Vueltos hacia el mar


Pequeños guijarros sobre las tumbas.
Los juguetes de una niña, juguetes de piedra.
Un tren, un avión, un coche. Niza, fin de trayecto. Nice, Nizza, Nica, Nissa, Ніцца, Ηίκαια, Nicea, Nicaea, Nisa, Ницца. Soñaban con la Riviera, y luego un día les entregan el pasaporte, obtienen la visa, ya pueden comprar el billete y, sin más, agarrar a los niños, la niñera, la abuela, las tías solteras, el tío tísico, el perro, el loro, la criada. Se trasladan a Francia, mandan a los niños al colegio, trabajan, trabajan, consiguen la nacionalidad, hacen el servicio militar, mueren por Francia.

Mueren.
El cementerio judío de Niza se extiende desde hace casi un siglo y medio sobre la colina del castillo, justo delante del mar.
Sobre las tumbas, viejas fotos desvaídas por el sol, borrosas, lavadas, caras sonrientes o pensativas o serias u orgullosas.

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Nacieron en Kiev, en Varsovia, en Kishinev, Mariupol, Kherson, Odesa o Nikolajev, en Kaunas,  Berlín, San Petersburgo, Leópolis, Radautz en Bucovina, hoy Rădăuți en Rumanía, tambien en Argelia, en Orán o en Costantino, en Taganrog, en Costantinopla y en Londres, también en Rangoon en Birmania, o en El Cairo. En Johannesburg.


Han muerto en Niza, o en Mentone, o más lejos, pero su familia los ha devuelto a su lugar. Al sol sobre el mar.

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En los años negros, que aquí fueron menos negros que en otros sitios, algunos murieron muy lejos, en el Este. De ellos no quedan sino unas breves líneas en su memoria.



Algunas lápidas nos sorprenden con su tipografía arcaica. En efecto, se trajeron aquí las antiguas piedras del anterior cementerio judío que estaba al pie de la colina. La lápida más antigua data de 1540. Sobre otras, las letras de bronce verde reflejan la multitud de lenguas en otro tiempo vivas: francés, hebreo, polaco, italiano, ruso con la antigua ortografía previa a 1918, inglés, alemán. Y esculpidas en la piedra, letras borradas, palabras olvidadas.

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Poco a poco las piedras desaparecen bajo los pies de los paseantes. Abajo, más allá de los árboles, el azul del mar.

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Facing the sea


Pebbles on the graves.
The toys of a child, stone toys.
A train, a plane, a car. Nice, terminus. Nice, Nizza, Niza, Nica, Nissa, Ніцца, Ηίκαια, Nicea, Nicaea, Nisa, Ницца. They dreamed of the Riviera, and then, one day, they got their passports, they had their visa, they could buy the tickets, and voilà, you take the children, the nanny, the granny, the unmarried aunts, the consumptive uncle, the dog, the parrot, the maid. You settle in France, you send the children to the school, you work, you work more, you obtain citizenship, you do your military service, you die for France.

You die.
The Jewish cemetery of Nice has extended for nearly a century and a half on the castle hill, just in front of the sea.
On the graves, old photos, browned, erased, faded, of smiling or thoughtful or serious or proud faces.

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They were born in Kiev, in Warsaw, in Kishinev, in Mariupol, in Kherson, in Odessa or in Nikolaev, in Kaunas, in Berlin, in St. Petersburg, in Lwów, in Radautz of Bukovina, today Rădăuți in Romania, also in Algeria, in Oran or in Constantine, in Taganrog, in Constantinople or in London, even in Rangoon of Burma, and also in Cairo. In Johannesburg.


They died in Nice, or in Menton, or sometimes even more far off, but their families brought them back here, next to theirs. To the sun above the sea.

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In the dark years, which were here still less black than elsewhere, some of them died far away, in the East. Of them remained only a few lines in their memory.



Some stones surprise you with their archaic typography. In fact, they have moved here the ancient tombs of a previous Jewish graveyard, which was once at the bottom of the hill. The oldest stone dates from 1540. On others, copper letters turned in green mirror in the stone the multitude of the languages: French, Hebrew, Polish, Italian, pre-1918 old-spelling Russian, English, German. And, engraved in stone, faded letters, forgotten words.

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Gradually, the stones disappear from under the remembering visitors. Down, under the trees, the dazzling blue sea.

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Tournés vers la mer


Des petits cailloux sur les tombes.
Les jouets d’un enfant, des jouets de pierre.
Un train, un avion, une voiture. Nice terminus. Nice, Nizza, Niza, Nica, Nissa, Ніцца, Ηίκαια, Nicea, Nicaea, Nisa, Ницца. Ils rêvaient de la Riviera et puis un jour, ils ont obtenu leur passeport, ils ont eu leur visa, ils ont pu acheter les billets et voilà, on emmène les enfants, la nourrice, la grand-mère, les tantes célibataires, l’oncle phtisique, le chien, le perroquet, la bonne. On s’installe en France, on envoie les enfants à l’école, on travaille, on travaille encore, on obtient sa naturalisation, on fait son service militaire, on meurt pour la France.

On meurt.
Le cimetière juif de Nice s’étend depuis près d’un siècle et demi sur la colline du château, juste en face de la mer.
Sur les tombes, de vieilles photos brunies, effacées, délavées, des visages souriants ou pensifs ou graves ou fiers.

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Ils sont nés à Kiev, à Varsovie, à Kichinev, à Marioupol, à Kherson, à Odessa ou à Nikolaïev, à Kaunas, à Berlin, à Saint-Pétersbourg, à Lvov, à Ratautz en Bucovine, aujourd’hui Rădăuți en Roumanie, en Algérie aussi, à Oran ou à Constantine, à Taganrog, à Istanbul ou à Londres, à Rangoon en Birmanie même, au Caire également. A Johannesburg.


Ils sont morts à Nice ou à Menton, plus loin aussi parfois mais leurs proches les ont ramenés jusqu’ici, auprès des leurs. Au soleil au-dessus de la mer.

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Aux années noires, mais elles furent moins noires ici qu’ailleurs, certains sont morts très loin vers l’Est. D’eux, il ne reste que quelques lignes à leur mémoire.



Certaines pierres frappent par l’archaïsme de leur graphie. En fait, on a déplacé dans ce cimetière les anciennes tombes du cimetière juif précédent qui se trouvait au bas du versant est de la colline. La pierre la plus ancienne remonte à 1540. Sur d’autres, les lettres de cuivre verdi multiplient les langues sur la pierre : français, hébreu, polonais, italien, russe — avec sa vieille orthographe d’avant la réforme de 1918 —, anglais, allemand. Et gravées, il y a toutes ces lettres effacées, ces mots oubliés, aussi.

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Peu à peu les pierres disparaissent sous les pieds des passants qui se souviennent. En bas sous les arbres, la mer si bleue.

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Afternoon melancholy


here opposite in the courtyard
who discovers it first



Ex libris


Omnia mea mecum porto, I carry with me all what is mine – an ideal motto for him who usually goes around the world with a single backpack. Although I prefer the version of the emblem illustrated with, rather than Rollenhagen’s turtle, the snail, who carries his entire house with him everywhere. But the most perfect symbolic animal, I think, would be a kangaroo, with a one-terabyte external hard drive in its pouch.

Because, in fact, the most burdensome task is to carry even your library with you, or at least those few dozen books, which you need in those far away lands. To this end, it is best to photograph / scan the books purchased, and then to give them away. The more precious, rare or useful ones to libraries, so that more people have access to them. And once you follow the example of the library-enriching maecenases, like them, you will also want to leave some sign of your gesture in the book. For example, by a simple, but nice seal. “Gift of riowang.com”, if you give it to an international library, “A wangfolyo.com ajándéka”, if you want to bestow it upon a collection of your native Hungarian land.

For the design of these two stamps I hereby announce a competition for the readers of río Wang. The deadline is exactly one week, when I would like to bring home the first consignment to the Budapest Public Library. I’ll post the best designs for a voting here on the blog. And the award is that this stamp and the name/link of its designer will be at the top of the page on which I will list the books donated to the various libraries, to ease the access to them. And, of course, that this seal will be seen by everyone picking up the book in the libraries. By many, I hope.

On field trip in Nowy Wiśnicz

Farewell to Yasinya


In the past months, for this or that reason, we returned again and again to Kőrösmező/Yasinya, the “German-Russian village” lying at the source of the Tisa river, under the Tatar pass leading to Galicia. First we shared the discoveries of our tour last summer, then we remembered those who “lost their lives in an immigration procedure”, or climbed up, guided by the one-time traveler Sándor Török, to the Polish border, and then we got in a train with him at the border station. In yesterday’s post, looking around from the hill of the Strukovska church, and deciphering the strange message-in-a-bottle of a hundred-year-old postcard, we had a glimpse into the troubled fate of this region. Now, having told all we could tell about it, we leave Kőrösmező for a while, at least until we can lead a tour again to the source of the Black Tisa. We say farewell to it with the melancholic pictures of the Czech photo blog ajedna, which, just like the writings of Ivan Olbracht, beautifully attest to the amount of love and nostalgia for this region in the remembrance of also another people.


Dunaio, Dunaio, Rusyn folk song, recorded in 2010


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