Nazar 2014 03 online

2 pablo neruda Atlar 4 geo bogza Işaretler

BAŞ KABÎMÎZDA ON THE COVER

“World Peace - Dúniya tîñîşlîgî”

by Sagida Siraziy (Sirazieva)

NAZAR LOOK Attitude and culture magazine of Dobrudja’s Crimean Tatars Tomrîğa Kîrîm Tatarlarîñ turuşmamuriyet meğmuwasî ISSN: 2069-4784 www.nazar-look.com nazar.look@mail.com Constanta, Romania FOUNDER & EDITOR-IN-CHIEF BAŞ-NAŞIR Taner Murat EDITORS NAŞIRLER Emine Ómer Uyar Polat Jason Stocks COMPUTER GRAPHICS SAYAR SÎZGAĞÎSÎ Elif Abdul Hakaan Kalila (Hakan Calila) CREATIVE CONSULTANTS ESER KEÑEŞÇÍSÍ M. Islamov Copyright reverts back to contributors upon publication.

The full issue is available for viewing online from the Nazar - Look website.

For submission guidelines and further information, please stop by www.nazar-look.com

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6 taner murat scythia minor (little crimea) Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XXVII) 8 w. jack savage california, usa The Volchev File(II) 14 mohammad husein shahriyar Greetings, Heydar Baba!

16 ali tal england, uk Unbounded Void (VII) 22 mikayil mushfig Heartbeat Love of Life 26 tom sheehan massachusetts, usa Silent Retrieval 31 March in March: The Black Sea Is Mine Cernavoda, children in Russia and a selection of their art works exploring nuclear power

CONTRIBUTORS MEMBALAR

40 edmund spencer Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (XXI)

W. Jack Savage Sagida Siraziy Tom Sheehan Ali Tal

Nazar Look 1

pablo neruda

(1904 - 1973)

2 Nazar Look

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(1904 - 1973)

Atlar Penğíreden atlarnî kórdím.

Berlin’de edím, kîşîñ-gúní. Ğarîk Ğarîksîz edí, kókyúzí kóksíz.

Hawa ak edí, kaytîk ótmektiy.

Penğíremden de, kîşîñ tíşlerí men tíşlengen Boş bír miydan.

Bírden, bír kíşí ğetkízdírgen On at kóríndí tumannîñ íşínden.

Yawaş-yawaş ósíp kettíler, ateştiy, Soñra kózíme bom-boş kóríníp turgan Dúniyanî totîrdîlar. Kusursuz, alew lengen, Taza geñíş tuyaklî on tañrîday edíler, Ğalînlarî tuz túşleríne uşap kete edí. Şabîşlarî portakal edí, evrenler edí.

Terílerí bal edí, sarî ember, ateş edí.

Moyînlarî kopayuw taşîndan oyîlgan Kulalar edí, Saydam kózleríñ artînda da Tutuklî, kîzarîp turgan kuwet. Şo sessízlíkte de, kúnnúñ Ortasînda, kaba karañgî kîşîñ dinkalasînda Sert atlar kan man karîşkan vezin edíler, Hayatîñ ğanlandîruwğî kaznasî.

Karay-karay bírtaa tuwup yaşadîm: Kaberím bolmadan o yerde edíler Şokrak, altîn oyînî, kókyúzí, gúzellíkní bírtaa yaşatkan ateş. Şo karañgî Berlin kîşîn unuttum.

Atlarîñ ğarîgîn unutmam.

(Terğúmesí Taner Murat’tan)

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geo bogza

(1908 - 1993)

4 Nazar Look

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(1908 - 1993)

Işaretler Tízí awuzînda, awuşîn ğumup Yuklar ballar anaylarîñ karînînda, Inğe soraw işaretlerí gibí.

Kewdesí tím-tík, yokarga karap Yuklar ólíler yeryúzúñ derenlígínde, Sert nida işaretlerí gibí.

Ne kaber algan ekenler? Kayet emín bolîp turalar!

(Terğúmesí Taner Murat’tan)

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Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XXVII) Kesím 59 Tatar tepreşí Temúçinní níşanlatîp, Dej Seğannîñ úyúne íşkíyew taşlap, óz úyúne kaytayatîrganda, Şîra Kîrdan geşkende, Şîra Kîr tarayîp Ğegğer Dakka arasî kîsîlgan yerde, Tatar îrknîñ seslí dawuşlî yapkan tepreşínden geştí ğolî, Yasugay Batîrnîñ. O yerde bír esna kadar toktap aralarîna yerleştí, hem tînîşîn almak úşún, hem suwsagan awuzun, aşkan karînîn tîmdîrağak bolîp.

- Neşeñízge bollîk! - dep aralarîna barîp otîrawuydî.

Elinay Biykení kaşîrîp alganîndan kaberlí, şo eskí meselení unutup kapatmagan, Yasugaynî şoyerde tanîp alawuygan, Merkít Tatarlîgîndan da bar edí, kíşíler: - Karasañîz, kím kelgendír diysíñíz?

Kîyanlardan Yasugay Batîr keldí. - dep şîbîrdaştîlar, tírsekleştíler.

Aşay-íşe ğolîna karadî, Yasugay Batîr. Lákin şo tepreşten şîgîp ketken soñra, bír sáátke barmay, íşínden tutkan yaman awuruwlar koptî. "Belkí geşer" dep, yarîm sáát toktadî. Belín búgúp, ğerge kalaşlanîp kaldî.

Kursagîn tutup ta awuruwlarnîñ geşmiyğegín kórgende, awuruwlarîna zor dayansa da, akîlîna yaman túşúnğeler kelgende, ekí kózí úyúne batîp, taa da ğolga túştí. Úyge kadar úş keşe konîp barîlağak ğolnî zor-zar kapattî. Úyúne de awurdanawur bír vaziyette ğetíşíp bardî. Başta, úyden şîgîp óteberí uzaklîkta oynap turgan ballarî man karşî-karşîga kelíp, aldîna, onlar ğuwura-ğuwura şîktî.

Lákin Yasugaynîñ hálí kalmadî, terlí-terlí, bírkaş kúnnúñ íşínde atkan okkasîn uzanîp kalgan betí bellete. Kursagîn tutup, atta zor tura.

Ballar şaşîrdî, n-íşleğegín bílmiy

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kaldîlar: - Ne o, babay? Bír yerleríñ awurdî mî, yoksam? - dep soradîlar, şaşîp kalîp.

- Íşím bek awrîy, balam. - dedí atasî, yawaş ses men.

- Şalt! Belgútay, Kasar, ğuwurup anayga kaber etewuyuñuz! "Babay keliyatîr, kasta. Bír yerí bek awura" deñíz! - dep ekí ínísín aldga ğíberíp, Bekterníñ ózí atnîñ telbewún tartîp, úy betke ağele-ağele ettí.

Atnîñ ústúnde kalaşlanîp kelgen koğasîn kórgende, Elinay Biyke ğúregíne kama saplangan gibí toñîp kaldî. Sesín kaltîratîp: - Ğanîm akay, ne boldî? - dep soradî, o da.

- Íşím, barsaklarîm ğandî. - dep zor konîştî Yasugay Batîr.

Apakaynîñ, ballarnîñ yardîmî man, Yasugay atîndan burula-burula túştí. Soñra koltîklap, onî tóşekke ozgardîlar.

- Ah, Yasugay! Ah, anayşîgîm! Ğatkan yeríñde ğatîp tur, sen! Mína, bíz bír şay píşíríp ketírewuyayîk. Şoyerde tînîşlanîrsîñ. Soñra aşîñnî da ğîlîtayîm, aşarsîñ, árúw bolîrsîñ.

- Heş ogîraşma! Aş aşap bolalmayman, Elinay. Aşaganîmnî kusaman.

Mením íşím-barsaklarîm bek yaman awurayatîr, bír terslík barday kóríne. Men bek awur kastaman, Elinay. Kaysî bírsí bar eken bo yaklarda?

- Yakînda Koñgîrtay Ğaraka Eslígen men ulî, Móñlík bar! - dedí.

- Şalt! Şakîrawuyuñuz şonlarnî! dedí Yasugay.

Kesím 60 Dúniya bír merdíwen Bekter şoyerde bír atnîñ ústúne atlap, başîn sîrt yagînda bolgan Koñgîrat alarnîñ úyúne kaytardî. Kókíregín atnîñ ğalîna ğatkîzdîrganî man, atkîştan atîlgan ok gibí şîgîp kettíler. Atîn şerík sáát patlatîp, Móñlíkníñ úyúne barîp toktadî. Úyúne barîr-barmaz, uzaktan, "abdîragan at dogrîdan şapar" degendiy, bakîra başladî: - Móñlík akay! Eslígen akay! Akay,

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scythia minor (little crimea)

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akam! Şîgîñîz! - dep.

- Ne bar? Kayîr-ola! Ne boldî? - dep şîktîlar, tîşarga, Koñgîratlar, atasî man, balasî man.

- "Dúniya bír merdíwen" dep aytîp ğíberdí babam! - dedí o wakît Bekter bala, ekí kózí torlanîp. "Suwga túşken kurî şîkmaz" dedí babam. - dewam ettí bala, Bekter.

Móñlík, atasî Eslígen, Móñlíkníñ eñ balaban ekí ulî, atlarîna ğuwurdular.

- Kím? Ne bolgan? - dep sorawuydî Eslígen, ketmezden burun.

- Yasugay Batîr, babam. - dedí Bekter, ğeñníñ tersí men akkan murunun súrtúp.

- Nesí bar? Ne bolawuydî? - dep soradî, Móñlík te, meselení árúw añlayğak bolîp.

- Ğoldan kastalanîp kayttî. Kursagî awurup keldí. "Íşím, barsaklarîm ğana" dep keldí, ğoldan. - añlatîp berdí Bekter.

- Kók-Kuşî! Ulum, al lázîm şiyleríñní de artîmîzdan kelewuy, sen de! - dep bakîrdî Móñlík ortanğî uluna.

Kók-Kuşî Otşî, yedí ulnuñ babasî Móñlíkníñ ortanğîsî, úynúñ íşínden kurî otlarîn almaga ğuwurganda, onlar atlarîn sílkíp kettíler.

- Korkma, balam! Her dertníñ bír dermanî bardîr. Úyúmúzde, insan kastalîgîna karşî turağak her ottan tabîlîr.

Kók-Kuşî Otşî bo íşlerníñ ustasîdîr, koşagî yok. - dep ğónedí, Móñlík, Bekterge karap.

Aytsa da, ğolda, Yasugay Batîrnîñ ğíbergen sózlerí akîlîndan şîkmay: "Dúniya bír merdíwen, bírsí míngen, bírsí túşken", "Suwga túşken kurî şîkmaz, mezarga kírgen tírí şîkmaz".

Yasugay Batîrdan kelgen kaber kíşíní ekísíndírtmiy edí. Heş...

Kesím 61 Úfleme Móñlík alar kelgende, Elinay Biyke, ballar, ğúmlesí Yasugaynîñ başînda tabîla edíler, başîna toplaşîp otîra edíler. Arttan, keşíkmiy, Kók-Kuşî Otşî da keldí.

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- Balam, sen bír karasî! Úflesí, şoga! dep ayttî, Móñlík, Kók-Kuşuga, artîndan kelíp kapîdan kírgende.

- Karayîm, úfliyím! Sen kal, babay, yardîm etersíñ! Síz şîgîñîz! - dep kuwaladî herkezní, Kók-Kuşî Otşî.

Bírewnúñ şîkkîsî kelmedí, şîkmadîlar.

- Şîgîñîz, dedím! Herkezníñ katînda úflenmez. Bonîñ ğiní bar, karañgîlîk kuwatî bar, şaytanî bar. - dep kîşkîrdî o wakît KókKuşî Otşî, inğe sesí men. Ğap-ğaş balanîñ inğe, apakay sesí men bakîrganîn kóríp, kapî betke iteştíler. Úşewí kalgan soñ, Kók-Kuşî Otşî kastaga karamaga başladî. Móñlík te: - Ka? Saw-saglam, awurmay ğúre edíñ de, Yasugay akam. Ne bolawuydî, şo arada? - dep soradî.

- Mína, men Temúçinní íşkíyew taşlap kaytayatîrganda, ğolda Tatar îrknîñ bír tepreşíne deñk keldím. O yerde tînîşîm alîp, aşap-íşken soñ, mením íşím-barsagîm kayet yaman tuttî. Kesenkes onlarnîñ kolî. dep bolganlarîn añlattî, Yasugay Batîr.

- Aşîñnî aşap suwuñnî íşesíñ mí? dep soradî Kók-Kuşî Otşî, ánaw yagîn, mínaw yagîn karap.

- Heş bírşiy aşagîm kelmiy. Aşasam, íşsem, kusaman. - dedí Yasugay Batîr.

- Kóz-ğarîgîñnî heş kaybettíñ mí? dep soradî, gene, Kók-Kuşî.

- Kóz ğarîgîm ara-sîra kaybbolîp, kele. - dedí kasta.

On dakkadan şîktîlar.

- Úfledím, árúw bolağak. Kíríñíz, alayñîz! Babay sízní kóreğek bola. - dedí Kók-Kuşî Otşî.

- Bo otlardan şay píşíríñíz! Mol-mol şay kerek. Ayîrî ğurtta píşíríñíz! - dedí, KókKuşî Otşî, Elinay Biykege. Şay píşíreğek bolîp Elinay Biyke ŞalAynîñ ğurtuna kírgende, Móñlík, babasî man, Ğaraka Eslígen men bírşiyler konîşîp, atîna atlagan edí, tap. (dewamî keleğekke)

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The Volchev File(II)

His appeals were largely the same. He said that he encrypted his code name in the final paragraph. In his original appeal, Beria’s office stated unofficially that the name was in the wrong cipher key. For the record they called it “a criminal’s poor attempt to discredit Marshal Beria.” They never responded to inquiries on the matter after that. But whoever arranged for Volchev’s transfer to the death camp at Vorkuta, it was no one in Beria’s office. Once he was removed in the power struggle after Stalin died, an effort was made to establish a relationship between the Volchev appeals and his transfer.

They could find nothing. Perhaps if they had, a formal review of the Volchev matter may have led to his release.

“For the sake of argument,” I began, “let’s say that only a lunatic would assume any positive propaganda effect from boiling Russian officers in oil. Let us further concede the improbability of finding a copy of the official report stuffed in a discarded binocular case in a warehouse adjacent to the slaughterhouse. But the question remains, if it was not Tetrov and Zoroka hanging from meat hooks, who was it?”

“Alenev and Spensky,” he said, “the alleged collaborators.”

“Tell me about them.”

“Alenev was a partisan,” he began, “from a unit in the north. His sister lived in Korosten, but it was really her husband’s home. When he died, leaving her pregnant, frightened, and

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alone, she sent word for her brother to come and take her home. He had asked for a leave to take care of this family business but had been refused. Finally, he just said the hell with it and left. He walked for two days without sleeping.

His sister hid him in the root cellar when he arrived. An hour later, Tetrov’s men were at her door. She was one of those shot by the firing squad. Alenev slept through the whole thing.

“Spensky was a baker: a Jew. He hid in one of his ovens while his neighbors were being slaughtered. Oh, I suppose he could have run out and thrown bread at the soldiers. As with most Jews, his principal offense was in being one.

“After killing Tetrov and Zoroka, there was nobody left to blame. It happened that first night. They were beaten, of course, but the boiling cauldrons were simply too tempting for this murderous bunch. There were chains and pulleys on overhead tracks for lifting meat to the vats. It began as questioning with Spensky being lowered just above the ham fat. Two partisans were fighting over control of the chain.

Just then it fell six inches and Spenky’s feet went into the fat. He screamed and contorted his body so violently his bonds came off the hook. He fell completely into the vat and splashed ham fat on three partisans who were standing too close. One had his face scalded as

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he looked up. Two others suffered less serious burns. Spensky had displaced so much ham fat that it was nearly empty. After a time they fished him out of the vat with a hook and hoisted Alenev above a different one. He was not so lucky. His death was slow and horrible. By morning, Ieatsev was sure they were coming for us next. But our punishment was, in a way, more diabolical and nearly as deadly. By signing the documents we became a fuse. When lit, it would lead away from them and straight to us. It would detonate in a charge of collaboration with the partisans and, while we were never boiled in ham fat, our interrogations were not pleasant either. You know it’s strange. It never would have occurred to me to write in the boiling sentence had they not hung the two bodies on meat hooks. It was meant to be an example to collaborators.

I saw an opportunity for a different meaning.”

He spoke of seven drafts of the report in all. Five had the sentence portion left blank and were rejected for various reasons such as the wording, the inclusion of this, or the exclusion of that. But all copies were signed at their captor’s insistence. Volchev’s exorbitant defense had been insisted on as well. In spite of an outcome that was never in doubt, that these men would be vigorously defended was of paramount importance to their propaganda objectives. The partisans were suspicious of them, and they were closely watched the first day.

After midnight, while most of them slept, Volchev continued writing. They were allowed to stretch their legs in a warehouse adjacent to the lunchroom. There, Volchev found a discarded binocular case. Having typed in the boiling sentence earlier, he stuffed the copy he had prepared into the case and tossed it in a corner.

The next morning they produced the finished copies and turned them over to the partisan leader. A partisan guard burned the remaining drafts before they were counted. Volchev and the rest were escorted to the train and released.

“How did you know the main body of Tetrov’s forces would even go to the slaughterhouse let alone search it?” I asked.

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He asked a question of his own. “How did Tetrov know there were partisans in Korosten in the first place? There was an informer, probably several. Besides, I knew their commander as well as I knew my own father, a fact that is frequently overlooked. General Kozlov was my commander during the war. I was with him on Stalin’s train in Leningrad. It was he that I had bragged to of having met Beria. While still a colonel, he was my regimental commander. I was his intelligence officer. General Pishkin was ordered to the train to face charges of dragging his feet once we had pushed into Germany.

There, we had met fierce resistance, but Stalin wanted answers.

General Pishkin ordered Colonel Kozlov to accompany him to Leningrad.

It was his intention to blame Kozlov for his own shortcomings. Colonel Kozlov ordered me to come along. He told me later that I was invited because I had said Beria’s nephew was my roommate at the university and that I had met him once. On the off chance that Beria might be present, seeing me might lighten the mood. That was the thought anyway. It’s doubtful that General Pishkin blamed anyone for his lack of progress. The General hadn’t been in Stalin’s quarters thirty seconds before we heard a shot.

Ten seconds later, Stalin had come out and was shaking Colonel Kozlov’s hand, congratulating him on his new command and calling him General. A picture was taken. Beria was there but never looked in my direction. He left the train and was smoking a cigarette when we came out.”

“Congratulations Kozlov,” he said. “I know you will be a success. Tell me about young Volchev will you? Is he an adequate intelligence officer?”

Kozlov fell all over himself, praising my efficiency, loyalty and on and on. Then he tells Beria he is making me his chief of intelligence. I nearly fainted.

“Intelligence,” said Beria. “Good, good.”

Then he took the General aside and spoke to him. The General nodded; they shook hands, and we left. Later he told me Beria had said, ‘I

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have plans for this young man Kozlov. See that he stays out of harm’s way, will you?’ That was some weeks before I was called back to Moscow. The rest you know. What you do not know about General Kozlov is that he once attacked the same town in Poland three times.

To say that he was somewhat conservative would be an understatement. I knew that when he finally arrived, he would spend as much time as possible trying to ascertain exactly what had happened. That way he wouldn’t be chasing the enemy. Of course, I had no idea the bodies would still be there. But I was fairly certain there would be a complete search of the slaughterhouse. My only real concern was the General himself. We were somewhat close. I’m sure he took no pleasure in forwarding documents attesting to my crimes with my signature on it.”

“Again, assuming what you say is true,” I said, “Why, in your opinion, did Beria turn his back on you?”

He was quiet again.

I poured him another glass of vodka. I lit a cigarette myself and again offered him one. As he took it and accepted a light from the match I had lit, he seemed at a loss for the moment as if exhausted by his story. He took a sip of vodka and said, “In the end, I’ll never know I suppose. But over the years, I’ve developed a theory that I am more or less comfortable with.”

He faced me then and said, “All that I’ve told you today is true. What I tell you now is only what I think. I make the distinction because I know something of the political waters you must navigate. Much of my supposition, also, is founded in fact. But my conclusions may be wrong. I’ll concede that. You see, by the early fifties the political climate had changed. The rebellions were effectively over in the Ukraine and most of the Balkans. By then Beria had positioned himself as a champion of the nationalities, even before Stalin’s death. This, of course, would be in conflict with having masterminded the deep espionage units to crush the resistance. As I said earlier, I was not

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the only one betrayed. But still, after all these years, I’ve never freed myself of the suspicion that it was simply a case of the lie being more useful than any truth could be. ‘Tetrov and Zoroka boiled in oil!’ I watched you a moment ago, reading from my summation. You could see me there, couldn’t you Comrade Colonel, pleading for the lives of these two men while they dangled perilously just above the boiling ham fat?

Perhaps an amphitheater configuration, with murderous partisans shouting me down. You want it to be true, don’t you?

And certainly not a work of fiction used by a loyal communist agent who, in a moment of improvisational genius, took a cursory, partisan non-event and used it to turn general Kozlov’s young conscripts into an army of razors. And I assure you Comrade Colonel, it did just that. It became the rallying cry to crush the rebellion everywhere. No, Comrade Colonel, in the end I’m afraid it was simpler to just forget about me.”

I had forgotten the time. In the telling of his tale, I confess that I had become mesmerized to a degree. I had never imagined such things. But I was left with five minutes to accomplish the task and end the interview.

“You said that you visited your mother before taking the job in Malin. What about the rest of your family? Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“A younger brother,” he said. “He was killed in the war. Two sisters: one died when I was young, the other I don’t know. My mother said she ran off with a performer during the war.

A Gypsy she called him. I’m sure he wasn’t…a Gypsy I mean. That’s what my mother called anyone with an unsuitable profession.”

“Well, Volchev,” I began, “now it is my turn to tell you an incredible story. It seems your mother was right. Your sister Maya ran off with an actor named Roloffsky, Vasily Roloffsky.

Somehow they made their way to Greece.

Roloffsky sang and performed in comic melodramas for German occupational forces during the war. We think Maya waited tables where he performed, but we do know that they

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supported the Greek resistance and worked for British Intelligence as well. After the war, they turned up in England where they became Victor and Mary Roloff. They had a son named Edward, your nephew. Not long after that, they immigrated to America. Victor obtained work in American Theater in a technical capacity. Not long after that he gained some modest success playing European character roles on television and in films. They moved to California where Maya, or Mary, gave him two more children who were named Eva and Melissa, your nieces.

They were granted citizenship, and the story may well have ended there…except for Edward.”

“Edward?” he asked.

“Yes,” he repeated, “Edward, your nephew. It seems Edward, then in his late teens, wanted to become an actor like his father.

This did not meet with the approval of Victor and Mary. We know this, because in 1967 they filed something called a ‘missing persons report’ with authorities in a town called Boston when it was learned that Edward had left the university there.

Edward, it seems, had been accepted into something called the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts in London and was, in fact, there when the report was filed.”

“London,” he echoed.

“Yes. While pursuing his studies there, he meets a fellow named Ulov, a British Citizen of Ukrainian descent, and evidently, during the course of their friendship, he tells this Ulov that his mother’s maiden name was Volchev. This Ulov maintained a correspondence with his grandfather in Kiev and writes that his new friend Roloff had family in the region by the name of Volchev. Now, by the oddest of coincidence, the Regional Political Officer in Kiev, a dolt named Malikov, in an effort to streamline his political archives and without Kremlin approval, declassifies a number of documents under his care, among them, the official report: your official report. It falls into the hands of a journalist there who publishes the report in its entirety in a Kiev newspaper. The story he writes also tells of the fate of Ieatsev and Kronsky and of your

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imprisonment. Well, Malikov is now hopefully overseeing turnip growth in the eastern Urals, but the official report became public record in December of 1967.”

Something approaching understanding began to appear on Volchev’s face.

“That’s right,” I said. “When it was learned you had survived all those years in Vorkuta, you were transferred here after its publication. Ulov’s grandfather sent a copy of the story which Edward received but, believe me, the thing had a life of its own. Within months, the story was translated worldwide. The report became somewhat of a sensation. In the space of three months, the whole world, it seemed, was calling for your release. The west naturally, but even the legal communities within the Soviet Bloc were writing impassioned appeals on your behalf. The Soviet position held that although your defense of Tetrov and Zoroka was vigorous and even commendable, life imprisonment for taking part in such a criminal enterprise is as compassionate as it gets in the People Republic. After a couple of years, it all died down. Over time, appeals for your release became fewer. Then, nearly two years ago, Edward, the not very successful New York actor, sits down and writes a play based on the official report. He talks someone into producing it in a place called ‘of-Broadway’ or ‘over-Broadway’ or something, and it becomes a sensation again.

Sometime later it moved to some contingent Broadway known simply as ‘Broadway’ and had even greater success. And finally, last week, a film version of the play, adapted by non-other than Edward Roloff, was previewed in the south of France and won some award. It will soon open worldwide. As we speak, the Ministry for the Arts is considering a request for a showing here in Moscow. To his credit, I suppose this damned nephew of yours never stopped trying to gain your release. With each honor he received, he renewed his efforts on your behalf through an international organization he works with, using his fame and the press to shine light on your imprisonment. The entire situation has become intolerable. I’m sure, you can understand.”

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california, usa wjacksavage.com

“Yes,” he said. Then, “Understand? Yes, I believe I do. And so it’s over then?”

“Not quite,” I said and placed two sets of papers in front of him. “You will sign these.

Sign here and here,” I said pointing to the proper areas.

He took my pen and signed each without comment.

“I wonder,” he said. “Do you have a picture of this young man? This Edward?”

“No,” I said collecting the papers. “Why would you ask such a question?”

“Have I misunderstood?” he said with a certain hopeful urgency in his voice. “Am I not to be executed?”

His question shocked me. When I didn’t answer immediately, he continued.

“I just wondered what he looked like. No one ever cared about me that I know of, certainly not for many years. I just wondered what he looked like, that’s all.”

I was moved and embarrassed to a degree as well. “You’re not being executed Volchev,” I said. “Twenty-three years too late for that, I think.

You are being released on humanitarian grounds and deported in one hour.

You have just signed papers recanting all of your appeals and acknowledging your role in the trial of Captain Tetrov and Lieutenant Zoroka. Your fiction, as you say, has become a historical certainty, and any account to the contrary does not exist. The Soviet Union knows nothing of such allegations. Is that clear?”

“Where will I go, Comrade Colonel?” he asked.

“You will wait here. Again, I must point out that the world is preparing to celebrate you as the great defender of Tetrov and Zoroka. It is in your interest to remember that Volchev. Do you understand?”

“Yes Comrade Colonel,” he said.

“Can you still speak any English?” I

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asked.

“Of course,” he said quietly. “I’ve lost some languages over the years. But the camps were quite a multi-cultural experience. I actually learned a few new languages there.”

He suddenly seemed to draw a connection between my question and his immediate situation. He looked up and said, “English?”

“Yes,” I said. “There is someone here for you, a sponsor.”

“Why,” he began, “in your opinion, were you chosen for this…this debriefing Comrade Colonel?”

“I follow orders, Volchev” I said. “In truth, I have no idea. Why do you ask?”

“You’re not MGB are you?’ he asked.

“Your demeanor suggests a military presence.

You’re NKGB aren’t you?”

I hesitated.

“You needn’t respond,” he said. “I’m sorry to be impertinent. But, they’re measuring you for something. Stay sharp. If you will allow me, I suggest that you temper your ambition for the time being. I feel our meeting was not an accident. Beyond that, I don’t know. But there is design and planning in this. Be careful. Good luck Comrade Colonel.”

In those few lines, he condensed everything I had come to feel throughout the interview. For a moment I felt the analytical elation of Volchev validating my instincts. A moment later my concern was cemented.

“You’re an interesting man Volchev,” I said. “Good luck to you.”

Moments later I stood watching the final scene play out from behind the glass. I hadn’t intended to eavesdrop as it served no official purpose. But my mind was racing and Volchev’s words rang true, somehow. “Our meeting was no accident,” he said. No, indeed.

The young man looked foppish. He wore

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clothing that seemed to celebrate the new British musicians I’d heard about. The trousers were larger at the cuff than at the knee. He stood near the doorway for a moment, holding a bag under one arm and carrying a coat on a hanger in the other. As he inhaled to speak, the smoke in the room made him cough. Volchev never moved.

“Mr. Volchev?” he asked in English.

Volchev stood and tried to peer through the smoke at the shadowy figure by the door.

He said nothing. I had come to learn something of Volchev’s toying nature. He would amuse himself a while longer. The young man tried a few words in Russian as he crossed toward Volchev. He finally looked away and apologized as if to no one in particular.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “My Russian is very poor.”

“I speak English young man.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed.

Volchev, sir?”

“Are you Igor

“America,” he said quietly. “Well, thank you, Edward.”

At this, Roloff broke down briefly. He recovered quickly, took out a handkerchief to dry his eyes and said, “I’m sorry uncle. I just, can’t believe I’m finally here, that’s all. I’ve dreamed of this moment for several years now. I can hardly believe it’s finally arrived. My uncle: the famous defender of Tetrov and Zoroka. It’s amazing!”

“Yes,” Volchev began. “I think you have no idea how amazing.”

There in the dark, smiling broadly as I shared his private joke, my concern of a few moments earlier seemed to lose some of its foreboding overtones. I left the observation room having fulfilled that for which I had been charged. I would go home to my wife and our son. On that day Volchev would forsake one hell for a gold plated version of another, and I would think of him often.

But in spite of the improbability of seeing him again, I somehow thought I might.

“Yes, I am.”

“My name is Edward Roloff,” he said.

“I’m your sister Maya’s son; I’m your nephew.”

* * *

At this, his charade was over. Volchev took two steps toward Roloff and extended his hand as Roloff put down his bundle and hanger.

“Well,” he said quietly. “It is a pleasure to meet you Edward.”

The two shook hands, and Edward shook his uncle’s hand with both of his. There were tears in young Roloff’s eyes as Volchev continued.

“I’ve heard something of your efforts on my behalf,” he said. “Thank you.”

Young Roloff was nearly overcome. In addressing the need to keep that from happening, he quickly changed the subject.

“I brought you some clothes uncle,” he began. “For the trip. I don’t know what they told you. We’re going to America: the United States.”

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Nazar Look 13

mohammad husein shahriyar

(1905 - 1988)

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(1905 - 1988)

Greetings, Heydar Baba!

Heydar Baba, when the thunder resounds across the skies, When floods roar down the mountainsides, And the girls line up to watch it rushing by, Send my greetings to the tribesmen and the village folk And remember me and my name once more.

Heydar Baba, when pheasants take flight, And the rabbits scurry from flowering bush, When your garden burst into full bloom, May those who remember us live long And may our saddened hearts be gladdened.

When the March wind strikes down the bowers, Primrose and snowdrops appear from the frozen earth, When the clouds wing their white shirts, Let us be remembered once again Let our sorrows rise up like a mountain.

Heydar Baba, let your back bear the mark of the sun.

Let your streams weep and your face beam with smiles.

Let your children put together a bouquet And send it to us when the wind blows this way So that, perhaps, our sleepy fortune be awakened.

Haydar Baba, may your brows be bright.

May you be circled by streams and gardens.

And after us, may you live long.

This world is full of misfortunes and losses.

The world is replete with those bereaved of sons and orphaned.

Heydar Baba, my steps never crossed your pass.

My life was spent, becoming too late to visit you I know not what became of all those beautiful girls.

I never knew about deadends, about paths of "no return".

I never knew about separation, loss and death.

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england, uk

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Unbounded Void (VII) 8

htThe following two nights, Nader and I kept vigils for Fatimah from behind the window shutters. In the freezing weather, wrapped up in her blanket, she cautiously entered the animals’ pen. When she had her fill of suckling the goats’ udders, she darted under the cover of darkness with her tongue licking her lips, unaware of our spying eyes.

Promising to call on me again on his way back to Damascus, early on the fourth day, Nader left the village to continue his fight for the dignity of his people. I watched him descend the valley below, heading into the Jordan gorge to smuggle himself into rising Palestine. May his soul rest in peace, he never came back. Later, when I went home for the summer vacation, I learned that he was arrested in Haifa1 whilst painting slogans of freedom on the walls. He vanished in the gaols of the British mandate authority. Nobody ever saw him again.

The following few days I stayed awake until Fatimah came fed herself and left. During these initial days, something extraordinary was happening inside me. I became more and more aware of my feelings and the passion that was stirring and swilling in-between my ribs. To my surprise my look to the dejected dreg of the village society somewhat changed. I gradually realised that there was a woman under the rags.

The tall emaciated creature I used to see everybody spit on, bit by bit was turning into a feminine being. A few times I caught myself

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admiring her womanly figure. However, during daytime I did not do anything to help her. I never interfered when the she ran barefoot in the frozen snow followed by the boisterous commotion of the children, some of whom were my pupils, mercilessly casting stones at her, calling her foul names. Whilst she was terrified and running for her life, I was discreetly looking around, consciously trying to curtail the change that had come upon me. In fact, I felt embarrassed before myself.

One night it occurred to me to put some food out for Fatimah. I left bread, a large slice of goat cheese and two oranges in prominent place near the gate of the pen in the hope that she would find them. The first and second nights she took the food and greedily swallowed it up without fear. No doubt, she assumed it to be a throwaway. But on the third night, Fatimah was suspicious and looked around her in fear. She even looked direct at the window behind which I was peering out at her. Although the shutter was ajar, I am sure she could not see me because the room behind mine was in total darkness.

However, some doubts must have seeped into her mind and she thought someone was setting her a trap. She did not touch the food nor go into the pen but went away as she came, very stealthily.

I continued to leave food out for Fatimah and keep up a vigil from behind the curtain until

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www.arabworldbooks.com daybreak hoping that she should reappear in my courtyard. In fact she did not come anywhere near my place until she was led into my house as a bride. I must admit, after what I had seen of her poverty and hunger and what the blessed Nader had said, Fatimah began to occupy an increasing part of my thoughts for other reasons. I became more aware of bond of humanity that tied me to her.

Now, you might be surprised to read that in such an apparently devout society, I needed someone to point out her desperate state to feel pity for her dispirit situation then semiconscious of that something akin to desire soon afterwards.

The yoke of oppression had been around our necks for too many centuries that poverty and ignorance suppressed religion as a code of social justice.

For nearing a millennium the Arabs were suppressed by tyrannical kings and sultans who spoke with foreign tongues. Yoked, Faith descended into superstitions. When newly born was anointed with olive-oil to guard it from evileyes, the soothsayers invoked the name of Baal.

On the amulets and charms, the Fakirs and Dervishes scribed the names of the old Gods.

Fatimah and I were borne to byzantine times, deprived of visionary leaders to oversee that history was fluid and any religious project should be constantly under the pressure of changing human circumstances. Not sufficiently informed and without real urban bases, our Byzantium culture became static and stagnant. Surviving in an isolated archipelago of self-sufficient islets, metropolitan centres and seats of learning became extinct. The once famed cities were reduced to the size of small towns by illiterate subjects. The malnourished ploughmen only knew how to find empirical solutions to the

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problems that confronted them.

It seemed that the eastern Mediterranean Arabs, whether town dwellers or countrymen, Christians or Muslims, were only observing the religious rituals, deeming that Allah is virtue and light, Shaitan2 was sin and darkness.

Existing in extreme poverty of body, the mind was starved of ideas. In this arid landscape, Byzantinism put back its roots and it was accepted that materialism was of the Devil and spiritualism was of Allah. And He was a vengeful interrogator residing within our heads, weighing and keeping score of our deeds and thoughts.

Not even the tiniest flash of idea or an atom size deed He would fail to write. The innate Human intellect went unexpressed that the mind became recluse in a sea of troubles. Worst still, the blind belief that everything was fated, man’s inborn curiosity, hypothesising and reflections became wasted energy. The only worthy thing was the constant praising of Allah.

Taking no heeds that Allah’s main attributes are Compassion and Mercy, we were brainwashed to be always fearful of His wrath and to seek His favours by constant observation of our religious duties. In our strict adherence to the visible rites, it somehow escaped our collective intellect that, since before the arrival of Monotheism, the prophets had decreed that the Elyon made us in His own image as a sign of humanity’s uniqueness amongst Creation. It was man who named the names3.

Before I was aware of it, Fatimah's welfare began to matter very much to me and I started to spy out her news from my pupils. It may have occurred to you, ‘Why did you not take the food to her hut, yourself?’

The shameful answer is, ‘Even then, I was

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www.arabworldbooks.com still suffering from the conceit arrogance and of the mindless idiot.’

My haughtiness and almost revered position amongst the villagers prevented me from doing the obvious. I was the respected teacher and she was a destitute beggar. I did not realise then, that modesty was man’s sign of selfrespect and self-confidence. With my head bowed low: I confess my sins; I cannot be forgiven.

Another reason which was nearly absent to my mind then but of which I became conscious two days later when I was being accused of infamy and fornication, was her womanliness.

You must know how we, the Arab males, are brought up. It is inculcated into us to defend the chastity of our females with dear lives. If a woman committed any sexual misdemeanour, she would dishonour her husband, father, brothers and her clansmen. Only the public spilling of her blood would cleanness the reputation of her folk. I did say, to my eyes Fatimah was no longer just the village cast-off, but a woman that I secretly cared for. How concerned I was? That became clearer at the forenoon of the day that our marriage contract was drawn, written and signed.

In my second year as a teacher, in the matters of sleeping, eating and socialising, I adopted the village ways. However, in mater of dress I wore the city’s clothes. I strutted like a peacock in a prim suite, a red tarbush, starched collar and tie. My day usually began at the hush of dawn by lighting the fire in the noqra and warming water to execute the rite of ablution then perform the morning prayer. After the shepherd’s daughter had milked the she-goats and herded them to the pasture, I had breakfast.

When the crimson disk of the sun sat

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upon the golden dunes of the Syrian desert, Umm Ahmad came. By the time she tidied up the room and swept the courtyard the children started to arrive. The order in my school was that I began teaching as soon as most of the pupils had gathered in the schoolyard. Of course, this varied with the agricultural seasons, which, above anything else, ruled the fellahin. Classes were rarely initiated before eight in the morning.

To maintain school discipline, the school day began by lining the boys up in accordance to their age in the schoolyard where they sang in chorus an ode to Syria. In the classroom, the pupils sat cross-legged on straw mats. The first year was easy. All of the boys were taught the same lesson, reading and writing the alphabet.

Their loud chanting could be heard throughout the village. ‘Aleph has no dot on it. Baa has one dot under it. Taa has two dots over it and so on.’

The next lesson was a reading from the Qur'an which the kids had to learn by heart.

The villagers had grown accustomed to the chanting in the school. At the beginning, they used to gather outside my house to listen.

Whoever knew how to decipher the letters, as they called the literates, he would show off his knowledge by chanting with the pupils.

Eventually only small girls and boys under seven or those whose fathers could not afford the fees would gather for a while at the schoolyard gate.

After the Qur'an lesson we had a break. Its duration depended upon my mood or how difficult the previous lesson had been. Sometimes the break would extend to half an hour.

On that fateful day, which ended by forcing me at the point of a gun to sign my name to my marriage contract to Fatimah, was a sunny and warm day. The pale blue Lapis Lazuli of sky bussed the three peaks of jabal Al-Sheikh4 soaring

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www.arabworldbooks.com proud above the Golan Heights. The snow glistened like diamonds in the bright sunshine.

As usual, at midmorning, I dismissed the children for the morning break. The previous lesson had been slow and tiring and I aimed to take a longer breather.

To warm myself up, I also joined the children in the schoolyard. I sat on a boulder on the sunny side of the bakery hut. On the lee of the other side, stood a group of young teenage boys.

Typical of their age, without a care they joked and laughed as though everything was a funny story. Unbeknown to them, their chatter was within an earshot of me. At the beginning I had no interest whatsoever in what they were saying.

But when I heard the name of the village cast-off, I lent an ear to their idle talk. Although they were on the verge of adolescent and two of them were already affiancéd, I was disgusted with their rudeness when one of them lewdly began to describe in great details his guest in humiliating her. To my horror he described to his mates how he spied on Fatimah from behind her courtyard wall.

With thrill in his voice, he said, ‘Her scarf had fallen of her long black plaits. Squatting doing her washing, I swear I saw her pubic hair.

The softness and smoothness of her white thighs gave me an erection.’

Giggling, one of the boys remarked, ‘She is wicked. I heard mother telling my sister that she should always sugar her under armpits and her pubic hairs.’

A second boy interjected, ‘For cleanliness from flees and lice men also shave the hair on their bodies.’

This interjection widened the discussion.

It became serious and held their childish

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attention as they began speculating about sex in general.

On hearing their idle chatter, I became extremely agitated and my moustache quivered with my rising ire at the violation of Fatimah’s body. Yes, this Ali who is before you now, was genuinely enraged, but my tongue remained tight. After that morning break, the day’s events took on a life of their own and unplanned extraordinary things happened fast.

All the while angry at the impishness and immodesty of the boys, my mind was made up to do something about it. After dismissing the school for lunch, I gave the pupils the afternoon off. I ate my diner in a hurry, which Umm Ahmad had cooked. As I got my jennet ready, I told her that I had some urgent business to attend to in Al Qunaitra.

Inside me I was feeling good, thinking how the villagers would praise me, ‘What a superior and munificent young man, Ali is.’

Ever the gossip, Umm Ahmad tried to scrutinize me about my sudden trip. But I told her nothing of my plans. I rode my donkey and straightaway left the village for Abu Ahab’s shop.

The merchant was very pleased to see me and insisted that I took coffee and sweats with him.

Whilst we were spinning our cups of coffee, he asked me about Nader. I related to him what I knew about that ‘set apart man’.

Fuming for the lewdness of my pupils, I told Abu Ahab that I came to buy women’s clothes without appraising him of the reason. To my great surprise, instead of praising me for taking the trouble to travel to Al Qunaitra, Abu Ahab was quite shocked at my plans and harangued me, ‘Ali, you are a bachelor, what do you need women‘s clothes for?’

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www.arabworldbooks.com When in total innocence I relayed to him what my pupils had said, Abu Ahab softened his tone and in a fatherly manner he warned me ‘Ali, this woman is neither a sister nor a mother to you. Do not you think because she has no one, the villagers will not talk. Some men and indeed women might be so outraged that they will think you lecherous and possibly when they are sleep, you visit her hut. They will rise up against you and beat you and throw you out the village. They might even kill you. Ali, you will regret this. You will not be forgiven.’

But I was stubborn and did not listen that such a terrible thing could happen. What is more I was drunk with the admirations that I would receive for my gracious deed. Manifestly, my intentions were pure and innocent. Adamant that I would accomplish what I had come to Al Qunaitra for, I bought a readymade black dress in the fashion of my village. The styles of women's clothes varied from village to the next. I also purchased a red veil of full length and width and a pair of wooden clogs with red tassels. Why I insisted that the clogs must have tassels, I did not exactly understand. It might have been because I had seen how pretty they were on the feet of the village girls when they were pulling water from the wells. Of course, it might have been an expression of my dormant love. When it came to buying the next item of clothing, I hesitated and thought long. However, clarity and anger superseded my caution, I finally garnered enough courage to overcome my embarrassment and said, ‘And one pair of women's pink bloomers.’

Abu Ahab glared at me with accusing glances and probably assumed that I had ulterior motives. But by then I was passed considering his opinion. Suddenly I thought, ‘A man of my

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esteemed position cannot call upon Fatimah with clothes. I will ask Umm Ahmad or the village chief’s good wife to take the clothes to the hut.’

I returned as the sunset was burning, from end to end, the peaks of Palestine with blazing red flames. After I had dismounted, penned the donkey with the goats, the muezzin began calling for the evening prayer. I left the clothes on the windowsill and went to do the ablution. When I came back from the mosque, Umm Ahmad had my supper ready.

On entering my house I was bizarrely met by the shy glances of blushing Umm Ahmad. No doubt during my absence, she had examined what was in the paper parcel and probably thought that the clothes were a good will gesture to her. I sat down to eat my supper and before having the chance to ask her what she had thought of the clothes, she shyly said, lifting the parcel from the windowsill, ‘Teacher Ali, how pretty these clogs are.’

With frank sincerity, I said, 'Do you like them? They are for poor Fatimah.’

Not even in the most awful nightmares could I have dreamt of the dreadful consequences that resulted from my honest naivety. One thing had escaped my mind when I embarked upon my mission of mercy, and that was not taking into consideration the fellahin's reaction nor the social codes of which Abu Ahab had warned me of and I laughed them off. To my surprise, and I was expecting to hear her praises, Umm Ahmad was stunned and froze with ire. For a second she turned pale and the muscles on her face twitched with anger. With bad temper she suddenly flung the clogs across the floor and left shaking and lip tight. Not willing to take Umm Ahmad’s ire seriously, which at that moment I attributed to her disappointment and envy, I said to myself,

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www.arabworldbooks.com ‘Well, that was expected. I will ask the village chief‘s good wife to take the clothes to the hut.’

I must admit, this idea gave me a buzz. In my mind's eye I saw the gratitude in the village chief’s face and heard him praise my generosity.

As an afterthought I thought, 'Where will Umm Ahmad go? She is in need of work. She will be back tomorrow, sorry. I will reward her with the price of a dress.’

But true to her nickname, the gossipmonger, Umm Ahmad did not stay silent.

Wreathing with venomous hate for the village weakest resident, ranting my housekeeper left my house and straightaway she went women‘s gathering places. Foulmouthed she carried the news of what the lecherous teacher, Ali, had bought for Fatimah, his mistress. She did not leave a front door without knocking it. Like fire in hay, the news travelled fast around the village.

Sitting around by their noqra, shaking the end of their veils as a protection from sin, the evil tongues incessantly wagged: ‘! you gray women, yes, an underwear!’

‘May you boosted, Umm Ahmad says colourful bloomers with blue flowers!’

‘I am telling you, you hoary haired old woman. I have never heard the like of it. Yes, red pants. May Allah save us from Fatimah and her immoral ways.’

‘May you be defeated of expectations, did not I tell you, Fatimah is unchaste.’

her hut.’

‘Oh you, dusty, sad ones, the bitch lost her modesty, long ago.’

‘Didn't she abandon her sick mother to marry that lewd trinket-salesman?’

‘I am telling you all, the presents of to tell the absents, has Fatimah have a man she will not live to see the light of the morrow?’

Honest, I was sitting by my noqra, marking my pupils’ exercise books, deluding myself, an unconscionable scandal was ensuing.

My disgrace and that of innocent Fatimah was spreading at breathtaking speed. Imagining that they would point me out and say, 'There goes teacher Ali. The most meritorious man on the face of Earth.’

Whilst I was fantasising that my esteem position and reputation would climb higher and spread throughout the land that the news of my good deeds would even reach my parents which would make them proud of their generous son.

That was the folly of conceit and its punishment was instantaneous and cruel.

***

________________________ 1. A coastal city in Palestine 2. Satan.

3. In the mythology of the ancient Semites naming the names tantamount to creating the object that was named .

4. Mount Hermon.

the wagging tongues began to expand, ‘The teacher is a bachelor and lives alone!

‘True, who knows! Woe is us, and may the Elyon deliver us from their sins, Fatimah probably goes to him at night or maybe he visits

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Nazar Look 21

mikayil mushfig

(1908 - 1939)

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(1908 - 1939)

Heartbeat My heartbeat said: "There's luck ahead. . .

Great, glorious days That brace and daze Are yet to come!"

There's more ahead. . .

My heartbeat said: "Noble work, no fret, Toil's pearly sweatAre yet to come!"

My contemporaries define: "Past times were fine". . .

These words I hate, My heart says: "Wait!

The sun's hot rays, Cool springs, bright days Are yet to come!"

(Translated by Olga Moisseyenko)

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Nazar Look 23

(1908 - 1939)

Love of Life O how to part with this great world around, That grows more beautiful as time goes by?

O how to part with friends, forever bound To struggle with the earth and with the sky?

Do not become the dew at break of day, Shine like the sun, O heart, on mornings new!

How from this world to tear myself away That revels at the hem of skies deep blue?

Look over there-the sky seems growing light, And friends have met beneath the morning star O how to part with dawns that shimmer bright Like nuggets of pure silver, shining far?

How rich is Nature, how mysterious, too, When you disclose her secrets, engineer!

How to discard the sense, the feeling new Attached to stones in quarries, rising sheer?

Here hawks soar high where lofty mountains loom, There pheasants breed, and springs like mirrors gleam The nightingales, the gardens fair, in bloom, O how to leave this sight, this lovely dream?

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(1908 - 1939)

With life that is an endless, lasting fight, With kindling flames that rage in blood and heart, With sun and moon, with morning and with night, And with the sky's vast cupola, how to part?

O stars-the candles of each cherished thought, O clouds-dream caravans that stir my heart, Celestial sphere-my feelings' airy port, With these vast azure heavens, how to part?

My cherished love appears before my eyes, I feel the flame of my poetic art, My burning chest must ease itself with sighs: With her sweet raven tresses, how to part?

The nightingale is sorrowing near the rose, Though autumn comes-it lingers to depart, Life, life! This cry of longing ever grows: With love, with burning passion how to part?

With feelings new, you string your singing lute My youthful pen, now just about to start!

O friends, give answer to my pain acute: With this great seething fire flame, how to part?

(Translated by Olga Moisseyenko)

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Nazar Look 25

massachusetts, usa

Silent Retrieval

The day had a head start on young Liam Craddock, he could feel it, and all that it promised. Across the years, on the slimmest sheet of air, piggybacking a whole man’s aura on that fleet thinness, he caught the sense of tobacco chaw or toby, mule leather’s hot field abrasion, gunpowder’s trenchant residue, men at confusion. If it wasn’t a battlefield in essence, or scarred battle ranks, he did not know what else it could be. And it carried the burning embers of memory.

The yellowed pages of a hand-written Civil War journal had fallen open at Liam’s feet, almost 146 years since the first shot was fired in that war. The calligraphy grabbed at him first, faded in areas and yet sweeping with an old-line flourish making him wonder about the tone and meter of the language, sensing an initial presence of old-fashioned pompousness or posed dignity. Practically nudging it aside at its birth, he quickly discarded this hastily formed opinion. With deep interest pushing at him, coming from an unnamed and limitless source, he had been scrounging in the attic of the old farm house in Bow, New Hampshire, a long way from battle sites near Richmond in Virginia, Baker’s Creek in Mississippi or Shiloh or Spring Hill in Tennessee. For more than 125 of those years an arm of the Craddock family had lived here at Bow, in a colonial farmhouse with seven rooms, two huge chimneys, a hogback out back and wide fields out front and riding up near hills like a lease extension. Now, just turned 20, a good looking student, wiry and athletic, dark Irish complexion possibly inherited from an early Spanish sailor overboard off Ireland’s coast, Liam loved to read about the Civil War, anything he could get his hands on. It had settled into him, geared his interests like a smart gift, when he was young boy. And here, an unexpected present, was a first hand account, from his great great great-grandfather, Ronan Craddock, Sergeant, Company C, 43rd. Georgia Infantry Regiment, Army of Tennessee.

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The war was real, for both of them, the writer and the reader, the crucible of unbelievable deaths, mounds of dead men, fields strewn with dead men, row on row of dead men, the smell of death floating uphill like a pot of evil at a boil. He cringed and came abreast of his courage again. And there, deep in his genes, complementary, he felt the tug of the sea where the rough tide had brought ashore the Spanish sailor his grandfather talked so often about, as if he himself had met that Armada seaman.

“We have all been warriors,” the old man said on many occasions, his pipe lit on the porch letting off an Edgeworth cut, a soft breeze whispering in the cornfields, “since that swimmer caught up a lass. And your turn will come, Liam, in one manner or another.

You may never know the shape of its coming, but come it will, and bring you to conflict. If you never wear a uniform, you’ll still be in the ranks.”

It was promise more than omen, more legacy than habit, and had long settled in place. All this time the journal had been so close to him and yet so far. He wondered where his attention had been, if anybody left had known of the journal’s existence. Then, in one flame of awareness, he was sure his grandfather knew of this “find,” had seen it coming to him.

Awareness crammed him, knowing he nursed a brooding hunger about “things unusual.” This was

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massachusetts, usa like other sensations coming home in his mind, taking deep root. Liam could feel the message coming toward him, almost ascribed, not as swift as a shot, but unerring in its aim. The stilted handwriting, dense in some places as if battlefield artifacts were in tow, or faded in others portions the way a sleepy hand might write, scrawled often with afterthoughts along the narrow margins, came alive and gave this readable account: “Lord, I believe it is 30th April, 1864. Wravel Grane died in these arms this day, from a minie ball lodged in his neck and tearing apart a huge vein profuse in bleeding. A gentle man he was, and dear friend and comrade, who never once let an alcoholic drink pass his lips. The man knew no curses, and if they had ever sounded in his head, he never once in my company managed them to use. His last words to me, of any personal approach, came on this bright dawn where we looked out on the Virginia countryside stretching before us a greaten and resplendent new birth of the land. As they did in Pickens County, back home in Georgia, forward slopes of hills proved quicker at greenery than backsides, but spreading fast, and maple’s aroma swam full to the air. The sun struck all a goodly light the whole while.

Wravel and I were west of Richmond but few miles, in sight of the James River, and had but a canister of bread found in the trappings of a dead Union soldier, nearly at our feet toward sleep. His left eye and cheek were missing and made him grotesque so near to that dread sleep. Lt. Griggs said to kick him aside, kick that human instrument You used to grant us Your bread. Wravel had said earlier that You would provide for us. You did provide a burial place for him locally, after we received your bread. Lord, I thank You for that. As we scanned the far hills at dawn, smoke rising from a hundred positions, life moving ever on, Wravel came aware that certainties and grimalkins or Old Harry himself were piling atop him. “Do not get separated from me ever, Ronan,” he had implored, in the awful goodness that was owed in him. Know all that Wravel’s words haunt me yet, about that separation and know they ever will.”

The last entry, in the inch-thick journal with dust as an extra cover, read: I say Amen, Lord. I was wounded at Jonesboro, Georgia, 31st August 1864

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and was at home on furlough, unfit for further service, at the close of the war, my fated comrade Wravel Grane so soon gone aground. Will You will a reunion?

In between those two entries, Ronan Craddock, of Company C, 43rd. Georgia Infantry Regiment, Army of Tennessee, had been captured at Baker’s Creek, Mississippi on 16th May 1863, exchanged at Port Delaware, Delaware, and re-entered the military. The above entry followed there in place and pulled Liam deeper into the mix, cocking his interest to a higher pitch, and penetrating him as deep as a bayonet wound.

He felt at odds with the world, as though its elements were plaguing him only. The autumn chill settled atop him, though smooth as a plastic cover. An October wind talked at the lone window, yet the dust on the hinged travel trunk appeared undisturbed for a long time. Whorls of dust were petals on the trunk lid, and the brass lock obviously had not been opened in years. For the next three hours, autumn’s touch running its full gamut on him, day slowly falling beside him in another pile dim under bulb, Liam Craddock read every word written by Sgt. Ronan Craddock, of the Army of Tennessee. As far as Liam knew, Ronan was the first in a line of family soldiers this side of Ireland and that other war. * Excerpts of the journal were absolute horror shows on every page: about the death around the sergeant, who could count bodies and limbs at day’s end separated by the hundreds and hundreds; who had seen headless men fall directly beside him on the skirmish line, their heads elsewhere unknown; who had seen dead men near dusk sitting horseback or astride a mule grazing among the bodies; who had seen his best friend come to a bloody pulp in a matter of seconds.

Liam’s body would jerk uncontrollably at each of these descriptions of mortality, as though taste and smell and sound, and the awful forbidden touch, had found him company in the attic in a last stab of unearthly silence.

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massachusetts, usa He was somehow surviving a horrible day.

At length, darkness full on him, his mind completely blown away by journal revelations, seeing Ronan Craddock practically come alive in a hundred scenes, Liam put the journal back into the trunk and closed the cover. A thumping kept time at his breast, bringing a hollow echo to the back of his head, the kind an empty canyon emits, a still room, a dark hallway. Ideas and approaches of every sort leaped upon him and he had to get away to sort all the efforts of his mind as they tried to tell him what to do, what path to take.

“Whoa, man, you are something else,” he said at one point, dipping his head in solemn salute to that old patriarch of battle, whose war scenes, as full of life as though he had been there to experience them, kept crossing his mind swift as movie reruns. They banged out a code of conduct for night listening. Lines of march and deployment came to him, shadowy, at edges of the attic room. Campfires lit up darker corners, though shadows ran loose again. The rustle of a night at war triggered other visions right on the edge of certainty. The footsteps of a camp guard sounded faintly but surely in the midst of an otherwise eerie silence. Then, loose in the dusk of evening, a horse’s hoofs tattled far whereabouts, a messenger in flight or a runaway. Gunfire residue rose as sharp as skunk odor on the air, cosmoline odor just as persistent. The senses amuck.

All the parts of war came as real as a brick in the hand, a wash of wind, the smell of flesh at discord.

Liam’s father, Desmond, lone son of Padraig, in the line of lone sons back through Lucas, Brendan and Ronan, had died the year Liam was born. Desmond was 53 and had tried for years to have at least the one son that for a half dozen generations had filtered down through the family of lone boys. He never saw his son Liam. He died in a car crash seven months before Liam was born. The young boy hungered all his young years for some family history to grab onto, a grasp on male ancestors all locked to their own wars.

When Liam finally came down from the attic, his grandmother said, “See anything you like? You have your pick. Anything at all.”

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Liam nodded. “There’s an old war journal in a trunk in a corner up there. I’d like that.”

“Get it now before anybody else lays a claim on it.

It’s yours.” In his eyes she saw that he already had claimed ownership, knew he best fit it.

Liam ran up the stairs to get the journal. In the middle of the attic room he could feel someone there with him, a presence making a statement. He tried to hear the words coming out of the stillness, from the far corners and under the twin gables. He realized he was repeating some of what he had read; the words, as if spoken to him, hanging out like echoes.

And here he was now, less than a week after reading the journal, still adapting his life to a new influence; he was staring at an artist’s paintings for long hours at an exhibition of the artist’s Civil War work. The artist, Jeff Fioravanti, had noticed Liam the very first day almost in a trance, eyes squinting, body taut, locked by an internal force on an external object.

From the outset, when first plagued by a vanity’s reaction, Jeff sensed some other impact working on the younger man whose attention he saw was rigid, who could stare at a painting for a full half hour without moving. Jeff thought that a painter’s sensitivity could best understand that reaction. It had happened to him on occasion, but he hungered for any background information, the way he searched for reasons to start a painting. In the middle of the third day of the exhibit, hundreds of people having passed through the 55 paintings only of Civil War battle sites but not battle scenes, a number of people having returned for a second viewing, he approached the mesmerized viewer.

Jeff did not know about the earlier discovery by the young man of the journal written by Ronan Craddock, born 1844, died in bed in 1925 just before his 81st birthday. For almost half a century the journal, supposedly unread by anybody in the family, had been bedded in a trunk in the corner of the old family farmhouse in New Hampshire, until such time as the family farm was going to be sold off for a huge development.

Liam, still haunted by the journal, was in turn entranced by the paintings. Jeff guessed accurately

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massachusetts, usa his age to be no more than 19 or 20 years, saw he had no discerning marks about him, no scars, no prominent feature, no describable sense of being other than young, healthy, interested in either the art of painting or the Civil War itself. Jeff was not sure of the latter options, but he was aware of some deep connection working on the young man. He thought it to be as strong as the many Civil War battle sites and their impact had been on him, Ground Zero acknowledgment, as Jeff called it. And he also noted that the young man kept coming back to one painting, so he thought he’d best check it out.

“Excuse me,” Jeff said, “but I’ve noticed your interest in the exhibit for three days now, and your particular interest in this painting. My name is Jeff Fioravanti and I know something about it. I painted it.” He put out his hand.

“My name is Liam Craddock. I’m sure my great great great-grandfather fought there and his best friend was buried nearby.” And Jeff listened as Liam told him the story of the journal and the impact it made on him. “It’s so real to me, but especially in one place where he wrote a few words that keep ringing in the back of my head: ‘Do not get separated from me ever, Ronan.’ I don’t know what they mean, but they won’t let go of me.”

Creases on the young man’s forehead inclined his thinking. He said, “Is there near that battleground a cemetery where the dead were laid to rest, Confederate dead? One that’s still there, being tended?” He looked back upon the painting. “Where is this place?”

“I’ve been there,” Jeff said, finding some of his own memories leaping to the fore. “It’s the Hollywood Cemetery. There are thousands of soldiers buried there, and it’s well cared for, exceptionally well. It’s a large tract of land that holds some famous people. I spent a couple of days walking the grounds, noting some of the more famous names, but there are privates and generals there. He did not immediately tell Liam that he had been hit by another impact at Ronan Craddock’s words, which brought back something that he heard recently; some survivors of the battleship U. S. S. Arizona, downed at Pearl Harbor in 1941, insisted they be buried with their

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comrades when their turn came. He felt the connection would come with awed association.

“I’m going down there,” Liam said, the oath traveling with his voice. “I want to see if more of the journal hits me, if there is some action to be commissioned, if it’s for me.”

In a pause loaded with information Jeff could not fathom, yet was aware of, Liam Craddock continued; “I know I am being called upon. It’s always been there. My grandfather said it best; ‘Your turn will come, Liam, in one manner or another. You may never know the shape of its coming, but come it will, and bring you to conflict. If you never wear a uniform, you’ll still be in the ranks.’ I’ve heard that echo for years on end.”

Three months later, painting a new scene of a battle site at Pickett’s Mill Battlefield at Dallas, Georgia, Jeff Fioravanti saw a local newspaper headline leap at him; Yankee descendant desecrates CSA cemetery.

It was the story of Liam Craddock, a student from Keene, New Hampshire, who had been discovered, late at night, digging up a grave at Hollywood Cemetery in Virginia. Police had been alerted by a man walking his dog late at night through the cemetery, as he was accustomed to do four or five nights a week.

Charlie Boatwright (“spell it wright, sir”), an Army veteran of the Korean War, was walking his Golden Lab, Lee Bong Ha, on one of the perimeter roads of the cemetery, when he heard what he believed to be a shovel hitting a rock. “It had that affirming sound,” he said. “You’d know it from gardening, grubstaking, or digging a well. I was infuriated and thought I’d better rush the culprit, but my knees don’t do me as well as they used to, so I slipped off to a neighbor’s house and called the police.”

“Then I went back to see what was going on, trying to get there before the police, get in a viewable position.

I saw the young man, the one the police eventually arrested, working on a hole about two feet deep, handling a long-handled shovel like it was an old friend, like he knew what he was doing. Because they could not find the letter he claimed he was “finally delivering to a comrade in arms” the authorities charged Liam Craddock with desecrating a national cemetery and eventually fined him one hundred

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massachusetts, usa dollars.”

Most people of the area thought it a proper and fitting fine and wanted to let it go at that.

The ruse about the letter to be delivered satisfied them. It was only later the whole truth was revealed.

Charlie Boatwright, on a visit from Jeff Fioravanti, subsequently volunteered the following information: “Before the police got there, only a few minutes as I recall, the young man in question retrieved a sort of golden pot in a somewhat ornate shape from a large bag, and with a quiet ceremony of his own, a kind of minor ritual I suspect, slipped it with care down into the hole. He placed several shovels of earth in on top of the pot. That’s what he was doing when the police showed up, lights flashing all over him and the cemetery, throwing those weird shadows I’m sometimes anxious about. You never know about cemeteries, where I try to be friendly all the time because you never know who else might be visiting at the same time. The police asked what he was doing and he said he was trying to leave a letter down there for the buried person to read, but it had blown away.

Most people laughed at him but to me there was quiet sincerity about the young man that perked my interest. I did not think he was a vandal. That was obvious to me, even though he was in pretty bad pickle, if I may say so. That’s why I did not tell the police when they showed up that he had already put something down in the hole. They did not look for it, nor did they ask me. I was reserving judgment on the situation. It was not until later, when the police brought me down to the station, that I knew I was right, that I had done the right thing. It was then I heard the cemetery workers had filled the hole in and replaced the grass sod, which, I must tell you, was most carefully lifted out of place in the beginning. It was evident to me that there was a plan at hand, and I was in on it. Months later, young Liam wrote to me, thanking me for not giving him away, and telling me the whole story.

This is what Liam wrote to Charlie Boatwright, once a sergeant in Baker Company, 1st Battalion, 31st Infantry Regiment, 7th Infantry Division, Korea 195152, one of the Polar Bears:

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Sir, I want to thank you for what you did for me at Hollywood Cemetery that night, and how you held back some information from the police. It is appreciated very much, by me and by Sgt. Ronan Craddock, of Company C, 43rd. Georgia Infantry Regiment, Army of Tennessee. A few words in his Civil War journal really penetrated me. He wrote what his best friend and comrade Wravel Grane said to him on the morning he was to die, as if he knew it was coming: Do not get separated from me ever, Ronan.

That simple statement hung over me for a long while, but I knew what he meant, just as it came to me when I learned about sailors who survived the sinking of the USS Arizona on December 7, 1941; asking that when they finally die they be brought back aboard their ship at Pearl Harbor. Such things haunt my soul, shake it loose, and always have. In that extent I am most fortunate regardless of being in a compromising situation, seeming without reason or good excuse. Somehow I knew what that draw was, that literal magnetism, between the sergeant and his comrade. So, after much thinking and a vow that took hold of me in an instant, I got a job in a mortuary, learned a few tricks of the trade, dug up my ancestor’s body and cremated him. I swear he was lost up here in Bow on the side of an overgrown hill that now holds only his sweat of years. Others in the family must have known, but it became my commission. Ronan Craddock’s ashes went into the grave beside comrade Wravel Grane before the police got there, and were well-covered at their arrival. Those two soldiers are now together, as bidden, their arms at rest, peace within and without them, comrades into the face of eternity.

I trust this will put to rest any lingering doubts about your participation.

Liam Craddock, Army of the World ***

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Cernavoda, children in Russia, and a selection of their art works exploring nuclear power Constanta, Romania, March 1, 2014

Taner Murat is a Volunteer Editor for Nazar Look, the monthly attitude and culture journal of Crimean Tatars in Romania. On March 7, 2014 he will depart from his hometown Constanta marching to Chernavoda on the right bank of the Danube to celebrate the arrival of spring across the Black Sea. He says that walking helps to combat stress, boost mood and invigorate the body and recommends it as the most accessible and affordable way to improve your fitness. He explains that he chose a five day route aiming for a moderate exercise intensity. He admits that some changes may occur in the program, and promises to keep his Facebook friends updated.

installations. I invite children from the Black Sea and children everywhere to make camera-toys and mobile-toys of paper, cardboard, modeling clay, textiles, plywood, etc. They can send the toys to my mailing address or email me their images and I promise that I will publish every work in a book. I would also love to know what their dream world would be like.”

Anyone can be a co-author of this book by sharing a toy, a thought or contributing with a simple comment. You can post directly on the event’s page: https://www.facebook.com/events/14480 24008761320

He wants to enjoy a pleasant walk, so he will pick some books to give as a present to people he meets on his way. He thinks he is a good listener and he wants to engage in small talks with strangers to learn of their joys, projects and struggles. On March 11, he will get on the Danube passing the nuclear station. He says that Romania’s policy on nuclear power shields the atomic plant. He reminds us that a "No Photography" sign prohibits photographing the installations and confesses: “In my judgment this law is strange and unfair. We are living in the digital era and this law makes me believe that someone is trying to hide something from me. I wish I had more transparency. So I will photograph the nuclear installations with a toy camera posting my pictures on the web. The Black Sea is an important heritage area, I’m living here, and I want that nothing that matters to me is concealed from me. For instance, I think they should openly explain to what extent could certain technologies endanger my life and the next generations.”

Taner Murat points out that no one should ignore the law: “Of course we should respect the law even if it seems absurd.

Therefore I shall use a toy camera in order to merely simulate taking the pictures of the atomic

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Cernavoda, children in Russia, and a selection of their art works exploring nuclear power

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Cernavoda, children in Russia, and a selection of their art works exploring nuclear power

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Cernavoda, children in Russia, and a selection of their art works exploring nuclear power

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Cernavoda, children in Russia, and a selection of their art works exploring nuclear power

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Cernavoda, children in Russia, and a selection of their art works exploring nuclear power

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Cernavoda, children in Russia, and a selection of their art works exploring nuclear power

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Cernavoda, children in Russia, and a selection of their art works exploring nuclear power

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Cernavoda, children in Russia, and a selection of their art works exploring nuclear power

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Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c.

(XXI) LETTER XI. DEPARTURE FOR THE DARDANELLES INCREASE OF PASSENGERS - A PACHA - HIS HAREM AND SUITE - VISIT TO THE PACHA OF THE DARDANELLES - MOULLAH - EASTERN MANNERS - ORIENTAL ENTERTAINMENT - HALL OF AUDIENCE - THE ADVANTAGES OF A TESKERE. This time, I was obliged to content myself with merely a glance at the fair city of Constantine, in consequence of our steam-boat having been engaged to convey the Pacha of the Dardanelles, his harem and suite, to his new residence, the castle at Chanak-Kalesi, on the Dardanelles. Our Osmanli grandee, whose movements were at once active and bustlino;, characteristics that rarely distinguish a Mussulman of the present day, proved to be a fine, bluff, healthy-looking man, something in the style of an English squire who had been accustomed from his youth to brush the dew from the grass at break of day, while pursuing the pleasures of the chase. His manners were dignified, as those of a Turk in authority always are. Nevertheless, he was more communicative, and exhibited a much nearer approach to goodhumoured cordiality, than we usually find in so great and grave a personage as one, who is at the same time a Mir-miran and a Pacha of two tails.

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With the exception of the red cap and blue tassel, which is now almost universally the headdress worn by Turks of every class, he was attired, together with the officers of his suite, completely in the European military costume.

These, together with the attendants and a harem, consisting of ten ladies, formed a cortege of about fifty persons. The women, as usual, were most hermetically veiled, no part of the face being visible except the eyes ; and that they might not be exposed to the slightest observation, the skylight of the cabin was kept continually covered, while guards with drawn swords were placed at the door, and on the steps leading to it.

On arriving at the chateau of the Dardanelles, Boreas appeared to have had some especial spite against the chief of these formidable straits, our friend the Pacha ; for when it became necessary that the fair prisoners should ascend to the deck, preparatory to leaving the vessel, he blew such a gust, that not only their veils, but tresses floated in the breeze, in spite of the most indefatigable efforts of the eunuchs to keep the rebellious muslin in decent order. Hence I had a most favourable opportunity of deciding that the countenances of the greater number of the ladies were not particularly handsome,—except one, whom we understood to be the principal wife of the Pacha.

She was, indeed, a lovely woman, about eighteen, with fine dark eyes, black hair, and features cast in the finest mould ; but her complexion being excessively pallid, they wore an expression of great tristeness, most probably the eff'ect of the strict confinement to which the women of the east are universally subject. (to be continued)

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