Amerikali roman ve kisa oyku yazari Bernard Malamud’un olum yildonumu (18 Mart 1986)
“Gece sona ermis olmasina karsin Kasim ayinin ilk gunlerindeki cadde karanlikti; ote yandan ruzgar, bakkali sasirtan bir bicimde pencesini sallamaya baslamisti bile. Adam kaldirim kenarindaki iki sut kasasina egilirken ruzgar onlugunu yuzune ucurdu. Morris Bober nefes nefese bir halde agir kutulari kapiya dogru surukledi. Esikte sert kabuklu ekmeklerle dolu buyuk, kahverengi bir kesekagidi duruyordu, yaninda da bir tane ekmek isteyen eksi suratli, kir sacli Poilisheh (Yiddis dilinde Polonyali) buzulmustu.
‘Niye bu kadar gec kaldin?’
‘Altiyi on geciyor,’ dedi bakkal.
Kadin, ‘Soguk,’ diye sikayet etti.
Bakkal anahtari kilitte dondurerek kadini iceri aldi.Genellikle once sutu iceri tasir ve gazli radyatorleri yakardi ama Polonyali kadin sabirsizdi. Morris ekmek torbasini tezgahtaki tel sepete bosaltti, kadina susamsiz bir tane buldu. Ikiye kesip beyaz dukkan kagidina sardi. Kadin ekmegi pazar filesine koyup tezgaha uc peni birakti.Bakkal, satisi eski, gurultucu yazarkasaya isledi, ekmeklerin geldigi kesekagidini duzleyip kaldirdi, sutu iceri alma isini halletti, siseleri buzdolabinin alt katina dizdi. Dukkanin onundeki gazli radyatoru yakti, arkadakini de yakmak uzere arka tarafa gitti.
Kararmis emaye demlikte kahve kaynatti, yudumlayarak icti, bir yandan da ekmeklerden birini tadini almadan kemiriyordu. Ortaligi temizledikten sonra bekledi; ust kattaki kiraciyi, mahalledeki bir oto tamirhanesinde calisan genc tamirci Nick Fuso'yu bekliyordu. Nick her sabah yedi civarinda yirmi sentlik jambonla bir somun ekmek almaya gelirdi.”
“The early November street was dark though night had ended, but the wind, to the grocer's surprise, already clawed. It flung his apron into his face as he bent for the two milk cases at the curb. Morris Bober dragged the heavy boxes to the door, panting. A large brown bag of hard rolls stood in the doorway along with the sour-faced, gray-haired Poilisheh huddled there, who wanted one.
‘What's the matter so late?’
‘Ten after six,’ said the grocer.
‘Is cold,’ she complained.
Turning the key in the lock he let her in. Usually he lugged in the milk and lit the gas radiators, but the Polish woman was impatient. Morris poured the bag of rolls into a wire basket on the counter and found an unseeded one for her. Slicing it in halves, he wrapped it in white store paper. She tucked the roll into her cord market bag and left three pennies on the counter. He rang up the sale on an old noisy cash register, smoothed and put away the bag the rolls had come in, finished pulling in the milk, and stored the bottles at the bottom of the refrigerator. He lit the gas radiator at the front of the store and went into the back to light the one there.
He boiled up coffee in a blackened enamel pot and sippedit, chewing on a roll, not tasting what he was eating. After he had cleaned up he waited; he waited for Nick Fuso, the upstairs tenant, a young mechanic who worked in a garage in the neighborhood. Nick came in every morning around seven for twenty cents' worth of ham and a loaf of bread.”
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