סיפור מאת סיגל שפירא - המטאטה, תרגמה לאנגלית: שירלי גנור Sigal shapira :THE BROOM, Translated to english : Shirley Ganor

Sigal shapira

Translated to english 

 Shirley Ganor

THE BROOM

I stood and looked at the worn out broom.  Small bald areas spread through it and the remainder of its thin hair fought unsuccessfully against the dirt which stuck to them.  Now they are bent over, embarrassed to look at the floor for fear that their strength will not suffice and the work will not be done properly.

“We must buy a new broom” I thought, and immediately remembered that this was not a new idea.  It was like this every day.

Why is it hard to buy a new broom?  Maybe the old broom is the reason?  Maybe for philosophical thoughts such as: “don’t abandon me in my old age”, or “don’t throw out the old to make room for the new”.  Immediately I scolded myself.  One must march with the times!  In the age of “use and dispose” there is no room for such thoughts.  One needs a broom.  New.  And perhaps the very thought of buying a new broom, like buying some foreign object, that would invade all of the corners of the house and observe all the shortcomings in cleaning – that’s the reason?  

The problem was solved when I removed the dust from the teak furniture in the living room.  I remembered that wooden broom which was painted in the color teak, crested with purple velvet on one side and blue velvet on the other, and between the two non-symmetric colors flowed its black hair like the hair of a girl, held by a velvet crown.  

My mother purchased this elegant broom one morning when she was shopping in the improvised market in the transit camp.  My mother, who was a very short woman, held the large broom and marched victoriously towards our poor hut.  Her expression reminded me of her purchases in the market in Baghdad.  Porters would walk ahead of her carrying the abundance of her purchases – victories - calling “make way” until the door of her house.  There they dismantled their load, were treated to a cold drink, and were paid their fees.  While here in Israel, she would come back and quietly put down her poor basket, sit on an improvised bench and stare into space in the hut.  This time she came back with a small basket and a large broom shining in the winter sunshine and that same expression of then was spread on her face.  Until today I don’t understand why she bought just that broom.

That is one of the many questions I would ask her if I could, as the questions always arise “after” and too late.  I doubt if she could answer me, it may be that this is one of the things that a person does without knowing why.  That same broom stood in all its glory in a noticeable spot in the hut, and looked haughtily at the floor with its damaged tiles.  No one dared to dirty it with mud that got into the house.  For this purpose we used a straw broom with short hairs that survived the despairing battle again the winter which was threatening to invade our hut.  When I asked my mother when we would use it, she answered that we must preserve it until we get our permanent house, there we would have a sidewalk, a road and a clean pathway leading to the house.  Sometimes I would enter the hut by surprise and would see my mother holding the new broom in her hands, her thick fingers gently stroking its bristles and moving lightly along the velvet, her look wandering far off in the markets of Baghdad along the land of jewelers and from there to the rolls of velvet in the fabric store, where she used to buy meters and meters, because “there are daughters, touch wood, and one must prepare a dowry”.  Finally she would put the broom down with a sigh “there are daughters but there is no dowry” because everything was left there…

I finished cleaning the wooden furniture and went to vacuum the couches.  “Couches” I laughed, who talked then about couches?  A person who was about to buy a couch and two easy chairs was considered a rich man.  First of all since he had money to buy furniture, and second because he had a place to put it.   In order to give the immigrant bed the appearance of a sofa, we would roll the blanket into a cushion for the back, and spread an embroidered sheet - a remnant of another period – over the bed and the cushion.  That was only for appearances, since the metal springs, which were meant only for sleeping, couldn’t handle the functional burden that the bed served during all of the hours of day and night.  Over time the center of the bed sunk and one had to maneuver and find a strategic spot on it in order not to sink.  For us, the members of the household, it was no problem, since we knew every single spot in the bed, which constituted a central axis in the hut.  However, when a stranger came, he had to be supported by cushions in order to sit in a steady manner.  It happened that my mother’s nephew who came for a visit from England, sat on that bed.  

For years there was a close connection through letters between the two rich families.  More than once my mother dreamed of a family visit.  There was a room in our house set aside and equipped and ready for guests who would come from abroad.  She always spoke about the welcome she would give them and the foods she would serve them.  However it turned out that there was never even one visit there.  And now, here in Israel, one morning a black taxi pulled up and stopped alongside our hut.  All of the children of the transit camp immediately surrounded it and with quick hands they felt and examined every part of it.  Also the adults saw this as a rare occasion, and could hardly stand their curiosity and came to see the guest.  My mother who didn’t know that she was a star of the occasion and that this “regal” visit was intended for her, stood in the doorway of the hut in her faded clothes, clogs on her feet, wondering what the fuss was all about.  It appears that something reached her awareness, as her hands slowly rose to her unruly hair and then lowered to smooth her dress.

She eyes rose from her clogs to the guest, leaning towards her to kiss her.  In her embarrassment she forgot her obligatory position as his aunt, and she turned helpless to find a place for him to sit down.  The guest turned and sat on what looked like a couch and then sunk into the bed with obvious discomfort.  She hurriedly handed him a cushion to support his back and her lips murmured apology.  For herself she found a stool that was standing near the new broom and she sat down heavily.  The guest, her nephew, glanced around as if he didn’t believe he was in the right place.  “You?!”  He managed to gasp from the depths of his agitated soul, “In these conditions?!”  She looked at the floor and didn’t know what to say.  How to explain the wave which had washed over and brought her here penniless?  The guest recovered immediately:  “You must leave everything and come with me, you can’t stay in this situation.”  She looked at him, “leave everything? I already left, and where to?!”

As she spoke she reached for the new broom, and stroked its hairs.  She closed her eyes and felt the velvet.  When she opened her eyes again, her eyes were clouded over with a far away look well beyond the guest who sat opposite her.

“Isn’t it pretty?  I bought it in the market, it is still new.  It will stay new until it has a house and a path.  It will not clean mud, it will only sweep crumbs, crumbs of abundance, and when it finishes its work it will return to its place in the closet…”

I opened the door of the closet to put away the cleaning equipment.  My eyes spotted the worn out broom.  “I need to buy a new broom”.  I noted for myself and remembered that I already said that before.

 סיפור זה מופיע במקור שלו בעברית

כתבה אותו: סיגל שפירא

סיפור זה תורגם גם לערבית על-ידי סמיר נקאש
 המקור והתרגום לערבית מופיעים בספר דו-לשוני "הבוסתן"

הספר יצא לאור ב- 2007

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