Solomon Cruso
The Last of the Japs and the Jews
New York: Herman W. Lefkowitz, 1933
334 pages, hard cover
A global war in the 1980s leaves the United States totally defeated. China, India, and Turkey control most of the world. North America reverts to the Indians. The Jews have been exterminated. Japan has been destroyed by a tital wave.
Then in 2390, three-million Redskins amass along the east of the Western Hemisphere along the North Atlantic to repel an invasion of whites that, "according to their belief, was supposed to come unexpectedly from the East, from the Rising Sun, from the other side of the ocean, and attack them in force" (page 5). The invasion never comes, and a century later they are still waiting -- while living in complete harmony and hunting deer and buffalo.
The dedication of this futuristic historical romance is also set in the history of the future (page 3).
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Dedicated to the Ruler, Statesmen, Diplomats, and Militarists, of the Caucasian Race, the white Arayns, who fell on the battlefields of Europe, Asia, Africa, America, and Australia, in the period of 1980-1985, A.D.
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What you see is not necessarily what you get. The story begins like this (page 5).
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CHAPTER I
In the month of July, 2390, A. D., on the Eastern Coast of the Western Hemisphere, along the North Atlantic Ocean, a mighty army of Indian warriors stood ready to repel the expected invasion of the White enemy, which they thought was coming in a great armada, consisting of thousands of warships, with millions of white soldiers, ready to attack them and reoccupy the country from which their forefathers had been driven out centuries ago.
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The writing never gets better. It usually gets worse, and is sometimes bad, even terrible.
But the story, in the sheer awkwardness of its telling, is ultimately a compelling saga about a global campaign undertaken in the name of love, to create a utopia in which the sins of capitalism, white supremicism, and religious intolerance are passe.
It rather lyrically ends this (pages 333-334).
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CHAPTER XCIII
And now, in the year 2490, A. D., in the Province of Toledo, formerly Spain, on a lonely spot, surrounded by enormous, gigantic trees and a strong steel fence, once can still see two graves, side by side, with two conspicuous monuments, bearing the inscriptions: ARABELLA CORDOZO, and CHANG KOCHUBEY.
Will the wind of antiquity tell us how the two suffering lovers met in the eternal embrace of the we mother earth?
Will the bright stars of the universe tell us under what circumstances the two martyrs to forbidden love and racial intolerance met?
Will the old, powerful trees at least tell us, whether the beautiful, charming Arabella died in the arms of her handsome, faithful lover?
But the wind and the stars and the leaves of those majestic trees are whispering mysteriously among themselves, not daring to unfold the heartrending, pathetic drama of the greatest, most divine and ardent love, which was instrumental in changing the map of the world.
Let them rest. Don't disturb them. They have both suffered enough.
THE END
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Map colors
The story is told from the vantage point of the 25th century, mostly in the form of explanations of events leading up to the mid 20th century wars. In places the voice of the narrator is that of a sermoniser or lecturer, sometimes raising a number of questions before setting out to answer them, sometimes sometimes directly addressing the reader.
"But we see, reader, that you are surprised . . ."Reader of the world. . . . Yes, reader, . . . Well, reader, we presume that you understand from the previous chpaters . . . Mind you, . . . We can read the questions on your face, reader . . . You are eager to know . . . You are also curious to know . . . The reader of the present era, the year 2490, A. D., will, we hope, . . . We are compelled to mention . . ." (pages 10-21).
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We perfectly understand and realize the hardships of the reader, who is compelled to memorize so many names of nations and countries, at a time, when he or she were taught in school the present map of the world, which is charted with three colors, only, namely: green, pink and yellow, with inscriptions in large, conspicuous letters over each color -- China -- India -- Turkey, embracing the entire Eastern Hemisphere; and with pink color charted over the entire Western Hemisphere, with one inscription in large, conspicuous letters: "America, under Indo-China-Turkish protectorate."
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Colors of slavery
The end of the 20th century witnesses a change in the rules of slavery (page 23).
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And there, at the open markets of Constantinople, Bombay, Peking, Shanghai, Hong Kong, Berlin, Paris, London, Warsaw, Moscow, Vienna, Roma and other European and Asiatic centers, one can see thousands of white slaves being bought and sold, daily, like cattle, horses, sheep and other domestic animals; for slavery has been introduced in the last quarter of the twentieth century, when the yellow race conquered the white race.
But there was one exception in the slavery law, namely: the prohibition in traffic of black, yellow, brown, copper-colored and also people of Semitic origin.
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Chang Kochubey
The hero of the novel is Prince Chang Kochubey, who by age sixteen had mastered Chinese, Japanese, English, Russian, French, and Spanish (page 64), and possessed superior skills in miltary science, boxing, fencing, and the science and art of the sword and gun (page 66).
The prince's destiny is to carry out the wishes expressed in the will of his grandmother, Princess Benita Kochubey, the daughter of a Rabbi, who asked her children and future generations to never forget their Jewish origins and the persecutions the Jewish people has sufferred, and left them with this final request (page 75).
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"Kochubeys! to arms in defense of the humiliated and hated nations and races! To arms in defense of honor, justice, truth, happiness and peace on earth!"
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Chang Kochubey's background is best understood in his own words, expressed in the full body of a love letter he wrote to Arabella, the woman he wishes marry, except that her father objects (pages 108-112).
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My dear, beloved Arabella:
I think I owe you an apology. An apology for not telling you more about myself. In our moments of love and happiness you forgot to ask me my origin, and I forgot to tell you about it, until your father's action opened my eyes. And I blame myself for it, for I should have explained it to you at the time of our first rendevous.
But, really, dear Arabella, I have not been deceiving you consciously, for it never entered my mind that I have been hiding anything from you. I thought that love recognized no boundaries, no races, no nations, no creeds, no religions. I thought that love did not recognize such barriers, until I felt you father's whip on my face and body; until I heard the words: "Chinaman," "half-breed."
I will refrain from asking here the question as to who invented the story, that the white race is superior to the yellow, brown, black, or red races. I will only ask the reason for the superiority of the white people.
Is it because the white race knows better the science of warfare? Or is it because their religion is best?
If the Jews boast of Jehovah, and the Christians of Jesus, and the Mohammedans of Mohammed, then, we, the Mongolian people, are proud of Confucius. But pardon my foolish philosophy, and permit me to tell you about my origin. I am sorry to say that I am not altogether of Mongolian origin. My father is a Russian Prince. My dear mother is a full-blooded Chinese.
But if you knew, dear Arabella, how noble, kind, and motherly she is, you would love her as dearly as I do, because there is so much love and kindness in her, that hardly a white mother could compare with her. She is so tender, so attentive, so warm-hearted to her husband, to her children, to her servants, grooms, friends and neighbors, that one couldn't stop from admiring her. And I am proud of her. I love her. And she certainly deserves love and admiration, for she, a born princess of the Manchu Imperial Dynasty, surrounded with servants, cooks, grooms, and nurses, nursed her children with her own breast, and brought them up under her own care and supervision.
But I will return to my subject. As it is, I am a half-breed. Half white, half yellow. I want you to know, that my ancestors were the Tartar ruling class, which conquered Russia, in the thirteenth century, and mixed their blood with the Russian rulers. The name Kochubey is of Tartar origin. In other words, my father had some Mongolian blood in his veins before he even married my mother, the beautiful Manchu princess. Furthermore, I must also tell you, that except Tartar, Slavonic and Chinese bloods, there also flow Swedish and Jewish bloods in my veins.
In a word, I am an offspring of different races, different nationalities, different cultures, and different religions -- Paganism, Judaism, Christianity and Confucianism. I was brought up under my other's influence, and I love her ancestors and her nation.
And although I have a white complexion, like a real Aryan, like a real Caucasian, still I am far from being proud of it and I don't boast of my white skin. The white people turn from me with contempt and hatred, and the Chinese people look at me with distrust.
But while the Chinese are skeptical of my sincerity, they, at least, are tolerant, peaceful, not provocative. But the white people, not only are intolerant, they are even offensive and aggressive. At each and every step they brag about their white skin; that they are the flower of the human race. They are insulting, greedy, for power, supremacy-mad.
What concerns myself, I am not looking for their companionship; nor do I desire their friendship. I don't consider it an honor to be associated with white people. I eat with them, drink with them, when necessary. But I refrain from associating with them, because I am conscious of their thoughts, which plainly say, that they are doing me a favor for taking me into their midst.
But there is one white person in the world, whose companionship I desire; whose friendship I seek; whose comradeship I would boats of; whose attention I would be proud of. And that white person is Arabella Cordozo, who has captivated my heart; whom I love dearly; who is my idol, my treasure, my life, my inspiration; who is a model of modesty, charm and kindness; who is a noble creature, equal to my mother.
Dear Arabella, no matter what you think of me, -- you may despise me, hate me, scorn me, mock at me; but to me you are everything in the world. And from now on, your image shall be my guiding spirit, which will lead me to fame and glory. I don't know whether I will ever see you again, but wherever you are, you should know, that there is someone in the world, who always thinks of you and hopes that, some day, he will hold you again in his arms and tell you once more of his eternal love, devotion and faithfulness.
Of course, I don't know the intentions of your father. He may force you into a marriage with someone else. Bu I swear to you, that I will never marry another woman, because my heart belongs to you, my sweet, noble, charming, beautiful Arabella.
Good-buy, my dear, and please visit, sometimes, our once happy love nest in the forest. I am certain that those giant trees will, somehow, deliver me your messages and tell me about you. I am sure they will tell me that you still love me, regardless of my Mongolian origin. I kiss and embrace you with all the love in my heart. Think of me, my dear, beautiful Arabella.
Yours forever,
Prince Chang Kochubey.
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Who was Cruso?
A small article of the front page of the Schenectady Gazette, a local New York paper, reported on 31 July 1930 that a Solomon Cruso was sentenced to two years on 13 counts in a mail fraud case in a federal court. He and two others had pled guilty before the trial and testified for the governmnent against three others, including the leader of the group, a former judge who was sentenced to six years in federal prison for his role in a scheme involving a finance corporation.
Was the author of this novel the Solomon Cruso in this case? If so, did he write the story while in prison?
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