The Last Two Jews of Kabul

Paul Winick

Description

Displaced Afghani Jews struggle in Israel with the new secular traditions of their family. They learn traditions are as shaky as a fiddler on the roof.
The last two Jews of Kabul returned to their bullet-ridden housing-synagogue complex on Flower Seller Street in Kabul in 2002 after the fall of the Talban. The former friends blamed each other for their imprisonment and the theft of their 800-year-old torah scrolls. They now despised each other. The story continues telling how they renew their friendship, rescue the scrolls, rebuild the complex and join their families in Israel. In Israel, they struggle as Orthodox Sephardic Jews with family who have become secularized.Ttheir traditions must bend. They hit many roadblocks along the way in trying to build a synagogue which encompasses all traditions. Their first synagogue is blown-up, a grandson is beaten. A granddaughter is kidnapped. Along the way we learn alot about chess, the art world, and about rare coins, and how all of these help them achieve their goals. We also see how the younger man, a widower, must bend some of his traditions when he starts to fall in love with a modern Ashkenazi woman. We learn about the differences of the two sects of Judaism and the difficulties the last two Jews of Kabul have in loosening their traditions. To paraphrase a song, they realize their traditions are as shaky as a fiddler on the roof.

Sujets

• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: AuthorHouse
• Date de parution: 03 août 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781665564243
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE LAST TWO JEWS OF KABUL
PAUL WINICK


AuthorHouse™
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© 2022 Paul Winick. All rights reserved.
 
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
 
Published by AuthorHouse  08/01/2022
 
ISBN: 978-1-6655-6423-6 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-6655-6424-3 (e)
 
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022912509
 
This story is loosely based on two characters I read about in a newspaper article. However all incidents, scenes and the plot are strictly conceived from the author’s imagination and are purely fictional.
 
 
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
 
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1Torah Scrolls
Chapter 2Dream Painter
Chapter 3Gambit
Chapter 4Traditions
Chapter 5Dream Building
Chapter 6Foundations
Chapter 7Building Blocks
Chapter 8Found and Lost
Chapter 9Asa’s Dilemma
Chapter 10Kidnapped
Chapter 11Waiting, Worrying, and Wishing
Chapter 12Hope
Chapter 13Appraisal
Chapter 14Reaching Out
Chapter 15Tournament Time
Chapter 16Copy or Genuine
Chapter 17Appraisal
Chapter 18Fusion
Chapter 19Auction
Chapter 20Recruitment
Chapter 21Weddings


CHAPTER 1
Torah Scrolls
Asa Heravi and Zev Simcha brushed past each other in the dimly lit stairwell, just after the fall of the Taliban in 2002. Their eyes were fixed on the ground. Lack of even a nod conveyed the rancor they felt. They were the only remaining residents of this grimy, once vibrant Jewish community on Flower Seller Street in Kabul.
Asa was wearing a suit jacket over his afghan and a black four-pointed rabbinical skull cap covered his sixty-three-year-old head. His flowing beard was all white. He went to his one room apartment and struggled to carry a bucket of soapy water down to the synagogue. He didn’t see Zev sitting on one of the wooden benches, lost in prayer. As Asa bent down to scrub the floor, his knees creaked. Sunlight, reflecting through a broken stained glass window, cast a blue shadow on his face, giving him an ominous appearance. The dirt was caked deep, forcing Asa to labor with a strength he hadn’t used in years. Sweat poured from his face despite the chill of the winter air.
“Why are you doing that, old man?” Zev asked. “No Jew will return to Kabul and to the synagogue until the Torah scrolls are returned.”
“You’re a fine one to talk. You took them in the first place.”
“That’s a lie. I was going to send them to Israel for safekeeping. Before I could arrange for shipping, they arrested me and confiscated the scrolls. You’re the only one who could have told them what I was doing. They said I was an Israeli spy.”
“You’re the liar. You took the scrolls. They’re sacred and shouldn’t have left the synagogue. You know where they are. Get them back.”
“You’re crazy, old man,” Zev said. “The Taliban tortured me. Do you think they told me where they put the scrolls? I’d love to get them back, but don’t know how.”
Asa uncoiled from the floor, lifted the bucket and threw the remnants of the muddy water at Zev. The younger man, more nimble, was able to dodge a direct hit, but couldn’t avoid being spattered. Zev wiped his afghan, lifted his fist toward Asa, then turned and stomped out of the synagogue.
“Good riddance,” Asa yelled after him. “Don’t come back until you find the scrolls.”
Zev returned to the eerie confines of his sparsely decorated room. He shivered despite the fact that he wore a cloth jacket over his black afghan, and a white four pointed religious skull cap covered his rotund almost bald head. Sagging eyes and jowls made him look older than forty-eight. Cracked spectacles drooped on his nose as he stared at a picture of his son reading from the Torah at his clandestine Bar Mitzvah, held before the family had emigrated to Israel. It was to them that he wanted to send the scrolls. Now he wanted to join them, but he had to find the Torah first. He had lost it and it was up to him to gain its return. Zev thought of Andre Schwarz-Bart’s book, The Last of The Just, and saw himself in that role—the role of the last righteous man. Without the return of the scrolls, no Jew would return to Kabul, and an eight-hundred-year-old community would be thrown out with the Taliban. He put the tea kettle on the space heater and sat on the edge of his bed, looking at his chess set. He tried to fix his higher education and his multi-lingual talents on the problem. He knew the scrolls had been taken to Kandahar, the religious capital of the Taliban. What happened to them after that was pure conjecture. If he could make his way there, he knew of a secret Taliban sympathizer he thought was still living in Kandahar—a covert spy for the Taliban that Zev had seen during his imprisonment. This man, Ali-a-Sakib, was a prisoner when Zev was in jail, but was singled out for extra food rations, conjugal visits and Turkish cigarettes. The rumor was that Ali was there to provide a cover story, that he was anti-Taliban, when in reality he was one of their well-compensated spies. Ali might know where the scrolls were and tell Zev if he feared that Zev would turn him over to the authorities.
As the tea kettle whistled, Zev wondered how he could get to Kandahar and, once there, find Ali. He had no car and even if he did, little gas was for sale. What was available was given to the military or merchants who needed petrol to conduct business. Bus service had been suspended. Maybe Hakim, the florist, would let him hitch a ride when he made one of his infrequent runs to Kandahar? Hakim brought flowers there that he had purchased off the backs of trucks from the northern provinces. Zev put on a heavier jacket, navigated the dimly lit stairs, bracing himself against the pockmarked walls. The building had lapsed into disrepair—the pitted walls were cluttered with bullet holes, a memorial of sorts to the recent end of the Taliban regime. Missing windows allowed birds to build nests in rusty fans and light fixtures. As he walked onto Flower Seller Street, he turned to look at the building. The only clue to its origin was a small section of outside cement wall with rows of Stars of David punctuated by mortar fire.
As he entered Hakim’s shop, the smell of fresh-cut roses caused Zev’s nostrils to flare. The bouquets shone against the sloppily patched, bullet riddled, display cases. Nobody could afford the flowers except government officials and foreign military personnel. Hakim was one of just a few florists still in the cut flower industry in Kabul. However, since there were no flowers available in Kandahar, it was more profitable to sell as much as he could there.
“Hakim, I need a favor,” Zev said.
“Salaam alekum, Zev. For you anything.”
“I need to go with you to Kandahar when you bring a flower shipment.”
“That is not possible. It is too dangerous. What I do is not strictly legal. If a Jew is with me, I am more likely to be stopped by thieves.”
“I can be your assistant,” Zev said. “I will take off my skullcap. You didn’t mind being seen with a Jew when I hit the Taliban thief over the head, allowing you to escape with your truck-full of flowers.”
Hakim shook his head.
“I’m strong and can defend us. I know how to shoot a gun. I can be persuasive if you’re stopped.”
Hakim shook his head faster.
“Besides, I am willing to pay for the ride.”
Hakim’s eyes widened. “American money only.”
Zev nodded. “I’ll give you $100.”
“Not enough, $500.”
“$300! That’s all I have.” At least, that was all of his $1100 that he was willing to give the florist.
“Agreed,” said Hakim. “I make a run to Kandahar in three days time. Come early, dress like an Afghani, and don’t tell anyone.”
Several days later, Hakim’s rickety, open backed truck bounced along the dusty road to Kandahar. The bed was filled with pots of roses and petunias. Avoiding all the war damaged potholes was impossible. Zev’s skullcap was replaced by a turban, and the Star of David he normally wore was missing.
“Why so important for you to go to Kandahar?” Hakim asked.
“Our Torah scrolls are there. I need to get them back. I know a man in Kandahar who might help, but I don’t know where he lives.”
“My cousin has arranged for me to sell these flowers to a government official at a very good price. Perhaps he could be helpful,” Hakim said. “But it will cost.”
“I understand and am prepared.”
As they talked, Zev noticed the road ahead was blocked by an old car. Two men, with rifles in one hand, beckoned them to stop. “Hold on!” Hakim shouted. “We go around.”
Hakim slowed his truck. Just before reaching the thieves, he floored the accelerator and turned the truck to the right. It careened into the rear of the car, pushing it out of the way, and then lurched into a rocky field. As Hakim struggled to get the truck back on the road, a hail of bullets ripped into its side and tailgate. Zev ducked low in the cab. When they were back on the road and the danger had passed, they took stock. None of the bullets hit Hakim or Zev nor the tires or vital components, although rose and petunia petals w