Fleas and Old Books

Well, we did it—we landed in Bucharest, and, like typical tourists, we kicked off with the “must-see” tour: fancy restaurants and bars in the old city, a vast park dressed in autumn colours, and the Arc de Triomphe towering proudly at the end of an avenue lined with willows and birch trees. All was well and good, but these were just the warm-up, a light prelude to the real experience of the visit—the Sunday morning flea market.

Ah, flea markets! The place where scents and sounds blend, and every forgotten penny makes a triumphant comeback, doing what pennies do best—passing from hand to hand.

So, while I haven’t yet achieved worldwide fame, those who know me know at least one thing about me: my love for books. Not only am I a reader and a writer, but also a collector. Amid the piles of figurines, old records, fur and leather hats that have seen better days, how could a stack of antique books, as if waiting for me, escape my notice? But believe it or not, my Romanian is quite limited, so I hadn’t examined any of the books at the market until that very moment. The difference was that these book covers had no words; they seemed to look at each other, asking, “Hold everything—does she see us?” And I couldn’t help but answer yes. I reached out and touched the old leather. I sniffed, of course, because I’m not crazy. Their scent… somewhere between a cellar that hasn’t aired since the 19th century and a faint hope that someday, someone might open them again. And so, I opened them. Yellowed and weary pages within crumbling leather covers revealed a wondrous sight: Hebrew!

This poor little stack, sitting there in the market’s corner of exile, included Torah volumes with commentaries and annotations in Hebrew, German, and other languages I couldn’t identify, editions from Lemberg (i.e., Lviv), likely printed in the 19th century, when many holy books were published in Eastern Europe.

Among them was Totsot Chaim (“The Results of Life”), written, as he put it, by “I, the lowly one in my tribe, with God’s help,” Chaim Auerbach. At the bottom of the pile, we found Mishnayot Seder Zeraim with the commentaries of Rambam, Rabbi Ovadiah of Bartenura, and Tosafot Yom Tov—a significant find. And just beneath, as if hiding, was Machatzit Hashekel by Rabbi Shmuel Halevi Kalin, one of the great Halachic authorities of his generation. This book was a commentary on Magen Avraham, one of the primary commentaries on the Shulchan Aruch. And there were still more books dealing with ethics and conduct, filled with interpretations.

Ter and I were drawn into another world, following the lines, caressing the covers, trying to decipher the faded handwriting that an unseen hand had added, and attempting to understand the stories behind the books. Before us, the soul of our Jewish brethren in Eastern Europe unfolded, and at the same time, we couldn’t help but think of the lives that were brutally cut short. No wonder their covers were silent. These books are what remains of those Jews, people with elegant libraries who studied these books each evening, shaking off their pages every Passover. The people who were taken from their homes and forced to leave everything behind, and now their belongings, from slippers to the treasured books in their libraries, sit neglected in Bucharest’s flea market.

You must understand these weren’t the only Jewish artefacts we found there. Menorahs sat on more than one or two stalls (many menorahs), photos bearing Jewish names, and here and there, a Star of David appeared on various items whose origins we all know, passing from one gentile’s hand to another without a basic understanding of their tragic source.

The stall owner looked at us, speaking quietly to his partner, trying to guess what fascinated us so much about these old books. While I continued browsing the books, losing myself in them, I heard Ter, who had moved on to other items, deciding to buy some old paintings. His English mixed with the vendor’s Romanian in a lively haggling match, numbers bouncing back and forth: “One-seven-five,” “No, no, nine-two-five?” The numbers went up and down until they settled in the middle—125. But Ter always has one last trick up his bargaining sleeve; he pulled out a hundred bill and another five, “One-zero-five?” and winked.

The stall owner laughed and exchanged a Romanian word with his partner. Out of everything he said, one word we managed to catch was “Israelis.” They’d figured out where we were from, not because of the books we browsed but thanks to Ter’s haggling skills. Here before them lay a pile of spiritual and cultural wealth from Eastern European Jews, whose ancestors had been slaughtered and looted, and the only heritage they recognised was our Jewish bargaining instinct.

At least they found it amusing, and they sold him the paintings at the bargain price he managed to negotiate down to.