do Bom Retiro, que viriam em peso ao templo sรณ para assistir ao meu Bar-Mitzva, isso me deixava bem deยญsassossegado. Nao ligar para a piscada de olhos dos garotos, que tudo fariam para rir de rnim, eis outro pesadelo, nada fรกยญ cil de engolir.
Quanto ao meu irmรฃo, felizmente com esse nao tive proยญblemas, pois, antes que ele comeรงasse com as suas, eu jรก lhe lera a entender que queria o mรกximo respeito, nao deixaria passar em nuvens brancas nenhuma brincadeira de mau gosยญ to. Mas, como controlar meus amigos? Como resistir aos seus olhares, cheios de ironia e degozaรงรฃo?
Papai abaixou o jornal, tirou os รณculos e olhou para mim.
–O nosso homem estรก muito bem.
Mamรฃe deu um suspiro e voltou para a cozinha, onde andava preparando, com a ajuda de Dona Paulina, os pratos especiais da festa, essa parte a que ela proclamava como “a minha parte”.
Ao que me pareceu, o รบnico que nao demonstrava neยญnhuma preocupaรงรฃo com a tempestade que vinha aรญ era o meu pai. Ele andava sorridente, cantarolava a meia voz, esfregava satisfeito as mรฃos, e os seus ares eram de um hornero feliz que encara o amanha como urna benc,:ao dos cรฉus e se sente bem neste mundo de Deus. la de um quarto para outro, a procura nao sei bem do que; metia-se na cozinha para dar alguns palยญ pites, o que, aliรกs, nao era do seu feitio. Voltava ao seu jorยญnal, interrompia a leitura e gritava para a cozinha:
–Estou as ordens. Nao vo precisar de alguma coisa?
O pessoal da cozinha queria paz e sossego, nada mais do que isso, e tempo para trabalhar.–Que cada um cuide da sua parte – era o que mamรฃe vivia dizendo. – Eu sei qual รฉ a minha parte, meu Deus.
Com todo esse movimento, imagina-se o meu estado de espรญrito. Duma hora para outra, eu virava o centro da casa, chamavam-me de “o nosso homem”, me davarn urna atenยญ c,:ao que nunca tive, nem sonhei ter. Queriarn saber se eu estaยญ va passando bern e corno ia a rninha voz. Mamae me trazia oe-dac;:os de pifo com gordura de galinha. Papai puxava prosa coยญ migo num tom diferente, cheio de brandura, cheio de respeito.
–Ei, o senhor aรญ! Que tal uma “liรงรฃozinha”? – perguntava-me, cantarolando.
E, pela milรฉsima vez, eu repetia as brachot da Torรก, usando a melodia que ele me ensinara. Depois, repetia o disยญ curso com todas aquelas citac;:oes do Talmud. Pelos seus olhos, que nao escondiam nada, eu sabia que estava indo bem.
—Koi ornar Adoshem.
–ร-ti-mo de no-vo – repetia meu pai, no mesmo diapasรฃo, e lรก ia eu, outra vez.
Na manha do sรกbado, a sinagoga estava cheia. O talis de seda, que papai me comprara, cobria-me os ombros e me rocava as faces afogueadas. Fizeram-me sentar ao lado doraยญ bino, esse mesmo que permutava jornais idish com meu pai. Do lado do balรงรฃo, as mulheres nao tiravam os olhos de mim, lรก estavam como seus vestidos de Shabat, as cabeรงas coberยญtas por xales brancos. Dava para ver mรฃmae e Dona Paulina rezando pelo mesmo livro.
O hazan Avrum, em frente do Aron-Acodesch, entoaยญ va, com sua voz de “baixo”, as dezoito oraรงรตes.
Tendo chegado a minha vez, encaminhei-me junto com meu pai em direcรงรฃo da grande mesa onde estavam abertos os rolos da Torรก. E, no devido tempo, em meio ao silencio que se fizera na pequena sinagoga, comecei a cantar:
—Koi omar Adoshem.
Coma voz ecoando por todo o salao, ainda que meio embargada, e com o corac;:ao palpitante, eu sentia que estava encerrando nesse momento um ciclo de minha vida.
Ao me virar para o pรบblico, que esperava o tradicional discurso, olhei para o meu pai, a poucos passos de mim, e proยญ curei mรฃ
mae, no alto do balรงao. Depois, abrindo os brรฃรงos, comecei:
Meu povo…
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El Bar Mitzvรก
–ยฟEstรก nuestro homem en punto? – preguntรณ mi madre a mi padre, que estaba leyendo el periรณdico.
Desde mi esquina levantรฉ el oรญdo, porque era de mรญ de quien se hablaba. No pasรณ mucho tiempo antes de que mi Bar Mitzva y yo estuviรฉramos preocupados, tanto como ella.
Despuรฉs de todo, yo era quien iba a dar las berajot de la Torรก y el largo discurso con citas del Talmud en el templo. Tambiรฉn me pesaba la idea de que, a los trece aรฑos, como me habรญan dicho, alcanzarรญa la mayorรญa de edad, me convertirรญa en hornero y asumirรญa un montรณn de responsabilidades, para las cuales, en conciencia, me No me sentรญ preparado de ninguna manera.
Era un gran problema: ยฟcรณmo podrรญa un “hombre” como yo, por ejemplo, ganarse la vida y mantenerse, si ese fuera el caso? Dios no lo quiera si tuviera que ocupar el puesto de cabeza de familia, encargarme de la casa y de todo lo demรกs.
Tener que enfrentarme ese sรกbado a los vecinos, al rabino y a los jajomim de Bom Retiro, que vendrรญan en masa al templo sรณlo para asistir a mi Bar-Mitzvรก, me inquietรณ mucho. No prestar atenciรณn a los ojos guiรฑantes de los chicos, que harรญan cualquier cosa por reรญrse de ti, es otra pesadilla, no fรกcil de tragar.
En cuanto a mi hermano, afortunadamente no tuve ningรบn problema con รฉl, porque antes de que empezara con el suyo ya lo habรญa leรญdo para entender que querรญa el mรกximo respeto, no dejarรญa pasar ninguna broma de mal gusto en nubes blancas. ยฟPero cรณmo controlo a mis amigos? ยฟCรณmo resistirme a sus miradas, llenas de ironรญa y burla?
Papรก dejรณ el periรณdico, se quitรณ las gafas y me mirรณ.
–Nuestro hombre estรก muy bien.
Mamรก suspirรณ y regresรณ a la cocina, donde estaba preparando, con ayuda de doรฑa Paulina, los platos especiales para la fiesta, esa parte de la que proclamรณ como “mi parte”.
Me pareciรณ que el รบnico que no mostrรณ ninguna preocupaciรณn por la tormenta que se avecinaba era mi padre. Caminaba sonriendo, tarareando en voz baja, frotรกndose las manos con satisfacciรณn, y su aire era el de un hombre feliz que ve el maรฑana como una bendiciรณn del cielo y se siente a gusto en el mundo de Dios. De una habitaciรณn a otra, busco, no sรฉ exactamente quรฉ; Fue a la cocina para hacer algunas conjeturas, lo cual, por cierto, no era propio de รฉl. Volviรณ al periรณdico, dejรณ de leer y gritรณ en la cocina:
–Estoy bajo รณrdenes. ยฟNo necesitas nada?
El personal de la cocina querรญa paz y tranquilidad, nada mรกs que eso, y tiempo para trabajar. -Que cada uno haga su parte -eso decรญa mamรก. – Sรฉ cuรกl es mi parte, Dios mรญo.
Con todo este movimiento, os podรฉis imaginar mi estado de รกnimo. De un momento a otro me convertรญ en el centro de la casa, me llamaban โnuestro hombreโ, me brindaban una atenciรณn que nunca tuve, ni soรฑรฉ tener. Querรญa saber si estaba bien y cรณmo estaba la vocecita. Mamรก solรญa traerme oe-dac;:os hechos con grasa de pollo. Papรก me hablรณ en un tono diferente, lleno de dulzura, lleno de respeto.
–ยกOye, estรกs ahรญ! ยฟQuรฉ tal una “pequeรฑa lecciรณn”? – me preguntรณ tarareando.
Y, por milรฉsima vez, repetรญ las berajot de la Torรก, usando la melodรญa que รฉl me habรญa enseรฑado. Luego repitiรณ el discurso con todas esas citas del Talmud. Por sus ojos, que no ocultaban nada, supe que estaba bien.
–Los koi adornan a Adoshem.
–O-tรบ otra vez โ repitiรณ mi padre, en el mismo tono, y ahรญ fui, otra vez.
El sรกbado por la maรฑana la sinagoga estaba llena. Los tallis de seda que me habรญa comprado mi padre cubrรญan mis hombros y tocaban mis mejillas sonrojadas. Me hicieron sentar al lado de Bino, la misma persona que intercambiaba periรณdicos en yiddish con mi padre. Al lado del mostrador, las mujeres no me quitaban los ojos de encima, estaban allรญ con sus vestidos de Shabat y sus cabezas cubiertas con chales blancos. Se podรญa ver a mamรก y a doรฑa Paulina orando por el mismo libro.
Hazan Avrum, delante del Aron-Acodesch, cantรณ, con su voz de “bajo”, las dieciocho oraciones.
Cuando llegรณ mi turno, caminรฉ con mi padre hacia la gran mesa donde estaban abiertos los rollos de la Torรก. Y, a su debido tiempo, en medio del silencio que reinรณ en la pequeรฑa sinagoga, comencรฉ a cantar:
–Koi omar Adoshem.
Con mi voz resonando por toda la habitaciรณn, aunque un poco entrecortada, y con el corazรณn latiendo con fuerza, sentรญ que estaba cerrando un ciclo de mi vida en ese momento.
Mientras me volvรญa hacia el pรบblico que esperaba el tradicional discurso, mirรฉ a mi padre, a unos pasos de mรญ, y busquรฉ a mi madre.
madre, en lo alto del balcรณn. Entonces, abriendo los brazos, comencรฉ:
Mi genteโฆ
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El Bar Mitzvah –
–Are is our man ready? – my mother asked my father , who was reading the newspaper.
From my corner I raised my ear, because it was my place to speak. There was a lot of time before my Bar Mitzva and we were worried, just as much as she was.
After all, I was able to give the speeches of the Torah and the long speech with quotes from the Talmud in the temple. I was also weighed down by the idea that, in the last three years, as I said, I would reach the majority of the age, I would become a man and take on a lot of responsibilities, for which, in conscience, I didn’t feel prepared in any way .
It was a big problem: how could a “man” like you, for example, gain life and maintain it, if that were the case? God didn’t want to if he had to occupy the family head post, take charge of the house and everything else.
Having to face myself this Saturday at the vecinos, the rabbi and the jajomim from Bom Retiro, who came to the temple alone to attend my Bar Mitzvah, made me very worried. Don’t pay attention to the guiรฑante eyes of children, who will do anything to get rid of you, it’s another nightmare, not easy to swallow.
As for my brother, luckily I didn’t have any problems with him, because before I started with him I had read him to understand that he wanted maximum respect, I wouldn’t have to pass anyone a bad taste in white clouds. But how do I control my friends? How can I resist his looks, full of irony and mockery?
Dad left the newspaper, he left the glasses and looked at me.
–Our man is very good.
Mom sighed and returned to the kitchen, where she was preparing, with the help of Doรฑa Paulina, the special dishes for the fiesta, that part of which she proclaimed as “my part”.
It seemed to me that the only one who showed no concern about the storm that arose was my father. He walked smiling, chatting in a low voice, frotting his hands with satisfaction, and his air was that of a happy man who sees the morning as a blessing of the sky and feels like it in the world of God. From one room to another, I look for exactly what; I went to the kitchen to make some conjectures, which, of course, was not appropriate for him. He turned to the newspaper, stopped reading and shouted in the kitchen: –I’m under orders. Don’t you need anything?
The kitchen staff wanted peace and tranquility, nothing more than that, and time to work.
–That each one has their own part of it -that’s what Mom says. – – I know my part, dear Lord,
With all this movement, you can imagine my state of mind. From one moment to another I became the center of the house, they called me โour manโ, they gave me attention that I never had, never had. I wanted to know if he was okay and how he was with you. Mama solรญa traerme oe-dac;:os hechos con grasa de pollo. Daddy spoke to me in a different tone, full of sweetness, full of respect.
–ยกOye, you’re there! How about a “small lesson”? – he asked me, gossiping.
And, for the thousandth time, I repeated the words of the Torah, using the melody that was taught to me. Then he repeated the speech with all these quotes from the Talmud. By his eyes, which didn’t hide anything, she assumes he’s fine.
—Koi adorn Adoshem.
–O-you again โ my to my father repeated in the same tone, and then I went once more.
On Saturday morning the synagogue was full. The silk tallis that my father had bought me covered my shoulders and wore my dreamy bags. It made me sit next to the rabbi, the same person who exchanged periodicals in Yiddish with my father. From the balcony, the women didn’t leave their eyes from me, they were there with their Shabbat dresses and their heads covered with white shawls. You could see mom and doรฑa Paulina praying for the same book.
Hazan Avrum, before Aron-Acodesch, sang, with his “low” voice, the prayers.
When I left my turn, I walked with my father to the big table where the Torah scrolls were open. And, at the right time, in the midst of the silence that reigned in the small synagogue, he began to sing: —Koi omar Adoshem.
With my voice resonating throughout the room, even a little choppy, and with my heart barking with strength, I felt like I was closing a cycle of my life at that moment.
As I turned towards the public that was waiting for the traditional speech, I went to my father, a few steps away from me, and looked for my mother on top of the balcony. Then, opening my arms, I begin:
Aรญda Socolovsky naciรณ en Montevideo. Estudiรณ en la Escuela de Bellas Artes y le Taller Torres Garcรญa. Se perfeccionรณ con Guillermo Fernรกndez y Nelson Ramos. Realizรณ mรกs de un centenar de exposiciones individuales y colectivas en su paรญs y EE.UU. Obtuvo innumerables premios. Poseen su obra colecciones de los EE.UU., El Salvador y Rรญo de Janeiro. Su obra integra los libros Al sur del sur de Susana Negri y 12 pintores uruguayos de Ernesto Heine.
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Aรญda Socolovsky was born in Montevideo. She studied in the School of Fine Arts and the Torres Garcรญa Studio. She completed her studies with Guillermo Fernรกndez and Nelson Ramos. She has had more than a hundred individual and group exhibitions in Uruguay and the United States. She won innumerable prizes. Collections in the United States, El Salvador and Rio de Janeiro own her works. She is Included in the books Al sur del sur [To the South of the South] by Susana Negri and 12 pintores uruguayos [12 Uruguayan Painters] by Ernesto Heine.
Nacido en 1930 en Connecticut, el rabino Marshall T. Meyer comenzรณ su lucha espiritual en Dartmouth College, donde tuvo la suerte de encontrar un maestro superlativo, Abraham Joshua Heschel, quizรกs el filรณsofo judรญo mรกs influyente de su tiempo. Mientras el rabino Meyer creaba una gran comunidad judรญa en Argentina, se convirtiรณ en uno de los pocos crรญticos abiertos de la represiva junta militar argentina que se apoderรณ del paรญs. Fue el รบnico no argentino designado para la Comisiรณn Nacional de Investigaciรณn de Desaparecidos. Ganador del premio mรกs alto de Argentina otorgado a un no ciudadano, fue una figura de renombre mundial que dinamizรณ el judaรญsmo estadounidense cuando regresรณ a Estados Unidos en 1985. Muriรณ en 1993.
Jane Tsay
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Born in 1930 in Connecticut, Rabbi Marshall T. Meyer began his spiritual struggle at Dartmouth College, where he was fortunate enough to find a superlative teacher, Abraham Joshua Heschel, perhaps the most influential Jewish philosopher of his time. While Rabbi Meyer was creating a large Jewish community in Argentina, he became one of the few outspoken critics of the repressive Argentine military junta that took over the country. He was the only non-Argentine appointed to the National Commission for the Investigation of the Disappeared. Recipient of Argentina’s highest award granted to a non-citizen, he was a figure of world renown who energized American Judaism when he returned the the United States in 1985. He died in 1993.
Jane Tsay
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Cรณmo puedo quejarme de pesadillas? ยฟPor quรฉ mi corazรณn no se llena de gratitud? Despuรฉs de todo, ninguno de mis hijos desapareciรณ. Mi esposa no desapareciรณ. No desaparecรญ. Sufro de insomnio; desde la adolescencia he padecido insomnio. (La mayor parte de mis pensamientos y meditaciones se concentran durante las horas nocturnas, en el silencio y la oscuridad). Es un pequeรฑo precio a pagar por haber vivido en Argentina durante veinticinco aรฑos (1959-1984) y ser activo en la lucha por los derechos humanos. movimiento allรญ durante ese perรญodo agotador. En esa lรญnea de siglo hubo quince presidentes, de los cuales sรณlo seis fueron elegidos en elecciones democrรกticas por el pueblo argentino. Siete presidentes representaron juntas militares que pisotearon no muy gradualmente los derechos civiles y humanos hasta llegar al punto mรกs bajo del infierno entre 1976 y 1983.
ยฟQuรฉ significa ser uno de los desaparecidos? ยฟQuiรฉn lo sabรญa? ยฟQuiรฉn hizo algo para ayudar? ยฟQuiรฉn eligiรณ a los que iban a desaparecer? ยฟHubo algรบn motivo para la desapariciรณn? ยฟLas desapariciones siguieron un patrรณn? ยฟCรณmo fue vivir en una ciudad altamente cosmopolita y sofisticada como Buenos Aires y escuchar en la escuela, en la universidad o en el trabajo que el niรฑo o la niรฑa (o el hombre o la mujer) que ayer estaba sentado a tu lado desapareciรณ anoche? ยฟCรณmo es entrar al dormitorio de tu ser querido y encontrarlo no allรญ? ยฟNi hoy, ni maรฑana, ni nunca? ยฟCรณmo es estar de luto sin un cadรกver que enterrar? ยฟCรณmo serรญa no tener la mรกs mรญnima nociรณn de lo que le pasรณ a tu hijo, o hija, o hermano, o hermana, o amigo?
Las tropas aliadas encontraron listas porque los nazis mantenรญan archivos completos de los prisioneros de los campos de concentraciรณn: quiรฉn fue incinerado y quiรฉn fue fusilado, quiรฉn fue gaseado y quiรฉn muriรณ de hambre. Pero en Argentina las รบnicas listas que existen son esas listas incompletas hechas por los padres y familiares y amigos que lenta y tortuosamente decidieron que no ayudaban con su silencio a sus hijos ni a sus seres queridos; que simplemente no era cierto lo que tantas instituciones y personas decรญan: “Serรก mejor que no presentes un recurso de hรกbeas corpus porque sรณlo le pondrรกs las cosas mรกs difรญciles a tu hijo”; o “No es prudente acudir a la policรญa, ni al Ministerio del Interior, ni al ejรฉrcito, ni a la marina, ni a la fuerza aรฉrea. Sรณlo torturarรกn mรกs a su hijo si lo hace. No haga escรกndalo. Ya veremos, dentro de unos dรญas volverรก a estar en casa”.
Quizรกs el peor dolor sea la duda persistente: ยฟSoy culpable de algo? ยฟMi hijo o hija estuvo involucrado en una banda terrorista? Despuรฉs de todo, todo el mundo dice: “Por algo serรก. En algo habrรก estado metido”. (Debe haber alguna razรณn. Debe haber estado involucrado en algo.) Respondes tu propia respuesta: “Eso es ridรญculo. Sรฉ perfectamente bien que no estuvo involucrado en ninguna organizaciรณn polรญtica”.
Por otro lado, los periรณdicos y muchos otros sugieren que los terroristas de extrema izquierda matan a sus propios miembros para que no revelen ningรบn secreto. Otros afirman que muchas personas se han hecho desaparecer y se han escapado a otros paรญses. “Pero mi hijo o mi hija no me harรญan eso. ยกNo estรกbamos distanciados!”
Conforme va pasando el tiempo, empiezas a conocer a otras personas que te cuentan historias similares. A medida que pasan los aรฑos, cada vez mรกs personas conocen a alguien que ha “desaparecido”. Si se leen los periรณdicos correctos (muy pocos) -“La Opiniรณn”, el diario inglรฉs “The Buenos Aires Herald”, “Nueva Presencia”-, los nombres de los desaparecidos comienzan a aparecer regularmente. Cada vez mรกs editoriales y cartas a El editor apareciรณ bajo el tรญtulo “Nombre oculto”. Poco a poco se hace evidente que la naciรณn se estรก convirtiendo en un infierno. La vida es insoportable para aquellos cuyos seres queridos han desaparecido. Los incรณmodos intentos de sus amigos por consolarlo a usted–nunca a costa de perder el sueรฑo o el dinero o arriesgar la posiciรณn-hacen el infierno todo lo mรกs insoportable.
Hay algรบn juez ocasional que intenta trabajar dentro del debido proceso legal, ese precioso proceso que es el รบltimo refugio de la jungla de la muerte totalitaria. Pero esos jueces tambiรฉn desaparecen. La gente dijo que รฉsta es una “guerra sucia” -como si alguna vez hubiera guerras “limpias”- y que la รบnica manera de acabar con el terrorismo es mediante el uso del terror. No hubo muchas voces que proclamaran que eso engendra terror; que cuando un Estado emplea medios que anulan el debido proceso legal, el Estado mismo se convierte en un instrumento de terror. Lo mรกs aterrador de todo fue que para la mayorรญa de los argentinos la vida seguรญa…El silencio era la consigna y la cobardรญa reinaba.
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CUANDO DECIR KADDISH-NO ESTร PERMITIDO
Quizรกs hayas leรญdo sobre las “madres locas”, mujeres que llevaban bordados en sus paรฑuelos blancos los nombres de sus hijos desaparecidos y que caminaban en silencio todos los jueves a las 15.30 horas, alrededor del obelisco de la Plaza de Mayo. Cuando las madres de Plaza de Mayo acudรญan a los servicios en mi sinagoga, muy pocas personas caminaban con ellas. Podrรญas contarlos con unos pocos dedos. Sabes lo que significa cuando alguien a quien amas llega tarde a casa. Trate de imaginar cรณmo se siente cuando ha estado esperando durante seis o siete aรฑos, esperando recibir un cadรกver sobre el cual decir Kaddish (la oraciรณn del doliente).
Un hombre entrรณ en mi estudio, se arremangรณ y me mostrรณ los nรบmeros. “ยฟPor esto me salvaron de Auschwitz? Rabino, tengo una pregunta halรกjica (legal). Se llevaron a mis dos hijos. ยฟTengo derecho a decir Kadish?” Respondรญ: “ยฟMe lo preguntas como rabino, halรกjicamente?” “Sรญ”, dijo. Me tenรญa agarrado por el cuello en ese momento. Le dije: “Si no puedes probar que estรกn muertos y sรณlo han pasado un par de meses, tienes que esperar”. Su respuesta angustiada: “ยฟCรณmo puedes pedirme que espere mรกs?” รl todavรญa estรก esperando.
BERLรN NO DEBE SER OLVIDADA DE NUEVO
Al hablar pรบblicamente contra las acciones del gobierno, sabรญa que estaba poniendo en peligro mi vida y la de mi familia. Por otro lado, sentรญ que estarรญa poniendo en peligro mi alma si permanecรญa en silencio. Cuando estuve en Argentina no tomรฉ posiciones por una corriente polรญtica especรญfica, sino que mi activismo emanรณ de las fuentes de mi propio judaรญsmo. Yo creรญa que si uno tomaba la Biblia en serio, simplemente no se podรญa ver suceder estas cosas y guardar silencio; no si eres un cristiano creyente o un judรญo creyente. Era parte integrante de mi propio judaรญsmo; Simplemente no podรญa callarme. Especialmente despuรฉs de saber lo que habรญa sucedido en Europa en los aรฑos del Holocausto.
Creo que yo, como rabino, no podrรญa perdonarme si repitiera el silencio de los rabinos de Europa en los aรฑos treinta. Los enemigos de la paz y la justicia siempre se basan en el miedo y en el silencio de la poblaciรณn. Hoy en Argentina hay demasiadas fuerzas que intentan bloquear la luz de la esperanza de un maรฑana de paz y creatividad. Cada uno de nosotros tiene la santa obligaciรณn de mantener viva al menos una pequeรฑa chispa de esta luz.
NO HAY PERDรN-NINGUNO
Las fuerzas armadas de Argentina afirmaron que sรณlo la historia puede juzgar y determinar con precisiรณn quiรฉn es responsable de los mรฉtodos injustos empleados y de las vidas inocentes perdidas. Este documento (que declara amnistรญa para los militares despuรฉs de la “guerra sucia”), hermanos y hermanas judรญos, es hilul hashem, una profanaciรณn y profanaciรณn del nombre de Dios. Aรบn mรกs escandaloso, los autores de este documento tienen la audacia de utilizar el nombre de Dios, sugiriendo que Dios perdone a los subversivos, sin mencionar nada sobre los asesinos que mataron a tantos inocentes. Este documento es una profanaciรณn del nombre de Dios y su publicaciรณn trae una impureza radical a esta tierra y a esta repรบblica.
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How can I complain of nightmares? Why isn’t my heart filled with gratitude? After ali, none of my children disappeared. My wife didn’t disappear. I didn’t disappear. I suffer from insomnia-since adolesยญcence I have been an insomniac. (Most of my thinking and meditating comes into focus during the night hours in the silence and darkness.) It is a small price to pay for having lived in Argentina for twenty-five years (1959-1984) and being active in the human rights movement there during that grueling period. That guarter of a century saw fifยญteen presidents, of whom only six were chosen in a democratic election by the people of Argentina. Seven presidents represented military junยญtas which not too gradually trampled on civil and human rights until the absolute nadir of hell was plumbed from 1976 until 1983.
What does it mean to be one of the disappeared? Who knew about it? Who did anything to help? Who chose the ones to disappear? Was there any reason for the disappearance? Did the disappearances follow a pattern? What was it like to live in a highly cosmopolitan, sophisticated city like Buenos Aires and to hear in school or at the university or at work that the boy or girl (or man or woman) who was sitting next to you yesterday disappeared last night? What is it like to walk into your loved one’s bedroom and find him or her not there; not today, not tomorrow, not ever? What is it like to be in mourning without a cadaver to bury? What would it be like not to have the slightest notion of what happened to your son, or daughter, or brother, or sister, or friend?
The allied troops found lists because the Nazis kept complete archives of the concentration camp inmates: who was cremated and who was shot, who was gassed and who died of starvation. But in Argentina the only lists that exist are those incomplete lists made by the parents and relatives and friends who slowly and torturously decided that they were not helping their children or loved ones with their silence; that what so many institutions and people were saying simply wasn’t true: “You’d better not present a writ of habeas corpus because you’ll only make things more difficult for your child;” or “It’s not wise to go to the Police, or the Ministry of Interior, or the Army, or the Navy, or the Air Force. They’ll only torture your child more if you do. Don’t make waves. You’ll see, in a few days he or she will be home again.”
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Perhaps the worst pain is the gnawing doubt: Am I guilty of someยญthing? Was my son or daughter involved in a terrorist gang? After al, everyone says: “Por algo serรก. En algo habrรก estado metido.” (There must be some reason. He must have been involved in something.) You shoot back your own answer: “That’s ridiculous. I know perfectly well that he was not involved in any political organization.”
On the other hand, the newspapers and many others suggest that the extreme left-wing terrorists kill their own members so that they won’t divulge any secrets. Still others claim that many people have made themselves disappear, sneaking off to other countries. “But my son or daughter wouldn’t do that to me. We were not estranged!”
As time goes by, you begin to meet other people who tell you simiยญlar stories. As the years pass, more and more people know someone who has “disappeared.” If you read the right newspapers (very few in number)- “La Opiniรณn,” the English daily “The Buenos Aires Herald,’ “Nueva Presencia”-the names of the disappeared begin to appear regularly. More and more editorials and letters to the editor appeared. under the byline “Name withheld” Slowly it becomes evident that the nation is turning into hell. Life is unbearable for those whose loved ones have disappeared. Awkward attempts by friends to console youยญ never at the cost of losing any sleep or money or risking one’s posiยญtion-make the hell all the more unbearable.
There is an occasional judge who tries to work within the due process of law, that precious process that is the last refuge from the jungle of totalitarian death. But those judges, too, disappear. The people told that this is a “dirty war”-as though there were ever “clean` wars-and that the only way to do away with terrorism is via the use of terror. There were not many voices proclaiming that engenders terror; that when a state employs means that abrogate the due process of law, the state itself becomes an instrument of terror. What was most frightening of all was that for most Argentines life went onโฆSilence was the watchword and cowardice reigned supreme.
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WHEN SAYING KADDISH-IS NOT PERMITTED
You may have read about the “mad mothers,” women who have the names of their missing sons and daughters embroidered on their white kerchiefs, and who walked in silence every Thursday at 3:30 P.M., around the obelisk in the Plaza de Mayo. When the mothers of the Plaza de Mayo carne to services at my synagogue, very few people were walking with them. You could count them on a few fingers. You know what it means when someone you love comes home late. Try to imagยญine how it feels when you have been waiting for six or seven years, waiting to receive a cadaver over which to say Kaddish (mourner’s prayer).
One man carne into my study, rolled up his sleeve, and showed me the numbers. “For this I was saved from Auschwitz? Rabbi, I have a halakhic (legal) question. They took my two sons. Do I have a right to say Kaddish?” l answered: “Are you asking me as a rabbi, halakhically?” “Yes,” he said. He had me by the throat at this point. I said: “If you can’t prove that they’re dead and it’s only been a couple of months, you’ve got to wait.” His anguished reply: “How can you ask me to wait any longer?” He is still waiting.
BERLIN MUST NOT RE FORGOTTEN
By speaking out publicly against the actions of the government, I knew that I was placing my life, and the life of my family, in jeopardy. On the other hand, I felt that I would be putting my soul in jeopardy if I stood silent. When I was in Argentina I didn’t take positions because of a specific political persuasion, but rather my activism emanated from the wellsprings of my own Judaism. If one was to take the Bible seriously, I believed, you just couldn’t watch these things happen and maintain silence; not if you’re a believing Christian or a believing Jew. I t was part and parcel of my own J Judaism; I just couldn’t shut up. Especially after knowing what had happened in Europe in the Holocaust years.
I believe that I, as a rabbi, could not forgive myself if I repeated the silence of the rabbis of Europe in the 1930s. The enemies of peace and justice always rely on fear and on the silence of the population. In Argentina today there are too many forces trying to block out the light of hope for a tomorrow of peace and creativity. Every one of us has the holy obligation to keep alive at least a small spark of this light.
NO FORGIVENESS-NONE
The armed forces of Argentina asserted that only history can accuยญrately judge and determine who is responsible for the unjust methods employed and the innocent lives lost. This document (declaring amnesty for the military after the “dirty war”), Jewish brothers and sisters, is hilul hashem, a desecration and profanation of the name of God. Even more outrageous, the authors of this document have the audacity to use the name of God-suggesting that God should forgive the subversives, without mentioning anything about the murderers that killed so many innocent individuals. This document is a profanaยญtion of the name of God and its publication brings a radical impurity to this earth and this republic.
Josรฉ Lรฉvy (1978-) es un artista dominicano de ascendencia judรญa sefardรญ que ha estado exponiendo la complejidad de la sociedad dominicana a travรฉs de su arte. El arte de Lรฉvy cuenta la historia del Caribe y su gente, a menudo ignorada por los principales medios de comunicaciรณn. Busca crear una sociedad mรกs inclusiva dando voz a quienes estรกn marginados. Despuรฉs de graduarse de la escuela secundaria, Lรฉvy dedicรณ su talento a estudiar en profundidad la cultura dominicana y a conectarla con parte de su historia judรญa sefardรญ. Segรบn Lรฉvy, “podrรญa ser fรกcil para mรญ explorar las diferentes formas de arte, especialmente las que recibimos de Europa o Estados Unidos. Sin embargo, mi experiencia como judรญo sefardรญ dominicano y el sentimiento de pรฉrdida cultural debido al borrado de La historia sefardรญ nos recuerda que necesitamos crear artes que reflejen nuestra cultura para la generaciรณn futura”. Su arte fusiona la historia de los antepasados โโjudรญos de Lรฉvy y la sociedad dominicana actual. Su trabajo ha sido exhibido en lugares de todo el Caribe, Amรฉrica Latina y Estados Unidos.
โA travรฉs de mis pinturas busco una catarsis como todo artista serio; reflejar cosas que entiendo estรกn mal en la sociedad, como la corrupciรณn, la violencia, el Estado cuasi podrido de la sociedad dominicana, entre otros tipos de cosas.โ – El Caribe, 2018
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Josรฉ Lรฉvy (1978- ) is a Dominican artist of Jewish Sephardic descent who has been exposing the complexity of Dominican society through his art. Lรฉvy’s art tells the story of the Caribbean and its people, often overlooked by mainstream media. He seeks to create a more inclusive society by giving a voice to those who are marginalized. After graduating high school, Lรฉvy dedicated his talents to studying Dominican culture in depth and connecting it to part of his Sephardi Jewish history. According to Lรฉvy, “it could be easy for me to explore the different forms of arts, especially those we receive from Europe or the United States. However, my experience as a Dominican Sephardic Jew and the sense of cultural loss due to the erasure of the Sephardi history reminds us that we need to create arts that reflect our culture for the future generation.” His art merges the history of Lรฉvy’s Jewish ancestors and the present Dominican society. His work has been exhibited in venues throughout the Caribbean, Latin America, and the United States.
โThrough my paintings I look for catharsis like every serious artist; reflect things that I understand are bad in society, such as corruption, violence, the quasi-rotten state of Dominican society, among other types of things.โ – El Caribe, 2018
Susana Beibe, artista argentina, realizรณ su formaciรณn en pintura y escultura. Trabaja escultura en cemento, piedra, cerรกmica, metal y elementos no convencionales. Ademรกs realiza relieves con tรฉcnicas mixtas utilizando todos los derivados del papel.Estudiรณ en la Escuela Nacional de Cerรกmica y su formaciรณn en escultura y dibujo la realizo con los maestros: Leo Tavella, Aurelio Macchi y Leo Vinci. Algunos de sus esculturas monumentales estรกn emplazadas en el Centro Cultural San Martรญn, Plaza Seca, Buenos Aires, Parque Lenรญn, La Habana, Cuba. Museo Metropolitano, Buenos Aires. Invitada a dar seminarios sobre creatividad en Espaรฑa y Canada. Realizรณ el proyecto โJugando en la Veredaโ para la lX Bienal de La Habana, muestra colateral. Ganadora del proyecto del Monumento a la Humanidad por la Argentina a realizar por la Humanitad Foundation, United Kingdom. Susana Beibe integrรณ numerosas exposiciones colectivas en salones nacionales y municipales y realizรณ muestras individuales en espacios pรบblicos y privados, a nivel nacional e internacional. Sus obras se encuentran en colecciones institucionales y privadas de Argentina y el exterior.
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Serie Cabezas
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Susana Beibe, Argentine artist, completed her training in painting and sculpture. He works sculpture in cement, stone, ceramics, metal and unconventional elements. He also makes reliefs with mixed techniques using all derivatives of paper. He studied at the National School of Ceramics and his training in sculpture and drawing was done with the masters: Leo Tavella, Aurelio Macchi and Leo Vinci. Some of his monumental sculptures are located in the San Martรญn Cultural Center, Plaza Seca, Buenos Aires, Parque Lenรญn, Havana, Cuba. Metropolitan Museum, Buenos Aires. Invited to give seminars on creativity in Spain and Canada. He carried out the project โJugando en la Veredaโ for the 10th Havana Biennial, collateral exhibition. Winner of the Monument to Humanity for Argentina project to be carried out by the Humanitad Foundation, United Kingdom. Susana Beibe participated in numerous group exhibitions in national and municipal exhibitions and held individual exhibitions in public and private spaces, nationally and internationally. His works are found in institutional and private collections in Argentina and abroad.
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Durante sus vasta trayectoria como artista plรกstica y pintora, el arte de Susana habla por su colorido y su aproximaciรณn al mercado, siendo a la vez conmovedor y aplicable a todo tipo de espacios.
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Throughout her vast career as a visual artist and painter, Susana’s art speaks for its color and its approach to the market, being both moving and applicable to all types of spaces.
Iair Rubin naciรณ en Buenos Aires en 1941. En la Argentina fue miembro del moviยญmiento juvenil sionista “Hashomer Hatzair”, en el que asumiรณ diferentes cargos desde su adolescencia y en cuya direcciรณn participรณยญ en los aรฑos 60. Se radicรณ en Israel en 1964 y se incorยญporรณ en el kibutz Harel, en las colinas prรณxiยญmas a Jerusalรฉn y junto a la frontera jordaยญna. Alternรณ el trabajo agrรญcola en el kibutz con tareas comunitarias y educativas. Ejerciรณ funciones educativas en comunidadesยญ judรญas en Chile, Ia Argentina, Braยญsil y paรญses latinoamericanos. Cursรณ estudios de ciencias sociales en la Universidad Hebrea de Jerusalรฉn, en la que obtuvouna maestrรญa en sociologรญa de educaciรณn. Participรณ en proyectos eduยญcativos en la universidad, diversas municipalidades, ones del Ministerio de Educaciรณn, el Centro Social “Mishan” de la Histadrut, la Agencia Judรญa y la Organizaciรณn Sionista Mundial. Reside en Jerusalรฉn.
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Iair Rubin was born in Buenos Aires in 1941. In Argentina he was a member of the Zionist youth movement “Hashomer Hatzair”, in which he assumed different positions from his adolescence and in whose direction he participated in the 60s. He settled in Israel in 1964 and He incorporated Kibbutz Harel, in the hills near Jerusalem and next to the Jordanian border. He alternated agricultural work on the kibbutz with community and educational tasks. He carried out educational functions in Jewish communities in Chile, Argentina, Brazil and Latin American countries. He studied social sciences at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, where he obtained a master’s degree in sociology of education. He participated in educational projects at the university, various municipalities, ones of the Ministry of Education, the “Mishan” Social Center of the Histadrut, the Jewish Agency and the World Zionist Organization. He resides in Jerusalem.
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Las colinas de Granada y los rรญos de Amazonas
-iShalom! -oรญ a mis espaldas y me volvรญ sorprendido, pues no esperaba escuยญchar el saludo familiar que solemos intercambiar con mis compatriotas preยญcisamente en aquel lejano hotel del Amazonas, situado en la capital de! estaยญ do brasileรฑo norteรฑo y tropical.
Me encontraba frente a la mesa de recepciรณn de! suntuoso hotel; no coยญnocรญa a nadie y, aparentemente, nadie me conocรญa. Unos dรญas antes habรญa lleยญgado a aquella tierra hรบmeda y calurosa para cumplir funciones en el seno de la pequeรฑa comunidad judรญa local; habรญa terminado mi trabajo la noche anterior y me preparaba a cerrar cuentas y partir de regreso a San Pablo. No ocultaba mi presencia pero tampoco la ostentaba, asรญ que me asombro que alguien me saludara con un “Shalom” pronunciado en voz alta y clara. No; no estaba soรฑando y lo oรญdo no era producto de mi imaginaciรณn.
Los reflejos me hicieron volver velozmente para enfrentarme con el oriยญgen del saludo. Definitivamente, era un desconocido; se trataba de un homยญbre algunos aรฑos mas joven que yo, de estatura mediana y la tez oscura tรญpiยญca de los brasileรฑos del norte. Me observaba con rostro risueรฑo, afable y nada amenazante, pero no sabรญa quien era. Como no suelo hablar con desconocidos y menos aรบn en la selva brasileรฑa, ni siquiera en el lobby de un respetable hotel, me atrevรญ a vencer la resistencia inicial y le conteste educadamenยญte con otro cordial “iShalom!”
Para su gran desilusiรณn, me volvรญ hacia el mostrador de recepciรณn para terminar de pagar mi cuenta, despedirme gentilmente del conserje, repartir algunas propinas entre quienes me habรญan atendido solรญcitamente durante aquellos dรญas, tomar el bolso y la carpeta de trabajo y dirigirme hacia un sillรณn mullido para esperar el taxi que me llevarรญa al aeropuerto. La sorpresa no habรญa pasado y me sentรญ inquieto mientras me dedicaba a observar a quien hace tan sรณlo unos minutos me habรญa saludado y dejado perplejo y preocuยญpado. No, no habรญa ningรบn motivo de preocupaciรณn: era un personaje caracยญterรญstico de! norte brasileรฑo, vestido con la ropa tรญpica de! trรณpico, de buen porte, facciones agradables e inteligentes, simpรกtico y amable. Al parecer, tambiรฉn el cerraba sus cuentas y se preparaba para partir. Un sujeto comรบn y corriente que no implicaba ninguna amenaza ni motivo de preocupaciรณn. No parecรญa judรญo. Definitivamente, era brasileรฑo: de pura cepa norteรฑa, ta! vez con algo de portuguรฉs, pero de judรญo, nada.
Por lo visto, tampoco yo parezco judรญo y ya me confundieron con turco, griego o italiano. No exhibo ningรบn sรญmbolo que me identifique oficialmenยญte como ta!; no uso el solideo que distingue a los judรญos religiosos, no llevo una cadena con la Estrella de David ni tampoco la chamsa de los judรญos orienยญtales que, al parecer, los protege de! ma! de ojo y les da buena suerte en los negocios. Nada. Ningรบn signo que me identifique como judรญo o israelรญ. Tamยญpoco mi carpeta o mi bolso llevan inscripciones en hebreo que me seรฑalen como ta!, ni tarjeta de identificaciรณn de viaje; nada. No es que oculte mi conยญdiciรณn judรญa ni mi ciudadanรญa israelรญ; todo lo contrario, son motivo de proยญfundo orgullo para mรญ, pero tampoco las luzco como bandera, sobre todo en mis viajes a lugares exรณticos.
Hacรญa cinco o seis dรญas que me encontraba en Manaos. Mas allรก de mis funciones especรญficas en la pequeรฑa comunidad judรญa, dediquรฉ los momenยญtos libres a conocer esa pintoresca ciudad y a recorrer sus largas calles y sus amplias avenidas, invadidas por los colores y aromas provenientes de las aguas profundas y de la selva. Notรฉ el activo comercio de productos llegados de lejanas tierras orientales, europeas y americanas; visitรฉ la vieja sinagoga de clara influencia marroquรญ y las iglesias barrocas y coloniales. Por ultimo, recorrรญ los fantรกsticos y contradictorios restos arquitectรณnicos de un mundo opulento: la รpera del Amazonas, emula de aquella otra que se levanta enMilan y que allรญ, en la proximidad de la jungla brasilera, hospedara con orgullo hada ya varias dรฉcadas las mรกs famosas orquestas de! mundo y los mรกs prestigiosos cantantes de รณpera europeos, para deleite y ostentaciรณn de la aristocracia local, enriquecida entonces con la explotaciรณn del caucho, hoyextinguida.
Durante horas caminรฉ por los mercados y las ferias, rodeado por la a!garabia de un pueblo alegre y a la vez resignado a una vida de esfuerzos y privaciones, sumergido en una variedad infinita de frutos tropicales desconocidos y de especias e hierbas que curan los males de! cuerpo y las penurias del alma. Vรญ los peces mas exรณticos y los pรกjaros mas coloridos del mundo, y me invadiรณ el aroma de las frituras espesas y las salsas excitantes. Desde la baยญranda ruinosa observรฉ el rio ancho y turbio, que trae sus aguas correntosas, lIenos de barro y semillas, frutos y cortezas, grandes navรญos y barcas endebles, desde el corazรณn del Nuevo Continente. Bajรฉ al puerto, el famoso puerto floยญtante de Manaos con cientos de embarcaciones amarradas y otras que llegan y parten, creando por instantes el encuentro de las mercancรญas con los traยญbajadores portuarios y mercachifles, de pasajeros que arrastran sus modestos atados y su precaria existencia por esa vรญa de agua y lodo que los transporta desde las profundidades de esa Amรฉrica oscura y mestiza, con los sueรฑos, esperanzas y alegrรญas.
Cientos de barcazas y navรญos, miles de rostros curtidos por un sol implaยญcable y lluvias prolongadas. Cada embarcaciรณn tiene un nombre de significaยญdo misterioso, que incita a descifrar los secretos del pasado y los enigmas de un futuro incierto. Cada navรญo tiene un destino diferente y propio, pero tambiรฉn la realidad de un mundo distante a conocer y descubrir. Cada rostro enยญcierra una historia fascinante y una vida ruda e incierta, envuelta en rรญos desยญbordados e islas anegadas, a la bรบsqueda permanente de y tierra firme donde plantar un รกrbol y construir una casa, que volverรก a inundarse el prรณximo invierno. Manaos, tierra de aromas y colorido sin fin, de ruidos ensordecedores en las calles y de hondos silencios en sus rรญos profundos.
El taxi habrรญa de llevarme en poco tiempo al aeropuerto, arrancรกndome de ese mundo mรกgico y colorido para transportarme a una San Pablo cosยญmopolita y gris. Mientras tanto, sentado en el lobby de! hotel, contemplaba a quien -tal vez inocentemente- habรญa conseguido inquietarme con el tan judรญo “Shalom”. Ambos permanecemos en nuestros sillones a la espera de algo: yo esperaba a mi taxi; ยฟy el?
Volvi a mirarlo largamente; me devolviรณ una mirada franca, abierta y amistosa, por lo que decidi encararlo para satisfacer mi curiosidad y disipar de una vez por todas mis preocupaciones y sospechas.
-ยฟPor quX me saludรณ con un “Shalom”? -preguntรฉ directamente.
-Porque entendรญ que el seรฑor es judรญo. ยฟAcaso no lo es? -respondiรณ sonriendo, satisfecho de sรญ mismo.
–ยฟY cรณmo sabe que soy judรญo, si se puede saber? -preguntรฉ un poco inquieto.
-Por las letras impresas en las hojas de su carpeta -las seรฑialรณ y agregรณ una nueva pregunta-:
-ยฟNo es hebreo?
Observรฉ la carpeta que llevaba bajo el brazo y comprobรฉ que, por descuiยญdo, algunas hojas habรญan quedado al descubierto y mostraban unas lineas en hebreo.
-Pues, sรญ. Es una revista en hebreo -Esta vez fui yo quien agrego una pregunta-: ยฟEl seรฑor entiende hebreo?ยญ
-No, no entiendo. Pero conozco las letras, y estaba seguro de que eran hebreas -contesto.
Se hizo un corto silencio, con la expectativa de que, una vez iniciado el dialogo, la conversaciรณn empezara a fluir. Al parecer, ambos habรญamos terยญminado nuestras respectivas ocupaciones y no tenรญamos mayor prisa. Volvรญ a observarlo detenidamente: era un hombre de unos cuarenta anos, de tez osยญcura, rostro agradable y ojos inteligentes que reflejaban la tรญpica picardรญa braยญsilera. Por la calidad de su ropa podia entender que pertenecรญa a la clase media acomodada, tal vez un industrial o ejecutivo en viaje de negocios. Tambiรฉn el llevaba un portafolio y una carpeta tan abultada como Ia mรญa con diarios y papeles, pero no en hebreo.
-Pues, sรญ. Es una revista en hebreo -Esta vez fui yo quien agrego una preยญgunta-: ยฟEl seรฑor entiende hebreo?
-No, no entiendo. Pero conozco las letras, y estaba seguro de que eran hebreas -contestรณ.
Se hizo un corto silencio, con la expectativa de que, una vez iniciado el dialogo, la conversaciรณn empezara a fluir. Al parecer, ambos habรญamos terยญminado nuestras respectivas ocupaciones y no tenรญamos mayor prisa. Volvรญ a observarlo detenidamente: era un hombre de unos cuarenta anos, de tez osยญcura, rostro agradable y ojos inteligentes que reflejaban la tรญpica picardรญa braยญsilera. Por la calidad de su ropa podia entender que pertenecรญa a la clase media acomodada, tal vez un industrial o ejecutivo en viaje de negocios. Tambiรฉn el llevaba un portafolio y una carpeta tan abultada como Ia mรญa con diarios y papeles, pero no en hebreo.
-ยฟEI seรฑor es judรญo? -preguntรฉ sin mucho convencimiento y con bastanยญ te curiosidad, tratando de reanudar la conversaciรณn interrumpida.
-No. No soy judรญo -respondiรณ un poco indeciso-. No… en realidad bueno… es un poco complicado… Judรญo, judรญo en realidad no soy… Ahora no Io soy, pero un poco sรญ, ya que mi familia en un tiempo lo fue… Pero ahora…no -agregรณ titubeando.
Como no esperaba una respuesta tan confusa y no menos sorprendido que el primer “Shalom” oido, volvรญ a preguntar con impaciencia:
-ยฟCรณmoque es judรญo pero solo un poco, y ahora no y antes sรญ? -protestรฉ-. 0 se es, o no se es. No se puede ser antes sรญ y ahora no; o solo un poco mucho. Las cosas no son asรญ.
-Calma, calma -se disculpรณ con una sonrisa leve-. Al parecer, mi familia lo fue en el pasado lejano, hace muchรญsimos anos, siglos tal vez… Al parecer, provenimos de una antigua familia judรญa de mucha alcurnia, pero se interrumpiรณ hace anos, y ahora ya no somos mas.
El relato imprevisto prometรญa ser interesante para una tarde de otoรฑo: un hotel cรฉntrico de Ia capital de la selva brasileรฑa. Yo ya tenรญa mi historia; no estaba dispuesto a abandonarla fรกcilmente, asรญ que seguรญ preguntando:
-ยฟY cรณmo sabe todo eso? ยฟQuiรฉn le contรณ que su familia es de procedencia judรญa? ยฟQuรฉ certeza tiene? -ataquรฉ con impaciencia.
-Miabuelo Zacarรญas -explicรณ con mucha calma-. El viejo siempre me narraba historias del rey David y el rey Salomon. รsos fueron Ios cuentos que oรญa de niรฑo antes de dormir, historias de heroรญsmo y valentรญa, de moral justicia, que poblaron mi infancia; las recuerdo muy bien. Leyendas. El tenรญa gran poder de narraciรณn, una memoria fabulosa y descripciones de imaginaciรณn. Hablaba de las murallas de Jerusalรฉn, de las colinas de la Galilea y del valle del Jordan. Cuando el hablaba, era como si viera esos paisaยญjes con todo detalle. Mas tarde, cuando crecรญ y pude entender las cosas de otra manera, me explico el significado de mi nombre. Tengo un nombre hebreo, ยฟsabe? Aaron. Aunque lo brasilericรฉ y hoy lo escribo “Aron”, sin la hache intermedia. Dicen que fue el hermano del gran Moisรฉs y que de el proยญvienen vuestros sacerdotes. Un gran hombre, ยฟno es verdad?
Asรญ fue como de pronto yo, siempre tan cauto y discreto, por culpa de unas hojas descuidadas, me encontrรฉ en la tรณrrida capital del Amazonas con Aron, un brasileรฑo orgulloso de su nombre y de su procedencia judรญa; mรกs aรบn, de su presunta alcurnia que se remontaba hasta la estirpe de Moisรฉs y su hermano Aaron. Por lo menos eso era lo que el aseguraba, basรกndose en los relatos del abuelo Zacarรญas. Pero yo no habรญa llegado desde tan lejos para oรญr historias de judรญos. Ocupado diariamente con la comunidad judeo-brasiยญleรฑa, habรญa viajado a Manaos para realizar actividades con la antigua comuยญnidad de! Amazonas, que prosperara junto al rio caudaloso a fines del siglo XIX. Me encontrรฉ con los lideres de la comunidad y escuche las historias del pasado y de! presente. Con los jรณvenes hablamos sobre Israel y el Oriente Medio, sobre la condiciรณn judรญa y sus dilemas; les ayude a planificar activiยญdades y proyectos educativos, y una vez terminadas mis funciones, dediquรฉ algunos dรญas libres a recorrer esa excitante regiรณn.
No. No buscaba las antiguas historias de mi pueblo, que conozco bien, sino lo nuevo y exรณtico del fascinante mundo tropical. Por eso descendรญ los rรญos torrentosos en pos de la naturaleza y sus maravillosos secretos. Me encontrรฉ de pronto surcando aguas que conducen al corazรณn de mi contiยญnente americano, amanecรญ en el seno de rรญos profundos que arrastran la siยญmiente de una America virgen que huele a hierbas y frutos, contemple largos crepรบsculos poblados de pรกjaros coloridos que cubren un cielo tรณrrido y carยญgado de lluvia, surque cauces que cortan las islas en un largo y penoso camiยญno en busca del mar. Y hubo tambiรฉn algunos atardeceres frente a un rรญo ancho, un cielo bajo y un silencio milenario poblado de selva, que invitaba ala paz y la relajaciรณn.
Era el corazรณn mismo de una America ancestral, con la fuerza de una naยญturaleza en lucha por su supervivencia, la quietud y el largo silencio, la conยญtemplaciรณn de paisajes fluviales bordeados de selva, el aroma profundo de la tierra densa, del matorral salvaje y del barro, el fruto, la semilla y el รกrbol No. Definitivamente, no fui a buscar los relatos de mi pueblo, pero ellos me encontraron en medio de la selva y, al parecer, no estaban dispuestos a abanยญdonarme tan fรกcilmente. Todo por unas pocas hojas descuidadas, que escaยญparon traviesamente de mi carpeta de trabajo.
Aron continuรณ su relato:
-El viejo Zacarรญas, mi abuelo, contaba que venรญamos de Granada, la vieja capital mora, andaluza y judรญa. Hasta allรญ llega la memoria histรณrica de mi faยญmilia. รl solรญa hablar mucho de Granada y tambiรฉn de Jerusalรฉn, la otra caยญpital amurallada y situada en las colinas.
Cerrรฉ los ojos por un momento e imagine a Granada. La vi con la belleยญza del cielo invernal cargado de lluvia y tambiรฉn en los luminosos amaneceยญres del verano andaluz. La vi con las estrechas calles de Albaicin y la vieja juยญderรญa, y tambiรฉn con los frescos patios con naranjales y las fuentes que regaยญban jardines moros y judXos. La vi por un instante en la plenitud de los miยญnaretes y las altas murallas, soberbias y judรญas. Pero el continuรณ:
-Por supuesto que antes de Granada hubo otra historia, pero la memoria familiar llega tan sรณlo hasta allรญ. Como usted sabe, en esas colinas y entre esas murallas floreciรณ una juderรญa prรณspera, entre la que se contaban mis antepasados: poetas y mรฉdicos, hombres de negocios y cientรญficos, artesanos y orfebres famosos; todos ellos judรญos piadosos, estudiosos de las Sagradas Escrituras. Al parecer, durante generaciones vivieron en plena concordia, protegidos por los califas musulmanes. Esa fue nuestra familia. Como usted seguramente sabe, durante los siglos XII a XV, los reyes moros lucharon conยญtra los espaรฑoles; mi familia luchรณ junto a los รบltimos califas, que finalยญmente fueron derrotados. Fueron expulsados de Espaรฑa y conducidos al desยญtierro en las islas Azores, donde llevaron una vida de prisiรณn y exilio. El viejo Zacarรญas contaba que uno de mis antepasados, un afamado rabino y cientรญfico de nombre Yehudรก, consiguiรณ que lo liberaran y durante aรฑos vivieron en esas islas portuguesas manteniendo su judaรญsmo en secreto, como tantos otros.
Otro antepasado mio, de nombre Eleazar, logrรณ finalmente trasladar a nuestra familia al continente europeo. De allรญ emprendieron en el siglo XVI, junto con muchos otros, la travesรญa hacia el Brasil, con la esperanza de que en el Nuevo Mundo pudieran regresar finalmente al seno de su pueblo y vivir abiertamente como judรญos. La historia, como usted bien sabe, nos demostrรณ que esa ilusiรณn no fue posible.
-Pero ustedes, ยฟdXnde viven hoy dรญa? ยฟDonde esta hoy su familia? -preยญguntรฉ, tratando de obtener mas evidencias de esa historia increรญble.
-Nuestra familia es del nordeste, en donde vivimos desde el siglo XVI, en el estado de Paraiba, entre Campina Grande y Joao Pessoa. Durante siglos mantuvimos de alguna forma nuestra religiรณn y nuestras costumbres: los nombres, el Shabbat, algunas festividades, la prohibiciรณn de comer puerco y de mezclar came con leche, las viejas leyendas transmitidas de padres a hijos y a nietos, los casamientos en el seno de algunas familias, la tradiยญciรณn… Lamentablemente, eso se perdiรณ.
-ยฟCuรกndo? -volvรญ a preguntar con impaciencia.
-No sรฉ precisamente; tal vez con la generaciรณn de mis abuelos… Mis padres ya no se consideran judรญos. Tampoco son cristianos, pero dejaron de mantener las viejas tradiciones -dijo tristemente.
– ยฟY usted? ยฟUsted no se considera judรญo? ยฟNo se siente judรญo? -insistรญ.
-Bueno, yo… ya le dije. Yo sรญ me siento judรญo, sรฉ que eso estรก en mi sangre. Pero no sรฉ; en verdad me encuentro confuso y ambivalente. Lo que es nuestra historia, lo que me contaba mi abuelo, lo que leo hoy dรญa … todo eso me da mucha emociรณn y lo amo mucho. Pero usted sabe como es la vida: tiene su curso y uno fluye con ella. No es fรกcil regresar a las raรญces. Se neceยญsita mucha fuerza de voluntad y mucha valentรญa, y yo no sรฉ si las tengo -resยญpondiรณ con un poco de timidez y vergรผenza, pero sin perder la sonrisa.
Se hizo un corto silencio. Pensรฉ un poco y tomรฉ coraje para preguntar lo que ya flotaba en el ambiente:
-ยฟNo le gustarรญa volver a ser judรญo, regresar al seno de su pueblo, recupeยญrar la historia?
-No sรฉ -respondiรณ titubeando-. Hace falta mucho coraje para ello, mucha fuerza de voluntad. Tai vez algรบn dรญa…
-Y ademรกs de las historias y leyendas de su abuelo, ยฟhay algo mรกs que lesยญ testimonie vuestro origen? -volvรญ a preguntar inquisitorialmente.
-Hay un viejo baรบl que conservรฉ en el sรณtano. A veces lo abro y toco los objetos; no a todos los reconozco. Es el precioso tesoro de la familia que guarยญdo con celo. No sรฉ que hay de autรฉntico en esos viejos objetos, pero los conยญservo con cuidado. Son trozos de pergaminos antiguos con letras hebreas un poco borradas por el tiempo, algunas cajitas de cuero, viejos utensilios de bronce y plata cuyo significado ignoro. Mi abuelo Zacarรญas solรญa decir que son objetos sagrados y antiguos, que provienen de Granada, de Sevilla y otros lugares de Espaรฑa y Portugal. Fueron traรญdos por nuestros antepasados desde la vieja Europa y ocultados a los inquisidores, conservados en secreto y pasados de generaciรณn en generaciรณn como el gran tesoro de nuestra familia. A mรญ, el baรบl me fue entregado el dรญa que cumplรญ trece aรฑos, con la promesa de cuiยญdarlo y pasarlo a mi vez a mis hijos o a mis nietos.
Cerrรฉ los ojos un instante e imaginรณ el viejo baรบl. Toquรฉ con cuidado los pergaminos y trate de descifrar las letras hebreas semi-borradas. Palpรฉ emoยญcionado el cuero mustio de las filacterias, el cobre oscuro y Ia plata ennegreยญcida de los antiguos candelabros y las mezuzot. Pero frente a mi surgiรณ de pronto el conserje, que amablemente requerรญa mi presencia.
-Seรฑor Rubin, su taxi lo espera allรญ, bajo la lluvia. Si no se apura, llegarรก tarde al aeropuerto. Mire que a esta hora el transito es muy pesado, y con la lluvia el viaje se puede demorar.
Nos despedimos efusivamente. Aron no me ofreciรณ su tarjeta con la diยญrecciรณn y el telรฉfono, como era de esperar, y tal vez por eso tampoco yo le di la mรญa. El “Shalom” pronunciado ahora en forma mas clara que al inicio de nuestro encuentro tenรญa un significado mรกs fuerte que entonces.
Cรณmodamente sentado en el taxi, en camino al aeropuerto y en medio de una fuerte lluvia tropical, seguรญa viendo un viejo baรบl lleno de tesoros de Granada.
-iShalom! -I heard behind me and I turned around surprised, because I did not expect to hear the familiar greeting that we usually exchange with my compatriots precisely in that distant hotel in the Amazon, located in the capital of! northern and tropical Brazilian state.
I was in front of the reception desk of a sumptuous hotel; I didn’t know anyone and, apparently, no one knew me. A few days before he had arrived in that humid and hot land to carry out duties within the small local Jewish community; I had finished my work the night before and was preparing to close accounts and leave back to San Pablo. I didn’t hide my presence but I didn’t flaunt it either, so I was surprised that someone greeted me with a loud and clear “Shalom.” No; I was not dreaming and what I heard was not a product of my imagination.
The reflections made me turn quickly to face the origin of the greeting. He was definitely an unknown; He was a man a few years younger than me, of medium height and the dark complexion typical of northern Brazilians. He looked at me with a smiling, affable and non-threatening face, but I didn’t know who he was. Since I don’t usually talk to strangers and even less so in the Brazilian jungle, not even in the lobby of a respectable hotel, I dared to overcome the initial resistance and politely answered him with another cordial “iShalom!”
To his great disappointment, I turned to the reception desk to finish paying my bill, say goodbye graciously to the concierge, distribute some tips among those who had solicitously assisted me during those days, take my bag and work folder and head towards an armchair. soft to wait for the taxi that would take me to the airport. The surprise had not passed and I felt restless as I dedicated myself to observing the person who only a few minutes ago had greeted me and left me perplexed and worried. No, there was no reason for concern: it was a characteristic character of! northern Brazilian, dressed in typical clothing! tropic, of good bearing, pleasant and intelligent features, friendly and kind. Apparently, he too was closing his accounts and preparing to leave. An ordinary guy who posed no threat or cause for concern. He didn’t look Jewish. He was definitely Brazilian: of pure northern stock, ta! maybe with some Portuguese, but nothing Jewish.
Apparently, I don’t look Jewish either and I’ve already been mistaken for Turkish, Greek or Italian. I do not display any symbol that officially identifies me as ta!; I do not wear the skullcap that distinguishes religious Jews, I do not wear a chain with the Star of David nor the chamsa of Eastern Jews which, apparently, protects them from! Ma! eye and gives them good luck in business. Nothing. No sign identifying me as Jewish or Israeli. Nor do my folder or my bag have inscriptions in Hebrew that mark me as ta!, nor a travel identification card; nothing. It’s not that I hide my Jewishness or my Israeli citizenship; On the contrary, they are a source of deep pride for me, but I don’t wear them as a flag either, especially on my trips to exotic places.
I had been in Manaus for five or six days. Beyond my specific duties in the small Jewish community, I dedicated my free moments to getting to know that picturesque city and exploring its long streets and wide avenues, invaded by the colors and aromas coming from the deep waters and the jungle. I noticed the active trade of products from distant eastern, European and American lands; I visited the old synagogue with clear Moroccan influence and the baroque and colonial churches. Finally, I toured the fantastic and contradictory architectural remains of an opulent world: the Amazon Opera, emulating the other one that was built in Milan and that there, in the proximity of the Brazilian jungle, had proudly hosted for several decades now the most famous orchestras of! world and the most prestigious European opera singers, to the delight and ostentation of the local aristocracy, then enriched by the exploitation of rubber, now extinct.
For hours I walked through the markets and fairs, surrounded by the excitement of a happy people and at the same time resigned to a life of effort and deprivation, immersed in an infinite variety of unknown tropical fruits and spices and herbs that cure ailments. of! body and the hardships of the soul. I saw the most exotic fish and the most colorful birds in the world, and the aroma of thick fried foods and exciting sauces invaded me. From the ruined railing I observed the wide and murky river, which brings its rushing waters, full of mud and seeds, fruits and bark, large ships and flimsy boats, from the heart of the New Continent. I went down to the port, the famous floating port of Manaus with hundreds of boats moored and others that arrive and depart, creating for moments the meeting of the goods with the port workers and peddlers, of passengers who drag their modest bundles and their precarious existence through that path of water and mud that transports them from the depths of that dark and mixed America, with dreams, hopes and joys.
Hundreds of barges and ships, thousands of faces weathered by a relentless sun and prolonged rains. Each boat has a name with a mysterious meaning, which encourages us to decipher the secrets of the past and the enigmas of an uncertain future. Each ship has its own different destination, but also the reality of a distant world to know and discover. Each face contains a fascinating story and a rough and uncertain life, wrapped in overflowing rivers and flooded islands, in the permanent search for land on which to plant a tree and build a house, which will flood again next winter. Manaus, land of endless aromas and colors, of deafening noises in the streets and of deep silences in its deep rivers.
The taxi would take me to the airport in a short time, taking me away from that magical and colorful world to transport me to a cosmopolitan and gray San Pablo. Meanwhile, sitting in the lobby of! hotel, I contemplated who – perhaps innocently – had managed to unsettle me with the very Jewish “Shalom”. We both remain in our chairs waiting for something: I was waiting for my taxi; and the?
I looked at him for a long time again; He gave me a frank, open and friendly look, so I decided to face him to satisfy my curiosity and dispel my worries and suspicions once and for all.
-Why did X greet me with “Shalom”? -I asked directly.
-Because I understood that the man is Jewish. Isn’t it? -He responded smiling, satisfied with himself.
-And how do you know that I am Jewish, if you can know? -I asked a little worried.
-Because of the letters printed on the pages of your folder -he pointed to them and added a new question-:
-Isn’t he Hebrew?
I looked at the folder he was carrying under his arm and realized that, due to carelessness, some pages had been left exposed and showed some lines in Hebrew.
-Well yes. It is a magazine in Hebrew -This time it was I who added a question-: Does the gentleman understand Hebrew?
-No I do not understand. “But I know the letters, and I was sure they were Hebrew,” He answered.
There was a short silence, with the expectation that, once the dialogue began, the conversation would begin to flow. Apparently, we had both finished our respective occupations and were in no further hurry. I looked at him carefully again: he was a man of about forty, with a dark complexion, a pleasant face and intelligent eyes that reflected the typical Brazilian mischief. From the quality of his clothes I could understand that he belonged to the wealthy middle class, perhaps an industrialist or executive on a business trip. He also carried a briefcase and a folder as thick as mine with diaries and papers, but not in Hebrew.
-Is the man Jewish? -I asked without much conviction and with enough curiosity, trying to resume the interrupted conversation.
-No. “I’m not Jewish,” he answered a little hesitantly. Noโฆ actually wellโฆ it’s a bit complicatedโฆ Jewish, I’m not really Jewishโฆ Now I’m not, but I am a little bit, since my family once wasโฆ But “Nowโฆno,” he added hesitantly.
Not expecting such a confusing answer and no less surprised than the first “Shalom” I heard, I asked again impatiently:
-So he’s Jewish but only a little, and now he’s not and before he was? -I protested-. Either it is, or it is not. You cannot be yes before and no now; or just a little bit a lot. Things are not like that.
“Calm down, calm down,” he apologized with a slight smile. Apparently, my family was in the distant past, many years ago, centuries perhapsโฆ Apparently, we come from an ancient Jewish family of high rank, but it was interrupted years ago, and now we are no longer.
The unforeseen story promised to be interesting for an autumn afternoon: a central hotel in the capital of the Brazilian jungle. I already had my story; I wasn’t willing to give her up easily, so I kept asking:
-And how do you know all that? Who told you that your family is of Jewish origin? What certainty do you have? -I attacked impatiently.
“My grandfather Zacarรญas,” he explained very calmly. The old man always told me stories about King David and King Solomon. Those were the stories I heard as a child before going to sleep, stories of heroism and bravery, of moral justice, that populated my childhood; I remember them very well. Legends. He had great storytelling power, a fabulous memory and imaginative descriptions. He spoke of the walls of Jerusalem, the hills of Galilee and the Jordan Valley. When he spoke, it was as if he saw those landscapes in great detail. Later, when I grew up and could understand things
In another way, I explained the meaning of my name. I have a Hebrew name, you know? Aaron. Although I Brazilianized it and today I write it “Aron”, without the intermediate axe. They say that he was the brother of the great Moses and that your priests come from him. A great man, isn’t he?
That’s how I, always so cautious and discreet, because of some neglected leaves, suddenly found myself in the torrid capital of the Amazon with Aron, a Brazilian proud of his name and his Jewish origins; even more so, of his alleged lineage that went back to the lineage of Moses and his brother Aaron. At least that was what he claimed, based on Grandpa Zacarรญas’ stories. But I had not come that far to hear Jewish stories. Busy daily with the Jewish-Brazilian community, he had traveled to Manaus to carry out activities with the ancient community of! Amazon, which prospered next to the mighty river at the end of the 19th century. I met with community leaders and heard stories of the past and of! present. With the young people we talked about Israel and the Middle East, about the Jewish condition and its dilemmas; I helped them plan activities and educational projects, and once my duties were finished, I spent some free days touring that exciting region.
No. I was not looking for the old stories of my people, which I know well, but for the new and exotic of the fascinating tropical world. That’s why I descended the torrential rivers in pursuit of nature and its wonderful secrets. I suddenly found myself crossing waters that lead to the heart of my American continent, I woke up in the bosom of deep rivers that carry the seeds of a virgin America that smells of herbs and fruits, I contemplated long twilights populated by colorful birds that covered a torrid sky and loaded with rain, I cross channels that cut through the islands on a long and arduous path in search of the sea. And there were also some sunsets in front of a wide river, a low sky and an ancient silence filled with jungle, which invited peace and relaxation.
It was the very heart of an ancient America, with the force of a nature fighting for its survival, the stillness and long silence, the contemplation of river landscapes bordered by jungle, the deep aroma of the dense earth, the wild scrub and the mud, the fruit, the seed and the tree No. I definitely did not go looking for the stories of my people, but they found me in the middle of the jungle and, apparently, they were not willing to abandon me so easily. All because of a few careless pages, which mischievously escaped from my work folder.
Aron continued his story:
-Old Zacarรญas, my grandfather, said that we came from Granada, the old Moorish, Andalusian and Jewish capital. That’s as far as my family’s historical memory goes. He used to talk a lot about Granada and also about Jerusalem, the other walled capital located in the hills.
I closed my eyes for a moment and imagined Granada. I saw it with the beauty of the rain-laden winter sky and also in the bright dawns of the Andalusian summer. I saw it with the narrow streets of Albaicin and the old Jewish quarter, and also with the cool patios with orange groves and the fountains that watered Moorish and Jewish gardens. I saw it for a moment in the fullness of the minarets and the high walls, superb and Jewish.
But he continued:
-Of course there was another story before Granada, but the family memory only reaches there. As you know, on those hills and within those walls a prosperous Jewish community flourished, among which were my ancestors: poets and doctors, businessmen and scientists, famous artisans and goldsmiths; all of them pious Jews, students of the Holy Scriptures. Apparently, for generations they lived in complete harmony, protected by the Muslim caliphs. That was our family. As you surely know, during the 12th to 15th centuries, the Moorish kings fought against the Spanish; My family fought alongside the last caliphs, who were ultimately defeated. They were expelled from Spain and driven into exile on the Azores Islands, where they lived a life of prison and exile. Old Zechariah said that one of my ancestors, a famous rabbi and scientist named Yehudah, managed to get him released and for years they lived on those Portuguese islands keeping their Judaism a secret, like so many others.
Another ancestor of mine, named Eleazar, finally managed to move our family to the European continent. From there they undertook the journey to Brazil in the 16th century, along with many others, in the hope that in the New World they could finally return to the bosom of their people and live openly as Jews. History, as you well know, showed us that this illusion was not possible.
-But you, where do you live today? Where is your family today? -I asked, trying to obtain more evidence of that incredible story.
-Our family is from the northeast, where we have lived since the 16th century, in the state of Paraiba, between Campina Grande and Joao Pessoa. For centuries we maintained our religion and customs in some way: the names, the Shabbat, some festivities, the prohibition of eating pork and mixing meat with milk, the old legends transmitted from parents to children and grandchildren, marriages within some families, traditionโฆ Unfortunately, that was lost.
-When? -I asked again impatiently.
-I don’t know precisely; maybe with my grandparents’ generationโฆ My parents no longer consider themselves Jewish. “They are not Christians either, but they stopped maintaining the old traditions,” he said sadly.
-And you? You don’t consider yourself Jewish? Don’t you feel Jewish? -I insisted.
-Well, Iโฆ I already told you. I do feel Jewish, I know that is in my blood. But I do not know; I really find myself confused and ambivalent. What our history is, what my grandfather told me, what I read todayโฆ all of that gives me a lot of emotion and I love it very much. But you know how life is: it has its course and you flow with it. It is not easy to return to the roots. “It takes a lot of willpower and a lot of courage, and I don’t know if I have them,” he responded with a little shyness and embarrassment, but without losing his smile.
There was a short silence. I thought a little and took the courage to ask what was already floating in the air:
-Wouldn’t you like to be a Jew again, return to the bosom of your people, recover history?
“I don’t know,” he answered hesitantly. It takes a lot of courage, a lot of willpower. Maybe somedayโฆ
-And besides the stories and legends of your grandfather, is there anything else that testifies to your origin? -I asked again inquisitorially.
-But you, where do you live today? Where is your family today? -I asked, trying to obtain more evidence of that incredible story.
-Our family is from the northeast, where we have lived since the 16th century, in the state of Paraiba, between Campina Grande and Joao Pessoa. For centuries we maintained our religion and customs in some way: the names, the Shabbat, some festivities, the prohibition of eating pork and mixing meat with milk, the old legends transmitted from parents to children and grandchildren, marriages within some families, traditionโฆ Unfortunately, that was lost.
-When? -I asked again impatiently.
-I don’t know precisely; maybe with my grandparents’ generationโฆ My parents no longer consider themselves Jewish. “They are not Christians either, but they stopped maintaining the old traditions,” he said sadly.
And you? You don’t consider yourself Jewish? Don’t you feel Jewish? -I insisted.
-Well, Iโฆ I already told you. I do feel Jewish, I know that is in my blood. But I do not know; I really find myself confused and ambivalent. What our history is, what my grandfather told me, what I read todayโฆ all of that gives me a lot of emotion and I love it very much. But you know how life is: it has its course and you flow with it. It is not easy to return to the roots. “It takes a lot of willpower and a lot of courage, and I don’t know if I have them,” he responded with a little shyness and embarrassment, but without losing his smile.
There was a short silence. I thought a little and took the courage to ask what was already floating in the air:
-Wouldn’t you like to be a Jew again, return to the bosom of your people, recover history?
“I don’t know,” he answered hesitantly. It takes a lot of courage, a lot of willpower. Maybe somedayโฆ
-And besides the stories and legends of your grandfather, is there anything else that testifies to your origin? -I asked again inquisitorially.
-There is an old trunk that I kept in the basement. Sometimes I open it and touch the objects; I don’t recognize all of them. It is the precious treasure of the family that I guard jealously. I don’t know what’s authentic about those old objects, but I preserve them with care. They are pieces of ancient parchment with Hebrew letters a little erased by time, some leather boxes, old bronze and silver utensils whose meaning I do not know. My grandfather Zacarรญas used to say that they are sacred and ancient objects, that they come from Granada, Seville and other places in Spain and Portugal. They were brought by our ancestors from old Europe and hidden from the inquisitors, preserved in secret and passed down from generation to generation as the great treasure of our family. To me, the trunk was given to me on the day I turned thirteen, with the promise to take care of it and pass it on to my children or grandchildren.
I closed my eyes for a moment and imagined the old trunk. I carefully touched the parchments and tried to decipher the half-erased Hebrew letters. I excitedly touched the faded leather of the phylacteries, the dark copper and blackened silver of the ancient candelabras and mezuzot. But the janitor suddenly appeared in front of me, who kindly requested my presence.
-Mr. Rubin, your taxi is waiting for you there, in the rain. If you don’t hurry, you’ll be late for the airport. Please note that at this time the traffic is very heavy, and with the rain the trip may be delayed.
We said goodbye effusively. Aron did not offer me his card with the address and telephone number, as expected, and maybe that’s why I didn’t give him mine either. The “Shalom” pronounced now more clearly than at the beginning of our meeting had a stronger meaning than then.
Comfortably sitting in the taxi, on the way to the airport and in the middle of a heavy tropical rain, I kept seeing an old trunk full of treasures from Granada.
Michelle Najlis naciรณ en Granada, Nicaragua, en 1946, hija de Rolando Najlis y Margarita Fle, inmigrantes judรญos-franceses, Siendo aรบn niรฑa se mudรณ con su familia a Managua, donde realizรณ estudios de primaria y secundaria. Posteriormente estudiรณ Ciencias de la Educaciรณn con especialidad en Filologรญa en la UNAN-Managua. Su primer poemario, titulado El Viento Armado, apareciรณ en 1969, ya este le seguirรญa Augurios, en 1980. En Ars Combinatoria, publicado en 1989, Michelle incursiona en el aforismo y el relato breve, mientras que Caminos de la Estrella Polar, de 1990, recoge una selecciรณn de sus artรญculos periodรญsticos. Con su tercer poemario, Cantos de Ifigenia, de 1997, Michelle gira hacia una poesรญa meditativa y amorosa con รฉnfasis en lo Absoluto. En sus poemarios siguientes, titulados La Soledad Sonora, de 2005, e Hija del Viento, de 2015, seguirรญa profundizando por la senda de la poesรญa mรญstica. Desde muy joven, Michelle participรณ en los movimientos artรญsticos y sociales de la รฉpoca, y fue muy activa en las luchas cรญvicas en contra del rรฉgimen de Somoza. Desde entonces, ha mantenido una actitud crรญtica y de denuncia a los abusos de poder, a la intolerancia y a las actitudes dictatoriales, sin miedo y de frente. Ejerciรณ el magisterio en la UNAN-Managua, asรญ como en la Universidad de Costa Rica, paรญs en donde viviรณ desde el terremoto de Managua, en 1972, hasta el triunfo de la Revoluciรณn, en 1979. En la dรฉcada de 1980 contribuyรณ al proceso revolucionario desde el Ministerio de Educaciรณn, donde trabajรณ como asesora para el รกrea de lengua y literatura. Tambiรฉn fue directora de cultura de la Universidad Centroamericana entre 1991 y 1997. Michelle Najlis recibiรณ la Orden Josefa Toledo en Grado: Defensora de Derechos Humanos. Demรกs de escritora y educadora, Michele se ha formado y desempeรฑado como teรณloga y biblista. Ha sido directora del รกrea de teologรญa del Centro Ecumรฉnico Antonio Valdivieso y desde fines de la dรฉcada de 1990 ha mantenido programas radiales de temas de interรฉs social desde un enfoque bรญblico y teolรณgico. ha sido una voz โ a veces solitaria โ en reinterpretar la biblia y las enseรฑanzas teolรณgicas desde una perspectiva feminista que promueve el respeto irrestricto de los derechos de las mujeres y de las personas LGTBI, crรญtica de los abusos de religiosos y a la manipulaciรณn de la religiosidad del pueblo con fines partidarios. Michelle es y ha sido una defensora de los derechos de las mujeres.
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Michelle Najlis was born in Granada, Nicaragua, in 1946, daughter of Rolando Najlis and Margarita Fle, French-Jewish immigrants. While still a child, she moved with her family to Managua, where she studied primary and secondary school. Later she studied Educational Sciences with a specialty in Philology at UNAN-Managua. Her first collection of poems, titled El Viento Armado, appeared in 1969, and this would be followed by Augurios, in 1980. In Ars Combinatoria, published in 1989, Michelle ventured into aphorisms and short stories, while Caminos de la Estrella Polar, from 1990 , collects a selection of her journalistic articles. With her third collection of poems, Cantos de Ifigenia, from 1997, Michelle turns towards meditative and loving poetry with an emphasis on the Absolute. In her subsequent collections of poems, titled La Soledad Sonora, from 2005, and Hija del viento, from 2015, she would continue to delve further down the path of mystical poetry. From a very young age, Michelle participated in the artistic and social movements of the time, and was very active in civic struggles against the Somoza regime. Since then, she has maintained a critical attitude and denounced abuses of power, intolerance and attitudes dictatoriales, without fear and head on. He taught at UNAN-Managua, as well as at the University of Costa Rica, country where she lived from the Managua earthquake in 1972 until the triumph of the Revolution in 1979. In the 1980s she contributed to the revolutionary process from the Ministry of Education, where she worked as an advisor for the area. of language and literature. She was also director of culture at the Universidad Centroamericana between 1991 and 1997. Michelle Najlis received the Josefa Toledo Order in Degree: Human Rights Defender. In addition to being a writer and educator, Michele has trained and worked as a theologian and biblical scholar. She has been director of the theology area of โโthe Antonio Valdivieso Ecumenical Center and since the late 1990s she has maintained radio programs on topics of social interest from a biblical and theological approach. has been a voice โ sometimes solitary โ in reinterpreting the Bible and theological teachings from a feminist perspective that promotes unrestricted respect for the rights of women and LGTBI people, criticism of religious abuses and the manipulation of religiosity of the people for partisan purposes. Michelle is and has been an advocate for women’s rights.
Veo llegar el dรญa en que el otoรฑo bese feliz la primavera. Espero la vendimia de mi sangre.
Veo tornarse ocres las verdes hojas de mis manos.
Siento crecer la vida que sembre con loco amor e insensatas alegrรญas, mientras fueron pasando, uno a uno, soles, constelaciones y planetas.
Aprendรญ a pronunciar 1os nombres de mis hijos que me fueron revelados poco a poco cuando ellos eran apenas dulces astronautas de mi vientre.
Conocรญ 1os secretos de la vida.
Bebi con la avidez rachas de viento, embriague mi piel con salobre espuma dorada por el sol.
Conocรญ la tormenta en el ocรฉano la perfecta oposiciรณn de 1os astros sobre el mar, y sentรญ la pequeรฑez indรณmita de este cuerpo que ocupa apenas un fragmento del tiempo y del espacio.
Yo, mujer, terca habitante del planeta he dejado mi huella amorosa en la nube que pasa ligera.
Ahora espero, gratia plena, el dรญa en que el otoรฑo bese feliz la primavera para compartir gozosa este jugo fermentado que es ahora mi sangre.
_______________________________________________
I, woman
I, woman, stubborn inhabitant of the planet
I see the day coming when autumn happily kisses spring.
I await the harvest of my blood.
I see the green leaves of my hands turn ochre.
I feel the life that I sowed with crazy love and senseless joys grow, as suns, constellations and planets passed by, one by one.
I learned to pronounce the names of my children that were revealed to me little by little when they were just sweet astronauts in my womb.
I learned the secrets of life.
I greedily drank gusts of wind, intoxicated my skin with brackish foam golden by the sun.
I knew the storm in the ocean, the perfect opposition of the stars on the sea, and I felt the untamed smallness of this body that occupies just a fragment of time and
space.
I, woman, stubborn inhabitant of the planet, have left my loving mark on the cloud that passes lightly.
Now I wait, gratia plena, for the day when autumn happily kisses spring to joyfully share this fermented juice that is now my blood.
________________________________________________
Quiero un poema sencillo y bueno
Quiero un poema sencillo y bueno como el pan, caliente y oloroso con ese olor de gente, de harina, de manos amasando y de un gran fuego rojo en el cielo del horno.
Quiero decirte: Ven, mi pan es tuyo ยฟno ves quรฉ manos lo amasaron? ยฟno ves que un mismo amor lo ha cocido y que mis manos y las tuyas estuvieron juntas en la panaderรญa? ยฟNo ves que venimos amasando pan desde el primer grano que sembramos?
Ven: compartamos el pan y la esperanza aunque el dolor sea largo y la angustia infinita.
_____________________________
I want a poem simple and good
I want a poem simple and good
like bread,
hot and fragrant
with that smell of people,
of flour,
of hands
kneading
and of a great red fire in the sky above the oven.
I want to tell you: Come,
my bread is yours
Don’t you see whose hands kneaded it?
Don’t you see that the same love has backed it?
and that my hands and yours
were they together at the bakery?
Don’t you see that we have been kneading bread?
From the first grain we sowed?
Come:
let’s share bread and hope,
although the pain is long
and infinite anguish.
____________________
Dios
Dios, camarada caรญdo nรกufrago de inรบtiles canciones hรฉroe de los suspiros hermano de la nada.
ยฟDรณnde estรกs ahora que te busco en todas partes y dejo de rezar porque no veo ni oigo lo que dices?
ยฟDรณnde estรกn tus caricias que sanaban mi angustia y alegrรญa?
ยฟQuรฉ te has hecho, Amigo inevitable? que ya no puedo verte que tampoco te encuentro en los libros que amรฉ, en la mรบsica callada en la soledad sonora en el verso que recrea y enamora?
Si siempre estรกs aquรญ ยฟpor quรฉ yo no te veo? ยฟPor quรฉ no puedo verte inevitable Amigo en esta nada โque me acecha cada dรญa sin descanso?
____________________________
God God, fallen comrade castaway from useless songs hero of sighs brother from nowhere. Where are you now that I’m looking for you everywhere and I stop praying because I don’t see I don’t even hear what you say? Where are your caresses that healed my anguish and joy? What have you done to yourself, Inevitable Friend? that I can’t see you anymore I can’t find you either in the books that I loved, in quiet music in the sound solitude in the verse that recreates and falls in love? If you are always here why I do not see you? Because I can not see you inevitable friend in this nothing that stalks me every day without a rest?
_____________________________
Como la tormenta, amor, como la tormenta
Como la tormenta, amor, como la tormenta.
Como el rayo, quemante, como el rayo.
Como la Iluvia, como los robles ante la Iluvia.
Como las flores, amor, como las flores.
Como el madero que retoรฑa en os cercos.
Como quien despierta a medianoche
gritando un nombre y oye que ese nombre le responde. Como quien toma unas manos tendidas desde siempre. Como un niรฑo ciego que busca su juguete preferido.
Como un cauce que se llena a la llegada del invierno.
Como una mujer ama a su hombre asรญ, amor, te he querido. Y ahora ante mi dolor y tu colera ante
tu imagen y mi deseo,
ante tu ausencia, como la tormenta.
_____________________________
Like the storm, love, like the storm
Like the storm, love, like the storm.
Like lightning, burning, like lightning.
Like the Rain, like the oaks before the Rain.
Like flowers, love, like flowers.
Like the wood that sprouts on the fences.
Like someone who wakes up at midnight
shouting a name and hears that name respond to him.
Like someone who has always held outstretched hands. Like a blind child looking for his favorite toy.
Like a riverbed that fills up with the arrival of winter.
Like a woman loves her man like this, love,
I have loved you. And now before my pain and your anger before your image and my desire,
in your absence, like the storm.
________________________________________
No dirรฉ tu nombre ahora
No dir tu nombre ahora no pronunciarรฉ en voz alta tu recuerdo no gritarรฉ la soledad de ti que me atormenta.
Pero 1as palabras estรกn -siempre estuvieron al pie de mis silencios.
Estรกn las viejas cosas (mรกs viejas y mรกs solas)
el laรบd melancรณlico y digno como siempre el canto gregoriano el buen- Marquรฉs de Santillana y la รบltima flor que tรบ me diste solidaria que tal vez esta noche no pueda vencer su dรฉbil lucha contra la muerte.
Serรก mรกs duro entonces alzar este brazo derecho y sin que tiemble la mano decidida partir en mil pรฉtalos marchitos estos dรญas en que guardo tu nombre inclinado amorosamente mi cabeza sobre cada letra de tu cuerpo.
No dirรฉ tu nombre ahora, pero las palabras estรกn me desangran al oรญdo tu presencia y la sal de cada dรญa aviva esta llaga que nos une.
Vivimos la atroz eternidad de dos amantes rotos por un signo desde siglos destrozados.
Ah, implacable viento humano que desgarra
________________________________________
I won’t say your name now
I will not say your name now, I will not pronounce your memory out loud, I will not shout the loneliness of you that torments me.
But the words are – they were always at the foot of my silences.
There are the old things (older and lonelier)
the melancholic and dignified lute as always,
the Gregorian chant, — the good Marquis of Santillana and the last flower
that you gave me in solidarity that perhaps tonight I cannot overcome his weak fight against death.
It will be harder then to raise this right arm and without shaking my determined hand to split into a thousand withered petals these days in which I keep your name, lovingly bending my head over each letter of your body.
I will not say your name now, but the words are bleeding into my ear, your presence, and the salt of each day fuels this wound that unites us.
We live the atrocious eternity of two lovers broken by a
sign for centuries destroyed.
Ah, implacable human wind that rips
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Ensalmo para que viva un hijo
Ensalmo para que viva un hijo
Conjuro 1os elementos hasta que salte el rito.
En lo profundo del viento invoco al aire: porque no muera en el cielo echo a volar mi alma.
En lo alto del llanto invoco al mar:
porque no muera en el agua quemo todas mis naves.
En la sima tremenda invoco al vasto abismo:
porque no muera en la tierra
hรกgase mi vida รกrbol.
En el ardor de la llama invoco al gran incendio:
porque no muera en el fuego hago fuego en mi cuerpo.
Porque viva del aire
porque vuele en el mar
porque sean de barro sus segundos humanos
porque sean de fuego su gesto y su palabra
conjuro 1os elementos hasta que salta el rito.
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Incantation so that a son may live
Incantation so that a son may live
I conjure the elements until the ritual takes place.
In the depths of the wind I invoke the air: so that I do not die in the sky I make my soul fly.
At the height of crying I invoke the sea:
so that I don’t die in the water, I burn all my ships.
In the tremendous chasm I invoke the vast abyss:
So that I don’t die on earth
let my life become a tree.
In the burning of the flame I invoke the great fire:
so that I don’t die in the fire, I make fire in my body.
Because I live from the air
because it flies in the sea
because their second humans are made of clay
because his gesture and his word are fire
I conjure the elements until the rite occurs.
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Con las cartas marcadas
Juguรฉ a las cartas contra la soledad y me gano la muerte.
Todos 1os dados cargados.
Juguรฉ con elegancia, con valor con el llanto vestido a diario de alegrรญa.
Juguรฉ apostando mis ojos y me gano la muerte.
Juguรฉ apostando la risa y me gano la muerte.
Juguรฉ apostando el amor y me gano la muerte.
Despojada de todas mis riquezas.
Juguรฉ apostando la vida me habrรก ganado
-una vez mรกs la muerte?
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With marked cards
I played cards against loneliness and I make a killing.
All dice loaded.
I played with elegance, with courage with tears dressed daily
in joy.
I played by betting on my eyes and I made a killing.
I played betting on laughter and I made a killing.
I played betting on love and I made a killing.
Stripped of all my riches.
I played betting my life will death have made a killing
-once again death?
______________________________
Creo en el sol aรบn cuando no brilla
Creo en el sol aรบn cuando no brilla y en la tierra aรบn si es estรฉril. En el trabajo aรบn si es esclavo y en las manos aunque no estรฉn unidas. En el dolor aรบn cuando nos duela y en Chile aรบn cuando agoniza. En la palabra aun si estรก en silencio Y en el amigo aun cuando ya no exista. Creo en el aire aun cuando me asfixio Y en el amor aรบn si no regresa. Solo mi cabeza –“cansada de palabras’ No reposarรก ya mรกs sobre su pecho.
Ricardo Lindo en San Salvador, El Salvador, en 1947 en el seno de una familia judรญa de poetas e intelectuales, la trayectoria del escritor, poeta y crรญtico de arte Ricardo Lindo incluye una amplia lista de libros que revelan sus variados intereses y habilidades literarias. Entre sus poemarios publicados se destacan los librosย Jardines, Rara Avis, Las monedas bajo la lluviaย yย El seรฑor de la casa del tiempo. Sus trabajos de crรญtica incluyen un estudio poรฉtico sobre la pintura de El Salvador y el libroย El esplendor de la arcilla, cuyo tema es el teatro popular en El Salvador. Y en narrativa, entre otros,ย Cuentos del mar, una colecciรณn de cuentos infantiles, yย Lo que dice el Rรญo Lempa, el libro de relatos mencionado antes, publicado en 1990 y Tierra, 1998.Toda esta obra en conjunciรณn con su labor editorial al frente de la revistaย ARS, Segunda รpoca, en la cual viene fungiendo como director desde 1991. Muriรณ en 2016.
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Ricardo Lindo in San Salvador, El Salvador, in 1947 within a Jewish family of poets and intellectuals, the career of the writer, poet and art critic Ricardo Lindo includes an extensive list of books that reveal his varied interests and literary skills. Among his published collections of poems, the books Gardens, Rara Avis, The Coins Under the Rain and The Lord of the House of Time stand out. His works of criticism include a poetic study on the painting of El Salvador and the book The Splendor of Clay, whose theme is popular theater in El Salvador. And in narrative, among others, Cuentos del mar, a collection of children’s stories, and Lo que dice el Rรญo Lempa, the book of stories mentioned above, published in 1990 and Tierra, 1998. All this work in conjunction with his editorial work at front of the ARS magazine, Segunda รpoca, in which he has served as director since 1991. He died in 2016.
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“Tierra”
Aรบn reservaba la tierra otras bondades al curandero Otzilรฉn. Se acercaban a รฉl los muchachos deseosos de avanzar en la senda del conocimiento, y รฉl hablรณ entonces de las esferas que giran en la bรณveda celeste, de la vida que late en las profundidades del Ocรฉano, y acabado el capรญtulo de la ciencia, hablรณ tambiรฉn de su infancia en Tulum, y de los peces voladores, y de las ciudades sagradas, abandonadas en la selva desde siglos atrรกs por una inexplicable decisiรณn de las deidades En sus conversaciones, don Pablo se refiriรณ a la Gehena. Otzilรฉn preguntรณ quรฉ era eso. El cura se remontรณ a los tiempos antiguos, partiendo de los presentes. Hablรณ de la ciudadela de Jerusalem, a cuyos pies se abrรญa un pequeรฑo valle calcinado por el sol, el valle de Hebrรณn. En ese lugar, en otro tiempo, se quemaban niรฑos ante Moloch, dios pagano y abyecto, y era llamado Gehena el pequeรฑito valle, que mรกs tarde, sรญmbolo del Infierno, creciรณ en la imaginaciรณn de los cristianos hasta convertirse en un magno espacio intemporal de suplicios por fuego. Y se extendiรณ Pablo de Alcรกntara, hablando de la ciudadela amurallada de Jerusalem (que quiere decir “Id en paz”) de sus torres cercando las gigantes puertas, cada una recibiendo su nombre segรบn los tratantes que comerciaban en el barrio aledaรฑo: Puerta de los Caballos, Puerta de las Ovejas, y tambiรฉn por la cercanรญa de las fuentes de agua, materia preciosa en tierras desรฉrticas. Puerta de las Aguas. Hablรณ de los templos de la Ciudad Santa, cuyas agujas y cuyas cรบpulas sobrepasaban la altura de los altos muros que la rodeaban, y eran visibles desde lejos. La iglesia hecha erigir por la madre de Constantino sobre la tumba de Cristo, la Gran Sinagoga, noble casa cuadrada con una estrella de seis puntas en la frente, los minaretes de las mezquitas, levantando sus espigados cuellos como camellos episcopales, el Domo de la Roca, cรบpula cubierta de lรกminas de oro. Pero la pequefta Gehena no era nada comparable al formidable precipicio que se cortaba a pique al pie del Alcรกzar de Segovia, una de cuyas torres estaba destinada a despeรฑadero de judรญos. Otzilรฉn, ante la vivacidad de las descripciones de Jerusalem, preguntรณ a don Pablo si la habรญa visitado. No era ese el caso. Pero era el clรฉrigo de familia de judรญos conversos, y muchas veces oyรณ a sus mayores relatos sobre la Ciudad Santa, y participรณ, de niรฑo en las lamentaciones que acompaรฑaban las efemรฉrides de la destrucciรณn del Templo, en cuartos cubiertos de ceniza. El cristianismo de don Pablo era, no obstante, verdadero, y no fingido como el de otros de sus congรฉneres, que optaron por cambiar de religiรณn para permanecer en Espaรฑa.
Y recordรณ don Pablo el edicto de expulsiรณn, que forzaba a los hebreos a cambiar de fe o a partir, y a Isaac Abarbanel, tesorero de sus Catรณlicas Majestades, rogando a los Reyes revocar el edicto, y ofreciendo treinta mil monedas de plata por cada israelita. El Gran Inquisidor Torquemada arrojรณ al suelo su crucifijo pectoral, gritando al Rey Fernando que, si ellos vendieron al Cristo por treinta monedas, vendiese รฉl ese crucifijo por las treinta mil monedas de Abarbanel. Y doscientos cincuenta mil judรญos debieron abandonar la tierra que fuera de sus padres, de sus abuelos, de los abuelos de sus abuelos, sin llevarse mรกs pertenencias de las que cupieran en un saco de viaje. Los que quedaron, fueron llamados marranos, y tal fue el caso de los padres de don Pablo. Pero a cuantos de sus parientes vio partir a un futuro incierto, como arrancรกndose el alma, a cuantos vecinos, y aunque รฉl era muy pequeรฑo entonces, supo que la vida habรญa cambiado para siempre. Su padre, mรฉdico de oficio, debiรณ dejar su profesiรณn. Su madre horneaba pan, asรญ que pusieron una pequeรฑa panaderรญa, para vender doradas hogazas a los cristianos, y en secreto, en la noche anterior a la pascua hebrea, ella cocinรณ los panes rituales, para que, en alcobas escondidas, a la luz de los cirios, los hijos de Abraham diesen gracias a Jehovรก por la inmensidad de sus dones. Ocasionalmente, uno de los asistentes a la fiesta judรญa dejaba de ir. Era vรญctima de una denuncia anรณnima, y su cuerpo, convertido en antorcha viviente, alumbraba con llamas siniestras, acompaรฑadas de gritos desgarradores, la Gran Plaza. Pero รฉl creyรณ en Jesรบs, y supo deslindar a la Inquisiciรณn de las palabras deEvangelio, y asumiรณ voluntariamente las aguas del bautismo, y mรกs tarde, tendido por tierra, recibiรณ el carisma que lo consagraba sacerdote del crucificado. Tan distinto era, al cabo, un Dios perdonador de aquel otro, justiciero implacable, que tronaba en tantas pรกginas del Antiguo Testamento.
Aรฑadiรณ unas palabras de amor, don Pablo, para la seca Extremadura de su infancia, y se refiriรณ a un bosque de otoรฑo, al Norte, donde iba con sus padres y hermanos arecoger nueces, y recordรณ a su padre recitando, en hebreo, los versos de Shlomรณ Ibn Gabirol:
Con tinta de sus lluvias y rocรญos,
con pluma de sus rayos luminosos,
y la mano de sus nubes, escribiรณ el Otoรฑo
en el jardรญn una carta de pรบrpura y aรฑil.
Callรณ el clรฉrigo. Otzilรฉn, con cierto soma, le hizo ver que los espaรฑoles dieron el nombre de aftil al jiquilite, la planta de tinte azul. A punto seguido, le preguntรณ por quรฉ eran odiados los de su raza. Don Pablo de Alcรกntara dijo que ningรบn grupo humano acepta que otro tengadiferentes costumbres, y que ve como defecto cuanto es, simplemente, distinto. Pero hizo menciรณn de numerosos congรฉneres suyos que se enriquecieron a costa de otros, de prรฉstamos cargados de intereses sanguinarios, que eran cobrados sin piedad, de avaros banqueros desfalleciendo de hambre sobre cofres de oro, en casas miserables donde se ahorraba hasta la sal.
Otzilรฉn lo interrogรณ de nuevo. ยฟSe llamaba, el cura, como decรญa? El nada respondiรณ. Frunciรณ el ceรฑo, mirando a las nubes, y a ellas volviรณ tambiรฉn la mirada el hechicero. Despuรฉs musitรณ don Pablo: -Shlomรณ, es decir, Salomรณn. Y tomรณ su camino, caviloso. Supo asรญ, Otzilรฉn, la razรณn de la simpatรญa que despertaba el clรฉrigo en los indรญgenas, y viceversa. รl era, como ellos, el hijo de una raza maldita, despertรกndose en la Gehena de los males y las zozobras.
*****
The land still reserved other benefits for the healer Otzilรฉn. The boys eager to advance on the path of knowledge approached him, and he then spoke of the spheres that rotate in the celestial vault, of the life that beats in the depths of the Ocean, and finishing the chapter on science, he also spoke of his childhood in Tulum, and of the flying fish, and of the sacred cities, abandoned in the jungle centuries ago by an inexplicable decision of the deities. And he talked about that. In his conversations, Don Pablo referred to Gehenna. Otzilรฉn asked what it was that. The priest went back to ancient times, starting from the present. He spoke of the citadel of Jerusalem, at the foot of which opened a small valley scorched by the sun, the valley of Hebron. In that place, in another time, children were burned before Moloch, a pagan and abject god, and the little valley was called Gehenna, which later, a symbol of Hell, grew in the imagination of Christians until it became a great timeless space of torture by fire. And Pablo de Alcรกntara expanded, speaking of the walled citadel of Jerusalem (which means “Go in peace”) of its towers surrounding the giant gates, each one receiving its name according to the traders who traded in the surrounding neighborhood: Gate of the Horses, Puerta de las Ovejas, and also because of the proximity of water sources, a precious material in desert lands. Gate of the Waters. He spoke of the temples of the Holy City, whose spiers and domes surpassed the height of the high walls that surrounded it, and were visible from afar. The church built by Constantine’s mother over the tomb of Christ, the Great Synagogue, a noble square house with a six-pointed star on its forehead, the minarets of the mosques, raising their lanky necks like episcopal camels, the Dome of the Rock, dome covered in gold sheets. But little Gehenna was nothing comparable to the formidable precipice that was cut at the foot of the Alcรกzar of Segovia, one of whose towers was destined as a cliff for Jews. Otzilรฉn, given the vividness of the descriptions of Jerusalem, asked Don Pablo if he had visited it. That was not the case. But he was a clergyman from a family of converted Jews, and many times he heard his elders tell stories about the Holy City, and he participated, as a child, in the lamentations that accompanied the anniversaries of the destruction of the Temple, in rooms covered in ashes. Don Pablo’s Christianity was, however, true, and not feigned like that of other of his peers, who chose to change their religion to remain in Spain. os adoratorios de tiniebla, adonde entraban รบnicamente los sacerdotes, y se extendiรณ el hechicero refiriendo prodigios de Tenochtitlรกn, ciudad en la que estuvo unos dรญas solo, treinta y tantos aรฑos atrรกs. Mas recordaba al Rey avanzando en la canoa real por los canales de la ciudad esplรฉndida, como un sol erizado no de llamas, sino de plumas preciosas, entretejidas con arte insuperable.
Uno de los jรณvenes hacรญa, en eso, una pregunta, y รฉl contestaba con una respuesta que le sorprendรญa a รฉl mismo. รl sabรญa cosas que รฉl ignoraba que supiera. Mรกs tarde se lo contรณ a don Pablo, y รฉste subrayรณ sus palabras con otras del Talmud:
-He aprendido de mis maestros. He aprendido de mis compaรฑeros de estudio.
Pero he aprendido mucho mรกs de mis discรญpulos.
Otzilรฉn dejรณ pasar una pausa reflexiva y aรฑadiรณ:
-El haber sido amado por muchos me ha enseรฑado mucho. Y lo primero, a refrenar mi lengua. Si uno ama sรณlo a alguien o a algo, ofende fรกcilmente a los demรกs sin fijarse. Si uno ama al Amor, aprende que la mejor ciencia de la vida es dejar ser a los demรกs. y riรณ el brujo, y su risa volviรณ a ser cristalina, un manantial surgiendo de una peรฑa. Don Pablo sonriรณ. Ese hechicero al que viera con temor, con respeto, con admiraciรณn, pero siempre con afecto, era hoy un poco su discรญpulo, o no el de รฉl, sino el de una sabidurรญa heredada de un Dios severo, duro, que impuso diez leyes de piedra sobre un monte cuarenta veces santo.
—Otzilรฉn no soy yo quien te habla. Otzilรฉn, soy el monte Hebrรณn, y la nieve sobre el Hebrรณn. Otzilรฉn, la tierra es apenas nuestra infancia, y la vida toda, que no puede ser sin amor. es รบnicamente ese Amor al cual vamos.
– ยฟy tรบ quiรฉn eres, Pablo de Alcรกntara?
-Soy la oveja de cien buenos pastores. ยฟY tรบ?
-Yo soy mi raza, y ambos pensaron que sus respuestas eran intercambiables.
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The land still reserved other benefits for the healer Otzilรฉn. Boys approached him, eager to advance on the path of knowledge, and he then spoke of the spheres that rotate in the celestial vault, of the life that beats in the depths of the Ocean, and finishing the chapter on science, he also spoke of his childhood in Tulum , and the flying fish, and the sacred cities, abandoned in the jungle centuries ago by an inexplicable decision of the deities. In his conversations, Don Pablo referred to Gehenna. Otzilรฉn asked what it was that. The priest went back to ancient times, starting from the present. He spoke of the citadel of Jerusalem, at the foot of which opened a small valley scorched by the sun, the valley of Hebron. In that place, in another time, children were burned before Moloch, a pagan and abject god, and the little valley was called Gehenna, which later, a symbol of Hell, grew in the imagination of Christians until it became a great timeless space of torture by fire. And Pablo de Alcรกntara expanded, speaking of the walled citadel of Jerusalem (which means “Go in peace”) of its towers surrounding the giant gates, each one receiving its name according to the traders who traded in the surrounding neighborhood: Gate of the Horses, Puerta de las Ovejas, and also because of the proximity of water sources, a precious material in desert lands. Gate of the Waters. He spoke of the temples of the Holy City, whose spiers and domes surpassed the height of the high walls that surrounded it, and were visible from afar. The church built by Constantine’s mother over the tomb of Christ, the Great Synagogue, a noble square house with a six-pointed star on its forehead, the minarets of the mosques, raising their lanky necks like episcopal camels, the Dome of the Rock, dome covered in gold sheets. But little Gehenna was nothing comparable to the formidable precipice that was cut at the foot of the Alcรกzar of Segovia, one of whose towers was destined as a cliff for Jews. Otzilรฉn, given the vividness of the descriptions of Jerusalem, asked Don Pablo if he had visited it. That was not the case. But he was a clergyman from a family of converted Jews, and many times he heard his elders tell stories about the Holy City, and he participated, as a child, in the lamentations that accompanied the anniversaries of the destruction of the Temple, in rooms covered in ashes. Don Pablo’s Christianity was, however, true, and not feigned like that of other of his peers, who chose to change their religion to remain in Spain.
And Don Pablo remembered the edict of expulsion, which forced the Hebrews to change their faith or leave, and Isaac Abarbanel, treasurer of their Catholic Majesties, begging the Kings to revoke the edict, and offering thirty thousand silver coins for each Israelite. The Grand Inquisitor Torquemada threw his pectoral crucifix to the ground, shouting to King Ferdinand that, if they sold Christ for thirty coins, he should sell that crucifix for Abarbanel’s thirty thousand coins. And two hundred and fifty thousand Jews had to leave the land that belonged to their parents, their grandparents, their grandparents’ grandparents, without taking more belongings than would fit in a traveling bag. Those who remained were called Marranos, and such was the case of Don Pablo’s parents. But he saw how many of his relatives he saw leaving for an uncertain future, as if tearing out his soul, how many neighbors, and although he was very small then, he knew that life had changed forever. His father, a doctor by trade, had to leave his profession. Her mother baked bread, so they started a small bakery, to sell golden loaves to Christians, and secretly, on the night before the Hebrew Passover, she baked the ritual breads, so that, in hidden alcoves, in the light of the candles, the children of Abraham gave thanks to Jehovah for the immensity of his gifts. Occasionally, one of the Jewish partygoers would stop coming. He was the victim of an anonymous complaint, and his body, turned into a living torch, illuminated the Great Plaza with sinister flames, accompanied by heartbreaking screams.
But he believed in Jesus and knew how to separate the Inquisition from the words of Gospel, and voluntarily assumed the waters of baptism, and later, lying by earth, received the charisma that consecrated him priest of the crucified. So different, after all, was a forgiving God from that other, implacable justice, who thundered in so many pages of the Old Testament. He added a few words of love, Don Pablo, for the dry Extremadura of his childhood, and he referred to an autumn forest, to the North, where he went with his parents and brothers to collecting nuts, and he remembered his father reciting, in Hebrew, the verses of Shlomo Ibn Gabirol:
With ink from its rains and dews,
with a feather of its luminous rays,
and the hand of its clouds, wrote Autumn,
in the garden a letter of purple and indigo.
The clergyman was silent. Otzilรฉn, with a certain soma, made him see that the Spaniards gave the aphtil name for jiquilite, the blue dye plant. Next, he asked him why his race was hated. Don Pablo de Alcรกntara said that no human group accepts that another has different customs, and that sees as a defect everything that is simply different. But He mentioned numerous of his fellow men who became rich at the expense of others, of loans loaded with bloody interest, which were collected without mercy, of avaricious bankers fainting from hunger over chests of gold, in miserable houses where even salt was saved.
Otzilรฉn questioned him again. Was his name, the priest, as he said? He answered nothing. He frowned, looking at the clouds, and the man turned his gaze to them too, magician. Then Don Pablo whispered: -Shlomรณ, that is, Solomon. And he took his way, brooding Thus, Otzilรฉn, he knew the reason for the sympathy that the cleric aroused in the indigenous, and vice versa. He was, like them, the son of a cursed race, awakening in the Gehenna of evils and distress.
Periodista, historiadora, antropรณloga, crรญtica de arte y escritora creativa, Anita Brenner fue una de las intรฉrpretes mรกs comprensivas y perspicaces de Mรฉxico. Nacida en una familia de inmigrantes judรญos en Mรฉxico unos aรฑos antes de la Revoluciรณn Mexicana, madurรณ hasta convertirse en una liberal independiente que defendiรณ a Mรฉxico, a los trabajadores y a todos aquellos que eran tratados injustamente, cualquiera que fuera su origen o nacionalidad. Sus extensos escritos, especialmente Your Mexican Holiday y The Wind that Swept Mexico, introdujeron a los lectores estadounidenses en la riqueza de la cultura y la historia mexicanas:.
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Journalist, historian, anthropologist, art critic and creative writer, Anita Brenner was one of Mexico’s most sympathetic and discerning interpreters. Born to a Jewish immigrant family in Mexico a few years before the Mexican Revolution, she matured into an independent liberal who defended Mexico, workers and all those who were treated unfairly, whatever their origin or nationality. Her extensive writing, especially Your Mexican Holiday and The Wind that Swept Mexico introduced American readers to the wealth of Mexican culture and history.
Estos fragmentos vienen de: Susannah Joel Glusker. Anita Brenner: A Mind of her Own. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 1996. pp. 32-39, 150-4.
Los fragmentos incluidos aquรญ vienen de: Susannah Joel Glusker. Anita Brenner: A Mind of her Own. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 1996. pp. 32-39, 150-4.
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Aรบn bastante joven, Anita Brenner se convierte en una escritora:
EN EL VERANO DE 1923 Anita regresรณ a San Antonio y convenciรณ a su padre para que la dejara ir a la escuela en la Ciudad de Mรฉxico. Isidore Brenner consultรณ al rabino Ephraim Frisch, quien le asegurรณ que estarรญa a salvo.
El Dr. J. L. Weinberger, quien dirigiรณ la oficina de B’nai B’rith en Mรฉxico, se mantuvo en contacto y no informรณ ningรบn problema. La lucha armada de los dirigentes revolucionarios habรญa terminado. รlvaro Obregรณn era presidente. otros (Carranza, Villa y Zapata) estaban muertos. La Universidad de Mรฉxico. estaba en sesiรณn.
Anita llegรณ a la Ciudad de Mรฉxico en septiembre de 1923. Tenรญa dieciocho aรฑos. Pasarรญa los siguientes cuatro aรฑos asistiendo a la escuela, trabajando para mantenerse y comenzando una carrera. Su primer trabajo fue enseรฑar inglรฉs en la Escuela Normal de San รngel, una escuela misionera presbiteriana. Sus 2 aรฑos incluรญan alojamiento y comida. En ese momento se establecieron muchos patrones para el futuro. Su vida social cambiรณ dramรกticamente. Pasรณ de sentirse fuera de lugar a sentirse orgullosa de ser parte de un grupo excepcional de personas, algunas de las cuales luego serรญan consideradas los artistas e intelectuales mรกs importantes de Mรฉxico.
Todo se juntรณ rรกpidamente. La carta de presentaciรณn del rabino Frisch a Weinberger le dio a Anita su entrada al mundo de los escritores, artistas e intelectuales como Paca o (Panchita), miembro del grupo de intelectuales. Visitar a Panchita fue muy divertido, en contraste con la vida solemne en la escuela misionera. Frances vivรญa en un apartamento con vistas a un patio compartido y sus vecinos eran amigos y colegas, incluidos Carleton Beals, Bertram y Ella Wolfe.
Frances llevรณ a Anita a tomar el tรฉ a la YMHA (Asociaciรณn Hebrea de Hombres Jรณvenes). Carleton la llevรณ a bailar al Salรณn Mรฉxico y todos fueron a Sanborns (la Casa de los Azulejos), “el รบnico lugar donde se podรญa tomar un cafรฉ decente” y donde la gente iba a las citas. Anita rebosaba emociรณn en una larga carta dirigida a su amigo Jerry Aron en Austin.
Estรก bastante de moda, sobre todo a la hora del tรฉ. Pero en el desayuno es diferente. Usted descansa mientras come, y gente interesante que conoce (o deberรญa conocer) se acerca y habla (oh, libros, polรญtica, teatro y chismes) mientras fuma y toma cafรฉ. Estรก Goopta, un revolucionario hindรบ que enseรฑa sรกnscrito en la universidad y tambiรฉn en las escuelas pรบblicas, que es famoso, intrigante y encantador. Estรกn los Wolfe, comunistas, lectores รกvidos, satisfactorios y encantadores, sobre todo la dama. Hay muchos otros: todos los que tienen algรบn tipo de derecho al intelectualismo (?) estรกn mรกs o menos ligados a รฉl. Artistas, escultores, escritores, socialistas, mรบsicos, poetas intelectuales, pero no la imitaciรณn que tenemos nosotros, Jerry. No son nada sorprendentes. Que el amor es libre es una cuestiรณn tan aceptada que a nadie se le ocurre molestarse en afirmarlo. Todos hablan el mismo idioma, es decir, todos se entienden, lo aprueben o no. Por supuesto que lo disfruto. Sin esnobismo, prejuicios de ningรบn tipo, raciales, monetarios, aparentes. En cuanto a la raza, no podrรญa haberla. Hay demasiados tonos de piel y /1.ag representados. En cuanto a lo monetario, bueno, prรกcticamente todos tienen sus “nombramientos”, que significa una hora o dos de trabajo en las escuelas pรบblicas, lo que significa mucha polรญtica y una posibilidad azarosa de recibir un pago. Todo el mundo siempre estรก pidiendo prestado a los demรกs, lo cual es bastante reconfortante como en casa, ยฟsabes? Pero es tan real, tan fรกcil, tan libre y nada agitado, que tengo ganas de tener alas vivas, poner mi mรกquina de escribir bajo el brazo e ir al cielo o a algรบn lugar mรกs tranquilo para realizar una obra maestra.
Anita se vio arrastrada a un mundo de personas e ideas. Renunciรณ a su trabajo en la escuela de la misiรณn para protestar por el despido de una maestra estadounidense por salir con un mexicano; Mรกs tarde ficcionalizรณ el evento en un cuento. El trabajo que encontrรณ a continuaciรณn, con Weinberger en B’nai B’rith, incluรญa recibir barcos que traรญan inmigrantes judรญos a Veracruz; llevar registros del nรบmero, ocupaciones y necesidades de las personas que llegaron; redacciรณn de informes; y ayudar a asentar a los inmigrantes en una nueva cultura.
Anita comenzรณ a escribir para su publicaciรณn. Los primeros artรญculos establecieron su patrรณn de vida: escribir positivamente sobre Mรฉxico. Su primer artรญculo, “El judรญo en Mรฉxico” en The Nation en 1924, fue una respuesta a las crรญticas estadounidenses a Mรฉxico como un lugar inadecuado para que se establecieran los judรญos. Maurice Hexter, jefe del Comitรฉ Judรญo Estadounidense, consideraba que Mรฉxico no estaba seguro, incluso si el conflicto armado de la Revoluciรณn de 1910 hubiera terminado. Consideraba que Mรฉxico era demasiado diferente culturalmente de la cultura europea. Los judรญos necesitaban abandonar Europa y Estados Unidos habรญa cerrado sus puertas a una nueva inmigraciรณn. Anita sintiรณ que Mรฉxico era apropiado. Escribiรณ una serie de artรญculos para el Jewish Morning Journal, enviรณ numerosos despachos a la Agencia Telegrรกfica Judรญa y ficciรณn al Menorah Journal. En todos ellos presentรณ a Mรฉxico con entusiasmo, describiendo el estilo de vida de los judรญos europeos y los acontecimientos sociales y culturales de la comunidad, asรญ como las actividades econรณmicas, contrarrestando eficazmente la mala prensa que habรญa en los Estados Unidos. Anita se identificรณ como judรญa. No practicรณ su religiรณn dentro de una tradiciรณn ortodoxa, ni se uniรณ a ningรบn movimiento sionista, pero estaba comprometida, como periodista independiente, a ayudar a los judรญos a escapar de los pogromos en Europa y defender a Mรฉxico.
La contradicciรณn de que una joven contribuyera a la construcciรณn de una nueva sociedad mientras su familia enfrentaba la posibilidad de perder su tierra no parecรญa preocupar a Anita. Muchos artistas y (como Diego Rivera, Josรฉ Clemente, Orozco, Daniel Alfaro Siqueiros, Atonieta Rivas Mercado y las familias Marรญn y Asรบnsulo) se encontraban en una situaciรณn similar. Ellos tambiรฉn pertenecรญan a la clase media y alta educada. Anita conocรญa los problemas de los ricos, pero eso no atenuรณ su entusiasmo por crear una nueva sociedad.
Diego Rivera
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Anoche vino Diego (Rivera) a mecanografiar un artรญculo: “El arte de la revoluciรณn” y de allรญ derivรณ una larga y emocionante discusiรณn, en el curso de la cual me convertรญ activamente en un revolucionario, puesto que (ya que) estรกs a favor o en contra y la pasividad es negaciรณnโฆ El valor de la conversaciรณn para mรญ es una razรณn para trabajarโฆ
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En 1933, el problema era el antisemitismo en Mรฉxicoโฆ especialmente despuรฉs de que la Ley Johnson restringiera la inmigraciรณn a los Estados Unidos en 1924. Algunos inmigrantes llegaron con la idea de cruzar la frontera hacia los Estados Unidos. El peligro era ser atrapado y deportado a Europa. Muchos judรญos inmigrantes trabajaron como vendedores ambulantes en la Ciudad de Mรฉxico y otras ciudades importantes. Tambiรฉn viajaron a pequeรฑas comunidades rurales en busca de clientes con planes de pago a plazos. A medida que aumentaron los ingresos, alquilaron puestos en los mercados pรบblicos. El siguiente paso fue alquilar una tienda y luego establecer sus propias pequeรฑas plantas de fabricaciรณn. A los propietarios de grandes almacenes les molestaba la competencia, especialmente la pรฉrdida de clientes, que preferรญan tratar con amables vendedores ambulantes en casa que enfrentarse a taciturnos empleados de la ciudad. Se sintieron mรกs cรณmodos haciendo preguntas, realizando pagos y esperando futuras visitas. Los comerciantes europeos establecidos eligieron el momento para financiar una campaรฑa xenรณfoba contra judรญos y orientales. Apoyaron al congresista รngel Ladrรณn de Guevara, quien organizรณ manifestaciones y lanzรณ una campaรฑa de prensa. Logrรณ expulsar a judรญos y orientales del centro comercial Lagunilla de la Ciudad de Mรฉxico y estaba trabajando para expulsarlos de Mรฉxico.
Anita se puso a trabajar. Telegrafiรณ a La Naciรณn para documentar la necesidad de una entrevista con el presidente Abelardo Rodrรญguez y รngel Ladrรณn de Guevara. La Naciรณn respondiรณ con telegramas presionando para obtener informaciรณn. Anita publicรณ los hechos sobre la campaรฑa antisemita y la declaraciรณn del presidente Rodrรญguez en las portadas de la prensa local. La Naciรณn publicรณ entrevistas asรญ como un comunicado del presidente para frenar efectivamente la campaรฑa. Los judรญos no serรญan expulsados โโde Mรฉxico. Su nacionalidad no serรญa revocada; estaban a salvo.
Anita habรญa iniciado su carrera como periodista en los aรฑos veinte escribiendo sobre Mรฉxico. Su papel de defensa de la comunidad judรญa de Mรฉxico fue un puente entre su pasado y su futuro, escribiendo en defensa de las personas en problemas. Su identificaciรณn con el pueblo judรญo estรก estrechamente relacionada con sus luchas como radical independiente: ella era una judรญa independiente y una radical independiente.
The selections included here come from: Susannah Joel Glusker. Anita Brenner: A Mind of her Own. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 1996. pp. 32-39, 150-4.
IN THE SUMMER OF 1923 Anita returned to San Antonio and persuaded her father to let her go to school in Mexico City. Isidore Brenner consulted Rabbi Ephraim Frisch, who reassured him that she would be safe.
Dr. J. L. Weinberger, who headed the B’nai B’rith office in Mexico kept in touch and did not report any problems. The armed struggle n the revolutionary leaders was over. Alvaro Obregon was president. others-Carranza, Villa, and Zapata-were dead. The University of Mexico. was in session.
Anita arrived in Mexico City in September 1923. She was eighteen years She would spend the following four years going to school, working to support herself, and launching a career. Her first job was teaching English at the Escuela Normal de San Angel, a Presbyterian mission school. Her 2es included room and board. Many patterns for the future were set at time. Her social life shifted dramatically. She moved from feeling out of place to feeling proud to be part of an exceptional group of people, some of whom would later be considered Mexico’s most important artists and intellectuals.
It all came together quickly. Rabbi Frisch’s letter of introduction to Weinberger gave Anita her entree to the world of writers, artists, and intellectuals as Paca, or (Panchita), a member of the group of intellectuals. Visiting with Panchita was great fun, in contrast to thsolemn life at the mission school. Frances lived in an apartment overlooking a shared courtyard, and her neighbors were friends and colleagues, including Carleton Beals and Bertram and Ella Wolfe.
Frances took Anita to the YMHA (Young Men’s Hebrew Association) for tea. Carleton took her dancing to the Salon Mexico, and they all went to Sanborns (the House of Tiles), “the only place where one could get decent coffee” and where people went to rendezvous. Anita bubbled with excitement in a long letter to her friend Jerry Aron in Austin.
It is quite fashionable, particularly tea-time. But at breakfast it is different. You lounge through your meal, and interesting people whom you know-or ought to know, drop along and talk-oh, books and politics and the theatre and gossip-over the cigarettes and the coffee. There is Goopta, a Hindu revolutionist, who teaches Sanskrit in the University and also teaches in the public schools, who is famous and intriguing and delightful. There are the Wolfes, com munists, avid readers, satisfying and quite charming, particularly the lady. There are lots of others-everybody who has any sort of claim to intellectual-ism (?) is sort of loosely bound into it. Artists, sculptors, writers, socialists, musicians, poets-intelligentzia, but not the imitation of it that we have, Jerry. They are not a bit startling. That love is free is a matter so accepted that no one ever thinks to bother to state so. They all speak the same language, that is, all understand each other, whether they approve or not. Of course I bask in it No snobbishness, prejudice of any sort racial, monetary, apparent. As to racial, there couldn’t be. There are too many shades of skin and /1.ag represented. As to monetary-well, practically all of them have their “nombramientos” [contracts] which means an hour or two of work at the government schools, which means much politics and a haphazard chance of being paid. Everybody is always borrowing from everybody else which is quite comfortingly like home, you know. But it is so real, so easy, so unconstrained and not at all hectic, that I feel like living wings, putting my typewriter under my arm and going to heaven or to some quieter place to achieve a masterpiece.
Anita was swept up into a world of people and ideas. She resigned from her job at the mission school to protest the firing of an American teacher for dating a Mexican; she later fictionalized the event in a short story. The job she found next, with Weinberger at B’nai B’rith, included meeting boats bringing Jewish immigrants to Veracruz; keeping records on the number, occupations, and needs of people who arrived; writing reports; and helping to settle the immigrants into a new culture.
Anita began to write for publication. The earliest articles established her lifelong pattern: writing positively about Mexico. Her first article, “The Jew in Mexico” in The Nation in 1924, was a response to U.S. criticism of Mexico as an inappropriate place for Jews to settle. Maurice Hexter, head of the American Jewish Committee, felt that Mexico was not safe, even if the armed conflict of the 1910 Revolution was over. He considered Mexico too culturally dissimilar from European culture. Jews needed to leave Europe, and the United States had closed its doors to new immigration. Anita felt that Mexico was appropriate. She wrote a series of articles for the Jewish Morning Journal, sent numerous dispatches to the Jewish Telegraphic Agency, and sent fiction to the Menorah Journal. In them all, she presented Mexico enthusiastically, describing the life style of European Jews and the community’s social and cultural events as well as economic activities, effectively countering the bad press had in the states. Anita identified as a Jew. She did not practice her religion within an orthodox tradition, nor did she join a Zionist movement, but she was committed , as an independent journalist, to helping Jews excape pogroms in Europe and defending Mexico.
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The contradiction of a young woman contributing to building a new society while her family faced the possibility of losing their land did not seem to concern Anita. Many artists and (such as Diego Rivera, Josรฉ Clemente, Orozco, Daniel Alfaro Siqueiros, Atonieta Rivas Mercado, and the Marin and Asunsulo families) were in a similar situation. They too belonged to the educated upper- and middle-class. Anita knew of the problems of the wealthy., but that did not temper her enthusiasm for creating a new society.
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Diego Rivera
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Last night Diego (Rivera) came over to get an article typed– “Art of the Revolution” and derived therefrom a long and thrilling discussion, in the course of which I I became actively a revolutionist, puesto que (since) you are either for or against and passivity is negation… The value of the conversation for me a reason to work…
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In 1933, the issue was anti-Semitism in Mexico... especially after the Johnson Act restricted immigraยญtion to the United States in 1924. Some immigrants came with the idea of getting across the border into the United States. The danger was getting caught and being deported back to Europe. Many immigrant Jews worked as peddlers in Mexico City and other major cities. They also traveled to small rural communities in search of installment-plan clients.As revenues increased, they rented stalls in public markets. The next step was to rent a shop and then to establish their own small manufacturing plants.’ Large department-store owners resented the competition, especially the loss of clients, who preferred dealing with friendly peddlers at home to facยญing taciturn city clerks. They felt more comfortable asking questions, making payments, and looking forward to future visits. Established European merchants chose the moment to fund a xenophobic campaign against Jews and Orientals. They supported Congressman Angel Ladron de Gueยญvara who organized demonstrations and launched a press campaign. He succeeded in getting Jews and Orientals expelled from the Lagunilla market center of Mexico City and was working on expelling them from Mexico.
Anita went to work. She cabled The Nation to document the need for an interview with President Abelardo Rodriguez and Angel Ladron de Guevara. The Nation responded with telegrams pressuring for information. Anita got the facts about the anti-Semitic campaign and President Rodriยญquez’s statement on the front pages of the local press. The Nation published interviews as well as a statement from the president to effectively stopยญ the campaign. Jews would not be expelled from Mexico. Their nationalยญity would not be revoked; they were safe.
Anita had initiated her career as a journalist in the twenties writing about Mexico. Her role defending the Jewish community of Mexico was a bridge from her past to her future, writing in defense of people in trouble. Her identification with the Jewish people is closely related to her struggles in independent radical-she was an independent Jew and an independenยญt radical.
Natalia Timerman (Sรฃo Paulo, 1981) รฉ uma mรฉdicapsiquiatra, psicoterapeuta, crรญtica literรกria, pesquisadora e escritorabrasileira. Possui graduaรงรฃo em medicina pela Universidade Federal de Sรฃo Paulo, mestrado em psicologia clรญnica pela Universidade de Sรฃo Paulo e especializaรงรฃo em escrita pelo Instituto Vera Cruz. Trabalhou como psiquiatra no Centro Hospitalar do Sistema Penitenciรกrio por mais de uma dรฉcada. ร colunista da UNIVERSA e colaboradora da revista Quatro Cinco Um e da revista CULT. Seu livro de estreia foi Desterros, elogiado por humanizar o sistema carcerรกrio de Sรฃo Paulo. A obra trouxe ao pรบblico a vivรชncia de funcionรกrios e detentos que passaram pelo Centro Hospitalar do Sistema Penitenciรกrio. Seu segundo livro รฉ uma coletรขnea de contos de ficรงรฃo, Rachaduras, obra finalista do 62.ยบ Prรชmio Jabuti, publicada pela editora Quelรดnio. No livro, a autora observa a cidade e as neuroses cotidianas no ambiente urbano. Muitos dos temas em Rachaduras lidam com a maternidade e as contradiรงรตes de ser mรฃe. Em 2021, publicou o seu primeiro romance pela editora Todavia, Copo Vazio, um dos mais vendidos de 2021, livro que trabalha com a dificuldade de estabelecer relacionamentos afetivos verdadeiros na era de aplicativos e redes sociais. Em 2022, publicou, ao lado da psicanalista Bel Tatit, Os รณculos de Lucas, seu primeiro livro de literatura infantil pelo selo Brinque-Book. Em 2023, publicou seu romance, As pequenas chances, pela editora Todavia. A obra tem inspiraรงรฃo autobiogrรกfica e foi inspirada na experiรชncia da autora com a morte do pai, o mรฉdico infectologista e escritor Artur Timerman o luto vivido e sua relaรงรฃo com o judaรญsmo.
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Natalia Timerman (Sรฃo Paulo, 1981) is a Brazilian psychiatrist, psychotherapist, literary critic, researcher and writer. He has a degree in medicine from the Federal University of Sรฃo Paulo, a master’s degree in clinical psychology from the University of Sรฃo Paulo and a specialization in writing from the Vera Cruz Institute. He worked as a psychiatrist at the Penitentiary System Hospital Center for more than a decade. She is a columnist for UNIVERSA and a contributor to the magazines Quatro Cinco Um and CULT. Her debut book was Desterros, praised for humanizing Sรฃo Paulo’s prison system. The work brought to the public the experience of employees and inmates who passed through the Hospital Center of the Penitentiary System. His second book is a collection of fiction short stories, Rachaduras, a finalist for the 62nd Jabuti Prize, published by Quelรดnio. In the book, the author observes the city and everyday neuroses in the urban environment. Rachaduras deals with motherhood and the contradictions of being a mother. In 2021, she published her first novel with Todavia, Copo Vazio, one of the best sellers of 2021, a book that deals with the difficulty of establishing true emotional relationships in the era of apps and social networks. In 2022, she published, alongside psychoanalyst Bel Tatit, her first book of children’s literature Os รณculos de Lucas, under the Brinque-Book label. In 2023, she published the novel, As Pequenas Chances, with Todavia. The work was inspired by the author’s experience with the death of her father, the infectious disease doctor and writer Artur Timerman, the grief she experienced and her relationship with Judaism.
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Artur e Natalia Timerman
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Demoro alguns segundos para entender de onde aquele rosto me รฉ familiar, em um contexto tรฃo diferente, o aeroporto, e jรก passados tantos anos de quando o havia visto pela รบltima vez, no hospital, um dia antes da morte do meu pai. Devo ter sorrido; ele tambรฉm sorri e se aproxima de mim um pouco mais, um tanto mudado, mas sรณ depois penso que ele me reconheceu mais rรกpido, o que รฉ estranho, ou deveria ser, pois os mรฉdicos tรชm milhares de pacientes, e os pacientes e seus familiares, apenas um mรฉdico em cada situaรงรฃo. Ainda que meu pai fosse mรฉdico e eu tambรฉm; durante aqueles dias, รฉramos pacientes, ou melhor, meu pai era o paciente do dr. Felipe, mรฉdico de cuidados paliativos, e eu, apenas a filha de um homem com uma doenรงa terminal.
ร claro que ele nรฃo se lembra do meu nome, penso, postada diante dele na fila do cafรฉ, surpresa com aquele encontro; penso em dizรช-lo eu mesma, evitando algum constrangimento, se รฉ que seria constrangedor um mรฉdico se esquecer do nome da filha do seu paciente tantos anos depois. Mas nรฃo digo nada; sorrio de volta โ ou antes, ou ao mesmo tempo โ, um sorriso triste, porque esse encontro, essa presenรงa, remete de imediato ร queles dias, jรก passados faz tanto tempo, mas a morte nรฃo passa, ela continua, continua, continua.
O contato com o dr. Felipe nas รบltimas semanas de vida do meu pai foi tรฃo constante que, nos dias seguintes ร sua morte, tive diversas vezes o รญmpeto de ligar para ele de novo, como se seu paciente ainda existisse, ou como se falar com o mรฉdico pudesse fazer que o paciente continuasse ou voltasse a existir, resolvesse o engano, porque no inรญcio (e atรฉ hoje, em alguns momentos, quando olho com atenรงรฃo alguma foto do meu pai, seu rosto tรฃo conhecido, o gesto congelado na imagem, que poderia do lado de fora da foto continuar a se mover, falar, viver) tive a forte impressรฃo de que aquilo era algum tipo de equรญvoco โ morrer, meu pai morrer, palavras que nรฃo combinam, que atรฉ hoje tenho dificuldade de ver juntas.
Ou como se o dr. Felipe pudesse agora cuidar nรฃo da dor do meu pai, que jรก nรฃo existia, mas da minha, da minha dor de nรฃo haver mais a dor e a vida do meu pai. Alรด, Felipe (eu o chamava pelo nome, nunca consegui chamรก-lo de doutor, talvez porque eu mesma odeie ser chamada de doutora), aqui รฉ a Natalia, filha do Artur, bom dia, tudo bem?; entรฃo, Felipe, o Artur jรก nรฃo existe, mas eu ainda existo, vocรช poderia me ajudar?; aliรกs, por acaso ainda sou filha dele?; como รฉ ser filha de alguรฉm que jรก nรฃo estรก?; nรฃo sinto dor, ou melhor, sinto muita, mas nรฃo aquela dor insuportรกvel que meu pai sentiu nos รบltimos meses, aquela para a qual vocรช prescreveu morfina e pregabalina e doses impensรกveis de dipirona e depois, como nada disso adiantasse, patches de fentanil; nรฃo, minha dor รฉ outra, tambรฉm insuportรกvel, mas vem em ondas, e, quando vem, รฉ como se me estrangulasse, tirasse meu prumo, e tomo consciรชncia da aberraรงรฃo do meu corpo, de ter um corpo, em um mundo no qual meu pai nรฃo existe mais, e percebo meus braรงos vazios, que o calor do abraรงo do meu pai jรก nรฃo estรก, nunca mais estarรก, e meus braรงos pendem, murchos, levando meus ombros para baixo, e minha cabeรงa olha para o chรฃo, onde alguns dias atrรกs enterramos meu pai, eu ajudei a enterrรก-lo, joguei trรชs pรกs de terra por sobre seu caixรฃo e depois finquei a pรก na terra revolvida para que outra pessoa a tomasse e cumprisse o mesmo ritual, como manda o judaรญsmo, e eu, que nunca fui judia, quer dizer, que desde a adolescรชncia ignorei a religiรฃo da minha famรญlia, me vi de repente cumprindo cada ritual com um alรญvio impensรกvel alguns meses antes, como se tudo que eu quisesse ou precisasse naquele momento fosse que simplesmente me dissessem como me portar ou o que fazer, que me dessem uma lista de tarefas para existir.
Meu pai morreu num sรกbado de manhรฃ, ร s 9h43, no Shabat. E entรฃo fomos para casa enquanto o corpo dele ficava na morgue do hospital, esperando ser levado para o cemitรฉrio na manhรฃ do dia seguinte, pois durante o Shabat se deve descansar, esta รฉ uma das leis mรกximas do judaรญsmo: nรฃo fazer esforรงos, nรฃo dirigir carros, nรฃo velar corpos ou transportar caixรตes.
Foi um dia estranho. Meu pai havia morrido, e cada coisa continuava no lugar. Na rua, na praรงa cheia de รกrvores na frente de casa, onde os meninos brincam, tudo permanecia do mesmo jeito, se movimentando, as รกrvores, os pรกssaros, os barulhos, os carros no asfalto, tudo igual, mas havia um silรชncio por trรกs das coisas. A morte รฉ um silรชncio, atrรกs de cada som hรก esse silรชncio, o telefone que nunca mais vai tocar, sua voz calada, nunca mais a singela mensagem Na/Posso ligar?, e eu nunca mais vou poder ligar direto em vez de responder que sim, pode, pai, porque vocรช nรฃo pode mais ligar, eu nรฃo posso mais falar com vocรช, e no entanto, tudo como se continuasse.
Gabi veio para minha casa. Minha irmรฃ รฉ engenheira naval, uma profissรฃo que precisa de mar para ser exercida, e hรก muitos anos nรฃo mora mais em Sรฃo Paulo. Ela sempre ficava na casa do nosso pai quando estava na cidade, mas agora nรฃo, agora nรฃo mais, nรฃo hรก mais casa do nosso pai, aliรกs, ainda havia, naquele dia, mas sem nosso pai, que รฉ o mesmo que nรฃo haver mais casa dele. Minha irmรฃ passou o dia deitada em silรชncio, mal comeu, mal bebeu, mal podia andar.
Ao sairmos do hospital, deixando para trรกs o corpo, pegamos suas malas. Gabi tinha vindo direto de viagem e, desde que chegara, nรฃo arredara pรฉ do quarto do nosso pai, que nรบmero era?, jรก nรฃo me lembro, nem em que andar, dรฉcimo, sexto? Ela nรฃo tinha forรงas para carregar as malas, ela quase nรฃo tinha forรงas para carregar a si mesma.
Tinha sido assim no enterro e na cerimรดnia um pouco antes. Minha irmรฃ nรฃo conseguia ficar de pรฉ. Alguรฉm veio me perguntar se ela havia tomado algum remรฉdio, jรก nรฃo lembro quem, algum amigo dela. Nรฃo havia, simplesmente a forรงa se esvaรญra do seu corpo. Ao lado do meu pai atรฉ o รบltimo instante โ Gabi estava com ele quando o coraรงรฃo parou de bater; foi ela quem, de pรฉ junto do leito, enquanto uma enfermeira lhe dava banho, percebeu que ele havia parado de respirar โ, ao lado do meu pai ela estava firme. E nos telefonou com uma voz doce, calma, papai descansou, mas assim que saรญmos de perto dele, assim que nos pediram que levรกssemos todas as coisas do quarto do hospital pois viriam retirar o corpo, ela desmoronou.
Gabi tambรฉm cumpriu os rituais judaicos. Nรฃo sei quanto ao meu irmรฃo; ela e eu, tudo que nos orientavam a seguir, seguรญamos. E aquilo fazia sentido, pela primeira vez me senti amparada pela religiรฃo, nรฃo por Deus, mas pelos meus antepassados, que conheciam a dor que eu sentia e haviam inventado rituais que tentavam acolhรช-la, amenizรก-la, circunscrevรช-la. O mero fato de que havia regras para a Shivรก, a primeira semana de luto, que se inicia depois do enterro, parecia me dizer que a dor, por mais excruciante que fosse, por mais que bagunรงasse o sentido de tudo, era conhecida e, de alguma forma, natural.
Foi necessรกrio segurar minha irmรฃ pelo braรงo para que ela conseguisse ficar de pรฉ diante do rabino, na pequena reza antes do enterro. Havia tanta gente no espaรงo que o caixรฃo do meu pai ficou no salรฃo de rezas (era uma sinagoga? Nรฃo sei, essas horas passadas no cemitรฉrio estรฃo todas um pouco borradas), e nรฃo nas salinhas do cemitรฉrio judaico destinadas aos velรณrios. Ficamos sentados nas cadeiras da frente โ minha irmรฃ, eu, meu irmรฃo, a mulher do meu pai, a filha dela. Um terrรญvel privilรฉgio, esse lugar da frente: bem diante da dor, o lugar da dor. Gabi ficou sentada quase o tempo todo; eu me levantava, ia beber รกgua, sentia uma sede terrรญvel, pegava รกgua para minha irmรฃ, ou alguรฉm aparecia com um copo cheio para cada uma, e eu andava para lรก e para cรก, perdida.
Eu recebia abraรงos e, tonta de um cansaรงo antigo, descobria sรณ depois de separados os troncos quem havia abraรงado. รs vezes os rostos eram desconhecidos, mas os abraรงos me pareciam bons, quentes, um lugar onde eu queria simplesmente dormir. Ou via o rosto de alguรฉm que me lembrava de uma รฉpoca da minha vida, da vida do meu pai, o cara com quem ele trabalhou durante toda a minha infรขncia, mais magro, muito mais velho, menor que a imagem que eu tinha dele, e entรฃo, ao abraรงรก-lo, chorava de novo, e mais, enquanto o sentia triste, porรฉm rijo, como se estivesse me segurando e amparando meu choro.
Havia quem comeรงasse a chorar jรก ao me ver, algumas amigas que gostavam muito do meu pai e que misturavam seu choro ao meu quando nos abraรงรกvamos. Esses eram os melhores abraรงos, eu me sentia um pouco fora de mim, como se parte minha estivesse com elas, e isso me proporcionava algum tipo de alรญvio, elas sentindo no meu lugar, me oferecendo um descanso do insuportรกvel.
Havia tambรฉm os abraรงos protocolares. Nรฃo eram ruins; cumpriam seu papel, e cumprir papรฉis preenche espaรงos vazios, em geral um pouco estranhos, tanto mais naquela situaรงรฃo. Havia quem abraรงasse demais, nรฃo sei por quรช, e isso nรฃo tinha a ver com a intimidade prรฉvia nem com algum critรฉrio, se pudessem existir critรฉrios de abraรงo; eram abraรงos que pediam mais do que davam, e naquela hora eu simplesmente nรฃo tinha nada a oferecer. Havia quem me abraรงasse com os olhos, de longe, por nรฃo conseguir se aproximar muito, seja pela falta de espaรงo, seja porque nรฃo houvesse caminho. Havia tantas partes da minha vida ali, no enterro do meu pai, na presenรงa de tanta gente e do tempo espalhado naquelas pessoas, mas aquilo era um absurdo, havia algo que nรฃo se encaixava, tantos amigos de รฉpocas diferentes da vida do meu pai, seria tรฃo รณbvio que justo ele estivesse ali, mas nรฃo: aquilo estava acontecendo justo porque ele nรฃo estava mais.
2
Ari, o mais velho dos cinco filhos de Jacรณ e Feyga (mais conhecida como Fani) โ dos quais Artur, meu pai, era o terceiro โ, veio me perguntar se eu queria discursar na cerimรดnia. Algum dos familiares prรณximos teria de dizer algo sobre o morto, fazer um pequeno discurso sobre a vida e as aรงรตes de quem morreu, da mesma forma que o patriarca Abraรฃo fez pela esposa Sara, vim a saber bem depois. Percebi que nรฃo, eu nรฃo queria falar nada, mas disse que sim, pois รฉ o que meu pai faria. Meu pai falaria. Nรฃo me lembro da ordem da cerimรดnia, nรฃo me lembro exatamente do que eu disse para as pessoas que lotavam o recinto sentadas e em pรฉ โ nunca vi um enterro tรฃo cheio, comentou o rabino, talvez tentando nos consolar de alguma maneira; lembro-me, jรก de pรฉ, diante de todo mundo, de respirar fundo algumas vezes e ser invadida pela sensaรงรฃo de que nรฃo conseguiria; de que, se abrisse a boca, sรณ poderia ser para chorar. Mas entรฃo meus irmรฃos, ambos, se levantaram ao mesmo tempo โ Gabi se ergueu sozinha nesse momento โ e se postaram um de cada lado meu, sem dizer nada, sem que isso tivesse sido combinado. Assim, com eles junto a mim, foi possรญvel falar. Eu disse algo como: se meu pai pudesse escolher qualquer coisa, escolheria a vida dele, a prรณpria vida que ele tinha levado, enquanto escutava os narizes fungando no salรฃo.
O enterro e a cerimรดnia que o antecede sรฃo um teatro. Eu sabia que as pessoas me observavam, observavam a mim, meu irmรฃo e minha irmรฃ chorando, observavam a companheira do meu pai atรดnita, e isso me dava certa sensaรงรฃo de farsa, a dor que eu comunicava nรฃo era a mesma que eu sentia, hรก um abismo entre ambas, mas as cerimรดnias sรฃo um teatro necessรกrio, pois por trรกs delas nรฃo hรก nada, รฉ isto a morte, nada, e isso nรฃo รฉ possรญvel suportar.
Timerman, Natalia. As pequenas chances.Todavia. Kindle Edition.
It takes me a few seconds to realize where I know that face, in such a different context, the airport, and so many years since I’d last seen it, at the hospital, the day before my father’s death. I must have smiled; he smiles too and comes a bit closer, somewhat changed, but it’s only later that I think he recognized me first, which is odd, or should be, because doctors see thousands of patients, but patients and their families, just one doctor for each situation. Even though my dad was a doctor and so am I, during that time we were patients, or rather my dad was Dr. Felipe’s patient, his palliative care physician, and I, just the daughter of a terminally ill man.
Of course he wonโt remember my name, I think, standing in front of him in line for coffee, surprised to have run into him; I think about just going ahead and saying it, to avoid any embarrassment, if a doctor forgetting the name of his patient’s daughter after all those years could be embarrassing. But I don’t say anything; I smile backโor first, or at the same timeโa sad smile, because this meeting, this presence, brings me right back to that time, so long ago. But death doesnโt pass, it continues, on and on and on.
My contact with Dr. Felipe during the final weeks of my father’s life was so constant that, in the days following his death, several times I had the urge to call him up, as if his patient still existed, or as if talking to his doctor could make a patient keep on living or come back to life, to figure out this misunderstanding, because in the beginning (and even today, at times, when I look closely at pictures of my dad, his face so familiar, his gestures frozen in time, like someone who, outside that photo, might carry on moving, speaking, living) I had the strong feeling that this was all some kind of mistakeโdying, my dad dying, words that don’t go together, that I struggle to see together to this day.
Or as if Dr. Felipe might now treat not my father’s pain, which no longer existed, but mine, my own pain because my father’s pain and life no longer existed. Hello, Felipe (I called him by his first name, I could never call him doctor, maybe because I hate when people call me doctor), itโs Natalia, Artur’s daughter, hello, how are you?; well, Felipe, Artur is no longer alive, but I am, do you think you could help me out? actually, am I even still his daughter? what’s it like being the daughter of someone whoโs no longer here? I don’t feel pain, or rather I feel a lot of pain, but not the unbearable pain my father felt those last few months, the one you prescribed morphine and pregabalin for, and unthinkable doses of dipyrone and then, when none of that worked, fentanyl patches; no, my pain is different, it’s also unbearable, but it comes in waves, and when it comes, it’s like it’s strangling me, it robs me of my wits, and I become aware of the absurdity of my body, of having a body, in a world where my father is no more, and I realize my arms are empty, that the warmth of my father’s embrace is gone, it will never be there again, and my arms hang, withered, bringing my shoulders down with them, and my head looks to the ground, where we buried my dad days ago, I helped bury him, I tossed three shovelfuls of earth on his coffin and then stuck the shovel in the turned earth so that someone else could take it and perform the same ritual, as required by Judaism, and I, who was never Jewish, I mean, whoโd ignored my family’s religion since I was a teenager, suddenly I found myself performing each ritual with a relief that was unthinkable a few months ago, as if all I wanted or needed at that moment was to simply be told how to behave or what to do, to be given a list of tasks in order to exist.
My father died on a Saturday morning at 9:43 am, on Shabbat. And then we went home while his body lay in the hospital morgue, waiting to be taken to the cemetery the next morning, because during Shabbat one must rest, this is one of the highest laws of Judaism: no exerting yourself, no driving cars, no mourning or transporting coffins.
It was a strange day. My father had died, but everything was still in its place. Out on the street, in the leafy square in front of my house where the boys play, everything remained the same, in motion, the trees, the birds, the noises, the cars on the asphalt, everything the same, but there was a silence behind everything. Death is a silence, behind every sound there is this silence, the telephone that will never ring again, his silenced voice, never again the simple message Na, Can I call you?, and I will never be able to just call him instead of answering Yes, Dad, you can call, because you can’t call anymore, I can’t talk to you anymore, and yet, everything continues as if we still could.
Gabi came over to my place. My sister is a naval engineer, a profession that requires the sea, and she hasn’t lived in Sรฃo Paulo for many years. She would always stay at our dad’s house when she was in town, but not now, not anymore, our dad’s house no longer exists, well, it still does, actually, but without our dad, which is the same as it no longer being his house. My sister spent the day lying down, in silence, she barely ate, she barely drank, she could barely walk.
When we left the hospital, leaving the body behind, we went to pick up her suitcases. Gabi had come straight to the hospital from a trip and since she’d arrived, she hadn’t left our father’s room, what number was it? I don’t remember, not even which floor, tenth, sixth? She didn’t have the strength to carry her suitcases, she almost didn’t have the strength to carry herself.
She was like that at the burial and at the ceremony shortly before. My sister was unable to stand. Someone came up to ask me if sheโd taken anything, I don’t remember who, a friend of hers. She hadnโt, the strength had simply drained from her body. By my father’s side until the last momentโGabi was the one with him when his heart stopped beating; she was the one who, standing at his bedside, while a nurse bathed him, noticed heโd stopped breathingโshe stood firm beside my father. And she called us and said, in a sweet, calm voice, Dadโs gone, but as soon as we left his side, as soon as they asked us to take all his things from the hospital room because they were going to come and remove the body, she collapsed.
Gabi also performed Jewish rites. I don’t know about my brother, but Gabi and I, everything we were told to do, we did. And it all made sense, for the first time I felt bolstered by religion, not by God, but by my ancestors, who knew the pain I felt and had come up with rituals that attempted to embrace it, alleviate it, circumscribe it. The mere fact that there were rules for Shiva, the first week of mourning that begins after burial, seemed to tell me that the pain, no matter how excruciating, no matter how much it messed up the meaning of everything, was familiar and, somehow, natural.
I had to hold my sister up by the arm so she could stand in front of the rabbi, during the small prayer service before the burial. There were so many people inside that space that my father’s coffin was left in the prayer room (was it a synagogue? I don’t know, those hours spent at the cemetery are all a bit blurry), and not in the small rooms at the Jewish cemetery intended for funerals. We sat in the front rowโmy sister, me, my brother, my father’s wife, her daughter. A terrible privilege, a place at the front: right in front of the pain, at the place of pain. Gabi stayed seated almost the whole time; I would get up, go get a drink of water, I was terribly thirsty, getwater for my sister, or someone would come with a full glass for each of us, and I paced back and forth, lost.
People came up to hug me and, dazed from an old tiredness, Iโd only realize who it was after I took a step back. Sometimes the faces were unfamiliar, but the hugs felt good, warm, a place where I just wanted to curl up and sleep. Or I would see the face of somebody who reminded me of a certain time in my life, in my father’s life, the guy he worked with throughout my childhood, thinner, much older now, smaller than the image I had of him, and then, when I embraced him, I cried again, and harder, and I could feel that he was sad, but tough, like he was holding me up and sustaining my tears.
There were the ones who burst into tears when they saw me, some friends who really liked my dad and whose tears mixed with mine when we hugged. Those were the best hugs, I felt a little outside of myself, as if part of me was with them, and that provided me with some relief, they were feeling in my place, offering me a break from the unbearable.
There were also ceremonial hugs. They weren’t bad; they served their purpose, and serving purposes fills empty spaces, generally a little strange, especially in that situation. There were the ones who hugged too much, I don’t know why, and this had nothing to do with prior intimacy or any criteria, if there could be criteria for hugging; They were hugs that asked for more than they gave, and at that time I simply had nothing to offer. There were those who hugged me with their eyes, from afar, because they couldn’t come any closer, either because there wasnโt enough room or because there was no way to get to me. There were so many parts of my life there, at my father’s funeral, in the presence of so many people and time spent on those people, but that was absurd, there was something that didn’t sit right, so many friends from different times of my father’s life, it would be so obvious for him to be there himself, but no: this was taking place because he was no longer with us.
2
Ari, the eldest of the five children of Jacob and Feyga (better known as Fani)โof whom Artur, my father, was the thirdโcame to ask me if I wanted to speak. One of the immediate family members would have to say something about the deceased, give a short speech about the life and actions of the person who died, the same way the patriarch Abraham did for his wife Sara, I found out much later. I realized that no, I didn’t want to say anything, but I said yes, because that’s what my father would have done. My father would have spoken. I don’t remember the order of the ceremony, I don’t remember exactly what I said to the people who filled the room, sitting and standingโIโve never seen such a crowded funeral, said the rabbi, perhaps in an attempt to console us in some way; I remember, standing there in front of everybody, taking a few deep breaths and being overcome by the feeling that I wasnโt going to make it; that if I opened my mouth only tears would come. But then my siblings, both of them, got up at the same timeโGabi got up on her own thenโand stood on either side of me, without saying a word, without it having been arranged beforehand. And then, with them standing next to me, I was able to speak. I said something like: if my father could have chosen anything, he would have chosen life, the very life he led, as I heard sniffling noses fill the room.
The burial and the ceremony that precedes it are a theater. I knew people were watching me, they were watching me, my brother and my sister crying, they were watching my father’s partner, paralyzed, and that gave a certain feeling of farce, the pain I was communicating wasnโt the same as what I was feeling, thereโs an abyss between the two, but ceremonies are a necessary theater, because behind them thereโs nothing, that is death, nothing, and thatโs something impossible to bear.
Timerman, Natalia. As pequenas chances. Todavia. Kindle Edition.
Jacques Sterenberg naciรณ en 1959 en Lima, Perรบ. Como hijo de madre chilena, su nacimiento fue inscrito en el Consulado de Chile en Lima y a los tres aรฑos llegรณ a vivir a nuestro paรญs. Es Licenciado en Artes Plรกsticas por la Universidad de Chile. Durante su formaciรณn fue invitado a participar en la muestra “Arte & Textos, Provincia Seรฑalada”(1983) realizada Santiago, Chile. En 1994 se trasladรณ a Israel tras obtener una beca para artistas otorgada por el Jerusalem Post. En ese mismo paรญs, en el cual se radicรณ, tomรณ cursos de impresiรณn y pintura industrial, asรญ como tambiรฉn de diseรฑo grรกfico computacional. Ademรกs, viviรณ y trabajรณ en Estados Unidos entre 1998 y 1999, posteriormente volviรณ a Tel Aviv. Su estadรญa en el extranjero permitiรณ la internacionalizaciรณn de su carrera, durante la cual ha exhibido sus obras en Israel, Estados Unidos, Alemania, Francia, Hungrรญa, Espaรฑa y Holanda, destacรกndose sus exposiciones individuales “To the Moon and Back” (2015-2014) en Menashe Art Gallery, Israel, y “Los dos juntos y cada uno por separado” (2017) en Granot Factories, Israel; ademรกs fue parte de “Art Beyond Boundaries” (2016-2017) que transitรณ por diversas ciudades de Estados Unidos. No obstante, Sterenberg ha mantenido siempre contacto con Chile, esto se refleja en su participaciรณn en muestras colectivas de la Galerรญa Artium, los aรฑos 2012 y 2015, y en la exposiciรณn “Eduardo Torres & Jacques Sterenberg”(2011) en Galerรญa Trece, todas en Santiago. Entre los reconocimientos obtenidos en el desarrollo de su carrera, destaca el primer lugar en el concurso “Postal Card Inter Ministerial Committee For Outstanding Artists “(1996), en Tel Aviv, Israel.
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Jacques Sterenberg was born in 1959 in Lima, Peru. As the son of a Chilean mother, his birth was registered at the Chilean Consulate in Lima and at the age of three he came to live in our country. He has a degree in Plastic Arts from the University of Chile. During his training he was invited to participate in the exhibition Arte & Textos, Provincia Indicada (1983) held in Santiago, Chile. In 1994 he moved to Israel after obtaining an artist scholarship from the Jerusalem Post. In that same country, where he settled, he took courses in industrial printing and painting, as well as computer graphic design. In addition, he lived and worked in the United States between 1998 and 1999, later returning to Tel Aviv. His stay abroad allowed the internationalization of his career, during which he has exhibited his works in Israel, the United States, Germany, France, Hungary, Spain and Holland, highlighting his individual exhibitions “To the Moon and Back”(2015-2014) in Menashe Art Gallery, Israel, and “Both Together and Each Separately” (2017) at Granot Factories, Israel; He was also part of “Art Beyond Boundaries” (2016-2017) that traveled through various cities in the United States. However, Sterenberg has always maintained contact with Chile, this is reflected in his participation in group exhibitions at the Artium Gallery, in 2012 and 2015, and in the exhibition “Eduardo Torres & Jacques Sterenberg” (2011) at Galerรญa Trece, all in Santiago. Among the many recognitions achieved in his career, the first place in the “Postal Card Inter Ministerial Committee For Outstanding Artists” competition (1996) in Tel Aviv, Israel stands out.
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Sterenberg desarrolla sus pinturas utilizando una paleta cromรกtica intensa, en la que predominan los colores primarios, los cuales contrasta entre sรญ y complementa con el uso de escalas de grises para desarrollar matices โantinaturalesโ en sus paisajes y retratos. Estos รบltimos se caracterizan por el minimalismo de los rasgos y expresiones hierรกticas de los personajes que protagonizan las obras.
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Sterenberg develops his paintings using an intense color palette, in which primary colors predominate, which he contrasts with each other and complements with the use of gray scales to develop โunnaturalโ nuances in his landscapes and portraits. The latter are characterized by the minimalism of the hieratic features and expressions of the characters who star in the works.
Adaptado de “Museo de Bellas Artes de Chile“/Adapted from “Museum of Fine Arts of Chile”
Traducciones del espaรฑol al idish, con otras al inglรฉs/
Translations from Spanish into Yiddish, with others into English ___________________________
Karina Lerman
Crear el libro:
La idea del libro pensado al modo de una antologรญa -como una especie de tejido viviente surgiรณ en plena รฉpoca de cuarentena. En esos tiempos de tanta incertidumbre y aturdimiento intentรฉ conectarme con algo mรกs personal y placentero que me llevรณ al estudio de un curso: prรกcticas y poรฉticas de la judeidad, a cargo de la coordinaciรณn de Susana Skura y equipo dentro de un programa de extensiรณn universitaria de la UBA(Argentina). Una exquisita labor a travรฉs de la cual el idish, como pieza sensible, brillaba en todas sus expresiones artรญsticas (teatro, literatura, material archivรญstico, mรบsica etc). Allรญ, sin saberlo, la docente de mรบsica idish Yasmin Garfunkel serรญa la traductora oficial de este proyecto que llevรณ 3 aรฑos. Proyecto transitado con muchos bemoles, altibajos, desesperanza; y gracias a la apuesta y tozudez personal y la valentรญa y amorosidad de la traductora pudo llevarse a cabo y ver la luz. La idea de la convocatoria era pesquisar, no sรณlo autoras judรญas, sino poรฉticas que tuvieran un recorrido vital relacionado con la judeidad; no necesariamente con el idish en su especificidad, pero sรญ cierta historia afectiva y de pensamiento para con ello. Fue precioso convocarlas y dialogar con cada una: largas charlas, grandes emociones recordando cuestiones personales que las reconectaban con la lengua del idish (si bien la mayorรญa no habla ni lee en idish). Asรญ, se sumaron autoras de diversas latitudes (Argentina, Mรฉxico, Venezuela). Demรกs aclarar que durante el proceso de la antologรญa dos autoras fallecieron; pero fue muy conmovedor encontrarse con la empatรญa de los familiares para colaborar y participar. A quienes tambiรฉn agradezco.Agrego que pueden contactarme a kariler1214@gmail.com para acercarse a la antologรญa que es de carรกcter digital y gratuito.
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Karina Lerman
Creating a book:
The idea of โโthe book thought of as an anthology – as a kind of living tissue – emerged in the middle of quarantine time. In these times of so much uncertainty and daze I tried to connect with something more personal and pleasant that led me to study of a course: practices and poetics of Jewishness, in charge of the coordination of Susana Skura and team within a UBA university extension program (Argentina). An exquisite work through which Yiddish, as a sensitive piece, shone in all its artistic expressions (theater, literature, archival material, music, etc.). There, without knowing this, Yiddish music teacher Yasmin Garfunkel would be the official translator of this project that took 3 years. Project traveled with many flats, ups and downs, hopelessness; and thanks to the commitment and personal stubbornness and the bravery and love of the translator was able to be carried out and see the light. the idea of โโthe call was to research, not only Jewish authors, but also poetic ones who had a vital journey related to Jewishness; not necessarily with Yiddish in their specificity, but a certain emotional and thought history towards it. It was beautiful to contact them and dialogue with each one: long talks, great emotions remembering personal issues that reconnected them with the Yiddish language (although most did not speak or read in Yiddish). Thus, authors from different latitudes joined in (Argentina, Mexico,Venezuela). Two authors died during the anthology process; but it was very moving to find the empathy of the family members to collaborate and participate. To whom I also thank. I add that you can contact me at kariler1214@gmail.com to get closer to the anthology which is digital and free.
Karina Lerman, Curadora de/Curator of La lengua en fllgrana
Karina Lerman. Poeta, psicoanalista, maestra de idioma hebreo y docente universitaria. Artista visual. Editรณ Las hijas de Lot (2018), Perlas, (2022) y la antologรญa Cรณmo decir, (2019). Primera menciรณn del premio Adolfo Bioy Casares (2019) con su poemario Cayupรกn. Y narrarรกs a tus hijos por el Centro Ana Frank de Argentina. Compiladora y curadora de la antologรญa digital Enhebradas, de una poiesis psicoanalรญtica en tiempos de pandemia (2021, 2023); la Antologรญa Mujeres en voz (2022). La antologรญa poรฉtica digital De pรฉrdidas y duelo. Cartografรญa de los cuerpos, (2023) y Costuras de la palabra (2023). La antologรญa al idish La lengua en filigrana (2023). Ha sido traducida al mapuzungรบn, griego e idish.
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Karina Lerman. Poet, psychoanalyst, Hebrew language teacher and university professor. Visual artist. She edited Las hijas de Lot (2018), Perlas (2022) and the anthology Cรณmo decir, (2019). First mention of the Adolfo Bioy Casares award (2019) with her collection of poems Cayupรกn. Y narrarรกs a tus hijos for the Anne Frank Center in Argentina. Compiler and curator of the anthology Enhebradas: de una poiesis psicoanalรญtica en tiempos de pandemia, (2021, 2023); the anthologies Y narrarรกs a tus hijos (2022), Mujeres en voz, (2023) and De pรฉrdidas y duelo. Cartografรญa de los cuerpos (2023)and Costuras de la palabra (2023). The Yiddish anthology La lengua en filigrana (2023). Her work been translated into Mapuzungun, Greek and Yiddish.
[1] Mikvah: es el espacio donde se realizan los baรฑos de purificaciรณn que prescribe el judaรญsmo. La mikvah no puede estar llena con agua estancada, sino que tiene que ser agua corriente. La palabra hace uso de las mismas raรญces en hebreo que la palabra โesperanza.โ
[1]Mikvah is the space where the purification baths prescribed by Judaism are carried out. The mikvah cannot be filled with stagnant water but must be running water. The word uses the same roots in Hebrew as the word โhope.โ
Presentaciรณn de la antologรญa/Presentation of the Anthology
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Miembros del equipo/Members of the team
Las poetas/The Poets
Raquel Jaduszliwer naciรณ en San Fernando, Pcia. de Buenos Aires.Psicoanalista. Reside en Buenos Aires. En poesรญa publicรณ poemarios entre2012 y 2023.ย Integrรณ diversas antologรญas.ย Publicรณ una nouvelle. Obtuvo varios premios nacionales eย internacionales.
Karina Lerman Vea arriba.
Laura Fuksman naciรณ en Buenos Aires. Es mรฉdica clรญnica y terapeuta corporal. Coordina Encuentros de Movimiento y Experimentaciรณn Corporal y Laboratorio de Recursosย Expresivos. Publicรณ diversos poemarios entre los aรฑos 2016-2021. Participรณ en antologรญas.ย
Celina Feuerstein naciรณ en Buenos Aires. Es Licenciada en Psicologรญa.Trabaja comoย psicoanalista. Poeta. Tiene textos en verso y prosa poรฉtica. Publicรณ poemarios entre 2018 y 2022. Sus poemas se publicaron en antologรญas.ย
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ย Raquel Jaduszliwer was born in San Fernando, Province of Buenos Aires. Psychoanalyst. She resides in Buenos Aires. She published books of poetry between 2012 and 2023. Her poems appear in several anthologies. She published a novel. She has won several national and international awards.
Karina Lerman See above.
Laura Fuksman was born in Buenos Aires. She is a clinical doctor and body therapist at Body Movement and Experimentation and Expressive Resources Laboratory. She published several collections of poems between the years 2016-2021. Her work is found in anthologies.
Celina Feuerstein was born in Buenos Aires. She has a degree in Psychology. He works as a psychoanalyst. Poet, with texts in verse and poetic prose. He published poetry collections between 2018 and 2022. Her poems were published in anthologies.
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Jefa de los traductores al idish/Head of the translators into Yiddish
Yasmin Garfunkel es cantante, docente e investigadora especializada en el idioma y cultura รญdish. Como cantante ha realizado conciertos en Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro, Ciudad de Mรฉxico y Tel Aviv. Junto a Federico Garber en el piano, con quien conforma el dรบo โGarfunkel Gaberโ, ha recibido premios del Instituto de Mรบsica Judaica de Brasil en el marco del Kleztival, y en el concurso โIdisher Idolโ, llevado a cabo en la ciudad de Mรฉxico. Colabora con la banda klezmer Peretz Garcik dirigida por Juliรกn Brenlle. Como docente ha brindado talleres de canciones en รญdish en la Universidad de Tel Aviv, para alumnos de la Universidad de Columbia de Nueva York y del Comitรฉ Central Israelita del Uruguay
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Yasmin Garfunkel is a singer, teacher and researcher specialized in the Yiddish language and culture. As a singer he has performed concerts in Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro, Mexico City and Tel Aviv. Together with Federico Garber on the piano, with whom he forms the duo โGarfunkel Gaberโ, she has received awards from the Institute of Jewish Music of Brazil within the framework of the Kleztival, and in the โIdisher Idolโ contests, held in the city of Mexico. she collaborates with the klezmer band Peretz Garcik directed by Juliรกn Brenlle. As a teacher, she has offered Yiddish song workshops at Tel Aviv University, for students at Columbia University in New York and the Central Jewish Committee of Uruguay.
Thea Segall (Rumania, 1929 โ Caracas, 2009) fue fotรณgrafa y editora de libros. Se inicia en la prรกctica fotogrรกfica a la edad de 19 aรฑos como reportera grรกfica de la Agencia Internacional de Noticiasย AgerPres, en Bucarest (1949-1957). Llega a Venezuela en 1958, con una solida formaciรณn fotogrรกfica que le permite abordar varios gรฉneros fotogrรกficos desde elย Studio Thea: fotos carnรฉ, primeras comuniones, retratos, eventos familiares, ceremonias de la comunidad judรญa, fotografรญa cientรญfica en el Instituto Venezolano de Investigaciones Cientรญficas (1964โ1970), registros de temas corporativos, actividades mineras, petroquรญmicas e hidroelรฉctricas para las industrias bรกsicas del Estado, al sur del territorio venezolano (1980-2007) y representaciones de contenido etnogrรกfico que forma parte y definen su discurso autoral. Particularmente, Segall se detiene en procesos artesanales de elaboraciรณn de alimentos (arepa y casabe), medios de transporte (curiara y carpinterรญa de ribera), instrumentos musicales (tambor), proceso de hilado, cesterรญa, alfarerรญa, en รกreas rurales de los Andes y en Barlovento (afro-venezuela). Representa tambiรฉn la arquitectura y los trabajos manuales que realizan las mujeres en comunidades indรญgenas (yekuana, yanomami, piaroa y wayรบu). Vertebra sus registros fotogrรกficos en secuencia que poseen un inicio, se desarrollan y finalizan, apuntando a una representaciรณn temporal con cualidades de narraciรณn visual. Organiza cuerpos de trabajo afines al gรฉnero fotolibro que denominรณ โfotosecuenciasโ en la trilogรญa:ย El casabe,ย La curiaraย yย El tamborย (1988). Como editora Segall publicรณ, ademรกs, veinte libros con diferentes tรณpicos. Sus fotografรญas ilustran textos antropolรณgicos, entre ellosย Religions et magies indiennes dโAmรฉrique du Sudย de Alfred Metreaux (Bibliotรจque des Sciences Humaines, Parรญs, 1967) yย Los waraoย de Marรญa Matilde Suรฉrez (IVIC, 1968), entre otros. Bajo su propio sello editorial, โImagen y Huellaโ, imprime compendios sobre la vida y obra de cientรญficos y humanistas venezolanos (1981-1988). Su sรณlida trayectoria no sรณlo se refleja en temas etnogrรกficos, sino tambiรฉn en una amplia documentaciรณn corporativa y en el registro de fotografรญas para pasaportes, retratos o conmemoraciones. Su vastรญsima obra estรก recopilada en el libroย Luz de Venezuelaย (1978).
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Thea Segall (Romania, 1929 โ Caracas, 2009) was a photographer and book editor. She began her photography practice at the age of 19 as a photojournalist for the International News Agency AgerPres, in Bucharest (1949-1957). She arrived in Venezuela in 1958, with a solid photographic training that allowed him to approach various photographic genres from the Thea Studio: passport photos, first communions, portraits, family events, ceremonies of the Jewish community, scientific photography at the Venezuelan Institute of Scientific Research ( 1964โ1970), records of corporate issues, mining, petrochemical and hydroelectric activities for the basic industries of the State, in the south of Venezuelan territory (1980-2007) and representations of ethnographic content that are part of and define his authorial discourse. Particularly, Segall focuses on artisanal processes of food preparation (arepa and casabe), means of transportation (curiara and riverside carpentry), musical instruments (drum), spinning process, basket weaving, pottery, in rural areas of the Andes and in Barlovento (Afro-venezuela). It also represents the architecture and manual work carried out by women in indigenous communities (Yekuana, Yanomami, Piaroa and Wayรบu). She structures his photographic records in sequence that have a beginning, develop and end, pointing to a temporal representation with qualities of visual narration. He organizes bodies of work related to the photo book genre that he called โphotosequencesโ in the trilogy: El casabe, La curiara and El tumba (1988). As editor, Segall also published twenty books with different topics. His photographs illustrate anthropological texts, including Religions et magies indiennes dโAmรฉrique du Sud by Alfred Metreaux (Bibliotรจque des Sciences Humaines, Paris, 1967) and Los warao by Marรญa Matilde Suรฉrez (IVIC, 1968), among others. Under his own publishing imprint, โImagen y Huellaโ, he prints compendiums on the life and work of Venezuelan scientists and humanists (1981-1988). His solid career is not only reflected in ethnographic themes, but also in extensive corporate documentation and in the registration of photographs for passports, portraits or commemorations. His vast work is compiled in the book Luz de Venezuela (1978).
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Exposiciรณn de fotos de las sinagogas de Venezuela/Exhibition of Photos of the Synagogues of Venezuela
Daniela Roitstein naciรณ en Buenos Aries. “Escritora, editora, comunicadora. Profesora de estudios hebreos y judaicos. Me especializo en comunicaciรณn escrita y redes sociales. Soy autora de la novela Escote hombre publicada en Chile, y obtuve premios literarios en Argentina y Australia, tanto en textos de no ficciรณn como de ficciรณn. Soy cofundadora y directora de Editorial Furtiva. He traducido textos del inglรฉs al espaรฑol. Soy Licenciada en Derecho por la UB de Buenos Aires, y Postgrado en Comunicaciรณn y Periodismo. de la Universidad Hebrea de Jerusalรฉn. Hablo hebreo e inglรฉs con fluidez. Comunicaciรณn y Periodismo de la Universidad Hebrea de Jerusalรฉn. Hablo hebreo e inglรฉs con fluidez”.โโ Desde su pรกgina de Facebook.
Daniela Roitstein was born in Buenos Aires. “Writer, editor, communicator. Professor of Hebrew and Judaic studies. I specialize in written communication and social networks. I am the author of the novel Escote masculino published in Chile, and I was awarded literary prizes in Argentina and Australia, both in non-fiction and fiction texts. I am co-founder and director of Editorial Furtiva. I have translated texts from English to Spanish. I have a Law degree from the UB in Buenos Aires, and a Postgraduate Degree in Communication and Journalism from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. I am fluent in Hebrew and English.”โโโFrom her Facebook page.
Despuรฉs del incendio fui una vez a la sinagoga. Era viernes a la noche, habรญa salido la primera estrella y un impulso entre atรกvico y moderno me llevรณ al templo de mi juventud.
En medio de la crisis econรณmica habรญa resurgido en Buenos Aires una tendencia a la religiosidad practicante.
El Antiguo Testamento es una fascinaciรณn para mรญ. Sรฉ que Eva naciรณ de la costilla de Adรกn, que Caรญn matรณ a Abel y que Esav se perdiรณ por un plato de lentejas. Pero, ademรกs de los relatos bรกsicos, me atrapan los personajes menores. Del relato de Job, por ejemplo โel sufriente sin motivo, el conejillo de Indias de Diosโ mi preferido es Elihรบ: un personaje que aparece apenas perfilado, joven testigo del sufrimiento de Job que acude silencioso al drama. Elihรบ, que escucha atento y calla. El que cuando ve que las palabras de los Sabios no prosperan y que Job las rebate con argumentos que los deja mudos, se convierte en orador incisivo. Nace. Puedo imaginarlo con su tรบnica larga y una mirada avivada de color azul como el Mediterrรกneo. Es รฉl quien le reprocha a Job ยซยฟpiensas ser mรกs justo que Dios?ยป, dejando en claro que ve lo que otros ignoran: el mayor pecado del supuesto justo es su soberbia. Elihรบ conoce a Job. Sabe de รฉl. Cuando Job afirma: ยซHabรญa hecho yo un pacto con mis ojos y no miraba a ninguna doncellaยป, ยฟquรฉ habrรก pensado Elihรบ? ยกUna mentira y una injuria para el gรฉnero masculino, mi queridรญsimo Job! ยกUna invitaciรณn a que te despreciemos, por hacerles creer a nuestras mujeres que semejantes pactos son siquiera factibles!
Job me era indiferente. A quien yo admiraba era a Elihรบ.
Eso, junto con ciertos recuerdos de infancia, hicieron el resto del camino.
El frรญo habรญa guardado a los judรญos de Belgrano en el calor de sus casas calefaccionadas y no รฉramos muchos los feligreses. Me sentรฉ bien al fondo, en una fila de sillas azules en la que no habรญa nadie mรกs. Siempre olรญa a reciรฉn pintado allรญ. La alfombra, tambiรฉn azul, obraba maravillas para contrarrestar la frialdad que generaba el gran tamaรฑo del lugar. Era desconcertante que solo se llenara de verdad en las Altas Fiestas. Para esas fechas yo iba al templo que solรญan ir mis abuelos, el de la calle Cosio, donde nadie rezaba mucho, pero tampoco simulaba hacerlo. Indescifrables hilos unรญan las palabras sagradas que los viejos decรญan a destiempo, mientras las viejas intercambiaban recetas de strudel de manzana y el dato de la pescaderรญa en la que molรญan mejor el pescado, la cebolla y la zanahoria para el guefilte fish. Cosio era el รบtero, Belgrano el corazรณn. Yo, quemadas mis cosas, necesitaba recuperar mi ritmo cardiaco, sentirme vivo. Me llevaron mis piernas hasta la fila donde me sentaba cuando llegaba tarde, aunque esta vez eran reciรฉn las siete y media y รฉramos pocos. Era temprano pero tarde, muy tarde; en algรบn lugar era muy tarde para mรญ. Tomรฉ el libro de rezos. Mis manos sudaban sin motivo. Me las sequรฉ en los costados de mi Leviโs 501, el mรกs clรกsico de la marca, que adquirรญ en la primera compra grande que hice con Laura para reaprovisionarme. Vestirme con un 501 era reafirmar lo existente, saber que el cielo no habรญa caรญdo. Para arriba me habรญa puesto una Lacoste rosa, regalo de Norita: No te hubieras molestado, Norita/ยซPero necesitรกs ropa, Ignacio, y ademรกs la comprรฉ en ofertaยป/Esa frase se esperarรญa que la diga yo, Norita/Se sonrรญe, cรณmplice, y me abraza.
Sonaron los acordes anunciando la entrada del rabino; en los รบltimos aรฑos la gente tomรณ la costumbre de ponerse de pie para recibirlo, como si fuera el Santo Padre. Yo no, siempre me incomodaron las jerarquรญas. Me quedรฉ sentado y me sentรญ pequeรฑo viendo desde mi รบltima fila las espaldas de toda la congregaciรณn de pie frente al altar. dio miedo y yo apuraba mis pasos torpes para no detenerme demasiado frente a รฉl. ยฟQuรฉ ven que yo no veo? ยฟQuรฉ miran? ยฟSerรก quรฉ me estoy perdiendo el fin del mundo? La espera de Oelze, artista de la dรฉcada del treinta que mi abuelo admiraba a pesar de su origen alemรกn, que pendรญa majestuoso sobre la cรณmoda de estilo de la casa, se quemรณ con todas mis otras cosas. Mi mamรก quiso dรกrmelo cuando muriรณ mi padre. Recuerdo un detalle del cuadro en el que una mujer y un hombre parecieran estar desertando de la escena. Si siguieran caminando tropezarรญan el uno con el otro, pero el misterio de los cuadros reside, justamente, en su quietud. De chico pensaba que el hombre lo sabรญa todo y por eso huรญa. ยฟY ella? Entendรญa algo que los demรกs solo alcanzaban a atisbar. Huรญa a conciencia.
Sobrecogido me hundรญ en la silla azul. Por instinto me toquรฉ la cabeza confirmando que todo โpelos y kipรกโ estaba en su lugar. Con ese gesto, una mujer sentada a cierta distancia de mรญ creyรณ que la estaba saludando y me sonriรณ con una familiaridad que me incomodรณ. No lograba ubicarla en ningรบn compartimento de mi memoria. Con su mano derecha, con breves sacudidas espasmรณdicas de su palma, bajito y apenas por encima de su ombligo, me saludรณ, como una adolescente contenta. Agucรฉ la vista mientras hacรญa una mueca, mezcla de sonrisa y estornudo reprimido, un enjambre de movimientos con mi cabeza, ojos y manos para disimular el olvido con un saludo cordial. La que me saludaba no era una visiรณn del famoso cuadro sino una mujer entre robusta y contundente vestida de verde, con cartera verde, zapatos verdes y un pequeรฑo paรฑuelo alrededor del cuello. El pelo negro lacio y corto, y anillos verdes, pulseras verdes y uรฑas muy largas. Maquillaje en los pรกrpados del mismo color. ยฟDe dรณnde la conocรญa? Seguรญ el servicio religioso en una especie de trance, ya que por algรบn motivo que yo a conciencia ignoraba, la apariciรณn me habรญa encendido una reserva de energรญa de la que carecรญa desde el incendio. Me ponรญa de pie y sentรญa su mirada en mis omรณplatos. Me volvรญa a sentar y veรญa su sonrisa, pero la sonrisa seductora era ahora como de abuela, de amiga de mi madre, como diciendo ยซcuรกnto has cambiadoยป. O ยซno cambiaste nadaยป. Lo mismo da: una sonrisa de alguien que no me ve hace mucho tiempo.
Poco a poco, la sinagoga se fue llenando, la gente ocupรณ los asientos de siempre, como si fueran entradas de cine numeradas. Allรก la que tiene una hija bulรญmica, pero lo esconde. Mรกs a la izquierda, de traje a rayas y zapatos lustrados en la calle Florida, el dueรฑo de la importadora de televisores. A su lado, el del quebrado Banco Patricios, impasible, seguido de una rubia envuelta en una remera de color plata que le marca rollos desagradables. A todos, todos, los conocรญa mรกs o menos bien, en sus miserias y glorias. Pero la mujer de verde se me escapaba del fichero. Cuando abrieron las puertas del arca donde estรกn guardadas las Torot, disponiรฉndonos a cantar la plegaria Aleinu, en la pรกgina ciento cuarenta seis de nuestros sidurim, y quedaron a la vista las sagradas escrituras en rollos vestidos de hilos dorados y plateados, se elevรณ mi espรญritu. Quien no ha visto nunca la recรกmara de la sinagoga abierta de par en par, mostrando los rollos de los cinco libros de Moisรฉs engalanados, no ha visto nada aรบn. El Pueblo del Libro ataviaba a su obra magna con corona y vestido de reina. Y en el interior, la palabra. Los allรญ presentes estiramos nuestros brazos en sรญmbolo de respeto, besando de lejos el texto, reverenciando en ese beso la tradiciรณn y, por quรฉ no, una cierta magia. Era el momento de pedir, esa era la costumbre en mi familia. Resultaba un poco pagano, como si reverenciรกramos al becerro de oro, pero funcionaba. Cerrรฉ mis ojos y me conectรฉ con una parte de mรญ que solo se me revelaba en esas circunstancias. Lo normal hubiera sido pedir algo cercano a: Dios, dame fuerzas, ayudame a salir adelante, a no deprimirme y a recuperar todas mis cosas. Pero en lugar de ello, pedรญ: Dios, me siento mal pero no abatido, solo quiero saber quiรฉn soy ahora. No permitas que recupere mis viejas cosas.
En el balanceo natural de quienes estรกn rezando, mis pies se despegaban del suelo medio centรญmetro hacia adelante, hacia atrรกs, hacia adelante, hacia atrรกs, de forma automรกtica y sin ninguna intenciรณn de mi parte de sumarme a los pรกjaros danzantes. Era solo una inercia del cuerpo que resultaba bastante ventajosa.
After the fire I went to the synagogue once. It was Friday night, the first star had risen and an impulse somewhere between atavistic and modern took me to the temple of my youth.
Amid the economic crisis, a tendency toward practicing religiosity had reemerged in Buenos Aires.
The Old Testament is a fascination for me. I know that Eve was born from Adam’s rib, that Cain killed Abel and that Esau was lost over a plate of lentils. But, in addition to the basic stories, the minor characters captivate me. From the story of Job, for example โ the sufferer without reason, God’s guinea pig โ my favorite is Elihu: a character who appears barely outlined, a young witness of Job’s suffering who comes silently to the drama. Elihu, who listens attentively and remains silent. He who, when he sees that the words of the Wise Men do not prosper and that Job refutes them with arguments that leave them mute, becomes an incisive speaker. Born. I can imagine him with his long robe and a lively look of blue like the Mediterranean. It is he who reproaches Job “do you think you are more just than God?”, making it clear that he sees what others ignore: the greatest sin of the supposedly righteous is his pride. Elihu meets Job. He know about him. When Job states: “I had made a covenant with my eyes and looked at no maiden,” what must Elihu have thought? A lie and an insult to the male gender, my dearest Job! An invitation for us to despise you, for making our women believe that such pacts are even feasible!
I was indifferent to Job. The one I admired was Elihu.
That, along with certain childhood memories, made it the rest of the way.
The cold had kept the Jews of Belgrano in the warmth of their heated houses and there were not many of us parishioners. I sat at the back, in a row of blue chairs where there was no one else. It always smelled freshly painted there. The carpet, also blue, worked wonders to counteract the coldness generated by the large size of the place. It was disconcerting that it only really filled up on the High Holidays. Around that time, I went to the temple that my grandparents used to go to, the one on Cosio Street, where no one prayed much, but they didn’t pretend to do so either. Indecipherable threads united the sacred words that the old men said at the wrong time, while the old women exchanged recipes for apple strudel and the information about the fishmonger where they best ground the fish, onion and carrot for the guefilte fish. Cosio was the womb, Belgrano the heart. With my things burned, I needed to get my heart rate back, to feel alive. My legs carried me to the row where I sat when I was late, although this time it was only seven thirty and there were few of us. It was early but late, very late; somewhere it was too late for me. I took the prayer book. My hands were sweating for no reason. I dried them on the sides of my Levi’s 501, the brand’s most classic, which I acquired on the first big purchase I made with Laura to restock. Dressing in a 501 was reaffirming what existed, knowing that the sky had not fallen. Upstairs I had worn a pink Lacoste, a gift from Norita: You wouldn’t have bothered, Norita/”But you need clothes, Ignacio, and I also bought them on sale”/That phrase would be expected from me, Norita/He smiles, complicit, and hugs me.
The chords sounded announcing the rabbi’s entrance; In recent years people have taken to standing up to receive him, as if he were the Holy Father. Not me, hierarchies always bothered me. I stayed seated and felt small watching from my last row the backs of the entire congregation standing in front of the altar. It was scary and I hurried my clumsy steps so as not to stop too long in front of him. What do you see that I don’t see? What are they looking at? Am I missing the end of the world? The wait for Oelze, an artist from the 1930s that my grandfather admired despite his German origin, who hung majestically over the style chest of drawers in the house, burned up with all my other things. My mother wanted to give it to me when my father died. I remember a detail of the painting in which a woman and a man seemed to be leaving the scene. If they continued walking, they would trip over each other, but the mystery of the paintings lies precisely in their stillness. As a child I thought that man knew everything and that’s why I ran away. And she? She understood something that others could only glimpse. I consciously fled.
Overwhelmed I sank into the blue chair. Instinctively I touched my head confirming that everything โ hair and kippah โ was in place. With that gesture, a woman sitting at a distance from me thought I was greeting her and smiled at me with a familiarity that made me uncomfortable. I couldn’t locate it in any compartment of my memory. With her right hand, with brief spasmodic shakes of her palm, low and barely above her navel, she greeted me, like a happy teenager. I squinted as I made a grimace, a mixture of a smile and a repressed sneeze, a swarm of movements with my head, eyes, and hands to hide the forgetfulness with a cordial greeting. The one who greeted me was not a vision of the famous painting, but a robust and forceful woman dressed in green, with a green purse, green shoes, and a small scarf around her neck. Short straight black hair, and green rings, green bracelets, and very long nails. Makeup on the eyelids of the same color. Where did you know her from? I followed the religious service in a kind of trance, since for some reason that I was consciously unaware of, the apparition had ignited a reserve of energy in me that I had lacked since the fire. I would stand up and feel her gaze on my shoulder blades. I would sit down again and see her smile, but the seductive smile was now like that of a grandmother, of my mother’s friend, as if to say, “how much you have changed.” Or “you didn’t change anything.” It doesn’t matter: a smile from someone who hasn’t seen me in a long time.
Little by little, the synagogue filled up, people occupied the usual seats, as if they were numbered movie tickets. There is the one who has a bulimic daughter but hides it. Further to the left, in a striped suit and polished shoes on Florida Street, the owner of the television importer. At his side, the man from the bankrupt Banco Patricios, impassive, followed by a blonde wrapped in a silver T-shirt that gives him unpleasant impressions. They knew everyone, everyone, more or less well, in their miseries and glories. But the woman in green escaped my file. When they opened the doors of the ark where the Torot are kept, preparing to sing the Aleinu prayer, on page one hundred and forty-six of our siddurim, and the sacred scriptures came into view in scrolls dressed in gold and silver threads, my spirit was lifted. . . He who has never seen the chamber of the synagogue wide open, showing the scrolls of the five books of Moses decorated, has not seen anything yet. The People of the Book adorned their magnum opus with a crown and a queen’s dress. And inside, the word. Those present stretched out our arms as a symbol of respect, kissing the text from afar, reverence in that kiss the tradition and, why not, a certain magic. It was time to ask, that was the custom in my family. It was a bit pagan, like we were worshiping the golden calf, but it worked. I closed my eyes and connected with a part of me that was only revealed to me in those circumstances. The normal thing would have been to ask for something close to: God, give me strength, help me move forward, not get depressed and get all my things back. But instead, I asked: God, I feel bad but not down, I just want to know who I am now. Don’t let me get my old things back.
In the natural balance of those who are praying, my feet left the ground half a centimeter forward, backward, forward, backward, automatically and without any intention on my part to join the dancing birds. It was just an inertia of the body that was quite advantageous.
Carlos Szwarcer es historiador, periodista y cuentista judรญo-argentino. Es especialista en la historia de los sefardรญes en la Argentina y ha coleccionado muchos testimonios orales de la gente vieja sefaradรญ de los barrios de Buenos Aires.
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Carlos Szwarcer is an -Argentine Jewish historian, journalist and short-story writer. He is a specialist in the history of Sephardic Jews of Argentina, and he has collected many oral testimonies from older people in Sephardic neighborhoods of Buenos Aires.
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Caminata otoรฑal -regreso a la inocencia-
Por Carlos Szwarcer
Cerrรณ la puerta de la pensiรณn en la que mal vivรญa y se echรณ a andar. Le habรญan dado un lugar para dormir gracias a la gestiรณn de un influyente sefaradรญ que se apiadรณ de รฉl. Estaba abatido. No podรญa creer que su malhadada existencia galopara desbocada por senderos tan antojadizos. โUna bien, otra mal, una bien, otra malโฆโ, pensaba. Arrastrando sus pies, cambiรณ su habitual recorrido, sin motivo alguno. Esta vez encarรณ la calle Gurruchaga hacia la izquierda. Mirรณ hacia la vereda de enfrente. Dos รกngeles de estuco lo observaban con misericordia desde los altos muros de la Iglesia San Bernardo.
โยกQuรฉ gameo! ยฟQuiรฉn me habrรก dicho que me meta en el negocio de las licitaciones? Yo sabรญa que me iba a pasar esto. Vender camisas, tocar el cielo, casa nueva, auto รบltimo modelo, guita[1]โฆ Y despuรฉs, como siempre, ยกperder todo!se decรญa, repasando sus รบltimos aรฑos, moviendo la cabeza hacia uno y otro lado y apretรกndose los labios entrecortando ese rezongo que le brotaba como quejosa plegaria.
Dos chicos que volvรญan a sus casas desde el Colegio Herrera lo observaron y se codearon. Su aspecto era lo suficientemente extraรฑo como para llamar la atenciรณn. Habรญa salido de esa pensiรณn-geriรกtrico tan ensimismado como desalineado; ni se habรญa peinado. Su cabello, otrora renegrido, encanecido demasiado rรกpidamente desde la muerte de su esposa, mostraba cientos de pelos parados como un cepillo viejo y escarchado. Josรฉ percibiรณ esas miradas raras, frunciรณ el ceรฑo y atinรณ a aplastarse con la mano derecha su abundante y desprolija pelambre, volviendo tan profundamente a sus embarullados pensamientos que no advirtiรณ las risotadas juveniles a su espalda.
En la esquina de la calle Murillo se frenรณ instintivamente poco antes de llegar al cordรณn de la vereda. Vaya a saber por quรฉ caprichos de su mente apareciรณ la inesperada y brillante imagen de su abuela fumando aquellos cigarros negros que apestaban el aire del inquilinato. Linda, robusta, peleadora. Hasta habรญa acuchillado a un turco allรก en Esmirna. Tuvo que hacerse respetar e ingeniรกrselas para darle de comer a sus tres hijos. En Turquรญa, su marido, Jaim, cumpliรณ cinco aรฑos de servicio militar y fue larga su ausencia durante la guerra. A Josรฉ le contaron que sus familiares vinieron a Buenos Aires desde el sector mรกs pobre del Karatash, el barrio judรญo de Esmirna, y que su abuelo demostrรณ tempranamente quiรฉn era, como para que no quedaran dudas: perdiรณ la pilcha[2] del casorio[3]jugรกndosela a los dados. Josรฉ mostraba su pรญcara sonrisa cuando tenรญa la ocasiรณn de explicar su teorรญa: la descendencia masculina heredarรญa de aquel patriarca familiar esa irresistible inclinaciรณn por el juego. En charla de amigos, ademรกs, reconocรญa con orgullo el carรกcter fuerte y pendenciero de su abuela, la que habรญa dado tanto que hablar a medio barrio. Cรณmo se peleaba esa mujer con los vecinos, sentada en su destartalada silla de mimbre en la vereda, alardeando con su infaltable cigarro negro a un costado de la boca y seรฑalando con el dedo รญndice. Nadie se le atrevรญa.
โยกQuรฉ tiemposโฆ! โmurmurรณ Josรฉ, emprendiendo absurdamente el cruce de Murillo a ciegas. Una bocina desesperada y el escandaloso ruido de los frenos de una camioneta Ford 400 lo ensordecieron hasta paralizarlo. El paragolpes metรกlico estaba a no mรกs de un centรญmetro de su rodilla. Se quedรณ aturdido y temblando. โยกQuรฉ torpeza la mรญa!โ, rumiรณ asustado.
โยกImbรฉcil! ยฟCรณmo te largรกs a cruzar de golpe? ยฟTe querรฉs matar? โlo increpรณ el conductor del vehรญculo.
Josรฉ, casi sin entender quรฉ le habรญa sucedido, recorriรณ la otra mitad de la calle, pero ahora con sus ojos exageradamente abiertos y abotargados clavados en la figura del joven que aรบn le gritaba por la ventanilla de la Ford. Su corazรณn agitado le percutรญa en la garganta y se balanceรณ sobre el cordรณn de la vereda como si estuviera sobre una baldosa enjabonada. Se recompuso, sacudiรณ la cabeza y tomรณ conciencia de que estuvo a punto de perder su frรกgil vida.
โยฟPero estoy charpeado, en dรณnde tengo el meoio? โexclamรณ apretรกndose las manos y mirando el cielo demasiado celeste.
Dio unos pasos y, tal vez porque instintivamente sabรญa que no habรญa peligro inmediato en los prรณximos cien metros โhasta la prรณxima esquinaโ, volviรณ a meterse de lleno en el tรบnel de los recuerdos mientras caminaba. Que lo echaran de la casa de su hijo era lo รบltimo que hubiera esperado. โยฟPor quรฉ no habrรฉ sacado el carรกcter temerario de mi abuela y atreverme a ponerle un cuchillo en el cuello a mi nueraโฆ, ยฟcรณmo pudo tratarme como un perro?โ, rezongรณ. โNoโฆ estas reacciones no son de gente como yo. ยฟQuรฉ me estรก pasando?โ, se sorprendiรณ de sus disparatados razonamientos. โยกEn quรฉ jal vinimos!โ[4], solรญa decir su abuela para expresar los malos momentos, y a Josรฉ le rondaron estas antiguas y lejanas palabras. Sentรญa amargamente que en el รบltimo tramo de su vida se encontraba en una humillante situaciรณn que no creรญa merecer. De chico habรญa sido rebelde, buscavidas, peleador, pero los aรฑos lo amansaron; los infalibles porrazos en su camino y su mala estrea fueron domando, de a poco, su carรกcter dรญscolo, restos de una remota osadรญa. Estaba entregado. En los รบltimos tiempos se sentรญa como aquel barrilete de su niรฑez al que se le cortรณ el hilo y fue llevado por el vientoโฆ hacia ningรบn lugar.
Al llegar a la esquina de Padilla decidiรณ abandonar por un momento sus pensamientos y mirรณ la calle antes de cruzar. Dejรณ pasar un micro naranja con niรฑos que iban o venรญan de algรบn colegio cercano, esta vez con los pies firmes apoyados en el cordรณn y, ya sin vehรญculos cercanos, apurรณ el paso y cruzรณ. Al llegar a la mitad de la cuadra escuchรณ la voz estridente de Roberto, su amigo de juergas, que le gritaba desde la entrada del mercadito de enfrente: โEh, Josรฉ, ยฟvas al Cafรฉ San Bernardo?โ.
โNo, no tengo un mango[5]para morfar[6]โฆno voy a ir al cafรฉ a jugar a las cartasโle contestรณ, arreglรกndose otra vez la cabellera y levantando la mano para saludar a su amigo.
โยกNo seas llorรณn! โle recriminรณ Roberto, que resignadamente encogiรณ los hombros y mientras se alejaba le gritรณ su frase habitualโ: ยกChau!โฆ Cheโฆ, ยกno te pierdas Josecito!
Josรฉ continuรณ su periplo en ese dรญa frรญo y esquivo, aunque el sol que le daba de frente acariciaba su rostro. Por un rato disfrutรณ de ese regalo de la naturaleza que le arrancรณ una media sonrisa de satisfacciรณn. Pero enseguida volviรณ a sumergirse en sus largas cavilaciones: โยกCuรกnta plata perdรญ en el juego, con la cuarta parte de lo que despilfarrรฉ podrรญa vivir tranquilo y no de la compasiรณn de los demรกsโฆ!โ.
Al llegar a la ochava de la calle Camargo mirรณ a la izquierda, hacia la mitad de cuadra, no habรญa nadie conocido en la puerta del Templo Sefaradรญ, excepto dos mastodontes del servicio de seguridad. Ese sitio ya no era el mismo desde los atentados a la Embajada de Israel y la AMIA: habรญan construido esos pilares para protecciรณn y tenรญa custodia permanente. Posรณ sus ojos marrones en la vereda de enfrente, en el nuevo negocio que por aรฑos fuera el almacรฉn de โmuรฑecoโ Goldfarb. โยฟQuรฉ habrรก sido de aquel flaco y pรกlido ashkenazรญ que rara vez su rostro veรญa la luz del sol? El pobre se pasaba dรญa tras dรญa parapetado detrรกs de su roja mรกquina de cortar fiambresโ, recordรณ con nostalgia.
Dejรณ pasar un colectivo 65 y cruzรณ la calle. Los cien metros siguientes hasta la gran avenida Corrientes no fueron sencillos de recorrer. La enorme red de su memoria lo atraparรญa hasta casi inmovilizarlo. Intuรญa que los recuerdos le traerรญan imรกgenes inevitables. Se dejรณ llevar lentamente por sus flacas y huesudas piernas, atraรญdo por los claroscuros de su pasado. De chico habรญa vivido en un inquilinato de esa cuadra por casi veinte aรฑos, cuando todo era distinto. Buenos Aires, Villa Crespo, la calle Gurruchagaโฆ, cรณmo habรญan cambiado, tanto como su propia vida.
Momentos de su infancia fueron pasando del sepia al color. Su padre โque habรญa hecho de todo para sobrevivirโ fue changarรญn[7]en el puerto, mozo de bodas y de cafรฉ, vendedor ambulante y โยกquรฉ gran bailarรญn!โ: por el arte de su danza armoniosa manteniendo una botella sobre la cabeza sin que se le cayera, acompaรฑรกndose con un par de cucharas marcando el ritmo oriental, tuvo cierta fama como para ganarse muchos aplausos, unos pocos pesos de propina y algunas copas sin cargo. Los รบltimos aรฑos se chupaba hasta una botella de whisky en el dรญa. Fue tan bueno como tarambana, se gastaba todo con los amigos, en el cafรฉ, en las carreras de caballos, jugando en el pรณquerโฆ hasta lo que no tenรญa.
Ese trรกgico gen familiar los persiguiรณ por generaciones. El abuelo de Josรฉ vino a โla Amerikaโ con ese vicio del juego, y un tรญo abuelo fue cรฉlebre por sus juergas desmedidas, jugosas anรฉcdotas que hasta se mencionan en algunos libros que cuentan la historia del barrio. Ni su padre fue ajeno a esta pasiรณn lรบdica y, para quรฉ negarlo, Josรฉ tampoco. ยกEse maldito gen! Pobre su madre, tuvo que rebuscรกrsela lavando ropa para los paisanos. Pero claro que era otra รฉpoca. Si no habรญa plata se las arreglaban. Ella, con un peso que le daba su esposo, hacรญa las cuatro comidas. โยกEra un milagro!โ. Comรญan โqueso rallado al tandurโ[8].โยกQuรฉ ricoโฆ, habรญa alegrรญa!โ. Derretรญan el queso con pan y lo acompaรฑaban con tรฉ y salmodiaban:โHoy cumimos, a Dios bendicimos y maรฑana veremosโ.
โYo fui felizโ, se decรญa Josรฉ y, atraรญdo por una fuerza extraรฑa que lo sacรณ abruptamente de sus elucubraciones, se detuvo frente al nรบmero 432. El local exhibรญa sus persianas marrรณn oscuro bajas y oxidadas. Era el Cafรฉ Izmir, que habรญa cerrado tiempo atrรกs. ยฟCuรกnto hacรญa que no pasaba por su frente? Los รบltimos aรฑos habรญa cambiado mucho porque se fueron muriendo los viejos turcos sefaradรญes como su padre. El local cerrado que tenรญa ante su vista habรญa perdido sus caracterรญsticas orientales y tambiรฉn la fama que supo tener en el barrio. Lo habรญan dejado deteriorarse, fue agonizando de a poco. Pero todavรญa estaba allรญ, resistiรฉndose a desaparecer del todo. Josรฉ se quedรณ duro frente a la persiana central, la mรกs angosta, la que ocultaba la doble puerta vaivรฉn de madera noble por la que habรญan pasado cientos de veces su abuelo, sus tรญos, su padre y tantos otros. Hubiera sido un pecado seguir de largo y no recordar que sus familiares contaron mรกs las horas allรญ que en sus propias casas. โยฟQuรฉ encanto habrรก tenido este sitio para atrapar tan fuertemente a los varones de mi familia?โ, se preguntรณ. รl no podรญa explicarse con exactitud quรฉ representรณ ese cafรฉ para los sefaradรญes, griegos, armenios, pero estaba seguro de que pasar, aunque sea un rato por allรญ, fue casi una obligaciรณn para todos ellos; era como ir a un templo o a una iglesia, encontraban algo de sus lejanas tierras. Se entretenรญan, jugaban a los naipes, escuchaban mรบsica, comรญan y bebรญan esos exquisitos manjares orientales, y las bailarinasโฆ ยกAhโฆ las bailarinas!, cรณmo les gustaban a sus mayores. Tantas veces su madre lo mandรณ a buscar a su padre y cuรกntas veces รฉl le contestรณ โยกVรกte de aquรญ hiyico, no fastidies!โ. Frecuentemente Josรฉ observaba de reojo el interior tras esa neblina impregnada del espeso humo de tabaco fuerte y de las comidas turcas, aromas imprescindibles que llegaban hasta la calle. Sus tรญos y su padre, eternos jugadores de cartas, cuando lo veรญan parado y desgarbado en el umbral de entrada mirando hacia adentro, empujaban el aire rรญtmicamente con las manos, desde el fondo del local, enviรกndole la seรฑal cotidiana: โno molestesโ. Tampoco conseguรญa que sus parientes le dieran los cinco centavos que valรญa la pelota para jugar con los pibes de la barrita de Camargo. Siempre ese ademรกn desde el fondo del cafรฉ lo invitaba a irse. Era parte de los tantos ritos cotidianos. Su madre lo volvรญa a mandar una y otra vez: โยกDile a tu padre ke ya me enfaziรณ[9], que o viene ya o se queda sin cumida!โ.
โCuรกntas cosas, ยฟno? ยฟEn quรฉ lugar estarรก guardado todo lo que pasa en la vida, Dios mรญo?โ, filosofaba abstraรญdo ante los vestigios del bar cerrado. Su abuela siempre le decรญa: โยกTรบ te akodrarรกs de tu chikez kuando peor estรฉs!โ.
Y parado como un soldado, frente al viejo y gastado umbral del Izmir, Josรฉ sintiรณ un escalofrรญo que le subiรณ desde la espalda y por los brazos hasta el cuello. Se vio sesenta aรฑos atrรกs, frente a ese mismo umbral, un gรฉlido dรญa de otoรฑo preรฑado de dignidad yhonor. Tenรญa ocho aรฑos. Salรญa del colegio camino al conventillo. En la vereda del cafรฉ escuchรณ que un metro atrรกs Simรณn, un compaรฑero ashkenazรญ, le gritaba: โยกEhโฆ sardina!โ. La inversiรณn de la tercera y cuarta letra de su apellido tenรญa el objetivo evidente de la burla, de dejarlo contrariado, le estaba diciendo โpescadoโ.
Josรฉ se dio media vuelta, tirรณ su portafolio al piso y dio comienzo a una memorable batalla que le dejarรญa una huella imborrable en el corazรณn. Los imberbes parecรญan dos feroces combatientes a muerte. Los nudillos vรญrgenes de Josecito dieron de lleno en el ojo derecho del provocador. Rรกpidamente algunos vecinos y vendedores ambulantes los rodearon y uno de ellos intentรณ separarlos, pero fue imposible. Dentro del cafรฉ estaban su abuelo, su padre y sus tรญos sentados impasibles en dos mesas, escuchando un chiftetelli de un gastado disco de pasta. Ninguno atinรณ a moverse ni cuando el pequeรฑo, la flor y nata de su linaje, recibiรณ una patada en el estรณmago que lo obligรณ a doblarse por el dolor.
Frente a las persianas bajas y mortecinas recordรณ a su padre con los brazos cruzados sentado en el ventanal, con el cigarrillo en la boca y una copa de rakรญ a medio tomar sobre la mesa, sin hacer un mรญnimo gesto cuando delante de sus propios ojos su รบnico hijo, enredado con el adversario se revolcaba por el piso. Incluso, despuรฉs le contarรญan que su progenitor frenรณ a los gritos a un parroquiano que salรญa a parar la lucha: โยกDรฉjalo!โ, habรญa ordenado secamente, โยกquรฉ se haga hombre!โ.
Con un pรกrpado hinchado y el labio inferior ensangrentado Simรณn saliรณ corriendo para evitar otra dura mano del pequeรฑo Josรฉ, que con voz llorosa y entrecortada le gritaba: โยกVenรญ, cobarde, no te escapes! ยกSardinas te voy a dar!โ. Medio maltrecho se acomodรณ el guardapolvo, mirรณ a su padre a los ojos a travรฉs del vidrio de la ventana guillotina, pero no obtuvo ni una ligera mueca de รฉl. Levantรณ su portafolio del piso mientras algunos vecinos le palmeaban la espalda por su faena: โยกBien Josรฉ, bienโฆ asรญ se hace!โ, le decรญan. Se sintiรณ casi un hombre.
Habรญa salvado el honor y la dignidad. Ese chiquito, que apenas empezaba a vivir, observรณ de soslayo a los parcos y circunspectos varones de su misma sangre reprimiendo exteriorizar el primitivo placer de la victoria de uno de su tribu. El grupo escondiรณ su alegrรญa detrรกs de extraรฑas seรฑas y ademanes contenidos que Josรฉ no lograba entender. Cuando apenas habรญa hecho unos pasos hacia el conventillo, distante a pocos metros del cafรฉ, reciรฉn ahรญ se escuchรณ un estallido de aplausos esmirlรญes: era el jolgorio djidiรณ[10]por su victoria. El tiempo le harรญa comprender la aparente indiferencia y apatรญa de su parentela durante aquel combate iniciรกtico. Esa noche su padre extraรฑamente llegรณ temprano a cenar ante la sorpresa de la familia, y despuรฉs de saludar con un grito a su esposa Rebeca, se acercรณ a Josecito y simplemente, sin decirle palabra, le manifestรณ su orgullo revolviรฉndole el pelo con sus enormes dedos รญndice y anular, apenas unos segundos, pero fue un gesto que su hijo jamรกs olvidarรญa.
โยกQuรฉ maneras tenรญan antes para decir te quieroโฆ!โ,se lamentรณ Josรฉ con la mirada colgada en el vacรญo del presente. De pronto, una hoja cayรณ del aรฑoso fresno; apenas le rozรณ la mejilla, pero le dio la sensaciรณn de un cachetazo. Se vio nuevamente frente al aรฑoso umbral del cafรฉ y advirtiรณ que dos lรกgrimas se le deslizaban, sin querer, zigzagueando entre los pelos de su breve barba de seis dรญas. Quiso ignorar el llanto que se precipitaba, pero le fue imposible, no solamente porque enseguida le llegรณ un sabor salado a su boca, sino porque aquellos dos hilos salobres se encargaron de llamar a la mar. Josรฉ comenzรณ a sollozar desconsoladamente frente al Cafรฉ Izmir. Tocรณ unos instantes la persiana herrumbrosa y en un gesto de reverencia llevรณ los dedos a sus labios y los besรณ con ternura, cerrรณ fuertemente los ojos y volviรณ a apoyar su mano en la cortina metรกlica, como si fuera un sector del Muro de los Lamentos. โยกTรบ te akodrarรกs de tu chikez kuando peor estรฉs!โ,volviรณ a escuchar las palabras sabias y premonitorias de su admirada abuela. Hizo unos pasos, mirรณ el lugar donde aรฑos atrรกs estuvo el conventillo en el que viviรณ hasta los veintitantos, y para no volverse a emocionar continuรณ su marcha hasta la avenida Corrientes.
Todavรญa aturdido, no alcanzรณ a recordar de quรฉ se lamentaba al salir de la pensiรณn, ni hacia dรณnde iba. Y con paso cansino, acompaรฑado por un pertinaz sรฉquito de รกngeles y demonios que se resistรญan a dejarlo en paz, se perdiรณ entre la gente, โcomo aquel barrilete a merced de los caprichos del vientoโฆ hacia ningรบn lugarโ.
He closed the door of the boarding house where he lived poorly and began to walk. They had provided him with a place to sleep, thanks to the management of an influential Sephardic man who took pity on him. He was dejected. He couldn’t believe that his unfortunate existence was galloping along such capricious paths. โOne good, one bad, one good, one badโฆโ he thought. Dragging his feet, for no reason, he changed his usual route, for no reason. This time he faced Gurruchaga Street on his left. He looked toward the sidewalk in front of him. Two stucco angels contemplated him with pity from the high walls of the Church of Saint Bernard.
What game! Who told me to get into the bidding at auction business? I knew this was going to happen to me. Sell โโt-shirts, touch the sky, new house, latest model car, guitaโฆ [1] And then, as always, lose it all!โ he said to himself, reviewing his last years, moving his head from side to side, and pursing his lips between breaths. That grumble that came out of him like a pitiful prayer.
Two boys who were returning home from Colegio Herrera observed him and nudge each other. His appearance was strange enough to attract attention. He had left that pension-nursing home as absorbed as he was disheveled. He hadn’t even combed her hair. His hair, once black, graying too quickly since the death of his wife, showed hundreds of hairs standing up like an old, frosted brush. Josรฉ noticed those strange looks, frowned, and managed to flatten his abundant and untidy hair with his right hand, so deeply in his confused thoughts, that he did not notice the youthful laughter behind him.
At the corner of Murillo Street, shortly before reaching the curb of the sidewalk he instinctively stopped. Who knows by what tricks of his mind the unexpected and brilliant image of his grandmother appeared– smoking those black cigarettes that reeked the air of the tenement. Pretty, robust, feisty. She had even stabbed a Turk there in Izmir. She had had to make himself respected and manage to feed her three children. In Turkey, her husband, Jaim, completed five years of military service and, during the war, was absent for a long time. They had told Josรฉ that his relatives came to Buenos Aires from the poorest sector of Karatash, the Jewish neighborhood of Izmir, and that his grandfather showed early on who he was, so that there would be no doubt: he lost the pilcha [2] of the casario \[ 3] playing dice. Josรฉ showed his mischievous smile when he had the opportunity to explain his theory: the male offspring would inherit from that family patriarch that irresistible inclination for gambling. In conversation with friends, he also proudly recognized the strong and quarrelsome character of his grandmother, who had given half the neighborhood so much to talk about. How that woman fought with the neighbors, sitting in her dilapidated wicker chair on the sidewalk, boasting with her inevitable black cigarette at the side of her mouth and pointing with her index finger. Nobody dared her.
โWhat timesโฆ! โJosรฉ murmured, absurdly crossing Murillo crossing blindly. A desperate horn and the loud noise of the brakes of a Ford 400 truck deafened him to the point of paralysis. The metal bumper was no more than a centimeter from his knee. He was left stunned and shaking. โHow clumsy I am!โ he ruminated in fear.โFool! How do cross suddenly? Do you want to kill yourself?โ the driver of the vehicle rebuked him.
Josรฉ, hardly understanding what had happened to him, walked the other half of the street, but now with his exaggeratedly open and bloated eyes fixed on the figure of the young man, still shouting at him through the Ford window. His heart pounded in his throat. and he tried to balance himself on the sidewalk, which felt like soapy tiles. He pulled himself together, shook his head, and realized that he had almost lost his fragile life.
โยฟPero estoy charpeado, en dรณnde tengo el meoio? But I’m confused, where am I?โhe exclaimed, squeezing his hands, and looking at the sky, that seemed too blue.
He took a few steps and, perhaps because he instinctively knew that there was no immediate danger in the next hundred meters, to the next corner. He plunged into the tunnel of memories as he walked. Being kicked out of his son’s house was the last thing he would have expected. โWhy couldn’t I have taken my grandmother’s reckless character and dared to put a knife to my daughter-in-law’s neck… how could she treat me like a dog?โ he grumbled. โNoโฆ these reactions do not come from people like me. What is happening to me?โ He was surprised by his crazy reasoning. โยกEn quรฉ jal vinimos!โ[4] โ his grandmother used to say to express bad times, and Josรฉ was haunted by these ancient and distant words. He bitterly felt that, in the last stretch of his life, he found himself in a humiliating situation that he did not believe he deserved. As a boy he had been a rebel, a hustler, a fighter, but the years tamed him. The unending blows in his path and his bad attitudes were taming, little by little, his wayward character, what was left of long-ago audacity. He was beaten. Recently, he felt like the kite from his childhood whose string was cut and was carried by the wind… to nowhere.
When he reached the corner of Padilla Street, he decided stop thinking for a moment and looked at the street before crossing. He let an orange bus pass by with children who were going or coming from a nearby school, this time with his feet firmly resting on the curb and, with no vehicles nearby, he quickened his pace and crossed. When he reached the middle of the block he heard the shrill voice of Roberto, his party friend, shouting to him from the entrance of the market opposite: โHey, Josรฉ, are you going to Cafรฉ San Bernardo?โ
No, I donโt have a mango[5]para morfar[6]“ I’m not going to go to the cafe to play cards,” he replied, fixing his hair again and raising his hand to greet his friend. โDon’t be a crybaby!โ Roberto reproached him. He resignedly shrugged his shoulders, and as he walked away, he shouted his usual phrase: โBye!… Hey…, don’t get lost, Josecito!โ
Josรฉ continued his journey on that cold and scornful day, though the sun shining in front of him caressed his face. For a while he enjoyed that gift of nature that made him smile with a bit of satisfaction. But he immediately plunged back into his long musings: โHow much money I lost in that game. With a quarter of what I wasted I could live in peace and not on the pity of others…!โ
When he reached the corner of Camargo Street he looked to the left, toward the middle of the block. There was no one he knew at the door of the Sephardic Temple, except for two mastodons from the security service. That site was no longer the same since the attacks on the Israeli Embassy and the AMIA. They had built those pillars for protection and had taken permanent custody of the place. He placed his brown eyes on the opposite sidewalk, at the new business that for years had been so-called Goldfarb’s store. โWhat had become of that thin and pale Ashkenazi whose face rarely saw the light of the sun? The poor guy spent day after day sheltered behind his red cold cuts slicer,โ he recalled wistfully.
He let a 65 bus pass and crossed the street. The next hundred meters to the large Corrientes Avenue were not easy to travel. The enormous net of his memory would trap him until he was almost immobilized. He sensed that memories would bring him inevitable images. He slowly let himself be carried along by his skinny, bony legs, attracted by the chiaroscuros of his past. Starting as a boy, he had lived in a tenement on that block for almost twenty years, when everything was different. Buenos Aires, Villa Crespo, Gurruchaga Street…, how they had changed, as much as his own life.
Moments of his childhood went from sepia to color. His father, who had done everything possible to survive, was a changarรญn[7] at the port, a waiter at weddings and cafes, a street vendor and โwhat a great dancer!โ: for the art of his harmonious dance, holding a bottle on hith his head without falling. Accompanied by a couple of spoons marking the oriental rhythm, he had a certain reputation for earning a lot of applause, a few pesos as a tip and some free drinks. In recent years he drank a bottle of whiskey a day. He was as good as a taramban; he spent everything with his friends, on coffee, on horse races, playing poker… even what he didn’t have.
That tragic family gene followed them for generations. Josรฉ’s grandfather came to โAmerikaโ with that gambling addiction, and a great uncle was famous for his excessive parties, juicy anecdotes even mentioned in some books tell the history of the neighborhood. Not even his father was a stranger to this playful passion and, why deny it, neither was Josรฉ. That damn gene! Poor mother, she had to earn a living washing clothes for her countrymen. But of course, it was a different time. If there was no money they made do. She, with a peso that her husband gave her, made the four meals. “It was a miracle!” They ate โ โqueso rallado al tandurโ[8].โยก โHow deliciousโฆ, there was joy!โ They melted the cheese with bread and accompanied it with tea and chanted: โToday we eat, we bless God and tomorrow we will see.โ
ย โI was happy,โ Josรฉ said to himself and, attracted by a strange force that abruptly brought him out of his musings, he stopped in front of number 432. The establishment displayed its low, rusty dark brown blinds. It was Cafรฉ Izmir, closed some time ago. How long had it been since you passed it forehead? In recent years it had changed a lot because the old Sephardic Turks, like his father were dying. The closed establishment in front of him had lost its oriental characteristics and the fame it once had in the neighborhood. They had let it deteriorate, it died little by little. But it was still there, refusing to disappear completely. Josรฉ stood hard in front of the central blind, the narrowest one, the one that hid the double swinging hardwood door, through which his grandfather, his uncles, his father and so many others had passed hundreds of times. It would have been a sin to pass by and not remember that his relatives counted the hours there more than in their own homes. โWhat charm must this place have had to hold on to the men of my family so strongly?โ he asked himself. He could not explain exactly what that cafe represented for the Sephardic, Greek, and Armenian people, but he was sure that spending even a little while there was almost an obligation for all of them; it was like going to a temple or a church. They found something from their distant lands. They entertained themselves, played cards, listened to music, ate and drank those exquisite oriental delicacies, and the dancers… Ah… the dancers! How their elders loved them. So many times, his mother sent Josรฉ to look for his father and how many times he replied, โGet out of here hiyico, don’t bother us!โ Josรฉ frequently looked out of the corner of his eye behind that fog impregnated with the thick smoke of strong tobacco and Turkish foods, essential aromas that reached the street. His uncles and his father, eternal card players, when they saw him standing ungainly on the entrance threshold looking in, they rhythmically pushed the air with their hands, from the back of the room, sending him the daily signal: โdo not disturb.โ He also couldn’t get his relatives to give him the five cents the ball cost, required to be able to play with the group of kids from Camargo Street. Always, that gesture from the back of the cafรฉ invited him to leave. It was part of the many daily rituals. His mother ordered him again and again: โTell your father that he has already angered me: [9], that either he comes now. or he is left without food!โ
ย โSo many things, right? โWhere is everything that happens in life stored, my God?โ he philosophized, while distracted in front of the vestiges of the closed bar. His grandmother always told him: โYou will yearn for your childhood warmlywhen you are worse off!โ
And standing like a soldier, in front of the old and worn threshold of Izmir, Joseph felt a chill that rose from his back and up his arms to his neck. He saw himself sixty years ago, in front of that same threshold, on a cold autumn day, full of dignity and honor. He was eight years old. He was leaving school on his way to the tenement. On the sidewalk of the cafรฉ, he heard Simรณn, an Ashkenazi fellow, shout from a meter behind him: โHeyโฆ sardine!โ The inversion of the third and fourth letters of his last name had the obvious objective of mocking him, of making him upset; he was calling him โfish.โ
Josรฉ turned around, threw his briefcase on the floor, and began a memorable battle that would leave an indelible mark on his heart. The two beardless ones looked like two fierce combatants to the death. Josecito’s virgin knuckles hit the provocateur’s right eye squarely. Quickly some neighbors and street vendors surrounded them, and one of them tried to separate them, but it was impossible. Inside the cafe were his grandfather, his father and his uncles sitting impassively at two tables, listening to a chiftetelli from a worn paste record. None of them managed to move, not even when the little boy, the cream of his lineage, received a kick in the stomach that forced him to double over in pain.
In front of the low and dim blinds he remembered his father with his arms crossed sitting at the window, with the cigarette in his mouth and a half-drunk glass of raki on the table, without making the slightest gesture when before his very eyes his only son, tangled with his adversary, was rolling on the floor. Later they would even tell him that his father shouted at a local man who was going out to stop the fight: “Leave him!” he had ordered dryly, “let him become a man!” With a swollen eyelid and a bloody lower lip, Simรณn ran to avoid another harsh hand from little Josรฉ, who with a tearful and broken voice shouted at him: โCome, coward, don’t run away! I’m going to give you sardines!โ Half battered, he adjusted his overalls, looked into his father’s eyes through the glass of the sash window, but did not get even the slightest grimace from him. He picked up his briefcase from the floor while some neighbors patted him on the back for his work: โGood Josรฉ, goodโฆ that’s how it’s done!โ they told him. He felt almost a man.
Still dazed, he couldn’t remember what he was complaining about when he left the boarding house, or where he was going. And with a weary step, accompanied by a persistent entourage of angels and demons who refused to leave him alone, he got lost among people, “like that kite at the mercy of the whims of the wind… towards nowhere at all.”
He had saved his honor and dignity. That little boy, who had just begun to live, looked askance at the restrained and circumspect men of his own blood, repressing the expression of primitive pleasure at the victory of one of his tribe. The group hid their joy behind strange signs and restrained gestures that Josรฉ could not understand. When he had barely taken a few steps towards the house, a few meters from the cafรฉ, he heard a burst of applause from Smirli: it was the djidiรณ [10], rejoicing over his victory. Time would make him understand the apparent indifference and apathy of his relatives during that initiation combat. That night his father strangely arrived early for dinner, to the family’s surprise, and after greeting his wife Rebeca with a shout, he approached Josecito and simply, without saying a word, expressed his pride by ruffling his hair with his huge fingers. index and ring finger, just a few seconds, but it was a gesture that his son would never forget.
โWhat ways did they have before to say I love youโฆ!โ Josรฉ lamented with his gaze hanging in the emptiness of the present. Suddenly, a leaf fell from the old ash tree; It barely touched his cheek, but it felt like a slap. He found himself again facing the aged threshold of the cafรฉ and noticed that two tears were slipping, involuntarily, zigzagging between the hairs of his short six-day beard. He wanted to ignore the crying that was precipitating, but it was impossible, not only because a salty taste immediately came to his mouth, but because those two salty threads were in charge of calling to the sea. Josรฉ began to sob uncontrollably in front of Cafรฉ Izmir. He touched the rusty blind for a few moments and in a gesture of reverence he brought his fingers to his lips and kissed them tenderly, he closed his eyes tightly and rested his hand again on the metal curtain, as if it were a section of the Wailing Wall. โYou will yearn for your childhood warmly when you are worse off!โ, he once again heard the wise and premonitory words of his admired grandmother. He took a few steps, looked at the place where years ago the tenement where he lived until he was in his twenties was, and so as not to get emotional again, he continued his walk to Corrientes Avenue.
Still dazed, he couldn’t remember what he was complaining about when he left the boarding house, or where he was going. And with a weary step, accompanied by a persistent entourage of angels and demons who refused to leave him alone, he got lost among the people, “like that kite at the mercy of the whims of the windโฆ towards nowhere.”
Notes:
[1] Money (from lunfardo, a criole language, once spoken in Buenos Aires).
Eduardo Cohen naciรณ en la Ciudad de Mรฉxico, en 1939. Se formรณ en la Academia de San Carlos, en el Mรฉxico City College (hoy Universidad de las Amรฉricas) y los talleres de dibujo y pintura de los maestros Arnold Belkin, Silva Santamarรญa, Antonio Rodrรญguez Luna y Muรฑoz Medina… Su obra estuvo cargada de pasiรณn, sensualidad, humor, mirada crรญtica y una reiterada perspectiva irรณnica que intentaba despojar a los objetos y a los seres de esa pomposa solemnidad tras la que a menudo se esconden otras โrealidadesโ distintas que Cohen se empeรฑรณ en descubrir al tiempo que construir. De ahรญ su inclinaciรณn hacia el dibujo expresionista como vรญa que opta por mostrar la realidad, no tal cual aparece a nuestros sentidos sino como la percibe una mirada intensamente subjetiva que cambia, trastoca y altera nuestras acostumbradas convenciones para expresar una emociรณn profundamente personal. La bรบsqueda constante de Cohen dio pie a una insรณlita versatilidad. Sus referencias eran explรญcitas: consciente de su admiraciรณn a Francis Bacon, Grosz, Gรณngora, Schielle y Orozco, por citar algunos ejemplos, exploraba esos caminos compartidos con el resultado de que tales referencias eran rebasadas finalmente al imponerse en su obra su sello absolutamente personal.Hacia fines de los aรฑos ochenta el dibujo minucioso deja paso a un รญmpetu informalista de trazos violentos y simplificados a partir de los cuales su virtuosismo se manifiesta en una nueva y mรกs libre vertiente… El pastel va a ser usado por Cohen cada vez con mรกs frecuencia y ello da pie a que el color ingrese en su mundo plรกstico como un elemento a la vez enriquecedor y desafiante… En esos mismos aรฑos es cuando Cohen recibe la misiรณn de pintar un mural para una sinagoga y realizar poco despuรฉs dos series de vitrales para bibliotecas de escuelas judรญas. Estos encargos, ademรกs de estimularlo a una ardua labor de investigaciรณn en referencia a los temas elegidos โel ritual festivo judรญo, los profetas bรญblicos y la creaciรณn del mundo segรบn una libรฉrrima interpretaciรณn del texto bรญblicoโ lo vuelcan hacia el descubrimiento de la sensualidad del trabajo en dimensiones espaciales mayores. A su muerte, acaecida el 15 de junio de 1995, guardaba en su estudio cerca de tres mil obras.
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Eduardo Cohen was born in Mexico City, in 1939. He trained at the Academia de San Carlos, at the Mรฉxico City College (today the University of the Americas) and the drawing and painting workshops of the masters Arnold Belkin, Silva Santamarรญa, Antonio Rodrรญguez Luna and Muรฑoz Medina… His work was full of passion, sensuality, humor, a critical gaze and a repeated ironic perspective that attempted to strip objects and beings of that pompous solemnity behind which other different โrealitiesโ are often hidden that Cohen insisted on discovering. time to build. Hence his inclination towards expressionist drawing as a way that chooses to show reality, not as it appears to our senses but as it is perceived by an intensely subjective gaze that changes, disrupts and alters our usual conventions to express a deeply personal emotion. Cohen’s constant search gave rise to unusual versatility. His references were explicit: aware of his admiration for Francis Bacon, Grosz, Gรณngora, Schielle and Orozco, to name a few examples, he explored those shared paths with the result that such references were finally surpassed as his absolutely personal stamp was imposed on his work. Towards the end of the eighties, the meticulous drawing gave way to an informalist impetus of violent and simplified strokes from which his virtuosity manifested itself in a new and freer aspectโฆ Pastel was going to be used by Cohen each time with more frequently and this gives rise to color entering his plastic world as an element that is both enriching and challengingโฆ In those same years is when Cohen receives the mission of painting a mural for a synagogue and shortly after creating two series of stained glass for Jewish school libraries. These assignments, in addition to stimulating him to carry out arduous research work in reference to the chosen topics โ the Jewish festive ritual, the biblical prophets and the creation of the world according to a very free interpretation of the biblical text โ turned him towards the discovery of the sensuality of work. in larger spatial dimensions. At his death, on June 15, 1995, he kept nearly three thousand works in his studio.
Una familia de inmigrantes judรญos en una comida en su nuevo hogar ecuatoriano en la dรฉcada de 1940. (Cortesรญa Eva Zelig)/A family of Jewish immigrants at a meal in their new Ecuadorian home in the 1940s. (Courtesy Eva Zelig)
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Ecuador como refugio judรญo
Si bien muchos paรญses hicieron menos de lo que podรญan cuando los judรญos buscaron refugio del Holocausto, la pequeรฑa naciรณn sudamericana de Ecuador tuvo un impacto enorme. La antigua colonia espaรฑola, que lleva el nombre del ecuador, se convirtiรณ en un refugio improbable para entre 3.200 y 4.000 judรญos entre 1933 y 1945. Pocos de estos refugiados sabรญan espaรฑol al llegar, y muchos no lograban localizar su nuevo hogar en el mapa. Sin embargo, algunos emigrados lograron รฉxito en diversos campos, desde la ciencia hasta la medicina y las artes, ayudando a Ecuador a modernizarse en el camino. La creciente amenaza de Hitler y Mussolini estimulรณ la inmigraciรณn judรญa a Ecuador, apoyada por la pequeรฑa comunidad judรญa local. El presidente Josรฉ Marรญa Velasco Ibarra promoviรณ el paรญs como un destino para cientรญficos y tรฉcnicos judรญos alemanes repentinamente desempleados debido al antisemitismo nazi.
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El autor y acadรฉmico radicado en Ecuador Daniel Kersffeld publicรณ un libro en espaรฑol sobre esta historia poco conocida, โLa migraciรณn judรญa en Ecuador: Ciencia, cultura y exilio 1933-1945โ. โInmigraciรณn judรญa en Ecuador: ciencia, cultura y exilio 1933-1945โ. El autor examinรณ 100 relatos biogrรกficos al escribir el libro. En una entrevista por correo electrรณnico, Kersffeld dijo que alrededor de 20 de las personas que describiรณ tienen una importancia significativa para el desarrollo econรณmico, cientรญfico, artรญstico y cultural de Ecuador. En plena forma. Entre ellos se encuentra el refugiado austriaco Paul Engel, quien se convirtiรณ en un pionero de la endocrinologรญa en su nueva patria. , manteniendo una carrera literaria separada bajo un seudรณnimo Diego Viga; Trude Sojka, superviviente del campo de concentraciรณn, que soportรณ la pรฉrdida de casi toda su familia y se convirtiรณ en una artista de รฉxito en Ecuador; y tres judรญos italianos (Alberto di Capua, Carlos Alberto Ottolenghi y Aldo Muggia) que fundaron una empresa farmacรฉutica que sentรณ precedentes, Laboratorios Industriales Farmacรฉuticos Ecuatorianos, o LIFE.
Marcado por el Amazonas y los Andes, Ecuador no podrรญa haber parecido un destino menos probable. Eso cambiรณ despuรฉs del pogromo de la Kristallnacht en Alemania y Austria en 1938, las Leyes Raciales en Italia el mismo aรฑo, la ocupaciรณn de gran parte de Checoslovaquia en 1939 y la caรญda de Francia en 1940. Ecuador se convirtiรณ en โuno de los รบltimos paรญses americanos en mantener abiertas sus fronterasโ. la posibilidad de inmigraciรณn en sus distintos consulados en Europaโ, escribe Kersffeld. โUna de las รบltimas alternativas cuando todos los demรกs puertos de entrada a las naciones americanas ya estaban cerradosโ.
El cรณnsul en Estocolmo, Manuel Antonio Muรฑoz Borrero, expidiรณ 200 pasaportes a judรญos y fue admitido pรณstumamente en 2011 como el primer Justo entre las Naciones de su paรญs en Yad Vashem. Otro cรณnsul, Josรฉ I. Burbano Rosales en Bremen, salvรณ a 40 familias judรญas entre 1937 y 1940. Pero Muรฑoz Borrero y Burbano fueron relevados de sus deberes despuรฉs de que el gobierno ecuatoriano supo que estaban ayudando a judรญos. Burbano fue trasladado a Estados Unidos, mientras que Muรฑoz Borrero permaneciรณ en Suecia y extraoficialmente continuรณ sus esfuerzos. Recientemente, el gobierno ecuatoriano honrรณ a Muรฑoz Borrero cuando restableciรณ al difunto diplomรกtico como miembro de su cuerpo.
Daniel Kersffeld habla en una ceremonia del gobierno ecuatoriano en honor al difunto cรณnsul Manuel Antonio Muรฑoz Borrero el 9 de noviembre de 2018. Durante el Holocausto, Borrero rescatรณ judรญos a travรฉs de su puesto de cรณnsul en Suecia, pero el gobierno ecuatoriano lo despojรณ de su puesto. La ceremonia del 9 de noviembre lo reintegrรณ como miembro del servicio exterior ecuatoriano./Daniel Kersffeld speaks at an Ecuadorian government ceremony honoring the late consul Manuel Antonio Munoz Borrero on November 9, 2018. During the Holocaust, Borrero rescued Jews through his position of consul in Sweden, but the Ecuadorian government stripped him of his position. The November 9 ceremony reinstated him as a member of the Ecuadorian foreign service. (Courtesy Daniel Kersffeld)
Inmigrantes judรญos en el barco hacia Ecuador./Jewish immigrants on the boat to Ecuador. (Eva Zelig)
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โCreo que la mayorรญa [de los judรญos] que fueron a Ecuador lo vieron como un trampolรญnโ, dijo. โNadie sabรญa dรณnde estaba en los mapasโ. Pero, dijo, โsiento una enorme gratitud. (Eva Zeligโ/”I think most [Jews] who went to Ecuador saw it as a stepping-stone,โ she said. โNobody knew where it was on maps.โBut, she said, โI feel tremendous gratitude. (Eva Zelig)
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Ecuador as a Shelter for Jews
While many countries did less than their all when Jews sought refuge from the Holocaust, the tiny South American nation of Ecuador made an outsized impact. Named for the equator, the former Spanish colony became an unlikely haven for an estimated 3,200-4,000 Jews from 1933 to 1945. Few of these refugees knew Spanish upon arrival, and many could not quite locate their new home on the map. Yet some emigres achieved success in diverse fields, from science to medicine to the arts, helping Ecuador modernize along the way. The growing menace of Hitler and Mussolini spurred Jewish immigration to Ecuador, supported by the small local Jewish community. President Jose Maria Velasco Ibarra promoted the country as a destination for German Jewish scientists and technicians suddenly unemployed due to Nazi anti-Semitism. Ecuador-based academic and author Daniel Kersffeld published a book in Spanish about this little-known story, โLa migracion judia en Ecuador: Ciencia, cultura y exilio 1933-1945.โ โJewish Immigration in Ecuador: Science, Culture and Exile 1933-1945.โ The author surveyed 100 biographical accounts in writing the book. In an email interview, Kersffeld said that around 20 of the individuals he profiled hold significant importance for Ecuadorโs economic, scientific, artistic, and cultural development.They include Austrian refugee Paul Engel, who became a pioneer of endocrinology in his new homeland, while maintaining a separate literary career under a pseudonym; concentration camp survivor Trude Sojka, who endured the loss of nearly all of her family and became a successful artist in Ecuador; and three Italian Jews โ Alberto di Capua, Carlos Alberto Ottolenghi and Aldo Muggia โ who founded a precedent-setting pharmaceutical company, Laboratorios Industriales Farmaceuticos Ecuatorianos, or LIFE.
Kersffeld learned that LIFEโs co-founders had been expelled from Italy in 1938 after the passage of dictator Benito Mussoliniโs anti-Semitic Racial Laws. He found they represented a wider story in Ecuador from 1933 to 1945 โ โa larger number of Jewish immigrants who were scientists, artists, intellectuals or who were in distinct ways linked to the high culture of Europe.โ
Marked by the Amazon and the Andes, Ecuador could not have seemed a less likely destination. That changed after the Kristallnacht pogrom in Germany and Austria in 1938, the Racial Laws in Italy the same year, the occupation of much of Czechoslovakia in 1939 and the Fall of France in 1940. Ecuador became โone of the last American countries to keep open the possibility of immigration in its various consulates in Europe,โ Kersffeld writes. โOne of the last alternatives when all the other ports of entry to American nations were already closed.โ The consul in Stockholm, Manuel Antonio Munoz Borrero, issued 200 passports to Jews and was posthumously inducted in 2011 as his countryโs first Righteous Among the Nations at Yad Vashem. Another consul, Jose I. Burbano Rosales in Bremen, saved 40 Jewish families from 1937 to 1940.But Munoz Borrero and Burbano were both relieved from their duties after the Ecuadorian government learned they were helping Jews. Burbano was transferred to the US, while Munoz Borrero stayed in Sweden and unofficially continued his efforts. Recently, the Ecuadorian government honored Munoz Borrero when it restored the late diplomat as a member of its fore.
Ecuadorโs Jewish-exile community in the 1940s at the Equatorial monument in Quito, Ecuador
Emigrantes a Ecuador al campo/Jewish immigrantes to Ecuador in the countryside
Artista judรญo-checo-ecuatoriana Trude Sojke/Czech-Ecuadoran Jewish Artist Trude Sojke
Emigrante judรญo A Horvath que trajo la tecnologรญa del transmisor radial a las selvas amazonas, cuando ayudaba a Shell Oil a buscar el petroleo durante los 1940s/ Jewish immigrant Al Horvath brought radio transmitter technology to the Amazon jungle in Ecuador while helping Shell Oil look for petroleum there in the 1940s. (Courtesy / Daniel Kersffeld)
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Adaptado de The Times of Israel/Adapted from the The Times of Israel
Virginia Feinmann es escritora y traductora. Publica cuentos en Verano/12, Revista Letras Libres, Diario La Gaceta, Revista El Coloquio de los Perros (Espaรฑa), Revista Socompa. En 2016 editรณ su primer libro de ficciรณn, Toda clase de cosas posibles (Colecciรณn Mulita) y en 2018 su segundo libro, Personas que quizรกs conozcas (Emecรฉ). En 2020 coordinรณ el sitio โDiarios de Cuarentenaโ, donde mรกs de 3000 personas de distintos paรญses le dieron forma literaria al encierro pandรฉmico.Desde 2015 dicta el taller de escritura โHerramientas de la tรฉcnica narrativa: objetos, acciones y metรกforas al servicio de una historiaโ en forma independiente y para instituciones (Foro Internacional de la Fundaciรณn Mempo Giardinelli, Centro Cultural de la Memoria Haroldo Conti โEx Esma, Biblioteca de Microrrelatos Luisa Valenzuela). En 2021, a partir de su propia vivencia, le sumรณ el taller โNarrar lo imperdonable. Ocho cuentos sobre abuso sexual infantilโ (Universidad Nacional de Rosario). Varios de sus microrrelatos, de fuerte circulaciรณn en las redes sociales, han sido adaptados para radio, teatro o espectรกculos de narraciรณn oral.
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Viginia Feinmann is a writer and translator. She published stories in Verano/12, Letras Libres Magazine, La Gaceta Newspaper, El Colloquio de los Perros Magazine (Spain), Socompa Magazine. In 2016 he published his first fiction book, Toda clase de cosas posibles(Mulita Collection) and in 2018 his second book, Personas que tal vez conozcas(Emecรฉ).In 2020 he coordinated the site โQuarantine Diariesโ, where more than 3,000 people from different countries gave literary form to the pandemic confinement. Since 2015, he has taught the writing workshop โTools of narrative technique: objects, actions and metaphors at the service of a storyโ independently and for institutions (International Forum of the Mempo Giardinelli Foundation, Haroldo Conti Cultural Center of Memory โ Ex Esma , Luisa Valenzuela Microstory Library). In 2021, based on her own experience, she added the workshop โNarrating the unforgivable. Eight stories about child sexual abuseโ (National University of Rosario). Several of her short stories, widely circulated on social networks, have been adapted for radio, theater or oral storytelling shows.
3 cuentos de Virginia Feinmann/3 stories by Virginian Feinmann
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PASO A COMPRAR ALGO PARA EL CUMPLEAรOS de mi amiga. Es merienda, me digo, masas, sรกndwiches de miga de una confiterรญa linda. O pepas en ese chino. Un paquete de pepas. Dos. Dos paquetes de pepas. Y un chocolate. Sรญ, va a estar bien,
Luego, saludo, voy a la cocina. Dejo las pepas sobre la mesada y el chocolate. No lo apoyo. Lo agarro. Lo apoyo. Lo agarro de nuevo. Me llaman. Lo guardo en la mochila.
Charlo con el marido de un amigo.
–โฆ ยฟCรณmo va la Secretaria de?
–Renunciรฉ.
Viene mi amiga y me frota el brazo rapidito. Le devuelvo el mimo, pero, peroโฆ–ยฟCรณmo que renunciaste?
–Sรญ, mi jefe era un foro.
Mi asiente que el jefe era un forro.
–Peroโฆ ยฟno puedo ir yo en tu lugar?
Se rรญen. Yo no tanto. Un poco, pero de nervios.
ยฟCuรกnto tardarรญa Vir en odiar a tu jefe? โdice mi amiga.
–No lo odiarรญaโle digo yo.
–Sรญ, lo odiarรญas
–Te juro que no lo odiarรญa.
–Bueno, te pondrรญas a llorar.
No me pondrรญa a llorar, Cecilia, no me pondrรญa a llorar. O me pondrรญa a llorar, pero irรญa a trabajo igual. Trabajarรญa muy bien.
Ellos se van porque sonรณ el timbre. Yo, aunque soy vegetariana, me como seis salchichas de Viena.
Entra una chica bellรญsima. Asiรกtica. De pรณmulos altos. Envuelta en un chal violeta. Quiero ser su amiga instantรกneamente.
Me siento al lado.
Le pregunto cรณmo se llama, de dรณnde es. Thanda. De Birmania.
–ยฟY por quรฉ te viniste?
–Por el tango.
–Jajajj, what a goddess.
Nos reรญmos. Tiene unos dientes perfectos.
–Y acรก quรฉ hacรฉs?
–Toco el violรญn, en un grupo de tango, y en la filarmรณnica del Colรณn.
–Ahโฆ–dejo el manรญ sobre la mesa– ยฟy en la filarmรณnica te pagan?
–Sรญโฆ tenemos sueldo.
–Y cuรกnto te pagan, digo, te alcanza para vivir. ยฟCon la filarmรณnica vivรญs bien?
Ella se ve un poco para atrรกs. Se mensajea la yema del dedo meรฑique. Mira un costado.
Pasan todos los niรฑos del cumpleaรฑos corriendo.
Quedo sentada al lado de un seรฑor. Me dice que tengo lindos rulos.
–Gracias. ยฟY usted quรฉ hace?โ
–Tengo reparto de pollos.โ
–ยฟY cรณmo es el reparto de pollos, se vive con eso? O sea, usted reparte el pollo yโฆ
Apagan las luces. Viene la torta. Le cantamos el feliz cumpleaรฑos a mi amiga.
Me ofrezco a cortar. Corto cuadraditos chiquititos y los voy poniendo en media servilleta cada uno. Mis amigos se rรญen –ยกSon muy chiquititos, Vir!
–Bueno, para que alcance para todos.
–Pero si hay dos tortas mรกs โvienen atrรกs con las dos tortas.
–Bueno.
Se siguen riendo.
Me siento en un costado. Los niรฑos pasan corriendo de nuevo. Me propongo no volver a un cumpleaรฑos hasta que consiga trabajo.
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I’M GOING TO BUY SOMETHING FOR MY FOR FRIEND’S BIRTHDAY. Itโs an afternoon party, I tell myself, pastries, crustless sandwiches from a cafรฉ and pastry shop. Or seeds from that Chinese store. A packet of seeds. Two. Two packages of seeds. And a chocolate. Yes, it’s going to be fine,
Then, I say hello, I go to the kitchen. I leave the seeds on the counter and the chocolate. I donโt put it down. I grab it. I put it down. I grab it again. They call me. I keep it in my backpack.
I chat with a friend’s husband.
โโฆHow is the Secretary of?โ
โI quit.โ
My friend comes and rubs my arm quickly. I return the touch, โbut, but…โ what do you mean you quit?โ
โYes, my boss was an idiot.โ
Mi friend agrees that the boss was an idiot.
โBut… can’t I go in your place?โ
They laugh. Me, not so much. A little, but from nerves.
โHow long would it take Vir to hate your boss?โ says my friend.
“I wouldn’t hate him,” I tell her.
โYes, you would hate him.โ
โI swear I wouldn’t hate him.โ
โWell, you would start crying.โ
โI wouldn’t start crying, Cecilia, I wouldn’t start crying. Or I would start crying, but I would go to work anyway. I would work very hard.โ
They leave because the doorbell rang. Although I am a vegetarian, I eat six Vienna sausages.
A very beautiful girl enters. Asian. High cheekbones. Wrapped in a violet shawl. Instantly I want to be her friend.
I sit next to her.
I ask her what her name is, where she is from. Thanda. From Burma.
“And why did you come here?”
“For the tango.”
“Ha, ha ha. What an goddess.”
We laugh. She has perfect teeth.
“And what are you doing here?”
“I play the violin, in a tango group, and in the Colรณn Philharmonic.”
“Ah…” I leave the peanuts on the table. “and do they pay you at the Philharmonic?”
“Yes… we have a salary.”
“And how much they pay you, I say, is enough for you to live on. Do you live well with the philharmonic?”
She moves backward a little. She rubs the tip of her little finger. She looks to the side.
All the birthday party children run by.
I am left sitting next to a man. He tells me I have nice curls.
“Thank you. And what do you do?”
“I have chicken distribution service.”
“And what is the distribution of chickens like, can you live from that? That is, you distribute the chicken andโฆ”
They turn off the lights. The cake is coming. We sing happy birthday to my friend.
I offer to cut the cake. I cut small squares and put them on half a napkin each. My friends laugh. “They are very small, Vir!”
“Well, so that it is enough for everyone.”
“But if there are two more cakes.” They return with the two cakes.
“Well.”
They keep laughing.
I sit on the side. The children run by again. I make it a point not to return to a birthday party until I get a job.
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ENTRAMOS AL SANITORIO Y NOS RECIBE el cirujano que operar a papรก.
Quiero hablar con alguien mรกs de la familia, nos dice a mi hermana y a mรญ, para que entiendan el riesgo que significa esta operaciรณn.
Lo miramos y esperamos.
Abre un laptop y la apoya en medio de mรกrmol pulido, el bronce lustrado, el florero con lirios de tela. Somos gente de negocios en un hotel de lujo si no fuera porque en la pantalla aparece la mรฉdula de papรก.
Hace dos aรฑos que le vengo diciendo a Pablo, aprieta una tecla y la mรฉdula se agranda, es como un cable gris de que pronto he hace finito hasta casi cortarse, le vengo diciendo que en este punto, acรก, pone un dedo sobre la pantalla, la mรฉdula estรก comprimida.
ยฟDos aรฑos?
Hace dos aรฑos que le digo esto. A tu papรก y a tu mamรก.
No es nuestra mamรก, pero estรก bien, sรญ, es la esposa de รฉl.
Bueno, nos mira como con pena, a la esposa de รฉl. Amor me dice entonces. ยฟEn quรฉ pensรณ? Amores me dice, a mรญ y a mi hermana. Vengan siรฉntense. Si me apoyo la mano en la rodilla, salto hasta la araรฑa de caireles, pero no. Dice solamente el riesgo es que al separar las vรฉrtebras y descomprimir la mรฉdula, puede dejar de funcionar.
ยฟY eso quรฉ significa?
Eso significa una tetraparesia, cuadriparesia, cuadriplejiaโฆLas tres palabras asรญ muy rรกpido. Entiendo enseguida. Hago la pregunta mรกs estรบpida del mundo. Peroโฆ ยฟlรบcido? Sรญ, lรบcido. El infierno, pienso. Hago la segunda pregunta mรกs estรบpida del mundo: doctor, ยฟusted no sabรญa que รฉl tenรญa dos hijas?
Esta mirada ya sรญ es de pena. No, amor. No sabรญa nada.
Fruncimos la boca a la vez, mi hermana y yo, que siempre hacemos los mismos gestos y pensamos en general lo mismo sรณlo que ahora no puedo descifrar si ella quiere matar primero a papรก y despuรฉs a Isabella o primero a Isabella y despuรฉs a papรก y es que yo tampoco lo tengo claro.
Lo podrรญamos haber pensado entre todos, me dice cuando el cirujano ya se fue con la laptop bajo el brazo.
Abajo del cartel Check in/Check out de excelente รกnimo. รl estรก efervescente. Ella tenรญa Cirugรญa estรกn papa e Isabella. Mostramos la cabeza metida en un formulario. ยกHola! Hola preciosas, papรก habla, y habla, y habla. Me acuerdo del dรญa que lo operaron de vesรญcula en 2008, reciรฉn baรฑado con jabรณn pervinox y una batata de tela verdeagua, los braciotos blancos y gordos y su cabeza enorme y cuando ve lo que lo miro desde arriba, hundido en la camilla mientras ya vienen a buscarlo para el quirรณfano me diceโ ยฟSabรญas que Marx juzgรณ a Bolรญvar desde una mirada tremendamente eurocรฉntrico, considerรกndolo un general festive, es un ser consciente? El hombre, en tanto sujeto me es un
bรกquico, desbordado?โ.
Ahora habla del Sujeto. El hombre es un ser consciente. El hombre, en tanto Sujeto, sujeto moderno, y de pronto, ยฟsabรฉs?
No, ยฟquรฉ?
Me preguntรฉ al cirujano, โcuando usted me operรฉ: ยฟyo voy a ser un sujeto o un objeto?โ Y el tipo me dice, โyo no opero ni a un sujeto ni a un predicadoโ
Quรฉ boludo, digo yo.
No te creas, dice papรก. โYo no opero ni a un
sujeto ni a un predicado, opero a un ser humanoโ.
Ahhhh. Contentas las dos, mi hermana y yo.
โA un pacienteโ, dice Isabella y nosotras levantamos la cabeza como dos galgos.
โA un ser humanoโ, dice papรก.
โA un paciente, Pablo, lo escuchรฉ perfectoโ.
โA un ser humano, queridas, a un ser humanoโ, papรก junta mi mano con la de mi hermana y palmea suave, muy suave. Llaman para ingresarlo. Sรณlo hay que esperar cuatro horas.
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SIN QUERER MI HERMANA Y YO evitรกbamos hablarnos. Nos adorรกbamos. Adorรกbamos a papรก. Pero ya eran muchos dรญas..
Primero estรกbamos llenas de รญmpetu, de vamos para adelante y del amor todo lo puede. Salรญamos del sanatorio y querรญamos tomar un cafรฉ, un submarino, comentar de tal o cual enfermera y si la sonda Koler serรญa mejor que la Silmag. Ocuparnos.
Cuando se complicรณ en serio ni pensamos. Fuimos, venimos y nos llamamos, mensajeamos diez millones de veces hasta que nos ardieron los dedos y las orejas y era mail y telรฉfono y era mail y telรฉfono y Facebook entre nosotras y con el cirujano, el psiquiatra y los amigos, todo al mismo tiempo.
A partir de ahรญ, aunque mรกs tranquilas, ver el nombre de otra en el celular nos daba un golpecito en la panza. Era difรญcil recibir un wasap sin recordar que el que habรญa traรญdo las malas noticias.
Tampoco tenรญamos ya ganas de individualizar nombres de mรฉdicos o enfermeros ni encariรฑarnos particularmente con uno u otro.
Fueron cambiando, y eran todos mรกs o menos iguales.
Ya habรญamos regalado bombones, libros firmados. Ya habรญamos emocionado de verdad, habรญamos agradecido y habรญamos jurado que salรญamos delante de un modo que despuรฉs quedรณ corto, no conformรณ a nadie.
No fuimos de dar una noticia rotunda a los que rezaron, mandaron energรญa, se concentraron tal dรญa y a tal hora, y que merecรญan quizรกs un resultado menos tibio que el que tenรญamos para ofrecerles: rehabilitaciรณn.
ยฟHay que seguir rezando? Y, sรญโฆpero tampoco le quites el rezo a otro que estรฉ mรกs graveโฆ
Creo que al final, mi hermana y yo estรกbamos tan cansadas que cuando terminรกbamos el turno nos pasรกbamos un informecito mรกs o menos asรญ: rehabilitรณ โ durmiรณ โ no durmiรณ โ no rehabilitรณ โ sonriรณ โ no sonriรณ โ te quiero โ hasta maรฑana.
Creo que nos evitรกbamos para descansar realmente, Para no ver en la cara lo que habรญa de papa.
Tenรญamos un emoticรณn para despedirnos. No era una carita sonriente ni una carita triste. Era una cara sonriente boca abajo, El que lo dice diseรฑรณ es alguien muy sabio. No estรกbamos tristes. La felicidad no era imposible, Estaba ahรญ. Podรญamos verla. Solamente necesitรกbamos dar la vuelta.
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UNINTENTIONALLY, MY SISTER AND I avoided speaking to each other. We adored each other. We adored Dad.
At first we were full of energy, of let’s move forward and with love, anything is possible. We left the hospital and wanted to have a submarine, a coffee with hot milk with a chocolate bar dipped inside, comment on this or that nurse and whether the Koler probe would be better than the Silmag. To keep busy.
When things got complicated, we didn’t even think. We went out, we came back, and we called each other, we texted ten million times until our fingers and ears burned, and it was email and phone, and it was email and phone, and Facebook between us and with the surgeon, the psychiatrist, and our friends, all at the same time.
From then on, although calmer, seeing each otherโs name on the cell phone gave us a little punch in the stomach. It was difficult to receive a WhatsApp without remembering the one that had brought us the bad news.
We also no longer wanted to identify names of doctors or nurses or become particularly attached to one or the other.
They changed, and they were all more or less the same.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย We had already given away chocolates and signed books. We had already heard profound words, we had already been deeply moved, we had been grateful, and we had sworn that we would prevail in a way that later fell short, it did not satisfy anyone.
We were unable to give resounding news to those who prayed, sent energy, concentrated on that day and at that time, and who perhaps deserved a less lukewarm result than the one we had to offer them: rehabilitation.
Is it necessary to continue praying? And, yes…but don’t take away prayer from someone else who is sicker…
I think that in the end, my sister and I were so tired that when we finished the shift, we gave each other a little report that went something like this:he recovered a bit – he slept – he didn’t sleep – he didn’t recover- he smiled – he didn’t smile – I love you – see you tomorrow.
I think we avoided each other to really rest, so as not to see in his face what was wrong with dad.
I think we avoided each other to really rest, so as not to see dadโs face in our faces. We had an emoticon to say goodbye. It wasn’t a smiling face or a sad face. It was a smiling face upside down. Whoever designed it is someone very wise. We were not sad. Happiness was not impossible, it was there. We could see it. We just needed to turn it around.
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Libros de Virginia Feinmann/Books by Virginia Feinmann
Raquel Jaduszliwer naciรณ en San Fernando, Provincia de Buenos Aires, Argentina, en 1946). Reside en la Ciudad Autรณnoma de Buenos Aires. Es Lic. en Psicologรญa por la UBA y se formรณ como psicoanalista. Publicรณ una novela, La venganza delclan de las banderas de acero (2018) y nueve poemarios: Los panes y los peces (2012, Primer Premio Poesรญa Ed. De Los Cuatro Vientos). La noche con su lรกmpara (2014, Primer Premio Poesรญa Ed. Fundaciรณn Victoria Ocampo). Persistencia delo imposible (2015, Premio Ediciรณn Ed. Ruinas Circulares). Las razones del tiempo (2018, Ed. Lisboa); En el bosque (2018, Ed. Modesto Rimba). รngel de la enunciaciรณn (2020, Ed. Barnacle). El รกrbol de las especies (2022, Ed. Barnacle), Los diagramas radiantes (2022, Ed. Barnacle), Todos los lugares se llamaban promesa (2023, Primer Premio Rubรฉn Reches, Ed. Ruinas Circulares). Fue expositora en el Festival Internacional de Poesรญa (C.A.B.A, Argentina, 2019), y en el programa de actividades del VI Festival Internacional de Poesรญa de Fredonia, Colombia (2022). Participรณ del ciclo โLenguas en dispersiรณnโ realizado en el Museo del Libro y de la Lengua en la Ciudad Autรณnoma de Buenos Aires (2023).
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Raquel Jaduszliwer was born in San Fernando, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina, in 1946). He resides in the Autonomous City of Buenos Aires. He has a degree in Psychology from the UBA and trained as a psychoanalyst. He published a novel, La venganza delclan de las banderas de acero (2018) and nine books of poetry: Los panes y los peces (2012, Primer Premio Poesรญa Ed. De Los Cuatro Vientos). La noche con su lรกmpara (2014, Primer Premio Poesรญa Ed. Fundaciรณn Victoria Ocampo). Persistencia delo imposible (2015, Premio Ediciรณn Ed. Ruinas Circulares). Las razones del tiempo (2018, Ed. Lisboa); En el bosque (2018, Ed. Modesto Rimba). รngel de la enunciaciรณn (2020, Ed. Barnacle). El รกrbol de las especies (2022, Ed. Barnacle), Los diagramas radiantes (2022, Ed. Barnacle), Todos los lugares se llamaban promesa (2023, Primer Premio Rubรฉn Reches. Ed. Ruinas Circulares). She was an exhibitor at the International Poetry Festival (C.A.B.A, Argentina, 2019), and in the program of activities of the VI International Poetry Festival of Fredonia, Colombia (2022). He participated in the cycle โLanguages โโin Dispersionโ held at the Museum of Books and Language in the Autonomous City of Buenos Aires (2023).
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Padre habla
dice
cuida de los rebaรฑos hija
hasta tu รบltimo dรญa
ese es nuestro legado somos tribus de exilio
dispersiones en tiempos de nevada
cuida de los rebaรฑos
las pasturas
atrรกs quedaron las casas incendiadas
todo lo abandonรฉ para que un dรญa nacieras
ah cรณmo arrancarme hija
esa bala de plata que sigue disparรกndose
asรญ hablaba mi padre
quedรณ escrito:
todos los sobrevivientes somos huรฉrfanos
todo el tiempo del mundo sigo viendo las casas incendiadas.
______________________________
Father speaks
he says
daughter, take care of the flocks
until your last day
that is out legacy we are tribes of exile
dispersions in times of snowfall
take care of the flocks
the pastures
the burnt out house stays behind
all that I abandoned so that you one day were born
ah how to pull out of me
that silver bullet that continues to be shot
so my father spoke
it is written:
all the survivors we are all orphans
all of the time of the world I keep seeing houses incinerated
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ยฟTe perdiste al menos una vez
en la parte mรกs profunda del bosque
y gritaste hay alguien ahรญ?
ยฟhay alguien ahรญ?
Otra pregunta:
ยฟte arrojarรญas sobre el fruto prohibido hasta ser devorado
o no hay fruto prohibido en este paraรญso con su telรณn de fondo
con su cielo al alcance, radiante y sin un pliegue?
ah, desperdicio, gesto desaprensivo
ยฟquรฉ fue lo que cambiaste por espejos
por algunas estrellas que parecen estrellas
por monedas
asรญ como si nada?
Allรก vamos ejรฉrcito sonรกmbulo
vamos hacia el destino de uno en uno
solitarios y ajenos allรก vamos
el corazรณn blindado
sin mirar atrรกs.
Tierra de desaliento ยฟquiรฉn responde?
ยฟhay alguien ahรญ?
_____________________________________
Have you at least once been lost
in the deepest part of the forest
and yelled is anyone here?
Is anyone there?
Another question:
Would you throw yourself on the forbidden fruit until being devoured
or is there no prohibited fruit in this paradise with
with its backdrop
with its sky within reach, radiant and without a pleat
ah, waste, unscrupulous gesture
what was that you exchanged for mirrors
for some stars that appear to be stars
for coins
as if it was nothing?
There we go, sleepwalking army
we go toward the destiny one by one
alone and foreign we go there
armored heart
without looking back.
Land of despair who answers?
is there anyone there?
________________________________________
De elegir entre todas las cosas el talismรกn de oro
por ejemplo, esa presencia que todavรญa persiste
pero que corre riesgo
o ese guijarro por lo tan pequeรฑo
audaz en su firmeza
o la palma traslรบcida, esa mano
al momento en que logra desclavarse
de apegarnos a alguna de esas cosas
la palabra destino irรก cobrando vida
asรญ
encarnada en el corazรณn expuesto
a su mayor esperanza, y siempre a costa nuestra
a cuenta de las futuras pรฉrdidas
y de todas las bajas.
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To choose the golden talisman from all things
for example, that presence that still persists
but runs a risk
or that pebble for being so small
audacious in its firmness
o translucent palm, that hand
at the moment that it is able to free itself
we become fond of some of those things
the word destiny will be taking on life
so
lying down with the heart exposed
against future loses
and all the casualties.
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Envuelta criatura nacida del interior de un bosque
blanca entre los terrones, tan pรกlida en la marcha
asรญ serรก tu alba
sombra creciente, pequeรฑa luz en los peligros del follaje.
Envuelta criatura, quรฉ serรก de tu huella
quรฉ serรก de tus pasos avanzando sobre la oscuridad:
envoltorio y follaje, sombra larga, criatura
a tu camino van a dar nuestros caminos incansables
nuestros buenos deseos, todas nuestras plegarias.
Allรก vamos antiguos peregrinos
una cuerda nos ata a la esperanza
salimos a buscarte criatura perdida
Perdido talismรกn piedra preciosa
reflejo del tesoro ausente
pozo en el medio del gran claro del bosque.
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Swaddled baby born from the inside of the forest,
white among the clods of earth, so pallid in the march.
your dawn will be that way
growing shadow, little light in the dangers of the foliage
swaddled baby, what will be of your track
what will be of your steps advancing above the darkness:
bundle and foliage large shadow, baby
to your journey they are going to give our untiring journeys
our good wishes, all our prayers
here we go ancient pilgrims
just a cord ties to hope
we leave to look for you lost baby
lost talisman precious stone
reflection of absent treasure
well in the middle of the great clearing in the forest.
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Mi hijo se habรญa visto en medio de la noche
caminaba con las manos en alto, en fila entre los vencidos.
Mi hijo me decรญa:
madre ยฟme ves? sigo caminando en la noche mรกs tupida del bosque
voy tras los pasos de tus seres perdidos
directo al corazรณn de las casas quemรกndose.
Entonces yo gritaba
no sigas, no, no sigas
pero mi voz era un graznido.
ยฟQuรฉ mรกs podrรญa haber hecho?
yo era un cuervo letal sobrevolando
buscando el aura de las generaciones anteriores
el eslabรณn perdido
la luz que se diezmรณ.
_________________________________________
My son had seen himself in the middle of the night.
He walked with his hands up high, in line among the vanquished
My son said to me:
mother do you see me? I keep walking in the densest night of
the forest
I follow the steps of the lost beings
direct to the heart of the burning houses
Then I was shouting
donโt go on, donโt go on.
But my voice was a cawing.
What more could I have done?
I was a lethal crow flying above
seeking the aura of previous generations
the lost link
the light that burns itself up.
______________________________________
Ya ves, cuantiosa estรก la noche
terciopelo tendido para su pedrerรญa
ยฟencontraste el tesoro?
ยฟhas visto cรณmo brilla al fondo del abismo?
y entonces nos decimos
cuidado, porque tenemos miedo
cuidado el remolino
cuidado con el pozo por arriba de nuestras cabezas
no te asomes, no te tiente el destello de la fosa en lo alto
ten cuidado
que la noche es de luto
y vasto y enjoyado es el lugar de la pรฉrdida.
_____________________
You see already, this night is substantial
velvet stretched for its precious stones
did you find the treasure?
Have you seen how it shines at the bottom of the abyss?
And then we tell ourselves
be careful because we are afraid
when the whirlwind
when the well above our heads
be careful
that the night is of grief
and vast and adorned is in the place of the loss.
_______________________________________________
ยฟAcaso conocรญas la pulsaciรณn del รกrbol
su corazรณn con un latido รบnico?
recuerdo ese sonido como de planetas
moviรฉndose por extensiones que no recorrerรกs
y si apoyaras tu cabeza en el regazo
en la aspereza de la astilla
escucharรญas la voz de la madera
ella te harรญa sentir un huรฉrfano en tus huesos
y todo te pondrรญa tan de otra medida
tan abstracto te ves en lo viviente
casi sรณlo una idea, como un animal solo
sin especie
solo y adentro de tu pensamiento
solo bajo el inmenso poderรญo del bosque
su camino sombreado entre el cielo y la tierra
tu espรญritu vagando por el desorden verde.
_________________________________________
Perhaps you knew of the pulse of the tree
its sound with a unique beat?
I remember that sound like that of planets
moving thorough expanses that you wonโt ever travel
and if you rest your head in the lap
in the ruggedness of the splinter
you will hear the voice of the wood
and it will make you feel like an orphan in your bones
and everything would put you so much in another dimension
so abstract you see in the living
almost only an idea, like an animal alone
without species
alone under the immense power of the forest
alone and inside your thought
its path darkening between heaven and earth
your spirit wandering through the green chaos.
___________________________________________
Y el viento dice, el viento nos hace decir:
acepta las virtudes de la duraciรณn
por ellas, todo lo que deberรญa retirarse asรญ lo harรก
tambiรฉn tus pertenencias, la manera en que eras
todo lo que la corriente lleva; acรฉptalo
asรญ llorarรกs menos
asรญ tendrรกs mรกs fuerza
cierra tus cuentas
actรบa como si todo ya hubiera concluido
busca el fondo del pozo
en su espejo de agua y en el mayor silencio
verรกs que hay un suceso extraordinario
aรบn por consumarse.
________________________________________
And the wind says, the wind makes us say:
accept the virtues of timeโs duration
for them, all that should leave so it will be
also their belongings, the way you were
all the current carries away; accept it
and so you will cry less
so that you will have more strength
close your accounts
act as if everything had been finished
look for the bottom of the well
in a mirror of water and in the greatest silence
you will see that there is an extraordinary event
just about to being carried out.
_____________________________________________
Es que verรกs, รฉste es el oleaje tumultuoso del mundo
venรญamos de otra parte que nunca conocimos
en las aguas profundas
รฉramos como brazadas de animal incansable
y en el espejo de la superficie
nos quedรกbamos quietos como รกngeles
arpones suspendidos de una respiraciรณn.
Quiรฉn se acordarรก un dรญa
de cรณmo con las corrientes mรกs benรฉvolas
nadรกbamos a la bรบsqueda de estrellas sumergidas.
Arriba
mรกs arriba
hundidas para siempre al fondo de la noche.
________________________________________
As you will see, this is the tumultuous sea swell of the world
we come from another place that we never knew
in the deep waters
we were like strokes of a tireless animal
and in the mirror of the surface
we were staying quiet like angels
harpoons suspended by a breath.
Who will remember a day
that like the most benevolent currents
we were swimming in search submerged stars.
Above
further above
they are sunk for all times at the bottom of the night.
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Aclaraciรณn/Clarification:
Los tres primeros poemas fueron seleccionados del libro Las razones del tiempo (Editorial Lisboa, Buenos Aires, 2018)/The first three poems were selected from Las razones del tiempo (Editorial Lisboa, Buenos Aires, 2018)
Los tres siguientes corresponden a: En el bosque (Editorial Modesto Rimba, Buenos Aires, 2018)/The next three from: En el bosque (Editorial Modesto Rimba, Buenos Aires, 2018)
Los tres รบltimos a: รngel de la enunciaciรณn (Editorial Barnacle, Buenos Aires, 2020)/The last three are from: รngel de la enunciaciรณn (Editorial Barnacle, Buenos Aires, 2020)
Mรณnica Goldstein naciรณ en 1953, Trabaja en Buenos Aires. Desde 1976 participa en muestras individuales y colectivas en Argentina y en el extranjero.
“De adolescente me conmovรญan las pinturas prehistรณricas. Pensรฉ que lo que llamamos arte debe ser esencial al ser humano, y decidรญ dedicarme a รฉl. Me formรฉ en el taller de Eva Garcรญa. Por aquella รฉpoca Max Ernst y Paul Klee eran los artistas que mรกs admiraba. Investiguรฉ tรฉcnicas y materiales. Fuรญ encontrando aquellos con los que estaba en consonancia. Paralelamente estudiรฉ el pensamiento de India en la Universidad del Salvador. A mediados de los 80 comencรฉ a practicar meditaciรณn budista y yoga; mรกs adelante me formรฉ como instructora. Me acerquรฉ a los teรณricos, artistas y filรณsofos del arte contemporรกneo. Todo esto modificรณ tanto mi forma de producciรณn como la obra. El uso de tรฉcnicas automรกticas y la influencia del surrealismo fueron cediendo su lugar, surgiรณ otra actitud. En mi taller entro en รญntima relaciรณn conmigo misma, en un espacio silencioso, de tiempos pausados. Me interesan la posibilidad de evoluciรณn del ser humano, el Tiempo, la Libertad. Mi obra recorre distintas disciplinas: pintura, dibujo, monocopia, relieves, objetos, alguna instalaciรณn. Hacia finales de los 80 comencรฉ a producir libros de artista. La mayorรญa de ellos son ejemplares รบnicos, si bien he hecho tambiรฉn pequeรฑas ediciones. Trabajรฉ en diversos formatos: libro-objeto, rollos, libros intervenidos, entre otros”.
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Mรณnica Goldstein was born 1953 and works in Buenos Aires. Since 1976, she has taken part in numerous solo and group exhibitions, both in Argentina and in the rest of the world.
“As a teenager I was touched by prehistoric paintings. I thought that which we call art had to be essential to humans, and so I decided to dedicate myself to it. I studied with the artist and art teacher Eva Garcรญa. By that time, Max Ernst and Paul Klee were the artists I admired the most. I researched techniques and materials. I found those I was in tune with. At the same time, I studied Indian thought at Universidad del Salvador. In the mid-eighties, I started practicing Buddhist meditation and yoga, and later I trained as an instructor.I became closer to the theorists, artists and philosophers of contemporary art. All this changed both my way of production and the work itself. The use of automatic techniques and the influence of surrealism gradually lost ground and a different attitude emerged. In my atelier, I establish an intimate relationship with myself, in a quiet space with slower times. I am interested in the potential for evolution of the human being, Time, Freedom. My production runs across different disciplines: painting, drawing, monoprint, reliefs, objects, some installations. Towards the end of the 1980s, I also began to produce artistsโ books. Most of my books are unique, but I have also published small editions. I have worked in a variety of formats โbook art objects, scrolls, intervention in books, among others.”
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El arte de Mรณnica Goldstein/Mรณnica Goldstein’s Art
___________________________________
Obras de varias tรฉcnicas: /Works in various techniques:
Pintura, รณleo, fotografรญa, lรกpiz graso, monocopia sobre fiselina. Lรกpiz graso sobre acrรญlico, dibujo, tinta china/ Painting, oil, photography, grease pencil, monocopy on fiseline. Oily pencil on acrylic, drawing, Chinese ink
____________________________
Sonidos de Taa-Ga. 2003. Pintura, รณleo y fotografรญa sobre MDF.1.50 m x 0.90 m.
____________________________
El Salar del Silencio, dรญptico. 2011. Oleo y lรกpiz graso sobre MDF. 200 cm x 100 cm.
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En medio del camino. Dรญptico. 2016. Pintura. Acrรญlico sobre MDF. 164 cm x 42 cm
___________________________
En el Salar. 2015. Dibujo. Lรกpiz graso sobre plancha de acrรญlico. 45 cm x 160,5 cm x 7 cm.
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Tiempo de quietud. 2013. Monocopia sobre fiselina. Lรกpiz graso sobre acrรญlico. 44 cm x 200 cm.
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Como un Eco, dรญptico. 2018. Dibujo, acrรญlico y Dibujo.sobre MDF. 200 cm x 100 cm
_________________________________
Cordillera. 2018. Monocopia. 95 cm x 31 cm.
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Imperturbables II, dรญptico. 2019. Pintura, acrรญlico sobre MDF. 85 cm x 82 cm
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Imperturbables III. Monocopia. Oleo y lรกpiz litogrรกfico sobre papel. 118 x 48 cm.
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El Vigรญa. 2019. Dibujo. Tinta china, lรกpices y acrรญlico sobre MDF.
______________________________
Una vez un Lugar. 2022. Pintura, รณleo sobre MDF.184 x 70 cm
________________________________
Marin County. 2022. Monocopia, รณleo sobre papel 190 grs. 112 x 40 cm.
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Libros de artista
“La dificultad de definir quรฉ es un libro de artista me interesa. Cada vez que encuentro una definiciรณn al mismo tiempo surge una obra que la desborda. Hay una frase de un gran maestro de Budismo Tibetano, Lama Anagarika Govinda, que dice “La libertad no es indocilidad ni desenfreno, sino la expresiรณn de la ley interior de uno’. Creo que cada libro de artista logrado tiene un orden, una ley interior que lo sostiene.”
Mรณnica Goldstein, 2014.
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Artist’s Books
“The difficulty of defining what an artist’s book is interests me. Every time I find a definition, at the same time a work emerges that surpasses it. There is a phrase from a great teacher of Tibetan Buddhism, Lama Anagarika Govinda, who says ‘Freedom is not indocility or debauchery, but the expression of one’s inner law.’ I believe that every accomplished artist’s book has an order, an inner law that sustains it.
Mรณnica Goldstein, 2014.
________________________________
Shambala. 2008. Unico ejemplar. Libro modificado, tรฉcnica mixta, piedras, impresiones digitales, pintura. 27 cm x 33 cm x 9 cm/ Unique artist’s book. Modified book, mixed technique, stones, digital prints, painting. 27cm x 33cm x 9cm.
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REINOS MITICOS. 2009. รnico ejemplar. 7 pรกginas rรญgidas sobre una base de madera en la que se encastran en un eje central. Cada hoja estรก pintada de ambos lados y tiene un dibujo lineal que se continรบa al desplegar las 7 pรกginas en orden para conformar un paisaje total en una cara y con 7 imรกgenes diferentes en la otra. 58 cm x 14 cm x 10 cm/
2009. Unique artist’s book. 7 rigid pages on a wooden base which they fit into a central axis. Each sheet is painted on both sides and has a linear drawing that continues when unfolding the 7 pages in order to form a total landscape on one side and with 7 different images on the other. 58cm x 14cm x 10cm/
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Mi Principio mi Fin. รnico ejemplar. Tinta en papel japonรฉs Macau, Golden Panda, encuadernado en tela. 17,5 cm x 51,5 cm x 1 cm./ Unique artist’s book. Ink on Macau Japanese paper, Golden Panda, cloth bound. 17.5cm x 51.5cm x 1cm.
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SERIE SENDEROS, obras nรบmeros 3, 5 y 6
Tรฉcnicas: Dibujo e Ink jet print en papel ilustraciรณn mate 140 grs. Pastel tiza, lรกpices diversos, grafito, รณleo pastel/ Drawing and ink jet print on 140 gr matte illustration paper. pastel chalk, various pencils, grafiti, pastel oil.
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obra nยฐ3. 2021. Dibujo e Ink jet print en papel ilustraciรณn mate 140 grs. Pastel tiza, lรกpices diversos, grafito, รณleo pastel. 49,5 x 130 cm
obra nยฐ 5. 2022. Dibujo e Ink jet print en papel ilustraciรณn mate 140 grs. Pastel tiza, lรกpices grasos. 49,5 x 130 cm
Roberto Maldovsky- ArgentinaโJoanna Hausmann –Venezuela/Estados Unidosโ– Comediantes judรญo-latinoamericanos de hoy
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Chistes judรญos de antes y de hoy
El prรณspero financista enseรฑa al visitante su enorme comedor y dice: En este salรณn, Dios no lo permita, pueden cenar hasta ochenta personas.
El oficial polaco pregunta al recluta Isaac: –ยฟPor quรฉ debe el soldado sacrificar su vida? โTiene razรณn mi teniente! ยฟPor quรฉ deberรญa hacerlo?
ยกTome asiento, Barรณn! โseรฑala el judรญo muy atareado. โSoy el duque de Gramont โhace notar el indignado visitante. โTome otro asiento โcontesta el judรญo sin levantar la vista.
Son los dรญas de la preguerra hitlerista y tambiรฉn los de una negativa casi mundial para aceptar refugiados. Los diversos paรญses exigen mรบltiples requisitos en sus leyes de ingreso. Un judรญo alemรกn le pide consejo al agente de viajes sobre lo posibilidad de emigrar inmediatamente. Mientras estudia las casi nulas disyuntivas, hace girar el globo terrรกqueo que estรก sobre la mesa. Por fin, desesperado, pregunta: –ยฟNo tiene otro globo?
Muchas gracias a Alicia Freilich Warshavsky
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The prosperous financier shows the visitor his enormous dining room and says: In this room, God forbid, up to eighty people can dine.
The Polish officer asks the recruit Isaac: –Why should the soldier sacrifice his life? โMy lieutenant is right! Why should I do it?
Take a seat, Baron! โpoints out the very busy Jew. โI am the Duke of Gramont,โ the indignant visitor notes. โTake another seat,โ the Jew answers without looking up.
These are the days of the Hitlerite prewar and also those of an almost global refusal to accept refugees. Different countries require multiple requirements in their entry laws. A German Jew asks the travel agent for advice on the possibility of emigrating immediately. While studying the almost non-existent dilemmas, he spins the globe on the table. Finally, desperate, he asks: –Don’t you have another balloon?
Los ingleses se rรญen de los irlandeses y escoceses. Los franceses de los belgas. Los argentinos y brasileiros, de los gallegos y portugueses respectivamente. Los alemanes de los austriacos y รฉstos de los suizos. Los suizos no saben que es reรญrse. Los norteamericanos se rรญen de los polacos y los polacos todavรญa estรกn buscando a quien reรญrse.
Cada pueblo elige a otro como objeto de sus chistes y burlas, bajo determinadas circunstancias, tiene algo que ver con el humor, pero poco.
Cada pueblo tiene entonces, un referente para su humor, construido por algรบn otro pueblo con el que, generalmente, mantiene una relaciรณn de sometedor o de sometido.
Cada pueblo menos el pueblo judรญo.
ยฟPor quรฉ esta diferencia? (ยกOtra vez una
diferencia, Dios mรญo!)
En mi manera de ver las cosas, porque los judรญos no tenemos vรญnculos referenciales con otro pueblo determinado, sino con todos.
Que es lo mismo que con ninguno.
Es por eso que nos elegimos como propios destinarios de nuestro humor, siempre รกcido, pero siempre tierno.
Somos el dardo es y el blanco a la vez.
Es que un pueblo que, desde siempre, ha elegido como camino y como destino el que el mundo sea un poquito mรกs justo, estรก demasiado solo en estรฉ mundo tan injusto.
Y estar solo y no puede reรญrse es demasiado ni siquiera de eso, es demasiado.
Hasta para un judรญo.
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JEWISH HUMOR
The English laugh at the Irish and Scots. The French from the Belgians. The Argentines and Brazilians, the Galicians and the Portuguese respectively. The Germans from the Austrians and these from the Swiss. The Swiss don’t know what it means to laugh. Americans laugh at Poles and Poles are still looking for someone to laugh at.
โโโ Each people chooses another as the object of its jokes and ridicule, under certain circumstances, it has something to do with humor, but little.
โโโEach people then has a reference for its humor, constructed by some other town with which, generally, it maintains a relationship of master or subject.
โโโEvery people except the Jewish people.
โโโWhy this difference? (Again a difference, my God!)
In my way of seeing things, because we Jews do not have referential links with another specific people, but with everyone.
Which is the same as with none.
โโ That is why we choose ourselves as the recipients of our humor, always acidic, but always tender.
โโ We are the dart and the target at the same time.
โโโ The thing is that a people who have always chosen as their path and destiny that the world be a little more just, are too alone in this unjust world.
And being alone and not being able to laugh is too much even that, it’s too much.
Even for a Jew.
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Chistes judรญos
Abraham va a hacerle un traje a medida a Moisรฉs, el sastre.
-ยฟCuรกndo estarรก listo mi traje, Moishe?
-Yโฆ en unas tres semanasโฆ
-ยฟTres semanas para hacer un traje? ยกDios hizo el mundo en una semana!
-ยกY asรญ resultรณ!
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Fisher comienza a contarle un chiste a su amigo:
-Una vez Levin conoce a Cohenโฆ
“Siempre Levin y Cohen, siempre Levin y Cohen”, interrumpe el amigo. Me cansรฉ. ยฟPor quรฉ los hรฉroes de tus historias son siempre judรญos y nunca, digamos, chinos, por ejemplo?
-Tienes razรณn. De hecho, conozco una historia china: Shin Min una vez conoce a Lang Fu y lo invita al bar-mitzvah de su hijoโฆ
Aquรญ puedes encontrar una breve descripciรณn del humor judรญo de Roberto Moldavsky.
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Moishe va a consultar al rabino Iankl:
-Rabi, por favor dรญgame, tengo gripe y no puedo pagarle al mรฉdico, ยฟquรฉ hago?
-Toma un poco de tรฉ de manzanilla.
Al mismo tiempo, Moishe vuelve a darle las gracias:
-Gracias rabino Iankl, tu remedio me curรณ por completo.
Y el rabino Iankl escribe en su cuaderno: โEl tรฉ de manzanilla cura la gripeโ.
Pero unos dรญas despuรฉs, Moishe vuelve:
-Rab Iankl, quiero contarte que mi vecino Mendl cayรณ con una gripe muy fuerte, le hice tomar su remedio, tรฉ de manzanilla, y sin embargo cada vez estรก peorโฆ
Entonces el rabino Iankl corrige lo que escribiรณ en su cuaderno: โEl tรฉ de manzanilla cura la gripe en el 50% de los casosโ.
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Jacobo, a una estudiante:
-Me gustarรญa ser un libro, estar siempre en tus brazos.
Y ella:
-Estรก bien, pero mejor una agenda, asรญ a fin de aรฑo puedo cambiarte por otra.
_____________________________________
Jewish Jokes
I’m is going to make a custom-made suit for Moisรฉs, the tailor.
-When will my suit be ready, Moishe?
-Andโฆ in about three weeksโฆ
-Three weeks to make a suit? God made the world in a week!
-And so it turned out!
________________________________
Fisher begins to tell a joke to his friend:
-Once Levin meets Cohenโฆ
“Always Levin and Cohen, always Levin and Cohen,” the friend interrupts. I got tired. Why are the heroes of your stories always Jewish and never, say, Chinese, for example?
-You’re right. In fact, I know a Chinese story: Shin Min once meets Lang Fu and invites him to his son’s bar-mitzvahโฆ
—Here you can find a brief description of Roberto Moldavsky’s Jewish humor.
__________________________________
Moishe goes to consult Rabbi Iankl:
-Rabi, please tell me, I have the flu and I can’t pay the doctor, what do I do?
-Drink some chamomile tea.
At the same time, Moishe thanks him again:
-Thank you Rabbi Iankl, your remedy cured me completely.
And Rabbi Iankl writes in his notebook: โChamomile tea cures the flu.โ
But a few days later, Moishe returns:
-Rab Iankl, I want to tell you that my neighbor Mendl came down with a very bad flu, I made him take his remedy, chamomile tea, and yet he is getting worse and worseโฆ
Then Rabbi Iankl corrects what he wrote in his notebook: โChamomile tea cures the flu in 50% of cases.โ
____________________________________
Jacobo, to a student:
-I would like to be a book, always be in your arms.
And her:
-Okay, but like an agenda, so at the end of the year I can change you for another one.
Shlomit Baytelman naciรณ en Afula, Israel. Cuando tenรญa dos aรฑos, su familia se trasladรณ a Santiago, Chile. En pleno perรญodo de crisis polรญtica en el paรญs y en momentos en que la producciรณn local estaba en paupรฉrrimas condiciones tras el golpe de estado, se convierte inesperadamente en el primer sรญmbolo sexy del cine chileno. Su personaje de la prostituta adolescente de Julio comienza en julio (1984), que inicia sexualmente al joven protagonista, la instala en la imaginerรญa erรณtica de los chilenos y hasta hoy se recuerdan sus escenas de desnudos, prรกcticamente inรฉditas en la his Antes de ese trabajo, su รบnica experiencia cinematogrรกfica era una breve participaciรณn en Estado de sitio, de Costa-Gavras (1973), rodada en Chile. En 1971 egresa de la Escuela de Teatro de la Universidad de Chile y hace sus primeras actuaciones en La remolienda y Tres tristes tigres, de Alejandro Sieveking, y El misรกntropo, de Moliere. Su carrera en la televisiรณn local se ha mantenido por mรกs de treinta aรฑos, participando como protagonista o como actriz invitada en diversos series de humor y teleseries; entre estas รบltimas, sus principales roles son los de Sol Tardรญo,ย El secreto de Isabel,ย Casagrande,ย La Gran Mentiraย yย El Juego de la Vida. Uno de los trabajos destacados, fuera de las teleseries, es haber integrado el elenco de โLa manivelaโ, prestigiado programa de humor. Como reconocimiento a su labor, en 1981 es elegida mejor actriz del aรฑo y en los aรฑos 1982 y 1983, es considerada la actriz mรกs popular. A comienzo de los noventa participa activamente en la creaciรณn del Movimiento Universal Anti Censura (MUAC), a travรฉs del cual los trabajadores del cine chileno dan una batalla para eliminar uno de los residuos dictatoriales en la cultura: la censura previa en el cine, que permitรญa prohibir la exhibiciรณn de filmes nacionales y extranjeros en las salas locales. En 1992 y 1994 publica dos libros de poemas: Escritos para un amor inconcluso y Textos de anticipo.
_____________________________________
hlomit Baytelman was born in Afula, Israel. When he was 2 years old, her family moved to Santiago, Chile. In the midst of a political crisis in the country and at a time when local production was in very poor conditions after the coup d’รฉtat, she unexpectedly became the first sex symbol of Chilean cinema. Her character as the teenage prostitute Julio begins in July (1984), which sexually initiates the young protagonist, installs her in the erotic imagery of Chileans and to this day her nude scenes are remembered, practically unpublished in the country’s cinematographic history. In 1971 she graduated from the Theater School of the University of Chile and did performances in La remolienda and Tres tristes tigres, by Alejandro Sieveking, and El misรกntropo, by Moliere. Her career in local television has continued for more than thirty years, participating as a protagonist or as a guest actress in various comedy series and television series; Among the latter, her main roles are those of Tardรญo Sol, El secreto Isabel’. Casagrande, La gran mentira and El juego de la vida. One of the notable performances, other than soap operas, was joinin the cast of โLa manivelaโ, a prestigious comedy program on Chilean television. In recognition of her work, in 1981 she was chosen best actress of the year and in 1982 and 1983, she was considered the most popular actress. At the beginning of the nineties, she actively participated in the creation of the Universal Anti-Censorship Movement (MUAC), through which Chilean film workers waged a battle to eliminate the dictatorial residues in culture: prior censorship in cinema, which would allow prohibiting the exhibition of national and foreign films in local theaters. In 1992 and 1994 she published two books of poems: Escritos para un amor inconcluso y Textos de anticipo.
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Me llamo Shlomit
Me llamo Shlomit. Nacรญ en Afula, en la Galilea.
Me contaban que, en el mismo tiempo, en el mismo lugar
naciรณ un niรฑo arabe.
Vivรญ en en Ramoth Meneshe, el kibutz donde mis padres
sacabanโpiedras todavรญa.
Me trajeron a la Amรจrica del Sur, la tierra
donde ellos habรญan nacidos de padres extranjeros.
Asรญ la historia vuelve y se va; gira hacia
uno y otro lado, nos lleva sobre aguas torrentosas.
Naufrago anclado en Buenos Aires, para tomar el
interminable tren transandino calado por el frรญo
del carro de 2a.
Y aquรญ encuentro en Santiago
explicando este nombre que tiene algo de Biblia y piedra
y calor del aire del desierto y una mรบsica.
____________________________________________
My Name is Shlomit
My name is Shlomit. I ws born in Afula, in the Galilee.
I am told that an Arab child
was born in the same time, at the same place.
I lived in Ramoth Menashe, the kibbutz where my parents
are still pulling stones from the ground.
They brought me to South America, the land
where they were born, of foreign parents.
So does history turn and come back, it winds around
one and another side, it carries us over rushing waters.
Shipwreck anchored in Buenos Aires, to catch the
interminable train across the Andes, chilled to the bone
in the second class, coach car.
And I find myself in Santiago
explaining the name that has a lot of the Bible and stone
and the heat of the desert air and music.
Translation by Elizabeth Horan
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Las caras de Shlomit Baytelman/The Faces of Shlomit Baytelman
Gustavo Grisoski naciรณ en Buenos Aires en 1963. Se graduรณ como Arquitecto de la Universidad de Buenos Aires. Realizรณ exposiciones en el Centro Cultural Recoleta y otras gallerias en Buenos Aires y el exterior. Fue seccionado para el Premio del Salรณn Nacional de Artes Visuales 2000 (Palais de Glace, Bs. As.)
_______________________________
Gustavo Grisoski was born in Buenos Aires in 1963. He is an Architect, having graduated fromโthe University of Buenos Aires. He has had shows in the Recoleta Cultural Center and in other galleries and museums in Buenos Aires. Grisoski was awarded by the National Salon Prize for Visual Arts at the โPalais de Glaceโ in Buenos Aires.
________________________________________
Gustavo Grisoski les pinta, con afecciรณn y algo de surrealismo, a los judรญos devotos/โGustavo Grisoski paints, with affection an a bit of surrealism, the devote Jews.
______________________________________________
Sin tรญtulo/No title
Mรกs allรก de sรญ mismos/Beyond themselves
Mรกs allรก de sรญ mismos-2/Beyond themselves-2
Notas mรญsticas/Mystical Notes
Se abre el camino/Opening the Way
Dรณnde estoy?/Where Am I?
No temas/Don’t fear
Duelo/Grief
Expansiones/Espansions
Between Heaven and Earth/Entre el cielo y la tierra
Las novelas de Cecilia Absatz (Argentina, 1943), periodista, editora y escritora creativa, destacan por las voces sardรณnicas de sus heroรญnas y narradoras, su desenfadada franqueza sobre la sexualidad y el cuerpo, su mordaz sรกtira y su postura antiautoritaria y feminista. . Absatz viviรณ el represivo rรฉgimen militar argentino de 1976-83, y el valor de sus escritos radica en parte en las ideas que proporciona sobre ese perรญodo. En lugar de representar violaciones extremas de los derechos humanos, como desapariciones y torturas, su ficciรณn comunica las contradicciones y ansiedades de la existencia cotidiana en una Argentina bajo un gobierno autoritarioโฆ Su novela breve Feiguele, publicada en 1976 junto con cuentos como Feiguele y otras. mujeres ‘Feiguele y otras mujeres’, cuya primera ediciรณn fue suprimida por el gobierno militar, (1) y dos novelas completas, Te con canela (1982) y Los aรฑos pares (1985). Aรฑos numerados.’ (2)
Naomi Lindstrom
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The novels of Cecilia Absatz (Argentina, 1943), journalist, editor, and creative writer, stand out for the sardonic voices of their heroines and narrators, their casual frankness about sexuality and the body, their mordant satire, and their antiauthoritarian and feminist stance. Absatz lived through the repressive Argentine military regime of 1976-83, and the value of her writing lies partly in the insights it provides into that period. Rather than representing extreme violations of human rights, such as disappearances and torture, her fiction communicates the contradictions and anxieties of everyday existence in an Argentina under authoritarian rule…Her brief novel Feiguele, published in 1976 along with short stories as Feiguele y otras mujeres ‘Feiguele and other women,’ the first edition of which was suppressed by the military government, (1) and two full-length novels, the 1982 Te con canela ‘Tea with cinnamon’ and the 1985 Los anos pares ‘The Even-Numbered Years.’ (2)
Naomi Lindstrom
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โLa siestaโ
Hace calor. Quรฉ calor que hace. Las baldosas del patio refrescan, pero por un rato nada mรกs. Hay que echarse y al ratito correrse un poco para encontrar baldosas nuevas, fresquitas. No hay nadie. Todos duermen o no estรก. Yo no puedo dormir, tengo mucho calor y otras cosas que no puedo explicar. Estoy en bombacha y nada mรกs. Aprovecho que no estรก mamรก que dice que ya estoy grande para andar asรญ, si viene alguien, que tu hermano, que tu padre. Estoy en bombachas y me miro al espejo. Vuelvo a acostarme sobre las baldosas sobre las baldosas y hago una especie de danza mirando al cielo blanco de la siesta. Fresquito en los talones, en las pantorrillas. En la parte de atrรกs de las rodillas no se puede. Los muslos, la cola (la cola todo el tiempo). La cintura y la cola, de un costado y del otro. Me siento rara. Al llegar a la espalda ya me aburrรญ. Hace demasiado calor para moverse.
Voy a ir a buscarlo a Luisito.
(Luisito comparte conmigo la cuadra desde que puedo recordar, Tambiรฉn los juegos, las excursiones a la cocina para cocinar panqueques de dulce de leche con campeonatos de revoleo por el aire, y el cine Rivoli con tres pelรญculas y la pizza despuรฉs). (A Luisito le dicen maricรณn porque estรก siempre conmigo y juega a disfrazarse y a bailar) (Pero no es maricรณn: un dรญa me dio un beso todo pegajosa. Como no nos gustรณ ni a รฉl ni a mรญ, no lo repetimos.)
Voy a ir a la casa de Luisito a ver quรฉ hacemos.
La casa de Luisito es una zapaterรญa con un vestรญbulo. En los aรฑos que fuimos amigos casi nunca entrรฉ a la habitaciรณn de adentro, donde dormรญan los padres. La casa de Luisito era el vestรญbulo, fresco y humilde con un sofรก que a la noche se convertรญa en dos camas para รฉl y su hermano Salo, y dos sillones de un cuerpo.
Tambiรฉn habรญa una escalera que no llevaba a ninguna parte. Era para โcuando construyamosโ.
Me pongo algรบn vestido encima y camino los veinte metros que me separan de Luisito. La calle, el barrio, el mundo, todo habรญa muerto de calor.
Abro sin llamar, como siempre -creo que no habรญa timbre-y me encuentro con lo รบltimo que hubiera esperado: Luisito, el papรก de Luisito. La mamรก de Luisito, y el hermano de Luisito, muy correctos todos, conversando con un seรฑor y una seรฑora nuevos. Me queo inmรณvil sin entender nada. รก
Los tรญos de Tucumรกn. Vinieron los tรญos de Tucumรกn. Mirรก que bien. Hago ademรกn de irme, pero la tรญa quiere conocer a la amiguita de Luisito y me invitan con un poco de Komari con soda. Es agrio, pero no lo digo porque todos estamos muy
Prolijito hablando de la escuela y todo eso. Salo se levanta del sillรณn y me lo ofrece y รฉl se queda de pie -al lado, un poco mรกs atrรกs con la mano apoyada en el borde superior del respaldo. En el vestรญbulo estรก fresco.
Estoy sintiendo una cosa, pero no estoy segura.
Debe ser una impresiรณn mรญa. El calor. O no, no sรฉ. Por las dudas me quedo muy quieta. Alguien me estรก hablando y yo no escuchรฉ. ยฟCรณmo? Ah, sรญ. Vivo en la esquina. No esto no es una impresiรณn mรญa. Estรก sucediendo: es una cosquilla, muy leve, muy leve, que me nace en la nuca, debajo del cabello. Un bichito chiquito que me hace una caricia, se me entra por la espalda, me recorre toda la espalda, me trae un calor, pero distinto, algo nuevo, terrible, no lo puedo resistirโฆ
Es Salo que me estรก acariciando la nuca. No baja de ahรญ, pero baja. La piel me estรก gritando cosas de todos los colores, tengo hormigas que me caminan entre las piernas, tengo algodรณn en el fondo de la boca, ya no veo nada.
Ellos siguen conversando.
Siento que la cara me estรก ardiendo y que
Todos se van a dar cuenta de lo que me pasa. No me atrevo a girar la cabeza para mirarlo a Luisito. Tengo miedo de que se descubra la mano de Salo aclareciรฉndome. Empiezo a ver todo nublado y ya no escucho lo hablan. Tengo pรกjaros revoloteando dentro de mi vientre. Las hormigas ahora estรกn en las axilas. Estoy absolutamente quieta, sorda y ciega. Por fuera.
Por dentro tengo un demonio, siete infiernos y mil tormentos. Tengo savia, torrentes y manantiales fluyendo entre las piernas.
La invasiรณn de las hormigas es total. Me estรกn devorando. Tengo las palmas de las manos mojadas, mojados los ojos, mojadas las piernas. Tengo un hombre acariciรกndome la nuca, y hace tanto calor.
Una rรกfaga de aire frรญo interrumpe el รญntimo incendio. Salo fue a servir mรกs Komari, el ventilador me mirรณ. Lentamente empiezo a recobrar el oรญdo. Y la vista. Todo sigue igual. Se habla de Tucumรกn. Luisito no se dio cuenta de nada.
Me levanto como puedo y aunque me propongo exactamente lo contrario, entro al dormitorio, y aunque me da vergรผenza enfrentarme a Salo, le acerco mi vaso, y aunque no los miro, รฉl me levanta la cabeza con una mano y me pregunta:
–ยฟNunca te besaron en la boca?
Tengo miedo de hablar porque sรฉ que la voz no me va a salir bien y entonces niego con la cabeza.
–Claro, sos chica, reflexionรณ.
Y al rato: –Maรฑana se van todos a Morรณn y me quedo solo. Venรญ que te voy a besar en la boca.
Hago como no oigo o no entiendo, o en รบltima estancia no me importa, y me vuelvo al vestรญbulo con el vaso de Komari que ahora me satisface porque, aunque es agrio estรก frรญo. Saludo a todos y me voy.
Vuelvo a casa y no me atrevo a tirarme sobre las baldosas. Ahora ya hay mรกs ruido en la casa y en resumen, tengo miedo de que se me vaya la sensaciรณn que tengo en todo el cuerpo. El resto del dรญa no hago nada que acostumbrarme porque cada vez que recuerdo lo que pasรณ me aparece un apretรณn en el vientre que se diluye por los muslos. Y lo recuerdo otra vez y otra vez aparece el apretรณn y me gusta y asรญ de algรบn modo voy a dormir la noche y duermo abrazada a la almohada que ahora se llama Salo y por suerte es bastante larga y puedo abrazarla con los brazos y con las piernas. Bien fuerte.
Toda la maรฑana me propongo no ir. No porque no quiera. Lo que no quiero es que รฉl sepa que estoy asรญ por รฉl. Ya casi estoy convencida de no ir en el almuerzo, hasta que todos desaparecen a la siesta.
Otra vez hace calor. Quรฉ calor que hace otra vez. Pero hoy tengo un apretรณn en el vientre y no me atrevo a tirarme sobre las baldosas,
Pienso, pienso un ratito y en seguida me doy cuenta de que Luisito tiene mi compรกs, y que si voy a buscar el compรกs a la mejor no nota tanto para quรฉ voy.
Aunque si se nota. Pero no puedo ir, abrir la puerta y decirle: acรก estoy, bรฉsame en la boca. Voy a buscar el compรกs que es lo mejor. Voy y abro la puerta. รl estรก escuchando la novela por la radio, (a รฉl no le dicen maricรณn, aunque escucha la novela por la radio, pero a รฉl no le gusta bailar ni representar y tampoco se le falsea la voz como Luisito). รl es grande, ya tiene 16 aรฑos.
Como si nada hubiera pasado me pongo a mirar la repisa: โLuisito tiene un compรกs mรญo, ยฟno lo viste? Lo necesitoโ. No miro nada, no busco nada, nada en el mundo, me importa menos que el compรกs. Trato de hablar fuerte para que รฉl no escuche los ruidos que tengo por dentro: los del corazรณn, como en las novelas, pero otros que nunca estรกn en las novelas, ruiditos de la panza, ruiditos de la garganta al tragar con tanta dificultad saliva y una repentina, terrible necesidad de ir al baรฑo. Lo peor.
Todo se detiene cuando รฉl por fin me agarra del brazo y me hace sentar al lado de รฉl y me dice โdespuรฉs lo buscรกsโ. Tengo vergรผenza de mirarlo y รฉl se estรก sonriendo. Lo matarรญa. O por lo menos me irรญa si pudiera. Si quisiera. Pero lo รบltimo que quiero en el mundo es irme.
–Asรญ que nunca te besaron en la boca.
Boca me sonaba a mala palabra. Hubiera preferido que dijera โen los labiosโ. Pero dice boca como a propรณsito y me mira la boca y entonces me siento incรณmoda y me salen muecas porque รฉl me mira en la boca.
Me toma el mentรณn y lentamente, lentamente me atrae la cara hacia la de รฉl. Yo pienso a toda velocidad: abro los ojos o los cierro cรณmo era en las pelรญculas cierro la boca o la abro en las pelรญculas, pero cuando uno da un beso junta los labios y aprieta en las pelรญculas abrirรกn los labios porque los actores no se conocen o no sรฉ por quรฉ, pero tengo que decidirme ya mismo, รฉl tiene los ojos cerrados yo los cierro quรฉ hago con la boca yo la cierro siempre que di un beso lo di con la boca cerrada bueno ya me toca la cierro y listo.
Junta los labios a los mรญos y todo lo que siento es unos labios juntos a los mรญos. Por las dudas abro los ojos y veo una parte del techo, torcido por la inclinaciรณn de mi cabeza, despuรฉs un pedazo de puerta con vidrio esmerilado y por รบltimo con los ojos cerrados y expresiรณn absurda. Quien es este seรฑor.
Se separa casi enojado y me dice: –ยฟPor quรฉ no abrรญs los labios? Estรบpida, estรบpida, estรบpida. Si en las pelรญculas abren los labios debe ser porque se besa con los labios abiertos. Me avergรผenzo y no puedo justificarme. No es mรกs que ignorancia y รฉl se da cuenta.
–Venรญ -ahora me abrazaโpero ahora abrรญ los labios.
Abro los labios tรญmidamente y mi boca hueca se encuentra con otra boca y no me resisto a abrir los ojos otra vez. Esto es algo horrible. Salo se aparta. Estรก enojado.
De pronto me agarra de un brazo, me aprieta fuerte y me besa ahora furiosa y me mete la lengua bien adentro de mi boca y empiezan a renacer los demonios y tiembla todo el cuerpo y me abandono y escucho sinfonรญas desafinadas y violentas y me vibra el vientre, ya no tengo ganas de ir al baรฑo ni pienso en las futuras siestas de besos, de Luisito sospechando y espiando, de empezar a conocer el sentido del pecado, de sentir cada pedazo de cuerpo gritar desesperando, de Luisito peleรกndose a trompadas con Salo, de tener la certera percepciรณn de cambio dentro de la piel y de saber que todo queda ahรญ y sรณlo se apaga en casa, de noche, con la complicidad de la almohada. Y despuรฉs Salo se aparta.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Entonces me tengo que ir. Me olvidรฉ del compรกs y casi no lo saludo porque me da vergรผenza, y camino muy derecha hasta casa.
It’s hot. It’s really hot. The patio tiles are cooling, but for a while nothing more. You have to lie down and after a while move around a little to find new, fresh tiles. No one. Everyone is sleeping or he is not there. I can’t sleep, I’m very hot and other things that I can’t explain. I’m in panties and nothing else. I take advantage of the fact that my mother is not here, and she says that I’m too old to walk like this, if someone comes, your brother, your father. I’m in panties and I look in the mirror. I lie down again on the tiles on the tiles and do a kind of dance looking at the white sky of the nap. Cool on the heels, on the calves. You can’t do it on the back of your knees. The thighs, the tail (the tail all the time). The waist and the tail, on one side and the other. I feel weird. When I got to the back I was already bored. It’s too hot to move.
โโI’m going to go look for him in Luisito.
โโ(Luisito has shared the block with me for as long as I can remember. Also the games, the trips to the kitchen to cook dulce de leche pancakes with fluttering championships in the air, and the Rivoli cinema with three movies and the pizza afterwards). (They call Luisito a faggot because he is always with me and plays dress-up and dances) (But he is not a faggot: one day he kissed me all sticky. Since neither he nor I liked it, we didn’t repeat it.)
โโI’m going to go to Luisito’s house to see what we do.
โโLuisito’s house is a shoe store with a hall. In the years we were friends I almost never went into the inside room, where the parents slept. Luisito’s house was the hall, cool and humble with a sofa that at night became two beds for him and his brother Salo, and two single armchairs.
โโThere was also a staircase that led nowhere. It was for โwhen we build.โ
โโI put on some dress over it and walk the twenty meters that separate me from Luisito. The street, the neighborhood, the world, everything had died from the heat.
โโI open without knocking, as always – I think there was no bell – and I find the last thing I would have expected: Luisito, Luisito’s father. Luisito’s mother and Luisito’s brother, all very correct, talking with a new man and woman. I remain motionless without understanding anything. to
โโThe aunt and uncle from Tucumรกn. The uncles from Tucumรกn came. Look how good. I also leave, but the aunt wants to meet Luisito’s friend and they invite me with some Komari and soda. It’s sour, but I don’t say it because we are all very
โโLong-winded talking about school and all that. Salo gets up from the chair and offers it to me and he remains standing next to it, a little further back with his hand resting on the upper edge of the backrest. It’s cool in the lobby.
โโI’m feeling something, but I’m not sure.
โโIt must be my impression. The heat. Oh no, I don’t know. Just in case I stay very still. Someone is talking to me and I didn’t listen. As? Oh Yes. I live on the corner. No, this is not my impression. It’s happening: it’s a tickle, very slight, very slight, that comes from the nape of my neck, under my hair. A tiny bug that caresses me, enters my back, runs all over my back, brings me warmth, but different, something new, terrible, I can’t resist it…
โโIt’s Salo who is caressing the back of my neck. It doesn’t go down from there, but it goes down. My skin is screaming things of all colors at me, I have ants crawling between my legs, I have cotton in the back of my mouth, I can’t see anything anymore.
โโThey continue talking.
โโI feel like my face is burning and
โโEveryone is going to realize what’s happening to me. I don’t dare turn my head to look at Luisito. I’m afraid that Salo’s hand will be revealed by clarifying me. I begin to see everything cloudy and I no longer hear what they are saying. I have birds fluttering inside my belly. The ants are now in the armpits. I am absolutely still, deaf and blind. Outside.
โโInside I have a demon, seven hells and a thousand torments. I have sap, torrents and springs flowing between my legs.
The invasion of ants is total. They are devouring me. My palms are wet, my eyes are wet, my legs are wet. I have a man caressing the back of my neck, and it’s so hot.
โโA gust of cold air interrupts the intimate fire. Salo went to serve more Komari, the fan looked at me. Slowly I begin to regain my hearing. And the view. Everything remains the same. They talk about Tucumรกn. Luisito didn’t notice anything.
โโI get up as best I can and although I intend exactly the opposite, I enter the bedroom, and although I am embarrassed to face Salo, I bring my glass to him, and although I don’t look at them, he lifts my head with one hand and asks me:
โโ–Have they never kissed you on the mouth?
โโI’m afraid to speak because I know my voice won’t come out well and so I shake my head.
โโ–Of course, you’re a girl, he reflected.
โโAnd after a while: –Tomorrow everyone is going to Morรณn and I’ll be alone. Come, I’m going to kiss you on the mouth.
โโI act like I don’t hear or I don’t understand, or in the last moment I don’t care, and I return to the lobby with the glass of Komari that now satisfies me because, although it is sour, it is cold. I greet everyone and leave.
โโI come home and I don’t dare throw myself on the tiles. Now there is more noise in the house and in short, I am afraid that the feeling I have throughout my body will go away. The rest of the day I do nothing but get used to it because every time I remember what happened I get a tight feeling in my belly that dissipates through my thighs. And I remember it again and again the squeeze appears, and I like it and so somehow, I go to sleep at night and I sleep hugging the pillow that is now called Salo and luckily it is quite long and I can hug it with my arms and with my hands. legs. So strong.
โโAll morning I resolve not to go. Not because I don’t want to. What I don’t want is for him to know that I’m like this for him. I’m almost convinced not to go at lunch, until everyone disappears for nap.
โโIt’s hot again. How hot it is again. But today I have a tight feeling in my stomach and I don’t dare throw myself on the tiles,
โโI think, I think for a little while and immediately I realize that Luisito has my compass, and that if I go to look for the compass he might not notice so much what I’m going for.
โโAlthough it is noticeable. But I can’t go, open the door and say: here I am, kiss me on the mouth. I’m going to look for the beat that is best. I go and open the door. He is listening to the novel on the radio (they don’t call him a faggot, although he listens to the novel on the radio, but he doesn’t like to dance or perform and he doesn’t falsify his voice like Luisito). He is big, he is already 16 years old.
โโAs if nothing had happened, I start looking at the shelf: โLuisito has a compass of mine, didn’t you see it? I need it”. I don’t look at anything, I don’t look for anything, nothing in the world, I care less than the beat. I try to speak loudly so that he doesn’t hear the noises I have inside: those of my heart, like in novels, but others that are never in novels, little noises from my belly, little noises from my throat when swallowing saliva with such difficulty and a sudden, terrible need to go to the bathroom. Worst.
โโEverything stops when he finally grabs my arm and makes me sit next to him and tells me โyou’ll look for him later.โ I’m embarrassed to look at him and he’s smiling. I would kill him. Or at least I would leave if I could. If I wanted. But the last thing in the world I want is to leave.
โโ–So they never kissed you on the mouth.
โโMouth sounded like a bad word to me. I would have preferred it to say โon the lips.โ But he says mouth on purpose and looks at my mouth and then I feel uncomfortable, and I make faces because he looks at my mouth.
โโHe grabs my chin and slowly, slowly pulls my face towards his. I think at full speed: I open my eyes or close them as it was in the movies, I close my mouth or open it in the movies, but when you give a kiss you put your lips together and press together, in the movies they will open their lips because the actors don’t know each other. Or I don’t know why, but I have to decide right now, he has his eyes closed, I close them, what do I do with my mouth? I close it whenever I gave a kiss, I did it with my mouth closed, well, it’s my turn to close it and that’s it.
โโHe puts his lips to mine and all I feel is lips to mine. Just in case I open my eyes and see a part of the ceiling, twisted by the inclination of my head, then a piece of door with frosted glass and finally with my eyes closed and an absurd expression. Who is this gentleman?
โโHe breaks away almost angrily and says to me: –Why don’t you open your lips? Stupid, stupid, stupid. If they open their lips in movies, it must be because they kiss with open lips. I am ashamed and I cannot justify myself. It’s nothing more than ignorance and he realizes it.
โโ–Come – now he hugs me – but now I opened my lips.
โโI shyly open my lips and my hollow mouth meets another mouth and I can’t resist opening my eyes again. This is something horrible. Salo moves away. He’s angry.
โโSuddenly he grabs me by the arm, squeezes me hard and kisses me now furiously and he puts his tongue deep inside my mouth and the demons begin to be reborn and my whole-body trembles and I let myself go and I listen to out of tune and violent symphonies and my heart vibrates. belly, I no longer feel like going to the bathroom nor do I think about the future naps of kisses, of Luisito suspecting and spying, of beginning to know the meaning of sin, of feeling every bit of my body scream in despair, of Luisito fighting with Salo, of having the certain perception of change within the skin and of knowing that everything stays there and only goes off at home, at night, with the complicity of the pillow. And then Salo moves away.
Then I have to go. I forgot the compass and I almost don’t greet him because I’m embarrassed, and I walk very straight home.
Alejandra Pizarnik (nacida el 16 o 29 de abril de 1936 en Buenos Aires, Argentina; fallecida el 25 de septiembre de 1972 en Buenos Aires), poeta argentina cuyos poemas son conocidos por su sofocante sentido de exilio y desarraigo. Pizarnik naciรณ en una familia de inmigrantes judรญos de Europa del Este. Asistiรณ a la Universidad de Buenos Aires, donde estudiรณ filosofรญa y literatura. Posteriormente incursionรณ en la pintura, estudiando con el pintor catalรกn argentino Juan Batlle Planas. En 1960 se mudรณ a Parรญs, donde trabajรณ para editoriales y revistas francesas, publicรณ poesรญa y tradujo al espaรฑol obras de escritores como Henri Michaux, Antonin Artaud, Marguerite Duras e Yves Bonnefoy. En 1965 regresรณ a Buenos Aires y publicรณ tres de sus ocho poemarios, Los trabajos y las noches (1965; โThe Works and the Nightsโ), Extracciรณn de la piedra de la locura (1968; โExtraction of the Stone of Madness [or Folly]โ), y El infierno musical (1971; โThe Musical Hellโ), asรญ como su famosa obra en prosa La condesa sangrienta (1965; โThe Bloody Countessโ), sobre la condesa hรบngara Elizabeth Bรกthory. Los escritos de Pizarnik estรกn llenos de angustia, desesperaciรณn y referencias recurrentes al suicidio, y en este sentido algunos crรญticos la han agrupado con los poรจtes maudit (โpoetas malditosโ), tรฉrmino utilizado habitualmente para referirse a Paul Verlaine y Arthur Rimbaud. En 1972 se quitรณ la vida.โโโโ________________________________________________
Alejandra Pizarnik, was born in Buenos Aires in 1936, Argentine poet whose poems are known for their stiffling sense of exile and rootlessness.โPizarnik was born into a family of Jewish immigrants from eastern Europe. She attended the University of Buenos Aires, where she studied philosophy and literature. Later she ventured into painting, studying with the Catalan Argentine painter Juan Batlle Planas. In 1960 she moved to Paris, where she worked for French publishing houses and magazines, published poetry, and translated into Spanish works of such writers as Henri Michaux, Antonin Artaud, Marguerite Duras, and Yves Bonnefoy. In 1965 she returned to Buenos Aires and published three of her eight collections of poetry, Los trabajos y las noches (1965; โThe Works and the Nightsโ), Extracciรณn de la piedra de la locura (1968; โExtraction of the Stone of Madness [or Folly]โ), and El infierno musical (1971; โThe Musical Hellโ), as well as her famous prose work La condesa sangrienta (1965; โThe Bloody Countessโ), about the Hungarian countess Elizabeth Bรกthory. Pizarnikโs writing is filled with anguish, despair, and recurrent references to suicide, and in this respect she has been grouped by some critics with the poรจtes maudit (โaccursed poetsโ), a term usually used to refer to Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud. In 1972 she took her own life.
Britannica.com
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Poesรญa de Alejandra Pizarnik/Poetry by Alejandra Pizarnik
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Salvaciรณn
Se fuga la isla Y la muchacha vuelve a escalar el viento y a descubrir la muerte del pรกjaro profeta Ahora es el fuego sometido Ahora es la carne la hoja la piedra perdidos en la fuente del tormento como el navegante en el horror de la civilaciรณn que purifica la caรญda de la noche Ahora la muchacha halla la mรกscara del infinito y rompe el muro de la poesรญa.
the island escapes And the girl climbs the wind again and to discover the death of the prophet bird Now is the fire subdued Now It’s meat the sheet the stone lost in the fountain of torment like the navigator in the horror of civilization that purifies the fall of night Now the girl finds the mask of infinity and breaks the wall of poetry.
___________________________________
La enamorada esta lรบgubre manรญa de vivir esta recรณndita humorada de vivir te arrastra alejandra no lo niegues.
hoy te miraste en el espejo y te fue triste estabas sola la luz rugรญa el aire cantaba pero tu amado no volviรณ
enviarรกs mensajes sonreirรกs tremolarรกs tus manos asรญ volverรก tu amado tan amado
oyes la demente sirena que lo robรณ el barco con barbas de espuma donde murieron las risas recuerdas el รบltimo abrazo oh nada de angustias rรญe en el paรฑuelo llora a carcajadas pero cierra las puertas de tu rostro para que no digan luego que aquella mujer enamorada fuiste tรบ
te remuerden los dรญas te culpan las noches te duele la vida tanto tanto desesperada ยฟadรณnde vas?
desesperada ยกnada mรกs!โ
________________________________
Peregrinaje
…………………………………..a Elizabeth Azcona Cranwell
Llamรฉ, llamรฉ como la nรกufraga dichosa a las olas verdugas que conocen el verdadero nombre de la muerte.
He llamado al viento, le confiรฉ mi deseo de ser.
Pero un pรกjaro muerto vuela hacia la desesperanza en medio de la mรบsica cuando brujas y flores cortan la mano de la bruma. Un pรกjaro muerto llamado azul.
No es la soledad con alas, es el silencio de la prisionera, es la mudez de pรกjaros y viento, es el mundo enojado con mi risa o los guardianes del infierno rompiendo mis cartas.
………………………………………………………….to Elizabeth Azcona Cranwell
I called, I called like the happy castaway to the verdant waves who know the real name of death.
I have called the wind I entrusted my desire to be.
but a dead bird fly into despair in the middle of the music when witches and flowers they cut the hand of mist. A dead bird called blue.
It is not loneliness with wings, It is the silence of the prisoner is the silence of birds and wind, is the world angry with my laughter or the guardians of hell tearing up my cards
Seรฑor La jaula se ha vuelto pรกjaro y se ha volado y mi corazรณn estรก loco porque aรบlla a la muerte y sonrรญe detrรกs del viento a mis delirios
Quรฉ harรฉ con el miedo Quรฉ harรฉ con el miedo
Ya no baila la luz en mi sonrisa ni las estaciones queman palomas en mis ideas Mis manos se han desnudado y se han ido donde la muerte enseรฑa a vivir a los muertos
Seรฑor El aire me castiga el ser Detrรกs del aire hay monstruos que beben de mi sangre
Es el desastre Es la hora del vacรญo no vacรญo Es el instante de poner cerrojo a los labios oรญr a los condenados gritar contemplar a cada uno de mis nombres ahorcados en la nada.
Seรฑor Tengo veinte aรฑos Tambiรฉn mis ojos tienen veinte aรฑos y sin embargo no dicen nada
Seรฑor He consumado mi vida en un instante La รบltima inocencia estallรณ Ahora es nunca o jamรกs o simplemente fue
ยฟCรณmo no me suicido frente a un espejo y desaparezco para reaparecer en el mar donde un gran barco me esperarรญa con las luces encendidas?
ยฟCรณmo no me extraigo las venas y hago con ellas una escala para huir al otro lado de la noche?
El principio ha dado a luz el final Todo continuarรก igual Las sonrisas gastadas El interรฉs interesado Las preguntas de piedra en piedra Las gesticulaciones que remedan amor Todo continuarรก igual
Pero mis brazos insisten en abrazar al mundo porque aรบn no les enseรฑaron que ya es demasiado tarde
Seรฑor Arroja los fรฉretros de mi sangre
Recuerdo mi niรฑez cuando yo era una anciana Las flores morรญan en mis manos porque la danza salvaje de la alegrรญa les destruรญa el corazรณn
Recuerdo las negras maรฑanas de sol cuando era niรฑa es decir ayer es decir hace siglos
Seรฑor La jaula se ha vuelto pรกjaro y ha devorado mis esperanzas
Seรฑor La jaula se ha vuelto pรกjaro Quรฉ harรฉ con el miedo
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Awakening
…………………………………..to Leon Ostrov Mister The cage has become a bird and it has flown and my heart is crazy because it howls at death and smile behind the wind to my delusions
What I will do with the fear What I will do with the fear
The light no longer dances in my smile nor do the seasons burn doves in my ideas My hands have been undressed and they have gone to death teaches the dead to live
Mister The air punishes my being Behind the air there are monsters who drink my blood
is the disaster It is the hour of the void not empty It is the moment to lock the lips hear the damned scream contemplate each of my names drowned in nothing
Mister Am twenty years old Also my eyes are twenty years old and yet they say nothing
Mister I have consummated my life in an instant The last innocence broke out Now it’s never or never or was it just
How do I not commit suicide in front of a mirror and I disappear to reappear in the sea where a big ship would wait for me with the lights on?
How do I not remove my veins and I make a scale with them to flee to the other side of the night?
The beginning has given birth to the end everything will stay the same the worn smiles interested interest stone to stone questions The gesticulations that imitate love everything will stay the same
But my arms insist on embracing the world because they haven’t been taught yet it’s already too late
Mister Throw away the coffins of my blood
I remember my childhood when i was an old lady The flowers died in my hands because the wild dance of joy broke their hearts
I remember the black sunny mornings When i was a child that is to say yesterday that is to say centuries ago
Mister The cage has become a bird and has devoured my hopes
Mister The cage has become a bird What I will do with the fear
______________________________
Aquรญ Alejandra
Bicho aquรญ, aquรญ contra esto, pegada a las palabras pegadate reclamo.
Ya es la noche, venรญ, no hay nadie en casa
salvo que ya estรกn todas como vos, como ves, intercesoras,
Afuera hay sol. No es mรกs que un sol pero los hombres lo miran y despuรฉs cantan.
Yo no sรฉ del sol. Yo sรฉ de la melodรญa del รกngel y el sermรณn caliente del รบltimo viento. Sรฉ gritar hasta el alba cuando la muerte se posa desnuda en mi sombra.
Yo lloro debajo de mi nombre. Yo agito paรฑuelos en la noche y barcos sedientos de realidad bailan conmigo. Yo oculto clavos para escarnecer a mis sueรฑos enfermos.
Afuera hay sol. Yo me visto de cenizas.
_______________________
The Cage
It’s sunny outside. It’s just a sun but men look at it and then they sing.
I don’t know about the sun. I know of the angel’s melody and the hot sermon of the last wind I know how to scream until dawn when death poses naked in my shadow
I cry under my name. I wave tissues at night and ships thirsty for reality they dance with me I hide nails to mock my sick dreams.
Esta manรญa de saberme รกngel, sin edad, sin muerte en quรฉ vivirme, sin piedad por mi nombre ni por mis huesos que lloran vagando.
ยฟY quiรฉn no tiene un amor? ยฟY quiรฉn no goza entre amapolas? ยฟY quiรฉn no posee un fuego, una muerte, un miedo, algo horrible, aunque fuere con plumas, aunque fuere con sonrisas?
Siniestro delirio amar a una sombra. La sombra no muere. Y mi amor sรณlo abraza a lo que fluye como lava del infierno: una logia callada, fantasmas en dulce erecciรณn, sacerdotes de espuma, y sobre todo รกngeles, รกmgeles bellos como cuchillos que se elevan en la noche y devastan la esperanza.
This mania of knowing myself as an angel, ageless, without death in which to live, no mercy on my name nor for my bones that cry wandering.
who has not got a love? And who does not enjoy among poppies? And who does not possess a fire, a death, a fear, something horrible, even with feathers, even with smiles?
Sinister delirium love a shadow. The shadow does not die. And my love just embrace what flows like lava from hell: a quiet lodge, ghosts in sweet boner, foam Priests, and above all angels, angels beautiful as knives that rise in the night and devastate hope.
Poemas y traducciones por Open Access/Poems and Translation by Open Access
Max Dickmann naciรณ de padres judรญos inmigrantes en 1902 en Buenos Aires, Fue escritor argentino, periodista, novelista. Premio literario municipal por Madre Amรฉrica, 1935; Gente,1936; Los Frutos amargos, novela, 1942; Esta generaciรณn perdida, novela, 1945; Tambiรฉn traducciones de John dos Passos, William Faulkner, PC Wren, Elmer Rice y Robert Sherwood. Miembro: Sociedad Argentina de Escritores, PEN Club.
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Max Dickmann; was born of Jewish immigrant parents in Buenos Aires in. 1902. He was an Argentine writer, journalist, novelist. He won the Buenos Aires Municipal Literary Prize for Madre Amรฉrica, 1935; Gente, 1936; Los frutos amargos, novel, 1942; La generaciรณn perdida, novel, 1945; Also, he translated books by John dos Passos, William Faulkner, Elmer Rice and Robert Sherwood. He was a Member of Argentine Society of Writers and PEN Club.
A diferencia de la gran mayorรญa de los escritores judรญos de la Argentina de las dรฉcadas de 1930 a 1940, Max Dickmann no escribiรณ para un pรบblico judรญo. Sus novelas fueron รฉxitos de ventas en todo el paรญs y fueron populares entre todo tipo de persona. Lo que no se sabe es dรณnde aprendiรณ tanto sobre la gente del rรญo.
Unlike most Jewish writers in Argentina in the ’30s to ’40s, Max Dickmann did not write for a Jewish audience. His novels were best sellers throughout the country, popular with all sorts of people. What is not known is where he learned so much about the people of the river.
De:/From: Max Dickmann. Madre Amรฉrica. Buenos Aires: Santiago Rueda Editores, 1935.
“La carta”
Gabriel hizo un esfuerzo y consiguiรณ sacar una pierna del barro que la aprisionaba, mientras la otra se le hundรญa con burbujeรณ, hasta la rodilla. El agua borrosa recalentaba por el sol de mediodรญa. Un alto juncal cerraba el horizonte a los pocos metros. El Mabensรญ flotaba cerca con proa llena de roncos finos, largos, verdosos, con un trajo oblicuo de la hoz en el extremo.
โโEsa hoz de juncos con crostas de barro, habรญa costado a Gabriel toda una maรฑana de penoso chapoteo, haciendo desesperados esfuerzos para no hundirse, tirando de sus piernas como si quisiera sacarlas de un cepo, mientras las burbujas de barro se adhirieron a su piel, como sanguijuelas. Temรญa la espalda ardiendo, despuรฉs de tres horas de sol, de un sol que brillaba en el agua como en un espejo, en medio de un silencio hosco a todo ruido, como si las manos de silencio ahogaron las gargantas del sonido.
โChapoteรณ en el agua que se arremolinaba en torno a sus piernas y alcanzรณ la borda del Mabensรญ. Cayeron adentro con ruido sordo, la hoz y el ancho cinturรณn de cuero. Bajo el casco, el agua era fresca. Lentamente, como para no sorprender el lanchรณn semidormido. Gabriel fue izรกndose hasta quedar sentado en la borda. Ahora sus pies flotaban como dos informes trozos de barro desleรญdo, que hubieron ido subiendo desde el lecho del rรญo, tiรฑendo el agua de concรฉntricos cรญrculos terrosos. Hubo un rรกpido sonido acuoso y en torno al Mebensรญ flotaron luminosas burbujas.
โAdentro, las tablas estaban recalentadas y el hilo de agua que se colaba en el fondo se secaba con rapidez. Gabriel fue remando lentamente agua en contra, bordeando el juncal y los matorrales de la costa baja, sobre la que caรญa el follaje verdinegro de un arbolado. A lo lejos, entre cielo y hoja, habรญa de tortora espadaรฑa y paja colorada.
ย โโLa proa levantaba del Mabensรญ resbala en el agua sin ruido. Atrรกs, el remo gorgoteaba y la onda se dilataba hasta meterse en los pajonales. Hubo un corto aleteo y el silencio se rasgรณ en trizas cuando cantรณ el mirlo negro. El eco tableteรณ a lo lejos. Despuรฉs todo volviรณ a ser un solo y blando zumbido en el que se oรญa el roncar de las moscas bravas en el agua de las charcas.
โโโEl riacho fue ensanchรกndose entre barrancas, en las que los juncos habรญan sido cortados a ras del agua.
โโโEl verde jugoso de la cortadera con sus hojas aserradas brillaba como gotas de esmeralda.
โโ Gabriel enfilรณ el Mabensรญ en direcciรณn de una barrera de รกlamos entre los que florecรญan algunas viejas sauces. La barranca se abrรญa en un angosto tajo en la desembocadura de un arroyo.
โโ En el agua quieta los tallos tiernos del irupรฉ rodeaban las inmensas bandejas vere amarillentas y su flor carmesรญ. La sombra del follaje caรญa entre lampos de sol sobre la cabeza y los brazos desnudos de Gabriel.
โSintiรณ sobre la piel un leve frescor, un honda bienestar que penetraba todo el cuerpo, como si de la sombra fuera descolgรกndose un invisible chorro de agua fresca,
Mascรณ con avidez, tirando en el fondo del lanchรณn, las anchas rebanadas de pan y carne que le habรญa preparadp Camelia muy de maรฑana, rezongando porque รฉl le decรญa siempre que era poco y que ella querรญa matarlo de hambre. Cerrรณ los ojos y esperรณ que la rama que tapaba a un rayo de sol volviera a echarle sombra en la cara,
Camelia rajaba el largo trozo de pan con un cuchillo sin filo. Las manotas afanadas y la ancha boca llena de palabrotas y de sarcรกsticos risitas. โPara llevarte todo esto mรกs que volvรกs a comerโฆยฟo es que creรฉs que voy a estarme preparรกndote estas viandas?…ยกNo, seรฑorโโฆ, y se plantaba frente a รฉl con las manos en las caderas y los ojos bizcos tratando de mirar en la misma direcciรณn. Alrededor de ella, los perros olisqueaban batiendo la cola. Por la angosta puerta de la cocina entraba el fresco de la maรฑana con el piar de los pollos y el cloque de las gallinas. Gabriel agarraba a Camila por los brazos y le daba afectuosos estrujones, que ella recibรญa con รญntima satisfacciรณn, que se empeรฑaba en disimular con todo gรฉnero de protestas. Entonces el pan volvรญa a dividirse en rebanadas y gruesas lonjas de carne frรญa de la noche anterior cubrรญan la miga de manchas sanguinolentas. โTres, cuatro, cinco; ยฟte alcanzarรก con esto? โ preguntaba Camelia con voz amableโy si no te alcanza a aguantarte el hambre, venรญ a comer aquรญ en lugar de andar vagando por los arroyos como si buscara a alguienโ โฆ
La cara de Gabriel volviรณ a quedar en sombra. Arriba dos hojas tiernas brillaban como cristales verdosos sobre los que cayera el sol. El resto del follaje se inmovilizaba en una quietud paralitica bajo el cielo pรกlido. Los sauces pendรญan sobre el agua vigilados por los รกlamos erguidos. El Mabensรญ se contorneรณ pesadamente y el agua chapoteรณ entre su borda y la barranca. La marea socavaba la tierra desarraigando los juncos que no encontraban suficiente apoyo en el barro arenoso, e iban poco a poco acostรกndose como gajos sin fuerza.
Gabriel se sentรณ y afirmรณ el bichero en unas estacas que habรญa entre los yuyos. Le pareciรณ oรญr el chapoteo de un remo y el arrastre de una chalana en el agua quita de algรบn arroyo. Venรญa el sonido como dando tumbos en la maleza y caรญa como un eco ahogado y lejano. Por instantes el silencio lo cubrรญa todo; un silencio de espera, que palpitaba como un inmenso cuerpo vivo agazapado entre los รกrboles o suspendido de los doseles de ramas que bajaban hasta el agua. De ese lado la sombra se algareaba hasta la mitad del riacho; del otro la barraca se resacaba el sol. Contra esa pared de tierra, ramas y follaje, rebotaba ahora un largo silbado el golpeteo rรญtmico de un remo. Entre los juncos asomรณ la proa de una chalana cargada de troncos y estacones. Gabriel la reconociรณ en seguida. Silbรณ con los dedos en la boca y gritรณ parรกndose en la popa del Mabensรญ.
–ยกNazareno!
–ยฟQuiรฉn va? โ preguntรณ una voz muy carca.
La embarcaciรณn desembocรณ en el riacho a espaldas de Gabriel. En pocas remadas se colocรณ en el medio del cauce y fue arrimรกndose hasta el Mabensรญ.
Gabriel vio que Nazareno tenรญa el sombrero echado sobre los ojos.
ย ย ย ย ย ย –Buena sombra te buscas, para esconderte โ dijo el otro cuando se acercรณ.
โโ–Y vos quรฉ haces al sol, ยฟsecarte mรกs todavรญa? โ sonriรณ Gabriel
–ยฟCรณmo quรฉ hago? Me lo preguntas todavรญa, no ves que llevo estos carajosโฆ
–ยฟAdรณnde?
–Adonde iba a ser sino a lo de Basualdo.
Nazareno se sentรณ en el fondo de la chalana. Al quitarse el sombrero la frente apareciรณ hรบmeda y negra de pelos, como pegados por el sudor. Se olisqueรณ las manos y encongiendo la nariz: โestos cercos de thuya dejan un olor a resina que voltea โ dijo, al tiempo que des un repasador a cuadros y se ponรญa a comer unos tomates grandes como puรฑos.
Gabriel lo vio tragar durante un rato. Despuรฉs sacรณ una botella y limpiando el gollete con el puรฑo de la camisa, bebiรณ haciendo gorgoritos. La nuez subรญa bajaba por el por el cuello flaco a cada trago. Volviรณ a pasarle el brazo por la boca y alargando la botella a Gabriel, dijo:
–Tres tragos solamente; mira que todo lo que tengo para hoy.
Gabriel puso un dedo donde le seรฑalรณ Nazareno. Tragรณ un vino agrio y tibio que le volviรณ hasta la garganta en largos eructos.
–Has cortado bastanteโdijo Nazareno, apuntando a los juncos–, pero muy amarillos.
–Es lo mejor que habรญa; pero con cuatro dรญas de sol estarรกn como ls buenos. Para cortar negro y verde hay que meterse en el barro hasta la barriga.
–Che—-ยฟy te da algo el tรญo por los manojos?
–Si saca veinte centavos por cada unoโฆ. Quรฉ querรฉs que me dรฉโฆ –encogiรฉndose de hombros.
-Que te dure la vocaciรณn, entonces โsonriรณ el otroโY ya que de juncos se trata, dime Gabrielitoโฆ –bajando la voz– ยฟno te ha dado la bizca nadaโa mรญ, eh?โโโ โy guiรฑรณ un ojo.
Gabriel hizo como que buscaba algo en los bolsillos del pantalรณn, despuรฉs en el fondo del Mabensรญ y hasta debajo del asiento. Nazareno lo miraba moverse, suspenso el aliento y los ojos fijos en los manos,
–Nada, cheโฆ; hoy no se acordaba de vosโrespondiรณ Gabriel con sorna.
–ยกPuรฑetas! ยฟY para eso revisas todo y me tienes esperando? โprotestรณ el otro, acostรกndose en el fondo de la canoa.
Gabriel largรณ una carcajada y le tirรณ un manotรณn. Nazareno se tapรณ los ojos con el chamburgo y fingiรณ dormir. Despuรฉs de un rato dijo:
–Crece con ganas hoy este puรฑetero rรญรณโฆ, y yo debo ir aguas arriba.
–Trajiste hoy โEs mi ilusiรณnโ, porque esperabas carta de Camelia.
โโ –Que me lleve el diablo si he penado de ella.que con รฉsta me parece que voy volandoโฆ y cargo menos, dos cosas dignas de tenerse en cuenta.
–Sรญ โฆ es mejor que el Mabensรญ โreflexionรณ Gabriel.
****************
Nazareno agarrรณ el remo y sentรกndose en la popa empujรณ la chalana rรญo abajo. Gabriel lo siguiรณ.
*******************
Camelia miraba comer a Gabriel, apoyando en un de los troncos de la enramada. Tenรญa la cabeza inclinaba sobre un hombro y decรญa en voz muy baja.
–Se te ha perdido en el fondo de un bolsillo o en el Mabensรญ, y vos decรญs no lo has visto.
Gabriel sacudiรณ la cabeza a la izquierda a la derecha. Tenรญa la boca llena de unos fideos duros y fritos, que apenas podรญa tragar.
–No, no te creo. Ya me diste lo mismo muchas vecesโprotestรณโella.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Hubo una nueva negativa y el ruido de una cuchara que caรญa en el plato.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย –ยฟHay otra cosa mejor, para comer? โpreguntรณ โcon la boca llenaโฆEstos fideos de ayer son incomibles.
–ยฟY quรฉ ha de haber? Lo de siempre y un poco menosโrespondiรณ Camelia sin moverse.
–Si querรฉs yo te escribo una carta una carta en lugar de Nazareno, y le dejรณ un lugar abajo la firma para el beso.
Camelia pateรณ con fastidio.
–Si yo sรฉ que lo tenรฉs guardada.
ย ย ย ย ย ย –Ya no se acuerda mรกs de vos, anda detrรกs de otra, asรญ que para quรฉ te va a escribir.
–ยกSos un cochino si decรญs eso de Nazareno!
Los ojos gris plomo de la muchacha se pusieron horriblemente bizcos.
–ยฟQuerรฉs que lo sigamos un dรญa para saber adรณnde va?
–A รฉl no le sigue nadieโฆ Y ademรกs no sรฉ con quรฉ lo vas a seguir. Con el Mabensรญ, acaso โrรญรณ ella, despectiva.
–Con la chalana โEs mi ilusiรณnโ. โGabriel guiรฑรณ un ojo maliciosamente.
Gabriel struggled and managed to remove one leg from the mud that imprisoned it, while the other sank with bubbling, up to his knee. The muddy water was warmed by the midday sun. A tall reed bed closed off the horizon a few meters away. The Mabensรญ floated nearby with a prow full of thin, long, greenish logs, with an sharp growth of reeds around the end of the boat.
ย ย ย ย That growth of reeds with mud crusts had cost Gabriel a whole morning of painful splashing, making desperate efforts not to sink, pulling at his legs, as if he wanted to free them from a trap, while the mud bubbled up. They adhered to his skin, like leeches. He feared is back would be sun burnt, after three hours of sun, a sun that shone on the water as in a mirror, in the midst of a sullen quiet, as if the hands of silence drowned out the throats of sound.
He splashed through the water that swirled around his legs and reached the side of the boat called the Mabensรญ. The sickle and the wide leather belt fell inside with a thud. Under the hull, the water was cool. Slowly, so as not to surprise the half-asleep boat. Gabriel hoisted himself up until he was sitting on the rail. Now his feet floated like two shapeless pieces of melted mud that had risen from the river bed, coloring the water with concentric earthy circles. There was a quick watery sound and luminous bubbles floated around the Mebensi.
Inside, the boards were overheated and the trickle of water that seeped into the bottom dried quickly. Gabriel slowly rowed against the water, skirting the reeds and bushes of the low coast, on which the black-green foliage of a tree fell. In the distance, between sky and leaf, there were cattails and red straw.
โThe raised bow of the Mabensรญ slips in the water without sound. Behind, the oar gurgled and the wave expanded until it entered the grasslands. There was a short flutter of wings and the silence was torn to shreds as the blackbird sang. The echo clattered in the distance. Then everything returned to a single, soft hum in which you could hear the snoring of wild flies in the water of the ponds.
ย ย ย โThe stream widened to a ravine, in which the reeds had been cut flush to the water.
โThe juicy green of the Cortadera with its serrated leaves shone like emerald drops.
โGabriel headed the Mabensรญ in the direction of a barrier of poplars among which some old willows were flowering. The ravine opened into a narrow gap at the mouth of a stream.
In the still water the tender stems of the irupรฉ surrounded the immense yellowish vere trays and their crimson flower. The shadow of the foliage fell between patches of sun on Gabriel’s head and bare arms.
He felt a slight freshness on his skin, a deep well-being that penetrated his entire body, as if an invisible stream of fresh water were coming down from the shadow.
He munched greedily, throwing into the bottom of the boat the wide slices of bread and meat that Camelia had prepared for him very early in the morning, grumbling because he always told her that it was not enough and that she wanted to starve him to death. He closed his eyes and waited for the branch that was blocking a ray of sunlight to cast shadows on his face again.
ย ย ย ย Camelia was slicing the long piece of bread with a dull knife.โHer busy hands and the wide mouth full of dirty words and sarcastic giggles. โTaking all of this away, it would be better if you eat hereโฆ.or do you think I’m going on preparing these meals for you?โฆNo, sirโโฆ, and she stood in front of him with her hands on her hips and her cross-eyed eyes trying to look in the same direction. Around her, the dogs sniffed, wagging their tails. The cool morning air came in through the narrow kitchen door with the chirping of the chickens and the cluck of the hens. Gabriel grabbed Camila by the arms and gave her affectionate squeezes, which she received with intimate satisfaction, which she insisted on hiding with all kinds of protests. Then the bread was divided into slices again, and thick slices of last night’s cold meat covered the crumbs with bloody stains. “Three four five; Will this be enough for you? – Camelia asked in a kind voice – and if you can’t hold back your hunger, come eat here instead of wandering through the streams as if you were looking for someone…”
Gabriel’s face fell into the shadows again. Above, two tender leaves shone like greenish crystals on which the sun had fallen. The rest of the foliage froze in paralytic stillness under the pale sky. The willows hung over the water, watched by the upright poplars. The Mabensรญ rolled heavily, and the water splashed between its gunwale and the gulley. The tide undermined the earth, uprooting the reeds that did not find sufficient support in the sandy mud, and little by little they lay down like weak branches.
โโGabriel sat down and secured the boat hook to some stakes between the weeds. He thought he heard the splash of an oar and the dragging of a barge in the shallow water of some stream. The sound came as if stumbling through the undergrowth and fell like a muffled and distant echo. For moments silence covered everything; a silence of waiting, which palpitated like an immense living body crouched among the trees or suspended from the canopies of branches that descended to the water. On that side the shadow stretched to the middle of the stream; on the other, the hut basked in the sun. Against that wall of earth, branches and foliage, a long whistling sound now bounced, the rhythmic tapping of an oar. The bow of a barge loaded with logs and stakes appeared among the reeds. Gabriel recognized it immediately. He whistled with his fingers in his mouth and shouted, standing on the stern of the Mabensรญ.
–Nazareno!
–Who’s there? โ asked a very deep voice.
The boat passed into the stream, behind Gabriel. In a few strokes, he placed himself in the middle of the channel and moved closer to the Mabensรญ.
Gabriel saw that Nazareno had his hat pulled over his eyes.
ย ย ย “You’re looking for a good shadow to hide yourself in,” he said as the a other fellow came near.
–And what are you doing in the sun, drying yourself even more? โ smilingly Gabriel
–What am I doing? You’re asking me; don’t you see that I’m carrying this shit…
–Where to?
–Where, if not to Basualdo’s.
โ Nazareno sat at the bottom of the barge. When he took off his hat, his forehead appeared wet and with black hair, stuck together by sweat. He sniffed his hands and crunched up his nose: โThese thuya hedges leave a smell of resin that is overwhelming,โ he said, while he took out a checkered cloth and began to eat some tomatoes as big as fists.
Gabriel watched him swallow for a while. After taking out a bottle and wiping the neck with the cuff of his shirt, Nazareno drank, gurgling. His Adam’s apple went up and down his thin neck with each swallow. He put his arm over his mouth again and, handing the bottle to Gabriel, said:
–Three swigs only; Look at everything I have today.
โโGabriel put a finger where Nazareno pointed. He swallowed the warm, sour wine that returned to his throat in long belches.
โโ”You have cut enough,” said Nazareno, pointing to the reeds, “but very yellow.”
–It’s the best there was; but with four days of sun they will be just as good. To cut black and green you have to get up to your belly in the mud.
–Che–and does the old man give you something for the bunches? –
โโ-If he gives me twenty cents for each one… –What do you want him to give me … –shrugging his shoulders.
โโ –“May your efforts work out, then,” the other smiled. “And since it’s about reeds, tell me Gabrielito…” – lowering his voice – “hasn’t the cross-eyed given you something at all, eh?” – and he winked. eye.
โโGabriel pretended to be looking for something in his pants pockets, then in the hull of the Mabensรญ and even under the seat. Nazareno watched him move, his breath suspended and his eyes fixed on his hands,
โโ –Nothing, che…; “She didn’t remember you today,” Gabriel replied sarcastically.
โโ–Damn! And that’s why you check everything and keep me waiting? โthe other protested, lying down in the bottom of the boat.
โGabriel laughed sarcastically and shook his hand. Nazareno covered his eyes with his hat and pretended to sleep. After a while he said
โโ–This bloody river is growing with spirit today…, and I have to go upstream.
โโ–You brought โIt’s My Dreamโ today because you were expecting a letter from Camelia.
โโ –The devil take me if I have thought of her. With this one it seems like I’m flying… and it weighs less, two things worth taking into account.
โโโYesโฆ it is better thanโthe Mabensรญ โGabriel reflected.
โโโโโโโโโโโ****************
โโNazareno grabbed the oar and, sitting on the stern, pushed the barge down the river. Gabriel followed him.
โโโโโโโโโโ******************
Camelia watched Gabriel eat, leaning on one of the trunks of the bower. He had his head tilted on one shoulder and said in a very low voice.
โ –It was lost at the bottom of a pocket or in the Mabensรญ, and you say you haven’t seen it.
Gabriel shook his head left and right. My mouth was full of hard, fried noodles that I could barely swallow.
โ –No, I don’t believe you. “You already gave me the same bull many times,” she protested.
โThere was another rejection and the sound of a spoon falling onto the plate.
โโ–Is there anything better to eat? โhe asked โwith his mouth fullโฆThese noodles from yesterday are inedible.
โโ–What should there be? The usual and a little lessโCamelia responded without moving.
โโ –If you want, I’ll write you a letter, a letter in Nazarene’s place, and leave a place below for the signature for the kiss.
Camelia stamped her feet in annoyance.
โโ–Yes, I know that you have it.
โโ–He doesn’t remember you anymore, he’s after someone else, so why would he write to you.
–You’re a pig if you say that about the Nazarene!
โโThe girl’s lead gray eyes went horribly cross-eyed.
โโ–Do you want us to follow him one day to find out where he is going?
–With the barge โIt’s My Dream.โ โGabriel winked maliciously.
โโ–No one catches him… And besides, I don’t know what you’re going to catch him with. With the Mabensรญ, perhaps โ-he laughed, contemptuously.
Paulina Pinsky nasceu em 1948, filha de sobreviventes do Holocausto cujas famรญlias โ cรดnjuges e filhos, inclusive โ foram assassinadas pelos nazistas. Teve uma infรขncia itinerante, mudando-se da Alemanha para Israel, Itรกlia e Bolรญvia, antes de finalmente se estabelecer no Brasil. Em 1967, Paulina passou um ano no Kibutz Brur Chayil e, apรณs seu casamento (em Sรฃo Paulo, em 1970) com Moises Pinsky, passou vรกrios anos estudando e lecionando em Israel, antes de retornar ao Brasil, onde vive atรฉ hoje. . Em 1988, depois de ter passado muitos anos como professora de inglรชs e designer de interiores, Paulina voltou-se para a pintura em busca de realizaรงรฃo emocional e espiritual. Sem formaรงรฃo, ela comeรงou a pintar cenas simples de uma maneira refrescantemente inocente e infantil, entrando assim no mundo mรกgico da arte ingรชnua. Paulina Pinsky โ uma artista indelevelmente influenciada por suas origens europeias e tradiรงรตes judaicas โ รฉ a ingรชnua brasileira como nenhuma outra.
Dan Chill, October 2004, GINA Gallery of International Naรฏve Art
____________________________
Paulina Pinsky was born on 1948 to Holocaust survivors whose families โ spouses and children, included โ had been murdered by the Nazis. She had a peripatetic childhood, moving from Germany to Israel, Italy and Bolivia, before finally settling in Brazil. ln 1967, Paulina spent a year at Kibbutz Brur Chayil, and, after her marriage (in Sao Paulo in 1970) to Moises Pinsky, spent several years studying and teaching in Israel, before returning to Brazil, where she has been living to this day. In 1988, after having spent many years as an English teacher and an interior designer, Paulina turned to painting for emotional and spiritual fulfillment. Being without training, she began painting simple scenes in a refreshingly innocent, childlike manner, thereby entering the magical world of naรฏve art ln Paulina Pinsky โ an artist indelibly influenced by her European origins and Jewish traditions โ is the Brazilian naif like none other.
Dan Chill, October 2004, GINA Gallery of International Naรฏve Art
Elvira Levy Periodista y poeta. Residiรณ durante casi veinte aรฑos fuera de su paรญs: Barcelona y Madrid (1973 a 1986), y Jerusalรฉn (2001 a 2007). Poeta, narradora, ensayista y crรญtica, coordinadora de talleres y seminarios literarios y de artes plรกsticas. Cofundadora de la Asoc. Prometeo de Poesรญa de Madrid; miembro de SEA (Sociedad de Escritoras y Escritores de Argentina) y de AIELC (Asoc. Israelรญ de Escritores en Lengua Castellana); miembro de jurados, panelista y participante de congresos de literatura, en los que ha presentado y publicado ponencias. Ensayos publicados: Aspectos parciales de la obra de Octavio Paz (1983, con Josรฉ Luis Crespo), y Los judรญos y el descubrimiento de Amรฉrica (1992, Premio “Jerusalem 1990/91”, con Alicia Casais. Poemarios: Eva y el espejo (1981), Crรณnica de una ausencia (1988), Hablando con Borges (1998), Bifurcaciรณn de la memoria (Tel-Aviv, 2005).
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Elvira Levy ArgentineJournalist and poet. She lived outside his country for almost twenty years: Barcelona and Madrid (1973 to 1986), and Jerusalem (2001 to 2007). Poet, narrator, essayist and critic, coordinator of literary and plastic arts workshops and seminars. Co-founder of the Prometeo Poetry Association of Madrid; member of SEA (Society of Writers of Argentina) and AIELC (Israeli Association of Writers in the Spanish Language); member of juries, panelist and participant in literature conferences, in which he has presented and published papers. Published essays: Partial aspects of the work of Octavio Paz (1983, with Josรฉ Luis Crespo), and The Jews and the discovery of America (1992, “Jerusalem 1990/91” Prize, with Alicia Casais. Poems: Eva and the mirror ( 1981), Chronicle of an Absence (1988), Talking with Borges (1998), Bifurcation of Memory (Tel-Aviv, 2005).
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Poemas de amor y otros/Poems of love and others
Es temprano aรบn
Es temprano aรบn,
Me dicen,
y vuelvo la mirada hacia atrรกs
Y veo pedazos de vida
Aquรญ y allรก, dispersos, exhaustos.
Tienes el blanco y el negro en tus manos,
me dicen,
y miro hacia delante
y una impรกvida oscuridad
cubre la luz tenebrosa.
Las palabras nacen y caen en el papel
sembrando frases ilusorias.
Apenas suenan en los oรญdos
perdieron su ritmo interno.
La mรบsica muriรณ en el tumulto.
El aroma de la flor se extraviรณ
en el laberinto de las especias.
Mas es temprano aรบn,
me dicen,
y crece la incertidumbre
ante las horas que llegan.
_____________________________
It is Still Early
It is still early,
they tell me,
and see pieces of life,
here and there, scattered, exhausted.
You have black and white in your hands,
they tell me,
and I look forward,
and an unflinching darkness
covers the tremulous light.
Words are born and fall on the paper
sowing illusory phrases.
They barely sound in your ears:
They have lost their internal rhythm.
The music died in the tumult.
The flowers aroma got lost
in the labyrinth of spices.
But it is still early,
they tell me,
and uncertainty grows
before the approaching hours.
_________________________________
Paulatinamente
Paulatinamente,,
el amor nace,
crece en mรญ.
Al fin estalla,
Rebasa los lรญmites de mis manos
Mas, inรบtil fruta madura,
Queda en mรญ.
La soledad vela fuegos insomnes.
Y asรญ pertenezco,
con la constante tristeza del presente,
aguardando un gesto, un llamado.
Oh si fuera capaz
matarรญa el amor,
las palabras que siguen vibrando,
volverรญa a la luz.
Pero no,
desde la inquietud de las sombras,
Desde la impotencia de nacida del todo,
aรบn espero.
____________________________________
Gradually
Gradually,
Love is born,
it grow in me.
Finally it explodes,
exeeeds the limits of my hands
but, unless ripe fruit,
remains with me.
Loneliness watches over the sleepless fires.
And so I remain,
with the constant sadness of the protest,
awaiting a gesture, a summons.
Oh if I were able
I would slay love,
in the words which continue vibrating,
I would return to the light.
But no,
from the restlessness of shadows,
from the impotence born of reality,
still I hope.
______________________________________
La blanca ausencia
Y aquรญ tambiรฉn esa desconocida
y ansiosa y breve cosa que es la vida.
Jorge Luis Borges
Rรกpida,
ferozmente,
un monstruo de metal
destruyรณ tu vida.
Y allรก, en el Sur,
en una calle de Buenos Aires,
comenzรณ a florecer
la blanca ausencia.
La lluvia cayรณ sobre la ciudad.
La tristeza empapรณ la tierra,
rodรณ por las avenidas,
llegรณ a los ojos.
Se perdieron nuestros pasos en el camino
y vos,
te quedaste sola en un campo de verde silencio.
Multitud de hojas empezaron
a borrar la huella de tu cuerpo,
mientras sรณlo crecรญan lรกgrimas entre la hierba.
Y vinieron las horas,
las sombras sobre las sombras,
los rumores se extendieron,
la luz abriรณ de nuevas sus alas:
La vida recobrรณ la muerte
tendida en el asfalto.
Todo eso sucediรณ,
hermana,
pero aรบn continรบa lloviendo en Buenos Aires.
_________________________________________
The White Absence
Y aquรญ tambiรฉn esa desconocida
y ansiosa y breve cosa que es la vida.
Jorge Luis Borges
Rapidly,
ferociously,
a monster of metal
destroyed your life.
And there, in the South,
on a Buenos Aires Street.
the white absence began to flourish.
The rain fell on the city.
Sadness soaked the dirt,
rolled down the avenues,
arrived at the eyes.
Our steps were lost along the way,
and you,
stayed alone in a field of green silence.
A multitude of leaves began
to erase the traces of your body,
while only tears grew between the grass.
And the hours came,
the shadows on the shadows,
the sounds spread out,
the light opened its wings again:
Life recovered death
Stretched out on the asphalt.
All that happened,
sister,
but it still goes on raining in Buenos Aires.
____________________________________
Tienes miedo de mรญ
y huyes.
Conmovido, penetras en la lรณgica de las telaraรฑas.
Ya no existo en ti.
Sin embargo,
ยฟquiรฉn mecerรก tus noches vacรญas de olvido?
ยฟQuiรฉn oirรก la mรบsica
que nace del incendio de tu carne?
ยฟQuiรฉn te darรก mรกs vida
que mi misma vida?
Un silencio iracundo te rodea,
corroe los hambrientos pasadizos de la ausencia,
los anillos perdidos renacen en tus dedos.
Tu cuerpo arde. Se quemarรก
sin que nadie presencie el esplendor de las llamas.
Entonces,
ยฟquiรฉn saciarรก tu sed,
despuรฉs de apagar la hoguera?
___________________________________________
You Fear Me
And you flee.
Moved, you penetrate the logic of the spider webs.
I no longer exist in you.
Nevertheless,
who will rock your nights empty of forgetting?
Who will hear the music
that is born in the fire of your flesh?
Who will give you more life
than my life itself?
An angry silence surrounds you,
corrodes the hunger passageways of the absence,
the lost rings are reborn on your fingers.
Your body burns. It will be burnt,
without anyone witnessing the splendor of the flames.
Then,
who will satiate your thirst,
after extinguishing the bonfire.
__________________________________
Poema Preliminar
Ayer viajรฉ a Egipto y me dirigรญ a la corte del faraรณn.
Allรญ pedรญ hablar con Josรฉ y, postrรกndome ante รฉl,
urgรญ que interpretara mis sueรฑos,
mas como le habรญan cortado las orejas,
no pudo oรญrme.
Sรณlo alcanzรณ a ver el insomnio en mis ojos.
Fue entonces que me preguntรณ:
“ยฟPor quรฉ la vigilia de tus noches?,ยฟcuรกles son tus secretos?,
ยฟpor quรฉ deliras por las naves que se alejan?,
ยฟpor quรฉ aรบn sientes el cosquilleo de una hormiga en tus manos?
Tal vez hay algo diminuto en el aire que te perturba:
ยฟUna mota de polvo?,ยฟuna gota de lluvia?,ยฟun murmullo?
Dime ยฟte atreverรกs a buscar las respuestas?
Recuerda que Aleppo estรก cerca.
Y tus ancestros podrรญan ayudarte en la bรบsqueda,
y cuando el insomnio te abandone,
sueรฑa, sueรฑaโฆ
Recuerda que alguien dijo:
De toda la memoria sรณlo vale
el don preclaro de evocar los sueรฑos.”
____________________________________
Preliminary Poem
Yesterday, I travelled to Egypt, and I went directly to Pharoahโs Court.
There I asked to speak with Joseph and prostrating myself before him,
I pressed him to interpret my dreams.
However, as they had cut off his ears,
he couldnโt hear me.
he only was able to see the insomnia in my eyes.
It was then, that he asked me:
โWhy do you make vigil at night? What are your secrets?
Why do you rave for the ships that go away?
Why do you still feel the tickling of a bug in your hands?
There is something very small thing in the air that perturbs you:
A speck of dust? A drop of rain? A murmur?
Tell me: do you dare to seek the answers?
Remember that Aleppo is nearby.
And your ancestors would be able to help in your search,
And when insomnia abandons you,
Sleep, sleepโฆ
Remember that someone said:
Of all memory is only valuable
The illustrious gift to evoke dreams.โ
_______________________________
El cardรณn
(Trichocereus Terschecckii)
Yo, cactus, ocre vegetal que anida en los cerros, me declaro inocente.
Perdรณn por mi apariencia. No tengo voz ni voto para decir al mundo que mis espinas ocultan albor y ternura. Crecรญ en soledad como la piedra y el hombre. Entre zozobras y la emociรณn de ser amado intentรฉ sembrar hallazgos, y solamente obtuve ausencias.
Perdรณn por mi apariencia. Abran mi pecho. ยกMiren la flor que brota de mi tronco, mis brazos que se elevan a Dios!
(La lluvia me ha olvidado. Un dรญa se asomรณ y me enamorรฉ de ella.)
Yo, cactus, seco ermitaรฑo de sierras y quebradas, sรฉ que la ciudad de luz y colores desdeรฑosamente me observa, poseedora de lluvia.
______________________________________
The Large Cardon Cactus
(Trichocereus Terschecckii)
I, cactus,
vegetable ocher, rare in the mountains.
declare myself innocent.
Excuse me for my appearance.
I donโt have even a voice nor a vote to say to the world,
that my spines hide dawn and tenderness.
I grew in solitude,
like rock and man.
Between anxieties
and the emotion of being loved,
I intended to plant discoveries,
and I only obtained absences.
Excuse my appearance.
Open my chest.
Look at the flower that sprouts from my trunk,
My arms that raise themselves to God!
(Rain had forgotten me.
One day it appeared, and I fell in love with it.)
I, cactus,
dry hermit of mountains and gorges,
I know that the city of light and colors
observes me with distain,
possessor of rain.
_________________________________
La pasiรณn de creer en un destino รบnico
La pasiรณn de creer en un destino รบnico
รกngulo verdesur de la tierra-
cambiรณ por crueldad
La inocencia de un pueblo.
La risa se convirtiรณ en muecas.
El รณxido corrompiรณ
el brillo de los eslabones.
Negra cadena que enlutรณ su historia
porque crecieron apetitos
y vientos siniestros soplaron
desde el poder y las calles.
Tรกnatos venciรณ a Eros.
La avidez de los hombres coronรณ la muerte.
ยฟCuรกndo se iniciรณ el espanto?
ยฟLos dรญas breves, el soliloquio?
ยฟCuรกndo volverรก a sonreรญr el poeta,
transformando el aire?
______________________________
The passion of believing in a unique destiny
The passion of believing in a unique destiny-
Green-south angle of the earth-
changed by cruelty
the innocence of a people.
Laughter changed into grimaces.
The rust corrupted
The brilliance of the steps.
Black chain that grieved its history
Because appetites grew and winds blew
From powder and the streets.
Thanatos defeated Eros.
The avidness of men crowned death.
When was shock initiated?
The brief days, the soliloquy?
When will the poet smile again,
transforming art.
Translations by Stephen A. Sadow
________________________________________
Poemarios de Elvira Levy/Poetry Books by Elvira Levy
Silvia Plager naciรณ en Buenos Aires. Entre sus obras de ficciรณn se cuentan Amigas, Prohibido despertar, Boca de tormenta, A las escondidas, Alguien estรก mirando, Mujeres pudorosas, La baronesa de Fiuggi, la novela histรณrica Malvinas, la ilusiรณn y la pรฉrdida –escrita en coautorรญa con Elsa Fraga Vidal-, El cuarto violeta, Boleros que matan (thriller seleccionado para competir por el Premio del Lector de la Feria del Libro 2012), La rabina, Las mujeres ocultas de El Greco y Complacer. Tambiรฉn publicรณ Nosotras y la edad (ensayo) y un libro de cocina y relatos, Mi cocina judรญa. Incursionรณ en el humor con Al mal sexo buena cara y Como papas para varenikes. Obtuvo, entre otros, los premios Corregidor-Diario El Dรญa de La Plata, Tercer Premio Municipal, Faja de Honor de la SADE, y resultรณ finalista del Concurso Planeta 2005. Fue distinguida como “Mujer destacada en al รกmbito nacional” por la Honorable Cรกmara de Diputados de la Naciรณn (1994) y con la Medalla al Mรฉrito por la Comisiรณn Permanente de Homenaje a la Mujer Bonaerense (2002). Colabora con diarios y revistas y coordina talleres literarios. Varios de sus textos han sido incluidos en antologรญas publicadas en la Argentina y en el extranjero.
Silvia Plager was born in Buenos Aires. Amigas, Prohibido despertar, Boca de tormenta, A las escondidas, Alguien estรก mirando, Mujeres pudorosas, La baronesa de Fiuggi, the historical novel Malvinas, la ilusiรณn y la pรฉrdida –written with Elsa Fraga Vidal-, El cuarto violeta, Boleros que matan La rabina, Las mujeres ocultas de El Greco y Complacer. Tambiรฉn publicรณ Nosotras y la edad (ensayo) y un libro de cocina y relatos, Mi cocina judรญa. She wrote humor in Al mal sexo buena cara y Como papas para varenikes. She obtained, among others, the Corregidor-Diario El Dรญa de La Plata awards, Third Municipal Prize, SADE Honor Sash, and was a finalist in the 2005 Planeta Contest. She was distinguished as “Outstanding Woman at the National Level” by the Honorable Chamber of Deputies of the Nation (1994) and with the Medal of Merit by the Permanent Commission of Tribute to Buenos Aires Women (2002). She collaborates with newspapers and magazines and coordinates literary workshops. Several of his texts have been included in anthologies published in Argentina and abroad.
Penguin Books
_______________________________________
_____________________________________
“Latkes de papa”
INGREDIENTES:
1 Kg de papas
1 cebolla
2 huevos
Sal y pimienta a gusto,
4 cucharadas de harina,
Aceite, cantidad necesaria
PREPARACIรN
Pele y lave las papas, sรฉquelas y rรกllelas, Ralle tambiรฉn la cebolla y ponga todo en un bol, con los huevos, la sal y la pimienta. Agregue la harina y mezcle hasta obtener una masa ni muy espesa ni muy chirle. Caliente el aceite en un sartรฉn y vierta la preparaciรณn por cucharadas. Frรญa los latkes hasta que estรฉn dorados de ambos lados.
Evocaciรณn y realizaciรณn
La historia de los famosos latkes de Cathy Rosenfeld comenzรณ cuando Catalina Goldsmith le dijo a su mamele que David, el muchacho que habรญa conocido en Hebraica, vendrรญa a cenar.
Ustedes se estarรกn diciendo que los latkesโcomo cualquier persona u objetoโtienen su propia historia. Pero la pasiรณn amorosa entre la muchacha de diecisiete aรฑos y la comida judรญa naciรณ en este acontecimiento.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย <<Se rallan asรญ>>, decรญa doรฑa Berta, moviendo arriba y abajo su mano derecha. En los aรฑos sesenta no habรญa procesadora y se cocinaba como se pensaba: directo y sin vueltas. David habรญa aceptado la invitaciรณn: candidato seguro. Doรฑa Berta repitiรณ del rallado con una cebolla y volviรณ a enseรฑarle a la hija la energรญa con que le debรญa a cabo el fundamental primer paso. Cata la imitรณ, primero con la papa y despuรฉs con el resto. La madre al comprobar la destreza heredada llevรณ la mano izquierda al corazรณn y lanzรณ su oi vei que sonรณ a lamento pero que Cata supo interpretar; los oi veis de doรฑa Berta tenรญan matices que sรณlo los familiares y amigos lograban descifrar; รฉste era de satisfacciรณn, alegrรญa, placer, orgulloโฆ
Tres dรฉcadas mรกs tarde, Catalina lanzรณ un suspiro que la asemejรณ a la mamaโa pesar de los veinticinco aรฑos y los veinticinco kilos de diferenciaโal contemplar a los emperifollados mozos que, como polรญticos, salรญan del ala de la cocina rumbo al salรณn y los doscientos comensales. El estandarte de batalla que portaban en alto contenรญa crocantes latkes, los habรญa de papa, de berenjena, de harina de matzรก, de harina de garbanzosโฆ
La sofisticaciรณn en las recetas llegaba a puntos inimaginables. Tan inimaginables como el goce que el rostro de Cathy Rosenfeld intentรณ disimular. Y sรญ, su descarga era รฉsa. Los manjares salรญan y en ella entraban aromas, sabores, texturas. Desde hacรญa cinco aรฑos era lo รบnico bueno que le entraba; lo otro bueno se habรญa muerto con David, su esposo.
Ella jurรณ ser fiel. No habรญa otro hombre en su vida. Toda su energรญaโque era mucha y vorazโla volcarรญa en la cocina. Y asรญ creciรณ su fama y su fortuna. Pero ยฟera feliz? No. Un no rotundo y duro como beiale viejo.
Las buenas lenguas comentaban que el finado. ยกpobre!, no habรญa sabido decirle que no en la mesa ni en la cama y, que ella, con los ingredientes afrodisรญacos que utilizaba en sus comidas, acabรณ por acabarlo. En sentido figurado, es claro, porque David siempre acababa ferverosamente lo que su mujer le ofrecรญa, y sin chistar. Nueces y dรกtiles adornaban las mesitas de luz del dormitorio matrimonial. Y la pimienta y la nuez moscada se sumaban a mรบltiples especias para sazonar caldos, blintzes, prakes, knishes, varenikes, budines, pescados, kneidlejโฆ
Catalina, Cata, Cathy, obtuvo consuelo diciendo que รฉl, finalmente, habรญa partido con el gesto plรกcito del bebรฉ que se adormece mamando. Recordรณ el menรบ de la noche fatal, y el camisรณn de encaje con el que lo sorprendiรณ. Despuรฉs de comer pastrรณn casero, el cepillado de dientes debe ser profundo y minucioso; las fibras de carne restante de fibras pueden causar mal aliento, ademรกs de otros males. Eso pensรณ Cata que tal vez habrรญa pensado su Davidโque no abandonรณ ni el cepillo ni la pileta ni el espejo del botequรญnโante la deslumbrante presencia de encaje negro.
รl se miraba la dentadura y ella le miraba el torso desnudo.
Ella bajรณ breteles del camisรณn y sus ubres calientes se apoyaron en la ancha espalda. รl cepillaba y cepillaba y ella frotaba, frotaba. รl apretado, apretado contra la pileta; ella, contra รฉl. David solรญa comparar los pechos de su mujer con los sabrosos pechitos ahumados que ella le cocinaba todos los miรฉrcoles.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Los otros dรญas tambiรฉn se cumplimentaban con manjares, pero eran una sorpresa. Los miรฉrcoles, la sorpresa venรญa despuรฉs; siempre un camisรณn nuevo y una nueva forma de hacerlo, el amor, no el camisรณn, que solรญa estar hecho en Parรญs como casi toda la ropa interior de Catalina Rosenfeld. Porque Cathy, aun cuando era Catalina Goldsmith, tenรญa sus exigencias. Sรกbanas, manteles, soutienes y calzones debรญan ser suaves y perfectos. Perfecciรณn que despuรฉs del ya mencionado episodio de la primera cena y los latkes del debut (en todo sentido) llegarรญa a las cumbres. Cumbre que no sรณlo escalรณ David, sino que tuvo a parientes y amigos como devotos alpinistas. Nadie podรญa resistir a la seducciรณn de sus comidas. Era como negarse a una puesta del sol en la playa o a la magia del beso bajo la luna. Todos soรฑaban con compartir su mesa, y hasta habรญa atrevidos que soรฑaban compartir su cama. Olvidรฉ decir que Catalina habรญa sido una buena idish meidele y aรบn continuaba siรฉndolo. Madura. Pero jugosas y fragrante como una fuente de guindas. Y justamente รฉse fue el postre que habรญa convenido con los padres de Jesica Weitzman. En el clรญmax de su euforia gustativa del bat-mitzva, la carne de las guindas flambeadas encenderรญa los paladares y la entrepierna. Ella ya lo habรญa experimentado. Y se encendiรณ anticipadamente, sin apartar el ojo de ollas, sartenes y cacharros. Sobre la mesada, las fuentes con arenques le representaron su propia existencia toda la sal, toda la exquisitez, todo el aroma, pero nada de color. Comenzรณ a disponer, alrededor de los solitarios arenques, rodajas de cebolla, de tomate y las puposas e imprescindibles aceitunas negras. Adorno como si estuviera adornรกndose, ella misma, para la visita del hombre. Miradas, tal vez, pero visitasโฆEl vestido de raso negro convertรญa a Cathy en otra aceituna que provocaba la mordida. El chef pasรณ a su lado como rozรกndola sin querer. Pero querรญa. Catalina tambiรฉnโa pesar de su promesa de castidad que se lo prohibรญaโy dijo oi vei por lo bajo. El chef, un cincuentรณn fornido, entendiรณ que no era un suspiro de cansancio se tragรณ el oi mame porque su mame, desde el mรกs allรก, le habrรญa reprochado que un padre con hijas casaderas ocupara su mente en otra cosa que casarlas, El que deseaba casarse era รฉl, pero ya estaba casado. Y el objeto de su deseo y tormento habรญa dedicado su viudez a la gastronomรญa. Una lรกgrima que se confundiรณ con el sudor humedeciรณ las bien rasuradas mejillas de Saรบl Steinberg. รl era un hombre limpio y un eficiente cocinero. Con eficiencia limpiรณ su cara y sus pensamientos antes de dedicarse a batir la crema (no fuera a ser que se le cortara).
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Catalina, todavรญa conmocionada por el roce, concentrรณ sus favores y fervores en la decoraciรณn de guefilte fish. Sobre cada bola de pescado, colocรณ un rodaje de zanahoria hervida, no pudo evitar asociaciones. El simple ademรกn le recordรณ otros ademanes y otras redondeces, aรฑos atrรกs, junto al bargueรฑo estilo francรฉs de su hogar materno. En esa casa habรญa aprendido los secretos de la cocina y del amor. Porque la madre, siempre atareada, el padre, siempre distraรญdo, y los hermanos, siempre estudiando o en el club, les dejaban comedor libre.
Ella disponรญa vajilla y manjares sobre el blanco mantel; y David disponรญa a su antojo. Asรญ le habรญan mezclado a Catalina los placeres del sexo con los de la comida. Y caricia va, bocado viene, los labios superiores e inferiores sincronizaron acciones y succiones. Asรญ, elaborando y saboreando, se le habรญa parte de su vida. Evocรณ las enseรฑanzas escolares y se dijo que ellaโcon el respeto merecidoโera igual que sus admirados poetas mรญsticos. Se sintiรณ Sor Juana, Santa Teresa, sรณlo que ella habรญa sustituido la pluma por el cucharรณn. En todo eso pensaba mientras sumergรญa la cuchara en la salsa con la que baรฑarรญa los blintzes de pollo y oรญa el ruido de la batidoraโque habรญa puesto en marcha Saรบlโcomo si se tratara de un corazรณn suplementario.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Con quรฉ velocidad lata. El culpable era el vaho del vino que acababa de echar en la salsa. Quizรกs ese vaho habรญa llegado hasta Eduviges, que pelaba almendras sentada en un rincรณn. Eduviges se santiguรณ. Debรญa ser cosa del diablo; ella, resignada a la solterรญa, al trabajo y a las tareas de caridad, desde el dรญa en que habรญa puesto el pie en Recepciones Cathy Rosenfeld, no tenรญa sosiego, ยฟQuรฉ eran estos calores? El mรฉdico diagnosticรณ: menopausia. Su conciencia, calentura. Estaba como gato en el celo; especialmente cuando la seรฑora entraba en la cocina, con manos de hada, picaba, sazonaba, rebozaba, horneabaโฆ Los aromas y las recetasโque constantemente hacรญa probar a sus ayudantesโmareaba mรกs que el licor de mandarinas casero, รบnico vicio de Eduviges. Cuando la seรฑora le decรญa, quรฉ manera de transpirar, Eduviges, ella se ruborizaba. Claro que la seรฑora la habรญa visto empaparse de sudor, sacudirse como so le dieran fiebres y despuรฉs exclamar, oi vei. Eduviges pensรณ que decir oi vei era una especie de exorcismo porque enseguida de decirlo, a la seรฑora le cambiaba la cara. Entonces Eduviges aprendiรณ a decir oi vei. Cathy estaba contenta con la ayudante que, ademรกs de haber interpretado el espรญritu de la comida judรญa, habรญa adoptado modismos y dichos.
Peel and wash the potatoes, dry, and grate them. Also grate the onion and put everything in a bowl, with the eggs, salt, and pepper. Add the flour and mix until you obtain a dough that is neither too thick nor too thin. Heat the oil in a frying pan and pour the preparation by tablespoons. Fry the latkes until golden brown on both sides.
Evocation and Fulfillment
The story of Cathy Rosenfeld’s famous latkes began when Catherine Goldsmith told her mamele that David, the boy she had met at Hebraica, was coming to dinner.
You may be telling yourselves that latkesโlike any person or objectโhave their own history. But the love affair between the seventeen-year-old girl and Jewish food was born in this event.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย <<They are grated like this>>, said Doรฑa Berta, moving her right hand up and down. In the sixties there was no processor, and food was cooked as it was thought to be: direct and without twists. David had accepted the invitation: a sure candidate. Doรฑa Berta repeated the grating with an onion and once again showed her daughter the energy with which she had to carry out the fundamental first step. Cata imitated her, first with the potato and then with the rest. The mother, upon verifying the inherited skill, placed her left hand to her heart and uttered her oi vei, which sounded like a lament, but which Cata knew how to interpret; Doรฑa Berta’s oi veis had nuances that only family and friends could decipher; This was one of satisfaction, joy, pleasure, pride…
Three decades later, Catalina heaved a sigh that made her resemble her motherโdespite their twenty-five years and twenty-five kilos differenceโwhen she contemplated the dressed-up young men who, like politicians, left the kitchen wing towards the living room and the two hundred diners. The banner of battle they carried high contained crispy latkes, there were potato latkes, eggplant latkes, matzah flour latkes, chickpea flour latkes…
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย There sophistication in the recipes reached unimaginable levels. As unimaginable as the enjoyment that Cathy Rosenfeld’s face tried to hide. And yes, that was her weakness. The delicacies came out and aromas, flavors, textures entered. For five years it was the only good thing she had. The other good thing had died with David, her husband.
She swore to be faithful. There was no other man in her life. All her energyโwhich was a lot and voraciousโwould be poured into the kitchen. And so, her fame and fortune grew. But was she happy? No. A resounding and hard no like an old beiale.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Flapping tongues commented that the deceased, poor thing, hadn’t known how to say no to her at the table or in bed, and she, with the aphrodisiac ingredients she used in her meals, ended up putting an end to it. In a figurative sense, it is clear, because David always fervently finished what his wife offered him, and without saying a word. Walnuts and dates adorned the nightstands in the double bedroom. And pepper and nutmeg were added to multiple spices to season broths, blintzes, prakes, knishes, varenikes, puddings, fish, kneidlej…
Catalina, Cata, Cathy, gained consolation by saying that he had left finally with the placid gesture of a baby who falls asleep while breastfeeding. He remembered the menu of the fatal night, and the lace nightgown with which she surprised him. After eating homemade pastrami, brushing your teeth should be deep and thorough; Remaining meat fibers can cause bad breath in addition to other ailments. That’s what Cata thought, what perhaps her David would have thoughtโhe didn’t abandon the brush, the sink, or the bottle mirrorโin the dazzling presence of black lace.
He looked at his teeth and she looked at his naked torso.
She lowered the straps of the nightgown and her warm udders rested on his broad back. He brushed and brushed, and she rubbed and scrubbed. He pressed, pressed against the sink; her, against him. David used to compare his wife’s breasts with the tasty smoked breasts that she cooked for him every Wednesday.
ย ย ย ย ย ย The other days were also filled with delicacies, but they were a surprise. On Wednesdays, the surprise came later; always a new nightgown and a new way of doing it, love, not the nightgown, which was made in Paris like almost all of Catherine Rosenfeld’s underwear. Because Cathy, even when she was Catherine Goldsmith, had her demands. Sheets, tablecloths, soutienes and underwear had to be soft and perfect. Perfection that after the aforementioned episode of the first dinner and the latkes of the debut (in every sense) would reach the peaks. Summit that not only David climbed, but also had relatives and friends as devoted mountaineers. No one could resist the seduction of her meals. It was like refusing a sunset on the beach or the magic of a kiss under the moon. Everyone dreamed of sharing her table, and there were even daring people who dreamed of sharing her bed. I forgot to say that Catherine had been a good Yiddish meidele and still continued to be. Mature. But juicy and fragrant like a fountain of cherries. And that was precisely the dessert that had been agreed upon with Jesica Weitzman’s parents. At the climax of their bat-mitzva gustatory euphoria, the flesh of the flambรฉed cherries would ignite the palates and the crotch. She had already experienced it. And it was lit in advance, without taking her eye off the pots, pans and dishes. On the counter, the platters with herrings represented her own existence, all the salt, all the exquisiteness, all the aroma, but no color. She began to arrange, around the solitary herrings, slices of onion, tomato, and the plump and essential black olives. She adorns the plate as if she were adorning herself for a man’s visit. Looks, perhaps, but visits…The black satin dress turned Cathy into another olive that provoked the bite. The chef passed by her as if accidentally brushing against her. But he wanted to. Catalina tooโdespite her promise of chastity that forbade itโand said oi vei under her breath. The chef, a burly fifty-year-old man, understood that it was not a sigh of fatigue, he swallowed the oi mame, because his mother, from beyond, would have reproached him as an iconic father with marriageable daughters who occupied his mind with anything other than marrying them, the one who wanted to get married was him, but he was already married. And the object of her desire and torment had dedicated her widowhood to gastronomy. A tear that was confused with sweat moistened Saรบl Steinberg’s well-shaven cheeks. He was a clean man and an efficient cook. She efficiently cleaned her face and her thoughts before setting about whipping the cream (lest it break up).
Catalina, still shocked by the brushing by, concentrated her favors and fervor on the decoration of guefilte fish. On each fish ball, she placed a slice of boiled carrot, she could not avoid associations. The simple gesture reminded her of other gestures and other roundness, years ago, next to the French-style cabinet in his maternal home. In that house he had learned the secrets of cooking and love. Because the mother, always busy, the father, always distracted, and the brothers, always studying or at the club, left them a free dining room.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย She arranged dishes and delicacies on the white tablecloth; and David disposed as he pleased. This is how they had mixed the pleasures of sex with those of food for Catalina. And caress goes, bite comes, the upper and lower lips synchronized actions and sucks. Thus, making and savoring, it became part of his life. It evoked school teachings and implied that sheโwith all due respectโwas just like her admired mystical poets. She felt like Sor Juana, like Saint Teresa, except that she had replaced the pen with the ladle. She thought about all of this as she dipped the spoon into the sauce with which she would coat the chicken blintzes and listened to the noise of the mixerโwhich Saรบl had startedโas if it were an extra heart. How fast does it beat? The culprit was the vapor from the wine that had just been poured into the sauce. Perhaps that mist had reached Eduviges, who was shelling almonds sitting in a corner. Eduviges crossed herself. It must have been the devil’s work; She, resigned to being single, to work and to charitable tasks, had no peace since the day she had set foot in Cathy Rosenfeld Receptions. What were these hot flashes? The doctor diagnosed: menopause. His conscience, fever. She was like a cat in heat; especially when the lady entered the kitchen and, with fairy hands, chopped, seasoned, coated, bakedโฆ The aromas and the recipesโwhich she generously made her assistants tryโmade her dizzier than the homemade tangerine liqueur, Eduviges’ only vice. When the lady told her how to sweat, Eduviges blushed. Of course, the lady had seen her get drenched in sweat, shake herself as if she had a fever and then exclaim, oi vei. Eduviges thought that saying oi vei was a kind of exorcism because as soon as he said it, the lady’s face changed. Then Eduviges learned to say oi vei. Cathy was happy with the helper who, in addition to having interpreted the spirit of Jewish food, had adopted idioms and sayings.
Carlos Kravetz (1953-) viviรณ en Israel y Alemania. Se formรณ en Avni Institute of Fine Arts, Tel Aviv, en talleres con Emilio Renart y M. Stempelsztejn, y en estudios con diversos teรณricos del arte. Tambiรฉn estudiรณ Arquitectura en la FADU (UBA) y en el Technion, Haifa. Expone en Argentina desde 1979 y fuera del paรญs desde 1991.
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Carlos Kravetz (1953-) lived in Israel and Germany. He trained at Avni Institute of Fine Arts, Tel Aviv, in workshops with Emilio Renart and M. Stempelsztejn, and in studies with various art theorists. He also studied Architecture at FADU (UBA) and at the Technion, Haifa. He has exhibited in Argentina since 1979 and outside the country since 1991.
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Carlos Kravetz comenta sobre su arte:
Me preocupa mostrar, aunque sea parcialmente, la realidad que me circunda, las cosas que me pasan a mรญ y a otros… Buenos Aires es un marco de fondo, pero que condiciona: la gente expresa de alguna manera la presiรณn a que la somete la vida en nuestra ciudad. Eso se percibe en cada gesto si observamos con atenciรณn. Me preocupa tambiรฉn el paso del tiempo, modificรกndonos. ะฃ exagerando nuestros valores o defectos. Y me preocupan la locura y ese espacio sutil entre ella y aquello considerado normal. Quiero mostrar eso sin ‘lavar’ mi obra, expresando plรกsticamente toda la belleza contenida en la fealdad, la vejez o la locura, que no es justamente la belleza clรกsica. Me interesa mostrar una parte de la realidad: dar mi aporte para que el arte estรฉ menos separado de la vida: no me interesa para nada un arte de especulaciรณn metafรญsica, sino de una reflexiรณn sobre lo cotidiano que permita que nos reconozcamos en รฉl; un arte que no se disocie devolviendo imรกgenes que no nos pertenecen. . .
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Carlos Kravetz comments on his art:
I am concerned about showing, even partially, the reality that surrounds me, the things that happen to me and othersโฆ Buenos Aires is a background setting, but one that conditions: people express in some way the pressure to which they are subjected by life in our city. This can be perceived in each gesture if we look carefully. I am also concerned about the passage of time, changing us, exaggerating our values โโor defects. And I am concerned about madness and that subtle space between it and what is considered normal. I want to show that without ‘washing’ my work, plastically expressing all the beauty contained in ugliness, old age or madness, which is not exactly classical beauty. I am interested in showing a part of reality: giving my contribution so that art is less separated from life: I am not at all interested in an art of metaphysical speculation, but rather a reflection on the everyday that allows us to recognize ourselves in it; an art that does not dissociate itself by returning images that do not belong to us. . .
Marjorie Agosรญn, una poeta, profesora en Wellesley College, novelista, ensayista y activista de los derechos humanos chilena-estadounidense, ha gozado de una carrera distinguida escribiendo sobre temas importantes y vigentes como el exilio, la memoria, la experiencia judรญa y el poder del lenguaje. Tambiรฉn ha hecho mucho para divulgar y hacer hincapiรฉ en las escritoras latinoamericanas en colecciones bilingรผes. Marjorie Agosรญn, una escritora y pensadora incansable, tiene un amplio alcance y tiene algo que ofrecerles a lectores de todas edades y de todos los รกmbitos de la vida, desde los acadรฉmicos que estudian las culturas y literaturas judรญas y latinoamericanas hast los lectores jรณvenes que han disfrutado de las historias de Celeste Marconi en la aclamada novela para adultos jรณvenes, I Lived on Butterfly Hill.
Allison Ridley
Marjorie Agosรญn, a Chilean-American poet, professor en Wellesley College, novelist, essayist, and human rights activist, has enjoyed a distinguished career writing on important and timely topics such as exile, memory, the Jewish experience, and the power of language. She has also done much to disseminate and highlight Latin American women writers in bilingual collections of their work. A tireless writer and thinker, Marjorie Agosรญn is wide-ranging and has something to offer readers of all ages and from all walks of life, from academics who study Jewish and Latin American cultures and literatures to young readers who have enjoyed Celeste Marconi’s stories in the acclaimed young adult novel, I Lived on Butterfly Hill.
Allison Ridley
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Compiled and edited by Celeste Kostopulos-Cooperman
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Esta entrada es dedicada a los vรญctimas en Israel el 7 de octubre./This post is dedicated to the October 7 victims in Israel.
Poemas/Poems
Busquรฉ un huerto de huesos
Vengo s buscar estos
huesos,
se parecรญan a la piel vencida
de los animales difuntos.
Pero los quiero
para mi huerto.
Para amarrarlos
junto a los rosales.
Le digo
que son mis huesos,
los huesos de mi hijo,
Juliรกn,
quiero que conozcan
la lluvia
los sueรฑos
de la paz,
por eso, seรฑor, me los
vengo a llevar
aquรญ en las faldas,
esos huesos quiero
yo
porque
ya dejaron de ser suyos
porque esa vida jamรกs
fue suya.
Porque Ud. sรณlo supo hablar de los rostros de la muerte
porque no tiene nada que ver con la vida.
Deme mis huesos, mi capitรกn.
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I Sought a Garden of Bones
Iโve come seeking these
bones, and though they call to mind the defeated
flesh of dead animals,
I want them for my garden,
to string them up
beside the rose bushes.
Iโm telling you
they are my bones,
the bones of my son,
Juliรกn,
and I want them to know
the rain,
the dreams
of peace,
therefore, seรฑor, Iโve come here
to carry off these bones
I love
in the pleats of my skirt,
because
they have ceased
being yours.
because that life never
was yours
Because you only knew how to talk about deathโs faces
because you and life have nothing in common.
Give me my bones, my captain.
Translation by Richard Schaaf
De:/From: Hacia la ciudad esplรฉndida / Toward the Splendid City
El carรกcter de Lilith ha evolucionado a lo largo de los aรฑos. Comenzรณ como un demonio femenino comรบn en muchas culturas del Medio Oriente, apareciendo en el libro de Isaรญas, el Talmud de Babilonia y cuencos de encantamiento del antiguo Irak e Irรกn. Se la describe como una amenaza para los aspectos sexuales y reproductivos de la vida, especialmente el parto. Un texto judรญo medieval llamado Alfabeto de Ben Sira la describe como la primera esposa de Adรกn que lo desobedeciรณ a รฉl y a Dios y afirmรณ su igualdad con Adรกn, dando un origen legendario a su comportamiento demonรญaco. Ella tambiรฉn aparece en la Cabalรก como un reflejo maligno del aspecto femenino de Dios junto con Samael. Las feministas judรญas, aprovechando su afirmaciรณn de igualdad, han reclamado a Lilith como sรญmbolo de autonomรญa, independencia y liberaciรณn sexual.
Jewish Women’s Encyclopedia
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Lilithโs character has evolved throughout the years. She began as a female demon common to many Middle Eastern cultures, appearing in the book of Isaiah, Babylonian Talmud, and incantation bowls from ancient Iraq and Iran. She is described as threatening the sexual and reproductive aspects of life, especially childbirth. A medieval Jewish text called the Alphabet of Ben Sira describes her as Adamโs first wife who disobeyed him and God and asserted her equality to Adam, giving a legendary origin to her demonic behavior. She also appears in Kabbalah as an evil reflection of the feminine aspect of God along with Samael. Jewish feminists, seizing upon her assertion of equality, have reclaimed Lilith as a symbol of autonomy, independence, and sexual liberation.
Lilith brota cual serpiente, le brotaron alas de muerte en su afรกn de sellar con un beso de muerte los bostezos de los hijos de Eva, aรบn con restos de leche en los labios. No hay quien vuele como Lilith, amante de Samael, รกngel caรญdo. Nadie trenza su pelo bajo las estrellas, nadie contempla sus ojos al brillo de la luna, sin morir de espanto. Bruja de los cuentos chilla frente a los amuletos que llevan su nombre, su imagen rebelde. Espejo, espejito: ยฟquiรฉn es la mรกs poderosa? Espejo Espejito: ยฟQuiรฉn huye de su propio rostro para no perderse en la nada, para no ver morir a los engendros de su vientre? Lilith, madrastra de Blanca Nieves, huye a los espejos: hablan mรกs de la cuenta hay que silenciarlos con la huida o con la muerte.
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Pandoraโs Womb
VI
Lilith emerges as a serpent;
the wings of death emerge from her in her eagerness to seal
with a kiss of death
the yawns of the sons of Eve
with the leftovers of milk still on their lips.
There is no one who flies like Lilith,
lover of Samael, fallen angel
No one weaves her braids,
under the stars.
No one looks into her eyes,
by the light of the moon, without dying of terror.
Witch of the fairy tales
shrieks in the presence of the amulets that bear her name,
Her rebellious image.
Mirror, little mirror:
who is the most powerful?
Mirror, Little mirror:
Who flees her own face,
so as not lose herself in nothingness,
to not see die the spawn of her womb?
Lilith, stepmother of Snow White,
flees the mirrors:
they speak more than enough
itโs necessary silence them with fleeing or with death.
Translated by Stephen a Sadow
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Elina Wechsler – Argentina*
Lilith, primera compaรฑera de Adรกn
Una suerte de fijeza al รกrbol genealรณgico, a los muertos, invita en ocasiones a perderse en la Boca de los Siglos. Como un sapo irreverente a la orilla del rรญo, como el imรกn que me lleva a tu cuerpo y a tu oรญdo. Si Eva no fue la primera quรฉ desorden de la letra, quรฉ traspiรฉ en el poder del jeroglรญfico. Una suerte de fijeza, Gioconda mirando al infinito. Una madre serรก por todas las madres, Eva robarรก las tentaciones de Lilith, las suyas, por un pequeรฑo error bรญblico.
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Lilith, Adamโs First Partner
A kind of obsession with the family tree, to the dead, an invitation to spiral down the Mouth of the Centuries. Like a disdainful toad on the riverbank, like a magnet leading me to your body, your ear. If Eve wasnโt the first what confusion of the word, what a blunder in the power of the hieroglyph. A kind of fixation, Gioconda peering into infinity. A mother for all mothers, Eve will steal Lilithโs temptations, her own, because of a small biblical error.
Translated by Carlie Hoffman
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*Elina Wechsler es una poeta argentina. Nacida en Buenos Aires, es psicoanalista de profesiรณn. Abandonรณ Argentina en 1977 como consecuencia de la dictadura militar que desatรณ una extrema represiรณn polรญtica y violencia y fijรณ su residencia en Madrid. Wechsler es autor de cuatro poemarios: El fantasma (1983), La larga marcha (1988), Mitomanรญas amorosas (1991) y Progresiones en un cierto mes de julio (1995)
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*Elina Wechsler is an Argentinean poet. Born in Buenos Aires, she is a psychoanalyst by profession. She left Argentina in 1977 as a consequence of the military dictatorship that unleashed extreme political repression and violence and took up residence in Madrid. Wechsler is the author of four collections of poetry: El fantasma (1983), La larga marcha (1988), Mitomanรญas amorosas (1991), and Progresiones en un cierto mes de julio (1995).
La defensa del medio ambiente sustenta el tema pictรณrico de Orestes Larios Zaak, (1953-) quien por la obra de la vida recibiรณ en esta ciudad el premio โFidelio Ponce de Leรณnโ, principal lauro que concede el Consejo Provincial de las Artes Plรกsticas. Ese autor con 37 aรฑos de labor profesional acumula, ademรกs, entre otros galardones, el de tres concursos internacionales, incluido uno auspiciado por el Programa Mundial de Alimentos, de la Organizaciรณn de las Naciones Unidas para la Agricultura y la Alimentaciรณn. Plantas y animales son los protagonistas de sus cuadros, con los cuales es el creador camagรผeyano en la esfera de las artes con la mรกs voluminosa y sistemรกtica dedicaciรณn a defender la naturaleza. Fue el mayor promotor de la existencia de la Galerรญa-Taller Larios, de la que es el director-fundador. Situada en una casona colonial en el sector de esta ciudad declarado Patrimonio Cultural de la Humanidad, la instituciรณn desempeรฑa acciones de impacto comunitario, y constituye un foco cultural en vertientes como la plรกstica y las actuaciones musicales. Larios Zaak ha participado en mรกs de 60 exposiciones, incluidas 15 personales, en Cuba, Italia, Estados Unidos de Amรฉrica y Espaรฑa, entre otros paรญses. (AIN)
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The defense of the environment is the motivating force for Orestes Larios Zaak, (1953-) who for his life’s work received in this city the โFidelio Ponce de Leรณnโ prize, the main award awarded by the Provincial Council of the Plastic Arts. This author, with 37 years of professional work, also has other awards international competitions, including one sponsored by the World Food Program of the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations. Plants and animals are the protagonists of his paintings. He is the Camagรผey, Cuba-based artist who has the most voluminous and systematic dedication to defending nature. He is the founding director of the Larios Gallery-Workshop, which is located in a colonial mansion in the sector of the city that was declared a part of the Cultural Heritage of Humanity. The institution has community impact and constitutes a cultural focus for art and musical performances. Larios Zaak has participated in more than 60 exhibitions, including 15 personal ones, in Cuba, Italy, the United States of America and Spain, among other countries.(AIN)
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Pinturas inspiradas por la naturaleza/Paintings inspired by nature
Nora Glickman es profesora emรฉrita de Literatura Hispรกnica en Queens College y en el Graduate Center, CUNY. Su obra crรญtica incluye โRegeneraciรณnโ de Leib Malach y la trata de blancas, The Jewish White Slave Trade: The Case of Raquel Liberman, El inglรฉs en el teatro y el cine rioplatense, y los cuentos, Puerta entre abierta; Mujeres, memorias, malogros; Uno de sus Juanes; Hilvรกn de instantes. Varias de sus obras estรกn reunidas en el Teatro de Nora Glickman y en su antologรญa bilingรผe. De Suburban News recibiรณ el Premio Jerome para jรณvenes dramaturgos en 1990. Dos Charlottes aparece en Dramaturgas en la escena del mundo. Es co-editora de las Publicaciones de la Asociaciรณn de Estudios Judรญos Latinoamericanos y de Enclave: Revista de Creaciรณn Literaria en Espaรฑol. Entre 1998 y 2010 fue editora asociada de Modern Jewish Studies/Yiddish. Se desempeรฑa como editora de reseรฑas de libros para la revista Latin American Jewish Studies.
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Nora Glickman is a professor emerita of Hispanic Literature at Queens College and at the Graduate Center, CUNY. Her critical work includes โRegeneraciรณnโ de Leib Malach y la trata de blancas, The Jewish White Slave Trade: The Case of Raquel Liberman, El inglรฉs en el teatro y el cine rioplatense, and the short stories, Puerta entre abierta; Mujeres, memorias, malogros; Uno de sus Juanes; Hilvรกn de instantes. Several of her plays are gathered in Teatro de Nora Glickman, and in her bilingual anthology. From Suburban News, she received the Jerome Award for young dramatists in 1990. Dos Charlottes appears in Dramaturgas en la escena del mundo. She is the co-editor of the Latin American Jewish Studies Association Publications, and of Enclave: Revista de Creaciรณn Literaria en Espaรฑol. Between 1998 and 2010 she was Associate Editor of Modern Jewish Studies/Yiddish. She serves as Book Review Editor for the journal Latin American Jewish Studies.
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De:/From: Nora Glickman. Hilvรกn de instantes. Santiago de Chile: RIL Editores, 2015.
Casi un Shiduj
DE HABERL0 SABIDOโฆ hubiera sido el shiduj perfecto. Lo digo yo, que sรฉ de shidujim. Veo un hombre solo, culto, refinado. Y enseguida pienso en alguna mujer sola, culta, refinada, con algรบn pequeรฑo vicio que mantendrรก, como รฉl, discretamente guardado. Los conecto; juntos se encontrarรกn bien: armonizan en su estilo de vida, se mueven en un mismo ambiente. Dos almas en armonรญa.
Ellos podrรกn insistir, si quieren, que estรกn perfectamente satisfechos de seguir solteros; pero yo no los creo. Somos animales sociales; macho y hembra necesitamos el calor de nuestro sexo y del opuesto; para mรญ, que unidos oficialmente como pareja casada, tendrรกn mรกs oportunidades. Separados, digo, no saben lo que se pierden; la voz de ella desde el aeropuerto para tranquilizarlo, avisรกndole que ya estรก de vuelta a casa; un comentario gracioso de รฉl, que ella le celebre, aunque lo haya oรญdo antes mรกs de una vez.
De todos modos, los junto sin que nadie los pida. Instinto de shadjente, digo yo, Manรญa de casamentera. A veces, claro, me equivoco, como con Ema y Julio, la pareja perfecta. El pelo caprichosamente rizado de ambos, el de Ema mรกs clara y sedoso; la mirada pรญcara de Julio, que ella festeja a cada paso. Los dos aficionados de la mรบsica clรกsica, los dos locos por el cine y por hacer largas caminatas en la costanera. ยฟQuiรฉn hubiera podido adivinar que eran, en efecto, hermanos sanguรญneos, distanciados al nacer? Eso era digno de una telenovela. Cleopatra, o Calรญgula, de enterarse que tenรญan un hermano por esposo, me hubieran nombrado embajadora por haber urgido su matrimonio. Ema y Julio, en cambio, lejos de agradecerme, se sienten culpables haberse enamorados y me reprochan por haber propiciado un amor incestuoso.
Sin embargo, yo persevero aunque no doy siempre con la tecla. Aun al mejor cazador se le escapa el libre. ยกQuรฉ fracaso, mi รบltimo intento! Cuando a Richler lo abandonรณ su esposa por otra mujer, convinimos que, en las primeras semanas, no lo agobiarรญamos con llamadas, pero que Beatriz se ocuparรญa por รฉl para aliviar su depresiรณn, tal vez su vergรผenza, porque Richler no podรญa comprender lo que le habรญa pasado. Mientras tanto yo le iba preparando candidatas para cuando se sintiera repuesto. Luego de treinta y cinco aรฑos de casado, Richler no sabรญa arreglรกrselas solo. Ese primer aรฑo le costรณ mucha salud, fรญsica y mental: una pulmonรญa lo dejรณ postrado por semanas enteras. Su cuรฑada lo atendiรณ en el hospital, y sus hijos, solteros que vivรญan cerca de su casa, lo visitaban seguido.
Nos alarmรณ verlo cuando al comenzar el semestre Richler llegรณ a la universidad desaliรฑado y mรกs encorvado que nunca. Pobre Richler. Para reanimarlo, Beatriz y yo, y sus colegas, le planeamos una dieta macrobiรณtica y caminatas vigorosas en el parque. Lo invitamos a ver una obra de Calderรณn de la Barca que รฉl habรญa enseรฑado durante varios aรฑos. Aunque la representaciรณn era de aficionados, a รฉl le pareciรณ muy educativa. Luego de notar los olvidos y las pausas innecesarias de algunos actores, aprovechรณ la ocasiรณn para opinar con elocuencia sobre la intenciรณn del dramaturgo y la interpretaciรณn desmesurada del director de la obra. Richler saliรณ entusiasmado del espectรกculo, asรญ que cuando nos despedimos en la estaciรณn del subte, nos prometiรณ que la prรณxima vez, รฉl nos llevarรญa a ver <<Il Travatore>>. Aceptamos encantadas.
Aunque รบltimamente Beatriz estaba mรกs y mรกs ocupada con David, un novio antipรกtico que la tenรญa dominada, y no tenรญa tiempo para Richler. Yo pasรฉ un par de meses fuera de Nueva York, por lo que tuve que interrumpir la rutina de llamarlo cada semana. A mi regreso, me encontrรฉ con una invitaciรณn de Tita, para celebrar en su casa la jubilaciรณn de Richler, y tambiรฉn su compromiso, el martes 14 de octubre. Me quedรฉ pasmada.
–ยฟCรณmo tan pronto? ยฟCuรกndo decidiรณ jubilarse? ยฟY con quiรฉn se compromete?
–Con una maestra dominicana de Arizona, amiga de su cuรฑada. En un mes se casan y se van a vivir a Phoenixโme explicรณ Beatriz.
Para un judรญo gringoโneoyorquinoโde sesenta y cinco aรฑos, casarse con una latina de cuarenta y pico y mudarse a un estado tan remoto como Arizona debe ser una odisea. Llamo a Rita y ella me explica que el clima seco y templado de Arizona es ideal para aliviar el asma de Richler. Con Beatriz luego comentamos mientras nosotras todavรญa nos condolรญamos el estado miserable de Richler, รฉl habรญa conseguido rehacer su vida. Solito, sin nuestra ayuda, habรญa encontrado a su pareja: <<Entoncesโnos dijimos,–misiรณn cumplida>>.
Para la fiesta de Rita me toca llevar a varios colegas en el auto. Raquel viene tambiรฉn. Se sienta adelante conmigo, asรญ podemos conversar. No nos vemos desde hace mรกs de quince aรฑos cuando Raquel dejรณ de enseรฑar en la secundaria para hacerse cargo de una biblioteca en Bronxville. El cambio le favorece; Raquel habรญa perdido peso y se ve mรกs sofisticada. Sabรญa que Richler se jubilaba, pero solo ahora, camino a New Jersey, viene a enterarse de su compromiso.
–ยฟQuรฉ estรกs diciendo? โme susurra, incrรฉdula–. ยฟAcaso Richler no estรก casado y tiene dos hijos?
–Estaba casado, pero hace meses que estรก solo. Su hijo menor vive en el dormitorio de la universidad, y el mayor consiguiรณ empleo en Boston. ยฟPero cรณmo no enteraste, Raquel, que su mujer lo abandonรณ, y รฉl se pescรณ una pulmonรญa, y que Beatriz y yo lo ayudamos a reponerse?
Raquel esconde la cara bajo la solapa de su saco para ocultar su reacciรณn, Suspira como si le faltaba aire; le saliรณ un hipo entrecortado. Sin duda quiere hacerme mรกs preguntas y no sabe por dรณnde empezar. Menea lentamente la cabeza como si pasara lista de lo que ella habรญa estado en el interรญn, mientras Richler se enamoraba de la dominicana y decidรญa dar el gran paso. Me duele ver a Raquel sufrir asรญ, y tambiรฉn me fastidiaba. Pero, en fin, ya es demasiado tarde para cambiar las cosas.
–Simplemente, Raquel, se me pasรณ por alto. Mil perdones.
ยกQuรฉ imbรฉcil fui! ยฟCรณmo pude olvidarme durante todo este tiempo del gran metejรณn que Raquel habรญa sentido por Richler cuando las dos estudiรกbamos juntas en la universidad? Nos leรญamos las cartas apasionadas que escribรญamos a amantes ficticios y reales y nos reรญamos para cubrir el rubor de comportarnos como colegiales pavotas.
Por lo visto, el amor de Raquel por Richler durรณ mucho mรกs de la cuenta. En esos dรญas fantaseaba con raptarlo; planeaba formas de alejarlo de su mujer, de seducirlo con su profundo conocimiento de Calderรณn, y con otras estratagemas para que me llegaron a parecer tediosas. Y Richler, naturalmente, inmerso en sus teorรญas y dedicado a su materia, nunca sospechรณ que Raquel planeara seducirlo ni que su mujer pensara abandonarlo.
La voz grave y sorda de Raquel revela todo su rencor:
–No te lo puedo perdonar, Tere. ยกยฟCรณmo no me avistaste al instante?!โy mรกs bajita todavรญa agrega–: Lo siento como una traiciรณn.
–Te juro que con tanto trajรญn se me olvidรณ, Raquelita. Como Beatriz fue la primera en ayudarlo salir de su crisis, en parte me despreocupรฉ del asunto, ยฟcomprendes? Claro, de haberme acordado te habrรญa llamado, no me quepa la menor duda, pero no me acordรฉ. Lo siento.
–ยฟTuvo algo con Beatriz?
–Que yo sepa, nada. ยกNo! ยกQuรฉ ocurrencia la tuya, si Beatriz estรก loca por David, ese novio tan creรญdo que la tiene atrapada!
–Contigo tampoco, supongoโฆ
–ยกPor Dios, Raquel! Lo quiero como a un tรญo.
El viaje a New Jersey se me hace interminable. De cuando en cuando los pasajeros de atrรกs nos interrumpen para darnos nuevas instrucciones para el camino, y enseguida resumen su charla animosa sobre las prรณximas elecciones.
–Por favor, Teresa, dรฉjame bajar en la prรณxima salida. No quiero ir a la fiesta.
No te pongas melodramรกtica, Raquel, y cรกlmate. En New Jersey no hay mรกs que carreteras para autos y camiones. El servicio pรบblico no funciona por acรก y estamos demasiado lejos de todo para que busques un taxi.
Le paso la botellita de colonia que guardo en la gaveta, con mi cosmรฉtica.
–รchate unas gotas encima. Es muy suave. Te sentirรกs mejor.
Por las dudas, aseguro las puertas y aminoro la marcha. Los de atrรกs viajan apretados, seguramente incรณmodos pero contentos de poder reponerse del largo intervalo sin haberse visto. Ahora discuten la huelga universitaria:
–La harรกn durante la primavera, como siempre, asรญ vale la pena interrumpir las clases y echarse a dormir sobre el cรฉsped.
–Pero tรบ, Ricardo, serรกs el que toca la alarma, y todos saldremos echando la culpa a algรบn estudiante dรญscoloโฆ jajajรกโฆ
Raquel se aguanta el resto del camino sin decir palabra. En cuanto llegamos a la casa de Rita, Raquel se baja del auto y se encierra en el baรฑo. La sigo y al rato llamo a la puerta.
–Dรฉjame en paz, Tere. No me siento bien.
Se demora mรกs de media hora. Por fin sale con los ojos hinchados y demasiado maquillada. No entra el salรณn sino va directo al dormitorio, desde donde llama a un taxi. Se disculpa ante Rita, y le encarga que felicite a Richler y su novia cuando lleguen a su casa. Y a mรญ me previene:
Cuidadito, Tere, con abrir la boca.
Me siento culpable y traicionera, como ella quiere que me sienta,
–ยฟMe perdonas, Raquel? Quiรฉn sabe si Richler te habrรญa atraรญdo todavรญa, despuรฉs de tanto tiempo. Se ve muy ajado, ยฟsabes? Supongo que estos dรญas estarรกs saliendo con gente mucho mรกs joven que รฉl.
Cuanto mรกs hablo, mรกs la empeoro. Mejor me callo. Raquel sabe y yo sรฉ que hubiera sido el shiduj perfecto. Richler se hubiera quedado en Manhattan, su ciudad favorita. Al principio, al menos, Raquel le hubiera celebrado cada una de sus pedanterรญas, lo hubiera llamado desde el aeropuerto tan solo para oรญr su voz, de regreso de una conferenciaโฆ ยกDe haberlo previsto!
A la vuelta de la fiesta llamo a Raquel varias veces. Su mรกquina contestadora repite siempre lo mismo: <<Disculpe, no puedo atenderle en este momento>>. Pero no dice lo que temo oรญr: <<Me estoy cortando las venas; esto metiendo la cabeza en el horno; me estoy tragando el frasco de somnรญferos>>. Cada vez le dejo el mismo mensaje: <<Por favor, Raquel, dame una llamadita para que me quede tranquila>>. La llamo desde Miami, demasiado lejos para ir a verla. Beatriz no estรก en Nueva York y no sรฉ a quiรฉn mรกs recurrir. Consigo el nรบmero del super de su edificio, pero este me dice que si no contesta es que no estรก en casa y se niega a forzar la puerta. Se me ocurre que deberรญa avisar a la policรญa para cerciorarme de que todo estรก en orden.
A la maรฑana siguiente Raquel devuelve mis llamadas.
–Acabo de llegar a casaโฆ Lamento que te hayas preocupado tanto por mรญ. Me fui a casa de Ben, mi novio, por unos dรญas.
–Disculpa, Raquelโฆ, como te habรญa afectado tanto, temรญ queโฆ
–ยกQue me iba a suicidar por una infatuaciรณn tan antigua! ยกQue iba a hacer una escena de pelรญcula! ยกVamos, Tere! ยฟNo comentaste nada en la fiesta, verdad? Dime que no dijiste nada.
–Te lo juro. Nadie se enterรณ. Tuviste una simple jaqueca decimonรณnica. De haberte visto, Richler te hubiera comparado con una heroรญna de Echegaray. ยกAhยก, casi me olvido. Me recordรณ que fuiste una de sus mejores estudiantes; te envรญa un gran abrazo y me pide que le escribas.
–Gracias, pero no, graciasโฆ Y no se toque mรกs el tema. ยฟEstamos?
IF I HAD KNOWN โฆit would have been a perfect shiduch.
In my opinion, and I know about shiduchim. I see a man alone, cultured, refined. And immediately I think of a woman, alone, cultured, refined, with a small vice that she will keep just like he will, discretely hidden. I bring them together; together they converge, they harmonize in their lifestyle. They move in the same environment. Two souls in harmony.
They can insist, if they wish, that they are perfectly satisfied to remain unmarried; but I donโt believe them. We are social animals: male and female we need warmth of our sex and the opposite sex; for me, that officially united as a married couple, they will have more opportunities. Separate, I say, they donโt know what they are missing, her voice from the airport to calm him, letting him know that she is already on the way home; am amusing comment from him, that pleased her, although she had heard it more than once.
Of course, I bring them together without anyone asking them. The shadchenteโs instinct, I say. A Matchmakerโs mania. Sometimes, or course, when I make a mistake, as with Emma and Julio, the perfect couple. The hair capriciously curly hair of both, Emmaโs lighter and silkier; Julioโs mischievous look, that she celebrates at every chance. The two of them fans of classical music, the two are crazy about the movies and taking long walks along the seaside. Who could have guested that they were, in fact, twins separated at birth? That was worthy of a soap opera, Cleopatra, or Caligula. On learning that they had a brother for a husband, they might have named me ambassador for having urged on their marriage. Emma and Julio, on the other hand, feel guilty for having fallen in love, and they reproached me for having facilitated an incestuous love.
Nevertheless, I persevere, although I donโt always hit the mark. The rabbit escapes the best hunter. My last try was such a disaster! When Richler left his wife for another woman, we agreed that, during the first weeks, we would not wear ourselves out with phone calls, but Beatriz would take care of him to alleviate his depression, perhaps his shame, because Richler couldnโt comprehend what had happened to him. Meanwhile, I was preparing for him candidates, for the time when felt recovered. After thirty-five years of marriage, Richler didnโt know how to arrange for them alone. The first year cost him a great deal of physical and mental health: a case of pneumonia left him prostrate for entire weeks. His sister-in-law took care of him in the hospital, and his children, unmarried who lived close to his house, visited him often.
It alarmed us to see him when at the beginning of the next semester, Richler arrived, disheveled and more bent over than ever. Poor Richler. To get him going, Beatriz and I, and his colleagues, plan for him a macrobiotic diet and vigorous walks in the park. We invited him to see a work by Calderรณn de la Barca that he had taught for several years. Although the production was for amateurish, it seemed to him to be very educational. After noting what was left out and the unnecessary pauses by some actors, he took the occasion to eloquently give his opinions about the playwrightโs intentions and the overblown interpretation of the workโs director. Richler left the show excited, so that when we said goodbye at the subway station, he promised to take us to see โIl Travatore.โ Delighted, we agreed.
Although lately Beatriz was more and more occupied with David, a disagreeable boyfriend who dominated her. She didnโt have time for Richler. I spent a couple of months away from New York, so that I had to interrupt my routine of calling him every week. At my return, I found an invitation from Tita, to celebrate Richlerโs retirement, and also, his engagement for Tuesday, October 14. I was shocked.
โWhy so quickly? When did he decide to retire? And with whom is he engaged?โ
โWith a Dominican teacher from Arizona, a friend of his sister-in-law. They will get married in a month, and they will go to live in Phoenix,โ Beatriz explained to me.
For a Jewish gringoโa New Yorkerโsixty-five years old, to marry a Latina, a bit past forty and to move to a state as remote as Arizona had to be and Odyssey. I call Rita, and she explained to me that the dry and temperate climate is ideal for alleviating Richlerโs asthma. The two of us and Beatriz commented on the fact, that while we still felt sorry for Richlerโs miserable state, he had been able to remake his life. By himself. Without our help, he had found his mate. โThen,โ we said to each other, โmission accomplished.โ
For Ritaโs party, I was my turn to be to drive several colleagues in my car. Raquel came too. She sat in the front with me, so that we could chat. We havenโt seen each other for more than fifteen years, when Raquel left high school teaching to take charge of a library in Bronxville. The change is good for her; Raquel has lost weight and appears more sophisticated. She knew that Richler was retiring, but only now, on route to New Jersey, she finds out about the engagement.
โWhat are you saying?โ she whispers to me, incredulous.โ โIsnโt Richler married with two children?โ
โHe was married, but for months, he has been alone. His younger son lives in the university dorms, and the older son got a job in Boston. But how is it you didnโt know, Raquel, that his wife left him, that he caught pneumonia, and that Beatriz and I helped him recover?โ
Raquel hid her face under the lapel of her jacket to hide her reaction. She whispers as if she needed air. She let out a cutoff hiccup. Without a doubt, she wants to ask me more questions, and she doesnโt know where to start. She slowly shakes her head as if she were taking stock of what had happened to her in the interim, while Richler fell in love with the Dominican and decided to take the big step. It hurts me to see Raquel suffer so, and it also disgusts me, But, still, it is too late to change things.
โSimply put, Raquel, I didnโt think of it. Iโm so sorry.โ
What an idiot I was! How could I have forgotten the great love that Raquel had felt for Richler when the two of us studied together at the university? We read each other passionate letters that we write to made-up or real lovers, and we laughed to cover the blushing from acting like silly schoolgirls.
Apparently, Raquelโs love for Richler lasted far too long. In those days, she fantasized raping him; she planned ways to get him away from his wife, to seduce him with her profound knowledge of Calderรณn, and with other strategies that for me became tedious. And Richler, naturally, immersed in his theories and dedicated to his subject, never suspected that Raquel planned to seduce him or that his wife thought of leaving him.
Raquelโs deep and muffled voice reveals all her rancor:
โI canโt pardon you, Tere. How could you not have let me know the instant it happened?!โ And lower yet, she added, โI feel it as a betrayal.โ
โI swear to you with so much going on, I forgot, Raquelita. As Beatriz was the first to help him pass through his crisis. To a degree, I stopped worrying about the situation, do you understand? Of course, if I had remembered, I would have called you, Iโm absolutely sure, but I didnโt remember. Iโm sorry.โ
โDid he have anything going with Beatriz?โ
โAs far as I know, nothing! What a notion youโve come up with, if Beatriz is crazy about David, that boyfriend so conceited that he has her trapped.โ
โWith you either, I supposeโฆโ
โFor Godโs sake, Raquel! I love him like an uncle.โ
The trip to New Jersey is interminable for me. From time to time the passengers in the back interrupted us to give us new directions for the trip, and immediately resume their animated discussion of the coming elections.
โPlease, Teresa, please let me get out at the next exit. I donโt want to go to the party.โ
โDonโt be melodramatic, Raquel, and calm down. In New Jersey, there are only highways for cars and trucks. Rapid transit doesnโt function here, and we are too far from anything for you to try to get a taxi.โ
I passed to her a little bottle of cologne that I keep in the drawer, with my cosmetics.
โThrow on a few drops. Itโs very soft. Youโll feel better.โ
Just in case, I lock the doors and slow down. Those in the back, travel cramped, surely uncomfortable, but content to catch up after the long interval without seeing each other. Now, they discuss the university strike.
โThey will do it in Spring, as always, so itโs worth the trouble to interrupt classes and go to sleep on the grass.โ
โBut you, Ricardo, you will be the one to hit the alarm, and we will all go out and blame some unruly studentโฆha, ha, haโฆ
Raquel endured the rest of the trip without saying anything. As soon as we arrive at Ritaโs house, Raquel gets out of the car and shuts herself into the bathroom. I follow her and after a while, knock on the door.
โLeave me in peace, Tere, I donโt feel well.โ
She delays for more than a half hour. Finally, she leaves with her eyes swollen and too much makeup. She doesnโt enter the living room, but goes directly to the bedroom, from where, she calls a taxi. She apologizes to Rita, and charges her with congratulating Richler and his fiancรฉe when they arrive at her house.
โBe careful, Tere, about opening your mouth.โ
I feel guilty and treacherous, just as she wants me to feel.
โDo you pardon me, Raquel? Who knows if you would have found Richler attractive, still, after so much time. He looks very old. Who knows? I suppose that these days youโre going out with people much younger than he.โ
The more I speak, the more I make things worse. Itโs better if I keep quiet. Raquel knows and I know that it would have been a perfect shiduch. Richler would have remained in Manhattan, his favorite city. At first, at least, Raquel would have celebrated every one of his pedantries, she would have called him from the airport only to hear his voice, on the way back from a conferenceโฆ To have foreseen it!
Returning from the party, I call Raquel several times.
Her answering machine always repeats the same thingโ โIโm sorry, I canโt speak to you right now.โ But it doesnโt say what I fear to hear: โIโm cutting my veins: Iโm putting my head in the oven; I am swallowing a vial of sleeping pills.โ Each time, I leave her the same message: โPlease, Raquelita, give me a little call so that I wonโt worry. I call her from Miami, too far away to go to see her. Beatriz is not in New York, and I donโt know who else to turn to. I obtain the number of the super of her building, but he tells me that if she doesnโt answer, itโs because sheโs not home, and he refuses to force the door. I occurs to me that I should contact the police to assure myself that everything is in order.
The next morning, Raquel returned my calls.
โI just got home… Iโm sorry that you have been so worried about me. I went to Ben, my boyfriendโs house for a few days,
โI apologize, Raquelโฆ, since it had affected you so, I feared thatโฆโ
โThat I was going to commit suicide for such an old infatuation. That I was going to create a scene from a movie! Come on, Tere! You didnโt say anything at the party, right? Tell me that you didnโt say anything.โ
โI swear to you. Nobody found out. You had a simple old-fashioned migraine. If he had seen you, Richler would have compared you to a Echegaray heroine. Ah, I almost forgot. He reminded me that you were one of his best students; he sends you a big hug, and he asks me to have you write him.โ
โThanks, but no thanksโฆ and letโs not mention this topic again. Agreed?โ
Bernardo Jobson (Vera, provincia de Santa Fe, 1928-Buenos Aires, 1986) fue periodista en los diarios La Opiniรณn y Tiempo Argentino entre otros, traductor y redactor publicitario. Escribiรณ los libros Memorias de un soldado raso y Veinticinco watts, aunque los originales se extraviaron, por lo que estos se consideran irrecuperables; lo mismo sucediรณ con El carnet de Dios, el guiรณn de una de sus obras de teatro inรฉditas, y la recopilaciรณn de notas humorรญsticas Diccionario enciclopรฉdico argentino. Fue miembro de las revistas El Escarabajo de Oro y El Ornitorrinco. El fideo mรกs largo del mundo (Buenos Aires, 1972) es su รบnico libro publicado.
Bernardo Jobson (Vera, Santa Fe province, 1928-Buenos Aires, 1986) was a journalist for the newspapers La Opiniรณn and Tiempo Argentino, among others, as well as a translator and advertising editor. He wrote the books Memoirs of a Private and Twenty-five Watts, although the originals were lost, so they are considered unrecoverable; The same happened with El carnet de Dios, the script for one of his unpublished plays, and the compilation of humorous notes Argentine Encyclopedic Dictionary. He was a member of the magazines El Escarabajo de Oro and El Ornitorrinco. El fideo mรกs largo del mundo (Buenos Aires, 1972) is his only published book.
__________________________________________
From: El fideo mรกs largo del mundo. Buenos Aires: Capital Intelectual, 2008
“Te recuerdo como eras en el รบltimo otoรฑo”
El problema es que el jefe no me lo va a creer. Le he hecho tragar ya tantas milanesas, tantas albรณndigas super-condimentadas, que esto no me lo va a creer. Pienso en alguna excusa potable, pero me da un poco de bronca: ยฟuna vez que tengo una razรณn valedera para ausentarme de la oficina, voy a tener que apelar a una mentira? ยฟTan mal anda el mundo? me pregunto. Pero toda esta filosofรญa de apuro no me absuelve del dolor que tengo desde que me levantรฉ y amenaza con la posibilidad de que la gente me crea un deforme o algo asรญ, al margen de unos chillidos austeros pero evidentes que me transformaron en la mรกxima atracciรณn del dรญa en el subte. En ese momento vuelvo a sentarme y siento como si una tachuela me hubiese penetrado hasta la garganta. Por supuesto, las tachuelas se supone que lo pinchan a uno en el culo y รฉsta es una tachuela de lo mรกs ortodoxa. No me puedo sentar, no me puedo quedar parado, no puedo quedarme un minuto mรกs en ninguna posiciรณn. Y te guste o no, jefecito, allรก voy. Con la verdad no temo ni ofendo y me paro frente al escritorio del salmรณnido.
โPlata no hay โme atajaโ. Y si necesitรกs plata porque se te muriรณ algรบn pariente, antes me traรฉs el certificado de defunciรณn. Mira, ni siquiera con el certificado. รnicamente contra presentaciรณn del cadรกver.
โJefe, no quiero plataโฆ โpor ahora, porque en ese momento pienso que en una de รฉsas voy a tener que comprar un remedio y ante Duraciรณn 23โ04โโ presentaciรณn de receta no me va a decir que no. Mirรก vos, me digo, ยฟcรณmo no se me ocurriรณ antes este yeite?
โNi ahora ni nunca, ni siquiera a fin de mes. ยฟSabรฉs que sos el รบnico en la historia de esta empresa que cobra por adelantado? Ya tenรฉs un mes de sueldo en vales.
โJefe, perdรณneme, pero no estoy de humor hoy. Todo lo que quiero es permiso para ir al hospital. Hay que ver el conflicto que esto le produce. ยฟQuiรฉn serรก: un pariente, un amigo, algรบn amor lejano? Pero reacciona a tiempo.
โSangre diste la semana pasada. Te fuiste a las 9 y no apareciste en todo el dรญa.
โJefe, usted se equivoca por el fรญsico con que me ha dotado la naturaleza. Que yo mida 1,95 m y pese 102 kilos, no quiere decir que si me sacan medio litro del vital elemento, no quede medio dopado.
โBueno, no sรฉ, pero parientes vivos ya no te quedan, segรบn me consta. ยฟQuiรฉn es el moribundo hoy?
โNadie. Soy yo el que quiere ir al hospital, ahora mismo.
โยฟQuรฉ te pasa? โpregunta enojรกndose consigo mismo porque ya estรก entrando por la variante. Conflictos internos. ยฟY el que yo tengo ahora? ยฟCรณmo le digo la verdad, la cruda verdad?
โJefe, no me lo va a creer. No me lo va creer. No sรฉ quรฉ cara pongo, pero sรญ la que pone รฉl. Se asusta. ยกCorazรณn, hรญgado, pulmรณn! Al mismo tiempo, busca el tรฉrmino รฉse, difรญcil, que cuanto mejor lo dice mรกs gente piensa quรฉ gran mรฉdico se perdiรณ la sociedad.
โยฟAlgรบn trastorno cardiovascular?
Niego con la cabeza.
โยฟVisceral? Tampoco. Como ya estรก a punto de agotar su diagnรณstico precoz, apela a lo increรญble, a lo que no puede ser, ยกen esta รฉpoca!
โMe imagino que no tendrรก nada que ver con el sistema gรฉnitourinario, ยฟno?
โY, mรกs o menos โle contestoโ. Tengo un grano en el culo. Diez minutos despuรฉs estoy parado en el hall del hospital, mirando la guรญa de consultorios externos. Parezco un tailandรฉs reciรฉn llegado, buscando la temperatura media de Jujuy en la guรญa de telรฉfonos. No sรฉ quiรฉn me toca a mรญ: ยฟenfermedades secretas, culologรญa, anologรญa? No figura ninguna, y a esa enfermera de la mesa de entradas no se lo pienso preguntar. Si fuera vieja y buena, todavรญa, pero no tiene mรกs de 25 y hay que ver lo bien que estรก. El portero o algo asรญ acude en mi ayuda. Y como todos los porteros tienen obligaciรณn de ser mรฉdicos frustrados, cancheros viejos, empรญricos de la medicina que lo ven a uno y ya saben lo que uno tiene, me pregunta:
โยฟAlgรบn problema, seรฑor? ยฟBusca a alguien?
โSรญ, la verdad que sรญ. Pero no sรฉ exactamente a quiรฉn. Juro que mi respuesta es totalmente natural, pero รฉl ya sospecha algo turbio.
โยฟAlguno de los doctores?
โSรญ, pero no sรฉ cuรกl puede serโฆ Los puntos suspensivos son benรฉvolamente acogidos por el portero y los estudia unos segundos.
โยฟAlgรบn problemaโฆ? โy la definiciรณn mรฉdica del problema la explica con la mano y apoyรกndose en una sonrisa comprensiva y paternalโ.
–Me parece que usted busca dermatologรญa. Primer piso, consultorio 23. Dรญgale al doctor que lo mando yo.
โยฟPerdรณn, dermatologรญa? Yโฆ ยฟquรฉ atienden allรญ? Quiero decir, si uno tieneโฆ
โEh, por favor โme asegura canchero al extremoโ. Yo tambiรฉn tuve que ir cuando era jovenโฆโy luego de asegurarse de que nadie pueda verlo, agrega: โ Tres veces. Claro, eran otros tiempos, ยฟno?
โY sรญ, no va a comparar โle ratifico, mientras pienso que dermatologรญa no puede ser. Que la pared del culo me duele, no hay duda, pero no le veo relaciรณn. Encima, me duele cada vez mรกs y antes de tener que relatar, por segunda vez, la cruda verdad, me tiro un lance y le digo:
โCreo que es ortopedia. Como a cualquier personaje orillero, lo tumba el asombro.
โยฟOrtopedia? Pero si usted camina lo mรกs bien. โNo vaya a creer. Hay momentos en que no puedo. Estรก totalmente decepcionado. Todo un caso social que รฉl creรญa tener como primicia absoluta se le va diluyendo.
โOrtopedia โle insistoโ: ยฟNo quiere decir que a uno lo curan delโฆ?
โDรญgame, seรฑor โme pregunta ya totalmente ofendidoโ ยฟA usted quรฉ le duele? โBueno, para serle franco, me duele el culo, ยฟquรฉ quiere que le haga? No tiene ninguna anรฉcdota al respecto y no sรฉ si me la contarรญa aรบn en el caso contrario. Ya me odia, directamente.
โVaya a la guardia. Ahรญ lo van a atender. Parece mentira. Cuando me dispongo a irme, la vocaciรณn lo traiciona y me dice: โTรณmese un Geniol. O dos. Le agradezco la receta magistral y enfilo para la guardia. El continente americano se ha enfermado hoy y me pongo en la cola.
Delante mรญo hay un tipo justo para que lo atienda el portero. La dimensiรณn de la fila me hace dudar sobre si llegarรฉ vivo a que me atiendan, pero pienso que esto me da el tiempo suficiente para ver quรฉ le digo a la mina que estรก sentada en un escritorio y distribuyendo el juego como un hรกbil mediocampista: usted allรญ, usted acรก, hoy estรก prohibido enfermarse del hรญgado, el reumatรณlogo tiene hepatitis. Pienso en lo que voy a decirle: โMe duele el recto (y todo el mundo pensando quรฉ lรกstima, un muchacho con ese fรญsico y maricรณn).
โQuiero que me revisen el recto (y la misma conclusiรณn, ahora ya sin ninguna duda sobre mi desviaciรณn sexual).
โBusco al rectรณlogo (y lo mismo, รฉste quiere disimular que es maricรณn, lo cual no deja de ser peor. Por lo menos, que afronte su desgracia con altivez, caramba). Cuando faltan dos tipos, no sรฉ todavรญa quรฉ voy a decirle, pero el punto que estรก delante mรญo me puede salvar. A ver cรณmo le explica รฉl que tiene los bichitos juguetones y entonces yo aprovecho la bolada, el ambiente turbio ya que tiene antecedente y lo mรญo no trasciende. Cuando le llega el turno, la enfermera le pregunta nombre, apellido, edad, domicilio y por poco hincha de quiรฉn. Con soberbia cara de otario, me acerco para escuchar el crucial diรกlogo.
โยฟQuรฉ problema tiene? A punto de caรฉrsele la cara de vergรผenza por lo frรกgil ser humano que es, responde:
โTengo una uรฑa encarnada. Pienso en la famosa clรญnica del diagnรณstico que podrรญamos fundar el portero y yo y luego de dar mi filiaciรณn, me mira y me pregunta con la mirada, quรฉ problema tengo. Yo, mudo. Finalmente, accede al ritual.
โยฟQuรฉ problema tiene, seรฑor?
โBueno, tengo un dolor. Apoya la cabeza en la palma y me vuelve a mirar. Estรก esperando que yo le diga dรณnde.
โยฟSรญ? โme pregunta dejando en el aire: quรฉ me dice.
โSรญ โle contesto. El agitadรญsimo diรกlogo no deja de constituir una escena pintoresca que matiza la espera de todos los pacientes. Todos miran. Detrรกs mรญo, no hay nadie. Esto puede durar todo el dรญa, pienso. Ayรบdame, miss Nightingale. Vos sabรฉs de estas cosas.
โยฟDolores durante la micciรณn? โme pregunta sutilmente. Dolores durante la micciรณn. Parece el nombre de una mina de la sociedad colombiana, pienso.
โNo โle contesto. Y con un gesto le indico que siga intentando.
โยฟDolores gรฉnito-urinarios? โme pregunta un poco enojada, y antes de que se le ocurra la prรณxima posibilidad dolorosa, un sifilรณlogo frustrado opina en voz baja para que lo oigan todos: โDebe ser para dermatologรญa, seรฑorita.
โSeรฑor, por favor, no podemos estar todo el dรญa con esto. Si usted no me dice lo que le pasaโฆ
–ยฟProblemas gรฉnito-urinarios? โinsiste. โSeรฑorita โle digo con tono lastimeroโ. No son gรฉnito-urinarios, peroโฆ alguna relaciรณn tiene, no sรฉ. El recto, ยฟtiene algo que ver con el sistema? Claro, la palabra era un cheque al portador. La noticia recorre todo el hospital, pero el epicentro del fenรณmeno se centra en la guardia. El tipo de la uรฑa encarnada me mira diciรฉndome con los ojos no te da vergรผenza, si yo fuera tu padre, te volvรญa a romper el culo, pero a patadas, y una madre le dice a su hijo, vos venรญ para acรก y lo protege instintivamente del deleznable sujeto. La enfermera, repuesta de la noticia, anota en la planilla y me dice que me siente. Pienso que si me siento, muero, ahรญ nomรกs, sumariamente. El mรฉdico pasa por allรญ en ese momento, y la enfermera lo detiene.
Noto que habla de mรญ, el tipo me mira, le dice que sรญ, enseguida vuelvo y sale. Como, pese a todo, ella me ama, me informa que enseguida me van a atender. La decisiรณn provoca la tradicional reacciรณn popular, hay murmullos contra la aborrecible enfermera, pero en medio de la indignaciรณn general, surge la voz de la madre del niรฑo que dirigiรฉndose a nadie, es decir, a todos, dice:
โClaro, y encima los atienden primero.
La configuraciรณn edilicia de la guardia propiamente dicha es un monumento a la discreciรณn. Con un grabador y una filmadora uno podrรญa, en diez minutos, escribir los diez tomos del Testut. El mรฉdico me pregunta quรฉ me pasa. Debe tener 22 aรฑos a lo sumo. ยฟEn quรฉ aรฑo estarรกs? ยฟYa rendiste Culo vos?, me pregunto.
โMire โle explicoโ. Desde ayer tengo un dolor bรกrbaro en el ano. Y ahora ya no puedo mรกs. No puedo sentarme, no puedo estar parado, me duele si hablo.
โBueno, vamos a ver. Venga por aquรญ. Y a medida que recorremos el pasillo, va descorriendo las cortinas de los boxes, no sin provocar frecuentes chillidos, indignados por favores y actitudes insensatas de quienes se ven sorprendidos con paรฑos menores a media asta. Encontramos uno vacรญo y me ordena que me desnude mientras รฉl enseguida vuelve. En el box de al lado, el de la uรฑa encarnada pega un grito y se traga una puteada que hubiera involucrado hasta el mรกs remoto antecesor de la enfermera. Pienso que la verdad esto es mejor tomรกrselo a joda y cagarse de risa. A la sola menciรณn del verbo defectivo, reflejo condicionado dirรญa Pavlov, me entran ganas de ir al baรฑo, vรญa recto. Lo รบnico que faltaba, me digo, que me agarren ganas de cagar. El grito del de la uรฑa encarnada va a parecer un susurro de amor comparado con el mรญo. Frรกgil espiritual que es uno trato de engaรฑarme y me digo que ya caguรฉ. Mentira, me grita mi conciencia, mientras pienso que algรบn dรญa debo escribir un ensayo sobre la vida y la caca: dos cosas difรญciles de aguantar.
La temperatura ambiente no es la mรกs propicia para quedarse totalmente en pelotas, y me dejo puesta la camisa y los zapatos. Me siento en la camilla y me observo el sistema gรฉnito-urinario que dirรญa el portero. Da lรกstima: parece el experimento de un jรญbaro que ha reducido un bandoneรณn. Cuando el de la uรฑa encarnada opina que prefiere que le corten el pie antes de que se atrevan a tocarle la uรฑa otra vez, entra el futuro mรฉdico, orgullo de la familia.
โPรณngase en cuclillas โme ordena.
Me pongo en cuclillas y pienso que lo รบnico que falta es que suene un disparo y salga a buscar la meta.
โAbra un poco mรกs las nalgas. Las abro.
โUn poco mรกs โinsiste.
โDoctor, no crea que no quiero colaborar con la ciencia, pero mido 1,95. El tipo se rรญe y me dice que estรก bien.
Para distraerme un poco, bajo la cabeza y miro hacia atrรกs. Me pregunto cรณmo no larga todo y se manda mudar. El espectรกculo es deplorable, pero siento dos manos frรญas en ambos glรบteos y dos pulgares acercรกndose sugestivamente por ambos flancos. Instintivamente, me hago el estrecho.
โNo, por favor, quรฉdese tranquilo. Asรญ no puedo hacer nada.
Le pido perdรณn y rindo la ciudadela. Los pulgares se asumen y se acercan a las puertas de palacio ya. Vos tรณcame nomรกs, tรณcame apenas y que Dios te ampare, pienso. Ostensiblemente acuciadas por la posiciรณn decรบbito panzal, las ganas de ir al baรฑo se acentรบan y ahora sรญ, me niego rotundamente.
El tipo se me enoja y como ya ha entrado en confianza โdespuรฉs de todo me ha tocado el culoโ me dice che, dรฉjese de embromar, parece mentira. De golpe sospecha algo y me pregunta:
โยฟQuรฉ le pasa? โDoctor, perdรณneme, ยฟpero usted quiere creer que justo ahora? Se agarra la cabeza y vuelve a reรญr.
โEstรก bien, pero aguรกntese. No hay otra soluciรณn. Yo necesito solo unos segundos para palparlo.
Tengo ganas de contestarle que yo tambiรฉn, pero para cagarme. No creo que el chiste le caiga bien.
Como soy un gil, me pregunta cosas a medida que empieza otra vez la invasiรณn.
โยฟEs la primera vez que le pasa?
โY la รบltima. Aunque tenga que cagar por la oreja el resto de mi vida. En ese momento, siento un alambre de pรบa recorriendo con libre albedrรญo las paredes iniciales del recto. Y pienso lo que debe estar gozando el de la uรฑa encarnada. Pego un grito.
โQuรฉdese como estรก โme ordenaโ. Relaje los mรบsculos. Enseguida vuelvo. Escucho que en el pasillo le pregunta a la enfermera dรณnde hay vaselina. La mera menciรณn del noble lubricante para usos o aberraciones varias me incita a salir corriendo despavorido, cuando escucho que la cortinita se corre y entra alguien, doctora ella, pasea la mirada por los hermosos y lascivos glรบteos, luego va hacia el sistema gรฉnito urinario propiamente dicho, me mira inquisitivamente, se echa hacia atrรกs y vuelve a investigar la decoraciรณn en general, tuerce la cabeza convencida de que no hay nada que hacer, todo serรญa inรบtil, pide perdรณn y sale. En cualquier momento deciden dejarme acรก toda la maรฑana y cobran entrada, pienso. Se vuelve a correr la cortinita y entra mi anรณlogo de cabecera con un frasco de vaselina como para revisar un mamut. Lo deja sobre una mesita y procede a colocarse unos guantes de goma.
โยฟEs para evitar el embarazo? โle digo haciรฉndome el gracioso. No me contesta porque los guantes son mรกs viejos que el tobillo y no sabe por dรณnde empezar. Cuando logra ponรฉrselos, le asoman dos dedos, lรกnguidos y desnudos.
โUn momentito โme ruega.
โDoctor โlo paroโ ยฟtengo que quedarme asรญ obligatoriamente? Me duelen los brazos, sin contar con que cualquiera puede entrar como reciรฉn. El show, francamente, es un asco.
โNo, quรฉdese asรญ. Y abra las nalgas todo lo que pueda. Sale y enseguida vuelve, esta vez acompaรฑado de un colega, futuro anรณlogo.
โยฟFรญstula? โNo sรฉ. Todavรญa no pude palpar.
โยฟDolor?
โSรญ.
โNo se ve inflamaciรณn โdice el reciรฉn llegado desde la frontera con Bolivia.
โยฟQuรฉ te parece?
โNo sรฉ. Palpรก a ver quรฉ pasa. Yo Ano cinco todavรญa no di.
El colega desaparece. De pronto, la situaciรณn se hace tensa. Me vuelve a abrir sin mรกs trรกmite, se acerca todo lo que puede y, jugado, decide auscultar de zurda. Le miro el tamaรฑo del dedo, manos de pianista mรกs bien no tiene.
โEscรบcheme bien. Ahora va en serio. O se deja palpar o se va a su mรฉdico.
โMe dejo palpar. Cuando las galaxias explotaron en el nรบcleo central del universo, todo fue, durante un instante, un rojo que nunca se volverรก a repetir, una explosiรณn desde el seno mรกs รญntimo de cada una de las estrellas que se expandieron junto con nuestro sol por el espacio buscando con sus puntas el borde pascaliano de la esfera cรณsmica, horadando el infinito como espadas de Dios, mientras el sol, vagabundo desde la eternidad, buscaba exactamente el centro de su pequeรฑo sistema, calcinando todo lo que encontraba a su paso en una carrera devastadora que separรณ continentes, desequilibrรณ el eje de rotaciรณn de los astros, emergieron volcanes que durante millones de siglos se aburrieron en las entraรฑas de la tierra y estallaron al fin como bestias, una estampida de bรบfalos inconmensurables vomitando el rojo inicial, hasta que Dios dijo basta, paremos aquรญ si lo que queremos es crear un planeta.
Salgo del quirรณfano ad hoc, horadado y profanado en lo mรกs รญntimo, con la orden de volver maรฑana para ser observado por el especialista en el asunto, sujeto que me aplicarรก un aparato que se llamarรก todo lo rectoscopio que quiera, pero que no deja de ser un fierro en el culo. En ese momento, el tipo de la uรฑa encarnada, apoyรกndose lastimosamente en uno de los talones, va tambiรฉn hacia la salida. Todavรญa no he podido saber por quรฉ, le sonrรญo diciรฉndole quรฉ dรญa, ยฟno?, al tiempo que camino con un ritmo que ya lo quisiera Marรญa Fรฉlix yendo al encuentro de su amante para matarlo con premeditaciรณn y alevosรญa.
Sorpresivamente, siento una de las famosas puntadas y me agarro del desuรฑado para no caerme, gesto civil y sin implicancias que el tipo interpreta como amor a primera vista, se me vuelve a escapar otra sonrisa, actitud que no deja de empeorar las cosas y el tipo โmufa, impotencia, dolor y asco medianteโ levanta instintivamente el pie desuรฑado y Bernabรฉ Ferreyra en su tarde mรกs gloriosa me encaja una patada en el centro mismo del culo. Por un instante nos miramos, sorprendidos.
Un segundo despuรฉs, los dos, al unรญsono, pegamos el grito inicial, el llamado de amor indio, Tarzรกn navegando de liana en liana y convocando a todo el continente africano con voz tomada por un intempestivo resfrรญo e inmediatamente damos comienzo oficial al primer festival mundial de cante jondo, no sin matizarlo con pasos de baile calรฉ, y danza rabiosamente moderna, todo por bulerรญas.
De: El fideo mรกs largo del mundo, Capital Intelectual, 2008
The problem is that the boss is not going to believe me, I have already made him swallow so many schnitzels, so many super-spiced meat balls, that he is not going to believe this on. I think about an acceptable excuse, but it makes me a bit angry. For once, I have a worthwhile excuse for to be out of the office. Am I going to have to resort to a lie? Is the world in that bad shape? I wonder.
But all this hurried philosophy doesnโt absolve me from the pain that I have had since I woke up and the threat that people consider me deformed or something like that, on the edge of some austere but evident squeeling that transformed me into the greatest attraction on the subway. At that moment I sit down again, and I feel as if a tack had penetrated me as far as my throat. Of course, tacks suppose that they stab you in the ass, and this is a thumbtack of the most orthodox style. I canโt remain standing another minute in any position.
And like it or no, my dear boss, here I come. With the truth on my side, I donโt fear or offend, and I stop in front of the desk of the big fish.
โThereโs no more money,โ he stopped me. โAnd if you need money because some relative or another died, donโt even bring me the death certificate; only when I want to see the cadaver.
โBoss, I donโt need moneyโฆ nor right now, because when the time comes, I will have to buy a remedy, and with the prescription for โDuration 23-4, you wonโt be able to say no. Look, I say to myself, how come I didnโt think of that trick earlier.
โNot now, not ever, not even at the end of the month. Do you know that you are the only one in the history of this firm who gets his money in advance?โ
โBoss, pardon me, but Iโm not on a good mood today. All I want is permission to go to the hospital. You must understand what a problem this causes. Who might it be: a relative, a friend, a former lover? But ask fast.
โLast week, you gave blood. You left at 9, and you didnโt reappear for the rest of the day.โ
โBoss, you are mistaken about the body that nature gave me. That I measure 1, 95
and weigh 102 kilos, doesnโt mean that if they tale half a liter of the element of life, I donโt come out half doped.โ
โOkay, I donโt know but you no longer have any living relatives, as I understand. Who is the dying one today?โ
โNobody, I am the one who needs to go to the hospital, right now.โ Internal conflicts. And what do I have now? How can I tell you the truth, the crude truth?
โBoss, you are not going to believe me. I donโt know which face to put on it, but I do I but I do know what it does. Shocking. Heart, liver, lung! At the same time, Iโm looking for the right term, difficult, that the better itโs said, people think that the great doctor finished off society.
โAny cardiovascular disorder?
I shake my head.
-Visceral? Neither. As he is about to exhaust his early diagnosis, he appeals to the incredible, to what cannot be, at this time!
โI imagine it has nothing to do with the genitourinary system, right?
โAnd, more or less โI answerโ. I have a pain in my ass. Ten minutes later I am standing in the hospital hall, looking at the outpatient clinic directory. I look like a recently arrived Thai, looking for the average temperature of Jujuy in the phone book. I do not know who touches me: me toca a mรญ: secret diseases, culology, anology? There isn’t one listed, and I’m not going to ask that nurse at the admissions desk. If she were old and good, still, but she is not more than 25 and you have to see how good she is. The doorman or something like that comes to my aid. And since all the doormen have to be frustrated doctors, old cancheros, medical experts who see you and already know what you have, he asks me:
โAny problem, sir? Look for someone?
-Yes, indeed. But I don’t know exactly who. I swear my answer is totally natural, but he already suspects something shady.
โAny of the doctors?
โYes, but I don’t know what it could be… The ellipsis is benevolently welcomed by the doorman and he studies them for a few seconds.
-Any problemโฆ? โand the medical definition of the problem is explained with his hand and supported by an understanding and paternal smileโ.
–It seems to me that you are looking for dermatology. First floor, office 23. Tell the doctor I sent him.
โExcuse me, dermatology? And… what do they serve there? I mean, if one has…
โHey, please,โ Canchero assures me to the extreme. I also had to go when I was youngโฆ โ and after making sure that no one can see it, he adds: โ Three times. Of course, those were different times, right?
โAnd yes, it is not going to compare โI confirm, while I think that dermatology cannot be. That the wall of my ass hurts, there is no doubt, but I don’t see any connection. On top of that, it hurts me more and more and before I have to tell the harsh truth for the second time, I take a chance and tell him:
โI think it’s orthopedics. Like any coastal character, he is struck down by astonishment.
-Orthopedics? But if you walk the best. โDon’t believe it. There are times when I can’t. He is totally disappointed. An entire social case that he thought he had as an absolute first is being diluted.
โOrthopedics โI insistโ: Doesn’t that mean that one is cured ofโฆ?
“Tell me, sir,” he asks me, now totally offended, “what hurts you?” โWell, to be honest, my ass hurts, what do you want me to do to it? He doesn’t have any anecdotes about it and I don’t know if he would tell me even if he didn’t. He already hates me, directly.
โGo to the guard. They will attend to him there. It seems like a lie. When I’m about to leave, his vocation betrays him and he tells me: -Take a Geniol. Or two. I thank you for the masterful recipe and I head for the guard. The American continent got sick today and I’m getting in line.
In front of me there is a guy just right for the doorman to attend to. The size of the line makes me doubt whether I will arrive alive to be treated, but I think this gives me time enough to see what I say to the girl who is sitting at a desk and distributing the game like a skilled midfielder: you there, you here, today it is forbidden to get liver disease, the rheumatologist has hepatitis. I think about what I’m going to say to him: โMy rectum hurts (and everyone thinking what a shame, a boy with that physique and a faggot).
โI want them to check my rectum (and the same conclusion, now without any doubt about my sexual deviation).
โI’m looking for the rectologist (and the same thing, he wants to hide that he’s a faggot, which is worse. At least, let him face his misfortune with haughtiness, geez). When two guys are missing, I still don’t know what I’m going to say to him, but the point in front of me can save me. Let’s see how he explains that he has playful little bugs and then I take advantage of the nonsense, the murky atmosphere since it has a history and mine does not transcend. When her turn comes, the nurse asks her name, surname, age, address and almost who she is a fan of. With the proud face of an otario, I approach to listen to the crucial dialogue.
โWhat problem do you have? On the verge of losing his face with shame at what a fragile human being he is, he responds:
โI have an ingrown toenail. I think about the famous diagnostic clinic that the doorman and I could found and after giving my affiliation, he looks at me and asks me with his eyes, what problem I have. I, dumb. Finally, agree to the ritual.
โWhat problem do you have, sir?
โWell, I have a pain. He rests his head on his palm and looks at me again. He’s waiting for me to tell him where.
-Yeah? โhe asks me, leaving it hanging in the air: what are you saying to me?
โYes โI answer. The very hectic dialogue still constitutes a picturesque scene that qualifies the wait of all the patients. Everyone looks. Behind me, there is no one. This could last all day, I think. Help me, Miss Nightingale. You know about these things.
โPain during urination? โI ask myself subtly. Pain during urination. It seems like the name of a mine in Colombian society, I think.
-I do not answer. And with a gesture he tells him to keep trying.
โGenito-urinary pain? โshe asks me a little angrily, and before the next painful possibility occurs to her, a frustrated syphilologist gives his opinion in a low voice so that everyone can hear: โIt must be for dermatology, miss.
โSir, please, we can’t spend all day with this. If you don’t tell me what’s wrong…
–Genito-urinary problems? – she insists. โMiss,โ I say in a pitiful tone. “They are not genito-urinary, but… there is some relationship, I don’t know. Does the rectum have anything to do with the system? Of course, the word was a bearer check. The news spread throughout the hospital, but the epicenter of the phenomenon is centered on the guard. The guy with the ingrown toenail looks at me telling me with his eyes, you’re not ashamed, if I were your father, I’d beat your ass back, but with kicks, and a mother tells her son, come here and protect him instinctively despicable subject. The nurse, informed of the news, makes a note on the form and tells me to sit down. I think that if I sit down, I die, right there, summarily. The doctor passes by at that moment, and the nurse stops him.
I notice that he is talking about me, the guy looks at me, says yes, I immediately come back, and he leaves. Since, despite everything, she loves me, she informs me that they will take care of me right away. The decision provokes the traditional popular reaction, there are murmurs against the hateful nurse, but in the midst of the general indignation, the voice of the child’s mother emerges and, addressing no one, that is, everyone, says:
โOf course, and on top of that they serve them first.
The building configuration of the guard itself is a monument to discretion. With a tape recorder and a video recorder one could, in ten minutes, write the ten volumes of the Testut. The doctor asks me what’s wrong. Must be 22 years old at most. What year will you be in? Have you already given up your ass? I wonder.
โLook โI explainโ. Since yesterday I have had tremendous pain in my anus. And now I can’t take it anymore. I can’t sit, I can’t stand, it hurts if I talk.
-Well let’s see. Come here. And as we walk down the hallway, he draws back the curtains of the boxes, not without causing frequent squeals, outraged by the favors and senseless attitudes of those who are surprised with lower cloths at half-mast. We find an empty one and he orders me to undress while he immediately returns. In the next box, the one with the ingrown toenail screams and swallows a bullshit that would have involved even the nurse’s most remote ancestor. I think the truth is it’s better to take it lightly and laugh your ass off. At the mere mention of the defective verb, a conditioned reflex, Pavlov would say, I feel like going to the bathroom, straight ahead. The only thing missing, I tell myself, was to make me want to shit. The cry of the one with the ingrown toenail is going to seem like a whisper of love compared to mine. Fragile spiritual person that he is, I try to deceive myself and tell myself that I already screwed up. Lie, my conscience screams at me, as I think that one day I must write an essay about life and poop: two things that are difficult to endure.
The ambient temperature is not the most conducive to staying completely naked, and I leave my shirt and shoes on. I sit on the stretcher and observe the genito-urinary system as the porter would say. It’s a shame: it seems like the experiment of a jรญbaro who has reduced a bandoneรณn. When the one with the ingrown toenail thinks that he prefers to have his foot cut off before anyone dares to touch his toenail again, the future doctor, the pride of the family, enters.
“Squat down,” he orders me.
I squat down and think that the only thing left is for a shot to ring out and go out to find the goal.
โOpen your buttocks a little more. I open them.
โA little more โhe insists.
โDoctor, don’t think that I don’t want to collaborate with science, but I’m 1.95 tall. The guy laughs and tells me it’s okay.
To distract myself a little, I lower my head and look back. I wonder how he doesn’t just leave everything and order a move. The spectacle is deplorable, but I feel two cold hands on both buttocks and two thumbs approaching suggestively from both sides. Instinctively, I play dumb.
โNo, please, stay calm. So I can’t do anything.
I ask your forgiveness and surrender the citadel. The thumbs are assumed and they approach the palace doors now. Just touch me, just touch me and may God protect you, I think. Ostensibly urged by the prone position, the urge to go to the bathroom is accentuated and now, I flatly refuse.
The guy gets angry at me and since he has already gained confidence – after all he has touched my ass – he tells me hey, stop joking, it seems like a lie. Suddenly he suspects something and asks me:
-What happens? โDoctor, forgive me, but do you want to believe that right now? He grabs his head and laughs again.
โListen to me well. Now it’s serious. Either let yourself be palpated or go to your doctor.
โI let myself be felt. When the galaxies exploded in the central core of the universe, everything was, for an instant, a red that will never be repeated, an explosion from the most intimate core of each of the stars that expanded together with our sun through space. searching with its points for the Pascalian edge of the cosmic sphere, piercing the infinity like swords of God, while the sun, wandering since eternity, sought exactly the center of its small system, burning everything in its path in a devastating race. that separated continents, unbalanced the axis of rotation of the stars, volcanoes emerged that for millions of centuries were bored in the bowels of the earth and finally exploded like beasts, a stampede of immeasurable buffaloes vomiting the initial red, until God said enough , let’s stop here if what we want is to create a planet.
I leave the ad hoc operating room, pierced and desecrated in my most intimate part, with the order to return tomorrow to be observed by the specialist in the matter, a subject who will apply a device to me that will be called whatever rectoscope you want, but which does not stop be an iron in the ass. At that moment, the guy with the ingrown toenail, resting pitifully on one of his heels, also goes towards the exit. I still haven’t been able to figure out why, I smile at him telling him what a day, right?, at the same time that I walk with a rhythm that Marรญa Fรฉlix would want, going to meet her lover to kill him with premeditation and treachery.
Surprisingly, I feel one of the famous stitches and I hold on to my nail to keep from falling, a civil gesture without implications that the guy interprets as love at first sight, another smile escapes me again, an attitude that keeps making things worse and the type โ mufa, impotence, pain and disgust through โ instinctively raises his bare foot and Bernabรฉ Ferreyra in his most glorious afternoon kicks me in the very center of the ass. For a moment we looked at each other, surprised.
ย ย ย ย ย ย A second later, the two of us, in unison, gave the initial cry, the call of Indian love, Tarzan sailing from vine to vine and summoning the entire African continent with a voice taken by an untimely cold and immediately we officially began the first world festival of cante jondo, not without qualifying it with calรฉ dance steps, and rabidly modern dance, all by bulerรญas.
Samuel, o Shmuel, Rollansky naciรณ en 1902, en una familia Litvish (es decir, E. Litvak) que residรญa en Varsovia. Tuvo una educaciรณn judรญa tradicional, asรญ como una educaciรณn secular en el gimnasio, algo un poco inusual para los inmigrantes en Argentina, donde llegรณ en 1922. De 1934 a 1973 escribiรณ una columna diaria para Di Yidishe Tsaytung de Buenos Aires. Rollansky dirigiรณ la rama argentina de la YIVO o IWOโฆ Ademรกs, fue autor de sketches teatrales, cuentos, ensayos e historias de la literatura y la prensa yiddish en Argentina y otros lugares. Es mejor recordado como el editor de Musterverk fun der Yidisher literatura, una serie de 100 volรบmenes de los clรกsicos de la literatura yiddish.
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Samuel, or Shmuel, Rollansky was born in 1902, into a Litvish (i. E. Litvak) family residing in Warsaw. He had a traditional Jewish as well as a secular gymnasium education, something slightly unusual for immigrants to Argentina, where he arrived in 1922. From 1934 to 1973 he wrote a daily column for Di Yidishe Tsaytung of Buenos Aires. Rollansky directed the Argentinean branch of the YIVO or IWO… In addition, he authored theater sketches, short stories, essays and histories of Yiddish literature and press in Argentina and elsewhere. He is best remembered as the editor of Musterverk fun der yidisher literatur, a 100-volume series of the classics of Yiddish literary classics.
Dos manos se apretaron cรกlidamente, entrelazados en el tradicional saludo de paz.
Los ojos opacos de Salomรณn de pronto se relucieron. En sus mejillas apareciรณ, como surgido desde adentro, un tono rosado. Se sintieron reconfortado, como un errante en tierra lejana y reseca, que ha encontrado un manantial, y la sombra de una arboleda. Su corazรณn emitรญa mรบsica, latรญa impetuosamente, en la espera de algo.
–Una montaรฑa no se encuentra a la otraโฆ
–ยฟPero un ser humano a su semejante?
— ยฟQuiรฉn podrรญa creerlo?
–Realmente, ยกMe alegra haberlo encontrado!
Salomรณn sonrรญa que la expresiรณn โme alegra verloโ. Pronunciada con sincera satisfacciรณn, parecรญa besarlo. Comenzรณ a ingerir aquellas palabras y tuvo la impresiรณn de que el hombre que lo habรญa dominado, se estaba aquietando en sus adentros, y que su agotamiento se disolvรญa. Estaba cansado a causa del prolongado caminar por las calles. Le parecรญa, a veces, que ya no se dirigรญa a lugares que habรญa anotado durante su lectura del diario, sino que se habรญa extraviado y caminaba errando, puesto que esas andanzas terminaban en la nada, puesto que esas andanzas lo recibรญan con desconfianza y como si sospecharan de รฉl, quizรกs porque allรญ la lengua que se le trababa, como si habรญese soรฑando y dormido. No encontraba aquello que buscaba; mientras lo que lo que sรญ hallaba, no concordaba con con la finalidad de sus indagaciones. Lo que se proponรญa era introducirse en la rueda de trabajos y ocupaciones que le eran ajenos; no obstante, no habรญa logrado formar parte de ella. Sus palabras solรญan enredarse y suscitaban desconfianza y sospechas.
Pese a todo, รฉl, Salomรณn, no se rendรญa. Proseguรญa sus andanzas y bรบsquedas. Mรกs bien caminaba errado.
–No siempre le va mal a uno โsolรญa consolarse a sรญ mismo. Es verdad que hace ya ocho semanas que estoy sin trabajo, pero uno no debe perder el รกnimo.
Su madre le habรญa enseรฑado la sentencia: โLa pรฉrdida de dinero es tan sรณlo perdida a medias; la pรฉrdida del รกnimo es pรฉrdida total y absolutaโ.
Y con este รกnimo, habรญa golpeado en una puerta ajena. Golpeaba con poca esperanza. No obstante, llegรณ a golpear.
Le abriรณ la puerta una joven, aparentemente no judรญa, cuyo cabello formaba bucles negros y brillosos. Despuรฉs de haber escuchado sus ruegos, dio la vuelta como si estuviera danzando, mostrรณ la elasticidad de su cintura y desapareciรณ de una puerta. Luego, le dijo que esperara y desapareciรณ detrรกs de una puerta, a la que cerrรณ con la traba.
Salomรณn quedรณ parado, como si fuese un mendigo. Se sentรญa contrariado a causa de esta larga espera frente a la puerta y ya estaba contemplando la posibilidad de alejarse sin decir nada a nadie. Pero con su mente cruzรณ la imagen de su esposa y de la criatura, que estaban esperando, confiando en que al y al cabo podrรญa conseguir algรบn trabajo y trajera algo a la casa; de ahรญ que su paciencia se fortaleciรณ y รฉl se tornรณ mรกs perseverante.
–ยฟQuรฉ se puede hacer โ se dijo a sรญ mismoโcuando el destino de uno depende de otros? Luego de una prolongada y paciente espera, la puerta se abriรณ. Para sorpresa de Salomรณn, la persona que habรญa salido a su encuentro era un hombre, circunstancia que le causรณ mucha alegrรญa desde el primer momento. De inmediato, dos manos se apretaron fuertemente, saludรกndose con el tradicional Sholem Aleรญjem.
–ยฟA quiรฉn ven mis ojos? jSeรฑor Salomรณn!
–Seรฑor Herman! Mendelโฆ
–Manuel โcorrigiรณ el dueรฑo de la casaโManuelโฆ
–Manuelโฆ quรฉ sorpresaโฆ
–Es realmente una sorpresa. jEntre, entre por favor! Entre y siรฉnteseโฆ asรญโฆ ahora, cuรฉnteme quรฉ es lo que lo que trae por aquรญ y cรณmo dio usted con mi direcciรณn. Quiere bebe algoโฆ –Gracias. Gracias โmientras hablaba, Salomรณn se sentรญa mรกs animado y fuerte—, he aquรญ que usted mismo puede ver cรณmo la vida lleva encuentros inesperados. Una montaรฑa no se encontrarรก con otra montaรฑa, pero un ser humano sรญ se encontrarรก con otro.
–Pero ยฟcรณmo encontrรณ mi direcciรณn? Seguramente por la guรญa telefรณnicaโฆ
–Eh, ยกel pan cotidiano es de uno es la mejor guรญa telefรณnica!
–ยฟUsted trabaja?
–Precisamente por este asunto vengo a visitarlo a su fรกbrica.
–ยฟAlgรบn negocio?
Salomรณn sonriรณ. Hubo amargura en esta sonrisa.
–Sรญโฆ negocioโฆ vengo a vender mis manosโฆ ยฟdarรญa algo por ellas?
El industrial quiso manifestar que era una persona amable y de confianza y dijo: –Tonterรญasโฆ comprar, no comprarโฆ ยกUsted sigue siendo un poeta!
–Y ยกquรฉ clase de poeta! โrepuso Salomรณn, dirigiendo las palabras mรกs a sรญ mismo que al dueรฑo de la casa e inclinรณ la cabeza.
Esta sรญ que es una vida con poesรญa. Mi vida es pura poesรญa โdijo con amargura.
Manuel Herman, reciรฉn afeitado, llevaba un traje bien planchado y su cabeza brillaba, por el fijador con que el que habรญa untado sus cabellos. Mantenรญa las manos en los bolsillos, mientras escuchaba a su visitante. Se mostrรณ compasivo.
–Asรญ es, asรญ esโฆ cuando llegamos en el mismo barco. Todos pensaban que usted se iba ganar todo el oro de esta Amรฉricaโฆ Un hombre que sabe usar su pluma, cuya lengua es infatigableโฆ ยฟQuiรฉn soy yo en comparaciรณn con usted? Mendel el zapatero e hijo de zapaterosโฆ
Salomรณn sacรณ un paรฑuelito, se secรณ el rostro, como si hubiera cansado de tanto hablar. Hizo un intento de manifestar su bondad y finura:
–Yo no lo envidio y lo felicito de todo corazรณn, seรฑor Herman. Si hablamos de envidia, los hay muchos mรกs grande que usted, para mostrarle mi envidia, Como dice el refrรกn โCuando uno se decide ya a comer porcino, la grasa deberรญa llenarle la boca y gotear el mentรณnโ. Por otra parte, la envidia es para mรญ lo mismo que para la carne porcina para un judรญo muy religioso. Yo me alegro por sus logros, de todo corazรณn. El que lo envidia a usted, ยกojalรก que no tenga nada! Lo que usted tiene, no me quitรณ a mรญ y ยกque lo aproveche!
–Gracias.
–Y bien, ยฟes decir que su fรกbrica es grande?
El โcompaรฑero de viajeโ llevรณ a Salomรณn mรกs adentro del patio, bajo un techo de lata, numerosas mรกquinas, mesitas y estanterรญas sobre las paredes. Alrededor una multitud de hombres y mujeres, sumidos en su trabajo. Los estantes estaban abarrotados con grandes y pesados bultos, tan numerosos que cubrรญan el local a lo alto, a lo ancho y a lo largo.
–โ ยกSin mal de ojo! โdijo Salomรณn, fascinado–.
Usted lo hizo todo a lo grande, con planes muy ambiciosos, como puede verse bien. Bienโฆ yoโฆ yoโฆ ยฟtal vez podrรญa conseguir aquรญ pequeรฑo puesto, algo para hacer? Soy del oficio. Ya habรญa trabajadoโฆ
–Lamentablemente โฆ como puede verloโฆ la fรกbrica es grande… pero, tal vez como ve, todos los puestos se encuentran ocupados.
–Sin embargo โcomenzรณ o rogar Salomรณn–. ยฟQuรฉ importancia tiene, en una fรกbrica tan grande como รฉsta, una sola persona mรกs? ยฟAcaso significa algo?
–ยกEntiรฉndame โdijo de pronto el fabricante de tonoโen una fรกbrica grande como รฉsta, una persona significa poco o nada! Peroโฆ ยฟCรณmo decรญrselo? ยฟUsted comprende? Yo no podrรญa soportar ser su patrรณn. Mi corazรณn no me permite ser su patrรณn. Es un juego muy claro y comprensible. Fuimos, en un tiempo, compaรฑeros de viaje, lo que se dice schrif-brider o sea โhermanos de barcoโ. Usted โun descendiente de una familia de richachonesโy yo, un zapatero. Y bien, mi corazรณn no me permiteโฆ
Eh, ยกEsto carece de importancia! โintentรณ Salomรณn minimizar el asunto– ยฟQuรฉ valor tiene hoy en dรญa la alcurnia? ยฟA quiรฉn le interesa actualmente la ascendencia de uno? ยฟAcaso se puede con alcurnia obtener un crรฉdito en algรบn banco? Los tiempos de ahora son otros. Es otra รฉpoca. ยกQuรฉ tiene que ver todo esto con el asunto yo vine a verlo? Soy un obrero que necesita trabajo; usted, un empresario que podrรญa dรกrmelo. Es muy simple. Nada mรกs
–Ah, seรฑor Salomรณn, trabajo es mucho mรกsโฆ
–Claro que es mucho mรกs. Trabajo es pan. Y yo necesito pan. Mi mujer y mi niรฑ0 esperan que yo les lleve ese pedacito de pan.
El industrial, con las manos en los bolsillos, intentรณ estirar su cuerpo como se hubiese querido, poniรฉndose en punto de pies, aparecer mucho mรกs alto de lo que en realidad era, como se pretendiera otorgar una dimensiรณn a sus palabras, moviendo la cabeza, dijo en tono decisivo: –ยกNo puedo, querido amigo! Todo lo que quieras, pero esto no. Si pudiera, harรญa por ti cualquier cosa. Pero mi corazรณn no admite la posibilidad, de que yo me convierta en su patrรณn. Simplemente, no lo puedo hacer. Y, ยฟquรฉ mรกs quiere que te diga?
Traducido del idish por Simja Sneh.
Del libro: Hungier tsu der Zet. โHambre hasta saciarseโ.
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“Ship Brothers”
“Oh, who do I see?” Two hands were warmly squeezed, entwined in the traditional greeting of peace. Solomon’s opaque eyes suddenly glittered. A rosy hue appeared on her cheeks, as if from within. They felt comforted, like a wanderer in a distant and parched land, who has found a spring and the shade of a grove. His heart was making music, beating wildly, waiting for something.
“One mountain does not meet the other… –But a human being does?”
“Who could believe it?”
“Really, I’m glad I found you!”
Solomon smiles than the expression โI’m glad to see youโ. pronounced with sincere satisfaction, it seemed to kiss him. He began to swallow those words and gave the impression of a man who had mastered himsel. He was quieting down inside, andhis exhaustion dissolved. He was tired from the long walk through the streets. It seemed to him, at times, that he was no longer going to places that he had written down while reading the diary, but that he had gotten lost and wandered, since these wanderings ended in nothing, since these wanderings received him with distrust and as if they suspected him, perhaps because his tongue was stuck there, as if he had been dreaming and asleep. He did not find what he was looking for; while what he did find did not agree with the purpose of his inquiries. What he proposed was to enter the wheel of jobs and occupations that were foreign to him; however, he had not managed to become part of it. His words used to get tangled up and aroused mistrust and suspicion. Despite everything, he, Solomon, did not give up. He continued his wanderings and searches. Rather he was walking in the wrong direction.
“It doesn’t always go badly for one,” he used to console himself. It is true that I have been without work for eight weeks now, but one must not lose heart. His mother had taught him the sentence: โThe loss of money is only half lost; loss of spirit is total and utter loss.โ And in this spirit, he had knocked on someone else’s door. He struck with little hope. However, he came to knock. The door was answered by a young woman, apparently not Jewish, whose hair was in shiny black ringlets. Having listened to his request, she turned around as if she were dancing, showed the elasticity of her waist, and disappeared from a door. Then, she told her to wait and disappeared behind a door, which she locked with the latch. Solomon was left standing, as if he were a beggar. He was annoyed by this long wait in front of the door and was already contemplating the possibility of walking away, without saying anything to anyone. But with his mind he crossed the image of his wife and the child, who were waiting, trusting that after all he could get a job and bring something home; hence his patience strengthened and he became more persevering. “What can be done,” he said to himself, “when one’s destiny depends on others?”
“Who do my eyes see? Mr. Solomon!” “Mr. Herman! Mendelโฆ” “Manuel,” corrected the owner of the house, “ManuelโฆManuelโฆ what a surpriseโฆ” “It’s really a surprise. Come in, come in please! Come in and sit downโฆ like thisโฆ now, tell me what you bring here and how you found my address. Want to drink somethingโฆ” “Thank you. Thanks.” As he spoke, Solomon felt more animated and strong, behold, you can see for yourself how life brings unexpected encounters. A mountain will not meet another mountain, but a human being will meet another. “But how did you find my address?” Probably from the phone bookโฆ “Eh, the daily bread is one’s is the best telephone directory!” “You work?” “Precisely for this matter I come to visit you at your factory.” “Any business? Solomon smiled. There was bitterness in this smile.
“Yesโฆ businessโฆ I come to sell my handsโฆ would I give anything for them?” The industrialist wanted to show that he was a kind and trustworthy person and said: “Nonsenseโฆ buy, don’t buyโฆ You’re still a poet!” “And what class of poet!” Solomon replied, directing the words more to himself than to the owner of the house and bowed his head. “This is indeed a life with poetry. My life is pure poetry,” he said bitterly. Manuel Herman, freshly shaved, was wearing a well-pressed suit and his head was shiny from the cream which he had put on his hair. He kept his hands in his pockets as he listened to his visitor. He was compassionate.
“That’s right, that’s right… when we arrived on the same boat. Everyone thought that you were going to win all the gold in this America… A man who knows how to use his pen, whose tongue is indefatigable… Who am I compared to you? Mendel the shoemaker and son of shoemakers…”
Solomon took out a handkerchief, wiped his face, as if he had gotten tired of talking so much. He made an attempt to manifest his kindness and finesse:
“I do not envy you, and I congratulate you with all my heart, Mr. Herman. If we talk about envy, there are many bigger than you, to show you my envy, As the saying goes “When one decides to eat pork, the fat should fill his mouth and drip down his chin.” On the other hand, envy is the same for me as it is for pork for a very religious Jew. I am glad for your achievements, with all my heart. He who envy you, I hope he has nothing! What you have, you did not take from me and make the most of it!”
“Thank you.”
“Well, do you mean that your factory is big?”
The โship bother” took Solomon further into the courtyard. Under a tin roof were numerous machines, small tables and shelves on the walls. Around them, a crowd of men and women, immersed in their work. The shelves were crammed with great, heavy bundles, so numerous that they covered the height, width, and length of the room.
โKeep away the evil eye!”
Solomon said, fascinated. You did everything in a big way, with very ambitious plans, as can be seen. Wellโฆ Iโฆ Iโฆ maybe I could get here a little place, something to do? I’m from the trade. I have already worked…”
“Unfortunately… as you can see… the factory is big… but, perhaps as you can see, all the positions are occupied.”
“However,” Solomon began to plead. “What is the importance, in a factory as big as this, of just one more person? Does it mean something?”
โUnderstand me,โ his tone changed suddenly, โin a big factory like this, one person means little or nothing! But… How to tell him? You understand? I couldn’t bear to be your boss. My heart does not allow me to be your boss. It is a very clear and understandable game. We were, at one time, travel companions, what is called schrif-brider or โship brothersโ. Youโa descendant of a wealthy familyโand I, a shoemaker. Well, my heart does not allow me…”
“Hey, that is unimportant!” Solomon tried to minimize the matter. “What value does lineage have today? Who is currently interested in one’s ancestry? Is it possible with lineage to obtain a loan in any bank? The times of now are different. It is another era. What does all this have to do with the matter I came to see you? I am a worker who needs work; you, a businessman who could give it to me. It’s very simple. Nothing else “
“Ah, Mr. Salomon, work is much more… “
“Of course it is much more. Work is bread. And I need bread. My wife and my child are waiting for me to bring them that little piece of bread.”
The industrialist, with his hands in his pockets, tried to stretch his body as he wanted, standing on his feet, appearing much taller than he really was, as if to give dimension to his words, shaking his head, said decisively:
“I can’t, dear friend! Anything you want, but not this. If I could, I would do anything for you. But my heart does not admit the possibility that I become his employer. I just can’t do it. And what else do you want me to tell you?”
From book: Hungier tsu der Zet. Hunger, Until You’re Satisfied (Translation from Yiddish by Simja Sneh)
Licenciado en Derecho y Ciencia Polรญtica. Milton C. Henrรญquez ha sido diputado a la Asamblea Nacional de Panamรก, ministro de Gobierno (Interior y Justicia) y embajador ante el Reino de Espaรฑa, entre otros muchos cargos. En diferentes momentos, ha sido consultor o asesor del presidente de la Repรบblica, del presidente de la Asamblea Nacional y de la presidente de la Corte Suprema de Justicia de Panamรก. Ha dirigido revistas, periรณdicos informativos de radio y de televisiรณn. Ha dirigido y ha asesorado campaรฑas electorales y ha sido profesor en escuela secundaria y en universidades en Panamรก y en Espaรฑa. En 2023, participรณ en la inauguraciรณn de la “Brandeis University Initiative on the Jews of the Americas (JOTA)”. Ha publicado varios ensayos Su primera novela Los cuadernosdelirantes de Pedrarias .fue publicada en Panamรก en 2018.
Graduate in Law and Political Science, Milton C. Henrรญquez has been a deputy to the National Assembly of Panama, Minister of Government (Interior and Justice) and ambassador to the Kingdom of Spain, among many other positions. At different times, he has been a consultant or adviser to the President of the Republic, the President of the National Assembly and the President of the Supreme Court of Justice of Panama. He has directed magazines, informative newspapers on radio and television. He has directed and advised electoral campaigns and has been a teacher in secondary schools and in universities in Panama and Spain. In 2023, he participated in the inauguration of the “Brandeis University Initiative on the Jews of the Americas (JOTA).” He has published several essays. His first novel Los Cuadernos delirantes de Pedrarias was published in Panama in 2018.
Yo pensรฉ que me dijo โpardiezโ. o sea, la exclamaciรณn de โยกpor Dios!โ en espaรฑol antiguo, pero cuando le preguntรฉ alarmado: ยฟQuรฉ insensatez dije?โ, soltรณ una carcajada y respondiรณ:
–ยกNinguna! Al contrario, acaba usted de toparse con el huerto.
Ante mi cara de absoluta perplejidad, continuรณ: —PaRDรฉS, en hebreo, significa โhuertoโ. Pero tambiรฉn se refiere a un mรฉtodo de lectura de los textos sagrados. La palabra se construye con las cuatro consonantes iniciales de las palabras Peshat, Remez, Derash y Sod, y usted lo acaba de aplicar ante la descripciรณn de Pedrarias sobre le ritual del ataรบd. Me pidiรณ que investigara al regresar, quรฉ significaba cada palabra y el mรฉtodo PaRDรฉS, pero querรญa continuar la sesiรณn.
—Como le mencionรฉ, hace unas semanas hemos pasado los Yamim Noraim, y las grandes festividades de Rosh Hashanรก y Yom Kipur. No las llaman fiestas porque no son fiestas de Aรฑo Nuevo con las que de seguro usted celebra; a lo sumo son comidas festivas o hasta banquetes en Rosh Hashanรก, y una cena especial al terminar el ayuno de rezos y recogimiento espiritual, de humilde sometimiento a al Creador y centrado en la misericordia y el perdรณn. Yo asentรญ con respeto para indicar que comprendรญa.
–El mes que empieza ahora, de acuerdo con el ciclo agrรญcola en Israel, se inicia con la plantaciรณn de las semillas. Si llevamos esto a un plan espiritual, serรญa el perรญodo de la siembra de los nuevos propรณsitos que asumimos luego de la introspecciรณn y el perdรณn del mes anterior, en el cual habรญamos limpiado el terreno espiritual de las malas hierbas y otros contaminantes a travรฉs de la expiaciรณn.
–ยฟY quรฉ tan completa es esa limpieza? — preguntรฉ.
–Tan completo como es capaz un ser humano. Pero quiero hacerle recordar otra peculiaridad de Rosh Jodesh Jeshvรกn que mencionรฉ hace un momento y no sรฉ si fui claro. Esta cabeza del mes ยกes bicรฉfala! En ese momento pensรฉ: โEsto ya estรก rayado en lo ridรญculoโ. Pero como el rabino estaba bastante divertido con esto y yo estaba allรญ buscando entender los delirios de Pedrarias, no me iba a hacer ver como el mรกs racional en ese punto.
–ยฟY quรฉ le quiero decir con esto? Pues bien, como lo mencionรฉ antes, este Rosh Jodesh, o dรญa inicial de nuevo mes, no solo es de dos dรญas ยกsino que empieza en el รบltimo dรญa del mes anterior y termina al final del primer dรญa de este mes! โยกAhora sรญ la botaron!โ. Pensรฉ, pero seguรญ escuchando en silencio. –
-ยฟY quรฉ deberรญamos entender de esto? Pues nos indica que hay una simbiosis entre el perรญodo de limpieza con el de siembra; nos dice que de nada vale lo primero, o sea, limpiar el terreno, si en el nuevo aรฑo sembramos las mismas semillas que nos llevaron a pecar el aรฑo anterior. Me miro ca los ojos, fijamente, redujo su intensidad emocional a niveles usuales y seรฑalรณ de forma muy pausada
–Siento que antes de poder sembrar nuevos conocimientos en mi mente en su mente y su corazรณn, mediante el descubrimiento que usted estรก por hacer, debemos asegurarnos de que esa tierra espiritual sobre la cual van a ser cultivados. Asรญ como las propias semillas de conocimientos que serรกn insertadas, no contengan impurezas. Considero indispensable, por lo tanto, que usted lleve a cabo una terapia de perdรณn.
Me intrigรณ ese concepto, pero le insistรญ que yo no era judรญo ni seguรญa sus festividades y que nada de eso lo habรญa visto en las Leyes noรกjidas. El jajรกm HaLevi sonriรณ de forma comprensiva y me explicรณ:
–Si bien para la รฉpoca del perรญodo de Yanim Noraim que acaba de pasar, yo no pensaba que usted iba a estar espiritual ni intelectualmente en donde estรก en este momento, tampoco es cierto que no le estoy pidiendo un rito religioso ajeno a sus creencias. Lo que deseo que haga es un proceso mรญstico de depuraciรณn espiritual. Este es indispensable para poder recibir, sin hacerse daรฑo, la verdad que es posible para que usted vaya a encontrar en sus investigaciones y meditaciones.
El rabino HaLevy continuรณ su argumentaciรณn mientras yo trataba de comprender lo que acaba de decir. โยกEntonces sรญ habรญa algo muy valioso en ese cuaderno viejo!โ, me dije, y de una vez me re-enfoque en las palabras del rabino.
–Mire don Pablo, Kabbalah significa literalmente, el acto de recibir, y no haberse purificado mediante el proceso de del perdรณn, podrรญa ser peligroso para su alma, porque puede recibir cosas equivocadas o dejar de captar perlas de conocimiento verdadero.
Cuestionรฉ, todavรญa un poco dudoso, si esta terapia serรญa lo รบltimos antes de entrar la investigaciรณn; el jajรกm HaLevy guardรณ uno de esos silencios eternos dentro de una mirada fija y penetrante a mis ojos, y luego de unos segundos me preguntรณ quรฉ pensaba yo. Sonreรญ con picardรญa y le dije:
–De seguro no serรก lo รบltimo. Pero estรก bien, lo voy a hacer y le pido perdรณn por mi resistencia; no estoy acostumbrado a no estar en control. Con una expresiรณn provocadora preguntรณ el rabino Ha Levy: –ยฟHa pensado usted en ser presidente? Presidente de la Repรบblica, quise decir.
–ยฟSer presidente?–
-ยกPero si yo los hago!–
El jajรกm Ha Levy me clavรณ una de esas largas e inexpresivas miradas y continuรณ:
–Como le dije hace un momento Kabbalah es literalmente โrecibirโ; no se puede recibir en una vasija cerrada. Controlar supone que uno sabe todo, que se cierra a lo demรกs. Controlando todo no se logra recibir la verdad; solo al liberarse del control del ego es uno capaz de recibirla.
–Agradezco la explicaciรณn y le aseguro que pondrรฉ mi mayor esfuerzo en seguir sus instruccionesโdije con total seguridad.
–Se las darรฉ en su momento, pero antes quiero sugerirle el nombre de la persona que vive entre Espaรฑa y Francia, que podrรญa reunirse con usted mientras estรฉ en Europa para guiarle en proceso de depuraciรณn en el que estรก. Le confirmรฉ al rabino que me interesaba mucho la idea.
-Es una dama de familia cristiana, pero es cabalista. Ademรกs, aunque es francesa, es experta en es castellano antiguo y en ladino; ha publicado varios libros de estos temas, siendo de mayor impacto uno llamado Rabรญ Cervantes cabalista. Luchรณ en la Segunda Guerra Mundial dentro de la Resistencia Francesa contra los nazis; abogรณ porque Espaรฑa aboliera el Decreto de la Expulsiรณn de 1492 contra los judรญos y es una profunda conocedora de la verdad que nos unifica a todos. El jajรกm HaLevy me informรณ que su nombre era Marianne Perrin pero preferรญa usar su nom de plume: Dominique Queshott. รl ya la habรญa contactado y ella se mostrรณ dispuesta a recibirme, pero estaba perdiendo la vista y le costaba mucho trasladarse. Tendrรญa que ir yo hasta Carboneras en Andalucรญa o trasladarla y alojarla en Madrid.
Aceptรฉ de buen grado y agradecรญ al rabino por esto. Me advirtiรณ, sin embargo, que no debรญa abusar de la buena disposiciรณn de la seรฑora Perrin no tampoco descuidar a mi esposa y el tiempo de familia. Acordรฉ que asรญ serรญa.
“Pardรฉs!” said Haham HaLevy. I thought he told me “pardiez”. that is, the exclamation “By God!” in old Spanish, but when I asked him alarmed: What nonsense did I say? โ, he gave a hearty laugh and replied:
–None! On the contrary, you have just come across the orchard.
Before my face of utter perplexity, he continued:
–PaRdรฉS, in Hebrew, means โorchardโ. But it also refers to a method of reading sacred texts. The word is built with the four initial consonants of the words Peshat, Remez, Derash and Sod, and you have just applied it to Pedrarias’ description of the coffin ritual.
He asked me to investigate when I returned, what each word meant and the PaRDรฉS method, but I wanted to continue the session.
–As I mentioned, a few weeks ago we celebrated the, Yomim HaNaorim and the great festivals of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. They are not called parties because they are not like the New Year’s parties with which you surely celebrate; at most, there are festive meals or even banquets on Rosh Hashanah, and a special dinner at the end of the fast of prayers and spiritual absorption, of humble submission to the Creator and focused on mercy and forgiveness.
I nodded respectfully to indicate that I understood.
–The month that begins now, according to the agricultural cycle in Israel, begins with the planting of the seeds. If we take this to the level of a spiritual plan, it would be the period of planting the new purposes that we assume after the introspection and forgiveness of the previous month, in which we had cleaned through atonement the spiritual terrain of weeds and other contaminants .
–And how complete is that cleaning? — I asked.
–As complete as a human being is capable of. But I want to remind you of another peculiarity of Rosh Chodesh Cheshvan that I mentioned a moment ago and I don’t know if I was clear. This head of the month is two-headed! At that moment I thought: “This is already bordering on ridiculous.” But since the rabbi was quite amused about this point, and I was there seeking to understand Pedrarias’s delusions, I wasn’t going to make myself sound like the more rational on that point.
–And what do I want to say with this? Well, as I mentioned before, this Rosh Chodesh, or beginning day of a new month, is not only two days long, but it begins on the last day of the month before, and ends at the end of the first day of this month!
“Now they really blew it!” I thought, but kept listening in silence.
–And what should we understand from this? Well, it tells us that there is a symbiosis between the cleaning period with the sowing period; It tells us that the first act is worthless, that is, clearing the ground, if in the new year, we sow the same seeds that led us to sin the previous year.
He looked me straight in the eye, reduced his emotional intensity to usual levels and pointed very slowly.
–I feel that before we can sow the new knowledge that is in my mind, into your mind and into your heart, through the discovery that you are about to make, we must make sure of the spiritual soil on which they are going to be cultivated. And also, that the seeds of knowledge that will be planted, do not contain impurities. Therefore, I consider it essential that you carry out a forgiveness therapy.
I was intrigued by that concept, but I insisted that I was not a Jew nor did I follow their festivals, and that I had not seen anything like that in the Noahide Laws. Haham HaLevi smiled sympathetically and explained to me:
–Although at the time of the Yanim Noraim period that just passed I did not think that you were going to be spiritually or intellectually where you are at this moment, I’m not asking you to carry out a religious rite alien to your beliefs. What I want you to do is a mystical process of spiritual cleansing. This is essential for your to be able to receive, without hurting yourself, the truth that for you can find in your investigations and meditations.
Rabbi HaLevy continued his argument while I tried to understand what he just said. โSo there was something very valuable in that old notebook!โ I said to myself, and then at once I refocused on the rabbi’s words.
–Look Don Pablo, Kabbalah literally means the act of receiving, and not having been purified through the forgiveness process could be dangerous for your soul, because you can receive wrong things or stop capturing pearls of true knowledge.
I questioned, still a little doubtful, if this therapy would be the last step before entering the investigation; the jajam HaLevy kept one of those eternal silences with a fixed and penetrating look at my eyes, and after a few seconds he asked me what I thought. I smiled mischievously and said:
I smiled mischievously and said: –Surely it won’t be the last. But that’s okay, I’m going to do it and I apologize for my resistance; I’m not used to not being in control. With a provocative expression, Rabbi Ha Levy asked: “Have you thought about being president?
President of the Republic,? I wanted to say.
–Be president?
–Yes, have!
Haham Ha Levy gave me one of those long, blank stares and continued:
–As I told you a moment ago, Kabbalah is literally “receive”; it cannot be received by a closed vessel. To control supposes that one knows everything, that one is closed to the rest. by controlling everything, it is not possible to receive the truth; only by freeing oneself from the control of the ego is one able to receive it.
“I appreciate the explanation and I assure you that I will do my best to follow your instructions,” I said confidently.
–I will give them to you at the time, but first I want to suggest the name of the person who lives between Spain and France, who could meet with you while you are in Europe to guide you in your purification process. I confirmed to the rabbi that I was very interested in the idea.
–She is a lady from a Christian family, but she is a Kabbalist. In addition, although she is French, she is an expert in Old Castilian and Ladino; She has published several books on these topics, the one with the most impact being Rabbi Cervantes, Kabbalist. She fought in World War II within the French Resistance against the Nazis; she advocated for Spain to abolish the Expulsion Decree of 1492 against the Jews and is a profound connoisseur of the truth that unifies us all. Haham HaLevy informed me that her name was Marianne Perrin but that she preferred to use her nom de plume: Dominique Queshott. He had already contacted her, and she was willing to meet with me, but she was losing her sight, and it was very difficult for her to travel. I would have to go to Carboneras in Andalusia or move her and lodge her in Madrid. I gladly agreed and thanked the rabbi for this. He warned me, however, not to abuse Mrs. Perrin’s good disposition, nor to neglect my wife and my family time. I agreed that it would be like that.
Gustavo Efron es Lic. en Ciencias de la Comunicaciรณn (UBA) y Magรญster en Ciencias Sociales c/or. en Educaciรณn (FLACSO). Se especializa en temรกticas de juventud, nuevas tecnologรญas y educaciรณn. Su tesis de maestrรญa fue sobre โLa re-configuraciรณn identitaria de los jรณvenes y su representaciรณn de la Educaciรณn en la pos-modernidad o modernidad tardรญaโ. Es profesor titular de la materia โAdolescencias, Juventudes y Escuelaโ, en la Especializaciรณn en Docencia Secundaria, de la Universidad de Buenos Aires y en el Curso El Rol del Preceptor, Perspectivas de Anรกlisis, de la misma instituciรณn. Es profesor-tutor en la Diplomatura โEducaciรณn, imรกgenes y mediosโ de FLACSO Argentina; y actualmente es responsable de Capacitaciรณn de la Direcciรณn de Jรณvenes y Adultos del Ministerio de Educaciรณn Nacional. Fue creador y director de la Licenciatura en Ciencias de la Comunicaciรณn de la Universidad de Flores (UFLO). Desde 2010, Gustavo Efron es Director del Periรณdico Nueva Siรณn en Buenos Aires. Su primero libro de poesรญa es Hay Un Silencio (2023).
Gustavo Efron has a degree in Communication Sciences (UBA) and a Master’s in Social Sciences c/or. in Education (FLACSO). He specializes in youth issues, new technologies and education. His master’s thesis was on “The identity reconfiguration of young people and their representation of Education in post-modernity or late modernity.” He is a tenured professor of the subject “Adolescents, Youth and School”, in the Specialization in Secondary Teaching, of the University of Buenos Aires and in the Course “The Role of the Preceptor, Perspectives of Analysis,” of the same institution. He is a professor-tutor in the Diploma plan “Education, images and media” of FLACSO Argentina; and is currently responsible for Training of the Directorate of Youth and Adults of the Ministry of National Education. He was the creator and director of the Bachelor of Communication Sciences at the University of Flores (UFLO). Since 2010, Gustavo Efron is Director of the Nueva Siรณn Newspaper in Buenos Aires. His first book of poetry is Hay Un Silencio (2023).
Lo inabordable
Aunque pueda decir mucho
aunque pretenda comprender
aunque me esfuerce en expresar
aunque logre comunicar
Y aunque el mundo se presente ante mi como transparente,
abierto, integrador...
siempre habrรก significados escurridizos
algo que se escape y se resista a ser traducido
una expresiรณn inabordable
una esencia inclasificable
un pensamiento que desborde los moldes.
Porque el mundo no resiste un sentido รบnico
un objetivo final
una explicaciรณn coherente
una conclusiรณn tranquilizadora
una soluciรณn integral al conflicto.
Y no lloro ni me lamento por ello
mรกs bien brindo y lo reivindico
como el รบnico ejercicio posible de la libertad
como una riqueza sustentada en lo diverso y lo dinรกmico
como una proyecciรณn hacia lo inesperado y lo sorprendente
como un plus insospechado que promete vida
Una vida que supere esta vida.
________________
The Unapproachable
Even if I may talk a lot
even if I try to understand
even if I force myself to speak
even if Iโm successful in communicating
And even if the world shows itself to me as
transparent,
open, ingratiatingโฆ
There will always be slippery meanings
something that escapes and resists translation
an unapproachable expression
an unclassifiable essence
a thought that overflows the mold
Because the world resists one meaning
a final objective
a coherent explanation
a tranquilizing conclusion
an integral solution
I donโt cry about it or lament
rather I raise a toast and vindicate it
as the only possible exercise of liberty
as wealth supported in the diverse and the dynamic
like a projection toward the unexpected and the
surprising
like an unsuspected plus that promises life
A life that surpasses this life.
___________________________________________
Juego
Juego
a que soy diferente
a que la vida no me moldea
a que resisto
a que cambio
a que puedo
a que no abandono las luchas
a que me involucro en algo
a que siento en carne propia
Y no sรฉ los lรญmites de ese juego
los lรญmites entre lo real y lo verosรญmil
entre la postura y lo postulado
entre la autoconciencia y la autoafirmaciรณn
entre la exigencia y la complacencia
simplemente, juego
y en todo juego
como en todo simulacro
detrรกs de la bruma
trasuntan vestigios de verdad
de una verdad escurridiza.
a que siento en carne viva cada infamia
a que me rebelo
a que escapo a lo consolidado
a que invento
a que sueรฑo.
________________________________
I Play
I play
at being different
at life's not molding me
at resisting
at changing
at what I can do
at not giving up the fight
at getting involved
at feeling in my own body
and not knowing the boundaries of the game
the boundaries between the real and what seems real
between posing and the postulate
between self-consciousness and self-affirmation
between exigence and complacency
Simply put, I play
and in every game
as in every simulation
behind the fog
leftovers of the truth
a slippery truth appear.
at feeling in my living body every infamy
at rebelling
at escaping to stability
at inventing
at dreaming.
______________________________________________
Fugacidades
Sรณlo un relรกmpago del mundo me pertenece
las tormentas me son ajenas
tengo el sabor de los frutos
no los dulces que empalagan hasta el exceso.
A veces mi porciรณn es tan generosa
otras tan ridรญcula
y sin embargo es siempre la misma.
Algunas tardes me apropio de una nube
la hago mรญa por un instante y luego la abandono a los vientos.
En ocasiones atrapo una sonrisa furtiva
pero se escapa, no puedo retenerla
y la dejo huir a uno de esos lugares donde respira el vacรญo.
Vengo con mis poemas llenos de sรณrdidos encantos
y de sensaciones agotadas que reaparecen
sรณlo un fugaz suspiro del mundo me pertenece.
____________________________________________
Ephemeralities
Only a lightning bolt from earth belongs to me
storms are foreign
I have a taste for fruits
not the sweet ones that make you sick.
At times my portion is so generous
at others so ridiculous
and none the less always the same.
Some afternoons I take over a cloud
make it mine for an instant and then abandon it to the
winds.
On occasion I trap a furtive smile
but it escapes, I canโt hold on to it
and I let it flee to one of those places where it breathes
emptiness.
I arrive with my poems full of sleazy enchantments
and drained sensations that reappear
only a fleeting whisper of the world belongs to me.
_____________________________________
Canaleta
Entre la locura y la costumbre
entre la magia y el aburrimiento
entre el esplendor y el desamparo
voy construyendo una canaleta
pequeรฑas rendijas donde se cuela el alma.
ยฟcuรกnto hay que llorar para seguir riendo?
ยฟcuรกnto hay que morir para seguir viviendo?
ยฟcuรกnto hay que vivir para seguir muriendo?
______________________________________________
Channel
Magic and boredom
Come between madness and custom
between splendor and abandonment
I keep constructing a channel
small cracks where the soul seeps in.
how much must you cry to go on laughing?
How much must you die to go on living?
How much must you live to go on dying?
__________________________________________
Sentires
Quiero contarte mis colores
esos de adentro
pero mis palabras son vagas
mis tonos son ocres
y el reflejo tan pรกlidoโฆ
Quiero convidarte mis sabores
y no puedo
no me sale
no son esos que siento ahรญ
a la vuelta de las pulsaciones.
Quiero contagiarte mis locuras
pero son tan ridรญculamente mรญas
que sรณlo podrรกn causar tu curiosidad
a lo sumo tu ternura.
Si pudiera mostrarte
aunque sea un horizonte fugaz donde mirarme
mancharte en aquel charco donde se sumergen mis desperdicios
dibujar una mirada que deje ver los claroscuros
y llevarte a la esquina de mis latidos...
Pero no hay colores
no hay sabores ni locuras
ni horizontes ni charcos
ni miradas ni esquinas
sรณlo mis versos y mi almohada
y un tรญmido despertar.
______________________________________
Feelings
I want to tell you my colors
those inside me
but my words are vague
my tones are ochre
and the reflection so paleโฆ
I want to introduce you to my tastes
and I canโt
they donโt emerge from me
they arenโt those that I feel there
on the way to my heartbeats.
I want to infect you with my delusions
but the tastes are so ridiculously mine
they can only engage your curiosity
at most your affection.
If I could show you
Even if it is a quick sightline where you can find me
Stain you in that puddle where my effluent is drowned
To sketch a gaze that lets me see chiaroscuros
And carry you to the street corner of my heartbeatsโฆ
But there are no colors
no tastes no delusions
no horizons no puddles
no views no corners
only my poems and my pillow
and a faint-hearted awakening.
___________________________________________
Ruta desolada
Encontrarse es perderse
es deambular en el humo del contrasentido
perdiendo la comodidad en la contradicciรณn
perdiendo el simulacro en la incongruencia
perdiendo la sobriedad en la frescura
perdiendo la impostura en la ridiculez.
En ese lodo que te ensucia y te deja pegoteado
en esa rรกfaga que sorprende tu cabeza acostumbrada
en ese ruido que perturba tu silencio ausente.
Un encuentro con el desencuentro
con la inmadurez de esa ruta desolada
con la insoportabilidad de esa fiera dormida
que no sabe si algรบn dรญa va a despertar.
_____________________________
Desolate Route
Finding yourself is losing yourself
it is strolling in the smoke of nonsense
losing comfort in contradiction
losing semblance in incongruence
losing sobriety in freshness
losing fraud in absurdity.
In all that defiles you and leaves you held back
in that gust that surprises your ordinary head
In that noise that perturbs your absent silence.
An agreement with a disagreement
with the immaturity of that desolate route
with the unbearable quality of that sleeping beast
that doesnโt know if it will someday awake.
_______________________________________________
Tengo una palabra
Tengo una palabra que ya no dice nada
una palabra que puja
contenida en su propia telaraรฑa
que busca una nueva manera de hablar
sin saber cรณmo.
Una palabra que dibuja el vacรญo
que agota el sentido
y que en ese devenir cansado ya es un enigma
de esos que no se pueden desentraรฑar.
Una palabra que condensa el sonido y el silencio
una y otra vez
que revela tanto como lo que esconde
una palabra sumisa
que flota en el viento con todo su espesor
y sus espinas.
ยฟDรณnde vivirรก esa palabra?
ยฟDรณnde morirรก?
_____________________________________
I Have a Word
I have a word that no longer means anything
a word that entangles
content in its own spiderweb
and looks for a new way to speak
without knowing how.
A word that sketches emptiness
That uses up meaning
and that in becoming tired is already a riddle
of those that cannot be unraveled.
A word that condenses sound and silence
again and again
that reveals as much as it hides
a submissive word
that floats in the wind with all its density
and its thorns.
Where will that word live?
Where will it die?
__________________________________________
Yo no escribo poesรญa
Yo no escribo poesรญa
la poesรญa me escribe a mรญ
me escribe como una respiraciรณn del tiempo
que se revela, y me rebela en su desparpajo y su tozudez.
Crรฉanme, yo no escribo poesรญa
la poesรญa me escribe como una cachetada del mar
como escribe el exabrupto del fuego
siempre a los saltos y en descomposiciรณn.
Y me escribe sin querer escribirme
Y me nombra sin querer nombrarme
Y me mata sin querer matarme
para poder seguir viviendo.
_______________________________________________
I don't write poetry
I don't write poetry
poetry writes to me
writes me like a breath of time
that reveals itself, and rebels in its self-confidence and stubbornness.
Believe me, I don't write poetry.
poetry writes me like a slap from the sea
writes like the outbreak of fire
always jumping and decomposing.
And it writes me without wanting to write me
And it names me without wanting to name me
And it kills me without wanting to kill me
to be able to go on living.
____________________________________________
Hay un silencio
Hay un silencio que me nombra
que me desnuda
que me revela
que me ilumina.
Y es siempre el mismo silencio
un silencio a veces incรณmodo
a veces inhรณspito
a veces acogedor.
Es un silencio que habla de muchos silencios
del alma hurgando en un atardecer
de una mรบsica que ya no puedo recordar
de un aroma que se me escapa
de un viento que se filtra en la ventana.
Un silencio que se esconde de la mirada
y en los ritmos intensos de la palabra furtiva.
___________________________________________
There is a Silence
There is a silence that names me
undresses me
reveals me
illuminates me.
And it is always the same silence
a silence at times uncomfortable
at times inhospitable
at times welcoming.
It is a silence speaking of many silences
of the soul rummaging in a dusk
of music I can no longer remember
of an aroma that escapes me
of a wind that filters through the window.
A silence that hides the gaze
even in the intense rhythms of the furtive word.
_________________________________________________________
Translated from the Spanish by Stephen A. Sadow and J. Kates
De: Cyntha Rimsky. La Puerta en el muro. La novela: Santiago de Chile, Sangrรญa, 2009.
Poco despuรฉs de la dictadura en Chile, una chilena se encuentra en ex Yugoslavia:
La cara interior de la puerta estรก tapiada por una gran bandera de la ex Yugoslavia. En vez de medalla, el hombre pegรณ sobre la tela recortes de periรณdicos. Me dejรณ guiar por la fotografรญa de la reuniรณn en que el traidor sellรณ la paz, la del criminal de guerra con un grupo de soldados, la del bombardeo de Dubrovnik, la fotografรญa de la matanza de civiles en Mostar y la de รฉl mismo, soldado entre los bรกrbaros. El hombre que se comprometiรณ de palabra ante la bandera de Yugoslavia a dar la vida por su paรญs, que creyรณ a su Presidente cuando anunciรณ por cadena nacional que el paรญs estaba en peligro, que luchรณ en el ejรฉrcito serbio, que en medio de una guerra se dio cuenta de que su Presidente habรญa mentido y, en vez de participar en una guerra, estaba participando en un genocidio; el hombre que desertรณ y abandonรณ a sus amigos, muchos de los que murieron en la lรญnea de fuego, me narra los รบltimos aรฑos de su recortes de periรณdicos, la imagen enmarcada de su santo. Todos los dรญas, entre la medianoche y las dos de la tarde, este hombre contempla al hombre que comete traiciรณn.
โHasta la religiรณn cree en el arrepentimientoโ, pienso mirando al santo a los ojos.
El hombre que perdiรณ el honor dos veces, al combatir y al desertar, me enseรฑa las arrugadas palabras del dictamen legal que acusa su cobardรญa. La sentencia a pasar ocho aรฑos en una celda y el dictamen de la junta mรฉdica que atribuye su deserciรณn a una locura temporal. No aparecen narradas las visitas que madre hace diariamente a la celda para abrir la cama donde no duerme la conciencia.
–Vuelve a trabajar como abogado.
–ยฟY pido justicia con la mano que empuรฑรฉ el fusil?
–Podrรญamos arrendar una casa deshabitada en Perast y ofrecer alojamiento a los turistas, o abrir un restaurante que sirva comida y bebida todo el aรฑo, no como hacen aquรญ. –Eres buena para esas cosas. Cuento el hombre que en este viaje aprendรญ a conocer el principio racional de las cosas, a conservar repollos en agua con sal, a ahorrar dinero para el combustible use usaremos en invierno, a abrir las ventanas y dejar escapar el humo, a regar un tostado con aceite de oliva, a cuidar de un perro, a armar un hogar con una cortina y un mantel, a conservar la comida en potes plรกsticos.
–Yo puedo hacer esoโreplica sorprendido
โNo es difรญcilโle digo.
–ยฟEstรกs seguro?
–Si es lo que es lo que quiero, podrรฉ hacerlo. ยกY eso quiero! – exclama.
–Tendrรกs que llevar sรณlo lo necesarioโle digo. El hombre contempla la bandera del paรญs que ya no existe, los recortes de periรณdico con las fotografรญas de los asesinos, la imagen enmarcada del santo, los dibujos animados que emiten despuรฉs de las noticias, la jarra con jugo en polvo, los libros de derecho, filosofรญa y รฉtica que no volviรณ a leer desde la guerra. Le hablo de los libros del esposo de Moira, de las estanterรญas del Cafรฉ Literario, del jugo de chirimoyas, del bar de abajo, de las peleas de mi vecina y su esposo, el rรญo Mapocho, del parque Forestal, de mi amiga cuyo hijo se arrojรณ a la lรญnea fรฉrrea despuรฉs de pasar la tarde en una calle desconocida sin que nadie se acercara a escuchar sus dudas. Pero el hombre que pasa las noches en vela, contemplando el error del mundo no necesita palabras, sino los compasivos cuidados que proporciona una fe que ya no tengo.
Frontera Montenegro/Croaciaโฆ.Dubrovnik. A la entrada de la ciudad un gran mapa da a conocer los lugares que resultaron destruidos durante el bombardeo a Croacia. Los achurados indican si la bomba cayรณ sobre un monumento histรณrico, una calle, una casa, un cuarto de la casa; si destruyรณ los cimentos, el techo, el techo y los muros o sรณlo los muros. Desde el cuarto del hombre que desertรณ la guerrano es posible ver los marcos rotos de las ventanas, los fragmentos de vidrio, la pata de la silla, el plato ennegrecido, la lana del colchรณn.
Split. Estรก lloviendo, no reconozco por quรฉ calles ando. ยฟDiez de Julio, Coquimbo, Maipรบ, San Diego? Al final de un pasaje penumbroso creo distinguir una tienda que vende paรฑuelos bordados, trozos de gรฉnero, vestidos de terciopelo, un abrigo de astracรกn, colchones de cuna, almohadas ennegrecidas. En el mostrado distingo a un viejo solitario, me cruzo con una joven que camina con una novela en la mano. Una madre, su hija y su nieta salen de la pastelerรญa. Aspiro el aroma de los bullicios de espinacas, papa y quesillo. Tengo la sensaciรณn de que desde mi llegada una mano me guรญa hacia lo que el viaje me tiene reservado.
Las doce.
Doblo el mapa y lo guardo, atravieso una plaza, me cruzo con un grupo de universitarios. Parecen aliviados de haber abandonado el estudio para salir al mundo, algunos desaparecen en un bar que vende cervezas del litro como en el barrio universitario de Repรบblica, en Santiago. La mano invisible me conduce hasta un edificio neoclรกsico de impresionante fachada que confundo con un hospital, que confundo con una oficina pรบblica. Las letras esculpidas me advierten que estoy ante la Facultad de Derecho de Split, donde estudiรณ el hombre junto al que me sentรฉ en el bar de Kotor hasta que abandonรฉ la ciudad por la puerta abierta en el muro. De la escala de mรกrmol paso un espacioso vestรญbulo. En las paredes hay anuncios que no comprendo. Las baldosas son blancas y negras como la terraza de la casa donde ya no viven Moira y su esposo. Me siento en los escalones que conducen al segundo piso y las salas de clases, contemplo el lugar al que el hombre que dejรฉ en Kotor acudiรณ diariamente antes que lo enviaran a cumplir con su palabra. La escalera que subiรณ y bajรณ, la oscura pieza donde sacรณ fotocopias, los avisos que publican las notas que lo hicieron pasar de curso, la secretaria que no quiso ayudarle a retirar su diploma. Desde aquรญ no se alcanza a distinguir el cuarto donde el hombre y yo pasamos la noche en vela ante la palabra que hubimos de cumplir y no cumplimos.
From: Cyntha Rimsky. La puerta en el muro. Santiago de Chile, Sangrรญa, 2009.
Shortly after the end of the Chilean dictatorship, a Chilean woman finds herself in the former Yugoslavia:
The interior face of the door is covered up by a large flag of the former Yugoslavia. Instead of a medal, the man pinned newspaper clippings on the fabric. I let myself be guided toward the photograph of the meeting in which the traitor sealed the peace, that of a war criminal with a group of soldiers, that of the bombarding of Dubrovnik, the photograph of the murder of civilians in Mostar and the one of himself, a soldier among the barbarians.
The man pledged his word before the flag of Yugoslavia to give his life for his country, who believed his President when he announced on a national channel that the country was in danger, that he fought on the Serbian army, that in the midst of the war he came to the conclusion that his President had lied and, instead of participating in a war, he was participating in a genocide: the man who deserted and abandoned his friends, many of whom died in the line of fire, narrated to me the last few years of his newspaper clippings, the framed of his saint. Every day, between midnight and two in the afternoon, this man contemplates the man who commits treason.
โEven religion believes in repentance,โ I think, looking at the saintโs eyes.
The man who lost his honor twice, by fighting and by deserting, shows me the wrinkled words of the legal ruling that charges his cowardliness. The sentence to eight years in a cell and the statement of the medical group that attributes his desertion to a temporary madness. The visits that his mother make daily to the cell to open the bed where the conscience doesnโt sleep are not mentioned.
โGo back to work as a lawyer.โ
โAnd I ask for justice with the hand that held the rifle?โ
“We could rent an uninhabited house in Perast and offer accommodations for tourists or open a restaurant the serves foot and drink all year long, not like they do here.โ
โYou are good at such things. โ I
tell the man that during this trip I learned to know the rational principal, to conserve cabbage in water with salt, to save money for fuel we will use in winter, to open the windows and let the smoke escape, to dampen a piece of toast with olive oil, to take care of a dog, to make up a home with a curtain and a tablecloth, to conserve food in plastic pots.
โI can do that,โ he replies, surprised. โItโs not difficult,โ I tell him.
โAre you sure?โ
โIf thatโs what I want, I will be able to do it. And I want that!โ he exclaims.
โYou will have to carry only what is necessary, โ I tell him.
The man contemplates the flag of the country that no longer exists, the newspaper clippings with the photographs, the framed image of the saint, the comics that are put out after the news, the jar of powdered juice, the books of law, philosophy, and ethics that he hasnโt read since the war began. I tell him about Moiraโs husbandโs books, of the shelves in the Literary Cafรฉ, the custard apple juice, the bar downstairs, the arguments between my neighbor and her husband, the Mapocho River, the Forrestal Park, of my friend whose son threw himself against the iron wire, after spending the afternoon on an unknown street without anyone coming by to hear his doubts. But the man who spends his nights awake, contemplating the error of the world doesnโt need words, only the compassionate caring that provides a faith that I no longer have.
The Frontier: Montenegro/Croatiaโฆ
Dubrovnik. At the entrance of the city, a large map shows the places that were destroyed during the bombing of Croatia. The markers indicate if the bomb fell in a historical monument, a street, a room of a house, if it destroyed the foundation, the roof and the walls or only the walls, From the room of the man who deserted the war, itโs not possible to see the broken window frames, the shards of glass, the foot of the chair, the blackened plate, the wool of the mattress. Split. Itโs raining, I donโt recognize the streets where I walk. Diez de Julio, Coquimbo, Maipรบ, San Diego? At the end of a shadowy, I think I distinguish a store that sells embroidered handkerchiefs, bits of woven cloths, velvet dresses, an astrakhan overcoat, baby mattresses, blackened pillows. At the counter, I distinguish an old lonely old man, I bump into a teenage girl who is walking with a novel in her hand. A mother, her daughter and her granddaughter leave the bakery. I breath in the aroma of those buns of spinach, potato, and flan. I have the sensation that since my arrival, a hand guides me toward what the trip has in store for me.
Twelve oโclock.
I fold the map and I put it away, I cross a plaza, pass a group of university students. They seem relieved to have abandoned studying to go out unto the world, some disappear into a bar that sells beer by the liter as in the Repรบblica university neighborhood in Santiago. The invisible hand directs me to a neoclassical building with an impressive facade that I confuse with a hospital, that I confuse with a public office building. The sculpted letters let me know that I a m in front of the Law School of Split, where the man studied with whom I sat next to in the Kotor bar until I abandoned the city through the open door in the wall.
From the marble stairs, I passed a spacious vestibule. On the walls are announcements that I donโt understand. The tiles are black and white with the like the terrace of the house where Moira and her husband no longer live. I sit on the steps that lead to the second floor and the classrooms. I contemplate the place where the man I left in Kotor arrived daily before they sent him to keep his word. The stairs that he climbed and descended, the dark room where he made photocopies, the notices that publish the grades that let him pass the program, the secretary who didnโt want to help him pick up his diploma. From here, itโs not possible to make out the room where the man and I spent the night awake because of the word that had to reach but we didnโt reach it.
Pablo A. Freinkel (Bahรญa Blanca, Argentina, 1957). Licenciado en Bioquรญmica. Periodista y escritor. Sus artรญculos y notas se han dado a conocer en Buenos Aires, New York y Jerusalem; y en medios online nacionales y extranjeros. Es autor de cuatro libros: Diccionario Biogrรกfico Bahiense, el ensayo Metafรญsica y Holocausto, y las novelas El dรญa que Sigmund Freud asesinรณ a Moisรฉs y Los destinos sagrados. Escribiรณ el guiรณn del documental Matthias Sindelar: un gol por la vida. Ha dictado conferencias sobre Spinoza, Maimรณnides y literatura judรญa argentina actual, en diferentes instituciones del paรญs. Escribiรณ las novelas El lector de Spinoza y La casa de Caรญn.
_______________________________
Pablo A. Freinkel (Bahรญa Blanca, Argentina,) who has a degree in biochemistry. He is a journalist and writer. His articles and notes have been published in Buenos Aires, New York and Jerusalem, in Argentine and international online media. Freinkel is the author of four books: Diccionario Biogrรกfico Bahiense, Metafรญsica y Holocausto, and the novel El dรญa que Sigmund Freud asesinรณ a Moisรฉs and Los destinos sagrados. He wrote the script for Matthias Sindelar: un gol por la vida. He has lectured on Spinoza, Maimonides and on contemporary Argentine-Jewish literature throughout Argentina. His recent novels El lector de Spinoza is in press and La casa de Caรญn.
____________________________________
“Zinger“
Hallรฉ en el apartado de avisos fรบnebres del periรณdico en lรญnea que leรญa la siguiente necrolรณgica:
โCon la desapariciรณn fรญsica de Marga Dalla Ponte, a causa de una cruel enfermedad, el arte nacional pierde a una de sus mรกs seรฑeras representantes. Como docente ofreciรณ clases magistrales, condujo talleres, promoviรณ a nuevos valores con generosidad y el interรฉs puesto en revalidar tรญtulos para nuestro paรญs en el complejo mundo de las experiencias visuales. Retirada de las aulas y las exposiciones desde hacรญa aรฑos, fue escasa la cantidad de gente que se convocรณ a despedir sus restos. Descanse en paz, maestra y amigaโ.
A continuaciรณn, se leรญa el siguiente texto:
โZelda Inger participa el fallecimiento de su dilecta amiga, puntal indeclinable en รฉpocas de triste memoria, y ruega una oraciรณn a su amada memoriaโ.
Tenรญa pendiente una visita a Eugenia de Pritzker para comunicarle, entre otros puntos, que me disponรญa a dar por concluida la tarea de ordenar los archivos de don David, ya que en las nuevas condiciones me resultaba poco menos que imposible atender esta contingencia. Asimismo, me proponรญa exponerle algunos asuntos que la involucraban de manera directa. … La encontrรฉ, como era habitual, sentada en la cocina, apenas distraรญda su concentraciรณn en el televisor encendido.
-Me alegra que el cuadro te haya sido รบtil y remunerativo- dijo con cierto toque rencoroso no bien me vio entrar.
-Se equivoca. La idea no fue venderlo, todo lo contrario. Nos pareciรณ una manera de honrarlo a tantos aรฑos de su primera y รบnica exhibiciรณn. Sin contar la carga trรกgica que transmite, es muy bello. Habla muy bien de su creador, de sus habilidadesโฆ Por otra parte, es suyo y puedo restituรญrselo cuando lo desee.
No contestรณ, se limitรณ a entregarme una larga mirada no exenta de atenciรณn.
-ยฟMe permite contarle una historia que no por breve no deja de ser dramรกtica?- Hizo un ademรกn con la mano como si el asunto careciera de importancia-. Habla de una joven llamada Zelda que deseaba dedicar su vida al arte pero encontrรณ la fรฉrrea oposiciรณn de su padre, quien tenรญa otros planes no sรณlo para ella sino tambiรฉn para el resto de sus hijos. Sin embargo, al principio tolerรณ sus aspiraciones de convertirse en una artista, seguramente con el convencimiento de que cuando creciera abandonarรญa esos disparates y retornarรญa al buen camino. Fue todo en vano.
-Ignoro a quiรฉn te referรญs โesbozรณ como protesta-. Nunca conocรญ a esas personas.
Continuรฉ sin reparar en su interrupciรณn:
-Esta diferencia alcanzรณ su desenlace cuando estallรณ la Guerra de los Seis Dรญas entre el joven Estado de Israel contra poderosos ejรฉrcitos de los paรญses vecinos. Las primeras jornadas estuvieron marcadas por la incertidumbre, la angustiaโฆ Revivieron los fantasmas que apenas treinta aรฑos antes condujeron a los campos de concentraciรณn, al exterminio de nuestros hermanos, a la horrible visiรณn de contemplar a los judรญos arrojados al mar, como azuzaban los enemigos. Seguramente en el alma sensible de Zelda se desatรณ una tormenta de sentimientos. Desesperaciรณn, temor extremo, congojaโฆ Entonces recurriรณ a la รบnica herramienta de que disponรญa, que le permitรญa expresarse con entera libertad. Encerrada en su cuarto, en veinticuatro horas de trabajo intenso, febril, surgiรณ la mujer del retrato, esa mujer que personificaba el horror vivido por nuestro pueblo a lo largo del siglo XX. Me imagino que el tรญtulo emergiรณ como una epifania y, es cierto, tuvo toda la intenciรณn de provocar, incitar una respuesta emocional: โNuestra Seรฑora de Auschwitzโ.
El rostro de Eugenia se ensombrecรญa cada vez mรกs. Ya no reflejaba ironรญa o desprecio, sino una combinaciรณn de ira y pesar.
-Fue entonces cuando Zelda dijo: โMedia Humanidad se apiada por la crucifixiรณn de un judรญo y muy pocos por la masacre de tantos millonesโ.
Sus ojos se abrieron desmesuradamente por la sorpresa. No obstante, se obstinaba en mantenerse callada. Empecรฉ a dudar de la certeza de mis argumentos. Un punto de exasperaciรณn tiรฑรณ el rostro de la mujer; un instante despuรฉs descargรณ su rencor.
-No entiendo por quรฉ me contรกs esta fรกbula, me resulta por completo extraรฑa โdijo con acritud e intentando minimizar su impacto.
-Por favor, Eugenia, dรฉjeme terminar y despuรฉs le explico. La respuesta fue un silencio beligerante que no significaba aceptaciรณn sino condescendencia.
-A pesar de la realizaciรณn de la obra โproseguรญ-, el objetivo de manifestar su mensaje no se hubiese cumplido sin haber logrado exponerla al pรบblico. Es entonces cuando aparece Reina Benazar, la prima de la madre de Zelda, propietaria de una galerรญa de arte. Sin consultar con nadie, tomรณ la decisiรณn de llevarle una fotografรญa del retrato -imagen que pude contemplar- y esperar su juicio. Supongo que la pintura la conmoviรณ y aceptรณ de inmediato ponerla a la consideraciรณn del pรบblico. Presentรณ una รบnica objeciรณn: el tรญtulo. Probablemente evaluรณ que era mejor no provocar y si bien Israel habรญa logrado imponerse en la guerra, subsistรญan sentimientos negativos. Reina fue quien propuso โLa dama de la Shoรกโ. Para una artista novel que tenรญa ante sรญ la magnรญfica oportunidad de mostrar un trabajo de su autorรญa, tal sugerencia no generรณ ningรบn litigio. Estaba obnubilada con la posibilidad de efectuar su primera muestra, por lo tanto no deseaba arruinar la oferta. Estoy convencido de que ella hoy se plantarรญa y lucharรญa por imponer sus principios. Entonces, medio siglo atrรกs, joven e inexperta acatรณ la determinaciรณn que le imponรญan con el fin de no perder una ocasiรณn propicia.
-Al enterarse de la propuesta de Reina y, peor todavรญa, la respuesta positiva que recibiรณ, la declaraciรณn de guerra quedรณ ratificada. El doctor Ingerbrock no aceptรณ ni una ni la otra y prohibiรณ a su hija todo movimiento tendiente a ese fin. En pocas palabras, Zelda se sintiรณ inflamada por el viento de la rebeldรญa y dejรณ atrรกs el hogar familiar. Se impuso un ostracismo feroz con el propรณsito de castigar la intransigencia de la que era vรญctima, aunque con este proceder castigaba con el mismo golpe a su madre y hermanos.
De esta manera, sola en el mundo, lejos de sus vรญnculos mรกs cercanos, se hizo presente la imperiosa necesidad de un techo que la cobijara y, por quรฉ no, de un cรกlido abrazo que la contuviera. La rรฉplica a esta inquietud me la proporcionรณ la participaciรณn necrolรณgica que Zelda Inger publicรณ con motivo del fallecimiento de Magda Dalla Ponte donde califica a su amiga de, tratarรฉ de mencionar la cita textual, โpuntal indeclinable en รฉpocas de triste memoriaโ. Me preguntรฉ cuรกl podrรญa ser esa desgraciada circunstancia y cuรกl el lazo que vinculara a dos mujeres tan diferentes que de hecho ni siquiera tenรญan contacto en la actualidad. La respuesta, entonces, debรญa estar en el pasado de ambas y en lo que una vez compartieron. La pintura, el arte, la insatisfacciรณn por los cรณdigos patriarcales… Marga entonces fue mรกs que la maestra, la consejera. Fue quien la recibiรณ cuando abandonรณ la casa paterna. ..
-Resta ahora considerar la llegada de un nuevo personaje: David Pritzker. โEugenia me mirรณ fijamente, anhelante por saber con quรฉ testimonio avalarรญa mis deducciones-. David y Cecilia se conocieron por intermedio de los hermanos de ella. Aunque era mayor, David, estudiante de abogacรญa, sentรญa una afinidad ideolรณgica con los otros dos debido al sionismo, el socialismo, el nuevo Estado judรญo. Eran comunes las discusiones pero al final la sangre no llegaba al rรญo, como se dice. Ella se mantenรญa al margen de esas cuestiones terrenales imbuida en sus afanes artรญsticos. Sin embargo, entre ambos comenzรณ a crecer una afectividad que trascendรญa la polรญtica, el afรกn de arreglar el mundo.
โDavid se enterรณ de la novedad por Israel y Moisรฉs, devastados por la ausencia de su hermana. Supongo que hasta se ofreciรณ a mediar entre padre e hija para considerar su regreso. Sin embargo, ninguno de los dos estuvo dispuesto a resignar sus posiciones. No tengo dudas que el enamorado futuro abogado moviรณ cielo y tierra hasta que finalmente obtuvo el dato, ignoro quiรฉn se lo proveyรณ si bien puedo suponer que el soplo vino de alguien muy prรณximo a ellos, que la dueรฑa de sus suspiros se hospedaba en casa de Marga. A pesar de sus reiterados pedidos para que la jovencita desistiera de su actitud, no se rindiรณ. Asรญ, las visitas se hicieron habituales, siempre bajo la supervisiรณn de la inquisitiva y desconfiada chaperona, y la exigencia de discreciรณn absoluta si รฉl deseaba continuar con ellas.
Por primera vez en mi ya extenso monรณlogo advertรญ una distensiรณn en los apretados rasgos del rostro de la anciana. Habรญa tocado una fibra muy รญntima; supongo que los recuerdos habrรกn caรญdo en cascada sobre su atribulado espรญritu.
-Hay ocasiones en que actuamos de manera impulsiva y entonces resulta muy difรญcil volver atrรกs โdijo en voz baja, casi como un pensamiento hacia su interior. Era la resquebrajadura que esperaba en la coraza, una concesiรณn que abrรญa nuevos e inesperados caminos.
Aguardรฉ a que ese nuevo estado se consolidara, una evoluciรณn que se desplegara en forma natural. La mujer me mirรณ desde una nueva perspectiva, casi dirรญa liberada de una prisiรณn que ella misma habรญa tejido alrededor suyo, representada por una nueva luz en sus ojos, mรกs diรกfana.
-ยฟCรณmo supiste el gesto de Marga? โToda traza de rencor habรญa desaparecido; ahora habรญa serenidad en su voz, como si se hubiese desprendido de un peso cargado desde siempre.
-Por el texto de la necrolรณgica de su fallecimiento. Confiรณ en que ocultando su verdadera identidad tras nombres que no son los usuales en usted esquivarรญa la atenciรณn de los indiscretos que nunca faltan. El tiempo oculta todo, pero los detalles siempre estรกn allรญ y cuando menos se los espera, regresan.
-No tuve en cuenta la fina percepciรณn de Marcos Opatoshu. โNo hubo cinismo ni malicia en esas palabras, fue un aserto pronunciado al pasar.
-Por fin, David recibiรณ su tรญtulo y fue entonces cuando le propuso matrimonio. Frente a esta realidad se disipaba cualquier otra consideraciรณn. Si no aceptaba, su vida transcurrirรญa siempre oculta y quizรก sin ninguna otra posibilidad de constituir una familia; la otra, volver a casa y rogar el perdรณn del padre vaya a saber a quรฉ precio. De esta manera, el pretendiente obtuvo el consentimiento con una condiciรณn de hierro. La ceremonia serรญa discreta, restringida a unos pocos invitados de su familia. Seguramente, el novio pensรณ que se presentaba una excelente ocasiรณn para limar todas las asperezas e iniciar su vida en comรบn sin deudas. A pesar de los requerimientos planteados, aceptรณ. Sin dudas, no era la boda que ninguno de los esperaban celebrar algรบn dรญa, pero, como se dice, era lo que habรญa.
Una breve pausa dio pรกbulo a que ella se hiciera cargo del curso del relato.
-Nos casamos en un shill pequeรฑo de la periferia, con una jupรก[1] encima nuestro y el nรบmero exacto de hombres para conformar un miniรกn[2]. Estoy segura de que David aleccionรณ a su familia para que no pregunten nada acerca de la ausencia de la mรญa, cosa que siempre le agradecรญ si bien รฉl jamรกs me hizo comentario alguno. Al terminar la ceremonia, nos dirigimos a una sala pequeรฑa donde hicimos un lejaim[3]. โUn par de dรญas antes nos casamos por civil y otra vez David se encargรณ de los detalles. Y ahรญ terminรณ todo.
-ยฟCuรกndo decidiรณ cambiarse el nombre Cecilia o Zelda por Eugenia?
-En el momento de redactar la ketubah[4]. Fue una especie de homenaje a una tรญa postiza que siempre apoyรณ mi vocaciรณn. Muriรณ antes del comienzo de este desastre.
-En ese documento deben asentarse los nombres de los padres del novio y de la novia, asรญ como los testigos.
-No sรฉ. De los detalles se encargรณ David. Creo que hablรณ con un rabino amigo. Por otra parte, mi padrino fue un gran amigo suyo. Segismundo, el librero.
-Tambiรฉn es mi amigo.
โAhora comprendรญ su reticencia a abundar en detalles sobre la cuestiรณn.
-Lo sรฉ. Siempre le agradecรญ su discreciรณn. Es una buena persona.
Un descanso marcรณ el final de ese capรญtulo que debiรณ haber sido muy amargo en su vida. Fue un silencio breve, cargado de emotividad, sin resentimientos. Se la veรญa agitada, intranquila, quizรก ansiosa por llegar al final de estas memorias.
-ยฟSe siente bien, Cecilia? ยฟQuiere que dejemos acรก? โA propรณsito la llamรฉ por su nombre real. Ella se dio cuenta y sentรญ que me lo agradecรญa con sus ojos hรบmedos por la emociรณn. Finalmente habรญa marcado el lรญmite con ese pasado inpiadoso.
-No, querido. Sigamos. Tal vez esta confesiรณn ejerza un efecto sanador, despuรฉs de todo. Por favor, alcanzame un vaso de agua. Realicรฉ su pedido. Bebiรณ a pequeรฑos sorbos, como degustando la frescura y el sabor del lรญquido.
-ยฟCรณmo siguieron adelante? โdije una vez que me asegurรฉ de que habรญa recuperado sus condiciones.
-Alquilamos un pequeรฑo departamento alejado del centro. Yo permanecรญa encerrada la mayor parte del dรญa por temor a que alguien me reconociera. David empezรณ a trabajar como apoderado de una cooperativa de crรฉditos y tambiรฉn en La Voz Israelita en una vacante temporal, ad honorem. Era lo que mรกs le gustaba. Tiempo despuรฉs, la vacante se hizo permanente y reforzรณ nuestra economรญa. Pudimos mudarnos aquรญ con la esperanza de recibir a los hijos que vendrรญan en un lugar propio. Sin embargo, nunca llegaron. Luego de tantos aรฑos, sigo creyendo que fue el castigo a mi soberbia. Pero en ese momento estaba como ciega. Supe del fallecimiento de mi padre y le neguรฉ mi รบltimo homenaje; tambiรฉn partiรณ mi mamรก, a la que siempre reprochรฉ su pasividad, su desinterรฉs en defender mi causa, insignificante causa egoรญsta.
-Creo que ya debe dejar de responsabilizarse por todo, perdonarse. โLa interrumpรญ para evitar la cadena de pesados eslabones de la propia recriminaciรณn.
-Fue tan difรญcil, Marcos. Y el pobre David a mi lado, soportando los embates de mis enojos. No dudo que te habrรก llamado la atenciรณn la dureza con que te contรฉ pormenores de la relaciรณn de David con Zelda.
โCierto, asรญ fue-. Nunca existiรณ nada de eso. Fue un recurso tonto para poner distancia una vez mรกs entre ese diabรณlico personaje que una vez fui y yo como soy en la actualidad. Pero, como dicen, el personaje se comiรณ a la persona. ..
-Voy a pensarlo โconcluyรณ con una nota de duda en el tono. .. Finalmente habรญa marcado el lรญmite con ese pasado impiadoso.
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[1]Hebreo: abarcante. Palio nupcial bajo el cual se colocan los novios y sus padrinos. Representa la divina presencia que estรก sobre ellos para convertirlos en uno. [2]Hebreo: cifra, nรบmero. Es un nรบmero mรญnimo de diez varones judรญos mayores de 13 aรฑos, requerido para la realizaciรณn de ciertos rituales, el cumplimiento de preceptos, o la lectura de oraciones. Representa el nรบmero de personas que Abraham querรญa salvar como รบltima opciรณn, cuando Dios le revelรณ que destruirรญa Sodoma y Gomorra.[3]Hebreo: por la vida. Nombre que se le da al brindis judรญo. [4]Hebreo: escrito. Es el acta o contrato matrimonial en el que se declara que el matrimonio se ha celebrado de comรบn acuerdo y se detallan los derechos y obligaciones de la pareja. Figuran los nombres de los novios y de sus padres, en hebreo y en espaรฑol, de los testigos de boda y la fecha de la ceremonia (en el calendario hebreo y, en algunos casos, en ambos calendarios).
I found in the funeral notices section of the online newspaper that it read the following obituary:
โWith the physical disappearance of Marga Dalla Ponte, due to a cruel illness, national art loses one of its most distinguished representatives. As a teacher, he offered master classes, conducted workshops, and promoted new values โโwith generosity and interest in revalidating titles for our country in the complex world of visual experiences. Withdrawn from classrooms and exhibitions for years, the number of people who were summoned to say goodbye to his remains was scarce. Rest in peace, teacher and friend.
The following text was then read: “Zelda Inger participates in the death of her dear friend, an indeclinable mainstay in times of sad memory, and asks a prayer to her beloved memory.” —-
I had a visit to Eugenia de Pritzker pending to inform her, among other things, that I was about to conclude the task of ordering Don David’s files, since in the new conditions it was almost impossible for me to deal with this contingency. Likewise, I proposed to present to her some issues that directly involved her. …
I found her, as usual, sitting in the kitchen, her concentration barely distracted by the television on. “I’m glad that the painting has been useful and remunerative for you,” he said with a certain spiteful touch as soon as he saw me enter.
-You are wrong. The idea was not to sell it, quite the opposite. We thought it was a way to honor him so many years after his first and only exhibition. Without counting the tragic charge that it transmits, it is very beautiful. It speaks highly of its creator, of his skills… On the other hand, it’s yours and I can return it to you whenever you want. She didn’t answer, shr just gave me a long look, not without attention.
-Allow me to tell you a story that, not because it is brief, is still dramatic?- She made a gesture with his hand as if the matter were unimportant-. It tells of a young woman named Zelda who wanted to dedicate her life to art but met with fierce opposition from her father, who had other plans not only for her but also for the rest of his children. However, at first he tolerated her aspirations to become an artist, surely in the belief that when she grew up she would abandon such nonsense and return to the right path. It was all in vain. “I don’t know who you’re referring to,” he outlined in protest. I never met those people. I continued without noticing his interruption:
-This difference reached its outcome when the Six Day War broke out between the young State of Israel against powerful armies from neighboring countries. The first days were marked by uncertainty, anguish… The ghosts that barely thirty years before had led to the concentration camps, to the extermination of our brothers, to the horrible vision of contemplating the Jews thrown into the sea, as the enemies urged on, revived. Surely in Zelda’s sensitive soul a storm of feelings was unleashed. Despair, extreme fear, anguish… Then he resorted to the only tool at his disposal, which allowed him to express himself with complete freedom. Locked in her room, in twenty-four hours of intense, feverish work, the woman in the portrait emerged, that woman who personified the horror experienced by our people throughout the 20th century. I imagine that the title emerged as an epiphany and, it is true, it was fully intended to provoke, to incite an emotional response: โOur Lady of Auschwitzโ. Eugenia’s face darkened more and more. It no longer reflected irony or contempt, but a combination of anger and regret. -It was then that Zelda said: “Half Humanity takes pity for the crucifixion of a Jew and very few for the massacre of so many millions.” His eyes widened in surprise. However, she persisted in keeping quiet. I began to doubt the accuracy of my arguments.
A point of exasperation suffused the woman’s face; an instant later she vented her grudge. “I don’t understand why you are telling me this fable, it seems completely strange to me,” she said bitterly, trying to minimize its impact.
-Please, Eugenia, let me finish and I’ll explain later. The answer was a belligerent silence that did not signify acceptance but condescension. -Despite the realization of the work โI continued-, the objective of expressing its message would not have been fulfilled without having managed to expose it to the public. It is then that Reina Benazar, the cousin of Zelda’s mother, who owns an art gallery, appears. Without consulting anyone, she made the decision to take him a photograph of the portrait – an image that I was able to see – and await its trial. I guess the painting moved her and she immediately agreed to put it up for public consideration. She raised only one objection: the title. She probably assessed that it was better not to be provocative, and although Israel had managed to prevail in the war, negative sentiments persisted. Reina was the one who proposed โThe Lady of the Shoahโ. For a new artist, who had before her the magnificent opportunity to show a work of her own, such a suggestion did not generate any dispute. She was obsessed with the possibility of having her first showing, so she didn’t want to ruin the offer. I am convinced that she would stand up today and fight to impose her principles. Then, half a century ago, young and inexperienced, she complied with the restriction imposed on her in order to not to miss a propitious opportunity.
Upon learning of Reina’s proposal and, even worse, the positive response she received, the declaration of war was ratified. Dr. Ingerbrock did not accept either one or the other and forbade his daughter any movement towards that end. In short, Zelda felt inflamed by the winds of rebellion and left the family home behind. A fierce ostracism was imposed with the purpose of punishing her intransigence. She was a victim, but although with this action, she punished her mother and brothers with the same blow. In this way, alone in the world, far from her closest ties, the urgent need for a roof that sheltered her and, why not, a warm hug that contained her, became present. The reply to this concern was provided to me by the obituary article that Zelda Inger published on the occasion of the death of Magda Dalla Ponte where she described her friend as, I will try to mention the direct quote, “an indeclinable mainstay in times of sad memory.”
I wondered what this unfortunate circumstance could be and what was the bond that linked two women so different who, in fact, weren’t even have contact at that moment. The answer, then, must lie in their past and in what they once shared. Painting, art, dissatisfaction with patriarchal codes…
Marga then was more than the teacher, the counselor. She was the one who received her when she left the parental home. ..
-Now it remains to consider the arrival of a new character: David Pritzker. Eugenia looked at me fixedly, anxious to know what testimony she would use to support my deductions. David and Cecilia met through her brothers. Although he was older, David, a law student, felt an ideological affinity with the other two because of Zionism, socialism, the new Jewish state. Arguments were common but in the end the blood did not reach the river, as they say. She stayed away from those earthly issues, and was imbued with artistic pursuits.
However, between the two began to grow an affectivity that transcended politics, the desire to fix the world. โDavid learned of the news from Israel and Moses, devastated by the absence of their sister. I suppose he even offered to mediate between father and daughter to consider his return. However, neither of them was willing to resign their positions.
I have no doubt that the enamored future lawyer moved heaven and earth until he finally obtained the information, I do not know who provided it to him, although I can assume that the tip came from someone very close to them, that the owner of his sighs was staying at Marga’s house. Despite his repeated requests for the young woman to give up her attitude, she did not give up. Thus, the visits became habitual, always under the supervision of the inquisitive and distrustful chaperone, and the requirement of absolute discretion if he wished to continue with them. For the first time in my already lengthy monologue I noticed a relaxation in the tight features of the old woman’s face. It had struck a very intimate chord; I suppose the memories must have cascaded over his troubled spirit.the woman persisted in keeping unaffected.
Eugenia looked at me fixedly, anxious to know what testimony she would use to support my deductions. David and Cecilia met through her brothers. Although he was older, David, a law student, felt an ideological affinity with the other two because of Zionism, socialism, the new Jewish state. Arguments were common but in the end the blood did not reach the river, as they say. She stayed away from those earthly issues imbued with her artistic pursuits. However, between the two began to grow an affectivity that transcended politics, the desire to fix the world. David learned of the news from Israel and Moses, devastated by the absence of their sister. I suppose he even offered to mediate between father and daughter to consider his return. However, neither of them was willing to resign their positions. I have no doubt that the enamored future lawyer moved heaven and earth until he finally obtained the information, I do not know who provided it to him, although I can assume that the tip came from someone very close to them, that the owner of his sighs was staying at Marga’s house. Despite his repeated requests for the young woman to change her attitude, she did not give up. Thus, the visits became habitual, always under the supervision of the inquisitive and distrustful chaperone, and the requirement of absolute discretion if he wished to continue with them.
For the first time in my already lengthy monologue I noticed a relaxation in the tight features of the old woman’s face. It had struck a very intimate chord. I suppose that the memories had come down in a cascade over her troubled spirit.
-There are times when we act impulsively and then it’s very difficult to go back,” she said quietly, almost like an inward thought.
It was the crack tin the armor that I was waiting for, a concession that opened new and unexpected paths.
I waited for this new state to consolidate, an evolution that unfolded naturally. The woman looked at me from a new perspective, I would almost say released from a prison that she herself had woven around her, represented by a new, more diaphanous light in her eyes.
-How did you know about Marga’s gesture? โAll trace of rancor had disappeared; now there was serenity in his voice, as if a weight that had always been loaded down had been shed.
-From the text of the obituary of her death. She trusted that by hiding your true identity behind names that are not your usual ones, you would avoid the attention of the indiscreet people who are never absent. Time hides everything, but the details are always there and when you least expect them, they come back.
-I did not take into account the fine perception of Marcos Opatoshu. โThere was no cynicism or malice in those words, it was an assertion pronounced in passing
-Finally, David received his title and that’s when he proposed to her. Faced with this reality, any other consideration dissipated. If she did not accept, her life would always be spent in hiding and perhaps without any other possibility of starting a family; the other, to go home and beg the father’s forgiveness at who knows what price. In this way, the suitor obtained consent with an iron condition. The ceremony would be low-key, restricted to a few of her family guests. Surely, the groom thought that this was an excellent opportunity to iron out all the rough edges and start their life together debt-free. Despite the requirements raised, he accepted. Undoubtedly, it was not the wedding that any of them expected to celebrate one day, but, as they say, it was what it was.
A brief pause prompted her to take charge of the course of the story.
-We got married in a small shill on the outskirts, with a chuppah (1) above us and the exact number of men to make up a minyan (2). I am sure that David taught his family not to ask anything about my absence, which I always thanked him for, although he never made any comment to me. At the end of the ceremony, we went to a small room where we made a lechaim. (3)
-A couple of days before, we had gotten married civilly and once again David took care of the details. And there it all ended.
-When did you decide to change your name Cecilia or Zelda to Eugenia?
-At the time of writing the ketubah.(4) It was a kind of tribute to a false aunt who always supported my vocation. He died before the start of this disaster. -This document must include the names of the parents of the groom and the bride, as well as the witnesses. -I don’t know. David took care of the details. I think he spoke to a friendly rabbi. On the other hand, my godfather was a great friend of his, Segismundo, the bookseller.
-He is also my friend. I now understand your reluctance to go into detail on the matter.
-I know. I always appreciated his discretion. He is a good person.
This was a break marked the end of that chapter that must have been very bitter in her life. It was a brief silence, charged with emotion, without resentment. She looked agitated, restless, perhaps anxious to get to the end of these memories.
-Are you feeling well, Cecilia? Do you want us to stop here? I purposely called her by her real name. She noticed that, and I felt her thank me with her eyes moist with emotion. ..She had finally drawn the line with that unforgiving past. ..
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[1]Hebrew: encompassing. Bridal canopy under which the bride and groom and their godparents are placed. It represents the divine presence that is over them to make them one. [2]Hebrew: figure, number. It is a minimum number of ten Jewish men over the age of 13, required for the performance of certain rituals, the fulfillment of precepts, or the reading of prayers. It represents the number of people that Abraham wanted to save as a last option, when God revealed to him that he would destroy Sodom and Gomorrah.[3]Hebrew: for life. Name given to the Jewish toast. [4]Hebrew: written. It is the marriage certificate or contract in which it is declared that the marriage has been celebrated by mutual agreement and the rights and obligations of the couple are detailed. The names of the bride and groom and their parents, in Hebrew and Spanish, of the wedding witnesses and the date of the ceremony (in the Hebrew calendar and, in some cases, in both calendars) appear.
Marcos Ribak, mรกs conocido como Andrรฉs Rivera fue un escritor y periodista argentino. Hijo de inmigrantes obreros, naciรณ en el barrio porteรฑo de Villa Crespo. Moisรฉs Rybak, desde Polonia, donde era un comunista perseguido; en Buenos Aires llegรณ a ser dirigente del gremio del vestido. Rivera fue obrero textil antes de dedicarse al periodismo y la literatura. Participรณ en el movimiento obrero argentino y, como su padre, militรณ en el Partido Comunista (PC). Trabajรณ en la redacciรณn de la revista Plรกtica (1953-1957) y debutรณ en la ficciรณn con la novela El precio (1956), muy cercana a la estรฉtica del realismo social, al igual que la siguiente, Los que no mueren, y tres libros de cuentos, Sol de sรกbado, Cita y El yugo y la marcha. En 1964 Rivera fue expulsado del PC y su visiรณn del mundo experimentรณ una transformaciรณn, que se reflejรณ en su obra como su libro de relatos Ajuste de cuentas, aparecido en 1972, al que seguirรก un silencio de 10 aรฑos: en 1982 publica el volumen de cuentos Una lectura de la historia y la novela Nada que perder. Dos aรฑos despuรฉs aparece En esta dulce tierra, con la que obtendrรก su primer premio, al que posteriormente le seguirรกn importantes distinciones entre las que cabe destacar el Nacional de Literatura y el Konex.
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Marcos Ribak, better known as Andrรฉs Rivera, was an Argentine writer and journalist. The son of worker immigrants, he was born in the Buenos Aires neighborhood of Villa Crespo. Moisรฉs Rybak, from Poland, where he was a persecuted communist; in Buenos Aires he became a leader of the dress guild. Rivera was a textile worker before dedicating himself to journalism and literature. He participated in the Argentine labor movement and, like his father, was a member of the Communist Party (PC). He worked in the writing of the magazine Plรกtica (1953-1957) and debuted in fiction with the novel El precio (1956), very close to the aesthetics of social realism, like the following, Those who do not die, and three books of stories, Sol de sรกbado, Cita and El yugo y la marcha. In 1964 Rivera was expelled from the PC and his vision of the world underwent a transformation, which was reflected in his work such as his book of short stories Ajuste de cuentos, published in 1972, which was followed by a silence of 10 years: in 1982 he published the volume of stories A reading of the story and the novel Nada que perder. Two years later En esta dulce tierra appears, with which he won his first prize, which was later followed by important distinctions, including the National Literature Award and the Konex Award.
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El corrector
Ella y yo trabajรกbamos en una editorial de capitales europeos, y que se preciaba de haber publicado la primera Biblia que usaron los jesuitas en tierras de Mรฉxico. A la hora del almuerzo, ella y yo nos quedรกbamos solos. Los otros correctores, la cartรณgrafa (ยฟera una sola?), las tipiadoras, las mujeres de dedos velocรญsimos de la oficina de cobranzas, las secretarias de los gerentes salรญan a ocupar sus mesas en los bodegones que abundaban por los alrededores de la empresa y, sentados, pedรญan ensaladas ligeras y Coca-Cola. Ella, a esa hora, extraรญa, de su bolso, revistas en las que aparecรญan figuras ululantes con nombres que, probablemente, castigaban algo mรกs que mi ignorancia de hombre cercano a las edades de la vejez. Ella, a esa hora, escupรญa, en una caja de cartรณn depositada al pie de su escritorio, un chicle que masticรณ durante toda la maรฑana y suplantaba el chicle por un sรกndwich triple de miga, jamรณn cocido y queso. Tambiรฉn cruzaba las piernas y un zapato se balanceaba en la punta del pie de la pierna cruzada sobre la otra. Ese viernes, ella llevaba puesto un walkman. Yo no mirรฉ su cara en el mediodรญa de ese viernes de un julio huรฉrfano de alegrรญa: mirรฉ un fino hilo de metal que brillaba un poco mรกs arriba de la leve tapa de su cabeza, y despuรฉs mirรฉ su cabeza, y mirรฉ su largo y lacio pelo rubio. Dejรฉ de suprimir gerundios aborrecibles en el original de una novela que llevaba vendidos quince mil ejemplares de su primera ediciรณn, antes de que la novela y los gerundios que sobrevivirรญan a las infecundas expurgaciones de la correcciรณn se publicaran, y cuyo autor, la cotizaciรณn mรกs alta de la narrativa nacional, es un hombre que ama el vino y el boxeo, y aprecia las bromas inteligentes, y caminรฉ hasta el escritorio de ella. Y cuando lleguรฉ hasta el escritorio de ella, mirรฉ, por encima de la cabeza de ella, y de la corta antena de su walkman, el cielo de ese mediodรญa de viernes. Mirรฉ, por las anchas ventanas de la sala vacรญa y silenciosa, el cielo gris, y algรบn techo desolado, y unas sรกbanas puestas a secar que batรญan el aire frรญo y violento. Me agachรฉ, y agachado, me arrastrรฉ debajo de su escritorio, y allรญ, en una tibieza polvorienta, hincado, le acariciรฉ el empeine del pie, el talรณn y los dedos del pie, por encima de la seda negra de la media. Ese ablandamiento de una elasticidad tensa y frรญa durรณ lo que ella quiso que durase. La calcรฉ y, despuรฉs, me puse de pie, y frente a ella, le preguntรฉ, en voz baja, si la habรญa molestado. Ella me mirรณ. Y sus labios, empastados con manteca y queso de mรกquina, me prometieron un invierno interminable. -Hacelo otra vez -dijo, y le brillaron los dientes empastados, ellos tambiรฉn, todavรญa, con miga, manteca y queso de mรกquina.
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The Corrector
She and I were working in a publishing house in one of the European capitals that prided itself fin publishing the first Bible that the Jesuits used in Mexican lands. At lunch time, she and I stayed by ourselves. The other copy editors, the map editor (was there only one?), the typists, the women with extremely fast fingers from the business office, the bossesโ secretaries left to occupy their tables in the nearby cheap restaurants that were in abundance around the business, and seated, ordered light salads and Coca-Cola. She, at that time, extracted, from her bag, ululating figures with names, that probably, suggested something beyond that my ignorance of a man approaching old age. She, at that hour, was spitting, into a cardboard box set at the foot of her desk, a piece of gum that she chewed all morning long and replaced the gum with a triple sandwich of cheap bread, cooked ham and machine-cut cheese. She also crossed her legs and a shoe on the point of the foot of the leg crossed over the other. That Friday, she had on a Walkman. I didnโt look at her face at noon of that Friday of July, an orphaned happiness: I looked at a fine wire if metal that shined a little bit above the light top of her head, and then I looked at her head, and I looked at her long and straight blond hair. I stopped excising abhorrent gerunds in the original of a novel that had sold fifteen thousand copies of its first edition, before the novel and the gerunds that survived the sterile expurgations of the correction were published, and whose author, the most highly rated of the national narrative, is a man who love wine and boxing and appreciated intelligent jokes, and I walked up to her desk. And when I arrived at her desk, I looked above her head and the short antenna of her Walkman, the sky of that Friday midday. I looked through the wide window of the empty and silent room, at the gray sky, and some desolate roof, and some sheets put out to dry that flapped in the cold and violent wind. I bent down, and bent down, I pulled myself below her desk. And there, in the dusty warmth, I caressed the instep of her foot, her heel and her toes, on the black silk of her stocking. That softening of a tight and cold elasticity lasted for as long as she wanted it to last. I put her shoe on and then, I stood up in front of her, I asked her, in a low voice, if I had bothered her. She looked at me. And her lips, covered with butter and cheap cheese, promised me an interminable winter. โDo it again,โ she said, and her covered teeth shined, they too, still with bread, butter, and machine-cut cheese.
Translation by Stephen A. Sadow
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La mecedora
ย El neurรณlogo dice esto: dos aรฑos atrรกs, me leyรณ las conclusiones del informe aรฑadido a una polisomnografรญa nocturna a la que, le consta, me sometรญ desdeรฑoso y resignado. El neurรณlogo que se parece, demasiado, a un caballero inglรฉs -algo asรญ como un jugador de polo vestido, de los hombros a los tobillos, con una bata blanca, y rubio, atildado, de estatura y edad medianas y ojos frรญos y claros-, me pregunta, no muy ansioso, como fatigado, si recuerdo algo de aquella lectura. ย Me alzo de hombros y miro sus ojos claros y frรญos, su cabello rubio y el nudo irreprochable de su corbata, y su devociรณn por el Martรญn Fierro, de la que me hizo partรญcipe, en una lejana tarde de verano, cuando se abandonรณ, displicente e inescrutable, a la celebraciรณn de los silencios de la pampa. El neurรณlogo dice -y el tono de su voz es algo mรกs fuerte que un susurro- que el informe elaborado a partir de esa polisomnografรญa nocturna (a la que me entreguรฉ, repite, dรณcil y abstraรญdo), corresponde a una persona normal, salvo por una observaciรณn que รฉl, el neurรณlogo, omitiรณ mencionar en mi รบltima visita, por razones obvias. ย Yo miro el humo del cigarrillo que sube, leve y lento, y blanquรญsimo, hacia una ventana por la que entra la luz de la tarde. ยฟEs una luz de otoรฑo? ยฟMansa? ยฟDรณnde se refugiรณ la luz del verano, mientras yo, por razones obvias, encendรญa un cigarrillo? El neurรณlogo dice, sin ningรบn รฉnfasis, tal vez retraรญdo: la observaciรณn que acompaรฑa a la polisomnรณgrafรญa nocturna indica que yo, persona sana, vivo una tristeza profunda. ยฟEntiendo esa observaciรณn, incluida en el informe que acompaรฑa a la polisomnรณgrafรญa nocturna? ยฟEs mansa la luz del otoรฑo? ยฟHacia dรณnde huyรณ la luz del verano? ยฟLe digo, al neurรณlogo, que lo que yo deba entender de la observaciรณn que aparece en el informe agregado a la polisomnografรญa nocturna ha dejado de importarme? ยฟLe digo que alguien escribiรณ: la vejez, รบnica enfermedad que me conozco, serรก breve, serรก cruel, ยฟserรก letal? ยฟY que escribiรณ, tambiรฉn, que preferรญa olvidar las diez o doce imรกgenes que conservaba de su infancia? Enciendo otro cigarrillo. El neurรณlogo, las manos cruzadas sobre su escritorio, contempla el cenicero, y dice que no demore mi prรณxima visita, que vuelva cuando yo lo desee. Me pongo de pie, y le pregunto al neurรณlogo si hay alguna otra cosa que yo deba saber. El neurรณlogo que es, casi, un caballero inglรฉs, sea lo que sea un caballero inglรฉs, me abre la puerta de su consultorio. Cuando llego a casa, prendo la luz de una lรกmpara de pie, siento a Tristeza Profunda en la mecedora, y la mecedora se mueve de atrรกs para delante, lenta y en calma, y pasea a Tristeza Profunda por el silencio que ocupa la pieza de paredes pintadas a la cal. ย
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In the Rocking Chair
The neurologist says this: two years ago, he read to me the conclusions of the report added to a nocturnal polysomnograph to which, told him, I reacted disdainful and resigned. The neurologist who looks, to much so, like a British gentleman-something like a polo player, dressed, from his shoulders to his heels, with a white lab coat, and blond, sharp, of middle stature and age and cold and clear eyes- asks me, not very anxious, but fatigued, if I remember something of that lecture. I shrug my shoulders, and I look at his clear and cold eyes, hi s blond hair and the irreproachable knot of his tie. And his devotion for Martin Fierro, of which he made me a participant, on a far-off winter afternoon, when he abandoned, peevish and inscrutable, the celebration of the silences of the pampas. The neurologist said โ and his tone of voice was something stronger than a whisper- that the study made from that night-time polysomnography (the one he gave to me, he repeats, docile and distracted) corresponds to a normal person, except for an observation that he, the neurologist, omitted to mention during my last visit for obvious reasons. I look at the smoke from the cigarette that rises, light and slow, and very white, toward a window through which the afternoon light enters. Is it an autumn light? Gentle?,โ Where did the summer light take refuge, while I, for obvious reasons, lit a cigarette? The neurologist says, without any emphasis, perhaps restrained: the observation that accompanies the nocturnal polysomnography indicates that I, a healthy person, live in a profound sadness. Do I understand that observation, included in the report that accompanies the nocturnal polysomnography? Is the autumn light gentle? Do I say to the neurologist that what I ought to understand from the observation that appears in the report added to the nocturnal polysomnography no longer is important to me? Do I say that someone wrote: old age, the only illness that I know, will be brief, will be cruel, will be lethalโ Amd who also wrote, that he would prefer to forget the ten or twelve images that he has of his childhood? I light another cigarette. I stand up, and I ask the neurologist is if there is anything else I ought to know. The neurologist who is, almost, an English gentleman, whatever an English gentleman may be, opens the door of his office. When I arrive at home, I turn on the light of a standing lamp, I feel the Profound Sadness in the rocking chair, and the rocking chair moves from back to front, slowly and in calmness, andshows the Profound Sadness to the silence that occupies the room with the walls painted with lime.
ESPINOZA, ENRIQUE (seudรณnimo de Samuel Glusberg; 1898โ1987), autor, editor y periodista argentino. Su seudรณnimo combina los nombres de Heinrich Heine y Baruch Spinoza. Nacido en Kishinev, Espinoza llegรณ a la Argentina a los siete aรฑos. Fundรณ y editรณ las revistas literarias Cuadernos Americanos (1919) y Babel (1921-1951), primero en Buenos Aires y luego en Santiago de Chile, donde se instalรณ en 1935 por motivos polรญticos y de salud, y tambiรฉn fundรณ la editorial Babel, que lanzรณ libros de nuevos escritores argentinos. En 1945 realizรณ un simposio sobre “La Cuestiรณn Judรญa” entre destacados intelectuales latinoamericanos, publicado en Babel 26. Fue cofundador y primer secretario de la Asociaciรณn Argentina de Escritores, y miembro de los movimientos de vanguardia en la literatura y el letras. Sus cuentos y artรญculos tratan la identidad judรญa, la inmigraciรณn, el antisemitismo y el Holocausto, asรญ como sobre cuestiones sociales รฉticas y universales. Sus contemporรกneos lo vieron como la mezcla intelectual perfecto de cosmopolitismo y judaรญsmo. Sus cuentos mรกs conocidos aparecieron en La levita gris: cuentos judรญos de ambiente porteรฑo (1924); y Rut y Noemรญ (1934). Sus ensayos se recopilaron en De un lado y del otro (1956), Heine, el รกngel y el leรณn (1953) y Spinoza, รngel y paloma (1978).
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ESPINOZA, ENRIQUE (pseudonym of Samuel Glusberg ; 1898โ1987), Argentine author, publisher, and, journalist. His pseudonym combines the names of Henrich Heine and Baruch Spinoza. Born in Kishinev, Espinoza arrived in Argentina at the age of seven. He founded and edited the literary reviews Cuadernos Americanos (1919) and Babel (1921โ51), first in Buenos Aires and later in Santiago de Chile, where he settled in 1935 for health and political reasons, and also founded the Babel publishing house, which launched books by new Argentinian writers. In 1945 he conducted a symposium on “the Jewish Question” among prominent Latin American intellectuals, published in Babel 26. He was co-founder and first secretary of the Argentine Writers’ Association, and a member of avant-garde movements in literature and the arts. His short stories and articles deal with Jewish identity, immigration, antisemitism, and the Holocaust, as well as ethical and universal social issues. His contemporaries saw him as the perfect intellectual blend of cosmopolitanism and Jewishness. His best-known stories appeared in La levita gris: cuentos judรญos de ambiente porteรฑo (1924); and Ruth y Noemรญ (1934). His essays were collected in De un lado y otro (1956), Heine, el รกngel y el leรณn (1953), and Spinoza, รกngel y paloma (1978).
De:/By: Enrique Espinosa. La levita gris: cuentos de ambiente porteรฑo. Buenos Aires: BABEL, 1924.
El final de este cuento describe “La Semana Trรกgica”, el progrom contra los judรญo y otros obreros en 1919./The end of this story describes the “Tragic Week,” the pogrom against Jews and other workers in 1919.
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“Mate amargo”
A Leopoldo Lugones
El asesinato de su primer varoncito en el pogrom de Kishinev, mรกs el nacimiento anormal de la segunda criatura, a causa de los trastornos durante la matanza sufriรณ la madre, fueron causas harto suficientes para que Abraham Petacรณvsky, dejando su oficio de melamed (preceptor de hebreo), se decidieron a emigrar de Rusia. Dirigiรฉndose en principio a los Estado Unidos (la Amรฉrica por excelencia de los judos de ayer y yanquis de hoy). Pero, ya en Hamburgo, viรณse por razones diplomรกticasโsegรบn bromeรณ despuรฉs-a cambiar de rumbo. Y en los primeros dรญas de noviembre del aรฑo 1905, con su mujer y las dos nenas, a Buenos Aires.
Abraham Petacรณvsky era un judรญo pequeรฑo, simpรกtico, con el aire inteligente y dulce de las personas amables. Sus ojillos claros, amortiguaban hasta la palidez cadavรฉrico, el rostro alargado por una barba irregular y negra. La nariz, de punto estilo hebraico, parecรญa caerse en la boca de gruesos labios irรณnicos. Aunque no contaba mรกs de treinta aรฑos, su aspecto er el de un viejo. Por eso, tal vez, sus parientes de Buenos aires llamรกronlo tรญo Petacovsky, contra la voluntad de Jane Guitel, su esposa, una mujer fidelรญsma, tan devota como fea, pero de mucho orgullo. De tanto, que no obstante haber pasado con el tรญo Patovsky aรฑos difรญciles, lamentaba siempre el tiempo antiguo en nuestra Rusia.Y resignada en sus veintisiete aรฑos escasos, fincaba toda su esperanza en las dos criaturas que habรญan sobrevivido a los horrores del pogrom: Elisa, de siete aรฑos, y Beile, uno apenas.
No se arrepintiรณ el tรญo Petacรณvsky de su arribo a la Argentina. Buenos Aires, la ciudad acerca de la cual habรญa tenido tan peregrinos en el buque, resultรณ muy agrado. Esperรกndolo en el viejo Hotel de Inmigrantes dos cercanos parientes de la mujer y algunos amigos. Gracias a ellos- a quienes ya debรญa parte del pasaje- logrรณ instalarse en seguida bajo techo seguro. Fue una pieza sub-alquilada a cierta familia criolla en el antiguo barrio de Corrales. Para instalarse allรก, tanto el tรญo Petacรณvsky como su mujer tuvieron que dejar al lado escrรบpulos religiosos: resolverse a vivir entre goim.
Jana Guitel, por cierto, resistiรณse un poco.
ยกDios mรญo!, – clamaba ยฟCรณmo voy a cocinar mi pescado relleno junto a la olla con puerco de una cristiana?
Pero cuando vio la cocina de tablas frente a la pieza clavada rente a pieza, como garita de centinela junta a una celda, no tardรณ en conformarse. Y la adaptaciรณn vino rรกpida, por cuanto la facilitaron los dueรฑos de la casa en el respeto a los extraรฑos costumbres de los judรญos, y en el generoso interรฉs por ellos.
La misma discreta curiosidad que los criollos mostraban por la forma rara que la rusa salaba la carne al sol, y el tรญo Petacรณvsky guardaba el sรกbado, lo sentรญan los reciรฉn llegados por las manifestaciones de la vida argentina. De aquรญ que a los pocos dรญas ya todos se entendieron por gestos, Jane Guitel fuera rebautizada con la traducciรณn de Guillermina, por su segundo nombre y el apelativo doรฑa en lugar del primero.
Por su parte, el tรญo Petacรณvsky aprendรญa a tomar mate sin azรบcar, con los hijos de la patrona: dos buenos y honrados muchachos argentinos. Y aunque como gringo legรญtimo, les daba las gracias despuรฉs de cada mate, no suspendรญa hasta el sรฉptimo, pues encontraba el mate sin azรบcar las mismas virtudes estomacales que su mujer atribuรญa al tรฉ con limรณn.
Despuรฉs del mate amargo, las alpargatas criollas constituyeron el descubrimiento mรกs al gusto del tรญo Petacรณvsky. Desde la primera maรฑana que saliรณ a vender cuadros, las encontrรณ insustituibles.
Sin ellas- juraba- jamรกs habrรญa podido con esa endiablado oficio- tan judรญo errante, sin embargo- que le proporcionaron sus parientes.
Las alpargatas criollas y el mate amargo fueron los primeros sรญntomas de la adaptaciรณn del tรญo Petacovsky, pero la prueba definitiva la evidenciรณ dos meses mรกs tarde, concurriendo al entierro del general Mitre. Aquella imponente manifestaciรณn de duelo lo conmoviรณ hasta las lรกgrimas, y durante muchos aรฑos la recordรณ como la expresiรณn mรกs alta de una multitud acongojada por la muerte de un patriarca.
A fuer de israelita piadoso, el tรญo Petacรณvsky sabรญa de grandes hombres y de grandes duelos.
Ya dijimos que el buen hombre comenzรณ su vida de porteรฑo ofreciendo cuadros por las calles de Buenos Aires. Pero no sabemos si el lector por haber visto alguna vez una figura de talmudista metido entre dos parejas de estampas evangรฉlicas sospechรณ que nos referimos a cuadros religiosos. Sin embargo, la cosa, ademรกs de pintoresca, es importante y hasta tiene su historia.
Vender estampas de santos, era en 1906 un negocio reciรฉn iniciado por los judรญos de Buenos Aires. Hasta entonces, los israelitas que no vinieron para trabajar en las colonias agrรญcolas de Entre Rรญos o Santa Fe, se dedicaron a vender a plazos: muebles, joyas, trajes, pielesโฆ Todo, menos cuadros. El tรญo Petacรณvsky fue tal vez el nรบmero uno de los que salieron a vender estampas a plazos. Y es cierto que no resultรณ que el mรกs afortunado (no hay ahora ninguna marca de cuadros Petacรณvsky) fue en su tiempo mรกs el mรกs eficaz.
Dueรฑo de un innato gusto eclesiรกstico, el tรญo Petacvsky sabรญa recomendar sus lรกminas. En su rara lengua judaica-criolla hallaba el modo de hacer en pocas palabras el elogio de cualquiera. Unas, por el tenue azul de sus ojos de una virgen; otras, por el gesto derrotado de un apรณstol. A cada cual por lo mรกs impresionanteโฆ
Nadie come el tรญo Petacoรณvsky para explicar las virtudes de un San Juan Evangelista. Equivocaba, tal vez, desmemoriado, un San Josรฉ con un san Antonio. Pero jamรกs olvidaba seรฑalar un detalle del color, un rasgo patรฉtico capaz de entusiasmar a una Marรญa.
De lo que se lamentaba con frecuencia era de la escasez de su lรฉxico. A cada instante veรญase obligado a juegos de mรญmica moviendo manos, cara y hombros a un mismo tiempoโฆ con todo, sus ventas nunca fracasaron porque no lo entendieran o porque รฉl extendiera los recibos con nombres de Josefa o Magdalena, en caracteres hebraicos, sino por falta de religiosidad de las gentes.
รl, que era tan profundamente religioso hasta cumplir- no obstante, su oficio- con las oraciones cotidianas y el sรกbado sagrado, no se explicaba cรณmo habiendo tantas iglesias en Buenos Aires, eran tan pocos los creyentes. Por eso, cuando a fuerza de recorrer la ciudad, comprobรณ que en la Boca era donde se congregaba mayor nรบmero de fieles, tratรณ de formar su clientela entre ellos. Y, en efecto, le fue mejor.
Despuรฉs de trabajar un aรฑo junto al Riachuelo, saliendo a vender casi todos los dรญas menos los sรกbados y los domingos- el tรญo Petacรณvsky pudo crear su clientela y dedicarse solo a la cobranza y entrega de los cuadros que le encargaban directamente. Entonces saldรณ las deudas con sus parientes, obtuvo otra pieza en la misma casa de la calle Caseros, y planteรณ el negocio por realizar con los hijos de la patrona: negocio que consistรญa en asociarse a ellos para armar los marcos de las estampas y confeccionar los cuadros por cuenta propia.
Todo pudo realizarse al espรญritu emprendedor del tรญo Petacรณvsky. Los dos muchachos criollos, que no fueron desde niรฑos otra cosa que jornaleros en una carpinterรญa mecรกnica, viรฉronse convertidos en pequeรฑos industriales. Entretanto, el tรญo Petacรณvsky dejรณ de ser vendedor ambulante, para dirigir el taller.
A su nombre, o mรกs bien a nombre de la fรกbrica de cuadros Petacรณvsky-Bermรบdez, trabajaban varios corredores judรญos. Ademรกs, muchos otros, colegas del devoto oficio, compraban allรญ sus cuadras para difundir por toda la Repรบblica.
Cerca de tres aรฑos trabajaron los hermanos Bermรบdez en sociedad con el tรญo Petacรณvsky. Como fuera bien desde un principio, lo hacรญan con gusto y sin honorario determinado. A las seis de la maรฑana ya estaban los tres en el taller, y se desayunan con amargos y galleta. Luego, mientras los mozos preparaban las estampas encargadas, el tรญo Petacรณvsky, que ya borroneaba en castellano, hacรญa las facturas y tomaba nota de las lรกminas que era necesario llevar al centro.
A la venta de estampas evangรฉlicas los fabricantes habรญan agregado, siempre por la iniciativa del tรญo Petacรณvsky, marinas, paisajes, frutasโฆ y, en gran cantidad escenas del teatro shakesperiano: Otelo, Hamlet, Romeo y Julietaโฆ A las ocho, cuando doรฑa Guillermina, o Jane Guitel, despachaba a Elisa para la escuela, el tรญo Petacรณvsky รญbase de compras en el centro. A pesar de que lo hacรญa casi todas las maรฑanas, los hermanos Bermรบdez nunca dejaban de bromear en las despedidas.
-Tรญo Petaca- le gritaban, no olvide de traerme una paisanita, y prefiero rubia, ยฟeh?… Tรญo Petacaโฆ
Pero el aludido no se enojaba. Con una comisura de ironรญa y superioridad en los labios, contestaba: -Estรก boino, pero no olviden los noive San Antonios para San Pedro.
Y salรญa riรฉndose, mientras los mozos, remedรกndole, gritaban:
Cabayo bien, Tรญo Petarcaโฆ
A Jane Guitel, desde luego, no le agradaban estas bromas. Cada maรฑana las oรญa y cada noche se las reprochaba al marido, rogรกndole que se mudaran antes de evitar โtanta confianzaโ.
-Una cosa- protestaba la mujer- es el comercio y otra la amistad. No me gusta que tengas tanta confianza con ellos. ยฟAcaso han fumado ustedes en la misma pipa?…
En realidad, lo que Jane Guitel concluรญa preguntando a su marido no era precisamente si habรญa fumado en la misma pipa con sus socios, sino muy otra cosa. Pero, a quรฉ repetirloโฆ Lo que molestaba a la mujer, sobre todo, era que los Bermรบdez llamaron Tรญo Petaca a su marido. Desde que Elisa iba al colegio, doรฑa Guillermina averiguaba por ella el significado de cualquier palabra. Y aunque la chiquilla solo cursaba el tercer grado, sabรญa ya expresarse correctamente en castellano, hasta el punto de no querer hablar el idish no con su propia madre.
Pasaron, no obstante, dos aรฑos mรกs. Por fin, a principios de 1910, Jane Guitel pudo realizar su propuesto de abandonar la calle Caseros. Una vez en claro el balance definitivo, la sociedad Petacรณvsky-Bermรบdez quedรณ disuelta, sin que por ello los socios quebraban su amistad. Despuรฉs de tres aรฑos, cada uno se retiraba con cerca de diez mil pesos. Los hermanos, con sus partes, decidieron reconstruir la vieja casa familiar y establecer en ella una carpinterรญa mecรกnica. Mientras el tรญp Petacรณvsky, qua a cambio de su parte de la maquinaria conservaba un resto de la antigua clientela boquense, instalรกbase en una cรณmoda casa de la calle Almirante Brown.
Sabido es: de cien judรญos que llegan a juntar algunos miles de pesos, noventa y nueve gustan instalarse como verdaderos ricos. De ahรญ que el tรญo Petacรณvsky, que no era la excepciรณn, comprara piano a la pequeรฑa Elisa, y con motivo del nacimiento de un hijo argentino, celebrara la circuncisiรณn en una digna fiesta a la manera clรกsica. Era justo. Desde el asesinato de primogรฉnito, en Rusia, el tรญo Petacรณvsky esperaba tamaรฑo acontecimiento.
Igual que Jane Guitle, รฉl habรญa soรฑado siempre un hijo varรณn que a su muerte dijera el Kรกdish de recuerdo, esa noble oraciรณn del huรฉrfano judรญo, que el mismo Enrique Heine recordaba en su tumba de lana.
Nadie ha de cantarme musa
Nadie โkรกdishโ me dirรก
Sin cantos y sin plegarias
Mi aniversario fatalโฆ
Pero dejemos la poesรญa y los poetas. No por tener kรกdish, [1]el tรญo Petacรณvsky
echรณse muerto. Al contrario, el feliz avenimiento en vรญsperas del centenario de 1819, le sugiriรณ un negocio patriรณtico. Y con la misma fe y el mismo entusiasmo que el anterior, el tรญo Petacรณvsky lo llevรณ a tรฉrmino. Tratรกbase en realidad del mismo negocio, Sรณlo que ahora en vea de estampas de santos, serรญan relatos de hรฉroes, y en lugar de escenas shakesperianas, alegorรญas patriรณticas.
Los hermanos Bermรบdez, que seguiรกn siendo sus amigos, lo informaron acerca de la historia patria, pero con un criterio de federales que el tรญo sospechรณ lleno de parcialidad. No era que รฉl estuviese en contra de nadie, sino que le faltaban pruebas de la gloria de Rosasโฆ
Como bien andariego, el tรญo Petacรณvsky habรญa aprendido su historia nacional en las calles de Buenos Aires. Asรญ juzgaba como hรฉroes de primera fila a todos que daban nombres a todos aquellos que daban nombres a las calles y las plazas principales. Y si bien este curioso entendimiento de aprender habรญa sido ya metodizado por los pedagogistas, รฉl, que allรก en Rusia, fuera pedagogo en el original sentido de la palabra, lo ignoraba sabiamente. No por ignorar su denominaciรณn cientรญfica: visoaudmotor, (perdรณn), el metido diรณle mejor resultado. Respeto de Sarmiento- verbigratia domine– que entonces prestaba su nombre glorioso a una humilde callejuela de la Boca, el tรญo Petacรณvsky habรญase formado un concepto pobrรญsimo. Y no de ser escritor -ยฟQuรฉ judรญo no admira a un hombre que escribiรณ libros?- habรญa privado su colecciรณn de una figura tribunicia.
Por suerte, esta falla inefable mรฉtodo lo salvรณ de la corriente pedagรณgica. Al no dar tampoco, en lugar visible, en el monumento a Rivadavia, resolviรณ no guiarse por el sentido didรกcticoโฆ y comprar ejemplos ilustrados de todos los patriotas. Aquellos que conocรญa y aquellos que no conocรญa. Y todo quedรณ resuelto.
[1] Por extension, los judรญos llaman asรญ a sus hijos varones.
Antes del primero de mayo- dรญa seรฑalado para inaugura su nuevo comercio, el tรญo Petacรณvsky descargaba en su casa cerca de un millรณn de lรกminas entre estampas para cuadros, retratos, alegorรญas patriรณticas, copias de monumentos y tarjetas postales. Varios viajantes se encargaron de las provincias y el tรญo Petacรณvsky de la capital. Durante seis meses las cosas anduvieron a todo trapo. Mas, no obstante, esa actividad y las proporciones que alcanzaban las fiestas de centenario en toda la Repรบblica, el negocio fracasรณ.
Cuando a fines de 1910- hechas las liquidaciones en el interior del paรญs- realizรณ el recuento de la mercaderรญa sobrante, aprendieron mรกs de seiscientas mil cartulinas. En resumen: habรญa perdido en una aventura de seis meses sus ganancias de cinco aรฑos.
Naturalmente, este primer fracaso enturbiรณ el humor del tรญo Petacรณvsky . Como en verdad no tenรญa pasta de comerciante, se sintiรณ derrotado. Y si bien a los pocos meses ya soรฑaba otro negocio a propรณsito del Carnaval, sus parientes, entre burlas, negรกndole crรฉdito para realizarse. ยฟQuiรฉn no desconfรญa del hombre que fracasรณ una vez?
En esa desconfianza, mรกs que en la pรฉrdida de su dinero, sintiรณ el tรญo Petacรณvsky su desgracia. Para ayudarse, sin recurrir a nadie, mudรณse a una casa mรกs econรณmica, vendiรณ el piano y aplazรณ el ingreso de su hija en la Escuela Normal. Pero nada de esto fue remedio. Sรณlo una nueva desgracio- ยฟvendrรกn por eso seguidasโ โ le cur del anterior. Fue nada menos que la muerte de Beile, la menor de las hijitas.
Este lamentable suceso hizo tambiรฉn olvidar a sus relaciones el fracaso del centenario. Por una parte, de sus parientes, y por otra los amigos, con esa solidaridad en el dolor tan caracterรญsticos de los judรญos, compitieron en ayudar al infeliz. Y otra vez gracias a ellos el tรญo Petacรณvsky pudo volver a su oficio de corredor. Ahora ya no solo de cuadros, sino tambiรฉn de muebles, telas, joyas, pielesโฆ
Durante cinco nuevos aรฑos, el tรญo Petacรณvsky trabajรณ para rehacer su clientela. Canas costรกbale ya el maldito oficio, venido a menos por la competencia de las grandes tiendas y alza enorme los precios con motivo de la guerra.
Pero hasta mediar el aรฑo 1916 no pudo abandonarlo. Sรณlo entonces, una circunstancia lo sacรณ de รฉl. El caso puede resumirse de esta manera:
El menor de los hermanos Bermรบdez, Carlos, lo recomendรณ al gerente de una fรกbrica de cigarrillos, y รฉste adquirรณle, como objetos de propaganda para el centenario para el centenario de la Independencia, el sobrante de estampas patriรณticas.
Mil quinientos pesos recibiรณ el tรญo Petacรณvsky por sus lรกminas. Con ese dinero en el bolsillo sintiรณse optimista. En seguida liquidรณ su clientela- ya padecรญa el reumatismo- y se puso a la tarea de buscar un negocio en el centro. El quid era un comercio con puerta a la calle. Que los clientes lo fueron a buscar a รฉl. No al revรฉs, como hasta entonces. Ya le asqueaba hacer el marchante.
De nuevo burlรกndose los parientes de sus proyectos. Mientras uno, aludiendo a su aficiรณn por el mate, lo aconsejaban una plantaciรณn de yerba en Misiones, otros le sugerรญan una fรกbrica de matesโฆ
Mas el tรญo Petachรณvsky, contra el parecer de todos en general, y de Jane Guitel en particular, comprรณ una pequeรฑa librerรญa cerca de Mercado de Abasto.
Con el nuevo negocio, la vida del tรญo Petacรณvsky se transformรณ por completo. Ya no recorrรญa la ciudad. Vestido a gusto, con amplio guardapolvo de brin, y tocado con oscuro solideo, pasรกbase las maรฑanas leyendo y mateando junto al mostrador, a espera de clientes. Elisa, su hija, que ya estaba hecha una simpรกtica criollita de dieciocho aรฑos, le cebaba el amargo por intermedio de Daniel; mientras arreglaba la casa antes de que Jane Guitel volviera del mercado.
Despuรฉs del almuerzo, el tรญo Petacรณvsky hacรญa su siesta. A las cuatro ya estaba otra vez en su puesto y Elisa volvรญa a cebarle mate hasta la noche.
Ahora bien: de rendir la venta diaria un poco mรกs dinero que el indispensable para el pan y la yerba, es posible que todos vivieran tranquilos. Pero como despuรฉs de un aรฑo ilusiones, se vio que esto no acaecรญa, las disputas renovaron.
-De no querer tรบ โ increpรกbale Jan Guitle- reformar el mundo y hacer que tantos israelitas hacen en Buenos Aires, estarรญamos bien.
A lo que el hombre contestaba:
-Es que cuando a uno no le va, todo es inรบtil.
Y si Jane Guitel lo instaba a vender del tenducho, el reargรผรญa con agrio humor:
-Seguro estoy que de meterme a fabricar mortajas, la gente dejarรญa de morirse. ยกEs lo mismo!
Tales discusiones reproduciรฉndose en el mismo tono, casi todos los dรญas. Desde la muerte de su hijita, Jane Guitel estaba enferma y frecuentes crises de nervios le debilitaban. El tรญo Petacรณvsky, al tanto de ella, trataba siempre de calmarla con alguna ocurrencia. Y si doรฑa Guillermina, como la llamaba por broma en esas ocasiones, se resistรญa, รฉl invocaba los aforismos de Scholem Aleijem, su escritor predilecto: โReรญr es saludable, los mรฉdicos aconsejan reรญrse, o โCuando tengas la olla vacรญa, llรฉnala de risaโ.
Pero lo cierto es que a pesar de Scholem Aleijem, el tรญo Petacรณvsky se habรญa contagiado de la tristeza de su mujer. Ya no era el alegre tรญo Petaca de la fรกbrica de cuadros. Nada le quedaba del entusiasmo y del humor de aquella รฉpoca. Si aรบn reรญa, era para esconder sus lรกgrimasโฆ Porque como รฉl mismo decรญa: โCuando los negocios van mal, se puede ser humorista, pero nunca profetaโ. Y รฉl ya no trataba en serio de nada.
Habรญa ensayado, al reabrirse las escuelas, la compra y venta de libros viejos, con algรบn resultado. Pero al llegar las vacaciones- ya conocido como cambalachero- nadie entraba sino para vender libros usados.
En tanto los dรญas pasaban monรณtonos, aburridos, iguales. El hombre, siembre con su amargo y los libros, y la mujer con su eterna loa del tiempo antiguo y su constante protesta contra el actual.
ยกDios mรญo! – se quejaba al marido- ยกlo que has llegado a ser en Amรฉrica: un cambalachero! – Y lloraba.
En vano, el tรญo Petacรณvsky intentaba defender la condiciรณn intelectual de su oficio y fingir grandes esperanzas para la temporada prรณxima.
-Y verรกs- le decรญa- cuando empiezan las clases, cรณmo van a salir todos estos grandes sabios y poetas. Entonces hasta es probable que encuentre un comprador de todo el negocio, y me quedo solo con los textos de medicina para que mรกs trade Daniel estudie de doctor.
La mujer no dejaba de mortificarlo. Menos soรฑadora que รฉl, calculaba el porvenir de su hija. Y en momentos de amargura, los insultos estallaban en su boca: ยกCambalachero!… ยกCambalachero!… ยกDios mรญo!, quiรฉn se casarรก con la hija de un cambalachero!…
Primero, un chisme en la familia la enterรณ de que Elisa era festejada por Carlos Bermรบdez. No quiso creerlo. Luego, alguien que los vio juntos, le confirmรณ el chisme. Y vinieron las primeras sospechas. Por รบltimo, la misma chica instada por la sinceridad del padre, confesรณ sus relaciones con el ex-socio… Y aquรญ fue la ruina de Jerusalemโฆ Jane Guitel puso el grito en el cielo. ยฟCรณmo una hija suya iba a casarse con un goi? ยฟPodrรญa olvidar, acaso, la ingrata, que un bisabuelo de ellos (Dios lo tenga en la gloria) fue gran rabino en Kishinev, y que todos sus parientes fueron santos y puros judรญos? ยฟDรณnde habรญa dejado la vergรผenza esa muchacha?…
Y, en su desesperaciรณn, acusaba de todo, por milรฉsima vez, a su marido y sus negocios.
Ahรญ tienes a tus grandes amigos de mate (ยกDios quiera envenenarlos!) Ahรญ estรกn las consecuencias de tus negocios con ellos (ยกUn rayo los fulmine!) Todo por culpa tuyaโฆ
Y, vencido por los nervios, se echaba a llorar como en Iom Kipur- el dรญa del perdรณn.
A todo esto, el tรญo Petacรณvsky, que a pesar del mate no habรญa dejado de ser un buen judรญo, la calmaba, asegurรกndole que Dios mediante, el casamiento no llegarรญa realizarse.
Aunque por otras razones, รฉl tambiรฉn era contrario al matrimonio de Elisa con Bermรบdez. Sostenรญa al respeto a la antigua fรณrmula de nacionalistas: โNo podemos dejar de ser judรญos mientras los otros no dejen de ser cristianosโฆโ y como en verdad ni รฉl se creรญa un hombre libre, ni tenรญa por tal a Bermรบdez, hacรญa lo posible por inculcar a Elisa su filosofรญa
Mira โ le decรญa una tarde mientras la muchacha le cebaba mate โ Si te
prohรญbo el casamiento con Carlos, no es por capricho. Tรบ sabes cuรกnto lo aprecio. Pero ustedes son distintos: han nacidos en paรญses opuestos, han recibido diversa educaciรณn, han rezado a distintos dioses, tienen desiguales recuerdos. En resumen: ni รฉl ha dejado de ser cristiano, ni tu judรญa.
Otra vez agregaba:
-Es imposible. No se van a entender. En la primera pelea- y son
inevitables las primeras peleas- te juro que tรบ le gritarรกs cabeza de goi, y รฉl, a manera de insulto, te llamarรก judรญaโฆ Y puede que hasta se burle de cรณmo tu padre dice โnoiveโ.
Mas, tan inรบtiles fueron las sinceras razones del tรญo Petacรณvsky como los desmayos frecuentes de Jane Guitel. La muchacha, ganada por amor, huyรณ a los pocos meses con su novio a Rosario.
La fuga de Elisa acabรณ por romper los nervios de la madre. Dos semanas se pasรณ llorando, casi sin probar alimento. Nada ni nadie pudo tranquilizarla. Al fin, por consejo mรฉdico, tuvieron que internarla en el San Roque donde al poco tiempo morรญa, acrecentando el escรกndalo que la escapada produjo en la colectividad.
Con la muerte de Jane Guitel, la muchacha volviรณ al hogar. Y tras de ella vino Bermรบdez. Como si los dos fueran los causantes directos de esa muerte, lloraron lรกgrimas amargas sobre la tumba de la pobre mujer
El mismo Bermรบdez, antes tan inflexible, renunciaba a Elisa y consentรญa que ella se quedara del hermanito. Pero el tรญo Petacรณvsky tuvo la honradez de perdonarlos y autorizar el casamiento a condiciรณn de que vivieran felices y para siempre en Rosario.
Despuรฉs de hacerles notar a quรฉ precio habรญan conseguido la uniรณn, el tรญo Petacรณvsky, contra el parecer de todos, resolviรณ seguir en su cambalache solo con su Daniel.
-Yo mismo โ dijo, me encargarรฉ de hacerlo hombre. Pierdan cuidado, no nos moriremos de hambre.
Y no hubo manera de disuadirlo.
Abandonado durante tantos meses, el negocio se habรญa convertido del todo en un boliche de viejo, sin otra mercaderรญa que libros y folletos espaรฑoles que se ven en todos los cambalaches. Pero Jane Guitel ya no podรญa manifestar escrรบpulos, y Elisa estaba casada y lejos, el tรญo Petacรณvsky se dedicรณ de lleno a sus librotes, dispuesto a ganarse el pan para su hijo. Ya no vivรญa sino por รฉl y para รฉl. Todas las maรฑanas se levantaba temprano y despuรฉs de preparar el mate, despertaba a Daniel. Ambos desayunรกbanse y en seguida iban a la sinagoga, donde el chico decรญa kรกdish en memoria de la madre. A las ocho, ya estaban las dos en la acera de la escuela, mientras Daniel entraba a su clase, el tรญo Petacรณvsky se volviรณ a abrir el boliche, que ya no cerraba hasta la noche. Y asรญ lograron mantenerse durante seis largos meses.
Cuando las vacaciones escolares el mismo tenducho dejรณ de producir para las reducidas necesidades de la casa, el tรญo Petacvsky reuniรณ uno cuantos muchachos judรญos para enseรฑarles el hebreo. De esa manera, con la vuelta a su primitivo oficio, afrontรณ la penosa situaciรณn. Y a cualquier otro sacrificio estaba dispuesto, con tal de ver algรบn dรญa hecho hombre a su Daniel.
Corrรญan los primeros dรญas del aรฑo 1919. Una gran huelga de metalรบrgicos habรญase generalizado en Buenos Aires y las noticias mรกs inverosรญmiles acerca de una revoluciรณn maximalista, propagรกndose de un extremo a otro de la ciudad. De la ciudad. La tarde del 10 se enero, el tรญo Petacรณvsky estaba como siempre, sentado junto a sus libros, tomando mate. Habรญa despachado a los chicos temprano, por se vรญspera de sรกbado, y porque en el barrio reinaba cierta intranquilidad.
La calle Corrientes, tan concurrida siempre, ofrecรญa un aspecto extraรฑo, debido a la interrupciรณn del trรกfico y a la presencia de gendarmes armados a mรกuser.
A eso de las ocho y media, un grupo de jรณvenes bien vestidos hizo interrupciรณn en la acera del boliche, vitoreando a la patria. Atraรญdo por los gritos, el tรญo Petacรณvsky, que seguรญa tomando mate, asomรณ la cara detrรกs de la vidriera, todo temeroso, porque, hacia un momento, Daniel habรญa salido a decir su kรกdish.
Uno del grupo, que divisรณ el rostro amedrentado del tรญo Petacรณvsky , llamรณ la atenciรณn de todos sobre el boliche, los mozos detuvironse frente a; escaparate.
-ยกLibros maximalistas! – seรฑalรณ a gritos el mรกs prรณximo. ยกLibros maximalistas!
Ahรญ estรก el ruso detrรกs โ objetรณ otro.
-ยกQuรฉ hipocrata, con mate, para despistar!…
Y un tercero:
-Pero le vamos a dar libros de โchivosโโฆ
Y, adelantรกndose, disparรณ su revolver contra las barbas de un Tolstoi que aparecรญa en la cubierta de un volumen rojo. Los acompaรฑantes, espoleados por el ejemplo, lo imitaron. En un momento cayeron, todos los libros de autores barbudos que habรญa en el escaparate. Y en verdad, la puntera de los jรณvenes habrรญa sido cรณmico, de no faltar una vez y costarle con eso la vida del tรญo Petacรณvsky.
Ahora el buen hombre debe hallarse en el cielo, junto a los santos, hรฉroes y artistas que por su industria hicieron soรฑar a tanta gente en Buenos Aires. Y es cierto que la divina justicia es menos lenta y mรกs segura que la humana, ella de concederle, como a los elegidos, una gracia a su elecciรณn. Entonces. Buen seguro, como aquel Bonchi calla de I. L, Peretz (poetizado en el idioma de Maupassant en Bonchi el silencieux– que en circunstancias idรฉnticas pidiera a los รกngeles pan con manteca- el tรญo Petacรณvsky les ha de pedirles mate amargo para la eternidad.
Pedro Friedeberg, aunque se naciรณ en Italia, es un artista y diseรฑador mexicano conocido por su obra surrealista llena de lรญneas, colores y sรญmbolos antiguos y religiosos. Su pieza mรกs conocida es la โHand-Chairโ, una escultura/silla diseรฑada para que las personas se sienten en la palma de la mano, usando los dedos como respaldo y reposabrazos. Friedeberg comenzรณ a estudiar arquitectura pero no completรณ sus estudios ya que comenzรณ a dibujar diseรฑos contra las formas convencionales de la dรฉcada de 1950. Su trabajo llamรณ la atenciรณn del artista Mathias Goeritz, quien lo animรณ a continuar como artista. Friedeberg se convirtiรณ en parte de un grupo de artistas surrealistas en Mรฉxico que incluรญa a Leonora Carrington y Alice Rahon, quienes produjeron obras de arte altamente provocativas, rechazando las formas de arte social y polรญtico que eran dominantes en ese momento. Desde sus primeras exposiciones individuales a fines de la dรฉcada de 1950, Friedeberg se ha convertido en uno de los artistas mรกs reconocidos de Mรฉxico, con sus obras de arte surrealistas que se encuentran en las colecciones de prestigiosas galerรญas y museos de todo el mundo. Frecuentemente conocido como el รบltimo gran excรฉntrico, Friedeberg crea obras absurdas e irreverentes que desafรญan las convenciones y superan los lรญmites de lo imposible. Friedeberg ha tenido una reputaciรณn de por vida de ser excรฉntrico y afirma que “el arte estรก muerto porque no se produce nada nuevo”.
Adaptado from Todd Merrill Studio
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Pedro Friedeberg, although born in Italy, is a Mexican artist and designer known for his surrealist work filled with lines colors and ancient and religious symbols. His best known piece is the โHand-Chairโ a sculpture/chair designed for people to sit on the palm, using the fingers as back and arm rests. Friedeberg began studying as an architect but did not complete his studies as he began to draw designs against the conventional forms of the 1950s. His work caught the attention of artist Mathias Goeritz, who encouraged him to continue as an artist. Friedeberg became part of a group of surrealist artists in Mexico which included Leonora Carrington and Alice Rahon, who produced highly provocative art works, rejecting the social and political art forms that were dominant at the time. Since his first solo exhibitions in the late 1950s, Friedeberg has become one of Mexicoโs most recognized artists, with his surreal artworks found in the collections of prestigious galleries and museums around the world. Often referred to as the last great eccentric, Friedeberg creates absurd and irreverent works that challenge convention and push the limits of the impossible. Friedeberg has had a lifelong reputation for being eccentric, and states that โart is dead because nothing new is being produced.โ
Alicia Migdal es escritora, traductora, profesora de Literatura y crรญtica de cine. Trabajรณ en las editoriales Arca y Biblioteca Ayacucho y, como periodista cultural, en diferentes medios de Montevideo. Publicรณ el libro de prosa poรฉtica Mascarones en 1981 y el poemario Historias de cuerpos en 1986. A La casa de enfrente (1988) le siguieron Historia quieta (1993), que ganรณ el Premio Bartolomรฉ Hidalgo y se tradujo al francรฉs, y Muchachas de verano en dรญas de marzo (1999). En 2010 recibiรณ el Premio Nacional de Narrativa del Ministerio de Educaciรณn y Cultura por En un idioma extranjero (2008), que reunรญa sus รบltimas tres obras y una inรฉdita, Abstracto.
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Alicia Migdal is a writer, translator, professor of Literature and film critic. She worked at Arca and Biblioteca Ayacucho publishing houses and, as a cultural journalist, in different media outlets in Montevideo. She published the book of poetic prose Mascarones in 1981 and the collection of poems Historias de cuerpos in 1986. La casa de frente (1988) was followed by Historia quieta (1993), which won the Bartolomรฉ Hidalgo Prize and was translated into French, and Muchachas de veranoen dรญas de marzo (1999). In 2010 she received the National Narrative Award from the Ministry of Education and Culture for En un idioma extranjero (2008), which brought together her last three works and an unpublished one, Abstracto.
Migdal, Alicia. El mar desde la orilla, Montevideo: Criatura Editora, 2019, pp. 7 – 13.
“El mar desde la orilla”
El desconocido esperaba en el pasillo, arriba, donde termina la escalera. Estaba de pie en el umbral, como en los miedos. Me acerquรฉ y me levantรณ en vilo con su cuchillo, en una intimidad inesperada. No podรญa ver su cara, pero seguรญa mirando su familiar silueta. Habรญa quedado una copa en la mesa del jardรญn, y llovรญa sobre la copa. Y aquรญ estoy, ahora, como si pudiera hablar. Como si se pudiera hablar y ser comprendida, y no ser la apestada. El heautontimorumenos.
Yo, obligada a los espacios pequeรฑos, desarrollรฉ la habilidad, a veces la trampa, de mirar fijo hacia adentro, mirar fijo hacia donde no estรกn las cosas. Hablar, quiero hacerlo con muy poca gente, pero no sรฉ quiรฉnes son. Yo miro todo lo que puedo; a veces no puedo sostener la mirada sobre los otros y me pierdo de mรญ al retirarla de ellos. Y tengo la voz enronquecida de tanto no hablar. Es entonces que acerco mi cara al celular y hablo. Pregunto allรญ cuรกl es la dosis cotidiana de palabras que hay que emitir para no perder la voz. Si hay una medida. Cuรกnto deberรญa hablar una persona, por dรญa, de manera concentrada, o no, para que la voz se sostenga. Sin embargo, hubo veces en que acerquรฉ gozosamente mi boca al micrรณfono. Escuchรฉ el aire que se condensaba y envolvรญa mi cara. Habรญa personas frente a mรญ, a veces en la oscuridad de una sala. Probaba el sonido; levantaba el papel escrito y leรญa hacia la oscuridad o hacia el inasible conjunto. Cada palabra, el ritmo de una a otra, su autonomรญa entre el micrรณfono y mi garganta, entre el micrรณfono y la penumbra, hacรญa entonces que el texto saliera de mi cuerpo.
Cuando la gente estรก sola y no espera, o cree que no espera, los sueรฑos en la noche o cerca de la hora de despertar son sueรฑos de sosiego equรญvoco, escenas que no pueden sumarse al dรญa, pasajes por casas y calles que no se encuentran en ninguna parte, solo allรญ, en el sueรฑo autor de representaciones, que en su teatro sobre el viento armado, sombras suele vestir de bulto bello. Pero como la costumbre de soรฑar de noche no depende de los soรฑantes, y las apariencias parecen completar, con su sustancia, algunas ausencias de lo diurno y de lo largo, esos sueรฑos son sosiego y son equivocaciรณn y, como las hojas de los รกrboles, no pueden separarse sin destruir la nociรณn de follaje.
Sola por Buenos Aires, a los catorce aรฑos, en una confiterรญa de Corrientes y San Martรญn, por los mismos meses en que Eichmann era juzgado y estaba a punto de ser ahorcado en Jerusalรฉn despuรฉs de su existencia clandestina en el Sur de Borges y de Perรณn. (Faltaba mucho para que yo leyera lo siguiente: se sabe que a los judรญos les estaba prohibido escrutar el futuro. La Torรก y la plegaria los instruรญan, en cambio, en la rememoraciรณn. Esto los liberaba del encantamiento del futuro). Sentada en la confiterรญa con un libro, como si yo fuera mi madre antes de mรญ, cuando ella paseaba por Buenos Aires con sus primos y despuรฉs nos contaba, con esa habilidad que tenรญa, aรฑos despuรฉs nos permitรญa imaginar ese relato mรญnimo, ella con sus trajecitos y su juventud con primos hermosos en esa ciudad clรกsica (en el recuerdo es clรกsica, el pasado siempre es clรกsico, persistente, entero, igual a sรญ mismo). Yo en esa confiterรญa, entonces, el vertiginoso olor de la nafta de esa ciudad invadiendo mi vida, una chiquilina seria con un libro, observando a la gente en esa confiterรญa clรกsica de Buenos Aires, como si ya fuera yo, una futura yo que se pensaba a sรญ misma en esa libertad suave y pequeรฑa, estar sola unas horas en una ciudad demasiado grande y en un Centro demasiado lejano de mi casa, adonde habรญa que llegar por tren, por subte, por colectivo, lo que volvรญa mรกs lejano y libre mi futuro en la confiterรญa, con un libro, observando la vida de los otros en la que yo no estaba incluida. (Uno de aquellos dรญas me trastornรณ un caballo atropellado en plena calle en plena ciudad). Era joven y tenรญa esa sensaciรณn de pasado, de que habรญa algo atrรกs, incrustado, para pensar en รฉl. Me gustaba el pasado. Era algo que me rodeaba. No sabrรญa describir su contenido, lo que yo creรญa entonces que era el pasado. Probablemente estuviera relacionado con la idea o la certidumbre de la dimensiรณn del tiempo, del tiempo en realidad, sin mรกs, eso del tiempo, lo que se vive y lo que se sabe sin necesidad de saberlo. Era esa asimetrรญa tal vez la que creaba en mรญ la sensaciรณn de tener un pasado, de ser yo por eso. Muchos aรฑos despuรฉs iba a decir que habรญa tenido madre, esa madre, pero no iba a recordar cรณmo era la sensaciรณn de haber tenido madre, de manera natural e incuestionable. No iba a recordar muy bien cรณmo era eso. Iba a recordarme en la tierra donde ahorcaron a Eichmann (no tantos aรฑos antes, apenas veinticinco), pintรกndome los labios de rojo intenso y sintiendo vivamente mi cuerpo en el calor imposible que pujaba del desierto, con mi madre muerta a unas pocas cuadras, en el cementerio calcinante. Vivimos amodorrados unos aรฑos. Estรกbamos dormidos, pero no lo sabรญamos. The very music of the name has gone.
Pero ahora pienso que deberรญa echarme en el suelo, detrรกs del mostrador en el almacรฉn de la esquina, mientras el dueรฑo, su padre, el hijo, el mozo, trabajan, cocinan y venden los alimentos y las bebidas, y los hombres y mujeres del bar miran los partidos de fรบtbol. O pedirle al matrimonio de la casona de a la vuelta, los que abren el garaje todos los dรญas para vender sus antigรผedades, que me dejen pasar las tardes del fin de semana con ellos, solamente sentada en su living tomando un tรฉ. No serรญa necesario hablar ni contarnos nada para explicar mi presencia, las cosas existentes en el garaje serรญan la justificaciรณn de nuestra reuniรณn de desconocidos, las cosas como el broche de esmeraldas falsas de la abuela de la mujer serรญan en sรญ mismas una razรณn para que yo me estuviera allรญ, con ellos y sin ellos, con ellos como presencia material que podrรญa asegurarme, tal vez, la persistencia de mi presencia material en este mundo que se agranda a medida que lo pienso.
Porque ademรกs ella se parece a Sylvia Plath, si Sylvia hubiera doblado sus aรฑos de vida; es alegre y tiene la despreocupaciรณn natural, cuando acepta un precio o deja reservado algรบn objeto, de quien ha tenido todo desde siempre y no necesita asegurarse a cada paso la fidelidad del otro; es alegre y serena, no hay angustia en la manera que tiene de venderme el broche de su abuela ni de descolgar un bronce con tulipas. Ahรญ, en el garaje, creรญa que podรญa hablar, aceptando el silencio de mi visita. Creรญa que tenรญa tiempo. Vivรญa como si lo creyera y se trataba en verdad de la pรฉrdida del tiempo, y yo sin saberlo. Me miro ahora desde afuera y no sรฉ lo que veo, asรญ, en ese garaje.
A lo mejor por eso me ponรญa escollos por delante, por ejemplo un sillรณn molestando el paso, para sentir el alivio de sacarlo del camino. Ensuciaba para poder limpiar. Trataba de acordarme de no llegar a mi casa. Le pedรญa a mi gata que me obligara a entrar al escritorio, a la mesa, la mรกquina, para acompaรฑarme a mirar con ella por esa ventana desde la que acecha a los pichones. La mayorรญa de la gente no se cae cuando va caminando confiada por la calle, confiada de nada, solo de su verticalidad. La mayorรญa no es asesinada, no sale en los informativos, no es noticia pรบblica alcanzada por una historia; la mayorรญa vive. Una cicatriz en la pierna anula a la anterior. Estรก, pero no se ve mรกs. Una se olvida de cรณmo curar heridas, como si cada una fuera la primera. El hielo, el agua con jabรณn, la gasa sobre la raspadura que se parece al manotรณn sobre la magnolia. El orden de la cura. A cero con cada lastimadura. (Una mujer querรญa tanto a su gata que no la dejaba morir. La gata enflaqueciรณ, se consumiรณ y, no obstante tanto amor o a causa de tanto amor, ella no podรญa dejarla ir. Me lo contaba al sol en la azotea, como suave advertencia, creo, mientras acariciaba a la mรญa, que era de la misma raza que aquella gata).
Migdal, Alicia. El mar desde la orilla, Montevideo: Criatura Editora, 2019, pp. 7 – 13
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“The Sea from the Shore”
The unknown man was waiting in the hallway, above, where the staircase ends. He was standing in the threshold, as in the fears. He approached me, and he put me on tinder hooks with his knife, in an unexpected intimacy. I couldnโt see his face, but I continued watching his familiar silhouette. He had left a glass on the garden table. And here I am now, as if I could speak. As if I could speak and be understood, and not be the pariah.The heautontimorumenos.
I, obligated to the small spaces, developed the ability, at times the trap, to look fixedly toward the inside, to look fixedly toward where the things are not. Speaking, I want to do it with very few people, but I donโt know who they are. I look at everything I can; at times I canโt maintain my on other people, and I lose myself moving it away from them. And I have the hoarse from so much not speaking. It is then that I bring my face close to the phone and I speak, I ask there what daily dose of words is necessary to emit to not lose my voice. If there is a way. How much should a person speak, each day, in a concentrated manner, or not, so that the voice be sustained, Nevertheless, there were times in which I approached my mouth pleasurably to microphone. I heard the air that was condensing and surrounding my face. There were people in front of me, at times in the darkness of a room. I checked the sound, raised the written paper, and read toward the darkness or toward the indefinite group. Each word, the rhythm from one to the other, its autonomy between the microphone and my throat, between the microphone and the shadows, it then made the text leave my body.
When people are alone and donโt wait, or believe that they donโt wait, the dreams in the night or near the hour for awakening are dreams of equivocal calm, scenes that canโt become part of the day, trips through house and streets that are not found anywhere, only there, the dream author of representations, that in its theater over the armed wind, shadows continue to dress in beautiful packaging. But as the custom of sleeping at night doesnโt depend on the sleepers, and the appearances seem to complete, with their substance, somethings absent from the daytime, and at length, those dreams are calm, and they are mistaken and like the leaves on the trees, canโt be separated without destroying the notion of foliage.
Alone in Buenos Aires, at fourteen years old, in a cafeteria on Corrientes and San Martรญn, during the same months in which Eichmann was judged and was about to be hanged in Jerusalem, after his clandestine existence in the South of Borges and Perรณn. (It was a long time before I read the following: itโs known that for the Jews itโs prohibited to study the future, the Torah and the prayers instructed them, however, in the remembrance of the past. This frees the enchantment of the future). Seated in the cafeteria with a book, as if I were my mother before mi, when she walked with her cousins and later told us, with that ability that she had, years later, years later, it permitted us to imagine that minimal story, she with little suits and her youth with beautiful cousins in that classical city, the past is always classic, persistent, complete, equal to itself.) I, in that cafeteria, then, the vertiginous smell of gasoline invading my life, a serious little girl with a book, observing the people in that classic cafeteria in Buenos Aires, as if I were still me, a future me who thought of herself with a in that soft and small liberty, being alone for a few hours in a city that is too big and in a Center too far from her house, to which she had to arrive by train, by subway, that which my future return from further away, in the cafeteria, with a book, observing the life of the others in which I am not included. (One if those days I was upset by a horse knocked over in the middle of the street in the middle of the city.) I was young and had this feeling of the past, that there was something behind, embedded, to think about. I liked the past. It was something that surrounded me. I wouldnโt know how to describe its content, what I thought then was the past. Probably, it was related to the idea or the certainty of the dimension of time, of time, without anything else, that of time, that which one lives and what one knows without the necessity to know it. I t was that asymmetry perhaps that created in me the sensation of having a past, of being me because of it. Many years later, I used to say that I had had a mother, that mother, but I wasnโt going to remember how that was. I was going to remember myself in the land where the hanged Eichmann (not so many years before, hardly twenty-five,) painting my lips in an intense red and feeling intensely in my body in the impossible heat that pushed from the desert, with my mother dead a few blocks away, in the scorching hot cemetery. We lived drowsy for some years. We were asleep, but we didnโt know it. The very music of the name has gone.
But now I think that I ought to throw myself on the floor, behind the counter in the grocery store on the corner, while the owner, the son, work, cook, and sell the foodstuff and the drinks, and the men and women of the bar watch the football games. Or ask the married couple of the large house around the corner, those who open the garage every day to sell their antiques, who let spend the weekend afternoons with them, only sitting in their living room, having tea. It wouldnโt be necessary to speak or tell us anything to explain my presence, the things existent in the garage would be the justification for our meeting of people who didnโt know each other, the tings like the broach with false emeralds of the grandmother of the woman would be in themselves a reason for me to be there, with them or without them, with them like material presence that could assure me, perhaps, of my material persistence in this world that gets larger as I think of it.
Because she also looked like Sylvia Plath, if Sylvia had doubled her years of life; she is happy and has the natural insouciance, when she accepts a price or reserves some object, which she had always had doesnโt need to reassure herself at each step the honesty of the other; she is happy and serene, there is no anguish in the way that she has to sell me her grandmotherโs broach or to take down a bronze with tulips. There, in the garage, I believed that I could speak, accepting the silence of my visit. I believed that I had time. She lived as if she believed it and it really dealt with the loss of time, and I without knowing it. She looks at me now from afar and I donโt know what I see, like this, in that garage.
Perhaps for that I put obstacles in front, for example an armchair inhibiting the way, to feel the relief of taking it out of the way. I dirtied to be able to clean up. I tried to remember to not arrive at my house. I asked my cat to oblige me to enter the study, at the table, the typewriter, in order to accompany me to watch with her through that window from which she checks out the pigeons. The majority of people donโt fall when the confidently go in the street, confident of nothing, only their verticality. The majority is not murdered, doesnโt appear in the news, is not a public notice caught up in a story, the majority lives. A scar on a leg nullifies an earlier one. Itโs there but no longer seen. One forgets how to cure wounds, as if each one was the first. Ice, water with soap, the gauze over the scrape that seems like a slap on the magnolia. The order of the cure. To zero with every wound. (A woman loved her cat so much that she wouldnโt let it die. The cat got thin, exhausted and, nevertheless, so much love or because of so much love, she couldnโt let it go. I he told me in the sun on the rooftop terrace, with a mild warning, I believe, while I caressed mine, which was of the same breed as that cat.)
Carolina Esses naciรณ en Buenos Aires en 1974. Poeta, novelista y Licenciada en Letras (UBA). Publicรณ las novelas La melancolรญa de los perros (Bajo la luna, 2020) y Un buen judรญo (Bajo la luna, 2017), los poemarios Versiones del paraรญso (Del Dock, 2016) y Temporada de invierno (Bajo la luna, 2009, en versiรณn en inglรฉs de Allison De Freese Entre Rรญos Books, Seattle). Sus poemas han sido traducidos al inglรฉs y al francรฉs en diferentes antologรญas. Tambiรฉn es autora de literatura infantil. Durante varios aรฑos colaborรณ โโcon la revista ร y ahora reseรฑa libros en el suplemento “ideas” de La Naciรณn. Desde 2007 trabaja para las Bibliotecas Municipales.
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Carolina Esses was born in Buenos Aires in 1974. Poet, novelist and Bachelor of Letters (UBA). she published the novels La melancolรญa de los perros (Bajo la luna, 2020) Un buen judรญo (Bajo la luna, 2017), the poetry books Versiones del paraรญso (Del Dock, 2016) and Temporada de invierno (Bajo la luna, 2009 , in English version by Allison De Freese Entre Rรญos Books, Seattle,. Her poems have been translated into English and French in different anthologies. She is also the author of children’s literature. For several years she collaborated with the magazine ร and now reviews books in the “ideas” supplement of La Naciรณn. Since 2007 she has been working for the City Libraries.
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De: Carolina Esses. Un buen judรญo. Buenos Aires: Bajo la luna, 1917. pp. 57-66.
Natalia ama a los Halim. Entre ellos no tiene que decir ninguna frase polรญticamente correcta, no tiene que hacer como fuese lo mismo respetar o no el Shabat. Porque si bien en el dรญa a dรญa se ocupa de mostrar su faceta mรกs moderada dentro suyo, estรก convencida de que la รบnica opciรณn vรกlida para la sobrevivencia del judaรญsmo es el respeto de los preceptos. En el templo se ocupa de que ningรบn judรญo se siente excluido. Por eso evita hablar de temas sensibles. No se refiereโal menos no en el primer acercamientoโa la importancia, para los varones, de usar tefilรญn todos los dรญas, no habla de la falta de no comer kasher. Da clases de hebreo, coordina grupos de reflexiรณn, distribuye las donaciones, hace de nexo entre la gente y el rabino, facilita los trรกmites para que las parejas puedan tener un buen casamiento judรญo.No espera que la gente golpee la puerta del templo, sale a recorrer Once, Villa Crespo, Palermo. Sabe que muchos de los religiosos con nueve o diez hijos a cuestas jamรกs admitirรญan la dificultad que implica vestir, alimentar la familia. Ella se ocupa de visitarlos y observar quรฉ le falta al mรกs chico, si es tiempo de comprar zapatos para los mรกs grandes. Busca a los jรณvenes. Los invita a descubrir sus raรญces judรญas. Y una vez que se sienten parte de la comunidad, empieza el verdadero retorno, el camino de regreso, la teshuvรก.
Los Halim, Emilia e Isaac tienen siete hijos en edades que van de los cuatro a los quince. De alguna manera, que todavรญa Natalia no puede explicar, Emilia logrรณ lo que muy pocas judรญas ortodoxas: siguiรณ estudiando, aรบn despuรฉs de casado, hasta recibirse en antropologรญa. Una vez que el tรญtulo estuvo colgado en la pared del living la sucesiรณn de niรฑos parece no tener fin. Es el tiempo de los hijos, decรญa Emilia. O: puse mi profesiรณn en pausa, ya la voy a retomar. Si en lugar de Emilia hubiese sido cualquier mujer quien le dijera asรญโalguna que recurriera en busca de consejo–, ella se hubiese sentido la obligaciรณn de reprenderla. Criar hijos judรญos es una tarea ardua, le habrรญa dicho, requiere de una cantidad de esfuerzo. Incluso se hubiese extendido en una cantidad de explicaciones, hubiese recurrido algรบn y la mujer se habrรญa ido con algo de culpa, convencida de que sus aspiraciones personales no podrรญan jamรกs ocupar mรกs que un segundo, tercer plano. Pero frente a Emilia jamรกs se sentirรญa autorizada a hablar de elecciones. Y no era que Emilia le fuese a recriminar nada. Jamรกs le habrรญa dicho: vos ni siquiera terminaste la carrera. Jamรกs la obligarรญa a repasar sus faltas. Pero a veces, cuando en la conversaciรณn salรญa el tema de Rafael, el hermano de Isaac โcรณmo le estaba yendo a Nueva Orleans, cรณmo se habรญan adaptado los hijos, en quรฉ templo trabajaba–, cuando Emilia le mostraba los artรญculos que publicaba en Israel Today, cuando le contaba el vacรญo que le hacรญan allรก los religiososโporque la transformaciรณn que Rafael querรญa infundirle al judaรญsmo tenรญa que ser el seno de las comunidades mรกs ortodoxas, en el ojo de la tormentaโy la manera en que intentaba de resistir, Natalia volvรญa sobre cada uno de sus errores; los ponรญa uno sobre otro hasta formar la gran masa de lo irremediable.
Por mรกs amigas que fueran, Emilia parecรญa no haberse dado cuenta. Insistรญa: podrรญas haber sido una buena esposa. Podrรญa: tendrรญa que haberlo conocido quince, veinte aรฑos atrรกs, respondรญa ella. ยฟPodrรญa haber sido una buena esposa? Quiรฉn sabe. Los planteos de Rafael Halim parecรญan disparatados. Si รฉl habรญa sido uno de los rabinos mรกs importantes de la comunidad, si habรญa sido quien le habรญa explicado la importancia de ver mรกs allรก de las mizvot, de entenderlas, para poder practicarlas, la nuestra es una religiรณn de la acciรณn, le decรญa, del hacer, de la prรกctica. Porque Natalia no habรญa nacido en una familia observante. Habรญa estudiado en el colegio hebreo, habรญa celebrado su Bat Mitzvรก, a veces iba al templo en Iom Kippur o Pesaj. No mucho mรกs. Despuรฉs de conocer a Emilia, de asistir a las reuniones a las que la invitaba, no habrรญa manera de detener su fervor religioso. Eran encuentros donde habรญa mรบsica, algo para comer, donde escuchaban las palabras del rab: de Rafael.
ยฟQuiรฉn hubiese podido hacer oรญdos sordos? Emilia fue testigo: bastaron un par de semanas para que Natalia empezara a colaborar en las tareas del templo. Su energรญa era tal que pasรณ de asistir a logรญstica de los grupos a dirigir los rezos de las mujeres y, despuรฉs, a coordinar los grupos de madrijim. Era una hormiga laborosa, siempre dispuesta a un poco mรกs. Con el correr de los meses, su manera de vestir, su forma de moverse empezaron a cambiar. Los jeans, los vestidos livianos fueron reemplazados por remeras de manga larga, polleras por debajo de la rodilla, medias de nylon, zapatos cerrados. Tambiรฉn los libros que llevaba en el bolso. Ya casi no leรญa los apuntes que ella misma vendรญa en la facultad. Sus compaรฑeros empezaron a preguntarle preguntas absurdas; le decรญan, ยฟno tenรฉs calor? o ยฟes verdad que para tener relaciones los ortodoxos usan una sรกbana que tiene un agujero? Ella no se ruborizaba; les respondรญa con altura, les hablaba de Maimรณnides, segura de estar un paso por delante de ellos.
Dejรณ el trabajo en la facultad primero, los estudios despuรฉs. El templo y Rafaelโporque Rafael todavรญa era el templo, porque todavรญa no ha decidido tirarlo todo por la bordaโocupaban todos sus rezos, todos sus pensamientosโฆ
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Era curioso: a pesar de ser casi hermanas, Emilia no se hubiese dado cuenta. Por eso Natalia empieza a hablar. Acepta, no sin culpa, el segundo vaso de vino que su amiga le ofreceโno le parece lo mejor, estar tomando vino mientras su padre se debate entre la vida y la muerteโy empieza a hablar. Lo hace como puede, como le va saliendo. Tantas veces ha revivido cada una de las escenas que va a contar que siente que no es ella la protagonista sino alguna otra, una mujer, mucho mรกs decidida y mejor plantada en la vida.
Fueron cinco noches, dice, las que pasรณ con Rafael. Cinco noches en las que a pesar de no entenderlo, de no dar crรฉdito a lo que confiaba, lo cobijรณ. lo amparรณ porque estaba perdido, porque tenรญa que ayudarlo a encontrar el camino de regreso, porque ya no habรญa de evitar lo que hacรญa aรฑos se habรญa empezado a gestar entre ellos. Dejรณ que la abrazara, que la besara, se dejรณ llevar a dรณnde Rafael la quisiera llevar. Por primera vez en mucho tiempo no pensรณ. Era Rafael Halim, el hermano de Isaac. Su maestro. A pesar de haberse afeitado, de estar quebrando los preceptos que รฉl mismo la habรญa impulsado a respetar. . .
Todo ha cambiado. Rafael no aparece por el templo. No llama, pasa un mes y Natalia se da cuenta de que estar con รฉl ha sido un grave error. Lo peor. Se da cuenta cuando se viste, cuando se baรฑa. Lo sabe y quiere que el tiempo retroceda. Recorre como nunca las calles, atiende a los viejos, habla con vehemencia en los grupos, logra que dos, tres jรณvenes regresen al camino del Buen Judรญo. Pero estรก desesperada. No puede decirle a nadie lo que sospecha porque no sabe quรฉ va a hacer despuรฉs. Tiene otro semblante: la piel estรก luminosa, los ojos brillan. No tiene dudas. Lleva varias semanas de retraso. Sus pechos son mucho mรกs firmes, si se los rozan, le duelanโฆ A pesar del cansancio que la lleva a dormirse en los colectivos, en el subte, a meterse en la cama apenas llega del templo. Estรก convencida de que una vez hecho lo que va a hacer ya nunca se verรก asรญ. Pero no hay otra manera de saldar del error. Se ocupรณ de todo. Se reuniรณ con el mรฉdicoโun hombre amable, de barba y camisa blanca, que bien podrรญa haber sido cualquier de los que se cruza a diario en el templo–: tรณmese unos dรญas, piรฉnselo bien, le habรญa dicho y Natalia, que รบltimamente ha vuelto una persona obediente, respetuosa de los protocolos ajenos, se tomรณ unos dรญas. A que Rafael la llamara.
Natalia habla y es como si retomara un relato iniciado mucho tiempo atrรกs. De a ratos sonrรญe, Busca la mirada de Emilia. Por momentos parece estar un poco mรกs allรก de la escena: del living salpicado de juguetes, de la mirada atenta de la otra. Le cuenta que esperรณ. Como pudo. Pero esperรณ…
La tarde en la que finalmente Rafael llamรณ, se cumplรญan dos semanas mรกs: despuรฉs habรญa explicado el mรฉdico, todo se complicaba bastante. Le pareciรณ que temblaba la voz: querรญa verla, dijo, tenรญan que hablar. Le dio la direcciรณn de un bar. Las ramas de los paraรญsos se abrazaban sobre la calle, formaban un tรบnel de ramas y pequeรฑos frutos contra el cielo blanco. Habรญa elegido una de las mesas de atrรกs, lejos de la ventana. Parecรญa otro. Flaco. Desaliรฑado. Tenรญa un suรฉter azul, una bufanda enroscada alrededor del cuello. Natalia se alegrรณ: un kipรก le cubrรญa la cabeza. Cuando abriรณ la puerta del bar, cuando se dejรณ ver, por un segundo, por una milรฉsima de segundo, creyรณ que se habรญa dado cuenta. Si era imposible disimularlo, si estaba escrito en todo su cuerpo. Los ojos, la piel, la manera de andar. Rafael sonriรณ. Pero no la abrazรณ. No caminรณ a su encuentro. Se levantรณ y despuรฉs de darle un beso rรกpido en la mejilla, volviรณ a concentrarse en su cafรฉ. Tenรญa mucho que decirle. Le estaban pasando tantas cosas. Le preguntรณ cรณmo estaba ella. Estaba bien. Le preguntรณ: cรณmo fueron esos dรญas. Habรญan estado bien. ยฟEl templo? Bien, dijo Natalia y estaba dispuesto a no decirle mucho mรกs, cuando se encontrรณ contรกndole sobre el entusiasmo de los chicos que viajaban a Israel, la ayuda de Ethel Naim en los grupos de mujeres, sobre el nuevo rab, sobre las chicas en la clase de hebreo, se encontrรณ riรฉndose con รฉl. ยฟY vos?, se animรณ a preguntar. Rafael no respondiรณ enseguida. Necesitaba estar solo, dijo finalmente. Y despuรฉs: ya te debรฉs de haber enterado: me voy con mi familia a Estados Unidos. Mientras lo escuchaba, Natalia lo vio transformarse nuevamente en el querido por todos, lo imaginรณ detrรกs de un estrado, gigante, enorme, inalcanzable. Se acomodรณ el paรฑuelo azul, siguiรณ con el รญndice el dibujo de la tela sobre la frente, aunque no quedaba claro muy bien, si este hombre ya no respetaba los mismos preceptos que ella. Se alejรณ de la escena. Dejรณ de estar ahรญ. Tengo que reunirme con unas mujeres en Flores, dijo. Y รฉl no preguntรณ mucho mรกs. Si Rafael sabรญa o no lo que vivรญa dentro de ella, ya no tenรญa importancia. Perdรณn, mi amor, dijo, pero Natalia ya no lo escuchรณ o si lo escuchรณ simplemente vio las palabras desarticulรกndose, enredarse entre las ramas de los paraรญsos, perderse en el aire quieto de la tarde y desaparecer.
Lo que Natalia acaba de decir ocupaba tanto espacio que, por un rato, ninguna habla. Emilia lleva los vasos a la cocina, camina hasta la ventana y observa durante unos minutos lo que sucede afuera.
–Estaba tan linda, tendrรญas que haberme visto, estaba radiante.
–Estabas esperando un hijo โdice Emilia y sonrรญe.
Se acerca, la besa en la mejilla, la toma de la mano, cierra los ojos.
Las amigas se quedan un rato asรญ, abrazadas, hasta que en un momento Emilia se desprende, pregunta:
From: Carolina Esses. Un buen judรญo. Buenos Aires: Bajo la luna, 1917. pp. 57-66.
“A Good Jew”
Natalia loves the Halims. Among them, she doesnโt have to say anything that is politically correct pretend that it was the same to respect the the Shabbat or not. Especially because, although day to day, she showed her more moderate side to herself, she was convinced that the only valid option for the survival of Judaism is the respect of the laws. In the temple, she takes the responsibility that no Jew feels excluded. For that reason, she avoids speaking about sensitive topics. She doesnโt refer toโat least at the first get-togetherโabout the importance for the men to put on tefillin every day, she doesnโt speak of the offense of not eating Kosher food. She gives Hebrew classes, coordinates groups for reflection, distributes the donations, makes the connection between people and the rabbi, facilitates the formalities so that couples can have a good Jewish wedding.
She doesnโt wait for people to knock on the temple door, she went out to go around Once, Villa Crespo, Palermo. She knows que many of the religious people with nine or ten children in their homes would never admit the difficulties, implied by clothing and feeding the family. She takes the responsibility to visit them and observe what youngest needs, if its time to buy shoes for the older ones. She searched for the boys. She invited them to discover their Jewish roots. And once they feel part of the community, the true return begins, the tshuvah.
The Halims, Emilia and Isaac have seven children at ages that go from four to fifteen. In a way that Natalia canโt explain, Emilia achieved what few Orthodox Jewish did: she kept studying, even after her marriage, until she graduated with a degree in anthropology. Once the degree was hung on the wall in the living room, the succession of children seemed to be endless. It is the time of the children, Emily said. Or: I put my profession on hold, I will take it up again. If in place of Emilia, another woman had said that to herโsomeone who would resort to her for adviceโshe would have felt the obligation to reprimand her. To bring up children is an arduous task, she would have told her, it requires enormous effort. She even would have gone on with a great number of explanations, would have scolded her, and the woman would have left with some guilt, convinced that her personal aspiration would never be able to occupy more than a second or third position. But in front of Emilia, she felt authorized to speak of choices. And it wasnโt that Emilia would never criticize her. She would never have said to her: you never even finished your studies. She would never oblige her to re-examine her weaknesses. But at times, when in the conversation, they dealt with the theme of Rafael, Isaacโs brotherโhow he was going to New Orleans, how the children had adjusted, in which temple he was working–, when Emilia showed her the articles that he published in Israel Today, when she told her about the emptiness of the religious people thereโbecause the transformation that Rafael wanted to infuse in Judaism had to be in the heart of the most orthodox communities, in the eye of the stormโand the manner in which he intended to resist, Natalia went over every one of her errors; she placed them one after another until forming the great mass of the irreparable.
Despite being as close as sisters, Emilia wouldn’t have understood. She insisted: you could have been a good wife. You could have, you must have known him fifteen, twenty years ago, she responded. Could I have been a good wife? Who knows? Rafael Halimโs plans seemed so ridiculous. If he had been one of the most important of the community rabbis, if he had been the one to explain to her the importance of seeing beyond the mitzvot, to understand them, to be able to practice them, ours is a religion of action, she was told, of doing, of practice. Because Natalia had not been born in an observant family. She had studied in a Hebrew high school, she had celebrated her Bat Mitzvah, once in a while, she went to temple for Yom Kippur or Passover. Not much more. After meeting Emilia, attending the meetings to which she invited her, there was no way to stop her religious fervor. There were meetings where there was music, something to eat, where she heard the words of the rab: of Rafael.
Who could have had deaf ears? Emilia was witness. Natalia began to collaborate in the temple chores. Her energy was such that the went from helping with the logistics of the groups to directing the womenโs prayers and, later to coordinating groups of madrichim, teachers. She was a laborious ant; always ready for a little more. With the months passing, her manner of dress, her manner of moving began to change. The jeans, the light dresses were replaced with long sleeved tee-shirts, skirts below the knee, nylon stockings, closed shoes, Also, the books she carried in her bag, she hardly read any longer the notes that she herself sold at school. Her friends asked her absurd questions; they said to her, โarenโt you warm?โ or is it true that to have relations, the Orthodox use a sheet that has a hole?โ She didnโt blush; she responded to them with pride, she spoke to them of Maimonides, sure of being one step ahead of them.
She left her job at the university first, her studies later. The temple and Rafaelโbecause Rafael was still the temple, as he had not yet decided to throw everything overboardโoccupied all her prayers, all her thoughtsโฆ
It was curious: despite being almost sisters, Emilia had not understood. Por that reason, Natalia began to speak. She accepted, without guilt, the second glass of wine that her friend offered herโit didnโt seem to be best thing to do, to be drinking wine while her father was debating between life and deathโand she began to speak. She did as well as she could, as if it were coming out of her. She had relived, so many times, every one of the scenes that she was going to relate that she feels that she is not the protagonist, but rather another woman, much more determined and better grounded in life. There were five nights, she said, that she spent with Rafael. Five nights in which despite not understanding it, to not give credit to what was confided, she protected him, she sheltered him because he was lost, because she had to help him find the path of return, because no longer had to avoid what years ago had begun to gestate between them. For the first time in a long time, she didnโt think. It was Rafael Halim, Isaacโs brother. Her teacher. Despite his having shaved, despite that he was breaking the laws that he himself had pushed her to respect. . .
Everything had changed. Rafael doesnโt appear in the temple. He doesnโt call. A month passes, and Natalia realizes that being with him was a grave error. The worst. She realizes it when she gets dressed, when she bathes. She knows it and wishes time to go backward. She covers the streets as never before, she attends to the old, she speaks vehemently in the groups, she accomplishes that two, three youths return to the path of the Good Jew. But she is desperate. She canโt tell anyone what she suspects because she doesnโt know what as her next step. She has a different look: her skin is luminous, her eyes shine. She has no doubt. She is several weeks late. Her breasts are much firmer, if she brushes against them, they hurtโฆ Despite the exhaustion that causes her to fall asleep in the buses, in the subway, to go to bed when she has just returned from the temple. Se is convinced that once sheโs done what she is going to do, she will never look like this again. But there is no other way to put an end to her mistake. She took care of everything. She met with a doctorโa kind man, with a white shirt and beard, who well could have been one of those who pass daily through the temple–: take a few days, think it over well, he had said to her, and Natalia, who lately had become an obedient person, respectful of the protocols of others, she took a few days. So that Rafael call her.
Natalia speaks and it is if sho took up a story begun a long time before. At times, she smiled. She looked for Emiliaโs gaze. For some moments she seemed to by beyond the scene: the living room filled with toys, the attentive gaze of the other woman. She told her that she waited. As well as she could. But she waited.
The afternoon when Rafael finally called, it was two weeks later: after that the doctor had explained, everything becomes a lot more difficult. It seemed to her that his voice trembled: he wanted to see her, he said, they had to talk. He gave her the address of a bar. The branches of the paradise trees hug each other over the street, they form a tunnel of branches and small fruit against the white sky. He had chosen one of the tables in the back, away from the window. He seemed like a different person. Skinny. Disheveled. He wore a blue sweater, a rolled-up scarf around his neck. Natalia was pleased, a kippah covered his head. When he opened the door of the bar, when he showed himself, for a second, for a thousandth of a second, she believed that he had noticed. If it was impossible to hide it, if it was written all over her body. Her eyes, her skin, her way of walking. Rafael smiled. But he didnโt hug her. He didnโt walk over to meet her. He got up and after giving her a kiss on the cheek, returned to concentrate on his coffee. He had a lot to tell her. So much was happening to him. He asked how she was. She was fine. How were the recent days? They had been fine. The temple? Fine, Natalia said, and she didnโt intend to tell him much more, when she found herself telling him about the enthusiasm of the children who traveled to Israel, Ethel Naimโs help with the womenโs groups, about the new rab, about the kids in the Hebrew class. She found herself laughing with him. And you? She brought herself to ask, Rafael didnโt respond immediately. He needed to be alone, he finally said. And then, you must have already heard : Iโm going to the United States with my family. While she was listening to him, Natalia saw him transform himself once more in the one loved by all, she imagined him behind a podium, giant, enormous, out of reach. She adjusted the blue kerchief, with her finger, she traced with her index finger the pattern of the cloth above her forehead, although it wasnโt very clear why, if this man no longer followed the same precepts that she did. She distanced herself from the scene. She ceased being there. I must meet with some women in Flores, she said. And he didnโt ask her much more. If Rafael knew or didnโt know what was living inside of her, no longer had any importance. Iโm sorry, my love, he said, but Natalia no longer heard him, or if she heard him, she simple saw the words breaking apart, tangling in the branches of the paradise trees, losing themselves in the afternoon quiet and disappearing.
What Natalia had just said took up so much space, that, for a while, neither speaks. Emilia takes the glasses to the kitchen, walks to the window, and observes for a few minutes what was going on outside.
โI was so pretty, you would have to had to have seen me, I was radiant.โ
โYou were expecting a childโEmilia says and smiles. She comes close and kisses her on the cheek, takes her hand, closes her eyes.
The friends stay this way for a while, hugging, until, in a moment, Emilia lets go, asks:
Licenciada en Letras en la UBA, Myriam Escliar es ademรกs de escritora, profesora de inglรฉs e italiano, traductora, entre otros, de autores tales como Isaac Bashevis Singer. Como escritora ha publicado un conjunto de ensayos sobre las pioneras en los tiempos de la inmigraciรณn, bajo el tรญtulo Mujeres en la literatura y la vida judeoargentina (1996); Fenia (1997), novela histรณrica sobre la vida de la socialista, feminista del Siglo XX, Fenia Chertkoff. Ambas obras, junto con Blackie, con todo respeto (2007) y Mujeres extraordinarias (2009), novela que versa sobre las historias de Cecilia Grierson, Julieta Lanteri, Fenia Chertkoff y Carolina Muzzilli son biografรญas noveladas. Tambiรฉn publicรณ Arele y otras historias (1998), cuentos que versan sobre relatos de inmigrantes en la Argentina y Los otros gauchos judรญos (2005), una biografรญa novelada sobre la inmigraciรณn judรญa en Entre Rรญos. Moishe Korin, De la Cole
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With a degree in Literature from the UBA, Myriam Escliar is also a writer, a teacher of English and Italian, and a translator, among others, of authors such as Isaac Bashevis Singer. As a writer, she has published a set of essays on women pioneers in the times of immigration, under the title Mujeres en la literatura judeoargentina (1996); Fenia (1997), historical novel about the life of the socialist, feminist of the 20th century, Fenia Chertkoff. Both works, along with “Blackie, con todo el respeto (2007) and Mujeres extraordinarias (2009), a novel that deals with the stories of Cecilia Grierson, Julieta Lanteri, Fenia Chertkoff and Carolina Muzzilli art novelized biographies. She also published Arele y otras historias (1998), short stories that deal with stories of immigrants in Argentina, and Los otros gauchos judรญosโ (2005) a novelized biography about Jewish immigration in Entre Rรญos.
–No te citรฉ sรณlo para hablar de mรญ, sino para te enterรฉs quien viene dentro de un mes.
–Sรญ, ya lo sรฉ, la compaรฑรญa de Maurice Schwartz, que interpretarรก un โHamletโ en el โExcelsiorโ, espectรกculo que va a ser para alquilar balcones.
–Lo que creo es que desconocรฉs que en el mismo viaje viene una gran actriz cรณmica, que, aunque no sรฉ si va a trabajar con su compaรฑรญa, quiere conocer Buenos Aires, ya estรก haciendo una gira por Latinoamรฉricaโฆ
–ยฟQuiรฉn es?
–La gran Molly Picon, todo un รฉxito en Broadway, aunque desconocida para nosotros.
–No, no es verdad, sino preguntรกle a mi madre, quiรฉn es su actriz favorita, cada vez que va al cine.
–Sรญ, pero en tรฉrminos generales, no es demasiado conocida entre los actores y directores que no son judรญos, a pesar de ser una gran actriz teatral y del cine mudo en idisch como atestiguan las crรญticas de los diarios norteamericanos. Mirรก la Asociaciรณn de Actores Judรญos ha decidido recibirla en el puerto y se me ocurriรณ que serรญa interesantes que vinieras en tu calidad de crรญtico teatral, en representaciรณn de โIdishe Zaitungโ seguro que tu presencia la harรก sentir muy halagada.
Agradecido por su propuesta, en cuanto llegรณ del arribo me apresurรฉ ir a recibirla al puerto y cuando la vi bajar por la planchada del barco, lo primero que me impresionaron fueron sus enormes ojos, que parecรญan no entender el motivo de tanto agasajo, con la modestia que sรณlo pueden experimentar los verdaderos grandes.
A los pocos dรญas de su llegada, el director del diario me comunicรณ que debรญa hacerle un reportaje y cuando lleguรฉ a su alojamiento me sorprendiรณ su sencillez, contrastado con el lujo de los hoteles en los que Maurice Schwartz, Joseph Buloff y Jacob Ben-Ami habรญan elegido. Me estaba esperando en el lobby y apenas la vi, tuve conciencia la corriente de simpatรญa que se establecรญa entre los dos.
Tomamos el ascensor que nos llevรณ al hospedaje, que consistรญa en un dormitorio y un pequeรฑo lugar de estar, viendo casi enseguida de entrar, sobre su pequeรฑa mesa, algunas fotos de ella y su marido.
Luego de sentarnos de dos cรณmodas sillones. Me ofreciรณ un vaso de whisky, que rechacรฉ, aceptando, en cambio, una rica tacita de cafรฉ, situaciรณn que aprovechรฉ para comenzar el reportaje, en el que casi no tuve que hacer preguntas, ya que ella comenzรณ a relatarme su historia como si fuera un viejo amigo.
Habรญa nacido en el Lower East Side, barrio pobre de Nueva York y su familia provenรญa de Kiev. Su padre habรญa emigrado primero, abandonando a su familia constituida de por tres hijos y debieron pasar muchos aรฑos para que Molly conociera a sus hermanos en el transcurso de una gira por Europa, hundidos casi en la miseria, por lo que decidiรณ ayudarlos, de inmediato, prometiรฉndoles hacer lo imposible para que viajaran a EE. UU., donde encontrarรญan mรกs posibilidades de trabajo.
Tuvo una infancia miserable, ya que cuando llegaron a Amรฉrica, la madre debiรณ trabajar como costurera en un teatro de music-hall y la niรฑa de sรณlo de 4 aรฑos, observando a las integrantes del elenco, comenzรณ a imitarlas, cantando las canciones que interpretaban las actrices. Una de ellas, viendo la actuaciรณn de la futura โestrellaโ, sugiriรณ a su progenitora que la presentara al director de la compaรฑรญa y ese mismo dรญa, en el viaje hacia su casa, deleitรณ al pasaje del รณmnibus con el estreno de su propio show, por el que cobrรณ su primer cachet de 4 dรณlares, siendo un borracho que el encargado de recoger el dinero en una gorra.
Ese fue el comienzo de su carrera, ya que, a partir de ahรญ, la llamaron para interpretar todos los papeles de niรฑa necesarios en cualquier obra y cada vez que se preguntaba en algรบn concurso, ganaba el primer premio, siempre.
A medida que contaba su historia, sus grandes ojos comenzaron a llenarse de lรกgrimas, brillando de tal modo que parecรญa volver a ser aquella niรฑa que habรญa nacido en 1898, y debiรณ abandonar la Escuela Elemental, al poco tiempo, por la miseria que se veรญa en casa, obligรกndola a trabajar a trabajar durante tres aรฑos, haciendo shows de variedades, recorriendo pequeรฑas ciudades y pueblos ignotos, recibiendo magros salarios, en la mayorรญa de los casos, dependiendo de la suerte del show y del empresario del turno, que se quedaba con casi todas las ganancias. Al llegar a los 20 aรฑos, al finalizar una fracasada temporada en Boston, se encontrรณ con el que serรญa su compaรฑero durante 58 aรฑos, Jacob Karlij (Iankel), que ya era un productor de buena situaciรณn econรณmica y gracias a รฉl, la incursiรณn de Molly en el teatro en idisch del que no se separarรญa nunca. Despuรฉs de un tiempo de convivencia, quedando embarazada, decidieron casarse, pero, para su desgracia pierde a su hijo antes de nacer, dolor del que no podrรญa reponerse nunca, como lo manifiesta casi al borde del llanto,
A esa altura del relato, Molly no pudo seguir hablando, la emociรณn pudo mรกs que ella y cuando reiniciรณ, ya no fue la misma, me pareciรณ verla envejecer de golpe, reponiรฉndose, casi enseguida, gracias a sus condiciones de gran actriz.
–Nadie que no haya pasado un momento tan terrible, puede imaginar esa situaciรณn tan desesperante. Nada me interesaba y hasta pensรฉ dejar de actuar, sin importarme abandonar ese motor que me habรญa hecho vibrar y vivir durante tantos aรฑos. Pasรฉ semanas enteras tirada en la cama, sin otro deseo que morir. El mรฉdico que me tratรณ diagnosticรณ una fuerte depresiรณn, por lo que me aconsejรณ un tratamiento psicolรณgicoโฆ
–ยฟY lo hizo?
–No, ยฟquรฉ podรญa hablar sobre la muerte de un hijo? ยฟAcaso รฉl podรญa hacerlo revivir?
Por unos instantes, la muchacha pizpireta, sin edad, a la que habรญa imaginado bailando y dando piruetas, dio lugar a esta otra, envejecida, entregada a ese recuerdo tan doloroso, que parecรญa anular toda su exitosa carrera como actriz.
–Una vez mรกs, Iankel me puso el hombro e intentando sacarme del abatimiento del que parecรญa no podrรญa salir nunca, nos fuimos a Parรญs, donde representรฉ โIankeleโ, obra teatral que mi compaรฑero habรญa escrito especialmente para mรญ. Este estreno fue el comienzo de una larga gira por Polonia, Viena, Checoslovaquia, Rumania, que me exigiรณ interpretar el papel en 3.000 ocasiones y que me catapultรณ a todos los escenarios de mi paรญs
–Me imagino que cuando volviรณ, debe haber sido un gran รฉxito.
–Sรญ, claroโฆ Aunque recibรญ muchas crรญticas adversas de los puristas del idish que no podรญan aceptar que el idioma estuviera mezclado con palabras en inglรฉs, no querรญan era el lenguaje de los que me vinieron a ver.
Fue entonces que le contestรฉ:
–Sรญ, lo que sucede que muchos que se consideran distinguidos lingรผistas no toman en cuenta que un idioma es algo vivo, que no permanece inalterable, enriqueciรฉndose con los vocablos de los distintos paรญses por los que transita. Tal vez no consideran que el idisch es no es mรกs que un conglomerado de tรฉrminos recopilados en los distintitos pueblos y ciudades, por los primeros juglares que llevaron el teatro en ese nuevo idioma alrededor de Europaโฆ
Molly siguiรณ hablando:
–Por suerte, el suceso que la obra tuvo en la gira europea se repitiรณ en Nueva York, ya que los que la habรญan visto enviaban las mejores referencias a sus amigos y parientes americanos, describiendo la extraordinaria diversiรณn que habรญa sido para ellos presenciar mi actuaciรณn. Esa fue mi mejor publicidad y en 1925, en el escenario neoyorkino, el pรบblico cantรณ conmigo las canciones que yo interpretaba y hasta se reรญan antes de que se produjeron las situaciones cรณmicas. Una vez que la temporada concluyรณ, hicimos una gran gira por todo el paรญs, visitando las ciudades mรกs importantes, siempre a teatro lleno.
–ยฟQuรฉ clase de pรบblico concurra al teatro?
–Todo tipo de clases sociales, pero lo que prevalecรญa eran los mรกs humildes, evidenciados por la condiciรณn de su ropa, que me esperaban a la salida del teatro, manifestando que era la tercera o cuarta vez que habรญan visto la obra. A veces el productor del espectรกculo decidรญa bajar el precio de las localidades en determinados dรญas y entonces se podรญan ver familias enteras, sobre todo en las matinรฉs, quegritaban mi nombre, logrando emocionarme hasta las lรกgrimas y mezclados entre ellos a conocidos gangsters eran Al Capone y su pandillaโฆ.
–Cuando toda esta extraordinaria รฉpoca de bienestar y riqueza llegรณ a su fin, con la crisis de 1929, debimos iniciar una vez mรกs, una nueva gira por Europa que continuรณ en Sudamรฉrica, continente que debo admitir, no tenรญamos el menor conocimiento y que ya lleva una duraciรณn de 6 meses. Pudimos hacereste tournรฉ gracias a la ayuda de un millonario judรญo, Azriel Jusid, que nos dio dinero para dirigirnos a Buenos Aires. Nos habรญa visto en Varsovia en 1922, gracias a que mi marido le habรญa regalado entradas para todas las funciones. En Buenos Aires se habรญa hecho rico fabricando colchones, y por lo cual se lo llamaba el โrey de los colchonesโ, facilitรกndole dinero a nuestro empresario y actualmente actuรกramos en su hermosa ciudad, y debo decir sin falsa modestia que tuvimos gran รฉxito, representando โYankeleโ y โShemendrikโ, acompaรฑado por el gran mรบsico Abe Ellstein en el Teatro Excelsior, durante seis meses a teatro llenoโฆ
–Bueno, Molly, me voy, pero no puedo dejar hacerla la pregunta de rigor, ยฟquรฉ te pareciรณ Buenos Aires?
Volviรณ a reรญrse, como lo hubiera hecho una actriz al finalizar el acto final de una obra:
–ยกCรณmo le gusta que le endulce los oรญdos! ยฟQuรฉ puedo decirle que usted no haya escuchado! Es una ciudad hermosa, de la que deberรญan sentirse muy orgullosas. Con Iankl no podemos dejar de comentar, a pesar de la experiencia obtenido por haber recorrido el mundo entero, que esta ciudad no tiene nada que envidiar a cualquier otra de Europa. Pero ยฟquiere que le diga la verdad? Lo que mรกs me ha sorprendido es su pรบblico, que nos ha tratado con tantas demonstraciones de cariรฑo y entusiasmo con la efusividad propia de los latinos.
Extendรญ mi mano para decirle adiรณs y para mi sorpresa me abrazรณ, besรกndome, con el mismo calor que lo hubiera hecho una รญdishe mame y debo confesar que no pude dejar de emocionarme.
โI didnโt ask you to come in to speak about me, but rather that you know who is coming within a month.โ
โYes, I know already, Maurice Schwartzโs company that will put on Hamlet in the Excelsior Theater, a show that will fill the balconies.”
โWhat I think you donโt know is that on the same voyage is coming a comic actress, who, although I donโt know is going to work with his company, wants to get to know Buenos Aires, since she is making a tour of Latin America.โ
โWho is it?โ
โThe great Milly Picon, a total success on Broadway, though unknown among us.โ
โThatโs not true, ask my mother, who is her favorite actress, every time she goes to the movies.โ
โBut, in general, she is not well known among the actors and directors who are not Jewish, despite the fact she is a great theatrical and silent movie actress in Yiddish as the reviews in the American newspapers attest. Look, the Association of Jewish Actors has decided to greet her at the docks, and it occurred to me that it would be interesting if you went, in your role as a theater critic, as a representative of the Yiddishe Zaitung. Iโm sure that your presence will make her feel very welcome.
Appreciative of his proposal, as soon as I arrived at the dock, I hurried to receive her, and when I saw her come down the landing from the ship, the first thing that impressed me were her enormous eyes, that appeared to not understand the reason for such a warm reception, with the modesty that only the truly great can experience.
A few days after her arrival, the editor of the daily told me that I should do a piece about her, and when I arrived at her lodgings, I was surprised by their simplicity, in contrast with the luxury hotels in which Maurice Schwartz, Joseph Buloff and Jacob Ben-Ami had chosen. She was waiting for me in the lobby, and a I had hardly seen her, when I became aware of the current of friendliness that was established between us.
We took the elevator that took us to her lodgings, that consisted of a bedroom and a small sitting room. Almost immediately after entering, I saw on her small table, some photos of her and her husband.
After we sat down on two comfortable cushions, she offered me a glass of whiskey, which I refused, accepting, instead, a delicious cup of tea. I took advantage of that moment to begin my reporting, in which I hardly had to ask questions, since she began to relate her story as if I were an old friend.
She had been born on the Lower East Side, a poor neighborhood of New York, her family having come from Kiev. Her father had immigrated first, abandoning his family of three children. Many years would pass before Molly would meet her brothers during a tour of Europe. They were extremely poor, so, she decided to help them immediately, promising them to do the impossible so that they could travel to the United States, where they would find more opportunity for work.
She had an terrible childhood, because when they came to America, the mother had to work as a seamstress in a music-hall theater. The little girl, only four, observing the members of the cast, began to imitate them, singing the songs that they performed. One of them, seeing the acting of the future โstar,โ suggested to the mother that she introduce the girl to the producer of the company. That same day, on the bus trip home, she delighted the riders with the performance of her own show, for which she collected her first cachet of four dollars,as a drunk was in charge of passing the hat.
That was the beginning of her career, since then, they called on her to act all the girlโs roles, necessary in many works. Every time she took part in any contest, she won first place, always.
As she was telling her story, her large eyes began to fill with tears, shining so much that she appeared to again be that girl who had been born in 1898, and had to leave Elementary School, very soon, because of the poverty in her home, obliging her to work for three years, doing variety shows, traveling to small cities and unknown towns, most often receiving meagre salaries, depending on the success of the show and the current empresario, who kept almost all the earnings. On reaching 20, at the end of a failed season in Boston, she met the man who would be her companion for 58 years, Jacob Karlich (Yankel), a well-off producer, and thanks to him, she entered the Yiddish theater from which she would never leave. After a period of living together, she was pregnant, and they decided to marry. But, sadly for her, she lost her child before it was born, something from which she would never be able to recover, as she showed, almost at the edge of tears.
At this point in the story, Molly couldnโt continue speaking, the emotion overwhelming her. And when she began again, she wasnโt the same. She seemed to me to suddenly grow old, but recovering, almost immediately, thanks to her ability as a great actress.
โNobody who hasnโt gone through such a terrible moment, can imagine that so hopeless a situation. Nothing interested me and I even thought of leaving acting, without caring about that motor that had made me vibrate and live for so many years. I spent entire weeks lying in bed, without any wish but to die. The doctor who treated me, diagnosed a deep depression, and advised a psychological treatmentโฆโ
โDid you do it?โ
โNo, what could he say about the death of a child? Could he make it live again?โ
For a few instants, the lively girl, ageless, whom I had imagined dancing and doing pirouettes, gave way to this other, aged one, brought out by that so painful memory, that seemed to annul all her successful career as an actress.
โOnce more, Iankel took charge of me, intending to take me out of the dejection from which it didnโt appear that I would ever get over. We went to Paris, where I played โIankele,โ a theatrical work that my companion had written especially for me. This show was the beginning of a long tour of Poland, Vienna, Czechoslovakia, Rumania, that forced me to do the role on 3,000 occasions, and that catapulted me to all the stages of my own country.โ
โI imagine that when you returned, it must have been a great success.โ
โYes, certainlyโฆ Though I received many bad reviews from the Yiddish purists who couldnโt accept that the language was a mixed with words in English. They didnโt want the language of those who came to see me.โ
โIt was then that I answered her: โYes, what happens is that many who consider themselves distinguished linguists donโt consider that a language is something living, that doesnโt remain unchangeable, enriching itself with words from the different countries though which it passes. Perhaps they donโt understand that Yiddish is no more than a conglomeration of terms compiled by the first entertainers that brought theater in that new language around Europeโฆโ
Molly continued speaking:โ Luckily, the success that the work had during the tour of Europe was repeated in New York, since those who had seen it sent their highest comments to their friends and American relatives, describing the extraordinary enjoyment that attending my acting had given them. That was my best publicity, and, in 1925, on the New York stage, the audience sang along with me the songs that I sang and even laughed before the comic situations took place. Once the season ended, we did a grand tour through the entire country, visiting the most important cities, always with the theater full.โ
โWhat sort of audience came to the theater?โ
โAll social classes, but the most common were the poorest, shown by the condition of their clothing, who awaited me at the theater exit, letting me know that this was the third or fourth time that they had seen the work. At times, the producer of the show, decided to lower the price of the seats on certain days. Then, you could see entire families, especially at the matinees, who shouted my name, bringing me to tears, and mixed with them were known gangsters such as Al Capone and his gangโฆ
โWhen all this incredible period of well-being and riches came to its end with the crisis of 1929, we had to start out once again on a new tour of Europe that went on to South America, a continent of which I ought to admit, we didnโt have the slightest knowledge, and which went on for six months. We could do this tournรฉ, thanks to the help of a Jewish millionaire, Azreil Jusid, who gave us the money to go to Buenos Aires. He had seen sus in Warsaw in 1922, thanks to my husband who had given his tickets to all the shows. In Buenos Aires, he had gotten rich by making mattresses, for which they called him โThe Kind of the Mattresses.โ He facilitated the money for our producer and now we act in your beautiful city, and I must say, without false modesty, that we were very successful, putting on โYankeleโ and โSchemendrick,โ accompanied by the great musician Abe Ellstein in the Excelsior Theater, for six months with the theater fullโฆโ
โWell Molly, Iโm leaving, but I canโt avoid asking you the required question: โHow do you find Buenos Aires?โ
She laughed again, as if she were an actress finishing the final act of a work:
โHow do you like my sweetening your ears! What can I say that you havenโt already heard! It is a beautiful city, of which all of you should be very proud. Yankel and I canโt stop saying that, despite the experience gained by traveling all over the world, that this city has nothing to envy in any European city. But do you want me to tell you the truth? What has most surprised me the most is your people, who have treated us with affection and enthusiasm with the effusiveness of all the Latins.โ
I extended my hand to say goodbye and to my surprise, she hugged me, kissing me with the same warmth of a Yiddishe Mama, and I must confess that I couldnโt keep from being thrilled.
Harry Hochstaet naciรณ en La Paz, Bolivia, hijo de sobrevivientes de la Shoah. Cruzรณ con su familia las fronteras por Villazรณn hacia Buenos Aires. Estudiรณ el arte en la Universidad Nacional de Pueyrredรณn y psicologรญa en la Universidad de Buenos Aires. Fue por muchos aรฑos, el director del Hogar Infantil, una instituciรณn de la comunidad judรญa de la Argentina, donde innovรณ prรกcticas para tratar y educar a huรฉrfanos y niรฑos pobres. Aรฑos mรกs tarde, fundรณ el Jardรญn de Infantes y la Escuela de la Aldea, ambos distinguidos por sus tรฉcnicas creadoras de la educaciรณn.
_______________________________________
Harry Hochstaet was born in La Paz, Bolivia, the son of Shoah survivors. He crossed the borders with his family through Villazรณn towards Buenos Aires. He studied art at the National University of Pueyrredรณn and psychology at the University of Buenos Aires. For many years, he was the director of the Children’s Home, an institution of the Jewish Community in Argentina, where he innovated practices to treat and educate orphans and other poor children. Years later, he founded the Kindergarten and the Village School, both distinguished for their creative techniques of education.
______________________________________________
De:/From: Harry Hochstaet. Cuentos para un viernes a la noche. Buenos Aires: Editorial Vinciguerra, 1996.
Maxi estaba por iniciar los cursos preparatorios para ingresar al secundario. Siempre habรญa sido buen alumno, pero nunca haba superar sus miedos a los exรกmenes.
Por aquel entonces, como mucho antes, la idea de la existencia de Dios lo inquietaba. Tenรญa distintas formas de imaginรกrselo. Recordaba que de chico habรญa tomado de forma de un perrito chiquito y blanco, al que dormรญa aferrado en su misma almohada,,,
Despuรฉs, ya en la escuela, fue la bandera a la que seโ encomendabaโ en esas maรฑanas frรญas, formado en fila, baldosa por medio en el patio de la escuela. Sobre todo, cuando lo esperaba una lecciรณn difรญcil. Y, ademรกs, bueno, en fin, un montรณn de cรกbalas de la niรฑez, como la de llevar pateando una piedra hasta la escuela sin que รฉsta cayera del cordรณn de la veredaโฆ una manera de garantizar buena suerte.
Pero รฉsta no era una mรกs de sus preocupaciones por la existencia de Dios. Apareciรณ, justamente cuando debรญa rendir su ingreso a la secundaria.
Su papรก estaba leyendo y fumando una pipa como era habitual, cuando รฉl le preguntรณ a la boca de jarro:
–ยฟPapรก, tรบ piensas que Dios existe?
El papรก se restregรณ la barba como lo hacรญa habitualmente, cuando de improviso no sabรญa quรฉ contestar.
Sin darle tiempo le dijo: –ยกSi es asรญ, me gustarรญa verlo!
El papรก intentรณ sonreรญrse, pero adivinรณ en los ojos de Maxi que esto era muy serio; no era la primera vez que lo sorprendรญa con algo asรญ. Decidiรณ entonces charlar con รฉl para saber a quรฉ se debรญa este planteo repentino. Le propuso dar una vuelta. Era ya de noche cuando salieron, una cรกlida noche de diciembre.
Maxi se sentรญa muy orgulloso de que su padre pusiera tanto interรฉs, e incluso hubiera interrumpido su lectura. รl tampoco sabรญa muy bien por quรฉ habรญa formulado esa pregunta justo en ese momento.
Caminaron varias cuadras sin hablar enfilando hacia el parque. La noche era estrellada y tranquila e invitaba a caminar. Los pasos de ambos resonaban claros en la vereda. Cuando el papรก le dijo:
–Bueno, ahora cuรฉntame todo.
ยกTodo! Maxi no sabรญa quรฉ era todo. Ni siquiera recordaba bien cรณmo habรญa llegado a esto. El papรก se suponรญa que se trataba de un gran momento, asรญ que se decepcionรณ cuando Maxi le planteรณ simplemente:
–Papรก, quiero encontrarme con Dios.
–ยฟQuรฉ quiere decir esto? ยฟQuiere una prueba de su existencia?
Perdรณname, papรก, pero nunca me gustaron las cosas de โsegunda manoโ. Yo quiero ver a Dios personalmente.
Ahรญ fue cuando el padre creyรณ entender un poco lo que pasaba. Ahora estaba todo mรกs claro y al mismo tiempo mรกs oscuro que nunca. Tal vez en la mente de toda la humanidad y de cada uno de los hombres debe haber cruzado este deseo. pero ยฟpor quรฉ justamente ahora?, y ยฟpor quรฉ en Maxi?
El papรก fue mรกs lejos que esto y pensรณ que Maxi estaba a punto de dejar atrรกs la niรฑez, entrando en la adolescencia y รฉste era uno de los grandes temas que se le planteaban.
Maxi se animรณ a confesarle que le preocupaba el examen de ingreso. Una prueba de fuego. Era blanco o negro. Si lo aprobaba se podrรญa sentir orgulloso de sรญ mismo, y asรญ se sentirรญan su padre, su madre y el resto de la familia.
Pero si le iba mal, eso querรญa decir que hasta ahora todo habรญa sido una gran farsa y que para su vergรผenza y alivio ha terminado.
Siguieron caminando en silencio, uno al lado del otro, seguros de que รฉste era uno de los momentos mรกs importantes de su vida.
Al rato el padre saliรณ de del asombro y le dijo:
–De modo que quieres ver a Dios. ยฟVes las estrellas allรญ arriba?
–Sรญ, las veo.
–Hay millones. Se mueven en una orden determinada, sin alteracionesโฆ
–Como un relojโdijo.
–Piensaโdijo el papรกโque si ni hubiera un sistema de trรกnsito en la ciudad que ordene la circulaciรณn, los autos chocarรญan entre sรญ a menudo, ยฟno es asรญ?
–Asรญ es
–Pues hay un sistema de trรกnsito que hace que las estrellas puedan moverse del mismo modo: ยกรse es Dios!
Se quedรณ pensativo y al rato dijo:
–Quizรกs no choquen entre sรญ porque estรกn muy lejos una de la otra. O puede ser que antes hubiera mรกs, no estaban suficientemente separadas y se destruyeron entre sรญ. Las que quedaron tendrรญan todo el espacio que necesitan. Tal vez por eso no chocan entre sรญ ahoraโฆ
–Puede que haya sido asรญโdijo el padre.
Esto siempre รฉl admiro de รฉl. Que pudiera respetar lo que รฉl pensara, aunque no coincidieran.
A continuaciรณn, le contรณ una historia:
–Habรญa un rey admirador de รญdolos, bastante mala persona, que le dijo a un rabino que sรญ no mostraba a su Dios al dรญa siguiente en la corte, harรญa rodar su cabeza por las calles. Entonces el rabino le contestรณ: –ยกCรณmo no, poderoso rey! Pero antes ven afuera, a la luz del sol. Quiero mostrarte algoโ
El rey accediรณ y saliรณ afuera con รฉl.
โObserva ahora el sol, gran reyโ, dijo el rabino.
El soberano quiso hacerlo, pero no pudo. Tratรกbase de una ciudad muy lejana donde el sol cae muy fuerte casi todo el aรฑo.
โNo puedo mirar el sol. Me lastima los ojosโ, acabรณ por admitir el rey.
โPues bienโsentenciรณ el rabino–. ยฟcรณmo pretendes ver cara a cara a Dios si ni siquiera puedes mirar al sol, que no es mรกs que una de tantas cosas que รl hizo?โ
Maxi ni dio seรฑales de estar conmovido por la narraciรณn.
–ยฟNo sacas ninguna conclusiรณn? โpreguntรณ el padre.
–Sรญ, pero no me satisface.
–ยฟNo te satisface, dices?
–No, papa.
–Bueno, ยฟpor quรฉ?
–Porqueโฆ ยฟNo dice en algรบn lado de la Biblia que los antiguos profetas solรญan hablar con Dios cara a cara?
–Asรญ lo dice.
–Entonces, ยฟpor quรฉ no puedo yo tambiรฉn ver a Dios?
El padre lo tomรณ la mano, bajรณ mucho el tono de su voz y en secreto le dijo:
–Esto que te voy a decir queda entre nosotros y no debes comentarlo con nadie. ยกPero con nadie! Si realmente quieres ver a Dios puedes hacerlo, pero debes estar absolutamente y decidido que asรญ sea.
Maxi no podรญa creer lo que oรญa, le parecรญa estar tocando el cielo con las manos, y asรญ se lo dijo. Le asegurรณ que no estaba bromeando y que debรญa intentarlo.
–Ademรกsโagregรณโes importante que sepas que a veces Dios estรก muy ocupado para atender a la gente y envรญa un representante personal. ยฟEntendido?
–Entendidoโcontestรณ resueltamente, esperando en su momento poder reconocer al representante.
El papรก le dijo entonces como si adivinara su pensamiento:
–Quรฉdate tranquilo que llegado el momento sabrรกs distinguirlo, pero recuerda, ni una palabra a nadie, ni siquiera mamรก.
Maxi era el mejor alumno del curso, incluso creo, que de la escuela y siempre habรญa sido. Tal vez eso lo movรญa a confundir cualquier error como un fracaso. Y todo fracaso con algo muy vergonzante que lo hacรญa perder rรกpidamente su autoestima, haciรฉndole creer que no servรญa para nada.
Era por eso que nunca le fue mal en una prueba ni en una lecciรณn. Evidentemente este examen de ingreso lo tenรญa a mal traer. Nunca habรญa sido egoรญsta con sus conocimientos y aportaba generosamente al resto de sus compaรฑeros lo que sabรญa.
Desde que su padre le dio esas recomendaciones comenzรณ a rezar silenciosa pero continua e intensivamente, pidiรฉndole a Dios que le ayudara y no le hiciera pasar una desgracia tan grande como reprobar ese examen.
Su mamรก le decรญa tal vez era demasiada exigencia para รฉl. Pero el sabรญa que podรญa rendirlo, sรณlo que estaba muy asustado.
Repetรญa una y otra vez a Dios que no le hiciera perder el tiempo, sin darle pruebas de su existencia.
Pero Dios no se aparecรญa.
Entonces llegรณ el momento en que Maxi pensรณ ser que Dios hubiese decidido que รฉl no aprobaba sus exรกmenes y que no quisiera aparecerse por simple vergรผenza de hacerlo. El temor lo impulsรณ entonces a estudiar con mรกs entusiasmo.
Los primeros exรกmenes fueron brillantes. Maxi pensรณ
que Dios le hacรญa probar el dulce al principio, para someterlo luego a las pruebas mรกs difรญciles. Sus rezos, aunque improvisados, se hicieron mรกs frecuentes y profundos.
Llegรณ a pensar que la maestra, la seรฑora Marta, de mentรณn afilado y sus ojos amenazantes, podรญa usada para la conspiraciรณn que presentรญa, dado su carรกcter gruรฑรณn y desaprensivo.
Por fin terminaron los exรกmenes finales y una semana despuรฉs debรญa pasar por los resultados.
Esa maรฑana se levantรณ muy temprano. Querรญa darle a Dios una รบltima oportunidad.
Cuando doblรณ la esquina, sรณlo faltaban unas cuadras: comenzรณ a rezar fervorosamenteโฆ:
โยกOh Dios, dentro de tres minutos doblarรฉ la รบltima esquina! Estos minutos son muy importantes para ti, porque si no te muestras, tendrรฉ que dudar de tu existenciaโฆ Pero entonces tambiรฉn deberรฉ dejar de creer en mi padre, porque รฉl me dijo que te verรญa si rezaba y lo hacรญa con suficiente intensidad. ยกOh, Diosโฆ Permรญtame que te vea! ยกAhora mismo!
Maxi se parรณ temblando y algo transpiradoโฆ Si no veรญa a Dios estaba seguro de no haber aprobado los exรกmenes.
Pero si lo veรญa, ยฟquรฉ podrรญa hacer o decirle? Despuรฉs de todo nunca lo habรญa visto antes.
O tal vez sรญ. Cuando dormรญa con su perrito blancoโฆ O veรญa izar la bandera en el patio de la escuelaโฆ Incluso cuando se hacรญa la promesa de llegar a la escuela pateando una piedra sin que รฉsta cayera del cordรณn de la veredaโฆ
No, pero esta vez era distinto.
Retoma marchaโฆ ya estaba casi sobre la esquina, una vez que doblara, todo habrรญa acabadoโฆ
–ยกOh Dios! โdijo entonces–. Quizรก he estado pidiรฉndote demasiado. Tal vez te encuentres muy ocupado, como dijo mi padre. Si realmente lo estรกs, ยฟpor quรฉ no me envรญas un representante?… ยกCualquier representante, aunque sea viejo, bastarรก!
Llegรณ la temida esquina.
–ยกOh Diosโinsistiรณ por รบltima vez–, ahora voy a doblar en la esquina. ยกEnvรญame tu representante! ยกQue se encuentre justamente aquรญ! Que lleva una barba larga y negra. ยกPor favor, Dios, ยกpor favor!
Respirรณ hondamente, apretรณ sus puรฑos y doblรณ la esquina.
Y habรญa allรญ un hombre. Y tenรญa una barba larga y negra.
No sabรญa quรฉ hacer. Lo observรณ desconcertado. Cuando notรณ su excitaciรณn, le sonriรณ y le preguntรณ:
–ยฟQuรฉ hora es hijo?
–La nueve, mi seรฑor โtartamudeรณโฆSabรญa por supuesto que รฉl se cercioraba a la hora para poder informarle con precisiรณn a Dios, acerca de la tarea cumplida.
Se acariciรณ su larga barba negra, alzรณ sobre sus hombros un gran fardo que parecรญa contener algo asรญ como carpetas, y se alejรณ.
Maxi no sabรญa quรฉ hacer asรญ que se limitรณ a inclinarse respetuosamente y contemplarlo hasta que doblรณ la esquina. Entonces entrรณ en la escuela que estaba a unos pasos de allรญ.
Habรญa aprobado el curso con las mรกs
altas calificaciones, y hasta la seรฑora Marta lo felicitรณ.
Esa noche cuando llegรณ a su casa, abriรณ como siempre la puerta, parecรญa no haber nadie, y todo estaba en su lugar como si no lo esperaran.
La verdad es que esto lo decepcionรณ porque tenรญa ganas de gritar y abrazar a todos, contรกndolos de su felicidad.
Fue justamente en ese momento que, como en un sueรฑo, todas las luces encendieron y por todas partes aparecieron su papรก, su mamรก, sus primos y amigos, y por fin pudo compartir su alegrรญa: ยกSu promociรณn al secundario!
Antes de sentarse a la mesa servida con un montรณn de cosas ricas, aprovechรณ un descuido para acercarse a su padre y decirle al oรญdo: โViste, papรก, aprobรฉ y tambiรฉn vi alโฆrepresentanteโ.
____________________________________________
Isaac Luria, HaAri
Cabalista/Kabbalist
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โThe Representatives of God Have Beardsโ
Maxi was about to begin the preparatory course for entering high school. He had always been a good student, but he had never been able to overcome his fear of exams,
One night, alone with his father, he took advantage of the chance to begin one of the long chats that they held โabout life,โ that they had from time to time. He loved these conversations almost as much as his father did. Their reflexive and tranquil rhythm, the possibility of listening, had always fascinated them.
At that time, as much earlier, the existence of God worried him. He had different ways of imagining him. He remembered that as a child, God had taken on the image of a little white dog, to which he held tight on his pillow, while he slept.
Later, already in school, it was the flag to which he โpledged himselfโ on those cold mornings, standing in line, placed in the middle of the schoolโs patio. Especially, when he expected a difficult lesson. And, so, in short, a bunch of childhood guesses, like that of kicking a rock all the way to school without letting it fall in on the breaks in the sidewalkโฆ a way of guaranteeing good luck.
But this wasnโt just another of his worries about Godโs existence. It happened, just when he was about to take the high school admissions test.
His papa was reading and smoking a pipe as usual, when Maxi asked him straight out: โPapa, do you think God exists?โ
The father stroked his beard as he did habitually, when surprisingly he didnโt know what to answer.
Without giving time for an answer, Maxi said, โIf thatโs so, Iโd like to see him.โ
The papa started to smile, but he saw in Maxiโs eyes that this was very serious: it was not the first time he had surprised him with something like that. He then decided to chat with him to find out what caused this sudden proposition. He suggested they take hot December night.
Maxi felt very proud that his father was so interested, and he had even interrupted his reading. Neither did he know why he had formulated that question at that very moment.
They walked for several blocks without speaking, heading for the park. The night was starry and quiet, and it was inviting for a walk. The steps of both resonated clearly on the sidewalk. The papa said to him:
โOkay, tell me everything.โ Everything! Maxi didnโt know what everything was. He didnโt even remember well how it had come to this. The father supposed that it had to do with a great moment, so he was disappointed when Maxi simply proposed:
โPapa, I want to meet God.โ
โWhat does that mean? Do you want a proof of his existence?
โForgive me, papa, but I never like โsecond handโ things. I want to see God personally.
It was at this point that the father believed he understood a bit of what was happening. Now, everything was clearer and at the same time more obscure than ever. Perhaps through the mind of all humanity and in every person must have crossed this wish, but, why right now? And why Maxi?
The father went further that this and thought that Maxi was about to leave childhood behind entering adolescence, and that was one of the great themes facing him.
Maxi brought himself to confess that he was worried about the entrance exam. A test of fir. It was black or white. If he passed it, he could feel proud of himself, and his mother and his family would feel so too.
But it if came out badly, that would mean that everything up until now had been a great farce and for his shame and relief hand ended.
They kept on walking in silence, one beside the other, sure that this was one of the most important of his life.
After a while, the father got over his amazement and said to him: โSo, you want to see God. Do you see those stars there above?
โYes, I see them.โ
โThere are millions of them. They move in a determined order, without alterationsโฆโ
โLike a clock,โ he said.
โThink: sad the father โthat if there were no transit system in the city that controlled the circulation, the cars would often hit each other, isnโt that so.
โโ It is.โ
He remained thoughtful, and after a while, he said.
โPerhaps they donโt crash into each other because they werenโt far from each other, and they destroyed each other. Those that remained had all the space they needed. Maybe thatโs the reason they donโt crash into each other now.โ
โThat could be so,โ said the father.
This he always admired of him. That they could respect what the other thought, even if they didnโt agree.
Then, he told him a story:
โThere was a king, an admirer if idols, a rather bad person, who told a rabbi that if he didnโt show his God the next day in the court, he would make his head roll down the streets. Then the rabbi answered him: โOf course, powerful king! But first look outside, in the sunlight. I want to show you something.โ
The king agreed and went outside with him. โNow observe the sun, great king,โ the rabbi said.
The sovereign tried to do so, but his couldnโt. They were in a city very far from here where the sun was very strong for almost all year. โI canโt look at the sun. It hurts my eyes,โ the king admitted.
โWell,โ declared the rabbi, โhow can you pretend to see God face to face, if you canโt ever look at the son, which is nothing more than one of so many things that He made?โ
Maxi showed signs of not being moved by the narrative.
โDidnโt you come to any conclusion?โ the father asked.
โYes, but it doesnโt satisfy me.โ
โIt doesnโt satisfy you; you say?โ
โNo, Papa.โ
โWell, why not?โ
โBecauseโฆ Doesnโt it say someplace in the Bible that the ancient prophets used to talk to God face to face?โ
โSo it says.โ
โThen why canโt I too see God?โ
The father took him by the hand, lowered his voice a great deal and, in secret, he told him:
โIโm going to tell you something that must stay between us, and you must not repeat it to anyone! Anyone! If you want to see God you can do so, but you must be absolutely certain that thatโs what you want to do.โ
Maxi couldnโt believe what he heard. It seemed to him that he was touching the sky with his hands, and he said that to himself. He assured his father that he wasnโt kidding and that he was determined to do it.
โAlso,โ he added, โitโs important to know that sometimes God is too busy to deal with people, and he sends a personal representative. Understood?โ
โUnderstood,โ he said resolutely, hoping that at the right time he would recognize the representative.
The father then spoke as if he guessed his sonโs thoughts: โDonโt worry, when the moment arrives, you will know how to recognize him. But remember, not one word to anyone, not even mama.
Maxi was the best student in the class,
Including, I believe, of the whole school, and he always had been. Perhaps that caused him to see any error as a failure, and every failure with something very shameful that made him quickly lose his self-confidence., making him believe that he was worthless.
For that reason, he never did poorly on a test or a lesson. Evidently, this entrance exam had made him irritable. He had never been selfish with his knowledge, and he generously helped his classmates with what he knew.
Since his father gave him those suggestions, he began to pray silently, but continuously and intensely, asking God to help him and not cause him to experience a disgrace as great as failing that exam.
His mother told him that perhaps it was too much for him. But he knew that he could pass, he was only very worried.
Once and again, he repeated to God not to make him waste his time, without giving him proof of his existence.
But God did not appear.
Then the moment arrived when Maxi thought that God must have decided that he would not pass his exams, and that he didnโt want to appear, being ashamed by doing so. The fear then impelled him to study even more enthusiastically.
The first exams went brilliantly. Maxi thought that God was making him taste the sweet, at the beginning, to later submit him to more difficult tests. His prayers, although improvised, became more frequent and deeper.
He came to think the teacher, Miss Marta, with her sharp chin and threatening eyes, could be used for the conspiracy that he felt, given her cranky and unscrupulous character.
Finally, he finished the final exams, and then a week had to pass to get the results.
Or perhaps he had. When he slept with his little white dogโฆ Or seen the flag unfurled in the school patioโฆ Even when he made the promise to arrive at school, kicking a stone without its falling from the edge of the sidewalk.
That morning, he got up very early. He wanted to give God one last chance.
When he turned the corner, only a few blocks were left; he began to pray ferventlyโฆ: โOh God, within three minutes, I will turn the last corner! These minutes are very important for me, because if you donโt show yourself, I will have to doubt your existenceโฆ But then I will also have to stop believing in my father, because he told me that I would see you, if I prayed and did so with enough intensity. Oh, Godโฆ Permit me to see you! Now!โ
Maxi stopped, shaking and a bit sweatyโฆ If he didnโt see God, he was sure he hadnโt passed his exams.
But if he him, what could he do or say to him? After all, heโd never seen him before.
He arrived at the feared corner.
โOh God,โ he insisted for the last time. โNow I am going to turn the corner. Send me your representative! Let him be right here! That he wears a long and black beard. Please God, please!โ
He breathed deeply, tightened his fists, and turned the corner.
And there was a man. And he had a black beard.
He didnโt know what to do. Disconcerted, he watched him.
When he noted the boyโs excitement, he smiled at him and he asked: โWhat time is it, son?โ
โNine oโclock, my lord,โ he stammeredโฆ He knew of course that he was sure of the hour so as to be able to inform God with precision, about the task completed.
He caressed his long black beard, place on his shoulders a large bundle that seemed to contain something like folders, and he moved away.
Maxi didnโt know what to do, so he limited himself to bowing respectfully and contemplating him until he turned the corner. Then he entered the school that was a few steps away.
He had passed the course with the highest grades, and even Miss Marta congratulated him.
That night when he arrived at home, he opened the door as always, it seemed that nobody was there, and everything was in place as if they were not expecting him.
The truth is that this disappointed him because he wanted to shout and hug everyone, telling them of his happiness.
It was just at that moment that, as in a dream, all the lights went on and from everywhere, his father his mother, his cousins and friends, and he finally could share his joy! His promotion to high school.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Before sitting at the table loaded with lots of tasty things, he took advantage of a distraction, to come near his father and to say into his earโ โLook, papa, I passed, and I also say the โฆ representative.
Para Alicia Segal, La fotografรญa ha sido uno de sus intereses fundamentales. La cรกmera ha sido su compaรฑera permanente. Fue miembro de foto-clubes. Su necesidad de aprender la acercรณ a Horacio Coppola y Grete Stern, de quien fue discรญpula, asistente y curadora. Trabajรณ por medios de Argentina y del exterior y para instituciones comunitarias. Ha ejercido la docencia de fotografรญa. Realizรณ muchas exhibiciones en Buenos Aires, Jerusalรฉn, Nueva York, Boston y Parรญs.
For Alicia Segal, photography has been one of her fundamental interests. The camera has been her permanent companion. She was a member of photo-clubs. Her need to learn brought her closer to Horacio Coppola and Grete Stern, of whom she was a disciple, assistant, and curator. He worked for media in Argentina and abroad and for community institutions.She taught. She has had many exhibitions in Buenos Aires, Jerusalem, New York, Boston, and Paris.
La pintora, grabadora y educadora influyente Olga Blinder naciรณ en 1921 en Asunciรณn, Paraguay en el seno de una familia judรญa. Recibiรณ su educaciรณn formal en ingenierรญa y luego en educaciรณn (en la Universidad Nacional de Asunciรณn). Su formaciรณn artรญstica provino de la instrucciรณn privada en Argentina y Brasil con Lรญvio Abramo (1902-1992), Ofelia Echagรผe (1904-1987) y Joรฃo Rossi. (1923โ1999.) En 1954, Blinder co-fundรณ el grupo Arte Nuevo con Plรก, Lilรญ del Mรณnico (n. 1910) y Josรฉ Laterza Parodi (1915โ1981), juntos organizaron la Primera Semana de Arte Moderna, que tenรญa como objetivo desafiar los paradigmas artรญsticos existentes.
The painter, printmaker, and influential educator Olga Blinder was born in 1921 in Asunciรณn, Paraguay to a Jewish family. She received her formal education in engineering and later in education (at the Universidad Nacional de Asunciรณn. Her art training came from private instruction in Argentina and Brazil with Lรญvio Abramo (1902โ1992), Ofelia Echagรผe (1904โ1987), and Joรฃo Rossi (1923โ1999.) In 1954, Blinder cofounded the group Arte Nuevo with Plรก, Lilรญ del Mรณnico (b. 1910), and Josรฉ Laterza Parodi (1915โ1981). Together they organized Primera Semana de Arte Moderna, which aimed to challenge existing artistic paradigms. Blinder’s work was groundbreaking, and her impact on the artistic milieu of her country was fundamental.
Raquel Jodorowsky, pintora, poeta y ensayista, naciรณ a una familia judรญa en Tocopilla, Chile; viviรณ en Perรบ por mรกs de cincuenta aรฑos y se nacionalizรณ peruana. Iniciรณ su carrera literaria en Santiago de Chile al ganar un concurso de poesรญa juvenil y el Premio Municipal en 1949. Ese mismo aรฑo se trasladรณ a Lima, Perรบ, para estudiar Antropologรญa en la Universidad Mayor de San Marcos, con una beca del Ministerio de Educaciรณn. En Mรฉxico se dio a conocer con una exposiciรณn de trece cuadros inspirados en sus poemas, para esa ocasiรณn se reunieron los pintores Lilia Carrillo, Josรฉ Luis Cuevas, Felgueres, Gironela y otros. En los aรฑos sesenta recorriรณ el continente americano para dar a conocer su trabajo poรฉtico y pictรณrico. Parte de su obra estรก recogida en antologรญas publicadas en Espaรฑa, Alemania, Italia y Argentina. Se inclinรณ, asimismo, por una literatura insรณlita o extraรฑa. En Territorios que explorar se refiere a la piedra como materia viva; en Antologรญa breve Era 2000 intenta fusionar la ciencia a la poesรญa y Poemas escogidos, su รบltima publicaciรณn, es un viaje al centro de la mente. Catalogada como poeta onรญrica y surrealista, perteneciente a la Generaciรณn del 50, en Perรบ, se le relacionรณ con el grupo de poetas del nadaรญsmo, junto a los escritores Gonzalo Arango, Jaime Jaramillo Escobar y otros. Mostrรณ sus constantes bรบsquedas a travรฉs de lo formal o lo temรกtico. En Alnico y Kemita se inclinรณ por lo novedoso del tema: โun nuevo circuito electrรณnico con personajes de la prรณxima eraโ. La poeta recurriรณ a la cibernรฉtica para cuestionar lo alejados que estamos de la naturaleza, asรญ como para darle a la ciencia un carรกcter mรกs humanitario. Sus ensayos y notas literarias denotaron su interรฉs por las expresiones culturales y artรญsticas de los grupos minoritarios de Amรฉrica y Asia, e incluyรณ en sus estudios a las culturas prehispรกnicas del Perรบ.
Raquel Jodorowsky, painter, poet, and essayist, was born to a Jewish family in Tocopilla, Chile. She lived in Peru for more than fifty years and became a Peruvian national. He began his literary career in Santiago de Chile by winning a youth poetry contest and the Municipal Prize in 1949. That same year she moved to Lima, Peru, to study Anthropology at the Universidad Mayor de San Marcos, with a scholarship from the Ministry of Education. In Mexico she became known with an exhibition of thirteen paintings inspired by his poems, for that occasion the painters Lilia Carrillo, Josรฉ Luis Cuevas, Felgueres, Gironela and others met. In the sixties he toured the American continent to publicize his poetic and pictorial work. Part of his work is collected in anthologies published in Spain, Germany, Italy and Argentina. He also leaned towards an unusual or strange literature. In Territories to Explore he refers to stone as living matter; In a brief Anthology, Era 2000, she tries to merge science with poetry, and Selected Poems, her publication, is a journey to the center of the mind. Cataloged as a dreamlike and surrealist poet, belonging to the Generation of 50, in Peru, she was associated with the group of Nadaรญsmo poets, together with the writers Gonzalo Arango, Jaime Jaramillo Escobar and others. He showed his constant searches through the formal or the thematic. In Alnico and Kemita, she leaned towards the novelty of the theme: โa new electronic circuit with characters from the next eraโ. The poet turned to cybernetics to question how far we are from nature, as well as to give science a more humanitarian character. Her essays and literary notes denoted his interest in the cultural and artistic expressions of minority groups in America and Asia, and he included the pre-Hispanic cultures of Peru in his studies.
Saรบl Kaminer nace en la Ciudad de Mรฉxico en 1952. Entre 1970-75 estudia en la Escuela Nacional de Arquitectura de la UNAM. Obtiene su titulo de Arquitecto con una tesis sobre la fundaciรณn de las ciudades prehispรกnicas Teotihuacรกn, Tula y Tenochtitlรกn. En 1976 se instala en Paris, donde permanece durante 22 aรฑos guardando un fuerte contacto con Mรฉxico. Realiza estudios de doctorado en el Instituto de Urbanismo de Paris. Actualmente comparte su tiempo entre Francia y Mรฉxico.Ubicado en Paris, en 1982 se hizo miembro fundador del grupo MAGIA-IMAGEN integrado por ocho artistas latinoamericanos, el cual fue disuelto en 1992, este grupo tuvo una intensa relaciรณn con el pintor Roberto Matta. Desde 1973 ha realizado 70 exposiciones individuales desde 1978 al 2020, ha participado en mรกs de 170 exposiciones colectivas en galerรญas y museos de Mรฉxico y Paises como Francia, E. U., Nicaragua, Italia, Espaรฑa, Inglaterra, Argentina, Chile, Alemania, Repรบblica Dominicana, Suiza, Perรบ, Puerto Rico y Cuba.
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Saรบl Kaminer was born in Mexico City in 1952. Between 1970-75 he studied at the National School of Architecture at UNAM. He obtained his title of Architect with a thesis on the foundation of the pre-Hispanic cities Teotihuacรกn, Tula and Tenochtitlรกn. In 1976 he settled in Paris, where he stayed for 22 years keeping a strong contact with Mexico. He is doing doctoral studies at the Institute of Urbanism in Paris. He currently shares his time between France and Mexico. Located in Paris, in 1982 he became a founding member of the MAGIA-IMAGEN group made up of eight Latin American artists, which was dissolved in 1992. This group had an intense relationship with the painter Roberto Matta. Since 1973 he has had 70 individual exhibitions; From 1978 to 2020, he has participated in more than 170 collective exhibitions in galleries and museums in Mexico and countries such as France, the United States, Nicaragua, Italy, Spain, England, Argentina, Chile, Germany, the Dominican Republic, Switzerland, Peru, Puerto Rico and Cuba.
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Variaciones en el arte de Saรบl Kaminer/Variations in the Art of Saรบl Kaminer
Ein Sof 1963 imprint on styrene on stone and wood baseSize:62.5 x 26 x 23 cm. (24.6 x 10.2 x 9.1 in.)
Lugar del desierto
Amor lejano, Signed and dated Parรญs 94, Lithograph 37/ 150, 63 x 47 cm / 24.8 x 18.5 inches.
Las voces del cielo (The Voices in the Sky), 2018. Oil on canvas. 47 1โ4 in. (120 cm) diameter.
The Mountain and the Seed, 2015. Glass, Wood and steel. 22 x 15 x 2 in. (56 x 38 x 5 cm.).
The Photographer
Portrait de lโOiseau-Qui-NโExiste-Pas, 2005. Mixed media on paper laid down on canvas, 38 x 28 cm.
Le Souffle de la Terre, Oil on canvas, diameter 120 cm. 2015
La Peluquera (The Hairdresser), Oil on Canvas 65 ร 45 1/2 in | 165.1 ร 115.6 cm 2019
Ancรชtre, Oil on canvas, 15 2/5 ร 11 2/5 in | 39 ร 29 cm, 2019
Tour, Metal and ceramic 10 ร 9 1/10 ร 7 9/10 in | 25.5 ร 23 ร 20 cm, 2020
Coeur du Nord, Oil on canvas, 17 7/10 ร 13 4/5 in | 45 ร 35 cm, 2021
Gรฉo-รฉcriture, Oil on wood16 1/10 ร 10 3/5 in | 41 ร 27 cm, 2019
“Oestrus”, รณleo sobre tela, 195 x 260 cm, 2016
La boda. Engraving 30 x 27 cm 2004
Verticalitรฉ, commencement et semence, Arches cardboard 640 gr on paper, 13 1/5 ร 9 3/10 in | 33.5 ร 23.5 cm, 2021
Michel Laub nasceu em Porto Alegre, em 1973 de pais judeus. Escritor e jornalista, foi editor-chefe da revista Bravo, coordenador de publicaรงรตes e internet do Instituto Moreira Salles e colunista da Folha de S.Paulo e do Globo. Hoje รฉ colunista do Valor Econรดmico e colaborador de diversas editoras e veรญculos.Publicou oito romances, todos pela Companhia das Letras: Mรบsica Anterior (2001), Longe da รกgua (2004), O segundo tempo (2006), O gato diz adeus (2009), Diรกrio da queda (2011), A maรงรฃ envenenada (2013), O Tribunal da Quinta-Feira (2016) e Soluรงรฃo de dois Estados (2020). Seus livros saรญram em 12 idiomas. Integrante da coletรขnea Os Melhores jovens escritores brasileiros, da revista inglesa Granta, entre outras no Brasil e no exterior, o autor recebeu as bolsas Vitae (2006), Funarte (2010) e Petrobras (2012) e os prรชmios JQ โ Wingate (Inglaterra, 2015), Transfuge (Franรงa, 2014), Jabuti (segundo lugar, 2014), Copa de Literatura Brasileira (2013), Bravo Prime (2011), Bienal de Brasรญlia (2012) e Erico Verissimo/Revelaรงรฃo (2001). Alรฉm disso, foi finalista dos prรชmios Dublin International Literary Award (Irlanda, 2016), Correntes de Escrita (Portugal, 2014), Jabuti (2007, 2017 e 2021), Sรฃo Paulo de Literatura (2012, 2014, 2017 e 2021) e outros.
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Michel Laub was born in Porto Alegre, in 1973 in a Jewish family. Writer and journalist, he was editor-in-chief of Bravo magazine, coordinator of publications and internet of the Moreira Salles Institute and columnist of Folha de S.Paulo and Globo. Now he is a columnist for Valor Econรดmico and a contributor to various publications. Publicou oito romances, all pela Companhia das Letras: Mรบsica Anterior (2001), Longe da รกgua (2004), O segundo tempo (2006), O gato diz adeus (2009), Diรกrio da queda (2011), A maรงรฃ envenenada (2013) ), O Tribunal da Quinta-Feira (2016) and Soluรงรฃo de dos Estados (2020). His books are published in 12 languages.He is one the of Best Young Brazilian Writers, according to eht the English magazine Granta, among others not in Brazil and abroad, and author received the Vitae (2006), Funarte (2010) and Petrobras (2012) awards and the JQ โ Wingate awards (England, 2015), Transfuge (France, 2014), Jabuti (second place, 2014), Brazilian Literature Cup (2013), He was a finalist for two Dublin International Literary Awards (Ireland, 2016), Correntes de Escrita (Portugal, 2014), Jabuti (2007, 2017 and 2021), Sรฃo Paulo for Literature (2012, 2014, 2017 and 2021) among others.
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Sources:/Fuentes:
Michel Laub. Diรกrio da queda. Sรฃo Paulo: Companhia de Letras, 2011.
Michel Laub. Diary of a Fall. Translated by Margaret Juli Costa. New York: Other Press, 2011.
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ALGUMAS COISAS QUE SEI SOBRE MIM
27.
Numa escola como a minha, os poucos alunos que nรฃo eram judeus tinham atรฉ privilรฉgios. O de nรฃo assistir as aulas de hebraico, por exemplo. Ou as de cultura hebraica. Nas semanas que antecediam os feriados religiosos eles eram dispensados de aprender as canรงรตes tรญpicas, e fazer as rezas, e danรงar as coreografias e participar do Shabat, e visitar a sinagoga e o Lar dos Velhos, e enfeitar o berรงo de Moisรฉs ao som do hino de Israel, isso sem falar nos acampamentos do chamado movimento juvenil.
28.
Nos acampamentos รฉramos divididos em grupos, cada um com um monitor mais velho, e parte do dia era ocupada por atividades normais num encontro assim, o almoรงo, o futebol, os abraรงos coletivos de uniรฃo, as gincanas com talco e ovos. Nรณs levรกvamos barraca, repelente, marmita, cantil, e lembro ele esconder tudo o que pudesse ser roubado na minha ausรชncia, urna barra de chocolate no fundo de um saco de roupa suja, um carregador de pilha em meio as urtigas.
29.
A noite รฉramos separados em dois grupos, um exercรญcio que se chamava ataque a bandeira, um camuflado na vegetaรงรฃo e o outro que se encarregava da defesa, e durante a madrugada num descampado formรกvamos pelotรตes que reproduziam as estratรฉgias de urna patrulha, com bรบssola e coluna, lanรงo e escalada. urna simulaรงรฃo do que tรญnhamos ouvido em palestras onde os monitores falavam sobre a Guerra de Seis Dias, a Guerra de Independรชncia, a Guerra de Yom Kippur, Guerra de Lรญbano.
30.
Havia outros nรฃo judeus Joรฃo na escola, mas nenhum como Joรฃo. Uma vez um deles segurou um colega e o arrastou por quarenta metros e esticou seu braรงo direito e bateu com um portรฃo de ferro vรกrias vezes nos dedos, e quando o colega estava se contorcendo elepegou o braรงo esquerdo e fez a mesma coisa. Joao era diferente: o colega o mandava ficar de pรฉ, e ele ficava. O colega jogava o sanduรญche de Joao longe, e ele ia buscar. O colega segurava Joao e o forcava a comer o sanduรญche, mordida por mordida, e no rosto deJoao nรฃo se via nada – nenhuma dor, nenhum apelo, nenhuma expressรฃo.
31.
Quando o pai de Joao perguntou se eu nรฃo tinha vergonhado que aconteceu na festa, eu poderia ter descrito essa cena. Eu poderia ter dito algo mais do que ele esperava, o relato de como pedi desculpas a Joao quando ele retornou a escala. Em vez de contar como foi saber que Joรฃo acabaria ficando bom, andando normalmente e tendo a mesma vida de antes, e como ficar sabendo disso tornou a nossa conversa mais fรกcil, como se o pedido de desculpas apagasse na hora o que ele passou depois da queda, ele estatelado diante dos parentes, com falta de ar porque havia batiยญ do as costas, ele na ambulรขncia e no pronto-socorro e no hospital sem receber uma visita dos colegas, e mais dois meses em casa sem receber nenhum de nรณs, e de volta a escala sem que nenhum de nรณs tivesse se aproximado dele atรฉ o dia em que criei coragem para tanto em vez de tudo isso eu poderia ter contado como era ver Joรฃo comendo o sanduรญche diante do agressor, terminando o รบltimo pedaรงo e senda novamente pego pelo agressor, atrรกs de urna รกrvore no canto do pรกtio, cercado por um pequeno grupo que cantava todos os dias a mesma mรบsica.
32
A mรบsica comeรงava assim, come areia, come areia. Era como um ritual, o incentivo enquanto Joรฃo virava o rosto e tentava esยญ capar dos golpes atรฉ nรฃo resistir e abrir a boca, o gasto quente e รกspero, sola de tรชnis na cara, e sรณ aรญ o agressor cansava e os gritos diminuรญam e Joao era deixado atรฉ se levantar jรก sozinho, ainda vermelho e ajeitando a roupa e pegando de novo a mochila e subindo de novo as escadas como admissรฃo pรบblica do quanto ele era sujo. e fraco. e desprezรญvel.
33ยท
Nada disso impediu que ele aparecesse como convites para a festa. Nas cerimรณnias de Bar Mitzvah os convites eram impressos em grรกfica, em papel-carteio dourado, com um laรงo e tipologia dourada. o nome dos pais do aniversariante, um telefone para confirmar a presenรงa, o endereรงo para entrega ele presentes. Os de Joao eram caseiros, feitos com papel-ofรญcio, dispostos num envelope de cartolina, escritos em caneta hidrocor. Ele os entregou em silencio. de mesa em mesa, com duas semanas de antecedรชncia. a sรฉtima sรฉrie inteira convidada.
34.
Eu acordei cedo naquele sรกbado. Eu me vesti, fui atรฉ a geladeira e passei a manhรฃ no quarto. Eu gostava de ver televisรฃo asยญ sim. a veneziana fechada, a cama ainda desfeita e as migalhas de pรฃo sobre o lenรงol atรฉ que alguรฉm batesse na porta porque jรก eram quinze para a uma, e o resto do dia foi: o almoรงo na casa da minha avรณ, a ida mom a minha mรฃe ao shopping. ela perguntando se o colega que fazia aniversario preferia um short ou uma mochila, uma carteira ou uma camiseta, se ele gostava de mรบsica e ficaria feliz com um vale-disco, e eu respondi e esperei que ela pagasse e que a balconista da loja fizesse o pacote e ainda fรดssemos ao fliperama onde joguei corrida e sinuca eletrรดnica.
35-
Eu dei parabรฉns a Joรฃo quando cheguei a festa. Eu entreguei o presente a ele. ร possรญvel que eu tenha cumprimentado o pai dele, algum parente que estivesse prรณximo, e รฉ possรญvel atรฉ que eu tivesse aproveitado a festa como todos os outros convidados, que eu tivesse atรฉ me divertido sem nem por um instante demonstrar nervosismo, os cinco colegas escalados para formar a rede de bombeiros, aqueles que eu tambรฉm cumprimentei ao chegar, comquem tambรฉm conversei normalmente, nรณs todos vestidos e ensaiados e unidos na espera pela hora do bolo e pelo parabรฉns.
36.
No sei se participei por causa desses outros colegas, e seria fรกcil a esta altura culpรก-los por tudo, ou se em algum momento eu fui ativo na histรณria: se nos dias anteriores tive alguma ideia, se diz alguma sugestรฃo, se de alguma forma fui indispensรกvel para que tudo saรญsse exatamente como planejado, nรณs em coro no verso final, muitos anos ele vida antes ele nos aproximarmos dele, em cada perna, um em cada braรงo, eu segurando o pescoรงo porque essa รฉ a parte mais sensรญvel do corpo.
37.
Nรฃo sei se fiz aquilo apenas porque me espelhava nos meus colegas, Joรฃo senda jogado para cima urna vez, duas vezes, eu segurando atรฉ que na dรฉcima terceira vez e com ele ainda subindo eu recolhi os braรงos e dei um passo para trรกs e vi Joรฃo parado no ar e iniciando a queda, ou se foi o contrรกrio: se no fundo, por essa ideia dos dias anteriores, algo que eu tivesse dito ou uma atitude que tivesse tomado, uma vez que fosse, diante de uma pessoa que fosse, independentemente das circunstรขncias e das desculpas, se no fundo eles tambรฉm estavam se espelhando em mim.
38.
Porque รฉ claro que eu usava aquelas palavras tambรฉm, as mesmas que levaram ao momento em que ele bateu o pescoรงo no chรฃo, e foi pouco tempo atรฉ eu perceber os colegas saindo rรกpido, dez passos atรฉ o corredor e a portaria e a rua e de repente vocรช estรก virando a esquina em disparada sem olhar para trรกs e nem pensar que era sรณ ter esticado o braรงo, sรณ ter amortecido o impacto e Joรฃo teria levantado, e eu nunca mais veria nele o desdobramento do que tinha feito por tanto tempo atรฉ acabar ali, a escala, o recreio, as escadas e o pรกtio e o muro onde Joao sentava para fazer o lanche, o sanduรญche jogado longe e Joao enterrado e eu me deixando levar com os outros, repetindo os versos, a cadencia, todos juntos e ao mesmo tempo, a mรบsica que vocรช canta porque รฉ sรณ o que pode e sabe fazer aos treze anos: come areia, come areia, come areia, gรณi filho de urna puta.
____________________________________
SOME MORE THINGS I KNOW ABOUT MYSELF
27.
In a school like mine, the few non-Jewish students even enjoyed certain privileges. For example, they didn’t have to attend Hebrew classes. Or the classes about Hebrew culture. In the weeks preceding reliยญgious holidays, they were excused from learning the traditional songs, saying the prayers, doing the dances, taking part in the Shabbat, visiting the synagogue and the Old People’s Home, and decorating Moses’s craยญdle to the sound of the Israeli national anthem, not to mention the so-called Youth Movement camps.
28.
At camp we were divided into groups, each with an older boy as a monitor, and part of the <lay was taken up with the usual activities one would expect at such a gathering: lunch, football, group hugs, treasure hunts and messy games involving talcum powder and eggs. We took a tent, insect repellent, a cooking pot and canteen, and I remember carefully hiding anything that might be stolen in my absence, stowing a bar of chocolate at the bottom of my dirty laundry bag, a battery charger in the middle of a clump of nettles.
29.
At night we were divided into two groups, in an exercise known as “camp attack,” with one group hidden in the vegetation and the other in charge of defendยญ ing the camp. Then, in a clearing in the early hours, we would form into platoons that basically did what patrols are supposed to do, armed with compasses and in columns, crawling through undergrowth and scaling hills, an imitation of what we had heard about in talks the monitors gave about the Six-Day War, the War of Independence, the Yom Kippur War, the Lebanese War.
30.
There were other non-Jews at the school, but none like Joรฃo. Once, one of them got hold of a Jewish classmate, dragged him along for about forty meters, pinned his victim’s right arm to the wall next to an iron door, and repeatedly slammed the door on the boy’s and when the boy was screaming and writhing in pain, he grabbed the boy’s left arm and did the same again. Joรฃo was different: if a classmate ordered him to stand, he would stand. If a classmate flung Joaoโs sandwich across the playground, Joao would go and fetch it. If the same classmate, then grabbed Joao and made him eat the sandwich, bite by bite, Joaoโs face would remain utterly impassive-no pain, no pleadยญ ing, no expression at all.
31.
When Joรฃoโs father asked me if I didn’t feel ashamed about what had happened at the party, I could have described that scene to him. I could have told him more than he was expecting to hear, rather than about how I had apologized to Joรฃo when he returned to school. Instead of telling him how relieved I felt when I found out that Joรฃo would make a full recovery, walking normally and leading a normal life, and how knowing this had made our conversation easier, as if my apology had instantly erased everything he had been through after the fall, Joรฃo lying on the floor in front of his relatives, the breath knocked out of him, Joรฃo in the ambulance and in the emergency room and in hospital, where not a single one of his classmates visited him, and then another two months spent at home, where, again, none of us went to see him, and then back at school where, again, none of us spoke to him until I plucked up enough courage to do so–instead of that I could have told him what it was like to see Joรฃo eating that sandwich watched by his attacker. And how, when he had finished the last mouthful, his attacker had hit him again, hidden behind a tree in one corner of the playground, surยญrounded by a small group of boys who chanted the same refrain every day.
32.
The refrain went like this: eat sand, eat sand. It was a sort of ritual, intended to drive them on while Joรฃo turned his head to try and avoid the blows, until he could resist no longer and opened his mouth, the hot, rough taste, the sole of someone’s sneaker in his face, only then did his attacker grow weary and the shouting diminish and then Joรฃo would be left to get his own, red-faced and straightening his rumpled, clothes, picking up his backpack and going up the stairs like a public admission of how dirty and weak and despicable he was.
33.
None of this prevented him from coming to school with the invitations to his party. For bar mitzvah ceremonies, the invitations were always professionally printed on a folded piece of card, with a ribbon and gilt lettering, the name of the boy’s parents, a telephone number to confirm that you would be coming and an address where presents could be sent. Joรฃo’s invitations were homemade on a sheet of foolscap paper placed in a cardboard envelope and written in felt-tip pen. Two weeks beforehand, he silently gave them out, going from desk to desk, inviting the whole year group.
34,
That Saturday I woke up early. I got dressed, went to the fridge and spent the morning in my room. I liked watching TV like that, with the blinds clown, the bed still unmade and breadcrumbs among the sheets, until someone knocked on the door to tell me it was a quarter to one, and the rest of the day was: lunch at my grandmother’s house, a visit to the shopping mall with my mother, her asking me if the classmate whose birthday it was would prefer a pair of shorts or a backpack, a wallet or a T-shirt, or if he liked music and would be happy with a record-voucher, and me answering and waiting for her to pay and for the assistant to wrap the present up and then still having time to visit the arcade where I played at circuit racing and electronic snooker.
35.
1 wished Joรฃo a happy birthday when I arrived at the party. I gave him his present. I may have said helio to his father too, or to some relative of his standing nearby, and I may even have enjoyed the party along with ali the other guests, I may even have had a good time without for a moment appearing nervous, along with the four other classmates chosen to form the safety net, and who I had also greeted when I arrived, and with whom I chatted normally, all of us dressed and ready and united as we waited for the moment for the birthday cake to be cut and for everyone to sing “Happy Birthday.”
36.
I don’t know if I took part because of those other classmates, and it would be easy at this stage to blame them for everything, or if at some point I played an active role in the story: if during the previous days I had an idea, made a suggestion, and was in sorne way indispensable if everything was to work out as planned, with us singing the last line together, happy birthday to you, before we gathered round him, one at each leg, one at each arm, with me supporting his neck because that’s the most vulnerable part of the body.
37.
I don’t know if I did it simply because I was mirroring my classmates’ behavior, Joรฃo being thrown into the air once, twice, with me supporting him right up until the thirteenth time and then, as he was going up, withdrawing my arms and taking a step back and seeing Joao hover in the air and then begin the fall, or was it the other way round: what if, deep down, because of that plot hatched in the previous days, because of something I might have said or an attitude.1 might have taken, even if only once and in the presence of only one other person, quite independently of the circumstances and any possible excuses, what if, deep clown, they were also mirroring my behavior?
38.
Because of course I used the same words, the words that led up to the moment when the back of his neck struck the floor, and it didn’t take long for me to notice my classmates beating a hasty retreat, just ten steps to the corridor and the porter’s lodge and the street and suddenly you’re tearing round the corner without a backward glance and not even thinking that if you had only reached out an arm to break the fall Joรฃo would have got up, and 1 would never have had to see in him the consequence of everything I had done up until then, school, break-time, the stairs and the playground and the wall where Joรฃo used to sit, the sandwich flung across the playground and Joรฃo buried in sand and me, allowing myself to be carried along with the others, all panting the same words, the same rhythm, al of us together at the same time, the song you sing because that’s all you can do when you’re thirteen: eat sand, eatsand yousonofa-bitch goy.
_________________________________________________
MAIS ALGUMAS COISAS QUE SEI SOBRE O MEU AVร
4ยท
Eu comecei a beber aos catorzes anos, depois que mudei de escola junto com Joรฃo. Embora jรก tivesse tomado um ou outro copo de cerveja com meu pai, e uma ou outra taรงa ele vinho em algum jantar ele adultos em casa, a primeira vez ele verdade foi numa festa logo no inรญcio das aulas. Eu nรฃo fui direto a festa, e sim a casa de um colega cujos pais nรฃo estavam, e quando saรญmos de lรก alguns estavam cantando e falando alto e eu entrei no tรกxi com urna garrafa ele plรกstico cortada ao meio. Alguรฉm tinha misturado cachaรงa com Coca-Cola, e era impossรญvel tomar um gole sem prender a respiraรงรฃo, e ao descer do tรกxi eu senti as pernas meio ocas e nessa hora jรก estavam todos rindo e foi mais fรกcil entrar e passar o resto da noite encostado muna parede ao lado de uma caixa ele som: eu misturei a cachaรงa com vodca e um vinho com embalagem de papelรฃo que deixava os dentes roxos e antes das onze jรก tinha me arrastado atรฉ o jardim e procurado um canto escuro e sentado com a pressรฃo baixa e ninguรฉm me acharia ali depois que eu me deixasse cair sem ajuda porque ainda nem conhecia direito os colegas.
5.
Demorou para os colegas perguntarem se eu era judeu, por que identificar sobrenomes รฉ coisa de pessoas mais velhas e em geral tambรฉm judias, e o meu nรฃo termina em man ou berg ou qualquer desses sufixos รณbvios que dรก as pistas a quem nรฃo sabia onde eu tinha estudado antes. Nas aulas da escola nova o Holocausto era apenas eventualmente citado entre os capรญtulos da Segunda Guerra, e Hitler era analisado pelo prisma histรณrico da Repรบblica de Weimar, da crise econรดmica dos anos 30, da inflaรงรฃo que fazia as pessoas usarem carrinhos para levar o dinheiro da feira, e a histรณria dos carrinhos despertava tanto interesse que se chegava ao vestibular sabendo mais sobre como alguรฉm precisa, ร ser rรกpido para que o preรงo do pรฃo e do leite nรฃo subisse antes de passar no caixa do que sobre corno era feito o transporte de prisioneiros para os campos de concentraรงรฃo. Nenhum professor mencionou Auschwitz mais de urna vez. Nenhum jamais disse urna palavra sobre ร isto um homem? Nenhum fez o cรกlculo รณbvio de que eu com catorze anos naquela รฉpoca, certamente tinha um pai ou avo ou bisavรณ meu ou de um primo ou de um amigo de um amigo de um amigo que escapou das cรขmaras de extermรญnio.
6.
Nรฃo sei se meu avo leu ร isto um homem? ese ter vivido o que Primo Levi narra faz com que o livro soe diferente, e o que para um leitor comum รฉ a descoberta dos detalhes da experiencia em Auschwitz para o meu avo era apenas reconhecimento, uma conferรชncia para ver se o que era dito no texto correspondia ou ร realidade, ou a realidade da memรณria do meu avo, e nรฃo sei. atรฉ que ponto essa leitura como pรฉ atrรกs tira parte do impacto do relato.
7ยท
Eu nรฃo sei como meu avo reagia ao ouvir uma piada sobre judeus, se algum dia contaram essas piadas a ele ou se ele esteve na mesma sala onde alguรฉm as contava, um coquetel ou jantar ou encontro de negรณcios em que ele estava distraรญdo e por acaso ou um fiapo de voz ou de riso que remetia ร palavra judeu, e como ele reagiria ao saber que foi isso que passei a ouvir aos catorze anos, o apelido que comeรงou a ser usado na escola nova assim que Joรฃo fez o primeiro comentรกrio sobre a escola anterior, sobre a sinagoga pequena que havia no tรฉrreo e os al unos da sรฉtima sรฉrie que tinham estudado para fazer Bar Mitzvah, e que para mim o apelido teve um significado diferente, e em vez da raiva por urna ofensa que deveria ser enfrentada ou da indignaรงรฃo pelo estereรณtipo que ela envolvia, os velhos que apareciam em filmes e novelas ele TV usando roupa preta e falando com sotaque estrangeiro e dentes de vampiro, em vez disso eu preferi ficar inicialmente quieto.
______________________
SOME MORE THINGS THAT I KNOW ABOUT MY GRANDFATHER
4.
I started drinking when I was fourteen, after Joรฃo and I changed schools. I’d had the occasional beer with my father and the occasional glass of wine at some grown up suppers at home, but the first time I got seriously drunk was at a party just after term started. 1 didn’t go straight to the party, but to the house of a classยญmate whose parents were out and, when we left there, some of the boys were singing and talking loudly. and I climbed into the taxi clutching a plastic bottle cut in half. Someone had mixed cachaรงa and Coca-Cola, and you had to hold your breath every time you took a swig of it, and when I got out of the taxi, my legs felt hollow and by then everyone was laughing and it was easy enough to spend the rest of the night leanยญing against a wall next to a speaker. I mixed cachaรงa with vodka and with some cheap wine that stained your teeth purple, and by eleven o’clock I’d crawled out into the garden and found a dark corner where I sat, feeling rather weak, and where no one would find me once I’d slid helplessly to the ground, because I still didn’t really know any of my classmates.
5.
It was a while befare my classmates asked if I was Jewish, because identifying surnames is something that only older people and Jews in general do, and my name doesn’t end in man or berg or any of those other telltale suffixes that would have given a clue to anyone who didn’t know where I’d studied before. In the lessons at the new school, the Holocaust was only mentioned in passing as an episode in the Second World War, and Hitler was analyzed through the hisยญtorical lens of the Weimar Republic, the economic criยญsis of the 1930s, and the soaring inflation that obliged people to use wheelbarrows to carry their money back from the market, a story that aroused so much interยญest that you reached the final year of school knowยญing more about how quick shoppers had to be if they wanted to reach the cashier befare the price of bread or milk went up again than about how prisoners were transported to the concentration camps. Not one of the teachers gave more than a cursory nod to Auschยญwitz. Not one of them said a word about If This Is a Man. Not one of them made the obvious calculation that a fourteen-year-old like me must have had a father or a grandfather or a great-grandfather or a cousin or a friend of a friend of a friend who had escaped the gas chambers.
6.
I don’t know if my grandfather ever read If This Is a Man or if the fact of having actually lived through what Primo Levi wrote about would have made him read the book differently, whether what was a revelaยญtion to the ordinary reader, a detailed description of the whole Auschwitz experience, would have been merely a process of recognition for my grandfather, a matter of checking to see whether or not the book corresponded to reality or to the reality of his memยญory, and I don’t know to what extent that somewhat distanced reading would reduce the book’s impact.
7.
I don’t know how my grandfather used to react when he heard a joke about Jews, assuming anyone ever told such jokes to him, or if he, as the distracted guest at some cocktail party or supper or business meeting, was ever in a room where someone was telling them and where he might have heard a high-pitched gigยญgle in response to the word Jew–or what his reaction would have been to knowing that this is what hapยญpened to me when I was fourteen, that this was the nickname that began to be used as soon as Joรฃo menยญtioned our previous school with the little synagogue on the grounds and the seventh-grade students studying for their bar mitzvah, and that the nickname meant something different for me, that instead of feeling angry at an insult that ought to be confronted or indigยญnant at the implied stereotype-the old men all in black and with vampire teeth who used to appear in films and TV soaps–I preferred not to say or do anything, at least initially.
Noemรญ Cohen es escritora argentina (Buenos Aires, 1956). Reside en Madrid. Es abogada y escritora. Exiliada en Mรฉxico durante la dictadura militar. Tras su retorno a Argentina, sus actividades profesionales la llevaron a vivir varios aรฑos en Washington. Asesorรณ en temas sociales a diversos gobiernos, fue funcionaria de la Organizaciรณn de Estados Americanos (OEA( y consultora de la Organizaciรณn Internacional del Trabajo (OIT), y del Banco Interamericano de Desarrollo (BID). Fue directora de Relaciones Internacionales de la Biblioteca Nacional de Argentina entre 2003 y 2006. Fue columnista del periรณdico Miradas al Sur. Noemรญ Cohen publicado las novelas Mientras la luz se va (2005), La esperanza que no alcanza (201) y Los celebrantes (2022).
____________________________________
Noemรญ Cohen is an Argentine writer (Buenos Aires, 1956). She lives in Madrid. She is a lawyer and writer. She was exiled in Mexico during the military dictatorship. After her return to Argentina, her professional activities led her to spend several years in Washington. She advised various governments on social issues, was an official of the Organization of American States (OAS) and a consultant to the International Labor Organization (ILO), and the Inter-American Development Bank (IDB). She was director of International Relations of the National Library of Argentina between 2003 and 2006. She was a columnist for the newspaper Miradas al Sur. Noemรญ Cohen has published the novels Mientras la luz se va (2005), La esperanza que no alcanza (2013) and Los celebrantes (2022)
De/From: Cuando la luz se va. Buenos Aires: Editorial Losada, 2005.
โLa partidaโ
La tarde en que Sara le dijo que el dรญa siguiente irรญan juntos a una tienda en el otro extremo de la Ciudad Vieja a comprar telas para bordar, supo que su madre habรญa aceptado el pedido del primo Jaime; una vida cambiarรญa y nada podรญa decir. Desde pequeรฑa, escuchรณ historias y pareceres sobre el primo que vivรญa solo desde hacรญa quince aรฑos en la Argentina, un lugar lejano cuyo nombre no podรญa pronunciar y en donde, se decรญa en la familia, nadie era pobre. Tambiรฉn se decรญa que el primo era buen mozo, rubio y trabajador; pero era imposible que ella recordara algo, apenas tenรญa unos meses de haber nacido, cuando รฉl que tenรญa veinte aรฑos, dejรณ la casa familiar y se fue primero a Francia y luego a Sudamรฉrica.
Sara era viuda y tenรญa cinco hijos, tres de ellos mujeres, todos nacidos en Alepo. Ella era de Alejandrรญa, habรญa podido ir a la escuela, donde aprendiรณ a leer y escribir y hasta algo de francรฉs. En cambio, sus hijas, un poco por la costumbre del lugar y otro poco por la miseria, no sabรญan leer y sรณlo los varones fueron al colegio y hablaban francรฉs. Las chicas se dedicaron a ayudarla en la casa y Elena ademรกs aprendiรณ a tallar bronce; hacรญa armoniosos diseรฑos que luego eran vendidas por el primo Faud en su bazar, al lado de la Sinagoga del shuk.
Cuando Elena comenzรณ a trabajar, cincelaba en bronce dibujos con sรญmbolos judรญos; tenรญa un gran sentido de la proporciรณn de las formas, pero era analfabeta, y aรบn no se le habรญa ocurrido que podรญa dejar de serlo. Aรฑos despuรฉs, ese deseo se transformarรญa en una obsesiรณn, pero eso es otra historia. En cambio, conociรณ muy pronto los sรญmbolos de los otros porque los dueรฑos de los bazares vecinos al de Faud pidieron piezas decoradas con diseรฑos islรกmicos y las representaciones cristianas para vender a cualquier que pasara por las calles del shuk y no sรณlo a los judรญos que salรญan de la sinagoga.
Al decorar las piezas de bronce con tan diferentes signos, aprendiรณ el sentido de la armonรญa, supo el arte de combinar las formas, aprendizaje que le permitirรญa transitar la vida con la placidez de quien sabe que todo es mutable, aceptรณ algunas virtudes que hacen bueno a quien las tiene. Aunque tambiรฉn aprendiรณ, viendo a su tรญo Faud negociar con los otros comerciantes, que no siempre eran virtuosas las relaciones con los extraรฑos y menos aรบn en cuestiones de comercio.
Sara habรญa criado a sus hijos en la tradiciรณn y la รฉtica sefardรญes; les enseรฑรณ a ser solidarios y honestos, a distinguir lo puro de lo impuro, lo limpio de lo no limpio y, por sobre todas las cosas, les hablรณ de la recta razรณn que guรญa las acciones de una buena persona. Principios sencillos de aplicar, ayudan distinguir el bien del mal en las cosas concretas de la vida diaria y hacรญan previsibles las conductas. Transmitiรณ esa herencia de verdades absolutas como si fuera parte de la naturaleza, como los hรกbitos de comida o higiene; no comer cerdo o no mezclar la carne y leche, descansar por el sรกbado, lavarse las manos antes de comer y, para las mujeres, ir todos los viernes al hamman; era el orden de su mundo y no se le ocurrรญa que sus hijos lo pensaran distinto.
Al dรญa siguiente de anuncio de la aceptaciรณn del pedido de mano, madre e hija comenzaron las caminatas por los barrios de la Ciudad Vieja donde vivรญan los judรญos; en sus callecitas transitadas por camellos y mulas, pobladas por los gritos de los vendedores de habas, de aceitunas o de menta fresca, por las cinco llamados sonidos del almuecรญn que salรญan de los minaretes, รบnicas construcciones sobresalientes en esa laberรญntica ciudadela. Subรญan y bajaban por esos paisajes angostos y polvorientos, debรญan conseguir todo lo necesario para prepara el ajuar y organizar la partida de Alepo. Elena no sabรญa que habrรญa de viajar a un mundo tan distinto del suyo. โAlepo, La Blancheโ, le decรญan los franceses a la ciudad, tal vez por sus casas blancas con balcones de piedras talladas en estilo andaluz, o tal vez por vestigios de un nombre que significaba de leche en arameo, herencia de una leyenda que seรฑala a ese sitio como el lugar donde detuvo a ese sitio como el lugar donde se detuvo Abraham para alimentar a su rebaรฑo o tal vez la otra, que cuenta sobre los antiguos de la
La primera salida fue para la casa de Marcos, el hermano mayor de Jaime, a buscar el giro postal enviado desde la Argentina. Les convidaron un tรฉ con hojas de menta, muy azucarada, propiciatorio de las dulzuras que le vendrรญan a la pequeรฑa, segรบn dijeron los parientes, quienes, a pesar de su pobreza, tambiรฉn habรญan preparado una bandeja de trufas, un manjar de lujo guardado en el sรณtano para una ocasiรณn que mereciera celebrarse con tal exquisitez. Entre bendiciones y vaticinios de una prole numerosa de hijos varones, aconsejaron a su madre dรณnde comprar mejor las telas y objetos diversos que serรญan para el ajuar
Una maรฑana salieron temprano para ir hasta la avenida principal; en la tienda de un primo segundo compraron la seda blanca para hacer tres camisones y una bata, seda de color curdo para otro, una pieza de lino blanco para confeccionar seis juegos de sรกbanas y cuatro manteles, lino muy fino color salmรณn para dos camisones, muchos metros de puntilla blanca, y una pieza color natural de encaje de Bruselas. Otro dรญa fueron hasta el shuk, para ir al negocio de otro primo, donde compraron tres alfombras. A Elena, la que mรกs le gustรณ fue una que ademรกs del tradicional borde de diseรฑos geomรฉtricos multicolores sobre un fondo marrรณn, tenรญa un centro de rombos recortados en azul y rojo oscuro. Era la mรกs cara y tambiรฉn la que le parecรญa mรกs linda; pensรณ en ponerla arriba de un divรกn de su futura casa. Con las otras dos, cubrirรญa los colchones en los dormitorios; aรบn no sabรญa que en el otro lado del mundo las alfombras eran sรณlo usadas en el piso. Esa alfombra que tanto le gustรณ tendrรญa el extraรฑo destino trashumante de algunos objetos y serรญa llevada de ciudad en ciudad, con la impronta de algo portador de buena suerte.
La salida mรกs importante fue ir a la joyerรญa. Deslumbrada, encargรณ dos anillos de oro, uno con un rubรญ y el otro con una aguamarina y los aros haciendo juego. Eligiรณ tambiรฉn una pulsera de oro con un ancho broche central en el que se unรญan cadenas muy finitas y donde se podรญan agregar otras mรกs que quedaban sostenidas por ese centro. Esa pulsera serรญa su adorno permanente y fascinarรญa aรฑos despuรฉs a sus nietas. La verรญan condimentar las comidas mientras ese oro en movimiento parecerรญa un llamado a la gloria de los sabores inminentes. Como a toda mujer oriental, a Elena le gustaban los brillos y si eran joyas mรกs aรบn, pero dada la pobreza en la que vivรญa, sรณlo le era posible mirarlas en las vitrinas de los negocios, donde quedaban petrificadas como un niรฑo hambriento ante una vidriera de dulces. Con el transcurrir de la vida, su deseo se realizaba con frecuencia, pero las vitrinas de las joyerรญas le siguieron produciendo siempre ese mismo efecto de encantamiento. Ese dรญa fue distinto, eligiรณ a su gusto mientras sonreรญa pensado en el ruidito de sus pendientes y en el efecto del brillo en medio de su pelo rojo. Mientras, recordaba los dichos de las mujeres de su familia: si un hombre quiere a su mujer debe regalarle joyas, sobre todo oros, muchos oros, porque รฉl es el protector contra los males. Le gustaba repetir para llamar a la buena suerte: Tocando oro y mirando la lunaโ.
En cuatro semanas, debรญa tomar el vapor hacia Marsella, desde donde embarcarรญa hacia la Argentina. Ese nombre era un sonido sin significado; en cambio, la intrigaba Jaime. Pensaba en รฉl todo el tiempo mientras bordaba las prendas del ajuar disfrutando del rumor de la costura y del contacto del encaje y la seda en sus manos jรณvenes estropeadas por el cincel, aรบn torpes para los trabajos mรกs delicados.
Por la tarde, las mujeres de la familia y las vecinas sacaban sus sillas bajas al patio de la casa grande; repitiendo gestos y dichos que habรญan visto en sus madres y sus abuelas, se reunรญan alrededor de la novia para ayudarle en la costura del ajuar. Ella cosรญa, acompaรฑada en silencio las risas y cuchicheos mientras trataba de encontrarle un rostro a su futuro marido de quien no tenรญa siquiera una foto. Sentรญa una mezcla de nostalgia anticipada y alivio; ya no iba a tener tardes de algarabรญa como รฉsas, pero se iba a casar con un hombre rico que la esperaba para cuidarla y darle todo lo necesario. El amor llegaba despuรฉs, repetรญan desde siempre los dichos familiares, sentencia inapelable para consolar a las niรฑas ante las bodas arregladas con desconocidos y el miedo de la soledad prematura
No sabรญa nada de hombres, pero desde pequeรฑa aprendiรณ que el deber de la mujer era cuidar a su marido, cocinarle y darle hijos varones, tambiรฉn alguna mujer. Aunque hacรญa largo tiempo que Jaime vivรญa entre los otros, ella pensaba seguramente que era un buen hombre, como los de su familia, a pesar de algunos muy festejador de mujeres u otros entusiastas jugadores de cartas. Ayudarรญa a ese hombre si habรญa desviado; le habรญan enseรฑado que sรณlo a travรฉs de la mujer bendiciones de Dios son concedidas a una casa, y el hogar es bendito cuando la mujer atiende a los destinos de la familia y que el hombre tambiรฉn serรก bendito y vivirรก el doble de los aรฑos cuando ame y honre a su esposa.
A sur madres y a sus tรญas les gustaba repetir que los hombres no podรญan estar solos. ยฟCรณmo lavar, planchar o cocinar? Sรณlo aprendieron a ir al negocio, donde hablaban y, gracias a las palabras, cobraban dinero, Era necesario que tuvieran una mujer al lado para ser buenos, limpios y felices. Si ellas les decรญan a que ellos les gustaba, les hacรญan ricas comidas y algunas otras cosas, ellos despuรฉs cumplรญan con la voluntad de sus mujeres. Habรญa aprendido a hacer algunas comidas; conocรญa el placer del sabor al morder la masa crocante de un quipe, la textura aterciopelada del hummus o la dulzura hรบmeda y crujiente de una baclawa, pero no sabรญa cuรกles serรญan esas cosas que provocaban risas y murmullos en las tรญas y en mamรก mientras se juntaban en el patio de la casa grande, cuchicheando con complicidad mientras cocinaban para las fiestas, como luego tambiรฉn lo hicieron para preparar el ajuar.
Se iba sola y muy lejos a casarse con un desconocido. Nadie le preguntรณ si estaba de acuerdo; sรณlo tuvo permiso para elegir alguna joya, un adorno para su futura casa o una alfombra. Elena creyรณ que debรญa hacer algunas preguntas antes de partir, porque cuando estuviera lejos ninguna de las mujeres de la familia podrรญa responderle y, entonces, se atreviรณ a susurrar que necesitaba sabe cรณmo era eso de cumplir con el marido para conseguir despuรฉs todo lo deseado.
The afternoon in which Sara told her that the next day they would go together to a shop at the other end of the Old City to buy cloth to embroider, she knew that her mother had accepted the request from Cousin Jaime; her life would change, and she couldnโt say anything. From when she was little, she heard stories and opinions about the cousin who lived alone in Argentina for fifteen years, a faraway place whose name she couldnโt pronounce and where, within they family they said no one was poor. It was also said that the cousin was a good man, blond, a hard worker However, it was impossible that she remembers anything about him, she was barely a few months old, when he, at twenty, left the family home and went first to France and then to South America.
Sara was a widow with five children, three of them women, all of them born in Alepo. She was from Alexandria, had been able to go to school, where she learned to read and write and even some French. On the other hand, her daughters, in part because of the customs of the place and another part because of poverty, didnโt know how to read and only the boys went to school and spoke French. The girls dedicated themselves to help her at home, and Elena learned how to engrave bronze; harmonious designs that were then sold by Cousin Faud in his Bazar, at the side of the Synagogue of the shuk
When Elena began to work, she engraved bronze pictures with Jewish symbols; she had a fine sense of the proportion of the forms, but she was illiterate, and it had never occurred to her that she could begin to stop being so. Years later, this desire would be transformed into an obsession, but thatโs another story. Instead, the quickly learned the symbols of the others, as the owners of the bazars neighboring Faudโs asked for pieces decorated with Islamic designs and Christian representations to sell to anyone who passed through the streets of the shuk and the not only to the Jews leaving the synagogue.
Decorating the pieces of bronze with such different signs, she learned a sense of harmony, she learned the art of combining forms, an apprenticeship that allow her to go through life with the calmness of somebody who knows that everything is mutable. She took on some virtues that do well for whoever has them. Although she also knew, watching her cousin Faud negotiate with the other merchants, who were not always virtuous in their dealings with strangers, even less when dealing with business.
Sara had raised her children in the Sephardic tradition and ethics; she taught them to be caring and honest, to distinguish the pure from the impure, and most of all, she spoke to them of the upright reason that guides the actions of a good person. Simple principles to apply, they help in distinguishing the good from the evil in the concrete things of daily life that guide the actions of a good person and made conduct to be expected. She transmitted that inheritance of absolute truths as if it was part of nature, like the habits of food and hygiene, to not eat pork or mix meat and milk, rest during the Sabbath, wash hands before eating, and for the women, to go every Friday to the hamman; it was the order of her world and it never occurred to her that her children might think differently.
The first outing was to Marcosโ house, Jaimeโs older brother, to seek the postal order sent from Argentina. They invited them to have tea with mint leaves, heavily sugared, propitiatory to the sweets that would come to the little one, according to what her relatives said, who, despite their poverty, also had prepared a tray of truffles, a luxury food kept in the basement for an occasion that merited that was worthy of a celebration with such a delicacy. Between prayers and predictions from numerous offspring of boys, the advised her mother where to better buy the cloths and various objects that would be for the dowry.
One morning, they left early to go as far as the principal avenue; in the store of a second cousin, they bought the while silk to make three nightgowns and a bathroom, Kurdish-colored silk for another, a piece of white linen to sew into six pairs of sheets and four tablecloths, salmon-colored fine linen, and a piece of natural-colored Belgian lace. Another day, they went as far as the shuk, to negotiate with another cousin, where they bought three rugs. Elena liked best the one that went beyond the traditional borders of geometric design of multi-color geometrical designs on a maroon base, it had a center of uneven diamonds in blued and dark red. It was the most expensive and it also was the prettiest, she intended to put it above a couch in her future home. With the other two, she would cover the mattresses in the bedrooms; she did yet know that in the other side of the side of the world, rugs were used only on the floor. That rug that she liked so much, would have the strange human nomadic destiny that some objects do, and would be carried from city to city with the imprint of something that carries good luck.
The most important trip was to the jewelry store. Dazzled, she ordered two gold rings, one with a ruby and the other with an aquamarine and earrings to match, she also chose a gold bracelet with a wide central clasp in which brought together very fine chains and where she could add others that were held by the center. That bracelet with be her permanent adornment and years later would fascinate here granddaughters. They would see her season the dinners while that gold in movement seemed a call to the glory of the imminent flavors. Like all Eastern women, Elena loved sparkles, and if they were jewels, so much the better, but given the poverty in which she lived, it was only possible for her to look at them through store windows, where they remained petrified, like a hungry child before a store window of candy. With the passing of life, her desire was frequently fulfilled, but the jewelry store windows always produced in her the same feeling of enchantment. That day was different. She chose as she pleased, while she smiled thinking about the little sounds of her pendants and the effect of the shine in the middle of her red hair. Meanwhile, she remembered the sayings of the women of her family. If a man loves a woman, he ought to give her jewels, especially gold ones, lots of gold one, because he is the protector against evil. She liked to repeat to call for good luck: Touching gold and looking at the moon.
In four weeks, she had to take the steamship to Marseille, from which she would embark for Argentina. That name was a sound without meaning; in contrast, Jaime intrigued her. She thought about him all the time, while she sewed the clothing for the dowry, taking advantage of the sounds of the sewing and the contact with the lace in her young hands, damaged by the chisel, still awkward for contact of the lace, still clumsy for the most delicate jobs.
In the evening, the women of the family and neighbors, took out their low chairs to the patio of the great house; repitiendo gestures and saying that they had seen in their mothers and their grandmothers gather around bride to help her with the sewing of the dowry. She sewed, accompanied in silence the laugher, and whispering, while she tried to find the find a face for her of her future husband of whom she didn’t even have a photo. She felt a mixture anticipated nostalgia and relief; she still wasnโt ready. She still wasnโt ready to have an afternoon of rejoicing, like those, but she was going to marry a rich man who was waiting to take care of her and give her everything necessary. Love comes later, the family sayings repeated from time immemorial, a unappealable maxim to console the girls before arranged marriages with unknown men and the fear of premature solitude.
She knew nothing about men, but since she was a little girl, she learned that the responsibility of her husband, cook for him ad give him male children, also a girl. Although Jaime had lived a long time among others, she thought that surely, he was a good man, like those of her family, despite some who played around with women or others who played cards too much. She would help that man is he had strayed; they had taught her that only through the woman are Godโs benedictions conceded to a home, and it is blessed when the woman attended to the future of the family and the man will also be blessed and will live twice the number of years when he loves and honors his wife.
Her mothers and her aunts liked to repeat that men canโt live alone. Wash, iron or cook? The only learned to go to business, where they talked. And thanks to their words, earned money. It was necessary that they had a woman at their side in order to be good, clean and happy. If they said to them what they wanted to hear, made them delicious dinners and some other things, they will then go along with the will of their wives. She had learned to make some meals; she knew the pleasure of taste, when biting into the crispy dough of a quipe, the velvety texture of hummus or the damp and crunchy sweetness of baklava, but she didnโt know what those things that provoked laughter and murmurs among the aunts and mama, could be, when they got together on the patio of the big house, gossiping with complicity while they were cooking for parties, and then they did so while preparing the dowry.
She was going alone and very far to marry and unknown man. No one asked her if she agreed; she only had permission to choose a jewel, an adornment for her future house or a rug. Elena believed that she should ask some questions before leaving, because when she was far away, none of the women of the family could answer her and then, she dared to sigh that she needed to know about how to fulfill her husband, so to obtain all that was later wished for.
Nora Strejilevich es una escritora y profesora argentina cuyo principal interรฉs es el genocidio contemporรกneo. Ella es una sobreviviente exiliada de un campo de concentraciรณn, y su experiencia enmarca tanto su escritura como su investigaciรณn. Tras ser liberada del โClub Atlรฉticoโ (1977), se exiliรณ polรญticamente en Canadรก, donde realizรณ un posgrado y terminรณ un Ph.D. en literatura latinoamericana en la Universidad de Colombia Britรกnica. Enseรฑรณ en Canadรก y Estados Unidos (1991-2011), principalmente en la Universidad Estatal de San Diego, y su enseรฑanza se centrรณ en el discurso testimonial. Mรกs recientemente, trabajรณ en la Universidad de Chile (Santiago, 2012) y en el Centro de Estudios sobre Genocidio de la Universidad Tres de Febrero en Buenos Aires. La Universidad de Konstanz en Alemania la invitรณ a colaborar con su equipo de investigaciรณn en Terror Narratives and Disappearance (2013-2014). Ha impartido el seminario de posgrado โViolencia de Estado y Literaturaโ para varias instituciones como la Universidad de Milรกn con el apoyo de la Beca Fulbright y la Universidad de Middlebury en Buenos Aires (2014-2015). Sus cuentos publicados en inglรฉs son โInventoryโ, โAnamesisโ y โToo Many Namesโ (narraciรณn autobiogrรกfica). Fue galardonada con el Premio Internacional Letras de Oro. Su testimonio, Una sola muerte numerosa (1997, 2006, 2007) le dio reconocimiento internacional, y fue traducido al inglรฉs como A Single Numberless Death (2002) y al alemรกn, Ein einzelner vielfacher Tod (2014). Fue adaptada al teatro y recibiรณ un premio en EE.UU. (Michigan, 2002). Tambiรฉn ha inspirado una docu-ficciรณn, Nora (Italia 2005). Este libro sirve como material pedagรณgico en Argentina, Colombia, Chile, Mรฉxico, Brasil, Alemania, Austria, Italia y Francia. El arte de no olvidar: literatura testimonial en Chile, Argentina y Uruguay entre los aรฑos 80 y 90 (2006) es un ensayo crรญtico que analiza, desde un enfoque sociocultural, textos de literatura testimonial. El lugar del testigo y Un dรญa, allรกpor el fin de mundo son unos de sus trabajo mรกs recientes.
Nora Strejilevich is an Argentine writer and professor whose main interest is contemporary genocide. She is an exiled survivor of a concentration camp, and her experience frames both her writing and research. After being freed from โClub Atleticoโ (1977), she became a political exile in Canada, where she did postgraduate work and finished a Ph.D. in Latin American literature at the University of British Colombia. She taught in Canada and the US (1991-2011), mostly at San Diego State University, and her teaching focused on testimonial discourse. Most recently, she worked at Universidad de Chile (Santiago, 2012) and at the Center for Genocide Studies at Universidad Tres de Febrero in Buenos Aires. Konstanz University invited her to collaborate with their research team about Terror Narratives and Disappearance (2013-2014). She has taught the graduate seminar, โState Violence and Literatureโ for several institutions such as Milan University with support from Fulbright Fellowship and Middlebury University in Buenos Aires (2014-2015).Her published short stories in English are โInventary,โ โAnamesisโ, and โToo Many Namesโ (an autobiographical narration.) She was awarded the Premio Internacional Letras de Oro. Her testimony, Una sola muerte numerosa (1997, 2006, 2007) gave her international recognition, and it was translated into English as A Single Numberless Death (2002) and into German, Ein einzelner vielfacher Tod (2014). It was adapted to theater and received an award in the US (Michigan, 2002). It has also inspired a docu-fiction, Nora (Italy 2005). This book serves as pedagogical material in Argentina, Colombia, Chile, Mรฉxico, Brazil, Germany, Austria, Italy and France.El arte de no olvidar: literatura testimonial en Chile, Argentina y Uruguay entre los 80 y los 90 (2006) is a critical essay which analyses, from a socio-cultural approach, texts of testimonial literature. El lugar del testigo y Un dรญa, allรกpor el fin de mundo are some of her later works.
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“Cuando me robaron el nombre”
fui una fui cien fui miles
NN era mi rostro despojado
y no fui nadie
de gesto de mirada de vocal.
Camino mi desnudez numerada
en fila sin ojos sin yo
con ellos sola
desangrando mi alfabeto
por cadenas guturales
por gemidos ciudadanos de un paรญs
sin iniciales.
Pรกrpado y tabique
mi horizonte
todo silencio y eco
todo reja toda noche
todo pared sin espejo
donde copiar una arruga
una mueca un quizรกs.
Todo punto y aparte.
Hasta un dรญa
me devolvieron el nombre
y salรญ a lucirlo por los pasillos
del mundo.
Mรกscaras encontrรฉ
paรญses perfiles adormecidos
lenguas golosas de novedades
absurdo.
Me dejรฉ caminar asรญ
hacia mi ningรบn lugar
hacia mi nada
por desfiladeros de huellas
sin rocรญo
sin poder traducir
mis cicatrices.
ยกEse nombre no es mรญo!
El mรญo
era cien era mil era todos
el mรญo
era cuerpo era vientre era voz
tenรญa vecinos silbaba
Se me ha perdido el nombre!
por las veredas de un mapa
era un dios.
sin esquinas gritรฉ
era diurno y nocturno
entre puertas acribilladas de miedo.
ยกQuiero mi nombre!
mi nombre propio curvo palpitante
ยกQue me lo traigan!
envuelto en primaveras
con rr de rayuela
o con o de ojalรก
con a de aserrรญn asserรกn.
Mi nombre enredadera se enredรณ
Entre sรญlabas de muerte
DE SA PA RE CI DO
ido
nombre nunca mรกs
mi nombre.
Enajenada de sujeto
no supe conjugarme
no supe recorrer
el abecedario de mis lรกgrimas.
Fui ojos revolviendo ayeres
fui manos atrapando jirones
fui pies resbalando
por renglones elรฉctricos.
No supe pronunciarme.
Fui piel entre discursos
sin saliva sin vestigios
de donde ni por quรฉ
Ni cuando ni hasta cuando.
No podrรกs jamรกs decirlo!
jamรกs decirte, pensรฉ.
Pero escribirรกs
Escribirรฉ sรญ
Miles de ges de eres de eses
garabatos vicarios
hijos de mi boca
remolinos de deseos
que fueron nombres.
Escribirรฉ
lรกtigos negros para domar
otras salvajes mayรบsculas
ahogรกndome la sangre.
Resistirรฉ resistirรกs
con nombre y apellido
el descarado lenguaje
del olvido.
NN No Name
Rayuela Hopscotch Aserrรญn aserrรกn – juego popular
Patricia Israel (1939-2011) naciรณ en Temuco, Chile, y realizรณ sus primeros estudios en la Academia de Escultura de Tรณtila Albert para luego cursar pintura y grabado en la Escuela de Bellas Artes de la Universidad de Chile. Viviรณ en Argentina y Venezuela. fue pintora y grabadora de origen judรญo adscrita a la corriente del Neo-expresionismo. Entre los ejes temรกticos de su trabajo estรกn las diversas situaciones que simbolizan la relaciรณn del humano con el mundo, desarrollando temas especรญficos, como el del holocausto judรญo, pero que traspasado al รกmbito del arte, representa dolores y horrores universales. Esa uniรณn se presenta siempre bajo un pulcro tratamiento formal que permite vislumbrar al dibujo como soporte de su imaginario, utilizando tanto el color como la tela misma, como soporte de la composiciรณn. Ese modus operandi, que ha sido la punta de lanza de su producciรณn desde el inicio, le permitiรณ en sus trabajos mรกs recientes abordar con mรกs fuerza temas americanistas. Partiendo su investigaciรณn en textos literarios, rescataba imรกgenes iconogrรกficas como el conquistador y los dominados, representando la aรบn utรณpica liberaciรณn sudamericana.Israel fue la primera mujer en ganar la Bienal Internacional de Arte de Valparaรญso (1991) algo muy significativo para ella, ya que desde muy el comienzo de su carrera asumiรณ y defendiรณ su postura como mujer, chilena y latina en defensa de la injusticia de gรฉnero como analogรญa del sufrimiento de los oprimidos. De ahรญ que su pintura โMujerโ del mismo aรฑo sea un homenaje a esta lucha.Su obra ha sido exhibida internacionalmente destacando su participaciรณn en la Bienal de Venecia en 1974 y el Premio Altazor a las Artes Nacionales recibido el aรฑo despuรฉs de su muerte, en 2012.
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Patricia Israel (1939-2011) was born in Temuco, Chile and studied at the Tรณtila Albert Sculpture Academy, before studying at the School of Fine Arts of the University of Chile. She lived in Argentina and Venezuela. She was a painter and engraver of Jewish origin attached to Neo-expressionism. Among the thematic axes of her work are the various situations that symbolize the human relationship with the world, developing specific themes, such as the Jewish Holocaust, but which, transferred to the field of art, represents universal pain and horror. This union is always presented under a neat formal treatment that allows us to glimpse the drawing as a support for his imaginary, using both color and the fabric itself, as a support for the composition.That modus operandi, which has been the spearhead of his production from the beginning, allowed her to address Americanist themes more forcefully in his most recent works. Starting her research in literary texts, she rescued iconographic images such as the conqueror and the dominated, representing the still utopian South American liberation. Israel was the first woman to win the Valparaรญso International Art Biennial (1991), something very significant for her, since from the very beginning of her career she assumed and defended her position as a woman, Chilean and Latina in defense of gender injustice, as an analogy for the suffering of the oppressed. Hence, his painting “Woman” from the same year is a tribute to this fight. Her work has been exhibited internationally, highlighting his participation in the Venice Biennale in 1974 and the Altazor Award for National Arts received the year after her death in 2012.
Liliana Blum (Durango, Durango, Mรฉxico,1974) ha publicado las novelas El extraรฑo caso de Lenny Goleman (Planeta Joven, 2022), Cara de liebre (Seix Barral, 2020), El monstruo pentรกpodo (Bordes, 2019; Tusquets, 2017), Pandora (Tusquets, 2015; MaxiTusquets 2020), Residuos de espanto (Ficticia Editorial, 2011) y los libros de cuentos Tristeza de los cรญtricos (Pรกginas de Espuma, 2019), Todas hemos perdido algo (Tusquets, 2020), No me pases de largo (Literal Publishing, 2013), Yo sรฉ cuando expira la leche (IMAC Durango, 2011), The Curse of Eve and Other Stories (Host Publications, 2008), Vidas de catรกlogo (Fondo Editorial Tierra Adentro, 2007), ยฟEn quรฉ se nos fue la maรฑana? (ITCA, 2007) y (Ediciones de Barlovento, 2002). Sus escritos son parte de las antologรญas El crimen como una de las bellas artes (2002), Atrapadas en la madre (Alfaguara, 2006), El espejo de Beatriz (Ficticia, 2009), รyeme con los ojos: de Sor Juana al siglo XXI (UANL, 2010), Three Messages and a Warning: Contemporary Mexican Short Stories of the Fantastic (Small Beer Press, 2012), La renovada muerte : antologรญa de noir mexicano (Grijalbo, 2019), entre otras. Su nueva colecciรณn de relatos, Un descuido cรณsmico, saldrรก este 2023 bajo el sello de Tusquets. Liliana Blum estudiรณ Literatura Comparada en The University of Kansas y tiene una maestrรญa en educaciรณn con especialidad en humanidades por el ITESM.
Liliana Blum (Durango, Durango, Mexico, 1974) has published the novels: El extraรฑo caso de Lenny Goleman (Planeta Joven, 2022), Cara de liebre (Seix Barral, 2020), El monstruo pentรกpodo (Bordes, 2019; Tusquets, 2017), Pandora (Tusquets, 2015; MaxiTusquets 2020), Residuos de espanto (Ficticia Editorial, 2011) and the books of short-stories: Tristeza de los cรญtricos (Pรกginas de Espuma, 2019), Todas hemos perdido algo (Tusquets, 2020), No me pases de largo (Literal Publishing, 2013), Yo sรฉ cuando expira la leche (IMAC Durango, 2011), The Curse of Eve and Other Stories (Host Publications, 2008), Vidas de catรกlogo (Fondo Editorial Tierra Adentro, 2007), ยฟEn quรฉ se nos fue la maรฑana? (ITCA, 2007) and (Ediciones de Barlovento, 2002). Her writing can be found in the anthologies: El crimen como una de las bellas artes (2002), Atrapadas en la madre (Alfaguara, 2006), El espejo de Beatriz (Ficticia, 2009), รyeme con los ojos: de Sor Juana al siglo XXI (UANL, 2010), Three Messages and a Warning: Contemporary Mexican Short Stories of the Fantastic (Small Beer Press, 2012), La renovada muerte : antologรญa de noir mexicano (Grijalbo, 2019), among others. Her new short-story collection: Un descuido cรณsmico, will be out later in 2023 (Tusquets). Liliana Blum studied Comparative Literature at The University of Kansas and has a master’s degree in education with a specialty in humanities from ITESM.
De://From: Liliana V. Blum. Vidas de catรกlogo. Mรฉxico, D. F.: Tierra Adentro, 2007, 71-76.
โTocarรฉ el piano vestida de noviaโ
A Paloma Bauer
Un aรฑo mรกs, que sumado a los otro veintinueve, daba treinta. Pero yo me siento justamente igual que ayer y el dรญa antes de ayer. Andrei se fue a pasar el verano con su futura esposa, mi รบltimo papanicolao mostrรณ algunas cรฉlulas anormales y tengo que sacar una cita con el ginecรณlogo. Salรญ de la universidad antes de la cinco de la tarde. Pasรฉ al pequeรฑo mercado orgรกnico y comprรฉ algunas cosas. Me he propuesto cambiar de hรกbitos, ser mรกs saludable. Desde maรฑana comenzar a nadar antes de la clase de sociologรญa. Dejarรฉ de fumar y habrรก mรกs frutos y verduras en mi dieta. Los รกrboles a lo largo de la calle estรกn cambiando sus hojas de verde a amarillo a rojo, y algunas ya cubren el suelo. Unas cigarras fuera de temporada se escuchan allรญ y allรก.
Me detengo porque los hombros me duelen por tantos libros que llevo. Desde que Andrei se fue, leo de tres o cuatro libros por semana y consumo paquetes enteros de galletas con chispas de chocolate sumergidas en cafรฉ con leche. Suspiro y me obligo a seguir. He llegado a los treinta, estoy viva y camino por una hermosa calle de un pequeรฑo pueblo universitario. Conservo aรบn la beca para mi maestrรญa y muy pronto terminarรฉ la tesis. De repente la bolsa se rompe y un par de latas de sopa de tomate ruedan por la acera. Otro eslabรณn de tristeza que se une con todo lo demรกs.
Sรฉ que sรญ me agacho para recoger las dos latas voy a llorar y no podrรฉ detenerme. Miro a los dos lados: no hay nadie mรกs en la calle, salvo un gato anaranjado afilรกndose las garras en un tronco. Cuatro dรณlares bien valen mis lรกgrimas, o al revรฉs, asรญ que mejor la sopa de tomate. En la banqueta veo dibujos hechos con gises de color. Flores, catarinas, unos cuadros con nรบmeros para brincar. Hace muchos aรฑos me hacรญa feliz dibujar, jugar con el resorte, la cuerda, las muรฑecas. Ahora estudio porque supuestamente es lo que quiero y soy independiente, pero me pongo a llorar a mitad de la cuadra. Los cuarenta o cincuenta metros que faltan para mi departamento me parecen una distancia infinita. ยฟCรณmo voy a llegar yo sola con mis cรฉlulas anormales y mi posible cรกncer cervical?
El cielo comienza a cerrarse, y sรฉ que con latas de sopa de tomate o sin ellas debo llegar pronto a donde sea que voy. Vuelvo a cargar la bolsa y camino rรกpidamente, hasta que la tensiรณn de los mรบsculos de mis piernas me obliga a parar. Para entonces la lluvia ha comenzado; abrazo lo que resta de la bolsa y alcanzo el camino de piedras que lleva a lo que es mi departamento, en el segundo piso de una casa antigua que no se distinguirรญa de cualquier otra de la calle si no fuera por la casera, que vive en el primer nivel, ha llenado de gnomos y ranas todo el jardรญn. Corro entre los figurines con cuidado de no tocarlos, porque estรก estipulado en el contrato de alquiler que, si llegamos a romper alguno de los gnomos, ella puede pedirnos dejar el piso en cualquier momento. Cuando termine la maestrรญa y consiga un buen trabajo, lo primero que harรฉ es cambiarme de casa.
Deberรญa de tomar el rastrillo de Andrei, todas sus cosas, y tirarlas en la basura. O cortarme las venas. Eventualmente รฉl llegarรญa y me encontrarรญa convertida en una forma de pasta sobre la alfombra e la salita de tele, putrefacta, y entonces verรญa que yo era una mujer, shiska o no, una mujer que se pudre si deja de vivir. Tomo el rastrillo y lo acerco mis ojos. Tiene algunas barbas de Andrei entre las hojas. No quiero llorar de nuevo asรญ que los pongo en su lugar y salgo del baรฑo. Tomo tres de las cervezas de Andrei, me siento frente al televisor y comienzo a beber.
Adentro todo estรก oscuro y se percibe un ligero olor a humedad. Me gusta la casa asรญ. Con poca luz. Andrei bromea siempre con que en el fondo yo debo tener algo de judรญa, porque dice que soy una tacaรฑa con la energรญa elรฉctrica. Entonces puedes quedarte conmigo, contesto yo a sabiendas que รฉl mirarรก el piso, me tomarรก de los hombros y dirรก: sabes que te amo, pero no puedo casarme con una shiksa. No nos casemos entonces, digo yo, como siguiendo mi parte en el guion. Lo que hago para mortificarlo, para hacerle saber que yo sufro. Me debo a mis padres, y les prometรญ casarme con una judรญa y darle nietos, no dejar que muera el apellido, me explica pacientemente una y otra vez lo mismo. Tal vez tiene la esperanza de que en una de tantas repeticiones yo termine por entender y lo deje ir. ยฟPero porque sigue durmiendo aquรญ en mi casa? Entonces no me digas que me amas, Andrei, porque estรก claro que no me amas. Luego me encierro en el cuarto con un portazo, o salgo a caminar. En la noche, cuando regreso, lo encuentro sumido en cierta depresiรณn, frente a la tele, viendo las noticias con una cerveza en la mano, las luces apagadas en mi honor. Se levanta para recibirme, no dice nada y comienza a besarme; hacemos el amor allรญ mismo, en el futรณn, con un anchorman de CNN dando las รบltimas noticias de sobre los conflictos en el Medio Oriente. Al terminar, Andrei hace comentarios de cuando en vez sobre lo que ve en la tele, y yo acaricio los rizos, hasta que nos quedamos dormidos.
Pongo lo que queda de la bolsa y el mandado sobre la mesa de la cocina. Saco el paquete de jamรณn de pavo kosher y la pinta de leche descremada para acomodarlas en el refri. Entro el baรฑo, orino y prendo la luz para verme de cerca en el espejo. Me parece que tengo mรกs arrugas que la รบltima vez. No me reconozco. Antes yo era otra, digo en voz alta, y pienso en Andrei con la novia judรญa que finalmente le pareciรณ aceptable. ยฟEstarรกn sentados en la sala, con los padres de allรก interrogรกndolo para ver si es un buen prospectivo, o tal vez van juntos a la sinagoga, tomados de mano?
Los รบltimos meses han sido insoportables para mรญ. O bien soy indestructible, o no tengo dignidad. Supongo que lo segundo. Vivimos en el mismo lugar, รฉl me prepara el desayuno, yo lavo los trastes, Y de repente, alguien, una judรญa contesta su anuncio en el sitio de Jewish Singles y se pone de acuerdo con ella para conocerse. Entonces me dice: me voy a Seattle o cualquier parte, para conocer a Sarah o a quien sea. Se me salen las lรกgrimas y รฉl me repite que no puede casarse conmigo, aunque me ame. Luego viene mi escena con gritos, tal vez una taza de cafรฉ rota, y al final hacemos el amor hasta casi morirnos. A la maรฑana siguiente, mientras yo duermo, รฉl prepara su maleta, me besa y lo escucho entre sueรฑos decirme que volverรก en un par de dรญas. Yo me vuelvo de espaldas. Cuando escucho la puerta cerrarse, aprieto mi cara contra la almohada de รฉl y aspiro su aroma. Sigo miserable hasta medio dรญa, y si no hubiera trabajo que hacer, me quedarรญa en la cama hasta que Andrei volviera a aparecer. Porque siempre, al fin de cuentas, termina por volver y explica que Rachel o Abby no es interesante, que fรญsicamente no le atrae o que no comparten el mismo nivel de religiosidad. Cualquier cosa. Es mi turno de ser indignada y el de Andrei para mimarme y buscar mi perdรณn, hasta que la normalidad se vuelve a establecer en la casa, al menos por algรบn tiempo. Mรกs tarde yo dirรฉ: tal vez yo tambiรฉn deba subir mi perfil a un sitio de solteros catรณlicos. Andrei fingirรก no escucharme mientras me besa y me quita la ropa. No quiero quedarme de solterona, sobre todo si tรบ te vas a casar un dรญa de estos. Cuando terminemos, todavรญa ebria con los efectos del orgasmo, seguirรฉ: Me vas a volverme loca, Andrei. รl sรณlo guardarรก silencio, con la cara entre mis pechos. Siempre me deja hablar sin interrumpirme: un cachorro que sabe que hizo mal al destrozar la pantufla. Y cuando estรฉ loca, voy a tocar el piano vestida de novia. รl me besarรก otra vez: No te vas a volver loca, tรบ vas a encontrar a alguien que te quiera mucho.
Termino la รบltima cerveza y cambio el canal. Veo un especial de Seinfeld y pienso cรณmo rรญo con Andrei. ยฟVoy a encontrar a alguien quiรฉn sentirme asรญ? Porque cuando no estรก buscando esposa judรญa, es casi perfecto. Una vez, un poco ebrio, me dijo que, si se casaba pronto, a lo mejor podรญamos seguir viรฉndonos. Eso no estรก bien, si te casas le va a ser fiel a tu mujer, le dije. Ser parte de un triรกngulo no entraba en mi plan de vida. Aunque tal vez ahora mismo harรญa lo que Andrei me dijera. Pero ยฟcรณmo ser โla otra mujerโ, si yo no tengo ningรบn aire de misterio, no uso negligรฉs ni ligueros ni maquillaje? Pero en el fondo sรฉ que ni siquiera tengo esa opciรณn. Andrei estarรก el resto del verano con su novia, fijarรก una fecha para la boda y recibirรฉ una postal del lugar a donde vayan de luna de miel. Luego se instalarรก en otra ciudad y nos escribiremos por correo electrรณnico, cada vez menos, hasta que finalmente termine por alejarse por completo de mi vida.
Camino un poco vacilante al cuarto. Tengo que dejar de pensar en รฉl. Lo mejor serรก tomar, como dicen los libros de autoayuda, un dรญa a la vez. Me prometo no beber mรกs hasta que encuentre una pareja estable, o si no voy a terminar como una patรฉtica depresiva alcohรณlica, y luego nadie, y con razรณn, va a quererme. Lo primero que harรฉ por la maรฑana es llamar al ginecรณlogo y hacer la cita. Me desvisto en la oscuridad y dejo la ropa en el suelo. Maรฑana, tambiรฉn, comenzarรฉ a limpiar. Ningรบn traste sucio pasarรก mรกs de un dรญa en el fregadero. Voy a poner un florero en medio de la mesa y voy a sacudir los libros.
Me acuesto. Mis dedos tocan el cabello rizado de Andrei. Su cuerpo se mueve un poco, hasta que termina por despertar. Entrรฉ con mi llave, dice, abrazรกndome. Shhh, no quiero que me platiques de tu viaje. Vuelve a dormirse a los pocos minutos y escucho su respiraciรณn. Me quedo despierta con sus brazos rodeรกndome. Mientras no tenga vestido de novia, creo que no me volverรฉ loca.
On year more, that added to the other twenty-nine, comes to thirty. But I feel exactly the same as I did yesterday and the day before yesterday. Andrei went to spend the summer with his future wife, my Pap test showed some abnormal cells, and I have to make an appointment with the gynecologist. I left the university before five in the afternoon. I passed the small market where I bought I a few things. I have made a plan to change my habits, to be healthier. From tomorrow on, to swim before sociology class. I will stop smoking, and there will be more fruits and vegetables in my diet. The trees along the street are changing their leaves from green to yellow to red, and some already cover the ground. Some cicadas out of season are heard here and there.
I stop as my shoulders hurt me because I carry so many books. Since Andrei left, I read three or four books a week, and I consume entire boxes of chocolate chip cookies dipped into coffee with milk. I take a breath and force myself to go on. I have made it to thirty, I am alive, and I walk on a beautiful street in a small university town. I still have the scholarship for my masters and very soon, I will complete my thesis. Suddenly, the bag breaks and two cans of tomato soup roll down the sidewalk. Another kind of sadness that joins all the rest.
I know that if I bend down to pick up the two cans, Iโm going to cry, and I wonโt be able to stop myself. I look both ways; there is nobody else on the street, except an orange cat sharpening its nails on a tree trunk. My tears are worth four dollars, or seen the other way around, it’s better that I pick up the tomato soup. On the pavement, I see pictures made with colored chalk. Flowers, ladybugs, some pictures with numbers to jump around. Many years ago, it made me happy to draw, to play with the elastic, the rope, the dolls. Now I study because supposedly thatโs what I want and I am independent, but I begin to cry in the middle of the block. The forty or fifty meters left to my apartment seem to me to be an infinite distance. How will I arrive alone with my abnormal cells and a possible cervical cancer?
The sky begins to darken, and I know that with the cans of tomato soup or without them, Iโd better quickly get wherever Iโm going. I carry the bag again and walk rapidly, until the tension in the muscles in my legs makes me stop. By then the rain has begun, I hug what is left of the bag, and I reach the stone walk that leads to what is my apartment, on the second floor of an old house that would be indistinguishable from any other on the street, if it wasnโt for the fact that the landlady, who lives on the first floor, has filled the entire garden with gnomes and frogs. I run among the figurines, carefully not to touch them, because it is stipulated in the lease that, if we break one of the gnomes, she can ask us to leave the place at any time. When I complete the Masters and I get a good job, the first thing I will do is change my abode.
Inside, everything was dark, and a vague humid smell was perceivable. I like the house like that. With little light. Andrei always jokes that down deep I ought to have some Jewishness, because he says that I am a cheapskate with electricity. Then you can stay with me, I answer deliberately that he will look at the floor, take me by the shoulders and will say: you know that I love you, but I canโt marry a shiska. Then we wonโt get married, I say, as is continuing my part in the script. I do that to mortify him, to make him know that I suffer. I owe it to my parents, and I promised to marry a Jew and give them grandchildren, not let our name die out, he patiently explains to me the same way, again and again. Perhaps he has the hope that from one of so many repetitions, I will finally understand and let him go. But why does he keep sleeping here in my home? Then donโt tell me that you love me, Andrei, because itโs clear that you donโt love me. Then with a door slam, I shut myself into my room, or I leave to take a walk. That night, when I return, I find him sunken into in a kind of depression, in front of the TV, watching the news with a beer in his hand, the lights turned off in my honor. He gets up to meet me, doesnโt say anything and begins to kiss me, we make love there right there, on the futon, with a CNN anchorman telling the latest news about the conflicts in the Middle East. When weโre done, Andrei sometimes makes comments about what he sees on TV, and I caress his curls, until we fall asleep.
I put what is left of the bag and the bill on the kitchen table. I take out the packet of Kosher turkey ham and the pint of skim milk to put them in the fridge. I enter the bathroom, I urinate, and I turn on the light in order to see myself up close to the mirror. It seems that I have more wrinkles than the last time. I donโt recognize myself. Before, I was different, I say out loud, and I think about Andrei with the Jewish girlfriend who finally seems acceptable. Will they be in the living room, with her parents, interrogating him to see if he is a good prospect, or perhaps they attend synagogue together, holding hands?
I ought to take Andreiโs razor, all his things, and throw them in the garbage. Or cut my wrists. Eventually, he would arrive and would find me converted into a form of pasta on the rug in the little TV room, purified, and then he would see that I was a woman, shiska or not, a woman who rots if she is allowed to live. I take the razor, and I bring it close to my eyes. It has a few of Andreiโs beard hairs among the blades. I donโt want to cry again, so I put it back in its place, and I leave the bathroom. I take out three of Andreiโs beers, I sit in front of the television and a begin to drink.
The last few months have been unbearable for me. Or Iโm quite indestructible, or I have no dignity. I guess the second. We live in the same place, He makes breakfast for me, I wash the dishes. And suddenly, someone, a Jewish woman answers his ad in the Jewish Singles site, and he arranges for them to meet each other. Then he says to me: Iโm going to Seattle or somewhere, to meet Sarah or whoever. I begin to cry, and he repeats to me that he canโt marry me, even though he loves me. Then comes the scene with shouting, perhaps a broken coffee cup, and finally we make love until we die. The next morning, while I sleep, he packs his suitcase, kisses me and half-asleep, I hear him tell me that he will be back in a couple of days. I turn onto my back. When I hear the door close, I press my face against his pillow, and I breath in his smell. I continue to be miserable until about noon, and if I didnโt have work to do, I would stay in bed until Andrei appears again. Because always, at the end of the day, he returns again, and explains that Rachel or Abby isnโt interesting, that she doesnโt attract him physically or they donโt share the same level of religiosity. Whatever. it is my turn to be indignant and Andreiโs to pamper me and ask my forgiveness, until normality is established at home again, at least for a time. Later on, I will say: perhaps I too ought to put my profile in a site for unmarried Catholics. Andrei will pretend not to hear me while he kisses me and takes off my clothes. I donโt want to stay unmarried, especially if one day youโre to marry one of them. When we finish, still drunk from the effects of the orgasm, I will continue: you are not going to make my crazy, Andrei. He will simply remain silent, with his face between my breasts. He always lets me speak without interrupting me, a puppy that knows that he was bad destroying the slipper. And when Iโm crazy, Iโm going to play the piano, dressed as a bride. He will kiss me again. You wonโt go crazy; you will find someone who will love you a lot.
I finish the last beer, and I change the channel. I watch a Seinfeld special, and I think of how much I laugh with Andrei. Will I find someone who will feel for me so? Why, when he is not looking for a Jewish woman, itโs almost perfect. Once, a bit drunk, he said that if he gets married soon, at least we could continue seeing each other. Thatโs no good. if you marry, you will be faithful to your wife, I told him. But now perhaps right now I would do what Andrei said. Being part of a triangle is not in my life plan. But how can I be โthe other womanโ, if I donโt have any air of mystery, I donโt use negligees or garter belts or makeup? But down deep, I know that I donโt even have that option. Andrei will be with his girlfriend for the rest of the summer, they will set a date for the wedding, and I will receive a postcard from the place where they go for their honeymoon. Then he will settle in another city, and we will write each other by email, less and less, until finally he ends up completely out of my life.
I walk a bit shaky to the bedroom. I have to stop thinking about him. The best thing would be to take, like the self-help books say, one day at a time. I promise myself not to drink any more until I find a steady boyfriend, or, if I’m not going to end up like a pathetic depressive alcoholic, and then nobody, and with reason, will love me. The first thing I will do in the morning is call the gynecologist and make an appointment. I get undressed in the darkness, and I leave the clothes on the floor. Tomorrow, also, I will begin to clean up. No dirty dish will stay in the refrigerator for more than a day. Iโm going to put a vase in the middle of the table, and Iโm going to dust the books.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย I go to bed. My fingers touch Andreiโs curly hair. His body moves a bit, until he wakes up. I got in with my key, he said, hugging me, Shhh, I donโt want you to talk to me about your trip. He fell asleep again in a few minutes and I hear his breathing. I remain awake with his arms surrounding me. While I don’t have a wedding dress, I wonโt go crazy.
Lihie Talmor naciรณ en 1944 en Tel-Aviv, Israel. Recibe un B.Sc. en Arquitectura y Planificaciรณn Urbana de Technion, Haifa, Israel. Completa su B.A. en Poรฉtica y Literatura Comparada en la Universidad de Tel-Aviv en 1971 donde enseรฑa hasta 1974. Estudiรณ pintura en el estudio de Pinchas Abramovitz en Tel-Aviv. En 1980 se traslada a Caracas, Venezuela, y allรญ ingresa al Centro de Estudios de Artes Grรกficas (CEGRA) de 1981 a 1983, y estudia pintura en el estudio de Walter Margulis. Desde 1984 ha trabajado en proyectos de arte, impartido y participado en cursos en centros culturales y talleres en Italia, Bรฉlgica, Estados Unidos, Israel, Colombia y Venezuela. Trabaja en los campos del grabado, la escultura y la instalaciรณn. Talmor vive y trabaja en Israel y Venezuela.
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Lihie Talmor was born in 1944 in Tel-Aviv, Israel. Receives a B.Sc .in Architecture and Urban Planning from the Technion, Haifa, Israel. She completed her B.A. in Poetics and Comparative Literature at the University of Tel-Aviv in 1971 where she taught until 1974. Studied painting at Pinchas Abramovitzโ studio in Tel-Aviv. In 1980, moves to Caracas, Venezuela, and there enrolled at the Center of Studies for the Graphic Arts (CEGRA) from 1981 to 1983, and studied painting at Walter Margulisโ studio. Since 1984 she has worked on art projects, taught and participated in courses in cultural centers and workshops in Italy, Belgium, the United States, Israel, Colombia and Venezuela. Works in the fields of printmaking, sculptures and installations. Talmor ives and works in Israel and Venezuela.
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Lihie Talmor:
“”Mi intenciรณn no es una aproximaciรณn histรณrica ni periodรญstica, ni un testimonio ni una ilustraciรณn de los conflictos. Por el contrario, los espacios que (re)creo en mi obra son mรกs simbรณlicos que geogrรกficos. En un camino serpenteante entre la fotografรญa, el grabado, la pintura y otras tรฉcnicas, creo ficciรณn”.
“My intention is neither a historical nor a journalistic approach, neither testimony nor illustration of conflicts. On the contrary, the spaces I (re)create in my work are symbolic rather than geographical. On a meandering path between photography, etching, painting, and other techniques, I create fiction.”
Cรฉsar Tiempo (1906-1980) fue un poeta, escritor, autor teatral, guionista cinemaยญtogrรกfico, y periodista. Con el nombre de Israel Zeitlin, naciรณ ucraniana, y como bebรฉ fue llevado a Buenos Aires En 1924 obtuvo la ciudadanรญa argentina. Formรณ parte del Grupo de Boedo. En 1930 obtuvo el Premio Municipal de Poesรญa. Recibiรณ el Premio Nacional de Teatro. En 1945 ganรณ el Premio Municipal al Mejor Libro Cinematogrรกfico. Entre 1973 y 1975 se desempeรฑรณ como director del Teatro Nacional Cervantes. Entre sus obras teatrales destacan Pan criollo y El lustrador de manzanas. Escribiรณ sobre la condiciรณn judรญa y porteรฑa. Libro para la pausa del sรกbado, Sabatiรณn argentino, y Sabadomingo son algunos de sus poemarios.
Cรฉsar Tiempo (1906-1980) was a poet, writer, playwright, screenwriter, and journalist. Born Israel Zeitlin, in the Ukraine, he was brought to Buenos Aires as an infant. In 1924, he became a citizen of Argentina. He was a member of the Boedo Writers Group. In 1930, he won the Municipal Prize for Poetry. In 1945, he won the Municipal Prize for Best Screenplay. Between 1973 and 1975 he served as director of the Cervantes National Theatre. Among his plays are Pan criollo y El lustrador de manzanas. He wrote sensitively about the Jewish community of Buenos Aires. Libro para la pausa del sรกbado, Sabatiรณn argentino, and Sabadomingo figure among his books of poetry.
Vilma Faingezecht nace en Costa Rica, hija de inmigrantes judรญos oriundos de Polonia. Sus padres llegan a estas tierras en el aรฑo 1946, luego de sobrevivir a la Segunda Guerra Mundial.Cursa la escuela primaria en Alajuela, en la Escuela Bernardo Soto y en San Josรฉ, en la Escuela Estados Unidos del Brasil. Posteriormente, en el Colegio Superior de Seรฑoritas, realiza sus estudios de secundaria.Vive algunos aรฑos en Israel, Mรฉxico y Puerto Rico. Regresa a San Josรฉ despuรฉs de conocer y explorar muchos caminos.De nuevo en casa, continรบa completando sus diferentes estudios :Historia, Diseรฑo, Decoraciรณn y Artes Plรกsticas .Se dedica por muchos aรฑos a presentar exposiciones de pintura , tanto en el paรญs como en el exterior. Es licenciada en filosofรญa por la Universidad Autรณnoma de Centroamรฉrica. Es fundadora y directora del Museo de la Comunidad Judรญa de Costa Rica. La Revista Nacional de Cultura publica y premia uno de sus primeros cuentos en el aรฑo 1992.Entre sus publicaciones contamos con tres libros de cuentos :EN TIERRAS AJENASโฆ.EN ESOS CAMINOS, CUENTOS DE LA NIรA JUDIA.
Adaptado de: Asociaciรณn Costarricense de Escritoras
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Viilma Faingezicht was born in Costa Rica, the daughter of Jewish immigrants from Poland. His parents arrived in these lands in 1946, after surviving World War II. He attended primary school in Alajuela, at the Bernardo Soto School, and in San Josรฉ, at the United States of Brazil School. Later, at the Colegio Superior de Seรฑoritas, he completed his secondary studies. He lived for a few years in Israel, Mexico and Puerto Rico. He returns to San Josรฉ after knowing and exploring many paths. Back home, he continues to complete his different studies: History, Design, Decoration and Plastic Arts. For many years he has dedicated himself to presenting painting exhibitions, both in the country and abroad. Exterior. She has a degree in philosophy from the Autonomous University of Central America. She is the founder and director of the Museum of the Jewish Community of Costa Rica. The National Magazine of Culture publishes and rewards one of her first stories in 1992. Among her publications we have three story books: EN TIERRAS AJENASโฆ.EN ESOS CAMINOS, TALES OF THE JEWISH GIRL
Las chiquitas escogidas se vestรญan de jardineras, con delantales de organdรญ y canastas de flores. Todo era blanco y amarillo, colores sagrados en momentos sublimes.
Las alas de los angelitos sobresalรญan entre la multitud: angelitos blancos, angelitos bellos; yo tambiรฉn querรญa tener alas y volar, volar por los aires con mis alas blancas. ยกSer un angelito! ยกTener alas y flores!
Los chiquitos buenos eran los escogidos y se convertรญan en รกngeles que irradiaban candor. Las chiquitas vestidas de jardineras iban colmadas de flores, como Diosas rumbo al altar.
Pero yo no podรญa ser nada.
Si por lo menos hubiera podido ir de jardinera. ยฟQuรฉ tenรญa de malo andar repleta de flores? Las flores son de todos, no sรณlo de los catรณlicos. Algรบn dรญa me iba a apoderar de todas esas flores, flores blancas y amarillas. ยกQuerรญa tener mi cabeza cubierta de flores! Y quizรก algunas alas tambiรฉn; ยฟpor quรฉ no?
Los รกngeles tambiรฉn son de todos.
ยกAngelitos blancos, angelitos lindos! Yo querรญa ser un รกngel.
Y las ollas rebosantes de uvas aguardaban su fermentoโฆ Se acercaba la Pascua y ese aรฑo el vino tendrรญa que ser casero. Sin vino no hay Pascua.
โโฆy recordarรกs la salida de Egipto como si tรบ mismo hubieras sido esclavo en tierras del faraรณnโฆโ
Ahora รฉramos libres; antes fuimos esclavos ยกHabรญa que recordar y celebrar ese acontecimiento! Los niรฑos judรญos celebrรกbamos, estรกbamos en un mundo libre; pero asimismo catรณlico.
Un mundo colmado de รกngeles.
Eran dos pascuas diferentes; una con cuatro copas de vino y otra que se celebraba con รกngelesโฆ Pero yo no tomaba vinoโฆ Yo querรญa ser un รกngel.
Mayo era el mes de las flores. En mayo brotaban los lirios. Flores para la Virgen pedรญan siempre en la escuelaโฆ Y la maestra querรญa tanto a las chiquitas que llevaban floresโฆ Flores blancas para la Virgen, lirios blancos, mayo florido.
ยกMayo florido, mes de los lirios!
La tierra regada, olorosa y fresca.
Alegrรญa de pรกjaros en las arboledas.
Mayo florido, mayo, mayoโฆ
โฆy yo querรญa que la maestra me quisiera a mรญ muchoโฆ
โฆlas niรฑas judรญas no le llevan flores a la Virgen.
Las niรฑas judรญas hacen otras cosas; las niรฑas judรญas no se ponen medallas con santos en la camiseta, las niรฑas judรญas no se persignan cuando pasan por las iglesias.
Las niรฑas judรญas, las niรฑas judรญasโฆ
Las niรฑas judรญas no van a la clase de religiรณn, las niรฑas judรญas se quedan afueraโฆ y la maestra las manda a limpiar la capilla.
Ahรญ, ahรญ es donde estรก la Virgen, con los lirios, los lirios blancos, los lirios de mayo. Las niรฑas judรญas no sabรญamos a quรฉ mundo pertenecรญamos.
Mayo florido, mes de la Virgen, mayo florido; ยฟpor quรฉ tambiรฉn viene el Diablo? Palmas benditas, Ave Marรญa Purรญsima, el Diablo los ase a todos. 3 de mayo, todos los aรฑos; 3 de mayo, el Diablo los agarra a todos. Las niรฑas judรญas necesitan agua bendita, las niรฑas judรญas de igual modo quieren sus palmas benditas.
Pero, ยฟpor quรฉ el Diablo sรญ era para todos?
Si yo lo que anhelaba era ser un รกngel con las alas blancas y flotar por las suaves nubes. Una jardinera con vestido de organdรญ y cubierto de flores. Un รกngel como el de los cromos, con una sonrisa y mejillas rosa.
Las niรฑas judรญas querรญamos ser todo, pero no รฉramos nada. Habรญa que rezar en la noche, pero no entendรญamos nadaโฆ โยกShma Israel!โ Pero por si acaso: โPadre nuestro, que estรกs en el cieloโฆโ
El aรฑo nuevo se celebraba siempre en setiembre, era Rosh Hashana. Los judรญos tenรญamos el aรฑo nuevo en setiembre, nadie entendรญa nada; ademรกs, habรญa dos aรฑos nuevos. El de los judรญos era maravilloso; tenรญamos siempre vestidos nuevos; nos vestรญamos de seda de pies a cabeza, con lazos en el pelo y zapatos nuevos. El hecho de desfilar por las calles con la ropa nueva era casi como ser una de las jardineras. Mas la alegrรญa duraba poco; el tiempo pasaba veloz y de pronto ya era diciembre. โโฆpastores venid, pastores llegad, a adorar al Niรฑo, a adorar al Niรฑo que ha nacido yaโฆโ
Habรญa nacido un niรฑo y a todos los niรฑos les traรญa juguetes. Las calles estaban repletas de juguetes y de manzanas rojas; todos los chiquitos estaban felices con ese niรฑo que habรญa nacido. A todos les traรญa juguetesโฆ
Pero un dรญa alguien me dijo:
โNo seas tonta; ยฟno ves que a los โpolacosโ ese niรฑo no les trae nada?
Y entonces todo estaba dicho; los โpolacosโ no รฉramos catรณlicos y los catรณlicos no eran โpolacosโ. ยกรramos diferentes!
…y a los โpolacosโ el Niรฑo no les trae juguetes.
The chosen little girls were dressed as gardeners with smocks of organdy and baskets of flowers. Everything was white and yellow, sacred colors in sublime moments.
The wings of the little angels stood out among the multitude: little white angels, beautiful little and angles: I too wanted to have wings and fly, fly though the air with my white wings. To be a little angel! To have wings and flowers!
The good little boys were the chosen ones, and they became angels that radiated purity. The little girls, dressed as gardeners were filled with flowers, like Goddesses at the altar.
But I couldnโt be anything.
If I could at least have been a gardener. What was wrong with going about full of flowers? The flowers belong to everyone, not only the Catholics. Someday Iโm going to take over all those flowers, white and yellow flowers. I wanted to cover my head with flowers! And perhaps some wings too. Why not?
Angels belong to everyone,
Little white angels, pretty little angels! I wanted to be an angel!
And the brimming pots of grapes awaited fermentationโฆ Easter was coming, and this year the wine would have to be homemade. Without wine, there was no Easter.
โโฆand you will remember the leaving of Egypt as if you had been a slave in Pharoahโs landโฆโ
Now we were free before we were slaves. It was necessary to remember and celebrate this event! The Jewish children celebrated, we were in a free world, but at the same time Catholic.
A world filled with angels.
There were two different holidays, one with four cups of wine and the other celebrated with angelsโฆBut I didnโt drink wineโฆ I wanted to be an angel!
May was the month of flowers. In May the lilies bloomed. Flowers for the Virgin were always requested for the school… And the teacher loved so much the little girls who carried flowersโฆ White flowers for the Virgin, white lilies, May in flower.
Flowery May, month of lilies!
The earth irrigated, fragrant and fresh.
The joy of birds in the groves.
Flowery May, May, Mayโฆ
โฆand I wanted the teacher to love me a lotโฆ
โฆthe Jewish children donโt bring flowers to the Virgin.
The Jewish girls do other things; the Jewish girls donโt put medal with saints on their undershirts; the Jewish girls donโt cross themselves when they pass by churches.
The Jewish girls, the Jewish girlsโฆ
The Jewish girls donโt go to religion class, the Jewish girls stay outsideโฆ and the teacher sends them to clean the chapel.
There, there is where the Virgin is, with the lilies, the white lilies, the lilies of May. We, the Jewish girls donโt know to which world we belong.
Flowery May, month of the Virgin, flowery May> Why does the Devil come too? Blessed palms fronds. Hail Mary, the Devil roasts everyone. May 3, every year, May 3, the Devil grabs everyone. The Jewish girls need holy water, the Jewish girls in the same way want their blessed palm fronds.
But, why is the Devil really for everyone!
If I what I wanted was to be an angel with white wings and to float through soft clouds. A gardener with a dress of organdy and covered with flowers. An angel, like the on the stickers, with a smile and red cheeks.
The Jewish girls we want to be everything, but we werenโt anything. It was necessary to pray at night, but we didnโt understand anything. โShemรก Israel! But perhaps: โOur Father who is in Heavenโฆโ
The new year is always celebrated in September, it was Rosch HaShonah. We Jews have our new year in September, nobody understands anything, moreover, there are two new years. The Jewish one was marvelous, we always had new cloths, we dressed in silk from head to toe, with bows on our hair and new shoes. The act of parading on the streets with new cloths was almost like being one of the gardeners. But the joy was short-lived; time passed quickly and soon it was September alreadyโฆ โcome shepherds, arrive shepherds, to adore the Child, to adore the Child, who has just been bornโฆโ
A child was born, and all the children brought him toys. The streets were full of toys and red apples; all the little kids were happy about this child that had been born. They all got toysโฆ
But one day someone said to me:
โDonโt be silly: donโt you see that this child doesnโt bring anything to the โPolish?โ
And then everything was said, we โPolishโ werenโt Catholics, and the Catholics werenโt โPolish.โ We were different!
โฆand the Child didnโt bring toys to the โPolish.โ
El museo de la comunidad judรญa de Costa Rica– Vilma Faingezicht–Fundadora/ The Museum of the Jewish Community of Costa Rica — Vilma Faingezicht — Founder
Ben Ami Fihman, nacido en Caracas, en 1949, escritor, periodista y dinamizador cultural es recordado principalmente en Venezuela por su labor como director de la revista (de actualidad) Exceso que marcรณ pauta en el periodismo venezolano a partir de 1989. Exceso fue Premio Nacional de Periodismo en 1.999. Fihman ha publicado varios libros de cuentos y, con esta Segunda mano, varias novelas. Estudiรณ literatura en La Sorbona, cine con Martรญn Scorsese y dirigiรณ la revista trimestral de literatura fantรกstica LโOeil du Golem. Se le considera una de las voces mรกs influyentes del periodismo venezolano contemporรกneo.
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Ben Ami Fihman, born in Caracas in 1949, a writer, journalist and cultural promoter, is mainly remembered in Venezuela for his work as director of the (current) magazine Exceso, which set the standard in Venezuelan journalism starting in 1989. Excess was Awarded National Journalism in 1999. Fihman has published several books of short stories and, with this Second Hand, various novels. He studied literature at the Sorbonne, cinema with Martin Scorsese and directed the quarterly fantastic literature magazine L’Oeil du Golem. He is considered one of the most influential voices in contemporary Venezuelan journalism.
Soรฑรฉ que la vida es imposible si la muerte no tiene salida. Reflexionรฉ incansablemente durante bastante tiempo. Concluรญ que los hombres se habรญan equivocado. La muerte no es necesariamente fatal: ni la calle ciega, ni la puerta del paraรญso y el infierno. Puse en prรกctica varios mรฉtodos, me transformรฉ en conejillo de indias.
Partรญa de la premisa que las relaciones entre el sueรฑo y la vigilia, el mito fecundo y mortal de esas relaciones. Es tambiรฉn un equรญvoco, un espejismo. La muerte. Asรญ la contemplรฉ, me pareciรณ como el mito de una civilizaciรณn extinguida. Dios de piedra; su serpiente, espiral alrededor del brazo, habรญa cesado de atemorizar a los creyentes de rodillas frente al altar.
Primero me preguntรฉ ยฟy si la vigilia fuera el sueรฑo del sueรฑo? ยฟSi el dรญa tuviera por misiรณn hacernos descansar de sus ambigรผedades, de las metamorfosis nocturnas? ยฟSerรญa la muerte real, digamos diurna, una ilusiรณn creada por tranquilizarnos de los mรบltiples y variables muertes onรญricas? En el sueรฑo todo es instabilidad, superficie acuรกtica, aรฉreo. ยฟHemos adoptado la realidad, la que se ve con los ojos abiertos, la que nos tropieza con su pato de palo, para gozar de una sola mรกscara y un solo destino? Ojos abiertos, ojos cerrados, he aquรญ toda la diferencia, el autรฉntico muro de la verdad. ยฟY si los pรกrpados no fueran mรกs que una tregua, hallazgo de los conformistas?
Hace aรฑos, identificรกndome con Moisรฉs y Zaratustra en la montaรฑa, me encerrรฉ para responder a estas preguntas con experiencia. Borrรฉ de mi vida la anรฉcdota y el descanso. Mi cuerpo se volviรณ consciencia, mi respiraciรณn jadeo metafรญsico. Poco podrรญa decirse de mi pasaje por el mundo de los hombres. Apenas que nacรญ del vientre de una mujer y que desaparecรญ con sin dejar huellas. Mis amores estรกn del otro lado. Los labios, los dientes de una mujer me han sonreรญdo desde la infancia en el espejo de la noche. Quiero que se me llame el incoloro, el hombre que borrรณ su aspecto.
Pasรฉ el solipsismo, domestiquรฉ el mundo transformรกndolo en espรญritu encantado. Busquรฉ el sueรฑo anterior al sueรฑo, en el que sueรฑo el sueรฑo. Raรญces. Salรญa a las calles y no andaba en ellas, ellas me atravesaban, entraban en mรญ. Sus direcciones cambiaban y el Norte respiraba en el regazo del Sur. Los vagos, los carros, los novios comiendo helados penetraban en mi cuerpo baรฑados por las luces de neรณn, por el reflejo de las estrellas, por el estridular de los grillos. Los sordomudos se comunicaban en un espejismo de multitudes en las aceras, dormรญa hecho un gato, dormรญa con la mรกscara del insomnio. Recorrรญa las calles como los sonรกmbulos sobre las cornisas, atado al peligro, suspendido en รฉl. Habรญa muertas y viejas cansadas en las cabinas telefรณnicas, en los edificios de los bancos las escaleras mecรกnicas trabajaban toda la noche humildemente. Contemplaba amanecer. De repente los habitantes de la noche habรญan desaparecido, las cataratas de automรณviles inundaban las calles. Dormรญa. No volvรญ a distinguir cuรกndo estaba en mรญ, cuรกndo en las calles compartidas de la ciudad. El sol tintineaba como una moneda de plata.
ยฟHace cuรกnto tiempo? ยฟContinรบa el calendario contando para mรญ? He comenzado a partir de ejercicios muy sencillos de provocaciรณn, a burlar a la muerte vigilante, vigilante. Tomarรฉ un atajo, le pasarรฉ por detrรกs sin que se dรฉ cuenta. Si hubiera saltado definitivamente anoche no podrรญa estar escribiendo este testamento. Pero ยฟlo estarรฉ escribiendo a ciencia cierta? Ya no responde la realidad de nada; pensamiento, sueรฑo, imaginaciรณn, hechos, no reconozco nada. Dentro de un rato nadie volverรก a saber de este mano, de estos pies, de esta carne irreconocible. La policรญa si alguien le avisa, no me encontrarรก jamรกs. La muchacha del servicio del hotel podrรก buscarme debajo de la cama como cuando habรญa decidido trasladarme allรญ. Esta vez serรก inรบtil.
Mis primeros ensayos fueron infructuosos desde el punto de vista tรฉcnico. Retrospectivamente me parecen torpes, materialistas, adolescentes, Recuerdo con una sonrisa de condescendencia la soluciรณn rudimentaria que adoptรฉ en aquella รฉpoca de iniciaciรณn. Tratรฉ con la ayuda de drogas y pastillas de ir aumentando el nรบmero de horas de sueรฑo para darle vuelta a los relojes. Estaba perfeccionรกndome hasta dormir las veinticuatro del dรญa. Me perseguรญa la imagen de un aviรณn que toma impulso para elevarse cuando no despegar no volverรญa mรกs tierra. Durante las horas de trabajo, dormitando y durmiendo, no lograba ver el principal defecto de este enfoque. Podrรญa hablarse de un problema de combustible. Al establecer mi aeropuerto en territorio realista, en pleno ojo abierto de vigilia, no escaparรญa a su retรณrica, a los atentados de su muerte.
No sรฉ cuรกnto tiempo habrรก transcurrido aquรญ abajo yo me embarquรฉ en la รบltima experiencia. Es como si hubiera partido el globo y el globo continuara en vuelo rasante sin poder tocar tierra. Cuando era muchacho me fascinaba soltar una de esas bombitas rellenas con gas que me regalan en los cumpleaรฑos y verla perderse sin remedio en el abismo del cielo. Asรญ ocurrirรญa conmigo. Escribo sin saber si las palabras y el papel existen fuera de mis entraรฑas, si se disuelven, se pulverizan y hace estornudar a un viejo en un parque, si alguien podrรก algรบn dรญa leerlas. He caminado desde el sueรฑo y he abierto los ojos y continรบo en el sueรฑo. Me despido de los amigos de la infancia que alguna vez me recuerden por el paradero de quien compartiรณ con ellos juegos y travesuras. He logrado evadirme de los rigores de la retรณrica realista de la vigilia. Quiero que exista la posibilidad de que alguien se entere que obtuve รฉxito y pueda intentarlo otra vez. No me habรญa equivocado y soy un enigma. Mi nombre era Ben-Ami Fihman Zighelboim. Nacido en Caracas el cinco de abril de mil novecientos cuarenta y nueve. A partir de hoy tengo el derecho de no ser mรกs quiรฉn era, serรฉ lo que me dรฉ la gana, quien me dicta la fantasรญa: Hitler, Petromiaro, el Vacantio, funรกmbulo sobre el Salto รngel o silla. Estamos, parece, a veinticuatro de abril de mil novecientos ochenta y tres y sobre Sol se pinta la silueta de la Luna y pronto me disolverรฉ en el sueรฑo y habrรฉ probado que la muerte no es necesariamente fatal.
I dreamt that life is impossible if there isnโt a way out of death. I reflected tirelessly for quite a while. I concluded that mankind has made a mistake. Death is not necessarily fatal: not a blind alley, nor the door of paradise nor hell. I put various methods into practice. I transformed myself into guinea pig.
I started from the premise that the relationship between sleep and wakefulness, the fecund and mortal character of those relations. It is also a mistake, a mirage. Death. Thatโs how I contemplated it, it seemed to me the myth of an extinguished civilization. God of stone; his serpent, a spiraled around his ham, had ceased to frighten the believers before the altar.
First, I asked myselfโand if wakefulness was the dream of the dream? If daytime had the mission to make us rest from its ambiguities, of the nocturnal metamorphosis? Would the real death, letโs say the daytime, be an illusion created to tranquilize us from the multiple and variable dream deaths? In sleep everything is instability, aquatic, aerial space. Have we adopted the reality, that that which you see with your eyes open, that which trips us with its peg leg, in to enjoy a single mask and a single destiny? Eyes wide-open, eyes closed, thatโs the whole difference, the authentic wall of truth. And if the eyelids werenโt more than a truce, a discovery of the conformists.
Years ago, identifying myself with Moses and Zarathustra on the mountain, I enclosed myself to respond to these questions with experience. I erased from my life the anecdotal and rest. My body become consciousness, my breathing metaphysical gasping/panting. Little could be said for my passage through the world of men. I had hardly been born from a womanโs womb, and I disappear without a trace. My loves were on the other side. The lips, the teeth of a woman who had smiled at me since childhood in the mirror of the night, I want to be called colorless; the man who erased his appearance.
My first attempts were fruitless from the technical point of view. Retrospectively, they seem to me clumsy, materialist, adolescent. I remember with a condescending smile the rudimentary solution that I adopted during that initiation period. I tried, with the help of drugs and pills to go on increasing the hours of sleep to going around the clocks. I was improving myself until I could sleep twenty-four hours a day, I was pursued by the image of a plane that gathers momentum to ascend when by not landing, it would not return to earth. During work hours, dosing and sleeping, I didnโt see the principal defect of this approach. I mean the problem of fuel. On building my airport on realistic territory, with eyes full open in wakefulness, it wouldnโt escape its rhetoric, the attempts for its death.
I went through the solipsism, the radical subjectivism, I domesticated the world, transforming it in enchanted spired. I searched for the previous dream, in which I dream that I dream. Roots. I went on to the streets and I didnโt walk on them, they crossed over me, entered me. Their directions were changing, and the North breathed in the lap of the South. The idle, the cars, the sweethearts eating ice cream penetrated my body bathed by the neon lights, by the reflection of stars, by the screeching of the crickets. The deaf communicated in a mirage of multitudes on the sidewalk. I go down the streets like the sleepwalkers on the ledges, tied to danger, suspended in it. There were dead and tired old women in the telephone booths, in the back buildings, the escalators work humbly all night. I was contemplating dawn. Suddenly, the night inhabitants had disappeared, the cataract so automobiles inundated the streets. I was sleeping. I donโt again distinguish when I was in me, when in the shared streets if the city. The sun tinkled like a silver coin.
How long ago? Does the calendar continue counting for me? I have begun a pair of very simple exercises for provocation, to make fun of death, vigilant, vigilant. I will take a short cut. I will go behind without its realizing it. If I had definitively jumped, I wouldnโt be able to write this testimony. But will I be writing with certainty? I no longer relate to the reality of anything: thought, dream, imagination, I donโt recognize anything. In a while, nobody will know again about this hand, these feet, this unrecognizable flesh. The police, should anyone let them know, will never find me. The cleaning lady at the hotel will look for me under the bed, like when I had decided to move there. This time it will be useless.
I donโt know how much time will have passed down here. I embarked in the last/ultimate experience. It is as if I the balloon had gone off and continued in a skimming flight without being able to touch the Earth. When I was a boy, it fascinated me to let go of those balloons filled with gas, that they gave me for my birthday, and see it inevitably be lost in the abysm of the sky. Thatโs how it would happen with me. I write without knowing it the words and paper exist outside my guts, if they dissolve, become dust and make an old man in the park, if anyone will some day read them. I have walked from the dream, and I have opened my eyes and I continue in the dream. I say goodbye to my childhood friends who at times remember me at the place where we shared games and mischief. I have been able to the rigor of the realistic rhetoric about wakefulness. I wish that the possibility exists for someone to find out that I was successful and may try the experiment for himself. I hadnโt made a mistake, and I am an enigma. My name was Ben-Ami Fihman Zigelboin. Born in Caracas on the fifth of April, nineteen forty-nine. From now one I have the right to not be who I was. I will be whatever I want, whatever piques my fantasy: Hitlr, Petromiaro, Vancantio, tight-rope walker above Angel Falls or SILLA. We are, it seems, on the twenty-fourth of April, nineteen eighty-three and on the Sun is painted a silhouette of the Moon and soon I will dissolved into sleep, and I will have proved that death is not necessarily fatal.
Polifacรฉtico autor argentino, Marcelo Birmajer es novelista, escritor de cuentos, periodista cultural, ensayista, escritor de relatos, autor teatral, humorista, traductor… algunos de sus guiones cinematogrรกficos han recibido premios com el Oso de Plata o el Premio Clarรญn. Como periodista, ha colaborado en numerosos periรณdicos y revistas de habla hispana.
En su vertiente como novelista, Birmajer se caracteriza por tratar frecuentemente temas y personajes judรญos (ese era su origen), con finas descripciones y con gran sentido del humor. En la periodรญstica, sus ensayos y artรญculos, estรกn muy bien documentados y analizados con rigor.
Birmajer ha recibido varios premios, entre ellos el White Ravens, traduciรฉndose sus obras a varios idiomas.
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Multifaceted Argentine author, Marcelo Birmajer is a novelist, short story writer, cultural journalist, essayist, short story writer, playwright, humorist, translatorโฆ some of his film scripts have received awards such as the Silver Bear or the Clarรญn Award. As a journalist, he has contributed to numerous Spanish-language newspapers and magazines.
In his novelist side, Birmajer is characterized by frequently dealing with Jewish themes and characters (that was his origin), with fine descriptions and with a great sense of humor. In journalism, his essays and articles are very well documented and rigorously analyzed.
Birmajer has received several awards, including the White Ravens, and his works have been translated into several languages.
De:/From: Marcelo Birmajer. El Club de las Necrolรณgicas. Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 2012, pp. 17-24.
UN HOMBRE RICO
Genaro se habรญa hecho rico por su propia cuenta. Provenรญa de un sรณlido hogar de clase media, a su vez levantado de la nada por su padre. Pero รฉl habรญa llegado a ser un hombre rico, desahogado, con la capacidad de decidir quรฉ dรญa y en quรฉ momento trabajar; su poder, sus contactos, eran logros exclusivamente personales. De hecho, representaban una ruptura con la vida esforzada y fatigosa de su padre y su madre.
El abuelo paterno, Jacinto Dabar, aunque recibรญa el mote de โturcoโ como cualquier sefaradรญ, provenรญa de Siria, especรญficamente de Damasco. Habรญa dejado una esposa allรก, y consiguiรณ otras dos en la Argentina. A sus dos familias mantenรญa vendiendo exquisiteces orientales en un carrito ambulanteโcon la inscripciรณn โMaijlefโ–: lasamachรญn, kipe, murrak, bureka, kedaife. Cuando la esposa siria llegรณ a reclamar su parte, la sumรณ a pensionadas.
Como a la abuela de Gernaro, Raquel, y la otra esposa, Manuelaโambas judรญas sefardรญes–, Jacinto las habรญa conocido al mismo tiempo, no habรญa prioridades ni bastardos; o todos eran legรญtimos o ninguno era. Pero mientras que los hijos de Manuela eran cinco, Lรกzaro era el รบnico. Raquel dio ese รบnico hijo sin dificultades; pero como si el vientre hubiera advertido antes que la propia mujer con quiรฉn ella se habรญa casado, luego de Lรกzaro se tornรณ yermo.
De modo que Jacinto considerรณ que Manuela y su prole precisaban una casa; mientras que Raquel y su hijo, Lรกzaro, podrรญan vivir en un conventillo. Todos habitan en el barrio de Flores. Lo que inicialmente podrรญa haber parecido una desventaja, en ningรบn caso un desprecio, para Raquel y Lรกzaro, acabรณ siendo un privilegio: porque cuando llegรณ la esposa siria, Menesa (al menos ese era su nombre en la Argentina), con sus dos hijos, Jacinto no tuvo mรกs remedio que ubicarla en la misma casa que ocupabanโliteralmente ocupaban, en el sentido de que no le pertenecรญa a Jacinto ni pagaba legalmente un alquiler–, Manuela y sus cinco hijos. Allรญ Jacinto dormรญa noche por medio, y hacรญa uso indiscriminado de sus dos esposas, confundiรฉndoles el nombre. Era bueno con los chicos.
Hasta Genaro recordaba con cariรฑo a su abuelo, por los pocos aรฑos que lo tuvo cerca; el olor a almรญbar en sus manos, los dedos parecรญan otra masita oriental. Sus abrazos delicados y sus palabras en ladino. Pero Lรกzaro lo odiaba. Le habรญa dado una infancia horrible. Escapando a Siria cuando su nieto tenรญa cinco aรฑos, Jacinto abandonรณ en la Argentina a sus tres esposas y sus tantos hijos. Y el carrito.
En el 48, mรกs corrido por las turbas de Damasco que por sus propias ganas, alcanzรณ fronteras con del reciรฉn nacido Israel, fue uno mรกs de los 6.000 muertos, el uno por ciento de la poblaciรณn judรญa, caรญdos en la guerra de Independencia. Pero ni siquiera esta muerte permitiรณ a Lรกzaro reconciliarse al menos con el recuerdo de su padre, su cerebro y corazรณn se dedicaron a una รบnica aventura: conseguir una casa propia.
Aunque Lรกzaro nunca lo explicitรณ, el oficio que asumiรณโun verbo, para el caso, mรกs adecuado que โeligiรณโera indudable una herencia paterna.
Trabajรณ de cadete de peleteros afortunados, de los textiles de las calles Nazca y Avellaneda, fue repartidor de diarios, y llegรณ a atender un negocio en el Once. En el Once conociรณ sus dos รบnicas certezas: el barrio en el que querรญa alzar su casa, y la mujer con la que deseaba pasar la vida.
Genoveva era blanca, tranquila, inteligente, pero no iluminista, con sentido comรบn, de escondida sensualidad, nada ostentosa, ama de casa que no negaba su feminidad puertas adentro. Lรกzaro repitiรณ durante medio siglo que Dios le habรญa quitado como hijo se lo habรญa dado como marido. Los padres de Genoveva efectivamente provenรญan de Smirna, Turquรญa, y eran mรกs ilustrados que los de Lรกzaro. Pero el empuje, la fuerza, el tesรณn con que Lรกzaro persiguiรณ sus obsesionesโsu casa, su mujer, su barrio–, no podรญa ser opacado por libros ni jerarquรญas; ni siquiera por generaciones. Aunque le hubiera gustado llevar un destino profesional, arquitecto o ingeniero, una tarde de lluvia, todavรญa trabajando en el Once y viviendo en un departamento alquilado en Floresta, con Genoveva ya casados, ella cocinรณ lasmashรญn por primera vez como esposa, el aroma convocรณ a unos vecinos y naciรณ lo que con el tiempo llegarรญa a llamarse El Imperio de Sefarad.
Por motivos no aclarados, Lรกzaro heredรณ el carrito de Jacinto. Pero no lo quiso conservar, y lo vendiรณ a un botellero. En cambio, como ya se dijo, sin reconocerlo, se quedรณ con el oficio. Primero se encargรณ de comprar las materias primas para Genoveva y ella vendรญa, en casa, a los vecinos, que se acercaban a la ventana. Pero a Lรกzaro no le gustaba que su esposa entrara en contacto, a solas, con tantos extraรฑos. La fama de los lasmashรญn crecรญa, y Genoveva no daba abasto. Lรกzaro consiguiรณ trabajo en un puesto de diarios, casi por el mismo dinero que le pagaban en el negocio de tela, tambiรฉn en el Once, con la ventaja de atender el kiosko de tres de la maรฑana a doce del mediodรญa, y llegar a casa para trabajar codo a codo con Genoveva. Con este nuevo arreglo, el matrimonio apostรณ por mรกs: kedaรญfes. A pedido del pรบblico, extendieron el repertorio a todo lo que habรญa vendido Jacinto: kipe, murrak, bureka. Ya estaba todo inventado. No sin รกvergรผenza, Lรกzaro se vio obligado a comprar un carrito; con alegrรญa contratรณ un cadete. Entonces abandonรณ el puesto de diarios, pero no su sueรฑo de vivir en el Once.
Le pusieron El Imperio de Sefarad. Existe una pizzerรญa, clรกsica de los judรญos askenazรญes de Villa Crespo, llamada Imperio tambiรฉn. Allรญ coinciden los judรญos comunistas y los cuentapropistas, que inicialmente festejaron juntos la creaciรณn de Israel, y luego en 1956, cuando la URSS se puso hostil contra el estado judรญo, y mucho mรกs de lo que ya era contra los judรญos en general, se separaron. Pero el Imperio de Canning y Corrientes continuรณ como territorio neutral, alternรกndose los dรญas de visitas los judรญos pro-soviรฉticos y los judรญos a secas.
Lรกzaro quiso abrir su propio Imperio, donde coincidirรญan todos los judรญos sefaradรญes, sin distinciรณn de ideas ni orรญgenes, lo mismo los turcos, incluso libaneses, franceses e italianos. Lo consiguiรณ por varios motivos: en primer lugar, que no hubo entre los judรญos sefardรญes ninguna zanja ideolรณgica como la que, desde el Exilio hasta nuestros dรญas, atenazaba a los judรญos de la Europa frรญa, neurรณticos y autodestructivos.
Cuando fue posible, frizรณ sus maravillosos productos, y los kipes viajaron a las provincias del Norte, en micros, igual que las telas y las ropas confeccionadas en los talleres de Flores, Floresta y el Once. Los vecinos de Flores y Floresta, y los del Once y Villa Crespo, sin distinciรณn de orรญgenes, acudieron a la casa-despensa de Flores, que muy pronto dejรณ de ser casa y permaneciรณ hasta el final como despensa y restaurante de parado, con dos empleados, mรกs Genoveva y Lรกzaro: El Imperio de Sefarad.
Genero naciรณ en el Once, en la calle Tucumรกn, entre Agรผero y Anchorena, justo al frente al club Macabiโdel que lo nombraron socio vitalicio y al que concurrรญa hasta los 15 aรฑos–, el dรญa que sus padres se mudaron. Lรกzaro nunca dejรณ de considerar un milagro el nacimiento de su primogรฉnito el mismo dรญa que concretaba su anhelo de casa propia en el Once. Genero, en la adultez, reacio a aceptar la mรญstica de su nacimiento, afirmaba: โUn milagro es una casualidad vista por un creyente.โ.
Genaro naciรณ literalmente en casa, y Genoveva fue asistida por una de las seรฑoras de la limpieza y un mรฉdico del club Macabi.
En ese momento, en Floresta, en El Imperio de Sefarad, los comerciantes comรญan de pie, acodados en unos pocos tablones de fรณrmica, durante la pausa del almuerzo.
Genero had become rich by his own means. He came from a solid middle-class home, in turn built from nothing by his father. But he had become a rich man, comfortable, with the ability to decide what day and at what moment to work; his power, his contacts, were exclusively personal achievements. In fact, they represented a rupture from the hardworking and exhausting life of his mother and father.
His paternal grandfather, Jacinto Dabar, even though he had the nickname, โTurk,โ like any Sephardic Jew, he came from Syria, specifically Damascus. He had left behind a wife there, and he obtained two more in Argentina. He maintained his two families, selling oriental delicacies from a movable cartโwith the inscription โMailefโ– lasmachรญn, kipe, murrak, bureka, kedaife. When the Syrian wife arrived to claim her art, he added her to his pensioners.
As for Genaroโs grandmother, Raquel, and the other wife, Manuelaโboth Sephardic Jews–, Jacinto had met them at the same time, there were no priorities or bastards; or they all were legitimate, or none was. But while Manuela had five children, Lรกzaro was an only child. Raquel gave birth to that only son without difficulties, but as if her womb had warned her before the woman herself with whom he had married, after Lรกzaro, he became impotent.
So that Jacinto considered that Manuela and her offspring required a house, while Raquel and her son Lรกzaro could live in a tenement house. They all lived in the Floresta neighborhood. What could initially could have appeared to be a disadvantage, though never a slight, ended up being a privilege: because when the Syrian wife Menesa (at least that was her name in Argentina) with her two kids, Jacinto had no choice than to put her in the same house that occupiedโliterally occupied, in the sense that it didnโt belong to Jacinto nor did he legally pay rent–. By Manuela and her five children. Jacinto slept there for half a night, and he made indiscriminate use of his two wives, confusing their names. He was good with the children.
Even Genaro remembered his grandfather with affection, for the few years that he had him nearby; the smell of syrup on his hands, the fingers that seemed to be another oriental pastry. His delicate arms and his words in Ladino. But Lรกzaro hated him. He had given him a horrible childhood. Escaping to Syria when his grandchild was five, Jacinto abandoned his three wives and their numerous children. And the cart.
In 1948, kicked out by the mobs of Damascus more than by his own wishes, he reached the borders of the recently born Israel, he was one of the 6,000 dead, one per cent of the Jewish population, fallen in the war of Independence. But not even that death allowed Lรกzaro to reconcile himself even with memory of his father, his brain and heart were dedicated to one adventure: getting his own house.
Although Lรกzaro never explicitly stated it, the trade that he assumedโa verb, for the case, more fitting that โchoseโโwas undoubtably a paternal inheritance.
He worked as an errand boy for fortunate furriers, of the textiles of Nazca and Avellaneda Streets, he was a newspaper deliverer and he ended up looking after a business in Once. In Once he encountered his two things, he was certain of: the neighborhood where he wanted to build his house and the woman with whom he desired to spend his life.
Genoveva was white, tranquil, intelligent, but not illuminist, with common sense, of hidden sexuality, not at all ostentatious, housewife who didnโt deny her femininity behind closed doors. Lรกzaro repeated for half a century that what God had taken away from his boyhood, He had given it back as a husband. Genovevaโs parents, indeed, came from Smyrna, Turkey, and were more cultured than Lรกzaroโs. But the spirit, the force, the determination with which Lรกzaro pursued his obsessions–his house, his wife, his neighborhood–, couldnโt be obscured by books or hierarchies, not even by generations. Although he would have liked to follow a professional destiny, architect, engineer, one rainy afternoon, still working in Once and living in an apartment in Floresta, already married to Genoveva; she cooked lasmashรญn for the first time as a wife, the aroma brought forth a few neighbors y was born the which with time would be called El Imperio de Sefarad. [The Empire of Sepharad.]
For reasons that were not clear, Lรกzaro inherited the food cart from Jacinto. But he didnโt want to keep it and he sold it to a junkman. On the other hand, as has already been said, without recognizing it, he already had with a trade. First, he took charge of buying the raw material for Genoveva, and she sold, at home, to the neighbors, who came up to the window. But Lรกzaro didnโt like the idea that his wife come in contact, alone, with so many strangers. The fame of the Lamashรญn grew, and Genoveva couldnโt keep up. Lazaro found a job at a newspaper stand tant paid him almost as much as the fabric store, also in Once, with the advantage of looking after the kiosk from three in the morning to twelve noon and arrive home to work along side Genoveva. With this new arrangement, the couple went further: kedaifes. On public demand, they extended their repertory to include everything that Jacinto had sold: kipe, murrak, bureka. Everything was in place. It was not without embarrassment that Lรกzaro saw himself obligated to buy a food cart; with joy, he hired an assistant. Then I left the news stand, but not his dream to live in Once.
They named it the Imperio de Sepharad. A pizzeria existed, typical of the Ashkenazi Jews of Villa Crespo, also called Imperio. There, the Communist Jews and those of the opposition, who initially celebrated the creation of Israel, and later in 1956, when the USSR became hostile to the Jewish State, and much more than it was already against towards Jews in general, they separated. But the Imperio of Canning and Corrientes continued as neutral territory, alternating the days open to the pro-Soviet Jews and the rest of the Jews.
Lรกzaro wanted to open his own Imperio, where all the Sephardic Jews would meet, without distinction of ideas or origin, the same for the Turks, including Lebanese, French and Italians. He achieved that for various reasons: in the first place because, among the Sephardic Jew, there was no ideological divide like that since the Exile to our times, tormented the Jews from the cold Europe, neurotic and self-destructive.
Whenever possible, they froze their marvelous products, and the kipes traveled in small buses, the same as the fabrics and clothing made in the workshops of Flores y Floresta, and those of Once and Villa Crespo. The neighbors of Flores and Floresta, and those of Once and Villa Crespo, of every background, came to the home-dispensary in Flores, so that soon it ceased to be a home and remained until the end as a dispensary and restaurant in which on stood, with two employees, plus Genoveva and Lรกzaro: El Imperio de Sefaradโ.
Genero was born in Once, on Tucumรกn Street, between Agรผero and Anchorena, right in front of the Macabรญ Clubโto which they named him a life-time member and to which he went until he was 15–, the day that his parents moved. Lรกzaro never ceased to consider it a miracle the birth of his first-born son on the same day that he fulfilled his desire for his own home in Once. Genero, as an adult, unwilling to accept the mysticism of his birth: affirmed โa miracle is a coincidence viewed by a believer.โ
Genero was literally born โat home.โ And Genoveva was aided by a series of cleaning ladies and a doctor from the Macabรญ Club.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย At that moment, in Floresta, in the Imperio de Sefarad, businessmen ate standing up, bent over a few thick planks of formica, during the lunch break.
Paloma Fabrykant naciรณ en Buenos Aires en 1981 y es hija de la escritora Ana Marรญa Shua y del fotรณgrafo Silvio Fabrykant. A sus 13 aรฑos comenzรณ a formarse en las artes marciales, prรกctica que realizรณ de manera profesional a partir de los 30 aรฑos en la MMA. Trabajรณ en el diario Clarรญn y en la Revista Viva. Tambiรฉn colaborรณ en las revistas Para Ti, Cinturรณn Negro Argentina, THC, Metrรณpolis, Hombre, Noticias, La Mano y Rolling Stone y Cรณmo Estar Bien. En televisiรณn introdujo una modalidad para la producciรณn de exteriores que consiste en una sola persona ejerciendo la funciรณn de camarรณgrafo, productor y cronista para el programa GPS de A24. Para Paloma, su recorrido profesional tiene un punto en comรบn que eligiรณ en su edad adulta en busca de โun poco de acciรณn y de adrenalinaโ, tratando de alejarse de la vida acadรฉmica que le proponรญa su familia. โMe di cuenta que esa vida me aburrรญa un montรณn y fue cuando dejรฉ la Facultad de Letras y empecรฉ a vivir el deporte y el periodismo de riesgo, me sentรญ mรกs conectada a una vibraciรณn mรกs intensa de la que me traรญan los libros o la labor intelectualโ.
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Paloma Fabrykant was born in Buenos Aires in 1981 and is the daughter of the writer Ana Marรญa Shua and the photographer Silvio Fabrykant. At the age of 13, she began to train in martial arts, a practice that he carried out professionally from the age of 30 in MMA. She worked in the Clarรญn newspaper and in Viva Magazine. He also collaborated in the magazines Para Ti, Cinturรณn Negro Argentina, THC, Metropolis, Hombre, Noticias, La Mano and Rolling Stone and Cรณmo Estar Bien. On television, he introduced a modality for the production of exteriors that consists of a single person acting as cameraman, producer and chronicler for the A24 GPS program. For Paloma, her professional career has a point in common that she chose in her adulthood in search of “a bit of action and adrenaline”, trying to get away from the academic life that her family proposed to her. โI realized that this life bored me a lot and it was when I left the Faculty of Letters and began to live sports and risk journalism, I felt more connected to a more intense vibration than the one that books or work brought me. intellectual”.
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Luchadora/Fighter
La luchadora de MMA Paloma Fabrykant representa al paรญs: Argentina. Comenzรณ su carrera profesional en 2012. Fabrykant actualmente ha tenido 6 peleas profesionales, de las cuales ganรณ 4 y perdiรณ 2. Participรณ en torneos de promociones como: Heroes MMA, MRWF, Arrogant MMA. Sus oponentes fueron tal luchadoras como: Flor Fonseca, Gloria Castillo, Denise Boifer.
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MMA fighter Paloma Fabrykant represents the country: Argentina. She began professional career in 2012.. Paloma Fabrykant currently has had 6 professional fights, of which she won 4 and lost 2. She participated in tournaments of such promotions as: Heroes MMA, MRWF, Arrogant MMA. Her opponents were such fighters as: Flor Fonseca, Gloria Castillo, Denise Boifer.
Periodista y productora de la televisiรณn/Journalist and Television Producer
“Actualmente trabajo como productora de TV de exteriores, buscando noticias en terrenos hostiles. Me gusta trabajar tanto delante como detrรกs cรกmara, con la voz, la cabeza o el teclado”.
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“I currently work as an outdoor TV producer, looking for news in hostile terrain. I like to work both in front of and behind the camera, with my voice, my head or the keyboard.”
Escritora de libros para niรฑos/Author of children’s books
“A los diecisรฉis, escribiรณ su primer libro de poemas, titulado “Las cosas que odio”, y a los diecinueve publicรณ “Cรณmo Ser Madre De Una Hija Adolescente”. Ese รบltimo libro โlo escribรญ cuando todavรญa estaba bien bajo el ala de mi madre. No me animaba a decir โmamรก no quiero escribirโ. Mi mamรก me decรญa que me iba a presentar en las editoriales, que iba a ser un boom y yo le decรญa โsรญ mamรกโ. Ese libro lo escribรญ yo pero lo craneรณ ellaโ, se acordรณ.
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At sixteen, she wrote her first book of poems, titled “The Things I Hate,” and at nineteen she published “How To Be A Mother Of A Teenage Daughter.” That last book โwas written when I was still well under my mother’s wing. I didn’t dare to say ‘mom I don’t want to write’. My mom told me that I was going to present myself in the editorials, that it was going to be a boom and I said ‘yes mom’. I wrote that book but she brainstormed itโ, she remembers.
Libro de Paloma Fabrykant/Book by Paloma FabryKant
Jacobo Regen naciรณ en Quijano, Salta, (1935 – 2019) donde viviรณ su vida entera. Fue judรญo de nacimiento, pero no fue practicante. Un judรญo solitario; permaneciรณ recluido en sus รบltimos dรญas. En su poesรญa combinรณ su herencia judรญa con su vida en una una provincia remota y llena de ejemplos brutos de la naturaleza. El vendedor de tierra,Poemas reunidos, Antologรญa poรฉtica. El poemario El vendedor de tierra recibiรณ el Primer Premio de Poesรญa del concurso anual para autores editados de su provincia (1984). En 2014, recibiรณ el premio Rosa de Cobre (Biblioteca Nacional Mariano Moreno) (De Umbroso mundo con prรณlogo de Antonio Requeni, Fondo Editorial Secretarรญa de Cultura de la Provincia de Salta, Salta, Argentina, 2013).
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Jacobo Regen was born in Quijano, Salta, (1935 – 2019) where he lived his entire life. He was Jewish by birth, but he was not a practitioner. A lonely Jew; He was a recluse in his last days. In his poetry he combined his Jewish heritage with his life in a remote province full of powerful examples of nature. Among his poetry books are: The Seller of Land, Poems reunited: Poetic Anthology. The collection of poems The Seller of Dirt received the First Prize for Poetry in the annual contest for published authors of his province (1984). In 2014 he received the Rosa de Cobre award (Mariano Moreno National Library) (From World of Shade with a prologue by Antonio Requeni, Editorial Fund of the Culture Secretariat of the Province of Salta, Salta, Argentina, 2013.)
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Su obra poรฉtica se caracteriza por su estilo personalรญsimo y medular, hasta llegar a expresar los temas mรกs trascendentales del hombre”. Centro de Cultura de Salta
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“His poetic work is characterized by his very personal and medular style, to express the most transcendental themes.” Salta Cultural Center
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Poemas de Jacobo Regen/Poems by Jacobo Regen
ANUNCIO
Serรก recompensada la persona
que me devuelva una sonrisa
cuando le diga yo que aรบn la quiero
y que no me importa si me odia
despuรฉs de haberme amado
por equivocaciรณn.
ANOUNCEMENT
The person will be recompensed
who returns a smile to me
when I tell her that I still love her
and it doesnโt matter if she hates me
after having loved me
by mistake.
_________________________________
FANTASMAS
Tan sรณlo mis fantasmas
saben lo que sucede
conmigo. Yo lo ignoro.
GHOSTS
Only my ghosts
know what happens
with me. I donโt have any idea.
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PALABRAS
Sรณlo te pido que recuerdes
La luz de aquel amanecer
Que hemos amado tanto.
He derrochado contigo
Tantas palabras que creรญste
Ciertas,
Que palpitaban,
Que vivรญan
Y amรฉ en ti mis palabras.
Cuando dejรฉ de amarlas,
Te perdรญ.
WORDS
I only ask that you remember
The light of that dawn
That we have loved so much.
I have squandered with you
So many words that you believed
True ones
That throbbed
That lived
And I loved my words in you.
When I stopped loving them,
I lost you.
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EL VENDEDOR DE TIERRA
Vuelve del horizonte
cargando tierra negra en sus espaldas.
Cuando llega lo aplauden los jardines
y se emociona el agua.
Y yo le compro tierra, y algรบn dรญa
me tendrรก que vender toda la carga.
THE LAND SELLER
He returns from over the horizon
loaded down with black earth on his back.
The gardens applaud him when he arrives
and the water is excited.
and I buy the earth from him, and some day
he will have to sell me the entire load.
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DISTANCIA
No hay distancia mรกs grande
que la que nos separa
del vecino,
del solitario prรณjimo
que generosamente
nos ayuda.
Su lema siempre fue: “lo mรญo es mรญo
y lo tuyo tambiรฉn”.
DISTANCE
There is no greater distance
than that which separates us
from our neighbor,
from the solitary being
who generously
helps us
his motto always was โwhatโs mine is mine
and yours too.
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PROPOSICIรN
ยฟConoces tรบ mi paradero?
Si sabes algo, dรญmelo.
Y cuรฉntame de aquel muchacho candoroso.
Si alguna vez llegas a verlo
No le ocultes que te has casado,
Que tienes varios hijos.
Y nunca te enternezcan
Su terquedad, sus ruegos.
Adรณptalo como criado.
ยกSerรญa tan hermoso para รฉl!
Cuidarรญa el jardรญn de tu casa,
Lavarรญa los paรฑales de tus pequeรฑos,
Saludarรญa humildemente a tu marido.
ยกEs tan bueno!
Pero que tu indulgencia
no vaya nunca mรกs allรก.
PROPOSITION
Do you know my whereabouts?
If you know something, tell me.
And tell me about that naรฏve boy.
I you ever come to see him
Donโt hide that you have married,
That you have several children.
And they never soften for you
Their stubbornness, their pleas,
Adopt him as a servant.
I would be so beautiful for him!
He would take care of your homeโs garden.
He would wash your little oneโs diapers.
H would humbly greet your husband,
He is so good!
But that you indulgence
never go any further.
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UMBROSO MUNDO
Hay jardines que no tienen ya paรญses
Georges Schehadรฉ
Umbroso mundo,
seguiremos siempre
poblando de fantasmas verdaderos
tus paรญses ausentes.
Asรญ, lejos de todo,
crecerรก en el olvido un รกrbol verde
a cuya sombra vamos a dormirnos
hasta que alguna vez el sueรฑo nos despierte.
WORLD OF SHADE
There are gardens that no longer have countries.
Georges Shehadรฉ
World of shade,
we will always go on
populating with true ghosts
your absent countries,
So, far from everything,
a green tree will grow in oblivion
at whose shadow, we will fall asleep
until whenever the dream awakens us.
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TATUAJES
Yo creo en las palabras
que son carne y espรญritu:
tatuajes repujados
a punta de cuchillo.
TATOOS
I believe in the words
that are flesh and spirit:
embossed tattoos
with a knife point
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CORRECTOR
Yo soy, no mรกs, un corrector de pruebas.
No dije nunca nada de mรญ mismo
porque desconocรญa los acentos
que caen en mis vรฉrtebras profundas.
PROOFREADER
I am nothing more than a proofreader.
I never said nothing about myself
because I donโt know the accents
that fall in my deep vertebrae.
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VEJEZ
Vino a cobrarlo todo:
las trampas del amor, sus ademanes,
y estos turbios espejos
que se avergรผenzan de mirar a nadie.
OLD AGE
It came to collect everything:
the snares of love, its gestures
and these turbulent mirrors
that are ashamed to look to at anyone.
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ANECDOTAS
ยฟDรณnde se ahogaron nuestras noches
de sueรฑos para siempre irredimibles?
Sรณlo quedan anรฉcdotas:
pugilatos de torva levadura
y el vino con que ayer amanecรญa
la confidencia del amor
al fondo
de un bar decapitado.
ANECDOTES
Where were our nights of dreams drowned
so that they be forever beyond repair?
Only anecdotes remain:
boxing matches of fierce yeast
and the wine with which yesterday was dawning
the confidence of love
at the bottom of a decapitated
bar.
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ALIANZA
Me quedo en cualquier parte
porque no tengo a dรณnde ir.
Y vuelven mis fantasmas
a inventarme
la luz
entre paredes de agua muerta.
Vuelven
para fundar la รบltima alianza
con el que fui,
con el que nunca ha sido.
Andan ya por mi sangre.
Voy con ellos.
ALLIANCE
I stay anywhere
because i donโt have any place to go.
And my ghosts return to
invent for me
the light
between walls of dead water.
They return
to establish the last alliance
with what I was,
They still walk through my blood.
I go with them.
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HOGUERA
El aire va leyendo
con sus ojos de ausencia
las pรกginas de un libro
que consume la hoguera.
El humo cadencioso
se despide, se alejaโฆ
Lo saludan cenizas
y mariposas muertas.
BONFIRE
The air goes on reading
with its absent eyes
the pages of a book
that the bonfire consumes.
The rhythmical smoke
says goodbye and moves awayโฆ
ashes greet it
and dead butterflies
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OBEDIENCIA
Si alguna vez amรณ
no fue de paso.
Obediente al recuerdo
cerrรณ todas las puertas
de su sangre.
OBEDIENCE
If I once loved you
it wasnโt transient.
Obedient to the memory
It closed all the doors
of your blood
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SOY UN รNGEL
1
Serenamente digo: “Soy un รกngel”.
Y me debes creer.
Ningรบn platillo sube,
o baja,
bajo mi peso.
Incorpรณreo, ligero,
desnudo,
como la luz…
Y sin embargo, toda
mi trayectoria es una sombra,
mi corazรณn es una sombra
una moneda oscura
destruida por el tiempo,
sin tiempo y sin memoria.
Voy con ellos.
I AM AN ANGEL
1
Serenely I say: I am an angelโ
and you ought to believe me.
No plate rises,
or goes down,
under my weight.
Incorporeal, light weight,
Naked,
Like the light…
Nevertheless, all
my trajectory is a shadow,
my heart is a shadow
an obscure coin
destroyed by time,
without time and without memory.
I go with them.
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Dos libros de Jacobo Regen/Two books by Jacobo Regen
Silvio Fischbein, 1949, artista visual y director de cine, vive y trabaja en Buenos Aires. Recibiรณ los tรญtulos de Arquitecto, aรฑo 1974 y Urbanista, aรฑo 1980, de la Universidad de Buenos Aires. Es Profesor Consultor de la Universidad de Buenos Aires. Participรณ en la creaciรณn y dirigiรณ las Escuelas Audiovisuales de ORT, Facultad de Arquitectura, Diseรฑo y Urbanismo de la Universidad de Buenos Aires, Facultad de Arte de la Universidad Nacional del Centro. Como guionista y director, realizรณ 30 cortometrajes, 5 largometrajes y 2 videoarte. Obtuvo el Premio George Meliรจs del Gobierno de Francia en 1984. Desde 1965, en las artes visuales, ha realizado 40 exposiciones individuales en el paรญs y en el exterior, y ha participado en salones y exposiciones colectivas. Fue becado en varias ocasiones por los Gobiernos de Canadรก y Francia. Entre otras distinciones, obtuvo la Beca Pollock โ Krasner Foundation, 2015 y 2018. En 2021 obtuvo el 1er. Premio en la 26 Bienal de Arte Textil, Argentina. Presidiรณ en repetidas ocasiones la Asociaciรณn Iberoamericana de Escuelas Audiovisuales y perteneciรณ al comitรฉ ejecutivo de la Asociaciรณn Internacional de Escuelas de Cine y TV, CILECT. Actualmente preside AAVRA, Asociaciรณn de Artistas Visuales de la Repรบblica Argentina.
Silvio Fischbein, 1949, visual artist and film director, lives and works in Buenos Aires. He received the titles of Architect, year 1974 and Urban Planner, year 1980, from the University of Buenos Aires. He is Consulting Professor at the University of Buenos Aires. He participated in the creation and directed the Audiovisual Schools of ORT, Faculty of Architecture, Design and Urbanism of the University of Buenos Aires, Faculty of Art of the National University of the Center. As a screenwriter and director, he made 30 short films, 5 feature films and 2 video art. He obtained the George Meliรจs Prize from the Government of France in 1984. Since 1965, in the visual arts, he has held 40 individual exhibitions in the country and abroad, and has participated in salons and collective exhibitions. He was awarded scholarships on several occasions by the Governments of Canada and France. Among other distinctions, he obtained the Pollock โ Krasner Foundation Scholarship, 2015 and 2018. In 2021 he obtained the 1st. Award at the 26th Biennial of Textile Art, Argentina. He repeatedly presided over the Ibero-American Association of Audiovisual Schools and belonged to the executive committee of the International Association of Film and TV Schools, CILECT. He currently chairs AAVRA, Association of Visual Artists of the Argentine Republic.
Adriana Armony nasceu no Rio de Janeiro. ร escritora, professora do Colรฉgio Pedro II e doutora em Literatura Comparada pela UFRJ, com a tese โNelson Rodrigues, leitor de Dostoiรฉvskiโ. Publicou, pela Editora Record, os romances Estranhos no aquรกrio (2012), Judite no paรญs do futuro (2008) e A fome de Nelson (2005), e organizou, com Tatiana Salem Levy, a coletรขnea Primos (2010), da qual tambรฉm participou com um conto. O romance Estranhos no aquรกrio foi contemplado com a Bolsa de Criaรงรฃo Literรกria da Petrobras.
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Adriana Armony was born in Rio de Janeiro City. She has three novels published by Editora Record: Strangers in the Aquarium (2012), Judith in the Future Land (2008), and Nelsonโs Hunger (2005). In 2010, she received an award in Creative Writing by Petrobras, a Brazilian Company renowned for their support to the Brazilian arts and culture. Adriana also co-edited Cousins: stories of Jewish and Arab heritage (2010), a collection of fictional short stories by Brazilian writers about their Jewish and Arab background. Besides her life as a writer (and passionate reader), Adriana teaches Brazilian Literature at Colรฉgio Pedro II, a prestigious State school in Rio de Janeiro. She has a PhD in Comparative Literature, and is a member of the Centre for Jewish Studies of Federal University of Rio de Janeiro (UFRJ)
Adriana Armony. Judite do paรญs do futuro. Rio de Janeiro: Record, 2008, 195-200 or 2003.
Dois corpos enlaรงados, pรกlios e rรญgidos. Ele compรดs-se solenemente para a morte; calรงa marrom-escura, camisa marrom-clara, gravata preta. Deitada de lado, envolta num penhoar estampado com ramagens, ela encosta-se no seu ombro, segura carinhosamente as mรฃos entrelaรงadas. Suicรญdio, nรฃo havia dรบvida. Mas seria possรญvel?
No caminho para a casa de Judite, Joรฃo costumava comprar os jornais vespertinos, que lia enquanto esperava Salomรฃo chegar. Ultimamente longos perรญodos de silรชncio pesavam entre ele e Judite, e o jornal fornecia uma proteรงรฃo รญntima e reconfortante para os dois. Joรฃo relรฉ as manchetes daquela terรงa feira, 24 de fevereiro: dois navios nacionais foram bombardeados por submarinos alemรฃes; Stefan Zweig, o escritor de Brasil, paรญs de futuro, matou-se, com sua esposa Lotte, em Petrรณpolis, onde serรก sepultado. O nazi-fascismo estava fazendo suas primeiras vรญtimas no Brasil; mais cedo o mais tarde, a declaraรงรฃo de guerra seria inevitรกvel.
Apesar de tudo, era difรญcil entender. Um escritor de sucesso, que conseguira escapar das garras do nazismo, tinha o direito de se matar? Por que ele se suicidara? Por que arrastara a mulher com ele? Era aquilo o verdadeiro amor? โParece que ele morreu antes dela… foi necessรกrio forรงar aquele corpinho para coloca-lo no ataรบde… O rosto da mulher estava deformadoโ โforam as palavras da poeta Gabriela Mistral, que um repรณrter registrara. E havia detalhes que impressionavam. A mobรญlia era quase indigente: duas camas de solteiro, encostadas uma na outra; dois criados-mudos com abajures baratos, um pรฃo mordiscado, uma caixa de fรณsforos vazia, uma garrafa de รกgua mineral.
Uma vez ouvira que รฉ bela a morte voluntรกria. Que a vida escolhe por nรณs, mรกs a morte nรณs somos nรณs que escolhemos. Em Os irmรฃos Karamazov, Kirilov se mata para competir com Deus. Lembrou dos versos de Manuel Bandeira: โMuitas palmeiras se suicidaram porque nรฃo viviam num pรญncaro azulado.โ Joรฃo nรฃo queria morrer. Ah, se fosse um escritor famoso, si tivesse uma mulher que o amasse… ou se as mulheres o cercassem de mimos, disputassem o seu autรณgrafo (havia tantas mulheres bonitas), soltassem suas risadinhas excitadas, entรฃo seria feliz! Estava sendo fรบtil, pensou envergonhado, mas nรฃo podia evitar que o grito se erguesse dento de ele: estava vivo! E, para apaziguar sua excitaรงรฃo, forcou-se a pensar nos corpos amarelos e gelados.
Iria atรฉ Petrรณpolis. Quem sabe se voltaria? Prestaria a รบltima homenagem a Zweig, y depois iria para o Rio. Estava perdendo tempo ali, na barra da saia de uma mulher casada. Coisas graves aconteciam, histรณrias de amor e morte. Era por acaso um adolescente? Apalpou o bolso, retirou uma folha amarrotada. Hรก dias levava aquele poema que escrevera pensando em Judite. Escrevera-o como que possuรญdo, depois de ler o Cรขntico dos Cรขnticos, e nรฃo tinha sequer coragem de relรช-lo, quanto mais de mostra-lo a Judite. Como ia partir, jรก podia fazรช-lo. Mas era impossรญvel que ela o lesse na sua presenรงa, de modo que era preciso rabiscar algumas palavras com algumas instruรงรตes tรฉcnicos para ser cortejada sem se sujarโ, pensou, como raiva. Mas tambรฉm ele nรฃo era um cobarde? Temia ou admirava Salomรฃo, o justo? Ou serรก que era ela dela que tinha.
Ali estava um restaurante que costumava frequentar. Certamente poderia sentar-se por alguns instantes e escrever, enquanto bebericava alguma coisa. Pegou um guardanapo. โJudite, deixo-te este poema como doce lembranรงa dos nossos dias.โ Era ridรญculo aquele tom nostรกlgico. Riscou tudo, escreveu: โPor favor, leia, mas nรฃo ria de mim.โ Aquela ambiguidade era servil demais. Seria melhor fingir um interesse puramente literรกrio: โEspero que goste deste poema.โ Numa sรบbita inspiraรงรฃo, acrescentou, ressentido: โJunto com Zweig, alguma coisa tambรฉm morreu entre nรณs.โ Meu Deus, nada tinha acontecido entre eles! Certamente, devia a ser tudo uma fantasia… Rabiscou a รบltima frase e escreveu diretamente no verso do envelope onde enfiara o poema: โSigo hoje para a casa de parentes em Petrรณpolis e deixo-lhe este poema como lembranรงa e tributo ao nosso amor pela Literatura.โ Nenhuma acusaรงรฃo, uma ambiguidade viril: o tom estava correto. E, embora fosse improvรกvel que Judite fosse procurรก-lo, lรก estava a indicaรงรฃo do local onde ele poderia ser encontrado. Si ela quisesse, nรฃo seria difรญcil descobrir onde ficava a casa a dos Ramalho, bastante conhecidos na cidade.
Joรฃo bate na porta, ele atendo. Percebe imediatamente que houve algo extraordinรกrio. Ele nรฃo deixa espaรงo para dรบvidas.
— Stefan Zweig se matou!
–O que vocรช estรก dizendo! โJudite, com a mรฃo diante da boca.
–Ele e a mulher fizeram um pacto de morte. Ingeriam veneno e morrerem abraรงados. Vรฃo ser enterrados amanhรฃ em Petrรณpolis.
–Mas por quรช?
โEle nรฃo tinha direitoโ, Judite estรก pensado. โTantos queriam viver e morreram.โ E depois: โSรณ os mortos nรฃo morrerรฃo.โ
–Ninguรฉm sabe.
–Todos aqueles homes e mulheres torturados, veraneando solitรกrios naqueles hotรฉis… Talvez ele fosse assim. Mesmo nรฃo sendo pego pelos nazis, mesmo morando aqui no Brasil, continuou sofrendo.
–Lรก em Petrรณpolis ele podia continuar escrevendo, podia esperar a paz… Mas atรฉ aqui em Brasil!
— Todo aquele mundo abafado… Ele nรฃo podia suportar o calor. A gente vรช isso nos livros dele.
–Esqueci de dizer: mais dois navios brasileiros foram torpedeados
–Ah, meu Deus, a guerra estรก chegando perto de nรณs! Serรก que agora finalmente vai ficar contra os alemรฃes? Salomรฃo precisa saber disso.
–Jรก deve saber, as notรญcias jรก devem ter chegado ao armazรฉm. โ Faz uma pausa, olha sรฉrio para Judite, — Escutaโele nunca tinha falado nesse tom com ela–, vocรช muitas vezes me criticou porque nunca mostrei nada que tinha escrito. Dessa vez eu trouxe um poema, mas, por favor, sรณ vocรช pode ler. โEle Ile estende um envelope onde se pode ler algo escrito numa letra miรบda e vai recuado atรฉ a porta. O seu rosto parece emitir uma luz estranha.
–Nรฃo vai esperar Salomรฃo?
–Nรฃo, hoje nรฃo. Estou com pressa.
Quando a porta se fecha, Judite percorre com o olhar o dorso do envelope: โSigo hoje a casa de parentes em Petrรณpolis e deixo-Ihe este poema como lembranรงa a e tributo ao nosso amor pela Literatura.โ Rasga o envelope e lรช, de pรฉ, aproveitando que Salomรฃo nรฃo chegou e as crianรงas estรฃo com Dorinha. . .
Adriana Armony. Judite do paรญs do futuro. [judite in the country of the future.] Rio de Janeiro: Record, 2008, 195-200 or 2003.
Two bodies fit together, pallid, and rigid. He was solemnly positioned for death; dark-brown pants, light-brown shirt, black tie. Lying beside him, wrapped in dressing gown printed with boughs and trees, she reclined on his shoulder, lovingly secure, the hands inter-laced. Suicide, the was no doubt. But could it be possible?
On the way toward Juditeโs house, Joรฃo customarily bought the eveningโs newspapers, that he read as waited for Salomรฃo to arrive. Lately, long periods of silence weighted on him and Judite, and the newspaper furnished a and intimate and comforting protection for the two of them. Joรฃo reread the headlines of that Tuesday, February 24: two Brazilian ships were bombed by German submarines; Stefan Zweig, the author of Brazil, the Country of the Future, killed himself, with his wife Lotte, in Petrรณpolis, where they would be buried. The Nazi-fascism was taking its first victims in Brazil; but sooner or later, a declaration of war would be inevitable.
Despite everything, it was difficult to understand. A successful author, who had been able to escape the claws of Nazism, had the right to kill himself? Why did he commit suicide? Why did he drag his wife with him? Was that true love? โIt appears that he died before she didโฆ It was necessary to force that bodice to fit it into the casketโฆ The face of the woman was deformed,โwere the words of the poet Gabriela Mistral, that a reporter noted. And there were details that were touching. The furniture was almost indigent: two single beds, set one next to the other; two night tables with cheap lamps, bread that had been partially eaten, an empty box of matches, a bottle of mineral water.
Once, he had heard that a voluntary death is beautiful. That life chooses for us, but for our death we are the ones who choose. In The Brothers Karamazov, Kirlov kills himself to compete with God. He remembered the verses of Manuel Bandeira: โMany palm trees commit suicide because they donโt live on a sunny hill.โ Joรฃo didnโt want to die. Ah, he would become a famous writer, if he had a woman who loved himโฆ or if the women would surround him with delight, fight over his autograph (there were so many pretty women), let out excited laughter, then he would be happy! He was being shallow, he thought, embarrassed, but he couldnโt keep back a shout that was rising inside of him: he was alive. And to quiet his excitement, he forced himself to think about yellow and frozen bodies.
All those tortured men and women spending the summer alone in those hotelsโฆ Perhaps he was like that. Just like not being caught by the Nazis, just like dying here in Brazil, he continued suffering.
โThere in Petrรณpolis he could continue writing, he could wait for the peaceโฆ But until it is here in Brazil!
โAll that sweltering worldโฆHe couldnโt tolerate the heat. People see this in his books.
โI forgot to say that two Brazilian ships were torpedoed.โ
โOh, my God, the war is coming close to us! Will it be that here finally they are going to concentrate on the Nazis? Salomao needed to know of this.
He would go to Petrรณpolis. Who knows if he would return? He would make his last respects to Zweig, and then her would go toward Rio. He was wasting time here, tied to the skirts of a married woman. Serious things happen, stories of life and death. Was he by any chance an adolescent. For days he had been perfecting that poem that he was writing for Judite. He wrote like someone possessed, after reading the Song of Songs, and he hadnโt had the courage to reread it, much less show it to Judite. As he was leaving, he could still do it.
t would be impossible to do so. But it was impossible that she read it in his presence, so that he must scribble some words with some technical instructions that would court her without embarrassing himself, he thought angrily. But wasnโt he a coward as well? Did he fear or admire Solomรฃo, the just? Or would it be that she was the one who was afraid?
Joรฃo knocked on the door, he waited. He
Immediately perceived that something extraordinary was going on. That was without a doubt.
โStefan Zweig killed himself!โ
โOh, what are you saying?โ, reacted Judite, with her hand in front of her mouth.
He and his wife made a death pact. They ingested poison, and they died, embracing each other. They will be buried tomorrow in Petrรณpolis.
โBut, why?โ
โ He had no right to do it.โ Judite was thinking. โSo many want to live, and they die. And later: โOnly the dead donโt die.โ
โNobody knows.โ
-You should now, then news ought to have arrived in the mailbox. He pauses, he looked intensely for Judite, Listen. He had never spoken in that tone with hers. Many times, you have criticized me because I never showed anything I had written. This time I found a poem. But, please, only you can read it.โ He reached out to her an envelope where someone could read something written in a childโs script, and he walked backwards toward the door. His face seemed to emit a strange light.
โNo, not today. Iโm in a hurry.โ
ย ย ย ย ย ย When the door closed, Judite looked the back of the envelope: โIโm leaving today for my relatives house in Petrlis, and I leave you this poem as a memory and tribute to our love of literature.โย She opened the letter and read, standing, taking advantage of the fact that Salomรฃo hadnโt arrived, and the kids were with Dorinaโฆ
“Buena Tierra” — La experiencia judรญa en Bolivia 1935-1945 — en La Paz y en la colonia “Buena Tierra”
“Buena Tierra”– The Jewish Experience in Bolivia 1935-1945 — in La Paz y in the farm “Tierra Buena”
La finca de Buena Tierra/The Buena Tierra Farm
La experiencia de los refugiados judรญos en Bolivia estuvo indeleblemente influenciada por Maurice Hochschild, un acaudalado judรญo alemรกn propietario de una mina en Bolivia que tenรญa una buena relaciรณn con el presidente boliviano. Cuando el gobierno boliviano alentรณ la inmigraciรณn a mediados de la dรฉcada de 1930 para impulsar la economรญa, Hochschild facilitรณ visas para que refugiados judรญos alemanes y austriacos llegaran a Bolivia. Tambiรฉn fundรณ la Sociedad de Protecciรณn a los Inmigrantes Israelitas (SOPRO), o La Sociedad para la Protecciรณn de los Migrantes Israelitas. La mayorรญa de los judรญos se establecieron en La Paz, la capital, y JDC* apoyรณ los hogares infantiles de SOPRO y otras instituciones comunales en La Paz.
En 1940, para contrarrestar la creciente propaganda antisemita de que los inmigrantes judรญos no contribuรญan al bienestar del estado y para asegurar que Bolivia no cerrarรญa sus puertas a la futura inmigraciรณn judรญa, Hochschild se asociรณ con la Sociedad Colonizadora de Bolivia (SOCOBO) para desarrollar proyectos agrรญcolas en รกreas rurales para demostrar la autosuficiencia de estos refugiados judรญos.
Hochschild se puso en contacto con JDC y Agro-Joint para obtener fondos para reubicar a los judรญos como campesinos y capacitarlos para cultivar los campos. De 1939 a 1942, JDC, junto con SOCOBO y Hochschild, contribuyeron $160,000 para sostener los asentamientos agrรญcolas.
Desafortunadamente, los nuevos agricultores enfrentaron una serie de desafรญos en sus empresas agrรญcolas: la topografรญa montaรฑosa, lo que significaba que no podรญan usar tractores; la muerte de los caminos a los mercados apropiados para los cultivos como la piรฑa, el cafรฉ y el cacao; y el clima subtropical. Ninguna de las granjas llega a ser completamente autosuficiente; todos fueron subvencionados por SOCOBO y Hochschild.
The Jewish refugee experience in Bolivia was indelibly influenced by Maurice Hochschild, a wealthy German Jewish mine owner in Bolivia who had a good relationship with the Bolivian president. When the Bolivian government encouraged immigration in the mid-1930s to spur the economy, Hochschild facilitated visas for German and Austrian Jewish refugees to arrive in Bolivia. He also founded the Sociedad de Proteccion a los Immigrantes Israelitas (SOPRO), or The Society for Protection of Jewish Migrants. The majority of Jews settled in La Paz, the capital, and JDC* supported SOPRO Children Homes and other communal institutions in La Paz.
In 1940, to counter rising anti-Semitic propaganda that Jewish immigrants were not contributing to the welfare of the state and to ensure that Bolivia would not close its doors to future Jewish immigration, Hochschild partnered with the Sociedad Colonizadora de Bolivia (SOCOBO) to develop agricultural projects in rural areas to demonstrate these Jewish refugees self-sufficiency.
Hochschild contacted JDC and Agro-Joint for funds to relocate Jews as peasant farmers and train them to cultivate the fields. From 1939-1942, JDC, along with SOCOBO and Hochschild, contributed $160,000 to sustain the agricultural settlements.
Unfortunately, the new farmers encountered a host of challenges in their agricultural enterprises: the mountainous topography, which meant that they could not use tractors; the dearth of roads to appropriate markets for the crops such as pineapple coffee, and cacao; and the sub-tropical climate. None of the farms ever become entirely self-sufficient; they were all subsidized by SOCOBO and Hochschild.
____________________________
La organizaciรณn judรญa The Joint Distribution Committee (JDC or “The Joint”) ayudaba en la salvaciรณn de muchos miles de personas antes, durante y despuรฉs del Holocaust y luego los refugiados/The Jewish organization The Joint Distribution Committee (JDC or “The Joint”) helped save many thousands people before, during and after the Holocaust
Refugiados transformados en granjeros/Refugees transformed into farmers
Hombres descascarando el maรญz/Men shucking corn
Taller de carpinterรญa/Woodworking shop
Una muchacha sobre un burro en Buena Tierra/A girl on a burro en Bella Tierra
Tomando el tรฉ/Drinking tea
Competiciones de deportes/Sports competitions local people
Um asilo de JDC para la gente mayor en La Paz/A JDC Home for the Aged in La Paz
Shofar de Rosch HaShona/Shofar for Rosh HaShonah
El museo de Buena Tierra en La Paz/BuenaTierra Museum in La Paz
Paula Margules naciรณ en Buenos Aires en 1959. Es licenciada en Relaciones Humanas y Pรบblicas (Universidad de Morรณn).
Su trabajo:
Pasado. Material con el cual se construye el presente.
Ministerio de Educaciรณn de la Naciรณn Plan de lectura: Asesor externo: Talleres de fomento de la lectura literaria dirigidos a docentes y alumnos de los niveles de primaria y secundaria. 2009 y 2010. Asesora externa, responsable de contenidos del Taller Literario a Distancia (Educ.ar). 2008.
Actividades de Paula Margules
Taller Literario del diario “La Razรณn” en la Feria Internacional del Libro de Buenos Aires Direcciรณn, (2005 a 2007).
Fundaciรณn Avon Direcciรณn del Taller Literario, 2004 y 2005.
“Cartas desde Buenos Aires”, revista literaria Miembro del Equipo Asesor y colaborador. De 2003 a 2008, aรฑo en que falleciรณ la fundadora, Victoria Pueyrredon. Y con รฉl, la publicaciรณn.
“revistas” Revista dominical, columnista, de 2002 a 2005, aรฑo en que cerrรณ la publicaciรณn.
Actividades que construyen el dรญa a dรญa: Bravo.Continental El programa de Fernando Bravo, en esa emisora: am 590 http://www.continental.com.ar Desde enero de 2017 realizo el ‘Espacio Literario’, un segmento dedicado a incentivar la lectura. Hasta agosto de 2019, la periodicidad era quincenal. A partir de esa fecha es semanal.
“AMIJAI, La Revista de la Comunidad” Columnista, desde 2001.
Consejo Profesional de Ciencias Econรณmicas de la Ciudad Autรณnoma de Buenos Aires Miembro del Jurado del Certamen Literario, desde 2007.
__________________________________________
A Portrait of Paula Margules
Paula Margules was born in Buenos Aires in 1959. She has a BA in Human and Public Relations (University of Morรณn/ en Relaciones Humanas y Pรบblicas (Universidad de Morรณn).
Past, material with which the present was built: Ministry of Education of the Nation Reading Plan: External advisor: Workshops to encourage literary reading aimed at teachers and students at primary and secondary levels. 2009 and 2010. External advisor, responsible for contents of the Distance Literary Workshop (Educ.ar). 2008.
Literary Workshop of the newspaper “La Razรณn” at the International Book Fair of Buenos Aires Direction, (2005 to 2007).
Avon Foundation Direction of the Literary Workshop, 2004 and 2005.
“Letters from Buenos Aires”, literary magazine Member of the Advisory Team and collaborator. From 2003 to 2008, the year in which the founder, Victoria Pueyrredon, died. And with it, the publication.
“magazines” Sunday magazine, columnist, from 2002 to 2005, the year the publication closed.
Activities that build the day to day: Bravo.Continental Fernando Bravo’s program, on that station: am 590 http://www.continental.com.ar Since January 2017, I have been doing the ‘Literary Space’, a segment dedicated to encouraging reading. Until August 2019, the periodicity was fortnightly. From that date it is weekly. “AMIJAI, The Community Magazine” Columnist, since 2001.
Professional Council of Economic Sciences of the Autonomous City of Buenos Aires Member of the Jury of the Literary Contest, since 2007.
De; Paula Margoles, Brรบjula al Sur. Buenos Aires; Emecรฉ, 2007.
โEl discursoโ
La multitud–Pese a todo: Buenos Dรญas. Hoy se cumple un aรฑo de la instalaciรณn de esta Carpa, y se cumple un mes de la muerte de Walter Villegas, para algunosโentre los que me cuento, —accidentalmente dudosa. El Kadish, la oraciรณn que los judรญos rezamos por los muertos, es una plegaria de vida, un ruego que pide paz. Por es estoy aquรญ, ante ustedes, quiero expresar mi rezo laico por la vida en paz, por una suerte mejor para nosotros, los docentes, por el recuerdo de Walter Villegas, un hombre siempre lo intentรณ.
La multitud lo aplaudiรณ con fuerza, se escucharon cornetazos y algรบn biombo. David musitรณ โy tal vez se cansรณ. O noโโ Levantรณ las manos pidiendo silencio y continuรณ:
–Soy hijo de la escuela pรบblica como lo fueron mis padres. Y mi abuelo. Una escuela pรบblica era un ejemplo y era orgullo, ejemplo de excelencia y de integraciรณn, porque salvo muy breves periodos, en la escuela pรบblica convivรญamos los Soifer con los Villegas y los Urdinarrain, los Fernรกndez con los Rigolli. Hoy la situaciรณn es muy distinta. Hoy la escuela es marginalidad. Hoy, estamos desde el margen pidiendo por la educaciรณn. Hoy vivimos en el margen araรฑando los renglones para no caernos.
Hubo aplausos, un grito de โbravoโ y un larguรญsimo cornetazo. David insistiรณ con los gestos pidiendo silencio. Un nuevo acople al micrรณfono sacudiรณ las piedras. Despuรฉs, dijo:
–Una democracia es grande y suculenta cuando ademรกs de ejercer sus ventajas, tambiรฉn se hace cargo de los conflictos que genera su desarrollo. Cuando no se preocupa tanto por llegar, sino que se entretiene mรกs en ir. Una sociedad se va haciendo mรกs democrรกtica en la medida en que cada uno de sus miembrosโdesde el primero al รบltimo, hasta completar la naciรณn toda–. Se responzabiliza por sus acciones cรญvicas sin delegar esa funciรณn. Si la sociedad simula su realidad en lugar de asumirla, prevalece la cultura de encubrimiento; la verdad se transforma en una alusiรณn. Y la alusiรณn siempre tiene un sentido desfigurador, desnaturaliza la magnitud del conflicto. De eso, los argentinos sabemos demasiado.
La gente estallรณ en aplausos. Comenzaron a caer algunas gotas. David siguiรณ:
Somos un pueblo condenado a la creatividad. Pero si reducimos el presupuesto de esta alternativa a la invenciรณn de escusas y de mentiras, nuestra capacidad de crecimiento, de desarrollo, de expansiรณn, serรก otro renglรณn en la larga lista de sueรฑos ahogados con la almohada, antes de acostarnos a dormir. Martรญn Buber, Maestro, uno de los grandes de pensadores de nuestro tiempo, filรณsofo siempre preocupado por la condiciรณn humana, creรญa que la nacionalidad no puede ser un fin en sรญ misma. En los primeros aรฑos de este siglo turbulento, Buber dijo: โla nacionalidad de un hombre es el รบnico medio por la cual una persona o un pueblo, pueden ser creadoresโ โฆ
–Cuando la confusiรณn y la locura forman parte de lo cotidianeidad; cuando las pasiones, los intereses propios, se convierten en los รบnicos argumentos verdaderos; cuando se opta por ignorar la previsible y por desparramar culpas a diestra, siniestra, arriba y abajo, no sea cosa que alguna quede pegada y haya que responder para ella; cuando un complicado arte del esquive lleva a hacerle verรณnicas cualquier responsabilidad para cederle el paso a toda clase de teorรญas mefistofรฉlicas; cuando se prejuzga por deporte y se habla por hablar; cuando se inflan virtudes hasta el lรญmite mรกximo de su potencia, sรณlo para esconder defectos; cuando blanco significa negro y negro quiere decir colorado y nos perdemos en medio de un cromatismo patรฉtico que nos aleja millones de aรฑos luz de la armonรญa del arco irisโฆ
–Cuando el dolor y la impotencia se agitan desde los noticieros, pero se quedan a vivir en la casa de los deudos; cuando se pierde el rumbo que nunca logramos conseguir y andamos por la vida guiados por una brรบjula del sur; cuando el envenenamiento cotidiano del espanto; la injusticia y la contaminaciรณn se aceptan como costumbre; cuando el determinismo se vende en el almacรฉn de cada barrio y resulta difรญcil hasta lo quimรฉrico defender el derecho a soรฑar porque la realidad impertinente rompe las ilusiones a hachazos: cuando en este primer mundoโmรกs primitivo que รณptimo–, en pleno auge de la libertad del mercado, y de elecciรณn, no se puede elegir el puesto al que comprarle la luz, no al feriante que venda mรกs frescas los telรฉfonos; cuando me resisto a tirar mis horas y mi vida en el agujero de las colas
–Cuando la prepotencia y la soberbia reemplazan a la sencilla y humilde lรณgica; cuando lo grave no son los hechos, sino su difusiรณn; cuando se alienta la impunidad con tolerancias injustificadas;
Cuando la muerte convierte en dioses a la gente, y una pรกtina de olvido transforma los errores en aciertos y los delitos en รฉxitos; cuando la vida deja para mรกs tarde los reconocimientos merecidos;
cuando aparecen ilusiones auditivas, ยฟserรก la realidad que grita y nadie escucha?
cuando se pretende que el opositor signifique enemigo;
cuando la historia se cuenta con mentiras; cuando las reglas estรกn para โlos tontosโ porque los vivosโ las usan para jugar al rango; cuando la gloria de ciertos eventos se confunde con la vanidad de quienes participan en ellos; cuando las antinomias crecen al ritmo acompasado de la estupidez; cuando la opiniรณn vive devaluada y la desmesura de lo apetitos personales priva a todos de opiniones diferentes; cuando el sofismo se convierte en un estilo de vida, y los eufemismos en idioma; cuando se habla de โlas รบltimas consecuenciasโ como de un epรญtome perentorio, y no es mรกs que un artilugio indigno para dilaciones que conocen los abismos infinitos del olvidoโฆ
–Cuando se hace un culto de la hipocresรญa, del fanatismo y de la intolerancia, y parece que todo estรก perdonado, por lo que se infiere que todo estรก permitido; cuando la รบnica rutina que supimos conseguir es la de perjudicar al prรณximo, por que el mejor รฉxito es el fracaso de los demรกs; cuando la ignorancia se pavonea insolente, las respuestas importan mรกs que las preguntas, y el olvido se impone a la memoria; cuando se dice que todos somos culpables, perdiendo de vista que las generalizaciones disuelve la individualidad, y ya nadie es responsable de nadaโฆ
–Cuando la vida es una caminata nocturna en un desierto sin estrellas, entonces duele, duele, duele, hasta la desesperaciรณn ser argentino.
La multitud vibraba. El organizador lo abrazรณ efusivamente. Los altoparlantes repetรญan: โGraciasโ, โGraciasโ, Graciasโ.
Entre saludos y palmadas, David vio los ojos llorosos de Marta. Entonces no supo que por รบltima vez. En mucho tiempo. Mucho. Demasiado. La gente empezรณ a gritar, desde un escenario un grupo de docentes pudo ver claramente un remolino de personas que venรญa girando desde la calle Riobamba. La garรบa suave que acompaรฑรณ el discurso se hizo lluvia intensa. Por detrรกs del torbellinoโcada vez mรกs rรกpido, mรกs grueso, mรกs voraz–, que se acercaba hacia el escenario desde Congreso estallaron reflejos de una luz amarilla. Ruido intenso, lacerante, polvo, vidrios rotos y gritos. Una bomba.
La gente corriรณ hacia todos lados, sin direcciรณn, sin orden, como pudo. A lo lejos comenzรณ a sonar el ulular de las sirenas, los movileros corrรญan detrรกs de la gente. Todo fue humo y confusiรณn. En la corrida, se faltรณ quien aprovechara para apoderarse de alguna carrera. David quedรณ paralizado, de pie en medio del escenario. Pensรณ en Walter, en Marta, en Clara y El abuelo mirando todo por televisiรณn. Los docentes lo tomaron de los hombros y lo empujaron para bajar del escenario. No se moviรณ. Todos se fueron. David quedรณ solo sobre esa tarima dispuesta para el acto, dos palomas volaron cerca de รฉl. Buscรณ a Marta con la mirada. No la encontrรณ. En pocos minutos la plaza habรญa quedado desierta. Solo palomas volando de un lado al otro, espantadasโฆ
___________________________________
___________________________________
โThe Speechโ
The crowdโIn spite of everything: Good Day. Today is the first anniversary of this Tent, and it is a month since the death of Walter Villegas, for someโand I am one of themโdoubtfully accidental. The Kaddish, that we Jews pray for the dead, is a prayer for the living, a plea for peace. For that reason, I am here today, before you, I want to express my secular prayer for life in peace, for a better situation for all of us, the teachers, in the memory of Walter Villegas, a man that always wished for it.
The crowd applauded him strongly, Cornet blasts and a big drum were heard. David muttered โand perhaps he got tired, Or not.โ He raised his hand, asking for silence, and he continued:
โI am the son of the public schools as were my parents. And my grandfather. A public school was an example and a cause for pride, example of excellence and of integration, because, except for very brief periods, in the public school get along together the Soifers, the Villegas, the Urdinarrains, the Fernรกndezes with the Rigolli. Today the situation is very different. The school has been marginalized. Today, we are at the margin, asking for education. Today we live at the margin, holding onto the lines so we donโt fall.
There was applause, a shout of โbravoโ and a long cornet blast. With gestures, David insisted on asking for silence. A new round of feedback from the microphone shook the stones. After that, he said:
โA democracy is great and succulent when, beyond exercising its strengths, also pays attention of the conflicts that generate its development. When you donโt worry so much about arriving, but rather pay more attention to going. A society goes on becoming more democratic to the extent that each one of its membersโfrom the first to the last, until it includes the entire country–. It takes responsibility for civic actions without delegating that function, If the society feigns its reality instead of taking it on, the culture of concealment the truth is transformed into allusion. And the allusion always shas a disfiguring meaning, it denaturalizes the magnitude of the conflict. Of that, the Argentines know too much.โ
The people broke into applause. Raindrops began to fall. David continued:
โWe are a people condemned to creativity. But if we reduce the budget for this alternative to the invention of excuses and of lies, our capacity for growth, for development, for expansion, will be another line in the long list of dreams suffocated by a pillow, before going to bed. Martรญn Buber, Maestro, one of the great thinkers of our time, philosopher always worried about the human condition, believed that nationality cannot be an end in itself. In the first years of a turbulent century, Buber said, โa manโs nationality is the only medium through which a person or a people, can be creatorsโโฆโ
โWhen confusion and madness form part of everyday life, when passions, personal interests, are converted into the only true arguments, when the choice is to ignore the foreseeable and spread guilt to the right, left, up, down, so that nothing is stuck in place and has to be responded to; when a complicated art of the dodge becomes spinning veronicas, whatever responsibility to let by all sorts of diabolic theories, when one makes prejudgment into a sport and speaks just to speak; when virtues are inflated to the maximum of their possibility, only to hide defects, when whit means black and black means red and we lose ourselves in the middle of that pathetic mixture of colors that the takes us away from millions of years of light of the harmony of the rainbowโฆ
โWhen the pain and impotence is agitated by the news, but they stay living in their relativeโs house; when the direction is lost and we never can get it and we go through life guided by a compass of the south; when the daily poisoning of shock; the injustice and contamination are accepted by custom, when the determinism is sold in the warehouse of every neighborhood and it is difficult even chimerical to defend the right to dream because the impertinent reality breaks up illusions with hatchet blows; when in this first world–more primitive than optimal–, at the full height of the freedom of the market, and of choice, you canโt chose the job with which to buy light/electricity, not the fair-seller who sells telephones on the cheap, when I resist throwing away my hours and my life in the hole of the waiting linesโฆ
โWhen a cult is made of hypocrisy, fanaticism and intolerance, and it seems like everything is pardoned, from which you infer that everything is permitted, when the only routine that we learned is the prejudice of toward the neighbor, that for which the greatest success is the failure of the others; when ignorance parades around insolently, the answers, the answers are more important than the solutions, and forgetting imposes on memory; when itโs said that we are all guilty, losing sight of the fact that generalizations dissolve individuality, an so nobody is responsible for anythingโฆ.
โWhen life is a nighttime walk in a desert without stars, then it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, until desperation to be Argentinean.โ
The crown vibrated. The organizer hugged him effusively. The loudspeakers repeated: โThank you,โ โThank you,โ โThank you.โ Among the cheers and applause, David say Martaโs crying eyes. Then he didnโt know that it was for the last time. In a great deal of time. Much time. Too much. The people began to shout, from a stage a group of teachers could clearly see the swirl of people turning toward Riobamba Street. The soft mist that accompanied the speech became a heavy downpour. Beyond the whirlwindโcontinually more rapid, more wide, more voracious–, that approached the stage from Congreso, exploded reflections of a yellow light. Intense noise, cutting, dull, broken windows and shouts. A bomb.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย People ran everywhere, without direction, as they could. In the distance began to sound the wailing of sirens, reporters ran after the crowd. It was all smoke and confusion. In the running. There was no one who could take over any rush. David remained paralyzed, standing in the middle of the stage. He thought about Walter, Marta, Clara, and the grandfather watching on television. The teachers took him by his shoulders, and they pushed him to come down from the stage. He didnโt move. Everyone left. David stood alone on that platform set up for the event. Two doves flew near him. He looked for Marta with his gaze. He didnโt find her. In a few minutes the plaza had become deserted. Only doves flying one next to the other, stunned.
Translated by Stephen A. Sadow
From; Paula Margoles, Brรบjula al Sur. Buenos Aires; Emecรฉ, 2007.
Martha Kornblith fue poeta, licenciada en Letras y en Comunicaciรณn Social. De familia judรญa, llegรณ a Caracas siendo una niรฑa. Se licenciรณ en la Universidad Central de Venezuela y participรณ en numerosos talleres literarios coordinados por figuras como Armando Rojas Guardia, Rafael Arrรกiz Lucca e Ida Gramcko. Fue integrante del grupo literario Eclepsidra. Autora de: Oraciones para un dios ausente (1995), El perdedor se lo lleva todo (1997), Sesiรณn de endodoncia (1997). En 1982 se le diagnostica esquizofrenia. El 29 de mayo de 1997 pone fin a su vida. Su poesรญa ha sido antologada nacional e internacionalmente.
Martha Kornblith was a poet, with a degree in Literature and in Social Communication. From a Jewish family, she arrived in Caracas as a child. She graduated from the Central University of Venezuela and participated in numerous literary workshops coordinated by figures such as Armando Rojas Guardia, Rafael Arrรกiz Lucca and Ida Gramcko. She was a member of the literary group “Eclepsidra.” She published her poetry in Oraciones para un dios ausente(1995), El perdedor se lo lleva todo (1997) and Sesiรณn de endodoncia (1997). In 1982 she was diagnosed with schizophrenia. On May 29, 1997. Her poetry has been anthologized nationally and internationally.
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Los libros de los muertos
Por eso dedicamos nuestros libros a los muertos. Porque tenemos la vana convicciรณn de que nos escuchan. Nosotros, cรณmplices de oficios menos inocentes, creemos que seremos dioses en otros mundos porque pensamos que la felicidad es la distancia del milagro cuando soรฑamos con una palabra, cuando vemos alzarse los aviones.
Mi primer sรญntoma fue callar la protesta. Sรณlo hubo tardes de presencias inรบtiles. Asistir a la hora exacta para ahogarme en silencios no descifrados. Si no pudieron los expertos quiรฉn harรก hablar a la renuncia. Las luces de neรณn en el camino dicen mรกs de mi ruina cotidiana. Desde entonces he dejado de merodear en el pasado.
A veces la vida viene como un haz de reyes y habitamos palacios e imperios. A veces la vida viene como la carta mรกs baja rozamos con otros transeรบntes la suciedad en las aceras habitamos los รกrboles, los pรกjaros pedimos el pan como los pobres. A veces la vida viene como la vileza. Entonces nos aferramos a la suerte frenรฉticamente.
Dirรญa que hace mucho apenas vivรญ la frรกgil certeza de un sueรฑo. Dirรญa que un dรญa me prometieron un jardรญn de rosas pero ni siquiera logrรฉ atravesar este puente sobre aguas turbulentas. Dirรญa que mi vida fue la de un trapecista que ha perdido su cuerda floja. No dirรญa decir ยซaquellos tiemposยป algo tan obvio para uno ยฟquรฉ mรกs da? si todos los poetas.
Nora Weinerth con Nestor . “La gente que tiene una enfermedad mental por ningรบn culpa suya, como Nestor, no son deshechos. Deben ser queridos”
Nora Weinerth crecรญa en Caracas, Venezuela, la hija de padres judรญos. La familia se mudรณ a los Estados Unidos. Weinerth obtuvo su Ph.D. en Lenguas Romances de la Universidad de Harvard, con especialidad en literatura espaรฑola medieval. Despuรฉs de publicar y traducir una serie de trabajos acadรฉmicos, cambiรณ la direcciรณn de su carrera. Su trabajo, sacar a los pacientes con enfermedades mentales de las instituciones y devolverlos a la comunidad, la convierte en el tema de un documental de Frontline/PBS/ProPublica. Ahora trabaja como escritora e investigadora independiente.
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Nora Weinerth grew up in Caracas, Venezuela, the child of Jewish parents. The family moved to the United States. Weinerth obtained he Ph.D. in Romance Languages from Harvard University, specializing in medieval Spanish literature. After publishing and translating a number of scholarly works, she changed her career direction. Her work, bringing mental ill patients out of institutions and back into the community make her the subject of a Frontline/PBS/Propublica documentary. She now works as an independent writer writer and researcher.
Rumania, Hungrรญa, Checoslovaquia, Yugoslavia, todos de los que รฉramos de por allรก recordamos nuestro lugar de nacimiento y se los describรญamos al profesor Suรกrez con gran solemnidad. Estรกbamos en el primer grado.
Cuando me tocรณ mi turno, me puse de pie.
–Nora, ยฟdรณnde naciste?
–En Rumania.
El Profesor Suรกrez era del llano. Un muchacho de huesos finos y mirada soรฑadora. Habรญa recorrido el mundo en las lรกminas de nuestros libros de geografรญa y a travรฉs de ojos de los niรฑos extranjeros. Nos hablaba de los espaรฑoles y de los indios, del heroico Cacique Gualcaipuro y nos contaba fรกbulas del llano, de tigritos y morrocoyes.
–Rumania, repitiรณ, saboreando la palabra con una mirada de ensueรฑo. ยฟTรบ te acuerdas de Rumania?
–Sรญ, contestรฉ.
En casa existรญa en el lenguaje empapado de recuerdos de mi mamรก y mi papรก. Me sabรญa sus bosques y sus rรญos como si los hubiera visto con mis propios ojos.
ยฟCรณmo es Rumania? Debe ser un paรญs muy bello.
Es el paรญs mรกs bello del mundo.
Esa maรฑana describรญ el paรญs de mis padres con mucha convicciรณn Y a medida que la describรญa, mi Rumania iba cobrando realidad. Con la mirada cargada en el รกrbol de mangos que se veรญa desde la ventana de nuestra clase, hablรฉ de las frutas de mi paรญs.
–Hay fresas y cerezas, y frambuesasโฆ
Hice un desfile de sรญlabas preciosas, nombrando las frutas que aรฑoraba mi mamรก de las que me hablaba cuando recordaba mi niรฑez. Exaltada, seguรญ adelante.
–Y tambiรฉn hay mangos, mamones, cambures, guayabas, guanรกbanas, y nรญsperos y nรญspulasโฆ
El Profesor Suรกrez me preguntรณ si recordaba Rumania de verdad, y le dije que sรญ.
Cuando terminamos las descripciones, el Profesor Suรกrez nos dijo que hiciรฉramos un dibujo del lugar donde habรญamos nacido. Yo sabรญa dibujar muy bien, y la hora de dibujo era mi favorita. Hice un paisaje de Rumania con un sol sonriente en un cielo azul celeste, una casita de tejados rojos, y una palmera mecida por la brisa.
Algรบn dรญa nos vamos de aquรญ, decรญa mi mamรก, y entonces sabrรกs lo que es la nieve. Vas a tener unos patines de hielo y una caperuza con un borde blanco de piel de conejo como la que tenรญa yo cuando era niรฑa.
–ยฟIgual que Caperucita Roja?
–Si, igual que Caperucita Roja.
Asรญ que le puse nieve al paisaje y a รบltima hora le puse una chimenea al tejado, con un nubarrรณn de humo gris. Me saliรณ muy bien, con el humo subiendo hacia un lado y la palmera inclinada hacia el otro.
Con su mata de pelo negro y su piel moreno, su paso ligero y su mirada desafiante, mi mamรก era una belleza extraordinaria. Se defendรญa contra el presente mรกs allรก de las rejas de nuestra casa con orgullo erguido sobre la soledad.
–Este es un paรญs salvaje, decรญa en hรบngaro, cuando Venezuela se imponรญa con toda su exuberancia. A este paรญs hasta Dios le ha vuelto la espalda.
Era joven, y parecรญa feliz cuando ponรญamos la mesita debajo de las acacias y sacรกbamos los lรกpices de color y acuarelas. Dibujรกbamos muรฑecas y las hacรญamos trajes de moda que mi mamรก me ayudaba a recortar con su tijerita de uรฑas. A veces me hablaba de su mamรก y una tarde cuando le preguntรฉ dรณnde estaba, me dijo que se muriรณ durante la guerra.
“Guerra. Brumosa” palabra dicha en hรบngaro, la guerra marcaba a frontera entre el pasado y el presente, entre lo nuestro y Venezuela. En la casa, el pasado era lo verdadero, y con recuerdos mi mamรก le hacรญa frente al presente que se llevaba a nuestro alrededor con toda su radiante realidad. Me imaginaba la guerra como un camino pedregoso en el lejano por allรก, donde la gente hablaba hรบngaro por un lado y rumano por el otro, y nadie se comprendรญa.
Esa tarde cuando le enseรฑรฉ el dibujo a mi mamรก, lo mirรณ con una expresiรณn endurecida. El Profesor Suรกrez se lo habรญa enseรฑado a toda la clase, asรญ que de momento no comprendรญa por quรฉ no le gustaba a mi mamรก.
–Nori, me dijo, con el dibujo entre las manos.
Enseguida vi el error. El humo flotaba hacia la derecha y la palmera se inclinaba hacia la izquierda. Hacรญan un lindo arco, pero, ยฟcรณmo iba a pegar la brisa contra sรญ misma? Era imposible.
–ยฟQuรฉ busca aquรญ esta palmera?
No comprendรญa la pregunta.
–Entre nosotros no existen las palmeras.
–ยกMentira!
–Imbรฉcil! ยฟCuรกntas veces te he dicho que Rumania no es un paรญs salvaje?
No dije nada.
–ยฟCรณmo se te ocurriรณ? ยฟPor quรฉ? Dime ยฟpor quรฉ?
Porque tรบ me dijiste que Rumania es el paรญs mรกs bello del mundo.
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“The Most Beautiful Country in the World”
Romania, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, all of us who were from there remember our place of birth, and we were describing then to Professor Suรกrez with great solemnity. We were in the first grade.
When it was my turn, I stood up.
โNora, where were you born?โ
โIn Romania.โ
Professor Suรกrez was from the plains. A young fellow of fine bones and a dreamy look. He had traveled the world through the pictured in our geography books and through the eyes of the foreign children. He spoke to us of the Spanish and the indies, of the heroic Cacique Gualcaipuro, and he told us stories from the plains, of wild cats and turtles.
โRomania, he repeated, enjoying the word with a dreamy look. Do you remember Romania? It must be a very beautiful country.
โIt is the most beautiful country in the world.โ
That morning, I described the country of my parents with great conviction. And while I described it, my Romania was becoming real. With my gaze fixed on the mango tree that could be seen from our classโ window, I spoke about the fruits of my country.
โThere are strawberries, cherries and raspberriesโฆโ
I made a parade of precise syllables, naming the fruits that my mother yearned for, of those that she told me about when she remembered my childhood. Exalted, I continued on.
โAnd there are also mangos, mamones, cambures, guayabas, guayabanas y nรญsperos y nรญspulasโฆโ
Professor Suรกrez asked me if I truly remember Romania, and I said yes.
When we finished the descriptions, Professor Suรกrez told us to make a drawing of the place where we had been born. I knew how to draw well, and the drawing hour was my favorite. I did a landscape of Romania with a smiling sun in a celeste sky, a little house with red shingles, and a palm tree, swaying in the breeze.
โOne day, we will leave here, my mother was saying, and then you will know what snow if. You will have ice skates and a hood with a white border of rabbit skin like that you had as a little girl.โ
โJust like Little Red Riding Hood?โ
โYes, just like Little Red Riding Hood.โ
So, I put snow on the landscape and at the last moment I put a chimney on the roof, with a large cloud of gray smoke, It came out very well, with the smoke rising toward one side and the palm tree leaning toward the other.
With her mop of black hair and her dark skin, her smooth walk, my mama was an extraordinary beauty. She protected herself against the present beyond the grates of our house with pride covering the solitude.
โThis is a savage place,โ she said in Hungarian, when Venezuela imposed itself with all its exuberance. โGod has turned his back on this country.โ
She was young and she seemed happy when we put the small table under the acacias, and we took out the colored pencils and the watercolors. We drew dolls and we, made stylish dresses that my mother helped me cut out with her fingernail scissors. At times, she spoke to me about her mama, and one afternoon, when I asked her where she was, she told me that she died during the war.
Foggy War it was called in Hungarian, the war marked the frontier between the past and the present, between ours and Venezuela. At home, the past was the truth, with her memories, mama faces the present that moved around us with all its radiant reality. I imagined the war as a rocky road in the distance over there, where the people spoke Hungarian on one side and Romanian on the other, and no one understood each other.
That afternoon when I showed the drawing to my mama, she looked it with a hardened expression on her face. Professor Suรกrez had shown to the whole class, so for a moment, I didnโt understand why my mama didnโt like it.
โNori,โ she said to me with the drawing in her hand.
I saw the error immediately. The smoke floated toward the right and the palm tree was leaning to the left. They made a pretty arch, but how was the breeze going to hit itself? It was impossible.
โWhat is this palm tree doing here?โ
I didnโt understand the question.
โWith us, palm trees donโt exist.โ
โThatโs a lie!โ
โImbecile! How many times have I told you that Romania is not a savage country?
I didnโt say anything.
โHow did it occur to you? Whyโ Tell me why?โ
ย ย ย ย ย ย โBecause you told me that Romania was the most beautiful country in the world.”
El 18 de julio de 1994, 85 personas murieron y cientos mรกs resultaron heridas en un atentado con bomba perpetrado por Hezbolรก contra el edificio de la Asociaciรณn Mutual Israelita Argentina (AMIA). Este fue el ataque terrorista mรกs mortรญfero en la historia de Amรฉrica Latina, asรญ como contra cualquier objetivo judรญo fuera de Israel. Veintiocho aรฑos despuรฉs del terrible atentado con bomba, ninguno de los perpetradores ha sido llevado a juicio aรบn, a pesar de las รณrdenes de arresto emitidas y los constantes llamados a la justicia.
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The Attack on the AMIA
On 18 July 1994, 85 people were killed and hundreds more wounded in a Hezbollah-perpetrated bombing attack of the Argentine Israelite Mutual Association (AMIA) building. This was the deadliest terrorist attack in Latin American history as well as against any Jewish target outside of Israel. Twenty-eight years after the horrific bombing, none of the perpetrators has yet been brought to trial, despite arrest warrants issued and constant calls for justice.
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La poesรญa de la AMIA/The Poetry of the AMIA
Manuela Fingueret (1945-2013) Argentina
Pasteur Esquina 86
Un estallado nombra
el instante
de la danza macabre
Temblor
dicen los que oyeron
caminar
la columna de huesos
acompaรฑando
la agonรญa
Lamentos de un coro
apunto de estallar
el รบnico grito
que no cesa
aquรญ estamos!
fulgor dicen los que vieron
arrojar el humo salvaje
mirando las piedras desnudas
horror dicen los que dieron
partรญculas
que cubren de polvo
agonizando cenizas
Hay una morada
en esa esquina
de polvo, huesos y piedras
con ochenta y seis gritos
repitiendo aquรญ estamos!
Y nada podrรกn erigir allรญ
que reemplace
el nombre
de cada nombre
que los nombra
_______________________
86 Pasteur Corner
An explosion names
the instant
of the dance of death
Earthquake
say those who heard
walking
the column
of bones
accompanying t
the agony
Laments from a chorus
about to explode
the only cry t
hat does not cease
Here we are!
Fire say those who say
burst forth
the savage smoke
watching
the naked rocks
Horror say those who smelled
particles that
that cover with dust
agonizing ashes
There is a dwelling
on that corner
of dust, bones and rocks
with eighty-six cries
repeating
Here we are!
And they will never be able to build anything there
that will replace
the name
of each name
that names them
Translated from the Spanish by Celeste Kostopulos-Cooperman
Protesta aรฑos despuรฉs/Protest years after the bombin
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Daniel Chirom (1955-2008) Argentina
18 de julio (*)
ยฟQuรฉ sucede esta noche entre todas las noches?
Todas las noches comemos en forma abundante
y cantamos y reรญmos con el vino
pero esta noche sรณlo hay pan รกzimo y vinagre
pues estamos tristes pensando en el destierro.
ยฟQuรฉ sucede esta noche que no entonamos cรกnticos?
Todas las noches alabamos a Dios
con nuestros mejores acentos
pero esta noche el silencio reina
porque nuestra hambre es dรฉbil
y extenso el desierto.
ยฟQuรฉ sucede esta noche que las sombras ganan
nuestras casas?
Todas las noches las luces brillan para iluminar la mesa
pero esta noche sรณlo hay un candelabro
para que recordemos la oscuridad.
ยฟQuรฉ sucede esta noche que nuestras manos
y lenguas tiemblan?
Todas las noches rezamos por el dรญa que vendrรก
y bailamos al pie de nuestros lechos
porque la sangre inocente no deja huellas
pero esta noche permanecemos quietos
mientras las aguas se desbocan
y las oraciones son para los muertos
que aรบn nos acompaรฑan.
ยฟQuรฉ sucede esta noche que apretamos los labios
y cerramos los ojos?
Todas las noches las palabras
nos protegen de la piedra
pero esta noche las voces estรกn mudas
y reรญmos en trรกgico gozo
pues un solitario muro delata nuestra intemperie.
ยฟQuรฉ sucede esta noche que todos ocultan su mirada?
Todas las noches distinguimos camaradas
y detenemos con la elocuencia
la caรญda de los cuerpos
pero esta noche la ausencia
hiere nuestras carnes viejas
y la soledad del nombre
hace que escuchemos lo que antes veรญamos.
ยฟQuรฉ sucede esta noche que la alegrรญa plegรณ sus alas
y el silencio distrae nuestros pensamientos?
Todas las noches,
aunque la muerte nos pise los talones,
anunciamos a la luna y adoramos al leรณn
pero esta noche nadie llamรณ a nuestra puerta
y ya es demasiado tarde para que alguien venga
y nos guรญe a travรฉs de las estrellas.
ยฟQuรฉ sucede esta noche entre todas las noches?
Todas las noches un espรญritu recorre
el dรญa de nuestras bodas, imagina el primer beso,
el sรบbito esplendor, la loca belleza
pero esta noche un viento helado taรฑe los rostros
y el alma es polvo y cieno bajo las garras de la memoria perdida.
Esta noche somos perros que han extraviado a su amo.
En esta noche no hay nadie en el sepulcro.
* En esta fecha se produjo el brutal atentado a la A.M.I.A. (Asociaciรณn
Mutual Israelita Argentina) que segรณ la vida de 86
Ariel Dorfman (1942- ) es un autor chileno-estadounidense, nacido en Argentina. Desde que escribiรณ How to Read Donald Duck, ha acumulado un impresionante cuerpo de ficciรณn, poesรญa, memorias y no ficciรณn, traducido a mรกs de cincuenta idiomas. Sus obras, incluidas La muerte y la doncella (convertida en una pelรญcula de Roman Polanski) y Purgatorio, se han representado en mรกs de cien paรญses. Activista de derechos humanos, colabora regularmente en publicaciones como el New York Times, The New York Review of Books y The Guardian, junto con muchos otros periรณdicos de todo el mundo. Entre sus libros mรกs recientes se encuentran las novelas Los fantasmas de Darwin, Cautivos y La oficina de compensaciรณn, el cuento infantil La rebeliรณn de los conejos y Voces del otro lado de la muerte, una colecciรณn de poemas. รl y su esposa Angรฉlica dividen su tiempo entre Chile y Durham, Carolina del Norte, donde es Profesor Emรฉrito Distinguido de Literatura en la Universidad de Duke.
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Ariel Dorfman (1942- ) is a Chilean-American author, born in Argentina. Since writing How to Read Donald Duck, he has built up an impressive body of fiction, poetry, memoirs and non-fiction, translated into more than fifty languages. His plays, including Death and the Maiden (made into a film by Roman Polanski) and Purgatorio, have been staged in over one hundred countries. A human rights activist, he contributes regularly to publications such as the New York Times, The New York Review of Books and the Guardian, along with many other papers around the world. Among his most recent books are the novels Darwinโs Ghosts, Cautivos and The Compensation Bureau, the childrenโs story, The Rabbitsโ Rebellion, and Voices from the Other Side of Death, a collection of poems. He and his wife Angรฉlica divide their time between Chile and Durham, North Carolina, where he is a Distinguished Emeritus Professor of Literature at Duke University.
Andrรฉs Waissman nace e Buenos Aires en 1955 de padres judรญos. Comenzรณ a exponer muy tempranamente a mediados de los 70. En 1974, trabajรณ con Augusto Torres en Barcelona y en 1978 y con Antonio Seguรญ en Parรญs. En 1984, se radica en San Francisco, donde trabajรณ en el Consulado Argentino, organizando eventos culturales en representaciรณn de Argentina y desde donde desarrolla una carrera internacional exponiendo en diferentes galerรญas y museos de Los รngeles, San Francisco, Nueva York. Regresรณ a Buenos Aires y dirigรญa el programa de TV Styles, dedicado a rescatar los valores culturales. En 2005 se publicรณ el libro WAISSMAN. En 2010, se presenta en MALBA, el documental Waissman, PBS de EEUU. Desde 2012, participa e integra el equipo docente en un Programa Anual de Encuentros de Anรกlisis, Crรญtica y Producciรณn de Arte. Su arte muestra indirectamente la temรกtica judรญa.
__________________________________________
Andrรฉs Waissman was born in Buenos Aires in 1955 of Jewish parents. He began to exhibit very early in the mid-1970s. In 1974, he worked with Augusto Torres in Barcelona and in 1978 and with Antonio Seguรญ in Paris. In 1984, he settled in San Francisco, where he worked at the Argentine Consulate, organizing cultural events on behalf of Argentina and from where he developed an international career exhibiting in different galleries and museums in Los Angeles, San Francisco, New York. He returned to Buenos Aires and directed the TV program Styles, dedicated to rescuing cultural values. In 2005 the book WAISSMAN was published. In 2010, it is presented in MALBA, the documentary Waissman, PBS of the USA. Since 2012, he participates and integrates the teaching team in an Annual Program of Art Analysis, Criticism and Production Encounters. His work often hints at Jewish themes.
_______________________________________________
“Andrรฉs Waissman es un artista que conoce tambiรฉn de geologรญa; de la mutaciรณn de las capas sucesivas de memoria en arte รฉtico. Sabe que sรณlo puede haber sociedad si las llagas de la historia esculpen la retina y se dejan pintar, asรญ: simples, potentes y bellรญsimas, como pliegues de porvenir, explosiones iniciales, movimiento, oleaje, estremecimiento, Big Bang. Terrible e irresistible vicio el de Andrรฉs Waissman, de situar en la pequeรฑa puerta de lo instantรกneo esos no-lugares en los que, justamente, hacer pensable el advenir y la apertura de “otros mundos posibles”.
Espronceda Centro de Arte — Barcelona
_____________________________________________
“Andrรฉs Waissman is an artist who also knows geology; of the mutation of the successive layers of memory in ethical art. He knows that there can only be society if the wounds of history sculpt the retina and allow themselves to be painted, like this: simple, powerful and beautiful, like folds of the future, initial explosions, movement, waves, shudder, Big Bang. Terrible and irresistible vice that of Andrรฉs Waissman, of placing in the small door of the instantaneous those non-places in which, precisely, to make the future thinkable and the opening of “other possible worlds”.
Lilliana Torreh-Bayouth naciรณ en Puerto Rico de padres judรญos sefardรญes. Recibiรณ una Licenciatura en Artes de la Universidad McGill en 1980 y un Doctorado en Jurisprudencia de la Universidad de Texas en 1982. Desde 1987 hasta 1995, la jueza Torreh-Bayouth ejerciรณ su prรกctica privada en Miami. Antes de esto, trabajรณ como abogada en las firmas de abogados Greenberg, Traurig, et al., y Finley, Kumble, Wagner, et al., tambiรฉn en Miami. El juez Torreh-Bayouth es miembro del Colegio de Abogados de Florida. Fue nombrada Juez de Inmigraciรณn en diciembre de 1995 y sirve en Miami.
_______________________________________________
Lilliana Torreh-Bayouth was born in Puerto Rico of Sephardic Jewish parents. She received a Bachelor of Arts degree from McGill University in 1980, and a Juris Doctorate from the University of Texas in 1982. From 1987 to 1995, Judge Torreh-Bayouth was in private practice in Miami. Prior to this, she worked as an attorney with the law firms of Greenberg, Traurig, et al., and Finley, Kumble, Wagner, et al., also in Miami. Judge Torreh-Bayouth is a member of the Florida Bar. She was appointed as an Immigration Judge in December 1995 and serves in Miami.
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“Nacรญ en el ala sureste del Aeropuerto”
Nacรญ en el ala sureste del Aeropuerto. El aeropuerto consiste en un nรบmero infinito de salidas. Cada ala tiene su propio estilo y diseรฑo y sus propios reglamentos. Algunas alas tienen sofรกs en las salas de espera, otros bancos, otras sillas, otras hamacas, otras butacas o combinaciones de รฉstos. Las azafatas de cada salida tienen un uniforme distinto y en cada salida se habla un idioma diferente. Ademรกs, los reglamentos para anuncios de vuelo son especรญficos a cada salida; de modo que al anunciar los vuelos que llegan y salen de cada ala se forma una confusiรณn irremediable.
He recorrido miles de salidas del ala sureste del aeropuerto y algunas del รกrea sur. He aprendido los idiomas de casi todas esas salidas y he tratado de memorizar miles de reglamentos con fin de lograr salir en el vuelo que me lleve a El Destino.
Tras todos estos aรฑos, no he lograr a tiempo a ningรบn vuelo. En la confusiรณn del ala, no puedo escuchar bien los anuncios del vuelo. Entender las instrucciones se complica porque cada idioma utiliza una expresiรณn distinta para anunciar un mismo evento. Por ejemplo, โel aviรณn va a despegarโ, traducido al idioma de la salida 9999 de mi ala, significa, โel aviรณn ya se despegรณโ. Por culpa de estas idiosincrasias lingรผรญsticas, he perdido muchos vuelos.
Mรกs complicados aรบn son los cambios de reglamentaciรณn. En una salida la fila para validar el boleto es la roja, pero en salida contigua, puede ser la fila azul. Ya son innumerables las veces que he pasado horas haciendo cola, para luego descubrir que estaba en la fila equivocada y ver partir el vuelo sin poder hacer nada.
Ha habido otras veces que he acertado en los reglamentos y he logrado montar el vuelo para luego percatarme que era el vuelo equivocado. Tantas veces roguรฉ que detuvieran el aviรณn y me dejaran bajar, pero siempre me hicieron caso omiso a mis sรบplicas.
Durante todos esos aรฑos, he visto rondar a varios portadores de profecรญas que deambulaban por las alas del aeropuerto anunciando vuelos que nunca llegaban, o que ya habรญan partido o seรฑalando con el rumbo equivocado. Por culpa de ellos he perdido incontables dรญas de filas tumultuosas, amotinadas por el afรกn de montar el vuelo pronosticado sin resultado alguno.
Sigo sin perder las esperanzas de alcanzar el vuelo. Tengo que alcanzarlo. Me espera mi propio ser.
“I Was Born in the Southeast Terminal of the Airport”
I was born in the southeast terminal of the Airport. The airport consists of an infinite number of gates. Each terminal has its own style and design and its own regulations. Some terminals have sofas in the waiting rooms, others benches, others chairs, others hammocks, others seats or combinations of all these. The staff at each gate have a different uniform and a different language is spoken at each gate. In addition, the regulations for flight announcements are specific to each departure; so that by announcing the flights arriving and departing from each terminal, hopeless confusion is formed.
I have walked thousands of departures from the southeast wing of the airport and a few from the south area. I have learned the languages โโof almost all those gates and I have tried to memorize thousands of regulations in order to get out on the flight that takes me to Destiny.
After all these years, I haven’t made it to any flight on time. In the confusion of the terminal, I can’t hear the flight announcements very well. Understanding the instructions is complicated, because each language uses a different expression to announce the same event. For example, “the plane is going to take off”, translated into the language of my terminal 9999, means, “the plane has already taken off”. Because of these linguistic idiosyncrasies, I have missed many flights. Even more complicated are the regulatory changes. At one exit, the line to validate the ticket is the red one, but at the next exit, it can be the blue line. There are countless times now that I have spent hours queuing, only to find out later that I was in the wrong line and watch the flight depart without being able to do anything.
There have been other times that I have been correct in the regulations and I have managed to mount the flight only to later realize that it was the wrong flight. So many times I begged them to stop the plane and let me off, but my pleas were always ignored. During all those years, I have seen several prophecy bearers wandering the wings of the airport announcing flights that never arrived, or had already departed, or pointed in the wrong direction. Because of them I have lost countless days of tumultuous ranks, mutinous by the desire to mount the predicted flight without any result.
I still do not lose hope of making the flight. I have to make it. My own being depends on it.
Nacรญ en la ciudad de Bahรญa Blanca en el aรฑo 1957
Estudios cursados de Matemรกtica en la Universidad de Buenos Aires
Escribรญ mรกs que nada poesรญa desde muy joven, a menudo con desesperaciรณn. Expresar en palabras el dolor resultรณ una forma sutil de autosanacion. Varios de esos poemas se plasmaron en los cinco libros que menciono mรกs abajo. Desde hace un tiempo incursionรณ en el relato. Diario de un cuรฉntenik se basa tanto en personas que conocรญ trabajando como en mi imaginaciรณn. Muchos otros relatos, sobre temas variados, aรบn permanecen inรฉditos. Estรกn esperando, pacientemente, la forma adecuada de salir a la luz.
Es del comercio de lo que vivรญ toda mi vida, debo decir que con suerte diversa. Actualmente me siento cรณmodo dedicรกndome al tratamiento de rezagos electrรณnicos y a la venta por internet. Me gusta pensar que soy un cuentenik tecnolรณgico, pero un orgulloso cuentenik al fin.
Presidente durante 8 aรฑos de la Asociaciรณn Argentina del juego de go.
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Jorge Santkovsky:
I was born in Bahรญa Blanca in 1957 and moved to Buenos Aires in 1976.
I took courses in mathematics at the University of Buenos Aires.
I wrote more poetry than anything else, often out of desperation. To express pain in words resulted in a subtle form of self-cleaning. A number of those poems were embodied in the five books of poetry that I mention below. A while ago, I made an incursion into the short-story, Diario de un cuรฉntenik is based as much on people I met while working as in my imagination. Many other stories, on varied themes, still remain unpublished. They are waiting, patiently, to see the light.
It is from commerce that I have lived my entire life, with varied luck, I should say. Right now, Iโm comfortable dedicating myself to the handling of remaindered electronic devices and to internet sales. I like to think that I am a technological cuentenik, but a proud cuentenik in the end.
These days I find myself writing about the magic of visible and invisible beings that inhabit the neighborhood of San Telmo, old neighborhood where I live in Buenos Aires.
For eight years, I was president of the Argentine Association for the Game of Go.
Libros de Jorge Santkovsky/Books by Jorge Santkovsky
โRevelaciones โpor la Editorial Huesos de Jibia 2010- Ciudad de Buenos Aires
โRevelaciones acerca de otras criaturasโ por la Editorial Huesos de Jibia 2011
โBreves โpor la editorial Colectivo Semilla 2013 de la ciudad de Bahรญa Blanca
โEl sonido de la atenciรณnโ Editorial Huesos de Jibia 2014 Ciudad de Buenos Aires
โLa incomodidadโ Editorial Huesos de Jibia 2015 Ciudad de Buenos Aires
“El despuรฉs es ahora”. A :Capela Ediciones 2022 Ciudad de Buenos Aires
Narrative: โDiario de un cuentenikโ de la editorial Leviatรกn 2020
Es cierto que hay muchos poemas, no es necesario leerlos en el orden establecido. Propongo una lectura aleatoria, sobrevolando los versos. Varios de ellos vivieron en libros anteriores. Vuelven modificados por el tiempo y la relectura. Las mismas obsesiones con la esperanza de que alguien las escuche. Jorge Santkovsky
“It is true that there are many poems, it is not necessary to read them in the established order. I propose a random reading, flying over the verses. Several of them lived in previous books. They return modified by time and rereading. The same obsessions in the hope that someone will listen to them.” Jorge Santkovsky
Pablo A. Freinkel (Bahรญa Blanca, Argentina, 1957). Licenciado en Bioquรญmica. Periodista y escritor. Sus artรญculos y notas se han dado a conocer en Buenos Aires, New York y Jerusalem; y en medios online nacionales y extranjeros. Es autor de cinco libros: Diccionario Biogrรกfico Bahiense, el ensayo Metafรญsica y Holocausto, y las novelas El dรญa que Sigmund Freud asesinรณ a Moisรฉs y Los destinos sagrados. Escribiรณ el guiรณn del documental Matthias Sindelar: un gol por la vida. Ha dictado conferencias sobre Spinoza, Maimรณnides y literatura judรญa argentina actual, en diferentes instituciones del paรญs. El lector de Spinoza acaba de publicarse.
Pablo A. Freinkel (Bahรญa Blanca, Argentina, 1957) who has a degree in biochemistry. He is a journalist and writer. His articles and notes have been published in Buenos Aires, New York and Jerusalem, in Argentine and international online media. Freinkel is the author of five books: Diccionario Biogrรกfico Bahiense, Metafรญsica y Holocausto, and the novel El dรญa que Sigmund Freud asesinรณ a Moisรฉs and Los destinos sagrados. He wrote the script for Matthias Sindelar: un gol por la vida. He has lectured on Spinoza, Maimonides and on contemporary Argentine-Jewish literature throughout Argentina. His El lector de Spinoza has just been published.
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Baruj Spinoza
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Baruch Spinoza logrรณ escribir una serie de textos que definirรญan sus corrientes filosรณficas. Uno de sus primeros trabajos fue Breve tratado acerca de Dios, el hombre y su felicidad (1658). En esta obra, Spinoza realizรณ una ardua crรญtica contra la biblia y la iglesia catรณlica, partiendo de un pensamiento racionalista, el cual se mantendrรญa en el resto de sus investigaciones y postulados filosรณficos.
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Baruch Spinoza managed to write a series of texts that would define his philosophical currents. One of his first works was a short treatise on God, man and their happiness (1658). In this work, Spinoza made an arduous criticism against the Bible and the Catholic Church, starting from a rationalist thought, which would be maintained in the rest of his investigations and philosophical postulates.
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“El lector de Spinoza”
Don Segismundo estรก leyendo de un cuaderno personal:
โPoco antes del mediodรญaโ, leyรณ, โvino un hombre de mediana estatura, delgado, cabellera amplia, oscura, de hasta veinticinco aรฑos, no mรกs. Al principio, me pareciรณ tรญmido, apocado, como si no supiera quรฉ solicitar. Echรณ un vistazo por el salรณn, dejรณ vagar los ojos por anaqueles y mesas hasta que irresoluto, como luchando consigo mismo, se acercรณ hasta el mostrador. Al verlo a tan poca distancia, me pareciรณ percibir una luz diferente ardiendo en sus pupilas. Se dirigiรณ a mรญ con correcciรณn y voz clara, sin falsas cadencias. โBuen dรญa, seรฑorโ, saludรณ. โEstoy averiguando sobre algunos libros del filรณsofo Baruj Spinoza. ยฟLo conoce?โ
โMe llamรณ la atenciรณn porque no daba el tipo spinoziano y por la pregunta final. Me sonaba mรกs como una broma; sin embargo, la seriedad con que me interpelรณ hizo que pronto se disiparan mis dudasโ. ยฟBusca algรบn tรญtulo en particular o se estรก iniciando en su estudio?โ Pareciรณ dudar tal vez porque no habรญa considerado esta situaciรณn-. โSi este es el caso, podrรญa empezar con un estudio general sobre su obra, una introducciรณn, para despuรฉs proseguir con sus textos. Usted debe saber que la erudiciรณn de Spinoza es complicada si no se tiene un concepto previoโ.
“Sรญ, comprendoโ.
โEl รญmpetu del que habรญa hecho lucimiento al principio se fue diluyendo y lo reflejaba su rostro con rapidez. Intuรญ que debรญa ponerme al frente de la situaciรณn e intentar un rescate de emergenciaโ. โVamos a hacer lo siguiente. En primer lugar, ยฟpor quรฉ desea usted tomar conocimiento de la obra de Spinoza?”
โLa decepciรณn iba en continuo crecimiento y le quitaba edad a sus facciones. Ahora no semejaba tener mรกs de veinte aรฑos. La duda lo carcomรญa por dentro; le faltaba el impulso para decidirse a hablar. Yo ya no sabรญa cรณmo darle รกnimos sin caer en la categorรญa de indiscretoโ. โTodo empezรณ en un Kabalat Shabat, por una crรญtica delโฆ sacerdoteโฆโ, โdudรณ al emplear la palabraโ. ยฟRabino?โ, โLo corregรญ. No me escuchรณ. En cambio, me mirรณ como calibrando mi aspecto antes de hacer la pregunta que consideraba crucialโ. โDisculpe, seรฑorโฆ ยฟUsted es judรญo?โ
โBueno, buenoโ, pensรฉ. โBasta que todo esto no derive en una cuestiรณn de antisemitismo. Pero me arriesguรฉ y respondรญ afirmativamenteโ.
Don Segismundo dejรณ de leer para mirarme directamente a la cara.
-Marquitos, vos no podรฉs imaginarte la cara de alivio de ese muchacho. Ahora sรญ, no le daba mรกs de veinte aรฑos, con una sonrisa radiante, sus ojos limpios de toda nube de aprensiรณn. Todavรญa recuerdo la imagen y me emociona. Sigo.
Volviรณ al cuaderno.
“Sรญ.referรญa a la fe, a los creyentes, a la fuerza y la misericordia de Adonai. En un momento, se desviรณ de su prรฉdica y empezรณ a atacar a los que rechazan la existencia de Dios, propagan falsas interpretaciones, niegan las verdades eternas transmitidas por los santos profetas y responsabilizรณ al hereje holandรฉs Baruj Spinoza, expulsado de la Casa de Israel justamente por envenenar la mente de los piadosos. Nadie comprendรญa nada, muy pocos o ninguno habรญamos escuchado alguna vez el nombre de esa personaโฆโ
โEsto despertรณ mi atenciรณn. Lo interrumpรญ. โยฟDe dรณnde viene usted?โ
โEl muchacho permaneciรณ en silencio mientras pensaba con rapidez. Entregaba una imagen de tanto candor que sus reacciones dibujaban los gestos de su cara. โDe un pequeรฑo pueblo al oeste. No tenemos shill y los que queremos recibir y honrar el shabat vamos a una localidad cercana, que tiene un rabinoโ.ยฟEse sitio tiene nombre?,โ preguntรฉ. โComprรฉndame si prefiero no dar detalles. Ahora mismo no sรฉ si hago bien en estar hablando de esto con ustedโ. โClaro. No quiero comprometerloโ. โAl tรฉrmino de la ceremonia me acerquรฉ al rabino y con algรบn temor le preguntรฉ quiรฉn era ese Spinoza que habรญa recibido una crรญtica tan severa de su parte. Enojado, de malas maneras, me ordenรณ que me mantenga apartado de รฉl, era un impรญo, un traidor. Por supuesto, lejos de convencerme, me animรณ a averiguar algo mรกs sobre ese personaje. Regresรฉ a mi casa y consultรฉ un diccionario. En dos o tres renglones me informรณ que era un filรณsofo holandรฉs, las fechas de nacimiento y muerte, y que su divisa era una frase en latรญn, creo, que no recuerdo…โ โDeus, sive Natura, dijeโ. โยฟPerdรณn?โ โAsรญ se define su filosofรญa: Dios, o sea la Naturalezaโ. โAh. No sabรญa quรฉ significabaโ. โAhora lo sabe. ยฟQuรฉ pasรณ despuรฉs?โ Pasรฉ el fin de semana obsesionado con Spinoza. En realidad, no tenรญa nada quรฉ pensar sobre รฉl porque lo ignoraba todo. Ademรกs, en el pueblo no habรญa nadie con los conocimientos necesarios para aclararme el panorama. Me volvรญan a la memoria las palabras inusitadamente implacables del rabino, por lo comรบn amable, tranquilo. El lunes le pedรญ a mi padre unas horas libres, yo estoy empleado en su comercio, y volvรญ a la ciudad. Fui a la Biblioteca Pรบblica, donde solicitรฉ consultar una enciclopedia. Cuando le dije a la anciana bibliotecaria el tema que querรญa conocer, me mirรณ con asombro y desconfianza. Sin embargo, me orientรณ en la bรบsqueda. Al entrar a la sala de lectura, llevaba en mis manos un antiguo volumen, las letras doradas del lomo gastadas por el tiempo y el uso; cuando lo abrรญ, el crujido de las hojas resecas, amarillas, me produjo un temblor que fue casi como una advertencia. Rรกpidamente, encontrรฉ lo que buscaba. Spinoza, Benito. Filรณsofo judรญo nacido en รmsterdam, de familia sefardita. Anotรฉ los datos en unas hojas sueltas; en especial, los libros que habรญa escrito. El punto que me mรกs me afectรณ fue enterarme que habรญa sido expulsado del judaรญsmo por sus posiciones herรฉticas. Al devolver el libro, preguntรฉ a la encargada si la Biblioteca contaba con algรบn libro de ese autor. Dijo que no y al ver la mueca de desencanto que seguramente esbozรณ mi rostro, me observรณ con muy detenimiento.
Entonces, quiso saber por quรฉ yo, una persona tan joven, buscaba escritos de un hombre que habรญa vivido tantos aรฑos atrรกs y dejado una reputaciรณn tan mala en religiรณn y filosofรญa. No supe quรฉ contestarle, pero algo me decรญa que allรญ podrรญa haber una oportunidad para averiguar algo mรกs. โEscuchรฉ que alguien hablaba de sus enseรฑanzas y me despertรณ la curiosidad, respondรญ a mediasโ.
โEn ese caso, es muy poco lo que podrรก recoger aquรญ. Si estรก tan interesado como dice, hay en la Capital una librerรญa atendida por un seรฑor muy especial que podrรก ayudarlo en su pesquisa. Es discreto y muy buen intencionado. Vaya a verloโ. โTomรณ un papel de los que se utilizaban para anotar los pedidos y rรกpidamente garabateรณ unas lรญneasโ. โEspero que le sea รบtil para resolver sus dudas. Pero no crea demasiado lo que tiene Spinoza para decir. Buenos dรญasโ. โNo me dio tiempo a nada, ni siquiera a agradecerle pues desapareciรณ en una oficinita anexaโ.
Don Segismundo detuvo la lectura y alzรณ la vista como para enfocar un acontecimiento del pasado que circulara por delante de sus ojos.
-Supongo innecesario aclarar que le direcciรณn que le entregรณ la buena seรฑora era de la librerรญa. Cuando la inaugurรฉ, remitรญ creo que cientos de cartas de presentaciรณn a bibliotecas pรบblicas y privadas en una amplia zona alrededor de esta ciudad. Me alegra saber que algunas llegaron y fueron bien valoradas.
-ยฟTiene alguna lista de destinatarios? โpreguntรฉ ansioso.
-Las ubiquรฉ en una guรญa de telรฉfonos. รsa fue mi lista. Lo siento.
-Estรก bien.
Nuestro anfitriรณn volviรณ a la lectura y al relato de su inesperado cliente: โPasaron varias jornadas de duda e indecisiรณn. Me preguntaba si para satisfacer un capricho debรญa sacrificar un dรญa de trabajo, ademรกs del dinero para el pasaje en tren y despuรฉs si se justificaba gastar en libros de destino impreciso. Pero allรญ permanecรญa el ansia de saber y cada tanto retornaba azuzรกndome con su aguijรณn. Hasta que hoy por la maรฑana me di cuenta de que no podรญa luchar mรกs contra esta idea fija. Inventรฉ una excusa para demorar mi ingreso al negocio y aquรญ me tiene. ยฟEn quรฉ puede ayudarme para salvar esta situaciรณn? Lo รบnico que yo puedo hacer es ofrecerle libros para que conozca al personaje y su doctrina. Tal vez pueda darle algunas precisiones o detalles, pero nada mejor que leer a los eruditos sobre un tema para conocerlo a fondoโ.
โPensรฉ por unos instantes cuรกles podรญan ser los textos que le servirรญan como introducciรณn a un asunto tan complejo y se me ocurriรณ una recurso que podrรญa resultar favorable. โEspere un segundoโ, le dije.
โFui hasta unos anaqueles que reunรญan distintos autores y asuntos filosรณficos, tomรฉ dos volรบmenes y regresรฉ hasta donde estaba el joven, impaciente. Al verlo en este estado, le preguntรฉ si se sentรญa bien. โSรญ, replicรณ. Lo que pasa es que tengo que presentarme en el trabajo en poco tiempo. Mi papรก empieza a sospechar que ando en algo raroโ. โBueno, aprovechemos el tiempo de la mejor manera. Aquรญ tengo un material con el cual usted podrรก tomar contacto por primera vez con el maestro de รmsterdam. Una biografรญa escrita por Karl Gebhardt, creo que es un material comprensible para un neรณfito y el Tratado Teolรณgico Polรญtico que, aunque por su tรญtulo parece catastrรณfico, su estilo permite un rรกpido acceso; claro, tiene su dificultad, no se lo voy a negar, pero Spinoza es un maestro en el arte de hacer asequible lo complicadoโ.
โLe entreguรฉ los libros y รฉl los mirรณ como objetos de otro mundo. Recorriรณ las hojas sin mirar nada especรญfico, hasta que con un tono de resignaciรณn me confesรณ: โNo los puedo comprar; el dinero no me alcanzaโ.
โEntonces hice algo que nunca habรญa hecho hasta entonces y que muy pocas veces lo repetรญ en el futuro: โLlรฉvelos, con confianza. Los va pagando a medida que puedaโ.
โPero usted no me conoce. Ni siquiera sabe mi nombre, protestรณโ. โNo crea, lo conozco mรกs de lo que usted piensa. Ademรกs, un nombre no hace ninguna diferencia. Importa la personaโ.
โMe mirรณ con un brillo lacrimal en los ojos. A continuaciรณn, buscรณ en el bolsillo de su pantalรณn, extrajo un billete de muy baja denominaciรณn y me lo extendiรณ. โGracias. Yo despuรฉs lo apuntoโ.
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“The Reader of Spinoza”
Don Segismundo is reading from a personal diary:
โA little before noon,โ he read, “a man of average stature, thin, with a lot of hair on his head, dark, perhaps twenty-five years old, no more, came in. At first, he appeared timid to me, shy, as if he didnโt know what to ask for. He took a quick look at the store, he let his eyes wander through the shelves and tables until, hesitant, as if her were fighting with himself, he approached the counter. Seeing him up close, I seemed to perceive a strange kind of light burning in his pupils. He turned to me addressed me with care and a clear voice, without false cadences. โGood day, sir.โ He greeted me.
โI am looking for some books by the philosopher Baruj Spinoza. Do you know him?โ โThis caught my attention because he didnโt to be the Spinozan type and for the last question. It sounded like a joke to me: nevertheless, the seriousness with which he questioned me caused my doubts to dissipate.โ โAre you looking for a specific title or are you beginning your study?โ โHe seemed doubtful, perhaps because he had never considered this possibility. โIf that is the case, you could begin with a general study of his works, an introduction, in order to later proceed with his texts. You need to know that Spinozaโs erudition is complicated if you donโt have a prior concept of it.โ
โYes, I understand.โ
The impetus that had shown at the beginning was failing, and it was quickly showing in his face. I intuited that I ought to take charge of the situation and try for an emergency rescue. โLetโs do the following. First of all, why do why to you want to learn about Spinozaโs work?โ โThe disappointment was continually growing, and it made his face look younger. Doubt was eating inside of him: he lacked the desire to speak. I didnโt know how to prompt him without out being indiscreet.โ โEverything began in a Kabbalat Shabbat, with the criticism of the. . .priest,โ โHe was doubtful about using that word.โ โRabbi?โ I corrected him. “He didnโt listen to me. Instead, he looked at me, calculating my look, before asking the question that considered crucial.โ โForgive me, sir . . .Are you Jewish?โ โGood, good, I thought. โI hope that this doesnโt come out of question of anti-Semitism. But I took a risk and answered affirmatively.โ
Don Segismundo stopped reading to look me straight in the face. โMarquitos, you canโt imagine the face of relief that this boy had. Now, he didnโt seem to be more twenty years old, with a radiant smile, his eyes cleansed of any cloud of apprehension. I still remember the picture, and it moves me. I continue. He turned back to the notebook.
The boy remained silent while he thought rapidly. He gave off an image of such candor that his reactions were drawn of the movements of his face. โFrom a small town to the west. We donโt have a shul and those who want to receive and honor the Shabbat go to a nearby locale, that has a rabbi.โ โDoes that place have a name?โ I asked, โPlease understand if I prefer not to get into details. At this moment, I donโt know if Iโm doing the right thing by speaking with you.โ โOf course. I donโt want to compromise you.โ โAt the end of the ceremony a approached the rabbi a with some fear, I asked him who was that Spinoza who had received such severe criticism. Angered, bad-mannered, he ordered that I keep away from Spinoza, that he was impious, a traitor. Of course, far from convincing me, I was encouraged to find out something more about that personage. I returned home and I consulted a dictionary. In two or three lines, it informed me that he was a Dutch philosopher. The dates of his birth and death, and that his motto was a phrase in Latin that I don’t remember. . . โDeus sive Natura,” I said. โExcuse meโ โThat is how his philosophy is defined: God, or be it Nature.โ โAh. I didnโt know what it meant.โ โNow he knew. What happened next?โ โI spent the weekend obsessed by Spinoza. Truthfully, I didnโt have anything to think about him, because I didnโt know anything. Also, in the town, there wasnโt anyone with the knowledge necessary to clarify the panorama. The unusually implacable words of the rabbi came back to me; he is a man generally friendly and tranquil. On Monday, I asked my father for a few hours off, I am employed in his business, and I returned to the city.”
โYes, yes, of course, I wanted to say rabbi,โ he corrected himself,โ blushing. “Yes. he was referring to the faith, to the believers, to the force and mercy of Adonai. In a moment, he went off his sermon and began to attack those who reject the existence of God, put out false interpretations, deny the eternal truths transmitted by the holy prophets and put the responsibility on the Dutch heretic Baruj Spinoza, justly expelled from the House of Israel for poisoning the minds of the pious. Nobody understood anything, very few or no one had ever heard the name of that man. . .”
โThat caught my attention.โ I interrupted him. โWhere are you from?โ
The boy remained silent while he thought rapidly. He gave off an image of such candor that his reactions were drawn of the movements of his face. โFrom a small town to the west. We donโt have a shul and those who want to receive and honor the Shabbat go to a nearby locale, that has a rabbi.โ โDoes that place have a name?โ I asked, โPlease understand if I prefer not to get into details. At this moment, I donโt know if Iโm doing the right thing by speaking with you.โ โOf course. I donโt want to compromise you.โ โAt the end of the ceremony a approached the rabbi a with some fear, I asked him who was that Spinoza who had received such severe criticism. Angered, badly mannered, He ordered that I keep away from him, that he was impious, a traitor. Of course, far from convincing me, I was encouraged to find out something more about that personage. I returned home and I consulted a dictionary. In two or three lines, it informed me that he was a Dutch philosopher. The dates of his birth and death, and that his motto was a phrase in Latin that I don’t remember. . . โDeus sive Natura, I said. โExcuse meโ โThat is how is philosophy is defined: God, of be it Nature.โ โAh. I didnโt know what it meant.โ โNow he knew. What happened next?โ โI spent the week end obsessed by Spinoza. Truthfully, I didnโt have anything to think about him, because I didnโt know anything. Also, in the town, there wasnโt anyone with the knowledge necessary to clarify the panorama. The unusually implacable words of the rabbi came back to me; a man generally friendly and tranquil. On Monday, I asked my father for a few hours off, I am employed in his business, and I returned to the city.โ
I went to the Public Library, where I asked to use an encyclopedia. When I told the aged librarian the theme that I wanted to know about, she looked at me with amazement and mistrust. Nevertheless, she oriented me in my search, Upon entering the reading room, I carried in my hands an old volume, the letters golden letters on the spine worn by time and usage; when I opened it, the crackling of the very dry pages, yellowed, produced in me a shiver that was almost like a warning. Rapidly, I found what I was seeking, Spinoza, Benito. Jewish philosopher born in Amsterdam, of a Sephardic family. I took down notes on some loose pieces of paper, especially, the books he had written. The point that affected me the most was when I learned that he had been expelled from Judaism for his heretical positions. On returning the book, I asked the person in charge if the Library had any books by that author. She said no, but on seeing my grimace of dismay that surely passed over my face, she observed me carefully.”
“Then, she wanted to know why I, a person so young, was looking for writings by a man who had lived so many years ago and left behind such a poor reputation in religion and philosophy. I didnโt know how to answer her, but something told me that there I could have the opportunity to clarify something more. โI heard that someone was speaking about his teachings and it awakened my curiosity,โ I answered have-heartedly.โ
“In that case, there is very little you can get here. If you are as interested as you say, there is in the Capital,a bookstore, run by a very special gentleman who can probably help you in your search. He is discreet and well-meaning. Go see him.โ โShe took a piece of paper from those that were used to note down requests and rapidly scribbled some lines.โ โI hope that he will he helpful in resolving your doubts. But donโt believe too much in what Spinosa has to say. Good day.โ โShe didnโt give me time to do anything, not even thank her since she disappeared into a small office nearby.โ
Don Segismundo stopped the reading and raised his eyes as if to focus on an event in the past that was circulating in front of his eyes.
โI suppose itโs unnecessary to state the address that the good lady gave you was of this bookstore. When I opened the store, I sent out, I think, hundreds of announcements to public and private libraries in a broad area around this city. Iโm pleased to know that they arrived and were valued.โ
โDo you have a list of the recipients.โ I asked anxiously.
โI found them in a telephone book. That was my list. Iโm sorry.โ
โDonโt worry.โ
Our host returned to his reading and the story of his unexpected client: โSeveral days of doubt and indecision passed by. I wondered if to satisfy a whim I ought to sacrifice a day of work, as well as the money for the train and then if it was justifiable to waste about books of an imprecise destination. But the desire to know remained and every once in a while, returned pushing me with its sting. Until this morning I couldnโt fight any longer against this fixed idea. I invented an excuse to delay my entry into the business it had me there. What can help me to save this situation? The only thing I could do is offer him books so that he knew the man and his doctrine. Perhaps I can give him some bits of information and details, but there is nothing better to read the scholars about a theme in order to know it in depth.
โI thought for a few moments about which books could be the texts that might serve him as an introduction to such a complex issue and a resource occurred to me that could have a favorable result. . . โWait a moment,โ I told him.
โI went over to some shelves where authors and philosophical were kept, I took two volumes and I returned to where the young man was impatiently waiting. Seeing him in this state, I asked him if he felt okay.โ โYes,โ he replied. What happened is that I have to return to work very soon. My papa is beginning to suspect that Iโm involved in something strangeโ. โOkay, letโs take advantage of the time in the best way possible. Here I have a book with which you will come in contact for the first time with the master from Amsterdam. A biography written by Karl Gebbart, I believe it is a work understandable by a neophyte and the Tractate Theological-Political, which, although itโs title seems catastrophic, his style permits a rapid access; of course, it has its difficulties, I wonโt deny it, but Spinoza is a master in the art of making the complicated accessibleโ.
โI gave him the books, and he looked at them as if they were objects from another world. He flipped through the pages without looking for something specific, until, with a tone of resignation, he confessed, โI canโt buy them. I donโt have enough money.โ
โThen, I did something that I had never done until then and that I rarely did in the future.โ โTake them, on trust. You will pay for them as you can.
โBut you donโt know me. You donโt even know my name, he protestedโ โDonโt you believe it. I know you better than you think. Moreover, a name doesnโt make any difference. Whatโs important is the person.โ
โHe looked at me with a teary shine in his eyes. Then, he looked in his pants pocket, extracted a bill of a very small denomination and he extended it to me.โ
Carlos Moisรฉs Grรผnberg fue uno de los autores judรญos mรกs importantes e influyentes de su generaciรณn en Argentina. Naciรณ en Buenos Aires en 1903 y falleciรณ en 1968. Recibiรณ su educaciรณn formal de la Universidad de Buenos Aires, obteniendo tรญtulos avanzados en filosofรญa y derecho. En sus primeros volรบmenes de poesรญa โLas cรกmaras del rey (1922) y El libro del tiempo (1924)- Grรผnberg mostrรณ una estrecha filiaciรณn con el grupo de escritores de vanguardia de la dรฉcada de 1920 conocidos como los martรญnfierristas, por su vinculaciรณn con la revista literaria Martรญn Fierro. Tambiรฉn fue conocido por sus traducciones de Heinrich Heine y H.N. Bialik al espaรฑol. Participรณ activamente en el movimiento sionista y fue nombrado enlace entre el Estado de Israel y Argentina en 1948. Carlos Grรผnberg no se disculpรณ en su expresiรณn poรฉtica de la identidad judรญa, que buscรณ especialmente incorporar en sus รบltimas obras. Al igual que su contemporรกneo Cรฉsar Tiempo (Israel Zeitlin), Grรผnberg se esforzรณ por definir la identidad argentino-judรญa en su poesรญa, un proyecto a veces doloroso pero siempre sincero. Su Mester de juderรญa (1940) llevรณ un prefacio laudatorio de Jorge Luis Borges que lo consagrรณ como poeta. Si bien muchos de los poemas hablan directamente de la situaciรณn precaria y, a menudo, peligrosa de los judรญos en Argentina, Grรผnberg plantea claramente su fe en el paรญs como una nueva patria llena de esperanza. Dado que su perspectiva como judรญo era secular, en este libro denuncia la religiosidad y declara su ateรญsmo con bastante fuerza y โโcoherencia. Junto a Un rรญo de Babel (1965), el siguiente volumen de poesรญa de Grรผnberg, estรก marcado por los importantes acontecimientos histรณricos desde la publicaciรณn de Mester. Su trabajo ha tenido un impacto duradero en las generaciones posteriores y permanece como un testimonio de la imaginaciรณn poรฉtica como una fundiciรณn de identidad cultural.
Carlos Moisรฉs Grรผnberg was one of the most important and influential Jewish authors of his generation in Argentina. He was born in Buenos Aires in 1903 and died in 1968. He received his formal education from the University of Buenos Aires, earning advanced degrees in philosophy and law. In his first volumes of poetry –The King’s Chambers (1922) and The Book of Time (1924)- Grรผnberg showed a close affiliation with the group of avant-garde writers of the 1920s known as the martรญnfierristas, due to their links with the literary magazine Martin Fierro. He was also known for his translations of Heinrich Heine and H.N. Bialik to Spanish. He was active in the Zionist movement and was appointed liaison between the State of Israel and Argentina in 1948. Carlos Grรผnberg was unapologetic in his poetic expression of Jewish identity, which he especially sought to incorporate in his later works. Like his contemporary Cรฉsar Tiempo (Israel Zeitlin), Grรผnberg strove to define Argentine-Jewish identity in his poetry, a sometimes painful but always sincere project. His Mester de Juderรญa (1940) carried a laudatory preface by Jorge Luis Borges that consecrated him as a poet. While many of the poems speak directly to the precarious and often dangerous situation of the Jews in Argentina, Grรผnberg makes clear his faith in the country as a new homeland full of hope. Since his perspective as a Jew was secular, in this book he denounces religiosity and declares his atheism quite strongly and consistently. Together with A River of Babel (1965), Grรผnberg’s next volume of poetry, it is marked by the important historical events since Mester’s publication. His work has had a lasting impact on subsequent generations and remains a testament to the poetic imagination as a foundry of cultural identity.
Baruj Salinas (La Habana, 1935) pintor, escultor, grabador y ceramistacubano de origen judรญo, naciรณ en La Habana, Cuba en 1935.โ La carrera de Salinas se iniciรณ en el campo de la arquitectura. Se graduรณ de la Universidad de Ohio con un tรญtulo de arquitecto y emigrรณ de Cuba a Miamia, Fla. de forma permanente en 1959. Salinas estableciรณ en Miami y mรกs tarde se trasladรณ a Barcelona, donde estudiรณ junto a artistas Joan Mirรณ y Antoni Tร pies. Aunque la arquitectura informรณ a sus primeros trabajos, poco a poco se trasladรณ hacia una expresiรณn puramente abstracta. Su obra se asemeja a cuadros de espacio, donde el color es mรกs importante que la forma y la misma se convierte en un tema principal. Hay rastros, tambiรฉn, de las tradiciones judรญas, pero haber nacido en Cuba ha hecho su impacto. Para รฉl, Cuba es el trรณpico y la caรฑa de azรบcar, tambiรฉn es el sol y la luz. รl nunca dejarรก de ser cubano. Las pinturas de Salina se puede ver en las colecciones importantes de todo el mundo, como la Fundaciรณn Joan Mirรณ, de Barcelona, el Museo Nacional de Catalunya, Barcelona, el Instituto Nacional de Bellas Artes, Mรฉxico DF, el Uri Museo Beit, Israel, el Museo de Fort Lauderdale de las Artes, Florida, el Museo de Bellas Artes, Budapest, el Instituto de Arte de Chicago y el Museo de Arte de Phoenix, Arizona.
Baruj Salinas (Havana, 1935) Cuban painter, sculptor, engraver and ceramicist of Jewish origin, was born in Havana, Cuba in 1935. Salinas’s career began in the field of architecture. He graduated from Ohio University with an architecture degree and immigrated from Cuba to Miami, Fla. permanently in 1959. Salinas settled in Miami and later moved to Barcelona, โโwhere he studied alongside artists Joan Mirรณ and Antoni Tร pies. Although architecture informed his early work, he gradually moved towards a purely abstract expression. His work resembles paintings of space, where color is more important than form and form becomes a main theme. There are traces, too, of Jewish traditions, but being born in Cuba has made its impact. For him, Cuba is the tropics and the sugar cane, it is also the sun and the light. He will never stop being Cuban. Salina’s paintings can be seen in important collections around the world, such as the Joan Mirรณ Foundation, Barcelona, โโthe National Museum of Catalonia, Barcelona, โโthe National Institute of Fine Arts, Mexico City, the Uri Beit Museum, Israel, the Fort Lauderdale Museum of the Arts, Florida, the Museum of Fine Arts, Budapest, the Art Institute of Chicago, and the Phoenix Art Museum, Arizona.
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El proyecto de la Torah/The Torah Project
El Proyecto Torรก Humash contiene los cinco libros de Moisรฉs en hebreo, which is the original language. The Hebrew text is accompanied by commentaries, from recognized personalities in the arts and biblical studies, written in four languages. English, Spanish, Italian and German.There are 27 unique paintings from the Jewish Cuban artist โ Master Baruj Salinas, which were beautifully reproduced in the technique of litho-seriagraphy from the original paintings by the printing house Santa Chiara in the City of Urbino, Italy. This special Torah Project Humash has been printed on 100% cotton paper in 160 gr. which was supplied by the Magnani House, an Italian paper mill in Pescia, Italy. There are 126 editions of the Torah Project Humash and each one has a wooden cover (called the Jerusalem Book Cover), made by La Casa Gentili, in the small town of Fossombrone, Italy. All the books are numbered from 1 to 126 and signed by the artist Baruj Salinas and the publishing house ACC Arte Scritta, this aims to identify each book as authentic
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The Torah Project Humash has 372 pages and it contains all of the five books of Moses in Hebrew, which is the original language.The Hebrew text is accompanied by commentaries, from recognized personalities in the arts and biblical studies, written in four languages. English, Spanish, Italian and German.There are 27 unique paintings from the Jewish Cuban artist โ Master Baruj Salinas, which were beautifully reproduced in the technique of litho-seriagraphy from the original paintings by the printing house Santa Chiara in the City of Urbino, Italy. This special Torah Project Humash has been printed on 100% cotton paper in 160 gr. which was supplied by the Magnani House, an Italian paper mill in Pescia, Italy.There are 126 editions of the Torah Project Humash and each one has a wooden cover (called the Jerusalem Book Cover), made by La Casa Gentili, in the small town of Fossombrone, Italy.All the books are numbered from 1 to 126 and signed by the artist Baruj Salinas and the publishing house ACC Arte Scritta, this aims to identify each book as authentic.
Sabina Berman Goldberg es una escritora, periodista y dramaturga mexicana, nacida 1955, en la Ciudad de Mรฉxico. Sus padres, de origen judรญo-polaco, emigraron a Mรฉxico ella. con el estallido de la Segunda Guerra Mundial, รฉl durante el gobierno de Lรกzaro Cรกrdenas del Rรญo. Sabina creciรณ en Mรฉxico, al lado de tres hermanosProfesionalmente, estudiรณ psicologรญa y letras mexicanas en la Universidad Iberoamericana. Debutรณ como guionista de cine con la cinta de horror La tรญa Alejandra (1979), para luego dedicarse por varios aรฑos al periodismo y la enseรฑanza. Volverรญa en la dรฉcada de los aรฑos 90, con el guiรณn para la cinta Entre Pancho Villa y una mujer desnuda (1996), para luego trabajar en las cintas El traspatio (2009), Gloria (2014) y Macho (2016). Sabina ha escrito tres novelas, La bobe, La mujer que buceรณ en el corazรณn del mundo y El Dios de Darwin, ademรกs de ser reconocida con el Premio Nacional de Periodismo y el Premio de la Feria Internacional de Frankfurt, en Alemania. Ahora es locutora de un programa de opiniรณn en la televisiรณn.
Sabina Berman Goldberg is a Mexican writer, journalist and playwright, born 1955, in Mexico City. His parents, of Polish-Jewish origin, emigrated to Mexico; รฉl, during the government of Lรกzaro Cรกrdenas del Rรญo y ella with the outbreak of World War II,. Sabi grew up in Mexico, next to three brothers.Professionally, he studied psychology and Mexican literature at the Universidad Iberoamericana. He made his debut as a film screenwriter with the horror film La tรญa Alejandra (1979), and then devoted himself to journalism and teaching for several years. He would return in the 90s, with the script for the film Between Pancho Villa and a naked woman (1996), to later work on the films El traspatio (2009), Gloria (2014) and Macho (2016). Sabina has written three novels, La bobe, La mujer que buceรณ en el corazรณn del mundo and El Dios de Darwin, in addition to being recognized with the National Prize for Journalism and the Prize of the Frankfurt International Fair in Germany. Now she leads a television program of opinion and discusion.
Sabina Berman, La bobe. Mรฉxico, D.F: Planeta., 1990.
Sabina Berman. La bobe/The Grandma
โLe platico a mi madreโ
Le platico a mi madre de este seรฑor llamado Moisรฉs. Estamos en el comedor, mis hermanos se han ido a jugar al jardรญn. Le platico que Moisรฉs, lleno de la fuera de Dios, abriรณ los brazos, y el Mar rojo se abriรณ y entonces Moisรฉs, seguido por el pueblo judรญo, avanzรณ entre las paredes del mar alzado.
Mi madre atiende divertida, sus ojos verdes, casi grises, son verde- turquesa cuando es feliz. Terminado mi relato, se despeja la frente del mechรณn de cabello rubio y me explica:
El seรฑor, ese Moisรฉs era un astrรณnomo egipcio y conociendo los movimientos de las mareas llegรณ ante el Mar Rojo en el momento que sus aguas estaban bien bajas. Ademรกs el Mar Rojo no era un mar, era un mar, era un lago de aguas mansas. Ademรกs no era rojo. Asรญ que fue asรญ: Moisรฉs llegรณ en el momento adecuado para cruzar sin problemas ese charco.
Al dรญa siguiente, en la clase de la Biblia, pido la palabra. Digo: Moisรฉs que era un egipcio que habรญa estudiad astronomรญa. . .
La maestra me interrumpe para corregir: Moisรฉs era un judรญo. . .
No, digo. Era un egipcio que le dijo a los judรญos algunas mentiras, como รฉsa de ser judรญo. . .
Espรฉrame en la direcciรณn, dice la maestra.
Me enseรฑan en la escuela y en casa me desenseรฑan. Me enseรฑan en casa y en la escuela e en la escuela me expulsaron.
Me dice mi mamรก.
Eso de que el pueblo judรญo es un pueblo elegido de Dios es lo que se llama un milagro de la imaginaciรณn. Fรญjate los judรญos somos el pueblo mรกs maltratado de la historia: cada cincuenta o cien algรบn tirano trata de exterminarnos, cada que un paรญs quiere echarle la culpa de sus desgracias a alguien se la echรณ a los judรญos, asรญ que los judรญos, ยฟquรฉ hacemos los judรญos? Inventamos entre nosotros que Dios, ese seรฑor invisible, ese seรฑor hipotรฉtico (despuรฉs hablamos de lo que quiere decir hipotรฉtico), Dios, รฉse, sรญ nos adora. Cรณmo verรกs locura pura.
Al dรญa siguiente vuelvo a casa con una nota de expulsiรณn.
I I speak to my mother about this man called Moses. Weโre in the dining room; my brothers have gone out into the garden to play. I tell her the Moses, infuse with Godโs strength, opened his arms and the Red Sea parted, and then, followed by the Jewish people, he advanced between the walls of the risen sea.
My mother listens, amused, her green-gray eyes turning turquoise, as they do when sheโs happy. When I finish my story, she brushes a blonde curl from her forehead and explains:
โThis guy Moses was a n Egyptian astronomer who understood the tides and arrived at the Red Sea just when the water level was very low. Besides, the Red Sea wasnโt a sea at all, it was a lake with very calm waters. And it wasnโt really red. So itโs like this: Moses arrived at exactly the right moment when he could cross that pond without any problems.โ
The next day in Bible class, I raise my hand. I say: โMoses was an Egyptian who studied astronomy. . .โ
The teacher interrupts me and corrects me: โMoses was a Jew.โ
โNo,โ I insist. โHe was an Egyptian who told lies to the Jews; he told them he was Jewish.โ
โWait for me in the office,โ the teacher says.
In school, they teach me things that I have to unlearn at home. They teach me things at home, and Iโm expelled from school.
My mother explains: โThe business about the Jews being Godโs chosen people is what we call a miracle of the imagination. Look: we Jews are the most abused people in history. Every fifty or one hundred years some tyrant comes along and tries to exterminate us. Every time some country wants to blame someone for its problems, they blame the Jews, and we Jews, what do we do? We delude ourselves with the story that God, that invisible guy, that hypothetical guy gentleman, (later, weโll discuss the meaning of hypothetical), really adores us. You see? Sheer craziness.โ
The next day I come home from school with an expulsion notice.
Bendice las velas del Shabat: sus manos cortas, delgadas, sobrevuelan las flamas en cรญrculos lentรญsimos, las seis flamas, las ocho flamas, la corona de luces del candelabro de plata de ocho brazos dispuestos en cรญrculo. El velo de encaje blanco sobre la cabeza, sobre los ojos, los labios murmurando la oraciรณn que agradece y da la bienvenida al Shabat: la reina del dรญa del descanso. La mesa estรก puesta para quince personas, platos blancos con borde de azul cobalto, cubiertas de plata, copas, vasos, jarras, el vaso de plata en la cabecera para el abuelo. En la cocina la comida estรก lista desde el atardecer. Ha trabajado desde la maรฑana del dรญa anterior preparando el arenque marinado, la carpa, el pescado rebosado, el pescado relleno, el caldo, los fideos para el caldo, el pollo al horno, el lomo, las zanahorias con pasitas, la col rellena, la compota de fruta, el strudl, el pastel de manzana, el pan trenzado. Por fin, cuando en el ventanal de la sala el cielo estaba rojizo, se ha quitado en el baรฑo la ropa olorosa de guisos y salmuera y se ha baรฑado en la tina. Se ha perfumado y peinado y vestido con minucia. Ante el espejo del dormitorio de ha pintado los labios de carmรญn subido. Se ha colocado el collar de perlas y se ha quedado mirando sus ojos negros en el espejo, los aretes de perla gris, su vestido azul marino de seda cruda. Preparar la comida y preparar su aspecto: lo ha hecho con igual religiosidad. Ha ido acumulando los detalles del ritual que cerca ese dรญa, lo aparta de los otros, consagra sus horas, las disuelve en otro tiempo libre de urgencias mundanas, un tiempo imantado de lo eterno. Entre los haceres del ritual, le ha servido al abuelo un tรฉ, o dos, le ha servido la cena y mรกs tarde el desayuno; asistiรณ cuando escuchรณ sus gritos de nรกufrago para arrebatarle el periรณdico entre cuyas noticias atroces se hundรญa y le ha servido otro tรฉ, ahora de yerbabuena, con otros cuatro terrones de azรบcar, mientras รฉl abrรญa la Guรญa de Maimรณnides, su tabla de salvaciรณn. En algรบn momento me ha recibido a mรญ, su nieta menor; la puerta del elevador se ha abierto, ha tomado de mis manos la maleta con ropa de fiesta, se ha inclinado para que la bese rodeรกndole el cuelo con los brazos, me ha sentado en el estudio, ante el escritorio, para que trabaje en mis cuadernos. Ha sacado los dos panes trenzados del horno. Le ha entregado al abuelo el estuche de terciopelo rojo tinto que guarda el libro de rezos y lo ha despedido en la puerta. Ha ido de cuarto en cuarto encendiendo las luces de techo y las lรกmparas, porque iniciado el Shabat estรกn proscritos los trabajos, incluso el nimio de prender la luz. En el estudio descolgรณ el telรฉfono: si ni siquiera a las bestias les es permitido trabajar en Shabat, me explicรณ alguna vez, menos a los telรฉfonos. Se ha baรฑado y vestido acicalado. Entonces me ha llamados para revisar mi atuendo: el pelo a la prรญncipe valiente, el traje de falda y saco color crema con rebordes azules en el cuelo y las mangas, las calcetas blancas, bien dobladas al tobillo, visibles bajo mis primorosas botitas de plรกstico transparente. Se ha quedado absorta en las botitas, nunca habรญa visto algo asรญ, ha dicho. Son casi increรญbles, ha dicho, azorada. Tienen en las punteras un rombo rosa fosforescente. Es lo moderno, le he dicho yo. Cuando en el ventanal, en el cielo aรบn diurno apareciรณ el punto de luz de la primera estrella, hemos ido a la sala, se ha colocado sobre la cabeza y los ojos en velo de encajes, ha encendido las flamas de l candelabro y las ha bendecido.
Se quita el velo, sonriente. Me toma de ambas manos, meneando la cabeza. Menea la cabeza al lento ritmo de una mรบsica secreta, el mismo ritmo lo marca con los pies. La imito. Nos movemos asรญ muy despacio por la estancia. Bailar a solas dos o una, bailar sin mรบsica y sin motivo, es como ofender flores a la alegrรญa. Se inclina hacia mรญ para decirme muy quedo: Siente la Shabat, entrando. . .entrando. . . Coloca las yemas de dos dedos sobre mi corazรณn. Sรญ, ahรญ se siente, esa suavidad, entrando, entrando. . . ยฟEs iz lijtik?, me pregunta en un sople de voz,ยฟEs luminoso? Pasa sus dedos sobre mis ojos para entrecerrarlos.
De pronto noto en la abuela un gesto de impaciencia, de urgencia, es como si quisiera verme por dentro, saber si me alcanza a tocar su voz, si comparto con ella esa luz. Sรญ, murmuro, la veo.
Seguimos moviรฉndonos despacio. Oib es iz lijtik, es shein, dice. Sรญ, es luminoso, es bello.
Oib es iz shein, susurra, sรญ es bello, es iz heilik, es sagrado. Me pregunta en un soplo de voz si entiendo. Tambiรฉn a mรญ es difรญcil hablar, no rendirme completamente a ese encanto que sucede en silencio: le digo que sรญ, como en secreto, sรญ entiendo. Aรบn nos movemos, despacio. Ella dice que no, que todavรญa no entiendo, que me acuerde: es bello, es sagrado. Habla poco y cuando habla le faltan palabras para hacer largas explicaciones, entonces habla en aforismos. Vuelve a decir que no con la cabeza, sin dejar de bailar. No, ahora, no, no es posible que yo entienda ahora, pero debo aprenderlo de memoria. Bello: sagrado.
________________________________
โShe Blesses the Shabbat Candles”
“โShe Blesses the Shabbat candles; her short, thin hands fly above the flames in very slow circles, six flames, eight flames, a crown of light circling the eight-branched silver candelabrum. A while lace veil on her head covers her eyes, as her lips murmur the prayer that welcomes and gives thanks for the Sabbath: the queen of the day of rest. The table is set for fifteen people: white plates with a cobalt blue border, cups, glasses, pitchers, my grandfatherโs silver glass at the head of the table. In the kitchen the food has been ready since nightfall. She has worked since the morning of the previous day, preparing the pickled herring, the carp, gefilte fish, stuffed fish, soup, noodles for the soup, the roast chicken, the pot roast, carrots with raisins, stuffed cabbage, fruit compote, strudel, apple pie, challah. Finally, when the sky turns coppery outside the living room window, she goes into the bathroom and removes the clothes that are of seasonings and brine, and she bathes in the tub. She meticulously perfumes, combs, and dresses herself. She paints her lips bright red before the vanity mirror. She puts on her gray pearl necklace and contemplates her appearance in the mirror; her black eyes, her gray pearl earrings, her navy raw silk dress. Preparing the food and preparing herself; she has done both with equal devotion. She has been accumulating the rituals that surround this day, that separate it from the rest of the week.
She has consecrated its hours, dissolving them into another time that is free from worldly pressure, a time that is charged with eternity. Between performing the duties of the ritual, she has served my grandfather his cup of tow of tea; she has served dinner, and later, breakfast. She has come running when she heard his cries, like a mand drowning behind his newspaper, and has snatched it away from him because he has been sinking in the morass of bad news. She has served him yet another cup of tea, mint this time, with four additional lumps of sugar, while he opened his copy of Maimonidesโs Guide, his tablet of salvation. At some point she opens the door for me, her youngest granddaughter; the elevator door opens up and she takes my little suitcase with my holiday clothes from my hand. She leans over to let me kiss her and throw my arms around her neck. She sits me down at the desk in the study so I can do my homework. She takes the two challahs from the oven. She hands my grandfather the wine-red velvet case that holds his prayer book, and she takes leave of him at the door. She goes from room to room, turning on the ceiling lights and the lamps, because once Shabbat begins, all work is forbidden, even the trivial task of turning on the lights. She disconnects the phone in the study; not even animals are allowed to work on Shabbat, so why should the telephone? She once explained to me, years before. She is bathed, dressed, and adorned. Then she calls me over to check my appearance: my Prince Valiant hairstyle, my cream-colored suit with a blue border on the collar and sleeves, my white socks neatly doubled over at the ankle showing through my dainty, transparent little plastic boots. She seems fascinated by my boots; sheโs never seen anything like them before, she says. โTheyโre incredible,โ she says with astonishment. On the toes they have an iridescent pink plastic rhombus. โTheyโre the latest thing,โ I explain.
When the point of light of the first evening star appears in the still-daylit sky through the living room window, we go to the living room, where he places the lace veil over her head and shoulders, lights the flames of the candelabrum and blesses them.
Smiling, she removes the veil. She takes me by both hands, moving her head from side to side. She moves her head to the slow rhythm of a secret music, the same rhythm that she marks with her feet. I imitate her. We move very slowly like this across the room. For one person or two to dance like this, alone, with out music, is like offering flowers to happiness. She bends over to whisper to me: โFeel Shabbas coming in, coming in. . . โShe places the pads of her fingers in my heart. โYes, thatโs where you feel it, that softness, coming in, coming in. . . Es is lichtik? Is it shining? She passes her fingers across my eyelids, closing them.
Suddenly I notice a gesture of impatience or urgency in my grandmother. Itโs as though she wants to see inside me, to find out if her voice has reached me, if I share that light with her.
โYes.โ I whisper, โI feel it.โ
We keep moving, slowly. Oyb es is lichtik, es is shayn,โ she says. If itโs shining, itโs beautiful/ Oyb esis shayn es is haylik.โ โIf itโs beautiful,โ she whispers, โitโs holy.โ She asks me in a breath of a voice if I understand, I too, find it hard to speak, not to submit completely to that enchanted silence. I tell her yes, as if confiding a secret, yes, I understand. Weโre still moving, slowly. She says no, I donโt understand yet. I should remember: itโs beautiful, itโs sacred. She hardly speaks, and when she does, she lacks the words for long explanations, so she uses aphorisms. Again she shakes her head, no without stopping the dance. No, not now: itโs not possible for me to understand it now, but I must learn it by rote: beautiful, sacred.
Luisa Futoransky naciรณ en Buenos Aires. En 1967 se recibe de abogada en la misma Universidad. Obtiene una beca de laย Universidad de Iowaย mediante la que realiza la residencia delย Programa Internacional de Escritura,ย EE. UU.En Roma, Italia, estudia poesรญa contemporรกnea en la Universidad de Roma y en la Academia Chighiana, Siena. Tras residir en China, donde trabaja para Radio Pekรญn, y Japรณn, donde es periodista del servicio en espaรฑol de la NHK y profesora de mรบsica en la Universidad de mรบsica de Mushasino (Tokio), en 1981 se radicรณ en Francia, trabajando en elย Centro Georges Pompidou,ย y como redactora de la agencia de noticias France Presse.Ha colaborado en diversos medios literarios periodรญsticos:ย Ars,ย L’Ane,ย Pรกgina/30,ย Pรกgina/12,ย Clarรญn,ย El Correo de la Unesco,ย World Fiction,ย Hispamรฉrica,ย Basel Zeitung. Asimismo, ha hecho trabajos para Radio France, el Ministerio de Cultura Francรฉs y Radio Euskadi de Espaรฑa.Futoransky, que habla espaรฑol, francรฉs, inglรฉs, hebreo e italiano, reรบne en su obra un conjunto increรญblemente rico de referencias culturales inspiradas en sus experiencias de vida en Amรฉrica Latina, Europa y el Lejano Oriente, que mezcla con imรกgenes distintivas de su hogar (Argentina). En 1971 fue miembro del International Writing Program de la Universidad de Iowa. Es invitada regularmente a dar conferencias en prestigiosas universidades de Francia, Espaรฑa, Argentina y Estados Unidos. Asimismo, con regularidad es autora invitada a festivales literarios internacionales. La poesรญa y las novelas de Futoransky se citan a menudo en los estudios sobre la escritura femenina contemporรกnea, asรญ como en los que tratan temas como el exilio, la identidad transnacional, la lengua, la poesรญa latinoamericana contemporรกnea o los escritores argentinos en Parรญs.
Luisa Futoransky was born in Buenos Aires. In 1967 she received her law degree from the same University. He obtains a scholarship from the University of Iowa through which he does the International Writing Program residency, USA in Rome, Italy, studies contemporary poetry at the University of Rome and at the Chighiana Academy, Siena. After residing in China, where she works for Radio Peking, and Japan, where she is a journalist for the NHK Spanish service and a music professor at the Mushasino University of Music (Tokyo), in 1981 she settled in France, working at the Center Georges Pompidou, and as editor of the France Presse news agency, has collaborated in various literary and journalistic media: Ars, L’Ane, Pรกgina / 30, Pรกgina / 12, Clarรญn, El Correo de la Unesco, World Fiction, Hispamรฉrica, Basel Zeitung. She has also done work for Radio France, the French Ministry of Culture and Radio Euskadi de Espaรฑa.Futoransky, who speaks Spanish, French, English, Hebrew and Italian, brings together in her poetry and novels an incredibly rich set of cultural references inspired by her experiences of life in Latin America, Europe and the Far East, which he mixes with distinctive images of his home (Argentina). In 1997 she was a member of the International Writing Program of Iowa City, Iowa. She is regularly invited to give lectures at prestigious universities in France, Spain, Argentina and the United States. She is also a regular guest author at international literary festivals. Futoransky’s work is often cited in studies of contemporary female writing, as well as in those dealing with topics such as exile, transnational identity, language, contemporary Latin American poetry, or Argentine writers in Paris.
en Jerusa los dรญas son largos y desde que amanece la gente, como
sea
quiere mereceโy lo consigueโdentro de la pelรญcula de acciรณn
los cowboys en el medio oriente escupen semillitas de girasol, a cual
mรกs lejos
en el jardรญn uno puede toparse con erizos o puercoespines
y en la propia cama con escorpiones, asรญ en la tierraโฆ
para mรกs intri, allen se le ocurriรณ esfumarse en primavera, durante
una tarde
jeruso limit ana, allen que se fue de aquรญ sin convencerse ni convencernos
de que su madre lo quiere, Naomi,
haya sido cierto
mientras
todos gritan
cuando no aรบllan, incluidas en sitial privilegiado, las piedras
las cigรผeรฑas apuran para irse y confunden los envรญos,
vรญrgenes cรฉlibes, anacoretas y guardianes de los templos
pagan el pato; se descuenta que nos, el resto, tambiรฉn,
nos, los pagadores de diezmos, platos rotos, los donantes de sangre,
huesos y sesos.
Entre bocinas, alarmas verdaderas y no tanto, timbrazos imperativos e telรฉfonos vacรญos
prosperan flores silvestres y me debato, a capa y espada, a golpes
feroces
de rascar mi sarna a lo marat, entre las/los charlotte cordray, zelotes,
esenios, alambrados,
todos armados, menos de paciencia
cuรกnto ayes!, Jerusa de me amor
hoy hacia la madrugada vi llover de prisa unas gotas avergonzadas
que escamotean amapolas brillantes al desierto entre los pendientes
de la cola sedienta,
lechosa, del cometa halle-bopp
que pregona, empecinado
tonterรญas milenarias.
Al anochecer se apersona en el hotel entre espigas descosidas de cenas y
brindis literarios, un seรฑor de aspecto saludable y optimista que dice que
debo reconocerlo como uno de mi familia y me cuenta para que lo incluya, a
su pedido, en mi prรณxima novela que uno de mis primos corre desnudo
por las calles de rehovot y cuando lo encuentran, dice: — vamos a lo de
mamรก โ y le repiten que mamรก muriรณ hace mucho pero mucho tiempo
como dรฉcadas en remota buenos aires y รฉl se pone a
sollozar โno me digas, no me digas โ y se deja conducir, dulce,
caninamente a casa y maรฑana recomienza a nuevo a querer visitar a
papรก, y se quedรณ de modo irreversible den algรบn barrio, desvestido,
inmune a los vientos levantinos, jugando a las visitas con los de la
neblina
el seรฑor se llama meir e insiste a relatarme sagas de entrecasas y de
todos los dรญas; la retorna de mi prima, la que llamaban reina esther por
bella y caprichosa comprรณ una pizzerรญa con el que era su marido
y en vรญsperas de la boda lo dejรณ plantado pro se quedรณ con el negocio y
nosotros pagando todavรญa la hipoteca: como visitadora social a estercita
lo tocaron las prisiones y terminรณ enamorรกndose d eso preso favorito, un
muchacho que andaba de reincidente por el mundo de las drogas, pero
muy bien mozo, no hay quien lo niegue y, cuando saliรณ condicional, una
tarde ciertos tipos lo vinieron a buscar y nunca se supo, y se la vio
a la reinita ester con foto a dos columnas en los diarios del paรญs,
luchando para que los del rabinato le declaren viuda porque el cuerpo
del buenorro nunca apareciรณ y querรญa casarse embarazada de ocho
meses con un contable para sentar cabeza hasta que los rabinos dijeron
de acuerdo para que no vuela a las andadas y es viuda legal y saliรณ,
dice meir, para arriba
en los manuscritos del mar muerto combaten entre sรญ los hijos de la luz
con los de las sombras
para renovado asombro de los estudiosos y el resto del paรญs de a pie,
nadie tiene nombre, nadie sabe ni puede diferenciar unos de otros
pareciera que ganaron por un pelo los de la luz,
para convertirse, y se sabe, en la sombra de lo que fuimos, somos y
serรกs
camino con mi amigo, el poeta rami, mascullando doscientos gramos de
etrov abrillantados, desgranamos cierta saludable maledicencia sobre
colegas ausentes, intercambiamos avatares de amantes y cada tanto, por
rรกfagas, nos embriaga el secreto de los escribas de quimit y qumram,
cuyas palabras pueden ser leรญdas por niรฑos de primaria de hoy pero
la realidad, la respiraciรณn, el revรฉs y el derecho, el arriba y el abajo, no
ay! jerusa de mi corazรณn, la de jesรบs y de jesusa. La de anรฉmonas
violentas y viejos que divagan doloridos de in coherencia en el asilo tan
soleado
mi fascinaciรณn reciente, una poeta con nombre de dalia pรบrpura y
oscura, que pierde por vaharadas la razรณn, pero encuentra sus gafas de
sol Cartier que le gustan tanto dice que hay que revisar el gรฉnesis, estรก
segura que abraham nuestro patriarca querรญa mรกs a ismael que a isaac
por eso no lo sacrificรณ, de las mujeres, ni ella habla
salvo de su madre a quien reverencia como maestra legendaria porque
le enseรฑรณ que el pueblo judรญo por ser singular y especial tiene la
obligaciรณn, mayor, de ser compasivo
y yo contemplo con espanto los estragos que tanto รญdolo sangriento,
tantas espinas, tanta metralla, causan a la tierra, las plantas y la gente
y quรฉ decir de concepto de โelegidoโ
fuente donde abrevan las sin razones todas
las injusticias
los cuadrรญculados. Los pozos
los dameros envenenados, los duelos sin consuelo,
dalia te aparto, te compadezco suavemente
y agito mi paรฑuelo de me voy
para pertenecer a la secta detallada en los rollos
habรญa que tener nueve elementos exteriores evidentes
como ser pรกlido en tierra insolados, dedos largos, complexiรณn no
sanguรญnea
y mรกs, pero mucho mรกs
con seis cualidades se ponรญa al adepto a prueba por dos aรฑos, de ser
bien observado, pasaba a novicio, a servidor
de quiรฉn, de quiรฉnes,
ah! los avispados letrados de quimitโฆ
soberbias, magnรญficos, las plantas carnosas de aloe vera
podrรญan calmar las quemadoras de este zoo y restantes del sistema
solar
la savia de los que vendrรกn espera
un mรญnimo apenas de confianza
esto es, la sal, el salem, el cardamomo, el rosmarino, la pimienta
el sexo de la vida
acรก los aventureros vienen por marejadas que luego catalogamos,
sombrรญamente, por orden de alfabeto
quรฉ/cรณmo,/cuรกl
con sfueron, por ejemplo, los alfanjes, las cimitarras de saladino y suleimรกn,
los minaretes, armarรญas, las victorias que se pudren en derrotas,
un amasijo sintรฉtico, animista, y sincrรฉtico a ambos lados de la ruta principal
de herrumbres del 48, el 67, el dรญa del perdรณn
para plantar en el desierto hay que lavar sin cesar la tierra
porque el mar al alcance de la mano se llama muerto o se hace
para por tal,
que para el caso es lo mismo
en primaver la flor nacional es humilde y salvaje, es un rojo fulgurante
deja tras de sรญ reguero flamรญgero y breve que desquicia los puntos
cardinales
de la jerusalem celeste y salpica, chisporrotea desafuero en la
terrestre
en el juzgado de paz asisto, vaya reiteraciรณn obsesiva en el tรฉrmino
a una audiencia donde mi hermano defiende, de oficio, a un joven que
comparece
esposado de pies y manos ante el juez por haber
extorsionado con cuchillo en yugular ajena 100 shekels a un ciudadano
pรญo y religioso para proporcionarse su dosis que en hebreo es manรก:
como sabe que ochenta le alcanzan devuelve al individuo veinte, quien
mรกs tarde lo reconoce y denuncia,
me guardo para siempre en el bolsillo izquierdo del corazรณn su
andarvenir taimado y apaleado, su mano de preguntar nada y tambiรฉn
le digo adiรณs
adiรณs
me moran esto sedimentos de risotadas y matanzas
de taciturnidades ejemplares
me abro paso entre maullidos dรญscolos
geranios gigantes y retorcidos, impregno
me impregno de frituras รญntimas y callejeras
y mosaicos
y finjo que me voy
entonces recibo de viva voz, una esquela
indispensable, enmaraรฑada
que al cuello confeccionada
con perlas sombrรญas de antiguas lรกgrimas:
quiero que sepas que mamรก te quiere.
Sonia
Tivรณn, 14 de abril 1997 _____________________________________________________________________
An intense poem dedicated to Jerusalem:
โJerusa of My Loveโ
in jerusa the days are long and since dawn, the people, such as they
are,
want to meddleโand they do soโinside the action movie
the coyboys of the Middle East spit out sunflower seeds, to which
further away
in the garden, one can stumble upon hedgehogs and porcupines
and in your own bed, scorpions, so is the landโฆ
but on top of that, it occurred to allen to disappear during the Spring,
one afternoon
jeroso limit ana, allen who left to without convincing himself or
convincing us
of what his mother, who loves him, naomi,
had been certain
while
everyone shouts
when they donโt howl, included, in the privileged seating, the stones.
the storks hurry to leave and confuse the shipments,
virgins and celibate monks, anchorites and guardians of the temples
pay the piper; are discounted because of us, the rest, also,
us, they payers of tithes, broken plates, the givers of blood,
bones and brains
among car horns, real alarms and not so much, imperative door-ringing
and empty telephones
wild flowers prosper, and I struggle tooth and nail, with ferocious
blows
to scratch the scabies like Maratโs, among these/those charlotte cordray, zealots, essenes, illuminists,
all of them armed, except with patience
how many ays! jerusaa of my love
today toward early morning, I saw it rain quickly some embarrassed drops
that hide brilliant desert poppies among those depending
on the thirsty tail,
milky, of the Halle-Bopp comet
that preaches, stubborn
millennial nonsense.
at night fall in the hotel among disjointed thorns from suppers and
literary toasts, a health-looking and optimistic gentleman appears who says that I ought to recognize him as a member of my family and he tells me that I should include, on his request, in my next novel, that one of my cousins run naked through the streets of rehovot, and when they find him, he says: โletโs go to mamaโs,โ and they repeat to him that mama died long ago, like decades and more decades in remote buenos aires, and he began to sigh: โdonโt tell me, donโt tell me,โ and he let himself be lead, sweetly and wearily home and tomorrow he began again to want to visit papa, and he remained in an irreversible way in some neighborhood, undressed, immune to the levantine winds, playing visits with those of the mist
the gentleman is named meir and insists in relating to me sagas from home and of everyday life: that cousinโs litte girl, who hey called queen esther for being beautiful and capricious, bought a pizzeria with the one who was then her almost husband and just before the wedding she ditched him, but she kept the business and with us paying the mortgage; as an social worker the prisons were estercitaโs territory, and she ended up falling in love with her favorite prisoner, a boy who was a re-offender from the drug world, but very good looking, no reason to deny it and, when he was freed conditionally, one afternoon, some tough came to visit him, and nothing more was known of him., and ester was seen in two-column photos in the countryโs newspapers, fighting so that the rabbinate would declare her a widow because the body of the good-looking fellow never appeared and she wanted to marry pregnant for eight months with a bookkeeper and settle down until even the rabbis said that they agreed but that she not return to her wild ways and she is a legal widow and she left, meir said, on her way.
in the manuscripts of the dead sea the sons of light and the sons of darkness are in combat
to the renewed the amazement of the studious and the rest of living people, nobody has a name, nobody knows nor can differentiate one from the other
it seemed that by a hair those of the light won
to convert themselves, it’s well-known, from the shadow of what we were, are and you will be.
I walk with my friend, the poet rami, chewing two hundred grams of shiny etrogs, we thresh certain healthy slander about absent colleagues, we interchange avatars of lovers, and once in a while, in puffs, we get drunk over the secret of the scribes of quitmit and of qumram, whose words can be read by children in school today, but the reality, the breath, backwards and forwards, not above and below
ay! jerusa of my heart, that of jesus and of jesusa, that of violent anemones and old men who ramble pained by incoherence in the very sunny nursing home
my recent fascination, un poet with a name of purple and dark dahlias,
who loses, by puffs, her reason, who finds his Cartier sun glasses that likes so much to say, that itโs necessary to revise Genesis, she is sure that abraham our patriarch loved ismael more than isaac and for that reason didnโt sacrifice him, of the women, not even she, speaks,
except of her mother whom she reveres as a legendary teacher because
she taught her the that the Jewish people for being singular and special, has the obligation, the greatest, to be compassionate
and I contemplate with shock the havoc that so much bloody idol,
so many thorns, so much shrapnel causes the earth, the plants and the people
and what to say about the concept of โchosenโ
source which waters all the craziest ideas
the injustices, the rigidities
the squares, the wells
the poisoned checkerboards, the griefs without consolation,
Dahlia, I move away from you, I feel sorry for you, softly
and I shake my handkerchief in goodbye
to belong to the sect described in the rolls
it was necessary to have nine evident exterior characteristics
like being pallid in sunny lands, long fingers, a non-rosy complexion
and more, much more
with six qualities, the adept is tested for two years and, on being
well judged, he passes to novice, a servant
of whom, of whose.
ah! the cunning scholars of qitmit. . .
proud, magnanimous, the fleshy plants of aloe vera
could calm down the burns of this zoo and whatโs left of the solar
system
the energy of those who come hopes for
just a minimum of trust
this is, the salem, the cardamon, the rosemary, the pepper
the sex of life
here the adventurers come by heavy seas that later we catalog
somberly in alphabetical order
what/how/who
with s they were, for example, the cutlases, the simitars ofsaladin and suleiman,
the minarets, armories, the victories that rot into defeats
a synthetic hodgepodge, animist and syncretic at both sides of the principal route of
rusts of the 48, the 67, the day of fasting and pardon
to plant in the desert, it is necessary to wash the earth without ceasing
because the sea at armโs reach is called death or
makes it seem that way
so that the situation is the same
in Spring the national flower is humble and wild, of a brilliant red,
leaves behind a brief and blazing trickle that drives to despair the cardinal points
of heavenly Jerusalem and splashes, gives off sparks of outrage on the
terrestrial
I attend the court of peace, what an obsessive reiteration with the end
an audience where my brother defends, his trade, a young man who
appears
shackled by hands and feet before the judge of having
extorted with a knife at the otherโs jugular 100 shekels from a pious and religious citizen to provide himself a dose of what in Hebrew is called manna:
as he knew that 80 would be enough for him, he returned 20 to the individual who later recognized him and reported him.
I keep forever his in my left pocket near my heart his crafty and beaten knife, and I also say goodbye to him
goodbye
these sediments of guffaws and killings look at me
of exemplary taciturnity
I make my way thorough unruly meows
giant and twisted geraniums
I fill myself up with intimate and street fritters
Santiago Kovadloff naciรณ en Buenos Aires, 1942. Es ensayista, poeta, traductor de literatura de lengua portuguesa y autor de relatos para niรฑos. Se graduรณ en Filosofรญa en la Universidad de Buenos Aires. Es Doctor Honoris Causa por la Universidad de Ciencias Empresariales y Sociales (UCES), Profesor Honorario de la Universidad Autรณnoma de Madrid y miembro del Comitรฉ Acadรฉmico y Cientรญfico de la Universidad Ben-Gurion del Neguev, de Israel. Participรณ como profesor invitado en la Cรกtedra Latinoamericana โJulio Cortรกzarโ de la Ciudad de Guadalajara, Mรฉxico, en el aรฑo 2013.Es miembro de nรบmero de la Academia Argentina de Letras, miembro correspondiente de la Real Academia Espaรฑola y vicepresidente de la Academia Nacional de Ciencias Morales y Polรญticas. Desde el aรฑo 2016 preside el capรญtulo argentino del Club de Roma.Se desempeรฑa profesionalmente como profesor privado de Filosofรญa y conferencista. Es colaborador permanente del diario La Naciรณn de Buenos Aires.
Santiago Kovadloff es famoso por su habilidad de condensar pensamientos profundos en la forma de frases.
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Santiago Kovadloff was born in Buenos Aires in 1942. He is an essayist, poet, translator of Portuguese-language literature, and author of children’s stories. He graduated in Philosophy at the University of Buenos Aires. He is Doctor Honoris Causa from the University of Business and Social Sciences (UCES), Honorary Professor at the Autonomous University of Madrid and member of the Academic and Scientific Committee of the Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, Israel. He participated as a visiting professor in the “Julio Cortรกzar” Latin American Chair of the City of Guadalajara, Mexico, in 2013. He is a full member of the Argentine Academy of Letters, corresponding member of the Royal Spanish Academy and vice president of the National Academy of Arts. Moral and Political Sciences. Since 2016, he has chaired the Argentine chapter of the Club of Rome. He works professionally as a private professor of Philosophy and lecturer. He is a permanent collaborator of the newspaper La Naciรณn of Buenos Aires.
Santiago Kovadloff is famous for his ability to condense deep thoughts into a few words in the form of sayings.
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Frases sabias de Santiago Kovadloff/
Wise Statements by Santiago Kovadloff
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โPertenezco a un pueblo y a una cultura que no se ha resignado a darle la รบltimaal dolor y ha convertido sus pesares en materia de esperanza , El judรญo confรญa en una interpretaciรณn mรกs y cree que es posible volver a empezar. El holocaustono tuvo la รบltima palabraโ.
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“I belong to a people and a culture that has not resigned itself to give the last word pain and has converted its sufferings in material for hope. The Jew trusts in an another interpretation and believes it is possible to begin again. The Holocaust did not have the last word.”
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The vocation of a writer who is a philosopher consists in a summed retelling to contribute to the general insomnia. And if we agree with it, it seems to me the I’ve done something like that. I am helping that sleep does not abound Perhaps because I myself am an wakeful person and I can’t be otherwise.
Music tells us what we don’t know, if not what we can’t know it tells us
During hundreds of thousands of years, man fought to open a place in nature; for the first time in in history of our species, the situation is reversed and today in is indispensable to find him a place in nature in the world of man.
Silence can be, then, as much the greatest corollary of lucidity as the irremediable mist in which aptitude is diluted and at times the necessity of articulating an idea or an emotion with leaving behind the world of the predictable and the codifiable.
What you have inherited from your parents, acquire it by your own efforts to be worthy of it.
Death is not something that we will survive. Someone living and stops dying when he expires. To die requires that you were alive.
My home is this woman—– “My home is this woman who now lives by my side. Like her, with her, everything around her reposes. When she awakes, the things will too. The doors will open again, the water will run again, the steps will bring life to the old staircase, the light will fall again. I will return yo myself, the words, and her voice, like a halo, will surround my day.
“Hay duelo donde hay sufrimiento”.
“There is grief where there suffering.”
***
“La decadencia no es una vuelta al pasado, es una condena al presente”.
“Decadence is not a return to the past; it’s a damning of the present.”
***
“La vida cotidiana, en apariencia previsible desmedidamente familiar, es la que encierra la
posibilidad de los grandes descubrimientos que rompen con la costumbre”.
“Everyday life, apparently predictable, overly familiar, is that which has within it the possibility of the great discoveries that break with custom.”
***
” La polรญtica es un ejercicio moderado de la maldad, pero a la vez es imprescindible porque sin ella no hay organizaciรณn social”.
Politics is an exercise moderated by evil, but at the same time, it is absolutely necessary, because without it, the is no social organization.”
Roberto Burle Marx fue paisagista, arquiteto, desenhista, pintor, gravador, litรณgrafo, escultor,tapeceiro, ceramista, designer de jรณias, decorador. Durante a infรขncia vive no Rio de Janeiro. Vai com a famรญlia para a Alemanha, em 1928. Em Berlim, estuda canto e se integra ร vida cultural da cidade, freqรผenta teatros, รณperas, museus e galerias de arte. Entra em contato com as obras de Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890), Pablo Picasso (1881-1973) e Paul Klee (1879-1940). Em 1929, freqรผenta o ateliรช de pintura de Degner Klemn. Nos jardins e museus botรขnicos de Dahlen, em Berlim, entusiasma-se ao encontrar exemplares da flora brasileira. De volta ao Brasil, faz curso de pintura e arquitetura na Escola Nacional de Belas Artes de Rio de Janeiro, entre 1930 e 1934.onde รฉ aluno. Em 1932, realiza seu primeiro projeto de jardim para a residรชncia da famรญlia Schwartz, no Rio de Janeiro. Entre 1934 e 1937, ocupa o cargo de diretor de parques e jardins do Recife, Pernambuco, onde passa a residir. Nesse perรญodo, vai com freqรผรชncia ao Rio de Janeiro e tem aulas com Candido Portinari (1903-1962) e com o escritor Mรกrio de Andrade (1893-1945), no Instituto de Arte da Universidade do Distrito Federal. Em 1937, retorna ao Rio de Janeiro. O final da dรฉcada de 1930 arca a integraรงรฃo de sua obra paisagรญstica ร arquitetura moderna, รฉpoca em que o artista experimenta formas orgรขnicas e sinuosas na elaboraรงรฃo de seus projetos. Sua paixรฃo por plantas remonta ร juventude, quando se interessa por botรขnica e jardinagem, mas รฉ em 1949 que Roberto Burle Marx organiza uma grande coleรงรฃo, quando adquire um sรญtio de 800.000 mยฒ, em Campo Grande, Rio de Janeiro. Em companhia de botรขnicos, realiza inรบmeras viagens por diversas regiรตes do paรญs, para coletar e catalogar exemplares de plantas, reproduzindo em sua obra a diversidade fitogeogrรกfica brasileira. Adaptado de https://www.guiadasartes.com.br/roberto-burle-marx/biografia
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Roberto Burle Marx was a Landscaper, architect, draughtsman, painter, engraver, lithographer, sculptor, upholsterer, potter, jewelry designer, decorator. During his childhood he lived in Rio de Janeiro. He went with his family to Germany in 1928. In Berlin, he studied singing and became part of the city’s cultural life, frequenting theaters, operas, museums and art galleries. He came into contact with the works of Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890), Pablo Picasso (1881-1973) and Paul Klee (1879-1940). In 1929, he attended the painting studio of Degner Klemn. In the gardens and botanical museums of Dahlen, in Berlin, he is excited to find specimens of Brazilian flora. Back in Brazil, he studied painting and architecture at the Escola Nacional de Belas Artes (Enba), Rio de Janeiro, between 1930 and 1934. In 1932, he carried out his first garden project for the Schwartz family’s residence in Rio de Janeiro. Between 1934 and 1937, he held the position of director of parks and gardens in Recife, Pernambuco, where he took up residence. During this period, he went frequently to Rio de Janeiro and took classes with Candido Portinari (1903-1962) and with the writer Mรกrio de Andrade (1893-1945), at the Art Institute of the University of the Federal District. In 1937, he returned to Rio de Janeiro. The end of the 1930s saw the integration of his landscape work into modern architecture, a time when the artist experimented with organic and sinuous forms in the elaboration of his projects. His passion for plants dates back to his youth, when he became interested in botany and gardening, but it was in 1949 that Roberto Burle Marx organized a large collection, when he acquired an 800,000 mยฒ site in Campo Grande, Rio de Janeiro. In the company of botanists, he made numerous trips to different regions of the country to collect and catalog plant specimens, reproducing the Brazilian phytogeographic diversity in his work. Adapted from: https://www.guiadasartes.com.br/roberto-burle-marx/biografia
LIACHO, LรZARO (1906โ1969), poeta, narrador, ensayista y periodista argentino. Nacido en Buenos Aires, Liacho era hijo de Jacobo Simรณn liachovitzky (1874โ1937), un destacado periodista yiddish, que emigrรณ a Argentina en 1894, fundรณ el primer diario argentino en yiddish, Der Tog, y el semanario Der Tsionist; en 1904 ayudรณ a establecer la Federaciรณn Sionista Argentina; tambiรฉn escribiรณ una obra de teatro y cuentos. Lรกzaro Liacho estuvo asociado con los periรณdicos Mundo Israelita y Judaica, pero ganรณ reconocimiento principalmente como poeta. Su Bocado de pan (1931), Pan de Buenos Aires, 1940) y El hombre y sus moradas ,1961), reflejan su perspectiva tanto como judรญo y como argentino. Sus cuentos, Sobre el filo de la vida, 1969) tratan el Holocausto. Aunque expresรณ su amor y admiraciรณn por Israel y el sionismo, considerรณ el judaรญsmo como una realidad espiritual que se puede practicar en cualquier lugar y elogiรณ a la Argentina como “la nueva Siรณn” en los poemas recogidos en Siรณnidas desde la pampa, 1969). En su poesรญa posterior, en particular Entre Dios y Satรกn , 1966), Liacho recurriรณ a temas bรญblicos, religiosos y metafรญsicos.
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LIACHO, LรZARO (1906โ1969), Argentine poet, narrator, essayist, and journalist. Born in Buenos Aires, Liacho was the son of Jacobo Simรณn Liachovitzky (1874โ1937), a noted Yiddish journalist, who immigrated to Argentina in 1894, founded the first Argentine Yiddish daily, Der Tog, and the weekly Der Tsionist; in 1904 he helped to establish the Argentine Zionist Federation; he also wrote a play and short stories. Lรกzaro Liacho was associated with the periodicals Mundo Israelita and Judaica, but won recognition mainly as a poet. His Bocado de pan (“Morsel of Bread,” 1931), Pan de Buenos Aires (“Bread of Buenos Aires,” 1940), and El hombre y sus moradas (“Man and His Dwellings,” 1961), reflect his outlook both as a Jew and as an Argentinean. His short stories (Sobre el filo de la vida, “On Life’s Cutting Edge,” 1969) deal with the Holocaust. Though he expressed his love and admiration for Israel and Zionism, he considered Jewishness as a spiritual reality that can be practiced anywhere and praised Argentina as “the new Zion” in the poems collected in Siรณnidas desde la pampa (“Odes to Zion from the Pampa,” 1969). In his later poetry, notably Entre Dios y Satรกn (“Between God and Satan,” 1966), Liacho turned to biblical, religious, and metaphysical themes.
Daniel Samoilovich naciรณ en Buenos Aires en 1949. Estudiรณ en el Colegio Nacional de Buenos Aires. En 1964 entrรณ en el equipo de la revista “Esta generaciรณn”, dirigida por Pedro Pujรณ. Comenzรณ a trabajar en el diario Clarรญn en 1969, durante 11 aรฑos. En 1978 viajรณ a Espaรฑa, y se desempeรฑรณ como redactor de la revista Triunfo y el diario El Paรญs. En 1979 dirigiรณ junto con Gloria Pampillo la revista “La construcciรณn imaginaria”, editada por el Colegio Mayor Chaminade (Madrid). Se uniรณ al matemรกtico Jaime Poniachik en 1980, para publicar la revista “Juegos para Gente de Mente”, que luego serรญa la base de la editorial “De mente”, especializada en juegos de ingenio. A partir de 1986 fue director del periรณdico Diario de poesรญa, que sale trimestralmente. Este diario ganรณ en 1990 el Primer Premio del Concurso de Publicaciones Culturales, entre otras distinciones. Entre 1997 y 2002 colabora con una columna semanal de poesรญa en la revista dominical del diario La Naciรณn. Ha escrito numerosos libros de poesรญa.
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Daniel Samoilovich (1949- ) was born in Buenos Aires . He studied at the National College of Buenos Aires. In 1964 he joined the team of the magazine “This generation”, directed by Pedro Pujรณ. He began working for Clarรญn newspaper in 1969, for 11 years. In 1978 he traveled to Spain, and worked as editor of the magazine Triunfo and the newspaper El Paรญs. In 1979, together with Gloria Pampillo, he directed the magazine “La construcciรณn imaginaria”, published by the Colegio Mayor Chaminade (Madrid). He joined the mathematician Jaime Poniachik in 1980, in publishing the magazine “Juegos para Gente de Mente”, which later became the basis of the “De mente” publishing house, specialized in ingenuity games. As of 1986 he was director of the newspaper Diario de poesรญa which comes out quarterly. This newspaper won in 1990 the First Prize of the Cultural Publications Contest, among other distinctions. He has written numerous books of poetry.
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Quรฉ clase de judรญo soy
— Una vez, un joven dirigente de una asociaciรณn comunitaria, me preguntรณ: โยฟQuรฉ clase de judรญo sos vos? No distinguรญs Kippur de Rosh Hashanรก, no crees en Dios, no celebrรกs la llegada del sรกbado… ni siquiera sabรฉs idish…โ Apenas atinรฉ a contestarle que estoy circunciso, lo cuรกl no sรฉ si le habrรก bastado. Evidentemente, de las seรฑales de pertenencia que enumerรณ, la de mรญnima era, a su entender, saber idish. Lo cierto es que me gustarรญa: me parece un idioma lleno de energรญa, adivino que es tan eficaz para el humor como para la maldiciรณn, para la felicidad y la melancolรญa… se me ocurre que ha de ser esplรฉndido para la poesรญa, tanto como, digamos, el portuguรฉs, idioma de marineros y comerciantes… quizรกs mejor… Pero el hecho es que si fuera posible graduar mis ignorancias, soy mรกs ignorante del idish que del portuguรฉs. Mi padre sรญ sabรญa, y lo hablaba con sus padres y sus hermanos, pero no con mi madre, que es mizrahi, o sea descendiente de la minorรญa de judรญos que quedรณ en Jerusalรฉn y la regiรณn cuando los demรกs partieron a la diรกspora.
— El idish era entonces el idioma de mis abuelos paternos, y su sonido venรญa mezclado con la casa en que vivรญan, baja, desangelada y enorme comparada con la mรญa; una casa con una terraza donde mi abuelo, un hombretรณn que habรญa sido herrero, se entretenรญa haciendo errรกticos arreglos y, si no habรญa nada que arreglar, desarmando cajones de fruta para rescatar y enderezar los clavos. Venรญa el idish mezclado con las disputas de aquel anciano alto y mi abuela pequeรฑita, de la que se ddecรญa que un dรญa en Ucrania habรญa escondido de una requisa de la policรญa a cuarenta personas y un revรณlver: o sea, una aldea completa en el sรณtano de su hogar ucraniano.
— A mรญ lo de los cuarenta prรณfugos se me mezclaba con la historia de Ali Babรก y los cuarenta ladrones; no entendรญa bien como cabrรญa tanta gente en el sรณtano, ni para quรฉ querรญan un revรณlver, que los incriminaba y con el cual mal podrรญan defenderse de la policรญa del zar. Tambiรฉn se decรญa que una vez que un pollo se habรญa desventurado la abuela lo habรญa agarrado, le habรญa metido las tripas para adentro y tranquilamente lo habรญa cosido y de un modo igualmente tranquilo el pollo habรญa salido caminando. La sal de la historia โque yo encontraba de algรบn modo equivalente a la de los cuarenta escondidosโ era la calma de la abuela y el pollo, y esa era, a mi pequeรฑa mente racionalista, justamente la parte mรกs dudosa. Pero nunca se me hubiera ocurrido expresar tales dudas; las historias me gustaban asรญ, y aรบn me gustan: mis abuelos habรญan vivido una gran aventura, venรญan desde muy lejos en el espacio y el tiempo, desde territorios que no necesitaban detalles ni explicaciones. Que hablaran una lengua especial, a la que se llamaba idish o jargon (la jerga) era lรณgico, viniendo, como venรญan, de otro planeta.
— Era, claro, el mismo planeta donde transcurrรญan las historias de los libros. Yo tenรญa diez, once aรฑos y leรญa todo lo que me caรญa a la mano, desde los libros de Verne o Salgari que me daban hasta los de Pearl S. Buck o Romain Rolland, que no me daban y manoteaba yo de la biblioteca de mis padres. Asรญ que cuando la abuela se enfermรณ, me encargaron que por las tardes fuera a su casa, a dos cuadras de la mรญa, a leerle cuentos y novelas. Ella hablaba, como dije, idish, ruso y castellano (despuรฉs de cuarenta aรฑos, aรบn con acento) pero era analfabeta en cualquier lengua. Despuรฉs he pensado que es raro haberle leรญdo cuentos a la abuela, en lugar de que ella me los leyera a mรญ: la lengua aparece asรญ desprovista de gravedad, desprovista del peso de la tradiciรณn. Quizรกs algo de mi deseo de escribir, o de las modalidades que ese deseo fue tomando, tengan que ver con aquel paisaje dado vuelta. O tal vez aquella ausencia de espesor de la nueva lengua alentรณ en mรญ una irresponsabilidad, una prepotencia sin la cual difรญcilmente hubiera sido escritor.
–Una vez empecรฉ a leerle Miguel Strogoff, la historia del correro que debe recorrer miles de verstas a lo largo de Siberia para llevarle al zar un mensaje de su hermano asediado por una rebeliรณn. No creo que hayamos elegido ese libro por su tema ruso, porque leรญamos de todo… pero puede que la casualidad nos hubiera llevado a aquel escenario y que, aunque lo mรกs cerca que Strogoff ha de estar de Ucrania en su carrera deben ser tres o cuatro mil kilรณmetros, todo aquello de los kirguises, los tรกrtaros, la policรญa zarista, tuviera para ella algรบn punto de interรฉs especial… En cuanto a mรญ, estaba convencido de que le estaba contando la historia de unos parientes cercanos: aquellos kanes rebeldes en cualquier momento podรญan ponerse a hablar en idish, y entonces serรญa ella la que me explicara quรฉ decรญan…
— Kafka piensa que unir la propia voz a la de otros es estar ya perdido, y empero sueรฑa a menudo con ser โplenamente judรญoโ: se fascina con los actores del teatro idish, y aรบn quisiera compartir el destino de los mรญseros emigrantes del Este que ve en una barraca esperando el permiso para partir a Amรฉrica. Pertenencia, identidad, son para รฉl a veces imagen de la salvaciรณn, a veces de la condena. Si bien se piensa, se podrรญa decir lo mismo de la soledad: tambiรฉn ella es para รฉl, alternativamente, salvaciรณn y condena. Uno se pregunta entonces si no es esta, finalmente, la condiciรณn natural del escritor. Ser โplenamenteโ parte de un colectivo quizรกs resolverรญa muchas angustias… pero junto con el agua sucia, es muy posible que se fuera tambiรฉn el niรฑo.
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What Kind of Jew Am I
โOnce, a young director of a Jewish community association, asked me, โWhat kind of Jew are you?โ?โ You donโt know the difference between Rosh HaShonah and Yom Kippur, you donโt believe in God, you donโt celebrate the arrival of Shabbat. . .You donโt even know Yiddish. . .โ I hardly had time to answer him that I a circumcised, which I donโt know would have been enough for him. Evidently, of the indications of belonging that he enumerated, the least important one was, in his way of understanding, to know Yiddish. Itโs true that I would like to; it seems to be a language that is full of energy, I infer that it is as effective for humor as for cursing, for happiness and melancholy. . .it must be splendid for poetry, as much as, letโs say Portuguese, the language of sailors and merchants. . . perhaps more so. . .But the fact is that if it were possible to grade my ignorance, Iโm more ignorant of Yiddish than of Portuguese. My father did know it, and he spoke it with his parents and his brothers and sisters, but not with my mother, who is Mizrachi, a descendent of the minority of Jews who remained in Jerusalem and the region when the others left for the diaspora.
โYiddish was then the language of my paternal grandparents, and its sound came mixed with the house in which they lived, low, misshapen and enormous compared with mine a house with a terrace where my grandfather, a large man who had been a blacksmith, entertained himself making erratic rearrangements, and if there was nothing to rearrange, taking apart large crates of fruit to rescue and harden the nails. The Yiddish came mixed into disputes between that old man and my little-bitty grandmother of whom it was said that one day in Ukraine she had hidden a from a police raid forty people and a revolver; or letโs say, a complete village, in the basement of her Ukrainian home.”
โFor me, the business of the forty fugitives got mixed up with the story of Ali Baba and the forty thieves, I donโt understand how so many people would fit in the basement, or why they would want a revolver, that incriminated them and with which they could hardly defend themselves from the Tzarโs police. Itโs also said that once a chicken was unlucky, my grandmother had grabbed it, she had put its guts inside and tranquilly cooked it and in an equally tranquil way, the chicken, had left, walking away. The heart of the storyโthat I found similar to the forty hidden thieves was the calm of my grandmother and the chicken, and that was, to my small rationalist mind, the most dubious, But, it never would have occurred to me to express such doubts; I liked the stories as they were, and I still like them: my grandparents had led a great adventure, they came from far, far away in space and time, from territories that didnโt need details or explications. That they spoke a special language, that was called Yiddish or jargon ( ) was logical, coming, as they came, from another planet.โ
โIt was, of course, the same planet where the stories from books happened. I was ten, eleven years old, and I read everything that fell into my hands, from the books of Verne and Salgari that they gave me to Pearl Buck or Romain Rolland, that they didnโt give me, and I swiped from my parentโs library. So that when my grandmother got sick, they sent me out from home, in the afternoons, to her house, two blocks from mine, to read her stories and novels. She spoke, as I said, Yiddish, Russian and Spanish (after forty years and still with an accent) but she was illiterate in any language. Later on, I have thought that it was strange for me to have read stories to my grandmother, instead of her reading them to me; my tongue seems devoid of gravity, devoid of the weight of the weight of tradition. Perhaps. Something of my desire to write, of the forms that desired were taking, may have something to do with that up-sided-own landscape. Or perhaps that lack of pressure of the new language encouraged me to an irresponsibility, an arrogance without which it would have been difficult to be a writer.”
โOnce I began to read Michael Strogoff by Jules Verne, the story of the mailman who had to cross thousands of versts across Siberia to bring the Tzar a message from his brother, besieged by a rebellion. I donโt believe that we had chosen this book for its Russian them, because we read everything. . .but it could be the but it could have been chance that brought us to that scenario and that, although the closest that Strogoff got to Ukraine in his race must be three or four thousand kilometers, everything about the Kirguese, the Tartars, the tzarist police, had for here some point of special interest. . .As for me, I was convinced that I was retelling the story some relatives: those rebel Kanes, at any moment could begin to speak in Yiddish, and then it would be her who would explain to me what they were saying. . .”
โKafka thinks that to join your own voice to that of others is to be already lost, and that it is necessary to often dream about being โfully Jewish,โ he was fascinated by the actors of the Yiddish theater, and he even wanted to share the fate of the miserable emigrants from the East that he sees in a barracks awaiting permission to leave for America. Belonging, identity, are for him, at times, the image of salvation, at times of condemnation. If you think about it, the same thing could be said about solitude: it is also that way for him, alternatively, salvation and condemnation. You then ask it is not, finally, the natural condition of a writer. To be โfullyโ part of a collective would perhaps resolve many anxieties. . .but together with the bath water, itโs very likely that the baby went too.”
2018, Cuadernos Lรญrico, Parรญs
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Algunos de los libros de Daniel Samoilovich/Some of Daniel Samoilovich’s Books
Sergio Chejfec naciรณ en Buenos Aires en 1956, empezรณ a publicar en revistas literarias mientras trabajaba como librero, taxista u oficinista. En 1990, ya en Caracas, se integrรณ a la redacciรณn de la revista cultural y de ciencias sociales Nueva Sociedad. El autor recibiรณ el premio Konex, fue becario de la Fundaciรณn Guggenheim y residente en Civitella Ranieri (Italia) y la Maison des รcrivains รtrangers et des Traducteurs (MEET) de Saint-Nazaire. Publicรณ las novelas Lenta biografรญa y Moral (1990). Le sucedieron tรญtulos como El aire (1992), Cinco (1996), El llamado de la especie (1997), Los planetas (1999), Boca de lobo (2000), Los incompletos (2004), Baroni: un viaje(2007), Mis dos mundos(2008), La experiencia dramรกtica (2012) y la colecciรณn de cuentos Modo linterna (2013). Tambiรฉn publicรณ libros de poemas como Tres poemas y una merced (2002), Gallos y huesos (2003), y los ensayos El punto vacilante (2005) y Sobre Giannuzzi (2010). Sus รบltimos libros, caracterรญsticos de la hibridez genรฉrica y la renombrada incertidumbre referencial que definรญa su estilo, fueron รltimas noticias de la escritura (2016), El visitante (2017), Teorรญa del ascensor (2018), 5 (2019) y No hablen de mรญ: una vida y su museo (2021). Adaptado de Letralia.
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Sergio Chejfec was born in Buenos Aires in 1956. He began to publish in literary magazines while he worked as a bookseller, taxi driver or clerk. In 1990, already in Caracas, he joined the editorial staff of the cultural and social science magazine Nueva Sociedad. The author received the Konex award, was a fellow of the Guggenheim Foundation and a resident at Civitella Ranieri (Italy) and the Maison des รcrivains รtrangers et des Traducteurs (MEET) in Saint-Nazaire. He published the novels Lenta biografรญa and Moral (1990). Titles such as El aire (1992), Cinco (1996), The call of the species (1997), Los planetas (1999), Boca de lobo (2000), Los incompletos (2004), Baroni: un viaje (2007) followed. , Mis dos mundos (2008), La experiencia dramรกtica (2012) and the collection of stories Modo Linterna (2013). He also published books of poems such as Tres poemas y una merced (2002), Gallos y huesos (2003), and the essays El punto vacilante (2005) and Sobre Giannuzzi (2010). His latest books, characteristic of the generic hybridity and the renowned referential uncertainty that defined his style, were รltimas Noticias de la Lectura (2016), El visitante (2017), Teorรญa del ascensor (2018), 5 (2019) and No hablen de mรญ: una vida y su museo (2021). Adapted from Letralia.
Esas preguntas eran, ahora pienso, una materia sutil de imaginar; yo imaginaba caras, gestos, ojos. Tambiรฉn eran la forma de pensarla familia que mi padre no tenรญa. Suponรญa las caras de mis tรญos como variaciones leves de la suya, a pesar de que sus voces les concedรญa mayor flexibilidad: podรญan ser mรกs agudas o graves que la de รฉl. Creo que si mi imaginaciรณn era mรกs permisiva en relaciรณn con ellas que con las caras, lo que fue justamente porque con su voz mi padre se distanciabaโde un modo permanenteโde lo que me rodea; รฉl hablaba otros idiomas y hablabaโhabla mal el mรญo. Ruso, idisch, polaco, salรญan de su boca graves con la naturalidad que ortagaba el uso y con el infinito matiz de entonaciones que concede la total identificaciรณn la total identificaciรณn con el universo de la lengua.
Supongamos que escapando, mi padre vino a Buenos Aires escapรกndole a la guerra ya terminada, o mรกs bien, o mรกs bien quizรก a sus consecuencias y recuerdos. Espantado de hambre; tambiรฉnโsupongo– con la intenciรณn de radicarse. De aquellos judรญos, los que no huyeron espantados casi todos terminaron muriรฉndose asesinados; seis de ellos fueron mis tรญos, dos de ellos mis abuelos, o sea sus padres. El siempre tuvo respuestas escuetas para referirse a su familia desaparecida: cuรกntos eran hombres, cuรกntos mujeres, quรฉ lugar ocupaba รฉl en la escala cronolรณgica, la diferencia de edad entre sus padres, y cosas por el estilo. Ese recato no estaba dado a su parte por una abierta y explรญcita negaciรณn a profundizar en estas cuestiones (en realidad mรกs bien siempre se cuida de sugiera una circunstancia en la que se pudiese preguntar por ellas), sino que nos contagiaba el tono de sus respuestas precisas y lรกnguidas, que se rezumaban y transmitรญan un despego profundo con su pasado. Sin embargo, si ese alejamiento existรญa realmente, de noche desaparecรญa: nosotros sabรญamos que soรฑaba de manera cotidiana con sus hermanos y padres, y era esto lo que nos desconcertaba.
Es como si los muertos nos visitaran como vivos, pero ataviados por nosotros. Esas cosas no reflejaba yo cuando era chico; imaginaba difusas las caras que mis tรญos tendrรญan. Aรฑos despuรฉs me darรญa cuenta de que intentaba reconstruir y recordar un pasado que no me pertenecรญa directamente: esa pertenencia estaba dada por la persona de mi padre. Tambiรฉn pienso ahora que si yo querรญa sospechar sus caras y sus voces no era, bien miradas las cosas, porque rechazara la idea de que no pudiera conocerlos, sino todo lo contrario: su condiciรณn de muertos, de inexistentes, de personas que ya nunca volverรญan, fue la manera natural que para mรญ siempre tuvieron, con cierta matiz diferente–o sea sus carรกcter de desaparecidosโen relaciรณn a mi padre. Ellos eran su sombra natural, el pasado y su espacio virtual desde donde รฉl habรญa venido. (Fisgoneaba, oteaba, prรกcticamente vigilaba su cara para suponer las posibles variaciones de las arrugas y los gestos en relaciรณn a aquel conjunto misterioso e inexistente que habรญa sido su seno; y lo que atisbaba eran las tรญmidas sugerencias que me ofrecรญan sus rasgos.)
Hace cierto tiempo una tarde mi padre aumentรณ, sin saberlo, es espacio oscuro de donde provino y provenรญa cuando era niรฑo: me dijo, con su voz lenta y grave, con distintas palabras, que el pueblo donde รฉl naciรณ y viviรณ quince aรฑos no existรญa, se habรญa destruido en la guerra. Sin dejar rastros, pensรฉ yo, como sus padres y hermanos, que sin embargo, tienen la cara de mi padre en mi recuerdo de infancia. Es que como si los muertos nos visitaran a los vivos, pero ataviados por nosotros. Un hermano, para รฉl, era un hermano; para mรญ, un tรญo, casi era รฉl. Mi padre era todo lo que รฉl decรญa que habรญa tenido; era, al mismo tiempo, testimonio y causa. El atavรญo, a estos muertos ignotos, era yes puesto por mรญ utilizando la figura de mi padre.
__________________________________
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“Slow Biography”
These questions were, I now think, a subtle subject for imagination; I imagined faces, gestures, eyes. They were also the way of thinking about the family that my father didnโt have. I conceived the faces of my uncles and aunts to be slight variations of his, although I conceded more flexibility to their voices; they could be higher or lower than his. I believe that if my imagination was more permissive in relation to them than with the faces, that was justified because, with his voice, my father distanced himselfโin a permanent wayโfrom what surrounded me; he spoke other languages and he spoke mine poorly. Russian, Yiddish, Polish from his mouth came deep sounds and with the naturalness that use bestows and with the infinite shades of intonations that grants the total identification with the universe of the language.
Letโs suppose that escaping, my father came to Buenos Aires, ridding himself from the war that was already ended, or better said, perhaps its consequences and memories. Terrified by hunger alsoโI supposeโwith the intention of settling there. Of those Jews, those who did not flee terrified, almost all ended up murdered; six of them were my uncles and aunts, two of them my grandparents, or his parents, and things like that. He always had terse answers when referring to his family, how many women, how many men, the place they occupied in the family chronology, the difference in age between his parents, and things like that. That restraint didnโt come from him through an open and explicit negation to go deeper into these questions (in reality more because he is careful not to hint at a circumstance that would lead to our asking about them), but what infected us was the tone of his precise and languid answers that summarized and transmitted a profound detachment from his past. Nevertheless, if that distancing really existed, at night it disappeared: we knew that he dreamed in an ordinary manner about his brothers and parents, and that is what disconcerted us.
It is as if the dead visited us as if they were alive, but dressed up by us. I didnโt think about such things when I was little; I imagined, in a diffuse way, the faces that my uncles and aunts would have. Years later, I came to the conclusion that I tried to reconstruct and remember a past that didnโt directly belong to me; that ownership was given by way of my father. I also now think that if I wanted to guess at at their faces and voices, it wasnโt because, seeing things clearly, I rejected the idea that I could never get to know them, but just the opposite: their condition of being dead, non-existent, of people who will never return, was the natural way for me that they always had, with a certain different tingeโor perhaps their state of being disappearedโin relation to my father. They were his natural shadow, the past and his virtual space from which he had come. (I snooped, examined, practically watched his face to guess the possible variations of his wrinkles and his gestures in relation to that mysterious and inexistent group that had been his refuge; and what it hinted at were the timid suggestions that didnโt provide me with their basic characteristics.)
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Some time ago, one afternoon, my father increased, without knowing it, the dark space from which he comes or came when he was a boy: he told me, with his slow and deep voice, with precise words, that the town where he was born and lived for fifteen years didnโt exist, it had been destroyed in the war. Without leaving traces, I thought, like his parents and brothers, who, nevertheless, have my fatherโs face in my childhood memory. It is as if the dead visit the living, but dressed up by us. A brother, for him, was a brother; for me, an uncle, was almost him. My father was everything that he said he had had, he was, at the same time, proof and cause. The clothing, of these unknown dead, was and is created by me, using my fatherโs figure as a model.
Luis Kleiman nace en 1948 en San Josรฉ, Costa Rica. Efectuรณ estudios sobre Medicina en la Universidad Autรณnoma de Mรฉxico; Derecho, Economรญa, Psicologรญa, Sociologรญa y Periodismo en la Universidad de Costa Rica. Ejerciรณ el Periodismo en La Palabra de Costa Rica de Radio Monumental y fue corresponsal del Diario La Naciรณn en Brasil. Participรณ en los Cursos para Periodistas en ejercicio impartidos por CESPAL y la Universidad de Costa Rica. Fue miembro de la Asociaciรณn de Autores de Obras Literarias y Cientรญficas de Costa Rica y, de la Uniรณn Mundial de Periodistas Judรญos. Fue fundador y Director del Periรณdico ANAJNU. Fundador y Director del Programa “KOL HASHALOM” en Radio Universidad de Costa Rica. Publicรณ “MIS PRIMEROS SALMOS” 1970; “OPUS CERO: SINFONรA TEรRICA” 1982. “RITUAL SALOBRE” 1988.”MEDITACIONES Y CREENCIAS” 1998.
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Luis Kleiman was born in 1948 in San Josรฉ, Costa Rica. He studied Medicine at the Autonomous University of Mexico; Law, Economics, Psychology, Sociology and Journalism at the University of Costa Rica. He worked as a Journalist at Radio Monumental for its The “Word of Costa Rica” and was a correspondent for Diario La Naciรณn in Brazil. He participated in the Courses for Practicing Journalists taught by CESPAL and the University of Costa Rica. He was a member of the Association of Authors of Literary and Scientific Works of Costa Rica and of the World Union of Jewish Journalists. He was founder and Director of the ANAJNU Newspaper. Founder and Director of the “KOL HASHALOM” Program at Radio Universidad de Costa Rica. He published “MY FIRST PSALMS” 1970; “OPUS CERO: THEORETICAL SYMPHONY” 1982. “BRACKISH RITUAL” 1988.”MEDITATIONS AND BELIEFS” 1998.
La poesรญa de Luis Kleiman representa un campo de conocimiento infinito, de cรณmo actรบan las tendencias dominantes sobre el espacio literario, รกmbito que ha cambiado de mรกscara en los รบltimos cincuenta aรฑos, pues en esencia no ha cambiado de rostro. Cristiรกn Marcelo
De:/From: http://los7ahorcados.blogspot.com/2010/10/luis-kleiman-la-poesia-mistico.html
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Luis Kleiman’s poetry represents a field of infinite knowledge, of how the dominant trends act on the literary space, an area that has changed its mask in the last fifty years, because in essence it has not changed its face. Christian Marcelo
III LรGICA
a Samuel Rowinski, amigo de las letras
La oposiciรณn de los magnetos,
divididos, separados,
amparados en sus polos disidentes,
causa la anulaciรณn de las fuerzas.
Y en el nรบcleo,
equilibrado el movimiento,
por inercia,
decrece hasta la muerte,
a la multiplicaciรณn de las palabras.
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III LOGIC
to Samuel Rovinski, friend of literature
The opposition of the magnets,
divided, separated,
in its dissident poles
cause the annulment of the forces.
And in the nucleus
the movement balanced
by inertia,
decreases to its death,
to the multiplication of the words.
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OPUS CERO: SINFONรA TEรRICA
Titulando poemas a lo largo del rรญo,
el poeta molecular del presente,
prende sus criterios narcรณticos
en la estructura craneal de la maรฑana.
Igualmente,
la carรณtida sensual
y la yugular abultada de la risa,
y el trigรฉmino variable de la sensaciรณn,
y los albures semรกnticos de la insistencia,
amanecen en sueรฑos periรณdicos,
clasificando bibliotecas,
detenidas en el rumbo del รกngulo.
Mรกs allรก,
el paroxismo adulterado se esculpe
en la materia inorgรกnica del espejo.
Y en las rotas retรญculas apareadas,
acomoda vicios, la esperanza.
El universo cotidiano,
bucรณlico, elegantemente ausente,
agรณnico, riguroso, didรกctico,
empรญrico, boreal,
enseรฑoreado en longitudes,
eructa diรกlogos en soledad.
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OPUS CERO: THEORETICAL SYMPHONY
Naming poems along the river,
the molecular poet of the present,
catches his narcotic criteria
in the cranial structure of the morning.
In the same way, the sensual carotid
and the jugular swollen with laughter,
and the trigeminal variable with the sensation,
and those semantic risks of insistence,
dawn in periodic dreams,
classifying libraries,
stopped in the angular direction.
Beyond,
The adulterated paroxysm spits
into the inorganic material of the mirror.
And in the mated broken reticles,
accommodates vices, hope.
The everyday universe,
bucolic, elegantly absent,
agonic, rigorous, didactic,
empirical, boreal,
taken possession in longitudes,
belches dialogues in solitud.
____________________________________________
โLa piedra que nos precediรณโ
Construรญamos el sueรฑo
con solo llegar a la piedra que nos precediรณ:
a la piedra mutรกndose en los labios de la memoria.
ยฟAcaso un simple vapor silenciado por el aire
hizo que olvidaras las arenas?
Los pasos se han desdoblado;
al olfatear la sal que te sostiene el corazรณn.
Te conociรณ la lluvia antes que el sol,
antes que la madera roncara bajos tus pies.
Estabas en la intimidad de los bosques
custodiando lunas inmensas en el espejo.
Y nos arrodillamos junto al rostro del rรญo
hasta anudarnos en una misma sed,
sin evadir entonces la piel del cielo.
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โThe Stone that Preceded Youโ
We were constructing the dream
only arriving at the stone that preceded us:
to the stone mutating itself in the lips of memory.
Is it possible that a simple vapor, silenced by the air
made you forget the sands?
The steps have opened up
on smelling the salt that sustains the heart.
The rain knows you before the sun,
before the wood roars underfoot.
You were in the intimacy of the woods
guarding immense moons in the mirror.
And we kneel near the face of the river
until tying ourselves up in the same thirst,
without then evading the skin of the sky.
_______________________________
โTesoroโ
En tu hรกlito de miel tropical
guardรฉ salivas con raรญz de luna.
Eras aceite de estrellas
baรฑando sueรฑos,
o espejo de labios dilatados
en liquentes,
Cortejรฉ las entraรฑas de tus dunas,
pasando por tu mar,
como cรกntaro de algas nacida
en tus cuarzos,
a la boca de mis poemas.
_________________________________
โTreasureโ
In your breath of tropical honey
I save salivas with root of moon.
You are oil of stars
bathing dreams,
or mirror of distilled lips
in lichens.
I courted the innards of your dunes,
passing through your sea,
like a jar of algae born
in your quartzes,
to the mouth of my poems.
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Translations by Stephen A. Sadow and J. Kates
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Entrevista con Luis Kleiman sobre la poesรญa (1998) Interview with Luis Kleiman (In Spanish with Spanish titles available.)
Ana Marรญa Shua naciรณ en Buenos Aires. Siendo hija de padre padres judรญos, padre libanรฉs y madre polaca, que emigraron en los aรฑos 20 a Argentina. A los 15 aรฑos publicรณ su primer libro de poesรญa, El sol y yo que fue un รฉxito. Recibiรณ dos premios, el Premio estรญmulo del Fondo Nacional de las Artes y la Faja de Honor de la Sociedad Argentina de Escritores. Estudiรณ literatura en la Universidad de Buenos Aires donde obtuvo un Mรกster en Art. En 1976, hubo un golpe de estado en Argentina Shua se dirigiรณ voluntariamente al exilio en Parรญs y trabajรณ como editora para la revista espaรฑola “Cambio 16”. Regresรณ al cabo de un aรฑo a su tierra natal y publicรณ su primera novela Soy Paciente en Buenos Aires en 1980, considerada por los crรญticos metรกfora interpretada por el rรฉgimen dictatorial. Algunas de sus obras fueron traducidas a mรบltiples lenguas y dos de sus novelas fueron llevadas al cine: Soy Paciente (1986) y Los amores de Laurita (1986). Desde entonces ha publicado mรกs de ochenta libros de muchos gรฉneros, incluyendo: novelas, cuentos, micro-ficciones, poesรญa, teatro, literatura infantil, literatura cรณmica, la antologรญa, ensayos y guiones cinematogrรกficos y artรญculos periodรญsticos. Ha recibido numerosos premios nacionales e internacionales, incluyendo una beca otorgada por la John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation. Es particularmente famosa en el mundo de habla hispana como la “Reina de la Microficciรณn”.
Ana Marรญa Shua was born in Buenos Aires. Being the daughter of a Jewish father, a Lebanese father and a Polish mother, who emigrated to Argentina in the 1920s. At the age of 15, he published his first book of poetry, El sol y yo, which was a success. He received two awards, the Stimulus Award from the National Fund for the Arts and the Belt of Honor from the Argentine Society of Writers. She studied literature at the University of Buenos Aires where she obtained a Master’s in Art. In 1976, there was a coup in Argentina. Shua voluntarily went into exile in Paris and worked as an editor for the Spanish magazine “Cambio 16”. He returned to his homeland after a year and published his first novel Soy paciente in Buenos Aires in 1980, considered by critics to be a metaphor interpreted by the dictatorial regime. Some of his works were translated into multiple languages โโand two of his novels were made into movies: Soy paciente(1986) and Los amores de Laurita (1986). Since then he has published more than eighty books of many genres, including: novels, short stories, micro-fictions, poetry, theater, children’s literature, comic literature, the anthology, essays and film scripts and newspaper articles. He has received numerous national and international awards, including a fellowship from the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation. She is particularly famous in the Spanish-speaking world as the “Queen of Microfiction”.
Cuando el mayor de los hijos del abuelo Gedalia y la babuela, el que llegarรญa a ser, con el tiempo el tรญo Silvestre, empezรณ a ir a la escuela, todavรญa (como suele suceder con los hijos mayores en las familias de inmigrantes pobres) no dominaba el idioma del paรญs.
Esa desventaja con respecto a los compaรฑeros le produjo grandes sufrimientos morales. Tardรณ pocos meses en poseer un vocabulario tan amplio como cualquiera d e los demรกs chicos, modificรณ con gran rapidez sus errores sintรกcticos y gramaticales en castellano, pero le llevรณ aรฑos enteros llegar a pronunciar la terrible erre de la lengua espaรฑola, la fricativa alveolar sonora: la punta de su lengua resistรญa a vibrar con ese sonido de motor que escuchaba y envidiaba en niรฑos mucho mรกs pequeรฑos que รฉl, vibraciรณn que era capaz de imitar con el labio superior, pero no con el maldito punta de su lengua. (Pinche, que aprendiรณ a hablar imitรกndolo a Silvestre, como lo imitaba en todo lo demรกs, nunca pudo llegar a pronunciar la doble erre, que a Silvestre sรณlo se le entregรณ mucho despuรฉs, ya en plena adolescencia).
Decรญ regalo, le decรญan los otros chicos. Decรญ erre con erre guitarra, le decรญan. Decรญ que rรกpido ruedan las ruedas, las ruedas del ferrocarril. Y cuando escribรญa, Silvestre confundiรณ territorio con terรญtorrio y la maestra se sorprendรญa de esa dificultad en un alumno tan bueno, tan brillante, tan reiteradamente abanderado.
Entonces, un dรญa, llegรณ Silvestre enojado y decidido a la Casa Vieja y declarรณ que en esa casa no se iba a hablar nunca mรกs el Otro Idioma, el que sus padres habรญan traรญdo con ellos del otro lado del mar. Ese idioma agonizante que tampoco en el paรญs donde el abuelo Gedalia y la babuela habรญan vivido era la lengua de todos, la lengua de la mayorรญa, que ni siquiera era la lengua que los habรญan obligado a usar en la escuela pรบblica, pero que sรญ habรญa sido el idioma para ellos, el Idioma de sus padres y el de sus amigos y el de juegos infantiles y las canciones de cuna y las primeras palabras de amor los insultos y, par siempre, el Idioma de los nรบmeros: el รบnico Idioma en el que era posible hacer las cuentas . El Otro Idioma, el รญntimo, el propio, el verdadero, el รบnico, el Idioma de ningรบn paรญs, el Idioma que tantos se burlaban, al que muchos llamaban jerga, el Idioma que nadie, salvo ellos y los que eran como ellos, respetaban y querรญan. El Idioma que estaba condenado a morir con su generaciรณn.
Y sin embargo cuando llegรณ Silvestre, llegรณ ese dรญa en la escuela y sin sacarse el delantal declarรณ que la seรฑorita habรญa dado el orden que en su casa tenรญan que hablar solamente castellano, nadie se sorprendiรณ.
Al abuelo Gedalia le gustรณ mucho la idea por dos razones: porque necesitaba, para su trabajo de kuentenik, es decir, vendedor, mejorar todo lo posible en su habilidad con la lengua del paรญs en quรฉ vivรญa, y tambiรฉn porque se le presentaba una oportunidad mรกs de humillar a su mujer delante de sus hijos (esa actividad era una de sus diversiones preferidas).
A la babuela, que nunca habรญa hablado de corrido la lengua de la mayorรญa, ni siquiera en su paรญs de origen, el castellano le parecรญa un idioma brutal, inexpresivo, y sobre todo inaccesible, y hasta ese momento se las habรญa rebuscado con gestos con gestos y sonrisas u algunas palabras para hacer las compras. En la รฉpoca en la cual el carnicero regalaba el hรญgado para el gato de la casa. La babuela seรฑalaba el trozo de hรญgado sangrante y sonreรญa muy avergonzada y el carnicero
Se lo envolvรญa en un pedazo grande de papel de diario.
Pero si asรญ lo habรญa dicho la seรฑorita, asรญ debรญa ser. La babuela le tenรญa miedo a la maestra, que era para ella casi un funcionario de control fronterizo, alguien destacado por las autoridades de inmigraciรณn para vigilar desde adentro a las familias inmigrantes y asegurarse de que se fundieran correctamente el crisol de razas.
Y asรฎ fue como el idioma de las canciones de cuna y las palabras de amor y los insultos de lo que con el tiempo llegaron a ser los abuelos, desapareciรณ, al menos en la superficie, de la casa de la familia Rimetka, quedรณ para siempre encerrado en el dormitorio grande y los hermanos menores apenas lo entendรญan.
Fuera del dormitorio, el abuelo Gedalia se complacรญa en no entenderse con su mujer en castellano de manera mรกs completa y al mismo tiempo mรกs sutil que la que usaban para no entenderse en la que era para ambos su Lengua natal. Es por eso que en el Libro de los Recuerdos son muy pocas o ninguna las palabras que no aparecen en castellano.
Ana Marรญa Shua. El libro de los recuerdos. Buenos Aires: Editorial Sudamericana, 1994, 21-23.
When the eldest of Grandfather Gedalia and Grannyโs children began attending school, he still hadnโt mastered the language of the country (as was customary with the eldest in families of poor immigrants.)
This disadvantage, in terms of his relationship with other school mates, caused him great suffering. Yet it didnโt take him long to acquire an ample vocabulary equal to the other students, and he quickly learned how to mitigate his syntactical and grammatical errors in Spanish. Nevertheless, it took him several years to learn to roll that terrible Spanish double rr, that sonorous alveolar fricative in which the tip of his tongue refused to vibrate like the sound of a motorโyou knowโyou know, vrrrrrrmโthat he would hear children younger than him pronounce, making him envious, a sound that he could imitate with his upper lip but not with that damned tip of his tongue.
Pucho, the second in line, who learned to speak by imitating Silvester (he imitated Silvester did), never did learn how to pronounce that double rr either, the same one that Silvester only managed to acquire much later in life, when he was already a teenager,
โSay rrrregalo,โ the other children would tell him. Or, theyโd tell him to say โrr and rr, guitarraโโ rรกpido ruedan las ruedas, laas recueros del ferrocarril.โ And when he would write, Silvester always put teritorio for territorio, which surprised the teacher because Silvester was such a good student, so brilliant, a real standard bearer.
Then on day, Silvester, who had become visibly upset, arrived at the Old House, having made up his mind that never again in that house was anyone was going to speak the Other Language, the one his parents had brought over from the old country; the language that was dying and wasnโt even the main language spoken in his parentโs native land, or taught in the public schools they had attended. It had been the language commonly used by their parents among their friends, for childrenโs games and lullabies, for their first words of love, for insulting, and always, counting; the only language in which they could do their adding and subtracting. It was that Other Language, the intimate language, the one they could call their own, the true language, the only language, the language, the one language
that knew no national boundaries, the one language that people joked about, the one so many people called jargon, the language that no one, except for them and others like them, loved and respected. The language was condemned to die with them.
And yet no one was when Silvester came home from school that day and, even before taking off his school uniform, that the teacher had told them to speak only Spanish at home.
Grandfather Gedalia liked the idea for two reasons: it enhanced his work as a peddler, that is to say, salesman, because it was a good opportunity to improve his Spanish. And also, because it gave him the opportunity to humiliate his wife in front of his children (which gave much pleasure.)
For Granny, who didnโt even manage well in the majority of her country back home, Spanish seemed like a harsh, unexpressive language that was, above all, inaccessible. Up until that time, she had done her shopping mainly by gesturing and smiling. That was when the butcher at the meat market would give her liver for the cat. Granny would point at the bloody piece of meat and smile embarrassingly while the butcher wrapped it up in a large piece of newspaper.
But if thatโs what the teacher had ordered. Thatโs the way it had to be. Granny was a little afraid of the teacher who seemed to her more like a member of the border patrol under orders from the immigration authorities keeping an eye on immigrants and making sure they conform, integrate, and become part of the melting pot.
And, hence, thatโs how the grandparents became identified with the language of lullabies, love, and insults that in time began to disappear, at least on the surface of things, from the home of the Rimetka family. Once it became confined to the master bedroom, the two younger children, never did fully grasp the language.
Beyond the bedroom. Grandfather Gedalia was quite happy not understanding his wife in Spanish, just as they didnโt understand each other in their native language. For that reason, you will only find Spanish in the Book of Memories.
Ana Marรญa Shua. Albuquerque: The Book of Memories. The University of New Mexico Press, 1998. Trans. by Dick Gerdes. pp. 17-19
Teresa Porzecanski es escritora de ficciรณn, Doctorada en Trabajo Social, Licenciada en Ciencias Antropolรณgicas, Especializaciรณn en Etnologรญa, Posgrado en Hermenรฉutica y Master en Tecnologรญas de la Informaciรณn.Se ha desempeรฑado como docente titular de grado y posgrado de Antropologรญa Cultural en la Universidad de la Repรบblica de Uruguay, asรญ como conferencista y consultora en la Universidad de California, Northwestern University, Universidad de Gotemburgo, Universidad de Santiago de Compostela y Universidad Hebrea de Jerusalem. En ensayo, ha publicado mรกs de un centenar de artรญculos y varias obras de Ciencias Sociales y Trabajo Social. Entre otras, Mito y realidad en Ciencias Sociales (1973), Curanderos y canรญbales. Ensayos antropolรณgicos sobre guaranรญes, charrรบas, bororos, terenas y adivinos.(1989,1993), Historias de vida: negros en el Uruguay, (1994), Historias de vida de inmigrantes judรญos al Uruguay, (1986, 1988),, Historias de Exclusiรณn: afrodescendientes en el Uruguay (2006) y Mitologรญas del Cuerpo y la apariencia (2011). En ficciรณn narrativa, ha publicado Construcciones (1979), Invenciรณn de los Soles (1982), Ciudad Impune (1986), Mesรญas en Montevideo (1989, 2005), Perfumes de Cartago (1994, 1995, 2003), La piel del alma (1996), Nupcias en familia y otros cuentos (1998), Una novela erรณtica (2000), Felicidades Fugaces (2002), Irse y andar (novela, 2011).Ha recibido reconocimientos del Ministerio Educaciรณn y Cultura del Uruguay y la Intendencia Municipal de Montevideo , Beca Guggenheim, Beca Residencia Bellagio de Fundaciรณn Rockefeller (2006). Textos suyos han sido traducidos al holandรฉs, francรฉs, inglรฉs, alemรกn, portuguรฉs, italiano, rumano y hรบngaro.
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Teresa Porzecanski is a fiction writer, Doctorate in Social Work, Bachelor of Anthropological Sciences, Specialization in Ethnology, Postgraduate in Hermeneutics and Master in Information Technology. Republic of Uruguay, as well as a lecturer and consultant at the University of California, Northwestern University, University of Gothenburg, University of Santiago de Compostela and the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. In essay, he has published more than a hundred articles and several works on Social Sciences and Social Work. Among others, Myth and reality in Social Sciences (1973), Healers and cannibals. Anthropological essays on Guarani, Charrรบas, Bororos, Terenas and fortune tellers. (1989,1993), Life stories: blacks in Uruguay, (1994), Life stories of Jewish immigrants to Uruguay, (1986, 1988), Life of guaranรญes, charrรบas, bororos, terenas and fortune tellers. (1989,1993), Life stories: blacks in Uruguay (1994), Life stories of Jewish immigrants in Uruguay, (1986, 1988), Life began here: Jewish immigrants in Uruguay (2005), Exclusion stories: Afro-descendants in Uruguay (2006) and Mythologies of the Body and Appearance (2011). In narrative fiction, he has published Construcciones (1979), sun Inventions (1982), Ciudad Impune (1986), Mesรญas en Montevideo (1989, 2005), Perfumes de Cartago (1994, 1995, 2003), La piel del alma (1996 ), Nupcias en Familia y otros cuentos (1998), An Erotic Novel (2000), Felicidades fugaces (2002) , Irse y andar (novel, 2011).She has received recognition from the Ministry of Education and Culture of Uruguay and the Municipality of Montevideo, Guggenheim Scholarship, Bellagio Residence Scholarship from the Rockefeller Foundation (2006). Her texts have been translated into Dutch, French, English, German, Portuguese, Italian, Romanian and Hungarian.
Asรญ, pues, llevo todavรญa esa maldita carta en el bolsillo. Por momentos su existencia me produce un turbio deseo de manosear una vez mรกs el sobre ya bastante desgatado. Introduzco, entonces, la mano, con temor, como en una trampa. Quisiera no encontrarlo y que el culposo vacรญo del bolsillo me arrinonara la mano.
Pero, cuando regreso a casa en el apretado tumulto de las siete, y un zumbido incomprensible zigaguea en mis oรญdos, y es inminente la sensaciรณn de que voy a caerme, de que me caerรฉ seguro, voy directamente hace ese sobre, lo busco rรกpidamente en la campera, y palparlo me otorga una mansa paz, casi pletรณrica.
Repito mentalmente el nombre el Rojl Eipsis como si volviera a ser incorporada, aleteando, y lo re-leo una y otra vez en esa escritura hebrea hoy ya deslucida, tal como si su escribiente hubiese ido poco a poco olvidando los trazos del lejano alfabeto, y signos laberรญnticos escaparan de su pluma. El resto del sobre es todo huellas dactilares cuyos surcos se mezclan y entremezclan inextricablemente.
Porque lleguรฉ a Rojl Eisips por las seรฑas ambiguas que me dio un zapatero lituano de parco hablar, que alcanzรณ a recordar que tuvo una vez una pariente lejana de ese nombre, paralรญtica o sorda o desahuciada, la madre probable de un sobrino lejano que apenas conociรณ, o hijo de una tรญa detestable que solรญa trabajar en un banco de nombre irrecordable, tercer piso, crรฉditos. Y a ese viejo lleguรฉ, a su vez, por una modista solitaria, que fuera especialista de trajes de solapa, cuyas seรฑas obtuve por parte de un ex-confeccionista de sombreros que recordรณ que tuvo alguna vez una vecina, en su casa de pensiรณn en la calle Blandengues, de nombre Rojl Eisips, cocinera, que tal vez estuviera, vivita y coleando, todavรญa.
Y todo, para llegar finalmente a esta mujer enmohecida, de indefinible edad, quien, abriendo un solo ojo con marcada desconfianza, espetรณ al aire rancio del corredor: โยฟY para quรฉ alguien querrรญa verme? ยฟA mรญ?
La enfermera no se molestรณ en dar respuesta. Buscรณ primero mi mirada con la suya, socarrona, cรณmplice, e hizo una mueca que se instalรณ en la comisura izquierda de su boca. Despuรฉs, con gesto indiferente, me dejรณ allรญ, de pie, ante la silla de ruedas, mientras se alejaba intocada por el gรฉlido corredor.
Asรญ, quedamos solas, Rojl Eisips y yo, en la tendenciosa orfandad del Asilo de Ancianos. Fue en ese momento que la anciana me seรฑalรณ una silla y se arrellanรณ en la suya, y supe que tenรญamos ambas, una eternidad por delante.
–En Jerusalรฉnโmusitรฉโun viejo vendedor de alfombras, me entregรณ una carta a su nombre y sin seรฑas. Y me dijo: โEs muy urgente, Debe llegar a manos de Rojl Esips lo mรกs pronto posible.โ
–ยฟAsรญ de una ciudad de piedra, muy pero muy vieja, dice Ud.? โpreguntรณ la anciana con un acento por varios orรญgenes transmutado. Y luego, de repente, como asaltada por una idea subversiva, pidiรณ: โVamos, dรญgame toda, toda la verdad.โ
Tal vez su sordera, la forma somnolienta que tenรญa que
mirarme, me hicieron saber que ella nunca entenderรญa
–Yo โinsistรญ con firmezaโtraigo una carta para Ud., una
carta que le envรญa un simple vendedor de alfombras de
Jerusalem.
Pero ella emitiรณ de pronto, desde algรบn lugar inesperado de sรญ misma, una voz nueva, oscura y cavernosa, para repetir y repetir su propia pregunta, mientras desmenuzaba una trama indefinible tejida muy atrรกs en su memoria. Luego, como embargada por sรบbita y plausible verdad, Rojl Esips inventรณ la risa. Una risa que subรญa desde el fondo de su estรณmago como de repente algo en ella se abriera para parir un vรณrtice de luz y de armonรญa.
–Pero, claro que sรญ, que te conozco, Anele โdijo con su nuevo decir– ยฟAcaso puedo olvidar a mi nieta mayor, la mรกs delgada de todas las hijas de mi hija Frida, la que muriรณ en Letonia? Sรญ, tenรฉs la cara, la misma cara de tu madre. Y esos ojos. Los mismos ojos del tonto de tu padre. Que Dios lo tenga en su gloria. Amรชn.
–No โgritรฉ alarmada. No soy su nieta. Solamente vine a traer esta carta –. Y le extendรญ el sobre que entonces se me antojรณ ridรญculo y hasta inconexo en la sombrรญa estancia.
— ยฟCarta? โrรญo ella, rechazando mi gesto– ยฟQuรฉ carta? โAhora mostraba las encรญas casi vacรญas y hรบmedas como las de una reciรฉn nacida โNo necesita ninguna carta para reconocerte. Yo bien que me acuerdo de ti, Anele. Tantas veces te alimentรฉ y te contรฉ historias, mientras tu madre regresรณ a Letonia a buscar al tonto de tu padre. รl no se iba a mover de allรญ hasta lo sacaran. Y lo sacaron, muerto. En el treinta y nuevo.
De pronto, la indefinible edad de la vieja habรญa retrocedido. Todo su cuerpo ahora se habรญa extendido y una incipiente juventud le llegaba de los ojos, pequeรฑos pero licuados, y de la sonrisa que se le hacรญa mรกs y mรกs bucรณlica, al punto que las palabras todas se agolpaban ahora apenas entendibles: casi sin modular fluรญan por entre las encรญas de niรฑa, blandas y espumosas. Los parientes, todos, dilapidadas hacia aรฑares, volvรญan a travรฉs suyo un tropel hacia la vida, suspendidos de los ojos de Rojl Eisips, ya iridiscentes, ya derretidos, produciendo espectros de amor.
Yo todavรญa pude jadear: โUn viejo que encontrรฉ en una tienda de alfombras, al enterarse que yo regresaba a Montevideo, escribiรณ esta carta apresuradamente y me pidiรณ, me rogรณ mรกs bien que la entregara a Rojl Esips, Es urgente me dijo, Rojl Eisips.โ
Pero ya un grupo de cosacos habรญan invadido su casa natal prendiendo fuego a sus padres encerrados, saqueando lao objetos religiosos. Y ya su tรญa, vendedora de pasteles en un mercado de Vertisk, habรญa criado solitariamente a la huรฉrfana. Y ya Rojl Esips llegaba al puerto de Montevideo en enero de 1922, con un par de zapatos y un hatillo, lo suficiente para un cocinero de estancia de Colonia que luego se mudarรญa a la capital, calle Blandengues, pieza ocho, para parir cinco hijos sabios de un marido fantasmal, ya fallecido.
Caรญa la tarde, y Rojl Eisips seguรญa conversando. Una vaga letanรญa daba ritmo y entonaciรณn a sus palabras. Una y otra vez, los cosacos habรญan asesinado a sus padres y nuevamente la tรญa de Vitesk hacรญa pasteles para vender en el mercado. Entonces, un barco aparecรญa en el horizonte del puerto y una quinceaรฑera de paรฑuelo encasquetado, descendรญa internรกndose en la muchedumbre de platos y enseres de cocina. Pero despuรฉs embarazarse y parir cinco hijos sabios. Que habรญa sido todo aquello que esa reseรฑa una y otra vez mรกs recombinada en la cadencia fabulesca de las tardes.
En esas ocasiones, Rojl Eisips era quien vendรญa los pasteles, pero no en el mercado de Vitesk sino el de Vilna, y los padres habรญan sido muertos por los guardias polacos, y no por un incendio provocado por los cosacos. Entonces, era su tรญa la que llegaba a Amรฉrica, con el hatillo de ropa y los zapatos, y eran los cinco hijos lo que daban a luz a Rojl Eisips.
No sรฉ por que no huรญ pero tuve que quedarme. Allรญ permanecรญ hora tras hora tras hora hipnotizada, hasta que una noche total logrรณ acallar a Rojl Esips. Dos enfermeras obesas y mecรกnicas trasladaron la silla que se deslizรณ sin un chirrido. Y ella iba por รบltima vez, la cabeza ladeada, los ojos aรบn emanando. Y esas encรญas aniรฑadas que todavรญa expandรญan y narraban.
Por eso es que la carta permanece todavรญa en mi bolsillo. Por eso es que no he podido entregarla. No sรฉ muy bien por quรฉ todavรญa la conservo, allรญ donde la puse la primera vez manoseada. Tal vez tenga miedo de abrirla y comprobar que Rojl Eisips aรบn estรก aquรญ y me anida en sus entraรฑas. Y que ambas nos hundimos sin remedio en esta dulce sentencia prolongada.
______________________________________
Rojl Eisips
So, then, I still carry that damn letter with me in my purse. There are times when its existence produces in me a turbulent desire to fiddle one more time with the already worn-out envelope. I introduce, then, my hand, with fear, as if expecting a trap. I didnโt want to find it and the guilty emptiness of the empty purse forced my hand into a corner.
But, when I return home to the hurried tumult of seven oโclock, and an incomprehensible buzz zigzags in my ears, and the sensation that I am about to fall is imminent, that I will surely fall, I go directly to that envelope, I look for it rapidly in my windbreaker, and feeling it brings be a gentle peace, almost plethoric.
I mentally repeat the name of Rojl Eisips as if it were going to be embodied waving its arms, and I reread again and again in that Hebrew writing, today already so faded, as if its writer had gone on little by little forgetting the strokes of the faraway alphabet, and the labyrinthic signs were escaping from his pen. The rest of the envelope is full of fingerprints whose grooves mi and remix inextricably.
Because I arrived at Rojl Eisips by the ambiguous direction that a Lithuanian shoemaker of few words, was able to remember that he once had a distant relative by that name, paralyzed or deaf of hopeless, the probable mother of a distant cousin that he scarcely knew, of the son of a detestable who continued to work in a back of irretrievable name, third floor, credit. And I arrived at that old man, in turn, by means of a solitary dressmaker, who was a specialist in dresses with lapels, whose address I obtained by means of an ex-hatmaker who remembered the he once had a neighbor in his rooming house, named Rojl EIsips, cook, who still was, perhaps, alive and kicking.
And so, to finally arrive at this moldy woman, of undefinable age, who, opening a single eye with marked lack of control, pierced the rancid air of the corridor: And why does someone want to see me? Me?
The nurse didnโt trouble herself to give an answer. She first looked for my gaze with hers, sarcastic, conspiratorial, and made a grimace that settled into the corner of her mouth. Then, with an indifferent gesture, she left me there, standing, near the wheel chair, while she moved away through the untouched icy corridor.
So, we stayed alone, Rojl Eisips and I, in the tendentious orphanage of the Home for the Aged. It was at that moment that the old lady pointed out a chair to me and sank into hers, and I knew that the two of us had an eternity ahead of us.
โIn Jerusalem,โ I whispered, โan old rug merchant,
gave me a letter with your name and without an address. And he said, โItโs very urgent, it must reach the hands of Rojl Eisips as quickly as possible.โ
โBut, most certainly, I recognize you, Anele,โ she said with her new voice. โHow could I forget my oldest granddaughter, the slimmest of the daughters of my daughter Frida, the one who died in Latvia? Yes, you have the face, the same face as your mother. And those eyes, the same eyes of that fool your father. May God keep him in His glory. Amen.
โNo,โ I yelled, alarmed. โI am not your granddaughter. I only came to bring this letter. And I held out the envelope that then seemed to me to be ridiculous and even unconnected in the somber place.
โSo, from a city of stone, but very old, you say?โ She asked with an accent transmuted by several origins. And then, suddenly, as if struck by a subversive idea, โGo on, tell me all, all the truth.โ
Perhaps it was her deafness, the sleepy way that she had for looking at me, made me know that that she would never understand.
โI.โ I insisted firmly,โ I am bringing a letter for you, a letter that a simple rug dealer in Jerusalem sends it to you.
But all of a sudden, she emitted, from some unexpected part of herself, a new, obscure and cavernous voice, to repeat and repeat her own question, while she analyzed thoroughly an indefinable storyline woven into the very back of her memory. Then as if seized by a sudden and plausible truth, Rojl Eisips concocted a laugh. A laugh that rose from the bottom of her stomach as if suddenly something in her opened to give birth to a vortex of light and harmony.
โLetter?โ she laughs, rejecting my gesture. โWhat letter?โ Now she showed her gums, almost empty and damp lime those a newborn. โI donโt need any letter to recognize you? I remember you well, Anele. So many times, I fed you and I told you stories, while your mother returned to Latvia to look for your fool of a father. She wasnโt going to move from there until they brought him out. And they brought him out, dead. In thirty-nine.
Suddenly, the undefinable age of the old woman had receded. All of her body now had lengthened and an incipient youth came into her eyes, small but liquified, and of the smile that made her more and more bucolic, at the same time that all her words struck into each other so that now they were barely understandable: Almost without modulation, they flowed between her childlike, soft, foaming gums. The relatives, all of them, wasted away years ago, returned through her as a horde toward life, suspended from the eyes of Rojl Eisips, already iridescent, already melted, producing specters of love.
I could still gasp: An old man who I met in a rug store, on finding out that I was returning to Montevideo, wrote this letter hurriedly and asked me, begged me rather that I deliver it to Rojl Eisips. Itโs urgent, he told me, Rojl Eisips.โ
But a group of Cossacks had already invaded her native home, setting fire to her parents who were locked inside, sacking the religious objects. And so, her aunt, a vender of cakes in a Vertisk market, had alone brought up the orphan. And so, Rojl Eisips arrived at the port of Montevideo in January of 1922, with a pair of shoes and a bundle of clothes, enough for a ranch cook in Colonia who later would move to the capital, Blandengues Street, room eight, to give birth to five wise sons from a phantom husband, now deceased.
Evening fell, and Rojl Eisips kept on conversing. A vague litany gave rhythm and intonation to her words. Time and again, the Cossacks had murdered her parents and again the aunt from Vitesk made cakes to sell in the market. Then, a ship appeared on the horizon and a fifteen-year-old girl with a kerchief pulled down tightly descended, confining herself to the multitude of kitchen utensils. But then getting pregnant and giving birth to five wise sons. That was all that summary that once and again recombined in the made-up cadence of the afternoons.
In those occasions, Rojl Eisios was the one who sold the cakes, but not in the Vitesk market, but rather in one in Vilna, and her parents had been killed by the Polish police and not in a fire caused by the Cossacks. Then, it was her aunt who arrived in America, with the bundle of clothing and the shoes, and it was the five sons that gave birth to Rjl; Eisips.
I donโt know why I didnโt free myself, but I had to stay. There I remained hour after hour hypnotized, until one night, the total quieting down of Rojl Eisips was achieved. Two obese and mechanical nurses moved the chair that slid without a squeak. And she went for the last time, her head at an angle, her eyes still giving off light. And those childlike gums that still expanded and narrated.
For that reason, the letter remains in my pocket. For that reason, I hadnโt been able to deliver it. Iโm not sure why I keep it, where I put it for the first time, pawed over. Perhaps, I am afraid to open it and confirm that Rojl Eisips is still here and dwells in my guts. And both of us sink without remedy in this sweet extended sentence.
Marta Riskin naciรณ en Rosario, Argentina. Es antropรณloga y escritora. Ha participado en multitudes de proyectos privados y estatales de tecnologรญa de la informaciรณn y la influencia polรญtica de las formas mediรกticas. Ha publicado una novel Y serรกs como un รกrbol. Ha realizado estudios sobre las religiones del extremo oriente y acerca de temas vinculados con la Cรกbala.
Marta Riskin was born in Rosario, Argentina. She is an anthropologist and writer. He has participated in multitudes of private and government projects on information technology and the political influence of media forms. He has published a novel And you will be like a tree. He has conducted studies on the religions of the Far East and on issues related to the Kabbalah.
Cuento de:/Story from: fragmento de/excerpt from: โY serรกs como un รกrbol.โ Ricardo Feierstein y Stephen A. Sadow. Eds. Recreando la cultura argentina 1894-2001: En el umbral del segundo siglo. Buenos Airesโ Editorial Milรก, 2002, pp. 392-394.
Es una historia antigua que estรก en el presente y camina hacia tu futuro.
Lo conocen los grillos y la contemplan emocionadas en sus viajes las estrellas fijas.
Dan fe de ella, los manuscritos con que los hombres han perpetuado antiguos mensajes.
Ahora, es necesario que tรบ la recuerdes.
Tambiรฉn he dudado. . . ยฟQuรฉ tenemos en comรบn yo, รrbol y tรบ, Humano?
ยฟCuรกl lengua comparten una estrella y un grillo?
ยฟQuรฉ podrรญa saber nuestro sol de otros soles?
Individualizamos por el lenguaje, serados por nuestras fronteras, aprendiendo a travรฉs de distintos รณrganos de percepciรณn. . .
ยฟQuรฉ nos acercarรก?
ยฟCรณmo darte algo mรกs que mis frutos?
ยฟCรณmo recibir algo distinto a tus cuidados y tu sierra?
De todos modos lo intentarรฉ. Cumple Esperanza no olvido.
Los antiguos dicen. . .En el comienzo, el Creador รบnico y solitario en su bondad decidiรณ decir y dijo.
Dijo Luz y v la luz se hizo. Y la separรณ de las sombras
Dijo cielos, tierra y mares. Y vio que era bueno.
Dijo plantas y รกrboles y nos creรณ.
Dijo animales y fueron vivos. Mรกs el hombre lo formรณ a su imagen y semejanza para que lo nombrara, cuidara y reservara sus creaturas. Y entonces descansรณ y celebrรณ lo creado.
Enamorado de su obra, el Creador esperaba el hombre tambiรฉn esperaba el hombre tambiรฉn la amara sintiendo la alegrรญa y la belleza de cada ser.
Para que pudiera compartir tanto amor, del propio costado del hombre, de sus huesos y su sangre, el Seรฑor modelรณ la mujer.
Era la edad de la inocencia.
Sรณlo deben elegir la รบnica ley que el Hacedor les habรญa impuesto: No comer del รกrbol del conocimiento del bien y del mal. Como Padre y Maestro habรญa explicado el motivo de la prohibiciรณn: no debรญan elementarse del conocimiento para aprender vivisecciona, desintegra, divide. Mata.
El hombre y la mujer decidieron desobedecer porque deseaban poder. Poder sin responsabilidad.
Ni siquiera reconocieron haber elegido comer el fruto prohibido, culpรกndose el uno al otro. Separรกndose.
No sabรญan amar a las otras criaturas, sin adueรฑarse y demostrarse cuanto dominio ejercรญan sobre ellos.
Ni siquiera advirtieron que al manipularse, renunciaban a parte de sรญ mismos: sutiles notas musicales que iluminaban de alegrรญa su mundo.
Olvidaron nutrirse del รกrbol de la vida que tambiรฉn en el centro, del dulce fruto del conocimiento integrado a lo vida. Del saber que se comprende reuniendo, abrazando y reverenciando cada una de las obras del Creador.
Dicen los antiguos que por extraรฑos motivos, el hombre no supo agradecer y apreciar aquello que le fuera dado sin esfuerzo propio.
Tendrรญa que aprender la diferencia entre el bien y el mal para reencontrar el รกrbol de la vida
ยกQuรฉ largo para el hombre construir su camino al retorno!
Resultaba difรญcil ayudarlo. Sus vibraciones se habรญan alejado demasiado de la nuestra, los รกrboles.
Nos extraรฑaba, sin reconocer nuestro parentesco.
En sus mejores momentos, suspirarรญa reflejando la hermosura en nosotros o se conmoverรญa por nuestro esfuerza de alturas, que era tambiรฉn el suyo y en otros suspenderรญa nos aterrarรญa proyectando sin versos nuevos objetos.
Con la paciencia que el Seรฑor nos enseรฑara, le enviรกbamos seรฑales, opacado el verde de nuestras hojas debilitando nuestros troncos. Era doloroso acompaรฑar la pena human con la nuestra.
Pretendรญa curarnos (para el hombre y para mรญ, la vida seguirรญa el centro mรกs preciado, aunque รฉl no pudiera aรบn reconocerlo), con polvos, brebajes y extraรฑos aparatos de su invenciรณn.
Dicen los antiguos que un dรญa el hombre apoyarรก sus manos en mi cuerpo, verรก hasta mi alma y recordarรก nuestra comรบn historia. Sabrรก es mi guardiรกn y mi amigo. No el Creador ni el Depredador.
Entonces alcanzaremos universos fantรกsticos.
Armarรฉ el prรณjimo como a sรญ mismo.
Dejarรก de matarse y matarme.
Serรก la justicia su vestimenta y la fe su armadura.
Transformarรก las espadas en arados y sus lanzas en tijeras y dejarรก de estudiar el arte de la guerra.
Se regocijarรก la tierra, se alegrarรกn las multitudes de las islas.
Desde algรบn lugar el รกrbol de la vida y desde aquรญ los รกrboles de formas mรบltiples, seguimos creciendo en el corazรณn del hombre.
Cumple Esperanza esta tarea de volver a ser Uno, dicen los antiguos.
It is an ancient story that exists in the present and moves toward the future.
The crickets know it and contemplate the fixed stars excited by their voyages.
They put their faith in it, the manuscripts with with which men have perpetuated ancient messages.
Now, it is necessary that you remember it.
I have doubted it too. . .What do we have in common, I, Tree, and you, Human?
What language do a star and a cricket share?
What could our sum know of other suns?
We individualize by language, XXX by our borders, learning through distinct organs of perception.
What will come near us?
How can I give your more than my fruits?
How to receive something different from your affection and your saw?
In any case, I will try it. โHe fulfills Hopesโ doesnโt forget;
He said Light and there was light. And he separated it from the shadows.
He said plants and animals and created us.
He said animals and they were alive. But Man, he formed in his image and likeness so he that could name, care for and set aside his creatures. And then he rested and celebrated the creation.
In love with his work, the Creator hoped that man that man also hoped; he hoped the man also love, feeling the joy and beauty of every being.
In order that he could share so much love, from nanโs own side, of his bones and his blood, the Lord modeled woman.
It was the age of innocence;
They only have to choose the only lay that the Maker had imposed on them: Do not eat from the tree of knowledge to learn
do vivisection, disintegrate, divide. Kill.
The man and the woman decided to disobey because they wanted power. Power without responsibility. They didnโt even acknowledge having eaten the prohibited fruit, each blaming each other.
They separated.
They didnโt know how to love the other creatures, without taking power over them and demonstrating how much control they exercised over them.
They didnโt even acknowledge that by changing a part of themselves: subtle musical notes that illuminate the joy of their world.
They forgot how to take nutrition from the tree of life, that in the center, from the sweet fruit of knowledge to integrate life. From the knowing that comes from reuniting, giving hugs and revering ever one of the works of the Creator.
The ancients say that for strange motives, man didnโt know how thank and appreciate that which was given to him without his own doing.
He would have to learn the difference between good and evil to find the tree of life again.
How long it would be for man to construct his way of return!
It was difficult to help him. His vibrations had gone so far from ours, the trees.
He missed us, without recognizing our relationship.
During his best moments, he would sigh, reflecting the beauty in us or would feel for our strength in the heights, that were also his, and during other moments, he would lay off XXXX projecting new objects without verses.
With the patience that the Lord taught us, we sent signals, covering the green of our leaves, weakening our trunks. It was painful to accompany the human pain with ours.
He intended to cure us (for man, for me, life would continue being the most valued center, although man still couldnโt recognize it,) with powders, potions and strange apparatus of his invention.
The ancient say that one day, man will help lean his hands on my body, will see as far as my soul and will remember our common history. He will know that he is my guardian and my friend. Not the Creator or the Predator.
Then we will reach fantastic universes.
I will make the neighbor into himself.
He will stop killing himself and killing me.
Justice will be his clothing and faith his armor.
He will transform swords into plowshares and his lances into scissors and will cease studying the art of war.
The world will rejoice , the multitudes of the islands will be glad.
From somewhere, the tree of life and from here the trees of multiple forms. We will continue growing in manโs heart.
โHope Servesโ this task of returning to be One,. The ancients say.
Moico Yaker naciรณ en Arequipa, Perรบ in 1949. Estudiรณ Arquitectura en la University of Miami (EEUU), Tambiรฉn estudiรณ literatura, filosofรญa e historia en la Universidad Hebrea de Jerusalem, Israel. Asistiรณ a la Escuela de Dibujo y Pintura Byam Shaw, Londres, Inglaterra y a la Ecole Nationale Supรฉrieure des Beaux-Arts, Parรญs, Francia. En 1982 vuelve a Perรบ con treinta y tres aรฑos de edad y un largo y accidentado periplo por Estados Unidos, Europa, Israel y Venezuela. Empieza entonces a definirse como ยซuna curiosa mezclaยป, un artรญfice ยซsudamericano-oriental-arequipeรฑo y judรญoยป, en busca siempre de ยซese enganche astral entre los Andes y Jerusalรฉnยป. Cuenta en su haber numerosas exposiciones individuales y colectivas, tanto en el Perรบ como en Mรฉxico, Brasil, Argentina, USA. Ha participado en las bienales de La Habana, Cuenca, Lima, Panamรก, Sao Paulo y Venecia. Moico Yaker vive y trabaja en Lima. Adaptado de https:/cosas.pe
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Moico Yaker was born in Arequipa, Peru in 1949. He studied Architecture at the University of Miami (USA), He also studied literature, philosophy and history at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, Israel. He attended the Byam Shaw School of Drawing and Painting, London, England and the Ecole Nationale Supรฉrieure des Beaux-Arts, Paris, France. In 1982 he returned to Peru at the age of thirty-three and after a long and eventful journey through the United States, Europe, Israel and Venezuela. Then he begins to define himself as “a curious mix”, a “South American-Eastern-Arequipa and Jewish” architect, always looking for “that astral connection between the Andes and Jerusalem.” Account to his credit numerous individual and collective exhibitions, both in Peru and in Mexico, Brazil, Argentina, USA. He has participated in the biennials of Havana, Cuenca, Lima, Panama, Sao Paulo and Venice. Moico Yaker lives and works in Lima. Adapted from de https:/cosas.pe
Moico Yaker busca <<Ese enganche entre los Andes y Jerusalรฉn>>
Moico Yaker searches for “That union between the Andes and Jerusalem.”
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Pinturas/Paintings
Judaica
Judรญos/Jews
Se trata del “รกrbol sefirรณtico”, considerado el principal sรญmbolo metafรญsico de los cabalistas./The “Tree of life” with the ten Sefirot and the 22 Hebrew letters de los cabalistas
Detalle de Santiago Matamoros con escudo cabalita/Detail of Santiago Matamoros with a Kabbalist shield (St. James)
Santiago Matamoros a lo judรญo/A Jewish Version of Santiago (St. James)
Archรกngel Miguel/Archangel Michael
Peruano/Peruvian
Algo muere como historia pero renace como mito en estos cuadros.
Inkas y Conquistadores
Yaker le prodiga al pelo y a sus peinados.
Aborรญgenes/Aborigines
Fetiches/Fetishes
Moico Yaker habla en un espaรฑol que es fรกcil entender/Moico Yaker speaks in a Spanish that is easy to follow.
Costa Rica es el hogar de aproximadamente 4000 judรญos, la mayorรญa de ellos descendientes de los mรกs de 300 inmigrantes de Zelechow, Polonia, que llegaron a principios de la dรฉcada de 1930 en busca de oportunidades econรณmicas y huyendo de las primeras seรฑales de advertencia del gobierno nazi. El Museo de la Comunidad Judรญa de Costa Rica de San Josรฉ presenta la historia de esa inmigraciรณn, asรญ como los primeros aรฑos de los hombres como vendedores de puerta en puerta, cuando se ganaron el apodo yiddish de “clappers” por el sonido que hacรญan tocando puertasโse desarrolla a travรฉs de una serie de fotografรญas de archivo, paneles informativos y artefactos rituales. Valiosos shofars, tallits e instrumentos de brit milah atestiguan la adhesiรณn de los primeros pobladores a la vida religiosa. El museo es parte del Centro Israelita Sionista de Costa Rica, un extenso campus inaugurado en 2004. Con 2.500 miembros, esta es la direcciรณn principal ortodoxo para gran parte de lo judรญo en el paรญs: servicios de adoraciรณn diarios, certificaciรณn de kashrut, mikvehs, educaciรณn escolar diurna, programas para personas mayores y sociedad funeraria. Hay una sinagoga reformista. Los judรญos ocupan un lugar elevado y enrarecido en la sociedad costarricense. Operadores turรญsticos usan misma palabra: “elegante”, utilizada con reverencia en lugar de como un insultoโcuando lucha en inglรฉs para describir a los judรญos locales, muchos de los cuales son dueรฑos de importantes concesionarios de automรณviles, franquicias de comida rรกpida y otros negocios exitosos.
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Costa Rica is home to approximately 4,000 Jews, most of them descendants of the 300-plus immigrants from Zelechow, Poland, who arrived in the early 1930s looking for economic opportunity and fleeing the early warning signs of Nazi rule. In San Josรฉโs Museo de la Comunidad Judรญa de Costa Rica, the story of that immigration as well as the menโs early years as door-to-door salesmenโwhen they earned the Yiddish sobriquet โklappersโ for the sound they made knocking on doorsโunfolds through a series of archival photographs, informational panels and ritual artifacts. Treasured shofars, tallits and brit milah instruments testify to the earliest settlersโ adherence to religious life. The museum is housed in the Centro Israelita Sionista de Costa Rica, a sprawling multi-acre campus opened in 2004. With 2,500 members, this is the main address for most things Jewish in the countryโdaily Orthodox worship services, kashrut certification, mikvehs, day school education, senior programs and burial society. There is one Reform congregation. Jews inhabit a lofty, rarified place in Costa Rican society. Tour leaders use the word โfancy,โ with reverence rather than as a slurโwhen struggling in English to describe local Jews, many of whom own prominent car dealerships, fast-food franchises and other successful businesses.
โPaz y amorโ celebra no solamente la sobrevivencia de Sarita y su familia, sino la recepciรณn que recibieron de los judรญo costarricenses y la solidaridad de esa comunidad. Trata de la adaptaciรณn de Sarita a su vida nueva en Costa Rica. Tambiรฉn, es una historia de amor entre Samuel Rovinski que llegarรก a ser un escritor importante y su querida Sarita.
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“The Mountain of Saw Dust”
โPeace and Love’โcelebrates not only the survival of Sarita and her family, but also the reception they received by the Costa Rican Jews and the solidarity of that community. It deals with Saritaโs adaptation to her new life en Costa Rica. Also, it is adolescent love story between Samuel Rovinski, who would become an important writer, and his beloved Sarita.
Parque de la Vida – en honor de los 190 sobrevivientes del Holocausto que hicieron sus vida en Costa Rica/ Life Park – in honor of the 190 Holocaust survivors who made their lives in Costa Rica — Velma Faingerziedt, directora
Isidoro Blaisten (Ike). fue escritor y poeta argentino, nacido en Concordia (Entre Rรญos), en 1933. Su primera obra fue el libro de poemas Sucediรณ en la lluvia (1965), sin embargo, nunca volviรณ a publicar poesรญa.Su primera colecciรณn de cuentos, La felicidad (1969), incluรญa el humor negro de “El tรญo Facundo” y el retrato social de “Los tarmas”, donde los miembros de una familia se alimentan de los canapรฉs que sirven en fiestas donde no han sido invitados. Despuรฉs llegaron La salvaciรณn (1972), El mago (1975) y uno de los libros mรกs celebrados, Dublรญn al Sur (1980). Cerrado por melancolรญa (1981). Entre sus libros de cuentos fueron: Cuentos anteriores (1982), Carroza y reina (1986) y Al acecho (1995), En sus relatos, Blaisten presenta con gran humor las peculiaridades de la sociedad urbana actual, donde se funde con la ironรญa y lo crรญtico para describir las caracterรญsticas lingรผรญsticas de sus personajes. Poco antes de su muerte publicรณ su primera novela, Voces en la noche, Su protagonista es un vendedor de lencerรญa que se convierte en el principal enemigo de una organizaciรณn decidida a acabar con la literatura. En Anticonferencias (1983), consiguiรณ unir el ensayo y la narrativa. Miembro de la Academia Argentina de Letras y miembro correspondiente de la Real Academia Espaรฑola, Blaisten recibiรณ, entre otras muchas distinciones, la Faja de Honor de la Sociedad Argentina de Escritores (SADE), el Premio Konex de Platino y el Premio Anual a la Trayectoria Artรญstica del Fondo Nacional de las Artes. Falleciรณ en 2004. Adaptado de Biografรญas.com
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Isidoro Blaisten (Ike)was an Argentine writer and poet, born in Concordia (Entre Rรญos), in 1933. His first work was the book of poems It happened in the rain (1965), however, he never published poetry again. His first collection of short stories, Happiness (1969), included the black humor of “El uncle Facundo” and the social portrait of “Los tarmas”, where the members of a family eat the canapรฉs that they serve at parties where they have not been invited. Then came Salvation (1972), The Wizard (1975) and one of the most celebrated books, Dublin to the South (1980). Closed for Melancholy (1981). Among his story books were: Cuentos anteriores (1982), Carroza y Reina (1986) and Lurking (1995), In his stories, Blaisten presents with great humor the peculiarities of today’s urban society, where he merges with irony and the critical CCC to describe the linguistic characteristics of their characters. Shortly before his death, he published his first novel, Voices in the Night. Its protagonist is a lingerie salesman who becomes the main enemy of an organization determined to put an end to literature. In Anticonferences (1983), he managed to unite the essay and the narrative. Member of the Argentine Academy of Letters and corresponding member of the Royal Spanish Academy, Blaisten received, among many other distinctions, the Honor Belt of the Argentine Society of Writers (SADE), the Platinum Konex Award and the Annual Lifetime Achievement Award. Artistic of the National Endowment for the Arts. He passed away in 2004. Adapted from Biografรญas.com
Imagino nuestro afecto mutuo naciรณ porque รฉramos dos muchachos de barrio, con cรณdigos similares. Una vez me contรณ que, cuando por alguna razรณn debรญa alejarse de sus calles amadas, al volver e ir recorriendo esas veredas conocidas los vecinos, a su paso, lo aplaudรญan. Ya entonces se distinguรญa su humor รกcido e irรณnico, su caballerosidad pueblerina, su ternura de hermano menor criado por sus cinco hermanas, caracterรญsticas que reflejarรญa la prosa atrayente y precisa de sus relatos y poesรญas. – Ricardo Feierstein, Novelista, poeta, escritor
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I imagine that our mutual affection was born because we were two boys from the neighborhood, with similar values. Once he told me that, when, for some reason he had to get away from his beloved streets, when he returned and walked those familiar paths, the neighbors, as he passed, applauded him. Already then his acid and ironic humor was distinguished, his small-town chivalry, the tenderness of his younger brother raised by his five sisters, characteristics that would reflect the attractive and precise prose of his stories and poetry. Ricardo Feierstein, novelist, poet, writer
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Cuentos raros/Unusual Short Short-Stories
El humor negro de Isidoro Blaisten/The Black Humor of Isidoro Blaisten
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ADONAI
Adonai iba por el mundo vendiendo las tablas de la
ley.
Las llevaba sobre el hombro y pregonaba:
–A diรฉ la tabla de la ley, a diรฉ
Nunca nadie le comprรณ nada.
Pero cuando muriรณ, un carpintero que tambiรฉn
era hebreo escribiรณ su nombre como escriben los he-
breos, de derecha a izquierda. Nunca nadie alcanzรณ
a entender que querรญa decir esa palabra escrita sobre
la losa con el lรกpiz del carpintero: IANODA.
Pero eso si: nadie se animรณ a borrarla. Ni si-
quiera la lluvia.
_______________________________
ADONAI
Adonai went out in the world selling the tablets of the
Law.
He carried them on his shoulder and proclaimed:
–For sale, the tablet of the law, for sale.
Nobody ever bought anything from him;
But when he died, a carpenter who was also
A Hebrew wrote his name as the Hebrews wri-
te, from the right to the left. Nobody ever managed
to understand the meaning of that word written over
the slab with the carpenterโs pencil: IANODA.
But this much is true: nobody had the courage to
erase it. Not e-
ven the rain.
__________________
EL BRINDIS
–Seรฑores, es realmente lindo. Tambiรฉn sรฉ que es emotivo. Sรญ, amigos,
quiero decirles que sรญ, que hoy yo puedo decirles a ustedes: sรญ, ami-
gos, he crecido. He crecido por quรฉ. Porque me sie-
nto realizado, porque realmente he comenzado a latir
con mi propio pulso, o sea, que, es decir, he tomado
conciencia, esto es, he tomado conciencia, he concien-
tizado Me asumรญ. ยฟVieron? He concientizado las po-
tencias yoicas. Viste? Asumir la realidad, amigos.
Tal cual. Lo que corresponde. Se terminรณ para mรญ
el abismo generacional, la confusiรณn, el estar mal ins-
talado en la vida. Por eso, amigos, mis queri-
dos amigos, levanto mi copa, al cumplir ochenta
y tres aรฑos.
____________________
THE TOAST
โGentlemen, itโs really nice. I also know that it is moving. Yes, friends,
I want to tell say that yes, that today I can tell all of you: yes, frie-
nds, I have grown. I have grown, why? Because I fe-
el fulfilled, because really I have begun to beat with my own pulse,
or rather, that is, that, that is to say, I have become aware, thatโs it, I ha-
ve raised awareness. I have come to terms with myself. Do you see? I
have become aware of the potential of the ego. Do you see.
To come to terms with reality, friends. As it is. What is fitting. The generat-
ional abysm, the confusion, the malaise installed in life has end-
ed for me. Por that reason, my dear friends,
I raise my cup on turning eighty-three.
____________________
EL MAGO
–Nada por aquรญ, nada por allรก. . . ยกPero quiรฉn fue
el degenerado que me lo cambiรณ de lugar.
__________________
THE MAGICIAN
โNothing here, nothing there. . .But who was
the degenerate who moved it on me!
__________________
El EQUILIBRISTA
Lo que nunca alcanzรณ oรญr el equilibrista, antes de
ponerse a caminar sobre la cuerda floja, fue que en
el poste de la otra punta un peรณn del circo le dijo
al payaso.
–Pa mรญ que esta soga ya no da mรกs.
___________________
THE TIGHTROPE WALKER
What the tightrope walker was never able to hear, before
setting out to walk on the slack rope was that at
the post at the other end, a circus worker said to
the clown.
โIn my opinion, that rope is worn out.”
_________________________
EL DESARROLLO Y LA FE
Sรณlo los chicos creen. Pero los chicos creen.
_____________________________
DEVELOPMENT AND FAITH
Only the children believe. But the children believe.
_____________________________
MAGNITUDES Y DISTANCIAS
El mundo es ancho y ajeno. La cama es angosta y
nuestra. La cama estรก aquรญ no mรกs.
__________________________
MAGNITUDES AND DISTANCES
The world is wide and foreign. The bed is narrow and
ours. The bed is right here.
____________________________
LOS PIES EN LA TIERRA
รl: ยฟCรณmo estรก el dรญa? ยฟDe maravillas, despunta brumoso, hay melancolรญa. Reverbera? ยฟCรณmo estรก el dรญa, che?
Ella: Todavรญa no amaneciรณ.
__________________________
FEET ON THE GROUND
He: โHowโs the day? Is it of miracles, blunted by fog, is there melancholy, does it reverberate?โ
She: Itโs not dawn yet.
_________________________________
EL TIEMPO
El tiempo no tenรญa tiempo. Corria apuradรญ-
simo.
–ยกCaramba! โmeditaba–. Voy a llegar tarde a oficina
otra vez, ยฟQuรฉ va a ser de mรญ, quรฉ va a
ser de la clepsidra, que va a ser de del nono Chrono, si
me echan? Asรญ razonaba el tiempo colgado al colec-
tivo sesenta.
Pero he aquรญ que una diminuta anciana, con cara
de vieja marihuanera que asomaba su rostro mar-
chito por la ventanilla, dรญjole desde el primer asiento:
–Tiempo al tiempo, hijo mรญo. No por mucho ma-
drugar se amanece mรกs temprano. Mรญrame a mรญ, pe-
queรฑo. Cuando era una mozuela dicharachera y feliz,
en los aรฑos twenty, en Mรฉxico, cantaba las maรฑani-
tas y hoy sรณlo una pobre mendiga harapienta.
–ยกPor favor, seรฑora! โle dijo el tiempo–. Vie-
jos son los trapos. Usted habrรก tenido sus buenos fa-
tos. Si se le nota en la cara de picarona.
–Bueno, modestรญas aparte, hubo un gondolero
veneciano que me quiso poner un bulรญn.
–ยฟEl de la calle Ayacucho?
–ยกCรกllese, loco! โ contestรณ la viejita sacando la
mano por la ventanilla y palmeรกndole el glรบteo pos-
terior izquierdo.
El tiempo se asustรณ. Con la mente obnubilada cre-
yรณ que venรญa el peligro amarillo y se desprendiรณ de
la manija. Lo juntaron con una cucharita. Una cuchari-
ta marca Gamuza que la pobre viejecilla llevaba en
el bolsรณn.
Se detuvieron todos los relojes. Varios refranes
dejaron de existir: โEl tiempo es oroโ. โTodo tiempo
pasado fue mejorโ, El tiempo es como el viento,
apaga los fuegos dรฉbiles y aviva los fuertes.
De la Biblia se eliminรณ Eclesiastรฉs, en la parte
que dice: โHay un tiempo para todoโ.
Clausuraron el diario El Tiempo.
Por eso no hay cosa mejor, en los dรญas de estรญo,
cuando aprieta la canรญcula y sopla el siroco sobre las
altas torres, que matar a todas las viejitas marahua-
neras, haciรฉndoles tragar una cucharita marca Ga-
muza.
______________________________
TIME
Time didnโt have time. He was running hast-
ly.
โCaramba,โ he thought. โI am going to arrive late
at the office again. Whatโs happen to me, whatโs going to
be of the hourglass, whatโs going to happen to the nerd Chrono, if
they fire me? So thought time, hanging on to the bus, nu-
mber 60.
But here is a diminutive old lady with the face of
an old marijuana smoker who showed her wizened face thr-
ough the little window. She said to him from the first seat:
โTake your time, my son. Getting up early doesnโt make
the dawn come sooner. Look at me, little one. When I was happy
and talkative girl, in the twenties. In Mexico, I sang in the morning,
and today I am a poor beggar in rags.
โPlease, Seรฑora!โ time said to her. The rags are old. You must have
had your good times. It shows in your roguish face.โ
โWell, without modesty, there was a Venetian gondolier who
wanted set me up in a place.โ
โOn Ayacucho Street?โ
โShut up, asshole!โ answered the little old lady, pushing her hand out through the little window and patting him on his left, rear gl
-uteus.
Time was startled. With his mind confused, he believed
that the yellow peril was coming and he let go of the handle. They put him
together in a spoon. A Gamuza brand spoon that the poor little
old lady carried in her satchel.
All watches and clocks stopped. Several adages ceased to exist:
โTime is money.โ โAll times past were better,โ โTime is like the wind,
it puts out weak fires and strengthens the strong ones.โ
From the Bible, part of Ecclesiastes was eliminated, the part that says:
โThere is a time for everything.โ
The shut down the The Times newspaper.
For that reason, there is nothing better, in the summer days,
when the dog days are uncomfortable and the sirocco blows
over the high towers, than to kill all the little old marijuana smokers
making them swallow a Gamuza brand spoon.
______________________________________
EL ASCETA MENDICANTE
Ya soy asceta mendicante. Me dejรฉ la barba y voy
por las casas solucionando problemas.
Toco los timbres, golpeo los nudillos, doy alda-
bonazos, y alguna que otra, segรบn las puertas,
la infraestructura y la condiciรณn social. Mi tarifa es
dispar y depende de los problemas del epifenรณmeno.
Tengo un precio para todo. Pero decรญa Napo-
Leรณn, โtodo hombre tiene su estipendioโ. Yo tengo
el mรญo. O sea es, esto es:
Complejos de Edipo no clarificados: un sobre de
sopa Royco o una cajita de cuatro caldos en cubo,
amรฉn de cinco patys (por consulta).
Tendencias homosexuales (para varones y mujer-
es): 2 pollos (muertos).
Complejo de abandรณnico: una caja de postre Exqui-
sita, amรฉn de un paquete de yerba Taragรผi (que
es la mejor), o en su defecto dos de Polenta Mรกgica.
Y asรญ sucesivamente, timbrazo por aquรญ, aldabo-
nazo por allรก, golpeteo por acullรก, recorro com alto
espรญritu las unidades de vivienda.
A veces, cuando en nรบcleo habitacional no hay
aldabones, ni timbres, ni superficie alguna sobre la
cual golpetear, pongo las manos al costado de mi bo-
ca a guisa de altoparlante, megafone, baffle o reper-
cutor y grito:
–ยกEeeech, de la casa!. . .
No sรฉ quรฉ ven en mi cara. Pero todas las seรฑoras
me hacen pasar.
โDites moisโ, le digo en francรฉs. o โTell meโ, en
inglรฉs, โtu trauma, por favorโ.
Barrunto que algo en mรญ, algo que tengo yo
las seรฑoras tambiรฉn lo barruntan. Y si no lo ba-
rruntan, extiendo los dedos de sendas manos como
sarmientos secos o plegarias petrificadas. No en un
gesto de ruego o imploraciรณn, no. Sucede que me ven
como la conciencia de su propio mensaje de bruja,
su necio destino. La vida que se va y los complejos
que quedan. Entonces confรญan en mรญ.
Sรฉ que pasarรกn mucho mรกs de treinta aรฑos hasta que yo sea comprendido.
Pero las seรฑoras saben. ยกCaray, si saben!
Y yo seguirรฉ peregrinado. Pasarรฉ junto a los
cercos y a los abetos, junto a las explanadas y gra-
derรญas, junto las setas y las empalizadas, pregun-
tando, inquiriendo junto a cada rostro socavado por
la desdicha: ยฟse siente usted realizada?
Ahora, aquรญ, cabe el recuerdo para la primera se-
รฑora que rescatรฉ.
Fue en las postrimerรญas de un octubre somno-
liento. Por entonces los รกlamos eran jรณvenes y las
torcazas iniciaban su vuelo equinoccial.
Preguntada si se sentรญa realizada, respondiรณ que:
no. La paciente presentaba su cuadro manรญaco-de-
presivo con sรญntomas de angustia.
Casada, dos hijos, 14 y 10, el nivel socioeconรณmico era de alta
clase media y su marido realizaba frecuentes viajes al interior.
Se comenzรณ la terapia un mes despuรฉs, un desesperado
noviembre. Se fijaron los horarios en dos frascos de zapallos en almรญbar.
De acuerdo, dijo ella, pase.
Hoy en dรญa la seรฑora (la denominaremos N.N.)
se siente realizada, ha suspendido las prรกcticas de la
masturbaciรณn y su รกnimo, ayer contrito, ha movibili-
zado sus defensas y se nota mayor preocupaciรณn por
los problemas societarios.
Una luz nueva habita en su alma como una golon-
drina para siempre.
Y en mi alacena, de su duelo tal vez olvidada, se
divisan las torres de cristal de los altos frascos, de
los altos zapallos, de los altos almรญbares.
_________________________________
THE ASCETIC MENDICANT
I am an ascetic mendicant. I let my beard grow and I go to house, solving problems.
I push door bells, I hit the small knobs, I make loud kno-
ks, and once in a while, according to the type of door, the infrastructure
and the social level. My fee is inconsistent and depends upon the problems of the epiphenomenon.
I have a price for everything. But said Napo-
leon said, โEvery man has his price.โ I have mine. Or in other words, this is it:
Unresolved Oedipus complex: a packet of Royco soup or a
small box of four dried soups in cubes, as well as five crackers (for each consultation).
Homosexual tendencies (for men and women): two chickens (dead).
Abandonment complex: a box of Exquista dess-
ert, and also a packet of Taragรผi mate
(which is the best) or lacking that, two of Polenta Mรกgica.
And, so, successively, a loud doorbell here, hard knocking there, banging
over there, I go around in high spirits the units of the building. At times, when in
the habitational nucleus, there are no door-knockers or doorbells
or any outside area on which to pound, I put my hands around my mouth
as a sort of loudspeaker, megaphone or baffle or repeater and I shout:
โEeech, you at home!. . .
I donโt know what they see in my face. But all the seรฑoras let me in.
โDites moisโ, I say to her in French. o โTell me.โ in English,
Your trauma, please.โ
I sense that something in me, something that I have, the seรฑoras also sense.
And if they donโt sense it, I extend my fingers from straightened hands like
dry shoots or petrified prayers. Not in a gesture of begging or imploring, no.
It happens that the see me as the conscience of their own message
of witchcraft, their stupid destiny. Live goes on and the complexes stay,
Then, they trust me.
I know that many more than thirty years will pass until I am understood.
But the seรฑoras know. My God, they know!
And I will continue proclaiming. I will pa-
ss near the fences and the fir trees, near the esplanades and stands and
fences, asking, inquiring near each face, digging for the misfortune: โdo you feel yourself
to be fulfilled?
Now, here, brings back the memory of the first seรฑora that I rescued.
It was in the last days of a sleepy October. In those days,
the poplars were young and large doves we-
re beginning their equinoctial flight.
Asked if she felt fulfilled, she responded: no. The patient presented
manic-depressive case with symptoms of anxiety.
Married, two children, 14 and 10, her socioeconomic level was upper
middle class and her husband made frequent trips to the interior of the country.
Her therapy began a month later, a desperate November.
We set the schedule in return for two jars of squash in syrup. Okay, she said, come in.
These days the seรฑora (letโs call her N.N.) feels fulfilled. She has stopped her
practice of masturbation, and here spirit, before contrite, ha-
s mobilized her defenses and new she shows more interest in societal problems.
A new light inhabits her soul as if it were a perpet-
ual dove.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย And in my cupboard, her grief perhaps forgotten, one sees the towers of crystal of the tall jars, of the tall squash, of the tall syrups.
Como ese golpe que corta la prosa en pedacitos, muriรณ Tamara y ninguna palabra podrรก conjurar esta tristeza infinita. Silvina Freira, Pรกgina 12
Like that blow that cuts prose into little pieces, Tamara died and no words can conjure up this infinite sadness. Silvina Freira, Pรกgina 12
______________________
Tamara Kamenszain naciรณ en Buenos Aires en 1947. Editรณ la revista independiente revista, 2001 antes de convertirse en editor de las pรกginas culturales de los diarios La Opiniรณn y Clarรญn. En 1972 Kamenszain recibiรณ el premio de poesรญa de la National Fondo de las Artes de Argentina por De este lado del Mediterrรกneo, su primer libro de poemas, publicado en Buenos Aires en 1973. Kamenszain ha sido profesor en la Universidad de Buenos Aires y la Universidad de Mรฉxico y trabajรณ para el Instituto Nacional Fondo de las Artes de Mรฉxico y Secretarรญa de Cultura de Argentina. Autora prolรญfica, entre sus muchas obras se encuentran El texto silencioso, Tradiciรณn y vanguardia en la poesรญa sudamericana,La casa grande, Vida de living, La edad de la poesรญa,Tango bar, El Ghetto y Solos y solas. Kamenszain ha sido galardonado con un varios premios, como la Beca John Simon Guggenheim y la Medalla Presidencial Pablo Neruda, entre otros.
Tamara Kamenszain was born in Buenos Aires in 1947. She edited the independent magazine, 2001 before becoming editor of the cultural pages of the newspapers La Opinion and Clarin. In 1972 Kamenszain received the poetry prize of the National Arts Fund of Argentina for From this Side of the Mediterranean, her first book of poems, published in Buenos Aires in 1973. Kamenszain has taught at the University of Buenos Aires and the University of Mexico and worked for the National Endowment for the Arts in Mexico and the Ministry of Culture in Argentina. A prolific author, among her many works are El texto silencioso, Tradiciรณn y vanguardia en la poesรญa sudamericana, La casa grande , Vida de living, La edad de la poesรญa, Tango bar,El Ghetto and Solos y solas. Kamenszain has been awarded a number of prizes, such as the John Simon Guggenheim Fellowship, and the Pablo Neruda Presidential Medal, among others. She died in 2021.
ELIAHU
Cuando dijiste el Shmรก Israel que cada vez quiso decir
otra cosa esperamos muchos minutos y รฉl no llegaba, รฉl que
no era nada (o bien era etรฉreo) pero hacรญa ruido
y no se tomaba la copa del medio de la mesa, รฉl que te secaba
las manos que aรฑo por medio me tocaba lavarte, la palangana
preparada, terror a volcar el agua, risas contenidas
cuando las bendiciones eran cada vez mรกs agudas, y
mirando la copa que no se vacรญa. Y sin embargo, parecรญa
vaciarse hasta imaginar que el se emborracharรญa un poco
en cada casa, tomando de cada copa alta, รบnica, brillante
en el centro de cada mesa. Millones de copas รบnicas esperando
en millones de mesas festivas y รฉl entrรณ sin ser
visto cuando se abrieron las puertas que se cerraron detrรกs.
Yo que estuve controlando sus pasos. Nuevamente
Este aรฑo escuchamos el cuento del pan que es siempre otro cuento,
y de nuevo preguntamos las cuatro preguntas espiando
las pequeรฑas letras hebreas que de olor de a baรบl, de olor
a viaje desde Rusia, a las barbas del bisabuelo Akiva que
espiรณ la ceremonia desde el marco ovalado con su sombrero redondo.
Nadie supo nunca que las รบltimas canciones de la noche
eran las que รฉl habรญa inventado cuando se sentaba inclinรกndose
a reclinar el shabat en la silla alta que guardaste hasta que
hijo por hijo se fueran yendo de la casa con corredor,
con terraza, con biblioteca de puertas de vidrio, con anchas
biblias olorosas, con los vestidos del casamiento en Brasil
cuando bajaron con nauseas del barco despuรฉs siguiรณ
y llegรณ a Buenos Aires. Dos noches seguidas se repite la
ceremonia, en Europa se repite tres noches, algunas sectas
la hacen una sola vez pero cantan mรกs alto, tambiรฉn
bailan. Nosotros a veces levantamos los brazos hacia el
cielo cantando alto y eso es tan importante como decir
el Shmรก Israel siete veces antes de dormir, para adentro, nunca
en voz alta. Vergรผenza de la propia voz diciendo Shmรก
Israel. Sabiendo desde siempre que aunque se pensara
serรญa escuchado, porque รฉl escucha todos los hermosos pensamientos
y contesta en los pensamientos mismos como nadie puede hacerlo.
Nadie mรกs que Adonai o Eliahu Hanavi que toma la copa alta, te secรณ
las manos que este aรฑo me tocรณ lavarte, y sin hacer ruido, cruzรณ por la
ventana abierta y entrรณ por la puerta abierta de cualquier casa donde la
copa de vino lo esperaba en el centro de la mesa.
_______________________
ELIAHU
When you said the Shema Yisroel that meant something different
each time we waited a long time and he did not arrive, the one who
was nothing (or rather ethereal), but made noise and drank the
glass of wine from the middle of the table, he who dried your hands
that every other year it was my duty to wash, the wash-basin prepared,
fear of spilling the water, laughter contained when each time the
blessings became sharper, and I kept watching the cup that did not
empty. And nevertheless, it seemed to empty itself until I imagined that he would get a little drunk in each house, drinking from each
tall glass, unique, brilliant in the center of each table. Millions of
different glasses waiting on millions of festive tables and the one who
entered without being seen when they opened the doors that
were closed behind him. I was the one controlling his steps. Again this year we heard the story of the matzo that is always another story, and again we asked the four questions scrutinizing the small Hebrew letters that smelled like a trunk, like a journey from Russia, like the whiskers of great-grandfather Akiva wearing his round hat who contemplated the ceremony from the oval picture frame.
No one ever knew if the final songs of the night were the ones
he invented when he sat down, reclining, to welcome the
Sabbath int the tall chair you saved until one of the children
began going from the house with a hallway, with a terrace, with a
library with glass doors, and thick and odorous Bibles, with the
garments from the wedding in Brazil, when they disembarked seasick
from the ship that afterwards continued on until it reached Buenos
Aires. The ceremony is repeated on two consecutive nights, in
Europe, it is repeated three nights, some sects do it a single time but
but they sang louder, they dance too. We sometimes raise our arms up
to heaven singing loudly and that is so important as saying the
Shema Yisrael seven times before sleeping, to yourself, never out
loud. Ashamed by hearing your own voice saying Shema Yisroel.
always knowing that if you only thought it, it would be heard,
because he hears all the beautiful thoughts and the answers in the same
thoughts the way no one else can.
No one other than Adonai or Eliahu Hanavi who drank from the tall
glass, dried your hands this year that it was my turn to wash, and
without noise passed through the open window and entered
the door of any house where the glass of wine awaited him in
in the center of the table.
______________________________________________
RETORNO II
Desde que se pegรณ el otoรฑo a las calles hรบmedas de esta
ciudad reconocible a travรฉs de los tangos no puedo mรกs
que caminar con los brazos pegados al pecho tratando de
ubicarme en el dรญa exacto de mi nacimiento porque desde
hoy sรฉ que bendijeron mi nombre con un rezo tomaban
vino dulce en copitas y comรญan pescado frito para
acostumbrar su alma a la presencia de una nueva alma
que entonces no era mรกs que un punto entre รกrboles, un
soplo ente sรณlidos alientos, un gesto entre risas
perfectamente nรญtidos.
Desde que se pegรณ el otoรฑo a las calles hรบmedas de esta
reconocible a travรฉs de los tangos, vuelvo a preguntarme
por las primeras alegrรญas por las imรกgenes que
llenaron una pupila no acostumbrada a la luz por
los primeros contactos con la lengua con la solidez del mundo.
Vuelvo a preguntarme si el sentido de todo lo que mรกgicamente
que existe veintiรบn aรฑos desenvolviรฉndose
con la naturalidad que se pela una naranja y entiendo
que cuando mรกs se quiera saber menos se sabra porque
estรกn cerrados los caminos que descienden del รกrbol a la raรญz.
De esta tristeza de no ser mรกs la que sentรกndose en las
De un abuela escuchaba la historia de la moabita
Ruth con esta alegrรญa de encontrar en cada objeto un indicio
de esta historia, el asombro de saber que la poesรญa
no hace mรกs que continuarla porque es a la luz la madre
y la hija de la moabita Ruth.
Es la gran madre cuyo vientre se genera el complicado
tejido de palabras, es la hija que surge de este vientre
para reposar a la intemperie de la imaginaciรณn en el
esclavizado y libre campo de recuerdo.
Mi abuelo decรญa que mientras Ruth peregrinaba por los
caminos de la tierra santa sus ojosโ0fijos en el cieloโ
vaticinaban las lluvias, dialogaban con los vientos y abrรญan
el espacio para que aparezcan las nubes.
Toda historia abre un espacio en el que podemos acomodar
nuestros cuerpos haciendo la plancha sobre un mundo
de personajes cuyos correrรญas dependen del destino
azarosa de las palabras. Sin la historia del abuelo no hay
Ruth pero sin Ruth no hay lluvias ni diรกlogos con los vientos
ni polvorientos caminos de Moab por los que se bambolean
camellos cargados de telas, de especias orientales,
de pรกlidos niรฑos que serรกn vendidos como esclavos y verรกn
su vida como una monรณtona estela arrastrรกndose detrรกs
de los remos que deben remar.
________________________________
RETURN II
Since autumn attached itself to the humid streets of this city
recognizable because of the tangos I can only stroll with my arms stuck
to my chest, trying to place myself on the exact day of my
birth because from now on I know that those who blessed my name
with a prayer drank sweet wine in shot glasses and ate fried fish
to accustom their souls to the presence of a new soul that was
then no more than a speck among trees, a puff among strong breath.
Since autumn attached itself to the humid streets of this city
recognizable because of the tango, I ask myself again about the
earliest joys about the images that filled a pupil still not
accustomed to the light about the first contact of the tongue
with the solidness of the world. I ask myself again about
the meaning of all that magically existed twenty-five years ago
developing itself with the naturalness with which one peals an
orange and I understand that the more you want to know the less
you will know because the paths that descend from the tree to the
root are closed.
In the sadness of no longer being the one who sits on her
grandfatherโs knee listening to the story of Ruth the Moabite is
joy of finding a trace of the story in every object, the
astonishment of knowing that poetry only continues it because it is
at one and the same time the mother and daughter of Ruth the
Moabite.
She is the great mother in whose womb the complicated
weaving of words is generated. She is the daughter who emerges
from that womb to rest in the openness of the imagination, in the
enslaved and free field of memory.
My grandfather used to say that while Ruth wandered
through the paths of the Holy Land her eyesโfixed on heavenโ
prophesied the rains, dialogued with the winds and opened the
necessary space so the clouds would appear.
Every story opens a space where we can accommodate our
our bodies and lose ourselves in a world of characters whose wanderings
depend on the hazardous destiny of words. Without grandfatherโs
story then there is no Ruth but without Ruth there is no rain or dialogue
with the winds or the dusty roads of Moab where camels sway
loaded down with fabrics, with oriental spices, with pale children
who will be sold as slaves and who will see then lives as a
monotonous wake dragged behind the oars that they must push.
Translations from the Spanish by Roberta Gordenstern
Noรฉ Katz naciรณ en la Ciudad de Mรฉxico en 1953 de padres judรญos. Se iniciรณ como diseรฑador grรกfico luego de estudiar en la escuela del INBA, en la Ciudadela, y continuรณ su formaciรณn en la academia de Bellas Artes de Florencia, con una beca de la embajada de Italia en Mรฉxico y de la Secretarรญa de Relaciones Exteriores.Ha incursionado en el dibujo, la pintura, la escultura y la obra mural, ademรกs de dedicarse al diseรฑo editorial. Su obra forma parte de las colecciones del museo de arte moderno de Mรฉxico y otros museos del extranjero.Entre sus premios se puede mencionar el premio en el Museo Carillo Gil con el tema โSobre el humorโ. El premio de la Cรกmara Nacional de las Artes Grรกficas en Mรฉxico, el premio de la revista Escala de Aeromรฉxico a la mejor portada con motivo del Mundial Francia โ98, el premio de la Cรกmara de Artes Grรกficas de Brasil por su obra โEl รngelโ, y quizรก uno de los mรกs representativos: El premio por su timbre postal conmemorativo a los 100 aรฑos de presencia judรญa en Mรฉxico. Adaptado de Enlace Judรญo de Mรฉxico
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Noรฉ Katz was born in Mexico City in 1953 to Jewish parents. He began as a graphic designer after studying at the INBA school, in the Ciudadela, and continued his training at the Academy of Fine Arts in Florence, with a scholarship from the Italian embassy. in Mexico and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He has ventured into drawing, painting, sculpture and mural work, in addition to dedicating himself to editorial design. His work is part of the collections of the Museum of Modern Art in Mexico and other museums abroad. Among his awards we can mention the award at the Carillo Gil Museum with the theme “On humor”. The award from the National Chamber of Graphic Arts in Mexico, the award from Aeromรฉxico’s Escala magazine for the best cover on the occasion of the France ’98 World Cup, the award from the Brazilian Chamber of Graphic Arts for his work โEl รngelโ , and perhaps one of the most representative: The award for its commemorative postage stamp for 100 years of Jewish presence in Mexico. Adapted from Enlace Judรญo de Mรฉxico
โMy imagination leads me to design three-dimensional ideas. Sometimes I create on a smaller scale, imagining them being built in a much larger scale such as public spaces. Besides sculpture, I’m a full time painter who loves to let my imagination flow and I take pride in my technique as well. I enjoy the use of colors and smooth surfaces. I think that a person who wants to feel alive has to read, travel, love, and let himself be loved.โ Noรฉ Katz
_______________________
โMi imaginaciรณn me lleva a diseรฑar ideas tridimensionales. A veces creo en una escala mรกs pequeรฑa, imaginando que se construyen en una escala mucho mayor, como los espacios pรบblicos. Ademรกs de la escultura, soy un pintor a tiempo completo al que le encanta dejar fluir mi imaginaciรณn y tambiรฉn me enorgullezco de mi tรฉcnica. Disfruto el uso de colores y superficies lisas. Creo que una persona que quiere sentirse viva tiene que leer, viajar, amar y dejarse amarโ. Noรฉ Katz
____________________________________
El premio por su timbre postal conmemorativo a los cien aรฑos de presencia judรญa en Mรฉxico/The prize for its commemorative postage stamp for one hundred years of Jewish presence in Mรฉxico
Marcos Ricardo Barnatรกn es un escritor argentino nacido en Buenos Aires en 1946, en el seno de una familia sefardita de origen hispano-sirio. Realizรณ sus primeros estudios y cursรณ Filosofรญa y Letras en su ciudad natal. En 1965 fijรณ su residencia en Madrid, aunque realiza frecuentes viajes a Argentina, Francia e Israel. Colabora habitualmente, en calidad de crรญtico literario, en las principales revistas espaรฑolas e hispanoamericanas. En 1971 publicรณ su primera novela, El laberinto de Sion, a la que siguieron Gor (1973), Diano (1982), y Con la frente marchita (1989). Sus narraciones completas integran La Repรบblica de Mรณnaco (Seix Barral, 2000).En 2005 publicรณ en Editorial Alhulia Dos mil y una noches a modo de diario. Su poesรญa, que comparte los planteamientos de los novรญsimos y en la que las referencias a la cรกbala y a la cultura judรญa son una constante, resulta un personal hallazgo donde se entrecruzan la tradiciรณn castellana y las literaturas europeas en sus tendencias mรกs cosmopolitas. Su obra poรฉtica se halla reunida en El orรกculo invocado (1984), El techo del templo (1999) y Consulado general (2000)Entre sus ensayos destacan La Kรกbala (1974) y Borges, biografรญa total (1996).
Marcos Ricardo Barnatรกn is an Argentine writer born in Buenos Aires in 1946, into a Sephardic family of Spanish-Syrian origin. He made his first studies and studied Philosophy and Letters in his hometown. In 1965 he settled in Madrid, although he made frequent trips to Argentina, France and Israel. He regularly collaborates, as a literary critic, in the main Spanish and Latin American magazines. In 1971 he published his first novel, El laberinto de Sion, which was followed by Gor (1973), Diano (1982), and With the Withered Forehead (1989). His complete narratives make up La Repรบblica de Monaco (Seix Barral, 2000). In 2005 he published in Editorial Alhulia Two thousand and One Nights as a newspaper. His poetry, which shares the approaches of the newest and in which references to the Kabbalah and Jewish culture are a constant, is a personal find where the Castilian tradition and European literatures intersect in their most cosmopolitan tendencies. His poetic work is found together in The Invoked Oracle (1984), The temple Ceiling (1999) and General Consulate (2000). His essays include La Kรกbala (1974) and Borges, Biography Total (1996).
Me despertaba agitado, siempre envuelto en un pesadilla engorrosa donde todo era trรกgico. No era felicidad. La casa a oscuras y silenciosa parecรญa un gran ataรบd con su vรญctima luchando, absurdamente, por vivir. Desde mi cama y sin levantar la cabeza podรญa ver la ventana entreabierta, escondida tras los visillos y protegida por la persiana gris que ahuyentaba mis recelos, nadie podรญa entrar. Si estiraba el brazo era posible palpar el cable de la luz y su perilla, sentir la seguridad de que estaba en mis manos encender el velador, destrozar a las fantasรญas de la ambigรผedad. Mรกs allรก el vaso de agua que mamรก dejaba siempre a mi alcance para aliviar cualquier imprevisto ataque de tos. El reloj con sus luminiscentes agujas brillando a la mesilla, y el libro de historia adivinado en la pรกgina de la รบltima lecciรณn. Una cortina ocultando al asesinos de Julio Cรฉsar.
— Anoche, mientras comรญamos, iba a contarlo cuando algo me detuvo, sentรญ de pronto vergรผenza y callรฉ
Para entrever la puerta era necesario volverme y incorporarme sobre la cama un poco, entonces debรญa concentrar mi vista sobre ella para lentamente se dibujase el marco y mรกs tarde la sombra del picaporte. Muchas veces despuรฉs de un corto desvelo volvรญa dormirme y no despertaba hasta que golpeaban anunciรกndome que era hora de ir al colegio, pero otras veces, permanecรญa despierto acostumbrรกndome a la luz, velador oscuridad y a aquel nuevo universo espectral con sus planetas, camas espectral con sus planetas, , vaso de cama, ventana, visillo, persiana, cable de luz, perilla, velador, vaso de agua, reloj, mesilla, libro de historia y puerta. ยกCuรกnta valentรญa era necesario para vencer mi horror! Cuando la claridad se filtraba en la habitaciรณn comenzaba a vestirme y al sonar de las golpes para salir a llevarme.
–โยกUstedes lo mataron! Yo lo sรฉ, todos ustedes. . .โ
Si la noche se alargaba demasiado y las visiones turbaban mi descanso, las mantas hacรญa de fiel coraza y escudo para mi temor, temblando y sudando trataba de ocultarme entre ellos, de desaparecer para siempre bajo aquel, mullido cobijo. Olvidaba entonces todo mi poder, atemorizado por mis ensueรฑos no reparaba en el cable en el cable de la luz ni en la perilla, no atinaba a estirar a estirar el brazo y encender, por el contrario me alejaba de la mesilla, internรกndome hacia la pared, acurrando y sollozante como un nรกufrago que rema desesperadamente hacia alta mar en ingenua bรบsqueda de la salvaciรณn.
–โยกUstedes lo mataron! Yo lo sรฉ, todos ustedes. . .โ
–Papรก habรญa comido sin hablarnos, inquieto repitiรณ la bendiciรณn del pan tan maquinalmente que no me di cuenta de ella. Mamรก me miraba con cierta extraรฑeza, como se hubiera descubierto en mรญ algo insospechado, una cosa que le preocupaba mรกs que mi tos o mis multiplicaciones. Tenรญa deseos de hablar, de decirles todo, pero ese silencio y esa mirada me intimidaron, No, no lo dirรฉ, es mejor que no diga nada. No puede ser verdad. ยกNo es verdad!
Mucho despuรฉs cuando el abuelo me llevรณ por primera vez a casa de Rabbi Khaen, pude explicarme todo el temor, aquel enloquecido miedo nocturno que nadie conocรญa y que yo guardaba en el mรกs impenetrable de los secretos. Fue entonces que comprendรญ el significado de aquellas visiones perturbadores. Rabbi Khaen me brindรณ con gran generosidad el arma mรกs eficiente para combatirlas. Sรณlo serรญa necesario que mis labios infantiles pronunciaran el verbo primigenio, recitando la Shemรก, una calma celestial me colmaba, la seguridad. Los malos espรญritus abandonaron mi cuerpo, y otra vez la paz, la certidumbre del cable de la luz y el perilla, el velador, el vaso de agua simbolizando la custodia materna, el reloj con sus luminiscentes agujas brillando en la mesilla, y el libro de historia adivinado con la pรกgina de la รบltima lecciรณn. Una cortina ocultando al asesino de Julio Cรฉsar. Sรณlo seis palabras repetidas con entusiasmo intenso hacรญan el milagro, seis palabras de fe, seis palabras de gloria, seis palabras tambiรฉn de propiedad, de exclusividad, de orgullo. Ya no necesitaba de la luz. Su presencia iluminaba la noche.
–Enrique me habรญa visto llorar de rabia en un rincรณn de la clase, mientras los compaรฑeros gritaban en el patio sus รบltimos minutos de recreo. Lo vi entrar exaltado y a la vez comprensivo, queriendo consolar con un gesto todo mi dolor. . .
—Dรฉjalos, no saben lo que dicen. . .โ
–No podรญa ser verdad, nosotros no habรญan matado a nadie, ni mi padre, ni mi madre, ni mis abuelos. Nunca habรญa visto a nadie que hubiera matado. . .En el solitario delirio de mi dolor comencรฉ a odiar a ese desconocido del que nunca habรญa oรญdo hablar. La causa de mi llanto.
–โFueron los romanosโdijo mi primo–, te digo que fueron los romanos, me lo contรณ papรก, los soldados de Roma lo crucificaron. . .โ
Ya no necesitaba de la luz, la Shemรก era suficiente para iluminar y sobrevivir en las tempestades. Aprendรญ tambiรฉn a besar el mesusรก antes de salir de la casa, y mi abuelo me prometiรณ llevarme al tiempo los dรญas de fiesta grande, De la inseguridad desoladora de mi orfandad sรณlo quedaron restos, cortos escalofrรญos que no llegaban nunca a daรฑar los cimientos del mundo feliz que mi abuelo y el Rabbi Khaen me habรญan construido. Supe que era parte de un orden, de un Gran Orden que no habรญa nacido conmigo, sino que existรญa desde siempre y que serรญa eterno. El caos y la anarquรญa se habรญan borrado de mi espรญritu. รl y nosotros tenรญamos un pacto sellado en nuestra piel, una indestructible alianza a travรฉs de los tiempos. รramos Su Pueblo, y no nos abandonarรญa jamรกs. โNunca, nunca abandonarรฉ al pueblo mรญoโ. ยฟPor quรฉ temer entonces? ยฟQuรฉ mejor protecciรณn que la de รl? Era fundamental que venciese mi miedo.
La imagen de ese espeso cortinaje, extraรญdo de algรบn grabado antiguo por el autor de mi libro de historia, siempre se me aparecรญa antes de dormirme. El asesino entre sus pliegues llevaba un puรฑal en la mano preparado para herir a Julio Cรฉsar que, coronado hacรญa unos instantes, se acercaba a รฉl. Muchas veces creรญ adivinar su color granate, como el cortinado pesado que escoltaba el blanco encaje de Murano en la ventana del comedor, el puรฑal corto y brillante con mango de nรกcar, como un abrecartas que habรญa en el despacho de papรก. Una cortina ocultando al asesino de Julio Cรฉsar. Un perfume de rosas aterciopeladas en una habitaciรณn que abandonรฉ para siempre. Sรณlo seis palabras hacรญan el milagro. Tรญa Luna me habรญa mostrado aquel pesado libro que el abuelo guardaba con sumo cuidado en un armario del gran salรณn. Tenรญa cinco aรฑos, pero a pesar de los esfuerzos de mi padre aรบn, no concurrรญa a un colegio. Todos temรญan por mi salud delicada y preferรญan enseรฑarme en casa las primeras letras.
Mรกs tarde la opiniรณn paterna prevaleciรณ, pero entonces ya fue mucho mรกs duro abandonar a los seres queridos. Luna siempre hablaba de Parรญs, de sus juegos infantiles y de la Plaza Lafayette, o de aquel delicioso helado de todas que las maรฑanas del domingo tomaban los hermanos en โLa Boule de Neigeโ. Me resultaba difรญcil sostener el libro. Creo recordar sus gruesas pastas azules estampadas en oro. Tรญa Luna comprendรญa mi debilidad ayudรกndome sigilosamente para evitar en mรญ un vergonzoso sentimiento de impotencia. Era el gran libro del abuelo, en el que todos ponรญan los sumos cuidados, el libro que ocultaba ese secreto que daba luz al rostro de los que sufrรญan. Entonces era tan sรณlo un catรกlogo de letras desconocidas, pรกginas de extraรฑos signos contorsionados y extremadamente negras. Los miraba uno a uno, maravillado en aquel laberinto indescifrable pero sin embargo profundamente amado. Era un deslumbrada]o colegial ante lustrosas figuras multicolores de desconocidos paรญses, remotas latitudes de plenas de seguridad paradisรญaca. Algo me decรญa ya que era el Gran Libro, el mรญtico receptรกculo de todos los libros. Las grande capitulares estaban ornadas por complicadas filigranas, que yo seguรญa fiel en sus misteriosos caminos.
* * *
–โBueno te pongo una siesta. Pero maรฑana tenรฉs que leer mucho mejor para que mantenga la nota.“
Tรญa Luna decรญa que papรก era muy exigente y exageraba demasiado cuando yo me equivocaba en una palabra.
–Estos no son mรฉtodos para enseรฑarle al pobre chico–exclamaba con cierta magnificencia, dรกndole la frase un tono de grandeza que hacรญa sonreรญr a mamรก y enfurecรญa a papรก. Yo rechazaba los libros de cuentos que casi siempre me regalaran mis tรญas. Me aburrรญa mucho con aquellos cuadernos grandotes ilustrados con agresivos grabados que sรณlo decรญan tonterรญas. Preferรญa leer LA PRENSA o el VEA Y LEA, de mi abuela.
Mรกs tarde, iba a devorar todas las novelas que llenan los estanterรญas de la habitaciรณn de Luna, y las que mamรก resolvรญa comprarme despuรฉs de secretas consultaciones con el abuelo. Tรญa Luna no me dejaba nunca con el libro cuando lo sacaba del armario, permanecรญa hasta que sea la hora de volverlo a su sitio. Era una parsimoniosa ceremonia, un rito semejante a su sobriedad en los momentos previos a la comida del domingo en casa del abuelo, en la que cada miembro de la familia buscaba su lugar, mirรกndose todos con prudencia, devolviendo luego acompasadamiento sus servilletas a la espera de la bendiciรณn patriarcal.
–Tia, quiero leer el libro.
Ella dejaba, por un momento, de saborear su chocolate y vainilla en la โBoule de Niegeโ y me ayudaba a sostenerlo con generosa paciencia. Interrumpรญa el breve paseo hacia el Bulevar Magenta y se acercaba al armario en bรบsqueda de aquel paraรญso de papel y cartรณn donde comencรฉ a temer y a amar a lo desconocido.
El abuelo en su sillรณn bebรญa a sorbos pequeรฑos sorbos tu tasita de cafรฉ. Muchas tardes, me pedรญa que le leyese un trozo de Spinoza o algรบn poema de su Solomรณn Ibn Gabirol. La รบltima vez que le leรญa a Gabirol, me habรญa pedido โLa Canciรณn del Aguaโ. Le gustaba contarme sus sueรฑos o hablarme de su abuelo, hermano de un famoso rabino de Safed.
–Cuando mi abuelo me llevรณ a casa de su hermano, el rabbi, sentรญ miedo. Temรญa encontrarme allรญ con el olor asfixiante de las lรกmpara de aceite con aquel silencio tenebroso que yo adivinaba en la sinagoga.
Muchas noches, despuรฉs de cenar, nos quedรกbamos horas junto al cafรฉ y al agua de azahar.
–Las siete reglas de la interpretaciรณn que has aprendido son imprescindibles para comprender las sagradas y el espรญritu de la Ley. Has obedecido las palabras de Hillel, el anciano. โNo digas nunca estudiarรฉ cuando tenga tiempo, pues nunca lo tendrรกsโ.
A veces lo dejaba dormido en su sillรณn y abandonaba la casa pensando en la serenidad del sueรฑo, visiรณn en la que crecรญan de sombras de un estirpe docta y temeroso de Dios.
I woke up agitated, completely involved in an intricate dream where everything was tragic. It wasnโt happy. The dark and silent house seemed like a large coffin with its victim, fighting absurdly, to live. From my bed and without lifting my head I could see the half-opened window, hidden behind the lace curtains and protected by the gray Venetian blinds that drove away my fears, nobody could enter. If I stretched my arm it was possible to touch electric wire and its switch, feel the sureness that was in my hands to turn on the night light, destroy the fantasies of the ambiguity. Further away, the glass of water the mama always left at my reach to alleviate any unexpected coughing attack. The clock with its luminescent hands shined on the table, and the history book specifically on the page beginning the last lesson. A curtain hiding the assassins of Julius Cesar.
In order to take a glimpse though door, it was necessary for me to turn around and straighten up a little on the bed, then I had to concentrate my vision on it to slowly make out the frame and then the shadow of the door handle. Often after a short moment of sleeplessness I would fall asleep again and not wake up until they knocked, announcing the it was time to go to school, but on other occasions, I remained awake accustoming myself to the light, the lamp dark, and to a new spectral universe, spectral beds with their planets, glass of bed, window, lace curtains, Venetian blinds, electric wire, switch, glass of water, clock, bed table, history book and door. What courage was needed to overcome my horror! When the clarity filtered into the room, I began to get dressed and on hearing the knocks to get me up to leave.
You killed him! I know it, all of you. . .!โ
If the night stretched out too long and the visions upset my rest, the covers made a faithful breastplate and shield for my fear, trembling and sweating. I tried to hide myself among them, to disappear forever under that fluffy shelter. I then forgot all my strength, terrorized by my dreams, didnโt make use of the electric cable or the switch, didnโt succeed in reaching out my arm and turning it on, on the contrary, I moved away from the night able, going in toward the wall, moaning and sobbing like a shipwrecked man who rows desperately toward the open sea in an ingenuous search for salvation.
You killed him! I know it, all of you!
Papa had eaten without speaking, uneasy, he repeated the blessing over the bread so mechanically that I didnโt notice it. Mama looked at my in a certain strange way, as if she had discovered in me something unexpected in me, something that worried her more than my cough or my multiplication tables. I really wanted to speak, to tell them something, but that silence and that look intimidated me. No, no I wonโt tell them, itโs better that I donโt say anything. It canโt be true. Itโs not true!!
Much latter when my grandfather took me for the first time to Rabbi Khaenโs house, I was able to explain all the terror, all that crazed nocturnal fear nobody knew and that I kept in the most impenetrable of silences. It was then that I understood the meaning of those perturbing visions.
Rabbi Khaen, with great generosity, offered me the most efficient armament for combatting them. It would only be necessary that my childโs lips pronounce the primal words, reciting the Schma: a celestial calm filled me with security. The evil spirits abandoned my body, and once again, peace, the certainty of the electric wire and switch, the lamp, the glass of water, symbolizing maternal protection, the clock with its luminescent hands, shining on the night table and the history book set with the page from the last lesson. A curtain hiding the assassin of Julius Cesar. Only six words repeated with intense enthusiasm made the miracle, six words of glory, six words also of property, of exclusivity, of pride. I no longer needed the light. Its presence illuminated the night.
Enrique had seen me cry with anger in a corner of the classroom, while, the other boys yelled in the patio during the last minutes of break. I saw him enter, exalted and at the same time understanding, wishing to console all my suffering with a gesture.
Let them go, they donโt know what they are saying. . .โ
It canโt be true, we hadnโt killed anyone, not my father, not my mother, not my grandparents. I had never seen anyone who might have killed. . . In the solitary delirium of my pain, I began to hate this unknown ow whom I had never heard spoken. The cause of my crying.
โIt was the Romans, my cousin said, Iโm telling you that it was the Romans, Papa, the soldiers from Rome, crucified him . .โ
I no longer needed the light. The Shema was sufficient to illuminate and to survive in the storms. I learned also to kiss the Mesusa before leaving the house, and my grandfather promised to take me at the time of great holiday.
From the bleak insecurity of my orphanhood only remains were left, short shivers that didn’t ever damage the foundation of the happy world that my grandfather and Rabbi Khaen had constructed for me. I knew that I was part of an order, of a Great Order that had not been born with me, but that always existed and would be eternal. The chaos and the anarchy had been erased from my spirit. He and we had a pact in our skin, an indestructible alliance through the ages. We were His People, and he would never abandon us. โNever, never will I abandon my people.โ Why then fear? What better protection than His? It was certain that my fear would be defeated.
The image on that heavy cover, taken from some ancient print by the author of my history book, always appeared to me before I went to sleep. The assassin between the folds carried a dagger in his hand, preparing to wound Julius Cesar, who, crowned just a few instants before, approached him. Many times, I believed I could pick out his garnet color, like the heavy curtain that heard the white Murano lace in the dining room window, the short and brilliant dagger with a mother-of-pearl handle, like the letter opener that was in Papaโs office. A curtain hiding the assassin of Julius Cesar. A perfume of velveted roses in a room that I abandoned forever. Only six words made the miracle, Aunt Luna had shown me that heavy book that grandfather kept with great care in a living room closet. I was six-years-old, but even in spite of my efforts, I didnโt go to school. Everyone feared for my delicate health and preferred to teach me the first materials at home.
Later, my fatherโs opinion prevailed, put then it was far more difficult for me to leave my loved ones. Luna always spoke of Paris, of her childhood games and of the Plaza Lafayette. Or of that delicious ice cream every Sunday morning that all the children had at the โSnow Ball.โ It was difficult for me to hold the book. I believe I remember its thick blue covers stamped with gold. Aunt Luna understood my weakness slyly helping me avoid a shameful feeling of impotence. It was grandfatherโs huge book, into which everyone put their greatest cares, the book that hid this secret that gave birth to the face of those who suffered. The, it was only a catalogue of unknown letters, pages of strange signs, twisted and extremely black. They looked at each other, marveling in that indecipherable labyrinth, that nevertheless profoundly loved. It was a dazzling collection, with lustrous multi-color figures of unknown countries, remote latitudes full of paradisal security. Something told me then that it was the Great Book, the mythical receptacle of all books. The great capitulars were made ornate by complicated watermarks, that I followed loyal to its mysterious paths.
***
โOkay, Iโll give you a 7. But tomorrow you have to read a lot better so you can keep up your grades.โ
Aunt Luna said that papa was very demanding and exaggerated when I made a mistake on a word. โThese arenโt methods for teaching the poor boy,โ he would exclaim with a certain magnificence, giving the phrase a tone of grandeur that made mama laugh and infuriated papa. I rejected the storybooks that my aunts almost always gave me. They bored me a lot, with those over-sized notebooks illustrated with aggressive prints that only said nonsense. I preferred to read my grandmotherโs La Prensa or Vea y Lea.
Later on, I went on to devour all the novels that filled the shelves in Aunt Lunaโs room, and those that mama decided to buy for me after secret consultations with my grandfather. Aunt Luna never let me keep the book when I took it out of the closet, it stayed only until it was time to return it to its place. It was a parsimonious ceremony, a rite similar to sobriety in the moments previous toe the Sunday meal in grandfatherโs house, during which each member of the family sought his place, all looking at each other with prudence, later returning to adjusting their napkins, while waiting for the patriarchal.
โAunt, I want to read the book.โ
She stopped, for a moment to enjoy her chocolate and vanilla in the โBoule de Neigeโ and helped me hold it with generous patience. She interrupted the short walk toward the Magenta Boulevard and she went towards the closet in search of that paradise of paper and cardboard where I began to fear and love the unknown.
Grandfather in his large chair, drank in small sips from his small cup of coffee. Many afternoons, he asked me to read to him a piece of Spinoza or some poem by Solomon Ibn Gabirol. The last time that I read Gabirol to him, he had asked for the โSong of the Waterโ He liked to tell me his dreams or to tell me about his grandfather, brother of a famous rabbi from Safed. โWhen my grandfather took me to the house or his brother, the rabbi, I was afraid. I feared finding myself there with the asphyxiating odor of the oil lamp with that gloomy silence that I perceived in the synagogue.โ
Many nights, after dinner, we spent hours near the coffee and the orange water.
โThe seven rules of interpretation that you have learned are indispensable for understanding the sacred things and the spirit of the Law. You have obeyed the words of Hillel, the ancient one
Never say that I will study when I have time, but cause then you will never have it.โ
At time, I left him sleeping in his great chair, and I abandoned the house, thinking about the serenity of the dream, a vision from which grew from the shadows a wise and frightening way of God.
