Distant Fathers

by Marina Jarre

  Praise for

  DISTANT FATHERS

  “This is a beautifully ingenious memoir, saturated in the history of the European 20th century, and made all the more compelling by Ann Goldstein’s luminous translation.”

  —VIVIAN GORNICK,

  author of Fierce Attachments and The Odd Woman and the City

  “‘Here is what it has felt like to be me,’ says every autobiography. The best, like Distant Fathers, go farther, plunging us into the stream of history—its ravages, its reprieves. Ann Goldstein’s shimmering translation of Jarre’s prose delivers into English a European masterpiece.”

  —BENJAMIN TAYLOR,

  author of Here We Are and The Hue and Cry at Our House

  “Marina Jarre’s astonishing work reads like a dreamscape. Here, a Nabokovian memory mingles with meditations on homeland, womanhood, and sexuality. A book both sharp as a blade and glistening like a river in the sun.”

  —LILA AZAM ZANGANEH,

  author of The Enchanter: Nabokov and Happiness

  “Marina Jarre is an original, powerful and incisive writer . . . Her works—true, small-scale, essential masterpieces—have found passionate readers and critics and have an indisputable place in Italian literature of the past fifty years.”

  —CLAUDIO MAGRIS,

  author of Danube and Blameless

  “Marina Jarre’s vibrant memoir is stunning in its intimacy, honesty, and finely observed detail.”

  —HILMA WOLITZER,

  author of An Available Man and The Doctor’s Daughter

  A 2021 “Must-Read” in Translation

  —BOOK RIOT

  “A classic.”

  —LA REPUBBLICA

  “It’s an incalculable source of joy when. . . one of the greatest writers of the twentieth century can resume dialogue with the readers of today.”

  —IL LIBRAIO

  First published in Italian as I padri lontani

  Copyright © 2021 Giunti Editore S.p.A. / Bompiani, Firenze-Milano

  www.giunti.it www.bompiani.it

  Translation copyright © 2021 Ann Goldstein

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or website review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Jarre, Marina

  [I padri lontani, English]

  Distant Fathers/Marina Jarre; translation by Ann Goldstein.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-939931-94-8

  Library of Congress Control Number 2020951502

  Italy—Nonfiction

  Table of Contents

  Translator’s Note

  “A Stubborn Distance” by Marta Barone

  The Circle of Light

  Pity and Anger

  As a Woman

  Translator’s Note

  Marina Jarre’s Distant Fathers tells the story of the author’s life, but there is very little about the telling that is straightforward. The reader is thrown immediately into a city, Turin, that is not Jarre’s place of birth or origin, as a way into the sensation of disorientation and displacement—the feeling of not belonging—that perpetually haunted her. It’s as if she wanted readers, too, to have a direct experience of dislocation, of not knowing where they are. Gradually, she begins to find her way around the city, and we follow—but then suddenly she throws us off again by talking about the fantasies of a child running away from home: “Italy was the country I would have liked to escape to.” And then, after the long swirling sentences of a woman wandering around Turin, we are startled by a short factual statement: “My sister and I were born in Riga.”

  This is Jarre’s method, to keep confounding us with sudden changes of pace and tone and abrupt shifts in subject that digress but always circle back, creating a kind of tightly controlled stream of consciousness.

  Some facts: Jarre’s mother was Italian, from Torre Pellice, a town in the mountain valleys of Piedmont, southwest of Turin, and her father a Latvian-Russian Jew who was killed, along with the rest of his family, by the Nazis in 1941. Jarre (1925–2016) spent her first ten years in Riga, until her parents divorced and she was taken to live with her maternal grandmother in Torre Pellice. The first part of Distant Fathers recounts her childhood in Riga; the second part begins when she arrives at her grandmother’s house, at the age of ten, and continues until she is twenty and a university student. The third part describes her marriage, children, work, growing old.

  Jarre’s first language was German, which she spoke at home and at school in Riga. She learned Italian when she moved to Italy, and although it became her language, the language she chose to write in, she still, she observed, “always had doubts about spelling and syntax,” and “was limited [ . . . ] by a lack of inner connection to the technical means of the language.” In an interview years later she said, “I envy Italian writers because Italian is their language.” Tellingly, it was in German that she discovered what makes good writing.

  The book’s first section describes Jarre growing up in Latvia through a series of images, anecdotes, and sensations that create a picture of childhood and establish the outlines of family relationships. Time—a recurrent theme—generally goes forward in this memoir, but not in a straight line. The language can be allusive, and we often don’t know where we are: we gradually find out as details accumulate. For example, throughout the first section there are references to the move to Italy, but we don’t really have the whole story until we get to the end of the section. At the same time images are vivid and precise: taken to visit a newborn, Jarre says: “There’s a smell of hot chocolate. The infant has bare legs and feet. He’s fat and pale. Everyone says ‘What a pretty baby,’ but I feel like throwing up, maybe because of the smell of hot chocolate, maybe because I saw a hair wrapped around the child’s big toe.” Images bleed into other images: this one, for example, leads her to describe the foods she doesn’t like as a child, the things that make her throw up, and then the foods she likes. This first section is narrated mainly in the present tense, the tense of a child’s point of view.

  The second section moves into the past tense. “Time entered my life,” she writes of the move to Torre Pellice: she now has a past—that is, childhood. Significantly, along with time, history enters her life: not only her own but the past of her Waldensian ancestors. The Waldensians, a small Protestant minority in Catholic Italy, were concentrated mainly in the Alpine valleys of Piedmont, west of Turin; Torre Pellice was the main town in the area. The movement arose in France in the twelfth century, its followers joined the Reformation in the sixteenth, and over the centuries they were persecuted, suppressed, and often forced into exile. In Italy the Waldensians preserved many elements of their French culture, including the language. Thus when Jarre is taken to live in Italy she abruptly abandons the German of Riga not only for Italian but for French as well, the language she will speak at home with her grandmother.

  The change from German to Italian and from Latvia to Italy is encapsulated in the story of the Römer: as a child in Latvia Jarre reads a book about the first-century general Arminius, who led the Germans in the battle of the Teutoburg forest against the wicked Römer, whom she doesn’t recognize as the Romans, in fact or in name, until years later, when, reading a Roman history book in German, she realizes that she is now on the other side.

  The second section has, so to speak, a French accent, and French appears regularly in the writing. These are the years of adolescence, and, just as the first section reflects the child’s point of view here is the adoles
cent’s: obsessive, dramatic, intense, self-absorbed, self-analytical, seeking to define an elusive self. Of a hike in the mountains with friends she writes: “Violent thoughts agitated me during the hike and sometimes became emotions: arriving among the first, descending among the last, talking to the boy I was in love with, but always life, with birth and death, and I, what was I doing there.” At the same time, alternating with the adolescent dramas and descriptions of her own emotions are sharp and detailed pictures of her grandmother, of a hike in the mountains, of a substitute teacher, of collecting a prize for a winning essay at the local fascist headquarters. Here is history in many manifestations: history as the past to be studied or read about, history as family history (the herbs brought from Provence by her grandmother’s mother), history as a lens through which to see the world, history as landscape, history as it is happening (these are the war years, and Torre Pellice was for a time occupied by the Germans), religious history.

  The third section is in essence about the struggle to become an adult and a woman, to acquire and solidify an identity. It begins with Jarre imagining her own death, followed by thoughts on growing old and the way emotions diminish in intensity as one ages; she remembers learning to swim, thinks about being a woman, about her daughter and the inheritance of traits. Again we’re in a space where past and future, real life, fantasy, and dreams mingle. Finally, reflecting on her daughter (now a mother herself), she asks the question, “What was I like as a young woman?” Now we’re in a world of marriage, pregnancy, children, housework, a job as a French teacher. She also starts publishing, first stories, then novels, and finally a work about herself (that will become Distant Fathers). In this section the point of view changes again: we’re still mostly in the past tense, but the tone is more detached and slightly ironic.

  Jarre powerfully inhabits each point of view: the child, the adolescent, the woman striving to become herself. Within each she composes sentences that are like poems (“The cities I arrive in and depart from are always a station; as the train passes, mountains, rivers, plains become anonymous, and down there behind the lighted windows you see others in their precarious and illusory immobility, for they, too, are on the train traveling with me”); she can be graphic (“I have disgusting holes that stinky liquids come out of”); she’s not afraid to present herself as unlikable or insensitive (“When they [the parents of a baby who died] left, they entrusted me with some money that had been collected for the upkeep of the grave. I let days pass and, in the end, negligently spent the money on myself”).

  In fact, Jarre is often an unlikable narrator; and certainly an unpredictable one, from the allusive, imagistic sentence that could be going anywhere, to the small, precise detail of a place or object, to a statement of fact: “I narrate.” That narrative comes to us through a sensibility that is acutely self-aware, interrogatory, analytical, unsparing of herself and others. Jarre worked on this book for many years, and even when she got to the end she did not, as we see in the last line, resign herself to its truly being finished: there is always another layer to examine, always another way of looking.

  The first section of Distant Fathers is dedicated to Jarre’s younger sister, Annalisa, called Sisi (1926–87). The second is dedicated to Cecilia Kin (1905–92), a Russian writer and literary critic, who was known especially as a scholar of Italian politics and a literary translator from Italian. She was a friend of Jarre’s, and among the first critics outside Italy to recognize her. The third part is dedicated to another friend, Lalla Gay (1934–2018).

  I would like to thank Marta Barone, who is currently overseeing the reissue of Jarre’s works for the Italian publishing house Bompiani, and the author’s sons, Pietro, Paolo, and Andrea Jarre, for their help and, especially, for their invaluable reading of the translation.

  Ann Goldstein

  “A Stubborn Distance”

  By Marta Barone

  Marina Jarre is a great and lingering mystery. Why have her extraordinary novels and her unique voice, cool and searching yet ironic, tender, brutal, and astonishingly attentive to life and its details—why has all this, all together, not endured? Why isn’t she considered, except by a few enthusiasts, to be among the great Italian writers of the second half of the twentieth century? Chance; bad luck (in a letter to a friend she complained with her usual irony, but also a slight weariness, about always writing the wrong thing at the wrong time: short stories when they weren’t fashionable, “traditional” novels when experimentation dominated the literary scene, autobiographical writings when they interested no one); the “harsh reserve,” noted by Claudio Magris in a 2015 article in Corriere della Sera, which led her to stay aloof, far from literary circles and worldly elites, to avoid presentations and everything that did not have to do directly with writing and the struggle to write—which was what uniquely interested her as an author. Whatever the reason for the silence that has enveloped her, maybe it’s time to sweep away the dust and give Marina Jarre, who died in 2016 at the age of ninety, her rightful place in Italian literature.

  Distant Fathers, originally published by Einaudi in 1987, comes in the middle of her career, and is probably her masterpiece. It was written almost without hope of publication, over the course of many years, and was revised continually, up to a masterly shine, words and phrases polished like pebbles in a high mountain stream: in letters she often speaks of a game of shifting scenes and chapters, like papers thrown into disarray so that she could find the right place for them, the best light. She called it “my autobiography,” but like all the greatest books it goes beyond conventions and labels, breaks them down, and is primarily an intense investigation of identity; it’s a work that re-creates the past by proceeding in a tight montage of often discrete images, which at the end, as in Nabokov’s Speak, Memory or many of the novels of Annie Ernaux, form a stunningly comprehensive, organic portrait.

  As if she were placing before the reader the glass plates of a magic lantern, Jarre begins to recount her life, which was certainly unusual, through patches of light cast here and there on various moments of her childhood, moving continuously and with supple grace between verb tenses (from the present to the past and from the past to the present) and between events, which she mixes up, anticipates, and suddenly returns to many pages later. Thus times and places, like the images of the labyrinth and the ocean in the poetry of the mysterious Alexia Mitchell, Cristina Campo writes, “seem to enter continuously into one another, and, equally fluid and sculptured, present the inextricable enigma of today and forever, of the labile and the permanent.”1

  Marina, nicknamed Miki, was born in 1925, in Riga, Latvia, the daughter of Samuel Gersoni, a Latvian Jew, and Clara Coïsson, an Italian, and a teacher at the university, who came from the Waldensian valleys of Piedmont, and was a prominent translator from the Russian for Einaudi (she translated among others Propp, Bulgakov, Tolstoy, and Dostoevsky). The childhood language of Marina Gersoni—who married Giovanni Jarre after the Second World War—was German: which is why her Italian often moves in an uncertain space that we’ve chosen to preserve, with its small peculiar “mistakes,” with an effortfulness and an awkwardness that she had to deal with all her life, and which at the same time give her prose a strange magic, the unreality and intensity of a half language.

  Marina the child is an observer with precocious awareness of herself and the space around her. She observes adults and their often senseless and melodramatic behavior: “Adults aren’t afraid, that’s the difference between them and me. I don’t know if they’re right not to be afraid: they walk on the ice on the lakes. The ice creaks; who can assure them it won’t break?” She observes, without ever really knowing him, her absent father, reckless and cheerfully irresponsible, handsome as an “Arab prince,” who stays out all night and by day goes around the house in dressing gown and slippers, smoking cigars with a gold band. She observes herself: in old age Jarre the writer reports with astonishing precision, at a distance of sixty years, the strange, incomprehensible, and
also fierce feelings of childhood, jealousy of her younger sister, Sisi, shame (“I feel irrational tremors inside me, and I notice them with amazement. Certainly, they’re not normal instincts, but so what . . . the important thing is for no one to know”), her relationship with her own body, the painful sense of inadequacy she feels in relation to her mother, who for Marina as a child and an adolescent represents reason and courage, but also unjust punishment, derision at her failures, and an increasing rage, making her silent and desperate because powerless (all children are powerless in the face of adults). What is the rage of a child? This, says Jarre:

  In front of me the icy sea expands to the horizon, spreading with its undulating motion. So white and full of frozen hollows it seems more impassible than in summer when the ships go by, even if they tell me that the Finns came as far as Riga in certain very cold winters, gliding over the sea in their sleds. It’s immobile, but I know that it’s seething underneath, that it wants to come out like the Düna in spring when it cracks its blanket of ice, and at night I hear it flowing with the sound of thunder.

  Living in a mixture of nationalities in multicultural Riga, Marina knows that identities remain untouchable, even though she prefers “unnamed names—like the sound of the piano and the held breath of the winter wind when it’s about to hurl itself, whirling, across the snowy plain,” which “attract me, submerge me in a secret expectation, more than the named names, which you always have to think about precisely.” The named names are many, and “you have to know them all and keep them in order and never lose them.” She, “so they told me,” is Latvian and Christian, even though “I speak German and I don’t understand who Jesus Christ is.” Her grandparents on her father’s side, the grandfather Latvian and the grandmother Russian, are Jews. Her Italian grandparents are Waldensian, and also part French. Her mother is Waldensian. Her father would be Jewish, but has no religion. In her family Catholics are considered stupid, and no one explains to her the difference between Jews and Christians: “They’re names I have to accept as they are.” Maybe that’s why, as an adult, Marina Jarre digs into names and words so diligently, trying to bring to the surface the mystery, the freedom, and the many meanings, aiming always at a precision that is different from cliché (or, as the French say, the idée reçue, the received idea, which gives an even better sense of her discussion of the names, or labels, that are imposed on her without explanation).