Oy, Caramba!

by Ilan Stavans

  “I believe that nothing about this country should be far from our concerns.”

  “C’mon, we’ve been here for centuries and we’re now citizens of the Polish Republic.”

  “Any alternatives, stupid? There is maybe somewhere else for us to go to?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Nu, you stay here then. You’d rather put up with the slaughter of your brothers, the burning of your miserable little houses, and the fact that your sons will never be able to study in a Polish school than suffer a little hunger in the Holy Land or even over there in America. Yes, gentlemen, and in exchange for all the advantages you enjoy here, you have to give your blood to their wars! We’re citizens, right? That’s what you’re saying, right? Sure . . . You poor misguided souls.”

  “Can you suggest a better place? Can you? Then let’s leave right away!”

  “There must be someplace on the face of this earth where there are no swords or Cossacks or savage thieves . . .”

  Their yarmulkes seem about to explode with all the shouting and shoving and even hitting at times, believe me! But the cantor’s deep and tender voice calls them back to prayer, marking the end of the Sabbath, and once again they turn meek before the splendor of the supplication. I, on the other hand, without arguing, am leaving: Momma, Poppa, I really don’t want to be either hero or martyr on the Polish battlefield, or anybody else’s for that matter. I want to live and die my life for me . . .

  One afternoon, two months later, the students crowded together in the corridors to surround a bald young man with deep green eyes. At the same time, another one, thin, but with a noble expression on his face, is taken upstairs.

  The group drowns them in hugs and tears. Even Professor Miguel Ros-baum, always isolated in his cubicle and covered in book dust, runs to embrace them. And Father Hernando, one of the most reserved students, talks on and on as never before.

  “Who are they, Father Cornejo?”

  “Famous people.”

  “From TV? Movies?”

  “The resistance. They’re survivors . . .”

  “And what are they doing here?”

  “Jesus, girl, are you Venezuelan?”

  “Yes, by birth, and you?”

  “Well, I was born in Spain, but I, for one, know that the UN protested the exile of these young people. Also that General Tarugo—what am I saying?—Marcos Pérez Jiménez, the president himself, was forced to grant them visas, even though one is an active member of the Communist Party and the other of the Democratic Action Party. But I’ve already said too much, my child. Around here, by God, even the walls have ears.”

  For seventeen years, she had been insulated from her surroundings. Who among her people took part in those passionate struggles for freedom, liberty, the sorrow of exile and jail, the excitement of a hastily called meeting against the dictator? Being a real citizen meant finding refuge for the democratic activists: distributing food and books to the opposition, whatever sublime task she might be entrusted with. Such a noble cause justified the total giving of oneself, and she would eagerly sacrifice herself for this Venezuela of hers.

  Dad and Mom didn’t have to find out. Why should they? What good would it do? Voluntarily isolated, they would die of worry if they knew. It was too late for them to accept the demands of a new life. How could these ignorant Polish peasants ever understand, these peasants whose workweek is a universe limited to a taxi route—from Plaza La Rueda to the corner of Carmelitas—from shop to home and vice versa? How could they possibly understand?

  Dear Poppa and Momma,

  I ask you: If the Polish gentiles win all the wars they start and will start, what do I ever gain? Quite the opposite. I’m neither Catholic, Ukrainian, communist, or even Lithuanian. I’ll always be the loser because I am who I am. That’s why I’m saying good-bye. So long, really. I’m leaving but am not abandoning you. And, anyway, I remain a fervent Pole in one thing: I worry a lot about the Germans . . .

  Only yesterday Pappinyu brought home from shul a guest. This one was even poorer than we are! But to share Shabbat even with only a piece of onion and herring, water instead of wine, bringing a beggar to the table, is the opportunity God grants us to praise him. No one should go hungry on his day of rest.

  The paternal words proclaim the arrival of my very last Shabbat at home.

  “My friend, have you ever studied?”

  “Mr. David, he whose name I’m not worthy of mentioning, gave me life to go to school when I was very little, even though my clothes were patched and torn.”

  “How lucky, my friend! Everyone: Wash your hands and let’s begin the blessings!”

  I envy Poppa’s voice, which becomes even more beautiful during the prayer:

  And there was afternoon and there was morning. Sixth day. And heaven and earth were created and all that they contain. And having concluded His creation on the seventh, He rested and sanctified it because on that day He concluded his work. Blessed art thou, oh Eternal God, King of the Universe, who doth create the fruit of the vine. Blessed art thou, Our Lord God, King of the world, who sanctified us and graced us with Your precepts and granted us the Sabbath to sanctify the memory of Your labor of creation . . .

  As the prayer concludes we raise our glasses: “Let us drink to life and for peace! L’chaim! Dear guest, make yourself at home. Tell me, if you know how to study, you’re already rich, don’t you agree?”

  “Thank you. Yes, but dear family, you also should know that poverty sticks to your skin and is hard to get rid of. It clouds wisdom . . . I did study some, but one has to live . . .”

  “Excuse me, but poverty is no dishonor . . .”

  “Maybe not, Rebbe David, but it can make you do bad things . . .”

  “Yes, but I believe those bad deeds can be erased with the mortar of good deeds.”

  “You really think so? I think that wherever you go, wherever you stop, poverty is always in the middle of everything. That’s what I think.”

  “Will you do me the honor of eating this gefilte fish? And tell me, my friend, did you ever try to overcome it by working with a paintbrush or with a needle and thread?”

  “One has to learn many things, sir, and no cloak is big enough to hide poverty.”

  “Nu, so how do you manage?”

  “I manage . . .”

  A candelabra with two candles barely sheds enough light upon us, but the vast darkness is illuminated by Poppa’s every sentence and the amusing answers of Haim Lisrak, our guest, who is poorer than we are. Meanwhile, Momma and my siblings doze off, exhausted. Since sunrise they’ve been throwing sawdust on the floor, trying to get it to shine, rubbing out ashes, fetching water at the well, grinding and seasoning fish, getting dressed, blessing the candles . . . Yes, Shabbos relaxes the spirit but sure tires the body!

  “Have another drink, dear guest. It’s cherry brandy. A little wine lightens the heart. May you never be poor of soul. May your children grow to study Torah, to marry, and to do good deeds! L’chaim! As long as there is health . . .”

  “You know, Rebbe David, poverty is worse than fifty plagues combined.”

  “But God hates only the ignorant . . .”

  “That may be so, but there is no crueler joke of divine affection that an empty pocket!”

  “Listen, Haim, even the poorest beggar with pants full of holes, with seven different coats and seven masks to go begging alms from the same rich man, can enjoy the honor of Shabbat.”

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk! I certainly won’t argue with that, Rebbe. That’s why I keep praying: Help me, God, send me the cure. I already have the ailment!”

  Outside, my whole village is a single chant to God. Aromas of hot cabbage soup seeping into every corner. I don’t remember when I decide to put an end to the dialogue. Anyway, if people who have read Scripture and have eaten at the same table don’t exchange words on holy laws, they might as well kneel before an idol. Besides, these two have already argued enough. Before the prayer of
thanksgiving for the food we had just received, I interrupt with a not very sacred matter: I ask Poppa to use his formidable influence to have the district bureaucrats fix the public baths. “Oy yoy yoy, my poor nose, Pappinyu! Phew! I’ve got to cover it tightly before I can even go in to empty out the waste containers. And you know what all the gossips say? That right next to the women’s ritual baths, young ladies become pregnant! Seems that the very learned, who sing sublime harmonies and sway as they extol the glories of our Lord, every night of the week are actually reading passionate love letters that pretty young girls hand them, while emptying the leftovers into that smelly hovel . . . deep below this mystical village . . . Poppa . . .”

  Was there ever a Sunday without guests at home? First in the house in San José and then the one in San Leopoldina. Any writer, speaker, delegate, or visitor who passed through Caracas was compelled to be a dinner guest in the small and modest apartment in the Edificio de Nuestra Señora del Carmen. A pretty incongruous name for a building that housed people with unusual traditions like ours, which many a guest had ironically pointed out to their hosts. We lived there since the time Father almost went bankrupt. It was a place full of books, magazines, and phony Chagalls. Its only luxury was an Erard piano reflected in the glass cabinet full of crystal objects. These had been gifts from the Landaus, the Sponkas, the Erders, and others, when they moved into the lovely house on the same street eight years later, the house that had to be sold in a hurry to avoid foreclosure.

  Today’s luncheon is one of many. This one is given for the writer Isaiah Rainfeld. As usual, Don Máximo had already taken and brought him back from the business area of town: “Because one must try to distribute the books of this known intellectual however one can. Whether those buyers read the hardbound volumes or just use them to decorate their libraries is irrelevant. It’s a fundamental act of charity to help a wise man. Besides, we’ll need real dollars to pay for the American edition of poems of resistance in the ghettoes.”

  During the week, the business on Pasaje Benzo between Madrices and Marron Streets was in the capable hands of the missus. After all, isn’t she the expert in buying and selling bras, half slips, and panties? Her husband? Oh he’s something else! Culture on agile legs and convincing lips. Yeah, a regular walking encyclopedia. No denying that.

  “We sold thirty-six books, Mr. Rainfeld.”

  “That’s great, my friend.”

  “In three more days, we’ll sell all seventy. We’ll go to the big tycoons, secluded in their enormous mansions.”

  “It seems to be easier to write books than to sell them, don’t you think?”

  “Nonsense. Relax. Nobody ever turns me down. No matter where I knock, you saw that yourself. They know that I have never traded with someone else’s gold. I am not a smuggler. I don’t charge a cent of commission for the sacred labor of helping the learned. Just as I learned from my father, David, may he have found peace . . .”

  The exquisite banquet the lady of the house prepared, almost at daybreak, overflows on platters. Gefilte fish, chicken soup and matzo balls, nuts, cakes, grapes. The best of the best. “One must always honor the intellect!”

  And now, the moment of truth has arrived. Could there be a better setting to bring up the issue of her great leap?

  “Father, tomorrow I’m beginning my studies at the university . . .”

  “This isn’t the moment to discuss . . .”

  “I’m not discussing, I’m notifying.”

  “Tonight when there are no guests, we’ll talk . . .”

  “Why wait? I already registered, and in fact I’m also going to be teaching at the Colegio Canada.”

  “I’m embarrassed in front of Mr. Rainfeld. He understands Spanish . . . you’re so obstinate . . .”

  “That’s a fact.”

  “A daughter of mine? Practically engaged? Should get involved in that dangerous place where Reds hide and the National Security guards go looking for them with guns? That’s sacrilege! Please, Mr. Rainfeld, honored guest, excuse us and help yourself to more fish.”

  Nothing better to dissolve her anger at Father than the Louis Armstrong open-air concert at the Concha Acustica de Bello Monte, brought from heaven itself just for her! Instead of screams, the sensual poetry of Gershwin’s “Summerti-i-me and the living is e-ea-sy . . .”

  Over there in Lendov, how many strangers had Friday and Saturday meals at my parents’ humble table? Impossible to count. Occasionally, the guest might even be a modern freethinker from the city.

  “But, Mr. David, Charles Darwin already proved that man is just another animal . . .”

  “What are you saying, young man? If that’s so, then how come not a single animal ever produced a Darwinich, or whatever his name is?”

  “Rebbe, he’s an English naturalist, who, after observing the animal species, determined their degree of evolution . . . No, sorry, nothing to do with our God.”

  “If a horse had something to say he would speak . . .”

  “That’s not what we’re discussing, Mr. David. Beasts have their own way of expressing themselves.”

  “Yes, yes, they have tongues, that’s true, but they cannot say a single blessing!”

  “They express themselves in sounds and gestures.”

  “Young man, the ignorant is not the one who does not know but the one who scorns divine knowledge. And don’t you forget that! A goat has a beard, but that doesn’t make it a priest. Does it?”

  “Ah! Finally we agree on something. Sir, you do admit then that we are the higher ranked in the animal kingdom?”

  “You said that, I didn’t. Anyway, before you become too big for your own breeches, young man, remember that butterflies precede you in the kingdom of divine creation!”

  And so they might continue until the moon descended and the sun dazzled us . . .

  Ahhhh! Her intoxication continues with the music of Jelly Roll Morton . . . The mixture of sweet wine and wrathful words at the end of Mr. Isaiah Rainfeld’s reception fueled her tenacious will to face her opponent and pursue the confrontation: “Father, I beg you! Please try to understand my wish to have a career.”

  “I understand and cannot tie you to the house or prohibit you from having an honorable profession. Quite the opposite, I want you to amount to something, not be like me, who never got a diploma, who could not study and so had to earn a living knocking on doors, peddling, selling schmates. What do you want from me, kindele? I’m afraid for you! In that political environment of atheists!”

  “But, Dad, you’re not even religious!”

  “Yes, I most certainly am, in my own way. It’s true I no longer pray every day and I don’t do a full fast on Yom Kippur, and no doubt because of that my poppa is turning in his grave. But I practice my tradition every moment of my life. And, as you well know, I’ve made a sacred cult of my mother tongue, Yiddish. Have you ever known me to sleep away from home, even one night? Do I have children on the streets? Do I get drunk? Gamble? Other women? That’s what you’re going to be exposed to out there. I’m afraid for you and for your sisters . . .”

  “Please, please, try to understand. We can’t stay locked up forever. Each of us has to forge her own life! You did it, or have you already forgotten? You broke with your family and crossed oceans!”

  “That was very different, young lady! Don’t confuse the issues! I stayed back in Lendov; just my feet left! Can you understand that?”

  “No, not at all. Anyway, why not just pretend that I’m not leaving San Leopoldina either; just my beautiful legs are running in search of other roads?”

  A seemingly never-ending dialogue was being repeated, but she decided that as of this night it was ending. Max’s moist eyes and Rifka’s long sad face, marked with silent resentment her leave-taking at breakfast.

  Would it have been wiser to go to another country? With what money? Maybe she just lacked the courage to cut, really cut that heavy cord . . .

  As I was telling you, at the end of Shabbat, I’m leaving,
without a word. I have a foreboding that I’m saying good-bye forever to Nune the carpenter, Toiba the cripple, and Leib the hunchback. Oy gottenyu, how deeply my heart aches for Momma, the blanket that covers all my weaknesses.

  And when at last, Lendov is behind me, I jump, practically fly to Magelnitze, without spending even a minute in that ugly little town where I used to come so often to buy yarmulkes. Its very smell upsets me. You see, when someone from my village closes his eyes forever, he is wrapped in his tallis, covered in straw, and then sent in a carriage to this overcrowded cemetery. Its stench freezes my bones!

  “Magelnitze is sacred because it’s where the eternal house is,” my father used to say. “It’s the good place,” my mother usually added. You know what I think? I think it’s the only place in the entire world where someone from our village has a right to his own little piece of land! That’s what I think. And anyway, this business of putting the dead in facedown, boy, that really buries a person! Even if they swear to me that it’s the real Garden of Eden and it’s where all the dead will be resurrected, I still prefer gardens that are above and not below ground. Above, always above. You know what I mean? Even with all the hunger, plagues, pogroms. Nu, what can I tell you?

  I don’t stop at Vialorovsker either, because I know for sure that one-eyed Zina lurks right behind that window. Poor girl, she’s been waiting for me to become engaged to her for four or five years now . . . I point my face to heaven and cross the main road like a thunderbolt. I couldn’t bear to feel her rancorous gaze.

  “Get married? But Poppa, I’m just fifteen years old!”

  “So what? I got married at the same age, and I’m just fine, no?”

  “But that’s not good enough for me. From a cat a scratch; from a child bride nothing but damnation.”

  “What are you saying, my boychick? To get up early and marry early never hurt anyone. You’ll have a good dowry and time to study Scripture.”

  “Pappinyu, you know why the bear dances? Because he has no wife. Give him one and he’ll stop dancing. They sing that one at the market, Poppa.”