Sim, sou eu. Lembro o ano, era 1923. Coloquei meu principal vestido e fui acompanhar o cortejo fúnebre em frente à fábrica. Todos estavam com suas melhores roupas, as crianças corriam por todos os lados. O Chefe da Fiação estava lado a lado do Feitor. Todos perto de mim pareciam em festa, pouco choro. Pra gente, era muito mais um dia de feriado que de dor. Nami Jafet tinha morrido, final de ano. Não me lembro muito bem do que ele morreu. Faz tanto tempo. O que lembro mesmo é que eles abriram as portas da mansão, e alguns de nós acompanhamos o velório bem de perto. O Zé, meu falecido, foi. Ele queria ver de perto o dinheiro todo em mármore e as escadas desenhadas. Eu me neguei a entrar. Casa grande pra pouca gente nunca me fez bem.
Si, soy yo. Recuerdo el año, era 1923. Me puse mi vestido mejor y salí a acompañar el cortejo fúnebre frente a la fábrica. Todos estaban con sus mejores ropas, los niños corrían por todos lados. El Jefe de la Hilandería estaba al lado del Mayoral. No me acuerdo muy bien de qué murió. Hace tanto tiempo. Lo que recuerdo es que abrieron las puertas de la mansión, y algunos de nosotros acompañamos el velorio muy de cerca. Zé, mi difunto, se fue. Él quería ver de cerca todo el dinero en el mármol y en las escaleras dibujadas. Me negué a entrar. Casa grande donde viven pocas personas nunca me hizo bien.
Uma versão em formato de encarte sairá no Jornal de Borda 05 (fevereiro de 2018). A versão será português e espanhol.
A mulher do canto esquerdo do quadro também foi narradora do Arquivo 17, abaixo o primeiro trabalho construído no projeto, e também a versão em inglês de um pedaço do que sairá no Borda.
A versão em inglês (abaixo) saiu no Bulletin#11 – São Paulo Out of Reach, editing by Claudio Zecchi
I am that woman in the left corner of the frame
Yes, it’s me. I remember the year, it was 1923. I put on my main dress and left to accompany the funeral procession in front of the factory. Everyone wore their best attires, children ran everywhere. The Spinning Chief was standing next to the Foreman. Everyone near me seemed to be at a party, very few cries. For us it was much more of a holiday than a day of pain. Nami Jafet had died, end of the year. I don’t really remember very well what he died from. It’s been a long time. What I do remember is that they opened the doors of the mansion, and some of us followed the wake very closely. Zé, my deceased, was gone. He wanted to see from up-close all of the money in marble and the designed stairways. I refused to enter. A big house that is for few people has never done me well.
The streets beneath and above the Ipiranga were loaded with flags. My neighbor made good use of his wedding suit, from a week before, he put it on and went around the neighborhood. A lady who worked with me in Spinning wore the same attire that she had worn for Christmas, she confided in me. Cars and birds passed by. Men photographed and filmed. One was right next to me. I looked at him several times. Is he some relative of yours? How did you get a hold of these images? I remember that checkered dress so well. I sewed, used the same fabric that was made at the factory, it was the only tissue that I could buy at the time.
The burial of Jafet was very different from Martinez’s, of six years later. You have never heard of Martinez?! In this story I did not appear in close-up photos, but I lived much more. It was in 1917, Martinez had been severely injured in front of Mariângela, and died soon afterwards. The streets of Brás taken over by the cavalry, which came onto the people, without any pity; children and women were dragged along. Some shots, I heard. A very young girl died on the same day. I think she was called Eduarda. On the 11th of July, we all wore black, we were many women, the flags were simple, we cut up black and red fabrics that we had at home. We raised it, we screamed. The death of Martinez was not accepted, he was our comrade-in-arms. The city occupied, life in suspension. We wanted the best for everyone.
The burial of the ill-fated Martínez. It was a tribute like no other, which the strikers of São Paulo paid to the unfortunate comrade Martínez, the first victim of policiesque fury. The procession, that the authorities intended to divert from the center of the city, crossed the main streets before making its way to the Araçá cemetery, where the unfortunate worker’s body was interred. Not only did the burial not take place at the cemetery on the 4th Stop, as had had been the wish of the police, but also the enormous mass that formed the procession continued on to where it well intended, against the expressed will of the bossy ones who had not esteemed listening, in their face, and near their den, the vehement accusations of the mobs, laden with justified revolt. Like this, the crowd took, end-to-end, the streets of 15 de Novembro and São Bento, where the peddler aristocrats exercised their profitable commerce. A Plebe, July 21st, 1917