We ran into fascism, Haya interrupts, but Ada doesn’t hear.
and he hid in attics. I hid everywhere, Umberto says, in attics in Paris, in Florence, in Rome, says Umberto, says Ada, and she also says, The next time you come, bring some ampoules of morphine for Umberto and little bottles of rum for me, and when I die, bury me at Valdirosa, over there, in Slovenian soil. And he, Umberto, talks to me, you know, says Ada, he tells me about train stations we didn’t know about, and he asks me,
Stations, do you remember? At night, full
of final farewells, unchecked weeping,
crammed with people the transport takes.
The order “move” given by the
sob of a trumpet;
and ice, ice around your heart.
but I don’t remember, Haya, I don’t, says Ada, maybe it’s the drink. And, you know, says Ada, Umberto’s last name isn’t Saba anyway, though that is exactly what he is called, Umberto Saba, because his name is actually Umberto Poli. Did you know that? Though he might have been Umberto Coen. He could have, says Ada. He could have been Coen, because his mother was Jewish and her last name was Coen, not his father’s, his father’s was Poli, says Ada, and he left them, Umberto and his Mama Rahela, a nice name, Rahela, says Ada, Jewish, she says, and then Umberto declared, I will take the name Saba, because none of this matters anyway, you know, what your last name is, he said, though I’m not so sure it doesn’t matter, I am not so sure, and that is how Umberto takes the last name Saba, because he had a nanny whose name was Pepa and he loved her a lot and she was Slovenian, like my Mama Marisa, my Mama Marisa from Gorizia, your grandmother, Haya, who also disappeared. Oh Haya, how people vanish. It’s so painful, and Umberto says there are no unborn or dead, there is only the living life for eternity; pain that passes, happiness that stays, Umberto says, whose last name is Saba, though really his last names are Poli and Coen. There is pain that passes, Umberto says, and so it is that your pain will pass, Haya, and so it is that Rahela sent Pepa packing, and Pepa’s last name was Sabaz, and then Umberto declared, That will be my last name, after my Pepa from Gorizia, because it doesn’t matter anyway what your name is, says Umberto, says Ada. Sometimes he doesn’t feel like talking, Umberto, Ada says, so he, Umberto, recites poems about birds for me, and we look at the trees and I listen to his poems about birds, and he recites for me his poems about birds, and I long to be a bird, and Umberto says,
the leaving, this year, of the swallows
because of a thought my heart will squeeze,
and he says,
my loneliness will be bereft of swallows,
and love at my advanced age will freeze,
says Umberto, and then we go on looking into the garden, which is shadowy, and we observe those trees, and then I say to Umberto, Look at how shadowy this garden is. We could hide out there, if they allowed us to walk around it sometimes, around the shadowy garden, and he says, There is no shadow where my tiredness could find shelter. But I am tired, too, Ada says, and she says, Haya, don’t forget to bring me rum. They think they’ll cure me. They will not cure me. I don’t want to be cured, because I’m not ill, but Umberto says, If you feel like drinking, drink, they won’t cure you here. Though it isn’t bad here, though I would like to go for a walk, maybe even sing. For the time being I sing softly, more to myself, then I ask Umberto, Am I crazy? because sometimes it seems to me that all this, this life, my life, your life, that all this is a serious madness, but Umberto says, says Ada, Umberto says that Dr Weiss says (and I trust Dr Weiss, Umberto says), Dr Weiss says, Craziness is a dream from which a person doesn’t awake. That is what Dr Weiss says, Umberto says. Haya, bring some rum for sure. If there’s no rum, buy gin, in a little bottle, a mini-bottle, in several little bottles, and bring Umberto morphine. He sometimes sits and whispers a poem that isn’t his. He whispers a poem that is called “Solitudine ”; then I see that everything is different from what it seems, because he sits and whispers:
But my shouts
strike
like lightning
the heaven’s
muted bell
they plunge back
down in fright
That is what he whispers. I think this is a poem by Ungaretti. Yes, it’s Ungaretti’s. It is called “Loneliness”, solitudine, solitude. Yes, then I worry about Umberto, because you see, I told you,
Behind Every Name There is a Story
~ ~ ~
The names of about 9,000 Jews who were deported from Italy, or killed in Italy or in the countries Italy occupied between 1943 and 1945
Abeasis Clemente
Abraham Hilde
Alalouf Mosè
Alhadeff Alessandro
Abeasis Ester
Fanny
Alati Concetta
Alhadeff Allegra
Abeasis Giorgio
Abraham Yvonne
Alati Gianantonio
Alhadeff Allegra
Abeasis Rebecca
Abrahamson Betti