HISTORY THROUGH FICTION
By
1946-53, the XX century's "Middle Ages".
AmeriKKKans arraign their kosher people as the
S.I. Fishgal's PIDDLER ON THE HOOF (PublishAmerica, 2002 and Lulu) shows the hero's childhood. MEIN KRAMPF (Lulu) does his fiery, forbidden love with a Russian coach later.
As a gentleman, Fishgal made his intriguing, truthful books independent. His horse sense, crisp and funny language, topsy-turvy idioms, and plays of words are striking.
CONTENT
1.
God Bless and Help
2. When You Lose, Don’t Lose the Lesson
3. Russian Lice defeated Napoleon
4. Roma’s Class Struggle
5. Tea-Bag without Water
6. Beating the House at Its Own Card Game
7. Jack London's Disciples
8. Crime and Punishment
9. Super, Man!
10. Goyim Enjoy'em
11. Turning Capitalism to Kaput-alism
12. Kosher Hooker’s Miracle
13. Worthless Sherlock Holmes
14. Oy vey Maria and Fish-Ful Thinking
15. The Chimp, the Champ and the Chump
16. From Zero to Hero
17. Mama Always Warned You'd Go Blind
18. How Hitler Saved the World
19. Mein Kampf’s End
20. Stinking Lying Carrion
21. Twiddler on the Hook
22. Roma’s AmeriKKKan Imperialists
23. What the Hooked Worm Thinks about
24. Hardy Plotter and the Kosher Hook
25. Adrenaline Madonnas
26. Rommy-Hommy
27. How the Steel Was Really
Tempered
28. Ingenious Engi-Niggers
29. When Bodies Radiate Photons
30. Grabbing
Piranha by the Gills
31. Ugly
Duckling and God’s Debt
32.
1.
GOD BLESS AND HELP
Birds of a feather
flock together. In instant, Europeans recognize each other in
Speaking of jungles…
July 1946, a year
after World Butchery II. Terrible draft, crop failure, hunger
and ruins in
A
Saturday afternoon in a common courtyard of
Russians put
Thus, Ukrainians
set Podol's
heart in the Rye Bazaar and
Banderovez, another term, less
offensive in the everyday sense, but life threatening, was associated with
betrayal and the devil traits. Comrade Bandera was a Ukrainian
nationalist of the World War II time.
Ukrainians
responded by a less-than-polite term Katsap
(goat) for a Russian and turned “
Decades later
peaceful Ukrainian brothers replaced the old battle cry BASH ZHIDS - SAVE
As to
The merciful
czar's regime allowed Jewish pharmacists' sinister zest to dim beyond
So did the rich,
the elite, and the like lesser breeds. Not in the Podol for sure, but in the
downtown and Pechersk
District. The latter could be justly called uptown:
its altitude is higher. Ukrainians put
Not only has the
Chicken Kiev delicacy glorified the city. Even preschoolers and folks with
incomplete primary education knew that
“
"And a
schlep-mother of mine," a certain Abrasha, our
young hero’s cynical dad, added just for kicks, with no distant aim in view.
Too much knowledge
is a dangerous thing. Back in
1911, the police traced notorious killers of a boy who knew too much. The
killers and the victim were Christians. Yet, anti-Semitism makes vodka stronger
and breads more tasteful there. The right-wing press assured that the Jews
mixed the Goyim blood in their matzo dough. Perhaps, some Jews might never murder anyone. But
who knows what they do when no Christian is watching? The Chassidim might
appear quite ominous with their peyes and hats.
Kiev’s chief district attorney ignored the police information, pursued
the case as a ritual murder by a certain Mendel Beilis,
an ex-soldier and five children’s father - one Jew out of Kiev’s 20 thousand
ones out of 400 thousand total residents. The poor Jew who would never hurt a
fly worked at the nearby brick factory and even on the Sabbath and Holy Days.
“Are better, more tasteful, delicacies not available?” naive Jews asked
a rabbi. “Doesn’t Judaism forbid using any, even kosher animals’ blood in food?
Did the murdered shegetz (a young non-Jewish male)
have split hooves of a kosher mammal?”
“Goyim take a hint from Roman Catholics. In an offensive and degrading weekly
ritual, they pretend drinking the blood and eating the flesh
of a Jew. A wafer allegedly converts into the
actual body of Jesus, and wine becomes his blood. The stuff is knotty for the yolds who mulishly snub the truth.”
“But what particularly is our awful sin against the Goyim? Didn’t the Romans crucify that kosher lamb and thousands of
others for entertainment? Didn’t they feed Christians, mostly Jews, to lions?”
“Goyim were reviled us long before we invented their religion,” the
rabbi negated. “The gospel authors fingered us to curry the Empire’s favor.”
“Then what do they hate us for? Jesus was a Jew anyway. Neither we, nor
anyone we know, crucified, nor burnt someone as a witch. Besides, Christians
believe the crucifixion was a part of a divine plan. So, how could the mortals,
killers or traitors, resist God’s will?”
“Through ages 5
popes denounced as a lie, but two supported ritual murder charges,” the rabbi
went on. “Framing of a Jew is
more important than punishing the murderers.”
“But we
have no ritual cannibalism of pretending eating Jesus’ body.”
“Czarism uses the
blood libel charge to divert the attention from its corrupt and repressive
policies. For all ill besetting the empire, they blame the Jews and foment
anti-Semitism. Thus, having the snot-short three-letter word as a nationality
is an unpardonable crime.”
The Beilis
blatant anti-Semitic trial shook the world. So did the Dreyfus one earlier.
Then Frenchmen falsely accused their Jew of espionage and swept all Jews from
the army therefore. Yet, any national could be a spy.
In 1913, a certain Leo Frank,
Both those
world-renowned cases were different. The Beilis trial
was that of all Jews and Judaism as a morbid, bloodthirsty
and man-hating religion.
Seven of the
twelve semi-literate peasant Christian jurors were members of the notorious
In 1941, in 36 hours,
the German occupiers and Ukrainian collaborators murdered 33,771 Jews in the
Back to our
birdies though - the novel is not a textbook.
Saturdays were full
working days. While the motherland jogged at her customary pace, Roma Karpfengal tied up the reins to a metal pillar and sat on a
gelding harnessed into a cart.
“Hey, twiddler!”
No
response.
"Hey,
HORSEMAN!"
"What horse am I to you?"
"And what are you?"
"DRIVER."
"What do you drive?"
"Horses."
Not a comedy routine, it is a piece of life.
Roma did not know he talked back to a certain Oscar well known in the hood under contemptuous conspiratorial name Schmaga - no possible explanation, meaning and equivalent.
That pertinent lad
looked like full fifteen. Who could guess he was a small-time
hoodlum? His body had no signs of bandits’ popular art like tattoo scriptures
and ornaments. He was a school-dropout (albeit a Jew), a trump, a petty
pickpocket, a trader, a fast seducer, and a quite decent person - a big-time gentleman of noble riffraff.
"He isn't a
horse, but an old lame, scabbed nag." Schmaga
had the horse sense, mercilessly led to the point, and hit the nail on the head
like a weapon of mass destruction that the Yankee birdies dropped on Japanese
heads a year earlier. "The weakling is ossified like a pen pusher fed with
papers."
The nag felt no
personal foul, but Roma did.
"He’s no
nag," he said in the sad state
of futile denial.
The boy rid of the faint of heart, prepared himself to be shocked, and awakened. Perhaps, so should the skirt chasers eager to learn how to delight femmes fatale. So should the poor souls whose dames play a farce, burn a hole in the pockets and give no frigging thing in return. So should the romantic ladies keen to be captivated, but unable to find by whom.
"Look at his dropped lips, dripping saliva and mane’s bold patches,” Schmaga went on. “'Horse' sounds too proudly. Apparently, he isn't an offspring of the noble horse Emperor Caligula put in the Roman senate."
"I don't know about the senate," Roma said from the bottom of his miserable eight years and descended from the poor animal. "He just has not seen good days yet."
The weight of the gelding’s large sad human eyes pulled his head down and negated his familiarity with the senate and good days.
"You'll learn about Caligula in the fifth grade," Schmaga condescended from the height of his 14.5 years.
"The gelding is on friendly terms with me."
"It costs nothing to water your close one."
“Don’t judge people by their close ones,” Roma answered with the aphorism. “That horse is your savior and has a fate worse than that of Jews.”
“Really?”
“What are you gawking at? Vicious uncles made not the Jewish fashionable cut, but the total hara-kiri. When the war started, they drafted him into artillery. At the very end, they will turn this war veteran into soap.”
“The nag could hardly pull cannons.”
“I
went along with the Red Army all the way from
Papa Abrasha learned German at university and in
“I beg you pardon, little horsy,” Schmaga stroked the gelding.
Roma picked up a bucket from the cart’s hook:
"Where can I fill it?"
"Go to the place where even beautiful princesses hoof to."
Roma looked
around. The living accommodations around the common courtyard were not public
slums of
Coops in the ground floors made baby carriages, nickel-plated beds, wooden kiosks, leather belts and ropes. Vegetables-and-fruits warehouses settled in the deep, large cellars and the ground floors below the dwellings of the second and third floors. The second-floor had a terrace and a balcony wrapped inside the common courtyard.
"Where's that princely place?" Roma asked.
"The place, where princesses mind their own business that nobody can do for them, is called a latrine."
"Where?"
"Take your slit eyeballs in your tentacles."
The apartment building had probably forty units - most without toilets. A wooden shed in the courtyard recouped that sad circumstance.
"The latrine has an outside huge cement sink and a tap," Schmaga informed. "It's a watering hole for the Rye Bazaar's traders and horses. From that tap, the janitor pours water over the conveniences, and children fill their rubber teats. The receptacles expand under the water pressure and serve as water pistols and bombs. From that tap, traders freshen up their greens.”
If Roma ventured in the latrine, he would see a filthy room with a view of excrements, a ditch, and six stalls with round holes in the cement floor above a cesspool. One might call that ditch a urinal - no insult intended to the real one. Since then, Roma prized the masculine benefit in that respect.
“I’d not change the possibility to pee on the hoof for multiple orgasms,” Schmaga broadcasted. Roma had no right idea about that yet and kept his talking device shut.
The cesspool aroma
could not compete with the smell of chloride of lime. The stink was stronger
than the tear gas that the capitalistic police use against protesters. Most
important, the unisex latrine made up for the lack of mingling in the only
segregated schools that
Roma watered his lowly animal that had neither a prima donna image, nor a desire to bite, to kick, and to neigh. He took pity on and allowed the boy to drag him by the bridle and to comb the mane with his fingers.
"Who's the dray-man?" Schmaga asked.
"A furniture deliverer."
"Who's the buyer?"
"Nobody. We're moving in."
"We, Nikolai II, the emperor..."
"My parents and older brother."
"My father donated his life to the likes of you," Schmaga reproached.
"Death has the great taste and takes the best," Roma recited a truism.
"You talk better than you look. Perhaps…"
“My father…”
“Never interrupt a guy flattering
you, green ignoramus.”
"I wanted to
say my father was a senior lieutenant," Roma put himself right. "I’m
"With your
slant eyes, you look more like young Genghis Khan than Jesus," Schmaga
smiled encouragingly.
"You don’t look as picked from the cross either,” Roma said. “And if you care to know, I’m a war veteran too.”
“The small schmendrick in the big bloodbath.”
“I recited popular verses and songs for the rearguard.”
“Raised the moral and fighting spirits of the heroic Red Army?”
“You’re laughing, but they listened, smiled, and cried. Their wall newspaper wrote that I sped up the course of the war a little.”
"Did you shoot there?"
"Not alone. A gunner and I shot at the Germ-Man planes once."
"Goyim think Jews can't shoot because in January 1919 Fanny Kaplan, a wild-haired Jewish Social-Revolutionary shot at, but only wounded Lenin," Schmaga put his hand on Roma’s shoulder. "Want to go around?"
What small fry would not taste a big fish's company? Swim with the big fish, or bury yourself in the silt.
"Look at that
moonshine pisser," Schmaga disgusted the gateway
to the Rye Bazaar. "Her snout and our
flag are of the same color. The sow is peacefully sleeping in her urine puddle
right in the gateway.”
“First, they drink
and then they stink.”
“Bacteria are the only culture they have."
"In the Army, the officers had to watch that a shikker would not sleep on his back," Roma said. "Some drowned horribly in their own vomit often."
"Don't worry.
Fine women do not lie on gateways, doorways, staircases. Our yard janitor’s
hose will avert the anti-Semite’s pleasant death.”
“God not willing, people wouldn’t
invent alcohol,” Roma recalled the soldiers’ excuse. “Thus, drunkenness is not
a sin, but God's virtue.”
“Even long before Jews invented vodka, drinking was Goyim’s
favorite pastime. But after all, they can’t live on vodka alone and need a
pickle too.”
“Hitler was a teetotaler. But Stalin likes wine.”
“A lot of drinking paradoxes are around.”
“My father is a
food specialist,” Roma said. “Men have more muscles and enzymes metabolizing
alcohol, and less fat than women. Muscles have more water than fat does. That’s
why at the same weight men’s bodies dilute alcohol more than women’s ones.”
“That’s good to know in
case one wants to seduce a chick.”
“What kind of a
chick do you prefer?”
"Unconscious."
As you get by
now,
The hills around the Rye Bazaar were the defecation and urination veins. Man- and horse-driven carts dashed between the moorage and Bazaar and gave gradually their way to trucks. That proved the law of nature - the more horsepower, the fewer of horses.
Whereas villages’
hungry life passed like in Comrade Lenin's mausoleum - dead, but not buried,
the life in
Raucous hordes plagued the Rye Bazaar. Slick personages bought, sold, stole, bartered, haggled, swindled, begged fiercely and doggedly, whined, wined, dined, and exhibited anything - except rye, of course. Two strongest passions captured them: snatching as much and yielding as little as possible.
Some boys filled their large green kettles from the tap in the courtyard, then walked between the bazaar stalls and sung like young turkey cocks:
"Cold water! Who wants water? Five kopecks for a mug."
After drinking
that water or some much stronger liquids, the drinkers went to a nearby church
in
Decades later Roma
(actually, Mr. Roman Karpfengal by then) saw such
signs in
Literate Germans read Verboten (forbidden) signs, did not pollute the lively scenery, and got rid of their extra genetic material in places called Abort. Yet, not only women went there. Do the folks denigrate their women and fetuses on purpose? Perhaps, linguistics is not the German’s forte. Who else would name lavatories Abort?
As to the Rye
Bazaar, everyone, particularly drunks and gangs, had good time and formed a
large crowd. The state entertainment included amusement and sideshows, a
traveling circus, cars-and-motorcycles racing on a vertical circular wall,
sharp shooting and throwing rings for prizes.
Enterprising
entertainers performed along with sellers of accordions and records. Some
artists drew portraits or cut clients' silhouettes from black paper, and fixed
them to the white one. Others helped themselves in fools' pockets by sleight of
hand and no swindle.
“We can do
silhouettes to,” Roma said.
“You need the
talent to do that,” Schmaga doubted.
“Not if you put
the sitter’s head next to a frame with paper, light up the head with a lamp and
trace the shadow outline.”
“You can’t compete
with the silhouette snipping.”
“That’s only for
our own amusement.”
In the crowd, the boys noticed godless pickpockets. They relieved pockets with thundering foul words about God and his mother. Russians call that obscene slang-uage mothering. Only God and his mother know why.
The Rye Bazaar's professional chicken
killers plucked a bird quicker than it managed to cackle. They took its head
and wings in the left hand, cut the neck with a blade in the right hand, and
threw the body to bleed to death in the sea of blood on the ground. The dying
convulsions unmoved the spectators though. Yet, they hardened children's
impressionable souls.
Crippled war
veterans traded, entertained, gambled and begged. At first, they were
untouchable like
Not only the crippled begged.
"A healthy man shouldn’t solicit, but work," a militiaman scolded.
"But I beg after the work. Can one make a living for wages?"
"I don't know - did not try yet."
Female buyers got their most delightful assets out of the bras. Female traders put those large bills in their own bras. Intelligent-looking characters with sincere eyes charmed full-figured dames, lovely put their paws around and quietly relieved the bras of the extra burden. Dull-looking characters with eyes expressing anything but sincerity did not compete with the con artists and just picked scatterbrains' pockets.
Pretty women could
dress for their earnings only if they undressed for cash. Yet, the second-hand
trophy clothing from ruined
Later the city
powers forbade selling the stuff in the bazaar and moved that disreputable
operation far away. That flea market got the obvious names
"trash-spot" or "crusher" (both in translation). Then they
moved the despicable crusher to a locale reachable only by train.
At best, Soviet
studios made five movies a year. Yet, people wanted to see a new movie every
Sunday. Comrade Stalin needed the money too and allowed the west classics under
propagandistic titles though. Thus, The
Roaring Twenties turned to Soldier’s
Fate in America; Mr. Deeds goes to
Americans won over Soviet bellies during World Carnage II. Then the capitalistic milk, egg powder, tinned pork and bacon filled the lucky ones. Thus, the folks thought Yanks were fabulously rich and generous.
Fabulously was no
hyperbole. Uncle Jacob, Roma’s family friend, a fitter and sergeant decorated
for managing an army mobile shop cannibalizing and repairing wrecked tanks.
After the war, he cannibalized and fixed a dozen of US trucks to give them back
according to the Congress’ lend-lease act. After driving 480 km from
“Better
than new. Drive my machines as much as you like.”
To say the final
goodbye to his trucks, he went to the locked gate of the dock with the moored
American ship.
He came. He saw.
He cried. Nobody ever humiliated him so much: on the ship, two broadly smiling
blacks fed his beloved trucks to a huge press making a pile of metal matzos to
transport back home.
“Amerikakers are fabulously rich,
awfully wasteful and corrupt,” he said. (In case that
Russian, Yiddish or German languages are not your forte, kaka and kaker mean feces and its apt derivative.) “We’d
be better off if they sent their
Other folks might
have a better luck, but Uncle Jacob was the single anti-American Roma knew
then. At that time,
In 1947, great
Stalin made another great error getting only The Voice of
Besides, nobody printed more
Jack London, Mark Twain, Theodore Dreiser, James Fennimore Cooper and Howard
Fast than
Simple-minded AmeriKKKan imperialists did not suspect they got more Yankee sympathizers in “the evil empire” than in their best allies. In 1970, after some fighting on the Soviet-Chinese frontier, a colonel (then Roma’s co-inventor in military communication equipment) said:
“We aim our rockets at the wrong enemy.”
“Afraid of Chinks?”
“I’ve spent the fortune on my car. They’ll grab her for sure.”
“And Yanks?”
“They respect the private property.”
Yet, Soviet Jews changed their opinion of Amerikakers after Comrade Stalin’s decisive political and military prop up against their anti-Israel campaign and arms embargo. Decades later Roma wrote:
“Amerikakers
believe to and cram all, but understand zilch. The unabated consumerisms,
incompetence, currency debasing and keeping up appearances indebt their
offspring, enrich their enemies and turn capitalism to kaput-alism. Amerikakers are above Marx’s and Lenin’s teaching that such
deeds ruined even Rome and will the US Empire of debt and “useful idiots”
(Lenin’s term). They borrow money they do not have on the stuff they do not need.
Yet, Amerikakers
do not own their useless stuff. It owns them and is not loaded on a hearse anymore. It was
quite liberating not to keep up appearances during the American
Revolution. Then the troops lined worthless bills called shinplasters in the
knee-length boots.
“Amerikakers convert the capitalist society to the capital-less one and vote for the like corrupted nobodies, bigots, cranks, hustlers, and pulpit artists franchising race or faith into a fat living and political career. For the world revolution, Lenin, Trotsky, and, for the corrupted democracy, some US presidents ruined countries regardless of the people acceptance.
”Since
Luckily, Roma (Mr. R. Karpfengal by then) was
with those who took the other side of the highly educated idiots’ trade. God
bless and help
Amen!