The Rut to NoWhere

http://www.proza.ru/2019/05/26/1975

illustration - Ilia Gaisinsky, "The Way of NoWhere"

THE RUT TO NOWHERE

For remembrance of my wife, blessed she be.

Instead of a Preface

This novel was conceived long ago. Turning over old notes, I tried to rethink what has happened through the days and years gone by from the nowadays point of view. Of cause, it is not ideal, neither it pretends to be a complete picture or perfect analysis. The hero, a man converted to Islam, reasons as a person who has studied the Quran and the Sharia standards by canonic rules of classical Muslim religion; he rejects any changes and interpretations of the Sacred Book. What is repeatedly underlined in the novel – the shahidism is an inner struggle of a Muslim, inside his soul and his Ego, and the real source for all the troubles one meets is he himself in case he is not able to kill the heresy in his own self and to correct the wrongs he does or thinks or believes, as classical Islam treats this commandment. All other shahidism interpretations, like aggressive actions taken against and toward the non-Muslims, are as far from the classical Islam as the stars form the Earth.
 For my greatest regret, contemporary Islam revisionists promote the weaponed wars, hazavat and faridah; but here several factors should be noticed, like state occupation and/or danger to religion and believers. In any other cases, the truly Muslim is forbidden to take up arms. And even when at war, according to Fikh – Islam jurisprudence based on Quran and sharia – a Muslim man shall not murder elder people, women, children, clergymen, and others not participating in battles. In my novel, I voluntarily underline the points of differences between Islam and Islamism which should rather be treated as Islamofascism; fascists, the Nacis, stated superiority by nation or race, modern Islamists declare superiority of a religion, and that is not acceptable within the classical Islam canons.

In general, the novel is about love, that very love which is in one step distance from a hatred. Probably, this is why the hero, Jhurah, suffers and falls into torments; he understands, once he stepped on a path of betrayal because of his cowardness, he started the way to nowhere, and the more sins, such as murders, violence, blood he accomplishes and harvests on his way, the further he goes on this rut to nowhere.

Jhurah's continuous debates with Saddyk on sunnas essence and hadiths handling grows from the light of love kept in depth of his soul. Jhurah comprehends, Dina would never reply him with a tiny shadow of a sympathy, but secretly even for himself, he cherishes a hope he could possess her by the right of strong and powerful, destroying his rivals. But Dina avoided positive komsomol activist Zheka (he wasn't named Jhurah by then) and preferred the criminal Mockej to help her, as he turned to be more honest and sincere in matters important for her: Mockej would not bargain with his conscience, and Mockej would tell scoundrel straight forward he is a scoundrel. Dina's well-being and her family happiness brings Jhurah in rage, his last hopes vapour,
and then, all he can expect is the mirages and narcotic dreams of eternal bliss in the Eden Gardens with gurias looking like Dina.
The presence of such figures as Mockej and Kuzmich has its reasons. Sctually, they are criminals, the sell drugs and deal with dope providers, but they trade neither ideas and ideals nor belief and religion, they do not profiteer by homeland, thus, they are they are fairer, cleaner and nobler than a man who started with and continued by a treachery of these phenomena and essences, accompanying his ugly deeds with right and persuasive words and slogans. That could be why Jhurah seeks to destroy them, these witnesses of his shame and nonentity. The case of military betrayal and an officer's conversion is real, I was told about such a man; he blamed the state, the Soviet system, what- and whomever, but he never turned to his own conscience; his face has shown a deep suffering when he recounted his mother crying over an Afghan-hero grave, and the thought of coming to her to confess has never visited him. It's much more comfortable this way:  to commit a violation, a betrayal, a repudiation, and then to mourn verbally on insulted soul exhibited to a psychological damage, than to stay straight and not to go along with the system mired in lie and violence, - and it's much easier than battle with.

The Soviet system was full of lies and hypocrisy in all its levels. Soviet troops commanders in Afghanistan were often sending the lead coffins with not those sought by parents, hid the truth in cases the ransom needed, and what to say, the war victims became also those not wished to battle in Afghanistan, who saw this war meaninglessness, - and such persons were removed by their fellows, because there were KGB people in each and every crew and platoon. Along with historical personas, there are fictional characters in the novel, occasional coincidence of names or any other details does not mean they are real, but many events described do. Current events, like ISIS rebellions and wars are consequences stemmed from former USSR politics, Chechnia wars by Russian Federation, USA' enforcement "the democracy values" by armed power, Europe' laziness and an-mispricipalness; we all are guilty an evil jinn of Ismlamism broke free.






A Way to Hell.

The dawn has just started to break through the window. It was damp and cold, and he felt terribly hungry. Jhurah has opened his eyes, sat on his dirty mattress, and scratched his nape. When has it all started? So many years have passed, and so many events happened since then. Today, when the life-way is close to a closing-time, what would remain after and behind you? A miserable nonentity, who preferred the world of illusions to reality, who tried to survive at any cost. Yes, you paid a high price, but was it worth? And are just you alone to blame? And were you acted differently - wouldn't the same painful and muddy end wait for you, even ever since then, young and strong, knowing nothing of all fullness and beauty of life, you were captured by dushmans? Jhurah lidded his eyes, two large tears rolled down his wrinkled and long-unshaven face.

Part 1. Childhood.

Zhenka Stepanov nicknamed Zheka has appeared to life in the winter of 1957 in the city of Tashkent where his parents and their parents have settled after the war. He was born thin and weak, probably, because he was a late child. But really, where could they be brought from, the timely conceived kids: The Great War, its' consequences like devastation and hunger, and the immediate need to reconstruct all ruined and burned, and besides, one had to study and obtain a profession, and to get up the wing, as it's said; and if there are elderly parents and a brother the cripple on one's hands - there is hardly a time to think of one's own family. But Zhenya's father has managed to overcome it all, and he got married, and he has begat a son. Zheka was an often sick child while there were not enough good doctors constantly, since many experienced physicians were successfully eliminated by comrade Stalin and his comrades; new specialists were prepared and formed on hastily fast The Party hand from local inhabitants, so he has managed to caught all childhood diseases known by that time.

After having had a full bunch of diseases and having patted up his parents' nerves' badly, Zheka went to a Kindergarten. There he got into a fight on the very first day beaten by a stronger and healthier boy. Smearing tears and red snot, Zhenka declared he would not set a foot in this gangster kindergarten anymore, there they only know to smite on mug; at evening, his Dad was explaining the fight is no good, but one has to stand up for himself, and not to speak out before a teacher, especially by such expressions. Whatever, he had to attend this gangster garden until he got to school.
If just Zheka could imagine which school he would study in, the kindergarten would have seemed him an idyll. In the first grade, eight chronic repeats were sitting with him, and some stayed in the same grade for up to three years, both lads and gals. Those pupils came from so called unfortunate families - the families of drinkers, or families with one parent, where single-mother rarely graced her child with proper care, all the more all the more an attention to child's school successes, all of them lived in a district named Shanghai. Up to almost with no exception, here was flourishing the drunkenness (mostly men, but not just) and the prostitution those single women who could not successfully arranged their personal lives after the war.

Not far from Zheka's school, there were famous Tezikovka (Tezikovsky bazaar; the Railway Workers Park, where the Persians and Russians constantly were finding out the relations; the Builders Club   known as Lemonaria, where drinkers and druggers were constantly hanging around; and a glassy-caff, where dark-yellow slops, called beer for some reason, were sold constantly sold, any time, right by route 9 last stop.
Each of these old Tashkent sights deserves an individual story, but Zheka's memory has kept only few episodes related to these hotty fleshpots.

The glassy-caff was the habitual meeting place for sots ex-warriors. The history conceals what kind of warriors they were, - most of them served as trains' maintenance staff, not sniffing a gunpowder, and collaborated with SMERSH rigorously. In a drunken daze, they ripped their shirts open and boasted of heroic deeds they had never committed. Actually, what they had in common was not the Great War but a great passion for vodka, and, got their eyes floating, they were swearing of their heroism before each other; in case someone doubted, for example, the authenticity of the story about Marshal Zhukov's handshake due to a talking captive seized during the mortal combat, screams and fights were immediately starting, and since the men fought were hardly standing on their feet, the battles went bloody. And later, these scars and wounds were represented as the war injuries. In the very midst, the guards used to have appearing on a worn-out motorcycle "Izh", at the sight of which the battlers were abandoning the field; the izh-riders were heading to a beer seller, whispered something with him, and then retreating, while holding a bundle wrapped in an old newspaper - until the next collective duel of the glorious mug-combatants.

One day, a neighbour breeding the pigeons presented Zheka with a bird, mere a blue rock pigeon he caught a day earlier, and a boy got literally obsessed with. He became a regular to Tezikovka, where the famous street-sales and swap-markets gathered on Sundays. Gosh, just what has not been selling there, and just what kind of people would not be found: fowlers trading parrots, canaries, and pigeons; dogmen with puppies and kittens; aquarium fish lovers; bibliognosts with prohibited literature; imported rags hucksters; plumbers saleing stolen faucets and mixers; skill-crafters with their gizmos; and all kind of riffraff trying to palm off all sorts of junk. But there were also some greasier doers who traded in gold and currency, furs and weapons, and those who sold drugs. These had their feeded points: watch shops or seconhands, but precaution was also needed there, so they used the services of kiddoes acting as lookouts. Dashing tramps who would immediately figure out a stranger in a market crowd, they passed on the news by a chain, the client dropped a stuff in a safe place, and no policeman or KGBist could find a man or a thing. Of course, the lads' labour was paid, hence Zheka got some money, and a tenner was a sum for an eight-year-old kid, the more so at the time.

One of Zheka's classmates was Zinka, a repeater time and again. Zheka fell for her, at nights, he dreamed of her naked, with a round tempting ass; the other boys used to gossip, Zinka is an easy lay, but just for and with those who can ply her well with ice-cream and lemonade. One day he took the plunge. He bought two lemonade bottles and four ice-creams, that day after school, he called Zinka to his place "to help her in history,” and he could bet he knew the ancient history better than anyone in the class. Surprising him, Zinka agreed; either she really wanted to change her F grade on history, or she was fond of lemonade up to this grade, and Zhenka's parents were working whole days long. They secluded at Zheka’s home and, having seated Zinka on the sofa, Zheka got butt to kissing her, and while he kissed her cheeks and neck, she pulled off his shirt, pants and underwear, so Zheka appeared in a suit of small and skinny Adam with ridiculously perched credentials that Zinka barely glanced at. She flatted on a sofa, her legs and butt shamelessly uncovered, and Zheka, plunking down, began to jerk vigorously his sticklike knees and thighs, simulating an intercourse. After failed attempts to appease Zinka somehow, confused and dejected seducer gave her all the ice cream and lemonade, and she, shovel down the sweets-and-treats, laughed at her current admirer, saying that Sidorov, nicknamed Sidor, doesn't bother with lemonade, yet he is much better, and with him she is pleased even without cream-vanilla. Altogether, Zheka has gotten into such a rage he slapped Zinka's roundy-soundy bottom, and sent her onto those odious letters, just like the neighbour uncle Lyosha while drunken does. Zinka got offended and left, and a disgusting note resided in Zheka's memory on his first sexual experience for long.

On April 26, 1966, a strong earthquake has occurred in Tashkent. It started near a dawn. Suddenly, the ground buzzed, the hissing wiring sparked on the swinging pillars, it was light as day from chips and flakes that fell from all sides, the old beams were noisily shattering, punching out the shabby ceilings. In high-rise buildings, the earthquake felt much stronger, everything was flying through the rooms, people fled half-naked from houses and apartments, even uncle Lyosha, who had taken a fair amount the evening before, jumped out the doors, sober completely. Until the morning, that is, until the very sunrise, no one would come back indoor, and then everybody went to work and to school, but the earthquake continued, the tremors followed one after another. The director of the Tashkent seismic station Ulomov became the most popular person these days, every evening he appeared on the local TV channel and mumbled sadly that scientists had not yet learned to predict earthquakes, and there was no way to foretell the next wavelet, as well as when and where should it be expected. Under the circumstances, people set their beds outdoor and so lived all the summer. One could observe an ordinary bed with an ordinary sleeping city-dweller on a bus stop, meanwhile an ordinary bus would pick up some belated passenger. Disaster and troubles united the Tashkent residents, since many suffered, and many left without shelter, the Old City was particularly affected. Clay wattle-and-daubs did not stand up to shocks and crumbled completely, people lived in tents; the "Kids world" store building collapsed, goods were to be sold urgently under temporary stalls, but there was almost no looting or theft. Camping and honest being did not last for long, soon buildmen from all over the Soviet Union began to arrive in Tashkent, and easy money seekers with them. The criminal situation immediately escalated, and military patrols with dogs appeared on the streets.

The area where Zheka lived was considered not that emergency, but somewhat suitable for living, so it was decided to keep the Shanghai houses, and its reorganization project was postponed until better times. So, the criminals rushed here; there was lodging places of thieves, drug addicts and dealers, and prostitutes, going out at evenings for fishery. The robbers robbed as the abandoned emergency apartments were not locked up, prostitutes were finding the builders who left families in Russia and sought solace in women's caresses, drug dealers sold doses that could distract from boredom and loneliness - and all this in an off-set, where the semi-uncared-for boyos were learning the ropes. Barefooted, wearing underpants only, boys were fleeting on the asphalt hot from the sun, swam in the muddy Salar, and at the end of the day they faced their parents with diaries where A's in physical education were adjacent to D and F for arithmetic and Russian. Of the boyish amusements there also were one-on-one fights till the first blood and peering on gals; and if someone dared to invite a girl to dance, and that was not impossible in the pioneer camps, where the movies and discos were a routine, next day he would turn cool and authoritative. Some boys were imprudently wandered into other areas, and inter-areas squabbles set in case one got beaten. No matter who and in which status, - in his district, he could well be mercilessly thrashed and humiliated, but against others, against the foes who raised the hands on a friend-akin, lads were rising as one. And then a bloody thresh by both the small fry and the older boys, with knives and chains, was going on. Zheka remembered the rumble in the rail workers park, which for some reason was called the KOR park, the Persians fought with yoots from the near-by houses, the fight ended with a murder, someone dragged a flarer and fired into Persian's belly. The wounded bawled, his guts were burning with a poisonous-red flame and smelling something odd, Zheka did not know such smell.

Upon coming to school on the first of September, Zheka discovered a newcomer appeared in the class. He could not know then what a part this newcomer would play in his fate.

Chapter 2

New classmate came at the beginning of the new school year. Everybody showed up, sat down at the desks, the teacher Vera Semyonovna came in and brought this new boy with her. Zheka was sitting alone, his desk was in the first row, and all the repeatings-boobies sought to snug farther off the teacher’s eyes on a "dunce's bench", so the place next to Zheka was vacant. "We have a new student this year, his name is Sasha, the lastname is Feldman, he came with his parents who arrived here for the Tashkent restauration and reconstruction." She observed the classroom and, seeing the free place, pointed, "go sit down." Thus Sashka happened to be next to Zheka. His father was the autocade director, his mother was a rhythmic gymnastics coach, Sashka himself was a sports boy, rather tall, swarthy, with well-developed muscles, with a straight nose, big brown eyes and long, almost girlish eyelashes. A handsome boy attracted girls' attention, they secretly stared, quietly sighing, but for somehow Sashka did not notice them point-blank.

Sasha got to this school by occasion. A lonely old woman died in the high-rise building near the common courtyard, where the Zheka's parents' clay wattle stood, and Sasha’s parents were given her apartment; since there was no closer school, he went to this one. Sashka was very capable; he was good in exact sciences, but what he did not like was history, the most Zheka's favorite. It’s not for Sashka could not remember any dates or learn the written in the textbook, he just didn’t learn at all, as Zheka found out later, although he read a lot, really a lot. Zheka latched this when sited Sashka on Tezikovka, where he wandered around between book stalls, searching for something and talking to booksellers. Actually, Sashka was a mystery: first, he was smart and reasoning like an adult; second, he was not afraid of anyone; and third, he was of a weird nationality. Who are the Jews, Zheka did not know, as it happened, there lived no Jew in Shanghai; well, he did see a couple of them, a fat lady-biddy who sold soda at the hospital market entrance, and Yashka the hairdresser. People as people, and all bought the soda from that lady, and Yashka cut just as it should be, and he would leave a forelock just enough it looked beautiful and the client liked himself in a mirror. And here is him, sitting just nearby in a class, a Jew, seems and looks a regular lad, like everyone else, and at the very same time he is incomprehensible, intelligent, handsome.

The first lesson, who are the Jews, was given by uncle Lyosha after he got his eyes pretty floating. Uncle Lyosha explained that all the Russians' troubles are from them, those damned jewfros, they crucified the Russian god Jesus Christ, and they put the babies blood into their damned cracknel pancakes, and Hitler did not kill them enough, and a pity he didn’t finish them all. And more, uncle Lyosha told, during the war, all Jews sat and hided out here in Tashkent, and all, as one, studied to be doctors, and after the war they wanted to poison our great leader and teacher Comrade Stalin, for whom he, uncle Lyosha, was getting into a deadly combat and was ready to die. Zheka did not believe this drunken discourse much, all the more the 20th Congress of the Communist Party had already passed, and something was known about Stalin’s exploits, but he decided to ask his parents. Zheka’s Dad said bluntly that Leshka the neighbour, albeit an adult uncle Lyosha, talked total bullshit from over-drinking, that during the war he worked as a conductor of railcars and traded on, like now, and Sasha’s father is really a war veteran, and he has two orders and eight medals, and Zheka's uncle can confirmed this, they both are meeting at the Victory Day celebrations.

Yet questions remained, and Zhenya deadly wanted to know who the Jews were and why he was so inexplicably drawn to Sashka. After all, there were before, there were other boys, with whom he drove the ball and ran through the bazaars, bought and resold pigeons, fought for the pals from the street, and with Sashka some new occupations came. They were compiling gliders and transistor receivers, they were taking pictures, and started to attend the Pioneers Palace, just across the road, which Zheka previously ignored, like not seen, and if not for Sashka, he would not have known of that place. Those days, all the boys crazed about music bands, and somehow the guitars disappeared from the sale, and Zheka dreamed to learn playing the guitar, so Sasha suggested to make one themselves. Of course, Zheka caught fire with this idea and was already up to ran to the barn to look for plywood and boards for the neck, but Sashka chilled his ardor down and said it would not work this way, they should consult with experts and find drawings and appropriate materials. Time went on, meanwhile Sashka was still busy with these "drawings and materials", buying some odd-and-freaky books on electrical circuits. A couple of years passed, little by little Zheka forgot he once wanted to make a guitar himself, he was attending the Pioneers Palace, there he was offered a balalaika instead of a guitar, and he strummed in a folk instruments group. On Zheka's birthday, Sashka appeared holding some object wrapped in a sheet. On unfolding the parcel, Zheka gasped: bright red electric guitar laid in front of him, with all volume and tone controls and other bells and whistles. Sashka stuck a wire into a special socket on the guitar body, the other end into the back wall of Zheka’s radiogram, and, turned it on, said “now play”. Zheka hit the strings, a chord rang out, amplified by a radiogram speaker.

"Uchquduq, three wells, three springs, please defend, please protect us from sun heat," - Zheka sang. “This is my present,” - Sashka said easily. The royal gift, unimaginably luxurious, also because Sashka made it himself. In addition, Sashka loved sports, he could kick a ball around for hours, and he went at the section he called the boxing section, although it was difficult to call boxing what was taught there, because it was allowed to hit not only by hands, but also by feet. Once he took Zheka with him to the training, but Zheka saw this sport as too cruel, and he accompanied Sasha there never again.

Sasha's positiveness and attractiveness, the hidden anti-Semitism existing in the environment he lived inevitably germinated hatred towards him and those he associated. Especially he was hated by Sidorov, who was older and tried in every way to bully and humiliate Sashka. Once, Sashka, generally cool-minded and avoiding conflicts, answered Sidor's smack talk, and the bouncer moved forward, his fists at the ready: "Ya.. I'll smite you! I'll mashed you! You, little kike!" He swung his arms to smash Sasha, but Sasha dodged deftly, and suddenly struck Sidor under the ribs, Sidor choked and sank to the floor. Since then, not many wanted to aggravate relations or quarrel with Sasha, especially since he himself tried not to interfere. Would been asked how many friends he had Zheka could have called the whole Shanghai, but all was not that; perhaps Sashka was his only real friend, without whom he could not live a day, visited him daily, - something elusive towed him to this house. On sitting silently for about half an hour, he would goodbye and left, politely refusing the proposed tea. Sashka was shrugging his shoulders, exchanged glances with his Mother, and after Zheka's leaving, they would giggle merrily: “So what did he come for?” - Sasha's Mom would ask with laugh, in reply, Sasha could just spread his arms.

Chapter 3

Zheka had another bosom friend, Seryozhka Mokeev nicknamed Mockej. Whether you be told there was no uncared for and unlooked children in late Soviet Union - do not believe, because Mockej and his sister Lus'ka were the instant examples. Their parents, uncle Lyosha and aunt Maria, worked on the railway as conductors and went on the Tashkent-Moscow train, which means three days one way and three days back. Elderly aunty, hired to look after the children, didn’t care for them, but every day all week long was getting drunk and then lay crapped with her own vomit and urine. The parents met their kids at the weekends, brought them various goodies from Moscow, Seryozhka and Lus'ka were stuffing their bellyfuls with chocolate and marshmallows, and then uncle Lyosha drank all Saturday evening and all Sunday through, with leaving to Moscow Monday morning again together with aunt Maria.

"It's the nastiest, when they come back from a trip," - Seryozhka mentioned one time. The matter is uncle Lyosha did not mere drink, he also went on a row with rampage, that is, he was effing and blinding, he cursed and beat aunt Maria, Lus'ka and Mockej. He beat them terribly, demanding money for a half-liter, and as he was of outstanding strength, he once broke Lus'ka's collarbone, and it's uncountable how many times did he break Mockej's hands and arms. When the drunken brawl reached its climax, the aunt Maria 'd take the kids and ran to Sashka's parents seeking escape from the ripshit uncle Lyosha, although she hated Jews, like her husband. When Zheka pestered Mockej with the question of why they were hiding from the beatings at the Jews', there are plenty of Russians around, Mockej always answered the same: sure all Jews are rascals, but Feldmans are good. Thus, by the Mockej's logic, there could be exceptions among this nationality. f one talk about a potential bandit and a bully, one can safely put Mockej as a chrestomathy illustrative sample. Left to himself, always hungry, deprived of parental affection and attention, he rushed around Shanghai, stealing, begging for food and scuffling for any occasion or without. And he, like Zheka, was a frequent visitor to the Feldman’s apartment, but if for Zheka the main thing was communication, then Mockej just wanted to chow down. One day, when uncle Lyosha, at his next ordinary drunken lush, dispersed the family kindreds in neighbours, Sashka came in to him, followed by Zheka; upon seeing Sasha, uncle Lyosha became unexplainably sad and suddenly, almost on kind way, said: "You... Sanyok... now you tell me ... just why does he hate me so much? Cause all I do is for him, and I trade, I make money, and I bring everything for him, and he ... if just you could see, how he looks at me, like a wild-beasty cub." Sasha did not even immediately realized who was talked about, and then he guessed: uncle Lyosha spoke about his son Seryozhka, whom he battered mercilessly. "But maybe I whack him only because you Jews are closer to him than his own father." Sasha Looking straight into the drunken eyes, Sasha replied: "You'd see that's not the worst yet, the time will come, Seryozha will grow up and maim you, uncle Lyosha, he will chase you through the streets just as you do now, but nobody'll feel sorry for you, because you yourself are to blame for." Then Sashka abruptly turned and walked out, loudly shutting the door, and behind the door there expanded uncle Lyosha's drunken swears with curses toward all Jews in general and the Feldmans family in particular. On the way home, Sashka reminded to Zheka: “Remember what I told him. So will be, Mockej will cripple him, but I don’t care for, I feel sorry for Seryozhka, whom this drunken swine will spoil the life." Zheka trailed along behind and thought, "where, just where from does this lad take the courage to talk like that to a drunken uncle Lyosha, and why is he so sure Seryozhka's life will go wrong?"

Mockej was the best on trees climbing, it was no equal to him here. There were a lot of fruit trees growing right on the streets in the old districts of Tashkent, so the arrival of summer meant his temporary paradise. He could be stuffing himself all days long with cherries and hawthorn, apples and apricot plums; actually, the fruits were almost not ripen and were sour, but the hungering wamble and stomach growl becalmed, and for a short there came a pleasant fullness inside, instead of an usual emptiness. It happened, Sashka's father obtained two vouchers to a children summer camp and offered Mockej to go there with Sasha. Mockej never was in pioneer camps and happily agreed, but remained for only half a term. Later Sashka, in Mockej presence, told Zheka, Sergey had to sit under a sheet in his bed, because the pioneer-counselor of their camp-squad confiscated his pants. Here, as everywhere, Mockej did not go down the line, climbed trees, got into a swimming pool at unprescribed times, and used to loiter around near the canteen, pilfering bread and butter, hence being a gross disturber of a communal order. He teased with the boys from the other squads, then he tussled with them, and in case he felt he could be beaten, he would rush to Sasha for help, though most often was guilty himself. Pretty soon, not only the counselor, but generally everyone, including Sasha, got wearied and bored by his antics, so when aunt Maria visited him the closest weekend, and he nagged whiningly he was so sick and bad in the camp, everyone gladly decided he would be better at home. That same evening, he got pounded by a drunken daddy, and his life run to an ordinary path, where for sure there was no and would be no marchings in in columns and rows, neither songs near the inevitable ritual evening bonfire, this pioneerly happiness was abhorrencely rejected by Seryoga-Mockej immediately at once and forever ever. Moñkej was much more pleased of lopping about on Tezikovka with occasional gains, climbing trees, of stealing and drinking, taking anasha -hashish, and the school he abandoned in the seventh grade, and such like, what and which ultimately make up a fate, pebble by pebble, step by step.

In mind and soul, Seryoga had a dream, a bicycle with small motor, he saw such wonders. An engine starts working from turning the pedals, and here you are, come on drive and roll, while there is a fuel in the tank. He often pursued his father requesting to buy such a bicycle. Finally, after a successful bargain, uncle Lyosha unfastened for his son a sum enough to buy - no, not a new one, but a very worn second-hand bicycle with a rattle-stuttering engine. Now Mockej had a goal and a sense in life. All days long he spent repairing his bike and its motor, which constantly sneezed and clogged. Sergey rode his clunker a day or couple of days a week, and the rest of the time the pedal horse was standing in stall and in repair, that lasted for almost three months. Anyway, due to the hands and patience of Mokej, the restored bike dashed forward; happy the motor doesn’t sneeze or wheeze, he accelerated the car so much he lost control and flew into a large aryk at full speed. A broken arm, bumps and abrasions were the result. Mockej's hand got shackled in a gypsum, the bumps and abrasions went off on their own, the bicycle could not be restored, hence it was to be simply thrown out. Since then, Zheka could not recall Mokei was still interested in anything other than port wine and anasha, and therefore moved more and more away, yet Seryoga obtained a new friend, Yurka Samara, who was older and became an authority for him. It was of Samara's ball-hit Mockej got through the events which led him to a jail bunk and determined the coming years vector.

Chapter 4


Years went by. Zheka got amused by literature, he read with delight and even tried to compose something himself, his lyric-melancholic verses were very popular with his female classmates; the boys were already staring at the girls' legs and swollen breasts, while the girls understood what their strength was and twirled the stagging cockerels just as 'd liked to. Zheka dropped in at Feldmans' more and more thickly. They had a rich library, and Sashka cheerly let him to grazing in and to borrow different books. Sashka himself preferred a technical literature containing lots of schemes and formulas with calculations. The “question of lyricists and physicists” was of acute actuality those days, and, just to make things sharpen, it was physicists took the lyric primacy in this struggle. They were the first to listen to the bards, they were the first to learn about the novelties on the bookshelves, and, for some reason, the girls liked them more. Maybe it only seemed to Zheka, but the utterly definite physicist Sashka outranged Zheka's lyricism hundred-percent in romantic field. Several times Zheka dropped to Sasha, but he was not home, to Zheka's questions where he could be, Sasha's mother answered: “walks around”.
Zheka puzzled to guess where his friend disappears, because Sasha’s hobbies and leisures were always and everywhere accompanied by Zheka’s vivid participation, - and suddenly! Zheka decided to find out, by all means.

One evening, after an unsuccessful attempt to catch Sashka at home, he was wandering near the "Udarnik" cinema, and saw them, his friend Sashka with an unfamiliar girl. How to approach, what to say? And whether it is convenient, they could think, he followed them purposely. Zheka was about to slip away, but Sashka also saw a friend. A couple came sloser, and Sasha just said: "We are up to watch some movie, here, meet Dina, she is my Mom's student, by the way, she is engaged in artistic gymnastics, and she is a candidate for master of sport, and besides, she studies a violin in the Uspensky school, it's nearby, on Kafanov street." The girl looked at Zheka with mild curiosity and smiled. Zheka also tried to look at her, and when their eyes met, Zheka felt his heart fell down, and it was both painful and wonderful, and somehow it was impossible to explain, he just wanted to look into these eyes more and again, the eyes deep as an abyss, like a profound gulf, Zheka had never met such gaze in his life. And the girl was quite pretty, slim, with a beautiful sports figure, and all so clean, so well-groomed, well... not at all alike Shanghai skank or hustler. Zheka intented to say something, since the pause longed too much, but his mouth produced a muffled and blurred bleating only, thus he blushed and fell silent anew. Sasha tried to defuse the condensing awkwardness: "Well, 'd you join us?" But Zheka instantly comprehended, Sashka said it just out of politeness, but actually he was not eager to have Zheka tagging along them: “I'll drop to you tomorrow,” - his shut breath finally burst out; he goodbyed and left, letting a last glance at the girl. All the way home, he recalled Dina’s amazing eyes and mused over the new that appeared in his beloved friend's life with this unimaginably marvelous girl. Zheka never envied Sasha, perceivingly accepting a second role, and when Sashka was the first to get the first colour photo, and when his transistor receiver earned, and his glider flew - Zheka always understood and respected all the friend's virtues, his almost tangible superiority and primacy, but now… Now Zheka was jealous and envied, with some kind of evilly hard and severe envy, incomprehensible even by himself, and he no way could mentally give up this girl to a friend, nor, unconsciously, give up his dearest friend to this gal. Dina, an amazing creature, so agitated his psyche, he could not and would not be able to abandon her, even in the name of a friend, even aware this is "a friend's girl"; and a friend should be his and only his friend. Since the very moment Zheka saw Dina, she occupied all his thoughts, he was tormented and gnawed by the thought, why did she choose Sashka, why not someone else? That's could be a case he would struggle for love, but here... does he get any chance? Sashka is more interesting and attractive, but he’s some rational, some earthly, too reasonable, kind of this way ... and she’s so airy, so romantic, loving art and poetry... Zheka didn’t doubt for a second Dina was of such nature, and his imagination was painting her image so dreamily and so amorous-lyrically ...



Zheka suffered sorely; at nights, looking at the stars, he was composing his unpretentious "romantic" poems, and once decided to read them, oh no, not to Dina, the muse of his creativity and dreams, but to Sashka. Having carefully listened to the poems, Sasha said the verses are rather nice, but he understands very little about it, but Dina could appreciate all the merits. At this moment Zheka was up to tell Sasha he dedicated these verses to Dina, and he loves her madly, but something stopped him and he did not dare. Two passions were fighting in his soul, the new toward Dina and the old toward Sasha; Zheka treasured both and could not afford to be deprived of any. This girl, who so abruptly entered his life, attracted and tempted him, he dreamed about her at nights, her enchanting bewitching eyes pursued him through daytimes, amidst of thinking or doing something - he always saw her face, as live, like real. He desired only one thing: to see her once, mere one trice, and then...

The chance occurred unexpectedly. Zheka came to his friend for another book and found him talking to his mother, she was convincing Sashka to go to the republican competitions in rhythmic gymnastics. Sashka refused, arguing he doesn't like this girly sport much, all those jump ropes, ribbons and balls. As if casually, Sasha's mom mentioned, "Dina will act there also, she will compete for the master of sports title, and she invites you, too." At hearing Dina's name, Sasha instantly agreed, "may I come?" - Zheka panted out of sudden boldness. "Well, of course!" - Sashka's mom replied. So Zheka happened up at artistic gymnastics competitions in a large gym. Mostly females were present. There were also several men, but the young guys, like Zheka and Sashka, were few. The sportsgirls, worn colourful suits, with balls and ribbons, crowded in front of the main dais, many knew Sasha, they were greeting him modestly and running away, while chirping and tittering softly. Zheka realized Sashka felt confused at this girly meeting, - and both himself barged in and dragged in his pal. But Zhekà liked it here. For the first time he saw so lots of graceful slender figurines, bare shoulders and pretty cuties, and he has not happened earlier to see how deftly bodies arched when gymnasts caught a hoop or a ball, how precisely along the music they flew over the platform, freezing for a tiny moment to get a string or a mace at the exact time. In general, he liked the competitions very much, and especially Dina's performance, Zheka said it to Sashka straight she should become the republic champion.

Dina did not become a champion, she got only the third place, after some Khalilova and Sergeychenko, but the fact she nevertheless took one of the prize places guaranteed her the master of sports title. Sasha said so, and he also asked not to tell Dina how great her acting was, “pretend you understand nothing in it, and just rejoice in her success." Sashka himself was disappointed and angry, he whispered with his mother for a while, and several times louder than usual repeated, “rascals, what the rascals.” The game was over, the athlete-girls were awarded their medals, and Dina accompanied by Sasha and Zheka went home. Starry night, pleasant warm night ... The tram delayed, so they decided to go on foot, on the road they chatted about some trifles, joked and laughed, and Zheka feasted his eyes on the girl who occupied all his thoughts recent days. Zheka walked beside her and felt he was needless here, that if he were not there, Sashka and Dina would have talked about something they were silent in his presence; maybe that's why he tried to draw friends into light chatter, told jokes, and offered to recite poems. Sasha looked at the sky. The moon brightly illuminated the night and low big stars. "See, what an unusual night, yes, Zheka, recite poems, but yours, please."

That Zheka did not expect. Yours ... but they are so raw, and he is not a poet at all... He was afraid to read these verses, and they were for only one person, which could not suppose who they were intended for. “No, I'd better read to you from Asadov,” - and he declaimed, with voice trembled of excitement:
At evening, when gardens were smelling of foliage,
A star burned without blinking.
One boy went through town with a beautiful girl,
Just up to the home her seeing.


They reached Dina’s place, it was already late, but there was no wish to part, he would want to stand by a just little more, to hear her gentle voice and laughter, and that voice pronounced, like sentenced: “Well, boys, here I came home, thank you for a wonderful evening." When Dina disappeared into the staircase, Sashka glanced gratefully at his friend gratefully: "Thank you, you don't even understand how you supported Dina and helped me." Zheka really did not realized what his support and help consisted of, but since the friend said, hence he helped somehow, and this brought yet better feeling and joy to his soul.

Chapter 5

Bright sun shines into the window, the roof waterflows. It is a snow that fell at night now is springely melting. The strings falling down the gutters cheerfully beat off the melody - boom, beem, bang ...

Zheka opens his eyes, he is in high spirits, he is warm and well. The dream he saw all night was so real, so sweet and sensual, that when he woke up, Zheka felt an incredible surge of strength. He dreamed of her. He didn't have such pure dreams for long time, mostly drunken fights and local sluts in dirty poses, but today he saw her, wearing a dark blue sports swimsuit, flying over the dais, and waving a red ribbon, she was so light, so fragile and lucent, it was scaring to touch her. And they talked on something, he looked into her eyes adoringly and felt smart and strong. And then her laughter, dimples on her cheeks, he takes a courage and kisses her with his dry lips on the cheek, she blushes, but does not push him off, does not say something offensive, she just looks with the bottomless surprise. He attempts to pronounce something in his defense - and wakes up. It's time to get up and go to school; it's the last year, then there 'd be a grown-up free-flying life, now it's time to decide what to do, where to head. The only thing should be avoided by any means is the army with its hazing, why, lots of guys came back crippled, and actually everybody know, but keep silenced. Recently, Zheka met one lad from his street, he was older and after school was going to enter the construction faculty in the Tashkent Polytech, well, what means was going, he just dreamed and strove, but did not get enough points, so they made him to go into the army, and there he, snared dovelet, was enlisted to serve on a submarine. A half-year for preparation - and there you are on march.

"They put us under water for three months, then lifted and urged to the homepoint at the base. Well, got there, all sent hurriedly to med board, and white cards for all. Revealed, the reactor was leaking, and the boys and I fetched a dose, so we have all but a bit lifetime remained." The guy pulled off his cap, and Zheka saw an absolutely bald skull, though formerly he was shaggy, like a sylvan puck, and he also said that no one got to be answered for that, and they had been assigned some kind of mocking penny as pension. "And what the hell do I need their fucken pension for, I wanna live!" They moved to the glassy-caff, there they took a beer and vodka.

From that day, Zheka decided to cut off the army at any cost, and the most foolproof way was to enter the university. He still hesitated on the university choice, his father thought the best profession was an engineer, but technology was not Zhen'ka's sweet cup of tea, and his beloved history could not provide thingish material well-being. Okay, it's time to get up and get to school, there he should meet his friends, Sashka and Mockej, they planned to bug out the last lesson today and go to the cinema to watch the new movie “The Key”, which was not recommended for children under sixteen, - but they are almost about there, even the whiskers are almost seen, and they even started to shave, so there would be no complications. He barely stepped into the school building as he was invited to the teachers' room. "What for?" -  Zhenya traipsed to the staffroom, perplexed and stretching the corridors and time.

In the office, at a large solemn table, he saw Vera Semyonovna their class master, and some younglet whom he did not know. There was something loathly-grim about her, but what - Zheka could not define. "Instructor of the district Komsomol committee Lyudmila Savelyeva," - she introduced herself. “Here's the matter, one of your students, a former Komsomol member,” - she stressed “a former”, - decided to move to Israel, that aggressive country, which tries to destroy our friendly Arab states. Why I turned specifically to you - your class teacher said you used to be friends with Feldman. And he turned a traitor of the Motherland. You, being an honest and devoted Komsomol member, will have to condemn his betrayal and by the way repent on you failed to recognize a person, who hates our country that gave him a happy and cloudless childhood and youth - in your former friend." Zheka sat with his head low and was silent. “On entering the classroom, you should not sit at the desk with your former friend, he should feel his complete isolation and universal contempt for him. Is it clear?" Zheka raised his eyes at the instructor and quietly said: "I cannot do it." An instructor gave haughtily shrug-shuddered a shoulder and widely outspread her eyes:
- Now what is it you cannot? Don't you understand, all time you were close to an enemy hating our country?
- Why hating? Sashka is nice guy, and it's not at all his fault; if his parents decided to go, he just obliged to go with them.
- Well, no, "obliged to go with them." Alexander is a grown up man with his own opinion. By the way, the father, also a former party member, also spoke at a meeting of his former party cell; he said, he is obliged to go to his wife's relatives, as if she is the only spot lighted in the world, and he cannot find a new worthy woman here. Yeah, I see, these Jews greatly confused your head. You got to understand, the Jewish nationality and nation have always been alien to our ideals, they always considered themselves strangers here, no matter what we did and have done or are doing for them. They cunningly shuffle us in trust, they lie that they are faithful to our values and ideals, and in fact they despise them, we become victims of vile and cunning deceit, and you must say this, too. And else. Think about your future, these traitors and scumming scum would leave, when you 'd stay to live here. You see, the very fact you were friends with a Motherland traitor puts a stain on your reputation already, and you, instead of renouncing and stigmatizing this Jew, still defend him. Well, we can think about your stay in the ranks of the Lenin Komsomol.

Her last words made it clear, would he not follow the instructor's directions - his further life would go awry, and now his fate is at a stake, too, not only Sashka's. And what about the institute or university? They might do everything, they could report there - and that's it, there would be a closed end. As if she read what Zheka pondered upon, instructor Savelyeva suddenly queried what are his plans after school: "I'd presume you wanna go to some college," - she mentioned like of nowhere. “They got everything well-counted in advance,” - thought flashed through, and Zheka breathed out hoarsely, “OK, agree.” 

Then he could not yet know, doling into the exhibited scale bowls his supposed well-being and the friend betrayal, how this case would turn his life and what an awry wryness would it involve. And what a hatred he will develop in reply to a disgust by the one he is in love - and thus he will hate not just her, but all this tribe. Vera Semyonovna intervened in the conversation, smelling that Zheka got scared and could do stupidities: "You see, you just attempt to help your friend to realize the whole badness of his act, suppose he cannot but go with his parents, but even if he does, he must grow a feeling of opposing, he must take this departure bitterly, resenting those who push him to this, and therefore don't you try to convict him of treason - of these there will be many besides you at a meeting, you'd better try to convince him of what and how much he loses when he leaves, because he was born and grew up here.” After Vera Semyonovna statements, Zheka's mind clarified, and there turn kind of light in his head. Indeed, why to blame a friend, no, he saves him, he warns him, "Sashka, do not make this mistake, an error you'll pay for dearly and greatly!"

Sashka stood at the classboard and looked straight into his accusers' eyes. The accusers were represented by a gaggle of slackers and low-scorers, altogether potential drunks, worthy change of their dads at the notorious glassy-caff. From their blamings and sentences it revealed Sashka does not like Russian literature and history, hates the country that saved their nation from the fascists, despises the socialist system, and is ready to kill defenseless Arab brothers in the name of the accursed and militant Israeli imperialism. Their well teamed choir was conducted and inspired by instructor Savelyeva. Finally, when the denunciation stream began to dry up, Zheka rose, Sashka tensed and stared at him with wide-open eyes. “Alexander was my friend,” - he began throaty, - “I tried in every way and by all means to help him see in our society not only bad things, not only a glassy-caff with drunk hollyhooks and conks, but also the wonderful achievements of our country and its bright future. I will not hush up the fact, Sasha, under his parents' influence, often criticized and spoke harshly about the country, which gave him the opportunity to study and take a worthy place here, and I tried to help him to figure out that much depends on himself, that we should not evaluate so one-sidedly our beautiful soviet reality, yet still not ideal. I think, now we should not attack him, but try to explain him all the mischief he is up to commit." The more Zheka talked, the more the produced an impression that Sasha was a victim of fraud, and he would be very, very sorry for that deed. The longer Zheka spoke, the more everyone became assured, it was Sashka who brazenly betrayed and trampled on friendship, and framed up Zheka, a good and hearted guy, a true patriot of the motherland. Sasha's departure moved somewhere vaguely far away, now everyone compassioned with Zhenya, who of his naive frankness trusted a vile deceiver for whom there is nothing sacred. Sashka was excluded from the Komsomol and from school, and he was not allowed to pass the final exams. The meeting ended, Sasha came up to Zheka and said quietly: “Never would I have thought you 're such a coward.” That were the last Sasha's words to Zheka, the words that were slapped his face, the words Zheka could never forget.

Jhurah closed his eyes again and kind of dozed off, “coward!”, - flew in his mind. Yes, the voice is right, although he has done so much, so many victories over the hated enemy. A coward, since all his victories are deceits and murders from behind the corner.

Part 2. Youth.

It is hard to believe, but quite recently gardens were blooming here, birds were chirping, well-kept villas stood under tiled roofs. All the splendor was destroyed by the cursed Israelis shamefully fled from the liberated territories.  Many liberation movement heroes secretly hoped to take some booty, that's, to grab some goody things left by the hated Zionist enemies, but all they received instead were the mountains of debris in littered dumps and abandoneds. "So what did we achieve with our calls for liberation, what kind of freedom, and, most important, what benefits and advantages did we get? Did we, at least, managed to feed them, our inspired fighters and strugglers? Did we succeed to give'em prestigious high-paid jobs, or any, or maybe nice comfortable houses? No, no again, and a definite no. We just summon them anew and again to fight and war the damned Zionists, but till what limit can we, there should be a dead line, one day people would understand what kind of swamp we are pulling them in." Jhurah leaned against the damp wall and watched an outside scene.

Chapter 1

Zhenya failed to save his friend. Both the words seemed to be correct, and he did not cauterize his ex-friend by the shame of betrayal, but somehow occurred, it's him, Zheka, was the main victim of his gullibility, and that's him, not Sasha, was the hurted in this story. Instructor Savelyeva jubilated stressing the meanness of the nationality, which loveful Soviet people warmed in bosom. Since then, Zheka and Sashka have not met, the Feldmans were busy preparing for departure, and for Zheka there were times of preparation for the final exams. The only thing Zheka thought and dreamed of was meeting Dina and telling her how unhappy he is to lose his friend, and he is guilty for nothing, and how hard he suffers, and only she can help him. But Dina was constantly not alone, now she was accompanied by her friends, now by a mustached man, so Zheka never could get a chance talking to her. Despaired, he plotted to snatch her at the staircase entrance and finally talk to her. He was waiting for more than two hours when he noticed two shadows fleeting in the courtyard. Zheka was ready to come out from behind a tree, where he hanged for almost all evening, but Dina was not alone again, so he dragged a bit. Dina was with Sashka. So, she continues to meet with him, with that one who, by state's definition, betrayed its interests, with him who run there, to the West. “You fool, what a fool you are,” - he muffled, - “He will go and leave you, and you will stay here with all the problems await you to be coming. He will enjoy it there in full bliss, and he'll be happily ignorant you are under special agencies close watch, he'd forget both you and your love as soon as he gets there."

He did not approach, did not say all this. Why? Why? Got afraid, frightened that Sashka would push-pop a good'one on his phiz? No, - he suddenly realized Sashka is not this way, that he would not forsake and would not forget, that he loves her, and she does, and thus believes him boundlessly. "Well then, I'll speak out to her when he leaves." And that day has come.

The fact the Feldmans are already leaving, Zheka knew from Mockej. It turns out Seryoga also didn't break ties with the Motherland traitors and even helped them selling off some things on Tezikovka. Making his best not to be pictured of, Zheka bore himself to the station, where a small group of the most hard-cored, the most courageous, and who had nothing to lose (except chains) accompanied the Feldmans family. Zheka hid behind the concrete pillar to observe in comfortable position. Sashka looked strangely-distracted and all the time was searching someone by his eyes. Dina came, - and he changed. Smiling, he spoke something to her passionately, Dina listened and silently nodded, finally, Sasha clasped her hands and kissed them, then went into the car, and the train started off. All little crowd tailed after the departing train, waving arms and shouting.

“He left, left forever. Would I ever have a chance to meet him? ..” - Dina dawdled along the emptied platform, the tears she was hardly holding back in his presence now flew uncontrollably. Zheka saw subtle body shuddering of sobs, saw the eyes filled with tears… He should, he simple shall to approach and speak to her, he must say he loves her and would never abandon her alone, and departed Sashka will forget of her tomorrow, and here is him, close nearby, ready and able for everything to her. Zheka came off his shelter and went straight to her, for some reason she was not surprised, just the tears disappeared, and her eyes lighted with hatred and contempt: "You? What are you doing here? Are you gonna report also on me? So know, I'm not frightened. You want to stay clean with this regime, well, up to you, or the more you deliver, the cleaner you would?" Zheka tried to say something in his excuse, tried to warn her about the coming threats and troubles, but she wouldn't listen. "I do not want to be like you, I despise you, do not follow me, you are a cowardy sneak and a scunk." Zheka clenched his fists till pained: “Eh, if would you not being a girl ...”  - he thought, - “Now it's over, you'll regret your words bitterly, but it will be late, too late.” With no answer, he turned and away walked quickly. "Throw away, thrush her out of a head, out of life, never ever remember her name, I hate her, I hate her buddy Sashka and this whole Jewish tribe, uncle Lyosha is right, they are all ungrateful rascals poisoning our life, and I - I know how to get a revenge."

Chapter 2

Here is a final school bell. That's it, childhood is over, it's time to hit the road, the life, with all its difficulties, roughness, turns and potholes, ups and downs, but most important - with its uncertainty. Although all the steps seemed pre-predictable and predetermined. The step to the right or left still seemed an unthinkable deviation and impossible as such, the army of socialism builders marched along the usual routine path marked from above, everything looked unshakable, like great Lenin's pillar and the next Communist Party congress with triumphant reports. Small single exceptions were considered as temporary weather difficulties and whims of mentally unbalanced freaks and parasites. An average citizen was reliably fenced off from doubts by newspaper editorials and broadcasts, metered and inspected, like delivery to a zone fenced off from a world teeming with a malicious infection and objects not allowed inside. It was 1975, the year of the heyday of stagnancy with empty stores shelves, identical newspaper columns and pages, glorifying the wise policy of the party and its wise leader, the dear Leonid Ilyich. The fate decreed that each of the friends was prepared for his own way. Sashka left with his parents; Mockej, who already had several police reports, was to stand trial for the beating of some chap, and his parents frantically searched for money to take the rap; Zheka poured over textbooks and studied for admission to the institute. Lean over the books, Zheka was abstracting off Dina, but when his head was gotten puffed up with an information, his thoughts were returning to her inevitably. The task of striking her out of his life was not coped. Taking himself to stroll and take a break from formulas and theorems at the evenings, he was drawing to her house as in oblivion driven by an autopilot. When he 'd coming up, he realized where his legs led, he 'd remind himself he swore off meeting her, and, hiding like a shadow at the corners or behind the trees, he watched out from afar would her shadow flicker.

Several times he got the luck to see her returning home, but he did not dare to come up and speak, he memorized that day when she didn't want to hear his explanation and rudely insulted him. Zheka supposed, would he confess her why he did the way he did, she would understand and 'd become more cautious in interactions with Sashka, but everything turned out differently, now she saw him an enemy only, well, thus he should forget her forever.

Zheka passed the final tests and started preparations for the admission and enrollment. Those years, few people would enter the university due to a good stock of knowledge and a suite brains. It was necessary to be either a "valuable national resource person", or to have a sufficient pull and a big palm behind; there was an unofficial percent barrier for many categories, and some higher educational institutions generally would not accept anyone besides the local, that is, representatives of a republic indigenous population. A college Zheka chose was training railway engineers. Here an admissions committee was more or less tolerant and loyal toward the applicants, and this school was not that asked among local. Having estimated all pros and contras, Zheka carried his documents there. However, there he 'd have to compete with some Shmukler what was not an easy piece. Yet, even when Shmukler 'd get only the highest marks at the prelims, while non-Shmukler went on the solid mids, a mediocre would be given a preference in counting points, since there was an implicit separate percentage norm created for Shmuklers, besides, Zheka secretly hoped for the instructor Savelyeva's help. He passed the exams so-so, two Cs, in physics and mathematics, were not balanced by A on essay, and in the best case, a place in the evening department would brightly shining for him, but he scrapely scraped some courage with audacity inside self and stepped toward the district committee to meet Savelyeva. On the way, he bought flowers and rolled up to an appointment with a complaint against these the Shmuklers, who passed the exams with As and Bs and moved him aside, and though he's not local, but still Russian, and those don't let him to study at the full-time department. Savelyeva, having taken a bunch, blossomed her face and promised to sort it out.

He spent the whole summer in trepid, and at the beginning of August, on the day when the lists of enrolled were to be posted, went to the institute. Summer heat, girls in short light-colored dresses with blood-stirring open shoulders and ankles, boys in white shirts with short sleeves, playing with pumped up biceps, a crowd in the courtyard of the institute - one couldn't be propelled; many came with their parents, everybody walk with nervously anxious faces, the guys smoke, like real-n-true smokers, the girls drink water, twitching at every call and hail. Finally, an institute secretary appeared at the front gates with assistants who began to hang lists on bulletin boards. There were a lot of lists and a lot of boards, sheets were hung out according to faculties and groups. The crowd rushed to the boards, some happily exclaimed and jumped from joy, some frankly wiped away tears, yet some had tensely sought out their names, vaguely hoping for an error in the secretariat. Zheka unhurriedly walked up to the board where his last name should have been.

He found himself at the very bottom of the list. His surname was brighter than the others and, with a closer look, it was imprinted on the place of some erased and deleted word. “Shmukler, probably,” - Zheka presumed somewhat gloating, - “Let's go and check, as the lists of the evening students should also be submitted.” He sighted to the next board. That's is, here, too, the surname "Shmukler" is brighter than all others. He spotted a swarthy lad with curly black head and sad eyes and smiled cheerly at him, apparently the guy fetched something, he turned away and quietly wandered off the institute yard.

Chapter 3

Zheka was poor student, and if someone would objectively assesse his engineer apts and skills, he would be the main candidate to fly out after the first semester. Upon starting to study in the institute, he himself realized he got into not his sleigh, but now, for not to be cut out, he had to find a hitch - an opportunity to keep on. Social activity, strongly supported by instructor Savelyeva, became a rescue float. Zheka quickly became the Komsomol leader of the group and a member of the Komsomol bureau at the faculty, he actively wrote articles to the institute newspaper and actively distributed Party and Komsomol propaganda to his comrades and fellow students. The social work got Zheka rolled and twirled, his presence at lectures and seminars was marked less and less often, he got up himself just before the semester exams, he woke up - and realized he still is one of the first candidates to fire. Not because he would not be given good or even very good marks on the examination period, it was all set, his patron Savelyeva and the secretary of the institute Komsomol organization had already taken care. There taught at the faculty a certain principled professor Livshits, - this one stated straight he would achieve an expulsion of the brazen truant and idler from the institute. "Do you want to hold that ignorant doer, who, moreover, learns nothing, till the graduation? And yet more, do you imply to prize him with a diploma on an engineer degree? But never!" And, though the highest ranks did their best persuading him, the nasty kike would agree to no compromises. The matter came up to the rector, he summoned Livshits to his office, the two had an extended conversation, and the very day Zheka was supposed to take the exam, the stubborn professor got ill. The exam was hold by an assistant, who took a brief glance at Zheka’s report card, drawn out “B”, signed, and returned the record, while Zheka, upon leaving the classroom, met the secretary of the faculty Komsomol committee who was already waiting for him. Zheka immediately was appointed for an urgent and responsible task of preparing for the company of cotton gather and providing help rural workers.

Making intense and extensive calls for assistance to rural working people, Zheka himself did not get wet on the harvest battlefields, he did not get frozen in the damp barracks where the students were accommodated, he did not drink aryk water and did not catch flu and dysentery. He used to jump on through the sites where his comrades struggled, collected a monthly data, and left, with papers in hug, to fill reports to the district committee, city committee and the Komsomol Central Committee of the republic. Greased and furnished with quotations from party congresses and plenums, supported by tables numeraturologieness, the circular was to be put on the desks of senior comrades on   the communist guild, they approvingly clicked tongues about these achievements in Moscow, while the auditor-and-benefactor could enjoy a freedom and of doing-nothing with a sense of accomplishment. Sometimes he dropped by the auditorium to watch after the amateur rehearsals, sometimes he was to the student newspaper editorial office where his article was to be published. Most often he was seen in the district committee at Savelyeva. There he was announcing not about newspaper calculations, neither he reported victorious achievements nor summaries with bloated paperish digits, there he talked about moods and disgruntles among students. He reported on those who were not eager to go to cotton picking and obtained a fake doctor's certificate, about those who did not want to participate in student construction brigades, about those who did not willingly subscribe to party and Komsomol periodicals, and the like. The students he named ceased receiving a scholarship, failed on the examinations, or even were expelled from the institute. Meanwhile Zheka persistently climbed up, becoming faculty Komsomol bureau secretary, a member of the institute Komsomol bureau, the institute Komsomol committee deputy secretary, receiving appreciation certificates and awards for an active participation in the institute social life.

"Komsomol members answered the wise decisions of the Party and its distinguished leader, dear Leonid Ilyich Brezhnev, with hard work and successful studies! We are in unison and by united effort, purposefully, with growing enthusiasm! ..." - The words flowed like from a horn of abundance, a pity, there was no abundance, life was getting worse and sadder. "All together, in a friendly united order, without fear of difficulties! We will fulfill and overfulfill, we will build, we will harvest, we will overcome! Is this not the main task of the student youth! ..."

Written once, at Savelyeva's dictation, the speechificative performance was ready-useful for all occasions, only a specific reason for and of declaring and proclaiming enthusiastic slogans was changing. “United in gushful enthusiasm, we shall face up along and embrace the wise decisions of the XXIII or XXIV Congress of the Party, or the October, December, etc. Plenum of the CPSU Central Committee!”; “we will mark the birthday of the great Lenin with a shock-work studying!” or “the working people international solidarity day,” or whatever crucial date, etc., etc., and so on. All this was pronouncing with a seething Komsomol enthusiasm in the voice, in order to ignite the hearts of those who should been to conquer Siberian impassable swamps or cut down the woods in the taiga to build BAM, who were to harvest cotton-potato-beet-corn and to construct cowsheds and chicken coops, delighting rural nothing-doers with a for-free laborer-force, while living uptill three months in hutments and catching lice on the unwashed bodies. And all this crap of verbiage was carried to the masses by vigorous Party and Komsomol propagandists, like Zheka, who did not go anywhere, neither farmed or harvested, nor built or constructed. Their job was to harvest an information about the "hardy-storm labor" and pass it to the Komsomol committee of the institution - the narrator's port of registry, they forwarded the reports to the district Komsomol and Party sections, there the papers were furthered to the city organizations, and so on along the chain - by steps on a ladder up to the very top. Sometimes those at the top were not happy with the digits, and then a directive like "to speed up, increase, enhance, pump up" was thrown off down. Then Zheka (like any similar mass amuser-inspirer) was coming to a hardy-labors constructions' site, or on a harvest field, maximum for a day or two, made a fiery speech, showingly storming a shovel or zealously collecting half a sack of cotton, after that heroical deeds he usually went with a foreman into a foreman's palace-wagon, got a bottle of brandy and a snacks from the portfolio - and the next day departed to his stamping grounds with the new report, with rectified-and-corrected data, with new figures, and there already was an acceleration, and an increase, and an enhancement. The bosses were happy, the indications rates rushed sharply up, the percentage calculations closed with overdo, thus, Zheka saved his bacon, too, getting more than return of the spent on brandy. And another thing: revolving in the rulering circles, he saw their toadyism, their servility and subservience, their duplicity and double gaming, all the backstage-underhand dealings which emanated such a stench, as if each and everything there was generously and even abundantly smeared with shit, neatly covered by beautiful meaningless words and Party licenses skin. Sometimes Zheka got deadly nausea, he wanted to quit it all and go far away, to get rid of Savelyeva constantly smiling and giving instructions, one sillier than other, of the rector and faculty dean sweetly sipping tea at a holiday appointed on the occasion of the dean's younger son circumcision, and off all that leading comrades' bunch.

Chapter 4

Mockej shoot up almost two meters, he was strong, with buffed bicepses and explosive temper. His love for fights loured threateningly not only over the streets nearby, but was scaring the whole surrounding area. Having dropped out of school in the eighth grade, he was engaged in the resale of stolen junk. Tezikovka became his second home, there he gamed big together with his chum Samara. Actually, any day Mockej could be taken to the army, and then a well-established business could fall down. He was apt to feign a moron, but Samara dissuaded, he said, here's no such a thing, one was normal at a medical check, and here you go, now a moron, they would put in a madhouse all right, and you just never would get out and truely go nuts. "There is a better case, just need to brain well over, you go serve, and we here arrange your release clear in full and without some crazy hut." And Seryoga went up to serve. Farewells stretched out for almost two weeks. Seeres him off were drinking in such a way that, perhaps, the whole district got informed Mockej conscripted, cause as he got drunk, Mockej harassed, provoked and disturbed everyone he could see. If someone showed discontentment, a tussle began, not hard-beat, just to teach and slightly frighten, cause they all were pals. And for last, Mockej has married a couple of pints, he was that stallion as it was, and the chicks used to hang about him, and here was such an occasion gotten. When you could experience carnal joys, after all, you go hell know where to for damn two years. Having fill his boots full with fun, Mockej found himself in a construction battalion deployed in the Kazakh steppe, almost a hundred kilometers to the nearest village. In a strong drunken stupor, the recruits took sits in the wagons, and for another two days, on a way to base, they drank and loaded by homemade eatables. On arrival, the recruits were placed in a separate "quarantine" barrack until the oath. Here well-pumped and apt to fight Mockej felt the taste of powering force, getting humiliated those weaker. But there is a termed time for everything, after taking the oath Sergey was put in a platoon with senior servicemen, here the "olders" established their order; Mockej tried to blather up, and a pay-off was not long in coming. At night, Mockej was raised and taken to the latrine, there five not less inflated olders were setting him to the right concepts, and Mockej, although he was used to the fights' blows, was tumbling around and writhing on the floor, in snot and bloody, and just whined plaintively that he understood everything, but please beat no more. This way Mockej got his first army lesson and digested that main commanders for newbies like him are the “olders”, since even sergeants after served six months and finished a sergeant school do not risk conflict with 'em. After this lesson, Mockej got into the med unit, where he was enchantedly repeating a spell, he slipped and fell while in the dining's storeroom, and the boilers and pots toppled down over him from the shelves. Mockej went from the medical unit hushed and peaced and risked pushing for rights in front of the like spru-dudes only, zealously obeying and servicing the "oldies".

Meanwhile, Samara persuaded a young telegraph girl, and a telegram, with a faked doctor signature, flew to the location of the Mockej's base, bearing a message: Maria, Sergey's mother, met a railway accident, now she is in the critical state and asks her son to come to farewell. Holding this telegram, Mockej reported himself before a commander and asked for a short-term leave. The commander grumbled, but he was not a beast - the mother is the mother! - and gave a permission. Altogether there was a week, taking in mind the road, and Mockej started preparing to go home. The whole evening the grieving son hung around with a mournful look, smoked cigarettes one after another and sighed out loudly; even the olders did not disturb him, commiserating with sorrow. In the morning, Mockej went to the county center, there planes to Alma-Ata flew, from Alma-Ata he was to fly to Tashkent. There chanced an empty hour before the flight to Tashkent, and to pass the time, Mockej paced into the nearest store and picked a bottle of vodka. Still in the store, Mockej noticed some vagrant who avidly eyed on the glass-grenade and the process of placing it in the bag. Moñkej came off the store, the tramp followed him, and with affable smile, suddenly bleated, yes, just bleated: "Bro, but they won't let you in plane with vodka, why, 'd better make it gone right now." Holy crap! Why, he is right, they recently installed a baggage ransacking, and they'd't let him in with vodka, so it got to be drunk here now. Vasya the vagabond took out his pocket a processed cheese blocklet, and, with this sumptuous snack, he and Mockej gargled a bottle right out a whistle. Either from a consumed liquid, or from vacation foretaste, Mockej's spirit improved so much he was ready to sing out loudly or to burst dancing, probably namely that would have to happen, but a military patrol appeared in front of the terminal building. That would be the last thing Mickey needed. A date with a patrolman, while breathing out such fumes, was not at all desirable. For good Vasya was by side, Mockej sketched the situation in a nutshell, and Vasya, instantly got a matter, decided to pretend a compassionate relative and hurried to the boarding entrance. Of course, the patrol officer noticed Mockej, but a relative Vasya was so convincing, so sincerely shedded a tear and blamed himself for persuading Mockej to drink for the dying mother sake, that he took pity and personally escorted the mourning soldier to the plane.

As soon as Mockej entered the cabin, he sat down by the window, yawned tastily and slept all the flight. At the airport, he was welcomed by his bosom friend Samara. Samara's script was simple. Mockej arrives home, sees his mother is alive and well, he gets stress, and for that reason his mind gets disrupted - and here you are, now talk all bullshit you can invent. Upon seeing her son, aunt Maria gaped, while slightly boozy uncle Lyosha released cheerful smile, not because he saw a beloved child, but since here came a reason to have a drink. Sergey did not sit drinking with his father. He tossed away his military robe, dropped he has no time and he has some matters to do, - and disappeared behind the door. The trusty squad-gang, Samara, Sidor and Ravil the Tatar, awaited already in the yard. Samara handed Mockej a certificate from a psychiatrist, where it was written he had experienced severe stress, which led to onset of hard depression episodes, and his further remain in the army service is very problematic. How could Samara obtain this document remained a mystery, but Samara said he real had to push a big boat out, and the coins needs to be worked off, therefore today he gotta encash a batch of stock stored in Samara's flat, and that's urgent.

The rest of the day, Mockej ran and scooted about the feed-tamed points, selling stuff en gross accumulated at Samara's place, and in the evening the friends set forth to Lemonaria. There, with their fists, they taught overly inflamed youngsters on who are the real bosses here. Several ruined chairs, broken stereo, and about a dozen noses crashed quickly put everything in place and brought to senses defiant youths. Encouraged by the success, Samara and Mockej moved toward the railway institute women's dorm, there they also made a grand noise, but had to retreat soon, since the dwellers called the police. The next day the same started anew, and this way all the week of the off passed. It was the eve of the last day, when Mockej was to appear at the military registration and enlistment office and present a certificate of his illness, in order to get by a new medical examination, that he finally cropped up at home and the tragedy played a blow.

Sergey was drunk, and uncle Lyosha was far from sober as well. Seeing his son, he suggested to have another drink, peering at son's bag. Mockej pulled a bottle of expensive cognac, poured the liquid into cut-glass cups and, knocking his drink over with a volley, snacked with a cucumber. “Go on spit out what's up with you,” - the father asked, having taken his drink, too. "Full nothing, tomorrow I gonna to medboard to get invalided out, I can't stay this fucking army, and busyness piled up here." Uncle Lyosha looked at his son hately and said: "So you wanna desert, you whelp! Those like you, in the war, we mere put up against the wall, we trampled 'em like rotten bedbugs!" Now Mockej looked at the “hero” with undisguised malice: “Who trampled? You maybe? You asshole, you even weren't at the front ever.” Uncle Lyosha’s alcohol-drenched eyes got blood-drenched, he swung and slapped Mockej. Here came Mockej's turn, his fists got filled with lead, a long accrual deposited hatred showered out of the most secret depths of the mutilated soul, and he, with nary a thought, started on hitting out his precious parent. At first, Lyosha tried to defend himself, but soon he realized the forces were not equal, and shouted for help, meanwhile Mockej, knocking his dad down, wild threshed him by feet. Maria flew into the room, she attempted to drag Mockej from her husband, but Mockej beat and smashed, for sleepless nights, for spoiled childhood, for broken hands and collarbones, for street-urchin childhood with parents alive. The neighbors called the police who, upon revealing Mockej was currently in army service, summoned a military patrol. The case went to the military prosecutor's office, the prosecutor turned out to be meticulous and picky, he unearthed everything, and a dummy telegram, and a paid up certificate from a psychiatrist.

In a fight, uncle Lyosha lost an eye and then spent a long time in the hospital, healing off fractures and wounds. Although he and aunt Maria withdrew their complaint to the police, Mockej got five years, two in prison, three in the settlement. The court was sitting in private, aunt Maria received its decision by mail. Sergei temporarily disappeared, two years lapsed until he forsent a leaflet back to his parents notifying he lives in a settlement near Navoi city and works on a large-load truck, and he is up to to marry a good woman working in their dining, but dwelling in Navoi, there she has an apartment.

Zheka learned all this while aunt Maria was hiding at his parents' flat from storm-flaring one-eyed uncle Lyosha upon the routine considerable dose.

Chapter 5

Arriving at his historic homeland, Sashka and his parents were landed at the Absorption Center. It was a four-story building, the upper two floors were reserved for living rooms, and the first two were classrooms, an assembly hall and a dining room. The main task of the Center was to teach the Hebrew language basics and adapt to local realities, six months were allotted for, thereafter a repatriate was to be sent onto a freefloat. Those who managed to grab the language, and the more who had the demanded specialties, were finding a job and merged into a motley Israeli society; the others should have been content with the status of an unskilled working unit in low-paid and unprestige opportunities. The high level of Soviet education allowed doctors, electricians and electronics engineers, builders and mechanics to easily find work in the Israeli market; people who did not have the sell-wanted professions were offered retraining courses. Creative and humanities professionals have gotten in the worst circumstances; sometimes they had to move through a long and hard way to prove their need to society, but even they, in case of some pushy assertive personality traits, could find their place under a sun. Sashka’s father found a job quite quickly, and his weak clumsy Hebrew did not come an obstacle, his head and hands could silently solve and eliminate technical problems, “a mechanic is a mechanic also in Africa,” he used to joke. But Sashka's mother, with her coaching skill art, was made her way persistently for a long time, at first she organized a rhythmic gymnastics club, then demonstration shows, and just then a sports section. Israeli girls also wanted to be slim and willowy figurable, like her fosters and alumni, of which several arrived. But, perhaps, Sasha’s adaptation period was the easiest. A youth and a smarty-catching mind soon made him an Israeli.

Already after six months, Sashka tolerably chatted in Hebrew, sang songs with friends in a previously incomprehensible language, and began to study at the preparation courses to enter the university. Respect for the Russian language and literature, as well as the use of the Russian language in everyday life, was sustained in their family, while many were stating, “Hebrew and only Hebrew”, trying to eradicate memories of an ex-life along with the language and a speak-tongue of an ex-country.  In conditions when the whole environment speaks Hebrew, Russian could be easily forgotten, therefore a family decision was made to communicate in Russian among selves. A life seemed to be getting set up, only one thought tormented and disturbed him: how is Dina? Sasha wrote her long letters, sent parcels with fashionable boots and blouses, jackets and shoes, and, of course, the 'call-outs' - official invitations to visit Israel. Dina, having read and reread these letters dozens of times, putting on the blouse sent by her beloved one, wept quietly, realizing she should not expect a close meeting, the gone nuts Soviet leaders more and more postponed her and him get-together on The Promised Land. But she could not write this to Sasha and, wiping away tears, she would sit down and write the replies. That she is also waiting for a meeting him, she wishes to come, but some blunt bureaucrat has settled in the visa and registration department, and there is no permission yet, and she loves him the same and cannot forget, - and hopes for their soon seeing each other. Then she wrote about music lessons and sports achievements, about a new coach, whom she could not get used to, about their mutual friends and acquaintances, about her parents. Not once in any letter did she mention Zheka, that she had seen him trace her and not venture to step up and explain himself. And Sasha never named Zheka in any of his letters, although he underwent bitterly about his former friend's cowardice and betrayal.

A friend? But was he a friend? Sasha concerned himself this question many times. Here-now, Sergey-Mockej didn’t seem to be a close friend, but everything was open about him, if he didn’t like something, then he didn’t like it, that way, and he talked it straight, and if one could manage to convince him of something, then also up to the point. But Zheka ... He looks like he agrees with you from the first minute, but the approval is slippery, watch out, it would escape and crawl away lurking - and at the most inopportune moment it will become a jumbo denial of what was perceived or declared as enthusiastic agreement mere a minute ago, meanwhile a sincerity glows in the look, and the words are so correct, so simple, so intelligible, they just attract to believe in their righteousity, and fairness, and frankness. Dina instantly saw through Zheka's hypocrisy and duplicity and understood, what the danger does he bear, even back then they were meeting three together, she warned it'd be worth for him to be not very open-frank with his friend, and on the surprised question, "why?", she said through her teeth, "I don't like him." Back then Sasha even got indignant, protecting his friend, and Dina smiled tenderly and said: “Maybe I'm not right, but it just seems to me your friend is two-faced and not always sincere with you, maybe I'm wrong ...” No, dear, you were not mistaken, you were much closer to the truth than me.

Chapter 6

“A glass of vodka would be useful now, it's doggy cold,” Mockej contemplated vaguely. And generally, here, in the desert, not a damn thing is understood, in the day the heat is up to thirty, at night it's freezing frigs, you bang your teeth. Here you go, that's your carouse, here is you celebrated freedom, instead of army barracks ended on jail bunk. The rules here are sterner than in army, and they beat harder, and if something is not by their law codes, they would kill or sink ass down which would be a final fail, it is one thing if you spent jailing like a man, and quite a difference if you got cocked up. This was his first sign-in, and the main was to remain a right man; his fists strength was checked several times, he got beaten mercilessly, too, then taken on a date to a godmother, i.e. to a local bug (deputy for supervision in the colony) who persuaded to hand over smashers and occasionally stay reporting about some stubborn companions-inmates, but Mockej did not break down and proved he’s a true-man and won't stoop upto a shithole. A callboss said it bluntly: "Th's whelpie is a bulldog, with time it will become a wolfhound." Since then, Seryoga became - like others: he didn’t act hard, he didn’t express out his opinion, but expected clever and more authoritative people to say, and he sharp-n-instant fulfilled the callboss's plenipotentiaries' orders. Moñkej met the callboss when in the colony they decided to hush a crum that used to run to the godmother to report. Something didn't work out between the local authorities, and the guards were preparing to take everyone for a wet-drain, but Mockej warned ahead reliable people. A crum was hushed up, but the cops couldn’t find a thing and wouldn’t know who did. It was after that case, Mockej was taken to visit a callboss, thanked and pat him on back, said would not his, that is, Mockej's, information, there would be a complete ... fail. Giving help to a callboss, Mockej did not appraise, by doing so he tightly bound himself to the criminal world. He was turning into one of them, those who lived and will live according to this realm' concepts and rules and who have no way back. One night, Mockej was woken up by Muzzle, a callboss' flunky-henchman. "Ya go, himself 's calling ya out, got a subject." A callboss, nicknamed Oldster, actually was not old, near fifty; he was strong and of wide chest, medium height, and with brown eyes on his broad-cheekbone face. His eyes, when he was angry, turned almost black, and now they were black: “here's a term, ya see, we got notified the fresh dummy from the third hut runs on dates to a godmother. You, Mockej, are a trusty man, go teach little bum, and we sure cover you no worry, and the lads w'd thank you'd bring the rotten trash to reason."

Of course, Sergey was ready to serve Oldster, because it was callboss who shielded him in front of the more experienced and authoritative ones, and, despite it was his first term, Mockej held himself on equal, and besides, it was a request not only of Oldster, the whole brohood asked - and Mockej agreed. Well then, Oldster didn't mark the fresh-dummy-bummy from the third hut was no other than Kuzmich, and Kuzmich was much beater authority than Oldster. Oldster comprehended, once in a zone, Kuzmich 'd take all the power, while Oldster, by Kuzmich mindpoint, was a petty pip-squeak, crowned a callboss by few second-rate frayers off stupidity. Quite today guys with several stretchs already went under Kuzmich, and with Oldster there remained a small yobs d'n't aware of who Kuzmich was. Oldster wouldn't back down just so, but he wouldn’t want a bloody war as well, thus he engaged Mockej to snuff Kuzmich, and then to put up a frothing cub blamed off a lack of understanding ranks and rules. The guy got bluntly framed, with not a step off those very concepts and rules.

To hunt down when Kuzmich 'd be alone turned out not difficult. When Moñkej saw a fella-man of about fifty gloomily plodding toward the third barrack, he sidled up to him and took out a shank. He was just about to punch this geeze in the tum, but suddenly some force pushed him into the jaw, his eyes darkened, and he collapsed to the ground. For how long did he did lay blacked-out, Sergey couldn't know, but when he came round, Kuzmich stood over him with his shank and smoked. Mockej attempted to jump to his feet, but something pinned his chest down painly - 't was Kuzmich's leg. "I 'd not recommend to stir up moves another try, I usually hit twice, once in the snout, the second on the cist lid. You hell lucky I didn’t kill right away, I wanna know who gave you the mission to dunk me off." Kuzmich let his foot on the ground, Mockej immediately felt easier to breathe, although his head was still noisy. He did not know what to do. “You speak out, don't you shy, were those the campmongrels, or maybe some insider,” - Kuzmich soughed hoarsely, - "You see, I can figure out myself, just don’t like wasting time."

The rugged tycoon held out his hand to Mockej - get stand, let's be sitting and chatting enwhisper. Mockej could do nothing, and he didn’t really want to catch more with a muzzle, so like a doll turned upside down, he shook it out clean for Kuzmich that it was Oldster who had sentenced him and what he couldn't do - others would. "You fool duped, lad, if you rely on Oldster with your life, he's just that scumbag, why, if you 'd only scratched me with your tsatske, the brosmen 'd have put you on knives the same sec, like that, and your Oldster, that camp twerp, 'll count the barrack bevels yet today, and you 'll watch and memorize who Kuzmich is."

Indeed, when Mockej got back in the hut, Oldster lay in his cage heavily rumpled, and the casted-down Muzzle trembled in the corner smearing dark reddish snot and tears. The others pretended nothing happened, the next day Oldster was found hanging on a drain tank in the toilet. Who and when - the camp authorities did not ascertain, or did not inquire all too zealously: there should be single host in the zone. Moñkej was also waiting for his last hour, everyone knew Kuzmich’s revenge was terrible. However, the new callboss forbade to touch Mockej, the opposite, he reassured: “You don't get afraid, I won’t harm you, I need you in the wild, and remember that.” Thus Mockej, due to Kuzmich's behest, fitted into the criminal world - a world with an entrance and with no way out.

Chapter 7


Everything would have gone further on, smooth and as scripted, but Zheka's adaptability and opportunism were much annoying to other students. Everyone saw how passionately instructor Savelyeva from the Komsomol district committee takes care of him, how undeservedly inflated the grades are put in his scores, how Zheka himself rubs into students' confidence, trying to find out their moods and the reasons for their discontents, how he uses to run to the district committee with reports. All these tuned students up against Zheka, they closed and became silent in his presence, answered monosyllabic to his "friendly and comradely inquiries", and listened to speeches and statements without any enthusiasm, since while calling on his comrades for great labor achievements, Yevgeny did not much humself for their implementation. Among the classmates there were who would not mind tamping his jug, but they were held back - by those who wished revenge in a more insidious way. An occasion has come toward the end of studying. Zheka safely reached the fifth year, aiming to continue Komsomol activities in the district committee after graduation or even in the institute itself, having received a “free-n-open diploma”, that is, without compulsory workup “by the assignment”. Would he been asked today how it turned out that after the Komsomol meeting he and instructor Savelyeva remained in the hall two together, he could not answer.

So, they stayed alone in the dimmed hall, Savelyeva talked something, Zheka was nodding and marking in the notebook. Unexpectedly, Savelyeva came so close Zheka felt her breath's warmth on his face and the fragrance of fine perfume, tempting and beckoning his young body. Zhen'ka did already not hear and understand what she was claptering and chirping, he only saw her svelte legs slightly covered with a miniskirt, her white blouse of transparent and very thin cloth and, above all, the tender maiden bosom, which was hidden of thorough proper view by an upper button, casually fastened so as if he should reach out - and everything delicious-forbidden would have appeared undisguised. He almost sensually felt her soft warm body, his hand by itself stretched for a white blouse, to get this ill-fated button unbuttoned and remove the last obstacle prevented him from viewing the instructor charms. Suddenly, sensed they were not alone in the hall, Savelyeva recoiled aside. "Now what is it you are up to, little piglet? Full crazy!" Zheka also realized he had done something unnatural, inappropriate, he quickly withdrew his hand, and a sobering drenched over him. From that day everything went messed up, apparently, in that unfortunate minute when Zheka lost control of himself, some his ill-wisher entered and now blackmailed Savelyeva. Or a young instructor, frightened herself without any duress, getting trembled for her pelt and career, felt forced to renege him, and no matter how hard Zheka strained, his position at the institute became worse and worse. No good marks, which were so nice and got used to, credited due the Komsomol activism merits, no phonecalls from the rectorate to request exemption from the cotton campaign - a trip "to the cotton" with all ordinary students and non-hooray-activists, and, of course, no way a “free-n-open diploma” to shine out. After the defense scarcely on C, he was appointed at the disposal of the Ministry of Defense, that is, the very same, beforehand hated army, for two years, and what slightly solaced and warmed him up, not as an ordinary enlisted, but an officer.

The year Yevgeny Stepanov received his diploma and was sent to the railway regiment of the Siberian Military District, turned out to be the most unfortunate, even luridly nasty. Because the Afghanistan war started. Arriving at the point, Zheka, without even unpacking his suitcase, boarded the train again to go to the places not far from where he came, namely, to the city of Termez. Troops were marching on a pontoon bridge across the Amu Darya River. Zheka presumed his regiment would build a capital bridge, and Termez would become its base, but nothing this way, like everyone else, they were sent across the border and into the interior of the country; there, too, it was necessary to restore bridges, repair tunnels and build roads. So Zheka appeared in the war thick, and already on the march their convoy was subjected to several attacks, the wounded and killed arose.

Chapter 8

A black, darky-black steppe, and hills gradually growing into a mountain ridge. Tarry clouds are persistently wrapping the moon, and then nothing is visible at a stone's throw. Zheka, by the broken “bobik", is pulling “prima” nervously, and the driver, cursing and swearing, is picking under the hood. A car got sputtered out on the way to the unit and would not get ignited, and the place is unsafe, the “spirits” - the dushmans - could break out any moment. "What a devil dragged me to drive to the rear service at night coming, now I could sit the unit and drink tea, but no, I wanted to speed up, and now what, left alone with a driver amidst a steppe, can get shot just like that. Heh, an idiot, didn't even get dawned upon taking a couple of soldiers with me, 'd be defense of some kind, at least." Zheka cringed in apprehension. Something odd was about this black steppe, some strange rustles and screams of whether animals or birds. The driver, an Uzbek, banged around under the hood, cursing with Uzbek and Russian obscenities. Finally, the engine sneezed and started. Zheka climbed into the cabin, it was cold, and he turned on the furnace. Was it of stress or warmth in the car, but he dozed off and dreamed of Dina. Not her eyes filled of anger, but a field full of red poppies. He dreamed himself standing on the field edge, where Dina ran flowingly-fluently in her sports dark blue swimsuit with red sparkles, and her strong slender legs flew up high above the ground, and her hair fluttered in a wind, and everything was so sunny, so fine. Zheka also wants to run across this field, wishes to catch up with Dina and shout he loves her, and now they will always be together, she laughs, and her laughter pours over the steppe, gradually turning into a horse' neighing and rough men guffaw. The noise of neigh and roars grows, it becomes more and more loud unpleasant, Zheka tries to return everything to the beginning of that amazing dream, but can see Dina no longer.

When Zheka opened his eyes, he was lying on the ground, with his hands tied, next to a chauffeur, beaten and also tightly bound, someone on a horse was examining his pistol, and assault rifles were already hung over "spirits'" shoulders. Dushmans were talking and producing loud laughter of merry mares. Then they were run through the mountains for a long time and, exhausted and fatigued, were driven to the kishlak. The driver, an Uzbek who did not know Farsi, nevertheless grabbed a couple of familiar words and managed to understand they were captured by the leader of the Ashrafi gang who has considerable strength here and controls the Kandahar area and nearby. They were pushed into a dirty barn and locked for the night. They couldn't fall asleep or merely take a nap through stress and a hardly dimmed panic - it was too cold, and the earthen floor was slushy and sniveled due the rain a day before; their hands were not untied, and the joints ached and hurt, the legs in heavy boots were as if filled with lead. After trampling a damp mud, they found an approximately dry corner and settled down for the night crouching. In the morning, Zheka and the driver were lead to Ashrafi himself. They went into a typical Middle Asian courtyard, where the living quarters were on three sides. The guard took a sit on a wood chunk by the stove where the flatbreads baked, while the driver and Zheka stayed under the drizzling rain. They were not called for a long time, excited male voices came from within. Finally, a bearded man appeared in the doorway and shouted something to the guard, so he stood and started pushing the prisoners toward the room. At the doorstep, the he forced the driver and Zheka to take off their boots and only then they were allowed to enter. Several carpets were laid on the floor, and pillows were scattered, and a number of bearded men sat on those amenities. One of them addressed to the incomers, unexpectedly in Russian, and his Russian was impeccable. The talker named himself Musa, asked their names, do they have parents and families, who and what they were before a war. Hearing the driver was Uzbek, Musa changed countenance: "You are an infidel, a kafir!"- he cried, - “You betrayed the sacred name of a Muslim, you gone to fight with your brothers, I will shoot down, no, I 'll rather hang you, you dirty dog!” The Uzbek stood silent, then answered in bad Russian he didn’t want to go to war here and nowhere, at all, but he was a soldier - and he had to obey orders, as his father, who had gone through all of Russia and was awarded the Orders of Glory and the Red Star, taught him; and he has three brothers and two sisters, and he could not refuse, to no one would suspect and accuse him of cowardice. Musa translated the chauffeur’s reply for the rest, who were wordless sitting and tea drinking. A middle-aged man with a grayish beard said something to the guard, and the last lead out the driver whom Zheka 'd never seen again.

Chapter 9

Kandahar, a deadly spot. It's already six days Zheka sits in a cold pit, once a day he is brought one dry flatbread and water in a copper jug. Water tastes of aryk and is muddy from silt and sand, the flatbread is dry-n-hard and must be soaked for a long time to get munched; it's here Zheka uses to relieve his natural needs, and he digs shit in, so that it wouldn’t be so strike-beating eyes and nose, and it would be possible to eat. As soon as the sun is a little hot, flies' swarms raid to the odor of what he buried, and Zheka, not having washed for ten days, smells no better, so the flies attack him furiously. Ashrafi has not yet decided what to do with him, whether to gun down, or to sell, or to exchange. Musa advises converting to Islam, and why he needs it, he doesn’t say, well, let's wait, 't's no hurry.

Ashrafi hooded his eyes and launched floating into his memories. He could recall those times when the king ruled the country. The king - he was a king, he owned power, he judged and mercied, awarded and executed, there w was an understandable acknowledged order and regulations. Back then a muezzin called for prayer - and the believers went to pray, when there was a holly day - a pilaf was eaten, no one remained hungry, there was a flatbread for everyone. Then they removed a king, made troubles and bad things, and order disappeared, religion was no longer respected, the master was no longer respected, a woman, mind you, is to be learned literacy, you see, otherwise she knows not how to brew a tea for her husband or wash his legs, it’s there in West, undressed whores walks through the streets and excite men of there's, but we are rightly and truly faithful, here this would not happen. Ajgule, Ashrafi's current beloved wife, entered the room quietly holding a tray with a large painted teapot and a piala, and a vase of dried fruits. Ajgule was Ashrafi's sixth wife, she silently put the tray in front of her lord-owner and went out, same quietly. "Looks like my precious baby-gazelle turned sad, no gleam in her eyes, she misses me, quite a child, barely passed sixteen, I ought to make a visit her tonight." Ashrafi, who turned sixty-two this year, could as a male compete with younger men, he remembered Aigul wriggles and groans when he takes her, how passionately she gasps for air, suffocating under his onslaught, and he got mellowy sweet-hot sensing. He dreamily rolled his eyes and grinned into the black greyish beard. The most reliable regime is where a woman fulfills the role and the duties she is made for and assigned by the Most High: to love and please her husband, give birth to children and work around the house with not bothering her master, and then her offspring would be same faithful and obedient - and respectful to the father, and then the father's and husband's word would be the law. Let just Musa to speed up deciding what to do with this Russian, whether to set a ransom for him, the money is very needed, but the Russians do not really value their people and do not willingly pay for them, and this Russian is not a general or even a colonel, a road specialist-engineer, not kind of brassy-massy nub-nob … what will Musa come up with?

Chapter 10

However, Dina achieved a guest visa and was going to fly to meet Sasha in Israel. The legend stated Dina was going to visit her aunt, but the risk still was high. Dina studied at the Tashkent Conservatory, and there remained one year till graduation. Of course, she could study in Moscow or in Leningrad, but it revealed once she had a friendship with the Feldmans leaving and left the USSR, so she had to return to Uzbekistan with a few points missed to get accepted in the educational institution of the older-brothery all capitals' capital. And of course, everyone understood the matter was not the points. Having brilliantly passed the entrance exams, she was rejected for completely different reasons, the shadow of the non-boundlessly devoted unpatriot followed her. Whether sanctions against the USSR introduced after the invasion of Afghanistan or the accumulated steam-n-fume of dissatisfaction with the system's closedness influenced, but permission to visit a lonely and sick aunt was obtained. Dina boarded the plane to Moscow, from there to Bucharest, only the next day there was a flight to Israel. At the airport, Dina was met by Sasha.

Caught her in the crowd with eyes, he joyfully waved his hands, and then they walked silently, and their slow steps were unstable. Dina looked intently at Sasha, and he could not take his eyes off the beloved. Here she is, so close, next to him. How long he has been waiting for this date. Sashka straightened up, in a deep sigh, spreading his strapped breast. Here it came, the moment he expected, depressed and tormented, days and nights. So much to say, even in these first minutes, but no words. Sashka stopped embarrassedly, broken odds of incoherent thoughts were flashing through his head. Suddenly, Dina hugged his neck tightly with a quick movement and, as if afraid they might be eavesdropped, she hurriedly and choppy murmured somewhere into Sashka's chin: "Sashka, my dear love, here we are together, I'm with you again. Say, are you glad?" Sasha cuddled the girl strongly. He closed his eyes, feeling Dina's heart beating. Grasping her head tenderly in his palms, he kissed her lips, cheeks and wet eyes. Then they sat in a taxi, huddling close to each other, and spoke, and spoke, as if a waterfall of words, which had been gathering for a long time in the glacier of silence and separation, found a way out and erupted in a stormy stream. They recalled friends, buildings and streets of Tashkent, funny events, school, and how Sasha was waiting for Dina from at music school, and she looked so nice in white socks and with bows, with a huge folder of scores and sheets. God, how long has it been ... Now she was no longer that girlish-schoolgirl, he saw a graceful girl with a beautiful face, with eyes to sink and drown into, with thick black hair gently falls on her shoulders. And he was no longer the same boyish-schoolboy, but a man, strong and sturdy, though with a boyish spark in his eyes. "I will show you this country, our amazing country, so small and so huge," - Sashka said, - "You will see everything, my friend David has a car, we will go to Jerusalem and the Dead Sea, to Safed and Tel Aviv, I will tell you how this country was fought for, how innocent people died in terrorist attacks, how we honor the traditions of our ancestors and remember those who are no longer with us, I will tell you about everything I know, and what I don’t know, my friend will tell. This year we graduated from the Technion, this is an institute, and now we should go to serve in the army, but we were given a two-week vacation, and we are free, it's great you arrived right now, it's great you will be seeing me off, I've been waiting you so, thank you!"

Two weeks flew over, like inhale and exhale. David was coming in the mornings, and Dina and Sasha went to travel, returned late and talked on they had seen to Sasha’s parents who did not go to bed awaiting their return and stories. While Dina was visiting, there were several terrorist attacks in Jerusalem and North, people were killed, young and old, children died. The main thing Dina memorized very well was the Israelis' dream of peace and a quiet life, people most of all wanted peace and love; lack of work, lack of money - everything was secondary, peace was needed. And then, God will, everything will be fine. But namely the peace was not. And the sirens of the ambulances and the police sounded, and people listened tensely - where this time the terrorist with a suicide belt blew himself up, grabbing a dozen or so or more innocent victims. Probably, that’s why Sashka’s parents didn’t go to bed till late; perhaps, that’s why Sasha, upon knowing there was a terrorist attack, was looking for a phone to inform they are alright; maybe, that was one of the reasons he was eager to join the army: to avenge for the victims who were not given their time to live or were crippled, and, supposedly, that's was the nuance shedding a shadow on the stories and tellings about amazing and wonder history and nature of this country, so they didn't really sound cloudless and joyful. After two weeks, Sashka put on a military uniform. At the bus station, he was escorted by his parents and Dina, Sasha was cheerful, joked a lot, although everyone understood the separation was for a long time, of course not like in the Soviet army, but maybe for a month, or even two. This meant Dina would leave the country seeing Sashka no more. After Sashka’s departure, Dina remained on his parents' care. They also tried to show Dina the country beauties and glories, but they had less force and energy. The tourist circulation tempos fell sharply, and were the tour loomed, the organized group and the excursion bus dictated their conditions for sights acquaintance. Then Sashka called, and Dina told him all her impressions with all the details. This way the time went by, and Dina was due to return home; Sashka was not permitted off the base, they talked on the phone for a long the day before, and Dina vowed, on the conservatory graduation she would apply documents to exit form USSR for permanent residence in Israel, and Sashka said he would send her an official invitation as to his bride, and let them just try to refuse her, now he has a friend on Radio Liberty, he promised to arrange an interview. The last Dina heard was: "I waited, I wait and I will wait for you because I love." The plane gained altitude, these words continued to sound in her ears: "I will wait for you because I love."

Chapter 11

Today, for the first time in so many days, Zheka was given enough food and a possibility to wash. Today he was to meet Musa. Musa was the commander of the formation included the Ashrafi group, and that's him did not let Zheka be killed. Ashrafi not only prepared Zheka for the big guest arrival, he also was getting ready himself, from the early morning something was boiling and gurgling in boilers, women baked flatbreads, cleaned the garden and laid pillows and blankets on the kurpas and kurpachas on dastarkhan perimeter. Musa didn't come alone, he was accompanied by his closest adviser Abdullah, a translator, and a man with a movie camera. After the traditional greeting and a plentiful tea party, Musa asked to bring the captive, while a man with a movie camera opened a briefcase with a VCR and a portable TV, and Abdullah and the translator dragged in the accumulator. “Let's watch a movie now,” - Musa announced jolly.

Zheka realized Musa’s arrival was not accidental, no one would ever look for him, it was much easier for his commanders to say he disappeared under obscure circumstances than to search and bargain about the freeing set ups. A pity for the parents. Zheka imagined how they run back and forth from pillar to the post around the military registration and enlistment offices and other institutions, as they write to the army' officials and authorities, trying to find out at least a bit, and how they get a standard blank response “the search is underway”, but commonly, for all these military departments it’s easier to account for the murdered and report on than trying to find a captured or otherwise vanished. As a matter, he, Zhen'ka Stepanov, has already been buried, he exists no longer even in somebody's thoughts, and no one needs him, and no one will be interested neither in himself, nor whether he is alive or how he died. Spirits-dushmans? These either kill on place, or offer an exchange for money, or convert to their faith. He wasn't killed immediately, in hope to get a ransom, but his parents don't have such a money, that means death, a fate be decided today. Damned dank pit, a piece of dry flatbread not to die of hunger, and endless days of waiting when eternal darkness will close eyes forever ... No, just not that. He wants to live - and to meet her, tell her only he loved her only, loves and will love forever ever. “I want to live, I want to live,” - Zheka kept spelling enchantedly soundless, entering the room.

“Come on, come on in, Urusi,” - Musa, recline laid-back on the pillows, imposingly-lazily invited him to get closer. Zheka noted the correct Russian, - "and why does he need a translator?" "Got surprised I speak Russian?" - Musa grinned to the bewilderment mirrored on Zheka’s visage, - “Nothing strange, I studied at your institute, and the translator is rather for them,” - he looked around the persons in present, - “than for us. We waited a long when one of yours would be interested in you, would offer an exchange, because you are an officer, a road specialist, they could probably offer a ransom. Nobody needs you. I brought a movie, want to show it to you, now look at TV." Zheka was shocked shaken by the seen. He watched his own funeral, he saw his mother throbbed and bashed over a lead coffin, his father, his uncle with the face downed into father's shoulder, awkwardly leaning on a crutch; he saw a brave and dutiful Komsomol member Savelyeva, brushing away a tear, drunk uncle Lyosha with aunt Maria, someone else in military uniform, a honor guard saluting to the sky; but he did not see her, the one about which he dreamed and fancied and drowsed of. When the film was over, Musa said: "Now you see, they buried you, they don’t need you, and your mother carries flowers to unknown remains in a lead box. You, Yevgeny Stepanov, are a myth, a fake, an empty place, but you can take revenge on all your offenders, because you have another, last and decisive path to salvation and vengeance. Accept our faith, become a Muslim, join the ranks of the faithful, avenge injustice, scolded honor and trampled life under the banner of great Allah, he, and him only, the great and the fair, will greet and grate and thank you, even if you commit a death, because with us even the death differs from yours. I do know how your commanders take care of people, for them you are garbage they burn without regret, guaranteeing you an iron cist at the end, while we say your sacrifice is pleasing to God, a great happiness and unearthly bliss and well-being wait you there after, and there you will get what you have dreamed all your life on earth. Come on agree, Urusi, you will be a glorious Allah soldier. I need an answer now, today we are leaving this camp, great things await us in the name of freedom of our country, may Allah help us."

Part 3. Mockej.

Dirty old mattress. They didn’t leave anything, they took everything away, and what they couldn’t carry away - they broke it, tore it up, turned it into a piles of junk. At the first while, the people of Gaza used to come here, picked up the armature remains from concrete, poked around in abandoned garbage, trying to find at least something suitable for household, and then themselves began to bring their trash here, and the place turned into a cesspool. Now the most worthless nonentities, the poorest down and outs, whom the local population does not consider people, scratch and rooter in these creepy dregs, along angry and hungry feral dogs. Muslims do not like dogs, they define a dog a dirty sordid beast and beat with sticks, so dogs hide here, eating throw-offs. Dogs grew wild and attack all, fighting and defending their territory, that messy scrapyard. “The same with us, hungry and feral, we defend the slop land, but if our leaders didn’t drive the Israelites out of here, there would be work, there would be money ... And what were we was missing, why were we misled by a fake tale about a paradise that would come here and everywhere if not for them? if there will be no Israelis and Israel?"

Chapter 1

Mockej got his term offdrummed from bell to bell and went out free clean fore the law and people. Kuzmich ordered to lie low and not stirboil noise, when as himself be lopped off then the matter would be. And Mockej stayed low. He got a job in a truck fleet, first as a workshop mechanic, and as he got a driver license - moved behind the heavy truck wheel, and besides, married Zinka, Zhen'ka’s long-time old passion and an all-general slut, so he started an ordinary living of Soviet hard-worker, waiting for Kuzmich. Mockej didn’t love his wife, he often beat her while drunk, but not to death, just that she wouldn’t forget her husband’s hands. Soon Zinka became pregnant and brought him a daughter, the same whitish and big-throaty as herself. At home, there were a permanent clutter, - Zinka turned out to be a worthless hostess and a sloven, - and permanent bawling yellings. When the daughter fell silent, Zinka flew shuffled and brawled, so as Mockej used to grab his driver jacket and left. Since there were no lack dissatisfied females in Shanghai, and the same is on Mockej's energy, thus he was always full fed and watered, and he never was in shortage of a womanish warmth and tender. After a little or more while, the kite came from the zone, Kuzmich wrote it's need to pick up reliable chaps buddies from among the athletes and "Afghans" who are off busyness. “Afghans peck at drugss,” - Kuzmich wrote, - “As for sporties, those boxers and wrestlers, you greet 'em with money. Addresses where you get drugs and money you will be given by Rusty, he gotten lopped off the other day, and I gonna show up soon, then things 'd swirl on.”

Rusty was not reddysh, but raven-black-haired, a two-meter-tall towser. The nick-appellation “Rusty” was glued to him because of the lastname Ryzhikov, he did a stretch for robbery and made akin tight with Kuzmich in the jail, so the man was truly and to rely upon. He matched to the right people, and Mockej got an unlimited credit. Now Mockej appeared at home even less, more often he could be found in pubs and private gyms, where he unmistaken fixed former Afghans and unsuccessful failed sportsmen. The backbone of the gang consisted of old pals, Samara, Sidor and Haris (the Tatar Harisov held also Lemonary); in general, at the Kuzmich clearing off moment came, Mockej got a well-formed not-weak team of one and a half dozen good fighters.

Kuzmich appeared unexpectedly. Mockej came home and saw quietened-silenced Zinka was treating-feasting two strangers in the kitchen, he got about to teach her on the muzzle, but recognized Kuzmich in the grinning physiognomy. “And here is a house-lord,” - Kuzmich beamed even more cheerful, - “Get to meet, this is Aronchik, he is an extra-class expert, he can crack up any “bear" for zero time, we got owe a little here, so need to work it back. Zinaida, you go to your daughter for a while, we guys gotta some talk here." Mockej glanced at Zinka askance, and she instantly vanished into the next room. "We gonna take the cashier desk, sure it’s a risky thing, but if all goes right, it 'd enough for the first time, and we’d clear a debt to the pool, it’s a holy cause." The savings branch chosen to be deplumed was located in a busy place, but Kuzmich had a familiar skank working there, who presented a detailed plan for the inner locations and security posts, and also pledged to exact the day when there 'd be a fatty gravy. "You, Mockej, gotta arm your fighters, as the hookups kept on Tezikovka, and Rusty takes care on transport and numbers, but you also gonna drive, since you wheelly man."

A couple of weeks Mockej had to run about-n-around Tezikovka, hunting weapons for the goodfellary, but succeeded to provide everyone, including Kuzmich. Rusty obtained out a patrol car fit the whole brigade in, everything seemed ready but for Kuzmich disappeared. His skank, who knew Mockej, threw the message when there was a gross pack at the box office, however, Kuzmich did not show up even then. Mockej decided to go on a proceed without a chieftain. Of course, the risk was great, but with Kuzmich this risk would not go erased. On that day, workers were given salaries, retirees received pensions; not everybody lugged money onto savings, but decent public was thinking about tomorrow - one saved up for vacation, some to a car, and other for a cooperative housing. There was another circumstance pressing a hasten: the yields had not been exported from the bank for several days, so far as an especial cash-transit-van stood in repair. So, the day and time were appointed, an operation was set for an hour before the end of the business day. Goodfellas burst in by the whole group wearing black masks, Rusty stayed behind the wheel, two kept on a lookout, three put down to the floor those in the hall, Sidor and Haris drove the employees away from the counter so they would not use an alarm button, while Mockej, Samara and Aronchik entered the director’s room where an armored safe was. Mockej grabbed the director and, threatening with a weapon, demanded to open the safe. The pale director, his hands shaking, complied with the command, a second later the phone rang, these from the central guard station called claiming a confirmation of the need to safe be opened. Mockej passed the receiver to the director and propped the gun to his temple. The director, trembling and stuttering, answered he was going to seal the day revenue in. Now the safe door should open after five minutes, but a mismatch clash happened, the "Open Sesame" did not work. Either people at the central guard station felt danger, or they were waiting for a repeated call from the bank, but time walked on, and the safe's cave kept shut. That's when Aronchik’s skill came in handy. That's when Aronchik’s abilities got in handy. He came up the safe, conjured a bit, and the safe opened the maw-womb. All the cash quickly migrated into the prepared sports bags, and Mockej and co started retreating to the exit. They were already in the vehicle when the police cars' sirens howled. Mockej shouted to the cover-ups it's need to pull away an attention, three of the them rushed to fulfill an order, a spurred car jerked off and got lost in stream. Obviously, cops tried very hard to obey the detention order; on that day Mockej lost two of his soldiers in the shootout; that the guys died, it became known from the third coverer, he managed to runhide and mingle with the crowd formed at the savings bank door.

Mockej sat at home in the kitchen in front of an opened vodka bottle when Kuzmich and Aronchik came in. "You?" - Mockej frowned at Kuzmich. "Me, don’t blame yourself, sonny, you did everything right, and as for about the lads got perished, - yet blood ties got still more tightly, let's memorize 'em." Kuzmich poured vodka into glasses. After, they smoked and decided what to do with the money, how to thank the victims' relatives, and in general, whether it's worth staying in Tashkent or rather tearing somewhere to the motherland' vast wides. They took nearly a million, Kuzmich warned the guys should not play chic hotdogs, or they 'd get snatched, in short, there was a gob enough money all for the pool, for current needs, and for the business deals. "And now about the main thing. You’ll open an outlet on Tezikovka, give a closer look there and Shanghai, big changes are coming, we need to take all the region under us. Now you are not simple Seryoga-Mockej, you 'll be the district owner, and we 'll help you." Thus Mockej became the master and district-holder.

Chapter 2

Why d' yeh need this Russian?  Musa was questioned this often, he only smiled into his black-grayed beard and mysteriously rolled his eyes. Such fools, they can't understand a damn. Soon the time will come, and these blond-whiteys honkeys Russians, British, French, converted to our faith, will begin the Allah great deed in America, Russia and France. We will conquer and overpower the whole world, Afghanistan is the beginning of a great and difficult path to the Islam world victorious triumph, today we sow the very first grains, converting the infidels and unfaiths, and tomorrow the thickets of our supporters will raise up, and we will take away from these well-fed and prosperous unrighteous what they boast and are puffed of proud today. I need this Russian. I will be his mentor and teacher, I will make him a warrior of our faith.

Zheka thrice said “ala akbar”, went through the circumcision rite and became a Muslim. Now he was not Zheka, but Jhurah, and had to study the Arabic language and script, read the Quran, and turn to Musa, his mentor and teacher, with all questions and ambiguities. Now he knew what he was fighting for. His motherland betrayed him, his beloved rejected him, his friend humiliated him, naming a coward, and he must take revenge. This goal, the vengeance, like a guiding star ascended on his life' horizon and illuminated the path he set on, forgetting his fear, ready to get sacrificed in the name of a great creed and deed. Like a sponge yearn for the moisture, he was absorbing all Musa told him about, in and to him alone, his mentor and teacher, he trusted; to and for Musa only he was ready to give his life - and Musa appreciated this devotion.

One day, Musa invited Jhurah to his. They sipped a tea and ate dried fruits in wait for a lamb pilaf and samsa. Suddenly, everything swam floating before Jhurah’s eyes, his head was heavy, and he leaned back on the pillows, thirstedly swallowing an air. The eyelids began to stick, he felt a bird in bright plumage flew fleeting nearby, almost touching his face, and he saw peacocks and partridges, pheasants and some other picturesque birds walking in the garden he sat with Musa, he heard a tender lulling music from afar. Sweet-voiced maidens appeared; Jhurah looked for her, the dearest for him, to whom his heart aspired, the soul gusted ... And he saw her, not just one, there were many, and they were all the same subtle and fragile, and all had her eyes, huge and bottomless, and her eyelashes, and they, like her, soared easily and high wearing blue swimsuits, and like her, waving colorful ribbons.

Jhurah came awake in the same room, on the same pillows. Musa, calm and undisturbed, was regaling on a freshly baked samsa and smiling gayly. "What was it?" - Jhurah asked. “What happened?” - Musa surprised placidly, and Jhurah told him about his vision. "No, it was not a vision, you just visited a paradise, our Allah, great is him and omnipotent, sometimes gives us such an opportunity, probably, you are so committed to him in your soul and thoughts that he allowed you to glance into your beautiful bright future. The main and only thing required of you is to serve him and with your whole life to prove your loyalty to him. And the price of your life is your faith and service to Allah, and if necessary, if He calls you, you will not hesitate to give your life in His name, all in all, outside of and without Allah you and your life are nothing that does non-existent." Now Jhurah was hundredfold ready to die in the name of Allah - and again be in that Garden of Eden. "And now, invite Mustafa to me, he is there, behind the door." Jhurah complied with the teacher’s request and remained at the door. Usually, Jhurah did not stay in the room when Musa listened to the detachment commander report, but this time Musa stopped him with a gesture, ordering him to halt.
- Well, what have yah got?
- They're afraid, the Russians are hard brutally ferocious, the mullah has twice called for obedience, but they are in no way.”
- Here is your first assignment, Jhurah. You gotta play mullah, you have to convince this cattle to hide our sniper in the qishlaq; talk to people, argue them into belief we are fighting for a holy case, and their oblations will not be in vain, and by the way tell 'em about the Paradise Garden.

Musa gave the novice a fatherlike look. Early in the morning, Jhurah and the sniper started to the qishlaq. Still on the way, they saw a boy hurrying to the mountains to his shepherd father. "Where are you winding so?" - Jhurah asked. “Awful thing, oh a woe, Russians killed the mullah at night,” - the lad answered and ran on. In the qishlaq, Jhurah and the sniper immediately went to the teahouse, because in the East, only there one can knew all the news and get acquainted with the settlement inhabitants, and besides, it is possible to nose couple of things about the villagers from their neighbors. That day there were not many people in the teahouse, they mostly clustered by the mullah’s house. They exchanged remarks in low, hatred was read in their eyes toward the alien invaders, by what did mullah non-please them? he actively urged all not to fight against the Russians, so that the peace and concordance were in their qishlaq... How many times Mustafa from the Musa' squad called the true believers to combat against the Russians, how many times he campaigned the youth to join the Musa' brigades, but the mullah got 'em convinced don't fight, and a quiet calm being was for the qishlaq dwellers, and for this the Russians killed the mullah. The Russians killed 't was no doubt, there was a bayonet stuck out off the mullah’s chest, a knife ordinarily attached on a Kalashnikov, a Russian assault rifle. That meant the Russians want war. Everybody were waiting for what oldman Said would say. Youngsters streamed to take revenge, many wanted to volunteer in the Musa troops, mature people stood heads down, and Said was silent in confusion and did not know what to tell the congregate.

At that time Jhurah came out of the crowd, bowed and addressed with a greeting. "I came to you from far away, I was not a Muslim, once I was a Russian and therefore I know Russians, I am familiar with their low snide vile nature. They arrived here to establish their rules, so that your wives and daughters walk in short skirts and paint faces to be shown to all men, in order to embarrass the true-faithful, they want to herd women into schools and teach them that a human was descended from a monkey, not High Lord does decide our fate, but we ourselves do and create our life. Think about the chaos such heretic teachings are pushing and pulling to! A woman without a burqa and a chador in her husband sees not a master and a ruler, not a lord, and a sheikh, but a monkey demanding food and carnal satisfaction, a woman who will alone manage and command a man all the life! They want you learn drinking vodka, so that you become like dirty pigs, whose meat they devour and gobble in wallow, they want you watch their nastiest and ugliest fantasies demonstrated at their vile establishments and outlets, theaters and cinema halls. Oh, truly-faithfuls! I came to you, I accepted your faith, the faith of stability and order! For this faith we must fight today, yes, we can die, but we will die pure in spirit and our belief! And there the greatest happiness and bliss awaits us." Experienced skill to push and ram Komsomol speeches, inspiring and agitating, propagandizing and preaching, did not extinct and played a role in the sincerity and speaker's convincing assuredness. Jhurah saw, no, rather felt to the point of touch clear, how the youths' eyes lit up, how calmly indifferent old men approvingly nodded their gray beards, how the anger and rage of the qishlaq inhabitants, instantly ready to take up arms and avenge the mullah death, went into rapid growth. "I came to you as a revenant for the sacrileged and profaned faith, I promise you to requite and retaliate for the murdered one who conveyed and brought the prophet Muhammad spell, and therefore you must help me by hiding me and my comrade in your village." About a dozen volunteers offered help Jhurah and his companion.

Chapter 3

At first, Mockej acquired a marketplace tent where the beer and vodka were sold, but not this carried the main gains; there also wholesalers were rubbing around, delivering to Mockej hashish and opium, in addition, Mockej’s service guys lid-shielded the merchants and removed a pretty cream from sellers for that favor at the end of each month. In this manner, Mockej became the owner of not only the Tezikovka, but the whole district, now he, dressed in the latest fashion, rode an expensive foreign car, accompanied by elite prostitutes, and subbed to Kuzmich only, who caught local managers and police scoped and scooped. The beginning of cooperation movement, that is the private small business at the perestroika reforms onset, allowed him to open several enterprises and force out undesirable competitors. If someone tried to organize a production or any other firm or bureau in Mockej's area, that one should have obtained Mockej's consent and, naturally for sure, not free of charge. Serious punishment awaited the disobedient and trespasser, up to physical elimination.

That Sunday morning, Mockej, as usual, arrived at the Tezikovka flea market. Everything was being sold at the open-air jumble fair, from old used things to new imported duds received by duders from relatives abroad. It was here that Moñkej saw her. She stood with a luxurious fox collar, unaptly offering it to buyers; something hooked him. Her confused lookout and general look? Her startled naive eyes? Or the helplessness and hopeless of a chick-girl, which has already been surrounded by dealers playing to score the silly gal off by proffer a penny for a valuable commodity. Mockej saw one of the dealers already poking money into the girl’s hands, as if in oblivion, she had yet almost taken it, had yet almost put her "proceeds" in her purse ... He walked over and inquired the fox price. "Sold alread ..." - the reseller gagged on a half-word. "How much did this twerp give you?" - the girl voiced the sum, - "Give her the same more twice." Mockej looked at the dealer, he silently counted out the money and, taking the collar, stepped aside.
- Now you got the real cost, but tell me, did we meet before? Could I have seen you somewhere? What is your name?
- Thank you for the help, my name is Dina. You see, it's the first time I'm here, and I’ve never sold anything, I don’t know how to do this, but now money is urgently needed, you know what the prices are nowadays.

“And let's meet today at the "Blue Domes" restaurant,” - Sergei suddenly proposed, - “And talk about everything, by the way, maybe we’ll remember where we met, definitely I saw you somewhere. So, I'll expect you, at about six, please come."

At exactly six o'clock Mockej, in a well-tailored and perfectly-fitting suit, holding flowers, was waiting for Dina at the restaurant entrance. A waiter came up to him and said that the booked table is ready, Mockej took out a banknote from the pocket and put it in his waiter’s pocket, the waiter pancaked with thanks. And then he saw her. She ran up, slightly off breath, looked at him and said: "Forgive me, I'm such a fool, I even forgot to ask your name." “Sergey,” - Mockej mumbled and clumsily held out the flowers. "It is for you." They went into the hall and sat at the table. Dina asked the waiter to put flowers in a vase, and he rushed to fulfill. Around the next table, there was a drunken-n-drinking feasting-n-relaxing company, which immediately drew attention to Mockej and Dina. While Dina was looking at the menu, Sergey heard passages: “A chick-babe is not bad, gotta roll up to her, and a foppy pants easy shrink-shrunk.” "Well," - Mockej thought, - "Let’s get this trash to reason senses." Out of the corner of an eye, he noticed one of the boozers heading to their table an unsteady gait, meanwhile, having discussed the menu with Dina, made an order. The music started playing. “Let me invite your lady to the dance,” - Mockej heard from somewhere on the side and noticed a drunken lout swaying behind. Mockej got up, turned to face him and loudly, so that a troublemaker's friends could hear, declared, “My lady does not dance with such goons like you.” "Whaatoa?!" - a piglet's plumpy face burst indignant, but the face' owner immediately bent in half and gruntly wheezed. No one noticed the swftly-quick yet powerful throw of Mockej’s fist into the vexer's liver, then Sergey turned him a hundred and eighty degrees, with a wheezing muzzle to his table, and sent to his comrades by a kick. Those jumped up to help the battered one, but someone shouted "do not mess, it's Mockej!" - and drunk and indignant voices abruptly shut up, the company, picked up the beaten warrior and quickly paying off, swept out.

Talking with Dina, Mockej kept trying to remember where he could meet her, while telling his childhood, he mentioned the street he lived, and Dina asked if he knew Sasha Feldman. Now he remembered, it was exactly at the Feldmans' he saw her; he remembered Sasha was friends with Dina, and when he left, Zheka started to gab and roam about, but the girl got tempered and quickly fluff him off, so miserable Zheka got only to suffer remoted.
- It was a long ago ... do you know anything about Sashka, about Zheka?
- About Sasha - yes. He serves in the Israeli Army, graduated from college, still he writes very rarely, but I know nothing about Zhenya, and I don’t really want to know.

Mockej became sterned, a smile slipped off his face: "Here you're but wrong, Zheka died in Afghanistan, and I feel sorry for him. Maybe he sometimes didn’t do very good, but, probably, he sincerely believed he was doing the right thing, see, he could stay, but he went into that dog-thick heat and fell. And now you must forgive him."

Yevgeny killed? But it cannot be, a vague worm of doubt stung from within. No, those like Zheka cannot perish; betray, get adjusted, conform, fit in - yes, but perish?

- On Monday I’m going to the cemetery about my business, we can visit Zheka together ... that is, his grave.
- Well, perhaps ...

They broke up after midnight, all talking and remembering. Mockej did not recall such an amazing evening, and whether he had ever had it... He saw he was inferior to this gal in intuition, she knew and read much more than him, but in real life she was so naive, such not adapted... And life is evil and intolerant of weak creatures, therefore it is necessary to keep and protect her for Sashka, and in memory of Zheka.

Chapter 4

For three days, Jhurah was lurking behind the qishlaq' old duvals (adobe walls) from the Soviet soldiers who systematically combed it through. The locals knew Jhurah was hiding in the village, they knew the Russians will fire if found out someone helped him, but kept silent. After Jhurah and a sniper killed several Russians, the sweeps became more violent, and their commander, an unshaved blond with eyes sore from a lack of sleep, threatened to burn the settlement. Several times the locals told Jhurah this could not last long, the brutal beatings and bullying by the Russians would sooner or later untie someone’s tongue, but Musa’s order chained Jhurah to this place. Indeed, the disposition was very favourable, the qishlaq was on a hill, and the Russian unit in the lowland, their equipment and the tent city were viewed perfectly, Jhurah was not taking empty risks, tracking down the loners, he sent them to the next world with short bursts, while the sniper was hunting officers, - and if earlier officers differed from soldiers in uniforms, so recently they have changed their fur-collared pea-coats to soldiers' without collars and shoulder marks. Musa deliberately provoked the Russians against the domestic population in order to attract media attention to the Russian aggressors rude and horror bullying, and the qishlaq's name was already mentioned several times on the British and American radio. And what does he care on these three dozens dirty and half-starved Pashtuns, finally, even if they all be killed, they 'll be called righteous, martyrs, shahids who gave their lives for the Allah sake and to the faith purity. That's cause Musa demanded Jhurah was killing as many Russians as possible, but one night six APCs with flamethrowers rolled up to the qishlaq and without any warning did their bloody job. They burned everything, and the earth flamed where these monsters moved. Scream and moan stood on the settlement land, where yesterday the children were crawling in the dust and women were preparing dinner and supper, where the men returned from work were resting in the old mighty sycamores' shadow. Jhurah hardly escaped having lost his fellow sniper, and in the morning he hit up to the qishlaq again. The road, broken by caterpillars next to a village turned into a pile of charred adusted wreckage due the peacekeepers fire, and an old man with a bloodied head and a scorched beard on a duval blacked from a soot, - all what remained off a peaceful calm village. The old man wiggle-waggles and whispers, and Jhurah understands: the old man is contused, his thoughts are far from here, perhaps there, in paradise, where he can kneel and prostrate himself fore the great and omnipotent creator; Jhurah listens closer to the old man's mutter. "This? This is your freedom? Where are you going, where are you leading people? I had a house, had children and grandchildren. Now I have nobody and nothing, all burned in the fire, even their bones, even their souls. I myself saw their bodies melt. Your way is death and blood, your rut leads nowhere." Jhurah looks straight in the old man's eyes, got burned by hatred and contempt out the old man's gaze, he slowly turns the auto-gun barrel towards the old man and pulls the trigger.

Jhurah returned to Musa, depressed and sullen, perhaps, it was the first time he saw death so close. Musa, on the contrary, was happy, already in the morning the qishlaq' destroing by flame was the number one sensation, all the media, except for the countries of the socialist camp, reported the barbarism of the Soviet occupants. “Now money will flow to us like a river after a winter rain,” - Musa said thanking Jhurah for his excellent work. Ibrahim-Khan himself arrived to congratulate Musa and his hero-protege. Jhurah, however, hard and difficultly experienced his own deed and the old man killing; for a long time at nights, a charred old man used to come to him and whispered: "Your road and your rut lead to nowhere."

Chapter 5

Nothing from Sasha for a half of a year. His mother regularly answers all letters, but Sashka himself did not write a line during this time. Maybe he fell for another? But then he should tell her directly. And the answers' tune changed, first they were optimistically- cheerful, now the letters grew gray and routine, stingy on details and evasive about the life and army service of the person she loved. And the answers' tune changed, first they were optimistically- cheerful, now the letters grew gray and routine, stingy on details and evasive about the life and duty service of the person she loved. Dina was overwhelmed with worrying and went exhausted wondering about such a fickle attitude to her, and often cried at night into the pillow, not comprehending what could be happened. Damned war, Sashka got to serve in the elite combat troops in South Lebanon, guys are strong-willed and strong spirited, good comrades and, most important, together with David, the reliable friend. Actually, Sashka went to serve in that part because of David, as the only son he could choose, but, having persuaded his mother and received her consent, he went to that elite unit with David. They had been serving for several months when Palestinian militants committed a raid. Sasha and David stood guard and met the attackers with appropriate worthy fire, and if not for that calamitous landmine... By the blast wave, Sashka was thrown back on the fortification' wall, and then the wall itself, destroyed by the explosion, fell on him, something happened to the spine, and Sashka lost consciousness. Later he was told how David was digging him out under fire, then was dragging him to a medical helicopter transported him to Haifa. And now, after a medical examination, Sashka, slim and pale, awaited his sentence.

Time seemed to stop. Days segued one into another, weeks and months passed by, but still there was no answer. Doctors conferred, did more and more x-rays and other examinations, marked something on computers, probing his melting body again and over. "We do not have enough data yet, and what we have does not allow complete picture and could be confirmed only with time. One thing is clear: the spinal cord was affected as a result of injury, and the disease worsens." The specialists looked afraid not so much of making a diagnosis as of making it without full justification. The truth must be the cure, the local medicine is so arranged. The worst and dreadest predictions are reported immediately, and the mother was said everything at once and open: "We wary your son may become completely disabled. This means the gradual failure and decay of the various organs and, worst of all, no much confidence that insight and sanity will preserve." She cried and begged the doctors to save her only son. Medicine in Israel is strong, especially traumatology. A country that is constantly in fight and war, where terrorist attacks are carried out every day, that country cannot be without excellent traumatologists (along other physicians of the very multiple fields) and good equipment, but still, there are times when doctors helplessly shrug and down their eyes. This day, after another board of doctors, Sashka's attending physician left the office glum and preoccupied, nevertheless he went up to David and said something in low. David nodded in agreement, came up to Sashka’s mother and said: "We need to write to Dina about what happened to him. He himself asked for it and wants to see her, this is his last wish." The woman burst out wailing sobs, David cuddled her and haplessly tried to allay.

Chapter 6

Mockej met up Kuzmich in the evening at the "Tashkent" restaurant. At the moment of stepping in, he realized Kuzmich was already solidly loaded through, but his eyes stayed cold, and his face was gloomy. “Something happened,” -  Mockej thought, - “Gosh, just would it not be of mine dudes' mess.” Kuzmich invited Mockej to sit at the table and, pouring vodka, said: “You drink and listen, we gotta cut off here, big changes to come, soon the power will change and go to the locals, we gonna be outsiders, and they will command around, so your time 'd over. Yet something will stick with you - the drug stuff we will import into Russia, and here we wanna spread well, you and your the most trusty fighters should settle down in Russia. Find a reliable person from homelanders the out here and pass him to right force, make sure he roofed 'd by the locals, too. recall you had a certain Habib, make him your right hand, let him gradually get into the things, and bind him more tightly with blood, here need to get one bud down - now let that Habib do."

So Mockej began to gradually retire, soon Habib became the owner of the district and Thezikovka, but he noted and memorized his benefactor with respect. The most trustworthy Mockej sent to Russia: Harisov, nicknamed Harius, settled in Kazan, Sidor anchored in Krasnodar, Mockej himself stopped in St. Petersburg, and Kuzmich landed in Moscow. It was time to pick up reliable fighters, and Mockej daily wandered around the gyms and boxing clubs, looking for strong guys suitable for use. The old party elite lived the last days, the Country of Counsels of Councils was breathing out fumes, the general secretaries succeeded each other with catastrophic farcical fuss, people's discontent with widespread total deficit, impudent theft and lawlessness constantly grew. Criminality merged with law enforcement agencies and with local authorities, that is, the activity field expanded, and Kuzmich’s strategy yielded good results. The “Afghans”, returning home upon injury or on vacation, demanded drugs - to relax and relieve the war syndrome, golden times came for Mockej and his accomplices, sales were in full swing, and Mockej requested new and new supplies from Habib. Soon, Gorbachev took the post of general secretary, heading for "glasnost and perestroika" (openness-n-transparency and restructuring), but everyone understood this in his own way, and the chatter did not help nutrition, and the shops were not filling with groceries and goods, everything had to be overpayed, everyone was "sitting" on his deficit' source and demanded a smear back.

Where did Kuzmich find out about the big changes, neither Mockej nor his partners could guess, but only he hit the mark: on the perestroika backdrop, local nationalism grew opulent in the Union republics, inborns sent Russians to Russia more and more frequent, "Do not like it - go home to your Russia" was perhaps the mildest statement by some indigenous population representatives in each formerly-recently younger-brotherly co-country-republic. The epic with the exit from Afghanistan ended ingloriously, too; there the chaos of the civil war took a reign and a drug production flourished, - with demand for more and bigger new sales markets, respectively. Habib established connections with the railway, here Mockej also helped him, and the flow of drugs rushed to Russia and the entire collapsing USSR, since the sales markets were always, and requirement grew. These same “Afghans” the potion' consumers were used as Mockej's thugs, to some he paid decent money, and to those hooked on needle he provided doses. Gangs sprouted and scaled, forcing co-operators and local officials to comply with conditions dictated by the criminal authority force; now such as Mockej donned raspberry suit jackets and got called "new Russians".

Just one thought worried Mockej - Dina's wellbeing, he minded her as a flitter reed in the current and bustling circumstances' hurricanes and smoggy reek. For the sake of Sashka, for the sake of the deceased Zheka, he sincerely felt obliged to help her and support her. They met in Tashkent at the end of the 1990 year. It was a raw-clammy Autumn, Dina and her parents were about to leave for permanent residence in Israel. Gorbachev provided a long-awaited opportunity, and the thousands of Jews - and Volga region Germans lived in the Central Asia republics and Kazakhstan (and not only there) - streamed for their historical motherlands. Mockej helped with things, remembering how he once helped Sashka’s parents get ready for travel, helped speed up the visas processing, and other little things that always occur when a person leaves forever the house he was born and spent a significant and signal part of his life. He and Dina once again visited the cemetery to farewell with relatives, and encountered Zheka's mother at his grave. Aged before her time, the woman was cleaning the grave and carefully removing the garbage near the flowers planted, except for them there was nobody in the cemetery, only a crying mother, and some Uzbek man in a worn tattered chapan, his thick and broad beard covered almost the entire face. They walked away from the grave and went to the exit, Dina smiled onto something, pausing for a moment she raised her delightful eyes, looked at her companion, and her words wafted to the Uzbek man aimlessly hanging about: "Somehow, I hardly believe it's Zhenya’s corpse in the grave, this one wouldn’t die, he’s not of those who would allow himself to be killed, he would sell any and everything just to stay alive, he’s a coward." The Uzbek stood still and made a hateful beastially ferocious glance after the couple strolling afar. It was Jhurah.


Chapter 7

Sasha’s lot was a foregone conclusion, the concussion and spinal injury closer and closer brought the inevitable closing end. Deafness began, and then speech impairment - the head is tightly connected with the spine, and one of the organs' refusal of the full-featured work imminently leads to inhibition of the other. For more than a year, Sasha did not keep in touch with Dina, while she kept asking about him in every letter. His mother, following the enjoin, kept replying everything is fine with him, he lives a full-on life and enjoys his and his friends' successes. David saw Sasha almost daily, his humor and optimism gave a sip of hope, and after David's visits, Sasha could believe into the next day. The mother informed Sasha, Dina's family should come to Israel, and then he decided: "I have to see her and talk to her." He asked David to meet Dina and bring to him. And the day came when David met Dina and her family at the airport. Everyone around felt merry, waving Israeli flags, and were happy by a 'returning home' sensing. David, too, was smiling, but his eyes witnessed him out, and Dina understood something terrible had happened. She asked straight: "What happened to Sashka, is he ill?" Unable to deceive her anymore, David replied: "Everything is much worse. He is dying and asked me to bring you to him."

They drove to the hospital directly from the airport. Sashka sat in a wheelchair, wandy thin, almost blind, near deaf. Dina ran up, grasped his hand, pressed her lips to it: "Sashen'ka, my dear, my love, I came to you, we will always be together, because I love you," - she whispered, tears ran down his arm. David glanced at his friend and saw tears froze on Sasha’s almost girlish eyelashes, too. This strong man with a strong will and spirit also cried, cried with joy she was here, she was close, no matter what, and she loved him. Then Dina told how they were leaving, how much Sergey-Mockej helped, how she said goodbye to Tashkent where she was born and grew up, that there is a growing hatred, everyone toward everyone, especially on national and religious motives, encouraged by the forepaid propagandists who propel the slogan-thesis "Uzbekistan for the Uzbeks!", and all await the pogroms, and she spoke more long and many and about everything. Sashka, who heard almost nothing, pretended to listen carefully and understanding what she was talking about, while he kept looking and looking on at her and David, mentally saying goodbye to them. He extended a withered hand to David and, taking his hand, put Dina's hand in it: “Help her,” - David read on his lips.

Sashka was buried in a military cemetery, it seemed half of the city’s population came to bid farewell with him, the military paid last respect to a comrade, civilians - with a cheerful jovial guy, a wonderful friend and fellow student at the institute; women cried, men turned aside covertly brushing drops from their faces; military salute got thundered away, Dina was sobbing on David's shoulder. Then there was Shiva (seven days of mourning for the deceased), and Dina and David were with Sashka's parents almost every day, trying to help and encourage them. And then she started a regular life, the language learning, a job finding, arranging housing, and such like routine.

Chapter 8

Jhurah appeared at the cemetery not by occasion; here he had an appointment with one of the "Barakaht" organization representatives. This organization was officially banned in Uzbekistan for radical Islamism, so the meeting was arranged in secret. The Uzbek-the driver and his assistant brought marble for the cemetery slab in a truck, and the customer should drive up to pay for the order. Jhurah personified the driver’s assistant, but the customer delayed, so he decided to visit his own grave, there he saw Dina and heard her words. Hatred and anger were seething in the soul of the “departed” when he returned to the car, the customer, a man of a completely European look, was already there and waited nearby. They stepped aside for parley, meanwhile the driver ensured safety watching presumable surveillance. "What language 'd' you prefer, English, Turkic, Farsi, or Russian?" - the client asked. They choose Farsi so as not to attract unnecessary attention: firstly, with a true Muslim, one should speak a language incomprehensible not only for Russians, but also Uzbeks; secondly, who knows him, this European, so deftly blabbing at Farsi, maybe he has nothing of a true Muslim but his tongue. Upon Jhurah's said he brought greetings from Ibrahim Khan himself, the conferee's face broke into a smile.

- This is my brother! So you're in his? It is worthful and very honorable! He is a muhadisun muhandisun, knowing the Kitab thorough and proper, and a fearless fighter for true faith.
- Brother, you say? A doesn't look like him at all. I 'd even say you look rather a European.
- That's right, we have one father, but different mothers, his mother was the eldest wife, and she is from Iraq, and mine is the third wife, an Irish, so no wonder we don't look alike. We are the seven at our dad, and almost everyone, except the two younger ones, scattered around the world. One lives in America, another in the Caucasus, I set here, and yet one in Tajikistan. Our father is from Saudi Arabia, and we are all servants and warriors of the great Allah and bring his teaching's light to the right-faithful and to those whose ears and hearts are open to truth. Dad has money, income from oil fields, but what is money ... only a means to solve the main task: unification of all the faithful into the Islamic world power and Allah global state. I'd confess, you also do not look much like an Afghan, though your Farsi 's not bad. Narrate, who are you?

Jhurah, imbued by deep trust to a new acquaintance, named Saddyk,  told how he was captured by Musa, how all repudiated and renounced him with no attepmpt to find him and bargain for a ransom, how he converted to Islam, how he begot hating his mother, who believed the army clerks and now uses to mourn some stranger's remnants, how the girl he had dreamed enloving had rejected him, humiliating and insulting him and his feelings, how he despises and hates the ideology of party bureaucrats, and much else. "But I especially hate the Jews, these venal vermins, because of them all my misfortunes and woes and ordeals began. She, smart and insightful, like dazzled, got trusted to Seryoga-Mockej, this felon, and, standing at my tomb (here Zheka pressed his right hand to approximately the chest middle), she with no a second's doubt stated that I, Zheka-Jhurah, could not perish, but cowardly surrendered. I despise scorn them and will take vengeance on them all my time being alive for the spoiled life and scolded honor. So not only - although this is of most and general importance! - the great goal and the brightening course of the union of Muslims of all the countries and all the world unite into a world caliphate inspires my thoughts and ideation, I personally, by all my soul and my heart, I thirst for revenge and am ready for any mactation, oblation and sacrifice!"

- Well, your words make sense, you and your soul tuning are good for us and useful to great deeds and achievements, but remember: our main goal is a brotherhood of sincere and righteous guardians and benedictous protectors of Islam and Sharia, and you must devote your life and all of yourself to the victory of Islam in the whole world alone. We will build a new society - a society in which there will be true equality, not in words but in practice, where everybody will live according to the righteous Sharia law, we are ready to cooperate and accept in our united arrayal of warriors against the infidels even those who, profess Islam but departed from its canons for the sake of fictitious proletarian internationalism and other deceitful icons and idols, and are ready for liberal indulgences to other-believers and unbelievers, for the sake of capitalist democracy and other rubbish. The national liberation movements, the struggle for independence, the overthrow of the authorities steeped in bribery and acquisitiveness, - are just a cause, a bridle-and-spur, to promote and strengthen in the minds of our ideology, the ideology of the Muslim brotherhood; yesterday's enemies the day after tomorrow can be our closest friends and allies. Those who 'd leave Afghanistan today-on morrow, any day now, will come to this land not only with love to and seek for the poppy seeds, but also with our ideas. In same string of drugs stream, we will organize the flow of our ideology literature, our propagandists will be everywhere - and we are not inventing or making up anything, recall where your Lenin started with. A bunch of enthusiasts and the idea of proletarian internationalism allowed him to conquer one sixth of the planet - then is our idea of an Islamic caliphate worse? Does an image of a great state, - where a man is brother to a man, homo homini frater vir fratrem, where the principles of equality and fraternity were not contrived by Marx and his "Das Kapital", but decreed and lawed by the great book of Islam, the Quran, - sound and look less attractive? Besides, do not the Jews profess the same idea of all Jews union in our sacred land of Palestine? So why on earth should we give them our lands, the lands of our ancestors? We will crush, along with all the infidels and at first of the all, this odious Zionist canker nidus, we will receive that final solution of the Jewish question, and end them once and for all. Inshallah.

Saddyk's eyes gleamed with the fanatical conviction fire, his speech flowed en-chanting, hypnotizingly smooth, without changing tone even in particularly sharp places. Jhurah listened and imbibed with bated breath, a heavy spiny ball was stuck deep in his throat down to gizzard, and when Saddyk fell silent, he trembled, shoaly and frequent, like a rabbit facing boa.

-  What now. Get in touch with Habib, he run Tezikovka now, tell'im you're from mine, through him you arrange the dope-drugs and reading-stuff provision, especially pay attention on two lines: Tatarstan, a certain Harius is on rule there, and the Caucasus, Sidor swims about; there is also Peter-city, your buddy Mockej is spinning there, and sure we got Moscow, there the prison callboss Kuzmich conducts business; all's under Kuzmich's, but on spot each decides on own. You know them all, tell who could be problems with.
Jhurah's response did not delay.
  - Of course, Mockej. He's a convict.
  - Yep, and therefore he'll willingly cooperate in a drug matter.
  - But not literature. Here Mockej wouldn't be our fellow partner, besides there is another dark horse, Kuzmich, I don’t know him.
  - Then go to St. Petersburg, I'd think Mockej will start to get settled in the city market, here he has a lot of experience, and you will quietly-hidden help him, because the places and zones of influence are already distributed, the locals won’t give them away just like that, so we need them to crunch each other, meanwhile Mockej will gain strength and bite a larger piece off. And take in mind, your main aim is enlightenment, literature, the Islam promotion, the militants recruitment.

Following Saddyk’s guides, Jhurah helped Mockej well, of which Sergey didn’t imagined, he thought it’s Kuzmich supports him. A gullible artless simpleton, he did not even surmise who was gaging him, pointing his way, and what role he was pre-scribed for.

Chapter 9

Well, that happened. The USSR ingloriously left Afghanistan, leaving the country in anarchy of governance vacuum and hundreds of warring factions. The principle "forearmed is ruling", "who is armed - is a ruler", got for a length period gained this ruined and robbed country, not rich besides and before. On May 15, 1988, the withdrawal of a Soviet troops limited contingent began; official statistics reported ten thousand dead, although there were much more victims. But this was not the worst in a failed campaign, and neither even the disabled in the prime of young or mature years. Hundreds of thousands of drug addicts came out of a flaming smoking country, hundreds of thousands of crippled fates, poisoned by silly war, by Islamist propaganda, and only able to kill.
This was not foreseen and taken into account by the rulers of the USSR, and not only they. The spectre of a world caliphate just then started behaunting the minds and hearts; Chechens, Lezghins, Kyrgyz and Tajiks not only returned to their cities and villages, qishlaqs and auls-awyls, they turned active carriers and speakers of a new ideology based on the Islam dominance throughout the world.

“What did the communists and their faith give you? A half-starved existence, an educated wife, who has with neglectedly forgotten her direct duties and binding bounds, and swirls her bottom fore other men. What does or would bring you the darned and cursed by communists West? Lechery and thirst for profit, the race for pork cutlets in the dough, worship of idols and cult figures who have forgotten modesty and shame, the naked girls, eagerly devouring with their eyes the pumped up males, corrupt, like the girls themselves, ready for whatever anything for money, who do not even believe in their gods in their churches, false temples of theirs ... Is this what a true Muslim need? To the real believer who remembers Allah and the follows the covenants of Muhammad His prophet? Is this what Muslims who have forgotten the name of Allah, let His name be sacred for all of us and for all, during the years of Soviet rule, have not been visiting a mosque, have forgotten faith and religion, traditions and even the language of their ancestors, need!? They came back to the country, which threw them into the struggle with the true believers and upholders their freedom!"

Suddenly, Jhurah was summoned to Ibrahim Khan. A very serious conversation took place in the residence, which Jhurah remembered forever, a conversation that changed and once again turned his life, way and rut of destiny.

- We, and we alone are true Muslims, we must save our followers from the excessive dogmatism of the traditionalists. The most effective means of our ideas preaching and success, their unique inventive tool, is an ability to march forth under thousands of different colors and flags, with a huge number of various slogans, names and combinations of symbols, we must carry our light, spread our religion under multiple lots of masks. Just as the One has a thousand names - and not a single face or image, He is able to take and adopt thousands of guises, preserving His essence - and we must flex up and adapt to thousands of different existing superstitions in order to co-form 'em to our needs and make 'em serve us and our great purpose. They all talk about compassion for the oppressed, about well and goodness and social justice, about the fight against the stranglehold power of monopolies and exploitation, we must add to this the struggle against debauchery and chaos, these creations and creatures of Western civilization, the faked culture of the infidels and the erring. We and only we are able to withstand the dirt cultivated in the minds and hearts of the West. We are in front of a serious wrestle facing, and this combat's first stage is laid today, the flame of war, ignited by the Russians here, will spread throughout the world, now and ourdays, our historical dream of a world caliphate has a sure chance to come true and get in real and embodied.

From the Ibrahim Khan words' waterfall, Jhurah was wamble and fluttering as from powerful capturing hurricane - from the incomprehensible, new, enticing, beautiful and distant, seductive and tempting, that surged over him, like the first luring far away longing love, like her eyes, her flexible body, flying over the ground... The flaming brain, incapable of even a single clear thought, was so crushed and stunned, so direly tense, as if something was to blow out within. He felt his soul immensely expanded giving up to heavy vague drunk-like trans-state, a wondrous enchanting mist swirled in his head. Yes, the world should belong to us only, and then she will understand and love me, because I am the master, and this world is mine and to me it is subordinate.

- Todays, when the decision was made on the Soviet troops withdraw, when the Russians flee, we will arrange an exhibitive action, a deed not of terror, but of true conviction, putting all the blame on them, and that act of a faith will be carried out by our hero, faithful and devoted son of our creed, Jhurah.

Jhurah did not even immediately understand he was named, that's him, he, who was already almost see viewing himself the lord of the world, was called and obliged to leave this same world and die for a great cause in the holy victory sake. "But why me, since life is so wonderful precious, since only now I realized what heights I could reach, what aims I could achieve, how much of what I did not have accomplished or succeeded. This is Mustafa, he hates me so, he is jealous and envious of my successes." He recalled the last meeting when in the brightly lit room Ibrahim Khan mentored Mustafa, chastising and rebuking for the operation failure, and lauded Jhurah complimentarily. “Fourteen were blown up by the landy boobies set by Jhurah,” - Ibrahim Khan listed, - “it made them go over the bridge, bypassing, where another twelve flopped into the chasm after bridge collapsed off the explosion. Five captured and three seriously wounded whom we shot there on spot, total a platoon of soldiers and two catch BTRs, this is Jhurah's work result. And you? A complete failure: five killed and four seriously wounded, and you still dare bleating something to your defense, but what kind of commander you are, you are a sheep keeper, get off!" Mustafa turned lumberly and came out. Ibrahim Khan glanced at Jhurah and quoth flatly: "With blood he must wash his disgrace, you are to care and keep eye." When Jhurah left Ibrahim Khan, he saw a lone figure looming near the house, it was Mustafa. Mustafa was not fond of Jhurah, secretly envious of his successes, called him a kafir and a Russian dog. He did not figure how this Russian gained heft in the Ibrahim Khan' eyes so quickly, how he, tabdileh, some newly-becomer, got unsubstituted, how he managed to cunning military forays, where he smashed and killed Russians almost with no loss, and himself, Mustafa, Muslim-born, suffered failures and setbacks. After the recent operation, when Mustafa lost almost half of his soldiers and hardly escaped off the Russian landing unit, Ibrahim Khan threatened to deprive him of the rank “Amir” (Mujahideen officer) and get shoot down. And today, he did not call him, Mustafa, for a council meeting, but did invite Jhurah. As soon as he saw his contestant, Mustafa resolutely headed to him.

- So, what did the molick boss say?
Jhurah kept a weighty silence for a moment and, after a theatrical pause, issued an answer
  - He gives you a chance to purge yourself fore him. An action is being prepared, right after Friday prayers, there will be a lot of people at the bazaar, you will need to fit-drive-on a watermelons' dray-cart, supposedly for sale, a suicide bomber with a belt will come up, wait for him and produce the usual greetings exchange, there will be a signal word, and then leave, and what 'd follow next...

Mustafa inwardly praised Allah and stealthily released a caught breath. "Thus, forgiven, he mercied me, since not sending to death. And deigns sending me to an assignment," while simultaneously uttered
- Brother, tell me, this word.
- You will hear from Ibrahim Khan himself later, I don’t know either.

On Friday, the bazaar square got filled with people. There were activists-conductors of the new, brought with Russian bayonets, power; Russian soldiers, exchanging boots for tobacco, vodka and hemp; women, shopping for dinner; children, wandering between rows and counters, scrounging and begging fora food. A motley public randomly crowded and buzzed - the usual market-place on a market-day after the prayer. Mustafa wained-drove there an old donkey drawn arba full of watermelons and waited for the shahid- the martyr, but no one was coming. A large group of Russian soldiers clustered round his arba, they probed prices and tried to bargain in a lame Farsi, and then he saw him standing aloof, almost at the market entrance. Jhurah was looking at Mustafa and smiling. Mustafa read the word on the lips, the word the assassin-shahid had to say, and realized the suicide-bomber was himself. Jhurah raised his hand high and pressed the button, there was a deafening blast, watermelons, stuffed with explosives and metal, did their deed. Dozens dead and hundreds wounded, the red juice of watermelon pulp mixed with bloodied meat pieces, swept in all directions, cries of horror and groans, children' yells - and a grin of an unhuman named Jhurah.

Chapter 10

Mockej firmly established in a new place, his business flourished, to a large extent facilitated by the general disarray in the country - the so-called "merd'ocracy" led many to wrack and starvation. The most popular profession was shuttle trade, "shuttlers" - people with huge bales - run hopscotched around the country or went abroad, buying up both deficit which included more and more items, and any kinds of goods, then selling all this through cooperative stores nets and on markets. Now one could buy everything, but people did not have money. Paratroopers and special forces who left Afghanistan firmly hooked on the needle, quickly filled the ranks of Mockej militants. Kuzmich managed to become a deputy, and he deftly roofed - covered his branches from a high; the corrupt police, open borders, the privatization knockabout farce and the weak politician Gorbachev closer and closer pushed the country to collapse.

The West triumphed, an almost century-old dream to destroy the USSR came true - and the centuries-old dream of returning Russia to the limits of a provincial principality torn by feuds of county boyars and regional holders. The Baltic republics, Georgia, and little later Tajikistan and Uzbekistan began to demand greater independence, and, as for the Baltic states and Georgia, the center managed to maintain so far the former order of things by force of arms, while in Tajikistan an armed revolt set on, dragging for a decade of civil inter-clan war. The narcotic flow through the Panj and Kafirnigan (Kofarnihon) rivers got dry out unperiodically, and Mockej flew to Tashkent urgently to check the irregular supplies causes. In Tashkent, he met with Habib, who reported that a certain Saddyk is now engaged in this, that no one could arrange supplies without his decision, and that Saddyk controls the market not only in Uzbekistan, but also in other Central Asian republics. So, would Mockej want, he, Habib, could provide a meeting - and let Mockej clearing up personally. Almost a week Mockej had to wait for a meeting, and during this week he found out what a strength this Saddyk gained. This was not just the gang head, it was the mafia chief, hundreds, maybe thousands of various private business enterprises bosses depended on his resolutions; he controlled the flow of not only drugs, but also other products; the highest power echelons' officials and the republics leaders deferred to him respectfully. Many multitudes of lots of those like Mockej, revered for the great fortune to meet Saddyk and get his approval to continue the work.

Mockej was able to meet Saddyk, and he, agreeing to the potion supply, set only one requirement: Muslim religious books would be supplied along the drugs. Mockej did not attach much importance then and happily admitted this clause. "Your concern is to provide the literature for the diaspora mosques   and Muslim believers living in Moscow and St. Petersburg." Indeed, deliveries immediately resumed, and with an increased volume, and religious figures immediately turned to for the literature, besides, the books at Saddyk's direction were been rendering free. Meanwhile, Jhurah, having received the Amir (Mujahideen officer) rank, directed to Dushanbe. The followers of Karmal and Najibullah were still being sought out in Afghanistan, when Ibrahim Khan's representatives had already started up in the Tajikistan capital; mesmerizing by the simplicity and lapidary fabulousity-taleness of promises, the dogmas of reactionary-radical Islam have already started implanting in the minds. Not only religious doers carried the distemper, the Academy of Sciences, various representatives of culture and political persons strenuously adjoined and contributed. All started with the Tajik language. A request the knowledge of the republic of residence language as a prerequisite, the Tajik dictionaries distribution, then -  the dismissal from senior positions of people not speaking the national language well, and then the question who is the boss here; and - “Yankee go home!” with local flavor, “Urus, go your Russia!”.

And forth away. Crowds of bonged and drugged-out young Tajiks from remote areas flooded the capital and surroundings. The immediate cause of the riot and demarche was the arrival of several families of Meskhetian Turks and Armenians from Nagorno-Karabakh and broad informing the city-dwellers and volunteers brought in for the occasion, already agitated enough as were, about the several apartments provided to those newly-arrived, and moreover, infidels. A housing issue in Dushanbe has always been much more acute than in Moscow during the Woland's visit. "They occupy the housing that belongs to us! Down with the non-faithers from the land of Tajiks, down with the Russians and Jews, down with the Tatars and others! We are the masters and governors here, this is our country!" What began as the becoming and restoring of national identity and self-conscious, grew into an armed rebellion, cruel and destructive. The first objects of capture were the winery and the brewery, then a jewelry store and the Central Department Store, then drugged not only by drugs but also by alcohol, the insurgents went on smashing everything and killing everyone who was not a Muslim, did not look like a local resident, did not speak Tajik, looked askance at local, was dressed in European. Jhurah saw a beasty raged mob raping a Tajik girl in an underpass because she didn't wear traditional bloomers and her head was not covered. "Jalyab! Slut!" - a beefy bullhid was shouting while abused the girl, - "Learned from Russians to walk with bare muzzle and ass, now you gotta remember, hey, who else wants her?"

With a grin Jhurah watched the “warriors” sputter-peter of drool and snot, and rejoiced: his campaign and cause would not die, the sprouts, albeit weak and immature now, would get plumped and poured on with the power of nationalism and would flourish magnificently. "Fools. You yourselves taught us, "proletarians of all countries, unite", we did not invent anything, only our slogan is "the true Muslims of all countries, unite". Who believed you with your idea of proletarian solidarity, the nations' brotherhood, and so on, actually based on a hard slave labor? But no one. And our invaluable capital fund, where at the heart is faith in Allah, where everyone is united before Him and under Him, rich or poor, where happiness is to die for him, where the great covenants of the Prophet Muhammad should become the leading and heading line for everyone - is not this a trigger fuze for the world Islamic revolution, the glorious victory of the true-faithful, when everything alien will be destroyed and the true state of Islam will triumph."

Chapter 11

In the four years Zheka spent in the service of Ibrahim Khan, there residued nothing European in his appearance, not a drop of Slavic. Now he was Jhurah, the Islam illustrious warrior, the Mujahideen Amir, adhering the Salafi, a Sunni Islam movement. Muhammad ibn Abdal Wahhab, all Muslims' teacher, considered only the first three generations of the Prophet Muhammad followers confessed true Islam, he opposed any innovations, even if took a place in Sharia. As a result, a radical religious and political movement Wahhabism arose in Islam. This movement's adepts call themselves Salafis (honorific and honorable followers of al-salaf al-salih, the honored "pious predecessors"). Jhurah got especially fortified in his faith when he committed the hajj (the pilgrimage) to the holy Mecca. Maybe the worm of doubt occasionally gnaws at his soul, because the written in the books sent by Saddyk contradicts the basics of the sacred book the Quran. Again and again he reads the literature sent by Saddyk, tries again and again to understand, and still does not find the answer to his questions. Why, denying all the innovations (Bid‘ah, novelties, heresy), they refer to the Prophet Muhammad, while Salafiya forbids invoking Muhammad and other prophets and recognizes only the direct communication, without intermediaries between Allah and man. Why the saints' graves veneration prohibition is not denied - the worshiping the dead, actually, and the same time - a suicide bomber, a self-murderer, is declared not a sinner, but a holy martyr. And finally, why the ban on alcohol and drugs is violated, one of Sharia norms requirements. To all these and other “why?” Jhurah finds no answer. Reading Saddyk’s literature, he increasingly comes across a call to kill infidels, but there is not a word about this in the Quran Surahs, this is what the sacred book indicates: “Kill the unfaithful in yourself, live by Sharia’s laws, and then the people will reach out for you and acknowledge your rightness."

All the “whys” were eagerly explained by Saddyk: “To understand Islamism, it is necessary to study its properties, they are not so many, and you can easily define, having known, studied and understood these properties, what is the difference between classical Islam and Islamism.”

Here are its theses or main points:
1. Fundamentalism - a return to the foundations of Islam (Salafism).
2. The revival of the explicit and complete confession of faith and the total merger of the ritual side of religion with life and everyday beeing; the integrity and integration of all existence spheres of the state, society and the individual to Sharia code and dogmas, the fusion of rituals and rituality with day-to-day life and consciousness, collective and individual.
3. Theocracy - Allah as the supreme authority.
4. Theonomy, literally “the Headship of the laws of the Lord,” - the Quran and Sharia norms and postulates are more important than secular laws and replace any other legals and codex.
5. Terrorism - the desire to inflict maximum damage to the enemy in any sphere and at any level of the subsistence of a society or state without taking into account any long-term consequences.
"We invented nothing and did not make up anything, but created a third totalitarian ideology after communism and fascism. Why did fascism fail? Because it was based on the nation or race superiority. Why did communism fail? Because it was based on the superiority of the class. Why is failure of Islamism not possible? Because it is based on the superiority of faith, and this, you should agree, is a weighty argument. For us, everyone who professes Islam are equal, regardless of their national and class affiliation, but we do not accept and allow sectarians and apostates, reformers and other rubbish. We waited a long time for the communist camp breakdown and demise and worthy occupied the vacant niche; now our task is to destroy our current main enemy, the fatten-selfish and lazy capitalism of the USA and Europe and their Zionist henchman Israel. Muslims are not citizens and not subjects of this or that state, but the Ummah members, a Muslims global community. And, since our ideology implies the obligatory necessity of jihad against infidels, both non-Muslims and, extremely important, those Muslims who do not will to be Islamists, we will not leave them any chances for survival, but will destroy them like mad dogs. Now you have received my explanations, so you can answer all your “whys,” and I have a very important errand for you. Your old buddy Mockej settled in Petersburg and, unlike his friends in the Caucasus and Tatarstan, neglects and disregards the supply of literature to Muslim communities, though readily and gladly trades with drugs and substances. A lowdown reached me, the stinker unclean jackal simply burned the last batch of literature. So, go there and put things in order, and if this scum-kafir 'd get stubborn, thinking Kuzmich 'd help, kill him, I will give you all the contacts 'n connections."

Piter, the second capital with brilliant architectural facades and damp dirty wells of courtyards, a rampant crime and drug addiction. The country gets strangling on empty bloviate chatter about openness-publicity and perestroika, - what the hell of and let the hell with that damned restucturing and rebuilding, when there is nothing to eat, when cooperators have so pumped prices up, it’s impossible to buy anything. The fail and wreck of a great empire named the USSR was approaching. Jhurah arrived to Piter and immediately contacted the local mufti. The Mufti, Jamal, turned out to be an old acquaintance, both studied theology together at the madrasah in Ankara. Of the four theological and legal schools-teachings-directions (madahhib), Jhurah and Jamal studied the Hanafi madhhab, the most numerous by the followers' quantity, and were in one jet, their views completely coincided; in general, there are no significant contradictions between the four theological and legal schools, and all of them are recognized by the Sunnis. They talked about the school, remembering the muallims-muallimon (the teachers) and mentors, recalled Ankara and Istanbul, and leisurely moved on to current affairs in St. Petersburg.

Yes, this Mockej completely got out of control, he conceits himself and his gang as the masters in the city. While receiving drugs, he traded at his own discretion, as for the sacred educational and propaganda literature and the recruitment of new warriors of the right faith, Mockej, as a true ardent neophyte-Orthodox, ordered to collect all this waste paper in a barn and burned everything, altogether with the barn, and besides he warned Jamal that next time such a shit arrives, he will stack and burn Jamal with it. “We would have long appeased him,” - Jamal complained, - “but he has connections with the deputies and, in addition, he is blackmailing us, accusing of nationalism, and this is fraught with the mosque closure.”

- Here a subtle multimove pass needed. We tried to block the drug channel for him, but this swindler sly dog, the son of the shaitan, said, for his brotherhood good he would turn us over as anti-soviet and nationalists, and he knows a lot, moreover, he has ties with former co-jail-sitters Sidorov and Harisov, so the whole network can fly down, well besides then, Kuzmich we still need. We gotta remove only Mockej, and quietly, so that no one would guess on us. My people are ready and just waiting the order, and once do you decide what to do, we 'd fulfill everything.

Jhurah asked a week to ponder the plan and analyze the situation, meanwhile, with a passport in the name of Dzhumaev Saydulo, the Ufa city resident, went to Kolpino, where a temporary abode was rented. All week, Jhurah cerebrated the best way to eliminate Mockej, all week his agents watched Mockej moves, where he used to happen, with whom he met and talked to, and he decided: it was impossible to erase Mockej, but it was possible to get him off of the game, and by such a method that it would look criminal showdowns. As the action performer he chose a small and little-known groupment of Russian nationalist Kotov, nicknamed Moggy, who opposed drugs and the poisoning of the Orthodox christians by this infection. Exactly after a week, Jhurah met with Jamal again and represented him a plan, Jamal liked the plot, and he undertook to find the cast, while Jhurah decided to discuss with Mockej once more and arranged the crosspoint. They fixed on the "Astoria" restaurant, Mockej came alone, as Jamal requested. When at his favorite restaurant meetings time, exactly six pm, Mockej got in, Jhurah was already waiting for him at the ordered table and himself come up to greet. Complete confident Mockej would never recognize him, Jhurah started talking about new drugs deliveries, but Mockej listened absent-mindedly and carefully looked into the face of the courier, he did not touch the food, only drank vodka, and by the end of the meeting he suddenly said: "I recognized you, Zheka, so gosh you haven’t died, and hence your mother visits and cries on someone else grave, the man's who died in your stead. Hence, Dina was right. People like you do not die, like shit that does not sink, you are a coward. And here is my advice for free: go and repent - or I will do it and I’ll get sure convinced you are a coward and a scumbag."

Jhurah did not expect such a turn, he attempted to glue up some on-foot-made story his "death" was needed by the special services which he, Zheka, was employed by. But Mockej grinned grimly: "Don't you dust with me. What special services, don't push up winds, you shill sucker. And this propaganda stuff, all these Islamistic scribbling twaddles - are also from yours. You go and tell the whole truth, I know you can betray like you once betrayed Sashka, and now you are betraying faith and homeland. I’m not a patriot, I’m a criminal who spoils and poisons people for money, but even to me it's a shut arse bother, to stoop to such a slop-pail, you go and confess, this is my final edge word, and if you don’t, I personally take care you wouldn't sin anymore."

Sergey got out the restaurant and got in the brand-new fancy wheels, Jhurah came after and watched the car turning around then racing to the track; Jamal suddenly appeared beside. Zheka-Jhurah, without turning his head, said flat: “He must be crippled, and the sooner the better. He should no longer see and hear, he should not speak and write, you let a command and do not forget to throw up materials exposing Moggy. That's all."

Much later, already in Chechnya, Jhurah received a message from Jamal: Mockej was found in one of the dens on Nevsky with broken fingers, gouged out eyes and a cut-off tongue, and Kuzmich himself visited him in the hospital. At the crime scene, leaflets of Russian nationalists and some attributes of the Kotov group were found, from where the Ministry of Internal Affairs concluded it was them, Moggy and his accomplices were arrested and sentenced to significant terms, and Mockej's business was transferred to Majar-ogly, a native of some Caucasian minor county.

Part 4. Jhurah.

To murder - was a science Jhurah has learned and mastered at perfection. To kill was a religion and a creed faith statement of his associates and like-minded fold.

A large landfill, where hundreds of stray dogs and as many hungry people roam in the hope of finding something.

My calls for freedom and liberation from the Israelis' occupation led people to a draff landfill, to a reason loss in their heads, and to a hardening in their souls, to hunger and poverty. The Israelis have enhanced the security of the security fence, hence no way to get close and lay a fougasse. If this were possible, it would be possible to return and eat well, and now even it is unachievable to put anything in a mouth in fear the feral starving inhabitants of these places would be simply drawn by and to a food smell and readily tear an eater on asunder piecemeals. Yesterday I witnessed a ghoulish battle shook my mind and conscious, a huge dog found a piece of rotten meat in the ruins, and an appeared vagabond grabbed a find. A dog and a human fought for this piece of rotten stuff, ripping each other in primitive virgin rage. The man won, all scratched, bitten and bloodied, he was happy by this loot, struck off from the garbage dog, he was sniffing and licking his prey, he will be sated and his children will be fed, another day was reconquered out this unworthy inutile life.

Jhurah could not stand this spectacle, he vomited for a long time, and his teeth shook with wild febrile chills.

Chapter 1

The USSR fall, the socialist system fail, the Berlin Wall demolition, the SCSE (GKChP) and the followed Gorbachev resignation, the long-awaited freedom growing into anarchy, the last totalitarian communist regime bursting at the seams - and an infection of Islamism penetrates into every crackle, every cell of a weakened organism; infected and damaged cells carry the intruded malignant code further, uncontrollably multiplying and spreading, alike metastases of a growing tumor.

After the Soviet troops left Afghanistan, the Mujahideen split into two warring factions, one part, mainly Tajiks led by Ahmad Shah Massoud and Uzbeks led by General Abdul-Rashid Dostum supported by the Russians, became the northern alliance units, the other part joined the Taliban. "The Taliban" in Pashto language literally means students-pupils, particularly, madrassas students-attenders. Ibrahim Khan with his squads passed to the Taliban side. In ruined Afghanistan, with its fragmented tribal system and clan intestine strife, immediately after the several wars sequenced with no interruption, another one, the civil war, began accompanied by slaughter and blood-shed massacres. The people grew poor and, to survive, engaged in crops of pretty red flowers, the fields were sown with poppy seeds blooming into hundreds and thousands of hectares of opium and millions of pretty rustling green dollars in the drug dealers' pockets.

Jhurah sat on a wooden couch (trestle-bed) under a vineyard and lazily drank tea. At such a time, when the sun roasts mercilessly and the temperature is around forty in a blessed shade, there is nothing better than strong green tea and dense green of vine leaves overhead. The wives, and Jhurah already have three, quietly move in the garden and do their women's works, the children are seated at the far garden corner, where they are busy with toys brought by Jhurah from different countries, boys with replicas of machine guns and pistols, girls with dolls. A cage is suspended above Jhurah’s head, the stupid guinea fowl chucks all day, amusing and pleasing the owner’s hearing. One thing is bad: all this not only does not rejoice Jhurah, but even annoys him. He closes his eyes - and sees her, the one that turned his whole life, the one who, like an amock obsession, does not allow him to plunge into the sweetness of his wives' love and haunts him everywhere and always, with her bottomless witching eyes and chiseled figure in a blue swimsuit and with scarlet ribbon in the hands. "Oh Greatest!", - Jhurah prays, - "save me from this intrusive ghost obsession!" But again and always, in response, he sees her contemptuous look and hears the words, "he could not die, he is a coward and a traitor." Jhurah groans and rouse, frightened wives stand near the trestle-bed, not daring to say a word and wake the sleeper. "Why 'd you flock here?" - the owner shouts harshly, adjusting his chapan, - "Have nothing to do? Get away!" Wives, long accustomed to rudeness and shouts, are immediately removed. "Are those the women?" - Jura thinks, - “Sheep bought for money, is it really possible to passionately suffer and burn in the flame of love for such, can these make to die of jealousy or to exalt upto unknown heights of the intoxicating voluptuous sensuality? Even at night, waiting for him, they are submissive and cold, like insensate senseless logs, and thus he is forced to shut his eyes and evoke the image of his beloved in order to fulfill his husbandly duty. And their children?" Somewhere, Jhurah read the most oppressive regimes exist where women are most oppressed, and this is mainly characteristic of Muslim countries. Wherever a woman is turned into speechless dumb meek cattle, the children she brought up are ignorant and backward primitive savages. The elder one grows a dolty dolt, instead of studying the Quran and fatawa for the Sunnahn, reads Saddyk’s prop leaflets and is eager to kill the infidels, eh, if only this lad knew how it is to kill a person, how these bloodied faces chase at nights and leave a tormented soul not a moment of calm and relax, and yet he asked Saddyk do not play off confusing the boy’s head, because he’s still a little kiddy ... but what is it for Saddyk ... just pulls a shahid's bandage on a little donkey, puts a Kalash in his arms and melts slobbering over a new fighter for a righteousity sake and faith. And he himself made this faith all skewed and juggled, left only murders and murderers.

How much Jhurah argued with him, how much he persuaded, "stop, take books, read what true faith is and who is a true Muslim," since there are Islam' credo and creed, the faith's and belief's tenets and postulates, five points or, more precise, the five pillars:
; Monotheism and recognition of Muhammad prophetic mission (Shahada, the testimony)
; Five daily prayers (Namaz or Salaah, or Salavat, the invocation, the prayer)
; Fasting during the month of Ramadan (Uraza)
; Religious tax in favor of the needy (Zakat, Zakat al-mal, alms or alms-giving)
; Pilgrimage to Mecca (Hajj)

Only with time, much after, did some religious groups add jihad, which, from a theological point of view, meant first of all the struggle against one's own passions, so what kind of passions do we fight, committing violence and killing? The sin, a great sin do we commit, and there is no forgiveness to us either on earth or in heaven.

But Saddyk mere laughs: "It's you that are so clever and meticulous, know everything, figured it all out, you need to understand everything and dig to the utmost deepest inners far-flungs, but ordinary Muslims like and appreciate my texts. They aspire to strive against the infidels, and for them the holy jihad is the war against dissidents the other-thinkers and for these other-believers' destruction, and we will make this postulate imperative the main thing in their lives with my books help." Jhurah does not believe Saddyk, he knows the reckoning for everything will come soon, but he cannot contradict. He has chosen this path and must follow all his twists and turns, otherwise he cannot survive and live. Saddyk laughs, and same time he thinks Jhurah is not a true Muslim, there can be no true Muslim in a person who has only converted to Islam, who has this religion ingrained not with his mother’s milk, who by his blood is other than us who are inborn faithful. Besides, he studied at Soviet institutions, fed by and got hold of their propaganda, and stayed with us just due his cowardice and Ibrahim Khan mercy. Hey halt ... there in Chechnya, my emissaries done all first-rate, but the weapons they buy with our greens often get to the mole servants, I'd bet Sidor stirs some mess up, I'll send Jhurah and task him to clear what's on, and I'll see the results and what would come of.

Chapter 2

Jhurah did not presume to stay in Chechnya for a long, what is it to pull time out there, just to clarify misunderstandings with Sidor - and go back, as in the good old Komsomol cotton-gather times. To go back happened ten years later. Long ten years of blood, murder and grief of the people, and it all began with good words and intentions. The struggle for self-determination was again declared, here and now - for the autonomy of the independent republic within the federation, and ended with the demand for the complete independence of Free Islamic Ichkeria. Two hundred thousand died, and the motherly tears' full-flowing boiling stream failed to quench slake the flames of a meaningless and merciless war. Many, oh, many on both sides got a fat-cream load on and by that war. Trade in arms, oil and drugs, hostage-taking, kidnappings, trains robbery - these were the Free Ichkeria main incomes items. Hundreds of mercenaries from Georgia, Azerbaijan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Afghanistan, Jordan, Palestine, as well as from Ukraine and the Baltic countries - and from outwhere just not - fought on the side of the "liberators" and "fighters for independence", the Chechen warriors did not shun to use the "socially close" criminals' help, and therefore, onto the interest spot in the Caucasus, Kuzmich arrived, and launched a vigorous activity in the sale of drugs and weapons stolen from the warehouses of The Russian Federation Ministry of Defense. The echelons of unseasoned grass-green boys became professional killers' targets, and the generals put handsome profits in their pockets, built suburban villas with pools and went on vacation to Mediterranean resorts. Sensing the blood smell, the greedy Islamism' and terror' moloch could no longer stop and requested-demanded more and more victims.

Jhurah was sitting in a tent, Tengiz the Chechen was snoring nearby, Sashko the Ukrainian was counting today's revenue near a potbelly stove, commanders set tariffs, they paid 50 dollars for each soldier-federal, 200 dollars for an officer, and if someone were lucky to destroy a tank or a self-propeller, he could get enough for a small modest house; next to Jhurah, his fellow from Tajikistan, Rahmatullo, was dozing reclined to a flour bag. Rahmatullo woke up from somebody's shaking him hard on the shoulder. Upon opening his eyes, he saw Jhurah's face, alarmed by Rahmatullo's own cry. “What are you yelling for?” - Jhurah asked without much politeness, - “Some nightmare dreamed?” Rahmatullo was blinking senselessly and was silent, although he dreamed something really terrible, and this terrible was so real he could presently reproduce all by tiny details. He saw his devoted truthful comrades, his brothers, solemnly putting on a shahid’s belt on him, and himself swearing of vengeance on the maledicted infidels poisoning the cause of almighty Allah in the land of Muslims which is having been blasphemized, profaned and desecrated. Then he is brought to the center of a large city littered with lights. He sees well-dressed people walking to theaters and restaurants and just walking along the street, he sees a crowd of teenagers, boys and girls, in line at the entrance to the disco club. All people are sated and satisfied, full of fun and laugh, enjoying a warm evening. He mixes with people walking, approaching the entrance to the disco club, here, among the youth, voices, jokes and laughter of serene-easy lads and gals sound even louder and merrier. Here it is, the long- expected moment of revenge, they will reply for everything - for grayness and despondency, for hunger, shambles and ravage, for the unbearable conditions of his childhood and youth. Rahmatullo pushes a button and a smashing explosion is heard. "Now I am a hero, I am a shahid, a saint martyr, a man who met a wrenching demise in the name of Almighty Allah, in a moment I will find myself in the Heaven Pastures, among the fairest maidens-the houris-huriyy, the charming wide-eyed hourin, and they will delight and please my flesh and soul, their voices are tender, like heavenly music, and the skin is like the most precious silk, and their faces and caresses oozing honey of ripe melons." But the voice of the Invisible and Omnipotent sounds ominous stern and toughen: "You are a stinky jackal, the blood of innocent children is on you, and your place is in the swine filth. You are not a favoure for Me and you are not accepted before Me, and your deed is vile in My eyes, and you are cursed to rot forever and ever, and your bones will be gnawed by dirtiest dogs in garbage dumps, and your flesh will be mixed with donkey dung." He flies down, he is in mud and shit, he wants to find an exit, but he doesn’t find it, he wants to beg for mercy, but he cannot. His mouth, his nostrils are filling with stench and feces, he wants to scream, but the wider he opens his mouth, the more pig filth penetrates into him, and now his flesh is tangled-knitted with and into this utter muck and nastiness, and his body is not good even to be a food of hyenas the carrion-guttlers. Rahmatullo gradually comes to his senses, but he cannot forget the nightmare, he cannot tell this dream to Jhurah, because he spoke about the charms and fascinations of the death as a martyr-shahid, and Jhurah is spoken and considered an Islam authority and expert, he read many books, not that of Rahmatullo.

They were five by his father, he with his brother and three sisters, his father worked day and night, but still did not have enough money, then he went to work, but the USSR collapsed and there was no work, there was no work - there was no money, they were starving, even to buy a flour to bake flatbreads, they didn’t have, it’s good Jhurah appeared in their qishlaq, now Rahmatullo works, and at the most honorable job, he’s a soldier of Allah, kills infidels and receives money for it, now he feeds family. Maybe it’s worth living for this, maybe, besides money, the most necessary is to free the earth from vice and taint? So it is written in the books Jhurah brought. Only true believers will be on the earth and then there will be no disagreements and wars, Jhurah himself, Rahmatullo heard, he was once a Christian-Orthodox, but he converted to Islam and now fights with them. And Sashko, even without accepting Islam, helps them, well, for the money, but maybe not only for the money he exposes his breast under the bullets, maybe there is something else that makes one risk one's life?

Chapter 3

Spring in the mountains is the best time of the year. The greenery is protruding upthrust, everything is blooming, and there is a smell in the air inherent only to the mountains and only to these mountain peaks. Mountain meadows are painted in all most different colour varieties, from bright red due to blossom poppies to yellow from a flowering plantain. The earth is pouring on with force, snowed peaks drop white caps, little springs ring, and mountain rivers, becoming full-flowing, carry powerful and noisy streams. Young grass appeals and entices to throw off heavy boots and saunter on a silken dulcet carpet. The air itself trills warbles, burgeons and glorifies the spring.

Lolling on a Caucasian cloak, a burka, Jhurah lazed enjoying in the warm beams, with his eyelids closed, he saw her, the one who did not afford him to live, think, breathe. She fluttered like a butterfly in this green glade in her blue swimsuit and waved a red ribbon cheerfully, she laughed merrily, and the mountain echo repeated and repeatedly intensified this laugh, she was happy, but upon noticing Jhurah lying on the grass, she halted her laugh, and her eyes, the purest mountain lakes with no bottom, became cutting and evil. She looked judgingly at Jhurah and suddenly said: "You engages a leisure recreation time, and the work stands still." Jhurah opened his eyes and saw Saddyk bent over him.
- What are you here? What's up?
- Just decided to visit an old friend, I brought some news from there, you haven't been home so many years, the children grew up meanwhile you vanish away somewhere, and a big deal is planned here, we need your oratorical abilities in use. You are familiar with Tengiz Matsoyev, a Chechen, aren't you? But do you know why people took up arms? Talk to him, he will explain everything to you.

Same evening, Jhurah spoke with Tengiz and heard that on Eve of the New Year 1995, in the presidential palace basement, where wounded Russian soldiers and Chechens were, many were armed, but even more were not. Tengiz noticed the human rights activist Kovalyov in the group of deputies, one of the Chechens approached to the righter-speaker and directly asked question that worried many, he asked: “We are civilian population, common people, workers and intellectuals' clerisy, stay at a crossroads, and our further actions depend on your response. Dudayev showed us a document on the eviction of the inhabitants of Grozny in the Orenburg, Saratov and other regions of Russia - is that true? And does such a document exist?" Kovalyov replied: "Yes, this is true. The document was signed by the Prime Minister Chernomyrdin, it refers to the evacuation of civilians from the war zone." All who were nearby could not help laughing: "Who is this swindler Chernomyrdin for us? An Our Father? Or a Father of family? What right does he have to expel us from our home? And yes, we have already passed this, in 1944." People divided into battle groups and moved to get weapons - the grandfathers', trophy', bought at underground flea markets, or stolen according to the law of the arrived war time... "For long I fought by only the dagger I got from my granddad, and I got my first auto-rifle in a fair fight, stabbed the federal."

The Tengiz's narration impressed Jhurah, and Tengiz, sensing the interlocutor attention and participation, continued in a mellow voice: "It is terrible when they take away the homeland, but even worse when they take away customs and faith, habitat and language, dissolving the nation, the people, its traditions and culture in the vast expanses of Russia; I'd guess there are hardly mosques could be found, but man cannot live without faith and traditions of ancestry, only our laws, Sharia laws save us from bad and filth." Jhurah saw Tengiz's eyes light up and his fingers got white as he squeezed the machine gun foregrip, if now would he be said "kill!" and pointed the target, he would gnaw and crack any enemy till death with his teeth. “You see,” - Tengiz continued, - “First I went to war with the Russians for my country freedom, and now I know we must fight for the freedom of our faith, we are dying here not only for our land, - we go on struggle and death to on our land people lived by our customs and our belief and believe." Jhurah realized Tengiz and like him were ready for any oblation and score, not only in Chechnya, but in all country regions, and let's mean not of this very country - everywhere, in all states and lands where this gloomy hit-gunner would be ordered. “I need you to pick up comrades who, like you, are ready to fight for our faith and our customs to commit an act of retribution for all atrocities and for the triumph of justice, the triumph of our faith and our truth. The task you have to complete is not simple and prohibitive for the weak in spirit. And if someone is destined to die, he will go to heaven like shahid. Are you ready for such honor and fulfillment of this high mission?" Tengiz rabbitly gazed straight into Jhurah’s eyes, and Jhurah understood, Tengiz already agreed. So began another significant turn in the Zheka Stepanov life, - so began the formation of a group played a decisive role in Jhurah's fate.

Chapter 4

Saddyk did not stay in the militant camp for very long, he left literature, money and, having talked with Jhurah, rolled off to Turkey. The conversation was about Kuzmich and Sidor, like so, these two behave completely impudent and failed the operation with the weapons supply for the militants, and they frame all the fault on the recce recon, allegedly the data were not accurate and therefore allowed the feds to seize the convoy, shooting the guards, and, having captured off four trucks with ammunition and weapons, to get shift away somewhere in Dagestan territory. "You peer at them over and check everything, and if you nose up these perps started a double game, you know what to do. Would be nice get them all nailed up and conked down, then mind you, Kuzmich created for himslef a whole army, collected frighty goons out of former Afghans and now doesn’t even go to the loo without security." Jhurah promised to clarify things out and take action, but for this he must get on the feds' side legalized.
- I need reliable docs and contacts, I’ll try to find out their games.
- Well then, I'll try to arrange this, but don’t you push it brazen, your business is to search out everything, to deal with them is others' deal.

Two days later, Jhurah received new documents and changed into the uniform the Russian army major, he was escorted to his destination by Tengiz, on parting they hugged farewell, and Tengiz said: "Come back soon, brother. Take care of yourself, for there are great things ahead of us in the name of Allah."

Jhurah alighted by an Arab named al-Farukh, from Palestine, he studied at the Agricultural Academy and remained in Dagestan for practicals. Al-Farukh has already been a long member to Hamas (a terrorist organization fighting to destroy Israel and the Jews), he arched Jhurah to the right people, and Jhurah introduced them the operative plan. Everything was forethought in such a way Kuzmich could not refuse an attractive offer, but if he, upon receiving a substantial advance, would plays tricks, retribution to follow. Soon Kuzmich was informed some nutty full-foolhardy major was at negotiations to cash three cargos of weapons and ammunition and looking for a proof buyer from among intermediaries between militants and federals. Al-Farukh’s men were to give Kuzmich a tip where weapons should be delivered, treaty on the spot. Kuzmich vividly responded to this proposal and decided to meet with the major. Yet, the major had a clause mark: in security sake, Kuzmich was to come alone, "the fewer people, the fewer witnesses the bargain." The meeting place was designated in one of the highland auls, the major was sitting at the table and eating a mutton when Kuzmich entered the room. With no pause from food, the host nodded to the guest onto the table, Kuzmich sat down, and vodka appeared on. “Well now, to the Christian Russian custom, let's whack a small,” - the major poured vodka into mugs and pushed up a plate of meat to Kuzmich.

Kuzmich clinked with a major and whipped off the jug by a single shot, and lightened up. The table-mates got loosen up talking, and the major said he delivered weapons to the unit, but that part was no longer there, the lads got shot over, and those survived were disbanded into other units. To come back with such, frankly speaking, uneasy load is not real wanted, look and see, any moment the militants will sit up on tail, or even kill, but to haul a cash bit would be kindda keen, you see, there is an awful pretty summer-cottage the major got eyed in a warm region. Kuzmich nodded thinkfully and comprehendedly, meanwhile counting how much it would be right to push off to the major and how much he could pull off by helping the major out and saving him from such a load. “Just not to these sleazes anymore, such sordid sludges alike, see, kill our boys, and from same our weapons? Yeah for nothing! Here, the cops in the area were interested, and the Cossack guys were querying, too. So, I'd raft it off to them.” Kuzmich was weighing all up, whilst the major kept adding poured into Kuzmich's mug. Kuzmich was skilled drinker, but he also felt the drowsiness waves cover him, his legs grow numb, and consciousness recedes. In the morning, when Kuzmich woke up, there was already nobody in the house. He had a weak remembrance of a sum in subject, of a spot he should receive the cargo, but he remembered for sure he had a deal made, and they shook hands.

Jhurah got to the Al-Farukh’s residence and reported the bargain was set. "Now hold your eyes on, send 'm a man in a few days, allegedly from the rebel fighters. Let him say it is bad with guns, and if Kuzmich or anyone else helps, they will dump the dough, he will not lose. And you watch where Kuzmich 'd move, I got a sense he's up to cheat us. Allah is great, we are strong by His will and decree. Whether we find out this Urusi plays false, we’ll erase 'm." The dead-dirty chess got performed as if by sheet score. Kuzmich rejected al-Farukh messenger, stating he got no and expected to get no guns, then he drove off to Krasnodar to meet Sidor, there he promised local cops and Cossacks to help with the weapons - to repel the Basurmanian raids.

Kuzmich and Sidor sat on the veranda of a Caucasian restaurant and celebrated a good deal, besides Kuzmich promise the major just a half price for his stock, the Cossacks, having chipped in, not only recouped the costs for the stupid major, but also guaranteed Kuzmich 'd get a thickly cream. That was real something to buzz for, almost all the brohood gathered on a feast glade; there was already drunk a lot, and the beverages supply on the tables did not deplete. And, like a night ring into a serene sleep, a terrible explosion thundered in the midst of a hubbub party of a cheerful tipsy-drunken dudes brigade and a plucky-dolly thieves-lyric soundtracks, the building was instantly overtaken by a heavy fire, and those who did not die from the explosion simply burned down alive. So Jhurah got even with Kuzmich and got rid of another witness of his flagrant ghastly lurking, Sidor.

Chapter 5

Jhurah was supposed to leave for Turkey to coach a Chechen fighters group, but before the trip he asked for a short vacation to go home. Upon permission, he went to the places he adopted as a homeland, here they are, the familiar mountains and deserts, nothing has changed, as if time had stopped. The path went via Uzbekistan, and Jhurah decided to linger in Tashkent - his childhood city. Solid failproof documents and Asian appearance permitted him to walk around the city he once knew well. New buildings, new shops, and Turkish business, busily rooting into the former Soviet republic's developing economy. Only nothing has changed on the street Zheka lived then - the same old adobe constructions, the same common courtyards, the same potations, swills and fights. Jhurah got wind of Mockej also returned to Tashkent, lives all on the same street, and Zinka cares him, yes, that very same Zinka-slut feeds him from a spoon and carries him on a wheelchair, and Mockej only moos and go drooling. Zheka’s father died and was buried next to his grave, and an old mother goes to the cemetery almost every day, sits at these graves for a long time and wipes her tears quietly. And nothing has changed in Jhurah's house but children have grown up. The eldest sons are fighting, one in the Taliban, the second under Osama from Saudi Arabia, the daughters are already brides, they have to be given in marriage, and with good kalym taken, the wives say there grooms are lined up with no end, and so be it, let them get married and give birth to new Allah warriors. The older one, Aisha, hammered into her head that she, like brothers, should become a shahida-jihadist, but this is not a woman’s business, to die with a suicider death-belt in Allah name, there are men for this. The wives, those wordless dumb sheep, came older, the eldest is just an old, and Jhurah was never drawn to their bodies, he closed his eyes when was to bed with one of them, and evoked the image of the single one that all his life has been inaccessible and approachless. All his life got crippled by this gymnast, he hated and aflamed by the fire love lit in his heart with her eyes. And life, what kind of life was that, just the rushing around the world and sowing death; to remember here is nothing, nothing in this life was except for explosions, fires and tears of mothers.

A coward ... Probably a coward. At first I was afraid to ruin my career, then - to be bereft of life, and then I feared of Ibrahim Khan, Saddyk, and yet but debated, argued we live and fight not according to the Allah laws, and nevertheless, all the same, the last word remained with them - because I was afraid. Afraid to be caught on and convicted of infidelity, but why shall I fidel to them? Saddyk himself states, the jihad of cognition and intelligence, namely sciences' study, education, erudition and the dissemination of true knowledge of Islam, is not needed by the soldiers of Islam, only an automat rifle and a warped, thousand times corrupted Quran, they dare to say Kitab, but there is no line left from the Holy Book under this cover. The books Saddyk brings bring lies and turn people into animals or beasts, they bear no words, they don't teach words and logoi, they don't make think, they just do make to kill. O Allah, if you are so almighty and powerful, omniscient and all-merciful, look into their souls, they do yet have souls, administer them to the true path, our souls we don’t sell to anyone, our souls are of human. Then why, closing my eyes, I see her look full of reproach, why her lips whisper evil to me: "You are a coward, Zheka."

Never by the sword power, by any fire can we impose the teachings of Allah and his righteousness, it is impossible to induce a genuine sincere faith by any force. So why is this great teaching so distorted, why the calls for violence and killings are louder and louder, who and what for contrived all this nonsense delusion, implicated on the blood and suffering of people who live by laws and rules different from those by ours? When will we understand our difference and otherness? But we are trying by force of arms to create something common for everyone, we forcibly dragging everyone in our paradise and a beautiful future - where will be food that satisfies only us, rules of life that bring prosperity only to us, books, movies, music, pleasant only to our ear and eye, a kind of a Babel tower, which God ordered to build not, because it is vanity Pride and a Kibr, an arrogance. And now this arrogant pride is stinking, this is the pride of Ibrahim Khan and Saddyk, confident they know what is right for everyone. Nothing is more alien to faith than religious wars; military jihad, ghazwa or even ghazwat, many such wars, is and are permitted only when the very belief affiliation, practice of faith and its religious exercises are prohibited, when there is persecution of Islam and Muslims, but who, when where has forbidden us, and what we are forbidden? Maybe in Afghanistan or in Chechnya, or maybe in America or Europe they began to close mosques? Not and non and no! Vanity and ambition, a thirst for power and a thirst for money - that is what pushes and incites Ibrahim Khan and Saddyk to war, and hundreds of thousands become hostages and the spoils of their self-interested lustings. Probably that's why, once I just shade my eyelids and look into her eyes, I see the same reproof, because she knows, there, in the soul's abstrusiest depths, there still remained a faint spark of candid conscience, a spark which kilns harder and hurts more than any strongest flame.





Chapter 6

Jhurah got done everything, he put things in order everywhere, clarified out everything and with everything, and gave Aisha to marriage, and forbade her, a brainless foolish girl, to even think of jihad. Would she be an ugly or a widow who didn’t want to go to a relative's house as by inheritance, but naught, there the grooms are stacked piled. He said his firm word, and the wayward daughter became Rasul's second wife. He’s a proper good guy, with a restrain character, shuns vices and unworthy acquaintances, a true Muslim; the head is clogged with science, the Quran knows by heart, and for he is twenty years older than Aisha - this is for the better, wisdom and understanding - they grow over the years, and he gave good kalym money, to clever and sage, the money flows by self. Rasul took her away to himself, now he should take care for her on all responsority and responses. Zarina, she’s younger, but also on a near, I’ll settle her up, too, as soon as I'll back from Turkey, she should be a lesser trouble, the hostess grows and helps the wives, they can't stop doting on her, when she saw a photo where Tengiz and I are resting after the fight, she blushed all over, and was poking a finger in Tengiz, and kept asking everything about, who and what. She got fond a jigit, here Jhurah something but understands.

Soon Saddyk showed in the house, and Jhurah did go not to Turkey, but to Qatar for money, the sponsors there collected a considerable amount, and now it was necessary to clean up the papers so the money would go where should. Jhurah left, to settle issues with money, and meanwhile there started such a big much... Osama's draftees bumped hit the very America, and how! As far back as 1993, an attack in the underground garage of the World Trade Center Osama arranged, then only six people died, though there were many more than a thousand wounded, but there was almost no resonance, the structures occurred durable, but on September 11, 2001, when the Boeings crashed into the WTC towers and when the USA symbol turned into concrete chips and broken glass, that was a picture! Of such a thing, even Jhurah could never have thought. Only those killed were about three thousand, and only by official reports, and the wounded were uncounted lots, but the main was in another: we are all over the world. And there will be no peace anywhere, there is no place on the map where we would not find and annihilate the infidels.

In Ankara, Jhurah met with Saddyk who looked somewhat upset. "Yeah, Osama bin Laden weaseled us out, made such a tumult boom. And after all, the organization is smaller than ours, and how well organized everything, he just dug in there sleepers, sneakers, and till'ers - and here you are. Well then, sure we have done quieter and smaller merits, but we all do the one same job, so there is nothing to envy. Now we must prove we do not get money for nothing, a group of militants has already been formed, preparations have been made, with the name of Allah, we will free the land and Earth from filth and loathsome."

In a response to the terrorist attack, the United States introduced troops into Afghanistan, which by that time was called the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan, since it also included the Waziristan region, seized from Pakistan, and where refuge was provided to Osama bin Laden. The Taliban ruled Afghanistan from 1996 to 2001, and although only the United Arab Emirates, Pakistan and Saudi Arabia recognized the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan, and the UN Security Council designated the Taliban as the terrorist group, this did not prevent Osama and his militants from hiding in Afghanistan caves for a prolong.

Yes, were engaged in one same work, but still the money... Money was being given to those whose contribution to the world Islamic caliphate creation was more significant and resonant. It was necessary to conduct something similar, such an action, for all the media would buzz everywhere without ceasing. And such events were being carried out, including the Islamists participation the theatrical life of the former empire capital, and the endow to the educational process in the regions, and much more.

In the last week of August 2004, 34 militants from a terrorist camp near the village of Psedakh, Malgobek District, concentrated in the forest nearby, not far from the small town of Beslan. Among the militants were two foreigners, Abu Faruh and Magomed, and a third, Jhurah, was supposed to be present, but on the eve of the operation, his candidacy was removed and replaced by a Chechen. The performance was about the school to be attacked on September 1, and Jhurah opposed, saying the Islamic law, based on the Quran and the Prophet Muhammad practice, set out a number of rules all Muslims must observe during military jihad. In particular, these laws prohibit the killing of old people, women and children, as well as clergy and other civilians, regardless of religion, and anyone who does not take part in battles. Saddyk just boiled with anger:
- How 'd you dare inculcate all this heresy to the fighters? Where did you hear that? In your Madrasahs?
- But it is so written in the Quran, and Muhammad the Prophet speaks about this.
- I don't give a shit on your Quran, the Allah soldiers will live and fight according to my Quran, and you are a coward and a traitor, I will apprise report to Ibrahim Khan everything.

Therefore, Jhurah was asided of the operation. Shamil Basayev was appointed responsible for the action. On September 1, 2004, during the parade solemn line-up assembly, the brave Shamil and cronies seized the school and more than a thousand hostages, who were held in the building for two and a half days. Immediately after the capture, the combat detachment head, Ruslan Khuchbarov, handed over a note to Putin from Basayev demanding the troops withdrawal from Chechnya, Maskhadov was to act as a negotiator. Since the conditions were not feasible, on the third day at one o'clock in the afternoon, explosions sounded at the school and a fire broke out, hostages capable of moving ran out through the opening made by the explosion, militants shot at the runaways; in the gym where the hostages were placed, a raging fire and the roof collapsed, special forces started the assault, which killed 333 people, including 186 children, 783 wounded, 33 militants died, 1 - Nur-Pashi Kulayev - was taken prisoner. At four o’clock the battle faded down, rescuers and doctors entered the gym and found a lot of corpses with cut throats; women had their breasts, ears, and noses cut off.

Chapter 7

After removal from the operation in Beslan and after a dispute with Saddyk, a new trouble strip began for Jhurah, like a reflection or repetition of a mishap troubles wave after an awkward scene with instructor Savelyeva in the assembly hall of a far-off institute in far-out student-Komsomol-activistic-agitator years. Ibrahim Khan summoned him and ordered to go to Palestine urgently to help the local Hamas organization in training militants.

Chechnya affairs went worse and worse. In October 2003, the former Mufti Akhmat Kadyrov, who professed classical Islam, was elected the first president of the republic. The killing of children and women in Beslan, the killing of schoolars on their selebratory day of September 1 pushed many of legionary, Muslims and non-Muslims, away from such radical terrorists as Ibrahim Khan and Saddyk. Even more the Chechens were incensed by the President Akhmat Kadyrov malignant murder on May 9, 2004, he was blown up on the Dynamo stadium rostrum in Grozny, along with everyone on the grandstand and nearby, during gala speeches and greetings in honor of the Victory Day, all-people-wide beloved and revered holiday. More and more the people and of them, and the further the more, recognized the Islamist politics destructiveness and recklessness, it became increasingly clear this path was to nowhere. Jhurah arrived in the Palestinian region under the administration of Yasser Arafat, just before the demarcation with the State of Israel. With the beginning of the Al-Aqsa intifada - named by the recent-built mosque (Al-Aqsa Mosque, literally "the Farthest Mosque") on the Temple Mount, where the Jewish Temple stood before - in September 2000, the acts of terror and violence against Israelis increased sharply. By 2005, the militants' activities led to the death of about a thousand civilians in Israel, of all ethnicities and confessions present. Border keeping guard between Israel and the Gaza Strip has been strengthened, and suicide bombers have virtually lost the ability to enter Israel. Defenseless peace-loving fighters for justice changed their tactics and began shelling in Jewish settlements and cities with Qassam rockets. Still, there was a possibility of penetrating into the Israel territory   through neighboring Egypt, and, since the documents were prepared in Turkey by highly qualified specialists, there were no problems. In Israel, Jura went to the village of Umm al-Fahm, although it is hardly be called a village, rather, by Israeli scales and measures, it is quite a full-fledged city. There lived his old acquaintance, with whom he has occurred to cross paths in Ankara. Jamal was a Hamas member and also had close ties with this movement spiritual leader, Sheikh Yassin. Hamas (Harakat al-Muqawamah al-'Islamiyyah, Islamic Resistance Movement), founded in December 1987 on the basis of al-Ikhwan al-Muslimun, literally the Society of the Muslim Brothers, known as Muslim Brotherhood, and the Palestinian Islamic Jihad (Harakat al-Jihad al-Islami fi Filastyn, PIJ) at first was engaged only in charity in the embraced by Israel territories and even enjoyed the military administration support. However, after the return of the Hamas military legion, participated in military operations against Soviet troops in Afghanistan, radical Islamist sentiments intensified shrilly in those regions, and Hamas gained popularity and a reputation as an unyielding arrant Israel' againster and opposer, demanding and declaring all the damned Zionists and Israelis with all their villainous gardens, cities and factories must be destructed.

Jhurah arrival was a signal to intensify the militants' activities in the Gaza Strip and, with the support of disguised Hamas members and agents, in Israel itself. Jhurah brought microfilms with literature, as well as codes and ciphers to obtain finance for terrorist practices. Besides the main concerns, Jhurah was loaded an inner bound to find Sasha and Dina, to see, how they are here in their new homeland, whether they happy? Just a week later he received the information he was interested in; yes, Alex Feldman lived in the State, but died and was buried in a military cemetery in the city of Haifa, while almost nothing was learned about Dina; but this was not a big problem, there is a day in Israel when all military cemeteries visit, on the eve of Independence Day. One just need to be patient and wait, if Dina is in the Country, she will certainly come to Sashka's tomb.

And he got the awaited. She stood by the tombstone wiping tears. Oh, how he wanted to step up to, to hug her firmly and calm her down, how he wanted to look into her witchy fathomless eyes and confide that all these years he had thought and desired and dreamed only of her. He was ready to listen to all the reproaches, the most evil and cruel words, he would even have accepted death from her hand, but he waffled, the great temptation and the duty to the chosen path fought in his soul. Suddenly, a curly military man with children came up to her, a boy, already a grown up, the face with the first downy, and a girl, almost the same as Dina as Jhurah remembered her. A girl ran to Dina, hugged her, became to reassure. They stood close, two dainty slender beauties, like a single having met herself in another tense.

How so? What is this? He assumed the path to her heart was open, since there is already no Sashka, his principal rival, now he, and only he should take a place. He was to tell her all his lot-suffering route, and even if he was a coward and a traitor in her eyes, but, having heard his story, she should recognize and forgive him, because his whole life, his hellish torment is an attempt to keep himself, to save his life, the soul and the most privy - for her, for her alone. And what? Again, some Schmuckler occupied his place. "Hate. I hate you. Vixen witch," - his lips rustled, - "Death, only death of yours will spare me from travails." And then they left, and Jhurah apprehended this was her family, they love each other and, despite the grief of bereavements, of this one and others, in spite of all the difficulties, they savour life and are happy together and be together. A moment of weakness passed, Jhurah returned to himself: “They need to be killed. They have always to be killed and everywhere slaughtered. Exterminate, like dogs, her too, if there is no place for me in her soul, then she does not need a soul, she does not need life. Let her stop living. She, her family, and the whole damned condemned tribe, and their whole country, and all of them all over the globe. Let's agree on redeployment, first these, then the rest."

Chapter 8

How quickly things are changing in the East, probably because the climate is hot and people are hot-minded, and the notorious Israeli democracy, causing another domestic political crisis and the Knesset elections all but every year. In 2003, elections were held, where the Likud party led by Ariel Sharon received 38 seats and formed a fairly stable coalition. In December 2003, Sharon said if negotiations with the Palestinians would come to a deadlock, he would take unilateral disengagement actions, that is, he would begin the dozens of Jewish settlements' evacuation of the Gaza Strip. In the spring of 2004, within a month, Israeli aviation eliminated with targeted punches the spiritual leader of Hamas, Sheikh Ahmed Yassin and his successor, Abdel Aziz al-Rantisi, and in June of the same year, a bill on "The disengagement implementation plan" was proposed for consideration by the Israel Government, then approved and adopted by the government in June 6th, 2004. A serious illness of Yasser Arafat was announced on October 28, 2004, the next day Israel released a permission to travel to Paris for treatment procedures, and on the morning of November 11, Arafat was disconnected from life support equipment and died of AIDS. In the summer of 2005, the evacuation of Jewish settlements began, hundreds of volunteers from the Zionist camp rushed to their defense. Woe and tears, ruined houses, destroyed greenhouses, mangled fates, crying soldiers, carrying the settlers' belongings out - all this was in Jhurah's sight, already settled in Gaza firmly. On August 22, 2005, in Moscow, near the Israeli embassy, the LDPR party held a rally against the disengagement program, the party leader Vladimir Zhirinovsky made a speech; during his address, he shouted a demand "to chuck the Palestinians out to Syria and Jordan!" and claimed Sharon sold himself off to the Western imperialists. There were posters “Hands off Jewish settlements!”, “Sharon, resign!”, “Stop torturing the Jewish people!”

On August 23rd at six in the evening, Israel time, Jewish settlements evacuation and destruction were completed. The Gaza Strip was freed from the Jews presence - conversed to Judenfrei. Excitement and enthusiasm overwhelmed the Arab inhabitants, but soon the euphoria passed, instead of blooming oases, there was a dump of construction waste, thousands of unemployed, who had previously helped Israeli farmers and builders, money lack, and uncertainty about tomorrow.

At first, it was still possible to dredge up at least something, and hundreds of Arabs streamed to get out the re-bars from broken concrete, but soon the fittings disappeared, and no beaten glass remained. The humanitarian aid flow for peaceful and freedom-loving Palestinians oppressed by cruel Israelis was directed by their administration to a single purpose: to kill Jews. The fed and paid happened who were becoming a murderer or creating the murder means. More and more voluntary applicants, individuals and groups, enlisted into the Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigades, the Hamas military wing, more and more they fired rockets onto Israeli land. Nothing has changed for the better, on the contrary, existent presence, being and the future held and boded even more blood, tears and suffering on both sides of the boundary bond-line. Several days already Jhurah was sitting in these ruins, in this large dump, he was entrusted with a responsible affair: to lay explosives at the security fence. The fence must be blown up so a militants group to walk through the breach, kill and sow grief, carrying the great prophet's words.

Not and non and no. Never the great prophet would have admitted this lawlessness and madness. Who gave us the right to kill, sheltering behind verbiage about the liberation struggle, occupation, the destruction of culture and customs? Or maybe, we ourselves are all our troubles source, we, who were unable or unwilling to overthrow and kill out the infidels inside our selves, in order to bring the bright prophet teaching to the world? I, a recreant dastard, fearing for my miserable life, go along with everyone, in the same united ranks, out-traying the last conscience vestiges. Do I need such a life? Do I need this life? What can I remember? Only blood and violence, besides my patrons' evil and cunning snouts, all my way long, bearing and sowing only deception and death.

Chapter 9

The air was thick frozen. Quiet grayish-blue light barely reached the ground, and the earth itself was black and disgustingly empty, only cold pebbles mixed with iced sand, making the emptiness hundredfolds greater. Jhurah crouched his cheek to this alien and cold land, listening would the patrol car noise disturb the eternal rest. He himself volunteered to deliver a deadly load to the fence and lay explosives, it was a mortal risk, but he accepted, because, looking back and remembering his past, all the way from kindergarten to a dirty mattress in the middle of a littered desolation, he could not find even one moment when he was happy, he did not find anything, which was somehow associated with the concept of “happiness”. Only one evening, when he was walking with his friend Sashka and Sashka's girlfriend Dina, surfaced in his memory, only then he was wholly unreserved happy and joyfully waiting for such meetings, only then the verses sang in him and brunt-streamed from the larynx on breath -in and -out:
If death itself would threaten me with crutch,
With no fear I'd shout to my extorter:
I have the one, I don’t need another,
I love her, I want her alone.

Nothing like this happened in Jhurah’s life ever more, and that evening and Dina’s happy eyes were that very reproach of his whole life. How dearly he paid for the most grievous sin on earth called cowardice, in half with envy. And now, like a frightened weak and vicious beast, he creeps prowling along the dark moonless earth to make another vileness, to again seed and disseminate pain, death and destruction. No, he is not a hero, he is a mean killer and worthy a death.

For half an hour, Israeli Army Major Dina Feldman watched a strange shadow approaching a security fence, her drone as a lonely twinkling star in the dark sky had long been tracking this object intricately furtiving toward a fence. He moved crouched, or, bent over in three doom, ran to the target with brief dashes. Excellent optics allowed to examine a person to the smallest detail, he carried a large bag on his back, even his face was discernable on the monitor, something familiar flashed before her on the screen, something well-acknowledged from a distant childhood... these eyes... Major Feldman remembered those eyes, this face - well of course! It's him, Zheka! What did he emerge here for, he was said to be dead, there is even his grave in the cemetery in Tashkent, and the parents mourn the son.  Thus, he didn’t. Survived. And now it serves them, the killers, who call for the destruction of her country, not by accident he is sneaking, in his sack, he sure drags a next bomb. Well no, I won’t let you blow up anything, I won’t permit you orphan more one or several Jewish families, I will destroy you myself. She entered a command to destroy the target, the robot-plane prepared a rocket.

"Just a bit more, a few hundred meters - and I will reach the goal; leaving the bag, I need to crawl to a safe distance and set the remote control button on..." At the moment a joyful thought flickered in Jhurah’s head, "I will survive, I'll stay live!", Dina pressed the command input key. The missile hit a bag of explosives, there was a stunning rumbling with a flash - and he died, died just at the moment he least wanted, when, after so many years of illusions and self-deceit, he began to realize that people exist to learn to live, live with dignity, properly and fair, not palter, crooked, prevaricating corners. He nursed and nurtured himself by imposture and crimes, rose and stem by cruelty and dishonor, and, finally, has suppressed an inborn cowardice - what for? To see the blackness and emptiness? “No,” - Ibrahim Khan and Saddyk grinned in response sneering, - “You did it in the name of Allah and died like a martyr-shahid, now you are waiting for paradise gardens and beautiful virgins the houris - the huriyas in sports swimsuits with sequins and with red ribbons. Here your day has come, now you can rest."

Chapter 10

Jhurah was plodding on a dirty and dusty road traced up with horse and donkey droppings, though, for the whole long way, he met no rider on a horse or a donkey. The more he walked along this road, the more often it seemed to him he had already been walking this path once, and the longer he walked, remembering his bloody life, the more dunged the road became. Rare smutty-gray bushes, saturated with roadside dust all-through, occurred catching his eye, the deep-purple-red sun was searing unbearably, and sweat poured down his bared shaved skull and flowed down his face. Hunger and thirst, withered him at first, faded into the back burner, his only desire was a meet with a roadside stone, on which one could get sit and stretch out tired legs, take a least break, alas, the stone was not. How much and so far he is stepping this despondent and muddy streak - there is no end. Finally, a boulder appeared in the distance, some old man was sitting at, and Jhurah directed up there. As approached, he saw the old man in a torn chapan gown, a grey-lumpy cottonwool protruded of the holes, his dirty feet were dressed in pretty worn-out rubber galoshes, the old man’s gray and rare beard was not comb for many days and got knots and entangled. The old man sat on the ground, leaning his back on a boulder, constantly wiping his sweat and scratchy scuffing up his beard. Jhurah politely greeted the old man and asked:
- Tell me, grand-father, where does this road lead?
- This road ... I already told you, this way leads to hell. This rut is to nothing and nowhere. For many years now, even can’t remember how long, I keep go and step this route, recalling my life - and there’s no end. Apparently, this is our lot, tossed and measured. Instead of the promised paradise gardens and the golden haired peris-pariyan, - to trudge over this dusty road, where, but dust and dirt, there is only manure and more dirt. Since our whole life, as this road, got manured, and ordured, with and by the only desire to kill. You know, sonny, you cannot end up in paradise if your path has been hewn and blazed, and paved with murders and blood. Great Allah, our All-Father and Father of Live, does not forgive who sow death and destruction, their rut is to step forever nowhere. Well, I shall go, you take a break, take a sit for a moment - and again up the road, the dismal and difficult one, because now it is also your way, you have a lot of time to recall and evaluate your life. And remember, the more sins you have collected on yourself and for yourself and behind yourself during your life, the dirtier the road, the harder the path will be, because it is the route of nowhere.




Instead of an Epilogue

So, the novel is over, different life paths, variant fates. The heroes of the novel who left this world found their ways there, too, for some it turned easy and pleasant, for others heavy and thorny. The main is how it was lived or spent here, on earth. Any faith or confession, Judaism, Christianity or Islam, are defined by Almighty' basic and foundament laws, according to them He judges each of us, and the violation threatens with ruthless punishment. My book is addressed to young people at first, those who don’t know what we had to go through, and didn’t passed our ways. Take in minds - and try to not repeat the previous generations mistakes.

The author with deep regard and gratitude is ready to receive the readers' feedback on what has been read and will try to take into account all your comments.

V. A.  Gaisinsky
Haifa
December 25, 2015