by Boris Zubry
@ 2018 by Boris Zubry
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in the retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in the media.
First Edition
All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to a real person, living or dead, is coincidental.
ISBN: 9781099914898
Printed in the United States of America
Zubry Publishing - ZP - Princeton, USA
[email protected]
THE JEWISH NATION OF MONGOLS
DEDICATION:
To people that are seeking knowledge,
Adventure, fantasy, and smiles,
That would accept the quizzing challenge;
That’s out there lies behind.
To people close to me that daily,
In labors to digest the tells,
The wife, the dog, and even neighbors
That maybe know – I mean well.
Contents:
Aaron Cohen
Ulaanbaatar
Mongols
Ulaanbaatar
President Vagabundi
Batu Khan
President Vagabundi
Ulaanbaatar
Aaron Cohen
Ulaanbaatar
Aaron Cohen
Galloping mad horses, so many exhausted people, the heavy razor-sharp dust, the bone penetrating heat, the humid, and the terrifying earsplitting screams. The screams and cries are everywhere coming from all directions. Screams of the wounded and dying horses. Cries of the people that may still be alive. Some are still fighting the shadows. Is that a shadow of the foe of the death? Death… Tears of blood. The last breath. The last sigh. What could be more frightening than people screaming in frustration, exhaustion, pain, submitting to fate? Dying people. The screaming horses... Dying horses. The silent scream in the wild eyes that filled with terror of animals in pain. Do they feel pain as we do? More? Less? The loud cry of dying animals again and again, and again. They are all around, searching for the way out. They are looking for survival, but only finding the slow torturous death. That’s the most terrifying scream of them all. The last scream. It is full of pain, fear, fatality, and finality. Yes, the finality. Was there anything else left? Was there tomorrow or the next week?
There is a screaming horse on fire. It’s running wild – to where? To its destiny? How far is it? In what direction? But, it’s dead already and does not know it yet. What was the destiny of the dead? What could be the goal, the aim, the result? The quicker death… Less agony… What could be more agonizing, terrifying, painful than burning alive? Burning alive eternally… There was no escape, no way out. Where to turn? No, there was no tomorrow or even today. Was it in the past already or just never existed? Did anyone know the answer? Was he still alive? Gone… There was no future, but the terrifying today and maybe a questionable past. Dead had no future, but did they have the past? Could they hold to anything tangible? Where was the escape, the alternative route, the survival? More of the galloping horses, more of the heavy all-penetrating dust, more of the terrifying screams (the human and the horses, the screaming wind), and the uncontrollable exhaustion making the heat more, and more unbearable. Heat… Death… Pain… Surrender… Destiny. The end. The nerve-stinging screeching sounds of metal over metal.
Sometimes you could hear the ringing of bells, but it was only the hardened steel breaking bones and the steel. Horses have lost their minds from the heat, exhaustion, dust, and the sickeningly dry, sweet coppery scent of the human and animal blood. Blood was flowing freely today and here. It has no value today, but it was so precious yesterday. War and blood were free. Blood of so many people comes together, mixing up and creating the stream of eternity where your origin or the believes do not matter, and there are no disagreements with anyone or anything anymore. Finally, everyone is equal and happy in one unified happiness of the dead. Is that what you wanted? Is that why you came here and brought all these weapons? Was that your aim and the accomplishment? Are you done?
That’s the time and the place for the nightmarish demons to collect their dues. They patiently waited for a while, and now, it was time. Now, they collect it in full. People were so fatigued in the struggle to kill and not to be killed. I do not want to die, not now, not today. I want to live another day, another life. I want to live my life. Live, and let die. What can I do not to die? Be better, be smarter, be faster wielding your weapon. Kill, kill, kill. How good is your weapon? Can you find a better one? There, he is not dead yet, but his sword… Kill, and take the sword or a shield or an ax. Is it better than yours? Let’s see. Kill to stay alive. Kill… That’s the only way to survive a battle, one more battle, one more day. Maybe this one is the last one. Perhaps you can pull it though. How lucky are you? The throbbing pain, the horror, blood, and the death reign this field of the surreal reality. One more battle. That was only one battle out of so many. The broken bodies were planted everywhere you looked, right where they felled. They did not go anywhere, not anymore. Where were they going to be buried? All of them together, in one colossal grave? The nameless bodies… The mindless minds… Individually, in their own graves? Possibly, but there were more dead than alive. Who could bury them that way? They died together so, why not to lay together for eternity. They were one of the same now. They were brothers now. They were dead brothers now. So many nameless members of the brotherhood of death. No, do not look. It may burn your eyes and empty your soul, but you looked, and you saw the friends, and the foes alike. They would not get up, they could not get up. They had no life left. No will, no power, no drive… Many were still too young. People, horses, death… Horses keep running even without mounts. The mounts have fallen failing to get up. They did not care any longer, but horses were still searching for an escape. Horses usually so couscous and careful did not stop, circling someone or something in the middle of this full of the fear valley. The valley of the sorrowfulness… There in the middle of the demise, were people, soldiers, fighters, dead, and still alive, more dead than alive. They were the defenders of the valley that belonged to them. It belonged to them the day before, just a few hours ago. The shields, swords, arrows, spears, knives, nails and teeth, and more pain, blood, and broken bodies. People and horses… Horses. The screams of pain and the sighs of dying. Whose blood was there? Who was dying? This shining, blinding, murdering sun. Dust… Hot wind… Why of all days… Why today? Death was enveloping it all; it was everywhere reigning the day. The day of death. That day of death. Was it something to celebrate? Was that the smell of death or of the living creatures dealing that death? What smell was worse? Even the smell was petrifying, but they wanted to live. War, rape, pillage, plunder, and the fire. Death to all living and slavery to all survived. Was slavery any better? Was slavery considered living? Quick death could be a valuable reward, but you did not know that and resisted. You should’ve listened, but you wanted to live and be free. Yet, you hit the dead end. Death was the dead end, the deadliest one. Was there a way out? Was there a choice?
That was a dream that Aaron Cohen had almost every week now, coming on any day with no apparent reason or a pattern. He had it forever, for as long as he could remember, but never that often. What was it? It could not be the “genetic memory” so much talked about lately. What was genetic memory anyway, and where it was mentioned in the Torah, Talmud or any other righteous book? He was twenty-eight years old religious Lubavitch Jew with five children, and these violent dreams were not appropriate for him. God forbid… Not for him, not for any other Jew. No one should have dreams like that. Never. Noth
ing good could come from that. Nothing good was in it either. What could be good in such violence? He never read this type of books and did not even have the TV, less watched it. It was not for the pious; it was not for the righteous. It was not for the Jews. All Rabbis said so. And, he was pious all the way through, to the smallest bone of his body. Torah was the light of his life. Torah was life. He never saw a movie like that dream, so violent. Come to think, he never saw a movie period. What for? Movies were not kosher, not for the righteous mind. Violence was not in his bones. Jews, and, especially, the religious ones, were not violent. The unprovoked violence and of those proportions were not the Jewish trade. That was for barbarians. Jews did not run around on horses, like crazies, killing everything in sight. Never ever. Well, maybe thousands of years ago… Yet, that was in self-defense, and he was not around yet. It was back then. That was needed for the nation to survive. Not now. Well, maybe in Israel… That’s in self-defense as well. That was still needed for the nation to survive. Every nation has the right to defend itself, to survive. They did it out of necessity; there was no pleasure in it. All Jews were good Jews, only some were somewhat better. The religious ones… Even the sports were not promoted in the community. Have you ever seen a Hasidic Jew wearing the Yarmulke (a skullcap worn all the time by Orthodox Jews or during prayer by other Jewish men), and the Tzitzit (a wool vest-like piece of clothing with fringes at its four corners) fighting in a ring as a boxer? Yeah… Playing football? Soccer? Exactly. Ah…, you see now? Gornisht (nothing). This is what I am talking about. None of it was kosher by any standard, and Aaron was a good Jew with only peace on his mind and not the blood of war. And, the killings with a sword and a spear, and a knife. Cutting the throats of the dying people. The blood, and the mutilated bodies as far as you can see. The dead and the crazed horses. The dead and the crazed people. He never discussed it with the Rabbi, but this was obvious to anyone. What was there to discuss? The violent dreams and the Hasidic Jews did not go together. Never. How could they? What is it – the Russians, the Cossacks? The Germans? God forbid... No, it was not the Hasidic thing to do. Why would it be? Where would it come from? It was the meshugass (madness, insanity, craze). It sounded like a contradiction of terms. It was impossible. Me ken brechen! (you can vomit from this!). Many probably would if they saw it. Aaron worried, but there was no one to discuss it with. His wife, Leah, will start crying. That’s what she always did when she was scared and confused. His mother, Miriam, will start cursing everything and everyone. That’s what she always had done when she was scared and confused. No one would be safe. His father, Yossel, oh, forget about him. Aaron would not even go to him. That would be even more meshuga (crazy) than the dreams. Why him, why the dreams? He should dream of better things, God, and the family. Dream of the kids, the next holiday, and the great feast, Leah was going to make. He liked that. She was a good cook – the fusion of all cuisines, but kosher. Still, something had to be done. Maybe there was a pill or something he could take, and the dream would go away. It started to affect his work, and, even when he prayed, he would drift into a dream-like state where the strangely dressed people were killing each other. In the most horrifying way… And, when he was praying... That was the worst of it. Was God offended by that? Of course, he was. Who would not? God would not miss that, not their god. God saw everything and knew everything. He was not God for nothing. He was the only God. Baruch Asheim! Screams, horses, death, and the smell of blood were following Aaron just about everywhere. He could smell it at home, at work, in the shops, on the street, and even in the synagogue. Well, the butcher shops he could understand, but the bookstore selling the religious books was not the right place for that smell. That smell was becoming a permanent part of his life now. That smell of blood, of death, of the struggle, and the fright, was appalling. But it was always there. Oh, God, was not it enough? Please, give me a break. God… He worked as a bookkeeper for ten hours a day just to support the family, and he prayed and studies the Torah all the time. There was no time left for foolishness, for bad dreams, and going crazy. Was he going crazy? He had to feed the family. That was the most important obligation of a Jewish man. God, and the family. Five children were not a joke, not by any measure. He was blessed, but was not this a little too much, not that he was complaining. Sometimes you are blessed and sometimes not, but sometimes you are blessed too much. He would talk to the Rabbi. Rabbi Shlamowitz was a brilliant man, and he would help if he could. He may know what to do. He hears things and knows his way around of problems. He could know a prayer for something like that or a good doctor that has a pill. There should be something somewhere. He was not a Rabbi for nothing, and that’s for sure.
Aaron’s great grandparents, Mirke and Itzik Cohen, became the members of the HASIDIC movement years ago, in the late 1800s. It happened when they were still living in Belorussia that, at the time, was a part of the Russian Tsarist Pale of Settlement (the Russian Jews were forced to live there by the Royal Decree, and the exemptions were rare). In that Shtetl, everyone was somewhat related and a Hasid yet, some were more, and some were less. So, Aaron’s beliefs were inherited from the great grandparents and came together with the Jewish culture, customs, Yiddish language, and the looks. Aaron was a smallish man of 5’3 and about 100 lb., with slightly bolding, but wildly curling reddish hair, long bonny nose, dark brown eyes, and thick glasses. And, he was blessed with the long wavy payos (sidelocks) growing down almost to the shoulders. That meant something to the Hasidic Jews. That added something to the man, even a slightly built one. He was righteous. Dressed in the full Hasidic uniform of a black kaftan - a long flowing black frock coat, and a fur hat, he presented a small, but, nevertheless, an exclusive prize of the Jewish nation. Everyone knew that he belonged, and he knew it better than anyone else. He was one of the chosen ones. What made him so different from the other men? Whatever made him so different from the other men readied him as an exclusive prize. Even such a small man, in the crowd, he stood out, and that’s where his place was. He was somewhat elevated even when he was among the elevated men. There definitely was something different about him. He was noticed. Aaron was one of the chosen people, he cherished it, and was so proud of it. How often do you get to be chosen? It could happen only once in a lifetime, and not with everyone. Yet, Jews, for better or worse, were chosen by God, and God had his reasons.
The Cohen family immigrated to America in 1905, settling down in the Bronx of New York City first and moving to the Williamsburg area of Brooklyn later. This was the perfect place for the Hasidic Jews, and many called it the shtetl of Williamsburg. Where they right? Maybe, and some say yes. That was a funny name for such a prominent place and in America. To many, it was the Garden of Eden or the closest to that one could find in such short order. There, in this new shtetl, nearly everyone was a Hasid in one way or another, and many even were relatives. After all, most of these people there came from Eastern Europe directly or through Western Europe. That took somewhat longer, but the result was the same. What could you do, so you did what you could. Still, you arrived at the right place and could enjoy what was there, in America. Even if you had so little that it was mostly nothing or even less, one could appreciate that without being discriminated and pushed around. No one threatened your existence, and your children could run around free. Freedom had a different meaning. It actually existed. It resided here, in America. Yet, you needed to provide, and that could be a challenge, but you could find the way. People around mostly were friendly and, even when not, they did not turn away when you asked for help.
One could live there trying his best, not being called a dirty Jew whenever he met a gentile. Well, it was not every time you met a gentile, but that was an exemption, a rare thing. In short, that was almost the shtetl of your dreams. Just replace the small apartment on a dirty street with a little house on a dirty street, but with somewhat more air and add a cow or two, and a goat with a few chickens, and you are there. That’s the shtetel of your dreams, and no Goyem (non-Jews), pl
ease. That’s as close to Paradise as you can get so far from home. Still, this was your home, even if it was the way away from your home. There, one could adapt and prosper; just try a little harder.
Many, most of the Hasidim from Eastern Europe met in America and settled down in Williamsburg, Brooklyn of New York. Well, they saw right away that Williamsburg was not exactly Eden or even close. It even was not in the same hemisphere as Eden. So, what? It was by the river, almost like back home. It was the Hasidic paradise with not too many Goyem (non-Jews) to call you a Zhid (Polish for a Jew used in Eastern Europe as an insult), or the Russian Tsar to order them around. You were free to live as you wanted, well, almost as you wanted, and the abuse and the pogroms were not in the cards or even possible. And, that was: a shtik naches (a great joy) already, just by itself. What else would you like, would you want, would you need, from your life? A little food (just enough) on the table. Some clothes (nothing fancy) on your back. A place (just a roof and the walls) to call home. A happy wife (one is more than enough), and the kids (as many as you can have). Was that too much to ask? When you prayed, you wished it to everyone so, why not a little bit for you. That would be just right. Now they, the Hasidic Jews, could live almost as they wanted (within the boundaries of one neighborhood in America), and that was not just the Mein Bubbe's Tahm (my grandmother’s chopped herring). It was the Zol zion mit Mazel (a load of good luck)! That felt so good when early in the morning, you had a breakfast of a freshly baked bagel and a cup of strong tea and went to a job that could last for a while. It paid well, and you were so proud to have a job. You were a working man supporting the family. That meant so much. Or, when you opened the doors of the little shop on the corner where you could do your best serving the neighbors and providing for the family. Did it matter what you served in the shop: food, goods, tailoring, locks, or carpeting? It was small and did not make a lot of money, but it was yours and made almost enough. Yes, it could be more, but you survived, and your children did not go hungry. May your children bring you much naches (joy), and they often did. Oh, if only they knew what they wanted, but who complains. Wanting was great. Wishing was super great. Getting it was another story. Still, one should keep trying. After all, in America, one was as close to paradise as one could.