Monica Mircescu
Freelance Translator
A lot of my translation work is confidential but some of it comes in the form of published translation, e.g. company websites:
as well as French and Romanian articles translated into English:
Romania: Bologna versus entrenched interests
British Star MIA's 'Born Free' video: hair-raising food for thought
Racism and discrimination for Brussels migrant workers
For a sample of my writing you can also read my published academic article The Language of Home. Below you can find my translation of an excerpt from Mihail Sebastian's novel 'De două mii de ani' ('For Two Thousand Years').
Sebastian was active in the 30's and 40's Romania but his work is still very much relevant to the present-day world. Both Romanian and Jewish, his identity was questioned and claimed from all sides during a time of growing anti-Semitism and nationalist jingoism in Romania and Europe. His discourse on identity is frank, fluent, lucid and very much relevant to our present-day world, where the multi-faceted concepts of identity and language continue to be at the core of our thoughts and actions.
The following excerpt is from the very beginning of his novel:
*
I don’t think I have ever been afraid of either people or things, only of signs and symbols. My childhood was poisoned by the third poplar tree in the St Peter church yard. Mysterious, tall and dark, in the summer nights it would cast its shadow through the window all the way above my bed, its black ribbon cutting an oblique line across the bed cover. Its presence would fill me with a fear I was unable to understand or question.
And yet, I have walked bareheaded in the empty streets of the German-occupied city: white stains showed the passing of the planes in the sky, bombs dropped far away or close by, just a step away, first making a dry short noise then resonating widely across the field.
And yet, I have watched without flinching, with the cold curiosity of a child, carts full of frozen Turks passing by the gate in December and not once did the presence of death shake me in the face of those pyramids of bodies stacked together like logs.
And yet, I have crossed the Danube toward the villages of Lipova in a broken flooded boat and I simply rolled up the sleeves of my shirt when I thought that the rotting bottom would not hold any longer. God only knows what a bad swimmer I was.
No, I don’t think I have ever been a scaredy-cat, even though the Greeks from the big garden, who threw stones at us when they caught us there, had called me that on a daily basis since as far back as I could remember, and even though I grew up with ‘scaredy-Jew’ flung back at me from behind like a spit.
But I do know what dread is. This I do. I used to be terrorised to the point of contortion and paralysis by little insignificant things which everybody else would let go without caring but which would take over my life in a disproportionate way and give rise to deep forebodings. Pointlessly, during the day, I would come near the poplar tree from across the road, feel its dark bark and tear splinters with my bleeding nail from the wood showing through the cracks. ‘It’s just a poplar tree’, I would tell myself, my back leaning against it so as to feel it closer and not forget it. I would nevertheless forget it in the evening when I was alone in my room, in my bed at ten o’clock as usual; the steps of passers-by, muffled voices and loud shouts could still be heard. Then, the familiar silence would follow with its well-known rhythm and gradation. If I made the effort now I could probably still remember the three, four inner throbs my night would begin with – actual steps which physically descended me into the dark and silence. Then the shadow of the poplar tree would find me again contorted, fist clenched, eyes wide open, wanting to scream and not knowing how and for whom.
*
Made intriguing discovery yesterday at the second-hand bookshop. George Gissing: La rançon d’Ève. Copy from around 1900, I think. No details about the author (probably English). Spent four good hours.
After I finished it I went out to buy the evening papers. There have been more beatings, at our faculty and the Faculty of Medicine especially. I didn’t go today either. What for?
*
Marcel Winder stopped me in the street to tell me they beat him up again.
‘It’s the eighth one’, he told me, without saying if it was the eighth beating or only the eighth injury. He was indeed sporting a black bruise under his left eye. He was talkative, almost cheerful, feeling superior at any rate. Obviously I was not worthy. I had taken cover. It seems the boys are getting ready for 10th December but Winder would not give me any details.
‘It’s not for the likes of you. You have superior concerns. And, incidentally, just incidentally, your superior concerns stop you from coming with us to face the danger. Just a simple coincidence.’
Winder is wasting his time. He took the wrong tack – I lack that kind of vanity.
*
From a letter I got from mum today:
‘… And above all, do not go to university. I have read in the papers the big beatings have started again and the hatter’s son, who’s come home, told me you’re having it the worst. Let others play at being brave. You listen to your mother and stay at home.’
‘Let others play at being brave.’ If mother knew how this sounds.
*
Could this be it? I went this morning to the Roman Law class. Nobody said anything. I took notes conscientiously so I did not have to raise my head from my desk. Halfway through the class, a ball of paper lands on my desk beside me. I don’t see it, I don’t open it. Somebody calls my name out loud from behind. I don’t turn round. The neighbour on my left looks at me attentively, without saying a word. I can’t stand his glare and raise my eyes. ‘Get out!’ He says it to me in a short, sharp tone. He stands up, makes room for me and waits. I can feel a tense silence around me. Everybody stops breathing. One gesture of mine and this silence would explode.
But no. I slip out of my desk and walk unsteadily toward the door between two rows of onlookers. Everything takes place in an orderly, ritual fashion. Just somebody at the door quickly throws a glancing punch at me which only half hits me. You punched too late, my friend.
I am in the street. There is a beautiful woman. An empty carriage is passing by. Everything is as it should be: a cold December morning.
© Monica Mircescu, 2009