nazar 2014-02

BAŞ KABÎMÎZDAON THE COVER TARO AIZU

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CONTRIBUTORSMEMBALAR Taro AizuJohn Patrick HillJack PeachumW. Jack SavageTom SheehanAli Tal

2kenji miyazawa

Ğawun ğeñmez4ğúrğe bakawîy (george bacovia)

Arttan6taner muratscythia minor (little crimea)

Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XXVI)

8ali talengland, uk

Unbounded Void (VI)12john patrick hillcalifornia, usa

Fan Assembly for Range Enhancement to Electric Vehicles

15qasim-i anwar

You Show Me Your Face Everywhere

16jack peachumvirginia, usa

BACK IN THE ‘70sSPELLMEMORYLa FEE VERTE

18w. jack savagecalifornia, usa

The Volchev File(I) 24nizami ganjavi

Photoshop: Mausoleum of poet Nizami Ganjavi

26musa jalil

Before DeathOur Love

30tom sheehanmassachusetts, usa

Clay Hartung, Kid Wrangler

34taro aizufukushima, japan

My Hometown, Fukushima - Kasabamîz Fukuşima

38edmund spencerTravels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (XX)

NAZAR LOOK Attitude and culture magazine of Dobrudja’s Crimean Tatars

Tomrîğa Kîrîm Tatarlarîñ turuş-mamuriyet meğmuwasî

ISSN: [email protected], Romania FOUNDER & EDITOR-IN-CHIEFBAŞ-NAŞIR

Taner Murat EDITORSNAŞIRLER

Emine ÓmerUyar PolatJason Stocks

COMPUTER GRAPHICSSAYAR SÎZGAĞÎSÎ

Elif AbdulHakaan Kalila (Hakan Calila)

CREATIVE CONSULTANTSESER KEÑEŞÇÍSÍ

M. Islamov

Nazar Look 1www.nazar-look.com

2 Nazar Look www.nazar-look.com

kenji miyazawa(1896 - 1933)


(1896 - 1933)

Ğawun ğeñmez Ğawun ğeñmezBoran ğeñmezKîşîñ karî, yazîñ sîğagî ğeñmezKawîy kewdelíHeş merak etíp kóz tíkmezHeş kîzmazÍndemeden kúlúmsúrerKúnde bíraz “miso” şorbasî, bíraz yeşílík,Dórt bardak kawerengí píríj aşap toyarHerşiyníñ íşínde tabîlîrÓzínden taşlarSeslep añlarAkîlînda tutarŞamlîk kenarîndakî otlaktaKamîş man kaplî şalaşta yaşarKúntuwarga barîp kasta balanî kararKúnbatarga barîp yorgîn anaga píríj orarKúneşke barîp eğel tóşegínde ğatkan kíşíní korkîsîndan geşírerSîrtka barîp boş şiyge kawga-tkenlerní hakklaştîrarKurgaklîk bolsa kózyaşî agîzdîrarYaz aylarînda suwuk bolsa raátsíz dolaşarHeş bírewníñ íşíne yaramazSayîlîp-maktalmazkabaátlí tutulmazŞonday bír insan bolmakĞansîrarman.

(Terğúmesí Taner Murat’tan)


ğúrğe bakawîy (george bacovia)(1881 - 1957)


(1881 - 1957)

Arttan Manzúme, manzúme…

Sarî, kurşun, mor…

Boş sokak ta…

Ya keşíkken beklentíler,

Toñgan parklar da…

Şayir, hem ğañgîz…

Sarî, kurşun, mor.

Boş bír oda…

Keş keşelerde…

Matemlí kokî

yúzyîllîk…

Ebediy…



scythia minor (little crimea)www.tanermurat.com

Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XXVI)

Kesím 56Kózínde ğaşîn oynar

Awdan kaytîp úyge bargan soñ, kîrlî

geşmeden:- Síz mením îrgîma barîñîz! Onda

tabîlîr, dayîsî tabar oga. - dep ayttî Elinay Ana Yasugay Batîrga.

Razî bolîp, ertesí kún ata-bala ğolga şîktîlar. Yasugay Batîr man ulî Temúçin, Temúçinníñ dayîsî alarga ketiyatîrganda, Elinay Ananîñ tuwgan Olkunuw îrgîna bargan ğol, Ğegğer Dagî man Ğîgurguw Dagî arasîndan geşe edí. Şo ekí daknîñ arasîndan geşiyatîrganda, Dej Seğan man deñk túşúp dogrî-dogrîga keldíler, Uñgur balasî Dej Seğan man. Bír-bírsíne kún kayîrlap şîkkan soñ:

- Kayîr mî, Yasugay kuda? Ka-yakka ketiyatîrsîñ? - dep soradî Dej Seğan.

- Mína, bo kórgen ulum man Olkunuw îrgîna şîktîk, dayîsî alarga barayatîrmîz. - dedí Yasugay.

- Bo seníñ uluñ mî, Yasugay kuda? - dep soradî Dej Seğan.

- Ebet, Olkunuw îrgîndan alîp tutkan apakayîmdan, Elinaydan. - dedí Yasugay.

Ozaman, Temúçinge karap, bolay dedí, Dej Seğan:

- Sayîlgan bír uluñ barKózínde ğaşîn oynarŞîrayî ottay ğanar.

Soñra, ózínden bolapítíp meraklî bír

kíşí bolganî úşún, bírtaa soradî, Dej Seğan:

- Tap Olkunuwga barîp n-íşlep

ğúresíz? Kayîr mî, kayîr mî, Yasugay kuda? Ne şewúriyatîrsîñ? Ne bar, ne bar? Neler? - dep.

- Mína, dayîsî alardan uluma kîz soraştîrağak bolîp barayatîrmîz. Onlarda kîz ziyade bolatan, ya. Eger bolsa, níşanîn kîydîrawuyup kaytağak bolaman. - dedí Yasugay.

Kesím 57Túş kórdím

Bo sózlerín artîndan Yasugay

alarnîñ ğolîna karayğak bolganîn kórgende, Dej Seğan órseñlewuydî:

- Tokta, toktap tur, ketewuyma! Ne ağeleñíz bar, şo? Tokta, añlatayîk ta, bíraz! - dep.

Ánawdan-mínawdan otîrîp añlatkan kesík bír aranîñ artîndan da, Dej Seğan olarga bonday etíp aşîp tóktí, góñílín:

- Mína, Yasugay kuda, bó sóyín men bír túş kóríp turdum. Túşúmde, şagan şoñgîr, kókten naran man ayga, "Tars!" etíp barîp ğabîşawuya, ekísín de bírden alîp kaşawuya, kîrslay. Ondan, şo şagan şoñgîr, n-íşliydír diysíñ? Ána, tam mením kolîma kelíp kondî, túşúmde. Mením awuşuma. Ána, bírewge barîp, kórgen túşúmní añlattîm, "Ne eken?" dep. Kelíştír-almadî bírşiy, ne árúw, ne de yaman. "Naran man aynîñ yerí kókte. Kelíp te seníñ kolîña-awuşuña kon-almaz!" dedí. Şondan kaytîp keliyatîrman, men, şúndí. Bírşiyden kaberí yok eken. Bírşiyden. Mína, kúndúz gibí bellí de. Túşúmde kókten naran man aynî alîp kaşkan şoñgîr, kolîma kelíp kondî, Yasugay kudam. Kayîrlî bír túş eken, Kudaydan. Sen men, uluñ man kóríşeğek ekenmen, ústún Kîyat îrgî man. Kudaydan bír elamettír, mením kórgen túşúm. Dogrîma şîkkanîñîz bek kayîrlî, bek kayîrlî. Kudaydan bír elamet.

Bonlarnîñ hepísín aytîp pítírgen soñra, şolarnî da koşîp ayttî:


scythia minor (little crimea)www.tanermurat.com

- Eskí kúnlerden berítlíAyîrîdîr Uñgur îrgîGúzel bolîr balasîBem-biyaz kîznîñ rengí.

Síz kaan bolîp şîkkandaUzakka kete edíkYúksek arabalargaGúzel yúz saklay edík.

Túyelerge mínsetípSízge ğíbere edíkKatun yerge otîrtîpSíz men bírleşe edík.

Ulus îrk saklay-keteUz kîz óstíre edíkKaplî telegelergeĞaşîrîp tuta edík.

Boz túyelerge mínípSíz betke ayday edíkÓnderlíkní ayîrîpĞan yerní tuta edík.

Ayîrîdîr Uñgur îrgîĞalbargandaydîr kîzîTalda şîgar katunîGúzel bolîr balasîBem-biyaz kîznîñ rengí.

Bízím ul ballarîmîzKongan ğurtnî karaytanBízím kîz ballarîmîzÓmírge renk beretan.

Dej Seğannîñ awuzî heş karap

turmadî:- Yasugay kuda, mína, mením úyúm

kayet yakîndîr. Belkím "Úylendírme ğolînda alay kîz anasîndan, babasîndan kóterílíp maktalîr" diysíñdír. Aydî, katírím úşún, mením úyúme kadar barawuyayîk. O yerge barîp, men bírşiy aytmayîm. Kudam ózí ğerge ayak basîp, mením kíşkene kîzîmnî ózí kórsín. Kózí men kórsín, kudam. Aydî, katírím úşún!Dej Seğan onlarnîñ aldîna şîktî, onlarnî

úyúne alîp kettí.

Kesím 58Nogaylar talamasîn

Dej Seğannîñ úyúne bardîlar, hem

aytkanî dogrî eken.Şîrayî ğîltîr-ğîltîr, ekí kózí ateş-ateş

kîznî kórgení men, kîz Yasugay Batîrnîñ ğanîna yakîn túşewuydî. Temúçinden bír yaş balaban, on yaşînda, atî Bórte.

O sóyín konîp ertesí kún Yasugay Batîr kîznî babasîndan ístep şîktî, sîltawlamadî. Dej Seğan, bo selamnî kaytarîp berdí:

- Kîznî ayttîra tursañO kîznî bek kopaytîrsîñKîznî da berewuysañO kîznî aşalatîrsîñ.

Soñra, bonlarnî da koşîp:- Kîz, ana-baba kapîsînda kartayîp

kalmayğak kaderí men tuwgandîr. Kîzîmnî bergím kele lákin tek balam bar. Sen uluñnî maga íşkíyew taşlap ketseñ kîzîmnî beriyím, úyúm boş kalmasîn. - dep ayttî.

Dej Seğannîñ aşîk taşlagan kapîsîndan kírdí, Yasugay Batîr:

- Ayse ulumnî saga íşkíyew taşlap ketiyím! - dedí, razî bolîp.

Ústúne şo şartnî da bastî: - Amma ulumnî nogaylar talap

korkîzdîrmasîn. Kuda, sak bol şo nogaylarga, ulumnî talamasînlar!

Onday etíp her şiyge razî bolîp añlaşkan soñra, Yasugay Batîr Dej Seğanga bír ğetek atîn taşlap, "Bosaga geşme bakşîşîdîr" dep, Temúçinní íşkíyew brakîp, úyúne kayttî.

(dewamî keleğekke)


england, ukwww.arabworldbooks.com

Unbounded Void (VI)

7

htAfter the guests had departed and

Umm Ahmad cleaned and tidied up the place, she made our beds and left. Quite exhausted with happiness and the success of the dinner party, Nader and I each slid and his heavy bedcovers for warmth. I dimmed the oil lamp and for while we fondly reminisced about our childhood days and the things we used to get up to in our neighbourhood.

On a serious note I asked him, ‘Nader, how do you value the battle for independence?’

With tears standing in his eyes, Nader sighed deeply then said with breaking voice, ‘Ali, sooner or later, all the Arab lands will see the dawn of freedom. Only, for one the battle will go on. Palestine will continue to be enslaved.’

As I bid him good night, outside the sounds of the caterwauling wind started to rise, shaking the window frame and whistling in the trees and village empty lanes. A flurry of snow began to fall from black threatening clouds.

When I cracked my eyelids again, the room was in total darkness. The oil in the lamp must have dried up turning the light off. In the dimness of nightlight, I heard Nader fearfully whispering my name. ‘Ali! Ali! Wake up! Listen! can you hear the noise?’

Before answering him, I pricked my ears up and harked for a few of seconds, but heard nothing unusual. Presuming that he was not used to the gusts of the gales that blew over the Golan Heights in winter, In the fog emanating from my mouth, I said in a normal voice, ‘What can you hear, Nader? I cannot hear anything!’

With puffs of vapour wafting from his mouth nostrils, he hummed, 'There is a noise in the yard, Ali’

Still my voice sounding normal, billowing vapour, ‘It must the goats and donkey in the pen.’

To make me comprehend his apprehension, Nader sat in his bed. His voice quavering with agitation, he breathed his words soundlessly, ‘No, it is a human noise that I hear.’ To make sure that I had



grasped the reasons behind his fear, he added after a short reflected pause, ‘I think it is the French soldiers. Some informant must have divulged my whereabouts.’

The mention of soldiers immediately alerted me and made me feel extraordinarily panicky. Like a bolt of lightning the thought flashed throughout my brain, ‘If they caught Nader in my place, I will no doubt be implicated as a freedom fighter.’

Alarmed by the prospect, I kicked off the quilt and blankets that I had piled over me for warmth and jumped out of bed, thinking, ‘Woe is me! If the soldiers are outside, most probably neither one of us will see the light of day.’

In the darkness, I felt my way to the corner of the room and in a hushed voice, I beckoned Nader, ‘Come here, friend. Hide yourself behind the sacks of grains.’

Neither could hear but the pounding of his heart drumming in our ears. Quiet as a mouse and as fast as he could, Nader followed my voice. Hardly seeing each other in the gloom, he did as I had bid him, pushing his shoulder down. Twigging my intention, he crouched himself down low. Trying not to make a sound, I covered him with a blanket then slowly piled the children's books and slates on top him in my feeble effort to conceal his presence and make things look normal.

The room was as quiet as the grave as I stood still awaiting the soldiers to burst in with guns at the ready. My heart furiously beating in horror and my heavy breath steaming in the cold, I heard nothing but the scrambling and bleating of the goats. Nothing happened. After a while my fear seemed to ease a bit and a mixture of anxiety and curiosity made me creep at a snail’s pace to the window to sneak a glance at the outside.

Very gingerly I cracked the curtains a little. The courtyard was white with fresh snow, making it easy to see in the ominous night. There was nought to be seen. The only clatter I could hear was the kicking and bleating of the goats. Peering more cautiously, I saw no human presence in the pen. As my eyes surveyed the courtyard, they took in a single line of small bare feet tracks making dents in the white powdery snow. I was surprised that anyone dared to walk barefoot in the middle of a night like this. The tracks seemed to start at the gate and end at the door of the animal’s enclosure. Hard as I searched, I could not make out any other tracks. Rather relieved at this conclusion, my fears abated, somewhat.

Suddenly, under the dark cloak of the night, I saw the shape of a human wrapped up by blanket from the waist down rise from inside the pen. I stared more closely and made out the shape of a matchstick woman. She wore threadbare clothes and a red scarf which barely covered



her long black plaits. She seemed almost naked. In the absence of any other explanations, all of a sudden it became obvious to me what had awakened Nader. It was the noise in the pen that had reached his sensitive hearing.

The female in the pen must have disturbed the donkey and goats and they scrambled and bleated as they tried to avoid her. The scarcity of the clothes on the back of the woman made me feel the cold and I shivered on her behalf but my humanity did not stir. All I thought of was, ‘The stupid creature, what stupid idiot would dare cold to steal milk on a direful night like this.’

The answer readily came into my mind, ‘Hunger?’

For a long while I stood transfixed by the strange apparition, wanting to know what she was up to. At that moment I was so fascinated by what I was looking at that for a few minutes Nader had slipped out of my thoughts. My ears were so pricked up to pick up any sound, his faint stir under the children’s school books reminded me of him. I left the strange woman and, taking care not to make any noise that might alert her, I went to Nader to release him of his fear. I pointed to him with my hand on my mouth to remain silent and led him to the window. The two of us stood in silence peeking through the gap in the curtains. Looking puzzled by the ghostly manifestation, Nader was not satisfied with

my assertion, ‘Can you imagine any one in his right mind would steal milk on a hellish night like this.’

He just gazed for a second and said, ‘No, of course, no one in his right mind would do such a stupid think. I think, there must be another very compelling reason that has brought her here.’

In a mocking tone I asked, ‘What?‘

It was the popping up and down of her head that had obviously given Nader the clue to what she was doing. With both his eyes held by what we were watching, he spoke with pained voice, ‘Ali, she is suckling from the goats. She must be near starving. Do you see how thin she looks? It is the urge of survival that made her take no heed of the freezing condition. This cannot by her first visit.’

Everything suddenly became clear to me. When her head was lowered, she was holding a she-goat from its hind legs. To free itself, the animal bleated and kicked. But the hungry matchstick being was possessed by the strongest need, that of survival. She had abandoned all precautions and squatted behind the she-goat and put her mouth to its teats, suckling greedily. Now that all our attention was gripped by her, I began to hear the smacking of her jaws in the stillness of the night.

The image that had had formed in



my head of her feeding direct from the goats’ udders like a starving kid, stimulated my sympathy and I began to feel pity stirring in my bosom. It was at that moment, cloaked in darkness from the eye of the cosmos, the still small voice moved my lips by the sadness of my heart, ‘By the Heavens, She is that hungry!’

When I turned and looked at Nader, he was shaking with emotion and a stream of tears ran down his face. After the woman had her fill of milk and left, cautiously looking around here, I lit the oil lamp. Neither one of us was feeling sleepy. We reclined in our beds and began smoking.

Nader asked me, ‘Tell me Ali, do you know who was that naked starving woman?’

Extraordinarily, something mysterious but wonderful whipped up a fierce storm of passion in my inner being that, without even being aware of it, the vision of Fatimah jumped into my mind. It was at that instant a shiver went through my spine, my heart missed a beat and, despite the very cold conditions, my faced flushed red at thought of her.

As I began to tell Nader her story, my eyes were opened wide, setting in motion my hither buried feelings for her. It was then I realised how blind I had been to her degradation and the injustice she was forced to suffer. I felt ashamed of myself for

walking in the shackles of vanity and arrogance.

I was awakened from my meandering by the soft weeping voice of Nader saying, ‘Ali, Fatimah and her likes are our hidden roots. If the roots are starved, the tree will wither and die. Syria and Fatimah are both prisoners of oppression. All they want is their just shares of dignity and happiness.’

Nader straightened me up and lined everything in its proper order. It was at that instant, I commenced to see the lives of the fellahin as they really were, poverty and hope, seasons of plenty between years of dearth.

* * *


california, usawww.johnhill.lmnhosting.com

Fan Assembly for Range Enhancement to Electric Vehicles

There has been much documentation as to the time and sequence of the inception and development of my idea into a full fledge invention. Taped interviews, drawings, and notes are held by me to show the range and phase of progress of my work.

In years past, I have sent this idea to many, including the Ford Motor Company, GM, and to the French company Citroen. Ford made fun of the idea while saying it would not work, GM also said it would not work. Citroen stated they could not work with me at this time. Other companies did not respond and of note, Honda, Toyota and others, would not consider an idea from consumers for legal reasons.

Quickly, my idea came to me in 2002/03 while driving the freeways to school. I saw how the air passing over vehicles could be harnessed into some sort of productive electrical energy by means of fans and generators.

In 2007, I saw an electric vehicle conversion of a VW Rabbit pickup truck, and the volume of space left when the gas motor was exchanged out for the electric one was enough to show me that a fan assembly could be

installed. This attached to generators could use the air passing over the moving vehicle to create electricity to renew the battery supply or send direct current to the motor for passing and quick acceleration.

What is envisioned is this: within the outer shell of the vehicle, in almost any location; wheel wells or under hood, a fan assembly is situated. This fan can take on almost any workable shape, being columnar, wheel shaped, tubular, or any other. It is mounted so that generators are also in place to take up the spinning of the fan. As can easily be seen, the spinning fan runs the generators that place electricity, much like regenerative braking does, back into the batteries or to the motor itself.

The fan is turned by the entrance of air into the outer shell of the vehicle, either through slots, or doorways, or by other openings, that can be located in the front grill, underneath the vehicle, or in various other locations. Conduit



directs the running air.

The opening itself has a door built in it, that is computer controlled. It can open and close according to set formulas that regulate the amount of air pushing the fan, thus regulating the chance of burning out either the fan or generators.

Inside the computer is also a directional formula that tells where the electrical energy is to go. As the vehicle is moving, the computer will open the doors to such a state as to keep the batteries charged, or replenished. This same computer is also connected to the accelerator and when the driver wishes to quickly accelerate for any reason, additional charge is sent to burst the electric motor.

Until testing occurs, it is unknown to what extent this idea will work to replenish an electric vehicle battery pack. Is this the proverbial perpetual motion machine? My answer to this question is to respond as to why any possibility, no matter how close it may actually come to providing its own sustaining energy, is batted away as unworkable.

The main spoken opponent to this idea is wind drag. But, as the entire assembly is contained within the vehicle body, there is no outward structure that could provide any blockage to the overflow of air. The aid ducts can be created quite thinly so that they are no more than a quarter inch wide, provided they are of sufficient length to allow air to pass inside

with enough force. These air ducts could be worked into the trim lines of the vehicle. Or they could be placed within the former grill area where air entered to work the radiator; which no longer is in need of existence.

When the vehicle is in stop and go traffic on the freeway, or making stops at lights or signs in the city, obviously the fan assembly set up will not be working anywhere near the levels of normal driving. The fan and generators works need not be overly weighty. The effects of this additional equipment need not break down its own benefits to the overall regeneration of electricity.

It is quite possible to create a variable motion fan assembly that can in general terms, switch gears when it is at slow down speeds, in order for the fan to continue turning and making electricity. It would shift again as the vehicle once again picks up speed. This obviously would all be controlled by computer.

The next hurdle to allowing this idea to become a workable one is the whole oil industry. Understandably, all working within the great network that is oil will most likely be against this idea. It would mean the trillions of dollars now being made would be stopped and redirected.

But, this would only end the use of oil in transportation. The need for oil based products in all aspects of life would continue. In fact, this method of reducing the amount of oil needed obviously correlates to the amount of oil left in



the ground for use by the Earth’s populations as a whole. This shift away from petroleum is already occurring. If this idea will work to turn those wells and storage facilities away from transportation in one swoop, then there is that much more money at work to see the retooling of the entire industry.

Not only will refineries be working differently, but there will be the need to retool the auto parts stores, the gas stations, and all other aspects concerning the use of oil in transportation. The number of jobs necessary to complete just the conversion, are self-evident. The subsequent demand to meet the needs of an all-electric vehicle population will work to provide for the current catastrophic unemployment occurring globally in all sectors.

We will gain the trigger necessary to confront questions on global warming and global recession at the same time!

One last word, if this idea were taken in by all the Earth’s motor vehicle companies, and work was begun to replace the 750,000 autos on the planet, here is some math. IF one vehicle were averaged at a price of $15,000 US dollars, then that would mean $11,250,000,000,000 US dollars are available just in the conversion of vehicles from gas to electric. That is Eleven Trillion, two hundred and fifty billion US dollars available worldwide. That speaks volumes to the money available in the conversion to the entire industry. That would amount to Zillions?

For my own part, I would be extremely happy to accept an amount of money for this part of the idea. As I see it, this idea could and should be sent to all motor car companies and other interested parties, all over the Earth. It is that huge. If worked together, then the blow to the entire industry could be greatly reduced as the troubles of the limited range on electric vehicles are finally solved.

For the future of us all, whether by global warming, or the great difficulties that currently surround petroleum, I feel this idea will work and is one part of the entire global scheme of what may be in store for us, toward a peaceful solution of many our shared problems.

Try the idea out yourself while driving. Think about it, as the air is passing over your vehicle. See how little air is needed to pass through an opening in order to turn a fan assembly under the hood or somewhere else on your vehicle. Give it some fair and open thought.

There is much work here. With blessings, I think it is well worth all our futures to begin.

* * *John Patrick HillMetis Earth Medicine Artist20335 Siesta LaneApple Valley, CA 92308USA760.508.6726www.johnhill.lmnhosting.comswift.word.jh@gmail.com


(1356 - 1433)

You Show Me Your Face Everywhere You show me your face everywhere I seeand you try to get any good attributeso I sometimes make a mistake that's whyI am an ignorant person or maybe I'm rural


virginia, usa

BACK IN THE ‘70sSmith’s Bar & Grill: NYC Café-au-lait, the bar mistress. She wears a white blouse embossed with the name of the establishment, pulls the taps with an expert touch, pushes the beer across. A light up, she flicks her Bic, pauses for talk, "Back durin’ an’ after World War Two, I was in th’ USO– toured Canada an’ Alaska– went to Britain, France, Belgium. Hell, I even got as far as Manila once! Met Bob Hope, Francis Langford, Ethel Merman– !" A wise-acre at the end of the bar:"Hey, wait a minute– ain’tchoo black? Ain’tchoo a Nigra? Gummint didn’t allow no black folks in USO them days!" She pauses again, lifts her head, smokes and smiles parting red lips proudly, "Shoot! Honey– I puts on a blonde wig an’ went right along with ‘em!" Outdoors, summer twilight lingers and drops into darkness. The hour ticks. A hum of traffic and Yellow Cabs go past the windows, turn over to 42nd. A momentary hush– the street reveals to itself the beauty of the evening.


virginia, usa

La FEE VERTE One of those muggy summer evenings in New Orleans–the heat, my god, the heat! The air almost stifling, humidity so high the damp clung to your shoulders and you felt you were walking through a sack of wet clothes! I’d come to a party in one of those dark shabby little streets that cling to the edges of the Quarter– off Poydras, I think– in somebody’s house– I can’t remember who or if I ever knew– just an uninvited guest, a friend of a friend, but they were nice enough to let me in and make me comfortable. I found myself in a big stuffed chair ina foyer off the main room where the party was going on– not knowing how to join in right away, I listened to the voices and laughter, the music, and saw people passing the door. In this foyer there was a painting on the wall– a man standing between two chairs where a couple of pretty women were sitting, all of them looking out at the viewer with odd little smiles. Then somebody came into the room behind me and handed me a drink. The drink in a tall glass was yellow-green– an opalescent cloud floated within. I sampled it– a bitter taste at first– I recoiled, then tried again– an overpowering aroma of anise and– something else– sugar taste somewhere– my head befuddled and a curious softness on the tongue, a burn in the gut. Then– quite suddenly– a sharp taste that seemed to awaken the senses in my throat and satisfy me beyond my expectations. I had another swallow and– greedy– gulped the rest of the drink down and looked around for more. And at that moment, the man in the painting got down and left the room.

SPELLMEMORY Sunlight to kiss the corners of your mouth–hauteur of an angel,the eyes of Circe–what witchery you practised!And somewhere there was music(there must be music!)– you smiled and my heart shattered like glass–a thousand refractions of your face lodged in my soul.


california, usawjacksavage.com

The Volchev File(I)

Looking back, I regret having struck him at all. It was necessary at times, certainly. The need to maintain discipline was and is critical in these matters. I hadn’t attained the rank of colonel in my thirties being unaware of the need to be taken seriously and how to achieve it. Still, as I think of it today, perhaps, it was not necessary. But Volchev could be most aggravating. It didn’t help that we had so much in common. We were both of non-Russian origin, skilled in languages, and trained in intelligence. His path led him to prison and the labor camps, while mine had made of me a rising star in Soviet Intelligence. As I read his file, so it had seemed of Volchev. That is, until Korosten.

In thirty minutes it would be over. The need for this final debriefing seemed ridiculous. It seemed more of an administrative task. Therefore, I assumed that somehow I was being tested. One could fairly say that might have accounted for my ill-temper that day. But Volchev had become something of a legend in his confinement. How I dealt with this situation would be watched. Or, perhaps, the lesson of Volchev was being taught to me. If so, it certainly was in the nature of a warning. Two things were clear: First, I would be acquainted with both Volchev and his story, and second, if my selection for this task had any further

relevance, that would remain to be seen. It was July 1975.

He had defended a pair of Soviet officers in an illegal trial by Ukrainian partisan rebels after World War II. Many Soviet states had rebellions following the war. The rebellion in the Ukraine began before the war ended. Mainline Soviet forces were held in reserve, waiting for the treachery we anticipated from the British and Americans. The rebellion forces were waiting for it, too. They were forming an infrastructure to support an invasion from the west. Their reward: Independence following the break-up of the Soviet States. And, while the war with the west never came, young conscripts under veteran command were asked to put down these rebellions. Soviet Officers, who missed their chance for advancement during the war, were eager to show their penchant for ruthless efficiency. The same could be said for their rebel counterparts. Stories of atrocities were common in the states following the war. One story would emerge that would horrify, and thereby solidify, Soviet resolve to crush the resistance. Sadly for him, Igor Volchev would be a central player in this event and, as near as anyone could ascertain, its only survivor.



Two Soviet officers, Tetrov and Zoroka, led a raid on Korosten in the western Ukraine where partisans had been reported the day before. When they arrived the following night, the partisans had left. Captain Tetrov went into a rage and ordered his troops to round up fifty residents, including some women and children. When they were assembled, Tetrov had them shot. Later that night, Tetrov’s raiding party was ambushed in a counterattack south of the city. Tetrov and his adjutant, Lieutenant Zoroka, were taken alive.

Volchev, a former NKGB Colonel during the war, had returned to the Ukraine and after a brief visit with his mother in Kiev, assumed the position of junior magistrate in the small judicial district of Malin on the rail line between Kiev and Korosten. The night of Tetrov’s raid, the partisans commandeered a train, went to Malin and, at gunpoint, forced Volchev, the magistrate, as well as the senior prosecutor to return with them to Korosten where they would adjudicate a kangaroo court at which Tetrov and Zoroka would be tried for atrocities. As junior magistrate, Volchev was given the task of defending the pair. Little, if any of this, would ever have been known but for a document that has become known as the official report. It described in every detail what occurred over the next twenty-four hours and resulted in the death of everyone involved and life imprisonment for Igor Volchev.

After waiting in prison for two years, Volchev made the first of what would be three appeals of his life sentence. At the outset of his third appeal—his last under Soviet law—he was transferred to the harshest labor camp in the Soviet Union: Camp 12 at Vorkuta, within the Arctic Circle. Though I could find no record that accounts for the transfer, the implication was clearly, “We are tired of you.” He arrived in the late fall of 1961. That winter an outbreak of

meningitis threatened to infect the whole camp. The camp commander, fearing a production slowdown, isolated as many of those infected as possible. After several days of making sure all of them had been confined, he ordered their barracks to be locked and burned. But an arctic wind had come up and, before it subsided, the fire had spread through twenty-four locked barracks. The deaths and shelter crisis that followed found survivors trying to sleep in unheated boxcars by day, while building new barracks by night. It was the coldest winter on record, and by spring, nearly six thousand prisoners had died—a full two-thirds of the prison population. Igor Volchev survived that winter and six more before being transferred to Moscow. As he entered and stood before me, he had been imprisoned for twenty-three years. He was only fifty-two.

His demeanor was dutiful but relaxed. I had heard that he was a study in passive resistance. He simply had no anticipation. He expected nothing. After a brief exchange, during which I suggested a possible interest in his case taken by the west, he surprised me by asking what possible interest the west could have in his case. I suppose I was somewhat startled at a certain level. I told him the possibility existed that he might have some prior knowledge of these events, and for that reason, he would not be told. He accepted my answer without comment. But, with a glance, he made me feel that I had, somehow, been kept in the dark as well.

“It is because of this outside interest,” I began, “that the Soviet Union feels any contrary position such as that taken in your appeals could be misconstrued. We feel that the facts are clear. You are serving a life sentence for your part in the trial and subsequent execution of Red Army Officers Tetrov and Zoroka by Ukrainian partisan rebels in March of 1947.”



“Yes, Comrade Colonel,” he said.

“Tell me about your part in that.”

“I was originally charged with the job of defending them,” he said. “Then I was also to defend two others charged with being collaborators: A Jewish baker named Spensky and a partisan named Alenev.”

“Tell me about the trial,” I said.

“There was no trial, Comrade Colonel.”

It is and was the cornerstone of his argument. In spite of the official report and other substantial evidence to the contrary, the trial of Tetrov and Zoroka never took place. Twenty-three years and three denied appeals to that effect and still it rolled off his tongue as if stating the “sky is blue.”

“Why no,” I stated. “It seems you are mistaken. Tetrov and Zoroka were indeed tried, convicted, and subsequently executed in a most gruesome manner. You were there. You defended the pair. Your defense was not only vigorous; it was nothing short of remarkable under the circumstances. Why do you persist with this nonsense?”

I picked up the official report and read from the summation.

“And, ah, yes here it is, ‘Captain Yuri Tetrov and Lieutenant Arcady Zoroka, having been found guilty of said crimes, shall hereby be put to death in a manner befitting their offense. Therefore, it is the judgment of this tribunal that said prisoners shall be boiled to death in oil vats available on the premises. Sentence to be carried out immediately.’ And signed, Magistrate Ieatsev, Senior Prosecutor Kronsky and Defense Attorney Igor Volchev, March the 5th, 1947. Boiled in oil, Volchev! Now, this alone is damning. But, as you know, General Kozlov’s

main force arrived on March the 14th, where they found the ghastly remains of Tetrov and Zoroka hanging from meat hooks. Pictures were taken. And so what are we left with? Well, we have a signed document attesting to every detail of a criminal enterprise in which two Russian Army officers were illegally tried, convicted, and executed; their bodies were hung on meat hooks for the world to see and to provide pictures of them for the record. Moreover, having exhausted your appeals in this matter, what possible difference could it make? Surely you can see that any hope of your case being reviewed depends on your concession that these events took place.”

“I’m sorry, Comrade Colonel,” he said. “I thought you wanted to know what happened. I told you what happened. There was no trial. And my case will never be reviewed internally. I don’t know what this business with the west is but to suggest that my cooperation in confirming events that never took place could result in some favorable outcome for me is absurd.”

I rose and hit him with my fist. He neither moved to avoid my assault nor cried out. He fell backward and assumed a somewhat fetal position, probably in anticipation that I would begin kicking him. For my part, his insubordination alone validated my action. But, somehow, he had pushed me to it. I wondered why.

“Get up!” I said. “Address me again in such a manner, and I will have you reduced to a running sore. Is that clear?”

He got up quickly and sat down.

“Yes, Comrade Colonel,” he said. “My apologies. But perhaps if the colonel could outline the problem, I could save us both time by possibly helping instead of arguing points that are well documented in your file. It is my



intention to cooperate. We both know I can be made to cooperate.”

“Why did you force me to hit you?” I asked. “You deliberately pushed me to it. Why did you do that?”

He was quiet.

“I was testing your age,” he finally said. “I suspect someone else is, too. I was a young colonel myself once. But my rank was wrought from the ravages of war. I attained advancement by survival and by bragging that I had met Beria. The latter, while being true, may have gotten me killed. Instead, I went from captain to colonel in fifteen minutes. I was twenty-six. It became somewhat of a burden. I found the need to assert myself for no more reason than to be taken seriously, a problem I didn’t have when I was a captain. Again, I apologize.”

“How did you meet him?” I asked.

“I attended the University of Moscow. I was only sixteen. My mother taught languages there before she met my father. Beria’s nephew became my roommate. It was different then. Race was more of an issue. My mother was Russian, but my father was Ukrainian. That made me Ukrainian…a little less. The nearer you came to Moscow, the more you learned how much less. In any case, his name was Platkin—Yuri Platkin. I told him there must be some mistake. I said I was sure he’d prefer a Russian roommate. He told me his uncle insisted that he share rooms with someone from the states. He said it was part of his education and that he wouldn’t bother me if he could help it. We became friends. He wasn’t a very good student. I helped him. One day I was invited to a picnic at Beria’s dacha north of the city. After meeting him, we went for a walk, and he told me he knew that I’d been carrying Yuri in his

studies, a fact we had taken great pains to conceal. I said I had tutored him early on but that he had improved a great deal and didn’t need as much help. He told me I was a good liar and a good friend to Yuri.

“Remember Volchev,” he said, “a good liar can be useful, a friend is just a plow horse.” He seemed to suggest that I keep in touch with my Ukrainian roots. He took notice of the clothes that Yuri lent me, so I wouldn’t feel out of place. After that, Yuri told me that he had questioned him at length about me and never failed to ask about my progress. I looked forward to seeing him again. But the war broke out and I never did. That is, until the time I spoke of earlier: on Stalin’s train in Leningrad.”

It seemed somewhere between a historical briefing and a tall tale. Things had changed since my childhood, of course. Still nothing seemed without intrigue. Volchev lived it—much of it anyway. But what was known for a fact was all that was important. What had been only whispered held less meaning for the ambitious. The test was always what you knew. Specifically, what you knew that had been officially acknowledged. The whispers held no optimism and not a small amount of danger. But the gray areas were in the Volchev era and in Volchev himself. Perhaps the lesson of this assignment was to test my knowledge of that which had only been shrouded in mystery.

I produced a bottle of vodka and two glasses. I offered him my cigarettes, and we smoked and drank. He began to speak with candor of those things only whispered of today. And, with a first hand familiarity that was most disquieting.

“Stalin felt that all prisoners of war had been exposed to western influence. This influence, he reasoned, could be spread in the



form of an ideological virus when they returned. Therefore, all returning prisoners spent time in the labor camps. The country was in ruins and somebody had to rebuild it. While there, they could be reacquainted with the socialist agenda. Nevertheless, it was not popular. But for that reason a returning Ukrainian, such as myself, could come home wearing the perceived yoke of Soviet oppression. That is, someone a Ukrainian independence sympathizer might trust. Therefore, I was sent to a labor camp in the Carpathians where many Ukrainians were sent. I spent a year there.”

“It says you were captured during the push on Berlin,” I said.

“By whom?” he asked, with a small laugh. “The Germans were eating their young by that time. Anyone captured was shot. Besides, I was in Moscow. Beria had sent for me before the real push began. I was sent for, then immediately ordered on leave. The detachment officer handed me a note with my leave orders. It said, ‘Come have a picnic’ and signed ‘Your friend’s uncle.’ It stated a time for the next afternoon at his dacha. When I arrived, there were twenty of us, all Ukrainians. I always assumed there were other picnics with candidates from other Balkan states. In any case, I was listed as captured when I failed to return from leave. But, as I said, the deception was necessary. The outcome of the war was no longer in doubt. The rebellions would be the next war, and our role would be in the communities and not the fields. We were educated with no pretense for disguising it: doctors, lawyers, and merchants. A rebellion cannot exist without the support of those who worked the day-to-day levers of the cities and towns.”

“Who were your State Security contacts?” I asked. “Who controlled you?”

He leaned in closer and said, “No one.”

“But surely you reported to someone,” I said. “The Office of State Security would never allow—”

He waved me off and said, “We were not MGB. That’s what I’ve been saying. If I were MGB, there would have been a record. I would have never been charged, let alone imprisoned. We were an outgrowth of the NKGB Military Intelligence. You see Beria had been removed from State Security control by then. We were his private deep cover operatives. Apart from the twenty I told you about, I have no idea how many of us there were. But I was not the only one sacrificed; that I do know. In any case the MGB campaign in the Ukraine was a clumsy effort at best. The informers were useful, but their counterfeit partisan units were a comedy. They were easy to spot, and engaging any five of them in conversation told you all you needed to know. That they attacked and killed their own Russian troops to win local acceptance was of no use. Russians were known for their lack of regard for life whether theirs or anyone else’s. A few were able to infiltrate regular partisan units, but their usefulness has been exaggerated.”

According to the official report, the trial of Tetrov and Zoroka was held in an abandoned slaughterhouse. The oil vats described were actually huge rendering pots. Some were filled with congealed ham fat. Being March, and still very cold, the partisans lit fires beneath them to keep warm. Many partisans had begun drinking in celebration of the ambush. Add living prisoners and suspected collaborators to the mix, and the horrors that followed are easily understood. A trial would seem excessive. But even Volchev agreed that, from a partisan point of view, holding Russian officers up to the accountability of a trial could add legitimacy to the rebellion. That is, without the excess of the



sentence.

“When you arrived at the slaughterhouse, what were you told?”

“The dynamic had changed,” he said. “The prisoners had been shot, and many of the witnesses that had been summoned had gone home. There was an argument and several fights broke out. We were taken to what was the lunchroom of the slaughterhouse. They had laid out straw for us to sleep on. The next morning their leader told us to create two documents with two separate outcomes. Each would consist of writing the trial minutes in form and consistency with legal procedure, and each would find them guilty. But one would leave the sentence portion blank, while the other would sentence them to death by firing squad. They were frightened, you see. Things had gotten out of hand, and the taking of Red Army Officers as prisoners was without precedent. And with them dead, a reason now had to be found as to how they got that way.”

“Who wrote the report?” I asked.

“I did.”

“How were you chosen to write it?” I asked.

“For the same reason I was chosen to defend them,” he said. “I was the junior magistrate; Kronsky was the senior prosecutor, and Ieatsev the magistrate.”

“Your final arguments,” I said, “according to the report, is the most eloquent advocacy I have ever read.”

I found the passage in the official report and read it. “And who among you, who labor and fight for your unrealized hope, has not greeted the twilight, only to face the night terrors filled with the memories of the innocents who got

in the way. And, in so doing, usurp the right to grow and live our perpetual nightmare. Therefore, can we not say that our larger and infinitely more juste agenda shall not perish under the weight of a judgment that truly condemns these men of being no more than our enemy? I deign to hope for an independent Ukraine where children may live to realize that it was the quality of our mercy, as well as the strength of our resolve, that prevailed in the end.”

“You realize that it was this alone that saved you from execution like Ieatsev and Kronsky?”

He took a long drag on his cigarette and said, “I didn’t at the time, no. But I have come to believe it over the years. I thought I was spared because I was working for the Soviet Union, and they damned well knew it. Naturally, I’d have to spend some time in the camps. Anything less would have been looked on with suspicion. After a time, I’d be released to assume other duties. In the end, perhaps life in prison was my reward. Certainly, it would have been simpler to kill me with the others. After two years and not a word, I made the first of my appeals.”

(to be continued)


(cca 1141 - 1209)

Mausoleum of poet Nizami Ganjavi just outside the city of Ganja, Azerbaijan


(cca 1141 - 1209)


musa jalil(1906 - 1944)


(1906 - 1944)

Before Death The road of righteous struggle I tred,To reach my goal I failed.My foes have severed with a hotBullet the thread of fate… My living heart a needle smites,Blood runs in a weak jet.I see my shirt that once was whiteIn scarlet now and wet. I do not grieve. To you, my friends,True friendship do I vow.My shirt that once was snow-white bloomsWith bloody flowers now. Pray hang it on a willow boughFor everyone to view.There let it blow to scare the foeAnd remember me to you! 1921-1923

(Translated by Dmitry Priyatkin)


(1906 - 1944)

Our Love I imagine it was quite amusingOur puppy YCLer crush.Members of one regional committee,To the congress we were being rushed.I recallThe train in clouds of vapourAnd us freezing under one fur coat.Drat it all, that's when I got the notionI loved you. I swear I was that smote.It was in the bleak year Nineteen Twenty,When the cold and famine took a toll.In a thrice you had potatoes cooking,When we ate, we even shared a bowl.I remember we were always laughing,Like old friends who've been around a lot.Now, I wonder, was there any kissing?That is something I have clean forgot.Through each crack the gusts of wind blew icy,Penetrating into all the nooks.You were talking about communism,What you thought and what you'd read in books…"Our life as yet is fraught with hardships,So's the road ahead we all foresee,But no matter what, I know we'll conquer,Then we're going to live, you wait and see!Communism means happiness and greatness,For with it the world is born anew.I am sure that both of us will witnessAll of Lenin's great ideas come true.Does it matter that today we suffer?Soon the workers' class will have its way.That's what Marx bequeathed to generations,That's what Lenin teaches us today."


(1906 - 1944)

And the blast outside the carriage window,And the snowstorm raging at its door,Kept repeating all that you had spoken,Urging us in battle to the fore.At the time we fought our heaviest battlesWith the anarchy of the kulaks.Headquarters for us were our committeeAnd the awe-inspiring Cheka.I recall you speaking at the congress.You condemned the crimes of the kulaks.How you championed the Poor committees!You were the support of the have-nots.Then, again, as home we were returningYou leaned closer to me in the hush.I imagine it was very funny,Our youthful YCLer crush!On my cheek I felt your soft hair brushingLike the first time, to the very dot…Now, I wonder, was there any kissing?That is something that I've plain forgot.Years have passed since that eventful winter,We've seen confirmation of our hopes.For the people we are busy buildingThat same happy life of which you spoke.To that life, my dearest, we're advancingWeathered both in body and in mind.We have cleansed our souls in endless struggle,In it, we are seasoning our minds.In the days of that severe winter,Every bit of bread and warmth we shared,And we loved each other and our countryWith a love as fair as it was square! 1932

(Translated by Lydia Kmetyuk)


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Clay Hartung, Kid Wrangler

Clay Hartung’s father said, on many occasions when talk turned to the family around a campfire or at a saloon with pals, “The boy was born on a horse, as far as I know. I was away on a drive at the time and his mother never told me anything different.” He’d chuckle and always add his final word, “The lady knew her way around the horses, too. You can say he was born with saddle and reins in his blood.”

When he was 16 by a few days he was chosen wrangler for Austin Peary’s second drive up the Chisholm Trail from his ranch near San Antonio, Texas to Abilene, Kansas, the railhead of the Kansas Pacific Railway. Hartung, as noticed by Peary on his first drive, was a master horseman from every angle, in the saddle, with the reins and with a rope. A few of the boys said he talked to horses in their language, as if the sensation of a hand gesture or a simple cough or shrug was enough of a message to be obeyed. “That boy’s got somethin’ goin’ on with all them horses, you ask me,” one of the older hands declared.

“You know what I expect of you, son?” Peary spoke directly on the day of the hire, without any curves in his talk, and wanted answers the same way.

“Yes, sir, I do,” Hartung said in reply. “Tend the horses so drovers never lack one. When danger comes, make sure I keep as many as possible in my control, where I can see and protect them.”

“You do that, son, and I’ll see that your share is counted out clean and accurate. You do your job and I’ll do mine.”

They shook hands.

At the end of the drive Peary’s cattle would be sold and shipped eastward from that railhead at Abilene. Hartung had about 80 horses to take care of in Peary’s remuda, each one had to be available as quickly as possible for a rider switching mounts or needing a new mount. Thus, the horses had to be kept separate from the cattle, each drover needing about 5 or 6 horses set aside for him for the duration of the drive.

Even before the drive started, Hartung had to train horses to accept his commands, like allowing flimsy restrictions to contain them, such as a simple rope enclosure or long tethers. Out on the grass, Hartung had to keep the remuda confined in some manner, usually by a hasty rope fence on good grass, which also had a hand in holding hungry animals in place.

As wrangler he had to know the horses each drover favored and be able to recognize them immediately at exchange, which could come up any time. Thus, he had to be good with a rope to catch and hold a horse, be able to saddle up quickly while the drover might visit the chow wagon. Now and then he could lean on the ramrod for help, usually an older man who was capable of every task on a drive, drover to cook, scout to doctor, ride drag or take the lead. But a wrangler was responsible at all times for the


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horses on a drive.

Out on the trail 16 days later, the first interruption came from a small group of Indians looking for meat on the hoof. They took three head with them in their flight, Peary nodding his head as if the exchange was acceptable. But the attempt at getting some of the horses did not go well with them, as Hartung managed to get all his remuda tucked safely into a small canyon when the Indians first made their intentions known, rising up from the depths of a wadi without having been seen by the lead scout, who had missed their signs and passed them by.

That did not set well with Peary. He chewed out the lead man for at least a half hour and finished by saying, “You get one more chance, Henry, and then you get drag if you don’t work it out. You could be there until we have to carry you home.”

Henry ate alone, away from the fire, then mounted up slowly and went out to do his share of night riding. Hartung, watching him disappear into the shadows of evening, checked his rope enclosure for the third time. He’d check again and again before night was over.

The next six days went fairly smooth, with a regular march each day, Peary apparently pleased with the distance traveled daily. He was talkative at the campfire, every so often halting his talk to listen to a soft lullaby coming from the edge of the herd, a night rider singing an old favorite, the cattle still, the stars wide awake in the velvet sky.

“Ain’t that some kind of a song, boys?” he said. “Makes me think of a neighbor when I was a kid back home, sitting alone on his dark porch and putting the whole night to sleep and everything in it.”

“Did you hear those songs all the way through, Boss?”

Peary thought about that and said, “Some of those songs are the kind you never

hear the end of, they do the job so good.”

He rolled over on his blanket and fell asleep, the lullaby out on the grass fading away in the darkness, the stars in their slow roll across the heavens, the cattle still and silent.

The idyllic scene was broken up hours later with gunshots and the thundering sound of cattle rushing ahead of the gunshots, and a lot of yelling and men rushing into boots and calling for their horse and Clay Hartung up and in the saddle and holding his horses in the rope enclosure. Drovers mounted in a hurry, headed out to head off the stampeding cattle.

Six rustlers were trying to drive much of the herd onto wide open grass, one column of cattle breaking for the north and another heading almost due south, the herd split as planned.

Peary motioned to three men and they headed south along one part of the stampede, firing guns at intervals, trying to turn the herd back. Other men headed after the northward herd, all of them aware of the split-up attempt of the rustlers to divide not only the herd, but the company of drovers, and the remuda as well.

Hartung sat his horse, waiting for the attempt to run off his horses onto the prairie. In a piece of skyline light of the false dawn, he saw a rider coming down an incline near his horses. He rode straight at the last point where he had seen the other rider, and pulled his rifle from the scabbard. He held his horse beside one huge rock and as the mystery rider came by him, he knocked him out of the saddle with one swing of his rifle, butt first.

He had protected the remuda without firing a shot. “So far, so good,” he said to himself, thinking about the situation as he headed back to the temporary enclosure, hoping the rustlers had assigned just the one man to get the remuda on the run.

He found the horses excited, straining at their ropes, but holding in place. His presence


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seemed to calm them as the sound of gunshots, flatter, duller, came from further away, out on the wide prairie.

It took a few hours of hard work, some daring and clever riding, and accurate firing of weapons, but the rustlers were driven off, the herd re-gathered, and morning came with high sunshine.

When Peary and some of the drovers came back to camp, the chuck wagon busy, they found 16-year old Clay Hartung, drive wrangler, keeping company with a trussed up and hurting stranger sitting beside the fire. The stranger looked to be in considerable pain, remnants of blood on his face as well as on his shirt.

“He tried for the horses, Boss, but he didn’t get far,” Hartung said. “I didn’t ask him any questions. Figured I’d leave that to you.”

Peary nodded, looked at his trail boss and said, “What do you figure, Smiley?”

“A hundred head loose somewhere, but not with that gang. We run them clean out of here. Won’t be long I get most of them back. Leave a few for the Cherokee, Choctaw, or maybe Chickasaw. I saw them sitting up there.” Smiley Wescott nodded to the foothills. “I’d guess them to be Cherokee, but I ain’t sure.”

“That’s good hoping and good thinking, Smiley. Take who you want with you.”

Wescott sidled up to Peary and said, “The kid did a hell of a job, Boss, knocking our guest right out of the saddle without firing a shot. When you talk to our sore company here, ask him who was in the gang. See if you can find out if Bart Tuskin was one of them. I thought I recognized an old saddle pard. I see him again, I’ll run him in as a rustler. He never was too honest to begin with. This one’s name is Scotty O’Donnell. I got that much out of him.”

Wescott signaled to two men and the trio rode off.

Peary, standing above the captured rustler O’Donnell and said, “I’m not going to spend too much of my time with you, son. I got cows to move, but if I was you I’d tell me in a hurry who was with you. You know they ain’t coming back for you. So you best tell me who was with you, or I turn you over to the kid again. I know he won’t be so careful next time. I just told him to bring me a prisoner and he plain old-fashioned got me one. Tell me who was with you. If one of them’s Bart Tuskin, you won’t have to tell me. But I’ll make sure they figure you did. He one of them?”

“Yeh, he was with us. Purly Yates set it up.”

“Where’ll they hole up?”

“Up in the Mescalili country, in a cabin in one of them canyons. Miners were there once.”

“Well, son,” Peary said, “I’m not letting you go now, and I don’t like the idea of feeding you and having a man watch you all the time, unless it’s the kid. But when we get this herd delivered, we’re going up after them owl hoots. I’ll let you go then, but of course the gang will know you told us. We’ll make sure of that, so when the time comes, you better make fast tracks out of this country or they’ll be after you like their own posse.”

When the cattle were delivered to Abilene, Peary told his men what he was about to do concerning the rustlers. They all agreed to a man that something had to be done. As they were about to go off on the hunt, Hartung approached Peary and said, “Boss, can I talk to for a few minutes, away from the others.” The two rode off to the shade of a tree and talked for 15 minutes.

“Are you sure about this, Clay? Think this is the way to go.”

“I do, Boss. It’s a cinch.”

Three days later, shy of Mescalili country,


massachusetts, usa

Hartung began to race his horse back and forth across the prairie. Finally, after an arduous ride, he rode off in an easterly direction, his horse heated, tired from the run. About an hour later, after another shorter run, he rode his horse into the Mescalili canyon where the hide-out was located.

A look-out spotted him easily and warned the others. They surrounded Hartung quickly and brought him to a cabin at the deep end of the canyon.

“Who are you kid? What are you doing here?” one man said, obviously the leader of the pack.

“Hell,” said Hartung, “I found a couple of longhorns and was selling them to a farmer, a squatter, and he pointed out the brand on them. I never noticed them before. He sent his son to get the sheriff, so I split out of there in a hurry. I hope no one followed me.”

“Why’d you come up here? What was that brand the squatter saw? I got lots of questions for you, kid.”

“The brand was AP Square. I never saw it before. I ain’t never been up this side of the country. I just wanted to get out of the way if I could. This looked like a good place.”

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Clay Brady. From nowhere in general. Been alone for years, since my old man ran out on me.”

“Well, kid, my old man did the same thing. My name’s Purly Yates. This here’s Paulie and that’s Butch and this ugly one over here is Bart Tuskin. We’re interested in that herd or what’s left of it.”

“Well, there’s more than a hundred of them in a canyon back down the trail. I was able to drive them into the back end of the canyon and fence them up with some blow downs. But there’s no way I could handle them all, so I

figured I could do a few at a time. I guess I picked on an honest squatter, not that you can find that many out this way.”

“You’re okay, kid,” Yates said. “We can join up and get them cattle into the right hands. We’ll share the cut. Be a piece of cake, them drovers long gone on their way.”

Hartung smiled and said, “Sounds great to me. Maybe I can get to talk to that squatter again, if you don’t mind.”

“You’re okay, kid. Sure, give him a piece of your mind. Ha, that’s good. Serve him right for blabbing.”

It was in the early evening, with enough tracks showing traffic on the way into the selected canyon, that the rustlers were pinned down by a solid crossfire and threw their guns down.

Hartung, leading the gang toward the blow downs at the end of the canyon, was able to duck in behind a sheaf of rock and hide from the cross fire.

Trussed and tossed on their saddles and on the way to justice, the rustlers were quiet until Yates said, “That kid lead us into this?”

“No, he really didn’t,” Peary offered. “It was one of your own that did that, Scotty O’Donnell, the one you sent after his horses. He got knocked clean out of the saddle by the kid, who’s my wrangler right now. Next drive, next year, he’s apt to be my trail boss. Boy’s got a lot going for him besides horses.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Purly Yates said. “How old is he.”

Peary qualified his answer, saying, “His pa says he’s 16. Could be 60 on a good day for all I know. But today’s one of his good days. You got to agree with me on that.”

* * *


fukushima, japanhttps://www.facebook.com/taro.aizu

and a japanese poet, Chuya Nakahara influenced me to write poems when I was young. TM: Where do you find your inspiration? Taro Aizu: Nature in Japan and radioactive leak of Fukushima recently. TM: Who is your idol writer? Taro Aizu: Basho Matsuo and Kenji Miyazawa. TM: What makes you a more confident

Interview TM: Taro, how old were you when you started writing? Taro Aizu: I began writing haiku and poems when I was a college student 40 years ago but I began writing them in English and French three years ago. TM: Who or what influenced you toward becoming a writer? Taro Aizu: A French poet, Arthur Rimbaud



writer? Taro Aizu: Writing more pieces that can move readers greatly. TM: Is your work process fast or slow? Taro Aizu: Very slow. TM: Do you dislike reading your own poetry aloud? Taro Aizu: No, I read my poems "My hometown, Fukushima" in Japanese and English in youtube. Have you ever heard them? TM: I’ve heard you and your voice inspired me. Are you looking to connect with others through poetry? Taro Aizu: Yes, I want to connect with others through my poems. TM: Were you always wondering about the issues you now wonder about? Taro Aizu: Yes, I'm always wondering my issues to myself. TM: What evokes My Hometown, Fukushima? Love or fear? Taro Aizu: Both love and fear. TM: How dangerous is forgetting? Could poetry prevent it? Taro Aizu: I don’t know exactly but this is not only a problem of Fukushima but of a human being, mankind! TM: Do you believe there is an important damage caused by misinformation about the Fukushima accident? If there is truth to it, is gogyoshi a solution for that? Taro Aizu: This isn't an information about

Fukushima, but a literary fiction of Fukushima based on facts. I believe my gogyoshi can infulence readers to think of nuclear plants and incline against nukues. In fact, artists in Holland held their exhibitions against nukes five times in Holland last year already. They have planned to hold it in Munich and Finnland this year. TM: Which one do you find more traumatic, the accident itself or the displacement and loss of community stability? Taro Aizu: I think the evacuated people will have trauma all their lives and even those children will not have stability of their community and hearts. TM: Which social media site do you use most to promote yourself and your projects? Why and how do you use it? Where can we find you on the web? Taro Aizu: I'm a poor high school teacher. I have no mass media. But I have facebook and youtube and twitter by internet. TM: What is ahead for Taro Aizu? Taro Aizu: I'm ahead for the abolishment of nukes all over the world through Fukushima nuclear accidents by my poems, from the point of poetry, a litterature!



My Hometown, Fukushima I can’t believethey are contaminatedby cesium winds,these green, green,rice fields. Dosimetershanging from their neckseven when the childrenplay tag with mein the green park. Our catignorantas it licksthe cesium rainfrom its wet fur. Officials say"Flee from your village!",But the old men refuseas they want to stay in their hometown. The old farmers like trees have thick roots deep, deep in Fukushima Through Fukushima, the old farmerswant to returnto their true hometown:The Earth itself I eatthe pink peach.Though very delicious,a trace of cesiumhas just entered my body.

I can’t see cesium,nor hear it,nor feel it,it’s an invisibleenemy. This is the common,latent anxietyamong lots of residentsliving near Fukushima A trace of cesiumexists silentlywithout any smellwithout any tastein my dark cells. The dairy farmer left this messageon a wallboard of his new workshop,“If the Plant hadn’t exploded,I wouldn’t have killed myself.”He was 54 years old. Come back,come back,my former Fukushimawhere children could playoutside with their parents. Earth and wind, pears and peaches,cats and humans,may all beingsrevive in Fukushima. We’ll sing a songand dance againaround the tall spreading cherryin my hometownFukushima, Fukushima…



Kasabamîz Fukuşima Inangîm kelmiyalayîsî bîlaşkançesium ğelínebo yem-yeşílpíríj tarlalarî. Dozimetrelermoyînlarînda asuwlî turarballar men mensaklambaş oynaganda dayeşil bakşada Mîşîgîmîzkabersízğalap turarçesiyum ğawunnîkaytîk terísínden Húkúmetíñ kíşílerí“Kasabañîzdan kaşîñîz!” dep aytalarama kartlar razî bolmayóz ğurtundakalağak bolalar Kart şíptşílerterek gibídírFukuşimada kalîn,deren-derentamîrî bar Fukuşimadakart şíptşílereskí ğurtunakaytağak bolalar:Dúniyanîñ ózíne Pembe şeptalíníaşayman.Kayet nezzetlí bolsa da,kewdeme bír çesiyum izí kírdí

Men çesiyumnî kórmem,eşítmem,tuymam.Kórínmegenbír dúşmandîr Bo herkezíñ akîlînda kalgan bír korkîdîrFukuşimanîñ katînda yaşagan baya insanîñ korkîsî Bír çesiyum izíbardîrkokîsîztatsîzmením karañgî kanelerímde Sútşí bonî yazganğañî íşlígíñ duwarîna:"Atom íşletmesí patlamagan bolsa,ğanîmnî almaz edím”54 yaşînda edí Kaytîp kel,Kaytîp kel,eskí Fukuşimamballarnîñ anasî-babasî mantîşarda oynagan yerí Ğer-ğel,Armît-şeptalí,Mîşîk-insan,Fukuşimamîzda bútún ğanlîlarbírtaa ğanlansîn Bírtaa şarkî aytîpoynarmîzbalaban kiraznî şewúrúpğurtumuzda,Fukuşimamîzda, Fukuşimamîzda…



Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (XX)

There are several works in progress, consisting of the usual long line of unprotected curtains, with a few bastions that we see in most of the Turkish fortifications, without any outwork or covered way of any description, except a narrow ditch, leaving half the escarp wall exposed on every side. You are, perhaps, not aware that this fortress, notwithstanding the bombastic accounts we heard of its capture by the Russians, was sold by that execrable monster Usef Pacha, who afterwards took refuge in Russia; and although he was condemned to death as a traitor on the clearest evidence, yet the poor Sultan, at the command of the Emperor Nicholas, was not only compelled to pardon, but invest him with the government of Belgrade! Thus much for the independence of our most faithful and ancient ally.

On leaving Varna, the coast of the Black Sea became highly interesting. The great

ridge of the Balkan mountains was already distinctly developed on the distant horizon; and the shelvinohills, diversified by woods, valleys, bays, and promontories, formed a variety of beautiful landscapes; to which the primitive looking Turkish sailing-boats, with the gaudy turbans of the sailors, as they skimmed over the tranquil sea, contributed no small degree of novelty and picturesque effect.

In hazy weather, vessels generally sail near the Bulgarian coast, having for land-marks Cape Kaliakri, and on the eastern side the lofty mountains called the Deux Mamelles; valuable to the mariner, for it rarely happens that any fog is sufficiently dense to obscure them, and in clear weather they are distinctly seen at a distance of thirty English miles, about an hour before daylight, the light-houses at the entrance of the Bosphorus were visible; but both burned so dimly, that, although we could not have been more than five or six miles distant, it was scarcely possible to distinguish the lamps. That upon the European side, Roumelie Phener, standing upon the ancient Promontorium Panium, is defended by a castle, beneath which is a group of rocks with the remains of an altar, said to have been built by the Romans, and dedicated to Augustus. The Asiatic, or Anadolian light-house, called Phenes Bachtchesi, is also defended by a fort: this mean building was


even worse lighted than its companion in Europe.

As the day dawned, the lovely scenery upon the banks of this justly-celebrated channel burst upon our view. The sun beamed forth with a splendour only known in such a highly-favoured latitude, illuminating with a stream of rosy light a succession of the most lovely pictures that can be imagined. However, it is not my intention, in this

travelling age, to sing the charms of the Bosphorus, charms that have already been chaunted by the poets of every land and every tongue. Let it suffice, that the artist who would paint all that is picturesque in the loveliest forms of art and nature, has only to study its fairy scenery and smiling shores, studded with oriental palaces, graceful chiosks, and swelling domes, mingling their varied outlines with the rich foliage of a thousand trees. All this you will readily imagine; consequently it cannot be necessary for me to fatigue your attention with a lengthened description.

Most travellers on arriving here, establish comparisons, according to individual taste, between the beautiful situation of Stamboul and its rivals in loveliness,—the delightful bay of Naples and the proud amphitheatre of Genoa. My fellowtravellers.

Captain Johnson and Mr. Newton, had, like myself, extended their rambles far and wide, and the latter resided for many years in Naples. A warfare of words, therefore, arose among us with respect to the comparative beauties of the bright gem of Italy, and the equally brilliant jewel of the Bosphorus. In common with most travellers, my companions, on the first coup-d'oeil, awarded the preference to the crescent-crowned city of the Osmanlis; which is not surprising, for it is impossible to behold that glorious waving mountain-outline, that amphitheatre of splendid oriental edifices, rendered even more picturesque by the defects in their architecture, without admiration. Nor is this all; for the splendour of the panorama was at that moment heightened by the aspect of the mirrored city in the clear blue waters of the Golden Horn, and the myriads of graceful cdiks darting in every direction with the swiftness of arrows over its crystal bosom.

Notwithstanding, however, all these fascinating objects, my suffrage was unhesitatingly given in favour of my old friend the bay of Naples; perhaps, after all, owing to its being connected with many delightful associations of early life. Still, the effect of Stamboul depends in a great measure upon art, on the novel and graceful architecture of its mosques, minarets, and gay-


coloured chiosks, mingling, in all their various and picturesque forms, with the dark outline of groves of cypresses and plane trees. Annihilate these, and half the charms of the picture would be destroyed: while the beauty of the bay of Naples, with its sublime combinations of scenery, hill, mountain, vale, and sea, would remain uninjured, were its proud city, suburban villas, and mountain monasteries laid in ruins. Besides, in whatever direction you journey in the neighbourhood of Naples, whether through its champaign country or mountain districts, skirting along the shores of its bay or watching the curling vapours of Vesuvius, it is impossible not to confess the witchery of the scene. Whereas, when contemplating Stamboul, we are obliged to recognise, as the sublimest features, the gently-elevated hills of Europe and Asia on the Bosphorus; the distant mountains of Thrace being neither sufficiently lofty nor picturesque: and, be it remembered, in order to obtain a view of the classical Olympus, you are obliged to leave Stamboul and the magical shores of the Golden Horn.

However, we may as well conclude a truce with criticism on the relative beauties of the two capitals; for though a traveller may be influenced by taste or prejudice in favour of one or the other, it is impossible to bring them fairly into comparison: the oriental pomp and

general novelty of the eastern metropolis, amply counterbalancing whatever advantages its Italian rival may possess in the magnificent bay and scenery by which it is surrounded. But whatever may be our bias with regard to the city of the Sultan, the present aspects of the political horizon invest it with peculiar interest; as it will, in all probability, be the arena on which the struggle for European supremacy will be contested.

(to be continued)

nazar 2014-02

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