The Finkelstein Progeny: & Selected Short Stories of Jewish Erotica

By Anthony C. Adler

Dr. Elizabeth Sahtouris in her essay on human social evolution goes into detail about how the planet is being exploited by those who would use the fossil fuels under the ground for their own profit and by so doing produce toxic waste in amounts that will eventually lay waste to nature itself. Her model of the human body and how it builds blood and distributes oxygen and nutrients to the extremities is a good example of how the ecological system of the planet should run. Just as cutting off these nutrients to one part of the body will cause it to decay and infect the organism as a whole. Cutting off nutrients to any part of our planet and its peoples puts all survival in danger. We are nature, and as John Donne so aptly put it. No man is an island, and the bell tolls for us all.

I have written my story, The Finkelstein Progeny with a mischievous and slightly erotic sense of humor. But then, sex and humor are very much a part of our existence as is the penchant for dreaming and fantasizing. HG Wells envisioned many things in his fantasies which have long come to pass and Orwells vision of 1984 is fast becoming reality. Can our planet be saved? Will it be saved? What can I do to help save it? These are questions that should be on the mind of every thinking creature in this day and age. I have applauded Bill and Hillary and perhaps teased them a little. But I firmly believe that they were on the right track.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 4, 2006
• ISBN: 9781467098779

Anthony C. Adler

Anthony C. Adler is an international private investigator and writer of historical fiction who spends his time between his homes in Northern California and the South of France where he does his writing on a secluded Mediterranean island. Adler is a linguist as well as a martial artist. His interest in humor and ancient history together with his iconoclastic bent allow him free reign in the lands of fantasy and imagination. Born in New York, he was sent to be educated at an English boarding school then spent his teen years on the island of Malta, from  where he roamed freely around Europe and the North African coast. His other writings are Its Intelligent Desire Stupid, treating Christianity in the same way the Salman Rushdie treated Islam, and, William and the Posthuman V.C. Adler has taken Richmal Crompton’s Just William and grown him to adulthood to continue his adventures as a soldier serving in the desert in WWII.

Book preview

The Finkelstein

Progeny

& selected short stories

of

Jewish Erotica

by

Anthony C. Adler

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AuthorHouse™

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AuthorHouse™ UK Ltd.

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www.authorhouse.co.uk

Phone: [phone]

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

© 2006 Anthony C. Adler. 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.

First published by AuthorHouse 12/11/2006

ISBN: 1-4259-5287-9

ISBN: 978-1-4670-9877-9 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue 1998

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Stories

The Finkelstein Progeny

1

The Kosher Werewolf

117

The Dybbuk of Pinsk

159

Yellow Eyes

177

The Finkelstein Progeny

`

Introduction

Perhaps after twenty years of marriage I felt that I needed a change, or was that merely my rationalization? I questioned my motives time and time again on the long flight from London to Buenos Aires.

In an attempt to shake off my ambiguity and assuage my boredom I attempted to read the magazines in the pouch on the back of the seat in front of me, but nothing caught my interest until I came across an article on Tierra del Fuego. Apparently a small tribe of Fuegians had vanished together with their sheep and all their possessions. The Argentine journalist who had covered the story found no explanation for their disappearance. There was no sign of disaster or panic, the empty huts were clean and orderly, yet devoid of anything of value. A rumor had been circulating on the island that the tribe had been taken up to heaven by a ship from the stars.

I stuffed the magazine back into the pouch, and then tried to get some sleep. I missed my wife already, and we had only been separated for a few hours. Why had I let myself be talked into this crazy assignment? I did not care a fig for the Falklands, or their recovery after the war. I could have kicked myself for being so malleable.

Well, it was too late now, I was on my way to Port Stanley, and there was nothing I could do but make the best of it. A young American woman sat beside me in the window seat, we had exchanged good mornings, but not engaged in conversation. Since the beginning of the flight she had been avidly devouring a large green book.

Finally she closed it then sat back with a sigh, her hands resting in her lap, and her eyes closed.

She appeared to be in her early thirties, she wore little makeup, and her hair was long and blond. She shuddered for a moment, as if to emerge from a dream, then turned toward me and said with a smile, Hi, my name is Jenny. I am from Berkeley, California. I could not help noticing your restlessness. Let me offer you a good book; it contains a message which I believe should be shared.

Before I could answer, she pushed the book into my hands and then began delving into her bag for another. I glanced at the title written in gold letters: The Celestine Prophecy, a book, which had already made its mark on the New Age, set in London.

Thanks, I smiled in return, as I politely opened the volume and turned to the first page. She looked at me earnestly then replied. You will love it. Read it, and pass it on. Its message is for the whole world.

After the first chapter I knew that the work was not for me, but it was a long flight, and I felt obliged, so I continued to plow through it. By the time we touched down in Buenos Aires, I had actually read three quarters of the story. I grinned at Jenny as we stood to move into the isle.

Its good, I lied. I love it.

I knew you would she replied. Everyone does.

I spent the night at the Airport Hilton, and then at noon the next day boarded a Beach Craft Bonanza, for Stanley.

It was a bumpy flight over an angry gray sea, and by the time I landed, my jet lag, together with my lack of sleep, had turned me into an ambulant ruin.

Sheep grazed across the airfield, and paid little attention to the plane as it touched down among them. Green fields spread out over the flat terrain, and the airport buildings seemed totally out of place. Carrying my laptop and one small suitcase, I pushed my way between the woolly beasts to where a black taxi, an old Morris Oxford, stood with its tail pipe puffing out a stream of white smoke. The driver, a red faced man in his seventies with a purple tinge to his large nose, opened the back door. He wore a hooded beige duffel coat with wooden peg buttons, and his brown corduroy pants were pushed down into his black rubber gumboots.

"‘Tis tae the hotel ye’ll be goin sir?" he inquired with a Scottish brogue.

Do I have any choice? I answered, with a touch of irony, which was completely lost on him.

"Nay Sir, there be only the one." he replied. The drive took all of ten minutes before the Morris pulled up in the mud in front of an establishment that looked like a remnant from a grade B spaghetti western.

I was too tired to comment or complain. I gave him a five-pound note then allowed him to carry my bag inside.

The hotel bar was obviously the local hangout, and even in late afternoon the counter was full. A fire blazed in a great stone fireplace, and the bar was warm and cozy. I was too tired to take in details Hamish showed me to a room on the second floor then tossed my suitcase onto the bed. As soon as the door was closed, I kicked off my desert boots, pushed the suitcase onto the floor then collapsed fully clothed in its place.

I slept the dreamless sleep of the completely exhausted, and did not awake until 16:30 on the following evening. My suit was a crumpled mess, and I had a five o’clock shadow, which would have impressed even Nixon. My need to be clean and kempt vied with my stomach’s desire to be filled. I completed my toilet and dressed in record time, then presented myself at the bar attired in a plaid shirt and blue jeans.

With three pints of Watney’s ale, I washed down an absolutely scrumptious steak-and-kidney pie then followed it with a lemon curd tart and a stiff mug of stewed tea. I had eaten in silence and had paid no attention to anyone or anything in the room until my hunger had been assuaged.

When I finally sat back in my chair and looked up, I noticed a rather nautical gentleman regarding me with an air of friendly interest. Our eyes met for a moment and he took this as a sign that he should come and introduce himself.

He was a tall fellow with a dark well-kept pointed beard. He wore a British naval officer’s jacket over a high-necked navy blue sweater. His navy blue pants were tucked into Wellington’s with the tops turned down. He carried a seaman’s cap in his hand. As he approached my table with an affable smile on his face, he reminded me of Captain Haddock from Tin Tin.

I stood and proffered my hand, which he took and pumped heartily in a firm grip.

Cognac for two, he called with a wave, then looking at me added, you will allow, of course?

I am afraid you have the advantage of me, I began.

Ah! he smiled, "John Hastings, or Captain Hastings if you like. I am the skipper of the trawler Morag. I know who you are, and why you are here, but I have some information which will make our old war with the Argies seem like tame stuff indeed."

The waiter brought over two large snifters and attempted to fit them on the table at our side. I moved my book to facilitate his placing of the tray. Hastings reached over and picked up the volume.

I didn’t take you for a New Age type, he observed.

I’m not, I replied, a young lady gave it to me on the plane, and I must say my curiosity got the better of me. It’s not a bad yarn, but rather silly, in my estimation.

Hastings smiled then replied. "We Falklanders are a simple lot and life here holds no great adventure. We are all avid readers. In the winter there is nothing else to do. The public library is the most popular establishment in town. I’ve red The Celestine Prophecy so has most of the population over the age of twelve. Let me tell you my story, and then you will see why I mentioned the book at all."

Hastings produced a black briar pipe, and stuffed it with a pinch of Digger Shag. Pungent gray smoke filled the space around us. He cleared his throat and began his narration.

It was toward the end of June. My shipmate, John Ferguson and I had been trawling inside the Straits of Magellan, It can be a rough and dangerous area, but Morag is up to the weather, and the catch in the Straits is usually worth the effort. That evening we had caught our limit, and since the forecast was good, we decided to pull into Ushua Bay on Tierra del Fuego to spend the night. It was dark as we approached the shore, though there was an unusual glow shining through the trees. At first I thought it was an Indian fire, but it was white and far too large. I left John on board, and went off on foot to have a look for myself.

At this time Hastings paused to take a sip of brandy. I joined him then he went on.

"It seemed like someone had set up a huge white tent. It was as big as a circus marquee, and the light emanated from it. As I came closer, I found that it was not a tent at all, but a large metal dome resting in the center of a clearing. Fuegians were herding their sheep into an opening at one end, and others were coming and going from another entrance in its side. There were whites too, at least two men, and two women. All seemed to be helping the Indians to move their possessions into the dome.

Finally they all entered the craft. For that is what I recognized it to be. The ports slid closed, and it rose slowly into the air then just vanished, I really mean vanished—no flash, no light, and no noise. It simply disappeared."

You were the only one to see this? I queried. Perhaps you and John had been celebrating your catch with a little cognac before you went off to explore?

Hastings did not reply. Instead, he opened a battered briefcase and withdrew a leather folder of extraordinarily fine quality. It was a magnificent piece of work, hand-tooled in what I took to be Mayan style. He placed it on the table in front of me and said, "This is what I found at the sight. There was no sign that any craft had ever landed. It made no noise and left no marks. I believe that this was left behind on purpose, for it was sealed in a weatherproof plastic cover.

I have told no one, not even John Ferguson. I cannot afford to be laughed off the islands. My life and my work are here. I am giving this to you and after you have read it, you will see why I mentioned the book that you are reading.

Hastings stood, finished his brandy then departed without looking back.

I spent the rest of the day reading and rereading the writings inside the folder. They were printed in English, on hemp paper, and appeared to be the work of a high quality printer; a Rabbi Joel Feinman recounted the story.

I completed my article on life in the Falklands, returned to London then went to work on the Rabbi’s story. I did not turn it over to my editor. As a respectable journalist, I could not compromise my career by being branded as a UFO nut by the tabloid press. I published the work almost verbatim; as I was sure Rabbi Feinman would have wanted. Of course, I took a nom de plume, and I sent the first copy to Captain Hastings. I tend to believe the account myself, but of course the final judgment will be up to the readers.

Chapter One

In 610 BCE, Moshe, the only son of Lev the tailor, was born in Jerusalem. He grew up under the controversial and hedonistic reign of King Zedekiah.

In spite of the wantonness and apostasy, which complicated all aspects of his life and education Moshe prospered. At the age of eighteen, he willingly took over the running of his father’s shop. This was at a time when the specter of war loomed on the horizon, and the prophet Jeremiah railed against the hedonistic Israelites with constant warnings of impending doom.

Moshe was an extremely handsome and intelligent young man who in many ways resembled his early ancestor Samson. Being of a kind and gentle disposition, he possessed a fine sense of humor together with a ready smile. Moshe was joyfully in love with Sarah, one of the most beautiful young women of Jerusalem. Her wit and intelligence matched his own, and her long raven hair flowed around her body like a magical silken cape. Perhaps the highlight of her beauty was the amazing green of her eyes that seemed to hold a deep mischievous secret. She was the daughter of a servant of the temple, a poor shamus¹ who could provide no dowry to lure a wealthy suitor. The love that slowly grew between the young couple came as a blessing to lighten the shamus’s burden, and to provide him with a worthy son in his old age. It was with great relief that he gave his only child in marriage to the young tailor, rejoicing with them in their happiness.

All too soon, Jeremiah’s warnings became a grim reality. For in 587 the armies of the Babylonian king, Nebuchadnezzar, swept across the Jewish lands, capturing Jerusalem, razing the temple, and carrying the whole of Judah away into bitter slavery.

Six years after this event, Ezekiel the priest and his friend Moshe strolled by the banks of the canal of Chebar in the land of the Chaldeans. The few willow trees, which grew beside this straight man-made waterway cast long shadows across the desert’s rippled sands. Distant peaks glowed red, reflecting the sinking sun, while light clouds