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2005 Issues of Identity in the Narratives of Jewish Authors from the Southern-Cone: Argentina, Brazil and Uruguay Debora Cordeiro-Sipin

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THE FLORIDA STATE UNIVERSITY

COLLEGE OF ARTS AND SCIENCES

ISSUES OF IDENTITY IN THE NARRATIVES OF JEWISH

AUTHORS FROM THE SOUTHERN-CONE:

ARGENTINA, BRAZIL AND URUGUAY

By

DEBORA CORDEIRO-SIPIN

A Dissertation submitted to the Department of Modern Languages and Linguistics in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor in Philosophy

Degree Awarded: Spring Semester, 2005

The members of the Committee approve the Dissertation of Debora Cordeiro-Sipin defended on April 1, 2005.

Peggy Sharpe Professor Directing Dissertation

Morton Winsberg Outside Committee Member

Brenda Cappuccio Committee Member

Delia Poey Committee Member

Ernest Rehder Committee Member

Approved:

Peggy Sharpe, Chairperson, Department of Modern Languages and Linguistics

The Office of Graduate Studies has verified and approved the above named committee members.

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To my family

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The accomplishment of this dissertation would not have been possible without the generous help of so many individuals whom I met along my path. I want to begin by thanking the authors Teresa Porzecanski, Marcelo Birmajer and Francisco Dzialovsky who were so kind and generous to invite me to their homes and offices, allowing me to interview them in May and August of 2004. Besides the wonderful interviews, the contact with them by electronic mail continued throughout the months when they offered meaningful advice and assistance when needed. My deepest gratitude to my professors at Florida State University, especially those in my committee who agreed to work and guide me with their valuable advice, Peggy Sharpe, Brenda Cappuccio, Delia Poey, Ernest Rehder and my outside professor Morton Winsberg. Thank you all for your help and assistance. Also, I offer a special thank you to Dr. Moshe Pelli, Rabbi Rick Sherwin, Dr. Ken Hanson and Prof. Dora Avni from the Judaic Department of the University of Central Florida with whom I took many wonderful classes on topics related to the Jewish culture, tradition, Hebrew language and literature. Again, sincere thanks go to the many organizations that I was able to visit in my research trips to Argentina, Brazil and Uruguay and the people whom I met during these visits. The staff at the Museu Judaico of Rio de Janeiro and their President, Mr. Max Nahmias, who helped with all the information that I requested; Ms. Ada Dimantas who helped me look for books and dissertations at the Judaic Department of the University of São Paulo; Professor Eva Blay at the University of São Paulo for answering my questions and being so attentive to our communication by email; my cousin Luiz Rosa Martins, for taking me to the library of the Hebraica in São Paulo, in December of 2003; the most helpful girl in Buenos Aires, Romina, who so kindly got the material I needed at the Mark Turkow Center at the AMIA of Buenos Aires; Judith, Alejo and the staff, who were wonderful to me at the Seminario Rabínico of Buenos Aires; Debora Durlaken, at the Hillel of Montevideo, who was the sweetest person ever; and all the lovely people I met at the synagogue in Montevideo, among them Claudio Magnus, and others whose name unfortunately I didn’t learn. I was so extremely blessed for having met each and every one

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of these people along my research. Each one of them contributed to making my research a rich and rewarding experience. I want to thank Juan Martinez at the English Department of University of Central Florida for his great assistance with editing and revising my texts. Thank you Dr. Gerald Schiffhorst and his wife for their kindness and a professional editing. Also thank you to my dearest friend, Robert Williams at University of Central Florida, for helping with corrections here and there and for being a great friend. I also want to thank Dr. Morton Winsberg, the outside member of my committee, who revised many parts of my writings, gave me wonderful suggestions and patiently talked to me in times of desperation. Of course, any mistakes and deficiencies that may be found in the texts are solely my responsibility. I wish to thank my new friend Mrs. Ruth Aronson, who has been taking me to the different synagogues of Orlando and introducing me to all the people in the different congregations. Ruth also invited me to attend my first Seder dinner in her house. Thank you Ruth for embracing me into your faith and for welcoming me in your house for Seder with your children and grandchildren. I am truly honored to be a part of this. I want to say that the presence of my friends Ana, Lizette, Luis, Naida, Heather, José Antonio, María José, Karina, León and several other adorable people whom I met in the classrooms of Florida State, made my life truly better while there. Lastly, I want to thank my husband for his patience and support. No matter how many times I complain about being painfully homesick and far from my country, Brazil, none of this would have happened had we not moved back to his homeland, the United States. I most probably would never have met all these people who are now part of my life and who helped me discover my own origins. And I profoundly thank God for His infinite blessings every day of my life.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

ABSTRACT………………………………………………………………………………..vii INTRODUCTION ………………………………………………………………………… 1 What is identity? ...... 1 Who is the authentic Jew? ...... 5 History and immigration, Jewish presence in Argentina…………………………...19 Brazil………………………………………………………………………. 25 Uruguay……………………………………………………………………. 29 1. A KABBALISTIC STUDY OF THE NOVEL NO TAN DISTINTO BY MARCELO BIRMAJER …………………………………………………………. 34 1.1 Saúl’s contact with Judaism and other Jews …………………………... 45 1.2 The number forty, marriage, sex and Kabbalah……………………….. 49 1.3 Conclusions…………………………………………………………….. 65 2. UNDERSTANDING WHO WE ARE: O TERCEIRO TESTAMENTO BY FRANCISCO DZIALOVSKY...... 72 2.1 Jews in the world...... 77 2.2 Traditional mothers versus assimilated daughters...... 85 2.3 Conclusions...... 93 3. ASSIMILATION AND DESPERATION IN PERFUMES DE CARTAGO BY TERESA PORZECANSKI ...... 96 3.1 Babies and monsters…………………………………………………… 105 3.2 Conclusions …………………………………………………………… 113 CONCLUSION …………………………………………………………………………… 117 APPENDIX………………………………………………………………………………… 123 WORKS CITED ……………………………………………………………………………127 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH………………………………………………………………. 134

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ABSTRACT

The topic of identity is a highly debated topic among Jewish scholars as well as a recurrent theme in works of literature written by Jewish authors throughout the world. In the twentieth century several historical events have shaped and transformed the way Jewish people regard themselves, notably the Holocaust and the formation of the State of Israel in 1948. Latin America experienced waves of Jewish immigration from colonial times to the present. Most of these immigrants integrated into their societies and, as occurred elsewhere, this specific population produced writers who are, to varying degrees, both members of the dominant culture in which they live and members of the Jewish culture. Moreover, the experience of cultural hybridization opened new spaces where the works of these writers gained visibility outside traditional Jewish circles. Their themes address issues of Jewish identity and the experience of minority identity in a Latin American society. Whereas their work reflects the multicultural and multiethnic culture of Latin America, it also examines issues such as memory, assimilation, trauma, holocaust, and other questions of concern to those of Jewish heritage in the context of their adopted countries. In this dissertation entitled "Issues of Identity in the Narratives of Jewish Authors from the Southern Cone: Argentina, Brazil and Uruguay,” I examine three novels by Jewish authors at the beginning of the twenty-first century: Marcelo Birmajer from Argentina and his novel No tan distinto; Francisco Dzialovsky from Brazil and his novel O Terceiro Testamento and Teresa Porzecanski from Uruguay and her novel Perfumes de Cartago. I explore the presence of Judaism and Kabbalah in the lives of non-religious people of Jewish heritage, examine the ways in which Birmajer, Dzialovsky, and Porzecanski depict Jewish characters in their search for identity and self-knowledge, and consider the theme of the Jews vis a vis other topics such as immigration, assimilation, integration and the loss of culture. Studying these characters through religious, sociological, and linguistic lenses allows for a more complete understanding of the experiences of Latin American Jews.

vii INTRODUCTION

What is identity?

Encouraged by the richness and complexity of Jewish-Latin American literature and by the highly debated topic of Jewish identity, this dissertation examines the Jewish protagonists in three novels written by Jewish authors born in the Southern Cone.1 Although the protagonists were born in Latin America and are the children of Jewish immigrants from the Old World, they are very different from each other. I approach this study with no intention of defining the Jew represented in this literature. There cannot be one model of Jewish identity. To establish an identity is per se to restrict its possibilities. Jewish identity, with its infinite possibilities for interpretation, offers a plurality of responses. What do Latin American Jews have in common? First, they are hybrid beings, made of a myriad of ingredients from the past and the present (I will return to the term hybrid). Second, they bear an invisible and sometimes painful heritage that has been passed along the generations. This study considers aspects of memory, identity, and assimilation, and how the characters under discussion relate to their native countries. I am interested in how the pluralistic groups of Jewish-Latinos are represented and how the individual is depicted by the younger generations of writers; how assimilation influences and affects the representation of the characters in their novels; and how their characters reflect the writers’ diverse realities. The study of these representations may provide more understanding on how kaleidoscopic these characters are. They cannot be defined but they can be better understood, they can be better perceived by their readers, be they Jewish or non-Jewish. The representation of the characters in these novels may help to see who the real people are, the immigrants, their doubts, their fears, and their quests. Moreover, studying the Jews depicted by these authors can bring some light to understanding who the new generations of Jews are, a people who are as

1 For literary critics, the countries that belong to the so-called Southern Cone are Argentina, Chile, Paraguay, and Uruguay. I have included Brazil in my dissertation, thinking of the MERCOSUR, which includes Brazil. The MERCOSUR was a trade alliance between Argentina, Brazil, Paraguay, and Uruguay, with Chile and Bolivia as associate members. The Southern Common Market was established by the Treaty of Asunción signed on March 26, 1991. It is now a customs union, and its ultimate objective is to evolve into a common market.

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Latin American as Jewish. In trying to interpret the protagonists of the novels studied, I also have in mind the crucial question of religion in the Judaic culture. I will observe the presence and/or absence of Judaism in the life of the protagonists, and of Kabbalah, the mystic tradition of Judaism.2 Latin American societies are highly stratified, pluralistic, and composed of several minority groups. Masquerading under the impression of being “friendly societies,” they hide hostility and racism underneath an apparent peaceful environment.3 The literary works of different Jewish authors across Latin America present issues that are related not only to their Jewishness but also to their being Latinos, living in countries of social and economic problems, of prejudice and limitations. This study examines three novels written in the last twenty years by three authors from countries that experienced significant Jewish immigration: Argentina, Brazil, and Uruguay. Other Latin American countries have also received large numbers of Jewish immigrants in the decades prior to the Nazi period, but the focus here is on the Southern Cone, where the first Jewish settlements were organized in Argentina and southern Brazil at the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth. The novels chosen are No tan distinto by the Argentinean author Marcelo Birmajer; O Terceiro Testamento by the Brazilian Francisco Dzialovsky; and Perfumes de Cartago by Teresa Porzecanski from Uruguay. Two major events that took place in the past century -- the Holocaust and the formation of the State of Israel -- have shaped and transformed Jewish thinking and thus affected how the Jewish individual living in the Diaspora regards himself/herself and other Jews as well as non-Jews. Different theoretical approaches are used to \examine each narrative and to interpret the representation of the Jewish characters that populate the novels of these three writers. In the pluralistic reality of Latin America, the presence of Jewish immigration has often been ignored and overlooked by scholars. Not everybody is familiar with the fact that in the history of immigration in the various Latin American countries, Jewish families and individuals arrived in different waves from colonial times to the twentieth century. In the past century Latin America has had a growing number of Jewish writers who are concerned with their reality as

2 I like to follow the idea embedded in New Historicist approaches which presume that a text cannot be dealt in isolation from its historical context, and that both historical and biographical circumstances of the author are fundamental in understanding the meaning of a literary work.

3 Gilbert W. Merkx, “Jewish Studies as a Subject of Latin American Studies,” Jewish Presence in Latin America. ed. Judith Laikin Elkin and Gilbert W. Merkx (Boston: Allen & Unwin, 1987) 7.

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Jews as well as Latin Americans. Novels, short stories, plays, poetry, and essays are written to give voice to and represent different Jewish characters to readers. During the past century the literature produced by Jewish-Latinos has been known by a limited circle of readers. This literature has remained mostly on the margins of the dominant literature of their countries. There are of course some exceptions, like that of César Tiempo, the pseudonym of Israel Zeitlin, a Jewish playwright. He was born in 1906 in Russia and died in Argentina, his adopted country, in 1975. Tiempo was highly recognized in Argentina for his plays and won the National Theater Prize that had not been given to another Jewish author before.4 His literary public perceived him as the paradigmatic Jewish figure of his generation.5 Other Jewish writers in Latin America have begun to receive the acclaim they deserve as translations and publications of their literary works have appeared. The situation of ‘marginality’ of Latin American Jewish authors has been changing over the past few decades. In the United States the field of Latin American Jewish studies has progressed significantly over the past twenty years. Conferences, books, articles and a great body of research have been carried out on this topic. This, in turn, has created opportunities for Latin American Jewish writers to gain more visibility. This field of literature deserves more attention for several reasons. Despite the fact that Latin American Jews demonstrate a strong sense of national identity and are just as much a part of their societies as any other minority group, they are still seen as outsiders. In addition, it is important for Jewish Studies that the unique stories and memories of Jewish writers from throughout Latin America be given a voice to express their reality, their conflicts, and their needs. Jewish authors from different parts of the world and epochs have expressed their concern with and impressions of the subject of Jewish identity. Their views vary within a large spectrum of tones and shades. But there are some parameters that can help to define common traits among Jewish individuals to be addressed later. At present, the issue of identity is being studied and discussed extensively by multidisciplinary fields within the arts and sciences, as well as disciplines like philosophy, sociology, anthropology, psychology, education, literature and art, are studying identity, by approaching it from different angles. The April 2004 issue of

4 The prize was given for the successful play Pan Criollo (1937).

5 Naomi Lindstrom, Jewish Issues in Argentine Literature (Columbia: U of Missouri P, 1989) 18.

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Psychology Today has an article entitled “The Identity Dance” in which the author interviews identical twins to find out what are the similarities and differences among them. The article suggests that although “genes [may] influence character and personality more than anything else does,” things are not as simple as they seem. Identical twins with identical genes can, in fact, be very different people. Not only “genes” “determine identity” (53). This “rigid idea,” the article continues, “has been replaced with a more flexible and complex view in which DNA and life experience conspire to mold our personalities” (57). Ian Craibs in his book Experiencing Identity comments that the “central feature of the self in modern society is its reflexivity, a constant questioning and reconstruction of the self in a lifetime project. We are constantly constructing and revising our personal stories and so reconstructing our selves” (2). Identity is an ongoing process of modifying ourselves and is never stagnant and never completely finished. The fictional characters that appear in these narratives represent the qualities and struggles of real Jewish individuals. Another relevant aspect is that no matter where they come from --Argentina, Brazil, Uruguay or any other country-- their identity will be impacted by the local culture as well as the Judaic culture of their ancestry, no matter how religious they are. The social aspect of “identity” in this case is of fundamental importance. Bernard Williams writes that identity “relates to a type or a general thing. A gay or lesbian identity, a native American identity, or that of a Lombard as opposed to an Italian, are all type things, because such an identity is shared” (7). Sharing identity with the rest of the group is very important to the existence of such identity. Williams continues, adding that another important aspect is that: it may be constructed […] by social processes […]. At this point, it is easy to say that social identity is simply a benign self-applied stereotype, one that is favorable, supportive, and applied to oneself, rather than one that is unfavorable and applied to others. […] The difference between an identity which is mine and which I eagerly recognize as mine, and an identity as what someone else simply assumes me to be, is in one sense all the difference in the world. (8) Identity in our world has many different ingredients to be considered: my identity; the identity that I believe to be mine; and the identity that others believe myself to be. It is important to have this in mind, as we approach the study of Jewish identity, so this “problematic” individual encompasses all these ideas: what he really is, what he believes he is and what others believe him to be. Richard Jenkins gives a sociological idea of identity, pointing out that people have several

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social identities which organize the relationships that they have with other individuals and groups in the social environment. He says that identity is a constant process and not a “thing,” as some suggest. As a constant process, we are always negotiating with others around us; it is a constant “product of agreement and disagreement” (5).

Who is the authentic Jew?

“[…] hybridity is, so to speak, a mixed blessing.” Alan Sinfield

The twentieth century has had events that affected Jewish history dramatically. If we observe what was being written by Jewish writers in those early decades of the century --before the Holocaust and the formation of the State of Israel-- we will see that some profound changes took place along these crucial decades. This study refers to the end of the twentieth century and to the way younger generations today are representing Jewish characters in their novels. The controversial essayist Hannah Arendt has written about the dramatic changes Jews throughout the world experienced in the twentieth century: 6 The twentieth century has seen the most momentous changes in Jewish history since the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE The annihilation of European Jewry by the Nazis during World War II, and the founding of the Jewish State of Israel shortly thereafter, have radically changed the position of Jews in the world. The result has been a transformation of relations amongst Jews themselves and between them and the other peoples of the world. (21)

6 I say “controversial” based on Birmajer’s comments. Birmajer harshly criticizes Arendt, a Jewish woman, for having relations with a Nazi, and moreover, for trying to defend their position: “Para empezar, Hanna Arendt era la amante sexual del filósofo nazi Martin Heidegger, antes, durante y quizás después de la ascensión de los nazis al poder. […] Alguien podría argumentar que esta inefable elección sexual de la señora Arendt no impugna sus escritos. Pero yo sí quiero impugnarlos porque no sólo en Los orígenes del totalitarismo Arendt nos pide que seamos piadosos con los intelectuales que ‘equivocadamente’ apoyaron al nazismo, sin mencionar a su amante; sino que luego de compartir el lecho y la correspondencia con Heidegger no hay uno sólo de sus escritos públicos donde lo denuncie, lo intime a explicarse o simplemente cuente su importante participación a favor del sistema que exterminó a seis millones de judíos, entre ellos, posiblemente, parientes de la señora Arendt.” See Birmajer, Ser judío en el siglo XXI (Buenos Aires: Milá, 2002) 22-23.

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The question of Jewish identity has been an issue of debate and study in different epochs, especially in the last two hundred years following the Enlightenment. Jewish identity, as Moshe Pelli suggests, “is manifested through the individual’s attitude toward (a) the Jewish people (that is, the idea of Jewish peoplehood or nationhood), (b) his tradition, his heritage and his past (with the emphasis mostly on religion, theology and philosophy), (c) his secular culture […], and (d) his relations to the non-Jews” (447). It is an intricate question that relates to ethnicity, nationality, religion, culture, and the environment in which the individual Jew is located. A Jew in Ethiopia is going to be different from a Jew in the United States, and a Jew in China is different from one in France, Argentina or El Salvador. Not only are they different between themselves, but they are distinct in their own country of origin. They are also viewed and interpreted differently by others. The geographical location determines influences in the everyday life, the physical appearance, the customs and the culture. Judaism is considered a religion and a peoplehood, a nation and a culture or civilization as well. As a religion, we can find observant Jews in Morocco, China, Australia, Bolivia, and France, who are very different in their ethnicity. Physically these Jews are all very diverse. Today Judaism has four major movements: Orthodox, Conservative, Reform and Reconstructionist. Each movement has different interpretations of the Torah and of Halachah, and different practices of Judaism, which generate whole sets of different spiritual practices and beliefs.7 These differences are going to influence directly the way these people define themselves. Even the word “Jew” lends itself to misleading interpretation. Rebecca Weiner explains the complexity of the words Jew and Judaism: In common speech, the word "Jew" is used to refer to all of the physical and spiritual descendants of Jacob/Israel, as well as to the patriarchs Abraham and Isaac and their wives, and the word "Judaism" is used to refer to their beliefs. Technically, this usage is inaccurate, just as it is technically inaccurate to use the word "Indian" to refer to the original inhabitants of the Americas.8 According to Jewish Law, a person is born Jewish if the mother is Jewish. The Torah and the orthodox Halachah stipulate that a child inherits her/his Jewishness from the mother and not

7 Halachah is an umbrella term for the entire body of Jewish law.

8 “Who is a Jew?” Jewish Virtual Library, A Division of the American-Israeli Cooperative Enterprise 22 Mar. 2004 .

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from the father. In contemporary Israel, being a Jew is both an ethnic and religious condition. The question of “Who is a Jew?” acquired even greater significance with the enactment of the Law of Return sometime after the formation of the State of Israel in 1948. Weiner explains: “In 1950, the Law of Return was passed in Israel stating that every Jew has the right to immigrate to Israel, and granting automatic citizenship and benefits to any Jew who makes aliyah.”9 One interesting test case was that of Brother Daniel, a Carmelite monk who was born Jewish from Jewish parents and converted to Catholicism during the Holocaust. Later, he applied for his Israeli citizenship to migrate to Israel. The Supreme Court denied his petition, stating that since he converted to Catholicism he was not considered a Jew in the State of Israel. After this case, a new regulation was adopted stating that individuals registered as Jews must not practice another religion. This gives us an idea of the complexity of the question of Jewish identity. This question becomes crucial to the individual as we see in the literature of several Jewish authors. Nobel Prize author Isaac Bashevis Singer, in his book Enemies, A Love Story, presents a tormented character, Herman, living in New York in the years after the Holocaust.10 Herman survives the Holocaust thanks to a gentile Polish peasant who hides him in a hayloft of her house. After the war, he marries her in gratitude and comes to America. Herman lives a constant turmoil, an endless pain of doubt and sorrow. He constantly questions his Jewishness: Refugees from Germany strolled by […]. They were talking about houses, shops, the stock market. ‘In what way are they my brothers and sisters?’ Herman asked himself. ‘What does their Jewishness consist of? What is my Jewishness?’ They all had the same wish: to assimilate as quickly as possible and get rid of their accents. Herman belonged neither to them nor to the American, Polish, or Russian Jews. (114) His behavior indicates the abyss of his life: “Herman fasted but did not go to the synagogue. He couldn’t bring himself to be like one of those assimilated Jews who only prayed on the High Holy Days. He sometimes prayed to God when he was not fighting with Him” (147). In the narrative, we learn that Yadwiga, the gentile he married, loves Herman and decides to convert to Judaism. For him, Judaism in America is the following: “The neighbors were waiting for

9 See note 8. The word aliyah is a Jewish term which refers to the immigration of Jews from the Diaspora to Israel.

10 Isaac Bashevis Singer, born in 1904 in Radzymin, Poland, died in 1991 in the United States. Singer received a Nobel Prize for Literature in 1978.

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Yadwiga downstairs, eager to include her in their circle, to teach her the Judaism that remained from their mothers and grandmothers and which the years in America had diluted and distorted” (148). Herman doesn’t feel like “those assimilated Jews” and thinks that Judaism in America is “diluted and distorted.” At a certain moment of the story, after committing several mistakes and creating an unbearable life of lies and confusion, Herman makes a resolution to become a responsible Jew: He had sworn to renounce all worldly ambitions, to give up the licentiousness into which he had sunk when he had strayed from God, the Torah, and Judaism. He had stayed up the previous night trying to analyze the modern Jew and his own way of life. He had once arrived at the same conclusion: if a Jew departed in so much as one step from the Shulcan Aruch,11 he found himself spiritually in the sphere of everything base --Fascism, Bolshevism, murder, adultery, drunkenness. […] What could save him, Herman, from sinking even deeper into the mire in which he was caught? (170) Herman --a fictitious character-- gives voice to the thoughts of real Jewish individuals who similarly tormented, ask themselves questions about their own identity and religiosity. In the next example, not from a character in a novel, but from a real person, we can see how an American Jewish woman found her Jewishness much later in her life. In her essay “How Jewish Am I?” psychologist Hannah Lerman tells that she grew up in an atheistic Jewish household. Her family didn’t have any religious ceremonies of any kind, her mother maintained a kosher kitchen when she was a child, but both she and her father ate whatever they liked outside the house. She did not attend a Passover Seder until she was an adult. She often felt confused and lost. Surrounded by children of different religious backgrounds, she questioned herself since early childhood about the meaning of Christmas and Chanukah. She knew that she was not part of Christmas and had sad, needy, left-out feelings during that holiday (168). In college she continued experiencing feelings of confusion: “In orientation at the start of college, I recall the representative from Hillel saying that there was a place for all Jews in the organization, including atheists. That made no sense to me at all. I had never been affiliated with a Jewish organization and had no sense of my identity as a Jew besides the foods I was accustomed to eating” (169). Many years later she began to understand the relationship between Judaism and

11 The Shulcan Aruch is an important text in Jewish law.

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ethics in a presentation she attended at The Feminist Therapy Institute. She had always been a little embarrassed about her lack of knowledge of Jewish lore in general. Finally, she realized that some of the incorporated values she had were indeed very Jewish: “It was several years later before I learned just how very Jewish that value was and how much my moral and ethical sense had been shaped by Jewish values without my even realizing it” (174). After a lifetime of searching and trying to understand and define her Jewishness and that of others, she says that she is open, “more open than I have ever been to the values of my tradition” (176). Lerman says that she probably won’t join any temple but she will continue to listen and learn: “I know now that Jewish history and tradition are a large part of what has formed me and allowed me to do what I do. […] I am recognized and fully accepted as a Jew in all circles I care about despite my lack of religious affiliation, I also have accepted myself as a secular Jew, but a Jew nevertheless” (176). In his article “Jewish Identity in Modern Hebrew Literature,” Moshe Pelli analyses the Jewish protagonist of a short story by Shmuel Yoseph Agnon (1888-1970). Agnon’s protagonist is “a modern Jew in search of his identity, of his cultural and religious essence. For the time being he possesses none of them” (458). Pelli concludes: the question of Jewish identity remains an open question as ever. In the age of secularism, of alienation and of the disappearance of values, the modern Jew finds himself very much like the protagonist of Agnon in the end of the story. To use Agnon’s beautiful, symbolic, albeit alarming words: ‘I was all alone at that time. My wife and children were out of the country, and all the bother of my food fell on me alone’. (460) The search for identity leaves the individual lonely, not knowing exactly who he/she is. It is an invisible burden, as we see in fiction and in real life testimonies. The individual who cannot locate himself/herself in the world and define who he/she is, lives in a permanent state of limbo; he/she is not in between cultures, but in a state of ‘fluctuation,’ of being here and there, and nowhere. In the field of postcolonial studies, scholar Homi Bhabha explains that nationalities, ethnicities, and identities are dialogic, indeterminate, and characterized by “hybridity” (one of his key terms). In “The Commitment to Theory” he defines hybridity as what “is new, neither the one nor the other” which emerges from a “third space” (Leitch 2377). This theory of hybridity can be applied to the many existent minorities in ex-colonies throughout the world. The Jewish individual, too, among other minorities in Latin American countries, lives in a situation where these feelings are multiplied: not only is he/she a minority in Latin America, as other

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immigrants or indigenous groups are, he/she is, in many cases, a hybrid being inside his own group. In what refers to “hybridity” there are other theorists who don’t agree with the concept in the same way that Bhabha proposes it. Arif Dirlik explains: Apparently transparent, hybridity is in actuality quite an elusive concept that does not illuminate but rather renders invisible the situation to which it is applied – not by concealing them but by blurring distinctions among widely different situations. […] If hybridity is indeed pervasive, it is in and of itself meaningless – if everything is hybrid, then there is no need for a special category of hybrid […]” (104). I am inclined to agree with Dirlik: in labeling certain groups as “hybrid” we are overlooking intrinsic differences that exist among the members of the same group. The vagueness of the term is problematic. History shows that there have always been conflicts of identity. “There is nothing peculiarly modern about the problem of identity” says Anthony D. Smith, and he continues “It is almost as old as recorded history” (129). The author goes on to state the ever present concern with “ethnic and social identity, individual and collective” and mentions some biblical examples: “Jacob’s simulation of his brother Esau’s identity, Ruth’s determination to exchange her Moabite for an Israelite identity and Jonah’s assertion of his Hebrew identity despite his refusal to accept his prophetic mission.” Ancient Greek mythology also has its cases of identity issues (129). The question of identity of the Jewish people is a difficult one to understand. To bring some light to the subject, it is important to look into the Jews’ historical past, filled from the Babylonian times to the present with periods of persecutions, bloody massacres, Inquisition, pogroms, and an eternal struggle for survival, not only the survival of the human being but of the ethnic and religious culture of the group. Jews have been forced into Diaspora across the centuries, and they have established themselves in unexpected places.12 As they move and settle in different locations, processes of assimilation and acculturation take place. What happens to the identity of the Jewish individual? This question raises many others that are never easy to answer. Considering the Jew as a constant wanderer whose ancestors moved and settled in so many different locations, is it possible to define the identity of one person or even of the whole group where that person is found? Not only will Jews be perceived by other non-Jews in certain ways,

12 Diaspora is the word used to refer to the dispersion of the Jews outside Israel, from the destruction of the temple in Jerusalem in 587-86 BC, when they were exiled to Babylonia up to the present time.

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but Jews among themselves will have their differences as well as different perceptions of other Jews. Primo Levi, in the account of his experience in Auschwitz, comments on how Polish Jews looked down on the Italian Jews: “Everyone knows that the 174,000s are the Italian Jews […] all lawyers, all with degrees, […]; the ones who do not know how to work, and let their bread be stolen, and are slapped from the morning to the evening. The Germans call them ‘zwei linke Hände’ (two left hands), and even the Polish Jews despise them as they do not speak Yiddish” (119). Indeed, Jews have their differences even among themselves; such geographical, political, religious and physical differences do not allow for any type of generalizations. In the book Jewish Identity, editors David Theo Goldberg and Michael Krausz present a collection of philosophical essays “revealing how being Jewish raises questions about what it means for persons to have a cultural identity, to identify with a culture, and to be identified in terms of cultural membership” (ix). According to them: “The concept of Jewishness raises philosophical issues faced by all cultures concerning cultural definition: Can a single or unifying identity be attributed to Jewish culture, and if so what are its identifying features; and is there a Jewish self, or only many persons that are Jewish?” (ix). These questions indicate the intricate mosaic of issues to be observed when studying the subject of Jewish identity. In the introduction of the same book, the editors explain that social identities are not just given. A person is produced “against a complex of social, political, cultural, technological, and economic conditions” (1). It is clear that the shape of Jewish identity is going to be altered and transformed as it comes in contact with the identity of others with whom they interact. Krausz and Goldberg continue, affirming that no matter who the person is, Jewish or not, everyone is a result of the conditions of the social environment. It is an ongoing process, “never complete,” that sometimes continues after death, transferred to others in their family names. In the book Odyssey of Exile, Jewish Women Flee the Nazis for Brazil, Renée-Marie Croose Parry, a German girl growing up in Bavaria, says that until she was about fourteen, she never knew she was Jewish until one day at school: “One of my class-mates, a girl from the town of Weilheim, turned towards me and shouted with a pitched voice: ‘Du Judenweib!’ – ‘You Jewish wench!’ […] It took me several years, […] really to understand why, and how, my mother’s ancestry should suddenly have changed my whole existence” (79). This event took place around 1936. Here we have a girl attending a Roman Catholic school and protected by her

11

parents against the growing problems of those years before the war: “Though my father was a Protestant, and my mother Jewish, by race if not by faith, my parents had believed it would be wise to bring up their child in harmony with the predominant religion of the region, which, at the time, was Roman Catholic” (80). Renée Marie lived a perfect life until that day, not knowing that her destiny had been determined by her mother’s ancestry. Other Jews nevertheless are perfectly comfortable with who they are. Sarah Taieb Carlen, a Sephardic-Tunisian Jewish woman raised in an Orthodox religious environment, tells of her first year of marriage with an Ashkenazi-Canadian Jewish man brought up in a Reform family. Her good-humored article relates the initial clashes and misunderstandings between the two Jewish families. At a family gathering in Canada, the author tells of a comment she heard from one of her husband’s aunts: ‘Why is being Jewish so important to her? She does not look it; she does not act it. Why not just forget about it?’ I could not understand these remarks since being Jewish to me was the most natural, the most basic trait of my personality. I had never questioned it; I had never known or felt that there was anything to question. I was born Jewish just as I was born with brown eyes. (85) Diasporic Jews can be observed comfortably integrated and/or assimilated into cultures all over the world. A lot of families will encourage the new generations to diminish the signs and behavior that connote their family’s foreignness and to adopt the language and habits of their new country. Nevertheless, we can see throughout history that there were many situations where individuals, no matter how assimilated they were, seemed to be never fully accepted and were still seen as “the other.” This is what happened to Renée Marie. Across history we can see how perfectly assimilated Jews have been surprised by anti-Semitism, attacks, loss of rights, and persecution. While assimilation raises a whole set of new questions, I wish to note that the Jews of pre-war Germany, for example, were one of the most assimilated of all peoples; they were loyal to Germany and continued to be loyal even after the Nazis came to power.13 Their reactions to the growing anti-Semitic policies were rather puzzling: “As the Jews experienced disorientation and internal turmoil, there rose a real, tragic tension between genuine feelings of patriotism and loyalty to Germany and the need to evaluate realistically their position as aliens in

13 See Yehuda Bauer, A History of the Holocaust (Danbury, CT: Franklin Watts, 1982) 113-137. Bauer has a whole chapter dedicated to the prewar era 1933-1938 with details of those terrible years.

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their own land” (Bauer 119). The question of assimilation is fundamental here because, as we have seen, that has never been a guarantee of the acceptance and belonging of the Jew in the countries where they resided. In the nineteenth century the word assimilation began to be used by English speakers to refer to the situation of change and modification undergone by groups that were formerly isolated from the dominant group’s culture who moved “in the direction of the dominant group’s ‘culture’ and their incorporation into what that group recognized as ‘mainstream’ social and political life” (Spitzer 28). Leo Spitzer explains that the word expresses an idea of “conformity,” and of “becoming similar” to the dominant culture. Nevertheless, the implications of this process are much more complex than the word itself suggests. Spitzer cites sociologist Milton M. Gordon, who makes a distinction of three levels of cultural adaptation and integration: (1) acculturation, or cultural/behavioral assimilation, indicating the modification of cultural patterns and symbols by subordinate group members in conformity with those of the dominant group; (2) structural assimilation, describing the subordinate’s large-scale entrance into institutions, associations, professions, fields of economic activity, clubs, and locales from which its members had previously been excluded; and (3) fusion, or amalgamation, referring to the final, completing, stage of the continuum, when persons from the subordinate group would merge entirely with the dominant through intermarriage, losing their previous identity by becoming virtually indistinguishable from members of the society at large. (28)14 The process of assimilation always requires “certain general adjustments” even when it does not happen fully consciously. The process, Spitzer continues, referring to members of subordinate groups, “required them to learn the meaning of new symbols and redefine old ones – to modify those intrinsic cultural traits that were reflected in their religious beliefs and practices, in their ethical traditions, their historical language and sense of common historical experience, in their literature and music” (29). These changes are going to influence the way these individuals dress, their behavior in public, the way they speak the new language, as well as other cultural features that are totally related to their identity.

14 Spitzer explains that although Gordon’s typology is based on evidence and analysis of assimilation in the United States, it is broadly applicable to other areas of the world. See Leo Spitzer, Lives in Between, The Experience of Marginality in a Century of Emancipation (New York: Hill and Wang, 1989) 28-29.

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The way that assimilation happens depends on several aspects of the individual: “Age, gender, personality, as well as the strength and attraction of ‘old’ traditions, and the degree and intensity of contact with the dominant culture” (Spitzer 31). It seems that for the new generations the process is much easier, since they are exposed from an early age to the local culture, attend the schools of the dominant group, speak the language and are immersed in the culture in a more direct way than the older members of the family, like the grandparents, for example. A discussion of Jewish identity necessitates a brief comment on the question of identity and assimilation in Israel. Author Jerold S. Auerbach writes that, since 1948, when Israel became independent, the question of identity has proven to be a complex one. As Auerbach states, it is “the source of bitter controversy in Israel” (11). The diversity among Jews living in Israel indicates the complexity of this identity crisis. Auerbach demonstrates special concern with the “rapid pace of Americanization, now so evident in Israel, […]. What is Jewish, after all” asks the author “about McDonalds, Pizza Huts, and Tower Records that now dot the Israeli landscape?” (12). The author believes that Israel --as a Jewish state-- should be obligated by the “imperatives” of Jewish history to “resist the foreign enticements that must inevitably corrode its distinctiveness” (12). The question of assimilation, so debated among Diaspora Jews, is now a critical issue in Israel. Auerbach asks if assimilation in Israel is any less problematic than in the Diaspora (13). He believes that “A Jew, after all, can live as easily in exile in Tel Aviv as in Los Angeles. Indeed, tens of thousands of Israelis have already taken the logical next step, preferring a home in California to one in the Jewish homeland” (13). In what concerns the question of assimilation in Israel, several studies reveal the different behavior and expectations of the Israeli society which continues to see new waves of newcomers and immigrants. One example is a study that explored which ethnic relationship model --assimilation, pluralism, or separation-- best described the attitudes and behavior of Israeli students towards the new immigrants from the Soviet Union. The results showed that the Israeli children (from fourth to eleventh grades) had a positive attitude and were open and receptive to the new immigrant students in their first year. The study continues: However, the attitudes were less positive in the second year. Although the Israeli students manifested positive attitudes toward immigration and to the immigrants themselves, these views were largely assimilatory; Israeli cultural capital was obviously

14

dominant, and it was expected to be accepted as such by the newcomers. The findings point to Israeli assimilatory educational practice; immigrants are expected to blend in, abandoning their past heritage and culture.15 The population of Israel continues to grow in number and diversity. In her article about aliyah to Israel, Neuman gives some exact figures: “During 1990-1998 the Israeli population of 4.56 million was enriched by 879,486 immigrants, a growth rate of 19.3 percent. In 1991, 15,000 Jews were airlifted in one single day in ‘Operation Solomon.’”16 In the previously mentioned article by Hannah Lerman, she comments on a trip she made to Israel to visit a cousin: “I heard his wife rail against the new Jews of Israel, those arriving from Africa and Asia, whose customs and manners she did not share or like” (173). The newcomers are not very well regarded by those already established in the country. They are all Jews but have strong differences that are not welcomed by the locals. Israel's leading author Amos Oz talks about his most recent book, A Tale of Love and Darkness in an interview published recently at The New Yorker.17 Oz was born in 1939 in Jerusalem, the son of an Ashkenazi couple from Eastern Europe who arrived in Israel -- then Palestine -- in the nineteen-thirties. In those times Palestine was predominantly Arab except for Jerusalem, which has had a continuous Jewish presence in the city throughout history (except during the Crusades) (86). One of the most significant moments of the book is the suicide of the author’s mother, who killed herself at the age of thirty-eight. The author, then a twelve-year-old boy, only came to understand his mother’s suicide when he was old enough to be her father. He explains what the atmosphere of the city was like: “Everyone in Jerusalem -- Jewish Jerusalem -- of those days missed something. Other places, other cultures, other languages, other people. It was, for most Jews, an exile, a refugee camp” (87). His mother, Oz clarified, was a European woman; she missed the city and the environment that was dear to her in the Ukraine. Jerusalem

15 See Shmuel Shamai and Zinaida Ilatov “Assimilation and ethnic boundaries: Israeli students' attitudes toward Soviet immigrants,” Adolescence 36(144) (2001 Winter). Dec. 6 2004

16 For details on the waves of immigration to Israel, starting from 1882 up to the present see: Shoshana Neuman “Aliyah to Israel: Immigration under Conditions of Adversity" IZA Discussion Paper no. 89 (Dec. 1999). . This paper was found in the bibliographic database Ideas by the Department of Economics of the University of Connecticut.

17 David Remnick, “The Spirit Level, Amos Oz Writes the Story of Israel” The New Yorker 8 Nov. 2004: 81-95.

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was an exile and the pain caused by this exile, as well as the realization that Jerusalem would never be what she expected, were too much to bear.18 Other aspects of the identity problem in Israel are found in many examples of Israeli literature. The anthology Facing the Holocaust presents a selection of short stories written by different Jewish authors that depict the situation of survivors after the Holocaust. In some stories, it is surprising to observe the shock between older and younger generations of Jews. Grandparents who were born in Europe and survived the horrors of ghettos and concentration camps live with their memories and wish to transmit the traditions and family memories to the new generation. The grandchildren, Israeli-born, do not understand the past and refuse to continue the memory of their elders, primarily when this memory is associated with the horrors of the Holocaust. The younger generations are more concerned with the future, and they do not wish to cultivate memories of such dark times. In the book’s afterword, Gershom Shaked cites a passage from Yoram Kaniuk that refers to Israel as “the largest insane asylum on earth” (274). 19 Shaked also mentions Israeli-born writer Judith Hendel, who wrote that the “characters who came from over there ‘were another kind of people’” (276). The main theme of many authors is the opposition and contrast between Israeli-born and the others that came to Israel from the Diaspora and from the Holocaust (276). What bearing do these comments have on this study? Overall the issues presented show that the subject of Jewish identity has many variables. Even Jews in Israel have identity problems. Identity cannot be treated as an isolated and stagnant characteristic of the human being. As previously demonstrated, it has to be considered as a constant process that is influenced by social, psychological and individual factors. The foundation of Israel made it possible for the Jewish people to finally have their own nation. However, the diversity of the Jews living in Israel is of such a striking complexity that this issue could be the topic of a long dissertation. Nevertheless, there are some elements that seem to be common among all of them.

18 In an interview for the radio program All Things Considered, 5 Dec. 2004, Jennifer Ludden talked with Amos Oz, about his new memoir A Tale of Love and Darkness. His life story shares many parallels with the history of the Jewish state. Oz said that the reasons for his mother’s suicide could be the weight of the history of the Jewish people, the sense of exile, the fact that she had been one of the only survivors of a small city in the Ukraine where in a matter of 48 hours more than 25,000 people were killed by the Nazis, and her feeling of inadequacy in Jerusalem. All these things were too much for her.

19 Prize winning Israeli novelist born in Tel Aviv in 1930.

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Between 1991 and 1993 an Israeli study conducted by the Louis Guttman Institute of Investigation found that there are certain attitudes, principles and traditional practices that are shared by almost all Jews in Israel: the commitment to the continuity of the Jewish people, the celebration of the most important holidays, and the practice of certain rituals that are related to the cycle of life. The Gutman study shows that the Israeli Jews are very dedicated to the preservation of the Jewish character in their society even though they are selective in their observance. Returning to Latin American Jewry, we find that this field of study has been calling the attention of an increasing number of scholars over the last three decades. In 1972, a conference was held in New York under the auspices of the Institute of Jewish Affairs. The conference, entitled “Experts Conference on Latin America and the Future of Its Jewish Communities,” was the first occasion when Latin America’s Jewish communities began to be considered as a subject of intellectual significance, stated Gilbert W. Merkx (3). In March of 1982, the Latin American Jewish Studies Association (LAJSA) was founded during the Washington meetings of the Latin American Studies Association. In October of that same year LAJSA held its first conference.20 The subject of Latin American Jewry is thus a relatively new field of study. The Jewish experience in Latin America is especially interesting if compared to that of the United States and Israel, “with differing relationships between Jewish identity and national identity” (7). Merkx elaborates: In the United States, Jewish identity and national identity are discrete and unrelated. One is no less an American and no more an American for being Jewish, and no more or less Jewish for being an American. In Israel, Jewish identity and national identity are coterminous; being Jewish confers citizenship. In the Latin American republics, national identity and Jewish identity have been antithetical, contradictory, or problematically related, at least in the eyes of the majority populations. Precisely because Jewishness is problematic in Latin America but not in the other two cases, that problematic nature is attributable not to the character of Jewry or Jewish communities but to the character of Latin American societies. (7)

20 For details see Judith Laikin Elkin and Gilbert W. Merkx, eds. The Jewish Presence in Latin America, (Winchester: Allen & Unwin, 1987). Merkx opens the book with the essay “Jewish Studies as a Subject of Latin American Studies” which presents detailed information on how these studies started and the Jewish role in Latin America.

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I have purposely italicized the last lines of the previous citation to emphasize this fundamental affirmation. As Merkx explains, the diversity among Jewish communities in Latin America is much more noticeable, whether they are Sephardic, Alsatian, German, Eastern European, Moroccan, or Turkish. There seems to be greater separation and social distance that mark ethnic boundaries within the Jewish communities in Latin America than in communities in North America. In spite of the hostile environment of Latin America the different groups have not developed a closer relation or cooperation among them. Latin American Jewry is religiously far more conservative than its counterparts in the United States or Israel. In Latin American societies several social, cultural and economic factors help to increase the social distance between classes, and the value attached to higher status (8). Merkx concludes that: “The significance of the economic and class distinctions that cultural differences among Jewish communities of different national origins have produced in the process of adapting to Latin America may therefore override the influence of a common religious inheritance”(8). These issues give us an idea about the complexity of Latin American societies. Jewish writers from such societies are going to present a unique and powerful body of literature. Before discussing the writers and their novels, it is important to review the history of Jewish immigration and some relevant facts about their contemporary communities.

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Immigration and history, Jewish presence in Argentina, Brazil and Uruguay

Argentina

The Argentine Jewish community is the largest in Latin America. There are 180,000 Jews in Buenos Aires; 20,000 in Rosario; and smaller communities in Córdoba (9,000) and Santa Fe (4,000). The towns of La Plata, Bahía Blanca, Mendoza, and Mar del Plata each have a Jewish population of 4,000. Jews also reside in rural areas such as Entre Ríos, Corrientes, etc.21 Ilan Stavans comments, “The official census claims that in 1895 there were all together some 6,000 Jews in Argentina; by 1910 the number rose to 68,000, and by 1935 it increased astronomically to 218,000. Compared to other parts of Latin America, the Pampas and Buenos Aires have always been the most populated centers of Jewish life” (4). In the introduction to her book on Argentina’s Jewish short stories, Rita Gardiol tells that Russian Polish Jews fled from pogroms at the beginning of the twentieth century and later from the political and economical disasters of World War I (3). The Belgian Philanthropist Baron Maurice de Hirsch founded the Jewish Colonization Association (or ICA) in 1891 with the purpose of helping Russian and Eastern European Jews to escape the crescent pogroms and violence against their lives. The ICA created the first rural settlements in Argentina in Moisesville in 1893, where most of these immigrants were relocated (Lesser 16). On these first Jewish communities of immigrants Gardiol comments that they: […] had common problems and experiences as they tried to adjust their Old-World traditions to the Argentine ambience. Most were fairly well educated and, to keep abreast of news and happenings in the Old World and the new, they soon established Yiddish newspapers and journals. They also brought with them a rich tradition of Yiddish

21 Information found in the site maintained by the World Jewish Congress in Jerusalem, Israel, under the section Jewish Communities of the World. . The World Jewish Congress (WJC) is an international federation of Jewish communities and organizations. The online material is an abridged version of Jewish Communities of the World, published in 1998 by the World Jewish Congress and Lerner Publications Company.

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literature, especially in short story and drama, that they and their children continued. (2-3) Most Jews in Argentina are Ashkenazi, with roots in central and Eastern Europe. About fifteen percent are Sephardim, descendants of immigrants from Syria, Turkey, and North Africa. Jews of Eastern Europe are commonly referred to as "Rusos," whereas those from the Middle East are called "Turcos." The new generations born in Argentina are native Spanish speakers, and the use of both Yiddish and Ladino has declined dramatically.22 The most important political Jewish organization in the country is the Delegación de Asociaciones Israelitas Argentinas (DAIA), which represents all communities and organizations before the authorities and is responsible for safeguarding the rights of its members. The DAIA was founded in 1936 and evolved from a previous committee concerned with anti-Semitism and racism (Lindstrom 23). Initially the committee’s purpose was to oppose European anti-Jewish activity, but later became more centered on Argentine problems. In 1935, it assumed its present name, which indicates its focus on local problems. The Asociación Mutual Israelita Argentina (AMIA) is the organization that represents the Ashkenazi community and takes care of their religious and cultural activities. The Sephardim community has three organizations of its own. There is also the Zionist Federation (OSA) whose women's organizations are very active. The headquarters of the Latin American Jewish Congress is situated in Buenos Aires.23 The purpose of this section is not to present a detailed study of anti-Semitism in Argentina, which would constitute a full dissertation in itself, but I want to mention briefly a few events relating to this topic. Leonardo Senkman dedicates an entire book to anti-Semitism in Argentina. In the book, different authors talk about the roots of anti-Semitic ideology in the country, nationalism, the situation of Jews during the years of military repression (1976-1983), the disappearances of Jews in that period and the responses of the Jewish authorities. This work also offers a general view of the antecedents to anti-Semitism in Argentina and presents several

22 Yiddish: a language based on medieval Rhineland German used by Jews in eastern, northern, and central Europe and in areas to which Jews from these regions migrated. It also contains elements of Hebrew, Russian, and Polish, and it is commonly written in Hebrew characters. Before the Holocaust, there were estimated to be 11 million speakers. Ladino: Language based on medieval Castilian but with Hebrew suffixes and written in Hebrew alphabet; developed and used by the Sephardim. The Sephardim are the Jews whose traditions and culture originate from the Mediterranean, including Spain and Portugal.

23 See note 21.

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documents and testimonies with detailed information about the Jewish experience in Argentina. Overall the book provides the reader with the historical and political background information that made it possible for anti-Semitism to grow during democratic and authoritarian regimes. In 1919 the well-known “Tragic Week” caused the death of several Jews.24 In the 1930s, when General José F. Uriburu took power after a coup, the government fought against communism and his clandestine repressive actions were used and developed in later dictatorship periods. According to Senkman: Las crisis económicas de 1959, 1962-63 y las tensiones políticomilitares de 1962 y 1964 constituyeron un caldo de cultivo para el resurgimiento del antisemitismo social, con una intolerable impunidad por parte de los gobiernos democráticos y republicanos. […] El antisemitismo fue utilizado como arma política de los factores que buscaban la desestabilización democrática […]. (94) In Senkman’s book, Javier Simonovich comments that during the later years of repression and dictatorship (1976-1983) the military and its collaborators used traditional forms of anti- Semitism, violence and propaganda as well as incorporated the new practices of imprisonment, torture and the “disappearing” of Jews (310). Simonovich classified six forms of expression of traditional anti-semitism in this period: violence committed with the use of explosives; material damage caused to buildings and Jewish properties; massive diffusion of Nazi and anti-Jewish literature; anonymous threats; anti-Semitic acts in public offices and other divisions under the responsibility of the State, and anti-Jewish transmissions through radio and television (310-11). In 1988, the parliament passed a law against racism and anti-Semitism. Nevertheless, there are still some small neo-Nazi groups. During his mandate, ex-President Carlos Menem made a commitment to combating anti-Semitism and xenophobia.25 Despite his good intentions, in 1992 the Israeli Embassy in Buenos Aires suffered a bombing attack that caused the death of about twenty people and hundreds of casualties.26 In July of 1994, a bomb devastated the headquarters of the AMIA, the building that houses most of Argentina’s major Jewish organizations. Along with the tragic loss of more than a hundred lives --Jews and non-Jews--

24 The episode is reflected in the book La Semana Trágica by David Viñas (Buenos Aires: Siglo Veinte, 1975).

25 See note 21.

26 Ricardo Feierstein, Historia de los Judíos Argentinos (Buenos Aires: Planeta, 1993) 418.

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thousands of Spanish, Hebrew and Yiddish books and documents, a legacy of Jewish culture, were destroyed (Aizenberg 1). The government has been heavily criticized for not acting properly to find the perpetrators. Then President Menem, in an effort to improve Argentina's public image and under pressure from the World Jewish Congress, ordered the release of files concerning Nazis in Argentina. The AMIA was slowly re-built and five years later, on May 26, 1999, at 633 Calle Pasteur, its new building was inaugurated. An article appeared the Buenos Aires’ newspaper La Nación about the AMIA’s inauguration. It reads: “El nuevo edificio, con una plaza seca como antesala, exhibe un lenguaje en el que predominan las ideas de solidez y seguridad.”27 Indeed, the impeccable new building, its solid and modern architecture as well as its strict security, reflect the strength of the Jewish people. The memory of loss in that 1994 attack, however, remains in the air. Alberto Gerchunoff’s novel Los gauchos judíos, first published in 1908 in Buenos Aires’ newspaper La Nación, narrates the accounts of life in the Jewish colonies where Gerchunoff had spent his childhood. His family had arrived from Russia and settled in Moisésville, later on moving to the Entre Ríos province. His book is far from being a realist documentary expected from somebody who had personally experienced life in those surroundings. Gerchunoff had moved from the country to the big city, the distance made him produce a more lyricized narrative that contrasted with the harshness of life in the agricultural settlements. In his novel, we can see his desire for the assimilation of his fellow Jews: “Yo quiero creer, sin embargo, que no siempre ha de ser así, y los hijos de mis hijos podrán oír, en el segundo centenario de la República, el elogio de próceres, hecho después del católico Te deum, bajo las bóvedas santas de la catedral…” (74). Gerchunoff’s objective, explains Ilan Stavans “was to help Jews become Argentines, to be like everyone else” (7). In 1910, the time of the novel’s publication, was the centenary of Argentina’s independence and since the author saw Argentina as “a diasporic ‘holy land’” and “a true paradise” Gerchunoff wanted to celebrate the country’s “friendly, tolerant, and multiethnic spirit” (Stavans 9). Scholars who study Gerchunoff’s work have proposed that the author was “eager to reach and please a non-Jewish public” and had “an obsession with winning the approval of a non-Jewish audience” (Lindstrom 7-8). Even though the novel was promoted through mainstream channels and seemed far from the real lives of the protagonists themselves,

27 La Nación, section 5, May 12, 1999, year VI, number 267, p.8.

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it was, nevertheless, the object of commentary in Jewish circles. Gerchunoff was regarded by members of the Jewish community as a representative voice. Unfortunately, his optimism and desire to see Jews benefit from assimilation did not last for much more than a generation. Jews had many reminders of their lack of total acceptance in Argentine society (Lindstrom 10). The violent anti-Jewish events that took place in what came to be called “La Semana Trágica” or the “Tragic Week” in January of 1919 proved that things were more delicate and serious than Gerchunoff could have imagined. Lindstrom explains: “These disturbances began with the repression of a strike at the Vasena metal-working plant and the government’s efforts to cast blame on anarchist and socialist immigrants from Russia. Ruso (Russian) was a term popularly applied to al Eastern European Jews, and in the general perception, all Russians were easily imagined to harbor revolutionary tendencies” (10). The anti-Jewish events that took place during the “Tragic Week” urged many non- Jewish intellectuals to express their solidarity with the Jewish communities. Gerchunoff, from his influential position “declined to acknowledge prejudice as a feature of Argentine society” (10). Gerchunoff’s deepest interest was to secure for the Jews a safe place in Argentina made him adopt Christian references, even when addressing Jewish audiences. He occupied an influential position that reached both the elite and the public; nevertheless this tendency of overstating the compatibility of Christianity and Judaism spoiled his dreams. Today Buenos Aires has an active and vibrant Jewish life, its neighborhoods of Villa Crespo, Flores, Once, Belgrano, Boca and Barracas have signs of the past, memories from the early decades of the century with its diverse Sephardic and Ashkenazi immigrants, as well as shops, restaurants, organizations that promote arts and social assistance to the community, monuments and memorials that mark the presence of today’s Jews of Argentina. The city has fifty Orthodox synagogues, five Conservative, and one Reform.28 In 1962 a branch of the New York-based Jewish Theological Seminary was established; it prepares students for the rabbinate. Kosher food is easily available; one can find many kosher butcher shops, markets, and several kosher restaurants. There are about seventy Jewish educational institutions in Argentina. Buenos Aires also has a Jewish museum, three libraries, and four Jewish bookstores. Each community has its own social club: Sociedad Hebraica (Ashkenazi) and Casa Sephardi. Córdoba also has an

28 Guia Shalom Buenos Aires Recorrido Judío de la Ciudad, year 1, 1999-2000 Guide no. 1.

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impressive community center.29 There are eight Jewish cemeteries; the La Tablada is the largest and contains more than ninety thousand Jewish graves. There we also find an impressive monument to Holocaust victims remodeled in 1971, with six large marble blocks symbolizing the six million Jews. There are 31 Jewish schools, 14 social and athletic institutions such as country clubs, soccer schools, athletic clubs, golf clubs, etc., and 12 cultural and scientific institutions, like the IWO – Jewish Research Institute, the ICAI Argentine-Israeli Cultural Institute, the Albert Einstein Medical Research Center, the Holocaust Memory Foundation, etc. The Jewish media counts 17 magazines, periodicals, radio stations, and TV programs directed to the Jewish public about Jewish topics. Given such presence, Argentine-Jewish literature is unsurprisingly rich and prolific. Any anthology of Latin American Jewish writers begins with Alberto Gerchunoff (1884-1950), previously mentioned. Ilan Stavans refers to him as “a grandfather and a cornerstone” (6) of Latin American Jewish letters. As Edna Aizenberg explains, citing the Encyclopedia Judaica, Gerchunoff’s Los Gauchos Judíos is “the first Latin-American account of emigration to the New World as well as the first work of literary value to be written in Spanish by a Jew in modern times” (18). In Jewish Issues in Argentine Literature, Naomi Lindstrom explains that Jewish- Argentine writings represent a great diversity of issues. She continues: “Whereas some of the works claim attention by offering an account of historical issues, it is also important to recognize the more hidden and oblique ways in which literature implies a commentary on aspects of society” (1). Lindstrom is right in observing that across the decades the literary works of Argentine-Jewish authors reveal their views and impressions of the society around them. Jews have also been very successful in cinema, as movie producers and actors since the early decades of the twentieth century. Argentine Jewry has prominent figures occupying important roles in industry, commerce, politics, the free professions, and the arts. Literature and history seem to walk hand in hand, and in Jewish culture that is an almost unavoidable connection. Jewish culture and tradition is charged with history and memory, and this characteristic is evident in all fields of literature and art produced throughout the world.

29 See note 21.

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Brazil

In 1492 the decree that ordered the expulsion of all Jews from Spain, forced an estimated 300,000 Jews to leave the peninsula. Many Jews went to Portugal, where they were, five years later, forced to convert to Christianity under the penalty of death. The Inquisition promoted a fierce persecution of anyone suspected of being Jewish.30 Many of the Jews of Portugal left for Holland, Italy, Turkey, Palestine, Egypt, North Africa and the Balkans. Others, who converted to Catholicism, were called Conversos. Still others converted to Catholicism but continued to be loyal to Judaism and practiced it secretly; they were called New Christians, or Marranos.31 Many of these Jews, concerned with the Inquisition, used their Christian identity and departed with the expeditions to the New World. That is how the first Jews arrived in places like Mexico and Brazil. As the Inquisition also grew in Mexico they escaped to Barbados, St. Thomas, Curacao, Surinam and other Caribbean Islands (Hantman 7). The call for settlers to emigrate to Brazil happened at a crucial moment when Jews needed to leave Portugal, and many saw in that opportunity a safe alternative to start over far from the religious persecution of the Inquisition that was going on in Europe. In 1502, the first Marrano group was officially given license to settle in Brazil and export brazil wood back to Portugal. The Marranos began farming and eventually became landowners and sugar barons. Sugar cane became the foundation of the Caribbean economy for several centuries and as a result the Marranos became rich plantation owners, businessmen, importers, even writers and teachers. In 1636, a synagogue was built in Recife and in 1645 this city in the northern state of Pernambuco had a large and progressive Jewish population that was later defeated and taken by the Portuguese. Today the great majority of Brazilian Jews is Ashkenazim and lives in the country’s two largest cities, São Paulo (60,000) and Rio de Janeiro (40,000). Other communities exist in

30 The Brazilian movie O Judeu by director Jom Tob Azulay, was a production that took almost ten years to be finished (1986-1995). The movie shows the implacable hand of the Inquisition in Portugal that persecuted and punished crypto-Jews and new Christians. It was inspired by the real history of Antônio José da Silva, a lawyer, poet, and the most famous playwright of Portugal in the eighteenth century. Silva was born in Brazil and had Jewish origins. In spite of having converted to Catholicism, Silva and his family were tortured and killed by the Portuguese Inquisition.

31 These definitions are given by Joseph Hantman in his essay “The Sephardic Diaspora” in Jews in Places You Never Thought of (Hoboken: Ktav Publishing House, 1998).

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Bahia, Belém, Manaus, Porto Alegre, Recife, and even in more remote areas.32 Judith Laikin Elkin comments that the 1970 Brazilian census indicated there were 120,000 Israelites in the country. There are also estimates that the numbers might be anywhere from 150,000 to 155,000 (Laikin Elkin 96). Jeffrey Lesser tells how the immigration of Jews to Brazil happened in a way different from that of Argentina: “With the end of World War I, Jews began arriving in Brazil in ever- growing numbers. This was partly a result of changes in immigration legislation in the United States, Canada, Argentina and South Africa, where restrictive immigration acts reduced Jewish entrances” (23). There are also other reasons why Jews began to regard Brazil as a better option. Lesser continues: “One was location” (24). Because of its closeness to Argentina, for those Jews interested in establishing themselves in that neighboring country, Brazil was a good place to start. Lesser presents other factors as well: Brazil’s relatively strong economy was attractive. Newly formed communal and religious institutions provided funding and social help for newcomers. As Jews prospered in small and large cities throughout the states of Rio Grande do Sul, São Paulo, Rio de Janeiro, and Paraná, they sent a new message back to Europe. Brazil was no longer the land fun di mahlpes (land of monkeys) but a land of prosperity and little religious conflict. Substantial post-World War I industrial economic growth provided jobs, and, for Jews encountering economic restrictions in Eastern Europe, Brazil’s developing economy acted as a magnet. (24) Brazil gained its independence from Portugal in 1822, and Roman Catholicism was the state’s religion. In 1891 the first republican constitution took effect. In 1888 the country abolished black slavery. Along with all the new historical changes, a law that guaranteed religious freedom was promulgated. More than 2.6 million immigrants entered Brazil between 1890 and 1919 (Lesser 13). Nevertheless, not many Jews lived in Brazil before 1920. Between 1904 and 1924, The Jewish Colonization Association (ICA) founded by Judeo-Belgian philanthropist Baron Maurice de Hirsch organized two Jewish communities in the state of Rio Grande do Sul because of its proximity to Argentina and other colonies that had been previously formed by the ICA in that neighboring country. Another aspect that made Rio Grande do Sul an interesting

32 See note 21.

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place was its policy of religious freedom (Lesser 18). Jewish immigration began to come to the authorities’ attention in the 1920s and 1930s, not only because of the growing number of immigrants but because Jewish immigrants and refugees were quickly succeeding economically. Between 1933 and 1942, “almost twenty-five thousand Jews, primarily Germans and Poles fleeing Nazism, legally entered Brazil, despite the fact that most members of the Vargas regime considered Jewish immigration undesirable” (Lesser 8). In the thirties there was some criticism by nativists about the growing Jewish immigration, mostly because of the immigrants’ economic success and cultural differences. Even though Brazil started denying visas to Jews in 1935 and some public discourse against Jewish entry was going on, it did not stop Jews from arriving in Brazil. International pressure made Brazil continue to accept the entry of Jewish immigrants, and in 1938 new rules allowing Jewish immigration made it possible for a large number to enter the country, more than in any of the ten previous years (Lesser 21). In 1951 the Confederação Israelita do Brasil was founded. Under this organization about two hundred associations promote Zionism, Jewish education, culture, and charity. Privately owned Hebraica clubs promote social, cultural and religious activities. According to the World Jewish Congress web site: Brazilian Jews have in general enjoyed comfort, security, and prosperity in a country characterized by the harmonious coexistence of various ethnic groups. Nevertheless, there have been occasional manifestations of anti-Semitism. Brazil has an impressive coalition of intellectuals, clergymen, and statesmen who lead the struggle against racism and anti-Semitism. The success of the Jews, and the liberal and tolerant atmosphere in which they live, has accelerated the pace of assimilation.33 Bernardo Sorj writes about the almost nonexistent anti-Semitism in the country. The author tries to explain the reasons for such peaceful reception. There are, in fact, very low levels of anti- Semitic propaganda or manifestations that could affect the quality of life of the Jewish community. Sorj clarifies: “A explicação básica para a falta de anti-semitismo no Brasil pode ser procurada na particular ideologia brasileira do branqueamento. [...] na medida em que os judeus são aceitos como parte da raça branca --o que só foi questionado por alguns intelectuais brasileiros associados a ideologia fascista nas décadas de 20 e 30-- eles passam a ser parte da

33 See note 21.

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solucão, e não do problema” (10). However, “branqueamento” does not explain the matter in full. The author continues, saying that there are other forces that helped to interpret the social and cultural formation of Brazil: “[…] o caráter integrador da miscigenação, a cordialidade da psicologia coletiva, o sincretismo cultural, a porosidade social, em suma, uma sociedade aberta e tolerante, cujas origens remontam à particularidade da colonização lusitana, com predomínio de intenso intercâmbio sexual com as populações negras e nativas” (11). Another important aspect that makes the Brazilian mentality quite different from its Hispanic neighbors is the fact that its Portuguese roots are always recognized. The national Brazilian State is not constituted by a confrontation and negation of the colonizer whereas its Hispanic neighboring countries, from the very beginning when in war against Spain, have had quite a different ideology, one against the power of the colonizer. Sorj explains: “[…] enquanto a ideologia nacional no Brasil não problematiza as raízes extrangeiras e aceita a continuidade histórica, no resto da América Latina, a afirmação contra o estrangeiro passou a ser parte da própria definição da identidade nacional” (25). This gives us an idea of the Brazilian national mentality and provides the atmosphere of the characters in the Brazilian novel to be discussed in this study. The presence of the Jewish community is seen in the metropolis of São Paulo in its four Orthodox and four traditional schools and in Rio de Janeiro with its several Jewish schools. With the arrival of Jews from central Europe, the Reform movement was introduced as well. Today most synagogues are Conservative or Reformist. Until the 1930s, under the influence of the east European immigrants, the main religious stream was Orthodox. In both large communities, kosher food is readily available, and there are a number of kosher restaurants. There are many Jewish newspapers and journals published both in Yiddish and in Portuguese, including Resenha Judaica, O Hebreu, Menorah, and Shalom.34 Jewish architects are responsible for much of the modern architecture in Brazil. Russian- born Gregori Warchavchik built the first modern house in the country in Sao Paulo in 1930. The most prolific Brazilian architect, working in the American skyscraper style, was Rino Levi. Henrique Mindlin's work changed the skyline of Rio de Janeiro, and Elias Kaufman worked on the plans for the country's new capital city, Brasilia. Laikin Elkin provides a few more details of

34 See note 21.

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the success of Brazilian Jewry: “the majority of Brazilian Jews belong to the elite 5 percent of the population who determine the economic and political contours of the nation” (96). It is indeed a fact that Brazilian Jews have occupied prominent positions in government, Congress, Senate, banks, industries. Several are doctors, engineers and lawyers. Others include Adolpho Bloch, who arrived in Brazil from Kiev in 1932, and owns the most influential weekly magazine in the country Manchete as well as a television network (96).35 In 1947, a former Brazilian foreign minister and ex-ambassador to the United States, Oswaldo Aranha, was elected president of the General Assembly of the United Nations. Aranha and the Brazilian representative to the United Nations, João Carlos Muniz, worked actively to support the partitioning of Palestine. Two months later the State of Israel was established. As Lesser comments: “Brazil and Aranha, both crucial to the decision, were considered friends of Israel, Zionism, and all Jews. In Tel Aviv a street was named after Aranha” (1). Ilan Stavans comments that “the list of Brazilian writers in this literary tradition is not as long as that of Argentina, but it is distinguished” and goes on to mention some important Jewish- Brazilian authors such as Samuel Rawet, Carlos Heitor Cony, Clarice Lispector and Moacyr Scliar (25). Scliar has been recently elected to occupy the 31st chair at the Brazilian Academy of Letters.36

Uruguay

The Jewish population of Uruguay is around 30,500, and almost all of them live in the capital city of Montevideo. There are some families who live in Paysandú and others in some small cities. This Jewish population is made up of seventy five percent who originated from Eastern Europe, fourteen percent from Western Europe and eleven percent is Sephardic.37

35 Laikin Elkin says that Bloch “is the owner of Manchete, one of the most influential daily newspapers in Brazil” (96). Manchete is in fact the name of a weekly magazine, not a daily newspaper. The magazine was first published in 1952, and resembles the French magazine Paris Match.

36 Judith Laikin Elkin, “A Modest Proposal,” Latin American Jewish Studies vol. 23 No. 1/ 2, 2003: 20.

37 See note 21.

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The Spanish Inquisition was not very active in the country, and there are signs of conversos who lived in the area in the sixteenth century. The Jewish community in Uruguay today started to arrive in the country around 1880, and for most of them it was just a temporary stop on their way to either Argentina or Brazil. In 1909, there were about 150 Jews living in Montevideo, and in 1917, there were enough people to open the first synagogue. Uruguay saw its first Sephardic Jews arrive at the beginning of the twentieth century. “Immigrants received equal rights on arrival; all they had to do was obey the law” (Elkin 64). In 1918, there were about 1,700 Jews in Uruguay; seventy five percent were Sephardim (from the Balkans, Syria, Cyprus, Morocco, Egypt, Greece, Turkey and France) and the rest from Oriental Europe, mostly from Russia, Poland and Lithuania. More waves of Jews arrived in the country and formed the foundations of the present-day Jewish community in the capital city of Montevideo. In the years 1925-28 and 1933 many Jews went to Argentina. During World War II Uruguay imposed a quota limiting the entrance of Jews in the country. Nevertheless, in 1939, 2,200 entered the country, mostly from Germany, and in 1940 another 373. After the war some Jews from Hungary and the Middle East found a safe place to live in Uruguay. In September 1909, the first organization was founded with the objective of helping the Jewish community. The founders of the Herza were mostly Ashkenazim. In 1911 a cultural organization was created, the Dorshei Tzion. In 1916, the community founded the Jevra Kadisha (Ashkenazi) and the Jesed Shel Emet (Sephardim), both of which had the objective of providing the proper funeral services according to the religious tenets. In November of 1927, the Cementerio Askenazi was inaugurated, and in May of 1922 so was the Cementerio Sefaradí.38 Teresa Porzecanski, in her book Inmigrantes judíos al Uruguay, gives several details of the origin of the Jewish collectiveness in Uruguay. About the foundation of the Jevra Kadisha she adds that its original function was to take care of the funerary rituals of the Jewish community, and its activities were slowly expanded to attend to social needs and cultural activities of various sorts (5). The Jevra Kadisha grew over the years and in 1932 became the Comunidad Israelita del Uruguay in 1932. Uruguay is a pluralistic and secular country, and this made it possible for the Jewish immigrants to adapt and find a place where they could live in peace and continue their lives practicing their religion and customs (6). Porzecanski’s book

38 Information found in the site maintained by Uruguayan Psychologist David Mordejai Karp, text dated Sep. 1996, “Los Judíos en la Ciudad de Montevideo,” .

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presents testimonies of several immigrants of those first decades of the twentieth century in Uruguay. In presenting their stories, the author explains: “Cada historia refleja lo acontecido a miles de personas en circunstancias similares” (7). One of the testimonies collected by Porzecanski comments on how life in Montevideo was in those early decades of the twentieth century. José, a Polish Jew who arrived in Uruguay in 1935 at the age of eight, tells the following: Yo no digo que no hay antisemitas pero lo que rara vez hubo fue una acción antisemita pública, que es una cosa diferente, y eso habla en bien del pueblo uruguayo. La mayor parte de la población judía de Villa Muñoz, eran vendedores ambulantes, lo que se llamaba ‘cuentenikes’, y la palabra arranca justamente de hacer cuentas, y eso representa ya una integración idiomática. Muchos judíos empezaron a intercalar, dentro del idioma idisch, palabras en castellano, idischizadas. (164) The Jewish population always integrated itself into the cultural, economic and political life of Uruguay. Such integration has increased assimilation. The Jewish community of Uruguay counts with approximately 10,000 families and is organized in four religious communities: Polish-Russian, Sephardim, German, and Hungarian. The various testimonies of immigrants show the gratitude they feel for the country that welcomed them, offering the means to survive and cultivate their culture and religion. One of the immigrants says: “Esta era una tierra humilde, y al mismo tiempo, floreció en bendiciones que yo nunca voy a terminar de agradecer. Las gratitudes me ebullen en alta voz dentro del alma” (162). Another immigrant tells how the consul --not of Jewish origin-- of Uruguay in the Uruguayan Embassy in Germany helped Jews that were to be sent to the concentration camps: […] este cónsul Rivas salvó la vida de todos, de más de cientocincuenta judíos en la famosa Noche de Cristal.39 En esa noche, los judíos que no pudieron llevar a los campos de concentración y que ya tenían preguntado por lo menos una vez en el Consulado o en

39 About Kristallnacht Botwinick explains: “If any doubt remained concerning the intentions of the Nazis to make Germany Judenrein (cleansed of Jews), they were removed by the events generally called Kristallnacht, the Night of the Broken Glass. Neither Christian nor Jew could ever again claim that they did not realize the seriousness of the Jewish plight. The terror of November 9, 10 and beyond was played out in full view of the German people. The scenes of beatings, screaming women, and arrests of men took place on the streets and in public places throughout Germany. Spectacular fires and widespread destruction of property were inescapable confirmation that a pogrom, an outbreak of violence against Jews either sanctioned or carried out by the government, was in progress”. From Rita Steinhardt Botwinick. A History of the Holocaust: From Ideology to Annihilation (New Jersey: Pearson Educ. Inc., 2003) 126.

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la Embajada, estos judíos fueron a la Embajada del Uruguay, el Cónsul General hizo cerrar la verja del jardín en donde estaban todos los judíos amontonados. Y afuera vino la S.S. Y cuando quiso entrar, el Cónsul General se apostó en la puerta con una bandera uruguaya, diciendo: “Este es territorio uruguayo. Aquí nadie puede entrar sin mi permiso ni sin permiso de mi gobierno.” […] Al otro día, el Cónsul Rivas dejó a los judíos allí, les dio de comer, les dio café para tomar, y él mismo fue con su coche con la bandera uruguaya a Hamburgo para ver allí lo que había pasado. Y se encontró con todas las calles llenas de vidrios y cristales de los comercios. Y vio también que las dos sinagogas grandes estaban ya prácticamente hechas cenizas, todavía envueltas en llamas. Y entonces volvió y se dirigió a la gente, diciéndoles: “Todos los que están aquí, dentro del Consulado General tienen automáticamente sus visas.” Y trabajaron dos días y dos noches, todo el personal, para poder hacer todas las visaciones de los pasaportes. (134-35) In 1992, during his term as president of Uruguay, Dr. Luis Alberto Lacalle was invited to participate in the “World Conference on Anti-Semitism and Prejudice in a Changing World” that took place in Brussels. On that occasion, the Uruguayan statesman declared that “Uruguay, a relatively new state in Latin America, conducts itself according to Judeo-Christian principles which are the basis of our political and cultural life... The special relationship towards the Jewish people and Israel may stem from the probable Jewish roots of many of our Spanish ancestors.” 40 The atmosphere of security and harmony enjoyed by the Jewish community living in Uruguay, as described by some of the testimonies in this introduction, is seen in Montevideo from schools to monuments, from museums to Jewish publications. Montevideo’s Jews have four schools with curricula in both Hebrew and Spanish. The “escuela integral” is the largest and includes classes for children from pre-school to high school. The Chabad center also directs an “escuela integral.” There are other smaller schools with special programs attended by one-third of the Jewish children. There are some weekly and monthly Jewish publications and a radio program. Montevideo has a museum and a documentation center as well as a Holocaust Memorial Museum that has been declared a national historic landmark. A monument to Golda Meir is found next to the Opera Theater Solis. In the Rodó Park next to the beach, one can find

40 See note 21.

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the Albert Einstein monument. Inside the Jewish cemetery there are several monuments in memory of the victims of the Shoah, of the Israeli soldiers who died in battle, and of the victims of the terrorist attack against the AMIA in Buenos Aires. Traces of the Jewish past can be found in the old Jewish neighborhood of Goes. Finally, the Hebraica website promotes artistic, cultural and sporting events.

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Chapter 1

A KABBALISTIC STUDY OF THE NOVEL NO TAN DISTINTO BY MARCELO BIRMAJER

In the novel No tan distinto Birmajer presents an omniscient narrator who introduces the reader to the main character and guides us through his journey. Don Saúl Bluman is forty-three years old and is described as “un judío laico que nunca había sentido mayor interés en preguntarse por el sentido de la vida” (11). Saúl has a happy life, a beautiful wife, and a successful business in the Once. He enjoys weekends at his country club until the tragic death of his wife in a car accident: “Al morir su esposa, Berta, en un accidente automovilístico, cuando ambos contaban con cuarenta años, su mundo interno se desmoronó” (11). The death of his beloved wife brings Saúl to an unfamiliar state of mind. Death, regarded by the majority of people as the most profound mystery of all, the greatest fear, the most definite separation, changes Saúl’s life. The loss of Berta is for Saúl the cause of so much sadness that he cannot recover for several years. There is not one moment in the narrative where the reader can find Saúl trying to understand and accept this tragic event in a spiritual light. Saúl suffers because he focuses on the present life; he is unaware of the mysteries of the afterlife, the continuation of the spirit after death, and for him maybe death is the end of everything. In this study of the novel I intend to present the topic of death under the spectrum of the Kabbalah, observe the existential crisis that the main protagonist undertakes, and learn about the questions of identity experienced by this Argentine-Jewish character in the present time. Before starting the study of the novel, it is useful to have a brief introduction to the Kabbalah and the Zohar.41 As Rabbi David ha-Cohen once said: “People can open these books, and they’ll still find them closed” (Weiner 15). The study of Kabbalah is more profound than most people may suppose. Ever since the public learned the news that singer Madonna started

41 Throughout my research I have found authors who write Kabbala with h and without it. I will spell it Kabbalah and whenever quoting from different sources I will use the spelling chosen by each author. I also found Kabbalah written with a c: Cabbala.

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studying the Kabbalah, more attention was drawn to it than ever. But what is the Kabbalah really? It is a complex question to answer. As Weiner clarifies, “Indeed, the Kabbalah, being an inner teaching, can never be fully communicated by words which belong, after all, to the revealed world” (12). My use of the Kabbalah to study this novel is merely a tentative effort to relate some events narrated in the novel with some of its mystic contents. We are only touching the tip of the iceberg, the rest lies underwater. I want to provide some necessary definitions of Kabbalah found in different sources that can shed some light on this introduction. In reading Solomon Maimon’s autobiography, one of the greatest Jewish thinkers of the eighteenth century, we find that he engaged at a young age in the study of the Kabbalah. He explains it as follows: Cabbalah, […] means, in the wider sense of the term, tradition; and it comprehends, not only the occult sciences which may not be publicly taught, but also the method of deducing new laws from the laws that are given in the Holy Scriptures, as also some fundamental laws which are said to have been delivered orally to Moses on Mount Sinai. In the narrower sense of the term, however, Cabbalah means only the tradition of occult sciences. […] Originally the Cabbalah was nothing but psychology, physics, morals, politics, and such sciences, represented by means of symbols and hieroglyphs in fables and allegories, the occult meaning of which was disclosed only to those who were competent to understand it. By and by, however, perhaps as the result of many revolutions, this occult meaning was lost, and the signs were taken for the things signified. (94-95) A glossary of Jewish terms has the following: Also spelled Cabala. It refers to the mystical interpretation of the Jewish Scriptures. It has two principal written sources. Sefer Yezira is a third century work which purports to present a series of monologues given by the patriarch Abraham. The second, Zohar is a mystical commentary on the Torah written by Moses de León in the 13th century. As a religious movement, it appears to have started in 11th century France, and then spread to Spain and elsewhere. It influenced the development of Hasidism in the 18th century, and continues to play a role in contemporary Judaism.42

42 Glossary of Jewish terms. 4 Sep. 2004 .

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Another definition found in a different source clarifies: The Hebrew word "Kabbalah" means in its literal sense "to receive" and this refers to the communication between God and Moses. In Judaism many mystics believe there are two versions of the bible, the written Bible, (The Torah and 5 books of Moses) and the verbal Bible, the Kabbalah. Jewish mystics believe that both versions were related to Moses on his visit to Mt. Sinai. The Kabbalah is the ancient Hebrew esoteric philosophy based on a mystical interpretation of the Bible - not the mundane. Jewish mystics believe the Bible is also a book within a book and that the Bible is actually telling humanity about the circuitry of the universe.43 Gershom Scholem, the scholar who dedicated his life to the study of Kabbalah simply defines it as: “The Kabbalah, literally ‘tradition,’ that is, the tradition of things divine, is the sum of Jewish mysticism” (1). The Zohar --or Book of Splendor-- is the main literary work of the Kabbalah. The author of the main part of the Zohar was Moses de León, who lived in Spain in the 12th century, but it is pseudepigraphically ascribed to the Palestinian Simeon bar Yohai, who lived in the 2nd century CE It is one of the basic texts of the oral Torah and Kabbalah.44 Some individuals have a need or a “thirst for an inner substance and vision which transcends the obvious surface of existence,” but there are those “who thirst more than others, who search with greater effort, and some who claim to have found ‘the waters of joy which can quicken the dry outer skeleton of existence’ ” (Weiner 4). These especial beings are called mystics. The mystics found throughout history come from a number of varied religions and from different parts of the world. Kabbalah constitutes the mystical tradition of Judaism. Weiner explains: “the mystics are masters of hidden wisdom. Their ‘speciality’ is the effort to understand and personally link themselves with truths, insights, and experiences which are below the surface” (6). Mystical readings are not for everyone, for they are written in a language full of symbolism, metaphors, images and codes. The stories narrated by the Hasidic rabbis remind us very often of the tales we find in the literature of Zen Buddhism: simple stories revealing

43 Definition found 4 Sep. 2004. .

44 For details on the origin of the Zohar see Kenneth Hanson, Kabbalah: Three Thousand Years of Mystic Tradition. (Tulsa: Council Oak, 1998), 122-125. Pseudepigrapha means “false writing” refers for example to the ancient books of Enoch and Jubilees (124).

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profound lessons that are not always easily understood. The truth is that --it is believed-- there might be a deeper meaning for everything and “God’s will must be something other than what can be plainly observed” (Weiner 7). Hasidism was a mystical movement of orthodox Jews born in the Ukraine in the eighteenth century that is rich in popular folktales composed of abstract teachings of the Kabbalah (Weiner 11). Here is an example of a Hassidic tale that illustrates it: It happened in a small town in Poland, on the eve of a wedding, that people heard horrible screams coming from the backyard of the bride’s house. Everybody felt scared. According to the Judaic tradition, the bride may become very nervous before her wedding and it is a custom for family and friends to spend the night in vigil to avoid the bad spirits who could take advantage of the vulnerability of the girl. The local rabbi was called to elucidate the mystery. He heard the horrible screams and became very concerned. He too was scared to go outside and check the cause of those frightening screams. There was a man in town who was a lunatic, a fool, and he was called to come to the house and check the origins of the screams. The rabbi was certain that that was a very complex and dangerous situation. The fool was sent to the dark backyard and soon returned seeming very relaxed. He explained that there was no reason to fear, since the cause of the scary noises was that an old tree had fallen on the ground, and the wind going through its old dry trunk produced the noises that sounded like human screams. It was just the sound of the wind passing through a decayed tree trunk. Everybody was relieved with the news, except the rabbi. In that same night he gathered the whole community and recommended that they pack and leave the city immediately. Nobody understood the rabbi but for him it was an obvious sign. They all obeyed the rabbi’s orders and left. The entire rabbi’s community was indeed saved from the Nazi invasion that happened some time later. What the rabbi heard were real screams that came from the future, announcing the massive killings that would take place with the Nazi intention to exterminate the Jews of the area.45 One important book of the Kabbalah is the Sefer Yetzirah or Book of Creation, which appeared around the third and sixth centuries CE. The central theme of this anonymous work is the “paths of wisdom,” the “heavenly books” and the multiple names of Deity (Hanson 88). In the Book of Creation we find the theory of the ten creative forces that intervene between God

45 This and other Hassidic tales can be found in Nilton Bonder, O Segredo Judaico de Resolução de Problemas (Rio de Janeiro: Imago, 1995). Brazilian rabbi Nilton Bonder writes about the ancient Jewish tradition of resolution of problems. This particular tale translated by me is on p. 134-135.

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(the Ein Sof) and the created world. This is called the Sefirot tradition which is formed by ten “spheres” representing physical creation which emanate from the center of the universe (Hanson 90/91). The ten Sefirot can be represented by a “tree.” Eliezer Segal elucidates the tree of the Sefirot: “Through these powers God created and rules the universe, and it is by influencing them that humans cause God to send to Earth forces of compassion (masculine, right side) or severe judgment (feminine, left side).”46 The ten Sefirot became the main focus of the Kabbalah. Like “layers of an onion” the ten spheres symbolize God’s work in creation and the way He has interacted with his creation to the present day (Hanson 91). The names of the ten Sefirot are Keter or “Crown,” representing God’s will, which is the center of the universe, beyond human beings to comprehend; Khokhmah, wisdom; Binah, understanding; Hesed, lovingkindness; Din, judgment or Gevurah, strength; Tiferet, beauty; Netzakh, victory; Hod, glory; Tzadik, Yesod Olam, Righteous One, the foundation of the world; and last, Malkhut, kingdom or Shechinah, the point to which the world of the body extends (Hanson 92-97; Weiner 16). Across the centuries some distinguished Jewish leaders became known and respected for their revolutionary mystic teachings and messages: Isaac Luria (1534-1569), Rabbi Loew of Prague in 1580, Shabbetai Zvi in 1648 (who was believed to be the Messiah), the Baal Shem Tov in 1700, Rabbi Nachman of Bratzlav in 1772, to name just a few. Isaac Luria, the renowned sixteenth century Kabbalist, spoke of three major symbols that remain in Jewish mysticism to this day: the tsimtsum, the shevirah or breaking of the vessels and the tikkun olam, or mending of the vessels. These major concepts cannot be fully expressed in words; they can only be understood as symbols: Isaak Luria […] used the phrase “tikkun olam,” usually translated as repairing the world, to encapsulate the true role of humanity in the ongoing evolution of the cosmos. In his view, God created the world by forming vessels of light to hold the Divine Light. But as God poured the Light into the vessels, they catastrophically shattered, tumbling down toward the realm of matter. Thus, our world consists of countless shards of the original vessels entrapping sparks of the Divine Light. Humanity’s great task involves helping

46 Dr. Eliezer Segal a distinguished professor at Calgary University has a detailed and informative home page: .

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God by freeing and reuniting the scattered Light, raising the sparks back to Divinity and restoring the broken world.47 It is thus, one of the major beliefs for Jews in general that every human being has a major role in the world. Everybody contributes somehow to the healing of the world’s imperfections. That gives us an understanding of a meaningful aspect of Saúl Bluman’s identity quest: his concern on his role as a good Jew. The author himself, in a fragment of our interview that is cited later, mentions his own concerns about being a good person.

Figure 1 The representation of the Tree of Life with the ten Sefirot 48

The main goal of Jewish mysticism is the effort combined with practice to come close to all things, small and large, and to identify with the innermost aspect of everything, that is, the divine in everything. “Mysticism,” Rabbi Steinsaltz explained, “is the desire to remove the outer coverings of things which hide their inner quality. Only through finding innerness in our life, as well as the innerness of all things, will this desire for full identification enjoy any kind of gratification” (Weiner 108).49 Rabbi Steinsaltz in one of his classes emphasizes that for the Jewish mystic there was no empty space: “His heaven was thoroughly crowded with hierarchies

47 Joseph Naft, “Tikkun Olam: Perfecting the World” revised 1 Mar. 2004. Website: Inner Frontier, Exploring Practical Spirituality .

48 Figure 1 was found at . A search on the web provides several representations of the “Tree of Life.”

49 Rabbi Steinsaltz was one of the rabbis that Herbert Weiner met in a study circle in Jerusalem. Weiner describes the teachings of the Adin (as the Rabbi was called) in chapter 4 of his book. The chapter provides a very complete explanation of the sefirot. See Herbert Weiner, 9 ½ Mystics, The Kabbala Today (New York: Collier Books, 1971) quoted extensively throughtout my study of Kabbalah.

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of angels, levels of worlds, chambers, palaces, thrones, and chariots. He did not suffer from a sense of interior emptiness” (107).

Death is one of the deepest mysteries of life. Martin Buber once said that “All I know is that nothing is more certain than death.” Nevertheless, the certainty of death doesn’t make it any more acceptable and it remains feared by most people. When Adam eats from the tree of knowledge and is expelled from paradise with Eve, death takes on a different meaning. And that is how the idea of a severe and punishing God is born. However, Weinreb reflects: “El individuo debería acostumbrarse a no ver más en Dios al juez y castigador severo. ¿Acaso no ama Dios a los hombres?” (182) If God gave man death, He had a purpose which should be beneficial to man. Since Adam --the man-- ate from the tree of knowledge he is now capable of reasoning, measuring, calculating and realizing the world around him, he cannot have a different type of behavior (182). Adam gained a certain consciousness that he did not possess before. When God looks for Adam in the Garden of Eden, Adam hides and explains: “I heard you in the garden, and I was afraid because I was naked, so I hid.” God replies: “Who told you that you were naked? Have you eaten from the tree from which I commanded you not to eat?” Adam and Eve are banished from the Garden of Eden and have now to survive on their own. They must reorient their faith and their trust in God. Death gives Adam and Eve the possibility of living a conscious life, even though they ate from the tree which they were asked not to. Their disobedience gave them consciousness and reason.

Weinreb goes on to say that death is the frontier beyond which all the knowledge of the world is insufficient to let us see. Death is the unknown, that very thing that cannot be calculated, predicted or defined. However, it is in death that we find faith and trust that we will have the opportunity to be reunited with those we love and with God (182).

The narratives in the Bible are full of symbolic images that most of the time are not fully understood. In the past, older generations were able to see the magic relation between these images and their essence. In the modern world, however, the individual has lost the perception to interpret such symbols and their meaning. The modern man/woman has lost the positive attitude towards the “magic” of things and has adopted science as the only plausible explanation for events in life. It would be enough for the individual in the modern world to understand --

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Weinreb emphasizes-- that it is possible to approach these symbolic “images,” the essence of things in a different manner from what they are used to (185). According to the Kabbalah, the interpretation of Adam’s sin is quite different: Adam’s sin was a misapprehension of the unity of God. Deceived by the serpent of false knowledge, he separated Shekhinah from the other sefirot instead of preserving their unity through pure contemplation. This tragic separation left Shekhinah vulnerable, enabling the demonic powers to take control of Her. Ever since, She has ruled the world under the aspect of the Tree of Death. (Payne 220) This section of the Zohar refers to the descent of Abram into Egypt.50 It says something like this: Rabbi Shim’on said ‘Come and see: Everything has secret wisdom. This verse hints at wisdom and the levels down below, to the depths of which Abraham descended. He knew them but did not become attached.’ (Payne 63) The patriarch Abraham discovered the mystery of faith, the union with the divine realm, the worlds that are connected below, the dark underside of wisdom. The descent of Abraham symbolizes his exploration of the “other side,” this journey is essential to his spiritual transformation. An important aspect of this spiritual transformation is Abraham’s “refinement,” as the Zohar continues: Come and see the secret of the word: If Abram had not gone down into Egypt and been refined there first, he could not have partaken of the Blessed Holy One. (Payne 64) The wisdom of Egypt includes magic and alchemy, which implies a spiritual refinement, just as in the refining or smelting of precious metals. Here Payne quotes Moses Cordovero’s comment: “As silver is refined within lead, so holiness is refined through the power of the demonic”51

50 The author clarifies why Abram appears spelled like that: “Abram the original form of Abraham’s name; see Genesis 17:4-5”. In Richard J. Payne, ed. Zohar, The Book of Enlightenment. (Ramsey: Paulist P, 1983) 218.

51 Moses ben Jacob Cordovero was born in 1522. He studied the 'revealed things', the ‘hidden things’, including the Bible and the Talmud, as well as the potency of meditation. Cordovero set down a list of moral rules for the chaverim (associates) which enjoined them to make their hearts the abode of Shekinah, the Divine Presence, through

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(Payne 220). On the commentary to this section, Payne explains that Abraham’s descent to Egypt and safe return is a rite of passage. “Having confronted and experienced the Abyss, he is transmuted into a divine hero, apotheosized as Hesed, the Love of God” (220). All these words --transformation, transmutation, abyss, spiritual refinement-- are related to death. The ultimate destination of all humankind is necessary for the transformation of the soul, for its approximation to the Divinity. A human being suffers when contemplating death because he or she is unaware of what awaits. Though refinement is the final goal of God for His creation, suffering is a natural feeling, for we live in the world of matter. It is puzzling to think that “something” inhabits our body, what we call most commonly “soul.” We are, then, a physical body, a material body, animated by an invisible, unexplainable, “soul.” That worldview is something that even the most secular individual can perceive as acceptable. We suffer as well, not only at the contemplation of our own death, but that of those around us, because that means the pain of absence caused by the disappearance of the loved one. People seek in religion the relief, the consolation, an explanation if possible, for the unknown caused by the separation of death. Death is accepted by each individual in a different way. Jewish tradition --explains Weiner-- “encourages little speculation regarding life after death; even the mystics did not let their minds dwell on it” (47) and that is based on the knowledge that there are mysteries that mysticism cannot penetrate. In Birmajer’s novel we find an episode that illustrates this truth: when Saúl and Rabbi Lipzki talk about the resurrection of the death with the arrival of the Messiah, Saúl has lots of questions regarding this mysterious subject. He wants to know how things are really going to happen, and before Saúl asks the rabbi one more puzzling question, the rabbi adds: “- Aún no sabemos mucho de eso. No se sabe” (76). Rabbi Setzer (one of Weiner’s teachers) remembered the words of Rabbi Nachman:52 “It is forbidden to be old”, that is, people, no matter what age they are, should always make big plans and engage in exciting projects to have something to look forward in the future (Weiner 48). The secret lais in that we should be busy with life as to not really worry about death. Death is after all a mystery, and no matter how many religions try to approach and explain it, nobody is

mental purification. They were to abjure evil thoughts and words, speak only the truth, act in a kindly manner towards all creatures, privately review their shortcomings each day and practice charity. From the Theosophy Library Online Homepage < http://theosophy.org/tlodocs/teachers/MosesCordovero.htm> Accessed on 6 Sep. 2004.

52 Famous leader of the Hasidim.

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really sure what it is. When Saúl decides to continue living instead of putting an end to his life; he goes on despite the suffering. And he recovers slowly to find happiness again. At the beginning of the novel the reader learns that Saúl lives in a world of memory and that every step he takes brings him cherished moments of the past. He is still recovering emotionally for the death of his beloved wife. He is extremely emotional and sensitive. Just a few pages into the story, we see that Saúl cries several times: “En el avión, lloró por el recuerdo” (14); “[…] a Saúl se le llenaron los ojos de lágrimas” (18); “Saúl aguardó conmovido” (23); “Descubrió que estaba llorando cuando una lágrima le rozó la comisura de la boca” (27) and the novel goes on to reveal a mature porteño who does not exactly represent the image of the macho latino that we are used to seeing in the movies; he does not correspond to the stereotype of the Latin macho who does not cry. Saúl’s character is of somebody living in his own world, looking for his own answers, who does not seem worried about acting according to certain conventionalities: “Había sido feliz y no debía nada a nadie. No tenía cuentas pendientes con el Más Allá ni consigo mismo. ¿Me mato o sigo viviendo?, se preguntó a los cuarenta años. Decidió seguir viviendo […]” (12). Interestingly, the name Saul evokes the history of another Saul in Jewish history. Around 1020 BC, the 12 tribes into which the Israelites were divided found a leader, Saul, who became a king and won many important battles to protect his people. However, in one battle with the Philisthines, his three sons were killed, and Saul, who suffered deeply with this loss, committed suicide (Lewis 150). Our protagonist, Saúl Bluman, also thinks of killing himself, but this time, this Saúl, chooses life. Saúl Bluman is not a complex character hiding intricate psychological enigmas. The author, through his brief and agile narrative, as Ricardo Feierstein describes it (“trama breve y ágil” 48), created a protagonist so human and balanced that the reader doesn’t require any extra effort to understand this man. Nevertheless, the apparent simplicity doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have meaningful thoughts, ask profound questions about himself, or suffer an identity crisis. The truth about Saúl is that he is simply human, like everybody else reading the text. At a café in Tel Aviv, he recognizes in the newspaper, among the pictures of those killed in the terrorist attack, the picture of the girl who had come just days before to pick him up at the airport, the maid of his cousin Meir. He leaves his paper and his coffee half unfinished and forgets to pay the bill. Saúl is immersed in his thoughts; the owner of the coffee shop, also an Argentinean, understands his distraction, jokes with him about forgetting to pay. Saúl proceeds

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to the hotel: “Llegando al hotel, como si la tragedia lo siguiera como una nube, pasó por la vereda donde inequívocadamente había sucedido el atentado” (45). Saúl is on vacation in Israel, but the luggage he carries inside himself cannot be unloaded anywhere. There is no relief for somebody as emotional as Saúl, whose thoughts and feelings are simply too present. He is unable to relax and not think of the gravity of the events that surround him; it is as if “la tragedia lo siguiera.” Back at the hostel he engages in conversation with three Argentineans. A little later he regrets having started the conversation, but his loneliness is stronger than he is: “ya no soportoba estar callado” (47). Alone in his hostel room, he remembers his wife and falls asleep thinking of her. Saúl is fundamentally an emotional man. The terrorist attack has affected him deeply, and the absence of his wife occupies his mind permanently. He never looks for consolation in religion, he is more like a rebel: he gets angry with injustice and loss. Birmajer, in one of his short stories, talks about the human incapacity to bear the pain of desire to see somebody loved: “Nuestros cuerpos y nuestras almas no están preparados para la vida. Los hombres no estamos hechos para vivir. A duras penas soportamos las descargas de dolor que nos produce el deseo de ver a una persona; se nos hace incomprensible que sea nuestro propio espíritu el que produce esas fuerzas que tanto nos dañan” (Nuevas historias 222). Saúl’s forgetfulness is also seen in other instances, like the episodes when he loses his kippa while visiting the yeshiva in Jerusalem: “Era la tercera que perdía” (71). Losing objects is just another characteristic of somebody whose mind is too busy somewhere else. Losing the kippa, more specifically, may unconsciously indicate his distance from Judaism.53

53 According to different sources there are several reasons for male Jews to cover their heads. It has become a distinctive Jewish way of performing a ritual act; it shows reverence, respect and acknowledges that the individual is in the presence of God. It also serves to mark Jews off from gentiles who pray with heads uncovered. Throughout the Medieval times different decrees ordered that all Jews should wear badges or some special style of hat so that Christians would be aware of who were Jewish.

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Saúl’s contact with Judaism and other Jews in Israel

“There are many paths to truth.” Book of Creation

After the death of his wife, Saúl’s life seems to have continued being the same; it is not his exterior world that falls apart, but his “mundo interno.” Saúl decides to stand the pain of loss: “Decidió seguir viviendo” (12). “Tres años después de la muerte de Berta” (13), Saúl writes a letter to a distant cousin in Israel and asks if he can visit. The book narrates his encounter with relatives and strangers in Israel, with the religion that he never practiced, and finally with himself. The important aspect about the several encounters that Saúl has with other Jews along the narrative is that each individual Jew is Jewish in his/her own way, but none of them seem to have the answers to the questions that Saúl makes along the way. At forty-three Saúl travels for the third time in his life to “el país de los judíos” (14). As Saúl arrives in Israel: “le emocionaron las paredes de piedra del aeropuerto de Tel Aviv, y las banderas con las estrellas de su pueblo, y el calor dulce que subía de la tierra” (14). First, the narrator calls Israel “el país de los judíos” and next it becomes “su pueblo.” The relationship between Saúl and the land of Israel (and possibly of the narrator, the author himself) changes from being a land of others to being a land of his own people. The physical arrival of Saúl in Israel moves his heart and he feels that this is “su pueblo.” At the hotel his thoughts reveal his emotional state: “El avión había llegado a las seis de la mañana. Era miércoles, estaba en Jerusalem, tenía cuarenta y tres años, y eran las nueve de la mañana. / ¿Qué hacía tan temprano en una ciudad sin amigos, en la que ni siquiera hablaban su idioma? / Una depresión sorda lo volteó sobre la cama” (16). His loneliness is mapped in his mind through the numbers that surround this moment of his life. Since numbers are a significant part of Kabbalah, the subject will be presented further on. When searching for his nephew Elias at the yeshiva in Jerusalem, Saúl is embarrassed as he realizes that he doesn’t know much about the person he is looking for, but Saúl waits “conmovido” (23). The reader sees that Saúl is a total stranger to this environment and that the nephew he is about to meet is not only somebody he never met before, but also an orthodox Jew,

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who lives in a world that has nothing to do with Saúl’s life. Despite some expected barriers Saúl and Elías have a pleasant time together: “pero la conversación naufragaba cuando Saúl topaba con la ortodoxia de su sobrino: las guerras israelíes se habían ganado por milagro divino, la actualidad era un despropósito, ni hablar de mujeres” (24). His nephew makes a gesture of displeasure when he finds out his uncle is staying in a hotel in Tel Aviv: “Recelaba de esa ciudad de vida disipada, cerradamente laica, casi gentil” (24). They stroll around the religious parts of town and Saúl feels confortable in Elías’ company: “El aire cobró un color hospitalario y tibio, su sobrino permanecía en silencio. Disfrutaba de estar acompañado y sin la obligación de hablar” (25). Nevertheless, Saúl notices that Elías intentionally avoids certain areas, remaining in the religious parts of town. Soon, as they arrive in the yeshiva, Saúl realizes that “permanecer ininterrumpidamente en el perímetro religioso le hacía doler la cabeza” (25). His nephew offers once again a room at the yeshiva and Saúl politely says that he will think about it knowing that he isn’t going to accept (25). He feels relieved and happy to go back to the hotel, to shower and to go out again to enjoy the remaining daylight, the noises of the secular world, the magazines with pictures of women and the stores’ windows with products designed to attract his eye (25). It is a notorious contrast between the two worlds: the orthodox world of Elías and the secular, mundane world of Saúl. We have to sympathize with Saúl as he really tries to get closer to this world, but it is clear that he doesn’t belong there. In this passage we can observe the differences between these two Jewish men. In the morning of the terrorist attack that killed thirty-two Israelis, distressed Saúl walks in tears to the Old City as he sees the tension in the streets. At the Sacred Wall: “Llegó hasta el Muro de los Lamentos y besó las piedras” (27). A survey conducted in Israel between 1991 and 1993 has stated that certain feelings will be common to all Jews, no matter how religious they are: “existen ciertas actitudes, valores y prácticas tradicionales que son compartidas por casi todos los judíos de Israel” (1).54 We see how Saúl does not belong to the orthodox world of his nephew and enjoys the “pagan” atmosphere of the city. He is nevertheless extremely moved by

54 This research was conducted by the Israeli Institute of Social Applied Investigation Louis Guttman and is entitled “Creencias, Observancia Religiosa e Interacción Social entre los Judíos Israelíes”. The study has the purpose of finding the different levels of religious observance, social interaction, beliefs and values of the Jewish people living in Israel. It explores the execution of the mitzvoth (biblical or rabbinical commandments), the social and demographic differences in the religious behavior of the people, the role of religion in public life, Jewish values and beliefs, as well as general social values, and the interaction among different social groups of different religious observance or/and ethnic origin.

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the terrorist attack and surprisingly --for a non-religious man-- kisses the Holy Wall. The next day, Saúl ascertains that in the yeshiva the commotion is more discreet, “Sufrían con más calma” (31). Whereas the majority complained about the governmental policies, others tried to explain the tragedy in a divine or historical light. The yeshiva members had prayed for the victims and Saúl feels comforted (31). There is no mention of Saúl having prayed himself, but he feels comforted that others did. It is as if Saúl believed that the spiritual and religious matters were not for him to practice, but he appreciated that others did. This reminds me of a passage written by the author in another book where he states the need for both, religious and non-religious Jews: Una de las pocas certezas de la que los judíos no debiéramos desprendernos es que la variedad es una bendición. Que si todos viviéramos el judaísmo del mismo modo este se habría extinguido. Estoy convencido de que, para crear el mayor logro judío en los últimos dos mil años, el Estado de Israel, fue necesario que existieran judíos ortodoxos y judíos laicos. No lo hubieran conseguido sin los judíos ortodoxos que preservaron la Torá en los peores momentos, no lo hubieran conseguido sin los judíos laicos dispuestos a interrumpir momentáneamente los rituales para atender a las cuestiones prácticas de la supervivencia: la guerra y la economía. (Ser judío 14) Saúl spends the Shabbat night at the yeshiva after repeated invitations from Elías. Saúl enjoys spending a Shabbat so different from all the others in his life. In Saúl’s honor, his nephew takes him to attend the Shabbat services in Spanish. Saúl follows every step of the rituals. This passage reflects how peacefully Saúl engages in the practices of this Shabbat evening in the company of this nephew in Jerusalem. The language used is Spanish, the necessary means for communication. All seems to go well until the Rabbi comments on the terrorist attack and refers to some divine determining forces. But Saúl doesn’t agree with that and feels angry: “Pero luego regresó a esa lógica que ya había escuchado, sobre cierta causalidad divina, y el argumento lo violentó” (32). Saúl is too secular to accept such tragedies as they are seen by these religious Jews. The violence of a terrorist attack cannot be conceived by him as something that could have the permission of the Divine. Saúl deeply enjoys participating in the Shabbat as well as his new connection to “his people” and his nephew, but his interest stops there. After the Shabbat service a certain rabbi wishes to speak to him to know if Saúl wants to study in the yeshiva. Saúl answers quickly and without a doubt: “Me quedé una noche porque me invitaste. No, no quiero estudiar” (34). His

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nephew remarks that the rabbi just wants a few words, but Saúl affirms categorically that he is not interested: “Decile directamente que ni siquiera se me cruzó la idea de estudiar, y que hoy a la noche me voy” (34). It is almost comic to observe how ready Saúl is to defend his right of not getting involved in the orthodox world of his nephew. They still have the second Shabbat meal together, but Elías, probably feeling offended, is now cold and reserved and does not treat his uncle with his usual warmth and kindness. Saúl waits patiently for the Shabbat to be over so that he can leave Jerusalem and the yeshiva. He imagines how delightful it will be to be on the bus again on the way to Tel Aviv, distant from the yeshiva. His simple wish is: “Se compraría una revista con mujeres para el viaje” (35). There is no possible away that this porteño Jew would adapt in such world. The reader learns of Saúl’s feelings of solidarity for Israel. Lying down on the sand at the beach in Tel Aviv, he spends the morning watching the sea and the people around. He carefully listens to the noises and watches the movements of things going on around him: “No dejaba de alegrarlo, incluso de extrañarlo, que finalmente los judíos tuvieran un país, sus playas, su diversión. / Quizás había nacido en una época en la que ese dato nunca dejaría de resultar sorpresivo” (44). This is, indeed, one of the greatest achievements of the Jewish people in the modern times: the foundation of the state of Israel in 1948, the accomplishment of having a land that they can call their country and enjoy, like any other place in the world, a day in the beach. Israel doesn’t stop to surprise Saúl. As he strolls around Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, Massada, and other tourist sights, he thinks to himself: “Todas las mujeres son rubias, todos los hombres son argentinos. ¿Dónde está el resto de la gente?” (49). In fact, since 1948 more than 45,000 Argentine Jews have emigrated to Israel.55 In his last days in Jerusalem he enjoys the sights like any other tourist. In a local store he buys a flag of Israel, a heavy book on the Shoah and takes a bus that will take him to the Iad Vashem Museum.56 He notices that the passengers look at him suspiciously for a man traveling with two bags could be either a good Jew or a suicide bomber (57). Language is a fundamental part of identity. In several moments in Saúl’s trip to Israel we realize his frustration when he cannot understand others or when he cannot make himself

55 See note 21. Accessed on 19 Sep. 2004.

56 Shoah means the genocide committed against Jews during World War II.

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understood. At his first encounter with his nephew, Elías’ Spanish is broken and rusty. In the days that follow, as they spend more time talking, Saúl notices that it improves rapidly: “Elías recuperaba el correcto castellano: cada vez mejor ponía las conjunciones donde debía y conjugaba correctamente los verbos” (31). At the yeshiva when Saúl hears different Latin American orthodox students talking about the tragedy in Spanish, he feels relieved, not only to hear his native language but also to be able to express his pain to Elías using a language that both understood well, even though they were from different worlds: “aunque estuvieran en dos continentes lógicos distintos” (31).

The number forty, marriage, sex and Kabbalah

“Actually, I didn’t become a person till late, almost forty.” Martin Buber

Each letter of the Hebrew alphabet carries a numeric value. The Hasidim of Europe studied each letter of the sacred Torah, looking for hidden mathematical codes. This is what is called gematria, the study of the numerical value of letters which became one of the fundamental parts of Kabbalah.57 As Hanson explains: “The mystics knew, long before modern physicists, that everything in the created world is governed by precise mathematical laws” (98). In the second book of Genesis the element of water is predominant in the narrative. In Hebrew the word water is maim which in numbers would correspond to 40-10-40 and sea is iam which corresponds to 10-4. In both words we can find the structure 1-4.58 The symbol of water is also related to the feminine, the woman, and the left side. Genesis changes from light (number 2) with “And God said, ‘Let there be light’” to water (number 4) with “Let the water under the sky be gathered to one place.” Weinreb calls our attention to the fact that light moves faster than water. Water is an element that moves much slower. Everything on earth that is governed by the

57 Hanson 98-99 and 110.

58 Friedrich Weinreb wrote a detailed book on the Kabbalah for beginners. Friedrich Weinreb, Kabbala, La Biblia: divino proyecto del mundo (Buenos Aires: Editorial Sigal, 1991) 79-80.

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natural movements of water is much slower than the speed of light. The slowness of the structure 1-4 that relates to water is always presented in the Bible with a sense of duration of time. All the episodes narrated in the Bible that are related to the symbolic element of water always last a long time: the slavery of Jews in Egypt lasted 400 years, the wandering in the desert lasted 40 years, Moses remained in the Sinai Mount for 40 days, the kingdom of David lasted 40 years, everyone knows that the famous deluge lasted 40 days, and Elijah stayed in the desert for 40 days. The word water in Hebrew is related to the Hebrew letter mem; this letter corresponds to the number 40. It is thus clear that the number 40 is symbolic, related to specific and meaningful events that lasted a very long time (Weinreb 80). Apart from the slow passing of time, the other aspect to observe about this mysterious number is its relation to the left side, to the feminine, and the woman: water is present in the body, in the womb where the fetus develops, the menstrual period, the water of tears (as the woman is seen as more emotional).59 French psychoanalyst and philosopher Luce Irigaray confirms that the properties of liquids are associated with female imagery: “continuous, compressible, dilatable, viscous, conductible, diffusable” (111). In the second book of Genesis we see a detailed explanation about the creation of the woman. Eve is created and takes her first action. The story that follows is about Eve and the serpent. The man --Adam-- simply eats passively what the woman gives him. In many different passages of the Bible, we find the feminine protagonists next to water fountains where they do their household chores, collect water for the house, and feed the animals. These meaningful elements are connected. What may go unnoticed for most readers is charged with symbolic meaning under the surface.60 Saúl has lost his wife at the age of forty and cries frequently at his memories. The number forty in Saúl’s life has lost his feminine counterpart (Berta); all he is left with are his tears (water). The emptiness of her absence causes him great sadness which seems to last an eternity (long passing of time). Anyone who has lost a loved one knows that the suffering of loss seems sometimes without end.

59 I use “woman” in very general terms, considering that most--but not all women--are by nature physically capable of conceiving and giving birth, have menstrual period, and are represented in myth and world literature as being more emotional than man.

60 Weinreb 79-80.

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How much does Judaic culture impact on Saúl’s life? What was the role of his late wife in his life? The Talmud clearly says: “Any man who does not have a wife is without joy, without blessing, without goodness” (Talmud, Sotah 17a).61 In the very first page of the novel, the reader finds out how distressed Saúl felt with the death of his wife. Marriage is a fundamental aspect of Judaic culture. Westheimer and Mark explain: “In traditional Judaism, getting married is not simply a legal ceremony […] but a public enactment of Judaism’s most sacred communal and familial values” (113). It is believed that the union of two people by marriage is prepared far in advance: “Starting from birth, the angels must work overtime, if necessary, to bring the future spouses together from the opposite ends of the world, if need be, so that they might meet and fall in love” (113). Another sacred aspect of marriage is that “Traditional Jews are taught that while humans are created in the image of God, a man or a woman alone and separate is not the fullest realization of that image. Only together can they fulfill their destiny”(115-16). When Saúl loses his wife, their sacred union arranged in heaven is broken and he is left alone in the physical plain. He is only half and alone cannot fulfill his destiny. Rabbi Akiva, born around 40 or 50 CE, well-known in the Jewish world, is described by Kenneth Hanson: Like so many mystics, his origins were humble. He was but an uneducated shepherd until the age of forty, whereupon he began a life of study and contemplation. His saintly wife, Rachel, urged him on, though he had to sit in class with small children, learning the alphabet for the first time. After fifteen long years of study, he made an incredible ascent to the throne of authority, as adjudicator and leader of his people. (64) Rabbi Akiva, some two thousand years ago, already affirmed the importance of the woman in a man’s life. He advised the three most important requirements for anyone who wanted to study the secrets of the Torah and have wisdom: he should be forty years old (an age of maturity), be married to a good wife (stability, love and sex), and have a full stomach (full of the knowledge of Jewish Law, the Torah). Saúl has just lost his wife at the age of forty and as he starts his adventure in Israel three years later, he has many questions as he comes in contact with the religion and the beliefs of his origins.

61 Payne 217.

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The male and female union is largely studied and discussed in the Zohar.62 In Rabbi Weiner’s book, he comments of the teachings he received from several rabbis and scholars; one of these was Mr. Setzer, a kabbalist that he meets in New York and gives him lessons on the Zohar for several months. It is Ms. Setzer who explains: […] in his creation a creator reveals something of his personality; touched by him, it must bear his stamp. […] In contemplating the subtleties of creativity, the Zohar turns to man in all his functions, physical as well as spiritual, for its analogue. The phrase from Job 19:26, ‘And I shall behold God out of my flesh,’ is one of the many biblical sentences used to prove that the body of man and its functions can provide a hint of the divine process. The Zohar sees nothing unspiritual about examining the human body, and particularly the sex act, as a paradigm of the hidden spiritual universe from which all existence draws its life. For that reason, the sefirot are sometimes compared to the various limbs of the human body. At other times, the world of the sefirot is visualized as a mystical organism with both feminine and masculine tendencies. […] The thoughts and acts of man in our world are invested with implications stretching far beyond the immediately visible scene. All acts of unification, including sexual acts, become not just symbols but instruments which enable the upper worlds to function. […] The use of erotic imagery for spiritual symbolism is not, of course, unique to the Zohar; it is found in the prophets, the Song of Songs, and indeed, throughout the bible. In the Zohar, however, the eroticism is at times so daring and provocative as to make clearly understandable the law which requires a student of the Kabbala to be stabilized in his emotional and physical life by marriage and by a commitment to the revealed structure of the commandments. (30-31) On the creation of the first man, Hanson explains: Indeed, the Bible really does not say that God created man in His own image (Gen.1:26). That level of sexism would take centuries to develop. On the contrary, the

62 In the introduction of the book Zohar, The Book of Enlightenment, Daniel Chanan Matt explains what the Zohar is: “Between 1280 and 1286 Moses de León produced the main body of the Zohar, a rambling mystical commentary on the Torah containing a number of distinct literary compositions” (8). The Torah, which means teaching, is the first five books of the Bible.

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account of Genesis declares that God created, not a male, but “the Adam” in His image. Adam, translated “man” in English, is also used to designate the name of the first man. But Adam is simply a shortened form of the Hebrew Adamah, which means the “ground” or “earth”, from which the Adam was created. In truth, we would be better advised to translate the verse: “And God said, ‘Let us make a person – a human being, an “earth- creature” – in our image.’” This Adam, this “earth-creature”, was to be a reflection of everything that God is. And since God is both male and female, according to kabbalistic lore, with masculine as well as feminine traits, so is Adam, the “earth-creature”, both male and female.[…] The lesson is that every male must find a balance with his feminine attributes, and every female must find a balance with her masculine attributes. Moreover, the purpose of sexual intimacy is not procreation, but rather the union of male and female traits in created things, as a reflection of the union of male and female traits of God. (135/136) In Judaism, the woman does not compete with the man, she is not his inferior, nor is she seen as a sexual object. The woman completes the man and vice versa, for both were made by God with the higher purpose of union to reach the creator. The famous Jewish sex expert Dr. Ruth Westheimer emphasizes that “Judaism is intensely sexual (5)” and that “Celibacy is not a virtue --orgasms are” (4). The relevance of sex is fundamental in Judaism and we see that it plays an important role in Saúl’s life. The Zohar speaks about the androgynous nature of beings. Daniel Chanan Matt on his notes to the Zohar comments that “Any man or woman who remains single is only ‘half of the body’. […] The inner purpose of human sexuality is to regain wholeness and manifest the oneness of God” (217). In the novel, we know that after the death of Berta, it took Saúl six years to be with a woman again (12), a period in which he was grieving her loss. However, he is not completely shut from the world of carnal pleasure. He says that he feels “indifferent” to sex, food and money (12). Three years later, on his trip to Israel, the reader learns of Saúl’s thoughts and natural sexual impulses, the attraction he feels for several women and still for his dead wife. What could be interpreted simply as a typical sexual Latino behavior could be seen under the light of Judaism, which sees sex as a unique way of union with God, something that is also considered as such in other Eastern religions and practices (such as Tantric Yoga).

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Marcelo Birmajer, Saúl’s creator, has written several books where the sexual behavior of the protagonists is highlighted. The title of his trilogy Historias de hombres casados is self- explanatory. As the reader observes Saúl’s sexual impulses, his desires, and his inner thoughts we may wish to ask the following questions: Is he a typical Jew? Is he a typical Latino male? Isn’t he really both? In an innocent passage of the narrative, the narrator curiously describes Saúl, as he sees a woman in the yeshiva in Israel: “La miró alejarse y como buen porteño le escudriñó el trasero” (35). The narrator refers to Saúl as “un buen porteño” not “un buen judío.” Sigmund Freud and Jacques Lacan both wrote long studies on sexuality and sexual behavior. In what concerns desire, Vincent Leitch explains that according to Lacan “[…] desire is what by definition remains unsatisfiable” (1282). What is it that Saúl needs to satisfy in his life? As he struggles with questions about his own beliefs, we learn of his thoughts as his body, his eyes and attention are directed to the women that appear throughout the narrative. Could he be unconsciously looking for that union with the Divine? Is it simply a physical need? Doubts regarding his religious beliefs bother him, and he starts asking himself more questions. Could sex bring him the balance that can be reached with the harmonious union of the sexes? Could it bring him closer to God? In Tel Aviv he meets Natasha at a book store. Saúl had been in love with her when he was a teenager. At that time they never had any intimacy and instead, after six years of friendship and not even a kiss, he gave up on Natasha and slept with her twin sister Marisa: “y disfrutó de aquella perversa venganza genética” (50). Now, more than twenty years later, Natasha meets Saúl in Tel Aviv and they go out on a date. He avoids telling her that he is a widower now, since he considers it “una debilidad” (51). The loss of his wife places him in a vulnerable position. He is aware of his emotional needs, which are more painful than his physical desire. His loneliness is what makes him suffer the most. The date with Natasha doesn’t end as he could have hoped. In the house that she shares with a younger room-mate --who is not her boyfriend she clarifies-- they talk about politics, and in her bedroom she asks if he wants to smoke some pot. Being forty-three years old, that seems to Saúl an absurd. He takes a cab and returns to the hostel with a thought in his mind: “El adolescente que fui […] nunca me perdonará no haber aprovechado esta oportunidad” (54). Physical satisfaction is not the only thing that Saúl is looking for. At this stage of his life he needs the sexual relation to also fulfill a need in his soul. Natasha can’t give him that.

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Some episodes in the novel show just how Argentinean Saúl is. In an Israeli bookstore the narrator describes Saúl as: “[…] un discreto comerciante con local de ropa en el Once, adepto al country, que sólo leía los diarios, las revistas de actualidad y los best sellers, se sorprendió en la librería disfrutando de cualquier título en castellano […]. Decidió volcarse a la historia de Israel” (48). Saúl looks for books in Spanish, his native language. We could say that he is homesick after a few days in this far away land of ancient history; after all, Argentina is his country. He spends a little while reading the covers of books and decides to buy something: “Compró un par de libros en castellano sobre las guerras árabe-israelíes, un par de breves atlas de la historia judía y un Diccionario del sionismo” (48). Saúl himself is surprised by his choice (48). As a perfectly assimilated Jew in Argentina, the trip to Israel brings him closer to a culture, a religion and a reality that he never much considered. As a matter of fact, these encounters prove to be fundamental steps to help him discover who he really is. Saúl enjoys his traveling and at a certain moment he realizes that he misses his country: “Había visitado el país con una intensidad superior a la de sus viajes anteriores, y la idea de regresar a su casa lo ponía de buen humor” (55). He remembers his neighborhood after eating baklavas in Tel Aviv. The narrator comments: “Le gustaban más las baklavas de la confitería turca en Tucumán y Paso, en Buenos Aires” (56). The surreal incident that happened to Saúl and Bea in Cuba only strengthens his feelings for daily life in Argentina. On the airplane, as he enjoys the ice cream served by the flight attendant, Saúl looks through the window and feels nostalgic for home: “Vivir en barrio Norte, trabajar en el Once e ir al country los fines de semana: si hay un paraíso, no puede ser muy distinto’, reflexionó algo mareado por la alegría del regreso y por los extraños cambios en el fluir de la sangre cuando el avión emprende el descenso” (109). Saúl’s argentinidad is seen in the way he thinks and remembers his country. Israel is a meaningful place for him, the land of his people, but he was born in Argentina, and his love for his country is not changed by travel. Birmajer explains the relationship that Jews have with Argentina: Los judíos argentinos tienen un contacto con Argentina más profundo que pueda tener un judío italiano con Italia, o un judío francés con Francia, o un judío brasilero con Brasil. Yo pienso que porque básicamente es un país de inmigrantes, un país en sus origines muy desorganizado, y que dio la posibilidad de que cada identidad que llegaba pudiera mantener sus tradiciones sin entrar en contradicción con las tradiciones propias del país.

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Y porque Argentina tiene componentes europeos y norteamericanos que hacen que se parezca más a una identidad diversa como la judía, hay mucha posibilidad de diversidad.63 In one of our interviews the author discussed a previous question whether Saúl felt more Jewish or more Argentinean. Birmajer said that Saúl reflected his own feeling: He felt one hundred percent Argentinean and one hundred percent Jewish. This is what he replied: Yo diría que aunque siendo cien por ciento argentino y cien por ciento judío, me siento también incómodo en Argentina y me siento incómodo en Israel. Yo diría que me siento incómodo de la raza humana, es decir, hay una incomodidad básica, por el hecho de preguntarse cuál es la manera de ser bueno, preguntarse cuál es la comodidad, preguntarse cual es la propia identidad, que hace que uno se sienta incómodo en todas partes. Y lo que puedo elegir en todo caso es donde me sienta menos incómodo. Y definitivamente me siento menos incómodo en Israel y en Argentina que en el resto del mundo, lo cual no quiere decir que no me sienta incómodo. Y porque me siento incómodo en Israel por ejemplo, porque siento que les falta cierto cinismo o cierto doble sentido que tienen en Argentina, y porque me siento incómodo en Argentina porque los judíos son una minoría y nunca terminan de cuajar, pesa que sea una de las diásporas donde más se identifican nunca terminan de ser identificados. Entonces yo diría que los dos lugares donde más cómodo me siento son Israel y Argentina. Ahora dada la situación geopolítica del mundo yo creo que el único lugar donde un judío puede vivir seguro de que el estado va a hacer todo lo posible para que no muera como judío es Israel. Pero el resto del mundo no se puede, no hay una garantía, un cien por ciento de interés por los ciudadanos judíos por los otros ciudadanos, y eso se confirma diariamente.64 The second part of the book narrates a trip Saúl takes to Cuba nine years later with his girlfriend Bea. The author separates the narration of these two trips with a page where two short paragraphs explain that Saúl experienced a great revelation that originated on his trip to Cuba. The second paragraph justifies the interruption in the narrative. The trip to Cuba, he clarifies: “Es una trama larga y compleja, y justifica el haber narrado toda su anterior travesía por

63 Birmajer, Marcelo. Personal interview. 24 May 2004.

64 Marcelo Birmajer. Personal interview. 24 May 2004.

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Jerusalem y Tel Aviv, que sin el fin de la historia podría acaso parecer un simple relato turístico” (81). Despite the time that has elapsed between the two trips, they are fundamentally connected. The first one helped the reader learn who Saúl is and what his thoughts are. To fully understand the second story, it is imperative that the reader knew Saúl’s emotions, his feeling towards his dead wife, his character, his points of view about life, about death, about the orthodox Jews. The experience in Israel served to shape Saúl’s impressions and reinforce the conviction of the person he is. The doubts he had about his Jewishness are resolved as he comes in contact with the Jews in the yeshiva of his nephew Elías. Whether he had any doubts about being a good Jew or not, the trip to Israel serves to give him peace of mind: he learns that he is fine where he is. Saúl meets Bea, a woman a year younger than he, after the trip to Israel. She works for a Jewish television channel and is preparing a special program about people who have been in Israel recently. He feels immediately attracted to Bea’s breasts. At the same time she also looked “snob y exaltada” (82) and interviewed him: “con léxico de mala periodista, falsa” (83). Saúl doesn’t tell certain details of his trip; he omits the conversation with Ariel, the discussion about death that he had with the rabbi, his encounter with Meir and the young maid killed in the terrorist attack. These are memories he saves for himself, for they are too personal, too emotional. It takes three years for them to meet again, this time at a lunch party, where Bea seemed physically attractive even though he disliked some of her attitudes: “continuaba sobreactuando. Se reía de sus propios chistes y hablaba maravillas de libros que no había leído” (84). At the beginning of their relationship, Saúl can’t help but compare Berta and Bea. The dead wife continues to be a constant presence in Saúl’s life and Saúl still keeps some of his old habits of a widower: “cada tanto le gustaba ir solo a su country y recordar a Berta” (86). Bea and Saúl live apart, spending time in each other’s houses as they please. Berta is described twice as “bronceada” and Saúl thinks: “Le gustaba que fuera oscura, a diferencia de Berta, porque pensaba que era un regalo de Dios la variedad en el mundo” (86). The color of Bea’s skin suggests that she is a Sephardic Jew. The Ashkenazim, descendants of Poles, Russians, et al., are of lighter skin, but Bea’s skin color “a diferencia de Berta,” who was earlier described as having light skin, suggests that she could be of Sephardic origins (Turks, Moroccans, Syrians, et al.). After six years together, their relationship goes very well, and for Saúl’s fifty-second birthday, Bea invites him for a trip to Cuba. In the capital she has some friends, orthodox Jews

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whom she had met a few years back while working for her television program (87). Despite Saúl’s lack of interest in the orthodox Jews that he meets in Cuba, this experience ends up being the most intriguing and revealing of his life. At the party that Bea’s friends prepare for her in La Habana, Saúl comes in contact with a quiet rabbi standing in a corner of the room: Almelio Bechuk. Almelio is a character that needs special attention. He is the creator of a kabalistic miracle in Saúl’s life. At the party Almelio approaches Saúl and tries to engage in conversation. Soon he tells Saúl that he would like to leave the island and explains that he is not a rabbi accepted by the orthodoxy. Almelio describes to Saúl the kind of work he does: - No soy un rabino aceptado por la ortodoxia – dijo –. Si alguien me trae un problema: no lo consuelo, le doy la solución. ¡Convoco de verdad al Altísimo! A un enfermo intento curarlo. Yo paso la mano por la herida: ¿usted leyó en la Torá que se hable de doctores? ¿Cuándo hemos hablado los judíos de doctores? […] - Yo curo, o intento curar. Eso no se estudia. Puedo secar un árbol. Si alguien quiere irse de Cuba, lo hago invisible. (92) Almelio is a kabbalist; he knows the mysteries that are not open to everybody, but to just a few people. After Saúl asks him if Almelio dematerializes people, Almelio clarifies: “Sí: pago a los funcionarios migratorios para que no los vean. […] Soy un experto en sobornos” (92). Almelio is not only a mystic, but also an outlaw. He explains himself to Saúl: ‘why would I use the powers of the Almighty in matters that can be resolved with dollars?’ (92). He continues telling Saúl that he can materialize people, that is, bring them back to life. Saúl thinks that he refers to the belief of the orthodox that the dead will come back with the arrival of the Messiah. Almelio agrees “Eso es cierto” he says, nevertheless he can bring them back earlier and adds that in the island, only the blacks know the secret. He refers here to the practice of Santeria and other spiritist African religions. Saúl is curious and asks if anybody has ever asked him to bring back a dead person. Almelio replies that he never did such favors and that exposing his powers in Cuba would be suicide. He admits that the authorities are after him and he cannot flee the country the same way as he helped others to. He has money for blackmailing some people but that does not guarantee his safety: “la seguridad no se compra” (93). Almelio’s money comes from the rich wives of politicians who want him to read the Tarot cards and request other minor spells for different purposes. This quite ‘unsual’ rabbi makes Saúl ask him if he is really Jewish.

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Almelio’s face changes into an expression of disgust and looks truly offended. During the party Saúl loses track of Almelio, and he disappears. Back at their hotel, Saúl and Bea spend one more night in La Habana. Just before they turn off the light at night, Almelio Bechuk comes out from under the bed. In this surreal moment of surprise, Saúl can hardly believe what he sees and Bea screams in panic (97-98). Almelio needs their help since the police are after him and he has to leave the country. Almelio also reveals his real identity: “Me llamo Ovadía - dijo -. Soy de Sefarad. Ovadía Zambrano. En este país de herejes me vi obligado a cambiar de nombre” (100). Saúl allows him to spend the night in their hotel room, and a million thoughts race in his mind as he tries to remember the things they did that day, in order to try to figure out how Almelio could have gotten into the room. He can’t find an explanation. He finally answers a question that he had asked earlier in the narrative: ‘Finalmente, no existen los judíos naturalmente alegres’ […]. ‘Desde el principio tendría que haberme dado cuenta de que algo saldría mal.’ ‘¿Cómo un judío la va a pasar bien en un hotel resort? Dios nos llamó y nos entregó las Tablas de la Ley, una pesada tarea. Nos llamó a todos a la cima del monte, es una cuestión de tiempo el que yo no haya estado. Algún pariente mío estuvo. No podemos estar tranquilos.’ (102) Overwhelmed, Saúl firmly believes that the Jews cannot enjoy tranquility and happiness. A sense of bitterness is felt behind his words, certain anguish for the baggage that the Jewish people have carried throughout immemorial times. He simply accepts that there is no tranquility for him or the Jews in general. Something always has to come out wrong. Saúl allows Almelio to sleep in a chair in their bedroom that night. In the next morning they have to catch their flight to Argentina. Along the route from the hotel to the airport, Almelio discretely bribes several people and pretends to be traveling with them. Saúl and Almelio sit together in the airplane so as not to call the attention of the flight crew. Saúl is surprised again that Almelio didn’t smell bad. He had not seen Almelio wash himself in the morning. Almelio wants to pay Saúl for saving his life, risking his own life to cover Almelio’s escape out of Cuba. When the plane takes off, Almelio says that he can ask anything he wanted. He insists, offers him money, and Saúl doesn’t want anything. Suddenly Almelio whispers to Saúl: “- ¿Por qué no me pide que resucite a su esposa?” (109). Saúl has no idea how Almelio got

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that information but promises him that if he repeats what he just said, he will denounce Almelio to the crew and make sure he will return to Cuba in handcuffs (109). They remained silent for the rest of the trip. While they wait for their luggage at Ezeiza airport, they lose track of Almelio, whose only luggage was his carry-on luggage --full of money (109). The mystical moment of the narrative comes next. The trip to Cuba wears Saúl out, and he sees Bea a little less often. In the second weekend after their return from Cuba he goes to the country club to spend some time alone. He refuses invitations to play tennis and hardly speaks to friends. He spends a quiet weekend, swims in his own pool, and lies under the sun looking at the sky. On Sunday at eleven in the evening somebody rings the bell. Saúl opens the door and sees Berta. At first he forgets that she had died; he forgets his twelve years of pain, and then it dawns on him that it is really his dead wife standing before him. Saúl cries, hugs and kisses her. She looks more beautiful than ever, and he remembered the words of the rabbi in Jerusalem: “cuando llegue el Mesías, los cuerpos de los redivivos serán de mejor calidad” (113). He asks Berta if the Messiah has arrived and she says no: “Cuando llegue, todos regresaremos del paraíso. A mí me trajiste vos. ¿Cómo?” (113) He doesn’t know. And then he asks her how heaven is. Berta answers: “no es tan distinto” (113). She tells him that there are no buildings, no ground, no hunger, no thirst and that people have free will like they do on earth. He wants her to stay but she is only visiting and must return to heaven. The comic touch the author gives, since the two realms --heaven and earth-- are so similar, is that Berta, like Saúl, has somebody in the afterlife too. Hanson explains: “Kabbalah teaches that everything below has a counterpart above. The earthly reality is really just a reflection of the heavenly reality. It is the Hebraic equivalent of the ancient Greek concept, expounded by Plato, called mimesis. Things on the earth are but a copy of things in the realm of the ideal” (40). The title of the book is revealed to the reader, teaching a profound mystical truth. Weiner explains the same concept: “Kabbala […] teaches that everything in the world above has its analogue in the world below. That is why, say the kabbalists, the bible begins with the second letter of the Hebrew alphabet, beth, which is the equivalent of the number two – to teach us that God created everything on two levels” (13). The passionate topic of love after death, of the grieving for the dead wife appears in other works of Jewish literature and arts. Russian-Jewish painter Marc Chagall, after the loss of his first wife in 1945, “his beloved muse, his support and inspiration through thirty-five years,”

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deeply grieved her death for nine months during which he did not work at all. After that period, he started painting again, creating “tributes to his departed wife” (Kagan 72). The painting entitled “Around her” “depicts Bella weeping, leaning toward a scene of her native town presented to her by a floating acrobat. The artist appears at his easel at the lower left, his head inverted in a standard Chagall image of confusion, revery, or distress. At the upper right a bridal couple is embowered, as in so many of Chagall’s paintings. At the upper left a bird-angel carries a lighted candle, in memoriam” (Kagan 72). A few decades earlier, Sholyme Ansky, the pseudonym of Russian-Yiddish author Shloyme-Zanvl ben Aaron Hacohen Rappoport, incorporated elements of regional Jewish folklore into the stories he wrote about the life of peasants and Hasidism in his homeland.65 One of his most famous plays, which was adapted into a film in 1938, is called Tsvishn Tsvey Veltn, oder der Dibuk (1916) translated as The Dybbuk in 1926. The play’s main plot is the drama of a young yeshiva student named Khonon who suffers an injustice and cannot marry the daughter of a rich rabbi. In distress for seeing the impossibility of his love for Leah coming true, Khonon uses the mystical ways of the Kabbalah secrets to right the injustice suffered. Khonon dies. A dybbuk --a dead soul that takes possession of a living body-- possesses Leah’s body in the day of her wedding with another man. The dybbuk is Khonon, who through this mystical method finds a way of being with his bride forever. After being exorcized out of her body, he appears to her at the very end of the play and they march together to the spiritual realm. The dybbuk is a recurrent theme in Yiddish folklore and it became immortalized in this play that has been translated and presented in several different countries in the world. Berta’s visit to Saúl is a product of Almelio’s knowledge of the secrets of the Kabbalah. Her visit is a present offered by Almelio in gratitude to Saúl’s help in getting him out of Cuba. After all, Saúl is much closer to the mystic roots of his Jewish ancestors than he probably thinks.

65 Ansky was born in 1863 in a city called Vitebsk in Russia, the same birth place of Marc Chagall. He began his career among radical Russian populists and Socialist-Revolutionaries. Later he returned to his roots, to Yiddish and the Jews, his fellowman. He created the Jewish Ethnographic Expedition in 1912 that had a good group of scholars and young field-workers that went on expeditions to survey Jewish life. They collected several photographs, folktales, legends, folk songs, historical documents, manuscripts, sacred objects, etc. Ansky considered oral tradition as a real treasure. He died in 1920. For more information on Ansky’s life and his work, see David G. Roskies, introduction, The Dybbuk and Other Writings, by Ansky, S. trans. Golda Werman. ed. David G. Roskies. (New York: Schocken Books, 1992) xxiii.

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To return to the study of identity, we see that one of the most valuable aspects of the narrative are the impressions and stereotypes that Saúl himself, as a Jew, has of other Jewish people that he comes in contact with. Saúl’s impressions reveal that he has some preconceived ideas himself. In Israel his first encounter with another Jew is with a maid that his cousin sends to pick him up at the airport. The girl communicates with him using signs since she speaks almost no English and her knowledge of Spanish is even more limited. Saúl sees a sign with his name and approaches the girl: “[…] vio un cartel con su nombre. Lo portaba una chica rubia, con rasgos eslavos y muy fea. ‘No puede ser una polaca’, pensó Saúl, ‘con la pinta de inmigrante que tiene. Los polacos hace decenas de años que son nativos de este país.’” (14). The girl is probably one of the recent immigrants from Russia mentioned in the introduction. By the girls’ physical appearance Saúl deduces she is a recent immigrant. In previous trips to Israel Berta and Saúl avoided walking in the orthodox neighborhood of Mea Shearim in Jerusalem simply because they didn’t want to be bothered or told how to dress. Through signs placed in the area, the religious Jews of this section of town request visitors and tourists to be discreet in their clothing, especially the women. Berta and Saúl laughed at tourists who after strolling around, would return with negative comments about the intransigencies of the orthodox (18). However, what seemed “intransigence” in the past, this time brought tears to his eyes: “Era el mundo de los judíos europeos en el medio del desierto. Como un holograma del pequeño pueblo polaco donde había vivido su abuelo, reflejado en el medio de Jerusalem” (19). Saúl walks the streets of Mea Shearim and observes the children with their “largas trenzas tras sus orejas” and the adults that “caminaban apresuradamente y con miradas abstraídas.” That is when Saúl decides to buy a kippa because “lo incomodaba llevar la cabeza descubierta en un barrio donde sólo había judíos practicantes” (19). Throughout history clothing has been a sign of Jewishness and Judaism. The contact with the orthodox Jews that he had avoided is now inevitable, as he is on his way to the yeshiva where his nephew lives and studies. Even though Saúl is a secular Jew, he is not an atheist, but the orthodoxy of Judaism seems very far from his reality. Elías Bluman, Saúl’s nephew, is described as: “un muchacho medianamente gordo y afeitado, vestido con ropas religiosas modernas, algo elegante” (23) and after they spend sometime talking, “Elías era verdaderamente agradable y sabía comportarse con su recién conocido tío” (24). These thoughts reflect a preconceived notion that Saúl had, or maybe an

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expectation about his nephew. With “verdaderamente” he emphasizes what he didn’t believe an orthodox Jew could be: that Elías was pleasant and that he knew how to “behave” with his new uncle. On his first night sleeping in the yeshiva, the narrator comments that Elías’ roommates treat Saúl with extreme cordiality, “cordialidad sin rajaduras,” and are constantly asking him if he needs anything (33). At the end of the Shabbat that Saúl spends with his nephew, Saúl is approached by “un hombre de larga barba […]. Pero por la forma de caminar, la expresión y la falsa complicidad con que comenzó a hablarle, supo que no podía ser un personaje importante. Hablaba con acento cordobés y tenía aliento a gripe” (35). Saúl judges the man by the way he walks and the false complicity air of his words indicating that he cannot be somebody important; finally the man has a certain accent which could allude to whatever impressions --conscious or unconscious-- Saúl may have of people coming from that part of the world. Finally, the rabbi smells like “flu”(35). Natasha’s roommate is another character that comes in contact with Saúl. The young Jew, a drama student, is described as: “El muchacho, cinco años más joven que ellos […] era rosarino, usaba arito y corte de pelo a la moda. Hablaba de su participación en el teatro israelí como si no fuera un becado por el gobierno por ser inmigrante. Como la mayoría de los artistas subvencionados, hablaba mal del país” (53). Saúl hears in amazement the negative comments that Natasha and her roommate make about Israel. He thinks of the drama student: “Si no vivieras aquí, tendrías que lavar platos y no podrías ir al teatro ni como espectador, porque no te alcanzaría para la entrada. Es la primera vez en dos mil años que tu pueblo puede ayudarte a realizar tu vocación, y te hacés el vivo” (53). He compares the economic and social situation the student would have in Argentina with the one he has in Israel. As Natasha spills out some “stupidities” about politics, he cannot contain himself and says: “Sé que no tengo derecho a defender a Israel frente a ustedes, porque no vivo aquí. Pero definitivamente, ustedes, que no podrían vivir tan bien en ningún otro lado, no tienen derecho a hablar tan mal” (53). Natasha and her roommate represent two Jews who made aliah and who complain about their situation in Israel. They don’t recognize that they would have many more difficulties in Argentina. Saúl, a conscientious man, is ready to point out these differences. Another unexpected encounter is the one with Yoki Benamí, a sexagenarian, almost toothless Argentinean-Jew from the Once who three years before had fled Buenos Aires to Israel escaping some serious trouble he had got himself into. Apparently --and the narrator tells the

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rumors and gossips that Saúl heard back home-- Yoki owed some money to Iosi, a business man who sold him material to his store. Iosi’s daughter, Sofia, and Yoki’s son were in love and Yoki saw this as a good opportunity to resolve the debt. When wedding preparations are under way, Iosi discovers that Yoki is molesting his daughter; he punches him in the face (that is how he loses his teeth) and Yoki runs away, leaving behind his business and family. Yoki is described as a repulsive figure; his greasy face, his scarce gray hair, his blemished nose, all contribute to the negative impression the reader forms of him. Rosa, the woman who accompanies Yoki, doesn’t seem much better, morally or physically. As other events take place, Yoki Benamí is described as repulsive for his moral weakness, his physical decay and his deplorable behavior, all of which clearly contrast with Saúl. People are different, no matter if they are Jewish or not. His last encounter is with his cousin Meir, who is carefully described by the narrator: “Meir era un hombre entrado en los cincuenta, con una barba blanca pegada a la cara, el pelo canoso despeinado, una quipá abrochada al pelo; endurecido, tosco. Parecía un fruto humano de esa tierra” (77). This distant cousin that Saúl had never met in person speaks Spanish badly; and even though he is neither cordial nor warm, Saúl can feel his hidden sincere affection inspired by their kinship. The narrator continues his description: “Llevaba una mueca de antiguo desgano, una campera verde y una escopeta colgada del hombro. / Meir, como muchos hombres que se autoabastecen plenamente, alardeaba discretamente de cada paso: la quipá era el discreto alarde de su judaísmo” (78). Saúl thinks that Meir discretely shows off his Jewishness and his Judaism through his manners. Maybe Meir wanted in some way to show this distant cousin from the Diaspora something that Saúl didn’t have, as if he was missing something. Nine years after his trip to Israel, Saúl still has a bitter taste in his mouth left from the upsetting conversations he had with some of the religious students and rabbis at his nephew’s yeshiva. He didn’t want to spoil his vacation in Cuba with visiting rabbis. Bea assures him that due to their Caribbean attitude they were friendly and fun, and were more interested in getting to know the Judaism of their visitors than in teaching theirs (88). These orthodox Cuban Jews are in fact influenced by the tropical relaxed Caribbean atmosphere. Saúl doesn’t feel very confident and says: “- Cuando vea un judío naturalmente alegre […] lo habré visto todo” (88). But for Saúl’s surprise the rabbi they meet has a “tono carnavalesco” (88). Rabbi Eliezer Gutman invites them in and with a few phone calls quickly organizes a big get together in Bea’s honor for that same afternoon. The rabbi’s wife brings them cold pineapple juice and is described wearing

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“ropas frescas y un pañuelo de colores en la cabeza” (88). This group of orthodox Jews reflects the Caribbean influence and seems more relaxed. As Saúl meets Almelio Bechuk in the party, an orthodox Jew in Cuba, his first thought is: “[…] se sorprendió, y se alegró, de que no oliera mal” (91). Saúl’s thought implies his own preconceived impressions. Almelio is descibred as follows: “No hablaba ni se integraba de modo alguno a la reunión; un rabino, también. Era achaparrado y con una barba gigantesca, desprolija, tal vez sucía. / Vestía ropas negras de invierno que, aunque propias de los ortodoxos, en su caso podían ser también las de un vagabundo” (91). Almelio instills some sort of repulsion in Saúl. Almelio offers his hand to greet Saúl, and Saúl has no way to escape: “Saúl la aceptó porque no le quedaba más remedio: era una mano apergaminada, sin vida, como un trapo reseco” (92). All these encounters show the different impressions that Saúl experiences as he comes in contact with different Jews in Israel and Cuba. His impressions are not wrong nor are they right; they simply reflect the great diversity of Jewish people as well as the preconceived ideas that one single person may have about others. To an outsider, a non-Jewish person, all these people would most probably seem very similar. These several examples of Jews reflect in a small scale a large variety of Jewish people: the orthodox student, the immigrant maid, the Israeli soldier who guards the frontier, the repulsive swindler, the idle aspiring actor, the feeble-minded journalist, the stable business man of the Once, the surreal kabbalist rabbi, et al.

Conclusions

Saúl is consciously secular, he does not practice any religion, and is not interested in changing. When he meets Ariel, the religious Jew who bothers him with questions about his own Jewishness and his religious beliefs, Saúl feels bothered. Ariel’s questions make perfect sense for a religious Jew, but Saúl has his own view and gives convincing answers. Ariel asks why Saúl doesn’t do tchuvá: “Tchuvá, arrepentimiento. […] Volver al camino de la Torá”.66

66 I want to add a comment to further explain the concept of tshuvah. In Herbert Weiner’s book I found: “Hence the importance of Judaism’s call to tshuvah, often mistakenly translated as repentance, but which really means return – the return of one’s essential self, that has been covered over by neglect, sin, or habit. This is what Rabbi Nachman of Bratzlav meant when he said, ‘It is forbidden to be old’” (269).

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Saúl feels intruded, violated by an individual who enquires about his personal life. Ariel doesn’t seem convinced and continues saying that the loss of a loved one is a good moment to look for emuná or truth. And he adds: “– ¿A veces no siente que está tirando su vida a la basura? […] Porque no seguís Torá” (36-37). Saúl finds Ariel an aggressive intruder asking personal questions, trying to convince him of something that he doesn’t believe; nevertheless he continues to talk to Ariel with cordiality. Ariel continues with all sorts of arguments: how can he be morally good if he doesn’t respect “Ashem”? Why he doesn’t follow the Torah; he doesn’t eat kosher; he doesn’t respect the Shabbat; did he want Judaism to disappear from the face of the earth? One day he would realize that he had wasted his life (38). Ariel’s questions infuriate Saúl. Not only is Ariel inconvenient but the intention of convincing Saúl is disturbing. As the conversation is about to end, Saúl explains: “A mí jamás se me ocurriría juzgar su modo de vida. Salvo que cometa usted una acción moralmente reprobable, me parece perfecto que viva como quiera” (38). Saúl appreciates having the freedom to think and act the way he believes is correct, and accepts that other people have the same right, no matter their beliefs. The only thing he objects is somebody committing an act that is morally wrong; just the same way that he cannot accept that the casualties of a terrorist attack are due to a divine cause. On the day of his departure his nephew cannot be present at the last meal of the Shabbat. Saúl sits with an Argentinean student, who shares the room with Elías. The boy also asks him why he doesn’t stay at the yeshiva studying for a few months, to which Saúl replies: “Si me quedara, ¿de qué hablaríamos la próxima vez que nos viéramos?” (39). From Saúl’s point of view, his contact with the students would not change much if he became a student himself. He would still be the same person. A rabbi sitting nearby overhears the conversation and ironically says to the student that he has nothing to learn from Saúl. Saúl stands up to leave, and the rabbi smile, saying that it was just a joke. The rabbi’s comment clearly showed his disdain for Saúl’s choice. Saúl smiles and remains polite. No matter how much those people bothered him they would not make him contradict one of his main credos: to be cordial and kind to strangers, no matter what (40). The initial kindness and courtesy of Elías, the rabbis and the students at the yeshiva, turn into intransigence, discourtesy and even irony when they learn of Saúl’s firm belief: he doesn’t need to behave like them to be a good Jew; he doesn’t need to become an orthodox Jew to feel better in his life. Saúl is confident of his position and beliefs, and in turn, he feels comfortable and is understandable enough not to insult them back. The reader can

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accept both sides; the orthodox and the secular, for both are correct in light of their beliefs. There is no good Jew or bad Jew. There is no better Jew. They are all Jews with different beliefs and points of view. Before Saúl leaves the yeshiva one last rabbi asks him the question that Saúl dreads the most. The dialogue goes like this: “- ¿Piensa convertirse en un judío? – preguntó Lipzki. / - Si me convirtiera – dijo Saúl – tendría que ser a otra fe; judío ya soy. / - Los judíos debemos cuidar nuestra alma – dijo Lipzki -. Es un alma de gran calidad. Cumpliendo mitztvot, ganamos terreno en el Más Allá” (74-75). As he listens with a mixture of fear and irony, rabbi Lipzki explains that the souls of the dead will resurrect with the arrival of the Messiah. Saúl realizes that he had not escaped unharmed --days before, when Ariel had bothered him asking if he didn’t feel like he was throwing his life in the garbage-- from that moment on something in that question had troubled him more than the mere interference in his personal life: “La pregunta por su vida, en última instancia, lo había inquietado. / ¿Y si había un sólo modo de ser bueno? ¿Y si estaba traicionando a su pueblo, viviendo sin quipá y sin kosher sólo porque los romanos habían vencido a los judíos siglos atrás?” (75) But the rabbi’s beliefs on how the bodies would be resurrected and his uncertainty about how these events will happen are enough to show him that he cannot share any thoughts with Lipzki, the absurdity of that belief is enough to keep Saúl away from orthodoxy. The last stroll Saúl takes in Jerusalem is described in detail by the narrator as Saúl walks through steep streets in the Mea Shearim neighborhood. The rocky hillside seemed to him like a straight way to heaven. Saúl exclaims to himself: “¡Qué pesada era esa subida!” When he finally reaches the end of it, he can hardly breath; “Casi no le quedaba aire” (77). The physical feeling is similar to what he feels mentally and emotionally. The customs and the mentality of the orthodox Jews suffocate Saúl. The people are tiresome, the walk uphill exhausting; he has had enough. This suggests that maybe the way to heaven is not easy. Maybe it’s not for everyone. Nine years later, in Cuba, he still resents the orthodox rabbis, and has a bitter memory of the contact he had with them. He is surprised by the relaxed air of the Jews he meets in Cuba. In this passage the reader realizes that Saúl doesn’t know all the precepts of Judaism: “Saúl no conocía bien el precepto, pero le parecía haber escuchado que la ley judía prohibía historias en

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imagines” (90). He is not sure: all his knowledge of Judaism is superficial, not because he is bad, but simply because he is not interested; he doesn’t need to learn. The final episode in the novel concerns the day after Berta’s visit. It is a Monday morning and Saúl has to travel back to Buenos Aires. He would normally take the van service provided by the country club to travel to the capital. It was in one of those vans that Berta had died in an accident. This morning he decides to call a cab that would leave sooner. The cab arrives, he jumps in and they depart. Immersed in his thoughts of Berta he doesn’t pay much attention to the driver or to the heavy traffic that holds them up nearby a Jewish country club. Suddenly the driver makes an anti-Semitic comment referring to the people coming out of the Jewish country club and causing the heavy traffic. Saúl’s country club wasn’t defined by its population --it had gentiles and Jews-- but this one had a Hebrew name and at that time a lot of cars were departing the country club after the weekend. The taxi driver had no way of knowing whether Saúl was Jewish or not. Saúl is perplexed and angry as the driver continues with more insulting comments against the Jews. He makes a decision: “Tomaría por la nuca al remisero y le oprimiría violentamente el rostro contra el volante. Juntos se estrellarían contra un árbol, o contra un poste telefónico. Ambos perderían la vida. Saúl vería a Berta. O acaso dejaría de sufrir” (118/119). They stop in a gas station and in the brief moments that Saúl waits for the driver while he fills up the tank of the car and has a drink at the bar, Saúl is surprised to see the van from the country club parked in the same gas station. That would remain an enigma for the rest of his life: the van wasn’t supposed to leave until much later. How could it be there already? He tried to figure things out: maybe during the time his cab was stuck in traffic, the van took a different route and avoided the traffic in which they had been stopped and was able to catch up with them. At the same time Saúl knew that they had been stuck in traffic for maybe fifteen minutes. It didn’t make any sense. He looked at the van and recognized the passengers traveling in it. He reflects on that moment of his life. He decides to leave the cab and board the van. He greets the four passengers and sits at the back, next to a ten year-old-boy, the son of a family he knew. The boy brings back a memory of when he was a child himself. Sometime later he arrives at his destination and Bea waits, more beautiful than ever. Saúl makes a meaningful choice. He leaves behind the anti-Semitic taxi driver with his rude anti-Semitic comments, which infuriated and offended him deeply. He leaves behind his

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thoughts of killing the driver. He leaves behind death. Instead, he chooses life when, in a mysterious way, the van where he normally travels parks at the same gas station. He chooses to live. He joins the other Jewish passengers in the van and sits next to a little boy. The freedom of choice gives Saúl new life. He feels that the air in the street is different: “le pareció que el aire de la calle era distinto” (121). Saúl is ready to start life again. Throughout my research I have read in several instances that the “Jew is always conscious of his/her relationship with God.” It seems that the question that bothers Saúl the most is: “¿Y si había un sólo modo de ser bueno? ¿Y si estaba traicionando a su pueblo, viviendo sin quipá y sin kosher […]” (75). Saúl doesn’t practice Judaism but is concerned about his relationship with God, and that is a fundamental aspect of Jewish identity. He may not clearly admit his worries, but the question remains in the back of his mind. The religious and philosophical doubts are related to the identity quest. This theme is colored by the meaningful encounters that Saúl has with other Jews in his trips to Israel and Cuba. He tries to keep orthodoxy away from him since its precepts are too strict and distant from his own way of being. Despite his best efforts the intrusion of orthodoxy is inevitable. In Cuba, the orthodox rabbis seem to be more influenced by the Caribbean atmosphere; they have a party with music and food, and are not interested in Saúl or Bea’s Judaism. But there too, Saúl cannot leave unharmed. He meets the kabbalist Almelio, who brings Berta from the spiritual world in an inexplicable way. The novel could fit into the category of Latin American magic realism where the dead communicate with the living in a normal accepted fashion. Nevertheless after we take a look at Judaic mysticism and into Jewish literature, we know that the topic has been present from ancient times and we cannot look at it as magic realism. Saúl tries to preserve what he is, but he is inevitably affected by the surrounding events of his life, including the death of his wife and everything that comes after. His traveling to Israel is an indication of his need to define who he is, to find answers, to understand the questions he hadn’t bothered to clarify until then. His origins are reinforced. The constant presence of Judaism and its teachings along his path culminate in giving him a deep understanding and acceptance of his life, of his pain and of his raison d’être. The teachings of Judaism and the Kabbalah reveal the secrets that are hidden in the narrative. Besides Saúl’s quest for understanding himself, the novel depicts several different individuals who are Jews in their own way.

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No matter how assimilated a Jewish individual may be, he will carry the memory of his ancestors in his soul, in his being, and he will believe and act, even unconsciously, relating to beliefs and behaviors that are transferred to him across generations. Just like the way we walk or the color of our hair, identity too, is partly inherited. There is no discussion that Saúl is a Jew, a good one from his point of view. He has noble feelings for the country of his people: “[…] muchas veces creía en Dios, y aquella noche le pidió al Creador que defendiera por siempre aquel país hermoso que los judíos habían construido a despecho de la tragedia” (41). He is deeply moved by the terrorist attack that takes place while he is there. Nevertheless Saúl is profoundly Argentinean. He loves his country, the life of Buenos Aires, the life in the Once, the neighborhood where he has his business, the country where he met the women he loved; he loves the city life with its noises and its lights; he loves the mundane of life, he loves women, he loves sex and he loves the freedom of being able to choose what he wants to be and to believe. Aren’t there many Jews just like Saúl? Yes. Aren’t there many who are extremely different? Yes. What are the differences among them? The author succeeds in showing some of the extremes of this rainbow and some of the shades along it. The different characters depicted along the novel reflect real individuals who exist everywhere in the Diaspora and in Israel. No one is better than the other. They all represent different truths that are valid according to the needs of each group. The author succeeds in creating a protagonist who is so plainly human that his truth, the pure truth of his identity, shines without conflict. Saúl has no problem being who he is or being from where he is from; his soul has room enough for his Jewishness and for his argentinidad. The author succeeds in presenting the contrasts among individuals of different environments where a number of different Jews are displayed with their beauty and their idiosyncrasies. The contrasts only prove that all of them are good examples of the diversity among Jews in Israel and outside it. The differences presented reflect not only how they are viewed by others, but also how they are interpreted and how they feel. An important element the novel lacks is the presence of non-Jewish characters. It would have been interesting if the author had explored the relationship with non-Jews in the narrative, and developed episodes with meaningful contacts between Jews and gentiles. The only non-Jew that appears in the novel is the anti-Semitic driver. The absence of non-Jews in the universe of the protagonist could suggest some type of alienation, a certain withdrawing or separation, which could be --not necessarily-- a conscious act from the part of the writer. This alienation could be

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interpreted as a self-protection tool. Since the only gentile is an anti-Semite, it leaves us thinking whether anti-Semitism is very present in Argentinean society and if Jews there avoid contact with non-Jews, living in their own Jewish circles to avoid harassment of any kinds. The contact with gentiles could bring another dimension to the narrative on how the Jews of Buenos Aires relate to them, maybe with some more positive outcomes. In the next two novels that I will examine I intend to observe the differences and similarities among the characters of the novels studied. The three novels depict different moments in the twentieth century and take place in different countries of the southern cone which differ in their social environment. In No tan distinto, Saúl is a stable mature Argentinean man who looks for answers after he suffered the loss of his wife. Perfumes de Cartago is predominantly the story of Jewish women who arrive in Uruguay in the 1920’s. These women don’t question their identity. In those hard times they struggle to survive and keep their families together. Other issues are at stake such as prostitution and exploitation. They need to fulfill their primary needs before they have time to question who they are. O Terceiro Testamento offers a protagonist who is much younger than Saúl, living in the seventies in Rio de Janeiro. He questions his Jewishness in Brazil but in lighter, relaxed way. He doesn’t belong to the first generations of immigrants --like the women in Perfumes-- so he doesn’t suffer the same hardships and he is not tormented by pain like Saúl is. The question of Jewish identity is a complex one to define, but these novels have shown that there are several ways of looking at it.

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Chapter 2

UNDERSTANDING WHO WE ARE: O TERCEIRO TESTAMENTO BY FRANCISCO DZIALOVSKY

“I have no separate corner in my heart for the ghetto: I feel at home in the entire world wherever there are clouds and birds and human tears.” 67 Rosa Luxemburg

In a conversation with author Francisco Dzialovsky in Rio de Janeiro, we discussed the notion of mimesis. He observed that: A literatura não é apenas um reflexo da realidade, ela é uma outra realidade. Há coisas que só doem na vida real, mas há coisas que só doem na literatura. Há sentimentos que aparecem só quando a gente lê. Assim, uma das grandes funções da literatura é despertar novos sentimentos. Outra é reavivar velhos sentimentos. Estou sempre falando no ato de ler e não no ato de escrever. Acho o ato de ler tão criativo quanto o de escrever. E eu já ia dizer que ser judeu para mim é só uma experiencia literária. Só uma experiencia literária? Mas literatura é tudo. O fato é que lendo me sinto mais humano, logo me sinto mais judeu, cristão, budista, brasileiro, palestino, alemão... As Dizialovsky expresses so eloquently, one of the greatest functions of literature is to awaken new feelings. And, in this process, the act of reading is as creative as the act of writing. When one reads a novel, the atmosphere alone can foster expectations in the reader. The location, the time, and the different characters, awaken in us surprising reactions. Literature is not only a reflection of reality, it is a meta language, an(other) reality; it is what makes us feel more human and allows us to imagine and feel what it is like to experience another reality first-hand. This chapter examines aspects of assimilation, integration, Jewish tradition and culture represented by the narrator of Dzialovsky’s novel. I will use the definitions proposed by Milton

67 From Rosa Luxemburg’s “No Room in My Heart for Jewish Suffering” in Paul R. Mendes-Florh and Jehuda Reinharz, The Jew in the Modern World, A Documentary History (New York: Oxford U P, 1980) 225.

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Gordon, who discusses acculturation, structural assimilation, fusion, or amalgamation. These terms refer to three phases of the process, starting from cultural/behavioral assimilation, indicated by the modification of cultural patterns and symbols by subordinate group members until the total loss of their previous identity makes them virtually indistinguishable from members of the society at large (28). This novel is different from No tan distinto and Perfumes de Cartago because the author consciously and directly refers to subjects of assimilation and identity. In the other novels, the characters address these issues in a more indirect manner, through their thoughts and daily struggles. The author consciously analyzes himself and the Jews around him --family and friends-- and talks about the situation of Jews in Brazil with an intention of understanding who they are. The often comic tone employed by the author seems to suggest that the task is not an easy one and the end of the novel turns the whole identity search into humorous satire. O Terceiro Testamento is narrated by a nameless protagonist --a boy living in Rio de Janeiro. The boy and his six sisters are the children of a Jewish couple from Poland, Holocaust survivors who have concentration camp numbers tattooed on their arms. The parents speak little about their experience, and the Holocaust remains an invisible ghost in their lives. In one passage, at the dinner table, the mother explains that they survived thanks to Divine mercy: “O que você quer é saber como eu e o seu pai sobrevivemos durante a guerra. Pois fique sabendo que sobrevivemos às piores situações graças à misericórida divina. E estamos aqui graças ao Todo Poderoso, em paz e com saúde” (31). Dzialovsky explains that he found inspiration in his own life and family. Thus, the main protagonist of the novel possesses characteristics that resemble the author’s life. Moreover, many events in the book are based on Dzialovsky’s experiences. The nameless protagonist epitomizes the assimilated Jew of any time or place who lives in the cultured space between the differences of his parents’ origins and the culture of his native land. Our character, who is growing up in Latin America, sees the culture of his foreign parents dying slowly in favor of the urgent needs that fall upon all the immigrants who go to strange lands looking for survival. The narrator’s six sisters --characters who are not highly developed or explored by the author-- remain in the background, alluding to the six million Jews who perished in the concentration camps before the silence of the rest of the world. The large number of siblings also indicates the desire to continue, to persist, and to survive in spite of persecution, and all the struggles of adaptation to a

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new country. The story takes place between the 1960s and 1970s. We also notice that the protagonist is sometimes a child, sometimes a teenager and sometimes an adult. He grows older as the narrative develops, but no dates are specified. “To assimilate,” explains Terrence E. Cook, “is to ‘make similar’” (62). The main protagonist of this novel sees himself just like any other Brazilian: he is “very similar” to the dominant culture and makes no references to the lack of acceptance he experiences from non-Jews. Nevertheless, he argues that immigrants pay a high price for assimilation in that as they gain freedom and access to better opportunities, they lose the richness of their cultural baggage (54). The narrator goes on to say that people today are a product of their time and that it is fundamental to study the tradition and culture of their community because learning about the tradition and culture of one’s ancestors helps the individual to understand himself/herself better. Aspects of assimilation, integration and interaction are discussed by the main protagonist’s best friends, Simão and Rafael, two elderly Jews who live in a nursing home, whom the young boy visits often. It is with these two men that the boy has some of his most meaningful conversations. Like the two men in Porzecanski’s novel, Carmona and Berro, Simão and Rafael also represent binary opposites. However, these two, less picaresque than the Uruguayan Jews depicted by Porzecanski, are described as: “Simão, o místico, vivia em solidão, tinha por companheiro o silêncio, raramente conversava e nunca recebeu visita de parentes. [...] Quando rompia seu silêncio, encantava” (24). Rafael, the opposite of Simão, “o político, bom conversador, vivia no meio do povo, conhecia as pessoas às centenas e para cada um tinha uma história” (24). These two opposite friends complement each other: “Simão amava os livros, os prazeres do espírito. Rafael as mulheres, os prazeres do mercado” (24). Simão, Rafael, and the narrator talk about Jewish culture, present and past, and the losses that accompany the life of the immigrants. When they discuss the question of assimilation, Simão comments that, in their quest to receive fair treatment, immigrants go to strange lands to “construir, trabalhar e realizar seu sonho de um mundo melhor, têm como prêmio o rápido desaparecimento de sua herança cultural, de suas tradições” (56). He explains that he does not defend impossible barriers whereby people hate each other for their differences, but defends dialogue, a dialogue made of contrasts, of nuances, of different tones, among different groups. He fears the day we reach absolute agreement --that would be anti-natural, not human: we would be simple robots. The ideal, says Simão, “é a interação e não a integração”

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(56). Simão suggests interaction and not integration, which would give immigrants the possibility of relating to the dominant society, but also the chance of perpetuating their ethnic- cultural uniqueness. According to Dzialovsky: “Integrar é ser mais um no meio de todos, sendo igual a todos. Interação seria manter a identidade própria, fazendo parte da grande sociedade; estar no geral mantendo a particularidade.” Diana Wang, a psychoanalyst and writer from Argentina wrote about the question of assimilation for the Jewish people: El tema de la asimilación es viejo en el mundo judío. Apareció a lo largo de nuestra historia siempre que nuestro pueblo vivía en un sistema apacible, sin peligros a la vista. La asimilación significó para muchos el peligro larvado de la desaparición de lo judío; para otros, era la lógica consecuencia de la convivencia armónica pacífica. En este momento, si bien hay judíos que pretenden vivir asimiladamente, es decir, sin reconocer su identidad judía, hay otros que pretendemos vivir en nuestros medios con esta multiplicidad identificatoria, con la comunidad en la que vivimos y con lo judío, esa otra comunidad que llevamos dentro. 68 To help us understand Wang’s worlds, a closer explanation of the origins of the term assimilation is helpful. Philip Gleason explains that assimilation and pluralism are used to designate two different concepts. The term assimilation emerged around 1900 “in the context of concern over the nation’s capacity to absorb the millions of immigrants who were pouring into the country and referred in the broadest sense to the blending of different elements into one people” (49).69 The term was used interchangeably with “Americanization.” It was the production of a play in 1908, entitled The Melting Pot by Israel Zangwill, an English Jew that gave a very clear picture of these ideas, and became popular as a symbol for the process of assimilation. Intermarriage was also linked with assimilation, but it was different from amalgamation, which refers to biological mixing (Gleason 50). Gleason comments that while assimilation was “an elastic term that could accommodate a wide variation of interpretations, it became more closely identified with a narrow nativistic insistence that immigrants had to conform themselves closely to the prevailing

68 The daughter of Holocaust survivors, Diana Wang was born in Poland in 1945. Among the several projects that she has worked on, she coordinates the group Niños de la Shoá (Children of the Shoah) in Argentina together with Graciela Jinich, who produced the documentary, Those Children. She is the author of the books: The Silence of the Appeared, Of Therapies and People with Musia Auspitz, and For a Daisy.

69 The author refers to the United States.

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American norms before they could be considered satisfactorily assimilated” (50). I suppose the process of assimilation can be different in different societies, not necessarily following the American pattern. I tend to believe, however, that it may be very similar everywhere, because of the stress and struggle suffered by the first generation immigrants who are obligated --for the sake of their survival in the new country-- to change their habits, learn the new language, and leave behind their home country with all the meaningful aspects of their origins and identity. The danger is the malleability inherent in Gleason’s “elastic term” since “assimilation,” with its multiple interpretations and uses, has become one of those words applied by different people to whatever meaning makes more sense to them. Wang clearly explains that for the Jewish people in different places and epochs, assimilation was a natural process whenever the Jews were living comfortably in societies that did not pose any sort of threat. It was a natural consequence of a peaceful relationship with the host country. For others, however, assimilation represented a process that resulted in the disappearance of the Jewish people. Finally, at this moment of history, Wang concludes by saying that while some assimilated Jews live disconnected from their Jewishness, others live peacefully with their multifaceted identity, in contact with their gentile society and with the “portable” Jewish community that they carry inside. Dzialovsky proposes through Rafael that the ideal for the immigrant would be to interact with others without losing the particularities of his/her identity. Is this what Wang talks about when she refers to the “portable” Jewish community carried within the individual? Although they represent similar proposals, it seems that these notions are dependent upon the degree of religiosity of the individual. More specifically, the term interaction is not appropriate when considering non-religious Jews. I tend to believe that as time passes and immigrants adapt more fully to the local culture, and as their children and grandchildren grow, interaction becomes assimilation. Socially speaking (in the case of Brazil for instance) these individuals not only interact with gentiles, but they seem truly assimilated. Henrique Rattner refers to this process when he discusses the new generations in Sao Paulo: “As novas gerações de judeus paulistanos, aqui nascidos e educados, estão perfeitamente adaptados à sociedade ambiente e nela integrados, não sendo possível distinguí-los de seus pares não-judeus, por seus modos de vertir-se, falar, agir ou comportar-se nas diferentes situações socias” (132). The levels of assimilation vary according to the individual immigrant. In the case of the assimilated Jews, Jewishness is carried

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inside with different degrees of religiosity, tradition and culture that seem appropriate to the individual’s needs. Dzialovsky’s use of the term interaction is more suitable for orthodox religious Jews since the strict rules and rituals they follow in their everyday life differ from those of gentile society. Not only do they have to interact with others in business and social situations, but they practice their religion, dress code and other behavior that reflects their traditions; and whereas they have to interact with others, they maintain the traditional cultural behavior of their particularities.

Jews in the World

“Two Jews meet in Nepal. One asks the other, ‘What are you doing here, so far away…?’ And the other one says, ‘Far from where?’” (Krinsky, J. Goldemberg)70

Dzialovsky’s narrative is composed by the presence of myriad characters that constitute the fictional universe where these Jewish characters dwell in Rio. The author mentions names of people who live in the neighborhood, people he sees every day, those who work nearby as well as those from ancient history, biblical times, and from other places and times. These characters appear briefly without major roles and at other times with greater participation. Some compose the collectiveness of this unnamed district of Rio, while others are part of universal history. Similar to Camilo José Cela’s Spanish post-war novel La colmena, which presents over two hundred characters from Madrid’s society, the author of O Terceiro Testamento presents characters with no major development along with those who have greater participation and play more important roles. The thought of the “colmena,” or “beehive,” suggests a busy society, an apparent state of chaos and confusion, of activity and movement that could be applied to any

70 A play written in 1977 by Argentinean playwright Jorge Goldenberg when he was in exile. The play was presented for the first time in 1986. Krinsky is the main protagonist, a Russian Jew in Argentina, who depicts the many struggles and suffering of the lonely and emotionally wounded Jew that has to deal with memories and ghosts of the past. The character was inspired in a real person that Goldenberg met as a child.

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cosmopolitan location.71 The narrator/protagonist is present during the entire narrative as he tells the everyday stories of the people in his Carioca72 neighborhood. The text is flexible and agile, conjuring a combination of historical events from biblical parables to modern political conflicts, from medieval tales to contemporary news, from problems of gender to questions of identity, from Lilith to Oxalá, from “barmitsvah” to “futebol carioca.” This sence of “being everywhere” --of relating to events, people and places of different times-- suggests the idea of the universality of the Jewish people, an ancient group that has had a home mostly everywhere in the world from times immemorial. But this idea also relates to the social margins where Jews meet “others” – Jews and non-Jews. From Biblical times, Gilman says, “The Jews go out and confront ‘Others’ at the margins --where they too become marginal. Is it war, avoidance, intermarriage, accommodation, or acculturation which can result on the frontier? All of course are possible […]” (12). The possibilities resulting from these social encounters are endless, as Gilman comments: “The frontier is a colonial and a postcolonial concept which is applicable in complex ways to the writing of a new Jewish history” (12). It is in the space of the frontier, in this contact with others, sometimes a space of conflict and permanent negotiation, that “‘Jews’ are defined and define themselves” (Gilman 13). Michael Banton confirms the same idea, that it is in this situation of boundaries, in the interrelations of different groups, that minorities define themselves and are defined by the dominant group. Fredrik Barth explains that these invisible social barriers are sustained by racial difference, cultural difference, social separation, and language barrier (11). Nevertheless, as one new generation emerges, more assimilated to the local host country, the differences that its grandparents and parents may have had become significantly minor. Over time, the new generation resembles the dominant culture more completely, and as this occurs, social boundaries begin to dissolve. In the particular case of Brazil, this is confirmed via personal experience; there is little noticeable difference between those who are Jewish and the gentiles. Only now, after studying Jewish culture and immigration more deeply can I look back and recall the names and physical appearance of people I related to, but never knew were Jewish. It was not until coming to the United States that certain differences in people became apparent

71 In the case of Cela’s novel, the idea behind the title reflects the chaotic state of those sad and violent years lived in post-war Spain. Cela wrote La colmena throughout the 1940’s (Introduction, 14).

72 Cariocas are the people born in the city of Rio de Janeiro.

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due to the “labels” employed by society in general in this country. Here, differences are much more evident than in other countries. Moreover, this study has shown me that the definition of “the other” is a social construction that varies according to different societies. Here in the United States, I have learned to “construct” many “others” who were perceived in a different manner in my society of origin, and where the definitions were based on other parameters. Finally, I have been surprised to learn that I too suffer from not being perceived as a member of this society. The book starts with the revelation that the neighborhood keeps a very important secret: “[…] durante anos a fio, nosso bairro guardou o segredo” (7). The secret remains a mystery for a few paragraphs until it is revealed in the second page: “Nosso bairro nadava em ouro” (8). The inhabitants of this magical neighborhood can find gold on every corner, on the ground, in between the paving stones. Articles of gold germinate in abundance. The reader knows that there is gold everywhere, not the way it would be found in mines, or in the shape of bars like the ones in the banks, but in the most varied shapes of daily use: as jewelry, necklaces, rings and watches. This phenomenon is not clearly explained at first, but it seems to be associated with the existence of a nursing home in the area. This Jewish nursing home for the elderly in the neighborhood has major importance in the story: Após a construção do Asilo dos Velhos Israelitas, me vi como todos os habitantes do bairro, envolvido pela conspiração de seus hóspedes para morrer em ouro. Sabiam que eram os últimos que amaram e oraram em iídiche, derradeiros a ler Sholem Aleichem e Peretz no original. [...] os habitantes do Asilo sabiam que estava morrendo algo mais que uma pessoa ou determinado número de pessoas. Resolveram deixar em sua passagem para o outro mundo um lastro de ouro. (12) The nursing home has some of the oldest members of the Jewish community. They are the ones who still keep alive the language, the religion, the culture, and the literature. They are the ones who do not show signs of the corruption caused by time and assimilation. Is this related to the abundance of gold in the area? As previously mentioned, the “gold mystery” is not clearly explained at first. It seems that the elderly Jewish members of the nursing home are the ones responsible for spreading the jewelry articles around. When somebody in the neighborhood tries to return the articles to their owners, they vehemently refuse to take them back. These elderly people, who are the true and original representatives of their culture, seem to be spreading gold as a symbolic act of spreading something they want to share. The culture, the language, the

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tradition that is dying with them is the real treasure, symbolically scattered in the neighborhood in gold jewelry. The mystery of gold can also be interpreted as the cultural richness that they owned, part of a cultural tradition that was diluted with time by the dominant culture. As we progress in the narrative, we find Rafael and the protagonist talking about the gold mystery that is going on. The boy tells Rafael that the people in the neighborhood are perplexed by the abundance of gold found everywhere and that they are regarding the elderly as “saints.” Rafael explains that the jewelry that they are throwing away has a much higher value than its monetary price. He explains: “Significou para nós a passagem do mundo em demolição da Europa das guerras para o mundo em erguimento das Américas. Foram o último recurso, derradeira tábua de salvação num oceano de fogo e pólvora” (40). Rafael refers to the fact that during the Nazi persecution, many Jews were able to sell some of their belongings and buy articles of jewelry before they were sent to concentration camps. The ones who were successful in hiding these articles were sometimes able to bribe Nazi soldiers and officials exchanging their freedom for what they had. Of course, not all of them were lucky in this process, but having some valuable item represented a hope of survival: “Uns poucos privilegiados conseguiram vender em tempo algo do que possuíam, […] e trocar por jóias, único material capaz de subornar guardas extrangeiros, […] Para muitos, o suborno servia apenas para prolongar a vida por mais um mês, uma semana, um dia, em todo caso enquanto uma jóia estivesse no bolso a esperança mantinha-se acesa” (40). The narrator/protagonist, shocked by the situation, sees the act of the elderly as a sacred thing, since they are getting rid of something that symbolized their own lives. On the other hand, Rafael considers it a lesson for the younger generations, who see in the jewelry only its financial value. He thinks that the jewelry is just what was left of a bitter experience, and the bitter experiences of the parents are not transferred to the children. Rafael continues by saying that the elderly who are giving away their gold may all have different reasons to do so: “Para uns pode ter o caráter de retribuição ao Brasil pela oportunidade de refazer suas vidas, para outros um alívio de peso para a viagem que se aproxima […] diante da proximidade da morte muitos se lembram do versículo talmúdico que adverte de que, para o mundo vindouro, leva-se apenas o saldo entre as boas e as más ações” (41). Judaism appears again, dictating norms of living and norms of dying. The interpretation of this act is varied and all of these represent justifiable motives: culture, life, memory, gratefulness, religion, and death.

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The family of the protagonist doesn’t talk much. There is not much conversation between the parents and their children which is explained by the narrator due to the difference of languages: the parents speak Yiddish while the Brazilian-born children speak Portuguese: Hoje em dia fala-se no abismo de gerações, a tecnologia avança rápido, os costumes mudam tão depressa que as noções do certo e errado para os pais se tornam inaceitáveis para os filhos. Esse problema não chegávamos a ter, pois meus pais falavam outro idioma. [...] enquanto eu e minhas seis irmãs falávamos português, a língua de Eça de Queirós e Machado de Assis, meus pais falavam a língua mais difundida pelos países da Europa Oriental, não em número de pessoas falantes, mas por sempre se encontrar alguém que a conhecesse até a II Guerra Mundial, o iídiche. [...] Nos entendíamos mais pela entonação, pelas expressões faciais, pela mímica, ou por uma palavra ou outra de português que falavam, ou por uma palavra ou outra de iídiche que falávamos perdida em alguma locução. (11) The clash of generations here is not due to an age difference but rather mainly a linguistic problem. The narrator expresses his concern with the slow death of the culture of his parents in favor of the culture of the new world: “Em casa assistia além do fenecer dos pais e do idioma, o enterro de uma cultura que se manifestava cada vez menos, na medida em que a mãe esquecia a receita de pratos típicos e na medida em que na conversa entre os velhos se introduzia cada vez mais palavras em português” (12). The narrator recognizes that the Jewish culture of his parents is dying slowly. The first signs of this unavoidable death are seen in the language, the predominance of Portuguese over Yiddish, and in the slow forgetfulness of the culinary habits of the mother. The ties that bound immigrants to their homelands get weaker with time as the need to learn the local language represents an urgent and necessary tool for adaptation and survival. Rattner explains: Uma das primeiras aquisições do imigrante em seu novo ambiente, é a aprendizagem da língua da sociedade adotiva, como meio indispensável de interação com seus membros. Foi, todavía, característica geral dos grupos imigrantes e dos judeus, em particular, usar o idioma adotivo somente para contatos externos, ou seja, na vida econômica, profissional e em relações com a administração e os poderes públicos. Em casa e, tanto mais nos próprios núcleos comunitários, continuava a ser falada a língua de origem e tradicional, o

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iídiche, para todos aqueles que vieram da Europa Oriental, o alemão para os refugiados da Alemanha e Áustria, o húngaro, o árabe e o francês. (122-23) Rattner continues by explaining that the problem became serious for the second generation, those born in the adopted country – represented, for example, by our protagonist. The children born to these immigrants are educated in the schools of the host society and the language spoken at school, in the street, in the clubs, represents a more practical instrument of understanding and perceiving the social reality in a wider sense than that of the restricted group. (123) The use of Yiddish across the world has diminished significantly during the twentieth century. Rattner comments on the situation in Sao Paulo, Brazil: [...] ainda nos anos da década de cinqüenta, parte do ensino nas escolas judaicas era ministrado em iídiche, para nos anos subsequentes, diminuir-se constantemente o número de horas semanais dedicados ao seu ensino, até este desaparecer por completo dos programas escolares. Muitos pais procuram falar iídiche com seus filhos em casa, enquanto estes lhes respondem em português, perdendo assim o uso da língua materna. (124) The author comments that the disappearance of Yiddish is also verified in the reduced Yiddish press that is read by a small circle and that has little repercussion outside the geographic area of Bom Retiro in Sao Paulo (125). As time passes, the older immigrants who still speak Yiddish use it less and less until it dies with them. Very reduced circles still dedicate themselves to keeping the language alive. Assimilation seems to be responsible for its disappearance, since the younger generations see no use in the language of their ancestors. Jean Paul Sartre once said that “a Jew is someone whom other people identify as a Jew.” It is another perception, another construction, based on impressions and ideas learned by some individuals in different parts of the world. Sometimes the knowledge that the other is a Jew generates anti-Semitism. Anti-Semitism homogenizes the Jewish people by ignoring their diversity and plurality. It erases their differences, their richness, and their faces. Dzialovsky touches on the subject of anti-Semitism in two brief episodes. The first takes place in a conversation between the young boy/narrator and Rafael, his friend from Lublin who lives in the nursing home. The young narrator tells Rafael of a certain episode that took place at school several years before. The boy and his classmates used to behave very badly with a certain teacher. They made fun of her and had no respect for her position as a teacher: “[…] a bagunça é

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generalizada. Apenas três ou quarto alunos se esforçam por aprender, a maioria faz um imenso carnaval. Uns imitam sons de metralha, outros fazem voz de falsete, há o que late, o que muge, o que mia” (94). The classroom is a nightmare, and the teacher has no way of disciplining the children. Eventually, when the situation becomes unbearable, she asks one boy --our protagonist-- to stay after class. After everyone leaves the classroom, she asks him if he is Jewish. The boy, now a young adult, explains his feelings to Rafael: Sabe como é, Rafael, sempre ouvi falar em antisemitismo, você mesmo me contou muitas histórias de preconceito e perseguição na Europa. Mas uma coisa é ouvir histórias, outra muito diferente é alguém vir cobrar a sua identidade assim de sopetão. Fiquei numa completa confusão de sentimentos; com medo e com culpa por ter ficado com medo. Fiquei com raiva, frio, calor. Queria que ela se definisse logo como antisemita, já me sentindo como um judeu medieval, acusado de propagar a peste negra, diante da Inquisição. (95) The boy’s reaction to the question demonstrates the emotional quality of anti-Semitic thought as a challenge to his identity. He is scared and at the same time, feels guilty for feeling scared. He is angry, he feels hot, then cold. He internalizes for a few seconds the role of the medieval Jew blamed for spreading the black plague in Europe. He lives in a country where he feels safe, where he doesn’t go through harsh manifestations of anti-Semitism, but yet he still feels the unconscious fear, the monstrous fear of guilt, of a fear that seems to live inside every Jew. It turns out that the teacher is not an anti-Semite; rather she wants him to sympathize with her, she wants him to respect her and not behave like the others because she is Jewish too: “Eu quero solidariedade, compaixão pelo menos de você. Eu também sou judia” (95). According to the narrator this is a different type of anti-Semitism, when Jews want to take advantage of other Jews. Rafael complements the episode by telling that, when he was younger, he had a small business where he sold articles of clothing. On some occasions he was surprised by real anti- Semitic situations, where people would yell at him: “judeu ladrão, judeu sujo, gringo filho da puta, etc.” (95), and other situations when Jewish clients would ask him for special discounts just because they were Jews. Rafael expresses his disgust for both situations and says he doesn’t know which one really bothers him the most. Nevertheless, the protagonists compare Brazilians and Jews, and Brazil is always praised by its tolerant culture and opened-minded people. Rafael’s last advice to the young boy is that he should live his life according to his conscience

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without giving major importance to people who wish to manipulate his Jewish identity in their favor. Rafael comments on yet another unexpected episode. Before owning the property where he had a tailor shop, he worked as a peddler, selling large selections of small articles of everyday use in his traveling through different locations of Brazil. Upon arrival at these remote villages, the first person he looked for was the local priest. The blessing of the priest was a mandatory practice for “good sales,” a sort of diplomatic pass into the local community. In one of these villages, the local priest, a small, strong man wearing a heavy crucifix around his neck, invited him into his house and offered him a drink. While Rafael quietly listened to the conversation, he suddenly felt that something was wrong. He couldn’t tell exactly what was going on. It was then that he realized the priest was talking to him in Yiddish and he was unconsciously answering in the same language. As the priest realizes Rafael’s amazement, he tells him that he was Jewish too. He belonged to a long line of prominent rabbis and scholars, and had studied in a prestigious yeshiva in Lublin. With his elaborate Yiddish that had impressed Rafael so much, the priest explained that his ideas were too unconventional for his masters at the yeshiva who didn’t agree with him. As a result, he didn’t receive the smita (the license to be a rabbi) and therefore lost everything: the marriage arranged with the daughter of an important rabbi, the house that was built for them, the friends at the yeshiva, and the protection of his masters. He had become a black sheep. Rafael questions his change of faith from Judaism to Catholicism, and the priest replies: “Não troquei nada, quem troca suas raízes arrisca perecer” (98). The priest didn’t change his faith, he explains; he was still working for the same God, but with different rituals. In the priest’s opinion, those who change their roots run the risk of perishing. The issue of identity expressed by the priest/rabbi is a very curious one. Unable to fulfill his religious vocation as a rabbi, he embraced Catholicism when a bishop found out of his problem at the yeshiva. In order to accomplish what he had trained for, the bishop offered him a solution: to become a priest. In the end, the rabbi/priest finds a way of fulfilling his religious mission, something he studied so hard and so long to accomplish. The crucifix and the clothing of a Catholic priest concealed his true identity; he continued to be an educated Ashkenazi Jew, who had the knowledge of Judaism running in his veins, the tradition and costumes inherited from generations of ancestors; he kept his original language immaculate without corruptions of time, but had to carry that identity

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inside for in a remote fishing village in Espírito Santo, this Jewish man lived peacefully the life of a Catholic priest.

Traditional Jewish mothers versus assimilated daughters

Jewish tradition has several rules of behavior that have been passed down through generations. One of the biggest clashes among parents and children occurs between more traditional mothers and their assimilated daughters. I wish to observe the significant contrasts between the older and the younger generation of female characters in this novel, and comment on the silence that predominates among them. Sunday lunch seems to be one of the only times when the whole family meets to eat and listen to the Jewish radio program, which functions as a symbol, an emblem of the family’s Jewishness. Sometimes silence is broken when one of the sisters asks a question that is always harshly reproached by the parents. The mother is depicted as a bitter woman who dedicates her days to the house chores. She often yells at her six daughters who remain mute, without further participation in the story. The other interesting aspect of these family encounters is the abrupt criticism that the older daughter receives from her parents. The reader learns that she is “a primogênita, a gordíssima” and a “Historiadora” (12), a large girl who studies history at a university in Rio de Janeiro. The narrator refers to her arguments with the mother as “science versus tradition” (29): the girl who is the more educated member of the family always has a historical and scientific explanation for the different topics that come up in their conversation. And because she often debates what the radio host says, her cleverness is never welcomed by the parents. As a result, their meals turn into heated discussions, and whenever an argument arises, the parents deeply criticize the nameless daughter, referred to as “a Historiadora.” Nevertheless, they ask the son, who remains quiet in his chair, for his opinion. The boy, who doesn’t speak much, is always praised for his wisdom and discretion. The preference of the parents for their male son is seen in the mother’s comments throughout the novel: “Deus escreveu certo por linhas tortas, depois de ter-me castigado com esse bando de inúteis me premiou com um sábio. Tão novinho e já cheio

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de ensinamentos” (20). The girls are seen as “um bando de inúteis” or a bunch of useless things, but the boy is “um sábio,” a wise man. The other sisters remain silent throughout the narrative of the novel, with almost no participation other than their physical presence at the dinner table. The silencing of the daughters suggests a certain degree of machismo prevalent in traditional Jewish culture and also in Latin American societies. More than the predilection of the mother for the son, the number of offensive adjectives used to refer to the six girls is quite disturbing. In light of the respectful role of women in the Judaic culture, this seems not to be a cultural feature. Initially, it seems that the author purposely ignored the five sisters, and referred to the older one with heavy criticism for some obscure reason. However, Dzialovsky reveals that his intention was not to denigrate the female image.73 He didn’t develop these characters for any specific reason, and admitted that this represents a flaw in the novel, something he could have explored more. Silence cannot be ignored, especially in a study of Holocaust survivors, and it seems that the silence of this family has something more meaningful behind it. The parents carry the burden of the past, too fresh, too recent to be fully digested. In several studies on Holocaust survivors, it has been confirmed that no one can grasp what really happened to concentration camp inmates, to both those who died and those who survived. Silence has much to do with the Holocaust. In Naomi Mandel’s discussions of the “rhetoric of the unspeakable” in Holocaust writing, she mentions that Jean-François Lyotard places Auschwitz as a “differend – the space that cannot (yet) be filled by any single discourse of history, politics, or philosophy” (205).74 “Speaking the unspeakable” would diminish the distance between us and that inaccessible realm, highlighting the complex relation between what language includes and excludes and making us think, write and speak about what is unspeakable. In Jorge Semprun’s novel Le Grand Voyage --“a meditation on atrocity, survival, and traumatic memory” (Horowitz 160)-- the author tells his story as a survival of the Holocaust and narrates his encounter with two French nurses two days after the liberation. When he tries to tell them some of the horrors he suffered, he realizes they cannot grasp the horrors described, so he takes them to the crematories to view the bodies still lying around. The nurses become angry

73 Dzialovsky, Francisco. Personal interview. 20 May 2004.

74 Jean-François Lyotard, The Differend: Phrases in Dispute (Minneapolis: U Minnesota P, 1988).

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with him as to why he has been showing them such a horrible sight. He realizes that they “cannot perceive the full measure of atrocities by viewing only putrefying corpses, without the memory of shared experience” (Horowitz 160). In another novel, written much later, he tells a different encounter with three British soldiers where, again, he realizes not only the limitation of speech but also the incapability of others to understand him: “only those with first-hand knowledge such as his can ever comprehend the Holocaust” (161). The struggles of the protagonist, who is also the narrator, says Horowitz, are present when he cannot find the means to convey what he has experienced (161). He shows in these two episodes that he was not fully understood. Horowitz adds: “Both encounters leave the author aware of the experiential gulf that separates him from them, aware that he has, in some sense, both survived and died with his fellow concentrationees. Moreover, both encounters serve to convince the author that only those with first-hand knowledge such as his can ever comprehend the Holocaust” (161). Culbertson also comments on the silence of survivors: Naive public conceptions of memory, and the attendant assumption that memory takes certain forms and not others, contribute to a curious circumstance surrounding the victimized survivor of violence. The survivor most often, nearly invariably, becomes silent about his victimization, though the experience nevertheless in every case remains somehow fundamental to his existence, and to his unfolding or enfolded conception of himself. This silence is an internal one in which the victim attempts to suppress what is recalled (so as not to relive the victimization countless times), or finds it repressed by some part of himself which functions as a stranger, hiding self from the self's experience according to unfathomable criteria and requirements. It is external as well: the victim does not tell what she recalls, in part because others do not seem to hear what is said, partly out of a conviction that she will not be believed, and more basically because she simply cannot make the leap to words […]. (169) As Culbertson explains, silence is both internal and external; the traumatic experience remains inside, part of the life of the individual. The victim finds it useless to talk because of the belief that he/she won’t be fully understood and because there are no words to express the full picture of his/her story. We cannot expect our protagonist’s parents to be very “talkative” or “cheerful.” The second generation suffers a different set of emotions and traumas that can be equally traumatic.

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The silence of the parents is understood and probably forgiven due to their history. This understanding on the part of the second generation, however, does not minimize the difficulties and the identity struggles they experience as fully adapted Brazilians, Argentineans, Uruguayans, et al. They must come to terms with something that didn’t even happen to them, but to their parents. Although they were not present, they continue to live in the shadow of their parents’ experience of horror. Thomas Trezise comments on the importance of the survivor’s expression as a voice to the whole: “Thus, the survivor who says "I" does not speak with one voice, but with several. […] And in order for these voices to be heard --which is not the same as to be understood-- one must listen to the silences or read between the lines, attentive to what impels and exceeds understanding […]” (228). When reading the silence of Dzialovsky’s characters the reader attempts to understand the pain and the turmoil that they cannot express in words. The characters in the family are not fully developed not because the author lacks literary talent, but simply because they embody the pure expression of their lives. Silence is the major form of communication. Efrain Sicher explains how difficult the situation can be for second and third generations: […] the orality of survivor testimony remains problematic because the witnesses often speak to the third generation or to an indirect audience, such as the reading public, so that the second generation which bears the psychic wounds of transmitted trauma must work through the memory indirectly, as strangers to their own story. The writings of the ‘second generation’ reclaim a voice in that story and a place in history, yet they do not do so without guilt and anger, not least because of the parents' silence. (65) The mother’s silence is more effective in the communication process with the children. In one episode the narrator comments on his mother’s fear of being sent to the nursing home. What is the meaning behind the mention of the nursing home that comes up so frequently in the novel? In one instance, Rafael compares it to the ghetto (28). The ghetto, before and during the Second World War, was the section of many different European cities where the Nazis forced all Jews to live; it was often sealed off with walls, barbed wire and armed guards, preventing people from entering or leaving. The nursing home, in spite of its comfort and care, in the novel is also a place that restricts the patients’ freedom. For the mother, it alludes to the experiences of horror and extermination inspired by the first ghettos. Besides, she fears being forgotten by the family

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members: “Algo a convencia que um dia a enviaríamos para o Asilo e a esqueceríamos. Sua dor conseguia o que não podiam suas lições, suas advertências, nos irmanar e bater em retirada solidários” (32). All the yelling and reproaches are not enough to bring the children to understand the mother. The mother’s pain and silence --“sua dor conseguia o que não podiam suas lições”-- express her deepest feelings, which are quickly understood by the children who leave the table together out of respect for her feelings. The difference between the traditional Jewish women and the modern assimilated women can be seen in the mother’s complaints to a friend: Tenho seis filhas – suspirou a mãe – nenhuma é capaz de ajudar nos afazeres domésticos. […] Antigamente com doze ou treze anos, a moça estava pronta para o casamento. […] E hoje em dia o que vemos? Mulheres com o dobro desta idade que não podem viver sem a proteção dos pais. Sabem ler e escrever, têm a cabeça cheia de modernismos, mas do que realmente importa não têm noção. (68) The mother is disappointed because the daughters don’t help with the household chores; they know how to read and write, but don’t know anything about what really matters, such as tradition and marriage. Her friend, also a Jewish woman, comments on the old tradition of arranged marriages: “Sim, na época um pai podia, desde cedo, contratar os serviços de um casamenteiro. Ele cuidava de arranjar um bom noivo para a menina […] o jovem casal que só se conhecia na hora das bodas, estava preparado para qualquer dificuldade” (68). They conclude with a touch of sadness that ‘here, people only marry for love’ (68). Despite her disappointment with her daughters, the mother expresses her wish that they should marry somebody “from the colony” (71). As in to Porzecanski’s novel, the issues regarding the situation of women are the clashes and losses of tradition, education, early marriage, and arranged marriage. The daughters of this family were allowed to learn how to read and write, whereas Esterina in Perfumes comments that, because she was a woman, she did not have this privilege. Instead, she learned to sew, a task more suitable for girls. According to the old tradition, girls would get married very early with husbands chosen by the parents or a “casamenteiro.” The two older Jewish ladies living in Brazil are sad to realize that in modern times people only marry for love. Their distress is based on the belief that the ancient Jewish custom of arranged marriages had more solid foundations, since the parents knew what was best for their daughters and sons. Arranged marriages were normally set by families that knew each other and the children accepted and respected the

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choices their parents made. Religion played a fundamental role in these marriages which lasted their whole lives. The problem with modern marriages when people “only marry for love,” as the two ladies say, is that there is less commitment and more emotional impulsiveness. This impression is caused as well by the more “mundane” atmosphere of Brazilian culture and mentality, with its openness to relationships freer of ties and commitment. The ‘terceiro testamento’ that lends the book its title is the name of the radio show that the protagonist’s family listens to during lunch on Sundays. The reader “listens” to the radio show along with the main protagonists as the program host delivers the broadcast. The contents of the programs are full of humor, sarcasm and irony. The program host, simply called “o locator,” is not intimidated by the limits of time and space, as he juxtaposes biblical characters with twentieth-century presidents, history with philosophy, past with present. The teachings he delivers reaffirm the most meaningful beliefs and ethnic norms of Judaism. At the same time, the show also promotes basic and ageless principles present in other religions. Among other things, this suggests the diverse religious syncretism that is so prevalent in Brazilian society. The listeners regard the show host with reverence and see him as a prophet (120) and a messenger from God (141). In one instance, the mother exclaims: “Contudo Deus não abandonou nossa geração por completo e nos abençoou com o ‘Terceiro Testamento’ (112). In her words, God did not “completely” abandon them, but left the radio show, as a messenger, to deliver His lessons. Her comment suggests an air of despair, leaving the impression that in her mind, if God had not “completely” abandoned the Jews, He certainly “abandoned” them a little. Sunday is the only day that the father of the protagonist can have lunch with his family: “O pai, no único almoço que fazia com a família durante a semana, vestia seu melhor terno, […]. Entretanto a elegância impecável exibida diante da família não era sinal de vaidade ou mania de contraste, era seu modo de sacramentar o lar” (13). The family gathering takes place on this day of the week, as the narrator, his six sisters, and their parents listen to the radio while they eat lunch in silence. The broadcast is considered a blessing by the listeners who are reminded of their smallness in God’s infinite cosmos and the ephemeral human condition on earth. (37) In the twentieth century, far from Moses’ hardships of climbing an arduous mountain to receive the words of God, the “third testament,” in the appropriate fashion of modernity, is delivered by radio transmission to the comfort of the listeners’ homes.

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In one of the broadcasts the speaker talks about the constant act of starting life over and over again. The Bible itself has several examples of people who had to re-start their lives after suffering extreme difficulties: Adam when expelled from Eden, Noah after the deluge, Job who lost everything but persevered against all odds, Jacob, et al. Finally, he refers to Jews and Brazilians: “E cada um de nós, hebreus, não estamos sempre recomeçando? [...] E por acaso, nós brasileiros, não estamos sempre recomeçando? [...] Assim Deus, através da natureza e dos exemplos de Seus Testamentos, nos ensina que a vida sempre recomeça” (53-4). As in many other moments in the narrative, Brazilians and Jews are brought together by their similarities. The struggles for survival lived by the Jewish people across the centuries are compared to the struggles of the Brazilian people who live at the mercy of economical, social and political instability. Dzialovsky’s novel is punctuated by the detailed narration of the radio shows. At the end of the book, the radio program, so fundamental in spreading the teachings of Judaism and in promoting the integration of the Jewish public into the Brazilian society (120) suddenly disappears and is never aired again: “Sem aviso prévio, o programa terminou. Nunca mais voltou ao ar” (141). The loyal listeners of “O terceiro testamento” wait anxiously for its return. The meaning of the program, a vehicle to spread Judaism, a voice of tradition in their homes, is lost forever (141). When another show replaces the Jewish one, the public is perplexed. The new show plays a mix of music and addresses an anonymous crowd. One day, however, something horrible happens: the new show plays a song with clearly anti-Semitic lyrics: “Uma música de cunho francamente anti-semita! Justamente no horário sacralizado pelo profeta. Quando a humanidade vai aprender que preconceito é atraso, barbárie? Logo no Brasil, pátria da tolerância religiosa e racial” (142). Brazil is considered a nation of religious and racial tolerance with no room for acts of anti-Semitism. The Jewish public comes to believe that the show host was a victim of some anti-Semitic conspiracy, and investigations take place to find the “locutor,” who turns up finally in jail. In this episode, Dzialovski introduces a touch of what in Brazil is called the “Brazilian way”.75 The author offers a satire of a national custom, a penchant for always finding a way to benefit from any given situation. Apparently, the revered show host had committed several felonies such as smuggling jewelry, donations, and other valuable stolen

75 In Portuguese: o jeitinho brasileiro.

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goods. In prison, the well-spoken prisoner organizes workshops, games, competitions, and lectures and becomes a dear figure to other inmates who wouldn’t blink an eye during his religious sermons (144). After serving half his sentence, he is set free. The show host’s small fortune --not confiscated by the government-- guarantees his return to stardom. After a series of plastic surgeries, he becomes the host of a television show entitled “The Fourth Testament.” The acclaimed show offers all sorts of popular attractions: interviews with important celebrities, music, and half naked dancers (in typical Brazilian style). Since he declared having converted to “Umbanda,”76 some of the loyal radio Jewish listeners stop watching the television program. The presenter explains to the public: “Portanto caros telespectadores, o programa cultural e religioso Quarto Testamento não tem a intenção de converter ninguém, apenas dar um toque, um jeitinho brasileiro nas grandes mensagens espirituais da humanidade e nos testamentos anteriores” (146). The show plays old liturgical melodies in a samba rhythm, Debussy in bossa-nova style. In one of the shows, flashes of mulata dancers appear on the screen as the host introduces the special guest of the evening: “a Historiadora,” the older daughter of the family, now a famous history professor. The tacky show reflects the transformation of a once respected Jewish radio host. At this point it seems as if the author gave up his belief in the preservation of Jewish culture and identity, of interacting but not integrating. The most important symbol of Jewish cohesion, “The Third Testament,” ends when its host is finally corrupted by earthly possessions. The host’s greed makes him eventually forget about the true purpose of his original radio show. He converts to a popular Afro-Brazilian religion, changes his physical features through plastic surgery, and defends a different banner: that Judaism should absorb completely other modern cults (147). It seems that what inevitably takes place is fusion or amalgamation; as defined by Milton Gordon, referring to the final stage of the continuum, when persons from the subordinate group merge entirely with the dominant, losing their previous identity by becoming virtually indistinguishable from members of the society at large.77

76 Umbanda, a very common religion in Brazil, is one of the various African religions brought to Brazil by African slaves. Umbanda combines elements of Christianity and Spiritism into one belief system.

77 See introduction of this dissertation.

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Conclusions

“We can never escape being expressions of social and historical forces.” (Jerome Bruner, 137)

Jerome Bruner talks about how human beings formulate their own concept of Self. He explains that in our culture, for example, “views of the Self are shaped and buttressed by our Judeo-Christian theology and by the new Humanism that emerged in the Renaissance. They are shaped as well by a society, an economy, and a language, all of which have historical ‘realities’ which, though open to revision, have created a scaffold that supports our practices as human agents” (117). He also speaks of how human beings learn to make sense, particularly narrative sense, of the universe around them (68). He explains: “meaning itself is a culturally mediated phenomenon that depends upon the prior existence of a shared symbol system” (69). From the time we are born, we learn the symbols that are around us, we learn how to make distinctions and create meanings that become ours, applying them in our lives. When we tell a story we are using meanings that we have created, expressions of social and historical forces (137). The lives we construct are the outcomes of this process of meaning-construction. We acquire certain “culturally shaped notions,” that Bruner calls “folk psychology.” These serve to help us organize our views of ourselves, of others, and of the world in which we live (137). Bruner emphasizes that this is an essential base of personal meaning and cultural cohesion: “folk psychology is not so much a set of logical propositions as it is an exercise in narrative and storytelling. It is supported by a powerful structure of narrative culture --stories, myths, genres of literature” (138). With this in mind, we can imagine the universe of second and third generations of Jews born in the New World. How might it feel to live with one’s feet in two (sometimes more) different worlds inside and outside your home? Recently I met a Brazilian Jewish student who told me that people often ask him: “How can you be both Jewish and Brazilian?” The exact same comment came from a Cuban Jew living in Miami. The idea of associating the Jew with the old world of Europe surprises those unaware of the Jewish presence in Latin America. Dzialovsky himself went to live in Israel in search for the answers he needed, but returned to

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Brazil shortly after. The novel seems to be an overall reflection of years of his own observations, experiences, and his perception of his Jewishness. Moreover, appears as though his search was not concluded, and never will be. Meaning is built and constructed individually according to the symbols, experiences, and the many histories and stories around us. The narratives of Jewish authors in Latin America are as rich as they are varied since they involve not only their Judaic universe --which is in itself a highly varied universe-- but also the Latin American societies where the writers grew up. León Vogel writes that the importance of Jewish identity is more than a theoretical concept; it is part of a system of self-defense in each individual: L’identité n’est donc pas une conception théorique ou un produit d’analyse, mais se situe nettement par rapport à une chose concrète, un événement, un choix, une décision, un jugement de valeur. […] Elle fait partie du système de défense de chaque individu. C’est un moyen de protection contre l’hostilité de l’environnement, parfois une lutte pour la survie. (27) As we have seen, assimilation has been a common feature in the life of Jewish people in the different societies in which they lived. They have, however, become a pluralized group since biblical times. The different degrees of assimilation have not been enough to erase their existence. Dzialovsky writes at a specific time, with a certain distance and perspective, about the experience of a young Jew who from an early age experiences an identity crisis. His permanent search for answers makes him a curious and inquisitive boy. Perhaps unable to find answers from his parents, he sees in his best friends, Rafael and Simão, two older men in a nursing home, the paternal figures with whom he can dialogue. Jerome Brumer explains that individuals make meaning based on the surrounding culture and on a system of shared symbols learned in their society (69). He continues that “meaning depends not only upon a sign and a referent but also upon an interpretant --a representation of the world in terms of which the sign-referent relationship is mediated (69). In observing the way people tell their stories, Bruner observes that “What we were observing was by no means a ‘free’ construction. It was constrained by the events of a life, to be sure, but it was also powerfully constrained by the demands of the story the narrator was in the process of constructing” (120). The protagonist of O Terceiro Testamento faces doubts that result from the diverse universe surrounding him, and from the many symbols and values that populate his world. This is a recurrent theme in Jewish writing everywhere, for

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the Jew carries an internal, “portable” world inside, at the same time that he/she is in contact with the exterior gentile society.78 As Bruner concludes: “There is no one ‘explanation’ of man, biological or otherwise. In the end, even the strongest causal explanations of the human condition cannot make plausible sense without being interpreted in the light of the symbolic world that constitutes human culture” (138). Writers are writing from somewhere; their views come from multiple positions inside the scope of their universe, their social environment, their experiences, their background, and the needs that they want to fulfill.

78 I am obviously referring to the Jews living in the Diaspora, i.e., outside Israel. The issues of identity in Israel are of a different caliber and reflect differences among Jews themselves. The conflict with gentiles would be inexistent in Israel and commonplace in the Diaspora.

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Chapter 3

ASSIMILATION AND DESPERATION IN PERFUMES DE CARTAGO BY TERESA PORZECANSKI

“I wished that that woman would write and proclaim this unique empire so that other women, other unacknowledged sovereigns, might exclaim: I, too, overflow; my desires have invented new desires, my body knows unheard-of-songs. Time and again I, too, have felt so full of luminous torrents that I could burst – burst with forms much more beautiful than those which are put in frames and sold for a stinking fortune. And I, too, said nothing, showed nothing; I didn’t open my mouth, I didn’t repaint my half of the world. I was ashamed. I was afraid, and I swallowed my shame and my fear.” 79 Hélène Cixous

Perfumes de Cartago, published in 1994, describes the plight of a Jewish family that leaves the city of Ur, Syria, to live in Uruguay. The narrative is imbued with history, the real history of Jewish immigration to Uruguay. History and literature are often inseparable, and in this novel they complement each other both in the creation of the narrative as well as in the lives of the characters who inhabit Porzecanski’s fictional world. The Jews from Syria are called Sephardim, which means that they originated from Spain, or Sepharah in Ladino, the Jewish- Spanish language spoken by the medieval Jews of Spain before their expulsion in 1492. Syria today is bordered by Lebanon and Israel on the west, Turkey on the north, Iraq on the east, and Jordan on the south. Porzecanski approaches the ancient history of Syria through the characters in her novel who remember their distant ancestors as they travel from one place to another before finally settling in Uruguay in the early decades of the twentieth century. Perfumes de Cartago is a story about women. Don José Sus, the patriarch of the Mualdeb family, dies just as the ship that brings his family from Syria anchors at the port in Montevideo. At his old age the long and tiring journey has been too much for him. From this point on, Nazira, his wife, and their three daughters must go on alone and begin their lives as immigrant

79 From Hélène Cixous’ The Laugh of the Medusa in Vincent B. Leitch, The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism (New York: Norton, 2001) 2035-2056.

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women in what to them appears to be a remote Latin American land. They cannot afford fragility or vulnerability. Rather, in order to survive, they must settle into the way of life of their new country and find work as quickly as possible. For the remaining members of the family, there is no space for an existential crisis of any sort, and as a result they do not struggle with questions of identity. Instead, these immigrant women immediately accept Montevideo as their new homeland and proceed with their everyday lives as they work inside and outside the home to protect the family’s continuity. The author describes marriages between future generations of Jews and gentiles and the peculiarities of the family’s Sephardic customs in their new homeland. Yet, despite their difficulties throughout the complex process of survival, adaptation, continuity and assimilation, life for this family goes on in much the same way as it did during the struggles of generations before them. The word assimilation, as defined in the introduction, refers to the situation of change and modification undergone by groups that were formerly isolated from the dominant group’s culture and who moved “in the direction of the dominant group’s ‘culture’; thus, they were slowly incorporated into what that group recognized as ‘mainstream’ social and political life” (Spitzer 28). According to Spitzer, this term expresses an idea of “conformity,” and of “becoming similar” to the dominant culture. The assimilation process the characters of the novel experience is carried out along the generations as a slow but inevitable process. The immigrants portrayed in the narrative present strong ties that bind them to their homelands as well as to their religion, tradition, and culture. The problematic issue of Jewish identity, which involves not only a nationality but also a religion, gives this group a unique profile. In the final episode of the novel, Lunita, Nazira Mualdeb’s granddaughter, now an adult, visits her family’s old home, now in total decay, remembers episodes of the past, and runs away in the direction of the port, where everything started with the arrival of her grandparents from Syria. Lunita is the representation of the new integrated generation. She works in an office, has more education than her mother and grandmother, and is a citizen of Uruguay. In the port, Lunita symbolically throws the key of the first family home into the ocean. This episode will be discussed later on. The early marriages that take place in the narrative occur among Jews, so the concept of the “melting pot” is not immediate by any means. Philip Gleason presents a variety of definitions as well as ambiguities surrounding this term “melting pot.” For the purpose of this discussion

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however, the concept of the “melting pot” as a symbol of ethnic interaction is quite useful in that it conveys the idea of a transformation, an ever-changing process (5). Whereas marriage inside Jewish circles shows an interest in the preservation of ethnic distinction, some authors have utilized the ideal of the ‘melting pot’ to narrate stories of intermarriage between Jews and gentiles. In such narratives Jewish girls run away from their parents to build a life with their non- Jewish love. 80 Besides the marriages between members of the Sephardic community, other unexpected surrealistic unions happen in Porzecanski’s novel. For example, an obscure and unexplainable sexual relation occurs between two marginalized people: Camila, not only a Jewish immigrant but also a mentally disabled woman, who hardly ever speaks a word and is regarded at the age of fifty-four as a little girl; and Peralta, an isolated being who lives in the dark basement of the Mualdebs’ house surrounded by reptiles of all sorts. Peralta is an outcast himself, a man who does not speak much, a revolutionary, a loner. Another intriguing union is that of Ángela and Carlos Gardel which reflects an impossible union in those early decades of the century: a black servant and a white international idol adored by millions. These Jewish immigrants are part of a community living in the periphery of a gentile Catholic society. They live their lives as they always did, practicing Jewish customs, speaking their native languages; however, in this novel, the Jewish characters do interact with non-Jews, as opposed to the Jewish characters in No tan distinto. Examples of the interaction with gentiles is seen in several episodes: for example, the one when Jeremías Berro makes the bomb that explodes in Isabelino Giménez’s room by accident in a cloud of perfume. Not only did he make the bomb but also he spent weeks excited by the idea that he could participate in the revolution: “El entusiasta amor de Jeremías por los rebeldes” (160). Another example is the interracial relation between Esterina and her mysterious lover/client/confident in the whorehouse, a man who is also a revolutionary, and a goy. Many episodes in the narrative happen as part of the memory of the characters. The author employs flashbacks that take us to distant lands, retelling episodes of dead ancestors, ancient places and old traditions. These memories can be often associated with Biblical narratives that are very informative regarding the Judaic origins of these immigrants. The

80 Cesar Tiempo’s play La alfarda and El judío Aaron by José Eichelbaum are plays that depict characters who fight for love against the barriers of ethnicity and religion.

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detailed images of these dreams, visions and memories work as symbols to illustrate the author’s emphasis on the importance of memory, culture and ancestry, as well as the feelings that bond the characters with their past. Other subplots add color and meaning to the story: the dictatorship in Uruguay, the prostitution in the beginning of the century, the presence of blacks in Montevideo --another band of “outsiders” in this society-- Carlos Gardel, an international idol who becomes especially important in Angela’s life, and the rich and detailed description of social happenings like weddings, meals, and Angela’s outings with her white boyfriend at night clubs. As life develops during the subsequent decades of the arrival of the Mualdeb family to Uruguay, a slow process of integration takes place. The author explores the abusive situations suffered by women at the beginning of the century through most of the female characters in the narrative. Some of these themes are shared not only by the Jewish women in the narrative, but also by other non-Jewish women as well (e.g., lack of education, prostitution, various forms of physical and mental abuse, racism, etc.). Among the abusive conditions treated by the author, arranged marriages are also presented since they are part of a Jewish tradition still practiced in those times. The Jewish women in the novel suffer physical abuse by the husbands, prostitution, arranged marriages, lack of permission to acquire education and the acceptance of the husbands’ sexual activities outside the marriage. The type of racism suffered by the black maid Ángela Tejera will be treated further. Nazira Mualdeb and her three daughters are welcomed by Esterina, the older daughter already living in Uruguay: “Había sido su hija mayor, Esterina Mualdeb, de quien nada esperaba, quien había sorpresivamente enviado a buscar a sus padres y hermanas en esos años inciertos de la década de los veinte” (20). That Nazira does not expect much from Esterina (“de quien nada esperaba”) gives the reader a clear impression of how women are viewed in those early decades of the twentieth century, even by their own mothers. Since nothing is expected from Esterina, the family is surprised to receive enough money to buy them tickets and visas for the long journey to South America. At first, we see the tensions and abuses suffered by these women immigrants. The most shocking is Esterina’s case, which reflects the oppression in which several immigrant women lived in those times. Such oppression and limitations are not only common in Syria but they continue in Latin America: “Era cierto que ella no sabía escribir – qué podría saber una costurera

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del barrio judío del Aleppo a la que habían prohibido asistir a la escuela […]” (28). Esterina was not allowed to study and didn’t know how to read. She learned an occupation: sewing, which was considered as a decent job for a woman. In Uruguay she gets married and during her five years of marriage she is beaten by her husband until she is eventually thrown out of her house and left in the street without a place to go. A friend of her father, also living in Montevideo, suggests that she take a job to guarantee her food and housing: […] una pensión de la calle Cerrito. Allí se reunían muchachas y señoras solas o separadas, para bailar y cantar con señores respetables, ociosos y aburridos, que buscaban un rato de sana diversión. […] Muchas jóvenes llegadas de Polonia, de Lituania, aunque las más solicitadas eran como ella, sirias que hablaban francés o francesas de padres sirios. (29) That is when Porzecanski touches upon the subject of prostitution in those early decades of the twentieth century, when so many young Jewish women were forced into prostitution to survive. It is not the first time that Jewish prostitution appears in literature. Nora Glickman, in her book The Jewish White Slave Trade and the Untold Story of Raquel Liberman, introduces several authors who showed their concerns about the situation of Jewish white slave trade. Very early in the twentieth century, plays, novels and short stories presented the subject of young Jewish women who were frequently entrusted by their poor and naïve parents to some unscrupulous man with false promises of good marriages in Brazil or Argentina and who were in fact pimps and agents of prostitution rings (Glickman 7). Glickman mentions a few authors who first wrote in Yiddish about these themes --Shalom Asch (1880-1957), Sholem Aleichem (1859-1916), Leib Malach (1894-1935)-- and others who wrote in Spanish --Samuel Eichelbaum (1894-1967), David Viñas (1929), César Tiempo (1906-1980), Mario Szichman (1945) and the Brazilian Moacyr Scliar (1937). The situation of Esterina in Perfumes de Cartago is not identical to the one mentioned by Glickman. She is married, has a daughter and is expelled from her home by her abusive husband. When Esterina sees herself in a desperate situation, she finds in prostitution a quick solution to gain the means to survive and care for her daughter. Glickman comments: “Until 1910 prostitution in Argentina was seen as a morality issue. In response to the pervading fear of dangerous lower class women who sold their sexual favors out of dire poverty, and of those who enjoyed themselves while they earned their ‘immoral wages,’ new morality laws were passed”(5).

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Esterina is not a “dangerous lower class” woman, but a victim herself. As we learn of the reasons why she became a prostitute, we come to understand her situation. The story of a Jewish prostitute represented by the character of Esterina gives the subject a more humane tone. Reading about prostitution in South America at the beginning of the twentieth century in history books doesn’t allow us to imagine what the real reasons behind those prostitutes’ choices were. Esterina’s story could very possibly reflect the lives of real prostitutes in Buenos Aires, Montevideo or Porto Alegre. The readers understands why Esterina takes up her new job, which allows her to raise her little daughter Lunita and send money to bring her family from Syria. The reader begins to understand that Esterina was somewhat forced by the circumstances to become a prostitute. At the end of the novel Esterina continues being strong: “Quedaban ahora definitivamente atrás los años de la infancia en Aleppo: las luces de las velas iluminando el mantel del atardecer de los viernes, la suculenta sopa de legumbres, las colinas de arroces tostados. Ella había aprendido a tragarse su propia fragilidad” (167). Esterina remembers her past happiness in Aleppo, the candles burning for the Sabbath on Fridays, the purity and simplicity of the golden rice fields. Tragically, the circumstances of her life changed everything. She also rethinks her assumed identity when the whorehouse where she works is closed down. Somebody suggests that moving to Buenos Aires would be a good idea, a place where she could pass unnoticed and continue working in some other dark “burdel” (168). The clients, “viejos desdentados de manos callosas que sonreirían alucinados al conocer a ‘una francesa’, identidad que había asumido para abreviar explicaciones. En América, las biografías se habían transformado en rótulos – ‘la rusa’, ‘la negra’, ‘la divorciada’ – y semejaban prendas de vestir de un guardarropa alquilado” (168). The labels that the women receive according to their stories are just a partial, blurred, meaningless fraction of their real identity. Taking on the identity of “una francesa” is easier and simpler for Esterina, because it alludes to the glamor and elegance of pretty French dancers of the cabarets of the beginning of the century. To provide some background to understanding the real identity of such characters, we can consider what Diana Fuss says about essence and labeling: “Nominal essence, as we recall, refers to the ranking and labeling of things not according to the real essence in them but the complex ideas in us” (24). She continues by saying that nominal essences are often seen as real essences, and she considers this a vulnerable point. For example, the real essence of the prostitutes in the narrative is lost with time. The stories told by the prostitutes about who they really are cease to

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be told and heard with the passing of years, as the narrator comments: “Ya hacía tiempo que las mujeres habían dejado de contar sus vidas, esas pequeñas tragedias todas parecidas entre sí, que se balbuceaban entre alcohol y estúpidas carcajadas” (168). Telling their personal stories to others is a way of reiterating who they are, of defending their true identity, the real identity that had to be forgotten in the new world. They were once decent girls educated in good families, but adverse circumstances, the arrival in a strange country, the traps and tragedies of their lives brought them to prostitution. They assume a different identity: they say they are French, and instead, the essence perceived by others --the clients-- is based on the “complex ideas,” as Fuss puts it, that each stranger has of them, according to their particular fantasies and views. The women suffer a transformation; they become a different version of who they were before. In his book where he discusses the topic of social construction, Robert Scholes writes: “We are subjects constructed by our experience and truly carry traces of that experience in our minds and on our bodies” (118). Alcira, one of Nazira’s granddaughters, is the one who gets an arranged marriage. She accepts submissively the marriage that is arranged for her: “Apenas pasados los treinta años de su hija Alcira, Lidia comenzó seriamente a preocuparse por buscarle un marido” (99), and a little further the narrator continues, “gracias a la ayuda de una ocasional casamentera que lamentaba que su servicio fuera menospreciado en América, se había conseguido finalmente un novio para Alcira” (100). When the family finds her a Jewish young man, she simply agrees: “me tendré que casar” (127). As she studies her reflection in the mirror on the day of her wedding, she wonders if there is anything she can do to change her situation: “intentaba adentrarse en los ojos de esa imagen que era la suya para ver si descubría en ella alguna rebeldía, un indicio apenas de fugaz desafío. Pero no. El novio no importaba mayormente” (127). Alcira is “una novia de cierta edad y que había dicho adiós a sus sueños” (102). She sees the married life that awaits her without much enthusiasm: “tendría la mesa puesta en los mediodías y la cena pronta en las noches. […] escucharía los relatos de entusiasmo y hastío alternados del inminente esposo” (128). Even though the use of a “casamentera” is an accepted tradition, the reader can see that Alcira had dreams and, unable to fulfill the expectations of love and happiness, she accepts what her family has arranged for her. The surprising twist offered by Porzecanski is that among these experiences of abuse, prostitution, lack of education, and submission, some of these women are secretly rebelling

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against the dominant forces that oppress them. It is quite a revelation to find out that Jasira, the betrayed forgotten wife of Jeremías Berro, has a lover too. “Si Jeremías Berro se había olvidado de la esposa que Dios le había otorgado, arrinconándola como mueble contra las paredes, ella, en vez de deshacer sus huesos en tragedia conyugal, había decidido explorar sabores insólitos” (85). Jasibe finds a lover in the foreign streetseller that knocks on her door: “un gringo pequeño y rengo que vendía de puerta en puerta almendras, avellanas, higos secos, y pasas […] se encerraban ambos en el dormitorio del que Jeremías Berro se ausentaba cada vez con más frecuencia” (87). Before society and her family, Jasira lives her life as the betrayed wife, but the secret relations she has with her lover reveal her desire for rebellion, her wish to confront the oppression of her husband’s behavior. She looks for a way to survive the pain and find joy: “Jasibe, en vez de sobrevivir como una esposa desdeñada, se habría convertido en iniciada en los cálices de donde se bebía el elixir central” (87). The female body and female sexuality are highly present in the narrative through several references to voluptuous bodies, breasts and curves. Diana Fuss, among other critics, asserts that the female body is “a cultural construction” (50). The female body has different meanings to different characters in the narrative: for Esterina the body becomes a means for survival; for Jeremías Berro and Eugenio Moreira for example, it is a sexual object. Even the apparently unattractive Camila, in her state of imbecility, represents a ray of light in the underworlds of Peralta, who seduces her and makes her pregnant. Porzecanski employs two recurrent phallic and yonic symbols in the narrative.81 The phallic symbol is the “serpent” that appears throughout the story. Here are some citations from the text: “poblado de reptiles” (18); “anguilas marinas” (62); “Ésta es la más hermosa de las serpientes ponzoñosas,” (92); “Peralta hacía las descripciones de los atributos de cada una de las serpientes. […] Las víboras de cascabel, plagadas de rombos marrones […]” (92); “una serpiente surgió de la tierra y se enroscó en su brazo” (130). The yonic symbol is the “fig,” a fruit that when opened reveals its reddish interior, suggests fecundity and the allure of female sexuality: “En el centro ubica cuatro higos, uno para cada una de sus hijas” (17); “Don Zaquín salió a la

81 The terminology phallic and yonic are used to refer to symbols associated with human sexuality. A phallic symbol suggests the force of the male, as well as the dominance in a patriarchal society. The opposite of phallic is yonic, suggests fecundity, the female sexuality. In our post-Freudian era, things that seem oblong would be phallic, and things with holes or a significant indentation would be yonic. Examples of phallic symbols are guns, columns, towers, snakes, jets, objects resembling the male organ; examples of yonic symbols are full blown roses, apples, caves, pots, donuts, etc.

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puerta despidiendo a un anciano de larga barba, pequeño y oscuro como un higo” (39); “higos secos, damascos sirios” (75); “el contrabandista le había enseñado a Jasibe a saborear los higos y las pasas” (87); “una galleta seca con dulce de higo” (109); “No hubo tiempo mejor que aquel en que los dátiles e higos masticados displicentemente entre tragos de denso café” (121); “Habría que agregar las pasas de higos negros” (124). Not always are these symbols charged with sexual significance, but their repetition throughout the narrative remains in the unconscious of the reader like an invisible sign. Vincent B. Leitch comments on the work of feminist poet Adrienne Rich that “links patriarchal oppression to power exerted directly (and often violently) on women’s bodies” (1759). Leitch comments on Rich’s essay Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence which argues that: […] women do not simply face the trials and tribulations experienced by all subordinates in hierarchical institutions; they must also present themselves as “attractive” according to dominant standards of heterosexual desirability and be concerned with sexuality in the appropriate ways (e.g., be flirtatious within the proper bounds, be supportive of male superiors). Such expectations, rarely conscious, even more rarely implicit, permeate public male-female relationships. They form part of a larger set of rules about the relative positions of men and women in society. (Leitch 1761) Rich talks about the oppression exerted by men on women and offers the characteristics of male power which include the power of men to deny women their own sexuality, to force male sexuality upon them, to command or exploit their labor, to confine them physically and prevent their movement, to use them as objects in male transactions (pimping, arranged marriage, prostitution, secretarial work), to cramp their creativity and to withhold from them large areas of the society’s knowledge and cultural attainments (by means of noneducation of females).82 She explains: These are some of the methods by which male power is manifested and maintained. Looking at the schema, what surely impresses itself is the fact that we are confronting not

82 Citation taken from the The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism where Vincent Leitch, general editor, comments on the works of several theorists and presents some of their writings. Pages 1765 to 1767, from Rich’s essay “From Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence” first published in Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society (1980). The version found in The Norton Anthology is a shorter version that appeared in Adrienne Rich’s Poetry and Prose, edited by Barbara Charlesworth Gelpi and Albert Gelpi (1993).

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a simple maintenance of inequality and property possession, but a pervasive cluster of forces, ranging from physical brutality to control of consciousness, which suggests that an enormous potential counterforce is having to be restrained. (Leitch 1767) 83 The heroines of Perfumes are located in the first decades of the century, when women didn’t have nearly the freedom and rights that they enjoy today. In the 1920s and 1930s we see Virginia Woolf and Simone de Beauvoir writing the foundations and opening the doors to what laid the foundation for contemporary feminist theory. The statements made by Rich more than sixty years ago serve to describe the situation of women not only of the past but, unfortunately, also of today in many places of the world.

Babies and Monsters

The protagonist Ángela Tejera, the black servant in Nazira’s house, represents another minority group in Latin America and deserves to be studied carefully. Ángela was a victim of racism before being hired by Nazira: “‘Negros aquí no tomamos’, me dijo el mayordomo de la tal casa de familia a donde me enviaron desde Topacio, no sé si conoce ese pueblo. [...] Casa- quinta en El Prado, con tres perros que me olisquearon como a un animal. No importó a nadie que no tengo adónde volver” (173). Nazira finds Ángela in the street, crying in a corner: “‘¿A qué ese llanto, mija?’” (173) asks Nazira. Nazira invites her to come along with her: “Entonces, Nazira, que yo no sabía cómo se llamaba, me dijo hablando como gringa: ‘Véngase conmigo, mija, que tengo un arroz fritado como para chuparse los dedos’” (173). Ángela is never mistreated by the Mualdeb family, and she even gets presents from the women in the house: “Ángela se había puesto un vestido de seda brillosa que había pertenecido primero a Jasibe y luego a Lidia. Alguien le había comentado que el vestido tenía su historia” (65). She spends most of her time taking care of the dying Nazira: “Por la esquina de su ojo izquierdo, Nazira alcanzó a ver el semblante oscuro de Ángela Tejera que la miraba morirse desde el umbral, el rostro comprensivo” (13). Ángela is a servant, but she is treated with respect by the other

83 See note 82.

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women. The presence of a black woman side by side with the Jewish women in the narrative conveys a sense of marginalization that is shared by both minority groups. Both are seen as the pariah, the outsider, and the oppressed.84 There are several aspects that marginalize Ángela Tejera: she is a woman, she is black, and she is a servant. Even her milieu is marginal: she works for Jewish immigrants. But the author shows that the marginal too has power, and Ángela, highly desired by her white boyfriend Eugenio Moreira, finds a way of controlling him. She uses her own body --the object of his desire-- to exert power over him. The sexual act never happens: Eugenio Moreira no desatendió ninguna de las expectativas de Ángela ni ésta dejó de domesticar sus avances a través de una dosificación equilibrada que, al tiempo que frenaba la pasión desesperada del hombre, lo mantenía fascinado y dócil. A los veinte años, Ángela había descubierto el secreto de toda fuente de poder: una seducción premeditada, controlada permanentemente por la prohibición. (70) Ángela doesn’t have sexual relations with Eugenio, but she gets pregnant. When Jasibe finds out, she is shocked and wants to defend Ángela’s honor. Here once again, the reader sees the atmosphere of sisterhood mentioned previously: “Dejá que cuando lo agarre, las cosas no van a quedar así. Se va a tener que casar, te lo juro. Eso no te lo hace a vos y no se lo hace a otra” (181). Scholes refers to “the ability of women to be conscious of themselves as a class…bound by a certain shared experience” (121-23). Here, Jasibe and Ángela are not exactly of the same “class” but their bond comes from their position of marginality in the society where they live.

84 Jacques Derrida, one of the defenders of multiculturalism, “has emphasized the importance of that which does not quite belong: the marginal” according to Mitchell Stephens’ interview with Derrida. As Stephens explains, “he sees himself as having lived on the margins --not quite French, not quite Algerian and also not simply Jewish. ‘There is this distance, a distance because I was Jewish’ --a word he pronounces quietly-- ‘because I wasn't totally French.” Derrida, who became famous for his revolutionary theories, is seen as a rebel, “someone who challenged the dominant culture”; through his theory of multiculturalism, his work is said to “legitimize diversity” and “‘empower’ resistance to ‘Eurocentric domination’” (Gleason 48). Derrida’s theory of deconstruction has inspired an entire new generation of critical studies. Stephens comments that deconstructivist architects acknowledge Derrida as an inspiration for their work: […] uncentered, marginal, committed to mocking expectations --gardens without benches and trees. And Derrida's name has begun showing up in non-academic publications and broadcasts-- as the scourge of the author, as the epitome of the incomprehensible intellectual, as the postmodern era's ‘post man’ and, most recently, as a patron saint of that controversial ‘multiculturalism’. Like the gardens without benches or trees, the world suggested by Derrida ‘can be viewed from a limitless number of different perspectives.’ Derrida’s work is the result of somebody who lived “in between” groups, not quite belonging to any group in particular; his experience allowed him to see the world in unique ways that can be perceived in the success of his revolutionary theories. Ángela’s baby can be examined in light of Derrida’s ideas of the marginal, and the multicultural, as well as in terms of the fundamental idea that things can be seen in many different perspectives. For the whole interview: Jacques Derrida, interview with Mitchell Stephens, “Deconstructing Jacques Derrida,” Los Angeles Times Magazine (21 Jul. 1991) .

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Ángela quickly clarifies that the baby is not Eugenio’s: “No ha sido él, que nunca lo he dejado tocarme un pelo. […] Tiene que ver con Gardel, digo, con su espíritu. Le juro por las selvas de mis tatarabuelos que los espíritus existen y pueden más que las personas. […] Después de todo, es Gardel” (181). The baby was conceived in a dream: he is a metaphor, the son of Carlos Gardel, a national idol, a god, a star, and Ángela, a black servant. The baby is the fruit of an imaginary and spiritual love, like a “Black Virgin Mary,” conceived without sin in the twentieth century. And Ángela too was chosen, she tells Jasira: “¿No vio que la virgen parió a Jesús por el espíritu? Esto es el mismo caso, doña, se lo juro. Soñaba durante meses el mismo sueño porque el espíritu me estaba acechando. Y vaya a saber en qué descuido de una noche de gracia él me eligió” (181). Ángela prays to the African gods, and Oxum communicates with her through a “tirada de buzios” (172). The African religion practiced by her ancestors is introduced in the narrative as part of Ángela’s identity, as part of the culture of her group. The analogy with the Christian Virgin Mary is obvious. The “Virgin Mary” of the twentieth century is a black servant, who a few decades back would have been a slave, conceived without sin by the spirit of a white idol; the African orixás represent the religious aspect of this mythical figure. The Christian Virgin Mary was Jewish, pious and poor, conceived without sin by the Holy Spirit. Ángela’s baby, impossible to conceive, could be seen as a messiah, or an anti-Christ. A symbol of ethnic interaction, the result of the melting-pot, the image of pluralism, the baby is also a marginal being: not quite black, not quite white, not quite Uruguayan, raised in a Jewish household by a black mother. What kind of person would Ángela’s baby be? The description offered by the narrator is apocalyptic: “un retoño hermoso de piel cetrina y ojos esmeralda, cuya voz, heredada del juglar mítico, cantaría, por los siglos de los siglos, letanías de consuelo a los desesperados” (200). Besides his attractive physical features, the baby will inherit the voice of his mythical father and sing litanies of consolation to the desperate ones. Like Jesus, Ángela’s baby has a special mission, but he probably would end up misunderstood, betrayed by his followers, thrown in jail and killed. While this miraculous conception would not be possible in real life, in my interview with the author, Porzecanski commented on the unlimited possibilities of literature, where the psychological features of characters and their reactions can be transformed in unexpected ways. Literature has the freedom and power to transform everything and make things happen in a way that the reader can accept. Everything is possible. The reader can accept realities that don’t

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belong to him/her. The baby that would have been impossible to conceive in real life becomes a possibility and represents a set of symbols and hopes for the characters in the narrative. The other baby in the novel belongs to Camila. Camila suffers from some type of retardation: she couldn’t learn to speak, spends her days doing small manual labor in the house, and is regarded as a child: “A los cincuenta y cuatro años, Camila parecía todavía una niña a la que la vida no hubiera escarnecido. Su mirada de leve imbecilidad” (90). She speaks very little: “las pocas palabras que había aprendido a decir” (90) keep Camila in her own world, secluded from the reality of the other protagonists. Porzecanski observed that she likes to explore the presence of characters with mental disabilities because they offer the possibility of hidden ways of perceiving the world.85 The exploration of unknown territories where everything is an interrogation, a mystery, where things cannot be comprehended by human beings, opens a fascinating space in literature. The author is also interested in the unexpected, the unforeseeable turns that life takes. In her own words: Mundos que no se terminan. Esa no es una novela cerrada, donde las cosas se debaten dentro de sus problemas: sobrevivir, pensar. Hay otros lugares donde hay grandes misterios: la imbecilidad, la locura, las obsesiones. Las manías u obsesiones como ocurre con Peralta, de ver en los ofidios una suerte de humanidad, o una representación de lo humano, en el sentido de los odios, de los venenos, de la imposibilidad del hombre de vivir con el hombre. Planificamos cosas, pero en determinado momento, algo pasa y ya no puedes hacer lo que pensabas. Todo el castillo que uno va construyendo, en algún momento pasa algo, y ya no puedes hacer lo que planeabas. The baby born to Camila is half human and half reptile. In the Jewish tradition the mother is the one who carries Jewishness to the child. However, Camila’s half-reptile-Jewish-baby is born dead: “A pesar de la oscuridad, distinguió en él algo que no armonizaba. Aun en la espesura de la muerte, una piel viscosa cubría lo que fuera un exiguo rostro de ojos laterales angostados en exceso. En vez de nariz, había asomado un hocico protuberante y sin labios, que recordaba a un diminuto saurio dormido” (190). This Jewish baby cannot survive in this hostile world, for the monstrous weight of history is too much for him and his fragile mother to bear. Like the obscure beings raised by his father, Peralta, he can only exist in the dark, in the underground. The

85 Porzecanski, Teresa. Personal interview. 27 May 2004.

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physical traces of monstrosity are a reminder of the burden of history, of the history of his people. Finally, in one of Ángela’s dreams she sees her ancestors in Sudan, and in horror contemplates a place surrounded by arachnids where women give birth to animals: “Ángela Tejera escucha voces, siente pavor de los arácnidos, se palpa los brazos para verificar si ha sido mordida, ve a las mujeres dando a luz animales sabios de ojos cristalinos: leones, babuinos, cocodrilos” (98). The recurrent obscure metaphor of women giving birth to animals, reptiles and semi-god babies could be seen as a reaction to the hostile melting-pot worlds into which these minorities are brought to existence. It is unfortunate that the so-called melting-pot societies are so often hostile to those generated in their own countries. Tragically, those who do not support cultural pluralism don’t realize that the new generations are made by the richness of contact with different cultures and traditions. The new generations in multicultural societies are a bit like the babies of our story; despite their marginality, these are special creatures: the ones born in Ángela’s dream are “animales sabios”; Ángela’s baby will sing songs of redemption to the desperate; and the only one who doesn’t survive is Camila’s Jewish-reptile baby, whose burden of existence was too much for him to bear. Despite the fact that Porzecanski’s novel is dominated by mostly female characters, three male characters are of fundamental significance to the story. The first one is José Sus. In the 1920s, José Sus, the patriarch of the family, accompanied by his family, travels for more than forty-five days by boat in the direction of South America. With the hope of reaching the Promised Land, José Sus remembers his ancestors: “Días largos navegando hacia una melancólica tierra prometida. Nada había ocurrido entre el viaje de Abram Neftalí Sus, el padre del padre de su abuelo, escapado del Reino de León hacía poco más de cuatro siglos, y este viaje suyo ahora” (32). History repeats itself every now and again, and as Jewish families are forced into exile, memory becomes a fundamental part of their lives, part of their souls, and an invisible part of their luggage. José Sus’ presence in the narrative is very brief, but he represents something of fundamental importance in the Jewish family: the patriarch. However, his early death just reinforces the fact that Nazira and her four daughters survive purely by themselves, and build their lives in the new world with their own strength and wisdom. The other two male characters are Alegre Carmona and Jeremías Berro. Since social types are generally defined by means of paired antonyms, ambivalence is seen in the two male

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characters, who represent contrasting examples of the Sephardic Jew. Don Alegre Carmona, “un viejo solo, viudo desde hacía tiempo y sin hijos” (25) owns a “tienda de tejidos” (21) in Montevideo. In spite of his name, Alegre, he is not a happy man. His biggest trouble is the hatred he feels for Jeremías Berro, which he discusses with God in his prayers: “No sólo debería dedicarse a sus propias cosas, […] sino que debería oír además los dictados del Altísimo. […] ese mujeriego ignorante y vergüenza pública, no debería respirar conmigo este mismo aire” (22). Don Carmona cannot understand how God permits the existence of such an evil person: “Desde que el mundo es mundo […] no parece haber ningún castigo para la maldad. ¿Cómo es eso, Dios nuestro? ¿Cómo se puede explicar? […] Ahí mismo tienes el mal ejemplo de Jeremías Berro, desde que me estafó con la importación de tinturas, ¿por qué luce tan feliz? […] ‘¿y yo tan desgraciado?’” (24). The intensity of his feelings cause him physical pain: “la caminata de Jeremías Berro por la vereda de su tienda le produjera siempre acidez estomacal.” This is the main theme of his conversations with God: “le era necesaria a don Alegre Carmona para continuar entablando relaciones con el Altísimo” (23). Carmona keeps a constant dialogue with God. Whenever he feels sad and desperate, he closes himself in a little room at the back of the store and talks to God. He sits down on “un banquito muy bajo de madera” (18) and initiates his prayers. Memories and visions color the narrative: “Aparecía su abuelo Fishel, provisto de una saya luminosa y un cayado, ascendiendo con decisión un empinado monte de piedra en Galilea, seguido de un pueblo de pastores de ovejas. El prolongado balido de los animales recordaba un quejido, una salmodia, algo casi humano que acompaña el peregrinaje del grupo hacia lo alto” (19). Once again, the memory described alludes to the wanderer Jew; and the crying of the sheep evokes the crying of the people. The scene of the grandfather, never physically seen by don Alegre because he wasn’t born then, remains in his soul as part of who he is. His internal conflicts make Don Carmona a tormented man. For him, the world is “un valle de aguas turbias” where “Siempre cabe la posiblidad de hundirnos más y mejor” (25). This thought reminds me of that of Saúl Bluman in No tan distinto: “‘¿Cómo un judío la va a pasar bien […]? No podemos estar tranquilos’” (102). It gives us the impression of an unconscious belief that things can always end up badly. Jeremías Berro, the pícaro owner of the perfume shop that gives name to the novel, inherites the secrets of perfume making from his ancestors (31). Everyone knows that he is not faithful to his wife, Jasibe: “Las infidelidades continuas de Jeremías Berro con las sucesivas

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sirvientas de la casa eran de público conocimiento” (49). His paternal air and attractive physical features make him irresistible to the women with whom he has his affairs. In the narrative the woman desired by Berro is Ángela: “Iba pensando en Ángela Tejera, la sirvienta negra […]. Joven, pero rolliza y de lo más saludable, sus grandes pechos anunciaban alimentación, movilidad. […]” (23); “Pensó nuevamente en los pechos de Ángela Tejera, y algo le comenzaba a suceder allí debajo del vientre obeso” (32). The emphasis on the woman’s breasts in Berro’s mind can be interestingly explained by Fuss, who says that a common phenomenon in observing others is a “synecdochical tendency to see only one part of a subject’s identity (usually the most visible) and to make that part stand for the whole” (116). Fuss comments that a male professor, for example, can be typically reduced to his “maleness,” an Asian professor to his “Asianness,” a lesbian professor to her “lesbianness.” Along the same lines, the generalizations are made by non-Jews in Latin American countries, where Jewish immigrants are referred to as “rusos” or “turcos,” purely because of their physical features. Jeremías Berro attempts several times to approach Ángela in the darkness of the night while everyone is asleep, but he never succeeds since Ángela is alert to the danger and manages to avoid him. MacKinnon explains this behavior: Incidents of sexual harassment suggest that male sexual desire itself may be aroused by female vulnerability…Men feel they can take advantage, so they want to, so they do. Examination of sexual harassment, precisely because the episodes appear commonplace, forces one to confront the fact that sexual intercourse normally occurs between economic (as well as physical) unequals… (220) At those early decades of the century there were no laws to protect Ángela from Berro. She is the one who has to be alert to avoid him and to protect herself from what she fears. It is very unfortunate that even today, in South America, an economically and socially disadvantaged woman can find herself in the same situation as the one described in the book and find no effective laws to protect her from sexual harassment. When Porzecanski discusses which of the male characters best represents the typical Sephardic Jew, she emphasizes that each individual Jew is different: the Azkenazim, the Sephardim, the Hungarian Jews, et al., but the Sephardic character of Jeremías Berro, depicted like a “hummingbird” as she puts it --audacious, adventurous, wicked, crafty-- might be seen as a more stereotypical Sephardic Jew. The other Sephardic Jew, Alegre Carmona, would represent the other extreme: the moralist, the religious one who talks to God, the one who follows the

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precepts of religion, the one who judges others, whom he sees as sinners. The theme of morality in the West is found between these two extremes: transgression and duty. Indeed, we find this type of conflict in several examples of the Old Testament, imbued in all sorts of drama and suspense. Porzecanski explains: “Una vez que al individuo le ponen preceptos, entonces está el tema de la trasgresión que es el tema básico de la moral del occidente. Los dos personajes representan los dos aspectos del hombre contemporáneo: quiero, y deseo, pero no debo, no puedo, lo haré no lo haré. La duda de cómo vivir. Uno hace demasiado, el otro no hace nada pero juzga.”86 At the end of the book, tormented with his conflict between good and evil, Carmona looks for a rabbi to talk to, to try to understand these extreme forces inside him. Until then he believed and trusted in God’s sovereignty: “Sólo nos transformamos cuando enfrentamos el mal en los otros, y en nosotros. […] La voz de Él nos arranca de una manera de vivir, digamos, prosaica, de una cierta animalidad […]. Escuchándola, te va creciendo una conciencia” (136). Rabbi Nissim Alfieh listens to Carmona telling him about the profound hatred he has for “uno de los nuestros” (149). Carmona asks him “¿Cómo se explica […] la crueldad?” (148). The rabbi “inició una sonrisa amplia, de dientes sorprendentemente bellos” (149). But his admonitions are not enough to bring Carmona the remedy and the cure to his sorrow. Tired of waiting for God to intercede in his favor and defeated by pain, Carmona kills Jeremías at the wedding party of his niece Alcira. Before taking the decision to kill Jeremías, Carmona has a Biblical-like-vision in which he sees himself on top of a mountain. He looks for God but is unable to see Him: “no había rostro de Dios. Sólo Palabra” (176). We know that God speaks in Genesis, where one of the major forces is the power of His word: “And God said, Let there be light. […] And God said, Let there be a firmament […]. And God said, Let the waters under the heaven […]” (Gen. 1). Carmona looks for a sign and all he finds is silence: “Quería que Dios volviera a decirle el sentido del mundo. Su primera intención. La razón que tuviera detrás de la injusticia. Algún consuelo por la pequeñez” (176). But he hears nothing: “El tiempo había terminado y Dios no había dicho su Palabra. […] Se sintió frágil, olvidado” (177). This crucial existential moment in Carmona’s life represents the loneliness of the wanderer Jew, the one who gives up on believing

86 Porzecanski, Teresa. Personal interview. 27 May 2004.

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in the Divine. The vision in the desert (“Deslizaba la vista lentamente por el horizonte extendido de su panorama: al oeste las montañas de Judea” 175) brings us the image of the Jewish tribes wandering in the deserts of ancient times, in a scenario of “desierto de arenas onduladas” (176). Carmona knows that “‘la Palabra está bien cerca de ti, está en tu boca y en tu corazón para que la pongas en práctica’, pero él no había sido capaz de encontrarla. Tampoco dentro de sí mismo” (177) and he feels like he is “Mudo de Dios” (177). Unable to understand his hatred “ese odio por Jeremías Berro, acumulado durante años, y encerrado con pudor en su corazón […] le impedía escuchar lo que hablaba Dios a las personas comunes y corrientes” (176), he decides to end his pain by ending the object of this hatred. He waits for a miracle in answer to his prayers, but he feels lonely. It is important to emphasize the function of religion in the life of the devoted religious Jew; religion is of fundamental meaning: everything turns around the Creator, and life itself has no meaning without God. Carmona loses this connection, his faith succumbs to his weakness, and he decides to do what he may have expected God to do for him.

Conclusions

Steven Lynn wrote that literature can be a profoundly revealing imitation of life. Indeed, literary works can tell how real history affected the lives of real individuals. When literature places scattered historical facts in the lives of the characters that we read about, these historical events are not lost or hard to comprehend, as is often the case in the historical accounts of such incidents. When historical facts are presented with family names and people, with colors and foods, with smells and addresses, with wedding feasts and tragic deaths, we learn them in a much more effective way --we do not forget. When writers link history to people’s lives through the characters in their novels, the technique makes the writing much more credible. Besides, it gives us the understanding of realities different from ours, and the impression of a real story remains with us. It evokes our past as well; it makes us go through the same process of remembrance. In fact, Hayden White explains: “We may not be able fully to comprehend specific thought patterns of another culture, but we have relatively less difficulty understanding a story coming from another culture, however exotic that culture may appear to us” (1). In bringing these

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characters from distant and exotic places closer to the reader, the author is pushing the boundary that separates the reader and the character. In this way, they can be very close, and one can understand “the other.” The ancient Judaic culture still persists in the soul of these Latin American-Jewish authors and in the soul of the protagonists of the novels they write. At the same time, assimilation makes them all --creators and the ones created-- very latino. They participate in the social, political and economical struggles of their native countries like any other citizen of Latin America. However, they are not only Latin Americans; they are Jewish too. This pluralistic feature is seen in these novels in different ways, all of which reveal their reality and give others the chance to know who they are. The condition of the Jewish protagonist is universal. Porzecanski’s book is not the story of one person but rather the story of a group. It does not tell the story of a hero in search of identity but of a group struggling to survive and adapt to a new country. The novel shows how the characters lose part of their original selves in order to incorporate traces of a new world, never abandoning the memories of their past since these memories are a fundamental part of who they really are. Porzecanski employs elements of history in her fiction to achieve a more complete representation of what happened to the Jewish immigrants. The past is part of their lives and needs to be told. She doesn’t speak clearly of “Jews,” but she speaks of persecutions in Syria, pogroms in Ukraine, kadish, seven candles burning at funerals, mysterious Sephardic women, foods and drinks, dialects and amulets of the Sephardim. Jewish tradition, culture and religion appear in everyday life in the Bualdeb’s house and in the life of its members. Assimilation happens slowly, as an invisible ghost, invading life as it pleases and transforming the younger generations. Lunita, a grown up woman at the end of the novel, throws into the ocean the key that opens the old house of her grandmother that has long since been abandoned. The old key is a symbol of the past, of her ancestors. Although Lunita continues to identify herself as a Jew, she is, at the same time, a Uruguayan woman who can decide her own path. The key she carries at the end of the novel not only closes doors --the doors of the past-- but it opens the new ways of the future. This future will allow her to decide how Jewish she wants to be. The novel starts its first chapter and ends its last one with Lunita, as if life itself were a cycle where history repeats itself and people are transformed according to their times and environment. Assimilation can be seen as an avoidable vehicle of loss of culture, but again identity is a

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construction and a constant negotiation with the present circumstances of each individual. In our interview Porzecanski told what she thought her characters would be like today, what would Lunita, her daughters and granddaughters be like at the beginning of the twentieth-first century. Porzecanski said that they would be like any modern young girl in Uruguay, not so connected to tradition, more modern, more liberal, and freer of any ties. This is the story of women, not only of Jewish women but of many women in general and the abuses and oppression many of them suffer. Fuss emphasizes that: “It is certainly true that there is no such thing as ‘the female experience’ or ‘the Black experience’ or ‘the Jewish experience’…. And it seems likely that simply being a woman, or a Black, or a Jew (as if ‘being’ were ever ‘simple’) is not enough to qualify one as an official spokesperson for an entire community” (117). Porzecanski’s objective is not to limit her narrative only to the Jewish universe. The Jewish family is not isolated but relates to other members of society, and they share the problems of their society like any other family. These are immigrants in the beginning decades of the twentieth century. Anybody can identify with the different characters in this novel: the black servant, the immigrant woman, the immigrant man, the Jewish immigrant, the gentile, the abused wife, et al. So too, any woman can recognize herself in the pages of Perfumes. We also see in this novel that there is a kind of universality to Judaism. It is a mistake to see Judaism as a very specific culture. It started as very specific and particular, but over time, its values were spread and became part of Western culture, beginning with the patriarchal norms that originated with the shepherds wandering in the desert. These characters are not struggling with existential problems. Their lives are like a mosaic that mixes with the lives of others. They may reshape their behavior and seem assimilated, but they never lose their identity. As immigrants they have to adapt to survive, to get work, food, and education for their children. They have to provide the basic means of existence for themselves; there is no time for identity questions. They may very well think about their past --about what they left behind-- but that is a part of who they are. Their past was never really erased; it remains in the memory of individuals who reveal in their everyday lives the signs of the culture that was passed from generation to generation. In another of Porzecanski’s novels, Una novela erótica, one of the characters confirms that the essence in each individual carries what has been taught century after century: “¿Acaso la educación que habíamos recibido

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no estaba para siempre asimilada y nos sostendría por los siglos de los siglos? (43)”. The knowledge of the Jewish culture and traditions remains as a secret force, sustaining Jews through the experiences of their lives.

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CONCLUSION

“You know that it is not in a person’s power to really change a religion that he has suckled with his mother’s milk any more than it is within his power to change his birth.” (Samuel Romanelli, 18)

In the study of Latin American Jewish literature, understanding the background, as well as the historical and social context of the authors’ lives, is of fundamental importance in the analysis of their work. Learning about the authors and the circumstances outside the text help us see more clearly what the writer wants to convey. Jewish authors express their history and the history of their people, which is accompanied by questions of identity, assimilation or alienation, problems of acculturation, adaptation, nostalgia, memory, anti-Semitism, and the struggles of the societies in which they live. The complex question of identity for Jews involves nationality and religion more than for any other group in the world. There are those who are Jews according to their birth but they don’t practice Judaism. And there are those who practice the religion in different forms and degrees. We find individuals located on different points along this spectrum. Some speak of “Jewish identity” as a responsibility. For others, non-religious Jews, religion doesn’t seem relevant in their lives as Jews. Porzecanski says that Judaism is more than a religion; it is a culture. The basic principles found in the sacred books of the Judaic culture give a perspective of life that is followed by many liberal, non-orthodox Jews, who believe in some ethical aspects of social responsiblity and solidarity. Different Jewish individuals everywhere practice different levels of religiosity and embrace their ancestral culture in different ways. The history of the concept of identity comes from the cultural clashes between different peoples. There are several approaches to the multiple aspects of the concept of “the other.” These “outsiders” --whether indigenous, the African, the heretical Europeans before the Inquisition, for example-- can be studied as “the other.” There are no fixed concepts. Different groups cross boundaries in order to confront “the other.” But it is in the moment of confrontation that we can define ourselves. The definition of identity is always the result of negotiation, of construction. It is always a game of what the mainstream culture allows the outsider to do and to be, and how

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they can, consequently, construct themselves. The confrontation between oneself and the other is basic in the definition of identity. Dealing with the other involves prejudice and racism, which have ancient roots and originate in early times. They are based on stereotypes and simplifications that people make based on generalizations. These processes, not always conscious, continue to occur everywhere in the way new people and new things are categorized, based on impressions and views learned in society. There are structures of thinking according to which people in general make these distinctions, classifying other people according to their particular patterns and beliefs. The problem occurs when there is a high level of generalization and people give individuals positive or negative attributes while ignoring existing subtle shades. All societies are formed by different ethnic, political, and religious groups, and all of them will go through processes of social integration in their new societies. This does not mean they will lose their culture, but they will transform themselves to form a new society. In Judaism, the history of the Jewish dispersion makes it impossible to contend that Jews assimilated completely and lost their culture with the passing of time. Some Jewish contingents have been lost, but a good enough number has remained across the centuries to continue the culture, the tradition, and the religion. Whereas some individuals have chosen to assimilate with their local cultures, others have chosen not to, and the latter have been key elements in the continuity of Jewish culture. Each society has treated Jews in different ways, establishing laws restricting them or giving them opportunities. Jewish groups cannot be generalized, for in spite of their integration they have succeeded being Jewish as well as secular. In the Modern Age, after the French Revolution, with the fall of monarchy, there is a need to define individuality and the modern individual. The question of “Who am I?” is fundamental at this moment when the individual feels abandoned before the anonymous crowd of urban masses and a certain feeling of alienation, a certain solitude, envelopes him/her. The need to affirm the “I am” and the need to belong to a group causes a certain collective anguish, a necessity to cure that emptiness in existence. The need to define individuality comes from the loneliness of the individual in the huge mass of contemporary societies --the need to fill out an empty gap and to belong to a certain social entity. The problem of Jewish identity is only one of numerous contemporary identity problems. Other minorities feel similar gaps. For Jewish groups, the memory of their ancestors, the twelve tribes scattered throughout the deserts of

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ancient civilizations, the nomad groups of shepherds in the deserts struggling together for their continuity and survival, as well as other events in contemporary times, cause us to reflect on how Jewish individuals may locate themselves in contemporary societies. Writers don’t write in a void. This is certainly clear from the work of Jewish writers who create their characters based on their history, their collective and individual past and present. Isaac Bashevis Singer, Phillip Roth, Elie Wiesel, Sholem Aleichem, Clarice Lispector, Alberto Gerchunoff, Porzecanski, Birmajer, Dzialovsky, and all the other Jewish authors writing in different times and places write about the loneliness and the needs of their Jewish characters. These characters represent all levels of assimilation and live through myriad forms of anti- Semitism in the societies to which they have come to belong. In any novel about Jews, history and memory are fundamental. Past and present are all one. Literature is born from life and is being recreated in the mind of its creators. The writing of these stories helps writers and readers elucidate situations; the fiction works as a psychological tool to bring closure to the pain of the past. The history of the Jewish people, written in the form of a novel and imbued with the life of contemporary Jews, shows the different perspectives on life and truths of a group and a culture that are not known to everyone. The result is a humanization of history, the personification of ancient symbols and entities through the narration of stories of modern Jewish characters. The continuity and transmission of culture across the generations depend on the individual. Parents and grandparents, the carriers and teachers of tradition, religion and culture, may teach and instruct their children, but the new generations of more assimilated individuals can only decide for themselves what they believe is best for them. Traditional Jewish families may have assimilated children who refuse to follow the tradition of their ancestors whereas nontraditional families may be surprised by children who grow up to be interested in the culture of their ancestors and who will look for their roots and get involved in the practice of religion or customs that were not taught at home. The search for identity happens in different ways for each person. For some, knowing family names is not enough; they must search more deeply into their ancestors’ history to find their identities. Judaism still exists because in various societies where Jewish communities thrived there were always individuals who persisted in the practice of their faith and passed it to the younger generations. Even during the cruelest times of history, such as the Inquisition in Spain and

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Portugal, the Holocaust, and other times of massacres and pogroms against the Jewish people, there were those who practiced Judaism. Even when this practice cost them their lives. Although several Jewish circles are highly concerned about the problem of assimilation, I tend to believe that History has proved that the Jewish people will remain and, furthermore, that their existence is not threatened by the process of assimilation. Birmajer’s words confirm this thought: Una de las pocas certezas de la que los judíos no debiéramos desprendernos es que la variedad es una bendición. Que si todos viviéramos el judaísmo del mismo modo este se habría extinguido. Estoy convencido de que, para crear el mayor logro judío en los últimos dos mil años, el Estado de Israel, fue necesario que existieran judíos ortodoxos y judíos laicos. No lo hubieran conseguido sin los judíos ortodoxos que preservaron la Torá en los peores momentos, no lo hubieran conseguido sin los judíos laicos dispuestos a interrumpir momentáneamente los rituales para atender a las cuestiones prácticas de la supervivencia: la guerra y la economía. (Ser Judío 14) Birmajer’s statement indicates that diversity itself has promoted the continuity of the Jewish people. Different Jews will relate to their Jewishness and to Judaism in different levels, they will embrace different causes and follow traditions and religion in different manners. Nonetheless, their most essential, intimate thoughts, ethics, and behavior will remain Jewish. One of the most remarkable features among the characters of the novels studied --which I believe provides good examples of reality-- is their tenacity and strength to overcome personal and social difficulties, to progress and succeed. That is indeed a quality of the Jewish people. In time, the immigrants and their children end up fully incorporated or assimilated into the national life of the countries where they live.87 As Gleason observes, assimilation is a process that is “inevitable because it was the natural outcome of ongoing social interaction” (53). Again, assimilation takes place as a natural result of social interaction. However, it is my opinion that assimilation is not the same for every person, and that even the most assimilated Jews often remain unconscious of the traits of their origin. The three novels in this study represent Jewish groups at different times during the twentieth century, and in different countries in the Southern Cone. I would like to suggest an

87 Philip Gleason, Speaking of Diversity (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins UP, 1992) 53.

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imaginary time line where we can review them briefly according to the different moments when their stories take place: 1) Perfumes de Cartago shows a family of Sephardic Syrian Jews arriving in Uruguay in the nineteen-twenties, their early struggles to survive in the new country; the continuation of the family through marriage with other Sephardic Jews and the birth of offspring, who are a result of the new mixtures in the New World. These early immigrants face many difficulties settling in the country: they have to learn the new language, they have vivid memories of their remote homes, they have strong ties with their homelands and customs, but, because life is more important, there is no space for identity issues. 2) O Novo Testamento represents a young Ashkenazi Brazilian Jew living in Rio de Janeiro in the seventies; he is the first generation born in the new world to Holocaust survivors who arrived in Brazil when they were very young; the protagonist’s family doesn’t show the same financial struggles of the earlier groups; the boy is very integrated into carioca culture, but, as a descendent of concentration camp survivors, he suffers indirectly from the pain of his parents. He inquires about the roots of his ancestry and about who he is, and who he is to become. 3) No tan distinto depicts the grandchild of immigrant Jews to Argentina, a mature Ashkenazi Argentine Jew at the end of the twentieth century; he is well settled financially and enjoys stability and comfort. Argentina is his country, a place where he finds himself perfectly adapted, but at an older age, he identifies deep identity questions about his Jewishness and his Judaism. These different characters focus on different tensions, questions and conflicts which reflect the time of their history in their country. The first arrivals are marked by a need to assimilate, to behave like the dominant culture, to follow the model imposed by the local culture, “El objetivo último de un proceso de asimilación es que la diferencia no sea notada, es que el grupo minoritario llegue a ser parte del grupo mayoritario incluso en la apariencia” (Kitzis and Herszokowich 105). They wish to be accepted and to belong. As time passes and these groups settle, their children grow up, get married, new generations are born and are increasingly more like the local culture and more different from the culture of their grandparents. As these newer generations grow much more educated and enjoy a more stable economic life, some of them (not all) look back to rescue from oblivion the origins of their ancestors; they try to understand who they are, who they have become, and how they have been influenced by the different cultures around them. Some individuals from these later generations return to the traditions of their

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families to recuperate lost aspects of their culture that can retell who they are. They learn and educate themselves about their roots and go through a process that is explained by Kitzis and Herszokowich as follows: “proceso por el cual el grupo minoritario puede gozar, sin renunciar a su particularidad en tanto grupo minoritario, de iguales derechos e idéntico acceso a los bienes de los que la sociedad dispone, tanto materiales como simbólicos” (105). Children from the generation of Lunita (Perfumes) and the young boy in O Terceiro Testamento have access to the culture of their parents, but, young as they are, they are not so aware of these processes of assimilation and integration. They share both Jewish and Latino worlds and will probably question their identity and choose to change their Judaism and Jewishness much later, as did Saúl Bluman. These novels show that the primary needs of food, housing, clothing, and work are the main focus of the early immigrants. As the newer generations’ situation improves, as their language skills improve, as they obtain more education, get better jobs, and enjoy better financial and social status, other identity questions arise. These are, for the Jewish people, also related to religion and a whole set of everyday rituals and behavior. In the end, the final choice is a very personal one. Each individual chooses to be Jewish in his or her own way, wherever he or she is.

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APPENDIX

Marcelo Birmajer

Marcelo Birmajer was born in Buenos Aires in 1966 and still lives in the neighborhood known as Once, the picturesque Jewish neighborhood of Buenos Aires. The Once provides the geographical context to many of Birmajer’s writings which have taken the form of movies, novels for both adults and junior readers, short stories, fables, plays and essays. The grandson of Romanian, Polish, Lithuanian and Syrian immigrants Birmajer is one of the most prolific writers of Argentina. By the age of 38 he has published more than twenty books. Among his novels figure Un crimen secundario (1992), El alma al diablo (1994), No tan distinto (2000) y Tres mosqueteros (2001); collections of short stories, like Fábulas salvajes (1996), El fuego más alto (1997), Historias de hombres casados (1999), Nuevas historias de hombres casados (2001) and Últimas historias de hombres casados (2004). Birmajer’s films include: Un día con Angela (1993), Sol de noche (2003), No matarás (2004) and a television tale entitled Un Cuento de Navidad (2002). He is the coauthor of the script for the movie El abrazo partido that won the prize for Guión Inédito en el Festival de Nuevo Cine Latinoamericano de la Habana in 2002 and a Silver Bear Prize in Berlin in 2004. This movie was also appointed to run for an Oscar in the category of best foreign film. Birmajer’s articles and short stories have been published in several languages, and he has worked as an editor and collaborator in several newspapers and magazines in the Hispanic world. Birmajer writes for the papers Clarín, Abc and El País, as well as for magazines such as Viva and La Nación. The New York Times has referred to Birmajer as “the Woody Allen of the Pampas”.88 In an interview for the newspaper Clarín, journalist Flavia Costa comments that Birmajer’s most recurrent themes are presented with good humor and intelligent intrigues: issues of identity, the

88 Larry Rohter, “The Woody Allen of the Pampas,” New York Times 1 Feb. 2005. .

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irreversible passage of time, the father figure and the undeniable authority of God.89 In scenes of everyday life, continues Costa, other themes are seen in his books such as marriage, love, sex, the relationship among father and son, infidelity, sexual desires and perversion. The short novel studied in this dissertation called my attention for its simple and yet deep plot. This novel is the story of a Jewish-Argentinean man --Saúl Bluman-- who is well integrated in the society of Buenos Aires. In examining how Saúl lives his life, deals with his doubts, and sees the world around him, this chapter examined the issues of identity the protagonist experiences, the voices that speak within his thoughts, the mystic images and symbols that surround him, and, finally, his deepest thoughts and anxieties. One particular relevant aspect in the study of this novel is the presence of Judaism and the mystic elements in the character’s life. Although Saúl does not practice Judaism, he is not totally unaware of its impact on his life. Thus, questions such as the tradition of the Kabbalah, its impact on Saúl’s life, and how this Judaic concept helps to define the protagonist were examined in an effort to explore more fully the question of identity in Birmajer’s novel.

Francisco Dzialovsky

Francisco Dzialovsky was born in Rio de Janeiro in 1952 to a Polish Jewish family. Curently he is a geographer and philosophy teacher in Rio de Janeiro where he teaches sociology, geography and philosophy from second grade to pre-college students. In addition, he gives private philosophy classes to professionals of different fields. Dzialovsky’s vast knowledge of the Humanities forms the foundation of a new book on Greek culture and history, which will be used by high school students. O Terceiro Testamento (1987) is his first novel, and he has recently published a second one, Devoração, in 2003. Dzialovsky’s first novel is rich in its exploration of identity. Through the voice of a young carioca boy, the child of Holocaust

89 Birmajer, Marcelo, interview with Flavia Costa, “Estado Civil Escritor,” Clarín, Buenos Aires, 2 Jan. 2000. .

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survivors, the reader learns of the atmosphere and quests of a group of Jews in Brazil. The questions asked by the young protagonist and his dialogues with two of his best friends Rafael and Simão, older members of the Jewish community of Rio de Janeiro in the sixties and seventies, provide an opportunity to examine the experience and points of view of another Jewish Latin American author. His second book does not focus on the same topic of Jewish identity; rather, the main character, Aloízio, often recalls the deeds of a secret group to which he belongs. He refers to a “tribe”, a “closed society” that goes around the streets of Rio de Janeiro chasing bandits, thieves, rapists, drug dealers and other outlaws that put the life of good citizens in danger. The novel also presents Aloízio’s sexual adventures. The rich and handsome protagonist compares the “hunting” of criminals to the “hunting” of female characters that he encounters for his physical satisfaction. One evening Alisio is surprised by a gypsy who reads the lines on his hand revealing his special mission on earth. A mixture of messiah and sinner, Aloízio too has an intriguing contact with the mystical world that surrounds his existence.

Teresa Porzecanski

Writer and anthropologist Teresa Porzecanski was born in Montevidéo in 1945. Currently a professor at the College of Social Sciences of the Universidad de la República Oriental del Uruguay,she is the author of several collections of short stories, novels, one book of poetry and several essays. The book Historias de vida de inmigrantes judíos al Uruguay (1986), previously mentioned in the Introduction, presents testimonies of Jewish immigrants in Uruguay as well as historical details about their arrival in the country. The author focuses her work on several social issues concerning the Uruguayan society such as immigration, presence of minority groups such as Jews and Blacks, religion, development of communities and class. Porzecanski’s works have been translated into several languages, and she has received prestigious prizes and grants such as the Guggenheim (1992) and the Bartolomé Hidalgo (1995). Among her novels and collections of short stories are El Acertijo y otros cuentos (1967), Historias para mi abuela (1970), Esta manzana roja (1972), Ciudad impune (1986), Una novela erótica (1986), Mesías en Montevidéo

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1989), La respiración es una fragua (1989), Perfumes de Cartago (1994), and Felicidades fugaces (2002). Porzecanski’s novels and short stories depict marginal, unattractive, problematic characters that are given a voice to express their universe. Her writting is rich in adjectives and adverbs and her elaborate style conveys the intricate worlds of characters who describe life experiences under different conditions.

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BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

Debora Cordeiro Rosa was born in São Paulo, Brazil, in December of 1968. She came to the United States in 1998 when she married Charles Sipin, an American from New Jersey who was working in Brazil. Before coming to the United States, Debora had lived in Europe for approximately four years where she took several language, culture and art classes in London, Paris, Montpellier, Barcelona and Zurich. Her passion for different languages and cultures brought her to continue these studies in graduate school. In the United States she earned a master’s degree in Spanish Literature at the University of Central Florida, in Orlando, and then a Ph.D. in Spanish Literature at Florida State University. To better comprehend the depth of her dissertation topic, she dedicated herself to learning more about the Judaic culture by visiting synagogues, meeting Jewish people and taking classes for a minor in Judaic Studies from the Judaic Studies Department at University of Central Florida. During her research work she received a Dorothy Hoffman Research Award and an Ada Belle Winthrop-King Grant for Graduate Conference and Research Travel. Debora has published several book reviews and presented papers in many conferences at different institutions in the United States: Boston College, New York University, Dartmouth College, University of Iowa, University of El Paso, University of Central Florida, and Florida State University. She also has given papers in conferences abroad, including the Dominican Republic and Israel. She has taught languages, culture and literature at University of Central Florida and at Florida State University since the year 2000. After graduation Debora will assume an Assistant Professor of Spanish and Portuguese position at University of Central Florida.

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