I Am the Expert
Hagai Cohen
The first time I heard this bit of self-praise: “I am the expert,” was from my friend, Dr. George Popper when he told me one of his stories.
George, a geologist, was working some years ago on a special project commissioned by the Federal government. He was given an all-terrain truck, fancy radiation detection equipment and an assistant, to find uranium deposits within the boundaries of the state of Pennsylvania. He spent two vain years on every highway, throughway, turnpike, subway, waterway, driveway, parkway, dirt road, and no man’s land - on foot, on bicycle, on mules and on his truck but no uranium was anywhere to be found.
About a month before he came to the end of his budget and at the end of the two year limit, the Geiger counter started to scream while they drove through a small rural community. George and his assistant quickly equipped themselves with the latest state of the art mobile instruments. Looking like visitors from outer space, they began to comb the area. The closer they got to a particular house the stronger the signal became. George decided it was up to him to warn the residents about the high level of radiation in their home. The two 'aliens' knocked on the door and said with tact, “Nothing to worry about. Just a little radiation, slightly higher than the normal background level.” George turned the counter to minimum sensitivity to lower the noise. He noticed that the radiation level was high but of a strangely unstable nature. Wandering from room to room without finding anything was very frustrating. George’s assistant acknowledging the difficulty came up behind him and whispered, “Don’t you want to get an expert.”
George turned with an impish grin and whispered back, “in case you hadn’t noticed, I am the expert, and the only one, east of the Mississippi, from the Gulf of Mexico to the Hudson Bay.”
The answer to their problem came from an unexpected source. A very old man, ignored by everybody and clutching a walker, said, “Maybe it has to do with the radioactive iodine they gave Granny for her thyroid test this morning.” George immediately turned the Geiger counter off, took the old man’s hand and said: “Thank you sir, for saving the government's money.” He then turned to his assistant and said, “You see, knowledge is not enough, experience is the more important ingredient.”
* * *
By odd circumstances, I had good reason to think of Dr. George Popper’s story and his remarks several years later. It was a day that had began at Kennedy International Airport where we rolled the heavy 747/200 to runway 31-left. Echo Lima Yankee 008 was cleared for takeoff enabling us to barrel down the runway.
It was a routine 340 tons takeoff weight, 130 tons of fuel, 475 passengers and 16 crew members. Apart from a report of ‘embedded thunder storms,’ (storm clouds hiding between harmless clouds), in the vicinity of the airport, there was nothing irregular about this flight. Under fair weather conditions, when the Manhattan skyline was visible, the twin towers stood right in front of the runway. Normal departure procedure calls for a left turn immediately after takeoff.
The takeoff run was normal but at 700 feet, after turning left into clouds I felt an irritation in my eyes. I looked to see if my colleagues felt anything but they were too busy. Our heading, dictated by the approved departure procedure, was taking us right into a cumuli nimbus, a thunder cloud. It was impossible to ask for a deviation as every pilot was demanding at the top of his lungs a heading to avoid the storm or the buildings of Manhattan. Following the approved departure procedure was dangerous.
A very strange smell accompanied the irritation in my eyes. Still not taking it too seriously, I concentrated on the departure. The first officer could not get through a request for a new heading. We were already in the clouds experiencing a lot of turbulence. Maintaining the stability of the airplane so close to the ground with wind-shear and a rapid change of air speed, was an all-consuming task. At that moment I was certain some kind of smoke was polluting our air. I now felt the irritation in my nose and throat.
“Smoke in the cockpit” I cried. “Oxygen masks and regulators.” I recited the first recall item on the checklist. No response from the crew. I called out again, “Smoke! Put on your oxygen masks, gentlemen.” Still no response. They were too busy flying the airplane in the adverse weather conditions. They neither listened to me nor felt the smoke. I undid my belt, removed the oxygen masks from their stowage and handed them over to them. Set your regulators to 100% oxygen" I prompted them. The problem was acknowledged and we communicated through the mike in the oxygen mask.
Smoke in the cockpit from an unknown source is a reason for deep concern to any crew. It may be caused by toxic fumes from burning plastics, an electrical fire, or air-conditioner smoke. The questions to be asked are: how fast will the smoke/fire obscure vision? Disconnect a main electric supply? Disable the flight controls computer? The autopilot? Or other flight-instruments? Fast action is required, first to find the source, then to extinguish the fire and lastly to remove the smoke. If this is not done quickly, the flight crew is constrained to its seats with the oxygen hose and the headset chord, wearing goggles that only partially protect the eyes, and facing obscured flight instruments.
The book instructs laconically: "Declare emergency and land at the nearest suitable airport.” The ‘suitable’ airport might be one where the crew had never before landed, making it necessary to consult the landing charts under stress.
“What now?” I said to myself. What am I supposed to do? "Yes I should follow the checklist" but which one? Air conditioning smoke? Electrical fires? Smoke evacuation? “Something very important is missing in this scenario, an instructor to tell me from where the smoke was emanating. The instructor's comments provided necessary guidance in a simulator. With his hand on my shoulder, he would say, “Electrical smoke,” or “Air-conditioner smoke,” and then it was easy. But where was he?
All aircrew training is done in a simulator. The simulator is a useful trainer but it cannot simulate smoke and it cannot distinguish between electrical smoke and air-conditioner smoke. In this reality, I watched the declining visibility trying to figure out what to do. The smoke was getting thicker and already making breathing difficult. “I have to do something, very soon,” I told myself. “After all, I am the expert.”
I kept repeating to myself, “I am the expert. I am the expert. I am the expert.” I am facing a grave situation and George's funny quote was bouncing in my head. So what does an expert do in a situation like this? "Think logically. Use your intuition. ‘Experience’ was another word George used. “Experience is the more important ingredient.”
I dialed the purser's number. “Purser speaking."
“Is there smoke in the cabin?”
“Yes” coughed the purser.
“Why the hell didn't you call?”
“I did not want to use the override hot line. You know the cabin manual allows us to use the override number only in an emergency.”
The smoke was now heavy in the flight deck and I could hardly talk. Through my coughs I said, “So, in your opinion, this is not an emergency!?” and hung-up.
I deduced that if there were smoke in the cabin, it could only be from the air-conditioning system. I turned off the No. 1 air-conditioner and switched on No. 2. A few minutes later, we were clear of smoke.
I was quite pleased I hadn't gone by “the book”. I knew the checklist would have taken at least half an hour of isolating systems one by one for trouble shooting, ultimately achieving the same result.
Of course, I called Dr. George Popper to inform him with delight that the uranium deposits in the old woman's thyroid guided me through my emergency.
Incidentally, the first page of the operations/training manual used to read: ‘This book is for unskilled pilots and not a substitute for experience and intuition.’ Over the years the operations manual became a legal document and the checklist sacred. That first page was removed by lawyers. Going by the book in a case of smoke in the cockpit may appear legally good, but medically the crew may simply appear dead.
This story is based on a true incident. The actual writing of it prompted years later, after the Swissair 111* smoke/fire incident. The Swissair crew did not identify the source of the smoke, did not communicate properly (language and hierarchy issues), and used the incorrect checklist. They crashed into the North Atlantic Ocean.
*For more information about Swiss air accident, go to Google “cockpit fires Swissair 111.”
Dr George Popper wrote this
Quite a story. You captured it well and at the end tied all the pieces nicely together … And thanks for the honorable mention. One additional background point to the “I am the expert” incident. This all took place near Lebanon, Pennsylvania, not many miles away from the Three Mile Island reactor where a week or two earlier the “meltdown” accident had taken place … so everyone was under extreme heightened sensitivity regarding radiation. When I showed up at those people’s door the first thing they thought about was, “Did this have something to do with the reactor?”
12/29/2008
Monday, December 29, 2008
Friday, December 12, 2008
Fast draw
Fast draw
Hagai Cohen
Dressed in my El Al airline-pilot uniform and ready to go, I moved towards the door. It was an unusually hot morning in Amsterdam and, at that time, the Hilton did not have air- conditioning. The windows were open but the air was still.
I heard the screams of police sirens from various directions simultaneously. It was strange to experience such massive police activity especially as you never find a police officer when you need one.
I crossed to the window where, I could not see much. I could only hear more sirens. It did not bother me much, so I left my room and walked to the elevator. I pressed the lobby button and started descending. As the elevator zoomed past the third floor, I heard shots.
The massive police activity along with the gunshots could mean but one thing - terror activity. “My crew,” I thought, ”is the target.” As an Israeli airline, we had been a marked target for a long time.
My immediate reaction was to look for the 'close door' button of the elevator. I wanted to stop the doors from opening. But the 'close door' button doesn’t keep the elevator doors closed; it merely gives a polite person the chance to show kindness to his fellow riders when in a hurry.
As soon as the elevator reached the ground floor, the doors opened. There was I with the doors wide open and furiously pushing on the ‘close door’ button. On the lobby floor, I could see a young man lying in a pool of blood. He was our air marshal, agent Katz.
I leaped out of the elevator and rushed to his side. He had been shot in his thigh. Judging by the amount of blood spurting from the wound, it appeared to be serious. I took off my tie and tied it tight just above the wound. The blood flow slowed down but despite this, Katz kept slipping in and out of consciousness.
“Hold on,” I yelled in his ear, “I've stopped the bleeding. You will soon be in a hospital.” I looked up and saw only police officers rushing about in the lobby.
During one of his conscious states, I asked, “What happened?” He answered, “I do not know,” and continued haltingly, “Three men with drawn guns.” Pause. “Each carrying a bag. Rushed into the lobby.” Pause. “Looked Mediterranean.” Pause. “I pulled my gun and they all shot at me.” Pause. “I shot back.” Pause. “I hit one of them.” Pause. “My gun is only a .22 so it hardly grazed him.” Pause. “He shot back with a nine millimeter Browning.” Pause. “It knocked me off balance.” Pause. “Please hide my gun.” Pause. “It’s illegal in Holland.” Pause. “It’s loaded and cocked.” Pause. “Be careful.”
With all the spectators milling around us it was not easy to hide the gun. “Move aside," I shouted. "Give the emergency crew a clear way.” In the seconds that everybody turned to look for the alleged emergency crew I dragged the gun close under my hat, and stowed it in my belt.
It took the paramedics about five minutes to arrive and another five minutes to get the now unconscious Katz to the emergency room.
I was left in the lobby with blood all over me. As my hat lay in a pool of blood, I decided to leave it there, on the floor. My tie was on agent Katz’s leg. Despite the heat, I buttoned my jacket with my bloody hands just to conceal the gun. Agent Katz was taken off the 'critical list' the very same day.
The excitement in the lobby was because no one seemed to know who the gunmen were or what brought them to visit the Hilton. The police, who had entered the lobby only seconds after the shooting began, collared two of the three gunmen and started their interrogation right away. It became apparent that the police knew more than they were willing to reveal.
“Attention ladies and gentlemen, attention ladies and gentlemen,” announced a voice on the speakers. “All guests are requested to remain in their rooms, lock their doors and wait for a police escort to the lobby. Do not open the door until you check the viewer. Make sure you see a uniformed officer before opening the door.”
This message was repeated several times in many languages. In the lobby, the police arranged furniture barriers in front of the elevators. Behind each barrier stood an officer with a drawn gun.
Frightened people kept pouring into the lobby, many of them dressed in pajamas. Still suspecting more terror, as the third gunman mentioned by Katz had not been detained and he could be a suicide bomber, I advised the crew to stay out of sight and not huddle together. I myself started walking around mingling and talking with the guests, hoping I might spot the man in the lobby.
Some hotel employees placed a circle of chairs around agent Katz blood and put a large tablecloth over it. Most of the people came into the lobby after it happened and I, in my blood stained uniform and several police officers with drawn guns were the only evidence of the horror of several minutes earlier.
Talking to the people was an interesting experience. They were more than willing to talk to the bloodstained hero who had just arrived from the front. They all expressed a desire to hear my story. I met many fascinating people who related many hotel suspense stories of their own. A newly wed young couple with eyes puffy from lack of sleep complained, “They pulled us out of bed and we haven’t slept for twenty-four hours."
A fat woman of about forty emerged from the elevator with a sixteen-year-old boy on her arm. They both moved rapidly to a corner of the lobby. The boy, blushing constantly, looked confused and started to stutter when I spoke to him. I stopped short of asking him if she was a good teacher. I thought the woman was pathetic. Had it been a forty-year-old man with a girl of sixteen, I would have thought him a pervert.
A slant-eyed couple parted from each other after a brief whispered conversation, the man showed the police officer his identity card and was the allowed to leave the hotel. Later, I was told by one of the police officers that he was the First Secretary at the Korean embassy. His lady friend explained after her friend was long gone, “I am the Korean ambassador’s wife. I came to Amsterdam for the shopping.”
A young sexy looking woman, sitting alone in a nightgown, with a man's jacket over her shoulders, told me, “I am here for a convention.” A quick glance round the lobby and I spotted the man with matching trousers who completely ignored her.
At some point I decided to go to the bathroom to unload the gun but unfortunately the police permitted no one into the bathroom without an escort. I could of course have locked myself in a booth but I could not risk the gun's offloading sound being heard by the officer. We were under curfew. No one was allowed in or out of the hotel. The hotel management offered coffee and croissants and all of us kept speculating while we enjoyed the refreshments.
Upon my demands, the police commissioner released a few snippets of information. “The three gunmen were not terrorists, they were bank robbers,” he said. “In the bags they carried their loot. They had to settle for very little money as the lock on the safe was broken and refused to open. They were also unlucky with their escape vehicle. It broke down in front of the Hilton." He explained how the police came so quickly. "The information about the robbery was transmitted immediately over the police radio. Six hundred police officers in their cars had been heading for the Ajax stadium for a fun day when they were notified of the robbery at the bank. So six hundred police officers started chasing the robbers. They are around the hotel at this very moment looking for the missing felon. He must still be on the Hilton premises.”
Three hours after the beginning of the ordeal, the PA address system came on again. “Ladies and gentleman this is the Commissioner of Police speaking. We are happy to inform you we have got our man. You are now free to go. Thank you very much for your cooperation." During the announcement we saw two huge Dutch officers escorting a handcuffed medium-sized man through the hotel lobby to the police car outside. The man was well groomed, with a fine suit and shiny shoes. He looked like my next-door neighbor and no one could possibly think he was the bank robber.
Moments later, our crew was rushed to the airport with a police escort. They knew we had been involved in the shooting, but they did all they could to get us out of the country fast. Once inside the cockpit, I unloaded the gun and put on a fresh set of clothes.
I was subpoenaed twice to the court as a witness. I learned there that when the last bank robber realized he was surrounded, he went into several rooms and helped himself to a new outfit, dropped his gun and old clothes into the laundry chute and so became a new and respectable looking man.
He went directly to the hairdresser, where he was given the full treatment. While shaving his client's mustache, buffing his nails and dying his hair, the Italian Mario, like typical hairdressers, chatted with his client. The robber told Mario he was from Sardinia although he was really from Corsica. Mario knew by the man's accent and his selection of words, (many French words had crept into the Italian spoken in Corsica) that the man was lying. The suspicious Mario informed the police.
During the trial, while listening to the proceedings, I felt really sorry for the unfortunate bank robbers. I decided future bank robbers must have better training. I wrote these quick reference notes for them.
1. Pick a bank where the safe works properly and opens on time. If not you will have to settle for small change.
2. Choose a day police officers are working and not on vacation.
3. The escape vehicle should be a late model, thus less susceptible to breakdown.
4. If you must use an old car make sure it breaks down in a side street and not in front of the Hilton.
5. If you have to run into the Hilton with drawn guns make sure there are no armed guests in the lobby.
6. If you claim to be from Sardinia, do not speak with a Corsican accent.
7. If unable to comply with all of the above, consider a career change.
The End
Hagai Cohen
Dressed in my El Al airline-pilot uniform and ready to go, I moved towards the door. It was an unusually hot morning in Amsterdam and, at that time, the Hilton did not have air- conditioning. The windows were open but the air was still.
I heard the screams of police sirens from various directions simultaneously. It was strange to experience such massive police activity especially as you never find a police officer when you need one.
I crossed to the window where, I could not see much. I could only hear more sirens. It did not bother me much, so I left my room and walked to the elevator. I pressed the lobby button and started descending. As the elevator zoomed past the third floor, I heard shots.
The massive police activity along with the gunshots could mean but one thing - terror activity. “My crew,” I thought, ”is the target.” As an Israeli airline, we had been a marked target for a long time.
My immediate reaction was to look for the 'close door' button of the elevator. I wanted to stop the doors from opening. But the 'close door' button doesn’t keep the elevator doors closed; it merely gives a polite person the chance to show kindness to his fellow riders when in a hurry.
As soon as the elevator reached the ground floor, the doors opened. There was I with the doors wide open and furiously pushing on the ‘close door’ button. On the lobby floor, I could see a young man lying in a pool of blood. He was our air marshal, agent Katz.
I leaped out of the elevator and rushed to his side. He had been shot in his thigh. Judging by the amount of blood spurting from the wound, it appeared to be serious. I took off my tie and tied it tight just above the wound. The blood flow slowed down but despite this, Katz kept slipping in and out of consciousness.
“Hold on,” I yelled in his ear, “I've stopped the bleeding. You will soon be in a hospital.” I looked up and saw only police officers rushing about in the lobby.
During one of his conscious states, I asked, “What happened?” He answered, “I do not know,” and continued haltingly, “Three men with drawn guns.” Pause. “Each carrying a bag. Rushed into the lobby.” Pause. “Looked Mediterranean.” Pause. “I pulled my gun and they all shot at me.” Pause. “I shot back.” Pause. “I hit one of them.” Pause. “My gun is only a .22 so it hardly grazed him.” Pause. “He shot back with a nine millimeter Browning.” Pause. “It knocked me off balance.” Pause. “Please hide my gun.” Pause. “It’s illegal in Holland.” Pause. “It’s loaded and cocked.” Pause. “Be careful.”
With all the spectators milling around us it was not easy to hide the gun. “Move aside," I shouted. "Give the emergency crew a clear way.” In the seconds that everybody turned to look for the alleged emergency crew I dragged the gun close under my hat, and stowed it in my belt.
It took the paramedics about five minutes to arrive and another five minutes to get the now unconscious Katz to the emergency room.
I was left in the lobby with blood all over me. As my hat lay in a pool of blood, I decided to leave it there, on the floor. My tie was on agent Katz’s leg. Despite the heat, I buttoned my jacket with my bloody hands just to conceal the gun. Agent Katz was taken off the 'critical list' the very same day.
The excitement in the lobby was because no one seemed to know who the gunmen were or what brought them to visit the Hilton. The police, who had entered the lobby only seconds after the shooting began, collared two of the three gunmen and started their interrogation right away. It became apparent that the police knew more than they were willing to reveal.
“Attention ladies and gentlemen, attention ladies and gentlemen,” announced a voice on the speakers. “All guests are requested to remain in their rooms, lock their doors and wait for a police escort to the lobby. Do not open the door until you check the viewer. Make sure you see a uniformed officer before opening the door.”
This message was repeated several times in many languages. In the lobby, the police arranged furniture barriers in front of the elevators. Behind each barrier stood an officer with a drawn gun.
Frightened people kept pouring into the lobby, many of them dressed in pajamas. Still suspecting more terror, as the third gunman mentioned by Katz had not been detained and he could be a suicide bomber, I advised the crew to stay out of sight and not huddle together. I myself started walking around mingling and talking with the guests, hoping I might spot the man in the lobby.
Some hotel employees placed a circle of chairs around agent Katz blood and put a large tablecloth over it. Most of the people came into the lobby after it happened and I, in my blood stained uniform and several police officers with drawn guns were the only evidence of the horror of several minutes earlier.
Talking to the people was an interesting experience. They were more than willing to talk to the bloodstained hero who had just arrived from the front. They all expressed a desire to hear my story. I met many fascinating people who related many hotel suspense stories of their own. A newly wed young couple with eyes puffy from lack of sleep complained, “They pulled us out of bed and we haven’t slept for twenty-four hours."
A fat woman of about forty emerged from the elevator with a sixteen-year-old boy on her arm. They both moved rapidly to a corner of the lobby. The boy, blushing constantly, looked confused and started to stutter when I spoke to him. I stopped short of asking him if she was a good teacher. I thought the woman was pathetic. Had it been a forty-year-old man with a girl of sixteen, I would have thought him a pervert.
A slant-eyed couple parted from each other after a brief whispered conversation, the man showed the police officer his identity card and was the allowed to leave the hotel. Later, I was told by one of the police officers that he was the First Secretary at the Korean embassy. His lady friend explained after her friend was long gone, “I am the Korean ambassador’s wife. I came to Amsterdam for the shopping.”
A young sexy looking woman, sitting alone in a nightgown, with a man's jacket over her shoulders, told me, “I am here for a convention.” A quick glance round the lobby and I spotted the man with matching trousers who completely ignored her.
At some point I decided to go to the bathroom to unload the gun but unfortunately the police permitted no one into the bathroom without an escort. I could of course have locked myself in a booth but I could not risk the gun's offloading sound being heard by the officer. We were under curfew. No one was allowed in or out of the hotel. The hotel management offered coffee and croissants and all of us kept speculating while we enjoyed the refreshments.
Upon my demands, the police commissioner released a few snippets of information. “The three gunmen were not terrorists, they were bank robbers,” he said. “In the bags they carried their loot. They had to settle for very little money as the lock on the safe was broken and refused to open. They were also unlucky with their escape vehicle. It broke down in front of the Hilton." He explained how the police came so quickly. "The information about the robbery was transmitted immediately over the police radio. Six hundred police officers in their cars had been heading for the Ajax stadium for a fun day when they were notified of the robbery at the bank. So six hundred police officers started chasing the robbers. They are around the hotel at this very moment looking for the missing felon. He must still be on the Hilton premises.”
Three hours after the beginning of the ordeal, the PA address system came on again. “Ladies and gentleman this is the Commissioner of Police speaking. We are happy to inform you we have got our man. You are now free to go. Thank you very much for your cooperation." During the announcement we saw two huge Dutch officers escorting a handcuffed medium-sized man through the hotel lobby to the police car outside. The man was well groomed, with a fine suit and shiny shoes. He looked like my next-door neighbor and no one could possibly think he was the bank robber.
Moments later, our crew was rushed to the airport with a police escort. They knew we had been involved in the shooting, but they did all they could to get us out of the country fast. Once inside the cockpit, I unloaded the gun and put on a fresh set of clothes.
I was subpoenaed twice to the court as a witness. I learned there that when the last bank robber realized he was surrounded, he went into several rooms and helped himself to a new outfit, dropped his gun and old clothes into the laundry chute and so became a new and respectable looking man.
He went directly to the hairdresser, where he was given the full treatment. While shaving his client's mustache, buffing his nails and dying his hair, the Italian Mario, like typical hairdressers, chatted with his client. The robber told Mario he was from Sardinia although he was really from Corsica. Mario knew by the man's accent and his selection of words, (many French words had crept into the Italian spoken in Corsica) that the man was lying. The suspicious Mario informed the police.
During the trial, while listening to the proceedings, I felt really sorry for the unfortunate bank robbers. I decided future bank robbers must have better training. I wrote these quick reference notes for them.
1. Pick a bank where the safe works properly and opens on time. If not you will have to settle for small change.
2. Choose a day police officers are working and not on vacation.
3. The escape vehicle should be a late model, thus less susceptible to breakdown.
4. If you must use an old car make sure it breaks down in a side street and not in front of the Hilton.
5. If you have to run into the Hilton with drawn guns make sure there are no armed guests in the lobby.
6. If you claim to be from Sardinia, do not speak with a Corsican accent.
7. If unable to comply with all of the above, consider a career change.
The End
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Only the truth
NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH
Hagai Cohen
If I have learned anything from life, I have learned it is better to tell the truth to one’s spouse rather than let them hear it from rumors. The citizens of the world still remember how a small incident between Monika and Bill was blown out of proportion by the media. The world trend now is to come clean so I decided to follow the trend and like the others, to confess about my affairs and, if necessary, even to apologize sincerely.
The first incident I chose was a mild one, just to assess my wife’s reaction. My friends advised me not to do it. Some told me to see a lawyer first. However, I was determined: “I have to do it” I said.
The right time came, while dining at home, one evening.
"I got a letter", I said, “From a Mrs. Rinna Kunz. It was mailed from Remagen, a small town on the Rhine River in Germany. At first, I did not know who she was, but after reading a little, I realized Mrs. Kunz was Rinna Golan, a girl I had met sixteen years earlier at a Naval Academy dance. Yes, I know it sounds strange. I myself was very surprised.”
I went on to tell my wife the whole story of how the letter had informed me that Rinna, Frau Kunz, was living in Germany and that she planned to come for a visit, and she wanted to meet me. I had no wish to meet her.
"The letter took me back to a time long ago when we students were only boys with lots of muscles, a good tan and supercharged with hormones. Despite all this, sadly there was not a female in sight. However, about five miles away from our base was an all-girl’s boarding school. Likewise, the girls had no boys to impress. With frustration and hormones on the rise I took the liberty of writing a letter to the school, suggesting a dance party. The girls agreed with enthusiasm.
On the assigned day, we all wore nametags and reported to the school gym.
The nametags proved a success, as they created an opening for easy-going communication. Quickly, the party warmed up. At a certain point, the ‘queen’ of the class suggested a kissing competition. Her idea met with little opposition and soon a bottle was spun to make the match. On my turn, the bottle pointed at Rinna Golan.
Rinna’s dress was radically different from the other girls. It was a long floor length dress, with full-length sleeves, which completely covered her arms. Only the skin of her face and hands was exposed. As I approached her, she paled, she appeared to be about to faint. I took her trembling hand, with a quick motion leaned over, and whispered in her ear: ‘Come, there will be no kissing.’ I turned to the others and said: ‘Look, we are not kissing in front of you without first practicing,’ and despite the boos, I walked her out of the room.
Once outside, after drinking some water, Rinna explained to me that although she was not a religious girl she could not stand the idea of being kissed. She hated it when men even looked at her, and she became anxious at the thought of being touched by a man. Rinna was a pretty girl and despite the 16th century clothes, it was obvious she had a perfect body. Frankly, I did not understand her attitude. I did not comment about it then, but felt it might be interesting to chat about it. I suggested we go to the movies the following week. She agreed. We met on three occasions and she always came completely swathed. I did not consider touching her, apart from a mere handshake.
Two months after the party Rinna graduated and I did not see her again. In fact, I never even thought about her. When I received her letter sixteen years later, it took me time to place her, and when I did, I had no desire to meet her and sent her an apology note. Rinna sent a second letter, she said she was sorry we could not get together and gave me her phone number, ‘in case I happened to be in the neighborhood.’ Events, however, have their own dynamics. A few months later, I was on a business trip to Germany. Because of a local two-day holiday, I could not do any work, so, to fill in the time, I called Rinna
.
I’ll try to be accurate now with the sequence of events" I told my wife.
"Rinna answered my call and spoke quickly:
‘I am glad you telephoned. Please come and visit us tomorrow. The 10:30AM train from Bon arrives here at noon. We will pick you up at the station. Please pretend you are my Brother Joel’s friend. Do not speak Hebrew in front of my husband. See you tomorrow. I have to go now.'
It was all very strange. She showed neither excitement nor delight. Why did I have to pretend to be Joel’s friend? Why did she ask me not to speak Hebrew?
The next morning, after an hour and a half train ride, I arrived at Remagen station. Mrs. and Mr. Kunz came in a big car driven by Mrs. Kunz. I must confess that Rinna had become a very attractive and classy lady. Mr. Kunz on the other hand, looked like a beerstube dweller. He was thick necked, red cheeked, barrel bellied and smelled like a brewery. (I later learned he had already downed two bottles of Mosel.)
During the twenty-minute ride home, I was quizzed about Joel, his children and his new truck. I answered appropriately, yet Rinna was so formal and cool I regretted coming.
At a certain point during the drive Mr. Kunz turned to me and said:
'Vat kind of music you like Mr. Shamir? I am a musician, you know.' I imagined his taste in music would match the beerstube image, so I said patronizingly: 'I like classical music Mr. Kunz. Old German classical music.' 'Vell, vell, Herr Shamir, you haf come to zhe right place.'
Upon arrival to the Kunz house, which looked like a small castle, I was shown into a salon decorated like a baroque foyer, furnished with three large pianos. To my surprise, Mr. Kunz uncorked two bottles of semi-dry Mosel wine, filled two glasses and said: 'Come Mr. Shamir, let me play for you the Moonlight Zonata on a piano vich is a replica of the piano Beethoven composed on.' With that, he waddled over to the piano, sat down, opened the lid, placed his stubby fingers on the keys, and closed his eyes in concentration. To my absolute amazement and delight, Mr. Kunz revealed himself to be a fine musician. His playing was expressive and gentle while both romantic and passionate.
The first bottle of Mosel was emptied before the end of the sonata. The second Mosel was consumed during Mozart’s Piano Zonata K 330, which he played on the baby-grand Steinway. During the hour and a half of extremely enjoyable music, I had one glass of wine while Mr. Kunz emptied both bottles. At the end of the Rondo alla Turca (the ‘Turkish March’), Mrs. Kunz called us to the dining room. The food she had prepared for lunch was exceptionally good: a succulent fillet mignon au poivre vert, a superb Caesar Salad, an Idaho potato, baked to perfection, with sour cream and chives. To enhance the taste of the excellent steaks, Mr Kunz uncorked two bottles of Bordeaux. Mrs. Kunz had one refill, as did I, while Mr. Kunz, once again, polished off both bottles.
During the repast, I questioned Mr. Kunz about his music. I learned that he was both a composer and conductor of contemporary music, and that he also conducted the church chorus on a voluntary basis. It turned out that he was quite famous throughout the Rhine, Saar and Mosel valleys.
I began to like Mr. Kunz. I admired his music and was enthralled by his wine consumption. However, his wife, Rinna, showed no interest in either of us and did not participate in the conversation at all. Towards the end of the meal, she brought a tray of cheeses with fresh Kummel bread. Mr. Kunz flushed down the Munster the Roquefort and the Camembert with the last drops of the red wine. He then excused himself and abruptly plunged into the soft seat of a nearby armchair and, in less than ten seconds, was snoring loudly.
Ten seconds were all that Mrs. Kunz needed to get rid of her apron and, with a swift movement, like a tigress grabbing her kill; she took my arm and said insistently:
'We have three hours!'
'For What?' I whispered.
'We have an unfinished business or have you forgotten?'
'What about him?' I stammered.
'Don’t worry,' she assured me, while pushing me out of the door. 'Go to the guest bathroom, take off your clothes and leave them there. Put on the robe I have left for you and come back here. If he moves, you sneak back to the bathroom, lock the door and come out dressed.' Was she nuts?
I felt trapped. I was in the claws of a bird of prey... my mind went blank. I walked to the bathroom under her spell, and did as ordered. When I came out, she dragged me down to the carpeted floor behind her husband’s armchair.
She was prepared, wearing nothing under her dress but her exquisite body.
The truth? All I wanted was to get it over and done with and disappear from the vortex I’d found myself in. However, I was incapable of doing anything other than following the orders of the ‘assailant’ who had vanquished my resistance.
It was the quickest quickie I had ever experienced. The overdose of adrenaline in my circulation, revved up my heartbeat to an impressive level, which remained high for two weeks. Although in my opinion, it was a lousy act, for her it was the summit of excitement and pleasure. No, I am not taking any the credit for Rinna’s orgasm, as I am well aware that it was the proximity to the sleeping hubby that took her to such a climax.
Some time later, after regaining my senses, I wondered how anyone, who had once dressed like an Amish woman and had been afraid of touching my hand had become the sexual predator. I never did discover what had caused Rinna’s transformation, but I was able to define two new theorems, which I wrote down on my way home.
One. The level of adrenaline in the blood during lovemaking is in inverse ratio to the distance from a sleeping husband. Meaning: The closer you are to the sleeping husband the higher your heartbeat.
Two. The duration of the act in seconds is in inverse ratio to the distance from the sleeping husband. Meaning: with the husband around, you go through the act like an express train through a rural station.
Mr. Kunz woke up exactly three hours after he had fallen asleep. He discovered Rinna and I sitting at opposite ends of the couch, chatting in English and drinking coffee.
“Hello Mr. Shamir, you are still here? Vhy don’t ve go for a vew beers. I know a place vhere zey make ze beer on ze premizez”.
I couldn’t bear the thought of spending any more time with this bizarre couple so I proffered a silly excuse and made a dash for it. On the train, I felt like a prisoner of war returning home. One thing troubled me though, and I don’t think I shall ever have the answer. Did her brother, Joel know how many friends he has?”
My wife listened without interrupting with an expression of contempt. When I finished my story, she sat quietly, but I could see the fury bulding up in her eyes. Suddenly she forcefully threw her napkin on the table and said with a tongue full of venom: “You are a pervert. You definitely need help. Your wild, sick imagination qualifies you for the nut house. I do not believe a single word of all this crap. Tell your stupid stories to people who don’t know you and spare me please.”
I had expected some kind of reaction but certainly not this. After all the preparation and effort I had put into telling the truth, my ever-loving wife did not believe a word. As God is my witness, I was ready to tell her all my stories and clear my conscience. As God is my witness ALL my stories.
The End
Note published on my blog
Hagai Cohen
If I have learned anything from life, I have learned it is better to tell the truth to one’s spouse rather than let them hear it from rumors. The citizens of the world still remember how a small incident between Monika and Bill was blown out of proportion by the media. The world trend now is to come clean so I decided to follow the trend and like the others, to confess about my affairs and, if necessary, even to apologize sincerely.
The first incident I chose was a mild one, just to assess my wife’s reaction. My friends advised me not to do it. Some told me to see a lawyer first. However, I was determined: “I have to do it” I said.
The right time came, while dining at home, one evening.
"I got a letter", I said, “From a Mrs. Rinna Kunz. It was mailed from Remagen, a small town on the Rhine River in Germany. At first, I did not know who she was, but after reading a little, I realized Mrs. Kunz was Rinna Golan, a girl I had met sixteen years earlier at a Naval Academy dance. Yes, I know it sounds strange. I myself was very surprised.”
I went on to tell my wife the whole story of how the letter had informed me that Rinna, Frau Kunz, was living in Germany and that she planned to come for a visit, and she wanted to meet me. I had no wish to meet her.
"The letter took me back to a time long ago when we students were only boys with lots of muscles, a good tan and supercharged with hormones. Despite all this, sadly there was not a female in sight. However, about five miles away from our base was an all-girl’s boarding school. Likewise, the girls had no boys to impress. With frustration and hormones on the rise I took the liberty of writing a letter to the school, suggesting a dance party. The girls agreed with enthusiasm.
On the assigned day, we all wore nametags and reported to the school gym.
The nametags proved a success, as they created an opening for easy-going communication. Quickly, the party warmed up. At a certain point, the ‘queen’ of the class suggested a kissing competition. Her idea met with little opposition and soon a bottle was spun to make the match. On my turn, the bottle pointed at Rinna Golan.
Rinna’s dress was radically different from the other girls. It was a long floor length dress, with full-length sleeves, which completely covered her arms. Only the skin of her face and hands was exposed. As I approached her, she paled, she appeared to be about to faint. I took her trembling hand, with a quick motion leaned over, and whispered in her ear: ‘Come, there will be no kissing.’ I turned to the others and said: ‘Look, we are not kissing in front of you without first practicing,’ and despite the boos, I walked her out of the room.
Once outside, after drinking some water, Rinna explained to me that although she was not a religious girl she could not stand the idea of being kissed. She hated it when men even looked at her, and she became anxious at the thought of being touched by a man. Rinna was a pretty girl and despite the 16th century clothes, it was obvious she had a perfect body. Frankly, I did not understand her attitude. I did not comment about it then, but felt it might be interesting to chat about it. I suggested we go to the movies the following week. She agreed. We met on three occasions and she always came completely swathed. I did not consider touching her, apart from a mere handshake.
Two months after the party Rinna graduated and I did not see her again. In fact, I never even thought about her. When I received her letter sixteen years later, it took me time to place her, and when I did, I had no desire to meet her and sent her an apology note. Rinna sent a second letter, she said she was sorry we could not get together and gave me her phone number, ‘in case I happened to be in the neighborhood.’ Events, however, have their own dynamics. A few months later, I was on a business trip to Germany. Because of a local two-day holiday, I could not do any work, so, to fill in the time, I called Rinna
.
I’ll try to be accurate now with the sequence of events" I told my wife.
"Rinna answered my call and spoke quickly:
‘I am glad you telephoned. Please come and visit us tomorrow. The 10:30AM train from Bon arrives here at noon. We will pick you up at the station. Please pretend you are my Brother Joel’s friend. Do not speak Hebrew in front of my husband. See you tomorrow. I have to go now.'
It was all very strange. She showed neither excitement nor delight. Why did I have to pretend to be Joel’s friend? Why did she ask me not to speak Hebrew?
The next morning, after an hour and a half train ride, I arrived at Remagen station. Mrs. and Mr. Kunz came in a big car driven by Mrs. Kunz. I must confess that Rinna had become a very attractive and classy lady. Mr. Kunz on the other hand, looked like a beerstube dweller. He was thick necked, red cheeked, barrel bellied and smelled like a brewery. (I later learned he had already downed two bottles of Mosel.)
During the twenty-minute ride home, I was quizzed about Joel, his children and his new truck. I answered appropriately, yet Rinna was so formal and cool I regretted coming.
At a certain point during the drive Mr. Kunz turned to me and said:
'Vat kind of music you like Mr. Shamir? I am a musician, you know.' I imagined his taste in music would match the beerstube image, so I said patronizingly: 'I like classical music Mr. Kunz. Old German classical music.' 'Vell, vell, Herr Shamir, you haf come to zhe right place.'
Upon arrival to the Kunz house, which looked like a small castle, I was shown into a salon decorated like a baroque foyer, furnished with three large pianos. To my surprise, Mr. Kunz uncorked two bottles of semi-dry Mosel wine, filled two glasses and said: 'Come Mr. Shamir, let me play for you the Moonlight Zonata on a piano vich is a replica of the piano Beethoven composed on.' With that, he waddled over to the piano, sat down, opened the lid, placed his stubby fingers on the keys, and closed his eyes in concentration. To my absolute amazement and delight, Mr. Kunz revealed himself to be a fine musician. His playing was expressive and gentle while both romantic and passionate.
The first bottle of Mosel was emptied before the end of the sonata. The second Mosel was consumed during Mozart’s Piano Zonata K 330, which he played on the baby-grand Steinway. During the hour and a half of extremely enjoyable music, I had one glass of wine while Mr. Kunz emptied both bottles. At the end of the Rondo alla Turca (the ‘Turkish March’), Mrs. Kunz called us to the dining room. The food she had prepared for lunch was exceptionally good: a succulent fillet mignon au poivre vert, a superb Caesar Salad, an Idaho potato, baked to perfection, with sour cream and chives. To enhance the taste of the excellent steaks, Mr Kunz uncorked two bottles of Bordeaux. Mrs. Kunz had one refill, as did I, while Mr. Kunz, once again, polished off both bottles.
During the repast, I questioned Mr. Kunz about his music. I learned that he was both a composer and conductor of contemporary music, and that he also conducted the church chorus on a voluntary basis. It turned out that he was quite famous throughout the Rhine, Saar and Mosel valleys.
I began to like Mr. Kunz. I admired his music and was enthralled by his wine consumption. However, his wife, Rinna, showed no interest in either of us and did not participate in the conversation at all. Towards the end of the meal, she brought a tray of cheeses with fresh Kummel bread. Mr. Kunz flushed down the Munster the Roquefort and the Camembert with the last drops of the red wine. He then excused himself and abruptly plunged into the soft seat of a nearby armchair and, in less than ten seconds, was snoring loudly.
Ten seconds were all that Mrs. Kunz needed to get rid of her apron and, with a swift movement, like a tigress grabbing her kill; she took my arm and said insistently:
'We have three hours!'
'For What?' I whispered.
'We have an unfinished business or have you forgotten?'
'What about him?' I stammered.
'Don’t worry,' she assured me, while pushing me out of the door. 'Go to the guest bathroom, take off your clothes and leave them there. Put on the robe I have left for you and come back here. If he moves, you sneak back to the bathroom, lock the door and come out dressed.' Was she nuts?
I felt trapped. I was in the claws of a bird of prey... my mind went blank. I walked to the bathroom under her spell, and did as ordered. When I came out, she dragged me down to the carpeted floor behind her husband’s armchair.
She was prepared, wearing nothing under her dress but her exquisite body.
The truth? All I wanted was to get it over and done with and disappear from the vortex I’d found myself in. However, I was incapable of doing anything other than following the orders of the ‘assailant’ who had vanquished my resistance.
It was the quickest quickie I had ever experienced. The overdose of adrenaline in my circulation, revved up my heartbeat to an impressive level, which remained high for two weeks. Although in my opinion, it was a lousy act, for her it was the summit of excitement and pleasure. No, I am not taking any the credit for Rinna’s orgasm, as I am well aware that it was the proximity to the sleeping hubby that took her to such a climax.
Some time later, after regaining my senses, I wondered how anyone, who had once dressed like an Amish woman and had been afraid of touching my hand had become the sexual predator. I never did discover what had caused Rinna’s transformation, but I was able to define two new theorems, which I wrote down on my way home.
One. The level of adrenaline in the blood during lovemaking is in inverse ratio to the distance from a sleeping husband. Meaning: The closer you are to the sleeping husband the higher your heartbeat.
Two. The duration of the act in seconds is in inverse ratio to the distance from the sleeping husband. Meaning: with the husband around, you go through the act like an express train through a rural station.
Mr. Kunz woke up exactly three hours after he had fallen asleep. He discovered Rinna and I sitting at opposite ends of the couch, chatting in English and drinking coffee.
“Hello Mr. Shamir, you are still here? Vhy don’t ve go for a vew beers. I know a place vhere zey make ze beer on ze premizez”.
I couldn’t bear the thought of spending any more time with this bizarre couple so I proffered a silly excuse and made a dash for it. On the train, I felt like a prisoner of war returning home. One thing troubled me though, and I don’t think I shall ever have the answer. Did her brother, Joel know how many friends he has?”
My wife listened without interrupting with an expression of contempt. When I finished my story, she sat quietly, but I could see the fury bulding up in her eyes. Suddenly she forcefully threw her napkin on the table and said with a tongue full of venom: “You are a pervert. You definitely need help. Your wild, sick imagination qualifies you for the nut house. I do not believe a single word of all this crap. Tell your stupid stories to people who don’t know you and spare me please.”
I had expected some kind of reaction but certainly not this. After all the preparation and effort I had put into telling the truth, my ever-loving wife did not believe a word. As God is my witness, I was ready to tell her all my stories and clear my conscience. As God is my witness ALL my stories.
The End
Note published on my blog
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Mr Rosenkranz
Mr. Rosenkrantz
Hagai Cohen
I was sitting in the school auditorium listening to the speeches but not attentive. It was at the start of my tenth grade, and I was angry.
I was assigned to Mr. Rosenkrantz's craft class despite my request to be exempted. The assignment paper said:
“The objective of the craft lessons is to teach students the skill of handling hand tools, an essential link between the past and the future industrial and technological world. The students will learn to read charts and plans, and implement the knowledge by making useful household objects. The projects are: a cutting board and a hot plate”.
The planned objects, the same as last year's, were made of two identical pieces of wood of which only one of them, when finished would end up with handles. To waste two hours every week for whole year sanding stupid pieces of precut wood was my idea of an utter waste of time.
My father was frequently sick and our family had little income. I needed the time for tending the small chicken farm I founded. Its maintenance required the use of tools and I became quite skillful. I could do without Rosenkrantz boards.
I did not like Mr. Rosenkrantz. His spineless personality permitted the principal, Mr. David Shapiro, to insult him in public. Shapiro made him do odd jobs for the school, like fixing garden tools, electrical outlets, leaky faucet and replacing door locks. The principal enslaved him and although Rosenkrantz did not like it, he did not protest.
For most of the teachers, the use of tools was beneath them and they thought of Rosenkrantz as Homo-Habilis, far inferior to the Homo-Sapiens they were.
They too used him even though they loathed Rosenkrantz and constantly insulted him.
So, I had no respect for Mr. Rosenkrantz, and hated the idea of being in his class. "I must find a way out," I thought.
The audience listening to Mr. Shapiro's speech comprised of the students, the teachers, the members of the P.T.A., two representatives of the Board of Education and the Board of Trustees.
Mr. Shapiro told his listeners he was the best principal on earth and counted his achievements one by one. Suddenly I heard Mr. Shapiro say:
“Our school is a pioneer." It made my mind jump to attention. "Pioneer in implementing the idea of equal opportunities for girls," he continued. "The girls of our school are invited to join the boy’s craft and make our school the first to try this avant-guard idea and set an example for the rest of the schools in the country.”
Nobody expected Mr David Shapiro to put what he said into practice. His words were solely for the ears of the Board of Education and the P.T.A. The boys and girls used the same room for craft lessons. The entire school schedule was carved around the craft room. It was impossible to move girls into boys craft without rescheduling the entire school program.
Suddenly I saw a light; How about equal opportunities for boys, Mr. Shapiro?
First thing the next morning I handed an official request to the principal’s secretary to transfer me to the girl’s craft lessons. In my letter I reminded Mr. David Shapiro of the speech he gave in front of five hundred people. My letter was, of course, copied to the P.T.A, the Board of Education, the Teacher’s Committee and the Board of Trusties.
For a few days nothing happened and I was worried it hadn’t worked, until my English teacher, who was known for his profound dislike of Shapiro, hinted to me "there are some strong undertows." With his typical ironic smile, he whispered, "The principal almost blew a gasket when he saw your letter." Without encouraging me openly, he said: “I will support your request at the teacher's board meeting."
I blue-printed Shapiro's letter using my father frame and sent copies to the Teacher’s Committee, to the Board of Education, to the P.T.A and the Board of Trusties. A few days later, I got this reply.
Ms Shamir interviewed the girls separately and conducted a group discussion session. As a result a good and favorable report came out. Ms Shamir was very impressed with the results and even expressed a desire to be involved in the experiment. “I am planning to write a paper about equal opportunities in high schools,” she promised anyone who was willing to listen.
I was invited by Ms Bloom to join a craft class with the girls “unofficially of course. ” The girls were delighted to have me and solicited Ms Bloom to favor the idea.
I learned later, Mr. Rosenkrantz was summoned and was assigned to fix the shade; also, a letter was typed to my father preparing him to pay for the damages.
Only after coming out of the principal office, I realized I was late for my scheduled appointment with Mr. Rosenkrantz about the girl's craft.
“What?” shouted Mr. Rosenkrantz. “Do you mean to say you touched the shade without my permission?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I am sorry for not asking permission, but I was the one who broke it and now it’s fixed, and already on the window.”
“You are something,” he murmured and started for the principal’s office to brag and collect the credit. I walked very fast by his side and asked: “Shall we reschedule our meeting sir?”
Mr. Rosenkrantz froze, looked into my eyes and said: “My entire instincts and my gut feeling tell me to keep you next to me, but I'll let you go to the girls”.
I have learned the language girls speak, the way girls think, and of course the skills of sewing, knitting and cooking. I used my skills to impress my first girlfriend with a sweater I knitted for her birthday.
Ms Shamir, the school psychologist (who was really no more than a collector of gossips and an official spy) kept interrogating me, the girls, and even the teacher, Ms Bloom, in order to report to the principal.
Hagai Cohen
I was sitting in the school auditorium listening to the speeches but not attentive. It was at the start of my tenth grade, and I was angry.
I was assigned to Mr. Rosenkrantz's craft class despite my request to be exempted. The assignment paper said:
“The objective of the craft lessons is to teach students the skill of handling hand tools, an essential link between the past and the future industrial and technological world. The students will learn to read charts and plans, and implement the knowledge by making useful household objects. The projects are: a cutting board and a hot plate”.
The planned objects, the same as last year's, were made of two identical pieces of wood of which only one of them, when finished would end up with handles. To waste two hours every week for whole year sanding stupid pieces of precut wood was my idea of an utter waste of time.
My father was frequently sick and our family had little income. I needed the time for tending the small chicken farm I founded. Its maintenance required the use of tools and I became quite skillful. I could do without Rosenkrantz boards.
I did not like Mr. Rosenkrantz. His spineless personality permitted the principal, Mr. David Shapiro, to insult him in public. Shapiro made him do odd jobs for the school, like fixing garden tools, electrical outlets, leaky faucet and replacing door locks. The principal enslaved him and although Rosenkrantz did not like it, he did not protest.
For most of the teachers, the use of tools was beneath them and they thought of Rosenkrantz as Homo-Habilis, far inferior to the Homo-Sapiens they were.
They too used him even though they loathed Rosenkrantz and constantly insulted him.
So, I had no respect for Mr. Rosenkrantz, and hated the idea of being in his class. "I must find a way out," I thought.
The audience listening to Mr. Shapiro's speech comprised of the students, the teachers, the members of the P.T.A., two representatives of the Board of Education and the Board of Trustees.
Mr. Shapiro told his listeners he was the best principal on earth and counted his achievements one by one. Suddenly I heard Mr. Shapiro say:
“Our school is a pioneer." It made my mind jump to attention. "Pioneer in implementing the idea of equal opportunities for girls," he continued. "The girls of our school are invited to join the boy’s craft and make our school the first to try this avant-guard idea and set an example for the rest of the schools in the country.”
Nobody expected Mr David Shapiro to put what he said into practice. His words were solely for the ears of the Board of Education and the P.T.A. The boys and girls used the same room for craft lessons. The entire school schedule was carved around the craft room. It was impossible to move girls into boys craft without rescheduling the entire school program.
Suddenly I saw a light; How about equal opportunities for boys, Mr. Shapiro?
First thing the next morning I handed an official request to the principal’s secretary to transfer me to the girl’s craft lessons. In my letter I reminded Mr. David Shapiro of the speech he gave in front of five hundred people. My letter was, of course, copied to the P.T.A, the Board of Education, the Teacher’s Committee and the Board of Trusties.
For a few days nothing happened and I was worried it hadn’t worked, until my English teacher, who was known for his profound dislike of Shapiro, hinted to me "there are some strong undertows." With his typical ironic smile, he whispered, "The principal almost blew a gasket when he saw your letter." Without encouraging me openly, he said: “I will support your request at the teacher's board meeting."
It took Mr. David Shapiro a few days before he managed to compose a letter which he addressed to my father.
Dear Mr. Zemel
This is to inform you, that your son Yakov has filed a request to join the Girls craft classes of our school.
I do suspect sir, that this request was instigated by radical elements in our school and was not done with your consent.
The goal of our school is to prepare young men and women for their future role in life. Our curriculum and our programs are devised to comply with the fast growing, highly demanding Technological environment. We have a long list of successful graduates who can attest we are marching on the right track.
We cannot allow, sir, any person to leave our school without completing the specified program, which was planed by our experts and approved by the Board of Education.
I do believe, sir, a high school diploma for a boy with grades in knitting and embroidery will look very peculiar and will jeopardize your son’s chances of being admitted to higher education.
Please sir, explain to your son the social implications of his unintelligent request.
Faithfully yours
David Shapiro Principal.
The high school for Excellence in education
Patronage of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem.
My father never saw this letter. Before it arrived, he was hospitalized for kidney malfunction and my mother decided not to show it to him. “We do not want to upset your father,” she said. “It is not good for his health.” She added, “You should handle your own mess." I am not sure my mother was happy about it, but I think she was proud of me.
Dear Mr. Zemel
This is to inform you, that your son Yakov has filed a request to join the Girls craft classes of our school.
I do suspect sir, that this request was instigated by radical elements in our school and was not done with your consent.
The goal of our school is to prepare young men and women for their future role in life. Our curriculum and our programs are devised to comply with the fast growing, highly demanding Technological environment. We have a long list of successful graduates who can attest we are marching on the right track.
We cannot allow, sir, any person to leave our school without completing the specified program, which was planed by our experts and approved by the Board of Education.
I do believe, sir, a high school diploma for a boy with grades in knitting and embroidery will look very peculiar and will jeopardize your son’s chances of being admitted to higher education.
Please sir, explain to your son the social implications of his unintelligent request.
Faithfully yours
David Shapiro Principal.
The high school for Excellence in education
Patronage of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem.
My father never saw this letter. Before it arrived, he was hospitalized for kidney malfunction and my mother decided not to show it to him. “We do not want to upset your father,” she said. “It is not good for his health.” She added, “You should handle your own mess." I am not sure my mother was happy about it, but I think she was proud of me.
I blue-printed Shapiro's letter using my father frame and sent copies to the Teacher’s Committee, to the Board of Education, to the P.T.A and the Board of Trusties. A few days later, I got this reply.
To: Yakov Zemel.
From: David Shapiro.
Reference: Your request to join the girl’s craft classes.
Your request was discussed yesterday by the school committee of education in an unscheduled session dedicated solely to your request.
The board resolution was to grant your request subject to the flowing conditions.
a. You will have to show proficiency to an acceptable level in the boy’s craft and Mr. Rosenkrantz will do the evaluation.
b. Ms Shamir, the school psychologist will evaluate and submit a report about the effect of your presence on the girls’ behavior and performance in class.
c. Ms Blum the girls’ craft teacher will evaluate your ability to perform feminine tasks.
d. If you are found suitable, your gym lessons will be with a different class….
Item b. seemed O.K but a. and c. looked more like a conspiracy to torpedo my request. What does it mean “feminine tasks?” It was the time now to campaign for votes. I talked to each girl separately, showed them the letters and convinced them to support my request. The girls promised to help and most of them were in great favor of the idea.
From: David Shapiro.
Reference: Your request to join the girl’s craft classes.
Your request was discussed yesterday by the school committee of education in an unscheduled session dedicated solely to your request.
The board resolution was to grant your request subject to the flowing conditions.
a. You will have to show proficiency to an acceptable level in the boy’s craft and Mr. Rosenkrantz will do the evaluation.
b. Ms Shamir, the school psychologist will evaluate and submit a report about the effect of your presence on the girls’ behavior and performance in class.
c. Ms Blum the girls’ craft teacher will evaluate your ability to perform feminine tasks.
d. If you are found suitable, your gym lessons will be with a different class….
Item b. seemed O.K but a. and c. looked more like a conspiracy to torpedo my request. What does it mean “feminine tasks?” It was the time now to campaign for votes. I talked to each girl separately, showed them the letters and convinced them to support my request. The girls promised to help and most of them were in great favor of the idea.
Ms Shamir interviewed the girls separately and conducted a group discussion session. As a result a good and favorable report came out. Ms Shamir was very impressed with the results and even expressed a desire to be involved in the experiment. “I am planning to write a paper about equal opportunities in high schools,” she promised anyone who was willing to listen.
I was invited by Ms Bloom to join a craft class with the girls “unofficially of course. ” The girls were delighted to have me and solicited Ms Bloom to favor the idea.
During the class, the girls were making a pillow. I presented a few ideas on how to finish the pillow and gave my ideas generously. Ms Bloom was impressed. The second obstacle was behind me.
It was Mr. Rosenkrantz who gave me the biggest worry. He did know me; I had no idea what the principal had told him. I did not know what to do and what way to go. I scheduled a meeting with Mr. Rosenkrantz and decided to play it by ear.
To operate a window shade, the simple kind, you pull the string and you unroll it to the desired height. A small pull and a gentle release and the shade rolls to the up position. Every American baby I was told is born with the skill of rolling the window shade up or down. That was not the case in Israel during the early fifties.
The first time my friends and I learned about the wonders of the window shades, was when someone donated a set to our classroom. Ours was the only classroom in school with shades, designated as a “projection room.”
The morning the shades were installed, Mr David Shapiro was in the classroom to warn every student never to touch the shade or else,he personally would chop the subject into instant fish food, be it boy or girl.
The moment Mr. David Shapiro left the classroom, I went directly to the window shade and demonstrated to my astounded classmates, the secret principles of rolling a window shade. Very soon my classmates knew window shades do not bite.
Another boy in my class felt brave enough to try out the shade. Unfortunately, my friend did very well with the down pull but was unsuccessful with the release technique. The shade was fully down when the bell rang, and the teacher was about to walk into the classroom.
As a good scout I was out to rescue my friend. I tried to pull it up. When I touched the string, I found the shade didn’t want to move. My pull detached the shade from the wooden stick. The shade was over me when the teacher walked in.
It was not long before the principal had me in his private chambers screaming. It was really loud and he was not even careful with his word selection.
I learned later, Mr. Rosenkrantz was summoned and was assigned to fix the shade; also, a letter was typed to my father preparing him to pay for the damages.
Only after coming out of the principal office, I realized I was late for my scheduled appointment with Mr. Rosenkrantz about the girl's craft.
Mr. Rosenkrantz's answer to my knock on door was sharp. As I walked in, I saw the very irritated Mr. Rosenkrantz fiddling with the shade. Knowing how inept he was, I was certain my father would be presented with a bill.
A quick look at Mr. Rosenkrantz and the shade told me he had stapled the shade to the stick and was now, to my surprise, trying to wind the spring with a pair of pliers.
“What do you want?” said Mr. Rosenkrantz.
“What do you want?” said Mr. Rosenkrantz.
“I have an appointment with you sir, about the girl's craft.” .
“So it’s you,” he said. (It occurred to me then Mr. Rosenkrantz did not know it was I who broke the shade) Then in a tone of complaint, he said, “Why are you doing this to me? Why the hell do you need the girls craft? During my entire career as a teacher, I never heard such a stupid request. Wait for me here while I get some coffee and we will talk.”
“So it’s you,” he said. (It occurred to me then Mr. Rosenkrantz did not know it was I who broke the shade) Then in a tone of complaint, he said, “Why are you doing this to me? Why the hell do you need the girls craft? During my entire career as a teacher, I never heard such a stupid request. Wait for me here while I get some coffee and we will talk.”
As Mr. Rosenkrantz left the room, I took command of the shade. I rolled it up very quickly, ran with it to my classroom, installed the shade on its fittings, checked it, and ran back to the teachers room. There was Mr. Rosenkrantz stirring his cup and I said: "Mr. Rosenkrantz the shade is fixed, sir.”
“What?” shouted Mr. Rosenkrantz. “Do you mean to say you touched the shade without my permission?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I am sorry for not asking permission, but I was the one who broke it and now it’s fixed, and already on the window.”
“I must see it,” said Mr. Rosenkrantz and walked very quickly to my classroom.
He went directly to the shade and tried it at least twenty times After the satisfactory inspection, Mr. Rosenkrantz turned to me and said:
He went directly to the shade and tried it at least twenty times After the satisfactory inspection, Mr. Rosenkrantz turned to me and said:
“How did you do it young man?”
“Well sir” I said, “one must have very dexterous hands to do it sir.”
“Well sir” I said, “one must have very dexterous hands to do it sir.”
“You are something,” he murmured and started for the principal’s office to brag and collect the credit. I walked very fast by his side and asked: “Shall we reschedule our meeting sir?”
Mr. Rosenkrantz froze, looked into my eyes and said: “My entire instincts and my gut feeling tell me to keep you next to me, but I'll let you go to the girls”.
Mr. David Shapiro came later to the classroom and said the following: “I am happy to inform you Mr. Rosenkrantz managed to fix the shade broken by Yakov Zemel. We, the teachers, the Board of Trusties and the students of our world-renowned school, should be grateful that Mr. Rosenkrantz is with us. This worthy, dependable teacher sets an example of devotion and dedication.”
It was very nice to be with the girls. Soon enough, they forgot I was the opposite gender. I was asked to help arrange 'accidental' meetings. I managed to teach the girls to distinguish between brains and muscles. But I did not succeed in teaching the boys the difference between breasts and brains. I improved communication between the boys and the girls and became the speaker for both groups.
I have learned the language girls speak, the way girls think, and of course the skills of sewing, knitting and cooking. I used my skills to impress my first girlfriend with a sweater I knitted for her birthday.
Ms Shamir, the school psychologist (who was really no more than a collector of gossips and an official spy) kept interrogating me, the girls, and even the teacher, Ms Bloom, in order to report to the principal.
One of the questions she kept asking me was why was I so anxious to be in the girl’s craft. I never gave her any answer, but I had two good reasons:
1. I liked being with the girls;
2. Had it been even a suffering to be with the girls, I would still have done it, just to annoy Mr. David Shapiro.
The end
1. I liked being with the girls;
2. Had it been even a suffering to be with the girls, I would still have done it, just to annoy Mr. David Shapiro.
The end
Monday, September 29, 2008
Sara Lee
Sara Lee
One afternoon in Tel-Aviv, as I was walking, preoccupied to a troublesome meeting I had to attend, a man opposite me stopped suddenly and then moved on directly towards me. I was so startled that I halted.
The man was a Hassid, dressed all black, with a wide hat. His beard seemed too huge for his small body and looked as if it had never been trimmed.
“Jacob?” He said. I did not answer. “You are Jacob Kaplan, aren’t you?” He asked again…
.
“Who wants to know?” I asked. I had no idea who the man was.
“I am Simon, don’t you remember me? We used to work together.”
“Simon? Simon who?” I eyed him suspiciously.
“Simon Dagan,” he said. “I was a purser with El-Al. We flew together.”
“Simon! what are you doing in this disguise?”
The last time I had seen Simon was in the lobby of a Paris hotel about seven years earlier when, one evening, the El Al crew was deliberating in which restaurant to eat. Simon had called me aside and said he wanted to talk. He looked very sick, could hardly walk and was breathing heavily. I asked him if he needed a doctor or if he wanted me to take him to hospital. All he wanted was to sit and talk.
I remember taking Simon to a nearby café. As he was about to sit, he doubled over with a sharp pain in his chest and almost fainted.
He was very white and begged me to take him back to his room. However, he did not want me to remain with him so I left but called the company doctor. Our flight left the next morning with a replacement purser. I had not seen him since.
“Seven years ago,” I said to Simon. “We went to a restaurant to talk; you did not say a word, went into hospital and disappeared without leaving a trace”.
“Yes. Thanks for your help that night”.
“OK, Simon. I am going to buy you a kosher cup of coffee and you are going to fill me in with the details. This time you are not getting away.”
I was more than curious to learn the reason for Simon’s metamorphosis. I called my secretary and told her to postpone the appointment.
“I’ll never forget that day as long as I live,” said Simon as we walked to a sidewalk café.
We ordered our coffees and Simon started speaking very slowly: “The day you last saw me in Paris was in fact my last day with the airline. If you remember, we had all arrived at the hotel at about noon.
As I was unpacking in my room, there was a knock. I opened the door to a tall, and I mean very tall woman, holding a small travelling iron in her hand. I stared at her, open mouthed I had never been so close to anyone six feet nine inches tall. For all her size, she was nicely proportioned, with a pretty face.
“Howdy neighbour,” said the woman with a thick accent from the deep south of the United States. “Can you help me plug in the iron? I don’t know if the voltage is correct or if the plug will fit into the socket.”
She led me to her room and, as a good Boy Scout; I connected the appliance with an adapter plug I always carried, so the young lady could iron. She thanked me and offered to buy me a drink after she had ironed her dress.
It amused me to see her with such a tiny iron for such a big dress. ‘She’ll never finish the job.’ I was thinking. She looked like a girl holding a Barbie doll iron. I left her and went back to finish unpacking.
An hour later, she again knocked at my door. She was now wearing a leather mini skirt exposing endless legs. I stared impressed. I could not relate to her as a woman. She seemed more like an impressive statue than anything real.
“I am done neighbour,” she said. “Here is your adapter. Thank you so much. Please come back and have a drink.” I hesitated. “Come on, come on. Let’s do it!” She was very assertive.
As I was following her to her room, I was thinking whether God made this woman on purpose or He’d just made a mistake.
“I’m Sara Lee, from Mobile Alabama. I’m on a group tour,” she said as we entered.
The room service waiter had already set up a folding table with white tablecloth over it. There was a bottle of Jack Daniels, a bucket of ice and a plate of crackers, cheeses and other goodies.
Sara-Lee filled two glasses, to the brim, one with ice, which she handed to me, and the other neat with raw amber whisky. We toasted each other. She, to my astonishment, downed the contents of her glass in one gulp.
“I usually don’t drink so early in the day,” said Sara-Lee, “but this is my first time in Paris and I need to celebrate.”
Sara-Lee and I were sitting together on the couch and I could watch her closely. I was especially taken with her shoes that were the size of canoes and I wondered where in hell she found shoes, or clothes for that matter, to fit her.
Then I looked at her head. Each single strand of her blond hair was thick and, all together; she looked though she wore a gold threaded wig. Her hands were smooth but firm and very strong.
As her whisky went down, she became increasingly talkative. I understood only half of what she was saying, because of her heavy accent and because of the rising level of whisky diluting my own blood.
She kept filling my glass whenever I was not watching, and then checked to see that I drank it. We were talking and laughing about this and that.
I knew when to laugh only because she would start to giggle at her own jokes and then slap my thigh with tremendous force.
Suddenly she grabbed my hand and drew me close to her on the couch. Her arm was across my shoulders. My head disappeared somewhere between her hips and her breasts. It was a grotesque scene.
She continued drinking from her bottomless glass until, at some point; she picked me up and deposited me on her lap. “Come on big boy, let me see how you kiss,” said Sara-Lee.
I felt like a puppy and was a little hesitant so she took the initiative. Her colossal tongue was soon filling my mouth. I was completely unprepared for her next move when she picked me up again, carried me over to the bed and tossed me on it. I did not resist. I could not, and I had no desire to resist.
She lifted my legs and pulled off my pants. She might have been a mother changing her baby. In no time at all, I was quite naked and so was she.
“Come on big man, let’s see what you can do to a horny girl,” she said and rolled me on top of her. She held my thighs tight within her enormous legs, like a giant nutcracker. Her hands pull my head into her breasts.
With my face embedded, all my breathing channels were completely blocked. I tried very hard to break her hold and breathe, but it was no use, she was too strong for me.
She seemed to enjoy my wiggling and my struggles to stay alive which, to her, were a delightful sexual performance. She gave some encouraging cries: “Yoo-hoo big stud, so far you are the best lay I’ve ever had.”
I was fading fast, I was dizzy from lack of air and was about to faint. Suddenly, I felt a huge, wonderful explosion in my head, accompanied by a very bright light. A tremendous wave of euphoria washed over me, as though a drug had been injected into my veins.
I passed out. I remember hearing voices. I saw a quick review of my life and even spoke to my dead mother.
I don’t know how long I was out but I woke with an unbelievable pain in my chest. Sara- Lee was over me slapping my cheeks and looking petrified, while her enormous breasts danced before my eyes.
I knew I had had a near death experience and I thanked God He had brought me back. I saw it as a very clear signal - a rebirth, a second chance to make something of my life. I felt I had no choice. I had to obey the call and dedicate my entire life to serving the Creator.
“What are you telling me Simon?” I was not sure whether I was more shocked than amused. “Are you really saying screwing Sara Lee was a religious experience?”
“No, no. You don’t understand,” he insisted. “Even my rabbi told me it was a divine happening and that only a few people are so honoured” He explained that Sara Lee was merely God’s messenger. “She was an angel sent to put me on the right track, to show me the way, to point me in the right direction.
I could not believe my ears.
“Tell me Simon, what happened to the wife you used to brag about, whose photo you carried in your wallet?” My wife, I am sorry to say, did not want to become observant so I divorced her. I am married to another woman now”.
We fell silent for a while as I puzzled over it. “Why were you hospitalised that evening?”
“It was all from God. God’s way of making a point,” said Simon. “God made Sara Lee strong enough to break my rib. It was all from God”.
I blinked to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. I wondered whether to comment or to keep my mouth shut. After some time I said: “Let me tell you what I think Simon what you experienced was an orgasm, a unique one all right, but just an orgasm, nothing more.
It is a recognized phenomenon called ‘Erotic Asphyxiation.’ Sexual enthusiasts make love with plastic bags over their heads to experience it.
You can count yourself lucky, Simon but for reasons other than you think. Your miraculous return to life or second chance as you call it was because Sara Lee got her orgasm in time to release you from her grip.”
Simon sat motionless, staring at me. “You know what, Simon,” I continued, “your rabbi was right, I do believe Sara Lee was indeed an angel.” Simon’s look became quizzical. “Only an angle can give an orgasm to a mortal and, with that single orgasm, turn him into a full-fledged nut case.”
Simon rose and looked down upon me with contempt and disgust.
He turned and without a goodbye, walked away fast.
I have seen neither hide nor hair of him since.
The End
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Captain Vain
Hagai Cohen
Captain Vain was a very handsome and impressive young airline Captain.
He was so good looking that the advertising department of our airline decided to use him in many of the company’s advertising campaigns. He also featured in many short commercial movies, a co production of the airline and the state of Israel tourist department. The fact that his face was pictured everywhere, made his ego grow to an immense size, and as the Hebrew expression goes - "the urine went to his head."
Captain Vain was seen strutting around like a peacock in heat, showing how beautiful and how important he was. And all for one purpose: to impress the ladies.
Captain Vain would chase every female in sight; of course, he would do it only when his ever-loving wife was not around. When she was present, or within a one-mile radius, Captain Vain would transform himself from a gallant peacock into an ugly duckling and would become as obedient as a poodle.
In an airline there is always a fresh supply of young women and Captain Vain never stopped trying. There was of course a ‘class’ gap between the almighty Captain and the young women and, from a distance, the women seemed to be impressed by the uniform and his apparent dignity. As one woman described it to me: “Many girls fantasize about him, of course before knowing him."
The reality, however, was totally different. Despite the fact he was forever around young women, his success was limited. The fault lay, according to a knowledgeable woman, in his approach.
She told me he would say: "You must try me, I am the best," or: "It may be your once in a lifetime chance to be with someone as good as myself," or: "You don't know what you’re missing," or: "Ask your girlfriends they'll tell you who I am." Well, many girls, after undergoing his arrogant courting, did consult other ladies who had experienced his modus operandi and the information was spread all over the airline. I was told that the study of Captain Vain’s techniques was included even in the cabin attendant’s ground-school curriculum - a fact that made all the girls avoid him altogether.
So it happened I was in Amsterdam one lovely morning and we were promised the weather would be a perfect 24 degrees Centigrade, with low humidity and a light breeze.
"Great weather for a motor scooter excursion," I suggested to the crew at breakfast. They all agreed.
The necessary arrangements were quickly made, and all the crew of our Boeing 707 Jetliner hit the road.
We were five women and four men and the Captain of the group was none other than our notorious Captain Vain.
It was the perfect idea for a perfect day; we drove around Amsterdam on all those special roads for bicycles. We stopped for coffee in a windmill converted into a restaurant. At a picturesque fishermen’s harbor we had ‘fish and chips’ and a beer.
It was perfect for most of us but not so for one young cabin attendant. Captain Vain used his clumsy and insulting technique on Shoshi. It was my first opportunity to observe the big operator at work. Vain used courting tricks from elementary school: like a boy who, when wanting to show his attraction for a girl, pushed her into a corner, pulled her braids and hit her with a ruler.
This foolproof technique was upgraded by Captain’s Vain to an adult version. He chose to show Shoshi his affection by cutting in front of her scooter and making her stop abruptly. It was clear by the Captain’s laughs he was having a great time. The poor girl fell down several times and in one case she even bruised herself. It was apparent that Shoshi was tormented but was afraid to confront him. His actions, by all standards, were sexual harassment.
Captain Vain’s behavior was the only cloud over an otherwise lovely day. He gave me and the rest of the crew, a very bad taste.
My interest in the ‘Vain versus Shoshy’ affair would have been minimal under normal circumstances, but I felt that my interference might arouse some interest.
"There is something in it for me," I said to myself.
I had a long-term dislike for Captain Vain. Some two years earlier, we were involved in a flight emergency; we lost one engine and all the hydraulic system. It was a positioning flight (no passengers) so captain vain decided against my opinion to fly all the way to our destination.
It was a wrong decision as a crippled airplane fuel consumption is way above normal. We landed safely but with fuel reserve below the legal minimum.
The chiefs did not like it. We were questioned separately. Captain Vain proved a spineless, slimy creature.
He tried to blame me and the engineer for all his wrongdoings. "They gave me the wrong information," he said. "They weren’t in the cockpit. I was left alone with no support." Captain Vain did not write an official complaint. He knew it would not hold up in any real investigation. I never forgave him.
Under the circumstances, it was understandable I would try to help Shoshi. More than anything I wanted to puncture his over-inflated ego. To be frank, it took me almost all day, to figure out a plan. Then, when I had an idea, I needed Shoshi’s cooperation and I was not at all sure she would give it to me.
In the evening, after returning the scooters, I took Shoshi aside and said: "Look Shoshi, I know it has not been a good day for you, and I am very sorry. However, I have an idea how to get back at him and how we can enjoy a sweet revenge. I am going to suggest we all go to dinner together and I want you to come with us. Please accept my invitation and I promise you a most pleasant evening."
At that time, I was not ready to reveal my plan to Shoshy. As it happened, Shoshi was willing to trust me and agreed to come. "Use all the tricks to show how beautiful you are,” I told her.
An hour later, we met in the lobby, all dressed casually except for Shoshi. She wore an evening dress, nice jewelry and delicate perfume. She looked lovely.
Shoshi attracted some good nature compliments that made her feel uncomfortable. I moved close to her and whispered in her ear: "Once we are out of the lobby and on the sidewalk, take my arm. We’ll walk slowly behind the group. Every time you see Vain look backwards, be ready to whisper in my ear. Make it look like an authentic lover’s whisper."
Shoshi was a smart young lady. It took her a split second to comprehend the plot. She played her role to perfection. She took my arm and pulled it very firmly towards her. Every time Captain Vain or any other member of the group became curious and discreetly looked backwards, they found her smiling and whispering close to my ear. It was quite evident Captain Vain was getting more annoyed and upset by the second.
At the restaurant when we sat around the table, Shoshi of course sat next to me. A few glasses of wine later, an innocent bystander would have been certain he was witnessing the birth of a love affair. I myself began to doubt it was still a role-play. Captain Vain, who had been "working" on Shoshi all day long, looked puzzled, confused and nervous.
At the table, in between pieces of Balkan mixed grill, Shoshi told jokes, became the center of attention and announced officially that I was her date. On the way back, Shoshi took active control and gave events a new twist. "No more walking behind the group," she said to me. So, we joined the rest of the crew on the walk back the hotel. During those twenty minutes, Shoshi informed whoever was interested, how happy she was. She told us she feels so wild, she had enough energy to play all night! She said many other things too, just short of saying in plain words: "I'm horny."
Upon arriving at the hotel, she excused herself from the rest of the group and pulled me towards the hotel bar. Over a drink in a dark corner, we discussed the evening’s events with much laughter. We conspired and planned also for the final blow.
Next morning, after being informed by the front desk that our offended Captain was already having his breakfast, we entered the restaurant hand in hand with loving, satisfied smiles stretched across our cheeks. When Vain saw us, all the blood drained from his face and he looked about to faint.
After a pause, Captain Vain protested: "What do you two talk about all the time?"
Shoshi was on the ball and replied immediately: "We don't talk all the time!" She drew out the “all,” smiled and looked at me with lustrous eyes for approval.
Captain Vain was certainly sorry he had asked the question. With anger in his face and tone and without referring to me by name, he said: "How do you do it"? Choosing my words and speaking aloud, ensuring I was heard over the entire restaurant,i said:
"Well Captain Vain, if you really want to know, it's nothing more then the supremacy of brains over looks."
His chalk faced turned vermilion. Throwing his napkin on his plate, he rose and walked out of the dining room. Never again did he approach another female member of any crew I was in!
THE END
Hagai Cohen
Captain Vain was a very handsome and impressive young airline Captain.
He was so good looking that the advertising department of our airline decided to use him in many of the company’s advertising campaigns. He also featured in many short commercial movies, a co production of the airline and the state of Israel tourist department. The fact that his face was pictured everywhere, made his ego grow to an immense size, and as the Hebrew expression goes - "the urine went to his head."
Captain Vain was seen strutting around like a peacock in heat, showing how beautiful and how important he was. And all for one purpose: to impress the ladies.
Captain Vain would chase every female in sight; of course, he would do it only when his ever-loving wife was not around. When she was present, or within a one-mile radius, Captain Vain would transform himself from a gallant peacock into an ugly duckling and would become as obedient as a poodle.
In an airline there is always a fresh supply of young women and Captain Vain never stopped trying. There was of course a ‘class’ gap between the almighty Captain and the young women and, from a distance, the women seemed to be impressed by the uniform and his apparent dignity. As one woman described it to me: “Many girls fantasize about him, of course before knowing him."
The reality, however, was totally different. Despite the fact he was forever around young women, his success was limited. The fault lay, according to a knowledgeable woman, in his approach.
She told me he would say: "You must try me, I am the best," or: "It may be your once in a lifetime chance to be with someone as good as myself," or: "You don't know what you’re missing," or: "Ask your girlfriends they'll tell you who I am." Well, many girls, after undergoing his arrogant courting, did consult other ladies who had experienced his modus operandi and the information was spread all over the airline. I was told that the study of Captain Vain’s techniques was included even in the cabin attendant’s ground-school curriculum - a fact that made all the girls avoid him altogether.
So it happened I was in Amsterdam one lovely morning and we were promised the weather would be a perfect 24 degrees Centigrade, with low humidity and a light breeze.
"Great weather for a motor scooter excursion," I suggested to the crew at breakfast. They all agreed.
The necessary arrangements were quickly made, and all the crew of our Boeing 707 Jetliner hit the road.
We were five women and four men and the Captain of the group was none other than our notorious Captain Vain.
It was the perfect idea for a perfect day; we drove around Amsterdam on all those special roads for bicycles. We stopped for coffee in a windmill converted into a restaurant. At a picturesque fishermen’s harbor we had ‘fish and chips’ and a beer.
It was perfect for most of us but not so for one young cabin attendant. Captain Vain used his clumsy and insulting technique on Shoshi. It was my first opportunity to observe the big operator at work. Vain used courting tricks from elementary school: like a boy who, when wanting to show his attraction for a girl, pushed her into a corner, pulled her braids and hit her with a ruler.
This foolproof technique was upgraded by Captain’s Vain to an adult version. He chose to show Shoshi his affection by cutting in front of her scooter and making her stop abruptly. It was clear by the Captain’s laughs he was having a great time. The poor girl fell down several times and in one case she even bruised herself. It was apparent that Shoshi was tormented but was afraid to confront him. His actions, by all standards, were sexual harassment.
Captain Vain’s behavior was the only cloud over an otherwise lovely day. He gave me and the rest of the crew, a very bad taste.
My interest in the ‘Vain versus Shoshy’ affair would have been minimal under normal circumstances, but I felt that my interference might arouse some interest.
"There is something in it for me," I said to myself.
I had a long-term dislike for Captain Vain. Some two years earlier, we were involved in a flight emergency; we lost one engine and all the hydraulic system. It was a positioning flight (no passengers) so captain vain decided against my opinion to fly all the way to our destination.
It was a wrong decision as a crippled airplane fuel consumption is way above normal. We landed safely but with fuel reserve below the legal minimum.
The chiefs did not like it. We were questioned separately. Captain Vain proved a spineless, slimy creature.
He tried to blame me and the engineer for all his wrongdoings. "They gave me the wrong information," he said. "They weren’t in the cockpit. I was left alone with no support." Captain Vain did not write an official complaint. He knew it would not hold up in any real investigation. I never forgave him.
Under the circumstances, it was understandable I would try to help Shoshi. More than anything I wanted to puncture his over-inflated ego. To be frank, it took me almost all day, to figure out a plan. Then, when I had an idea, I needed Shoshi’s cooperation and I was not at all sure she would give it to me.
In the evening, after returning the scooters, I took Shoshi aside and said: "Look Shoshi, I know it has not been a good day for you, and I am very sorry. However, I have an idea how to get back at him and how we can enjoy a sweet revenge. I am going to suggest we all go to dinner together and I want you to come with us. Please accept my invitation and I promise you a most pleasant evening."
At that time, I was not ready to reveal my plan to Shoshy. As it happened, Shoshi was willing to trust me and agreed to come. "Use all the tricks to show how beautiful you are,” I told her.
An hour later, we met in the lobby, all dressed casually except for Shoshi. She wore an evening dress, nice jewelry and delicate perfume. She looked lovely.
Shoshi attracted some good nature compliments that made her feel uncomfortable. I moved close to her and whispered in her ear: "Once we are out of the lobby and on the sidewalk, take my arm. We’ll walk slowly behind the group. Every time you see Vain look backwards, be ready to whisper in my ear. Make it look like an authentic lover’s whisper."
Shoshi was a smart young lady. It took her a split second to comprehend the plot. She played her role to perfection. She took my arm and pulled it very firmly towards her. Every time Captain Vain or any other member of the group became curious and discreetly looked backwards, they found her smiling and whispering close to my ear. It was quite evident Captain Vain was getting more annoyed and upset by the second.
At the restaurant when we sat around the table, Shoshi of course sat next to me. A few glasses of wine later, an innocent bystander would have been certain he was witnessing the birth of a love affair. I myself began to doubt it was still a role-play. Captain Vain, who had been "working" on Shoshi all day long, looked puzzled, confused and nervous.
At the table, in between pieces of Balkan mixed grill, Shoshi told jokes, became the center of attention and announced officially that I was her date. On the way back, Shoshi took active control and gave events a new twist. "No more walking behind the group," she said to me. So, we joined the rest of the crew on the walk back the hotel. During those twenty minutes, Shoshi informed whoever was interested, how happy she was. She told us she feels so wild, she had enough energy to play all night! She said many other things too, just short of saying in plain words: "I'm horny."
Upon arriving at the hotel, she excused herself from the rest of the group and pulled me towards the hotel bar. Over a drink in a dark corner, we discussed the evening’s events with much laughter. We conspired and planned also for the final blow.
Next morning, after being informed by the front desk that our offended Captain was already having his breakfast, we entered the restaurant hand in hand with loving, satisfied smiles stretched across our cheeks. When Vain saw us, all the blood drained from his face and he looked about to faint.
After a pause, Captain Vain protested: "What do you two talk about all the time?"
Shoshi was on the ball and replied immediately: "We don't talk all the time!" She drew out the “all,” smiled and looked at me with lustrous eyes for approval.
Captain Vain was certainly sorry he had asked the question. With anger in his face and tone and without referring to me by name, he said: "How do you do it"? Choosing my words and speaking aloud, ensuring I was heard over the entire restaurant,i said:
"Well Captain Vain, if you really want to know, it's nothing more then the supremacy of brains over looks."
His chalk faced turned vermilion. Throwing his napkin on his plate, he rose and walked out of the dining room. Never again did he approach another female member of any crew I was in!
THE END
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Miss Lynn The English tutor.
Miss Lynn
The English tutor
Hagai Cohen
Israel Gurion today is a famous actor, a good comedian and a fine musician. However, sixty years ago he was just another boy in my class.
None of us took 'English' seriously. A year earlier, the British mandate over Palestine had ended. The trend was to hate anything British.
Unfortunately, English, a mandatory second language, was essential for admission to high school.
Both Israel and I were weak and needed a boost. Our parents decided to take action and hired us a tutor.
Miss Lynn was selected because she was the cheapest tutor in town. In addition, she took us both together, making her offer a real bargain.
Miss Lynn’s experience in teaching was equal to my experience in midwifery. My father told me she was proficient in three languages, German, English and Hebrew, and assured me she was a reputable teacher.
The fact was, her thick German accent made all the languages she spoke sound the same. We guessed she spoke Hebrew only when she screamed at us, "Don't you understand Hebrew?"
Miss Lynn sublet a room in a big apartment from another German family. The gloomy house and the dark heavy furniture were not too inviting.
The family with whom Miss Lynn lived were very punctilious and needed strict order in their lives. Their daily activities were timed with precision and could not be altered under any circumstances. The doorbell could not be rung during breakfast, during ten o’clock coffee, during lunch, during sllaff stunde, during five o’clock tea, during supper, and after 9.30 P.M when the family retired for the night. As the activities overlapped each other there was no time for the bell to be used.
To avoid any chance of a mistake, Miss Lynn taught us the pre-lesson procedures.
She stood us on the sidewalk outside the house and said:
”Six minutes exactly before the beginning of your lesson, one of you stands precisely at this very spot on the sidewalk." She pointed at our feet.
"When ready," she continued,
"You look towards my window and call, ONLY ONCE, 'Miss Lynn.'
After calling, you wait until my face appears in the window. It will take two and a half minutes.
After I see you, you go to the door and wait. You shall not use the doorbell. I will show you in and take you to the mudroom. You will remove your shoes and put on the slippers I have made for you. You will follow me to my room. We will then start the lesson.
You must never call 'Miss Lynn' more than six minutes before the lesson. Both of you must be standing before you call me. You must change your socks before you come." She finally took a breath. "Now, repeat what I told you."
I was the first to rehearse the procedure. She told us she would tolerate no mistakes. "Nothing is to go wrong, you understand!"
I went over the check-list without any mistakes. I was very proud of myself.
During my recital, I noticed an impish smile on Israel’s face. I had a sense of imminent disaster.
With a straight and innocent face, Israel could not find the right spot to stand. He pretended to be confused. He mixed up the six minutes waiting period with the two and a half it would take for Miss Lynn's face to appear in the window.
He said we must bring clean socks and change them under the supervision of Miss Lynn. "To make sure we don't cheat you," he added.
Miss Lynn turned red with anger, but Israel continued: "Don't worry, we will keep the stinky socks in our pockets."
At that moment, I hoped Miss Lynn would say, "Go home and never return." She did not. Instead, pointing at me, she said, ”As long as one of you knows exactly what to do, that's ok."
Than she stuck her finger in my chest and said, "You are in charge; you will watch him and make sure he does not make mistakes. Nothing must go wrong. Do you understand?”
On our way home, the uncontrollable laughter emerged. We imitated Miss Lynn’s accent. We made up clumsy and complicated sentences, practicing her speech patterns and language. Miss Lynn promised to be a source of great comedy and we could not wait to see more of her.
Our first session with Miss Lynn was scheduled for Monday at three o’clock. "It is the best time of the day,” she said, “after 'sllaff stunde' and before 'hoch kaffe,' while the maid is setting the table.”
At exactly seven minutes to three, we stood at the right spot on the sidewalk, in front of Miss Lynn’s second floor window. Israel had insisted we be punctual. “A good show," he said, “Is the one when the curtain rises exactly on time."
All the way to Miss Lynn’s house, we practised the password. The plan was to call her simultaneously in two voices. I was to do soprano and Israel the baritone, of course with rhythm and melody: ME-EE-EE-EE-EE-S LE-EE-EE-EE-EE-EN.
Israel raised his hands and gave the signal to start. I realised I was singing solo. Without telling me, Israel had planned to improvise. As I came to the end of 'MEEEEES,' a high pitched yell, "FRAULINE LYNN!" came out of his throat, sounding like a chicken squawking in distress.
It took Miss Lynn far less than the agreed two and half minutes to show her face in the window. She waved her hands as if she were drowning in a lake. Although she was completely silent, we could tell what she meant. It was either, ”Go home and never come back,” or "Come upstairs to be killed." I had the definite feeling I was about to meet the wicked witch from Hansel and Gretel.
A furious Miss Lynn let us in. While it was a unique experience to hear Miss Lynn whispering her admonitions, we could not understand a single word.
In her room, Israel and I started to argue which of us was responsible for calling Miss Lynn.
Was it I, who was in charge, or Israel, who was standing at the specified spot?
We went on and on until we finally blamed her for not being more specific. We kept arguing, repeating the same stupid opinions.
“OK," said Israel, "Next time I will be in charge and everything will go smoothly.“
I replied, “How can you take charge? You failed Miss Lynn's test. I may agree to share responsibility with you, but only after you retake the test."
Suddenly we heard the cry of 'Miss Lynn' from the street.
Miss Lynn rose as if she were hypnotized. She tiptoed to the corner of the room to fetch a stool. She walked quietly with the stool to the window and placed it gently on the wooden floor. She then went to a chest of drawers at the other side of the room, opened the top drawer and removed a folded rug, which she adjusted on the stool. Miss Lynn then strapped the curtain to the right and then repeated the procedure with the left curtain. When secured, she moved to the centre of the window, removed her slippers and placed them neatly next to the stool. Miss Lynn picked up the folded rug and climbed on to the stool. She spread the rug on top of the broad windowsill. Everything was now ready.
Miss Lynn, with a lot of huffing and puffing, pulled herself up to be able to peer down from the window.
Whilst enthralled in Miss Lynn's robotic motions I turned for a quick glance at Israel, who was imitating Miss Lynn's movements.
When we looked again towards the window, instead of Miss Lynn, we saw a huge flower with two pink pistils protruding through the white petals.
The humongous flower was nothing but Miss Lynn’s bottom covered in many layers of starched white muslin, with two pink legs sticking out through them.
Unfortunately, the conversation through the window ended too soon and we were left with many unexplored mysteries of the uncovered bottom.
Two days later we arrived on time for our next session with Miss Lynn. We used the password exactly as instructed, had on fresh socks and had done all that was required of us. Miss Lynn was pleased.
At precisely thirty seconds past three o’clock, just as we were sitting down at the table and Miss Lynn was opening a textbook to start her dictation, a call from the street summoned “Miss Lynn” to the window.
An unauthorised person was using the password illegally. We let Miss Lynn go through all the steps of the check-list.
After all her efforts, there was nobody on the street. Miss Lynn reversed the procedure, folded the rug stowed it in the chest of drawer returned the stool and came back to the table.
As she took her seat, a second call beckoned 'Miss Lynn' to her window.
We had calculated the time of a full Miss Lynn procedure was six minutes. Our plan was to make Miss Lynn climb the window six consecutive times during our session.
It did not work out as planned, for after the third call she soundly abused us and chased us out of her room. She never ever sent a bill.
We had enjoyed watching Miss Lynn climb up to her window and were sorry it was over.
We did not learn much English but definitely learned a lot about eighteenth century ladies’ undergarments.
To commemorate the Miss Lynn episode we wrote, ”The Ballad of Miss Lynn.” Israel composed the music and I the lyrics. It was also my first glimpse of Israel's talents as a musician and comedian.
The English tutor
Hagai Cohen
Israel Gurion today is a famous actor, a good comedian and a fine musician. However, sixty years ago he was just another boy in my class.
None of us took 'English' seriously. A year earlier, the British mandate over Palestine had ended. The trend was to hate anything British.
Unfortunately, English, a mandatory second language, was essential for admission to high school.
Both Israel and I were weak and needed a boost. Our parents decided to take action and hired us a tutor.
Miss Lynn was selected because she was the cheapest tutor in town. In addition, she took us both together, making her offer a real bargain.
Miss Lynn’s experience in teaching was equal to my experience in midwifery. My father told me she was proficient in three languages, German, English and Hebrew, and assured me she was a reputable teacher.
The fact was, her thick German accent made all the languages she spoke sound the same. We guessed she spoke Hebrew only when she screamed at us, "Don't you understand Hebrew?"
Miss Lynn sublet a room in a big apartment from another German family. The gloomy house and the dark heavy furniture were not too inviting.
The family with whom Miss Lynn lived were very punctilious and needed strict order in their lives. Their daily activities were timed with precision and could not be altered under any circumstances. The doorbell could not be rung during breakfast, during ten o’clock coffee, during lunch, during sllaff stunde, during five o’clock tea, during supper, and after 9.30 P.M when the family retired for the night. As the activities overlapped each other there was no time for the bell to be used.
To avoid any chance of a mistake, Miss Lynn taught us the pre-lesson procedures.
She stood us on the sidewalk outside the house and said:
”Six minutes exactly before the beginning of your lesson, one of you stands precisely at this very spot on the sidewalk." She pointed at our feet.
"When ready," she continued,
"You look towards my window and call, ONLY ONCE, 'Miss Lynn.'
After calling, you wait until my face appears in the window. It will take two and a half minutes.
After I see you, you go to the door and wait. You shall not use the doorbell. I will show you in and take you to the mudroom. You will remove your shoes and put on the slippers I have made for you. You will follow me to my room. We will then start the lesson.
You must never call 'Miss Lynn' more than six minutes before the lesson. Both of you must be standing before you call me. You must change your socks before you come." She finally took a breath. "Now, repeat what I told you."
I was the first to rehearse the procedure. She told us she would tolerate no mistakes. "Nothing is to go wrong, you understand!"
I went over the check-list without any mistakes. I was very proud of myself.
During my recital, I noticed an impish smile on Israel’s face. I had a sense of imminent disaster.
With a straight and innocent face, Israel could not find the right spot to stand. He pretended to be confused. He mixed up the six minutes waiting period with the two and a half it would take for Miss Lynn's face to appear in the window.
He said we must bring clean socks and change them under the supervision of Miss Lynn. "To make sure we don't cheat you," he added.
Miss Lynn turned red with anger, but Israel continued: "Don't worry, we will keep the stinky socks in our pockets."
At that moment, I hoped Miss Lynn would say, "Go home and never return." She did not. Instead, pointing at me, she said, ”As long as one of you knows exactly what to do, that's ok."
Than she stuck her finger in my chest and said, "You are in charge; you will watch him and make sure he does not make mistakes. Nothing must go wrong. Do you understand?”
On our way home, the uncontrollable laughter emerged. We imitated Miss Lynn’s accent. We made up clumsy and complicated sentences, practicing her speech patterns and language. Miss Lynn promised to be a source of great comedy and we could not wait to see more of her.
Our first session with Miss Lynn was scheduled for Monday at three o’clock. "It is the best time of the day,” she said, “after 'sllaff stunde' and before 'hoch kaffe,' while the maid is setting the table.”
At exactly seven minutes to three, we stood at the right spot on the sidewalk, in front of Miss Lynn’s second floor window. Israel had insisted we be punctual. “A good show," he said, “Is the one when the curtain rises exactly on time."
All the way to Miss Lynn’s house, we practised the password. The plan was to call her simultaneously in two voices. I was to do soprano and Israel the baritone, of course with rhythm and melody: ME-EE-EE-EE-EE-S LE-EE-EE-EE-EE-EN.
Israel raised his hands and gave the signal to start. I realised I was singing solo. Without telling me, Israel had planned to improvise. As I came to the end of 'MEEEEES,' a high pitched yell, "FRAULINE LYNN!" came out of his throat, sounding like a chicken squawking in distress.
It took Miss Lynn far less than the agreed two and half minutes to show her face in the window. She waved her hands as if she were drowning in a lake. Although she was completely silent, we could tell what she meant. It was either, ”Go home and never come back,” or "Come upstairs to be killed." I had the definite feeling I was about to meet the wicked witch from Hansel and Gretel.
A furious Miss Lynn let us in. While it was a unique experience to hear Miss Lynn whispering her admonitions, we could not understand a single word.
In her room, Israel and I started to argue which of us was responsible for calling Miss Lynn.
Was it I, who was in charge, or Israel, who was standing at the specified spot?
We went on and on until we finally blamed her for not being more specific. We kept arguing, repeating the same stupid opinions.
“OK," said Israel, "Next time I will be in charge and everything will go smoothly.“
I replied, “How can you take charge? You failed Miss Lynn's test. I may agree to share responsibility with you, but only after you retake the test."
Suddenly we heard the cry of 'Miss Lynn' from the street.
Miss Lynn rose as if she were hypnotized. She tiptoed to the corner of the room to fetch a stool. She walked quietly with the stool to the window and placed it gently on the wooden floor. She then went to a chest of drawers at the other side of the room, opened the top drawer and removed a folded rug, which she adjusted on the stool. Miss Lynn then strapped the curtain to the right and then repeated the procedure with the left curtain. When secured, she moved to the centre of the window, removed her slippers and placed them neatly next to the stool. Miss Lynn picked up the folded rug and climbed on to the stool. She spread the rug on top of the broad windowsill. Everything was now ready.
Miss Lynn, with a lot of huffing and puffing, pulled herself up to be able to peer down from the window.
Whilst enthralled in Miss Lynn's robotic motions I turned for a quick glance at Israel, who was imitating Miss Lynn's movements.
When we looked again towards the window, instead of Miss Lynn, we saw a huge flower with two pink pistils protruding through the white petals.
The humongous flower was nothing but Miss Lynn’s bottom covered in many layers of starched white muslin, with two pink legs sticking out through them.
Unfortunately, the conversation through the window ended too soon and we were left with many unexplored mysteries of the uncovered bottom.
Two days later we arrived on time for our next session with Miss Lynn. We used the password exactly as instructed, had on fresh socks and had done all that was required of us. Miss Lynn was pleased.
At precisely thirty seconds past three o’clock, just as we were sitting down at the table and Miss Lynn was opening a textbook to start her dictation, a call from the street summoned “Miss Lynn” to the window.
An unauthorised person was using the password illegally. We let Miss Lynn go through all the steps of the check-list.
After all her efforts, there was nobody on the street. Miss Lynn reversed the procedure, folded the rug stowed it in the chest of drawer returned the stool and came back to the table.
As she took her seat, a second call beckoned 'Miss Lynn' to her window.
We had calculated the time of a full Miss Lynn procedure was six minutes. Our plan was to make Miss Lynn climb the window six consecutive times during our session.
It did not work out as planned, for after the third call she soundly abused us and chased us out of her room. She never ever sent a bill.
We had enjoyed watching Miss Lynn climb up to her window and were sorry it was over.
We did not learn much English but definitely learned a lot about eighteenth century ladies’ undergarments.
To commemorate the Miss Lynn episode we wrote, ”The Ballad of Miss Lynn.” Israel composed the music and I the lyrics. It was also my first glimpse of Israel's talents as a musician and comedian.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Marie-Madeleine
MARIE-MADELEINE
HAGAI COHEN
I bumped into her in the corridor at Orly airport as she was running through a door.
I was close enough to observe her face, her makeup was almost invisible, she was wearing an expensive fragrance, and she looked quite attractive. We both worked for the same airline.
“Oops! I am sorry,” we said together and laughed.
“I haven't seen you before,” I said.
“New here, only three months, but leaving soon to become cabin attendant with Pan Am”.
“How nice” I said, “I’ll bump into you somewhere in the world.” We smiled again and walked away.
I had taken about ten steps when I heard her voice behind me.
“Hey, why not in Paris? Paris is a part of the world too.”
I smiled and said “touché”, waved goodbye and left.
Two weeks later, while disembarking, I saw her at the foot of the steps. “Hello Arki,” she said
Before I had a chance to say a word, she held my arms and gave me three cheek-to-cheek kisses. Her fingers felt as if she was pulling me towards her, but her arms did not move and kept a distance.
I was surprised of course; I did not know why I earned the kisses.
“And you are?” I asked.
“Marie-Madeleine” was the answer, “I am glad I met you Arki, I am sorry, cannot talk to you now; I’ll speak to you later”, she said and left.
It was unusual. A young woman whom I didn’t know was waiting for me. She had no business being there, she addressed me with my nickname, disregarded, basic manners and ignored the airline hierarchy.
Two hours later, when I was ready for a nap, the phone rang.
“Hi, it’s me,” the voice said, “Marie-Madeleine. I have finished my shift and I want to see you, if I may?”
“This woman is on a fast track, it doesn’t make sense.” I mumbled to myself.
“Where are you?”
“Here in the lobby; I decided to stop on my way home, may I come up? Please”, she said in a sweet voice.
“She is too attractive to be ignored” I was thinking “let see what she wants”.
“Come on up” I said.
I jumped into my pants and while buttoning my shirt, she knocked on the door.
I was thunderstruck; the contrast between the airport Marie-Madeleine and this one was inconceivable. I would not have recognized her if I had passed her on the street. She assumed an alarming sexy posture, her hair was spread over her shoulders, she wore a mini skirt and the two upper buttons of her blouse were open. She looked provocative and contemptible. The change in her was frightening, I felt insecure.
“What the hell‘s going on?” I said to myself regretting inviting her up.
She looked determined as she moved in.
I backed up, to move away from her. The room felt congested.
“What do you want?”
“What do you mean?” She was taken aback.
“What do you want?” I repeated.
“Come on Arki, you are not a child, you know what I want.”
“No, I don’t”, I said. “I am not a child, but I am not Apollo either.”
“Look Ricco,” she said, “I was smitten… Love at first sight,...Can’t stop thinking about you.”
She sounded false; she called me Ricco and did not realize her mistake. I did not correct her.
“I have everything a person wants. I have houses in Geneva and Cannes. I have anything money can buy. What I cannot buy is love, true love. I never had a real partner with whom I could share my life. I fell in love with you the moment I saw you. You are the man for me. Please give us a chance.”
Why do I need to know about her money? Even the word ‘love’ sounded phony. It felt as if a con man were trying to sell me the London Bridge or a ticket to the moon. Nothing in her entire speech sounded sincere
“Let me show you what a woman in love can do to her lover,” she continued while unbuttoning her blouse.
Her provocative body language became increasingly difficult to handle, like being caught in an under-tow pulling me helplessly into a vortex. I did not know what to do or say. “This ‘siren’ with her sweet voice is luring you into the deep briny sea,” a voice was whispering inside my head. I was dizzy and about to surrender. “Don’t give up,” I heard the voice again, “get rid of this sea nymph”.
“Please go away,” I said weakly.
She did not move. Her arrogant smile made me angry.
She felt my vulnerability. “Please Arki, one little kiss for the road”. It felt like an extra kick after the knockout. I almost lost my temper.
I was about to push her out, but stopped short of doing it realizing it was a bad proposition to touch her one way or another.
I grabbed her pocketbook from the desk, opened the door, and threw it into the corridor. It was unusually heavy and she moved swiftly after it. I locked the door against her. I felt an immediate relief but could not get her out of my mind.
What did she want?
-------
Three months later, the purser Ricco was on my crew. I wondered if it were he, she had mistaken me for. I stopped him and said: “Hi Ricco, Marie-Madeleine, sent her regards.”
Instantly Ricco became white as if he had taken a chlorine bath.
“What’s wrong Ricco?”
“I don’t know any Marie-Madeleine.”
“You must be kidding, how do you think I found you?” I bluffed.
Ricco reluctantly said: “Not now, later”.
Later was at the poolside in the Rome Holiday-Inn. Mellowed by a drink, Ricco started to talk.
“I met her a few days after she was employed. She initiated what seemed to be a harmless affair. I had a great time with her; she took me to exclusive out-of-my-league places and always paid, and in cash. Her pocketbook was always loaded.
One day my wife planned a family visit to Paris. I asked Marie-Madeleine not to call me during my wife’s visit. She had a different idea.
She was at the foot of the steps when we arrived and said, ”hi Ricco, welcome to Paris, let me help your wife through customs and immigration.”
She was courteous and formal.
“We’ll pass through the VIP lane and we’ll wait for you on the arrival ramp”.
I was rendered speechless; I wanted to bury myself alive.
Twenty minutes later, Marie-Madeleine became my wife’s best friend. To her offer to dine together, my wife happily agreed. Marie Madeleine took us to a Michelin guide recommended restaurant, asked the sommelier to serve a rare wine, and insisted on paying. Besides my small problem, it was a lovely evening.
While drinking the coffee, Marie-Madeleine said to me, “may I ask you a favor? I owe some money to a friend in New York, could you please help me and take it to him?”.
“Of course he’ll do it” said my wife on my behalf. I was committed.
The man in New York, was the type you do not want to meet in a dark alley. He was suspicious, unpleasant and abusive. I became very concerned about Marie-Madeleine’s taste in friends. Before he left, he gave me a small parcel, “stockings”, he said, “make sure she gets it.”
Back in Paris, I called Marie-Madeleine. To my surprise, she said: “I am busy tonight, and as you leave tomorrow, I want you please to mail it to my P.O.B.”
I did not like it.
“I can walk and give it to your door attendant,” I said’.
She insisted I mail it.
I was furious, not only was I humiliated as a messenger boy, she also did not want the door attendant to see me. It occurred to me for the first time, I was never invited to her home. I was livid, I mailed the parcel and decided not to run any more errands. She called later in the evening and informed me she was on her way to see me.
Her behavior was very patronizing and humiliating. I told her my decision not to make any more deliveries.
She was quiet, and pretended to be insulted and angry. Then, with a venomous tone, she said, ”Oh yes! You will do me favors; you don’t want your loving jealous wife to know about our little secret, do you? In addition, I will keep the cover of the parcel you have mailed, with your name on it. This will ensure your cooperation.
“What was in that parcel?”
“Legitimate stockings if you want to know, to check you out, later it will be the “real thing” the white Colombian stuff.”
I was about to faint.
“A sprinkle of that certain white powder, and your stockings box becomes exhibit A.’ she said smiling.
It was obvious; every step of our so-called love affair was a line she gave to hook me.
“I never touch the stuff” she continued, "what I do is cutting off the coupons while suckers like you are doing the smuggling. I am a generous person and you will be paid well but if you’ll betray me, I’ll easily prove that you are the pusher and I am the victim.” She knew what she was talking. Marie Madeleine had a law degree from the Sorbonne her mother was a magistrate (investigating judge) and her father was a rich contractor highly involved in politics. The entire Paris police department was under her spell.
“I was in deep shit” continued Ricco “and didn’t see my way out.
I asked crew assignment to schedule me on one-day flights.”
“My Mom is sick” I wrote in my request, and did not fly to Paris.”
“And? Did you get rid of her?” I asked
“Hell no, when Marie-Madeleine realized, I am not coming to Paris, she called my wife and asked if she may come for a two weeks visit. “I am in between jobs, and it’s a good time to take a vacation,” she said over the phone. “Of course you can stay with us” my wife said, “we have an extra room”.
Marie-Madeleine arrived at my house. She was friendly and full of smiles. She did not discuss ‘business’, her silence was very alarming.
One morning when my wife was in the shower, she came to my bedroom wearing a silk nightgown and said, “Come-on, we have enough time for a ‘quickie.’” I was shocked and speechless. “Trust me” she encouraged me, “with your wife so close, you’ll feel as high as doing drugs” she said.
“You can not imagine how furious I was. I wanted to strangle her. I was also afraid of what she might do if I refuse her. At that moment I knew, I’ll never manage to get her off my life, unless, I confess to my wife and report about the drugs, bearing the consequences. I tried to stall her, to gain some time, luckily, the phone rang and saved my life.
I got courageous the next day and spoke to the vice president of security. My plan was to talk to my wife only after Marie-Madeleine’s departure.
The V.p of security thanked me for talking, removed me officially from any Paris flights, and promised to investigate.
Before her departure, she said to me with a tone of a threat, “I will see you in Paris soon, won’t I?”
“Sure” I said.
The ‘narks’ came to my house three hours after her takeoff, with a search warrant and armed guards. They combed the house with a toothbrush. Bust open pillows, squeezed out toothpaste, cut open upholstery, and opened canned food. They took us to the station, interrogated us separately for two hours. Later, they made me repeat my deposition in front of my wife. It was too humiliating. There was nothing more to hide.
My wife felt more betrayed by Marie-Madeleine than by me. To my surprise, she was on my side and supportive. They released us a few hours later. I learned later Marie Madeleine was detained by the police at the airport. They found nothing on her. She was released after the French ambassador called the foreign office.
The damage to our house was so immense we had to move to my in-laws. Now three months after the search, we are in the process of restoring our house and salvaging our marriage.
-------
Sometime after our chat, Ricco took a leave of absence. I was very careful not to mention Ricco or Marie-Madeleine’s name.
Only two and a half years later, Ricco’s name was back on the crew list. A few weeks after his return, on one of his flights to Paris, Ricco was seriously injured. A hit-and-run car knocked him down.
Ricco spent six months in hospitals with multiple fractures and repeated operations.
When Ricco was back at home, I paid him a visit.
He was still on crutches, but in a good mood.
After a few words of courtesy, the obvious question came up:
“Was your accident related to Marie-Madeleine?”
“I don’t think so,” said Ricco. "It was not my scheduled flight. I replaced a sick purser, it happened in a neighborhood I never been to and the car came from around the corner. It could not have been coordinated. The connection was suggested, but never pursued. The magistrate investigating it dropped the case for “lack of public interest.”
“How is Marie-Madeleine?”
“You’ll be pleased to know, she is in jail, serving four years. Unfortunately she is about to be released.
The Interpol, the Mossad, and the French intelligence. did a great job bypassing the Paris police department. They found enough evidence to indict her. The trial was in Chamonix far away from Paris. I was not called to testify, but they kept me informed.”
“So if it wasn’t you, who testified against her”?
“Well, many people did”.
“Many people?”
“Yes, scores of them”
“How come?”
“They found about twenty couriers, full fledged suckers like me and sexually blackmailed. They were granted immunity, and happily incriminated her.
The defense lawyer described Marie-Madeleine as a ‘warm loving and caring person, a volunteer at old people homes, a member of prestigious clubs, in which she collects money for the old and lonely people’. He brought some letters in which she was described as an angel.
The prosecution, on the other hand, proved, that while visiting the old people she ‘borrowed’ their social security cards and used them to rent post office boxes.
She used the boxes for the exchange. Her messengers placed the money envelopes from outside of the box and picked up the merchandise in another. She only touched the money.
Every second weekend she drove to Geneva to stash away the loot into a Swiss bank.
The investigators found some of her clients, co members of exclusive clubs, rich cocaine users, who paid dearly for her services.
When the supply exceeded the demand, the extra drugs were distributed by pimps in Place Pigalle.
Some marked bills were found in her possession, while trying to cross the border to Switzerland. She was charged for smuggling money out of France and pushing cocaine. She was indicted, sentenced, and jailed.
After a long pause, Ricco asked, “tell me Arki, what was your involvement with Marie-Madeleine?”
Ricco sat attentive and was very amused by my story.
“As you see Ricco” I ended, “she tried to lure me into her trap, out of negligence, she used the wrong bait
She could easily fool me, by letting me think I seduced her, and then eat me up for breakfast.
After a long pause, I heard Ricco mumbling, “You’re a Lucky dog,” he said, while dispensing more scotch into my glass.
Word count 2600.
HAGAI COHEN
I bumped into her in the corridor at Orly airport as she was running through a door.
I was close enough to observe her face, her makeup was almost invisible, she was wearing an expensive fragrance, and she looked quite attractive. We both worked for the same airline.
“Oops! I am sorry,” we said together and laughed.
“I haven't seen you before,” I said.
“New here, only three months, but leaving soon to become cabin attendant with Pan Am”.
“How nice” I said, “I’ll bump into you somewhere in the world.” We smiled again and walked away.
I had taken about ten steps when I heard her voice behind me.
“Hey, why not in Paris? Paris is a part of the world too.”
I smiled and said “touché”, waved goodbye and left.
Two weeks later, while disembarking, I saw her at the foot of the steps. “Hello Arki,” she said
Before I had a chance to say a word, she held my arms and gave me three cheek-to-cheek kisses. Her fingers felt as if she was pulling me towards her, but her arms did not move and kept a distance.
I was surprised of course; I did not know why I earned the kisses.
“And you are?” I asked.
“Marie-Madeleine” was the answer, “I am glad I met you Arki, I am sorry, cannot talk to you now; I’ll speak to you later”, she said and left.
It was unusual. A young woman whom I didn’t know was waiting for me. She had no business being there, she addressed me with my nickname, disregarded, basic manners and ignored the airline hierarchy.
Two hours later, when I was ready for a nap, the phone rang.
“Hi, it’s me,” the voice said, “Marie-Madeleine. I have finished my shift and I want to see you, if I may?”
“This woman is on a fast track, it doesn’t make sense.” I mumbled to myself.
“Where are you?”
“Here in the lobby; I decided to stop on my way home, may I come up? Please”, she said in a sweet voice.
“She is too attractive to be ignored” I was thinking “let see what she wants”.
“Come on up” I said.
I jumped into my pants and while buttoning my shirt, she knocked on the door.
I was thunderstruck; the contrast between the airport Marie-Madeleine and this one was inconceivable. I would not have recognized her if I had passed her on the street. She assumed an alarming sexy posture, her hair was spread over her shoulders, she wore a mini skirt and the two upper buttons of her blouse were open. She looked provocative and contemptible. The change in her was frightening, I felt insecure.
“What the hell‘s going on?” I said to myself regretting inviting her up.
She looked determined as she moved in.
I backed up, to move away from her. The room felt congested.
“What do you want?”
“What do you mean?” She was taken aback.
“What do you want?” I repeated.
“Come on Arki, you are not a child, you know what I want.”
“No, I don’t”, I said. “I am not a child, but I am not Apollo either.”
“Look Ricco,” she said, “I was smitten… Love at first sight,...Can’t stop thinking about you.”
She sounded false; she called me Ricco and did not realize her mistake. I did not correct her.
“I have everything a person wants. I have houses in Geneva and Cannes. I have anything money can buy. What I cannot buy is love, true love. I never had a real partner with whom I could share my life. I fell in love with you the moment I saw you. You are the man for me. Please give us a chance.”
Why do I need to know about her money? Even the word ‘love’ sounded phony. It felt as if a con man were trying to sell me the London Bridge or a ticket to the moon. Nothing in her entire speech sounded sincere
“Let me show you what a woman in love can do to her lover,” she continued while unbuttoning her blouse.
Her provocative body language became increasingly difficult to handle, like being caught in an under-tow pulling me helplessly into a vortex. I did not know what to do or say. “This ‘siren’ with her sweet voice is luring you into the deep briny sea,” a voice was whispering inside my head. I was dizzy and about to surrender. “Don’t give up,” I heard the voice again, “get rid of this sea nymph”.
“Please go away,” I said weakly.
She did not move. Her arrogant smile made me angry.
She felt my vulnerability. “Please Arki, one little kiss for the road”. It felt like an extra kick after the knockout. I almost lost my temper.
I was about to push her out, but stopped short of doing it realizing it was a bad proposition to touch her one way or another.
I grabbed her pocketbook from the desk, opened the door, and threw it into the corridor. It was unusually heavy and she moved swiftly after it. I locked the door against her. I felt an immediate relief but could not get her out of my mind.
What did she want?
-------
Three months later, the purser Ricco was on my crew. I wondered if it were he, she had mistaken me for. I stopped him and said: “Hi Ricco, Marie-Madeleine, sent her regards.”
Instantly Ricco became white as if he had taken a chlorine bath.
“What’s wrong Ricco?”
“I don’t know any Marie-Madeleine.”
“You must be kidding, how do you think I found you?” I bluffed.
Ricco reluctantly said: “Not now, later”.
Later was at the poolside in the Rome Holiday-Inn. Mellowed by a drink, Ricco started to talk.
“I met her a few days after she was employed. She initiated what seemed to be a harmless affair. I had a great time with her; she took me to exclusive out-of-my-league places and always paid, and in cash. Her pocketbook was always loaded.
One day my wife planned a family visit to Paris. I asked Marie-Madeleine not to call me during my wife’s visit. She had a different idea.
She was at the foot of the steps when we arrived and said, ”hi Ricco, welcome to Paris, let me help your wife through customs and immigration.”
She was courteous and formal.
“We’ll pass through the VIP lane and we’ll wait for you on the arrival ramp”.
I was rendered speechless; I wanted to bury myself alive.
Twenty minutes later, Marie-Madeleine became my wife’s best friend. To her offer to dine together, my wife happily agreed. Marie Madeleine took us to a Michelin guide recommended restaurant, asked the sommelier to serve a rare wine, and insisted on paying. Besides my small problem, it was a lovely evening.
While drinking the coffee, Marie-Madeleine said to me, “may I ask you a favor? I owe some money to a friend in New York, could you please help me and take it to him?”.
“Of course he’ll do it” said my wife on my behalf. I was committed.
The man in New York, was the type you do not want to meet in a dark alley. He was suspicious, unpleasant and abusive. I became very concerned about Marie-Madeleine’s taste in friends. Before he left, he gave me a small parcel, “stockings”, he said, “make sure she gets it.”
Back in Paris, I called Marie-Madeleine. To my surprise, she said: “I am busy tonight, and as you leave tomorrow, I want you please to mail it to my P.O.B.”
I did not like it.
“I can walk and give it to your door attendant,” I said’.
She insisted I mail it.
I was furious, not only was I humiliated as a messenger boy, she also did not want the door attendant to see me. It occurred to me for the first time, I was never invited to her home. I was livid, I mailed the parcel and decided not to run any more errands. She called later in the evening and informed me she was on her way to see me.
Her behavior was very patronizing and humiliating. I told her my decision not to make any more deliveries.
She was quiet, and pretended to be insulted and angry. Then, with a venomous tone, she said, ”Oh yes! You will do me favors; you don’t want your loving jealous wife to know about our little secret, do you? In addition, I will keep the cover of the parcel you have mailed, with your name on it. This will ensure your cooperation.
“What was in that parcel?”
“Legitimate stockings if you want to know, to check you out, later it will be the “real thing” the white Colombian stuff.”
I was about to faint.
“A sprinkle of that certain white powder, and your stockings box becomes exhibit A.’ she said smiling.
It was obvious; every step of our so-called love affair was a line she gave to hook me.
“I never touch the stuff” she continued, "what I do is cutting off the coupons while suckers like you are doing the smuggling. I am a generous person and you will be paid well but if you’ll betray me, I’ll easily prove that you are the pusher and I am the victim.” She knew what she was talking. Marie Madeleine had a law degree from the Sorbonne her mother was a magistrate (investigating judge) and her father was a rich contractor highly involved in politics. The entire Paris police department was under her spell.
“I was in deep shit” continued Ricco “and didn’t see my way out.
I asked crew assignment to schedule me on one-day flights.”
“My Mom is sick” I wrote in my request, and did not fly to Paris.”
“And? Did you get rid of her?” I asked
“Hell no, when Marie-Madeleine realized, I am not coming to Paris, she called my wife and asked if she may come for a two weeks visit. “I am in between jobs, and it’s a good time to take a vacation,” she said over the phone. “Of course you can stay with us” my wife said, “we have an extra room”.
Marie-Madeleine arrived at my house. She was friendly and full of smiles. She did not discuss ‘business’, her silence was very alarming.
One morning when my wife was in the shower, she came to my bedroom wearing a silk nightgown and said, “Come-on, we have enough time for a ‘quickie.’” I was shocked and speechless. “Trust me” she encouraged me, “with your wife so close, you’ll feel as high as doing drugs” she said.
“You can not imagine how furious I was. I wanted to strangle her. I was also afraid of what she might do if I refuse her. At that moment I knew, I’ll never manage to get her off my life, unless, I confess to my wife and report about the drugs, bearing the consequences. I tried to stall her, to gain some time, luckily, the phone rang and saved my life.
I got courageous the next day and spoke to the vice president of security. My plan was to talk to my wife only after Marie-Madeleine’s departure.
The V.p of security thanked me for talking, removed me officially from any Paris flights, and promised to investigate.
Before her departure, she said to me with a tone of a threat, “I will see you in Paris soon, won’t I?”
“Sure” I said.
The ‘narks’ came to my house three hours after her takeoff, with a search warrant and armed guards. They combed the house with a toothbrush. Bust open pillows, squeezed out toothpaste, cut open upholstery, and opened canned food. They took us to the station, interrogated us separately for two hours. Later, they made me repeat my deposition in front of my wife. It was too humiliating. There was nothing more to hide.
My wife felt more betrayed by Marie-Madeleine than by me. To my surprise, she was on my side and supportive. They released us a few hours later. I learned later Marie Madeleine was detained by the police at the airport. They found nothing on her. She was released after the French ambassador called the foreign office.
The damage to our house was so immense we had to move to my in-laws. Now three months after the search, we are in the process of restoring our house and salvaging our marriage.
-------
Sometime after our chat, Ricco took a leave of absence. I was very careful not to mention Ricco or Marie-Madeleine’s name.
Only two and a half years later, Ricco’s name was back on the crew list. A few weeks after his return, on one of his flights to Paris, Ricco was seriously injured. A hit-and-run car knocked him down.
Ricco spent six months in hospitals with multiple fractures and repeated operations.
When Ricco was back at home, I paid him a visit.
He was still on crutches, but in a good mood.
After a few words of courtesy, the obvious question came up:
“Was your accident related to Marie-Madeleine?”
“I don’t think so,” said Ricco. "It was not my scheduled flight. I replaced a sick purser, it happened in a neighborhood I never been to and the car came from around the corner. It could not have been coordinated. The connection was suggested, but never pursued. The magistrate investigating it dropped the case for “lack of public interest.”
“How is Marie-Madeleine?”
“You’ll be pleased to know, she is in jail, serving four years. Unfortunately she is about to be released.
The Interpol, the Mossad, and the French intelligence. did a great job bypassing the Paris police department. They found enough evidence to indict her. The trial was in Chamonix far away from Paris. I was not called to testify, but they kept me informed.”
“So if it wasn’t you, who testified against her”?
“Well, many people did”.
“Many people?”
“Yes, scores of them”
“How come?”
“They found about twenty couriers, full fledged suckers like me and sexually blackmailed. They were granted immunity, and happily incriminated her.
The defense lawyer described Marie-Madeleine as a ‘warm loving and caring person, a volunteer at old people homes, a member of prestigious clubs, in which she collects money for the old and lonely people’. He brought some letters in which she was described as an angel.
The prosecution, on the other hand, proved, that while visiting the old people she ‘borrowed’ their social security cards and used them to rent post office boxes.
She used the boxes for the exchange. Her messengers placed the money envelopes from outside of the box and picked up the merchandise in another. She only touched the money.
Every second weekend she drove to Geneva to stash away the loot into a Swiss bank.
The investigators found some of her clients, co members of exclusive clubs, rich cocaine users, who paid dearly for her services.
When the supply exceeded the demand, the extra drugs were distributed by pimps in Place Pigalle.
Some marked bills were found in her possession, while trying to cross the border to Switzerland. She was charged for smuggling money out of France and pushing cocaine. She was indicted, sentenced, and jailed.
After a long pause, Ricco asked, “tell me Arki, what was your involvement with Marie-Madeleine?”
Ricco sat attentive and was very amused by my story.
“As you see Ricco” I ended, “she tried to lure me into her trap, out of negligence, she used the wrong bait
She could easily fool me, by letting me think I seduced her, and then eat me up for breakfast.
After a long pause, I heard Ricco mumbling, “You’re a Lucky dog,” he said, while dispensing more scotch into my glass.
Word count 2600.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Hotel Arabela
Hotel Arabela
Hagai Cohen
4 July 2008
“God will save your soul; the checklist will save your ass.”
This slogan with various language variations is one of the first things a trainee pilot learns.
Some of us aviators take this slogan very seriously and turn it into a way of life. Some of my best friends use a checklist to handle their entire lives.
Well, I am not one of them. In the cockpit, yes, but I have to confess I do not read a checklist before going into a bathroom or taking a shower.
Stationed in Frankfurt to operate a flight the following day, I arrived late at night and very tired. It was my first time in the fancy Arabela hotel. My room was neat but dark and unpleasant. The sign on the door read ‘700 DM per night, no doubt a high-end hotel. ’ I lay down on the bed wearing my uniform, “just to rest for a few seconds” and woke up the next morning at six forty five.
I slept very well. It is a well-known phenomenon that a uniform is more soporific than a sleeping pill. The moment you put it on you feel sleepy. I woke up fresh and rested, but definitely needed a shower.
I could not help being impressed when I walked into the bathroom. All the bathroom fittings were gold plated and shining. A huge mirror hung over the bathroom sink, Neither the German nor the FBI forensic laboratories would find any incriminating evidence in this bathroom, I thought. The bathtub was so white, it was hard to look at.
The showerhead at the end of a hose was clipped to the wall above the tub.
As a seasoned traveler, I already knew that most architects, who specialized in designing bathrooms, never take a shower in those they design. Judging by the results, I believe, many of them never have taken a shower at all. The architect, who designed the bathroom in the Arabela, was no different. To adjust the water temperature before getting into the shower one had to lean over to the shower fittings and place oneself in the “line of fire” when the water began to flow.
Being familiar with the subject, my first action was to remove the showerhead from the wall and lay it on the bottom of the tub. That was a big mistake. The moment I turned on the tap, the hose and its head came to life; the water pressure turned the sprinkler into a V2 rocket. It jumped around like a wild young mustang, when the rope encircled his neck for the first time.
The by-product of this vigorous wiggling about was water spray all over the bathroom. I took cover. First, I did not want to get wet. However, the more serious consideration was the fear of being struck by the uncontrolled wild agitations of the hose. Of course, nobody but I was to blame. I should have remembered: German showers are notoriously dangerous.
.
After a few evasive maneuvers, I managed to grab the hose, restrain it and decommission it completely.
I gave up on the shower and decided to try the bathtub. “This should work,” I said to myself while turning on the lower water tap. Unfortunately, the spout was short of the tub, the water very forcefully bounced of the rim of the bathtub, spraying like a garden sprinkler all over the place. The result left me officially wet with water all over the bathroom floor.
Eventually, after removing my garments I got into the bathtub.
As I placed my foot on the bottom of the tub, I found the rounded curved bottom was not made to fit flat feet like mine. The tub floor was very slippery and dangerous. Very carefully, I directed the water to the showerhead and was very spare with my movements. No vigorous scrubbing, no fast movements. Thorough cleansing was impossible. To minimize my exposure time to danger I finished very quickly. Slowly I shut the water off and stepped out of the tub. I was very proud to be in one piece on the wet floor.
Had I read a checklist before taking a shower, I would have found there was only one tiny washrag in the bathroom - not a single towel. Nothing. Conveniently and probably for cases like this, a telephone was installed on the bathroom wall. Wet of course, but who cares in time of crisis. To my surprise the telephone worked. I called the front desk. I explained to the woman my awkward situation.
“Look ma’am” I said, “I am naked and wet and I cannot find a towel to dry myself.”
“Do you want some extra towel sir?”
The woman did not listen to what I was saying.
“No ma’am I need a towel, not extra towels.”
“Sir, the maid will be on your floor at eight o’clock and she will give you some extra towels.”
“You do not seem to understand; it is now seven o’clock and I am wet. I cannot wait until eight. I must have a towel now. Do you understand what I was just saying?” I was angry and I raised my voice.
“I am sorry, sir. I will put you on to my supervisor.”
The phone was silent for a very long time. Finally, a man’s voice said to me, “I was informed you yelled at the lady on the reception desk. She told me you claim to have no towels in your room. This is inconceivable, sir. I have just checked the housekeeping record. Your room was made up before you checked in and was checked by a housekeeping inspector. Are you sure you looked thoroughly, sir?”
“Look, sir, I did my best with the meager light bulbs you give your guests and, no, sir, I did not use a flashlight to search for the towels. Nor, sir, did I look under the bed.” I took a breath and continued: “Listen, sir, our conversation is at a dead end and you too do not seem to understand. Why don’t you put a higher authority on the line? The assistant manager maybe?”
“I am sorry, he is not in and I have to page him for the call.” I noted he did not address me as ‘sir’ this time.
“Ok then page him and tell him he can call me from any phone. He does not have to return to his office to call.”
Fifteen minutes later the assistant manager was on the line.
“You wanted to speak with me, Mr. Shamir.”
“Yes. Twenty minutes ago, I called for a towel. Instead of getting it I was told your records show towels were placed in my room. For the record
there is not a single towel in my room. And with my bad luck, I found it out only after I came out of the shower.”
“Yes I understand, sir, and I am very sorry for the inconvenience, but it is very early and the chambermaids are not yet at work. Only one house cleaner is on duty at this time and she is busy. It might take a while.”
“Look sir” I said quite out of patience, “don’t worry about the towels. I am already dry, I used the bed cover to dry myself and now I am using it to dry the floor. Thank you.” I slammed the phone down.
Exactly forty minutes after my first complaint, I got my towels.
I was quite upset all morning; I did not leave my room and had no breakfast. At one o’clock that afternoon, I hung the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign outside my door and went out for lunch.
At two o’clock, I retuned to pack for my flight. I noticed my entire wardrobe, including my dirty laundry were all neatly folded. This was odd. I did not do it. No one in this world ever saw me folding dirty laundry. My first impulse was not to touch my suitcase. My security sense told me to look for a “device” that may have been planted in it. Checking my suitcase before a flight was already second nature. Very carefully, I visually inspected the contents of my suitcase.
“The wine,” I said to myself, “I have two bottles of wine in my bag and if any one would try to plant a bomb, replacing sealed bottles would be the best way.”
Again, very carefully, I removed a few things to uncover the bottles. I looked at the bottles. The bottles were mine and so were their packaging. The bottles were at the side of the suitcase and quite heavy. As I moved some objects around in the suitcase, the suitcase became unbalanced. Very gently, it started to tilt over. I was not too fast to catch it, the suitcase fell down and the contents were all over the floor. With all my things scattered, the picture became very clear.
“I get it now,” I said to myself. “The bastards sent security to check if I had packed towels in my bag. The wine must have turned the suitcase over. They had to collect my things and put them back into my bag. A chambermaid was called in to fold my clothes and she, not knowing how it looked before, put it back with my dirty laundry folded as new.”
I was furious. If they want to play hardball, I am ready. I grabbed the telephone.
“I want to speak to the general manager,” I said to the operator.
“He asked not to be disturbed. He’s in a meeting. Can I help you, sir?”
“Oh, sure. You can tell him please, when his meeting is over, somebody visited my room while I was out and tampered with my things. Please express my concern to him about the security aspect of it. You may tell him, when his meeting is over, of course, that according to my orders, I have to inform our security officer about any intrusions into my room. I must also call the bomb squad if I suspect an explosive device was planted in my suitcase.” I knew, from previous experience, the bomb squad checks the room and the hotel thoroughly. “I understand Ma’am,” I continued, speaking very fast, “the general manger cannot be disturbed so I am going to make my calls without informing him. You will notify him about it after the meeting is over of course. Oh, and don’t worry, Madam, his meeting will be over the moment the police evacuates the hotel.”
I hung up the phone without waiting for her response. Less than a minute later, the general manager was on the phone.
“What seems to be the problem Mr. Shamir?
“Well, sir, it is very simple. While I was out to lunch, somebody came into my room and went through my suitcase. I shall not touch my case unless the bomb squad inspects it and I am just about to call them. There are in my opinion two possibilities sir. One, a terrorist may have planted a bomb in my bag. Two, one of your people, for reasons known only to them, illegally searched my suitcase. This too, sir, is a matter for the police. As a respect to you sir, and to your hotel, I will wait five minutes before making my calls. You have this time sir, to find out the answer, whether it was one of your people or not. If your answer, sir will be vague or negative, I will call my security people. They will call the police and the bomb squad. They will probably evacuate the hotel, with all the usual consequences to your five stars hotel and your seven hundred Deutsche Marks per night guests.”
”Thank you, Mr. Shamir for the five minutes, I will return to you immediately, Mr. Shamir. Please wait for my call.” The general manager sounded very disturbed and that was all to the good.
Very apologetic and sleekly he came back a few minutes later.
“Look, Mr. Shamir, it was the chambermaid. She came to make your room and accidentally knocked the suitcase down.”
“Oh, I see, sir. Let me understand this clearly. Are you saying, the chambermaid who came to make my room ignored the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on my door, knocked down my suitcase, and then folded up my laundry?
“Yes, yes, Mr. Shamir, that is exactly what happened.”
“Then why didn’t she finish making my room? I would like to have a word with her. Is she still working for you?”
“I-, I-, I-, I don’t know sir, but I can find out.” The general manager could not steady his tongue. “I will speak to housekeeping right away and they will send some one…”
“Sir, when you do speak to your people, ask them if they found the missing towels in my bag.” My words lingered in the silence like a vapor trail. After a few moments I asked, “Are you okay, Mr. General Manager?”
The only response was a click as the receiver was returned to its cradle.
German manners, and German efficiency aren't they a bit over-rated.?
The end
Hagai Cohen
4 July 2008
“God will save your soul; the checklist will save your ass.”
This slogan with various language variations is one of the first things a trainee pilot learns.
Some of us aviators take this slogan very seriously and turn it into a way of life. Some of my best friends use a checklist to handle their entire lives.
Well, I am not one of them. In the cockpit, yes, but I have to confess I do not read a checklist before going into a bathroom or taking a shower.
Stationed in Frankfurt to operate a flight the following day, I arrived late at night and very tired. It was my first time in the fancy Arabela hotel. My room was neat but dark and unpleasant. The sign on the door read ‘700 DM per night, no doubt a high-end hotel. ’ I lay down on the bed wearing my uniform, “just to rest for a few seconds” and woke up the next morning at six forty five.
I slept very well. It is a well-known phenomenon that a uniform is more soporific than a sleeping pill. The moment you put it on you feel sleepy. I woke up fresh and rested, but definitely needed a shower.
I could not help being impressed when I walked into the bathroom. All the bathroom fittings were gold plated and shining. A huge mirror hung over the bathroom sink, Neither the German nor the FBI forensic laboratories would find any incriminating evidence in this bathroom, I thought. The bathtub was so white, it was hard to look at.
The showerhead at the end of a hose was clipped to the wall above the tub.
As a seasoned traveler, I already knew that most architects, who specialized in designing bathrooms, never take a shower in those they design. Judging by the results, I believe, many of them never have taken a shower at all. The architect, who designed the bathroom in the Arabela, was no different. To adjust the water temperature before getting into the shower one had to lean over to the shower fittings and place oneself in the “line of fire” when the water began to flow.
Being familiar with the subject, my first action was to remove the showerhead from the wall and lay it on the bottom of the tub. That was a big mistake. The moment I turned on the tap, the hose and its head came to life; the water pressure turned the sprinkler into a V2 rocket. It jumped around like a wild young mustang, when the rope encircled his neck for the first time.
The by-product of this vigorous wiggling about was water spray all over the bathroom. I took cover. First, I did not want to get wet. However, the more serious consideration was the fear of being struck by the uncontrolled wild agitations of the hose. Of course, nobody but I was to blame. I should have remembered: German showers are notoriously dangerous.
.
After a few evasive maneuvers, I managed to grab the hose, restrain it and decommission it completely.
I gave up on the shower and decided to try the bathtub. “This should work,” I said to myself while turning on the lower water tap. Unfortunately, the spout was short of the tub, the water very forcefully bounced of the rim of the bathtub, spraying like a garden sprinkler all over the place. The result left me officially wet with water all over the bathroom floor.
Eventually, after removing my garments I got into the bathtub.
As I placed my foot on the bottom of the tub, I found the rounded curved bottom was not made to fit flat feet like mine. The tub floor was very slippery and dangerous. Very carefully, I directed the water to the showerhead and was very spare with my movements. No vigorous scrubbing, no fast movements. Thorough cleansing was impossible. To minimize my exposure time to danger I finished very quickly. Slowly I shut the water off and stepped out of the tub. I was very proud to be in one piece on the wet floor.
Had I read a checklist before taking a shower, I would have found there was only one tiny washrag in the bathroom - not a single towel. Nothing. Conveniently and probably for cases like this, a telephone was installed on the bathroom wall. Wet of course, but who cares in time of crisis. To my surprise the telephone worked. I called the front desk. I explained to the woman my awkward situation.
“Look ma’am” I said, “I am naked and wet and I cannot find a towel to dry myself.”
“Do you want some extra towel sir?”
The woman did not listen to what I was saying.
“No ma’am I need a towel, not extra towels.”
“Sir, the maid will be on your floor at eight o’clock and she will give you some extra towels.”
“You do not seem to understand; it is now seven o’clock and I am wet. I cannot wait until eight. I must have a towel now. Do you understand what I was just saying?” I was angry and I raised my voice.
“I am sorry, sir. I will put you on to my supervisor.”
The phone was silent for a very long time. Finally, a man’s voice said to me, “I was informed you yelled at the lady on the reception desk. She told me you claim to have no towels in your room. This is inconceivable, sir. I have just checked the housekeeping record. Your room was made up before you checked in and was checked by a housekeeping inspector. Are you sure you looked thoroughly, sir?”
“Look, sir, I did my best with the meager light bulbs you give your guests and, no, sir, I did not use a flashlight to search for the towels. Nor, sir, did I look under the bed.” I took a breath and continued: “Listen, sir, our conversation is at a dead end and you too do not seem to understand. Why don’t you put a higher authority on the line? The assistant manager maybe?”
“I am sorry, he is not in and I have to page him for the call.” I noted he did not address me as ‘sir’ this time.
“Ok then page him and tell him he can call me from any phone. He does not have to return to his office to call.”
Fifteen minutes later the assistant manager was on the line.
“You wanted to speak with me, Mr. Shamir.”
“Yes. Twenty minutes ago, I called for a towel. Instead of getting it I was told your records show towels were placed in my room. For the record
there is not a single towel in my room. And with my bad luck, I found it out only after I came out of the shower.”
“Yes I understand, sir, and I am very sorry for the inconvenience, but it is very early and the chambermaids are not yet at work. Only one house cleaner is on duty at this time and she is busy. It might take a while.”
“Look sir” I said quite out of patience, “don’t worry about the towels. I am already dry, I used the bed cover to dry myself and now I am using it to dry the floor. Thank you.” I slammed the phone down.
Exactly forty minutes after my first complaint, I got my towels.
I was quite upset all morning; I did not leave my room and had no breakfast. At one o’clock that afternoon, I hung the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign outside my door and went out for lunch.
At two o’clock, I retuned to pack for my flight. I noticed my entire wardrobe, including my dirty laundry were all neatly folded. This was odd. I did not do it. No one in this world ever saw me folding dirty laundry. My first impulse was not to touch my suitcase. My security sense told me to look for a “device” that may have been planted in it. Checking my suitcase before a flight was already second nature. Very carefully, I visually inspected the contents of my suitcase.
“The wine,” I said to myself, “I have two bottles of wine in my bag and if any one would try to plant a bomb, replacing sealed bottles would be the best way.”
Again, very carefully, I removed a few things to uncover the bottles. I looked at the bottles. The bottles were mine and so were their packaging. The bottles were at the side of the suitcase and quite heavy. As I moved some objects around in the suitcase, the suitcase became unbalanced. Very gently, it started to tilt over. I was not too fast to catch it, the suitcase fell down and the contents were all over the floor. With all my things scattered, the picture became very clear.
“I get it now,” I said to myself. “The bastards sent security to check if I had packed towels in my bag. The wine must have turned the suitcase over. They had to collect my things and put them back into my bag. A chambermaid was called in to fold my clothes and she, not knowing how it looked before, put it back with my dirty laundry folded as new.”
I was furious. If they want to play hardball, I am ready. I grabbed the telephone.
“I want to speak to the general manager,” I said to the operator.
“He asked not to be disturbed. He’s in a meeting. Can I help you, sir?”
“Oh, sure. You can tell him please, when his meeting is over, somebody visited my room while I was out and tampered with my things. Please express my concern to him about the security aspect of it. You may tell him, when his meeting is over, of course, that according to my orders, I have to inform our security officer about any intrusions into my room. I must also call the bomb squad if I suspect an explosive device was planted in my suitcase.” I knew, from previous experience, the bomb squad checks the room and the hotel thoroughly. “I understand Ma’am,” I continued, speaking very fast, “the general manger cannot be disturbed so I am going to make my calls without informing him. You will notify him about it after the meeting is over of course. Oh, and don’t worry, Madam, his meeting will be over the moment the police evacuates the hotel.”
I hung up the phone without waiting for her response. Less than a minute later, the general manager was on the phone.
“What seems to be the problem Mr. Shamir?
“Well, sir, it is very simple. While I was out to lunch, somebody came into my room and went through my suitcase. I shall not touch my case unless the bomb squad inspects it and I am just about to call them. There are in my opinion two possibilities sir. One, a terrorist may have planted a bomb in my bag. Two, one of your people, for reasons known only to them, illegally searched my suitcase. This too, sir, is a matter for the police. As a respect to you sir, and to your hotel, I will wait five minutes before making my calls. You have this time sir, to find out the answer, whether it was one of your people or not. If your answer, sir will be vague or negative, I will call my security people. They will call the police and the bomb squad. They will probably evacuate the hotel, with all the usual consequences to your five stars hotel and your seven hundred Deutsche Marks per night guests.”
”Thank you, Mr. Shamir for the five minutes, I will return to you immediately, Mr. Shamir. Please wait for my call.” The general manager sounded very disturbed and that was all to the good.
Very apologetic and sleekly he came back a few minutes later.
“Look, Mr. Shamir, it was the chambermaid. She came to make your room and accidentally knocked the suitcase down.”
“Oh, I see, sir. Let me understand this clearly. Are you saying, the chambermaid who came to make my room ignored the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on my door, knocked down my suitcase, and then folded up my laundry?
“Yes, yes, Mr. Shamir, that is exactly what happened.”
“Then why didn’t she finish making my room? I would like to have a word with her. Is she still working for you?”
“I-, I-, I-, I don’t know sir, but I can find out.” The general manager could not steady his tongue. “I will speak to housekeeping right away and they will send some one…”
“Sir, when you do speak to your people, ask them if they found the missing towels in my bag.” My words lingered in the silence like a vapor trail. After a few moments I asked, “Are you okay, Mr. General Manager?”
The only response was a click as the receiver was returned to its cradle.
German manners, and German efficiency aren't they a bit over-rated.?
The end
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