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györgy spiró
Uri recalled almost nothing
about being dragged away
for the first time—only the
smell of chicken droppings,
his father placing him on his
shoulders and carrying him
long distances, which felt so
good that he would dream
about it even now, at the age
of seventeen. In his dream, he
wished he would wake up to
see his father standing above
him, saying “Come on, my boy,
hop on my shoulders again.”
All that had remained of the
temporary exile was that his
mother, Sarah, would still cry
out from time to time at the
memory of an elegant utensil
she had once owned. It had
been tucked away and not
returned by the non-Jewish
freemen, also clients of their
patron. She would moan on
and on about that. The truth
is that several of them had
been honest enough to hand
back the valuables that had
been deposited with them,
and to this day the family still
ate out of such vessels, as the
father would sometimes note,
though that did not hinder
Sarah in her lamentations.
Thesedays, his fatherno longer
looked up, but dourly spooned
in his food. If he ever looked
at his wife, at the repulsive
sight of her kerchief-covered
head, profound disgust shot
from his eyes: it was not the
thieves he hated, but her. And
he held his tongue. Divorce
was difficult for a Jew in
Rome: there were so few of
them. Divorce was easy in
Judaea, and that was not just
hearsay but written law: If
anyone found another woman
more beautiful than his wife,
that was, in itself, sufficient
grounds for divorce. A man
could divorce, and he could
even drive his wife away if