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Chpt 2. Fiddler on the Roof from Piddler on the Hoof by S.I. Fishgal |  |
 Chpt.2. Fiddler on the Roof |
Chpt. 10. Piddler on the Roof |
Chpt 11. Fiddles on the Hoof |
PIDDLER ON THE HOOF A Damn Good Novel By S.I. Fishgal A towering French dame totally ignores the law and environment, cheerfully smokes the sky and personifies the USA. A little Belgian schmendrick holds the same disregard, joyfully piddles the downtown and personifies the European Union. This novel's piddler personifies nobody and tactfully says nothing about Brussels' pee drinkers. History knows no shortest, most horrible and intense schlock than the Kursk Battle -- all bloodbaths' little-known schlepp mother that saved Yanks and Britons in Italy. 1941. Fuhrer teaches geography to Roma, three. His dad, the Red Army's lieutenant, saves him from Kiev's noted 36-hour slaughter orgy of Jews. The boy grows up in Dad's Rearguard advancing from Kursk to Germany. His emotional awakening, family members' escapades and sexcapades, derisive living truth, eccentricity and idioms trigger smiles, thrills and bittersweet tears. Atrocities make just a waning setting in this sweeping, witty and passionate novel knocking the socks off unless readers wear pantyhose. With hundreds of publications in leading countries, S.I. Fishgal could refer to numerous WHO'S WHOs. As a gentleman, he does not. Readers sniff out anyhow -- a bit touched soul bares itself (souls have no sex) and spills the guts in this potent, rich, vivid, fascinating, stimulating and teasing novel. |
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CONTENT 1. If Mr. God Had A Clear Conscience, 2. Fiddler on the Roof 3. Frieda's Choice 4. Fie in the Sky, Manna from Heaven, Tsob and Tsobe 5. The Jewish Volksdeutsche 6. Crimeless Punishments, Unpunished Crimes and Babi Yar Bloodbath 7. Mein Krampf 8. In a Dead Horse's Harness 9. All Things in the World are Feces... Except Urine 10. Piddler on the Roof 11. Fiddles on the Hoof 12. Pavlovian Ass in the Rearguard's Vanguard 13. Backwater Turns to Front-Water Hell 14. Parasitic Nobody's Dead Horse 15. The Babi Yar Key 16. The Lost Generation and the Found Sheep 17. Blitz Fritz 18. Jack Abrahamovich the Jewish Shepherd Dog 19. The Jewish Nation's Shame 20. Putz Ivanovich the Russian Shepherd Dog 21. Hannibals, Cannibals, Pigs and Feeders on the Hoof 22. Coming Home to Roust |
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Chpt 2. FIDDLER ON THE ROOF Well, that stinky dog day of July 1941 cast Frieda's expensive toilet soap to the dogs, as you say in English, or to the seating vital piece, or its opposite organ, as they excel in Russian. Abrasha's sleep-deprived body floated up in the white cool clouds and left his brains in the nonsensical swamp. In the sweet tears of Frieda's eyes, he saw the imminent lightning. He looked through the haze of the ill-proffered hot Serpent. Still in his sleep, he stretched himself to her and inhaled the inviting warmth of her toilet soap. Her pat around his ex-waist electrified him. The desire and spirit desired them. As Frieda's lips rose to embrace him, Abrasha felt acute fright in his extremities. Sentiments of panic and death shoved out his bodily zest. This time he saw blood flowing in her eyes and himself wounded in the dark clouds. She almost sobbed. He blinked, and the dream faded. "Alas! You're very edgy," Frieda said. "I only watched at the bed and did not touch you." "I am just disturbingly disturbed and dog-sick," Abrasha moaned and looked at her fearfully, questionably. "Women worry about the future only until they get married." "Men never worry about the future." "Until they get a wife. Can Jews do it when Germans do it to them? Not now. Maybe some other time." They knew they were doomed to have no other time. Will they dwell in penance for the crime of lust forever? For this time, they escaped. And lost it all. All the lust has gone clean out of their heads and whatever else. The fog from that dream exhilarated Abrasha's exhausted body and brains. He found his voice and blew off Frieda's dogs: "That's just simply dumb. We'll be dogged if we do it." Clearly, the testosterone excess did not cause his baldness. Herr God just extended Abrasha's forehead for his wisdom and the loss of his father and two brothers. "Thanks anyway." Death taught Abrasha to leave loved ones with loving words. He might see them the last time. "I'll cherish that moment." "Putz!" Frieda sighed. "A beautiful willing woman. Only stir a finger." "Which isn't precisely the extremity you count and want most. A putz and his man master each own domain." "Am I not good enough for them?" "Bad-looking women don't happen. Shortage of vodka does," Abrasha cited a Russian axiom, stood up and tucked his blouse under the belt. "There are fine times to fuck and fucking times to pack. The fucking packing time is NOW." "All our forces will be thrown for Kiev's defense," Frieda called off the dogs too. Even the woman with incomplete primary education knew the city was the ancient Slavic empire nucleus. "Kiev is the mother of all Russian cities," she cited the textbook line of paltry nationalists and dry-as-dust Slavophils. "And a schlep-mother of mine!" Abrasha the Cynic would add anything just for kicks, with no distant aim in view. "Will fomentation help the dead?" he assured his wife. "And the river?" "Dnieper flows from the north. The earth rotates eastward. The Coriolis acceleration made Kiev's western bank steep and eastern one gradual. From their commanding heights, the Germans will lick us off the lowland, like a cow with her tongue." Frieda had no hint of that silly acceleration. Who saw our planet turning? Yet, all that did not prevent some nasty things happening to them generally and a certain horse particularly. "The railroad station does not work," Frieda reported. "Kaput?" "The station is okay. The Railroad Bridge is kaput." The army drilled into Abrasha, the officers' First Commandment: if you have no scent about what to do, fake you have. "We'll cross the river, take the feet in the hands and carry our hindquarters to the Darnitza railroad station," he said. The word Darnitza relates to gifts. Years later, a certain Anya, a Ukrainian gifted shiksa, lived in that settlement and gave Roma expensive gifts she could not afford and the things of very delicate nature she could. Anya was that virgin who wanted to betray her own nation by giving birth to a baby with Roma's enigmatic slanted eyes. And toiled on it! Nobody else loved Roma so selflessly. On a hard floor of a construction site, on his boss' bedbugs-infested sofa, in a staircase of her apartment building, in stifling heat and chilling to the marrow cold, when she was a girl, or married to a pureblooded Ukrainian. Then Roma toiled too... on his inventions for the Darnitza Subway Bridge that turned Darnitza to Kiev's part, but not in 1941. Those were two big differences, as they say in Ukraine's port of Odessa. The shallow east bank did the bridges no favors. It lengthened them. "Tanks, howitzers and the like baubles choked up the highway bridge," Frieda reran the rumor. "Our heroic army gallops away from the craven foe like rats from a doomed old sea galosh. Don't fret though. We can't handle the powerful enemy, but got the upper hand over powerless people." "What for?" "To save and to group our cannon fodder butts together." "And our old, ill, women, and children?" "General Headquarters stands up bravely behind your hindquarters." "Does anyone care?" "Should the children's shortage arise, a very popular method of making more will remain." Meanwhile, on the verandah, Roma played alone with Dad's TT for five long minutes. Seeking an aim and audience, he climbed on a small stool at a windowsill overlooking the common courtyard from his third floor: "Sasha, look! A real TT! Dad brought it from the front." The brother dropped the bucket he watered a carthorse with, dashed in, and grabbed the revolver: "Bullets?" "Dad has five, but a Jew leaves the last one to himself." "And who are you? A cow's tail sewn to a pregnant gelding?" "I am not a Jew," Roma started the old song, but Sasha looked at his tear-stained facade and cut the tune short: "You're a kosher swine sausage cutoff." Aha! That is where the dog is buried and the shoe pinches. The Jews do everything the wrong way round. They read books from the end and cut off where any reasonable man would add on. It is a malignant gossip that as soon as a Jewish schmendrick is hatched, he finds it was his mistake to rush out of the uterus. Only on the eighth day, some bearded vultures masquerading as Homo (species sapiens, phylum Chordata, class Mammalia, order Primates, family Hominidae, genus Homo) threw Roma into dreck - not only his own. The boy's dark interlude of that otherwise bright surgical event was a flash in the total darkness - a single outbreak of his consciousness. Before and after that incident, he just lay down, thought his infantile thoughts, and bothered nobody, even in his free-from-idleness time. "I choose you, Roma, among beasts, God said," Sasha, the ex-yeshiva boy's son, mocked. "There's no God," Roma reran the communist propaganda taken in with one's mother's milk. Then, just in case, he asked: "What for?" "For marking and anguish." "Why me?" "God wanted a good stock." If the chosen one became noisy and unappreciative, then only because the sons of the year of Tiger conflict with authorities and are true leaders and revolutionaries, for instance, Mohammed, Ivan the Terrible, K. Marx, and yours truly, R. Karpfengal. And they were not even Chinese. "I've got nothing to do with anti-Marxist ideologies of the chosen people and master race," Comrade Roma Joseph-Abrahamovich Karpfengal stated up front - not in those words though. Again, he was three then. Alas! His sufferings and conflict with Signor God only started. Living is good, dying is better, but being unborn is the best, Roma says. The creator did not listen then, and certain vicious brutes heard nothing before either. They were not busy identifying living creatures in above descending taxonomic hierarchy for smaller and smaller groups of phyla, classes, orders, families, genera, and species. They were above all that. "Time has come for the Jewish hara-kiri," said Uncle Jankel, Dad's oldest brother living in the same apartment building. With no clue of Japanese, he conveyed that in Yiddish. "No sacred ritual, nor the obligation of brit milah, nor a prayerful act!" Abrasha negated like a rock (of science) - his university courses on atheism, Marxist philosophy and political economy were mandatory. "Just a purely surgical matter. We've been circumcised since Abraham's days and might otherwise have painful phimosis," low-educated Jankel pulled the medical wool over Abrasha's greenish, schooled eyes. "Okay," Dad concluded the unworthy debate. To cut or not to cut was clearly out of the agenda. "But no religious uncles!" He was a Jewish apostate after all. "They are better practitioners," Jankel the Fast-Talker won. Some people - males, females, or any other sex - believe in God. Some do not. Frieda was a believer, but not religious - accepted a destiny. Which is quite in agreement with the modern theory of the genetic code. She obeyed traditions though. One way or another, certain uncovered heads hardly versed in The Talmud took care of Roma's prospects for heaven and cut off his possibility to advance in the Soviet egalitarian society. To keep his schlang within the prevailing standard? (Schlang = hose in Russian, and what did you think?) So Roma trembled and whimpered like a lapdog licked by a brutalizing coyote in Toronto's High Park. Sasha looked at him and consoled: "Father said we are lucky to be born beyond the Stone Age. A stone axe could do no good to one's family jewels." "What a bloody fate! Even a primitive Jew bore more than the rest." Abrasha appeared out of the apartment, hugged and kissed Sasha. "We are going for a horsie drive out of the doomed city. Each of you may take along one personal thing only." "Are we turning tail?" the boy stripped off Dad's mask. "Of course... not. Treacherous Fascist barbarians grabbed our schlep-motherland by the tail. We starve and arm ourselves only with patience, but Comrade Fuehrer armed them to the dentures and fueled them with our own Azerbaijan oil and Ukrainian fat." "The barbarians eat people's fat?" Roma's eyes popped out. "You've a screw loose," Sasha scrutinized. "The Ukrainian pigs' fat." "We'll take Uncle Jankel and the rest along," Abrasha said. "Why was he not drafted?" Sasha wondered. "Mother Russia has all the generals she needs." The uncle heard their voices and opened his door. "There's a time to schmoose and a time to act." Abrasha hugged and kissed his eldest brother on the cheek but meant another act probably. "The schmoosing time is short. It's a matter of life and death. Shoot your stinky Yiddish asses and assets from Kiev. NOW!" All people are of one species, but of unlike B-classes: blondes, brunettes and boneheads. The latter are more populous than even Chinese. Certain personages are smart enough to get they are not such. They are smart fools. Some educated characters have too much knowledge but lack of perception. They are the most dangerous meatheads. Universities develop one's entire abilities, including the stupidity. Lastly, some fools consider others such. "Amazingly, I've not yet met a smarter man than I, even once," a certain B. Mussolini began with, and we know his end. Jankel, the could-be general, was Benito's type. "Germans don't terrify me." That is Uncle Jankel! Not fainthearted Uncle Joe. Uncle is, of course, the English term, because the Soviet media called him Father of all people. Abrasha's eyes bugged out and his tongue switched to Yiddish automatically - that kind of talk would do no good to a Soviet prudent person: "Knock that nonsense out of your foolish head. One is fearless of what he has no clue about. Here's what I urge you: Panic! And if you do, make sure you panic first." "You're barking at wrong pee," bold Jankel shifted his stick too, but cursed still in Russian - his another shtick. "The talking time will be long," Abrasha said to the children. "Say hello to my nice horsie in the courtyard." "Why do you quarrel?" Sasha asked. "Just because people argue doesn't mean they don't love each other," Uncle responded. "Likewise, just because people don't argue, it doesn't mean they love each other." He locked the door after the boys and went on: "When Germans took over our moldy Shepetovka in 1918, Leutnant Goldschmied - a Berlin Jew - didn't interfere with our life and got his Iron Cross for that." Apparently, Uncle bore no ill will and nursed no grudges to Germans. He was too far from the wild thought those cultured Europeans who once occupied their small town would take over Podol's dreary, rotting, stinking, wooden sheds and mud huts. "Will they enjoy our joyous conditions where your brother Buzya died of tuberculosis?" Big Brother boiled Abrasha like a piece of dirty laundry. He listened, pitied himself and his co-defenders of the Fatherland - he was the second altruist in the family. "The place is okay, a female tampon said, but the period is bloody," Abrasha uttered. "If the things are bad, wait. They will become worse." "Go ahead, win the war - we'll drink our aromatic moonshine," Jankel sneered. "And if you lose, don't worry. We'll taste the stinky schnapps then." Abrasha displayed his good nature too and kept to himself that their own goniffs and moonshine shikkers said nothing bad about the schnapps-tasters before the war, and he distrusted the stories put up by the media too. "Someday, we'll look back on this, laugh nervously and change the subject. But now all Germans are Nazis," he trumped. "Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei?" Please keep your mouth shut. Once again for slow learners, Yiddish is a Germanic language Jankel learned at a czarist Jewish school. For your benefit, he interpreted above profanity: "Doesn't the National Socialist German Worker's Party have a platform of the government control of large enterprises, seizure of private property, and abolition of all 'unearned' income? Plagiarized Herr Karla Marla, a lousy unshaven Deutsche Yid?" What could Abrasha beat Jankel's steam with? Comrade Hitler turned out to be a socialist and shared Poland with Stalin in 1939. When the Germans crossed their Pale of Settlement into Poland from the West, the Red Army did the same from the East and thus liberated the Western Ukrainian cousins from the Polish swanky gentry and officers who arrogantly scorned the Ukrainian people, language, and culture. Unlike Brits in India, the Russians did not feel themselves in Ukraine as a master race though. Back in 1928, Herr Stalin, the leader of the world proletariat, said the German social democrats were social-fascists and communists' chief enemies. Who knows his current (safe) line on social democrats, socialists, national socialists, social-fascists, or fascists? "The refugees said the Germans murdered the Jews," Abrasha beat the steam with his ace of spades. "Our moonshine enthusiasts uttered no word of that, praised, glorified and admired Comrade Hitler - our best friend and able statesman. Joschka is lying when his lips are moving." "I saw Hitler's proclamations distributed to his troops on June 21. He wanted to kill Moscow's Jewish-Bolshevik rulers and asked the Lord's help as he did not know Jesus was a Jew." "God is with them, and Stalin is with us!" Jankel recited the current banner about Joschka (without God, of course). "So is one antediluvian rifle for two soldiers and a bullet or two if they behave - more if they don't." Abrasha could not restrain his malicious grin. "May the lethal weapon of his trash talk defend us all," Jankel had a few trump cards too. "The past performance of the valiant Prussian Jewish officers isn't a true guide to the bright future of the forgotten and downtrodden Jews," Abrasha sounded like a financial advisor on derivatives he had no idea about. He was not smarter and did not envision the final destination of the trains filled with Jews - in Kiev, they took that road by foot (in another chapter though). He was just better informed. But how many efforts to tell outsiders about the Nazi death factories were wasted in vain? The smarts doubted the pessimistic alarmists offering no constructive solutions. "Go of your schmatas, inertia, relatives, fear of unknown and foolish optimism," Abrasha urged Jankel. "Mobilize your own means. Don't wait for someone to rescue you. It's not like you don't have a choice, because you do. You can either tack your tail between your legs and evaporate with us or kill yourself." "Don't talk junk. You're a paranoid meshuga." Jankel was inexorable like the rush of history. "A century ago, we ourselves came from Germany to this country of Asian barbarians at worst, or a mishmash with Mongols at best." "German Jews honestly deemed themselves true Germans too. But not their opinion was decisive for their fellow-citizens." "No regime can be worse than ours. We don't live in the country of thieves. She's the country of muggers." "There are no worse regime, person and situation that can become worst." "Well, just look at yourself." Jankel pointed to Abrasha's shoes. "Your appearance will melt the enemy. They will die of the contempt or laughter. Our prudent Herr Joschka hardly cares the Nazi boots are made of the Soviet leather, while his own brave defender has no piece of barbed wire to wrap his tarpaulin shoe around with to close the gap." Abrasha could but did not stock Jankel's fire by adding that the fascist gasoline was made of the Soviet oil, rifle butts - of the Soviet wood, very hard on the heads of the Soviet people. Even a few hours before the war Soviet raw materials crossed the frontier to supply the Wehrmacht. Abrasha held to himself that by invading Poland his wisest leader liquidated the existing fortified frontier and built nothing instead. "We long for liberators." Clearly, the pause added fuel to Jankel's flaming speech. "Those who freed themselves will be free, but those who were freed by liberators will just get new masters," Abrasha quoted Ukrainian poetess Lesya Ukrainka. "Will Joschka lead us to the victory?" "Stalin... stallion... stolen... Who knows?" "Where was our bravest one when the war started? Had a little accident with his galife and vanished for days? Was it his specific refined fixation with sanitation, or his God complex?" "Do you recall an old tale of Shepetovka's rabbi?" Abrasha the Jew rebutted Brother's questions with his own in the stereotypical mode. But diamond cut diamond. "I don't mind working hard," Jankel, the working mule, said. "I broke my back as a dairy and fish farmer before and as a farmhand after the revolution. Who am I? A chlen?" The dialogue stops right here and lets the fair reader choose between Russian general (1) and medical (2) dictionaries: 1) Chlen = member (of the Communist party) 2) Chlen, male, sexual = penis So... "I'm just a poor industrious Jew, neither a commie, nor a party putz," Jankel said. "Comrade Hitler is a thankless swine. He did not appreciate Herr Stalin for murdering more Bolsheviks than the Germans are going to." Jankel accepted that: "If there were so many real enemies of the people, would Joschka survive? Did your own brother rob the Polish troops to rot in Siberia or be shot as a Polish spy? Didn't we flee from Shepetovka as the brothers of the enemy of the people?" "Cringing before Fuehrer won't help," Abrasha stuck to his (TT) gun. "During a flood, a cart came for a Jew. "'Please, don't bother me. I'm praying. God will help me.' "Water is up to the roof the Jew is praying on. A rowing boat comes. "'God will help me,' he says. "In heaven, that Jew scorns God: 'I was praying to you, but you didn't help!' "'I did send the cart and boat. But you were playing Nero the Fiddler.'" "Nero the Meshuga, not your Jankel, devoted his youth to killing his close ones, and his maturity to arts and bad behavior." "His lack of the self-criticism led to suicide," Abrasha hinted. Obviously, the Shepetovka experience did no good to Jankel. People are not computers that smarten up every year. How to take the obstinate mule by the balls? "Back in 1918, when the Germans left Shepetovka, our own Ukrainians beat and robbed the Jews." It dawned upon Abrasha. "One has to beat somebody. They could beat neither Germans, nor Poles, nor Russians." "Do you trust our neighbors? Will the encircling wild boars have their tiny design pertaining to their Jews?" The Big Brother adamantly stuck to his guns: "We don't live in ghettos. We share the same schlanguage, kosher swine, shiksas, stinky moonshine and the holes in the ground, respectfully called common-courtyard latrines." "I'm raising my hands," Abrasha gave up. "In a war, stupidity is a capital offence." |
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