Tag: Love Story

Liliana Blum — Narradora mexicana/ Mexican Fiction Writer– “Tocaré el piano vestida de novia”/“I Will Play the Piano, Dressed as a Bride”-un cuento de amor judío-no judía/a love story between a Jewish man and a non-Jewish woman

Liliana V. Blum

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Liliana Blum (Durango, Durango, México,1974) ha  publicado las novelas El extraño caso de Lenny Goleman (Planeta Joven, 2022), Cara de liebre (Seix Barral, 2020),  El monstruo pentápodo (Bordes, 2019; Tusquets, 2017), Pandora (Tusquets, 2015; MaxiTusquets 2020), Residuos de espanto (Ficticia Editorial, 2011) y los libros de cuentos Tristeza de los cítricos (Páginas de Espuma, 2019), Todas hemos perdido algo (Tusquets, 2020), No me pases de largo (Literal Publishing, 2013), Yo sé cuando expira la leche (IMAC Durango, 2011), The Curse of Eve and Other Stories (Host Publications, 2008), Vidas de catálogo (Fondo Editorial Tierra Adentro, 2007), ¿En qué se nos fue la mañana? (ITCA, 2007) y  (Ediciones de Barlovento, 2002). Sus escritos son parte de las antologías El crimen como una de las bellas artes (2002), Atrapadas en la madre (Alfaguara, 2006), El espejo de Beatriz (Ficticia, 2009), Óyeme 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 : antología de noir mexicano (Grijalbo, 2019),  entre otras. Su nueva colección de relatos, Un descuido cósmico, saldrá este 2023 bajo el sello de Tusquets. Liliana Blum estudió Literatura Comparada en The University of Kansas y tiene una maestría en educación con especialidad en humanidades por el ITESM.

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Liliana Blum (Durango, Durango, Mexico, 1974) has published the novels: El extraño caso de Lenny Goleman (Planeta Joven, 2022), Cara de liebre (Seix Barral, 2020),  El monstruo pentápodo (Bordes, 2019; Tusquets, 2017), Pandora (Tusquets, 2015; MaxiTusquets 2020), Residuos de espanto (Ficticia Editorial, 2011) and the books of short-stories: Tristeza de los cítricos (Páginas de Espuma, 2019), Todas hemos perdido algo (Tusquets, 2020), No me pases de largo (Literal Publishing, 2013), Yo sé cuando expira la leche (IMAC Durango, 2011), The Curse of Eve and Other Stories (Host Publications, 2008), Vidas de catálogo (Fondo Editorial Tierra Adentro, 2007), ¿En qué se nos fue la mañana? (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), Óyeme 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 : antología de noir mexicano (Grijalbo, 2019),  among others. Her new short-story collection: Un descuido cósmico, 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.

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De://From: Liliana V. Blum. Vidas de catálogo. México, D. F.: Tierra Adentro, 2007, 71-76.

“Tocaré el piano vestida de novia”

A Paloma Bauer

           Un año más, que sumado a los otro veintinueve, daba treinta. Pero yo me siento justamente igual que ayer y el día antes de ayer. Andrei se fue a pasar el verano con su futura esposa, mi último papanicolao mostró algunas células anormales y tengo que sacar una cita con el ginecólogo. Salí de la universidad antes de la cinco de la tarde. Pasé al pequeño mercado orgánico y compré algunas cosas. Me he propuesto cambiar de hábitos, ser más saludable. Desde mañana comenzar a nadar antes de la clase de sociología. Dejaré de fumar y habrá más frutos y verduras en mi dieta. Los árboles a lo largo de la calle están cambiando sus hojas de verde a amarillo a rojo, y algunas ya cubren el suelo. Unas cigarras fuera de temporada se escuchan allí y allá.             

           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 café con leche. Suspiro y me obligo a seguir. He llegado a los treinta, estoy viva y camino por una hermosa calle de un pequeño pueblo universitario. Conservo aún la beca para mi maestría y muy pronto terminaré la tesis. De repente la bolsa se rompe y un par de latas de sopa de tomate ruedan por la acera. Otro eslabón de tristeza que se une con todo lo demás.     

           Sé que sí me agacho para recoger las dos latas voy a llorar y no podré detenerme. Miro a los dos lados: no hay nadie más en la calle, salvo un gato anaranjado afilándose las garras en un tronco. Cuatro dólares bien valen mis lágrimas, o al revés, así que mejor la sopa de tomate. En la banqueta veo dibujos hechos con gises de color. Flores, catarinas, unos cuadros con números para brincar. Hace muchos años me hacía feliz dibujar, jugar con el resorte, la cuerda, las muñecas. 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. ¿Cómo voy a llegar yo sola con mis células anormales y mi posible cáncer cervical?

           El cielo comienza a cerrarse, y sé 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 rápidamente, hasta que la tensión de los músculos 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 distinguiría 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 jardín. Corro entre los figurines con cuidado de no tocarlos, porque está 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 maestría y consiga un buen trabajo, lo primero que haré es cambiarme de casa.

           Debería de tomar el rastrillo de Andrei, todas sus cosas, y tirarlas en la basura. O cortarme las venas. Eventualmente él llegaría y me encontraría convertida en una forma de pasta sobre la alfombra e la salita de tele, putrefacta, y entonces vería 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 así que los pongo en su lugar y salgo del baño. Tomo tres de las cervezas de Andrei, me siento frente al televisor y comienzo a beber.

           Adentro todo está oscuro y se percibe un ligero olor a humedad. Me gusta la casa así. Con poca luz. Andrei bromea siempre con que en el fondo yo debo tener algo de judía, porque dice que soy una tacaña con la energía eléctrica. Entonces puedes quedarte conmigo, contesto yo a sabiendas que él mirará el piso, me tomará de los hombros y dirá: 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 prometí casarme con una judía 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. ¿Pero porque sigue durmiendo aquí en mi casa? Entonces no me digas que me amas, Andrei, porque está 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 depresión, 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 allí mismo, en el futón, con un anchorman de CNN dando las últimas 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 jamón de pavo kosher y la pinta de leche descremada para acomodarlas en el refri. Entro el baño, orino y prendo la luz para verme de cerca en el espejo. Me parece que tengo más arrugas que la última vez. No me reconozco. Antes yo era otra, digo en voz alta, y pienso en Andrei con la novia judía que finalmente le pareció aceptable. ¿Estarán sentados en la sala, con los padres de allá interrogándolo para ver si es un buen prospectivo, o tal vez van juntos a la sinagoga, tomados de mano?

           Los últimos meses han sido insoportables para mí. O bien soy indestructible, o no tengo dignidad. Supongo que lo segundo. Vivimos en el mismo lugar, él me prepara el desayuno, yo lavo los trastes, Y de repente, alguien, una judía 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 lágrimas y él me repite que no puede casarse conmigo, aunque me ame. Luego viene mi escena con gritos, tal vez una taza de café rota, y al final hacemos el amor hasta casi morirnos. A la mañana siguiente, mientras yo duermo, él prepara su maleta, me besa y lo escucho entre sueños decirme que volverá en un par de días. Yo me vuelvo de espaldas. Cuando escucho la puerta cerrarse, aprieto mi cara contra la almohada de él y aspiro su aroma. Sigo miserable hasta medio día, y si no hubiera trabajo que hacer, me quedaría 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 físicamente 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 perdón, hasta que la normalidad se vuelve a establecer en la casa, al menos por algún tiempo. Más tarde yo diré: tal vez yo también deba subir mi perfil a un sitio de solteros católicos. Andrei fingirá no escucharme mientras me besa y me quita la ropa. No quiero quedarme de solterona, sobre todo si tú te vas a casar un día de estos. Cuando terminemos, todavía ebria con los efectos del orgasmo, seguiré: Me vas a volverme loca, Andrei. Él sólo guardará 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 esté loca, voy a tocar el piano vestida de novia. Él me besará otra vez: No te vas a volver loca, tú vas a encontrar a alguien que te quiera mucho.       

           Termino la última cerveza y cambio el canal. Veo un especial de Seinfeld y pienso cómo río con Andrei. ¿Voy a encontrar a alguien quién sentirme así?  Porque cuando no está buscando esposa judía, es casi perfecto. Una vez, un poco ebrio, me dijo que, si se casaba pronto, a lo mejor podíamos seguir viéndonos. Eso no está bien, si te casas le va a ser fiel a tu mujer, le dije. Ser parte de un triángulo no entraba en mi plan de vida. Aunque tal vez ahora mismo haría lo que Andrei me dijera. Pero ¿cómo ser “la otra mujer’, si yo no tengo ningún aire de misterio, no uso negligés ni ligueros ni maquillaje? Pero en el fondo sé que ni siquiera tengo esa opción. Andrei estará el resto del verano con su novia, fijará una fecha para la boda y recibiré una postal del lugar a donde vayan de luna de miel. Luego se instalará en otra ciudad y nos escribiremos por correo electrónico, 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 él. Lo mejor será tomar, como dicen los libros de autoayuda, un día a la vez. Me prometo no beber más hasta que encuentre una pareja estable, o si no voy a terminar como una patética depresiva alcohólica, y luego nadie, y con razón, va a quererme. Lo primero que haré por la mañana es llamar al ginecólogo y hacer la cita. Me desvisto en la oscuridad y dejo la ropa en el suelo. Mañana, también, comenzaré a limpiar. Ningún traste sucio pasará más de un día 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. Entré con mi llave, dice, abrazándome. Shhh, no quiero que me platiques de tu viaje. Vuelve a dormirse a los pocos minutos y escucho su respiración. Me quedo despierta con sus brazos rodeándome. Mientras no tenga vestido de novia, creo que no me volveré loca.

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“I Will Play the Piano, Dressed as a Bride”

A Paloma Bauer

           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, I’m going to cry, and I won’t 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 that’s 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, I’d better quickly get wherever I’m 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 wasn’t 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 can’t marry a shiska. Then we won’t 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 don’t tell me that you love me, Andrei, because it’s clear that you don’t 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, doesn’t 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 we’re 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 don’t 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 Andrei’s 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 Andrei’s beard hairs among the blades. I don’t want to cry again, so I put it back in its place, and I leave the bathroom. I take out three of Andrei’s beers, I sit in front of the television and a begin to drink.

           The last few months have been unbearable for me. Or I’m 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: I’m going to Seattle or somewhere, to meet Sarah or whoever. I begin to cry, and he repeats to me that he can’t 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 didn’t 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 isn’t interesting, that she doesn’t attract him physically or they don’t share the same level of religiosity. Whatever. it is my turn to be indignant and Andrei’s 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 don’t want to stay unmarried, especially if one day you’re 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 I’m crazy, I’m going to play the piano, dressed as a bride. He will kiss me again. You won’t 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, it’s almost perfect. Once, a bit drunk, he said that if he gets married soon, at least we could continue seeing each other. That’s 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 “the other woman”, if I don’t have any air of mystery, I don’t use negligees or garter belts or makeup? But down deep, I know that I don’t 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. I’m going to put a vase in the middle of the table, and I’m going to dust the books.

           I go to bed. My fingers touch Andrei’s curly hair. His body moves a bit, until he wakes up. I got in with my key, he said, hugging me, Shhh, I don’t 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 won’t go crazy.

Translation by Stephen A. Sadow

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Algunos libros de Liliana Blum/Some of Liliana Blum’s Books

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Andriana Armony — Romancista brasileña-judaica/Brazilian Jewish Novelist –“Judite no País do Futuro/”Judith in the Country of the Future” — de história e amor/of history and love

Adriana Armony

Adriana Armony nasceu no Rio de Janeiro. É escritora, professora do Colégio Pedro II e doutora em Literatura Comparada pela UFRJ, com a tese “Nelson Rodrigues, leitor de Dostoiévski”. Publicou, pela Editora Record, os romances Estranhos no aquário (2012), Judite no país do futuro (2008) e A fome de Nelson (2005),  e organizou, com Tatiana Salem Levy, a coletânea Primos (2010), da qual também participou com um conto. O romance Estranhos no aquário foi contemplado com a Bolsa de Criação Literária da Petrobras.

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Adriana Armony was born in Rio de Janeiro City. She has three novels published by Editora Record: Strangers in the Aquarium (2012), Judith in the Future Land (2008), and Nelson’s Hunger (2005).  In 2010, she received an award in Creative Writing by Petrobras, a Brazilian Company renowned for their support to the Brazilian arts and culture.  Adriana also co-edited Cousins: stories of Jewish and Arab heritage (2010), a collection of fictional short stories by Brazilian writers about their Jewish and Arab background.  Besides her life as a writer (and passionate reader), Adriana teaches Brazilian Literature at Colégio Pedro II, a prestigious State school in Rio de Janeiro.  She has a PhD in Comparative Literature, and is a member of the Centre for Jewish Studies of Federal University of Rio de Janeiro (UFRJ)

https://adriarmony.wordpress.com/

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Adriana Armony. Judite do país do futuro. Rio de Janeiro: Record, 2008, 195-200 or 2003.

Dois corpos enlaçados, pálios e rígidos. Ele compôs-se solenemente para a morte; calça marrom-escura, camisa marrom-clara, gravata preta. Deitada de lado, envolta num penhoar estampado com ramagens, ela encosta-se no seu ombro, segura carinhosamente as mãos entrelaçadas. Suicídio, não havia dúvida. Mas seria possível?

         No caminho para a casa de Judite, João costumava comprar os jornais vespertinos, que lia enquanto esperava Salomão chegar. Ultimamente longos períodos de silêncio pesavam entre ele e Judite, e o jornal fornecia uma proteção íntima e reconfortante para os dois. João relé as manchetes daquela terça feira, 24 de fevereiro: dois navios nacionais foram bombardeados por submarinos alemães; Stefan Zweig, o escritor de Brasil, país de futuro, matou-se, com sua esposa Lotte, em Petrópolis, onde será sepultado. O nazi-fascismo estava fazendo suas primeiras vítimas no Brasil; mais cedo o mais tarde, a declaração de guerra seria inevitável.

         Apesar de tudo, era difícil entender. Um escritor de sucesso, que conseguira escapar das garras do nazismo, tinha o direito de se matar? Por que ele se suicidara? Por que arrastara a mulher com ele? Era aquilo o verdadeiro amor? “Parece que ele morreu antes dela… foi necessário forçar aquele corpinho para coloca-lo no ataúde… O rosto da mulher estava deformado” –foram as palavras da poeta Gabriela Mistral, que um repórter registrara. E havia detalhes que impressionavam. A mobília era quase indigente: duas camas de solteiro, encostadas uma na outra; dois criados-mudos com abajures baratos, um pão mordiscado, uma caixa de fósforos vazia, uma garrafa de água mineral.

         Uma vez ouvira que é bela a morte voluntária. Que a vida escolhe por nós, más a morte nós somos nós que escolhemos. Em Os irmãos Karamazov, Kirilov se mata para competir com Deus. Lembrou dos versos de Manuel Bandeira: “Muitas palmeiras se suicidaram porque não viviam num píncaro azulado.” João não queria morrer. Ah, se fosse um escritor famoso, si tivesse uma mulher que o amasse… ou se as mulheres o cercassem de mimos, disputassem o seu autógrafo (havia tantas mulheres bonitas), soltassem suas risadinhas excitadas, então seria feliz! Estava sendo fútil, pensou envergonhado, mas não podia evitar que o grito se erguesse dento de ele:  estava vivo! E, para apaziguar sua excitação, forcou-se a pensar nos corpos amarelos e gelados.

         Iria até Petrópolis. Quem sabe se voltaria? Prestaria a última homenagem a Zweig, y depois iria para o Rio. Estava perdendo tempo ali, na barra da saia de uma mulher casada. Coisas graves aconteciam, histórias de amor e morte. Era por acaso um adolescente? Apalpou o bolso, retirou uma folha amarrotada. Há dias levava aquele poema que escrevera pensando em Judite. Escrevera-o como que possuído, depois de ler o Cântico dos Cânticos, e não tinha sequer coragem de relê-lo, quanto mais de mostra-lo a Judite. Como ia partir, já podia fazê-lo. Mas era impossível que ela o lesse na sua presença, de modo que era preciso rabiscar algumas palavras com algumas instruções técnicos para ser cortejada sem se sujar”, pensou, como raiva. Mas também ele não era um cobarde? Temia ou admirava Salomão, o justo? Ou será que era ela dela que tinha.

         Ali estava um restaurante que costumava frequentar. Certamente poderia sentar-se por alguns instantes e escrever, enquanto bebericava alguma coisa. Pegou um guardanapo. “Judite, deixo-te este poema como doce lembrança dos nossos dias.” Era ridículo aquele tom nostálgico. Riscou tudo, escreveu: “Por favor, leia, mas não ria de mim.” Aquela ambiguidade era servil demais. Seria melhor fingir um interesse puramente literário: “Espero que goste deste poema.” Numa súbita inspiração, acrescentou, ressentido: “Junto com Zweig, alguma coisa também morreu entre nós.” Meu Deus, nada tinha acontecido entre eles! Certamente, devia a ser tudo uma fantasia… Rabiscou a última frase e escreveu diretamente no verso do envelope onde enfiara o poema: “Sigo hoje para a casa de parentes em Petrópolis e deixo-lhe este poema como lembrança e tributo ao nosso amor pela Literatura.” Nenhuma acusação, uma ambiguidade viril: o tom estava correto. E, embora fosse improvável que Judite fosse procurá-lo, lá estava a indicação do local onde ele poderia ser encontrado. Si ela quisesse, não seria difícil descobrir onde ficava a casa a dos Ramalho, bastante conhecidos na cidade.

              João bate na porta, ele atendo. Percebe imediatamente que houve algo extraordinário. Ele não deixa espaço para dúvidas.

          — Stefan Zweig se matou!

         –O que você está dizendo! –Judite, com a mão diante da boca.

              –Ele e a mulher fizeram um pacto de morte. Ingeriam veneno e morrerem abraçados. Vão ser enterrados amanhã em Petrópolis.

              –Mas por quê?

              “Ele não tinha direito”, Judite está pensado. “Tantos queriam viver e morreram.” E depois: “Só os mortos não morrerão.”        

–Ninguém sabe.

–Todos aqueles homes e mulheres torturados, veraneando solitários naqueles hotéis… Talvez ele fosse assim. Mesmo não sendo pego pelos nazis, mesmo morando aqui no Brasil, continuou sofrendo.

–Lá em Petrópolis ele podia continuar escrevendo, podia esperar a paz…  Mas até aqui em Brasil!

        — Todo aquele mundo abafado… Ele não podia suportar o calor. A gente vê isso nos livros dele.

         –Esqueci de dizer: mais dois navios brasileiros foram torpedeados

         –Ah, meu Deus, a guerra está chegando perto de nós! Será que agora finalmente vai ficar contra os alemães? Salomão precisa saber disso.

          –Já deve saber, as notícias já devem ter chegado ao armazém. – Faz uma pausa, olha sério para Judite, — Escuta—ele nunca tinha falado nesse tom com ela–, você muitas vezes me criticou porque nunca mostrei nada que tinha escrito. Dessa vez eu trouxe um poema, mas, por favor, só você pode ler. –Ele Ile estende um envelope onde se pode ler algo escrito numa letra miúda e vai recuado até a porta. O seu rosto parece emitir uma luz estranha.

         –Não vai esperar Salomão?

         –Não, hoje não. Estou com pressa.

         Quando a porta se fecha, Judite percorre com o olhar o dorso do envelope: “Sigo hoje a casa de parentes em Petrópolis e deixo-Ihe este poema como lembrança a e tributo ao nosso amor pela Literatura.” Rasga o envelope e lê, de pé, aproveitando que Salomão não chegou e as crianças estão com Dorinha. . .

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Adriana Armony. Judite do país do futuro. [judite in the country of the future.] Rio de Janeiro: Record, 2008, 195-200 or 2003.

Two bodies fit together, pallid, and rigid. He was solemnly positioned for death; dark-brown pants, light-brown shirt, black tie. Lying beside him, wrapped in dressing gown printed with boughs and trees, she reclined on his shoulder, lovingly secure, the hands inter-laced. Suicide, the was no doubt. But could it be possible?

            On the way toward Judite’s house, João customarily bought the evening’s newspapers, that he read as waited for Salomão to arrive. Lately, long periods of silence weighted on him and Judite, and the newspaper furnished a and intimate and comforting protection for the two of them. João reread the headlines of that Tuesday, February 24: two Brazilian ships were bombed by German submarines; Stefan Zweig, the author of Brazil, the Country of the Future, killed himself, with his wife Lotte, in Petrópolis, where they would be buried. The Nazi-fascism was taking its first victims in Brazil; but sooner or later, a declaration of war would be inevitable.

         Despite everything, it was difficult to understand. A successful author, who had been able to escape the claws of Nazism, had the right to kill himself? Why did he commit suicide? Why did he drag his wife with him? Was that true love? “It appears that he died before she did… It was necessary to force that bodice to fit it into the casket… The face of the woman was deformed,”were the words of the poet Gabriela Mistral, that a reporter noted. And there were details that were touching. The furniture was almost indigent: two single beds, set one next to the other; two night tables with cheap lamps, bread that had been partially eaten, an empty box of matches, a bottle of mineral water.

          Once, he had heard that a voluntary death is beautiful. That life chooses for us, but for our death we are the ones who choose. In The Brothers Karamazov, Kirlov kills himself to compete with God. He remembered the verses of Manuel Bandeira: “Many palm trees commit suicide because they don’t live on a sunny hill.” João didn’t want to die. Ah, he would become a famous writer, if he had a woman who loved him… or if the women would surround him with delight, fight over his autograph (there were so many pretty women), let out excited laughter, then he would be happy! He was being shallow, he thought, embarrassed, but he couldn’t keep back a shout that was rising inside of him: he was alive. And to quiet his excitement, he forced himself to think about yellow and frozen bodies.

            All those tortured men and women spending the summer alone in those hotels… Perhaps he was like that. Just like not being caught by the Nazis, just like dying here in Brazil, he continued suffering.

         “There in Petrópolis he could continue writing, he could wait for the peace… But until it is here in Brazil!

         “All that sweltering world…He couldn’t tolerate the heat. People see this in his books.

         “I forgot to say that two Brazilian ships were torpedoed.”

         “Oh, my God, the war is coming close to us! Will it be that here finally they are going to concentrate on the Nazis? Salomao needed to know of this.

He would go to Petrópolis. Who knows if he would return? He would make his last respects to Zweig, and then her would go toward Rio. He was wasting time here, tied to the skirts of a married woman. Serious things happen, stories of life and death. Was he by any chance an adolescent. For days he had been perfecting that poem that he was writing for Judite. He wrote like someone possessed, after reading the Song of Songs, and he hadn’t had the courage to reread it, much less show it to Judite. As he was leaving, he could still do it.

t would be impossible to do so. But it was impossible that she read it in his presence, so that he must scribble some words with some technical instructions that would court her without embarrassing himself, he thought angrily. But wasn’t he a coward as well?  Did he fear or admire Solomão, the just? Or would it be that she was the one who was afraid?

João knocked on the door, he waited. He

  Immediately perceived that something extraordinary was going on. That was without a doubt.

          “Stefan Zweig killed himself!”

          “Oh, what are you saying?”, reacted Judite, with her hand in front of her mouth.

           He and his wife made a death pact. They ingested poison, and they died, embracing each other. They will be buried tomorrow in Petrópolis.

             “But, why?”

             ” He had no right to do it.” Judite was thinking. “So many want to live, and they die. And later: “Only the dead don’t die.”

              “Nobody knows.”

         -You should now, then news ought to have arrived in the mailbox. He pauses, he looked intensely for Judite, Listen. He had never spoken in that tone with hers. Many times, you have criticized me because I never showed anything I had written. This time I found a poem. But, please, only you can read it.” He reached out to her an envelope where someone could read something written in a child’s script, and he walked backwards toward the door. His face seemed to emit a strange light.

         “No, not today. I’m in a hurry.”

       When the door closed, Judite looked the back of the envelope: “I’m leaving today for my relatives house in Petrlis, and I leave you this poem as a memory and tribute to our love of literature.”  She opened the letter and read, standing, taking advantage of the fact that Salomão hadn’t arrived, and the kids were with Dorina…

Translated by Stephen A. Sadow

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Livros da Adriana Armony/Books by Adriana Armony

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Yanina Rovinski — Escritora judío-costarricense/Costa Rican Jewish Writer — “Paz y Amor”/”Peace and Love”

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Yanina Rovinski

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Nací en Costa Rica en 1960, empecé en una escuela judía (Instituto dr. Jaim Weisman) pero terminé en el liceo franco costarricense después de 3 años en París en el lycée Montaigne. Fui a la universidad de Costa Rica donde me gradué en química y después de unos años como química textil me fui a Estados Unidos a hacer una maestría en periodismo con énfasis en ciencias.

A mi regreso a Costa Rica empecé a trabajar para un organismo internacional, la UICN (Unión Internacional para la Conservación de la Naturaleza), creando su departamento de comunicaciones para Centroamérica. Posteriormente trabajé para el Ministerio de Relaciones Exteriores en la embajada de Costa Rica en Francia y en la Unesco. Desde que regresé vivo en la costa Pacífica, en Punta Leona, y me dedico a la traducción y a dar clases de temas ambientales en ICDS (International Center for Development Studies) in San José,

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I was born in Costa Rica in 1960, I began in a Jewish School (Chaim Weitzman Institute,) but I finished in the Franco-Costa Rican High School, after three years in the Lycée Montaigne in Paris. I attended the University of Costa Rica where I graduated in Chemistry, and after a few years as a textile chemist, I went to the United States to do a Masters in Journalism with an emphasis on the sciences.

On my return to Costa Rica, I began to work for an International Organization, the IUCN (International Union for the Conservation of Nature), creating its department of communications in Central America. Later, I worked for the Foreign Relations Ministry in the Embassy of Costa Rica in France and for UNESCO. Since I returned, I live on the Pacific coast of Costa Rica, in Punta Leona, and I dedicate myself to doing translation and to giving classes on environmental themes at the ICDS (International Center for Development Studies) in San José,

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Antes de este capítulo de Una montaña de aserrín, el testimonio trata de la vida de Sarita Giberstein, una niña judía que pasó su infancia de 5 a 10 años de edad durante la ocupación de Polonia de los Nazis por la Segunda Guerra Mundial. Vivía con un miedo constante. Con sus padres, Sarita sobrevivió el horror del Gueto de Varsovia, el levantamiento judía y la destrucción completa de la zona por los nazis. Luego, separada de sus padres, la trasladaban de un escondite ofrecido por polacos comprensivos a otros lugares “más seguros” hasta que llegara en los bosques. Una vez se escondió de un patrol nazi porque estaba cubierta de “un montón de aserrín”.

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Coming before this chapter of Una montaña de asserin, a heap of sawdust, this              testament presents the life of Sarita Giberstein, a Jewish girl who spent her childhood, from five to ten years old, during the occupation of Poland by the Nazis durante la Segunda Guerra Mundial. She lived in constant fear. With her parents, Sarita survived the horror of the Warsaw Ghetto, the Jewish Uprising and the complete destruction of the zone by the Nazis, Then, separated from her parents, she was moved from one hiding place to another “safer place” by supportive Poles, until she reached the edge of the forest. On one occasion, covered by a heap of sawdust. Sarita successfully hid from a Nazi patrol.

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“Paz y amor” celebra no solamente la sobrevivencia de Sarita y su familia, sino la recepción que recibieron de los judío costarricenses y la solidaridad de esa comunidad. Trata de la adaptación de Sarita a su vida nueva en Costa Rica. También, es una historia de amor entre Samuel Rovinski que llegará a ser un escritor importante y su querida Sarita.

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“Paz y amor”

Deslumbrado por las luces de Nueva York, los Giberstein intentaron quedarse a vivir en Estados Unidos, pero no obtuvieron los permisos necesarios, así que finalmente regresaron a Costa Rica.

La de Costa Rica era una comunidad muy solidaria. Cuando llegaron judíos que habían sobrevivido la guerra y exterminación nazi, iban delegaciones a recibirlos y les ayudaron en sus primeros pasos. Los Giberstein pasaron los primeros días donde los Yankelewicz, que tenían una casa grande situada en el Paseo Colón, hasta que consiguieron mudarse justo al lado de los Rovinski, tal y como habían vivido en el pasado. Eran dos casas gemelas, con patios separados por las latas de zinc, que los jóvenes quitaron durante la revolución del 48 para poder verse sin salir a la calle. El destino parecía decidido a volverlos a juntar.

El en relato autobiográfico “Cuarto Creciente”, mi padre describe la llegada de la adolescente que le robó el corazón:

      “No era preciso que nadie me la señalara: la había identificado, aun sin conocerla. Sus largas trenzas le caían por delante, bastante más debajo de la cintura, enmarcado sus cara ovalada, de finos rasgos, que parecía esculpida por un meticuloso artista; boca no muy ancha, algo sensual, dejaba entrever una sonrisa amable y franca. . .”

     “Con Samuel el enamoramiento fue inmediato,” cuenta por su lado Sarita, su primer recuerdo realmente placentera. “No teníamos idioma para comunicarnos. Samuel trataba de hablar Yiddish y era desastroso, nos hacía reír por que decía cosas sin sentido, usaba palabras que se parecían a lo que quería decir, pero significaban totalmente otra cosa.”

De estos primeros intentos de comunicación salió el nombre cariñoso con que mi padre siempre se dirigía a mi madre el futuro: Shura, un nombre que representa su amor por ella. Apenas se instalaron en su casa junto a los Rovinski, los Giberstein consiguieron una maestra para que los niños aprendieran español, y pudieron entrar a la escuela y el colegio.

      “Yo tuve que hacer un examen en la escuela República de Chile para que me dieran el certificado del sexto grado. A los seis meses de haber llegado, lo hice y entré al Colegio de Señoritas, a primer año.”

Rosita y Jerzyck entraron también a la escuela y posteriormente, mi tía estudiaría también en el Colegio de Señoritas, Jerzyck en el Liceo de Costa Rica.

Excelente alumna, Sarita no tuvo ninguna dificultad en convertirse en una de las mejores estudiantes del colegio. Cuando le anunciaron, en su primer año de estudios, que le había otorgado el Cuadro de Honor, ella no sabía de qué se trataba, pero aun así mantuvo durante los cinco años que  pasó el colegio, en los que fue la favorita de las maestras y compañeras, y presidente de su clase por varios años. Por tener el mejor promedio durante toda la historia académica, el último año le entregaron el estandarte del colegio, que llevaba con dignidad en todos los desfiles y actividades estudiantiles.

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Samuel hervía de orgullo por su hermosa e inteligente novia. Él, por su lado, asistía al Liceo de Costa Rica y había pasado los años por la idea del sufrimiento de aquellos judíos víctimas de la barbarie nazi. Su propia experiencia con el antisemitismo había empezado en el primer grado de la escuela, cuando una pandilla de matoncillos lo había molido a golpes por su apellido. Enfrentado a la injusticia y la cobardía del grupo, Samuel había retado individualmente a cada miembro de la pandilla, hasta después del quinto contrincante vapuleado, lo había aceptado plenamente o al menos nunca lo volvieron a atacar. El levantamiento del Gueto de Varsovia lo había inspirado a escribir una novela infantil, que expresaba su admiración de aquellos valientes que, en medio de la barbarie, habían luchado por su libertad. La novela quedó sin terminar, y su admiración se volcó sobre la joven brillante, hermosa y valiente que acababa de reencontrar

Para la familia Giberstein, la vida por fin empezó a normalizarse. León y Dora montaron una pequeña fábrica de camisas, La Mercury, que les permitió ganarse la vida y sacar adelante a sus hijos. Al tiempo, también Zoñek, el hermano de Dora y su esposa Regina se vinieron a vivir en Costa Rica. Zoñek se reunió con su hermana y su cuñado en la fábrica, y los tres trabajaron ahí hasta sus últimos días. Zoñek y Regina tuvieron dos hijos Gilbert y José Félix, que les darían muchas alegrías y varios nietos.

Para Sarita, el polaco fue rápidamente olvidado, porque en la comunidad judía costarricense había un gran odio hacia los polacos, que en su mayoría habían colaborado de buena gana con los nazis, a pesar de raras excepciones de gente solidaria. “En Costa Rica me sentía mal hablando polaco, y eso ayudó a que aprendiera rapidísimo el español.”

Samuel no quiso perder un minuto, y apenas empezaban a entenderse en español, invitó al cine a la hermosa adolescente de trece años. “Mi mamá estaba con el pelo parado, pero Dinche la convenció, y así fuimos. Para mí era toda una aventura, porque solo una vez había ido al cine en Varsovia.”

La comunidad judía costarricense organizaba actividades para los jóvenes durante los fines de semana. Ahí bailaron y se divertían, y Sarita, que apenas estaba redescubriendo la alegría, disfrutaba mucho de esas actividades. Samuel, por su lado, era un adolescente serio que prefería quedarse en su cuarto oyendo la música clásica, pero aprendió a bailar para pasar más tiempo con su novia. Su ardiente pasión reclamaba la atención absoluta y exclusiva de la joven, la que generó entre ellos inesperadas tensiones. Para Sarita, todo era nuevo e intrigante: la retreta en el Parque Central, la tanda de siete los domingos, las excursiones al campo con grupos de jóvenes. Le atraía esa alegría hasta ahora desconocida. Samuel que era mucho más reservado, quería pasar con ella todo el tiempo podía, y hacía lo que podía por complacerla participando en esas actividades. Sarita era una joven inteligente, con una fuerte personalidad, que después de haber vivido toda su infancia no iba a aceptar que la privaran de su libertad, y le hizo entender a su enamorado que quería vivir una juventud tranquila, alegre y normal. A él le interesaban la lectura y el cine. Aprendía tocar el violín y jugaba al básquet, era un estudiante destacado, interesado en el bienestar de sus compañeros, y se convirtió  muy pronto en líder estudiantil y presidente del Liceo. A pesar de las diferencias de carácter y preferencias, ambos jóvenes se fueron acoplando hasta hacerse inseparables.

El cortejo duró siete años. Mientras terminaban el colegio y empezaban sus estudios universitarios. Samuel se fue a México para estudiar ingeniería cuando Sarita aún estaba en el cuarto año del colegio. A pesar de sus inclinaciones literarias, él había elegido una carrera que le permitiera ganarse la vida y mantener una familia. Desde México, le escribía cartas de amor a su Shura, en las que vertía su naciente talento literario. A partir de ese momento, empezó entre ellos la etapa de amores epistolares. Durante cuatro años, intercambian cartas donde se contaban sus vidas y compartían sus sueños. Ambos conservaron celosamente esas cartas, testigo  de su amor ejemplar.

Al terminar el colegio, Sarita ingresó a la Universidad de Costa Rica para estudiar filosofía y letras. Mientras tanto, Samuel seguía estudiando con dedicación y pasaba su tiempo libre jugando al básquet, aunque había abandonado el estudio del violín después de dejarlo perdido en un taxi. En realidad, reconocía que, a pesar de su amor por la música, nunca sería un virtuoso, y prefería escuchar a los grandes maestros antes que reproducir a duras penas los sonidos en su violín. Cuando estaba a graduarse de ingeniero, en el penúltimo año, Samuel no pudo esperar más y pidió la mano de su amada novia.

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Sarita y Samuel en el Teatro Nacional, muchos años después

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Samuel Rovinski – Post

Un montón

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“Peace and Love’”celebrates 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 Sarita’s 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.

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“Peace and Love”

Dazzled by the lights of New York, the Gibersteins intended to stay and live in the United States, but they couldn’t obtain the necessary permits, so they finally returned to Costa Rica.

     “We came in a plane that landed at La Sabana airport, and there an entire delegation of people was waiting for us, including Samuel, who was a very tall and very handsome boy.”

The Jewish community of Costa Rica was very caring. When Jews arrived, who had survived the war and the Nazi extermination, delegations went to welcome them and help them in their first steps. The Gibersteins spent their first days with the Yankelewicz family, who had a large house, located on the Paseo Colón, until they were able to move right next to the Rovinskis, just as they had lived in the past. They were two twin houses, with patios separated by zinc plates, that the young people took away during the revolution of ’48 so they could see each other without going out on the street. Destiny seemed to have decided to bring the two families together again.

In the autobiographical story “First Crescent,” my father described the arrival of the adolescent that stole his heart:

“It wasn’t necessary for anyone to point her out: I had identified her, even without knowing her. Her long braids fell forward, well beyond her waist, framing her oval facce, of fine features, that seemed to be sculpted by a meticulous artist, no so wide a mouth, a bit sensual, let show a kind and frank smile. . .

With Samuel, it was love at first sight,” For her part, Sarita tells of her first really pleasant memory. “We didn’t have a language in which we could communicate. Samuel tried to speak Yiddish, and it was disastrous , it made us laugh because he said senseless things, he used words that were close to what he wanted to say, but they meant something completely different.”

From these first attempts at communication, came out the affectionate that my father always called my mother in the future: Shura, a name that showed his love for her.

They had had barely moved into their house next to the Rovinskis, the Gibersteins  hired a teacher so that the children would learn Spanish and enter school and high school.

     “I had to take an exam at the Republic of Chile School so that they give me a sixth-grade certificate. Six months after having arrived, I took it and I entered the first year at the Colegio de Señoritas.”

Rosita and Jerzyck also went to school, and later on, my aunt would also study in the Colegio de Señoritas, Jerzyk in the Liceo de Costa Rica.

An excellent student, Sarita had no difficulty in becoming one of the best students in the high school. When the announced to her, in her first year of study, that they had awarded her the Honor Award; she didn’t what it meant, but even so, she kept up in that way during the five years she spent at the high school, during which she was the favorite of the teachers and students and was president of her class for several years. For having the highest average in the history of the school, they entrusted her with the school banner, that she carried with dignity in all the parades and student activities.

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Samuel was so proud of his beautiful and intelligent girlfriend, He attended the Liceo de Costa Rica and he had spent the years thinking about the suffering of those Jews who were victims of the Nazi barbarity. His own experience with anti-Semitism had begun in the first grade of school, when a band of young punk had beaten him up because of his last name. Confronting the injustice and the cowardliness of the group, Samuel had challenged individually each member of the group, until after the fifth beat up opponent, they had fully accepted him or at least they never attacked him again. The Uprising in the Warsaw Ghetto had inspired him to write a children’s book , that expressed his admiration for those valiant people, who, in the midst of the barbarity, had fought for their liberty. The novel was never finished, and his admiration turned toward the brilliant, beautiful and brave young woman that he had just come to meet again.

For the Giberstein family, life finally began to normalize. León and Dora set up a small shirt factory, The Mercury, that allowed them to earn a living and provide for their children ahead. At the same time, Zoñek, Dora’s brother and his wife Regina joined his sister and brother-in-law, and the three of the worked there for the rest of their lives. Zoñek and Regina had two sons, Gilbert and José Félix, who would give them much happiness and several grandchildren.

For Sarita, Polish was rapidly forgotten, because the Jewish community of Costa Rica had an intense hatred for the Poles, the majority of whom had enthusiastically  collaborated with the Nazis, with only the rare exceptions of people who supported the Jews.

Samuel didn’t want to lose a minute, and when they had hardly begun to communicate in Spanish, he invited the beautiful thirteen-year-old to go to the movies. “It was hair-raising for my mother was  but Dinche convinced her, and so we went. For me, it was quite an adventure, because only once had I gone to the movies in Warsaw.”

The Costa Rican Jewish community organized activities for the young people during the weekends; There they danced and had fun, and Sarita who was just beginning rediscover happiness, greatly enjoyed these activities. Samuel, on the other hand, was a serious adolescent who preferred to stay in his room listening to classical music, but he learned to dance so that he could spend more time with his girlfriend. His ardent passion demanded the absolute and exclusive attention of the girl, which generated unexpected tensions between them. For Sarita, everything was new and fascinating: the public concert in the Parque Central, the seven o’clock show at the movies on Sundays, the excursions to the countryside with groups of young people. This happiness, until now unknown, attracted her.

Samuel was much more reserved, wanted to spend as much time with her as he could, and he did what he could to please her, by participating in those activities. Sarita was an intelligent girl, with a strong personality, who, after having lived hidden all of her childhood, wasn’t going to allow that she be deprived of her freedom, and she made it clear to her boyfriend that she wanted to live a tranquil, happy and normal youth.

He was interested in reading and the movies. He learned to play the violin and play basketball, was an outstanding student, interested in the well-being of his companions, and soon he became a student leader and president of the Liceo. In spite of their differences in character, both young people became closer until they became inseparable.

The courtship lasted seven years. While they were finishing high school and commencing their university studies, Samuel went to Mexico to study engineering, when Sarita was still in her fourth year of high school. Despite his literary inclinations, he had chosen a career that would allow him to earn a living and support a family.

From Mexico, he wrote love letters to his Shura, into which he poured his nescient literary talent. From that moment, there began between them the stage of epistolary love. During four years, they interchanged letters in which the told of their lives  and shared their dreams. Each of them kept those letters jealously, a testament to their exemplary love.

On completing high school, Sarita enrolled in the Universidad of Costa Rica to study liberal arts. Meanwhile, Samuel continued studying with dedication and spent his free time playing basketball, although he had abandoned the study of the violin, after leaving it in a taxi. In reality, he recognized that, in spite of his love for music, he would never be a virtuoso, and he preferred to listen to the great masters, rather than reproducing with great difficulty the sounds on his violin. When he was about to graduate as an engineer, in the next to last year, Samuel could wait no longer, and asked for the hand of his beloved girlfriend.

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 Sarita and Samuel in the National Theater, many years later

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Samuel Rovinski – Post

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