"זהות" - סיפור מאת סיגל שפירא, תרגמה לאנגלית: שירלי גנור /// Sigal shapira: Identity / Translated to english: Shirley Ganor

Sigal shapira Translated to english: Shirley Ganor Identity I reached the station in a dash.  I left without looking back.  I took nothing with me other than the slippers, those shoes which my mother ordered from Ezra the shoemaker in the Jewish quarter.  I clutched them with all my might as if I held my house, my property, my last sanctuary.  I studied the slips of leather, crossed symmetrically, a remnant of that stable world.  The palms of my hands, searching for refuge from the cold, went inside as into a glove and hugged my body.  I felt the delicate warmth, and smelled the smell of leather.  I closed my eyes and rested my head on my shoulder.  It was a familiar smell, a smell which always enveloped me in the small shop of Ezra the            .  But that smell was stronger, mixed with the odor of glue, which rose from a large tin can.  Over time, the can looked more and more like a column of stalactites in shades of brown and grey in old layers, dull and sealed and in new layers translucent to the small amount of light which snuck into the shop and gave the glue a bit of glamour and weightlessness.   Every day new stalagmites were created by the working hands of the shoemaker and joined their brothers.  You could tell the age of the shop by them, like counting the rings in the trunk of a tree.  In the center of the shop stood a low work table, which took up most of the space of the shop.  On this table scattered about randomly were tools, nails, leather strips and shoes.  Their completion was dependent on the pressure of the clients.  These came in politely but sometimes their patience ended and they came shouting… The bus stopped with short blasts of exhaust, and the smell of gasoline, which filled the air, removed and left no room for the odors of the past.  I hurried to climb aboard and placed several coins in the driver’s palm.       -     Where to?  - asked the driver. -        I don’t know – I replied. To my surprise, this response caused a wave of laughter in the bus, and did not match my mood.  I looked at the driver hopefully, but he hurried to give me a lesson in Hebrew grammar first: -        A boy says “don’t know” (masculine in Hebrew), a girl says “don’t know” (feminine in Hebrew), you obviously want to go to the transit camp. -        Yes, I replied happily, as if I found a friend. My whole family was in the transit camp, from there I was taken to a foster family who volunteered to take care of me.  But my longing got the best of me.  The smell of rain reminded me of the evenings when my family gathered around the kettle to drink tea.  The customs of the foster family were strange to me, and so I decided to sneak out, to catch the bus and go to the transit camp, but this was not easy, because darkness had fallen on Tel Aviv and with it came torrential rain.  I skipped over the puddles, water streamed in random channels to an unknown destination, but I knew where I wanted to go, or more accurately to whom I wanted to go.  My mother would open her eyes wide in wonder, would hug me and shower me with questions like “bedalik (my soul for you), how did you come in this downpour?” My sisters would immediately make space for me in their bed and the crowdedness would envelope me with warmth.  I smiled into my slippers.  I still held them tightly.  They were waiting like me to find a place in the small tent.  The bus breathed heavily.  I tried to ignore the odor rising from my wet shoes and my sight broke into the darkness searching anxiously for some familiar site on the side of the road.  My efforts were in vain, the rain and the darkness didn’t leave a chance.  The thunder and lightening spread alienation.  The passengers huddled in their coats and tried to keep warm.  Their chatter rose and blended together to coat the glass of the windows, and that prevented me, of course, from seeing outside.  The trip was long, the poor roads made it difficult for the driver.  The bus screeched, and crossed puddles.  When the bouncing and jolting increased, I knew we were in the alleys of the transit camp.  The bus driver ground to a stop with a screech, and the doors opened and out poured all of the passengers. I jumped straight into sticky mud.  My eyes searched for shelter from the rain, but found none.  I began to run with the herd of people in the direction of the tents.  This was not the transit camp that I was acquainted with.  The tents waved like ghosts trying to escape from their moorings, in order to strike every passerby.  Some actually did free themselves and collapsed on those inside.  Shouts could be heard from every direction.  Water continued to flow, and in its fury it knew no bounds, and washed away belongings.  The darkness covered all, only the lightening provided some flashes of light.  I reached the tent, or more correct the place where the tent once stood.  Where did they all disappear to?!  A medley of familiar items told me that I was not wrong, that this was our tent.  Here my mother was supposed to shower love on me, but there was no-one.  A question – what now? Suddenly I heard a familiar voice from the darkness: -  What brought you here on such a night?! Who leaves a warm house and comes here at such an hour?  Come here, I will take you to a place where they will take care of you.  From under a cardboard box dripping water sheltering her head, there appeared the face of a neighbor to our tent, a warm and cheerful woman who was ready to adopt all the children in the world.  She took my hand, and dragged me after her to the pavilion in the middle of the transit camp while ignoring the rain and the mud. -        Come here, here they are gathering all of the children and they will take you also. She brought me to a narrow room, kissed me and disappeared into the night.  I stood there staring after her for a long time, afraid to lose the last point of connection. -        Your name please.  Can you please tell me your name? – a woman in a raincoat asked again.  In the dim light her teeth gleamed from her mouth smiling with tiredness. -        My name?  I said my real name, the name my mother had given me, but then took it back, they had changed my name!  I mumbled the new name uncertainly as if I didn’t know it. -        You could join the group until the truck comes and it will take you to the village. -        But I don’t want to go to any village, I want my parents. -        Sorry, we can’t search for your parents right now, we’ll worry about that later. I looked around.  There were children closed in their shells, despondent, wet and detached, talking to themselves.  Not surprising, a new country, strange people, a  strange name.  They only knew themselves, really?  The name call for getting on the truck gave some identity.  We crowded in, in order to make room for wet and confused children who continued to enter the warm and dimly lit womb of the truck.     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 בהוצאת המרכז האקדמאי של יוצאי עיראק בישראל