By Augusto Segre
During this lyrical memoir, famous Jewish historian, writer, translator, and activist Augusto Segre not just recounts his wealthy lifestyles reports, but in addition inspires the altering global of Italian Jewry within the twentieth century.
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Additional resources for Memories of Jewish life : from Italy to Jerusalem, 1918-1960
Sample text
For him this word had something magical about it and referred to fellow Jews who had moved to other cities but who returned to their native Community for the annual holidays, or to others who also came from far away and were passing through. In either case it always meant good opportunities for renewing acquaintances or making new ones and, above all, for extracting a reliable, immediate benefit in cash. If he were dealing with an ex–fellow townsman, Mandulìn would go up to him without any hesitation, reminding him of the ancient precept that “the poor of your own city should take precedence over others,” assuming the tone of a creditor who has a claim.
In short we were taught that one must do everything possible not only not “to call attention to oneself ” but to demonstrate again and again—through work, through charity, and through participation in the political life of the country, if possible—that the liberty granted us was amply justified by much Italic, patriotic fervor. But there wasn’t any doubt, winter was getting close, thought Sur Elìa, wistfully raising his eyes to the sky. So he’d been right to have gotten his used merchandise all ready and in order beforehand: pants, jackets, cloaks, hobnailed boots .
The city still sleeps, but in the small Jewish quarter, where the ghetto once was and where many Jewish families still live, someone is already getting up. The coffee prepared the evening before is being heated in the coffeepot, and it sputters. Old Giacubin is ending his morning rounds to let the faithful know that the hour of prayer is already close at hand. He’s been carrying out this job for years. He gets up early, slips on his hobnailed army boots and an old military jacket, bought many years before for little money from his friend Sur Elìa, and, walking slowly, goes from house to house, knocking on the doors with his cane and shouting in a stentorian voice, “Selichòth!