E-Book, Englisch, 416 Seiten
Lozinski / ?ozi?ski My Name is Stramer
1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-80533-214-5
Verlag: Pushkin Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
E-Book, Englisch, 416 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-80533-214-5
Verlag: Pushkin Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Miko?aj ?ozi?ski is a Polish novelist, screenwriter and photographer. He has received several awards for his writing, including the Polityka Passport and the Ko?cielski Foundation Award. My Name is Stramer, his third novel, was shortlisted for the prestigious Nike Literary Award and has been translated into 16 languages. ?ozi?ski lives in Warsaw.Antonia Lloyd-Jones has translated works by many of Poland's leading contemporary novelists, including Nobel Prize-winner Olga Tokarczuk and Artur Domos?awski. In 2018 she was honored with Poland's Transatlantyk Award for the most outstanding promoter of Polish literature abroad.
Weitere Infos & Material
nathan
It was for rywka that he had come back from America. His story was that he’d thought about her every day for four whole years, until finally he’d bought a ticket for the ship home. He never told how he’d come back without a cent, and had even had to borrow the money for the ticket from his older brother. But he still liked to throw American words into conversation that nobody else in the family understood.
He brought back a leather belt with a brass buckle. A farewell gift from his brother for the return journey to Poland. They had embraced on the New York quay and never seen each other again. Examining the successive use of the belt holes showed how his figure had changed over the years. Nathan himself couldn’t believe how slim he had once been.
Like his father and grandfather, he resembled a wrestler. An old wrestler. Broad shoulders, almost no neck and a chest that was thrust forwards, like a rooster’s. He was proud of the fact that in town they called him “Boss”.
Asked in the street how things were, he’d reply: “Good, but not hopeless.”
He’d tip his hat and walk on.
Every few months a letter came from New York. Ben would write that unfortunately he must postpone his trip to Tarnów. He couldn’t leave his stationery store right now. The school year was starting, and he had too many orders. He’d had to fire a dishonest employee, but he hadn’t yet found a new, trustworthy one to replace her. The Christian holiday of Christmas was approaching, a time for present-giving, and “it’s not just Jews who buy from us!” His wife had been unwell again. The crisis had begun, and if he were to leave the store now, he’d have nothing to return to America for. But he missed home, and was planning to come next year. He couldn’t wait to meet Rywka and their sons and daughters.
“As parents you know best what they need, so buy it as a gift from me,” he’d write.
Tucked into the letter written on company paper (ben stramer general merchandise, 33 Grand St, NY) and folded in three, he’d include some green banknotes. He always wrapped them in purple tissue paper to make it impossible to see what was inside. Every time the tissue paper stained the banknotes, which came out of the envelope green and purple, so Rywka had to wash them carefully, then dry them above the kitchen stove.
Nathan only ever gave the children the American stamps from the envelopes. He put away the dollars.
“I work non-stop, so I’ve no time to earn money,” he’d explain to his wife.
And he waited. Waited, waited and waited. For a good business opportunity to come along. A chance that would change the life of the Stramer family. Take them out of their one-room flat with a small kitchen on the ground floor at the very end of Goldhammer Street, pick them up and put them down on the top floor of a town house with stained-glass windows on the stairwells, in a smart Polish-Jewish district, best of all near a stop on the tramline of which Tarnów was so proud. In one of those spacious apartments with lots of rooms and high ceilings, a toilet and a bathroom with running water, electric lighting and a flowery balcony.
There was a brief period when it looked as if it would come true. He had just bought a whole wagonload of rosin at a cheap price. He was told it was used by violinists to grease their bows. How was he to know there were so few violinists in Tarnów? Finally he bought a fiddle and a bow himself, and told Salek, who according to Rywka had lovely long fingers, to play it.
Despite the fact that Nathan had never been to the philharmonic or the opera, in his mind’s eye he could already see his seven-year-old son there – on the Kraków stage, or even in Vienna. Rywka too found it easy to imagine him in a little tailcoat, with a bow tie and a storm of curly hair. By contrast with his brothers, he didn’t like fighting or getting dirty.
“Here you are,” said Nathan, handing him the instrument. “A famous violinist has never done harm to any family.”
And he knew how much could be earned from selling tickets.
But nothing came of this either.
He did in fact send Salek to a Polish woman for violin lessons a couple of times. But did he actually get there? Every time they had visitors, and Nathan asked Salek to give “a little concert”, the boy wriggled out of it. Until six months on, Nathan stopped asking, and simply ordered him to “go fetch your violin this instant”.
After the performance Nathan had nothing to say.
Only once the visitors had gone did he twist his head on his almost non-existent neck and say in English: “Goddammit! ”
Nobody understood, so he added: “That’s money down the drain.”
That evening, for the first time instead of grabbing his belt, he grabbed the bow. At least it’d come in useful! And indeed it did. He didn’t have to strike at all hard for Salek to make noises similar to the ones that shortly before, during his “little concert”, the child had extracted from his violin.
At work too, behind the till at the Jewish butcher’s, Nathan waited for the business opportunity of a lifetime. As a result, in a fervour of ideas, plans and minutely calculated future profits, he sometimes gave the customers the wrong change.
“Shit,” he’d say in English, if at the end of the day there was money missing from the till.
But occasionally there was too much money. Then he didn’t say a word, just discreetly put the difference in his trouser pocket.
I’ve got children, he thought to himself.
When the time finally came, he felt like running home from work. On the way he did the shopping. At home he never sat still for an instant. He helped Rywka to prepare the food. During supper he would ask the children how things were at school. But then he hadn’t the patience to listen. At least he enquired, thought Rywka. Then he would ask her to sit down and rest. He would gather the plates, roll up his shirt sleeves and do the dishes in a bowl.
Only when he’d finished, and the children were asleep, would he remove his rolled-up dollars from the metal bedpost.
“I’ve got a feeling this time it’s going to work out. This is going to be it.”
Rywka didn’t answer. But Nathan knew what she was thinking: Why didn’t it occur to you last time to examine at least one of those candles properly?
He hadn’t wanted to lose time, he was afraid other buyers would beat him to it, someone would offer a higher price. But his greatest fear was that the seller, who had come here all the way from Kolomyia, would find out how much candles cost in Tarnów, and would realize he was selling his for a song. Nathan had to act quickly. An opportunity like this would never be repeated. Candles four times cheaper than from the famous Jewish “Little Bee” factory, which supplied all the churches in Tarnów! Maybe even in Kraków too. So he’d heard, but he didn’t know if it was true or just advertising. Anyway, he had also heard that the owner, Mr Szpilman, gave the socialists money on the quiet. But that in turn could be disinformation put about by the factory’s competitors.
When the moment came to pay, Nathan had even felt like a cheat. Maybe he should have tossed in a bit more for the wretched salesman from Kolomyia, or at least invited him for lunch? But at once that feeling had given way to regret that the man had no more goods for sale. So maybe it wasn’t worth it after all.
That was Nathan’s unspoken answer to the question Rywka hadn’t asked him.
They sat facing each other at their slightly wobbly kitchen table; the floor was uneven and the little wedge must have fallen out from under the table leg. As usual, Nathan was trying to push it back in place with his shoe. That didn’t work, so he leaned down, found the wedge and replaced it. Next morning, when it grew light, he’d finally clean and glue it on, he decided.
They both knew none of his explanations would convince her, which must have been why they were communicating without words. Or perhaps they simply didn’t want to wake the children? They were just looking at each other, but even so, it briefly occurred to Nathan that in Rywka’s bright eyes, instead of the single small candle that was burning on the table, he could see the thousand he had bought without wicks.
So what, if as soon as he realized he had run to the station and spent his last coins on a platform ticket? The train carrying the salesman and Nathan’s purple-tinged dollars had long since left for Kolomyia. For ages Nathan stood among the people on the platform, repeating incomprehensible American words before going home to admit to Rywka what had happened. That night, although the window was closed, on Goldhammer Street his children could be heard crying.
Then he went to bed,...
