The Last Two Jews of Kabul

© 2022 Paul Winick. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  08/01/2022

ISBN: 978-1-6655-6423-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-6424-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022912509

This story is loosely based on two characters I read about in a newspaper article. However all incidents, scenes and the plot are strictly conceived from the author’s imagination and are purely fictional.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1 Torah Scrolls

Chapter 2 Dream Painter

Chapter 3 Gambit

Chapter 4 Traditions

Chapter 5 Dream Building

Chapter 6 Foundations

Chapter 7 Building Blocks

Chapter 8 Found and Lost

Chapter 9 Asa’s Dilemma

Chapter 10 Kidnapped

Chapter 11 Waiting, Worrying, and Wishing

Chapter 12 Hope

Chapter 13 Appraisal

Chapter 14 Reaching Out

Chapter 15 Tournament Time

Chapter 16 Copy or Genuine

Chapter 17 Appraisal

Chapter 18 Fusion

Chapter 19 Auction

Chapter 20 Recruitment

Chapter 21 Weddings

CHAPTER 1

Torah Scrolls

Asa Heravi and Zev Simcha brushed past each other in the dimly lit stairwell, just after the fall of the Taliban in 2002. Their eyes were fixed on the ground. Lack of even a nod conveyed the rancor they felt. They were the only remaining residents of this grimy, once vibrant Jewish community on Flower Seller Street in Kabul.

Asa was wearing a suit jacket over his afghan and a black four-pointed rabbinical skull cap covered his sixty-three-year-old head. His flowing beard was all white. He went to his one room apartment and struggled to carry a bucket of soapy water down to the synagogue. He didn’t see Zev sitting on one of the wooden benches, lost in prayer. As Asa bent down to scrub the floor, his knees creaked. Sunlight, reflecting through a broken stained glass window, cast a blue shadow on his face, giving him an ominous appearance. The dirt was caked deep, forcing Asa to labor with a strength he hadn’t used in years. Sweat poured from his face despite the chill of the winter air.

Why are you doing that, old man? Zev asked. No Jew will return to Kabul and to the synagogue until the Torah scrolls are returned.

You’re a fine one to talk. You took them in the first place.

That’s a lie. I was going to send them to Israel for safekeeping. Before I could arrange for shipping, they arrested me and confiscated the scrolls. You’re the only one who could have told them what I was doing. They said I was an Israeli spy.

You’re the liar. You took the scrolls. They’re sacred and shouldn’t have left the synagogue. You know where they are. Get them back.

You’re crazy, old man, Zev said. The Taliban tortured me. Do you think they told me where they put the scrolls? I’d love to get them back, but don’t know how.

Asa uncoiled from the floor, lifted the bucket and threw the remnants of the muddy water at Zev. The younger man, more nimble, was able to dodge a direct hit, but couldn’t avoid being spattered. Zev wiped his afghan, lifted his fist toward Asa, then turned and stomped out of the synagogue.

Good riddance, Asa yelled after him. Don’t come back until you find the scrolls.

Zev returned to the eerie confines of his sparsely decorated room. He shivered despite the fact that he wore a cloth jacket over his black afghan, and a white four pointed religious skull cap covered his rotund almost bald head. Sagging eyes and jowls made him look older than forty-eight. Cracked spectacles drooped on his nose as he stared at a picture of his son reading from the Torah at his clandestine Bar Mitzvah, held before the family had emigrated to Israel. It was to them that he wanted to send the scrolls. Now he wanted to join them, but he had to find the Torah first. He had lost it and it was up to him to gain its return. Zev thought of Andre Schwarz-Bart’s book, The Last of The Just, and saw himself in that role—the role of the last righteous man. Without the return of the scrolls, no Jew would return to Kabul, and an eight-hundred-year-old community would be thrown out with the Taliban. He put the tea kettle on the space heater and sat on the edge of his bed, looking at his chess set. He tried to fix his higher education and his multi-lingual talents on the problem. He knew the scrolls had been taken to Kandahar, the religious capital of the Taliban. What happened to them after that was pure conjecture. If he could make his way there, he knew of a secret Taliban sympathizer he thought was still living in Kandahar—a covert spy for the Taliban that Zev had seen during his imprisonment. This man, Ali-a-Sakib, was a prisoner when Zev was in jail, but was singled out for extra food rations, conjugal visits and Turkish cigarettes. The rumor was that Ali was there to provide a cover story, that he was anti-Taliban, when in reality he was one of their well-compensated spies. Ali might know where the scrolls were and tell Zev if he feared that Zev would turn him over to the authorities.

As the tea kettle whistled, Zev wondered how he could get to Kandahar and, once there, find Ali. He had no car and even if he did, little gas was for sale. What was available was given to the military or merchants who needed petrol to conduct business. Bus service had been suspended. Maybe Hakim, the florist, would let him hitch a ride when he made one of his infrequent runs to Kandahar? Hakim brought flowers there that he had purchased off the backs of trucks from the northern provinces. Zev put on a heavier jacket, navigated the dimly lit stairs, bracing himself against the pockmarked walls. The building had lapsed into disrepair—the pitted walls were cluttered with bullet holes, a memorial of sorts to the recent end of the Taliban regime. Missing windows allowed birds to build nests in rusty fans and light fixtures. As he walked onto Flower Seller Street, he turned to look at the building. The only clue to its origin was a small section of outside cement wall with rows of Stars of David punctuated by mortar fire.

As he entered Hakim’s shop, the smell of fresh-cut roses caused Zev’s nostrils to flare. The bouquets shone against the sloppily patched, bullet riddled, display cases. Nobody could afford the flowers except government officials and foreign military personnel. Hakim was one of just a few florists still in the cut flower industry in Kabul. However, since there were no flowers available in Kandahar, it was more profitable to sell as much as he could there.

Hakim, I need a favor, Zev said.

Salaam alekum, Zev. For you anything.

I need to go with you to Kandahar when you bring a flower shipment.

That is not possible. It is too dangerous. What I do is not strictly legal. If a Jew is with me, I am more likely to be stopped by thieves.

I can be your assistant, Zev said. I will take off my skullcap. You didn’t mind being seen with a Jew when I hit the Taliban thief over the head, allowing you to escape with your truck-full of flowers.

Hakim shook his head.

I’m strong and can defend us. I know how to shoot a gun. I can be persuasive if you’re stopped.

Hakim shook his head faster.

Besides, I am willing to pay for the ride.

Hakim’s eyes widened. American money only.

Zev nodded. I’ll give you $100.

Not enough, $500.

$300! That’s all I have. At least, that was all of his $1100 that he was willing to give the florist.

Agreed, said Hakim. I make a run to Kandahar in three days time. Come early, dress like an Afghani, and don’t tell anyone.

Several days later, Hakim’s rickety, open backed truck bounced along the dusty road to Kandahar. The bed was filled with pots of roses and petunias. Avoiding all the war damaged potholes was impossible. Zev’s skullcap was replaced by a turban, and the Star of David he normally wore was missing.

Why so important for you to go to Kandahar? Hakim asked.

Our Torah scrolls are there. I need to get them back. I know a man in Kandahar who might help, but I don’t know where he lives.

My cousin has arranged for me to sell these flowers to a government official at a very good price. Perhaps he could be helpful, Hakim said. But it will cost.

I understand and am prepared.

As they talked, Zev noticed the road ahead was blocked by an old car. Two men, with rifles in one hand, beckoned them to stop. Hold on! Hakim shouted. We go around.

Hakim slowed his truck. Just before reaching the thieves, he floored the accelerator and turned the truck to the right. It careened into the rear of the car, pushing it out of the way, and then lurched into a rocky field. As Hakim struggled to get the truck back on the road, a hail of bullets ripped into its side and tailgate. Zev ducked low in the cab. When they were back on the road and the danger had passed, they took stock. None of the bullets hit Hakim or Zev nor the tires or vital components, although rose and petunia petals were spattered around the back of the truck.

That was close, Zev said.

Hakim shrugged. All in a day’s work.

As they entered the outskirts of Kandahar, Afghani guards stopped the truck and searched for weapons. Hakim took a bouquet of flowers and presented it to the officer in charge. For your woman, he said. It was a charade with which Zev became only too familiar, for it was repeated every mile or so.

When they pulled in front of the Kandahar authority headquarters, Hakim waved to the guard. A once proud administrative building had been humbled. Large holes in the exterior wall were boarded with plywood. Bullet holes punctuated the Arabic writing above the ornately carved front door. The concrete fence surrounding the building looked like a strainer.

Wait here, Hakim said. When I finish my business with Achmed, we see if he will talk to you.

Later, Hakim returned and beckoned Zev to follow. As they walked, Hakim said, Achmed is the assistant to the new regime’s regional administrator for Kandahar. He can be helpful, but it will cost.

I know. You told me that. I am not a wealthy man, but what I have, I will give gladly to get the scrolls back.

Achmed’s office was decorated with unmarred, intricate antique Moroccan furniture. Pictures of Achmed with local dignitaries hung on the wall. He was short and wore a western style suit and a gray cap made of karakul fur.

Achmed entered from a side door. After introductions and a minimal amount of small talk, Achmed asked, So, Zev, what can I do for you?

I am trying to locate the Torah scrolls stolen by the Taliban from our synagogue in Kabul.

That’s a difficult task. They will be very costly to track down.

I will give all the money I have with me, $300. He didn’t tell Achmed that he had $800 in case he had to haggle with him over the price.

Achmed shook his head. Not enough. It will cost me more to reach the right people.

It’s all I have now. Perhaps later I could give you more.

Achmed shook his head again. No, I need the money before I can do anything.

How much? Zev asked.

Five thousand dollars.

Zev wondered if it was that costly because he was a Jew. I won’t be able to get that much. Is $300 enough for you to help me find a man living in Kandahar?

No, that will cost $500.

I can have that by tomorrow.

Who is it you want to find? What’s his name?

Zev told Achmed what he knew about Ali-a-Sakib omitting the fact that Zev thought he had worked for the Taliban. Come back tomorrow, Achmed said. I will see what information I can get for you.

As they left, Hakim said, I visit with my cousin, Omar, for two days. You need to finish your business by then if you want to go back with me. In the meantime, I’m sure my cousin will extend you his hospitality.

I will try to be finished. Thank you, Hakim.

The next day, Zev returned to Achmed’s office. Achmed scooped up the $500 that Zev had placed on the desk. He took out a money clip and added Zev’s money to the existing wad. Achmed pushed a piece of paper across the desk. Zev saw it contained Ali’s address. Go now, Achmed said. Our business is concluded.

Zev made inquiries and found out the address was a small farm at the edge of town. He had no means of transportation and was forced to walk the three miles in the frigid cold. His breathing became labored and a visible mist from his mouth trailed him. The dirt road was full of ruts and he stepped into a pothole, twisting his ankle. Oy! he yelled. He searched for a place to sit and rest, but, finding none, hobbled toward his destination.

When Zev knocked on the farmhouse door, he recognized Ali immediately—a small weasel-like man with slits for eyes. Zev noticed his hands. They contained none of the calluses and scratches he would have expected on a farmer.

Ali stared at Zev. If he recognized him, he was smart enough to show no emotion. But the fact that Ali asked, What do you want? led Zev to believe that Ali knew who he was. Otherwise, he would have expected Ali to offer a wayward traveler some token of hospitality.

Zev went through the charade of introducing himself and asking for Ali’s help in finding the Torah scrolls.

What makes you think I can help? Ali asked. I’m only a humble farmer with no influence.

If you invite me in out of the cold, perhaps we could discuss it.

Ali stood aside and waved Zev in. The splintered wooden floor was covered with pillows for sitting. Ali sat cross-legged opposite Zev, but offered him no libation to warm up, not even tea. So tell me, Ali said again. What makes you think I can help?

I saw you when I was in the Taliban prison. The guards gave you special favors—women, cigarettes. I thought you were on good terms with the Taliban.

I bought those privileges.

I tried to bribe for food, as did others, with no success. The guards were too afraid of what would happen to them if they were caught.

I know nothing about Torah scrolls.

But perhaps you could find out. The present regime might be interested to know about your treatment in the Taliban prison.

You threaten me?

No, no, only trying to give you some incentive to help me. If I do get the scrolls back, the person who has helped would be well rewarded.

In that case, I will see what information I can gather. Tell me where you stay in Kandahar, and I will get word to you tonight.

Ali uncoiled from the pillow and led Zev to the door, sending him on his return walk to Kandahar without saying another word. But Zev was sure that Ali had gotten the message.

The trek to Omar’s house was difficult. Zev’s ankle had swelled. He picked up a thick fallen branch from a dying oak tree, peeled off the brown leaves, and used it as a walking stick. It was late in the afternoon when he hobbled into Omar’s home. Dirty sweat caked his forehead and his afghan stuck to his body. Omar welcomed him, and, together with Hakim, they sat around sipping a hot glass of tea before washing and partaking of an evening meal.

As they scooped up hummus with pieces of flat bread, there was a pounding on the door. Omar answered, but guards brushed by, seeking Zev. They encircled him. You’re under arrest, the officer in charge said.

Why? Zev asked. What have I done?

It has been reported that you conspired with the Taliban.

That is a lie. I am here only to search for our Torah scrolls.

Hakim said, That is true. I can vouch for him.

A number of people have come forward with accusations, the officer said to Zev. We need to take you into custody. Come with us.

The guards pushed Zev toward the door. Don’t worry, Hakim said. I will see what I can do. The truck carrying Zev spit gravel as it sped off.

The next day, unable to secure Zev’s release, Hakim started on his return trip to Kabul. In the meantime, Zev was being interrogated for the third time. The room he was in was dark and dank. It had concrete block walls and a single fixture hanging on a chain from the ceiling, casting a dim light on the plain, wooden table below. Zev was tied to a straight-backed chair, facing his interrogator. Salt and pepper stubble dotted his drawn face. Zev’s chin rested on his chest.

Who do you report to? the questioner asked.

I told you, I am not a spy. I only seek our Torah scrolls.

You lie. A number of people have reported you.

That is not possible. Who could have done such a thing?

When the interrogator mentioned Ali-a-Sakib’s name, Zev realized what had happened. Ali, fearful Zev would report him, acted first. He got a number of friends to make these charges against Zev. It would be fruitless to accuse Ali of lying and being a Taliban spy because he had no proof. The authorities would say that he made up a story just to save his own neck.

After an hour of questioning and countless denials, Zev was dragged back to his cell—a six by eight room with a dirt floor and no light. Zev sat on a flimsy cot and prayed. Please God, get me out. I will find the scrolls. The Jewish community and your teachings need to be preserved.

Zev stared at the concrete walls and a picture he had been planning to paint came to life. In the center was the interior of a scrubbed synagogue in Kabul. Sunlight, peaking through a stained glass window, cast multicolored shadows on the floor. Ten men, wearing four point, multicolored sephardic yarmulkes, formed a minion. Their shoulders were draped with prayer shawls in different designs. They swayed to the ancient liturgical chanting. The rabbi reached out with the Torah so the men could touch it with their hands, then kiss their fingers.

Zev stopped daydreaming, drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around himself. A loud clap of thunder interrupted his prayer. Zev hoped this was an omen of what God’s wrath might do if he was not released.

In Kabul, Asa looked up when he saw Hakim enter the synagogue. He had been sitting on the splintered front bench staring at the circular bima—at the empty cavity of the upright cabinet, or tik, where the Torah scrolls were normally kept. He had just finished reciting the Kaddish prayer for the dead. Asa wiped his eyes.

How are you, Hakim? Asa asked.

I am good, but Zev was taken into custody in Kandahar.

That is no concern of mine. The crook stole our scrolls.

That’s why he went to Kandahar—to try and arrange for their return. He bribed an official and was betrayed and jailed. They accused him of being a spy. He may have been close to finding your scrolls.

Asa listened to Hakim, but still had doubts. He was sure Zev was a Taliban spy, wasn’t he? For all Asa cared, Zev could rot in jail. However, maybe Zev was able to locate the scrolls. Asa thought if he went to Kandahar, he might be able to retrieve them.

Hakim, I need to go with you to Kandahar the next time you make the trip.

Hakim hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. I will let you know when I go next.

Ten days later, Hakim notified Asa that he would be making a flower run to Kandahar the next day. In preparation, Asa retrieved several packages that he had squirreled away in various nooks and crannies. The largest envelope was hidden in the synagogue below the circular bima in the center of the synagogue. There was a secret room whose entrance was through a trap door in the bima. When the synagogue was built, the founders had the foresight to provide a room where Jews could hide from persecution, and, if need be, a way to escape from there, through a series of tunnels, into the surrounding community.

Early the next morning, Asa was dressed as an Afghani, bouncing in Hakim’s flower truck that was filled with yellow lilies. Asa inhaled deeply, unable to remember the last time he had been surrounded by such sweet fragrances. He thought it was ironic that Hakim carried only lilies, the symbol of purity, mimicking Asa’s purity of purpose. The only interruptions in the trip came at various checkpoints. Hakim handed a bunch of flowers to the officer in charge. He said, These are for your woman.

When they reached Kandahar, it was late, and Hakim offered Asa the hospitality of his cousin Omar’s home. As he slept, Asa dreamed of the beatings he received at Pul-I-Charki prison. He was on his knees being whipped. When he looked up at the guard, he saw his own face and the man on the ground wasn’t himself, but Zev. Asa woke up, a cold sweat bathing his forehead. Maybe he had been too harsh in his judgment of Zev—maybe Zev was trying to keep the Torah scrolls safe and was now really trying to get them back—maybe Zev had suffered at the hands of the Taliban. Asa thought that he had to secure Zev’s release so that he could try and find out his intentions. Asa doubted that Zev’s motive was pure, but maybe he should give Zev the benefit of the doubt. After all, they were the last two Jews of Kabul.

The next day, Asa made inquiries and found out that Zev was still in jail. He went to visit him, pretending to be a relative. This time, the guards allowed visitation. Zev was chained to a chair. The stubble on his face had grown into a graying beard and his once prominent jowls drooped. He looked at Asa with sagging eyes straining for recognition.

How are you, Zev?

Zev stared without answering. After a few minutes, his droopy eyes widened, and his voice trembled as he tried to speak. What are you doing here?

Hakim has told me everything you have gone through to get the scrolls back. It has even put you in prison. I would like to help.

It is too late, Zev said. They won’t release me, and it will take a lot of money for bribes to find the scrolls. I have used all my savings.

"I brought a lot of money, some mine and some from the synagogue fund that I hid rather