Читать книгу On a Clear April Morning - Marcos Iolovitch - Страница 13

Chapter 1

On a clear April morning in the year 19… when the steppes had begun to turn green again upon the joyful entrance of Spring, there appeared scattered about in Zagradowka, a small and cheerful Russian village in the province of Kherson, beautiful brochures with colored illustrations describing the excellent climate, the fertile land, the rich and varied fauna, and the beautiful and exuberant flora, of a vast and faraway country of America, named—BRASIL where the “Jewish Colonization Association,” better known as the JCA, owner of a great parcel of land, called “Quatro Irmãos,” located in the municipality of Boa Vista do Erechim, in the state of Rio Grande do Sul, was offering homesteads on favorable terms to all those who wished to become farmers.

Situated on the left bank of the Schisterni River, on whose bed the village youth used to skate in winter when the waters transformed themselves into a thick and polished mass of ice, Zagradowka lay far from civilization, forgotten by the world, abandoned by the government and left to its own fate, as were innumerable small communities of the extinct Czarist Empire that found themselves dispersed across the immeasurable vastness of the steppes.

Zagradowka’s inhabitants, simple, uneducated, and unrefined people, lived peacefully from trade and agriculture.

A wide central street, crossed by various narrow lanes, divided the village in half. Almost at the end of the street, where it opened up into two roads that led towards the different linhas coloniais,¹ there arose in the center of a circular garden a little church. At the entrance to the village, on the right-hand side for someone coming from the river, was my father’s commercial establishment. And, on the same side, at the other end of the street, near the church, was the business belonging to his stepfather, the oldest and wealthiest wheat merchant in that region, with whom my grandmother had entered into second nuptials three years after the death of her first husband.

Orphaned at eight years of age, my father began to work in his stepfather’s establishment. He spent his adolescence at the counter, accumulating some savings in exchange. When he was nineteen, he married, opening a modest store of his own.

With an open nature and a deeply caring heart, he enjoyed widespread esteem among his fellow countrymen and an almost carefree life. When the shelves emptied a bit and needed new wares, he would go by sleigh to Krivoy Rog to make the necessary purchases. And so, his life glided along placidly, always maintaining the same rhythm, without any bumps in the road.

But, with the passing years and the coming of children, he began to worry about their future.

Reading the brochures roused the villagers from their usual tranquility, provoking absurd comments on the validity of the information and the true geographic location of Brazil. From that day on no one spoke of anything else. It was the topic everywhere. In the pharmacy, in the stores, in the synagogue, and, especially, at the weekly Friday market.

Some inhabitants of Zagradowka were not unaware of the existence of a free and fabulously wealthy land called America, though they had only formed a vague and nebulous image of this faraway place. But they had never heard of Brazil. In their eyes, Brazil was just a legend, created by the imagination of some adventurers.

Papa also had little education, but he had no doubts about the truth of the offerings. He had complete trust in the goodness of mankind. That’s why he read and reread these brochures with growing interest. And he ended up vividly enraptured by the description of this new land. Especially by the colored illustration on the cover.

The cover of the brochures displayed a simple landscape depicting rural Brazilian life.

Under a clear and distant soft blue sky, a farmer, with a wide-brimmed hat and a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, was bent over, wielding the handles of a plow pulled by a team of oxen turning over the virgin land. A little farther on, in the background, lay the golden crop, extensive ripe wheat fields. Even further back, blued in the distance, were coconuts, palms, and mysterious forests. And, in the foreground, highlighted in vivid and bold colors, was an enormous orchard, composed principally of orange trees; in their shade pigs ate the beautiful oranges that had fallen to the ground.

This little picture impressed Papa profoundly.

He didn’t like trade, the exploitation of naïve peasants. Agriculture, however, seduced him. It was reputed to be one of the cleanest and most honorable professions. That’s why he wanted his children, who were all boys, to pursue it. He deemed that he could assure them a splendid future by making them farmers. With time, he thought, they would marry. They would form a large family. They would all live together, leading a happy life in a tranquil corner of a virgin world.

He saw in Brazil the heaven-sent land for the realization of his plans.

For some time, he secreted this beautiful dream deep inside him. He didn’t let himself reveal it to anyone. He spent his spare time contemplating the colorful cover and the orange trees.

Oranges in Russia were imported. They came packed in boxes and rolled in tissue paper like the apples from California here in Brazil. And they were very expensive.

Papa would look at the wheat field, at this symbol of abundance. He imagined himself a grand farmer, tilling the soil with his sons, far away, very far away, in a distant land called Brazil.

Finally, having resolved to change his life, he shared with his wife his resolution to leave Russia to become a farmer in the New World.

Mama energetically opposed this plan, invoking heartfelt concerns. She wasn’t going to leave her family and friends to go adventuring in a land whose existence she doubted. But her objections did not dissuade him. And soon after, to make his decision irrevocable, he put his business up for sale. He sold all that he had. And he set the departure date.

On the appointed day, with farewells and embraces, the whole town came to wish us a successful journey.

My brothers and I were seated on a wagon crammed full with baggage while my parents said goodbye.

With great difficulty, they managed to disentangle themselves from their friends and family and their deeply felt embraces. Eyes brimming with tears, they pressed to their hearts each one there, trying, in vain, to hide their premonition that each one of those embraces would be the last they would share this side of heaven.

The farewells completed, my parents sat down on the coach-box of the wagon as it slowly began to move.

Repressed sobs erupted from those beloved friends. Wailing spread everywhere. Both men and women lowered their heads wiping their eyes. Various hats and handkerchiefs waved in the morning light.

Some relatives began to follow us at a distance while the vehicle moved on slowly, leaving behind two parallel grooves on the straight and seldom followed road which stretched out like a dark ribbon until falling out of sight in the shallow flatness of the fields.

Only many, many years afterward did I come to understand the significance of two parallel lines. . . .

After having covered some distance, Papa turned to look back at his native village for the last time.

The crowd of friends and family had dispersed. The town remained behind, way behind.

Chimneys unfolded slow plumes of smoke in the chilly morning air. In concert, the cadence of a distant engine and the rhythmic fall of a hammer upon an anvil accompanied, synchronically, the billowing ascent of the day, which the sun had been flooding with the joy of its light. Like the wing of an injured bird, a single handkerchief moved slowly in the air.

Who would have stayed there waving to him, always from the same place?

To see better, he squinted his eyes a bit.

It was a handkerchief, blowing in the wind, that someone had left stuck in a bush, giving the impression that the steppe itself, which had seen him born and, now, was seeing him leave for an uncertain destiny, was wishing him its ultimate goodbye with the silent eloquence of its sad wave. . . .