My stories

The painting

2012-01-09T06:08:00.001-08:00

The Painting

Hagai Cohen

Reuven Arbel was well known in the artist's milieu of Jerusalem. He and his wife were always mingling with the rich and famous art lover's of the city. Arbel was never employed by any formal establishment. All his time was dedicated to his work. His constant need for expensive canvases and paints was supported by his wife's income. He claimed he was selling enough painting to make a good living. It was patently false. He did not sell but had no real need to do so.
His wife was a famous dress designer. No two dresses came out alike from her boutique. Her clientele were the wives of foreign diplomats, government officials and affluent women. Mrs. Arbel’s social connections and her dresses made Reuven Arbel reputable in the right circles.
There were many artists in Jerusalem with endless subjects to paint but few customers to pay for their work. Also there were no galleries to show or promote their paintings. This was not the case with Arbel. With the money his wife made she supported her husband’s artistic passion. She bought a three story house, the top floor of which became his atelier – a 200 square meters loft with windows all around.
As an artist he managed to find sponsors and with their donations he founded "The society of the artists of Jerusalem." To add to his self-importance, Reuven Arbel detached himself from his fellow artists and placed himself above them. The artist's society became his own private secret society. He wrote the rules, he collected the fees from the poorer members, he put price tags on the exhibits and he pocketed commissions when a paintings were sold.
It was a common knowledge he and his close friends got better exposure. Other artists had to bribe him secretly for some attention. On top of everything else, Arbel appointed himself the 'jury,' deciding what would be exhibited and what would be not.
My father was one of the few artists who did not care much about Arbel. He was not keen on selling paintings. He did not need Arbel and was not afraid of him. On the contrary, Arbel was afraid of my father who was outspoken, and his opinions were respected by his colleagues. My father, who never liked Arbel, could expose his true face if he chose but never did. Arbel's fear of my father was the best reason to embrace him and even share secrets with him..
The first time I saw Arbel's atelier was when he had a stroke and died, and my father took me to the Shiva. I was impressed by the unique architecture of the loft.
I understood Mrs. Arbel’s grief was short. Before her husband was buried, she found the time to arrange several of his paintings around the loft and price-tagged them. She then spread the rumor that her husband had left her with a large debt.
The woman did not stay when visitors came to console her; she retired to her room to 'mourn alone.' The people who were left in the huge loft without any family member, felt uneasy. For them her effort to sell her husband’s paintings during the Shiva was in bad taste, and her pretence at poverty was pathetic and disturbing. It was uncomfortably silent in the loft. One man whom I did not know broke the silence.
"Who has the key to the gallery? We should retrieve our paintings before Mrs. Arbel confiscates them."
More people spoke, mostly on ways to retrieve their paintings. Nobody trusted her. It seemed to me that many of the visitors came just to make sure Arbel had really died and was buried; not to grieve and definitely not to buy his paintings.
Some people talked about the future of the organization but most of them spoke harshly about Arbel. Some even used the word 'cheat.'
"We all know" said a young painter "it was hard to get good canvases during war time and I usually recycled paintings I did not like. I remember one time when I came to collect my painting from Arbel's, I found it had disappeared. I never got a good explanation."
"Yes, you’re right.” said another. “It happened to me too. Was he selling our paintings?"
My father decided to speak.
"Please, please," he said, angrily, "shame on you. The man was buried this morning and you are already 'looting his chest.' Let us wait until the end of the Shiva. I promise to speak to the widow and get the key to the gallery. After the Shiva, we will convene in the gallery and decide how to proceed."
"She did not grieve for one second," said one.
"She will rob us clean if we give her a chance" another asserted.
My father tried to silence the voices. "It is an act of disrespect to the deceased and his wife."
Nobody listened and the volume went up, everybody talking and no one listening. My father was completely ignored. I could feel the rage building up inside him. He was not by nature volatile or violent but I knew he was close to exploding. Like a movie in slow motion, he got up, picked up the most expensive painting marked at 600 pounds and said, "I'll take this." He glared at the astounded people, then grabbing my arm, yanked me and stalked away.
My initial surprise turned to humiliation. I did not understand my father. What was he trying to demonstrate? That he was a rich man? That he was morally superior to them? That he believed the widow was really in debt and was helping her? I was furious.
My father had returned home after a long stay in hospital just before Arbel died. For over ten months our family had no income. It was my own idea to found a small chicken farm. With the income I earned I supported my pregnant mother, my baby sister and my seven years old brother. My earnings paid my father debts, repainted the house, fixed the roof and even fixed his truck, in which I drove my mother to the maternity hospital. I felt I had been working ten months for nothing.
My mother became frantic when she saw the painting.
"Where do you think to get this kind of money?"
I left home a few days later and moved to my grandfather who lived alone. I realized that my presence at home would sharpen the conflict between my father and me, and would deprive my brother and sisters of food. My family had very little food for several months. My mother and I hated the painting.
In the years following Arbel's death, Mrs. Arbel used her marketing skills to increase the market value of Arbel's paintings. First she collected the paintings he gave away as gifts on the pretence she was organizing a retrospect exhibition. She gave creative and fancy titles to the paintings like: "The Wailing Wall from the private collection of Herbert Samuel, the governor of Palestine." Just the fact the painting was in the collection was enough to raise the bids in the auctions. The high prices she demanded and received for the paintings established Arbel as a leading painter among the art appraisers in the country.
For over thirty years until my father’s death, the controversial painting hung on the wall of my parent's living room as an unpleasant reminder. Among the many chores my mother executed after my father died was to get rid of the painting. She gave it to my cousin as a wedding present.
Unfortunately that was not the end of the story.
Some years later, after my mother’s demise, my cousin and his wife decided to end their marriage. Neither of them wanted to keep the painting.
"You are the legal heir of your mother's estate" they said and gave me the painting.
I took it but only out of respect for my mom's memory. It would have been impossible for me to say, "Throw it away." Never having liked the painting I tried to give it to my children who politely refused to accept it. So I tried to sell it and followed expert advice. I gave the painting an antacid treatment, anti UV coating, kept it in controlled humidity and stashed in a dark room. I offered it to many galleries, but nobody wanted even to look at it. This unwanted painting was the cause for my brothers and sisters to suffer malnutrition for some time. It was the cause of my leaving home; it also gave my parents a good reason for constant fights.
The story of the painting was a trauma I have endured all my life. I have been unable to purchase a single painting. Feeling I had had enough of the painting dangling in front of my eyes, I relocated it to my junk room. Everything there was destined for disposal.
For years I did not enter the storage room, but one day when I finally opened the door, a strong chemical smell confronted me. After evaluating the smell and ventilating the place I found that a tin of turpentine had rusted and leaked its contents. The leak had damaged Arbel's painting beyond repair. I was pleased now I had no other recourse but to throw it away but, strangely I also felt sad to part with it after all these years.
I carried the painting to the garbage bin. I looked at it for the last time and noticed another signature in the corner of the painting.
"Wow!" I said to myself. "The famous Arbel painted on someone else's painting."
Intrigued I surfed the internet and found a restorations expert. After an initial examination, the expert did not want to promise anything.
"I'll look at it when I have time" she said
"Don’t work too hard on it, I am just curious" I said.
She called me a few days later, late at night.
"Sit tight," she said, excited and with voice all atremble. "The canvas was hand woven in the 16 century from real cannabis fibers. The signature though is modern. I was astounded and did not respond.
"Do you understand what I’m saying? The canvas is five hundred years old." Without waiting for an answer, she continued, "With your permission I shall send it for an x-ray scan."
She spoke so fast I did not have time to digest the information.
"You have my permission" was the only thing I said.
The verdict came a few days later; the x-ray revealed that under Arbel's painting was a painting signed by Josef Piamenta, one of our local painters. Arbel had stolen the canvas. Beneath that was an old portrait of a woman.
"The composition of the old paint is typical of the 16 century homemade paints," said the report.
It was not difficult to find Piamenta. He was in the phone book, ninety years old, had been living in the same house in Jerusalem for the last 60 years and with crystal clear memory.
"I never forgave Arbel for losing the painting,” he told me. “He said it was not good enough for exhibition but when I came to collect it, it was gone. He stole it for the frame and the canvas. One can save a lot of money painting on used canvases. No expensive treatment is necessary to prepare it."
I still did not tell Piamenta that the canvas was a relic of the 16th century.
"During the siege and war of 1948,” he continued, “I could not get any canvases so I roamed demolished houses and looked for old paintings. I found this large old cracked portrait and painted over it. I could never have afforded a canvas and a frame that size."
"Do you remember where you got this canvas?" I asked.
"In fact I do," said the old man.
"There was this German family in Jerusalem’s Beth Ha-Kerem. A big intersection is built on the site today." After a short pause, he continued. "The man was an expert on talking birds. He had a small zoo. He taught his birds to say 'Yacob,' his name.
"Yes I know the place," I said. "My father took me to the bird zoo several times."
"The man was a Nazi as Nazi memorabilia was found in his house," said Piamenta.
In 1947, when the state was declared, he sealed his house and fled from Israel. During the War of Independence, the house was destroyed by a direct hit from a canon shell. Exploring the ruins, I found this canvas and painted a demolished house on it."
I thanked Mr. Piamenta and rushed home very excited.
Armed with this information, I tried to find a way to restore the original painting. All the museums and galleries I approached gave me a negative answer. None was willing to take a chance. After the intense excitement over the painting, the let-down was unbearable. So one morning, I put the painting in my car and drove to Jerusalem to pay a visit to Mr. Piamenta.
He was very excited to hear the story.
"We need to drink to celebrate this moment," he said and fetched a bottle and glasses from a cabinet and poured scotch.
"Are you still painting Mr. Piamenta" I asked?
"Yes I am, but not much. My eyes are not what they used to be".
"Well," I said, “you have two choices, Mr. Piamenta. One is to paint a fourth picture on this canvas; or two, to find Yacob the Nazi and give him back his frame.”

The Reluctant bridegroom

2011-08-16T00:48:00.000-07:00

The Reluctant Bridegroom
Hagai Cohen
My mother was in her final stages of terminal illness but her crisp memory and crystal-clear mind made her last days with us a memorable experience. She wanted to share with us stories of her early days, so we sat in shifts to write down what she told us.

"Mom," I said to her one day, "it may not be the right time but I remember an incident which troubles me for years, I'm not sure if my memory is playing me tricks or it really happened."
"Of course, it's the right time." My mother was anxious to talk and added drolly: "How long do you think I continue to be with you?"
"I see myself playing in the yard with our dog." I started "Her angry bark drew my attention to a strange man at the gate; the man was all in a black."
"How do you remember that?" interrupted my Mom. "You were two and a half years old."
"I see you," I continued without responding, "coming out of the house, hushing the dog, giving the strange man a hug and inviting him in."
"That was your uncle Isaac," said my Mom with a reminiscent look in her eyes, "and I said to you: 'Come, Yakov, say hello to your uncle,' but you were scared so you ran and hid under the bed." She laughed at the thought.
"I remember exactly when it was," said my Mom.
"It was in the summer of 1939, a few months after the British government issued the 'McDonald's white paper' (9. Nov 1838) banning the immigration of Jews to Palestine. The paper was tantamount to death sentence for countless European Jews. The organized Jewish Agency launched a campaign to smuggle in young Jews in any possible way. One of the methods was to send eligible bachelors to Europe, mainly to Poland, to marry young Jewish women and bring them back to Palestine as their wives. It was a clever trick, wasn't it? The young men got a tailor-made black suit from OBG, then the official tailoring establishment for the Jewish agency delegates, new black shoes, an umbrella, a hat and a matching black leather suitcase. As this wardrobe was expensive, each man had to sign a contract agreeing to marry three times."
My mother paused as her eyes looked back into the past. "Funnily enough, the contract stated the man may keep the wardrobe, but only after he fulfils his three marriages. That meant if he fell in love with his first or second wife and did not want to divorce, he'd have to pay for the suit and all that went with it.
Your uncle Isaac was a hired hand on a farm in Kfar Yehoshua and he lived in a shack. He volunteered and was accepted for the mission. He was ready to board the boat to Trieste when he got malaria and was hospitalized for a week. After the hospital, he came to recuperate before the next boat. He had lost several pounds and when you saw him at the gate he looked like a scarecrow in his oversized suit. He also smelled of hospital disinfectants which raised the hackles on our bitch. The dog calmed down only after Uncle Isaac took a shower and changed into a fresh set of khakis. The week he stayed with us passed peacefully. You became very friendly with him. You were fascinated by his flute and always begged him to play."
"I don't remember the part about the flute," I said, "but a flute solo does things to me and fills me with a unique pleasure."
"When Uncle Isaac was ready for his boat trip," continued my mother, "he got into his ill-fitting outfit, still smelling of the hospital, and was walking towards the gate when the dog charged. She bit him in the buttocks and tore his pants. A real crisis, he could miss the bus to Haifa and the boat to Trieste.
I mended his pants and treated his buttocks so he would not miss the boat again.
He was the only bridegroom who got married in patched pants with an infected rear end. Poor fellow, he could hardly walk."
My mom stopped again and closed her eyes.
"I wish you could have seen the wedding picture, (a mandatory 'document' requested by the British authorities.)
It was grotesque, He was ten years younger than her, eight inches shorter and half her weight. In the picture she was sitting and he was standing next to her. That's how they looked the same height. On their way back to Palestine, she found him so much to her taste that she chased him relentlessly around the ship and that probably frightened him. They could not communicate at all, they had no a common language. He went into hiding, probably afraid she would sit on his lap." My mother chuckled at her little joke and then coughed wretchedly. It took her a while to get her breath.
"He found shelter under the tarpaulin of one of the covered life boats, where a friend secretly fed him.
The Polish bride was so upset by his behaviour and decided to take revenge. After they arrived in Haifa and were interrogated and cleared by the immigration officials, she vanished into thin air.
She found shelter at the home of Polish compatriots in an unknown Kibbutz.
Uncle Isaac was desperate, he became depressed. He would sit long hours under the mulberry tree and play his flute. If that were not enough, he was sued for the black suit.
This saga continued for two years until one day, the sun came out for him. The Polish bride found a man her size, and decided it was time to divorce Isaac.

As they say in Yiddish; 'While people plan, God laughs'."
My mother turned to me.
"You know, Yakov, despite the hard time your Uncle Isaac had with that Polish bride, he was ever grateful to her. For years he kept sending her greeting cards on her birthdays and for the holydays."
"Why, Mom?" I asked. "He should have hated her for what she did."
"You see," said my mother, "his second wedding had been scheduled in Warsaw for the second week in September. Fortunately, he could not attend, as the woman would not divorce him. On the 1st of September 1939, the Nazis invaded Poland and carpet-bombed Vilna destroying the city and killing 1200 people. Two weeks later when Isaac second honeymoon was planed the Germans got to Warsaw. That second 'honeymoon', Isaac was mighty glad to miss."

The other woman

2011-07-26T11:46:00.000-07:00

The other woman

Hagai Cohen

Four of us sat chatting, drinking wine and exchanging yarns, when Bob decided to share his friend’s story with us.
Bob had no opinion about anything. He always talked on behalf of someone else –
‘My wife thinks his work is primitive;’ or, ‘My nephew told me not to buy those shares;’ and so on.
Whenever he said ‘a friend’, or ‘that friend’ we knew he was talking about himself. So, when he said, “my friend” we all jumped to attention.

“A married friend of mine” said Bob in a voice of exaggerated confidentiality,
“told me an interesting story. He has a girlfriend he sees twice a week. Now, my friend never takes his socks off when he beds her. He claims that if he dies in the middle of love-making, the woman would be able to dress him completely except, for the difficult socks.”

“Come on Bob” said Bill
“Why should the woman care to dress him? Is she married too?”
“No, no, she’s not,” said Bob.
“Tell me, Bob, does he wear nylons or woollies? Which is easier to put on?”
“Maybe you should tell your friend,” said Steve, stressing ‘your friend,’
“to ask for a haircut and manicure before jumping into bed, just to look respectable if he happens to die in her arms."
I said, “Believe me, Bob, embarrassing your friend’s family will be the last thing on her mind.”
Steve turned to me. "Why not tell Bob about Mr. Rosenzweig, your next door neighbor?” he said and then turned to Bob. "This story will put a new slant on your friend's idea."
“Yeah, I think I will. Ok, Bob. Listen."
* * *

The burglar alarm in Mr. Rosenzweig’s house went off at 9.P.M. The house was in darkness, although Mr. Rosenzweig had returned the day before from a long trip around the world.
Mr. Rosenzweig’s alarm system was a real nuisance to the neighborhood. I had an agreement with Mr. Rosenzweig’s son-in-law (the electrician who installed the system), that every time the alarm went off, I would first disconnect the wires to the alarm and then call him to come and fix it.
So as before, I fetched a ladder, an insulated pair of pliers and a set of earplugs, and was on my way to fulfill my duty.
* * *

A year earlier, Rosenzweig’s wife had contracted Hong Kong ‘flu, and died. Mr. Rosenzweig's grief was short-lived. Two weeks, after the death of his beloved wife, a woman was observed coming to the house.

“She’s the maid I hired to take care of the house,” he explained to me, although I hadn’t asked.

Apparently, there was a lot of work at Mr. Rosenzweig’s household; very soon, the 'maid' was seen working overtime. On several occasions, she even stayed the night to finish her tasks.

A week later, Rosenzweig’s daughters, who could not stand the gossips, convinced him to take a long trip,
“just to relax and to visit places you always wanted to. Take the woman along to look after you,” they said.

A few more days were needed for the travel arrangements, and for completing the installation of the burglar alarm system. Mr. Rosenzweig was bent on exploring the world accompanied by a lady half his age.
They returned a year later.
* * *
I was on the porch leading to Mr. Rosenzweig’s main entrance to stop the damned alarm as I had done many times before, when the door opened and the ‘maid’ ran out naked and screaming: “He’s not well, he’s in a coma.”

I put the ladder and the pliers aside and moved in to stop the noisy alarm. I turned the lights on and went into the bedroom.
Lying on the bed was Mr. Rosenzweig motionless in a very odd position. He was at the edge of the bed; he had his arm extended with one sleeve of his pajamas top on it. The rest of his pajamas top was under his back, the bottom part was half way up on one leg and one foot up on the other. I did not know what had happened and decided not to touch anything. I could tell he was not breathing.

Two other neighbors, who had heard the lady’s cries, came to the scene. They seemed agitated and confused. I told them not to touch anything and to stay out. I picked up the phone in the entrance room, called the police and the emergency services. I also called Mr. Rosenzweig’s daughters.

After I was done, I turned to the petrified girlfriend: “What is your name please?”
“Rita” she said, “My name is Rita”.
“Rita,” I said to her, “I think you should put on some clothes.” My words had the impact of an electric shock: she had forgotten that she was naked and the two neighbors were too shocked to notice.
“Don’t take anything from the room,” I told Rita “Get into some clothes and do not go in there.”
A few minutes later, the woman came out in a dressing gown.
* * *
At 11:00 PM I had to leave the scene to catch a flight. Upon my return three days later, a police detective came to my house to get my deposition. I told him the sequence of events. He wrote them down and made me sign the paper. After the formalities were done I offered the detective a drink, which he took. While drinking he volunteered some information.
“Well the case is unfolding nicely, No more loose ends or unanswered questions.
The man gave a small party to celebrate his birthday and his return home. He had a few drinks and a very good time.
The people present at the party attested to the fact. After the party, Mr. Rosenzweig and his girlfriend washed the dishes and went to bed. While making love, his heart stopped. She was underneath him and, as she described it, suddenly two hundred pounds of dead weight fell on her. She panicked and rolled out from under him with great difficulty. She ran to call for help. When she opened the door the alarm went off. The only thing she could think of in her panic was that people should not see him naked. Therefore, she ran back and tried to dress him in his pajamas, not with great success as you know. You met her when she opened the door the second time to call for help.
The coroner insisted on a very thorough autopsy, for two reasons. One, there were marks on the body that needed explanation. Two, something about the lady’s name sounded familiar.

The autopsy revealed that the suspicious marks were made after the man was already dead. It happened when she tried to get out from underneath him and to put on his pajamas.
This woman apparently was involved three years ago with a man who died also whilst having sex with her. I looked it up, read all the old reports, but did not find any indication of foul play. Strangely enough she tried to dress the other man too. I think Rita needs ‘on the job training’ dressing corpses,” the officer concluded.
* * *

"Now, back to you Bob, if you happen to see your friend, please tell him about Rita and her great difficulties in dressing the two dead men. Suggest to your friend to stay completely dressed while making love. To be on the safe side tell him only his organ should be exposed. Tell him it would be better to perform the act in the garden. If he happens to kick the bucket during his lovemaking, his family will be convinced he was out for a leak. To eliminate any doubt, suggest to your friend to tattoo his penis:
‘It’s not what you think.
It’s only rigor mortis’”

* * *

"Come on Jack Please" said Steve.
Are you telling us that you went into the bedroom saw a dead man, did not panic and casually called the emergency crew, the police, the daughters and also reminded the woman to get dressed? I would be petrified and become a marble statue before I could even think.
"Elementary my dear Stevie, elementary"
When we fly a plane and encounter a flight emergency, (such as an engine fire for example), the alarm goes off.
The first item on the checklist is 'cut the alarm'. It is a conditional reflex or second nature for us. After silencing the alarm we do the necessary tasks to fix the problem. We follow a checklist. And that is exactly what I did in this case.
They all became silent until Bob broke in.
"I bet you there was one more item on your checklist you did not tell us about".
"And what might that be?"
"You did get the woman's phone number didn’t you?
We will never talk to you again if you don’t share it with us."
"Listen boys" I said smiling I am not admitting I got the number and I am not denying it either.
If I have the number it will be given only to my enemies. You are my friends, I love you, and I have no desire to write obituaries.

The lady next door and the dupe

2011-03-11T08:31:00.000-08:00

The Lady Next Door
And the dupe
Hagai Cohen

My phone rang at 7:15 am.
“Listen,” said the voice on the other end, “you screwed my wife but damn you I won't let you screw me.”

It was Gideon, a neighbor living only half a block away and he was very angry.

“I am divorcing my wife and you will be subpoenaed to testify about your affair with her.”

I was in no mood for jokes and this preposterous accusation did not sound like one. I had not had an affair with Gideon’s wife, Vicki. She was young, pretty and sexy but I didn't like her and I didn't respect her for her active and ugly involvement in Gideon's second divorce.

Gideon’s call rendered me speechless. The last time I had 'spoken' to Gideon was in a busy street more than five years ago where we had had a row.

“You will tell the truth and will testify that you had an affair with my wife.” Gideon repeated, “Listen carefully: I can ruin your career. I know where you work, and I know the people in the corner offices. Your affair, when made public, will make your life miserable.”

By all standards, it was a threat. Gideon had to be sure that I had had an affair with his wife otherwise, a threat would not make sense.

My initial surprise faded while I put my brain into intensive thinking. How can he be so sure Vicki and I had had an affair?

How could Gideon know what I might say in court? Gideon has enough money to negotiate any testimony he fancies.

Why did he pick on me? In addition, why the harassment? Had Gideon known me better he would not have started on this tack. As a witness, I could cause him irreparable damage. Did he really think me a village idiot?

The actual threat did not bother me. The more I thought about it, the more relaxed I became. Gideon did not understand the nature of my work as a pilot nor the people with whom I work. A juicy story of this nature, true or not, would be headlines in the cockpit for at least two years.

“The best way to deal with Gideon,” I said to myself, still holding the phone, "is to keep quiet and not say a word. Let him wonder what I think and what I’ll do.”

“You’ve ruined my life. You’ve ruined the life of a pure innocent woman, an angel, you sonofabitch.” Gideon’s voice trembled; his speech became less articulate and he began to use foul language. He sounded insecure, probably troubled by my silence.

“I know the right people who will stop at nothing. I know the school your children go to… Gideon stopped in mid-sentence as he remembered his children and mine go to the same school.

Gideon was volatile and aggressive. He could indeed employ violence against my children, but he became scared by his own threat.

As I listened to Gideon's harangue, it occurred to me that he had not threatened to tell my wife. Had he overlooked this winning threat in a situation like this?

The monologue was over when he hung up. I had not said a word except for my first hello. I had not spoken to him for a long time. I was in no hurry to start talking to him now.

The first thing I had to do was to tell my wife about Gideon’s call. Unfortunately, the timing was bad. My father-in-law had died during the night. When Gideon’s call came in, we were dressing for the funeral.

When I told my wife a week later, she surprised me by telling me she knew about the alleged affair. “Gideon used Hanna,” my wife told me, “who called me and said you spent a certain Thursday with Vicki at the Hilton. She even showed me a receipt in your name. It definitely was upsetting and incriminating evidence," said my wife “except for one small problem. It was my birthday when you allegedly spent the night at the Hilton, that’s why I remember the date, unfortunately for Gideon; you were in Seattle at the time. I forgot to tell you about it when you returned.”
"When did it happen"?
"About two and a half years ago"
"What? Why did he wait so long with the phone call? It does not make sense."

I had first met Gideon about eleven years prior to the phone call. He was a construction contractor and I was building my house at the time.

Gideon was in the process of divorcing his second wife, and was into a very advanced affair with his future wife, Vicki.

If there was any compatibility between Vicki and Gideon, it was not evident to an outsider. Vicki was twenty years younger than Gideon. She was a University graduate in business & administration; Gideon had merely four years of elementary school to his credit. She was articulate and spoke with a rich vocabulary; he used only two hundred words. She practiced refined manners even in a dispute. He was known to solve his disputes peacefully only if there were no alternative.

Vicki was his office manager. She won contracts using her skills and during the ten years they were together, they managed to accumulate a substantial fortune, negotiable assets and real estate. Now they were divorcing.

During the proceedings of his last divorce, he had managed to prove to the court that he was broke, so his wife got no settlement. As he had no known property when he married Vicki, she was entitled to get half their worth, a capital she could live on for the rest of her life without the need to work.

Although Gideon was uneducated, he was street smart. He manipulated people by flattery, by offering “protection” and worthless promises. If they were not won over by these methods, he would become brutal and use threats and eventually extortion.

My interest in Gideon was a complex one. First, he was giving me well-needed construction advice. I had learned various building tricks from him. Secondly, he occasionally came up with original philosophical ideas.

I would let Gideon talk without interruption. He was not always smart and was sometimes full of hogwash but I never corrected or challenged him.

When Gideon told stories about himself, he would repeat himself. He re-clothed the same stories, changed versions, venues, and timing. I never discussed the discrepancies; why would I bother. I did not believe him anyway.

“The man has had so many things happen to him in his lifetime,” I said to my wife, “he must have been living for two hundred years.”

Gideon, full of his own importance, felt superior to me. He was sure I was an idiot. I was unaware of Gideon’s manipulation or of his low opinion of me until one morning when he called and asked for my help.

“I have devised a new way to connect the fluorescent fixture to the ceiling. I want you to come and connect the electricity for me.”
It was an odd request as Gideon had a platoon of electricians working for him. Why would he want me to connect the wires?

“I had this idea,” Gideon told me when he met me at his door. “In fact, it is an invention that makes it easy to replace the transformer when it fails and I don’t want my electrician to know about it”.

This did not sound logical, as there was no need to have easy access to replace the part. When it failed, one replaced the entire fixture. Nobody would overhaul a light hanging on a ladder.

There was a thin wooden box attached to the ceiling and the fixture was fastened to the box with two wing nuts. When the wing nuts were released, bathroom chains retained the fixture and the box twelve inches down from the ceiling.

'Easy access, but what for?' I was thinking.
While I was connecting the wires I got my answer.
Inside the open top box, I found two dry broken rubber bands and a single USA dollar bill.

It was clear now. Gideon used the fluorescent fixture to hide ‘Off the books untaxed cash’; of course, he didn't want his electricians knowing about it. He was afraid to keep the money in a safe as the Tax Authority can open safes without a search warrant.

I felt a little sorry for Gideon. He was not equipped to assess my intelligence and definitely not my knowledge. He knew how to deal with people like him whose emotions were exposed. Whenever he needed a relative advantage, he got it by brute force. I wondered about Vicki. My disrespect for her had definitely increased.

When I used to visit them, he would say to Vicki, "Woman, we have a guest. Get us some nosh.” She would meekly set the coffee table with all kinds of appetizers and ice-cold beer and leave. She was never invited to sit with us.

It was ‘men talk.'
“I change horses every few years,” he said to me once.
“I like to replace the old, tired, sweaty nag with a young fresh one, Vicki was my best purchase.”

This unpleasant statement and other similar ones made me think of the time I was wasting with Gideon. I felt I had had enough of him. Therefore, I made the time intervals between each visit longer and longer.

One day I was walking past his house while he was working in the garden. “Hi Yaakov! Come in let's have a bear" I joined him on the porch and Vicki brought out the usual stuff but, this time Gideon invited her to sit with us.

“Why don’t you take a course in Kabala?” I said to Gideon, “Kabala is a brainstorming subject and in my opinion you will feel very much at home.”

“What a great idea!” Vicki exclaimed, “Please help Gideon find a place in a course.”

No problem!” I assured them. A few weeks later Gideon was attending Kabala lectures twice a week on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

We now had more subjects to talk about and Vicki sat with us participating in the conversation. Monday nights were allocated to those talks and with my work schedule; Mondays were only available once, or less a month.

The evenings always followed the same ritual; the beer the appetizers and the talks. Therefore it was very surprising when one evening after having a half glass of beer, Gideon got up and said “I am going to my room. You continue the discussion.”

It was peculiar and unpleasant I was his guest not hers. The only explanation I could give for his behavior was that he must be tiered from the effort of having to think at new higher levels. When this scenario was repeated a third time I became concerned. Something felt wrong, unpleasant and in bad taste.

I stopped visiting Gideon and Vicki. However, on one of my last visits, Gideon asked me to buy him a James Bond attaché case, which was the latest fashion amongst business people.
"Buying it in New York would cost me half the price I would pay at home," he said.

I purchased the case and even had it branded with his name. “I will change the money and pay you back in dollars.” he said when I gave him the case. Gideon never paid me back.

One morning, a month later, shortly after we moved into our new house, Gideon came and asked for some equipment he needed “for a week or two”. His request was timed perfectly. I was in the process of clearing the yard to make a garden and was looking for somebody to buy my equipment.

Gideon came with one of his hired hands loaded the equipment on his truck and drove away. Two months went by when I met Gideon on the street and asked him about the equipment.

“It was all garbage! I threw it away!"
“What?” I exploded “It was working well when you loaded it on to your truck. What is going on?”
“I told you I threw it away! I wasn't going to waste gas bringing that garbage back to you. All the wood was rotten and your rusty winch never worked.”

This was really annoying as I had made this winch myself and was proud of it. In addition, I had already sold it and had to deliver it.

Gideon was up to something! He was getting ready for a fight, but for what? He was good at creating war zones. He started to scream at me but did not manage to drag me into the verbal feud.

His loud voice and his disgusting vocabulary brought an audience. Without saying a word, I sidled out of the crowd and walked away. When I was safely away, I looked back as Gideon was explaining to the crowd, his side of the conflict.

The street row was the last time Gideon and I had had any 'conversation' until the call, five years later, informing me, how he put it? That "I had been screwing his wife."

After telling my wife about Gideon’s call, we discussed it at length. We both concluded that he couldn't prove to the court that I had had an affair with his wife, unless he had some slick witnesses to corroborate his accusations.

A messenger came to my house a few days after the call from Gideon with an official looking envelope. He served me with the papers subpoenaing me to appear in court as a witness. I was not yet ready for the court, I had to get more information about this bizarre accusations
I managed to postpone the hearing for a year after all I was the only witness.

Meantime I confided Gideon's accusations in Motty, a good friend and a private investigator. He offered me his help. “No charge I absolutely loathe Gideon.” He said
“What can you do about it?”
“I have my sources"
“Next Thursday, Omry's pub at 10 PM. Beers on me.” I retorted.

“OK! I should have something by Thursday.” Motty assured me.

Motty, with his glasses, looked like “a good boy scout, who would never harm a fly”. He was, charismatic; a kind of person you like at first sight. He knew many people who claimed to be his friends and he never forgot a name. Using this skill at the right moment, he could easily find what a person needed and exchange it for information. 'Commodity exchange' he called it.

Motty was friendly with the archive Clerk of the Court. He had managed to find a job for the Clerk’s daughter, in exchange the clerk let him read divorce files as often as he wanted, no copying of course.

What the clerk didn't know was that Motty had a photographic memory and every document he saw was scanned directly into his brain. I was very impatient during the week and very curious to know what he would discover.

“OK!” Motty started, once we were comfortable with our first drink at Omry's. “Your 'friend' Gideon hasn't worked since he allegedly, found out his wife was unfaithful to him.

In the file, there is a psychiatrist's report, claiming Gideon is very depressed and cannot work. According to the statement, it all started, after Gideon confronted you on the street and you admitted to being 'the lover'.

There is a name in the file of a person who saw the fight and is willing to attest to the fact.”

“So Gideon had created the fight about the equipment on purpose, to establish a date to the end of the relationship?” I asked.
“So it seems!” exclaimed Motty. Breaking out into a wide smile, he continued: “There is also a letter in the file from his local rabbi, describing Gideon as a very good member of the congregation, seen in the temple every morning, giving donations to the poor and helping to remodel the synagogue at his own expense.”

It was getting clearer by the second why Gideon had filed the divorce with the rabbinical court. Half of his assets belonged to Vicki by law; however in the rabbinical court once a wife was proved to be unfaithful she would be denied any divorce settlement.

As he had allegedly brought no assets of any kind to this marriage, he claimed to be 'broke' for the purposes of the previous divorce. There was a lot at stake; a jackpot if his wife was found to have been unfaithful.

“There is more circumstantial, incriminating evidence," continued Motty. “Several photos of you, very close to her, looking into the engine with the hood open and then getting into the car and driving away. It says on the back of one ‘In the morning, after I left for work they drove away in my car’.

“I have no idea where they came from or when the photos were taken.” I mumbled.

“Did you ever drive her Volvo? Just concentrate. You must remember. You were seen driving the Volvo.”

“Oh shit!” I said, “I remember now, Vicki called me one morning and said Gideon had left the car at home it did not start. He told her to call me before she called the tow truck.”

I walked to her house, opened the hood and was surprised to find some ignition wires were not connected to the spark plugs. I reconnected them, started the car and drove it to my home with Vicki next to me. She dropped me off and drove away.”

I suddenly realized Gideon must have staged the ignition problem so that someone could photograph us driving away in the Volvo. I said as much to Motty.
”It looks like it!, but that is not all!” he continued. “There is a statement written by Gideon saying you and Vicki conspired to send him to a Kabala course twice a week so you could meet-up. There is even a note in your hand writing that you wrote to Gideon, saying you had found him a place to study Kabala, asking him to call there and confirm his participation.”

“Then there is a photo of you and Vicki getting out of your fiat, in front of the Zavta Theater and the poster says “ONE SHOW ONLY ON TUESDAY”.

I was beginning to get annoyed. “He staged that as well.” I fumed, “Vicki had called me saying that she had forgotten to put gas in the car and that she was stuck in front of the theater. It was Kabala night and Gideon was not home. She asked me to get some gas and pick her up.

I didn't think it through. I just drove Vicki to the car and the photo shows us getting out of the car, on that Tuesday, in front of the theater while he was in the Kabala lecture.” After I paused for breath it hit me.” Now, I remember! After I put one Gallon of fuel in the tank, the gage showed a quarter. 'It was a setup!'

“There is a receipt in your name for $75, paid in cash, for a night at the Tel-Aviv Hilton.” Motty went on. “And to conclude the file,” he said smiling “I have good news and bad news; Take your pick.”
“Ok, bad news first”
“Vicki signed a confession”.
“What”?
“Yes, a full confession, describing the first time you had sex with her. It is written as a diary page.
“This is crazy! How could she do a thing like that? I was outraged.
And what is the good news?”
“Aha! One, your name is not mentioned. Two, she did not compose the confession. It’s her hand writing all right but not her words.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I have seen the text before; it is from a poorly translated story in a cheap sex oriented magazine. Don’t worry, I’ll find the original for you.”

This last talk with Motty left me very troubled. “How could she do it to me?” I was thinking. “Did he force her to write it? He is definitely capable of such behavior as he certainly knows how to get a confession.”

Not long after our conversation Motty brought me a copy of the magazine in which he had marked the section that had been copied by Vicki. I was ready for the court. Gideon’s actions with the fabrication of evidence looked very ugly.

“If you say anything against me, you are fish food.” whispered Gideon in my ear as I entered the courtroom.

I think, I was quite tense but Gideon’s threat made me smile to myself. A man who has so much to lose must be more creative. I was wondering why Gideon had chosen to pick on me. I thought I had some of the answers, but not all.
I was the only person who had been friendly with Gideon. I knew his wife and was a frequent visitor in his home. Also I pretended to believe all his stories. The stories were the fruit of his imagination and could be challenged easily.

He was certain I was naïve and could be easily manipulated. He was certain threatening me would work better than bribing me.

Very soon I realized I was the key witness. My testimony and only mine will enable Gideon to keep his assets or lose half of it. If I said I had slept with Vicki she would get nothing, and Gideon would win the jackpot. If I said I had not slept with her, without any real direct evidence the case would go back to a court which would give her half of the property.

As I looked at Gideon I thought to myself, ”what a shmuck,” five years of waiting plus one year caused by my delay. All these years he had pretended to be sick and depressed and did not work, only to blame it on her.

Most ridiculous of all was that he was willing to go through a court hearing with a witness whose testimony was completely unknown.

“Do you swear to say the truth and nothing but the truth?”
“I do your honor, but before we proceed I need to know two things:

One, who is going to pay me for the day’s work I lost coming here,?”

I knew this was a gray area. I was a witness for Gideon and he should cover the witness expenses, but as I had been subpoenaed because of my delays it had become the court’s problem.

As expected, an argument erupted between the court and Gideon’s lawyer.

The judge ruled Gideon was supposed to pay and asked me what to write down.
I have a statement here from my company, saying my hourly rate is $150.00.
“What? Show me the document.”

The judge used a calculator and mumbled to himself “eight hours multiplied by 150 makes $1,200”. The judge wrote it down and Gideon was furious.

There was no need to tell the judge, my monthly income is based on seventy-five flight hours a month and not eight hours per day. It was the judge’s fault, he neglected to ask.

I knew Gideon would never pay me any money but for me it was an insurance policy. The sum would collect interest for seven years and a fine for late payment. If Gideon makes trouble, I will press charges.

“And what is your second problem?” asked the judge.
“My second problem your honor is, I am standing here in front of this respectable court and I am very scared”.

“Why are you scared?”

“This person Gideon Ben Hoor threatened to ruin my career and to harm my children. Even now as we entered the door he managed to threaten me again.” I added.

“What did he say to you?”

“He said if I do not testify on his behalf I would be very sorry.
“I do not understand why you didn’t go to the Police.”
“It is very simple your honor I did not go to the police because I did not want him to know what will be my testimony.” I explained. Now my statement that was given under oath is documented in this file, I might go to the police.

Gideon could not control himself any more, and like a mad dog charged at me with his hands lunging at my neck.

The two lawyers and the court guard jumped on Gideon and remove him from my neck.

After recuperating, I said to the judge in a hoarse voice, “You see your honor this was an attempt on my life. This violent Gideon Ben-Hoor tried to kill me he went directly for my neck. Please write it down.

After a five minutes recession during which the court guard brought me some water. The clerk who did not like Gideon asked me in whisper, “Do you want to see a doctor?”
“No I’ll be O.K.” I replied.

It was Gideon’s lawyer who asked the first stupid question.
Mr. Shamir “why do you hate Mr. Ben Hoor?”

“After this man Mr. Ben Hoor took my building materials and never returned them. After Mr. Ben Hoor asked me to purchase for him a James Bond case, and never paid me back. After Mr. Ben Hoor sends people to my wife to tell her I am having an affair with his wife. After Mr. Ben Hoor twice threatened my children. After Mr. Ben Hoor charged at me in order to kill me. I can hardly find any good reasons to love him.” I responded.

“What did your wife do when she heard about your affair with Gideon’s wife? “ The lawyer went on.

“Your honor, I am not answering this question as the question states that I had an affair.”
“Re phrasing your honor. What did your wife do when she heard about your alleged affair with Gideon’s wife?”
“Gideon sent Hanna Cohen, a neighbor, to tell my wife, that while he was attending Kabala classes, I was spending my time in a hotel room with Vicki. My wife got very angry with Hanna and asked her to leave.”

“As simple as that? Just asked her to leave”?
“Yes your honor that simple”.

“And what about this hotel business?”

I saw the judge looking at the receipt Motty mentioned.
"What date was it please?"
The judge answered.

“At that date, that the receipt was issued" I said after pretending I consult my notes "I was abroad and here is a document to prove it.”

From time to time turned my head towards Vicki. She did not look good. I had not seen her for at least six years. She looked older and thinner, almost sick. I felt sorry for her.

I did not want to think about her life with Gideon. Of course I knew the implications of my testimony a large lump sum was at stake, ’make or break‘for Vicki. I promised myself I would help her, as much as I could, as I hated Gideon more than I disliked her.

Since Gideon’s call I had tried very hard to contact Vicki. I had found her office phone number and had tried to call her.

However, she had refused to talk. She sounded very scared and demanded I not call her again; she added her house phone was bugged, and all her calls were being monitored. Of course, I did not call her.

“Did you have an affair with Gideon’s wife?” asked Gideon’s lawyer.
“No I did not”
“Let me tell you one thing Mr. Shamir you had an affair and you are lying.”

While saying it he took a paper from the file in front of him and started to read.

“When he took me to the citrus orchard I knew what to expect, in fact I was ready for a first session of passionate love making”… This was an extract from Vicki’s confession.

“May I read it?” I said to the judges

“Yes of course”

I scanned the document quickly only to make sure the text was exactly the same as in the magazine Motty had given me ,than I gave it back saying I don’t have to read it I have the original. Thus, I opened the magazine and started to read.

After one sentence I stopped and said to the judge “in the original version they did it at the river bank as you know your honor there is no river in Rishon so it was changed to a citrus orchard.

“It is irrelevant completely irrelevant” said Gideon’s lawyer she signed the paper, who cares if someone else uses the same words”
I looked at Gideon who looked very surprised or at least pretended to be. Vicki on the other hand looked very distressed.
“What is your opinion Mr. Shamir about this document?”

“I think,” I said “a good lawyer never asks for the opinion of a witness, but if you really want to know it is obvious that this document is a fabrication. Mr. Ben-Hoor dictated it to her and forced her to sign it”

Gideon exploded with anger “tell them, tell them,” he turned to Vicki, “Did you write it by yourself or what?”
Vicki did not answer.
“You are dismissed Mr. Shamir”

I was later told the court did not divorce them but rather sent them back to a civil court for the property settlement. Vicki and Gideon were finally divorced and Vicki got a substantial amount of money as a settlement.

I was very happy for her, and very pleased with my contribution to her success.
Motty disappeared for a few years. Omry sold his pub. The place changed its name and the old customers stopped coming around as did I.

Five years later, Motty returned from an assignment abroad and I accidentally met him on the street.
"Let's have a coffee" was the first thing he said.
“I need to fill you in it’s about the Ben-Hoor case.”

“What are you saying Motty, are there some new developments?”
“No, no, it is some information I never told you.”
I looked very surprised.
“Remember the first time I saw the divorce file? Well there were those Photos of you and Vicki with the hood of the Volvo open?

“Yes”?
“She stood next to you with very short cutoffs in a sexy posture. It looked suspicious; I felt she knew her picture was being taken. When I saw the second photo I knew for sure she was aware of the photographer. She was dressed really fancily, and the photographer made sure she would be seen getting into the car exposing her legs, while you were standing behind the car with only your shirt visible.

She knew when to get into the car for a perfect pose”.

“I don’t get it why would she do a thing like that?”

“It looked very suspicious to me said Motty without answering my question and I decided to continue my investigation. With a lot of footwork I found it was Vicki who had commissioned the Photos.”
I looked at Motty in disbelief.
“I had no doubt from the beginning you had been framed, however what I discovered was a complicated case of a double cross. Vicki manipulated Gideon into thinking she was having an affair with you. It all seemed too bad to let it go. I made it my mission to discover the truth without telling you.”

“At first I found Vicki’s behavior to be consistent. Every Thursday at about one o’clock, she drove her Volvo to the Hilton, checked in, paid in cash and asked for a receipt. On one occasion the receipt was made out in your name.

Shortly after arriving in her room, a male visitor would join her. At about 8:30 p.m. she would get back into her Volvo and drive home without checking out.

The following morning, at 08:00 AM, she would be back in her room. Shortly after, a different male visitor would come to visit, an older guy. This guy would leave twenty minutes later, at 09:00 AM by the first man reappeared.”
I was completely at a loss and asked Motty: “Why are you being so mysterious Motty, who were those men? Do I know them?”

“Yes, one you probably know by name. At the time of my surveillance he was the deputy police commissioner, now he is the commissioner.”
I hardly could believe it I stared at him with my mouth wide open.
"And who might the other guy be?" I probed.

“You see my friend.” Motty continued. “During the entire investigation I was troubled by an enigma, something didn't fit. Why would this woman Vicky be willing to be declared unfaithful and sacrifice all the money she was entitled to by law?

The answer did not come too easy. I followed the older guy and he was found to be a black market money changer.
A little more snooping along with some help from friends led me to the discovery she had been stealing money from the company, she and her husband owned. Her method was quite sophisticated.
Gideon hired people on a daily basis, usually Palestinians villagers. She withdrew cash to pay them. She also paid their social security fees. To this point it was all kosher, However as she handled the payments and the accounts she continued 'paying' them weeks after they had stopped working for them. To make it look legal she paid their social security fees. The cash she pocketed took a complicated route to an overseas account in her name only.
Gideon had never understood the book keeping and Vicky was clever enough to hide it from the accountant, who approved the books year by year. The bottom line was she was stealing from company they owned by cooking the books and by using untraceable cash only transactions.

“Damn it!” I said. “I was just bait, a decoy for Gideon to “bite,” while she stole the money and got her freedom." I responded angrily.
“I am sorry I could not tell you about my findings earlier. I had to let it cool. The commissioner administration is the authority that grants me my private investigator license. However, trust me I made a very nice insurance dossier. In case of any trouble with the law, I would have leverage on the married commissioner, and 'prove' my innocence.

"Are they still together?" I queried.
"No! He dumped her the day he became commissioner."
The end

The inventor

2010-12-22T05:36:00.000-08:00

The Inventor
Hagai Cohen
Word count 2100
I was having my morning coffee in my usual sidewalk café next to the promenade in Brooklyn heights, when I saw Michael Foyerman walking in my direction.
It was an accepted rule that one should never ask Mike how he is unless one had plenty of time to kill. The odds were ten to one Michael Foyerman would answer in full detail. Therefore, as did every other citizen who knew Michael Foyerman, I lifted my newspaper and became deeply interested in the afternoon races.

Michael Foyerman always carried an attaché case and was always in a hurry to get someplace although he never worked. People who knew Michael Foyerman were ready to bet that all he had in his case was his lunch. He was at all times well dressed though he never had a penny in his pocket.
Whenever Michael Foyerman saw me, he sat next to me and told me his endless stories. Of course I listened and even paid for his coffee. I had good reason to do so.
One morning about a year ago, Mike had come to the coffee shop and said: "Good morning, Harry. It's a gorgeous day. I love the morning breeze." I was still reading the Post's horse racing section when he spoke and it was like a miracle. My eyes locked on a horse called 'Morning Breeze' racing that day. It was a sign from heaven and no coincidence.
Without wasting any time I crossed the street to O.T.B and bet fifty bucks on Morning Breeze at twenty to one. You bet on a horse with those odds only if the horse himself tells you he is going to win.
By noon, right before the race, the odds on that nag went up to forty to one. I was about to stop believing in God when the Almighty moved his wand and a thunder storm broke over the race track. The lightning and thunder scared the horses and slowed them down.

Morning Breeze must have been deaf and blind for he won the race. I never told Mike he was instrumental in my winning two grand that day, but I bought him coffee every morning, hoping he might see the light again and offer me another subconscious tip.

Michael Foyerman lived on the pocket money his wife gave him on daily basis and what he got was only good for a small lunch and two subway tokens. She never gave him more although she was doing very well in her beauty parlour.

For some time Michael Foyerman had saved his lunch money by eating at home. With the money he accumulated, he ordered a few hundred visiting cards printed with raised gold letters that said:

MICHAEL FOYERMAN
Inventor and entrepreneur.

During the many coffees Michael Foyerman had with me, he told me about his inventions. According to him, something always went wrong and he had a list of excuses.

"There was no more need for my inventions," or "I could not find the right investors," or "people don't have enough intelligence to appreciate my inventions."
I of course, could not be the judge but, to me, some of his ideas sounded bizarre but some seemed logical.

During the energy crisis in the seventies, he spent time inventing a special clamp to put on the gas pipe leading to the stove. “The clamp when tightened restricts the flow of gas in the pipe and saves energy,” explained Michael and asked me to invest in the project. His invention sounded practical but before investing I consulted my scientific nephew who explained that to boil a pot of water you need the same amount of gas whether the flow is fast or slow and probably more when you boil water slowly.

Of course, I did not invest. Michael Foyerman worked on his invention for some time and when he had a prototype at hand, the energy crisis was over. “It was a great idea” he said, “but there is no more need for it.” I did not say a word.

Then there was the double function refrigerator. As Michael explained it, “Whenever you are hot, you open the refrigerator door. Inside, the pre-installed fan blows the cool air into the room.” This idea also seemed a good one to me and I encouraged Michael to try it, and he did. But he never told me what happened when he finished his prototype. I heard rumours that Mrs Foyerman, when she came home one evening, found a very warm kitchen, a refrigerator full of spoiled food, and an enormous iceberg in the freezer. She did not give him supper for a whole week.
“My new idea,” he told me one morning, “is the sniffing mechanical dog. Its trade name will be ‘Fee or Smudge.' This is a robot which strolls down the street sniffing dog excrement.
A small vacuum pump takes in a sample of the contaminated air.
A very sensitive gas analyser classifies the ingredients to a very high degree of accuracy and thus constructs a smell profile capable of distinguishing between two hundred different dogs.

After the sniffing robot makes the analysis, it is ready for its next mission: It picks up the dung, stores it in a special container and thoroughly cleans the affected area adding a touch of perfume.
Our sophisticated machine sniffs around to find the track of the matching dog then follows the clues to the doorstep of the alleged contaminator.
Our robot knocks on the alleged door and as the doors opens it takes a big sniff to establish a positive identification.
Then our dog announces F-E-E-O-R-S-M-U-D-G-E! In simple words, it means: pay for the cleaning, or your ordure will be smeared on your doorstep.

My business plan is based on logic,” he continued. "Every reasonable citizen will pay the fee on the first occasion; the less reasonable will pay it by the second occasion.”

“Was anyone interested in your invention?” I asked.
“Yes” said Michael, “City Hall. I got a letter from the sanitation department saying the citizens of New-York City are disciplined and usually clean up after their dogs so it may not be a cost-effective machine but they are willing to check a prototype, once I have one”.

Every time Michael told me about his peculiar ideas, I felt a bit sorry that none of them made him a little fortune.

Today he was approaching me very quickly and although I could not see him because of the newspaper, I knew, I’d have his company. When Michael reached the chair next to me, I said “Hello Mike,” without raising my face from the paper. Before he was fully seated, Michael started talking:
”Thanksgiving is not what it used to be.” I put my paper down and looked at Michael intrigued, as he was not the type to discuss tradition or nostalgia. But he did not stop there and kept on telling his long sermon at high speed:

“Farmers used to work hard all summer. In the fall, they gathered the crops and the fruits. After preserving, the food for the winter, they baked a turkey to celebrate their good luck and offered thanks to God. But today” he continued
“it's hard to find farmers. People buy frozen turkeys. The secret stuffing recipe is long forgotten. The pumpkin bread is made in factories and the cranberry sauce is canned.”
“Now that is very interesting,” I said, “but there's nothing one can do to change it.”
“No, you are wrong” jumps in Michael, “you are absolutely wrong. Listen to my idea.” He leaned forward, his eyes dancing with excitement. “My intention is to bring back to the American people the joy of life. To restore civilized values, self-importance, dignity and respect. To retrieve for them, the warmth of a loving family, even for single and lonely individuals.
The people will be taught how to raise a turkey, how to feed it correctly with organic food and vitamins, how to slaughter it humanely, clean it, stuff it with the right stuffing, bake it to perfection and carve it by the book.”

“But wait a minute Mike,” I said, “turkeys stink. Do you really think people will hatch a turkey egg and raise a turkey in their living rooms? You must be out of your mind.”

“You don't understand. There is on the market this small virtual pet, called Tamaguzi. My plan,” he continued, “is to make a virtual turkey, like the Tamaguzi and to give to the people."
“To give?” I asked.
“Yes, City Hall will distribute them to the homeless and jobless, so they can live the spirit and the tradition of Thanksgiving when they go to the soup kitchens."

I am beginning to think Michael is finally and officially off his rocker and I say to him with heavy sarcasm: “See here, Mike, don’t you think you should sell it also to the rich? They usually eat too much and would want to start a diet on Thanksgiving?”

Michael, insulted, looked sadly into my eyes, did not say a word and left. I did not see him for long time after that. Of course I wondered what had happened to him as he was not a man to miss his morning coffee, especially when someone else pays for it.

Rumours began to reach me that Michael Foyerman got into some money as someone had seen him driving a fancy car. I was happy for him as probably one of his inventions finally was a success. I was curious to know if it was the virtual turkey.

So, one morning, when I saw Michael Foyerman with a new suit and a new attaché case walking in my direction, I did not hide behind my newspaper. Instead, I gave him a big smile and said: ““Hi Mike, long time no see, what’s up?”

Michael Foyerman took his seat next to me and said: “They make lousy coffee in this place”.
Well, this was a big surprise as Michael Foyerman had never before complained about the coffee I bought him.

“I take my coffee nowadays in a small coffee shop over-looking Long Island Sound, on the way to my office in Huntington", he continued. "Their coffee is great, freshly ground, home blend of special Colombian beans."
With that he drew my attention completely and I was even ready to forgive Michael for not telling me before that the coffee I bought him was no good.

“What are you saying Mike, is it the virtual turkey?”
“Well” said Michael Foyerman “in a way it is”. I was puzzled till he continued: “My Aunt Laura is very rich, and she is very generous too. She bought the beauty parlour for my wife when she agreed to marry me.

Well, I went to Aunt Laura with the idea of the virtual turkey and offered her partnership. When I told her I had already spoken to New-York City social services she became quite upset and even angry.

"Look Mike," she said, "your ideas are so advanced, the world is not ready to understand or appreciate them. We live in a very competitive business community. I don't want you to approach any official person about your inventions." She said and after a pause continued:
"My company is handling city hall employees' pension and any rumors we invest in high-risk ventures will harm our solid no-risk business. I’ll handle the business end of your projects from now on, and I'll talk to the people if necessary."

After that conversation, Aunt Laura built me an office in her basement, where I sit, think, write my thoughts and file them. She gave me a car as well. Twice a week, I see a man Aunt Laura hired to discuss my ideas. He listens and asks a lot of questions. But, sometimes I feel it's a waste of time. He asks irrelevant questions, like about my dad who died when I was very young. Aunt Laura insists I have to see him or she will not let me use the office or my car.

I never knew how my father died so I asked Aunt Laura. She told me he was 'very special' but he too 'was not understood.'

“One night,” she said," your Dad, who was like you in many ways, woke up from a nightmare screaming: 'The refrigerator is after me. It wants to freeze me.' It was summer, the window was open, and he ran from his bed in terror. He fell from the seventh floor window.”

“Oh!” I said, "How horrible!"

"I'm glad Aunt Laura told me about my father," continued Michael after a pause. "It was all for the best. My latest idea is already fully formulated in my head: a device to detect and disable haunted refrigerators.”

Marge

2010-10-12T07:44:00.000-07:00

12-Oct-10
Marge

Hagai Cohen

“We are the only flight tonight,” I said to Manny after we had crossed longitude 40 west.

“Nobody flies on Christmas night,” said Manny. “Anybody with any little sense stays home.”

Even the oceanic controller in Gander, judging by his voice, had been asleep. It was a very boring cargo flight.

Manny was in the middle of complaining about our bad luck when a woman's voice came over the radio.

"This is delivery 036 transmitting blind, request relay.”

It was a call from a female pilot on flight 036. She wanted us to call Gander for her. To our ears, her voice was like the singing of the sirens on the Aegean Sea. The night was shaping up after all.

“Delivery 036 Echo Lima Yankee 851, go ahead,” said Manny on the radio.

“Delivery 036, position, Checked 40 west 52 north at 08:35 flight level 110 estimate 30 west 54 north at 11:05”.

I looked at Manny and he looked at me. What she said meant that she was flying too low and too slow.

“Repeat your Estimated Time over 30 west,” said Manny. And the lady answered “Echo Tango Oscar 30 west 11:05”.

I could not conquer my curiosity and I said to her “What airplane are you flying?”

“A piper cub,” was her answer.

“What?! Are you flying a single engine aircraft over the Atlantic?”

“Yes,” was the incredible answer. “That’s what I do for a living. I deliver small airplanes from the manufacturer to the customer.”

“What is your flight plan time from Gander to Shannon?"

“I'm lucky today,” she said. “I have good winds. 12 hours and forty minutes. And my name is Marge.”

We relayed her position to Gander, introduced ourselves and continued to talking with her.
We spoke on the VHF radio which have a limited range and using the emergency frequency, always 'on' when an airplane is airborne.

Marge Many and I were the only people on the radio. We felt quite comfortable chit chatting with her although it was against the regulations. She was very cooperative answering our interrogative questions.

"Call me if you happen to be in Köln, Germany or Annapolis, Maryland, I live in both places, I promise to answer all your questions and to prove to you that I am not crazy” she said and gave us her phone numbers as her voice faded out.

"A woman flying over the ocean with a single engine is, in my opinion, an unimaginable provocation against manhood. I would never dare to fly as she does. I don't have the courage and I’m definitely not an idiot. She is challenging her luck. She must be crazy, do you really think she wants us to call her ?” I said to Manny.

She was very friendly, and I think she wants to brag about her ability and prove to us she is as good and as professional anyone could be.

In truth, I was full of respect for her bravery and somewhat jealous. “We have to see her one day; there are a million questions I'd like to ask her.”

Four months later, Manny and I were assigned to fly together to Köln.

“Jack,” said Manny “did you ever call Marge?”

“No. I have been in Köln twice since that flight, but I just didn't have the guts.”

“I neither," said Manny. "I didn't know what to expect”.

"Well, we’re together now so why don’t we pool our poor courage and give her a call?"
“OK let’s do it.”

“I thought you'll never call,” she said over the telephone. “I was sure you had forgotten me. I’ll pick you up at seven. I have a place in mind for dinner but I have to call first.” In answer to our question, as to whether she was changing her plans for us, she answered, “Definitely not, but I would change my plans for you any time.” Her statement left us wondering. Is she so desperate? We decided to plan against uncertainty. “In the event we don’t like her, we'll make an excuse about an early flight and leave,” we agreed.

We were sitting in the lobby waiting when a man and a woman walked through the door. There was no one else in the lounge. We did not pay much attention to them as they looked too young and we were expecting a woman alone. They started to walk in our direction. As they approached, the woman said: “Manny? Jack?”
We stood up and said together “Marge?”

Our jaws hit the floor. The lady in front of us was a glamorous blonde dressed in an evening gown. We learned later she was just twenty four years old. She could not possibly be the lady from 40 West. Women like this are not let loose, I thought. The last time I saw a woman like Marge was in a James Bond movie.

“This is my husband Julius,” she said. "He is a pilot too and we work together." Marge drove us in her big Mercedes to Aachen, a nearby town. “I have reserved a table at the best restaurant I know, it's a part of the Aachen casino and run by a world renowned Chef George Lemoine.”

To get into the restaurant, we had to go through the casino. The rule of the house was, one must state one's occupation to the guard. It really seemed funny. I could not imagine anyone announcing: "gambler," “Bank robber,” “Kidnapper,” or such. Julius led the way in.
“Piloten,” he said and walked passed the guard. Manny followed and repeated “Piloten.” I was next and I recited the magic word. The guard looked puzzled. When Marge said “Piloten,” the guard pushed a button and two oversized gorillas appeared from nowhere grabbed the four of us and pushed us towards the door.

I do not know what Marge said to the older gorilla, which had a good hold of her arm, but it was very effective. In less than a second, the giants became as soft as marshmallows and immediately apologized, straightened our clothes and led us into the lounge. The owner of the casino came rushing in apologizing for the ignorance of the stupid gorillas, summoned the Maitre d’ and said,

“These people are my guests.”

Then he turned to Marge:

“Well, Well, Well! It took you far too long to report in. Please enjoy your evening, I will join you later,” he said and left.

“What's going on Marge”? I asked.

“Oh, nothing, He owns several casinos throughout Europe. He needed an airplane to hop between the casinos and I delivered it.”

“You knew he'd be here tonight”?

"Yes, of course. I called earlier."

I was beginning to respect Marge; she looked to me less and less crazy and more and more calculated, and definitely not spontaneous.

The entire menu was recommended by the chef in person. He came to the table at the owner’s request. We let the chef decide for us. The outstanding dinner suggested by the chef was, Pate de foie gras au truffe as an appetizer. “Soupe de tortue aquatique , and as a main course Faisan A la Georgienne, a Russian aristocratic dish, cooked only on special occasions.
The sommelier came to the table to suggest the wines wearing a traditional costume with a big golden key on his chest, the key to the wine cellar of course.

The conversation was mostly about flying. While drinking an aperitif, Julius explained the structure of their airline. Marge is the president of the company,” he said. “She deals with the commercial aspects. I am the vice-president of operations; I deal with the technical aspects. We have ten pilots working for us. Marge founded the company, some three years ago. She is a born pilot. She has been flying since she was fifteen. I was hired only after the company was founded.”

“Any privileges for being the boss’s husband?” I asked.

“Privileges! I get the worst flights because Marge is afraid to lose her pilots,” he laughed.

The more we learned about the technical aspects, the more we realized we were dealing with professionals. Special equipment is installed for the delivery: extra fuel tanks, anti-icing systems, navigation equipment and a special radio. They carry a survival suit made to sustain body temperature up to a hundred hours in the cold north Atlantic waters. The suit is equipped with special candies for energy and a water desalination kit, enough to survive for a long time.
For Manny and me, it was a completely new facet of aviation and a very fascinating one at that.

We learned about Ms Diane and her husband in Bangor Main, who do the necessary installations. We were educated about the flight watch services for delivery pilots, about the flight plan and route calculations,when the delicious appetizer, the goose liver paste with truffles arrived.
"Marge" I asked

“Have you experienced any hazardous incidents?”

“Not too many.”

“Tell us about them."

“I'll tell you about two” said Marge, "both of which happened while delivering birthday presents to the rich."

“You mean airplanes?"

“Yes, a Swiss banker” she smiled, “wanted to give his daughter an airplane for Christmas. I brought the airplane to Bangor for the installations. I had to take off on time so the Christmas present would not miss the chimney.

It was evening, Bangor airport was under light snow; with sub zero Fahrenheit temperatures. The airplane was refueled for an eighteen hour flight, from Bangor to Bordeaux, and was very heavy.

It was a very long takeoff run on powdery snow, and a very slow climb after the takeoff. At an altitude of a thousand feet, the right door burst open, left hanging on one hinge. The airplane became almost impossible to handle because of the extra drag.

To descend to the runway took more than thirty minutes. I could not dump the extra fuel so I had to descend very slowly.

During the extended descent I got very cold, my goggles fogged up and I had to remove them. My frozen eyes could hardly see the instruments or indeed the runway. I had to defrost for an hour after the landing.

Diane and her husband decided to weld the broken hinge. Luckily the door itself was not damaged. They took it to the repair shop and two hours later, I took off again and happily started my climb. The hinge broke again at fifteen hundred feet. The door blew away completely and caused some damage to the stabilizer.

Handling the airplane was easy this time as there was no door. Unfortunately I made a big mistake. I was too quick to celebrate. During my initial climb, it was quite warm and I had decided to unzip my overalls. To do it, I removed my gloves and placed them on the seat next to me. When the door blew away, the sudden suction took my gloves away too. I flew the airplane with one hand alternately, trying to warm the other by sitting on it. The goggles, as before, fogged up and had to be removed. My frozen fingers could not zip up the overalls. I was so cold I could not even apply the brakes after landing.

This time it took me half an hour in a hot bath to thaw. The new toy was delivered not as a Christmas present but rather for New Year’s Eve instead.”

Marge paused while we thought about what a great pilot she must be to handle the plane in such terrible circumstances.

“Actually the incident was more in the category of unpleasantness and not in the category of dangerous” said Marge.

“What do you mean unpleasantness?” I said. “At twenty west, a similar incident and you would have had to ditch in the middle of the ocean - and with your broken H.F radio, no one would have ever found you.”

“You're right, of course,” said Marge “but we are not speculating on what could have happened. In my next story, you will hear about a really dangerous experience."

We quietly consumed our superb turtle soup enriched with chunks of bone marrow while waiting for Marge to talk. She took her time.

"I think it was my fourth or fifth delivery after I founded my company" She started, but was interrupted by a mobile platoon of waiters bringing the impressive main dish. After the plates, garnished on sight, were served and a fancy unique decanted wine was poured into our glasses Marge continued.

"It was a single engine two-seat Cessna. The route was from Annapolis Maryland to Shreveport Louisiana; about 700 miles and six hours away.

I took off at 14:00 hours so I could be there at 20:00. The machine I was delivering was a birthday present to an eighteen year old boy, the son of a wealthy “farmer,” who owned 20,000 acres of cotton and corn in addition to numerous oil rigs.

The man insisted I come to the party as a local girl dressed in a tight mini skirt, a blouse and the proper hat and boots.

He wanted me to taxi the Cessna into the meadow in front of the old plantation house, to make it look as if it was a forced landing, to pretend I was lost and after inquiring where I was, I would give the keys to the boy.

It was staged to be a dramatic scene. The Cessna was brand new; champagne in color, with a Magnolia Grandiflora flower painted on the door and a brown pelican on the fin.

I had to stop for refueling at a small airport in Mississippi. After takeoff, I was airborne for half an hour cruising at an altitude of 700 feet when my engine started coughing and sneezing. The fuel was contaminated.

I looked for a proper strip to land. The ground beneath me was dark although the horizon was in twilight. The engine stalled completely after two minutes. Attempts to restart were unsuccessful. I glided down, trying to maintain the best angle.

Beneath me was interstate 20, which was practically my route. I still could vaguely see the highway, and there were no cars on it. I got to the ground quickly without increasing my speed and landed safely. I touched down at Lincoln Parish, a place with almost no population.

After landing, I pushed the airplane off the road into the dividing area between the opposite side of the highway.

Before touchdown,” Marge continued, “I noticed an exit and some lights at the end of the exit ramp. It was an easy walk, about a mile and I was wearing my sneakers. I could not very well fly with the fancy boots I was supposed to wear for the party.

The place I had seen before landing was a kind of a rural bar with the “Bud” neon sign. I was quite happy to find civilization in a place like this. I went into the bar looking for a pay phone.

There were only two men in the bar; one of them was the bartender. The other was this ugly looking man, with two front teeth missing. He had tattoos covering most of his arms. He definitely had not seen a barber for many years. He was constantly scratching his head, armpits and crotch. It was obvious his body was the natural habitat for various vermin. He was consuming whisky directly from a bottle and seemed quite drunk.

I went toward the phone to make a call for the local sheriff. 'Howdy!' I said 'do you happen to know the sheriff’s phone number?'
I had probably said something very wrong for the man at the bar turned and yelled: 'Don't touch the phone.'

The volume of his voice shocked me. 'Do not touch the phone and get the fuck out of out of here.'

I was still holding the receiver, very surprised as the man got off the bar, came at me, snatched the receiver from my hand and broke the cable. With his other hand, he grabbed me by my leather tie and started to push me toward the door. The stench emanating from the man was unbelievable. He smelled sour and moldy. His clothes stank like rotten rags. He was strong and I felt as if I were flying when he almost lifted me off the ground. I was certain I’d be thrown out. I was mistaken. He bolted the door, turned off the ‘Bud’ sign and said,

'You want to play games, Missy, let me see what you have got here.'

He tore off my blouse, popping the buttons. I was petrified. I looked across to the bartender for help but he had conveniently disappeared.

The first action in a flight emergency, as we were taught,” Continued Marge, “is to keep flying the airplane. Power, speed, attitude, level wings, then think, identify the problem and try to solve it. In this situation, I took the same steps. I realized fighting the guy was useless. He was too big and violent. The only way out was to distract him and run. I knew for sure the drunk could not run as fast as I.”

“Hey, big boy,” I said. “I came here for fun and you come on to me with force? Let’s do it on the pool table.”

He was so surprised, he let go of me. I put down my pocket book and started to pull up my skirt very slowly. The guy looked confused. He did not expect it to be so simple.

“Go ahead, Poppy, take them down. Show him to me, Let me see what I am getting.” While speaking, I backed up slowly continuing to pull up my skirt. The guy got the message and started to drool.

Now he was fighting his sticky stinky tight jeans. He managed to take his pants all the way down. My skirt went up a little more while the guy started to walk with funny tiny steps towards me. My skirt was now fully up and he was getting closer to me.
As he moved on I realized that a skunk definitely smelled better. The man was now about three feet away from me; exposed and ready. With my skirt up I had greater maneuverability to my legs. My foot moved fast and hard into his testicles. My hands followed the foot and pushed him away from me, my back was against the pool table and I could push him hard despite the fact he was taller and heavier than I.

The man screamed like a slaughtered pig, and fell back folded like a baby in the womb. I had plenty of time now. A woman with her skirt up can run much faster than a man with cracked nuts and pants down. I picked up my pocket book, and ran to the door. I was out within two seconds. I did not know what to do next."

I looked at Many and he looked at me it was very unusual for a woman to talk about a rape experience. From what I read it takes year of therapy to get the victim to tell her story. On the other hand it is quite common amongst pilots to talk about near misses and incidents. In fact we were taught to tell our stories as many times as we can and to many people.

"Once outside" marge continued "I looked around and found there was only one pickup truck next to the house. Only one truck I said to myself the two guys are together and it may be dangerous.

I ran to the truck bursting with a great desire to drive the truck with its heavy bumper, right through the front wall and smash down the bar with its bottles. I took my gloves from my pocket book put them, so as not to leave fingerprints, and I got into the truck. The key was in the ignition switch as I expected, and there was also a shotgun. A loaded shotgun! Immediately my plans changed I felt more secure and I waited for them to come out. Nothing happened for a long time.

My skunk was probably indulging his balls with ice cubes. I could not wait the entire night. So I started the engine and backed the truck up to the door. The noise made them rush out and then the chase began. I drove the truck slowly so they would think they could catch it, then a little faster and then another stop. I was driving the truck on the highway in the opposite direction and took them about a mile away from their bar. When I had gained a nice distance from them I brought the truck to a stop, and used the gun butt to break the key inside the switch.

I left the truck with the lights on. I crossed the highway to the opposite side and started to run back to my Cessna. It was about two miles down the road.

Once at my plane, I took off my skirt and blouse and put on my flight overalls, the fancy boots and changed my hair. The changes made me look taller and different. The descent and landing with the lights on and no engine running had depleted my battery. The radio had not worked either after my landing. I hoped my radio would work after the battery’s “rest”. I tried the radio “transmit blind” hoping any commercial airplane would hear me.

I got lucky. After some time, a commercial flight heard me on the emergency frequency. They managed to get my message through.

The sheriff, who came to the site, was very surprised to see me. 'Never before, in my twenty five years on the force, has an airplane landed on my highway' he said to me. 'I will leave an officer next to your airplane and you will be my guest. My wife will be thrilled. Let’s go through the station so I can finish my paper work and then we’ll drive home.'

Down at the station I saw an officer bringing in my “friends” from the bar. They were thrown into the detention room handcuffed. They were charged with drunken driving, possession of an illegal firearm and driving in the wrong direction. They looked into my eyes but did not seem to recognize me.

On the way home the sheriff was talking to me and to himself at the same time. 'They think I was born yesterday, idiots, even a child can come up with a better story.
A whore they said came with a shotgun to the bar to rob them. They did not have any money so she hijacked their truck and dumped it on the highway next to her getaway car.

Whore my ass. You know Margaret' said to me the sheriff: 'there was a famous whore house five miles down the old road. The last whore of our parish died of old age fifteen years ago.' "

We sat quietly for some time after Marge finished her story. We were astounded and speechless.

“Well Marge” I said “I am now convinced, flying is dangerous, I am convinced that you are professional, industrious, brave and quite crazy. However, this succulent 'Pheasant Georgian Stile' created by chef Lemoin The Great is definitely one of the fringe benefits of the life on the edge."

The end

The navigator

2010-04-26T10:55:00.001-07:00

the navigator

The best date

2010-03-16T02:12:00.000-07:00

The best date
Hagai Cohen

We were on a flight from Paris to NYC and my colleague Joe seemed to be quite happy.
"What happened to you?" I asked, "You did not dine with us last night, was she good?
"The best date ever" answered Joe "the best."
"Ok spill the beans," I said.
"It all started seven years ago when I was in senior year of high school. In my class there was this girl Dahlia, impressive, very pretty and extremely intelligent.

Dahlia had no friends. For the boys well, she was out of their league and the girls were jealous of her.
I was the only person in the class who was not afraid of her and the only one who ever spoke to her.

Very soon, when she felt she knew me rather well, she started taking advantage of me. She made me run errands for her, replace electric switches, unclog the sewer and fix leaky faucets. She was using me but I did not complain, just talking to her was an intellectual challenge. She was intelligent and smart. Meeting with her was rewarding, and the exchange was well balanced; however, we never got too close to each other or became lovers.
She asked me from time to time to hitch ride on my bike. Once she even wanted me to take her to visit her friend in Givat Adda .
'I need to take three buses to get there with three hours of waiting, would you please take me on your bike?' She said
'Of course,' I agreed.
On the porch before entering her friend's house, she said. 'Look, I did not want to explain to my friend who you are so I told her you are my cousin.
Her announcement to me was both troublesome and insulting 'who am I for her? Not even a class mate. Is she that ashamed of me?' Of course, cousins you do not choose especially if they own a bike. I became furious and you know what, I never forgave myself for not leaving her with her friend and riding away.
I did not say a word. During the two hours n visit neither of the girls spoke to me, they whispered and giggled and I felt like a piece of furniture.

I rode home with her and did not mention the incident. It was the end of the year, and I decided not to see her again.
You must understand, I never spoke to her again, and never recovered from that insult.
Yesterday, while walking down the Champs Elysees, to my biggest surprise I saw her walking towards me. We were in a collision course and avoiding her was impossible.
She too was very surprised and we exchanged a few informative sentences.
She was glad to know I was flying airplanes and she informed me she was working on her PhD at the Sorbonne.
She told me she was very busy with the studies and had little time to socialize.
'Why don't we have dinner together and catch up the last seven years?' she said.
I said okay and felt she was lonely, desperate, had no money, and back to the old routine of using me.
'Seven o'clock at the lobby of the Royal Monceau' I said.
She was punctual I saw her coming but I let her look for me. I was sitting in the dark lobby with about ten crew members deliberating which restaurant to choose.
Finally she approached and I greeted her brought her closer to the group. The girls in the group were astounded and the boys started to drool. Everyone was quiet when I said in French 'Je vous presente ma cousine' . No one in the group spoke French I said it just for her. It is an expression used in Paris meaning, 'this is the broad I picked up for the evening.'
When she heard it, she turned red. She turned on her hills and walked away. I ran after her faking an innocent face and asked 'What happened, did I say anything wrong?'
'You have no idea?'
'Look,' I said, seven years ago when we visited your friend you made me your cousin I was under the impression we still are cousins.
She looked into my eyes with her bewitching eyes, those eyes that nobody could look into them longer than one second. I kept staring at her while controlling my facial muscles from smiling.
She acknowledged immediately that the cousin phrase was pre planned. The fury in her face ascended to unbelievable heights and her eyes were spitting fire.
She did the only thing she could do:
Without saying a word, she turned slowly and just walked away.

After she left, I picked up a fancy restaurant and enjoyed my dinner alone immensely. I was pleased, happy, and In addition, had no regrets.
In between bites and wine, I had those uncontrolled surges of smiles. I smiled, like an idiot, staring into space.
My main course was a dish that people say tastes better when it is served cold: Vengeance a la carte."

The end

2010-02-18T08:56:00.000-08:00

the navigator

2010-02-17T06:20:00.001-08:00

The Navigator
Hagai Cohen

Captain Ben Feldman and I were enjoying a glass of Koelsch, 'brewed on location' at a small Beerstube in front of the Köln Cathedral, when Ben remarked, "This cathedral is quite old, you know. It has catacombs, escape tunnels, many buried secrets and relics dating back to Roman times." I looked at the two steeples and remembered from the flight charts that they tower to a height of 700 feet.

"Did you notice the marks of bomb fragments on the two stone steeples?" asked Ben.

The year was 1980; thirty-five years since the end of the war, yet several war-damaged buildings were still to be seen. "We were very careful not to bomb the cathedral," Ben added. He had been a flight Leader in the Royal Air Force and had flown the Lancaster bombers for his majesty.

"How is that?" I asked. "Don't tell me you had a religious conscience."
"Not at all" said Ben "The two tall steeples of the cathedral usually protruded out of the stagnant morning smog giving us a positive position update for further bombing or returning home. The congested anti-aircraft German guns were in several strategic spots around the town and the Rhine; the cathedral enabled our navigator to avoid the guns. Thanks to those steeples, the Germans never got us.”

With this, Ben launched into his story:
"The squadron policy was to keep the same crew together; my navigator, my engineer, my bomb aimer, and my radio operator were always the same people, though the gunners were not a part of the permanent crew. The boys called us 'the lucky bastards'. The average number of missions per crew never exceeded 31. My crew and I flew over a hundred sorties. As I once said to an outsider, it looked like we were lucky. In fact, we were very lucky, but for a different reason.

Our crew’s charm, and in my opinion, the reason for our survival was our genius navigator. Before the war, he had been a postgraduate mathematician working on his PhD in Oxford.
He was a man with an unbelievably fast and accurate analytical brain, and a photographic memory to boot. One scan over the intelligence report charts was enough for him to memorize all the coordinates of the anti-aircraft batteries, and the temporary Luftwaffe bases. Another short scan of the weather reports and he remembered the synoptic charts, the location of the storms, the fog and the wind. He usually managed to take us to the targets from an unexpected direction, and the headings he gave me after our bombing missions avoided all anti-aircraft fire. Sometimes he took us so low that we flew on the deck, almost touching the meadows.
By the way, he was a Jew. In fact, he and I were the only Jews in our base’s four squadrons.

One winter morning our target was the Central Train Station of Köln, the one not far from where we sit now. Many of the German industries were situated along the Rhine and this train station served them. That day there was stagnant fog over the Rhine valley, up to a level of 600 to 700 feet. It was a very good day to approach the targets. We were invisible to the anti-aircraft guns, and could therefore ‘lay our eggs’ from a low level, right onto the target. The tip of the two protruding steeples gave us a very good indication of the location of the train workshop. That day I was leading a flight of four Lancaster's in close formation. We stayed together while dropping the bombs. The target was small and I did not want to risk a second bombing run.

After releasing our payload, our tail gunner spotted five Messerschmitt interceptors behind us, diving towards our tail. My navigator immediately took control and instructed me: 'Fly to the steeples, over the cathedral steer to heading 360 degrees. Descend to flight level 500 feet and increase your speed to 230 knots.' He continued: 'No 2 follow us, maintain speed 215 knots flight level 470'.' He instructed the other two planes accordingly and within less than 20 seconds we all were in the fog, flying in line one after the other with speed and altitude separation.

I trusted him with my life. The ‘sonofabitch’ flew us into the fog for one full hour. He knew our location every given second. He knew there would be no drift, as there is no wind in this kind of weather. He knew of every obstacle along the valley. He also knew that the Germans would wait for us on route home over the sea, where there is no fog. However, he took us all the way up to Borkum Island. Funnily enough, it was a German island. Who would believe we would escape into German territory.

It was a nerve-breaking hour that I'll never forget. As I said I trusted my navigator, I knew how he thinks and I knew how he works. He tuned our 'direction finder' to civil radio stations for which he remembered their exact location. With this information and his unbelievable quick brain, he could tell our position at any time.

The rest of the crew had no idea what he was doing and were scared to death. They did not say a word. My engineer was sweating heavily and nervously sliding back and forth on his seat for no reason. The radio operator, very agitated, got up every 30 seconds to look through the cockpit windows into the fog. With the British Air Force discipline and hierarchy I am not sure if their silence was because they were afraid of me or of the situation. The navigator on the other hand was cool, calm and very professional. He didn’t say one unnecessary word.

The heavy breathing of the crew consumed all the oxygen and what we breathed at the end was contaminated lung tickling smog. After a tense-full hour, my navigator suddenly announced:
'In five minutes we will be out of the fog, gunners wake up and watch out.'
Four minutes later, we saw the Borkum Island in front of us. 'Take heading 270 degrees. Descend 200 feet. Resume normal speed.' He than gave instructions to the other three planes, directing them to close into a formation.

We turned westbound before we were over the island and soon we were over the North Sea. We entered England way up north far away from our base, but also far away from the German fighters that were waiting for us in the channel. During this saga, we kept radio silence. The first time we used the radio was about fifty miles from the English coast. We landed almost two hours later than planned. For Bomber Command, we were already lost in action. It was a happy day for my people, but not so for the squadron. Two Lancaster's had been shot down and both crews were missing. We lost two more Lancaster's when they were too crippled to fly home and had to land on the shoreline not far from Brighton. The crews survived with little injuries.

During the debriefing, our Squadron Leader screamed at me and at my navigator. it was not clear why he was screaming when in fact he should be happy we are back.
'Why didn't the radio operator 'Morse' to base?' he shouted. With a very straight face, I answered ‘Damn it sir we were so frightened and I could not risk the radio operator’s shaking hands on the 'Morse' key. The Squadron Leader did not take the joke well. Rather he increased his volume and threatened us with court martial. "I'll discuss it with the wing commander," he said, "and may be we will separate the two of you." The cold-blooded navigation officer, to further annoy the Squadron Leader said: "We did our job sir; we hit the targets and came back safely, in one piece." Then he added innocently, 'Did the other four Lancaster hit the target sir?' The Squadron Leader, looked like he was going to explode. He made a sharp turn and left without answering.

We did not need to get an answer from him, as we already knew they had dumped the bombs, just to get rid of the heavy load when they were attacked. The Germans had been waiting for them over the sea and had shot them all. Two crews had survived.

Later on, the surviving crews that had landed in Brighton arrived back at the base after getting medical treatment. Those people were welcomed like heroes. "They had crashed and yet still managed to walk away from the wreckage on their own feet." A real achievement and a wonderful forced landing on the shoreline pebbles," said the Squadron Leader in his speech during the party they gave the survivors. The wing Commanding Officer authorized liquor and even champagne.

My crew and the crews of the other three planes under my command were not invited. I was angry about this and decided to join the party uninvited and talk to the StationWing Commander. I got to him after his blood was well diluted. As a good friend of my father, he was always willing to listen to me. He and my dad had gone together to Eton. I told him my version of the story and he was very attentive. "Disregard the court-martial threat". He said and dismissed me.

"Just watch your step. One day, you'll make a mistake and I’ll get both of you!" said the squadron commander after reluctantly assigning us to fly together again. Everything returned to normal except for one thing, my Flight Lieutenant the navigator was never seen again in the officers club and did not socialize with anyone. Nobody liked successful Jews. After that incident, we flew together about thirty more missions, and never had even one bullet hole in our planes.

The war ended a few months later. On the day, Germany surrendered, at the victory party I spoke again to the Station Wing Commander and suggested that he give citations to the crews with the maximum sorties. He agreed and assigned twenty people to research the logbooks, my crew and I were the aces of all of Royal Air Force bomber squadrons. King George the sixth gave us the medals in person. My navigator sent his medal to the squadron commander with a note saying something like: "We stayed alive despite your lousy command." There was a lot of anti-Semitism in the Air Force at that time. Even the Air Attaché to the British Embassy in Washington, was a notorious anti-Semite.

Open mouthed I listened to Ben's story until I suddenly interrupted him. "What happened to your navigator?" I asked
"I don't know," said Ben "He was originally from Czechoslovakia who studied in England. After the war, he went back to Prague to look for his family and found nobody. I kept in touch with him for a year and lost track of him after that. In 1948, I volunteered to serve in the Israeli Air Force and fought in the War of Independence. I flew the Mosquito, became a wing commander, I tried to find him with my contacts but had no luck."
"What was the name of your navigator?" I asked.
“Sam, Samuel Cohen was his name.”
"Wow" I said very much excited, "I suspected that much from your story, if I am not mistaken your navigator Sam Cohen is in Israel and I even know his address in Jerusalem."
"What? How come you know him?" he asked surprised.

"Sam Cohen was my English teacher in high school from 1950 to 1952. At that time, I was already interested in aviation and even learned to fly gliders. When Sam Cohen heard about it, he made me spell words like, atmosphere, altitude, sound barrier, dead-reckoning, wind-component and more. One day he saw me at a library in his neighbourhood and invited me for tea at his home. He showed me a navigation calculator and a shiny sextant he took out of a wooden box. He explained to me how it was used but did not say a single word about his military service or his flight experience."

A few months after the beer at the beerstubbe in Köln, Ben retired. Since that afternoon in Köln, I had made plans to bring the two ex RAF officers together for a surprise meeting at my home. "A retirement party for Ben sounds like a good idea" I said to my friends. My plan was to screen a movie about the Royal Air Force and the Battle of Britain, to have live baroque chamber music, which I knew they both liked, and to listen to their stories. Sam still lived in the same house. When I called, I got his daughter who arranged the meeting.

She greeted me at the door.
"He is not in" she said "he will be back soon, come in please."
I told her the purpose of my visit. She was very surprised
"Did he ever tell you his war time stories or speak of his flying experiences?
"No" she said, "not about the war and not even about his parents and the sister he lost.
I felt it was my duty to tell her word for word what Ben Feldman had told me. I explained to her the burden of the responsibility and the need of internal strength, to fly a flight of four Lancaster's in a fog with almost zero visibility. "Your father was a decorated hero; he got his citation from King George in person." I said at the end of my story.
I could see the tears in her eyes. She was sobbing quietly. "He never spoke about the four years he was in the army." She said. "Until today I didn't even know he was an officer. He never kept in touch with his Air Force friends and no one ever came to visit. You are the first one to uncover that hidden part of my father's life. Thank you so much."

It did not go so smoothly with Sam. First, he did not remember me. When he did, he did not want to participate with anything related to the Royal Air Force. Only after I had reminded him of the escape into the fog, and how Ben Feldman described him he agreed to come'

Sam and Ben challenged each other and told stories using the Air Force language and the slang of the forties. Ben told us that without Sam, the navigator, they would never have lived to attend this party. He also told us that from all of the recruits who had joined the squadron in 1941, only five people had made it to the end of the war: “ Sam, the navigator, my radio operator, my engineer, my bomb aimer and myself."

At some point I brought them back to the steeples and the escape in the fog.
Why didn't you 'Morse' home any messages? I said.
They looked at each other and started to laugh as if I had told a joke.
"Sending a message was very dangerous" said Sam. "Very very dangerous."
"Why?" I asked. 'Nobody could intercept an HF transmitter.'
Yes, you're right, but communication meant getting orders and disobeying orders in war time meant court-martial. Obeying orders on the other hand meant putting your life in the hands of some jerk in the command post who couldn’t assess your condition."

The evening was concluded with a long speech by Ben.
"In the squadron we were known as the 'old-peoples-home recruits.' We were five years older than the rest of the pilots. Nobody older than 26 was still flying. We did not explain why or how we survived. Had we explained it; nobody would have believed it. We kept it to ourselves, even my engineer and my radio operator did not always understand what Sam and I were doing. Many times I followed Sam's directions without understanding his logic myself. As you see, we are still here.
I said in the beginning of this meeting, and I will repeat it again I owe my life to Flight Lieutenant Cohen.

That evening at my place allowed Sam to finally live with his past, in peace. The four buried years of his Air Force service had come to life. The bond between Sam and his daughter tightened as she started to write down his stories.
Bringing Sam and Ben together again, after so many years was my greatest reward.

The Obsession

2009-11-17T01:28:00.000-08:00

The Obsession
Hagai Cohen
October 10, 2009

This is a story about an obsession. My obsession.

Over five decades from December 28, 1947, I was preoccupied with the disappearance of my friend, Yehuda. One sunny winter’s day, he was yanked out of my life. He had simply vanished. To find him and to understand what had happened became my obsession.

Three months before Yehuda disappeared, on the first day of fifth grade, the headmaster walked into the class holding the hand of a very strange looking boy. The boy wore blue short pants with braces, socks up to his knees and a plaid shirt. He carried a leather backpack and matching lunch box, that seemed expensive. He looked out of place and out of time.

"This is Yehuda Noymark", announced the headmaster, "a new immigrant from New Zealand." At that time, we saw many ‘new immigrant boys' whom we called refugees, or holocaust survivors. They were usually very thin, wore torn or patched clothes, were frightened and looked around for potential enemies. They were always hiding from any official looking person, as many of them were illegal immigrants in the eyes of the British government. However, this boy looked healthy. He was tanned, well dressed and athletic. I asked myself, why would anyone emigrate willingly from a peaceful place to Palestine, where war is imminent and the future obscure? To me it was an unexplained mystery.

I was still studying the new boy when the headmaster pointed at me and said: "You, Yakov - I am assigning you to help Yehuda with his homework and teach him Hebrew.” I was proud to be 'the chosen' and took to my assignment with all seriousness and devotion. I spent two to three hours a day helping him with his homework and his Hebrew. During these visits I met Yehuda's parents and his brother, David, but I never had any conversations with them as they always seemed preoccupied.

Three months later the family mystery became even more mysterious. "How was it that the new immigrants from New Zealand had found jobs so quickly, rented a large apartment and paid tuition for both of their children? In the Jerusalem of 1947, it was inconceivable. Unfortunately, my English and his Hebrew were too poor to conduct a real conversation so I could never discover the secret of the family’s success.
One Sunday morning, on my way to school, I heard sporadic automatic machine gun fire, the sound of police vehicles, whistles and sirens. In the classroom, from time to time, we heard the whine of bullets but the heavy stonewalls and high windows provided enough shelter for classes to continue as usual.

During the class, the headmaster burst through the door and ran straight to our surprised teacher. He whispered in his ear. The teacher’s face whitened. Without waiting for any response, the headmaster went to Yehuda, took him by his hand, said, "Come with me," and led him out. After they had left, we found our teacher in a faint on the floor. "Call the nurse," someone screamed and I dashed out. While running to the infirmary, I looked around for Yehuda but he was gone.

Class was dismissed, and we were sent home without knowing what it was all about. Although I had standing orders to go straight home, my curiosity got the better of me and I walked towards Yehuda's home. At the intersection near Yehuda's house a concertina wire police barrier blocked my way. A two-seater armored vehicle was parked in the middle of the intersection, and there were about fifteen spectators milling around.

"What happened?" I asked one of the bystanders. “The redheaded police sergeant in that armored vehicle shot the boy with the fancy bicycle.” I knew only one boy with a fancy bicycle, David, Yehuda's elder brother. "Was he killed?" I asked. "We don’t know. They took him away." He replied flatly.

I was still reeling from the shock when I saw Baruch Noymark, Yehuda's father running with a long barrel Parabelum handgun. The redheaded sergeant ducked into his armored car just as Noyman jumped over the concertina fence and shot at him. At that moment, I had the strange feeling that the two men knew one another. The redhead, realizing the danger, ducked into his turret and the armored car drove away in haste.

I went to where David had been shot, and a chill passed through my bones. David's bicycle was still there. I learned David had cycled down the street and when he was about 400 yards away, the police officer spotted him. David was apparently unafraid, as he had no reason to be scared. The sergeant opened fire when David was slowing down in front of the grocery store about 40 yards away. At that distance, the sergeant must have known David was unarmed and presented no danger to him or to the armored vehicle. So why would he have targeted David? I felt sick. I could not get rid of the notion that Baruch Noymark and the officer knew each other. Did the sergeant also know David? "This is murder," I said to myself.

The next day, the newspapers told a strange story:
"In yesterday’s Lechi attack on an Arab stronghold, several people were killed. British police officers accidently shot David Noymark, a boy of 15, who was caught in the crossfire." I could not believe what I read. It was no accident. This was an execution. The police sergeant ambushed David and, after a positive identification, shot to kill. Just as if he was foxhunting.

It still did not make sense to me. How could a new immigrant, such as Yehuda's father, who had only been in the country for three months, be in possession of a handgun, charge at a police officer equipped with a Bren machinegun and manage to chase him away?

I went to Yehuda's apartment and found the doors and windows shuttered, the place abandoned. None of the neighbors could tell me where the family had gone. "They will probably return later," they said. "This is their home. They have no place else to go." I walked there daily, but they never returned. I talked to my teacher and the headmaster, but they knew nothing.

In the days after David was killed, I looked in the obituaries for some mention of funeral arrangements and found nothing. Four days after the shooting, I read that the victims killed on Dec 28 were laid to rest in the cemetery on the Mount of Olives. The funeral procession had been under heavy police protection. In fact, this group of people, David among them, whose names were not published, were the last Jews to be buried there until 1967.

With the disappearance of the Noymark family, I looked for them in every official publication. I checked every telephone book, every Board of Education report. I went from one school to another and asked for him with no luck. Where was this family? Why had they come to Israel in wartime? How did they manage to settle so quickly? How did a new immigrant warrant a 9mm handgun? Were my suspicions correct that the police officer knew Baruch and David Noymark? I could not stop thinking about them. No answers were forthcoming and life moved on for me, with Yehuda and his family pushed to the back of my mind.

Thirty-six years later, in the summer of 1983, while driving a truck in the Sinai desert during my army reserve duty, I urged the man by my side to ask me questions and to demand answers to keep me awake. The topic we discussed was the disappearance of people. The example he gave me was of a Yehuda Noymark, who changed his name to Noy after his father became the military governor of Acre in 1949. Though the name Yehuda Noy intrigued me, I dismissed it as irrelevant. A new immigrant becoming the military governor of Acre two years after landing in Haifa seemed a bit too farfetched. I could not believe it was the same Yehuda and I did not pursue the information.
Fifteen years later I started to write up my childhood experiences and decided that it was time to check the Acre story. I called the Acre city hall and asked about the first mayor of the city. The city spokesperson confirmed Baruch Noy was the first military governor, who was re-appointed mayor as a civilian, but lost the elections in 1953. She did not know any details about the family but she said, "Hassan, the administrator of Algazar Mosque worked for the family and he might know more."

Excitedly I called Hassan, who immediately confirmed that the Noy family for whom he had worked was Yehuda's family. He told me about Yehuda’s brothers, Bennie, Oded and Yehi’am. He named a street in Acre dedicated to David Noy. He told me also that the family had immigrated to Toronto, Canada. A street named after David Noy? This prompted me to search into David's background. What I found surprised me. David Noy, even at 15, was a member of the Hagana and was listed in the "memorial for fallen soldiers” book. It also mentioned that he had not been on duty when he was shot. Only three months in Israel and already a member of the Hagana? This information compounded the mystery.

Isaac Shelf, a classmate of mine with whom I had kept in contact, was, at that time, the Israeli ambassador to Canada. When I called him, he remembered Yehuda Noy and was aware of my research on the family. With Isaac’s help, we found ten Noy's in Toronto. I struck it lucky on my first call. A woman, D. Noy, told me she did not know Yehuda Noy personally, but that she often got phone calls asking for him. "Yehuda Noy worked for the U.J.A.," she said. "He was their fundraiser, and I understand that he returned to Israel."

"Well, back to square one," I said to myself with a sigh. (Had I not stopped with D. Noy I would have talked to Yehi’am Noy, David and Yehuda’s brother. His name was down my list and he lived in Toronto at the time.)

Endless phone calls followed that lead, yet I only ever found traces. The search sent me to the stock exchange, where I found that Yehuda's company was traded on the market. Then I followed a lead to the 'Medals and Coins Authority,' where he used to work. I found many tracks, but no Yehuda. Finally, in desperation, I read the names of all the Noys in the telephone book and found a Ricky and Yehuda Noy.

On the second ring, a young girl answered the phone and was reluctant to talk. I begged her to answer only one question "Was Yehuda Noy's father Baruch Noy, the first mayor of Acre?" Her answer was, “Yes.” "Ok," I said, "please write down my phone number and ask Yehuda to call me." I waited and waited for his call. It came two days later. After explaining to Yehuda who I was, I quickly cut to the chase. I reminded him of the day he had disappeared from the school; I told him of my passion to find him during all those years. Yehuda remembered nothing - neither me nor the events of that day. He did not want to talk. To him I was a total stranger invading his family and his privacy.

"Look Yehuda," I said before he could put the telephone down, "you were important to me. I was assigned to teach you Hebrew and to help you with your homework. You were my first responsibility. I can understand you're not remembering me, as it must have been very traumatic for you." I rapidly continued, "After only a few months in Israel and still adjusting, your brother was murdered, you had to leave school and even your home. However, your family remained a mystery to me from the first day we met. With your disappearance, I was left with many unanswered questions. All I want are a few moments of your time." Yehuda finally agreed to meet me.

We met at his Tel-Aviv home. Yehuda was pleasant, friendly and answered all of my questions, however he insisted he did not remember the school or me. I began to realize how traumatic this event must have been for Yehuda when he related what had happened. I started with the question, “How is it that a ‘normal family’ decides to immigrate to a war zone?

"What do you mean immigrate?” he replied. “I was born in Israel. My father was a civil engineer who specialized in bridges and harbors. He volunteered to the Jewish brigade, became an officer and was sent to Christchurch, New Zealand to build a harbor for the Pacific war. I was very young and simply forgot my Hebrew." “Fine,” I said, “That explains how he became an officer in the IDF so quickly. But how come your brother, David, at the age of fifteen, was a Hagana member?” "Simple," said Yehuda. "The school we went to in New Zealand was a special school for children of army personnel. It was located within the perimeter of the British camp. We received military training as part of our curriculum. David was a full-fledged soldier at the age of twelve.”

It was my turn to fill in the gaps for Yehuda. I told him how frightened he looked when the headmaster pulled him out of his chair. I told him about his father charging at the police sergeant and how he had shot and missed. "No," said Yehuda. “That couldn’t have happened. My father was a sharpshooter. He could never miss.” "Look," I said, “I saw your father shoot at him and, believe me, the police officer’s head was already within the armored vehicle when he did. I believe the officer knew your father, as he spotted your father long before he was in range." Yehuda confirmed my suspicions. "The redheaded police officer,” he said, “was part of a unit similar to the FBI or the Israel Shabak. He was investigating my father. He came to our house twice when my father was not at home. He was not friendly. We believe he knew who David was and shot him in revenge for what he called my father's treason. He believed that for a Major in Her Majesty’s Engineering Corps, to become a member of the Hagana was treachery. My father told me they never found any evidence to support the fact that he was a member of the Hagana. The police sergeant was furious that he could not make his accusations stick and thus took his anger out on David.

David was an easy target, identified by his unique bicycle. “My Father was on the other side of town when he got the message. It took him half-an-hour to get to the site. According to my Dad’s report, there was something between him and the police sergeant, but he never mentioned any shooting.”

"Where did you go after David was killed?" I asked. “For a few months we lived in the Palace hotel. My uncle who owned it, kept us under assumed names for a few months. All this time hiding in our claustrophobic room was very difficult for me, for my Mom, and for my brother who became depressed. We could not go to school. We did not go out even to shop. It was in fact a prison sentence. I could not believe this kind of life after our peaceful existence in Christchurch." “While still in hiding, my father was assigned as commander of the Mount Scopus Hebrew university campus, which was under Arab siege. Being a remote place and, like all other university campuses under British rule, it was out of bounds for the Police and the military. and very safe for my fasther. The hotel on the other hand was unbearable for me. It felt like losing my father. I had nothing to keep me occupied, no English books, and the Hebrew books there, I could not read."

“Later we moved to another hiding place, very close to the Schneller army camp. At that time, we got fake Id's and it became a little better. The sergeant in charge of the investigation had returned to England and no one else in the investigating unit pursued the case. We came out of hiding on May 15, 1948 when the British mandate ended. We moved with my father's unit to the Galilee. He became a staff officer in the Carmeli Division and was a member in the group planning the Yehi’am supply convoy. However, the convoy was ambushed and 46 of the 90 people, who comprised the convoy, died. My father took it as a personal failure and became depressed, which affected us all. When my youngest brother was born, my father named him Yehi’am, after that unfortunate convoy.

“After the Israeli Defense Forces captured Acre, my father was assigned as military governor. Later he became the first civilian Mayor. During his term, he created a model town in which Jews and Arabs lived peacefully side by side.” With that the 50–year-old mystery was solved, and I felt lucky and grateful to be a minor player in the story of Yehuda Noy and his extraordinary family.

*****

The case of rigor mortis

2009-10-01T03:32:00.000-07:00

THE CASE OF RIGOR MORTIS
Hagai Cohen

“B-R-E-A-K T-H-E R-I-G-O-R M-O-R-T-I-S. B-R-E-A-K T-H-E R-I-G-O-R M-O-R-T-I-S,” came the garbled voice from the speakers on the flight deck. “P-L-E-A-S-E R-E-P-E-A-T Y-O-U-R M-E-S-S-A-G-E, P-L-E-A-S-E R-E-P-E-A-T Y-O-U-R M-E-S-S-A-G-E” I said into the mike. The conversation went through the H.F. radio of the 707 jetliner. We were on the ground in Teheran. “U-S-E F-O-R-C-E, U-S-E F-O-R-C-E. Came the scratchy voice again. Obviously, my partner across the ‘ether’ didn’t hear my last request and after he said: “use force” twice our communication was lost altogether.

“Now what?” I knew I had to break the rigor mortis. I also knew I had to use force. I had no idea what it meant.

Seven hours earlier, while having my early morning coffee, a phone call had disturbed my peace. I was on “immediate standby,” meaning, ready to fly at a short notice. I was surprised when I heard the crew assignment officer telling me: “Be ready a.s.a.p. a cab is already waiting outside.” It had never happened before. What she could have added to the strange message was: “The chief pilot himself will brief you, prepare for an overnight stay.”
I put on my uniform, grabbed my pre-packed bag, and got in the cab.

At the dispatch office, our chief pilot laconically briefed us: “There was an accident outside of Teheran, a bus with fifty people on board, tourists from South Africa, fell off a cliff, many are dead the rest have injuries of various degrees. We were chartered to fly them home. The crew is the standby crew except for purser Benny Kaufman who was removed from his scheduled flight. Benny is a qualified nurse and is experienced in handling emergencies; he was the chief nurse in a military trauma ward.”

Benny was a very small man, and to imagine him as an army major, running an emergency room was almost impossible. Benny himself joked, “In a ‘civilized’ country, I would make an excellent jockey, not a purser.”

Our flight was planned from Tel Aviv to Teheran and from Teheran, direct to Johannesburg.
Our ground crew in Tel-Aviv removed seats and installed stretchers. Oxygen cylinders and life support equipment were fastened around the cabin. Benny felt at home.

We flew fast and we made it at a record time. Exactly five hours after I’d left my coffee behind, we touched down in Teheran International Airport. Ground control directed us to a remote military section of the airport. The ambulances were already there, Maintenance connected the fuel truck. A cargo high loader was used for the stretchers. Everything seemed to be moving smoothly.

Our navigator got sick when he saw and smelled the injured. “I am preparing the flight,” he said and closed himself in the cockpit.

The five cabin attendants, three women and two men, had no idea what to do. Benny found it easier to work alone rather than delegating authority. At one stage, Benny asked for my help. The oxygen fittings were of a different standard as were the electrical connectors. We had to improvise. Benny was on top of the operation. It took about an hour to board the wounded, to attach them to the IVs, the monitors and to the oxygen tanks. We wondered where the doctor was. He was supposed to join us and do the work.

The outside temperature was now forty centigrade; inside the cabin it was a little better as we had connected an external air conditioner, but despite it, the temperature inside was 34 degrees and rising.

We had almost completed the loading, when the station manager came with a package of bad news: “Iranian morticians, whom we hired to place the bodies in the coffins, and the doctor engaged to accompany the wounded, have been detained outside the base gates, they do not have the necessary pass.”

“I don't understand,” I said. “Where are the bodies?”
“They’re in the hangar,” said the station manager.
“Let’s have a look,” I said. The station manager was under tremendous stress and completely lost. He had no idea whom to bribe, or how to unravel the bureaucracy. The army was not on his pay roll.

The horrifying scene inside the hangar was sickeningly hard to take. Fifteen coffins were aligned nicely by the wall, but in the middle of the hangar, was, an impressive pile of fifteen entangled bodies, all in odd positions and hard as wooden statues.

“What happened”? I asked the station manager
“The police threw the bodies on a hired dump truck and drove it to the middle of the hangar, dumped their cargo and drove away. There were a few moments of silence. I made a mental note to avoid Iranian treatment, dead or alive.

“O.K. I said to the station manager “let's call Tel Aviv. We have a great military relationship with the Shah, so perhaps a call from our ministry of defense will solve the problem.” I got on the H.F radio and called our dispatch radio operator. I explained our situation. He did not know whom to call and I had the feeling I was wasting time.

“Get me a phone patch to Abu Kabir,” I said and he put me through. The pathologist in charge had difficulty understanding who I was, why I was calling from Teheran, and how to communicate on a two-way radio. Ten precious minutes were lost to establish the communication, when finally we understood each other the transmission became garbled. “B-r-e-a-k- the- r-i-g-o-r m-o-r-t-i-s, u-s-e- f-o-r-c-e”. Those were the last words, said over the radio on the subject before the transmission went dead. Everybody focused on me, I spoke to the pathologist, and I was expected to come with the answers.

I left the crew in the cockpit and went to Benny in the cabin “Benny” I asked, “doesn't rigor mortis goes away between eight to twelve hours after it sets in?”
"Yes."
“Is there any way to accelerate the process?"
“Damned if I know,” said Benny.
“The Pathologist said we should break the rigor mortis. Do you have any idea what he meant?”
“No,” said Benny, “Let's go and look.”

With Benny next to me, I got a little more courageous and stopped two feet short of the pile. I could see and hear the thousands of flies hovering over the bodies.

“Use force, use force,” the pathologist last words were pounding in my head. I looked at the pile and locked on to one of the bodies who looked less frightening than the rest. Only his legs were out and one knee was bent. He looked more like a mechanic working underneath a car than a dead person. I came close to him and pressed with my foot on the knee. The leg was as hard as a welded construction. It did not move at all, nothing happened, I tried harder, nothing. I climbed on the knee. I might have been climbing a rock. I jumped on it. As I landed on the knee, as if in magic the knee became loose and straightened under my foot, in fact I almost tripped and joined the pile. At that moment, I wanted to run naked in the streets screaming Eureka.

“Get the entry permit just for the doctor,” I said to the station manager. "Benny and I will take care of the bodies.” I did not want him to be present when Benny and I jumped on them.

After the discovery, it was strictly business; we moved from one to the other, softened them, straightened them, and put them in the coffins. Physically, it was not an easy job as Benny was too light and I am not heavy-set myself. We worked fast and, half an hour later, the bodies were in sealed coffins, packed with dry ice. Benny and I returned to the plane. The air in the cabin had become extremely unpleasant. The temperature was rising rapidly and the wounded were beginning to moan and complain, as their sedation wore off. The station manager returned without the doctor. Benny was livid and said, “With or without the doctor we have to take the aircraft off the ground. It’s a life threatening situation.”

I had to agree but for different reasons. The outside temperature was now forty-two centigrade and very soon, takeoff would be impossible. We were already pushing the performance envelope. After a short discussion, we decided to leave without the doctor.

Benny assured us he could handle it; after all, preparing injured for transportation was Benny’s expertise. Nervously, I complied. “ after the cargo doors are closed we’ll start and go” I said
The takeoff was on performance boundaries, 3500’ field elevation with 42 degrees, 70 ton of fuel for the nine-hour flight put the takeoff run on the margins of safety.

Benny’s competence and his dedication to the people caused them to arrive in better shape than they departed. They were very grateful to him.

I have no recollection of the flight. I remember only that none of us slept the night after. In the morning, my entire crew was in a deeply depressed state. I suggested we pay a visit together to ‘our patients’ in the hospital as “therapy.”

The visit was highly emotional. We all cried. I was relieved to learn that all the wounded were out of danger. I could not believe we had taken such a huge responsibility, flying without a doctor.

My rigor mortis trauma stayed with me and for years after, I had recurrent nightmares in which the “mechanic” from underneath the pile was chasing me with a thirty-inch spanner.

It took three decades after that incident before the mechanic stopped haunting me.
Sometimes however, especially at wedding banquets, when they serve chicken legs, I relive the memories. The chicken legs served are unquestionably in a state of rigor mortis, and as there is no way I can jump on them, I do not risk my teeth on wedding drumsticks!.

The Party

2009-06-20T06:21:00.000-07:00

The party
Hagai Cohen

I found a lilac envelope in my mailbox. There was no return address. I slit open the envelope and removed the contents. The name Rachel Halevi was on top of the personal stationary. Rachel Halevi, a member of the elite, and a classmate of mine, had never taken me into her circle of friends. I was therefore surprised to receive her note.

Dear Yakov
As you well know, the Principal cancelled the end of year party for our class. I am planning to host the class party in my garden instead. I want to ask you a favor. It's not easy for me as we were never close friends and, of course, you may say no. I want you to help me organize and 'produce' the party. I know you can do it. I also know you can write Maqams* (I kept some of the things you wrote in the past and I think you are great). You are the only one who can turn boring parties into memorable events.
If you agree to help, please do not spare the sarcasm. I want you to bring the class snobs down to size.
Please, please do it for me. I am counting on you.
Your friend, Rachel"

Of course, I agreed. It was a chance to see the house of the richest family in Jerusalem.
Rachel was smart, pretty and never spoke about her wealth. Her house was a medium sized palace with an indoor swimming pool and a huge garden. The circular foyer with a diameter of fifteen meters was paved with Carrara marble in which was centered a single huge red marble rose.
Rachel Halevi although issued with a birth permit to be a snob, was in fact, quite modest. Still, it was strange to hear her call the others snobs.
She and I met several times to plan every step of the party. Timing was an important element in my plans and it was up to Rachel to play host and keep to the timing.
Our ‘superior’ classmates played solo instruments. Ruth Goldberg was the first. She played on her flute an obscure piece. It was hard to tell if she played out of tune or what we heard was the nature of the piece. Yair Goodman was next; he played a violin solo, the Chacone by Bach. Although he played better than Ruth, his high tones appeared to come from a circular saw. Some other girl, whose name I have forgotten, played a nocturne by Chopin on the baby grand. It put us to sleep and must have made Chopin squirm in his grave. At this stage, every guest was, as planned, pretty much annoyed. This prelude was a necessary step in my plan to deflate the over-inflated egos of the 'musicians.'

Amos Dagan came next. He was a real musician and he was party to our plans. He loved to imitate other instruments on his accordion and could compose and play in any style and any type of music. However, his "inferior instrument" was a target for scorn from our classmates, who didn’t appreciate his talents. Amos was to imitate the flute, the violin and the piano. He repeated the mistakes, remembering exactly the places where they had played out of tune and he played it comically. It put those other musicians' noses out of joint.

I came to the party well prepared with a chain of trivia questions, many elephant joke and with personalized Maqams. Only a few of my fellow classmates escaped the sarcasm. About thirty verses, all in rhyme, dealt with our principal, our teachers, and our classmates. I had rehearsed the 'show' with Amos Dagan, who accompanied me with his musical improvisations.

I had promised my classmates to read a 'self-incriminating' maqam, but had no intention of doing so. I stalled, until the audience started booing. As planned, I gave Rachel a pre-arranged signal. She moved swiftly towards me with a phone on a long extension and said, "Excuse me, Yakov; you forgot to make your call.”
“Oh, thank you so much, it slipped my mind.” I said.
I took the phone, begged excuse from the audience and dialed the number I had picked earlier from a phone book.

There was dead silence as I was dialing. I had aroused audience curiousty. Whom was I calling and what could be so important for me to stop the the verses?
“Mr. Orleansky?”
“Yes,” answered an old man’s voice at the other end.
“Mr. Samuel Orleansky?” I asked again.
“Yes,” said the man.
“Mr. Samuel Orleansky of 17 Balfour Street in Haifa?”
“Yes – who's calling please”?
“Thank God, Mr. Orleansky, I was afraid I woke the wrong person. Am I glad it’s you, Mr. Orleansky. My name is Yakov,” I said. “I have just arrived from Orleans in France. I met a relative of yours, who sends her regards. Her name is Jeanne - Jeanne D’Arc - also known as the Maid of Orleans.”
The old man paused and then said: "Please wait a moment," and went to consult his wife.
Mr. Samuel Orleansky did not keep me waiting long. “There must be some mistake, Mr. Yakov. We do not have any relatives in France.”
“You are Mr. Orleansky aren’t you?” I asked. “What do you want me to tell her when I go back?” I could barely control the laughter in my voice.
"You may go back to hell where you belong, you idiot nut and don’t you dare wake people up again at two o’clock in the morning. You are a schmock,” screamed the man and hung up. Of course, the conversation was heard by all over the speakers, prepared in advance.

To my great satisfaction Mr. Orleansky supplied the necessary diversion. In fact Mr. Orleansky ended the party and was remembered thereafter as the climactic moment.

A letter from Yair Goodman, the violinist, arrived twenty-three years later. It was an invitation to a class reunion, an offer I couldn’t refuse; I had to see what had happened to all the rich and famous classmates.
Most of the evening was spent to update and renew contacts, and addresses. ‘Mother’s brag books’ changed hands. Boring job-related and number-of-bedrooms issues dominated the conversation. It went on and on. As I was about to leave, Amos blocked my way and said: “Yakov, you are not leaving till you tell us how Mr. Orleansky is.”
“I don't remember being assigned to keep track of his well being,” I said, “but it’s easy to find out.”
I picked up the nearest phone and called information. The operator delivered the number and I dialed without delay.
“Mr. Orleansky?”
The voice of a very old man answered “Yes.”
“Mr. Samuel Orleansky?”
“Yes.”
“Mr., Orleansky I have just arrived from France. You have regards from your relative---"
Mr. Orleansky didn’t wait for me to finish. He screamed in Yiddish:

“Surre! Surre! Shttaiioff Shttaioff! Yakov, der mishiguiner,is noch nisht Geshtorbn”. (“Sara! Sara! Wake up, wake up! Yakov, the nut, is not yet dead.")

I was pleased to know that Sara and Sam Orleansky kept a warm place in their hearts for me. I was sure now I’d be remembered forever.
-----------------

Skyjack

2009-06-07T23:54:00.000-07:00

Skyjack

Hagai Cohen
24 January 2009

The Airway Bill proclaimed that the wooden box sitting on the porch by the front door of Guy Oren’s Tel Aviv home was sent from Paris. Not waiting to take it in, Guy pried open the top with a crowbar. Inside he found an envelope with an unsigned note, which read: “My little contribution to your son’s Bar Mitzvah.”
“Maurice Lazar,” guessed Guy. “The sonofabitch always does things in style.” Guy sat on the porch stool, reliving the exciting memories.

His last meeting with Maurice had been in London seven years earlier, in October 1968. At their parting what had he called it? “Our very own 'Last Supper.' We shall not meet or communicate until I say so.”

Their friendship had started in 1956 when Maurice was a French liaison officer in an Israeli air squadron and Guy was a young pilot.
“The man is definitely a spy,” said the squadron security officer in his briefing to the young pilots. “A shrewd intelligence officer, forced on us by the French government along with their Ouragan airplanes, so be careful what you say in his presence.” This remark conflicted with Maurice's evident love for Israel. He was a Jew and very loyal to the country. Being a French intelligence officer did not stop him from wanting to be of help. He was an engineer and a pilot too. His knowledge was invaluable to the young, inexperienced Israeli pilots.

The friendship between Guy and Maurice deepened only after Guy left the air force. Maurice's refined manners and charm, his large apartment, and his unlimited cases of fine champagne, attracted young men and women like moths to light. Artists, musicians, intellectuals, and many Mossad operatives with whom Maurice developed friendly ties, mingled together.
Three years of constant partying and intellectual challenges ended for Guy in 1960 when Maurice's contract expired. That same year, Guy got married. Since leaving the air force, he worked for El Al as an instructor, training new pilots and engineers.

Maurice returned to his parent’s home in Algeria where his father cultivated vineyards. His family belonged to a large group of French settlers who were disparagingly called ‘pied noir’ (black foot). Maurice found himself in the middle of a war between the OAS, a secret army of the settlers, fighting both the French army and the FLN, the Algerian liberation organization. Eventually the French government forced the settlers to return to France. Maurice and his family became refugees in their own country.
Then early in 1962, Guy received a letter from Maurice. It read:

As you know, we had to leave our vineyards in Algeria. Since we left, I have been unemployed. The French government demonized the settlers and banned us from government jobs. People today look upon us as traitors. I am desperately in need of a job. Attached is an ad from a newspaper. Your airline is hiring maintenance people here in Paris. Could you please ask them to give me a chance?
Maurice Lazar.

It was strange that Maurice who came from a wealthy family with a grandfather who owned a winery in France needed a job. Maurice had to be in desperate circumstances to write such a letter. So Guy used his influence and wrote a recommendation to the technical representative. They hired Maurice who in time became a real asset to the company. Guy and Maurice would meet occasionally over the succeeding years.

In 1966, Guy decided to retrain as an airline pilot. While still in training, he received another letter from Maurice.

Dear Guy,
I am sorry to inform you that my Grandfather died. In his will, I was his designated heir. I am now the president of “Lazar Vineyards” which is a large vineyard with a modern winery on the Cote de Rhone … I have resigned from El Al and am already working full throttle… I will always owe you and your people a huge debt. You helped me when I was in need and I’ll never forget it… I plan to re-organize the business and combine my father’s wine exports with mine… I am now in the process of renovating our old family mansion... You will be my guest during the 1968 harvest.”

Guy was highly pleased. It is quite a phenomenon having a chateau-owning friend.

One July morning in 1968, two months before his planned visit to Maurice on the Cote de Rhone, Guy was in the cockpit of a Boeing 707 preparing for his last training flight, before the final qualification checks. “Sorry, Guy,” said his training captain on entering the cockpit, “They made an error in the crew assignment and appointed two trainees to my flight. Unfortunately you're the one who must go home.” Annoyed, but with no alternative, Guy took a cab home.

The following night, on the flight back from Rome, the Boeing 707 was hijacked to Algiers airport. Three from the George Habash terror organization diverted the plane with Guy's training captain, his crew and passengers to hostile territory.
The next evening, Guy received the following surprising cable:

“Sorry about the unfortunate incident. We need to talk. Come tomorrow to Paris. Booked you on Air-France 027 departing 08:00. Waiting for you at Hotel Royal Monceau. All expenses paid.”

As his training was now suspended and he had nothing better to do, he boarded the plane the next morning.

Meeting with Maurice always felt as though there had been no separation between them. After ordering room service in his grand style, Maurice got straight to the point. “I know how you Israelis think. I have no doubt initial plans are already in progress to raid the airport and to release the hostages and the airplane. I want you to know, my father is back in Algeria. The government made it possible to get his farm back. I manage his wine export business. Once a week I fly there and use Air-France as my carrier.
“Here's the deal: with my contacts, I can prepare your airplane for flight. My motives are simple. I hate De-Gaulle for what he did to you in 1967 with the embargo on military equipment when all the Arab armies were poised on your borders. I hate what he did to my father, a decorated French officer, forcing him to leave his home and business. I hate the French Intelligence Service for turning its back on me when I was in need. I am thankful to your airline for restoring my dignity and my self-respect. I will do anything to help. Give this envelope to your Vice President of Security. If we get the green light, we’ll start working.”

“Why do you need me?” asked Guy.
“First, I don’t want to be in direct contact with the Mossad. I don't trust any secret service people anywhere and direct contact with Mossad agents might endanger my future. Second, I need you for technical support, for manuals, wiring diagrams, spare parts, etc. The gunshots in the cockpit could have created extensive damage. I will need all the technical help I can get. Later we will need a flight plan, weight & balance calculations, and more. You will mail all those documents to a post office box in Geneva. And then you are done.”

The next morning, Guy was on his way back to Tel-Aviv.
A meeting with two Mossad people was set up in a Tel-Aviv hotel room. The two were hostile to Guy right from the start.

"Show us IDs," said the older.
Guy showed them his ID cards; the younger examined the documents for a long time. The older took out a pack of forms and said to Guy: "Fill these forms using blue ink. We are going for a coffee. We'll be back in an hour."

Guy started to fill the forms and soon became extremely annoyed. He could not remember the birth dates of his brother and sisters nor the schools they attended. Guy was already a pilot when his sisters started school.

The agents returned an hour later. Guy contemptuously handed them the unfilled and unsigned forms.
"Listen you," said the older agent angrily, "who do you think you are?"
"I’m the man you were sent to meet. Talk to me if you have anything to say or just walk away."

The agents were speechless. Guy collected his ID cards and started to walk towards the door. The younger man stopped him and said, "Look Guy, we must check you up. We do not trust a ’walk-in agent‘ and what we are doing here is most unusual. We do not know what your role will be in the operation but we are to act as your linkage to the Mossad.”

"You probably know more about me than I do, so don’t forget my parents birthdays," said Guy sarcastically.

The young man held out a plastic envelope. “Here is your flight ticket and some expense money. We will meet you and Maurice the day after tomorrow in Geneva. Your instructions are in the envelope.”
Guy accepted the envelope and said, "And what might your names be, and how am I supposed to get in touch with you?"
"I’m Booky " said the older man, "and he’s Doky, and you don’t need to get in touch with us. We'll find you if and when required."

"Arrogant assholes!" was Guy's assessment. He said, "In that case I'll call you Black and Decker"
"What do you mean?" said Booky.
“First, your names are not Booky and Doky. Second, Simon and Schuster are already taken by my friend's cats.”
It was a case of dislike at first sight and definitely not a pleasant encounter.

Two days later, the four met in Geneva, Black & Decker, Maurice and Guy. They discussed the lines of communication and procedures. Maurice stayed on with Guy after Black and Decker left. He briefed him thoroughly. “Remember you are not a professional spy. Behave like a tourist. Do not look back. Turn your head at pretty women, if you think you are being shadowed, stop at a shop window and check out who that person is. Go to the same places, talk to people and be friendly. Volunteer irrelevant information, and hide your thoughts.”
“Is what we are doing illegal?”
“What you will be doing is completely legal. You will be transferring documents within your company. The Post Office box in Geneva is also your company mailbox. What I am doing is illegal. If questioned, you don’t know me.”

“Who are Black and Decker and what am I supposed to do with them? What do I need them for? Do I have to report to them?” "Relax!" said Maurice "don't be upset, Black and Decker’s roles are just to babysit. They are supposed to make sure nobody is on your tail, warn you and smuggle you to a safe house if anything goes wrong.

Now, here is the deal, I'll tell you what we need and you will provide it: Maintenance, Manual pages, spare parts, performance calculations, fuel etc. Don't worry about reporting. I'll take care of that."

Guy moved into a small hotel in Montparnasse that Maurice recommended. “I know the people in the hotel and I may use them if I need them,” said Maurice. Another problem Guy faced was the cover story for the French employees in the El-Al dispatch office. It was quite normal for trainee pilots to spend hours at the dispatch office as it functioned as a library, but why in Paris when his home was in Tel-Aviv?

“I have fallen in love with a petite, beautiful, sexy, classy girl… the best thing ever to happen to me,” he confided in them. “I’m staying at her place.”
It was a story the romantic French could easily swallow. They even gave him advice on how to satisfy the high demands of a Frenchwoman.

When an upgraded version of a Teleprinter was installed in the company offices, the dispatch people were pleased with Guy's knowledge of it’s working. They were not yet trained and Guy was able to teach them how to use it.
A Teleprinter was installed also in the Geneva’s office. Guy mailed a small 'teleprinting' instruction book to Maurice. Twenty-four hours later Maurice had mastered the skill and "Sita" aviation communication network became their way to communicate.

Guy ensured Maurice received prompt responses to his requests. A week later the bullet damaged instrument was replaced. Guy never discovered how the $10,000.00 artificial horizon which he had given to an Air France pilot at Orly who then flew to Oslo, ever got to the damaged airplane in Algiers. Fortunately, the horizon took the bullet and was the only damage to the plane. The aircraft was refueled. Maurice used the “SHELL” credit card hidden on board and paid for the 14,000 gallons of aviation fuel. “Except for the ground air-starter, all is ready,” read the coded cable.
As he had been advised, Guy maintained a daily routine: three hours every morning at the airport; lunch at the same restaurant where he sat at the same table. At the end of the third week, Guy found a man seated at his usual table. The man was a regular in the brasserie. He always sat two or three tables away. He was friendly with the proprietor and nice to the waitresses. He seemed like a nice chap. He immediately stood up and said, "Oh, I’m sorry. I have taken your place, I’ll move.”
“No. Stay where you are. I’ll find another place.”
“No, no. The table is yours.”
The restaurant was full and there were no tables available.
"Perhaps I can share the table with you?" said Guy.
“Certainly."
Guy sat down.
"Are you a tourist in France?" asked the man.
"You may call me a tourist but in fact I am a trainee pilot on observation flights. Paris is an important hub for our company, and the dispatch office has a rich library, so I spend three or four hours a day studying. That is, when I don't fly."
“I am Paul Ladaque.”
“Guy Oren.”
Paul was a few years older than Guy, intelligent and interesting. He spoke several languages, and loved art and music. Guy liked him immediately.
“I used to work for ‘Fnac electronics’ in marketing," he informed Guy. "Quite a bore! I have applied for several positions, and am waiting for replies.”
"The man is friendly," thought Guy, wondering about his sexual orientation, "maybe too friendly."
"Are you married, Paul?" asked Guy after a few minutes of small talk.
"No. I am in between girlfriends, in between jobs and in between apartments. I am not gay, if that is what you wanted to know."
"The bastard is smart,"
As they were enjoying each other’s company, the lunch took longer than usual. As they departed, Paul said, "See you tomorrow. A' bientot."
After the lunch the next day, Paul said. “Why don’t we get together for a drink one evening? I'll introduce you to my friends. You'll like them."
His friends were educated intellectuals, with connections that enabled them to get tickets to the opera, to the Comedie Francaise and other shows. Within two weeks, he felt he had known Paul a lifetime.

“My parents have a big house near Orleans,” said Paul one day. “I am going down for the weekend, will you join me? I usually don’t go there but as I am still not involved with any female, I feel I owe them a visit. They like company, mine especially, and they love to entertain.”

Guy was surprised but pleased, as it was atypical for the French to invite people to their homes. “Of course I’ll come,” he said. They exchanged confidences while they drove to the estate on the Loire river. Paul was interested in Guy’s life and Guy spoke about it happily.

“Did you fly for the Israeli Air Force?” asked Paul.
Guy had reasons other than withholding military secrets, not to answer the question. He had learned Paul was a pacifist, a member of several human rights organizations, was against weapons of mass destruction and against army service anywhere. To tell Paul he had flown a French aircraft and bombarded the Egyptian convoy in the Mitla pass was out of the question. Besides he was embarrassed to tell Paul how he felt about the unsafe French technology and their under-performance aircraft. Finally, he did not want to discuss politics - not the French government’s hypocrisy nor the embargo on critical spare parts during the Six-Day War.

“I was an operation specialist in the Air Force and learned to fly after I left it,” said Guy.
Paul showed genuine interest in Guy’s family, his children, his training and more. Guy answered his questions openly

They arrived at the house at three o’clock after lunching en route. They walked along the riverbank and had a friendly chat about the future of the Middle East; Paul knew more about the conflict than most Frenchman did. As Paul accompanied Guy to his room, he said suddenly, “Please wear a suit for dinner. It’s important for my parents.”

Monsieur and Madame Ladaque were hospitable but extremely formal until Guy said, “Madame Ladaque, this soufflé is excellent but it should be served only with the windows closed.”
“I beg your pardon,” said the lady.
“It’s so light, it could fly away.”
Everybody laughed and it broke the ice.

They moved to the living room for coffee. Two full size oil portraits hung on both sides of the fireplace. One was of a Spanish nobleman leaning one hand on a dining table. The other was of a woman in an evening gown sitting on a chair.

“The woman in the picture is sitting on the same chair you are sitting on,” said Guy to the old man.
"You’re very observant, Mr. Oren. The table we ate on is the same as the one in the other picture. Those two paintings are five hundred years old. Most of the furniture we have is from the same time."

This intrigued Guy so he got up and approached the paintings. He could not believe his eyes. He moved closer. The letters on the fringes of the tablecloth in the picture were in Hebrew script. What he read made him dizzy.

“Are you all right?” asked the old man. “Come, sit down.” He helped Guy to his seat. A bottle of cognac and a glass appeared. “A small glass will do you good,” said M. Ladaque as he poured. “What did you see in the painting?"

Guy did not know how or whether he should tell them.
“Paul,” said the father to his son, “glasses for everybody.”
“Is the man in the painting one of your family?” asked Guy.
“Yes. He was the first to settle in France from Spain.”
“Was his name Ladaque?”
“No. His name did not sound French so he changed it.”
“The writing on the fringes in the painting are, in fact, Hebrew,” said Guy.
A profound silence followed.
Guy took a piece of paper and wrote down the text in the painting and the translation: “The scholar, our father, and teacher, Moshe, son of Eliyahu, helper to the poor and a fortress to the under-privileged.”
Guy said, “The word for 'under-privileged' sounds like Ladaque. I believe your name comes from that word.”

Paul's mother, of old Roman Catholic heritage, was in shock. She got up and walked back and forth muttering. Paul frowned in his chair. The old man In a strange state of excitement, excused himself and said “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Twenty minutes later, he returned carrying a leather portfolio, which he opened very carefully on the coffee table. Paul and his mother looked on in surprise. After searching through the documents within, the old man produced two parchments, which he handed to Guy. Examining the first, Guy started to tremble again. It was a painting of the sacrifice of Isaac, drawn with tiny Hebrew letters instead of lines. The size of the letters and the old Hebrew syntax without spaces was not easy to read or understand.

“It is a testament, written by someone whose name is unclear, asking his children to return to Judaism once the danger is over. The date on it was 1498.”

“Can’t you read the name?” asked Mr. Ladaque.
“No, I'm sorry,” said Guy. “It looks as if the name was deliberately defaced.”
The second document was a Ketuba, a Jewish marriage contract written in Aramaic. The old man was all agog. He pulled out more documents and wrote down every word Guy said. Not until 02:00 did he let Guy go to bed.

Paul’s behavior throughout the evening had been somewhat strange. He sat quietly, deeply preoccupied. His mother retired for the night after being disoriented over an hour.

The next morning, Paul seemed not to be the same friendly person as before. “I'm sorry,” said Guy, “I can see you are troubled. Is it related to what we found in the painting last night?”
“No.” His manner was brusque. “We must return to Paris immediately after breakfast.”

They drove silently for half an hour, then Paul said, “I’ve been offered a job in Marseille. I fly there tomorrow."
Guy was surprised and hurt. "Why didn’t you say anything before? We've been sharing so much together and I have been with you since yesterday morning. Why only now do you choose to talk about it?”
“Well, you know, I wasn’t sure I wanted the job. Also I did not want to talk about it in front of my parents.”
“You could have told me in the car driving down,” Guy sulked. “However, I wish you good luck and I hope you’ll like it over there. Marseille is not Paris you know.”
“I don't believe we’ll meet again soon, but don’t worry I know where to find you,” said Paul as he dropped Guy off at his hotel. “Au revoir.”
“Bye,” said Guy.

Guy went up to his room. The visit to the Ladaques was not entirely a pleasant one. He was wondering what went wrong. He had been in the room only half an hour when a note was slipped under the connecting door to the next room.

Trainee pilot Guy Oren - crew assignment
dhd ly 215/26 ory-tlv ETD 23:30.
Crew assignment officer
Azovmiyad

The signature code was the password agreed with Maurice. The text on the note had no meaning. The code word translated as: ‘Leave immediately’ but, in addition meant: “Don’t pack. Don’t checkout. Take a train/ferry to London and fly home from there. Your mission is over.’

Guy got dressed in civvies, folded his uniform over his arm and draped a trench coat over it. He crossed the street to a corner café with entrances on two sides. He came in one door, joined a large group of people on their way out and emerged through the other door. On the next corner, he took a cab to the Champs Elysees, where he hailed another cab and went to the Gare du Nord. A train to Brussels was about to leave, Guy decided not to follow his instructions to the letter and he took it.

"If anyone is looking for me" thought Guy, "Belgium is a better destination. They never check passports on the train."
The next morning he joined an El Al crew on a flight to Tel Aviv.

Back home, Guy felt he had been dumped. Nobody called him; he knew no one to contact. The plane and the hostages in Algiers remained unreleased and nothing appeared about it in the newspapers. There was no diplomatic progress either. “What happened?” he kept asking himself. He had no idea where Maurice was or how to contact him. He did not think it would be discreet to write to his home.

Two days later, his luggage arrived with no indication of how it had been arranged. A few days later, on Sunday September 1, the aircraft, and the hostages were released in exchange for some terrorists. Guy got his instructor back and a month later, he was a qualified first officer.

On Guy’s second flight as first officer, which was to London, he found an envelope amongst the flight papers. “Join us for a party in room 303 at 18:00.”

Guy knocked on the door at exactly 6:00 P.M. and, to his surprise, he found Maurice, Black and Decker and two other men he had not met before, inside the suite. A bottle of champagne stood on a small bar with some nibbling goodies, but it did not look like a party. All had raised their hackles. Maurice was the only one to greet him. Guy just sat on the couch with a glass of champagne, Maurice went into a huddle with Black and Decker who in turn, whispered to each other. Then they went into a huddle with the two other men, and so on, back and forth. Half an hour later, Black and Decker, and the two other men left the room and Maurice finally spoke to Guy.

“What you witnessed," said Maurice, "is the ugly part of secret service work. Black and Decker tried to blackmail me, to force me to supply intelligence information. They brought their ‘control’ as backup. When I refused, they promised to incriminate me with some documents in their possession. I was not born yesterday, as you know. I told you before, we were considered 'walk-in agents' who are troublesome to any secret service. 'Walk-in agents' are the first to be sacrificed when anything goes sour. As a safety measure, I did my homework. I told them their real names, there home addresses, and their safe houses in France. I convinced them I could harm them as much, and maybe more, both in France and in Israel. We are now in the middle of a cold war with a balanced exchange of threats.”

After throwing back some champagne, he continued: "Black and Decker did not understand your role in the operation. They had no idea what it takes to prepare an airplane for flight. You are one of a few who knows the engineering as well as the operational aspect of the flight. The ‘off airways’ flight-plan you so skillfully created, the fuel calculation, the takeoff performance, and the myriads of other details, usually done by five separate professionals, was all done by you. Quite impressive.

Black and Decker were supposed to be in touch with you, to watch and protect you. They loathe us both. Their lack of trust in us extended to wanting us to fail. They ‘forgot’ to give you an address or phone number where they could be reached.

“The Geneva office was my idea and for various reasons. The first and the most important one was that the airport serves both France and Switzerland. I still have my airline pass. I can move across easily between France and Switzerland. The Geneva office handles only two flights a week. The staff comes from Zurich just for the flights. The rest of the time, the office is empty. You cleverly used the ‘SITA’ ( societe internationale telecommunication aeronautique ) Teleprinter to report to me. Black and Decker did not know about the SITA network and had no access to it. After I learned to use it I could communicate with your Vice President of Security, who was very pleased nothing leaked out. We kept Black and Decker out of the picture. They were astonished to hear that the airplane was ready for flight. They were fuming you did not use the post office, their only way to follow up. They came to Paris to grill you but did not know where you stayed. Their clumsy presence in France - looking for you - was registered by French intelligence, who then found you.”

After a short pause, Maurice continued: “I told Black and Decker some time before that Monday, to warn you. They did not do so. The French wanted Black & Decker, not you. They wanted to get to them through you. Black & Decker felt it, fled and left you to face the music. The plan was to arrest you on the morning of Monday September 26. The hotel sommelier, who is on my payroll to promote my wines, left you the note advising you to leave at once. As a safety measure, I drove all night to get you out of the hotel, just in case you didn’t get the note.”

Then Maurice said, "I assume you met a man called Paul Ladaque?" Guy’s face drained of all color from the shock. He cleared his throat twice before he could answer, “Yes, he is a good friend of mine.”

“Good friend, my ass! Colonel Ladaque is ruthless, a bright, talented and loyal officer whom I knew in French intelligence. He has never failed in any investigation. That charismatic chap can put the hangman’s rope around your neck and assure you it is for your own good. He was, in fact, about to nail you.”

Guy was in disbelief. “He held memberships in a host of human rights organizations.”
“Just a façade, to help him catch radicals and impress people like you. Paul took you out of town so nobody could warn you. The hotel was under surveillance in case Black and Decker showed up. His parents are in it too. He asked his parents not to discuss any topic that might reveal his occupation. Did the old man ask you how you met Paul? What you were doing in France? If you were married? No? Ha! I didn't think so. The old man was briefed. What I cannot understand is why Paul brought you back earlier than planned and called off the arrest.”
Guy was quiet for a long time.
“It was probably the cognac with the old man,” he said finally.
“What are you talking about?”
Guy told his story.
“Are you telling me that traces of Jewish blood kicked Paul all the way to Marseille? I wish I could confront him and rib him. It's not like Paul to get emotionally involved.”
“How do you know what goes on in the French Intelligence Bureau?”
“You really don't need to know that,” said Maurice.
Guy thought long and deeply. Was it possible Paul Ladaque himself was the source? Maurice was always one-step ahead, and knew too many details.

Maurice kept up the chatter for two more hours over Caille a la Russe aux truffes, (Russian style quail with truffles), which was in keeping with his style. The taste of that succulent meal lingered on Guy’s tongue.

“Listen Guy, we mustn't meet or communicate until I say so. This could be our very own 'Last Supper',” said Maurice as he escorted Guy to his hotel door and gave him a warm embrace. "By the way" Maurice added "we could never have rescued the crew and the airplane as originally planned: the bastards had filled the cabin with forty tons of sand bags. It took a whole day to offload 1600 sand bags before the flight.”

Guy turned his attention to the box on the porch, removed the foam chips, and exposed a 12 gallons barrel of delicate French wine.

The end

High coffe

2009-05-07T07:32:00.000-07:00

Hoch Kaffe

Hagai Cohen
Although externally I look quite normal, I am not perfect. My defect is not visible to the naked eye and it is hard to explain. To put it simply, I do not like anything sweet.
Growing up, with this imperfection was not an easy task. It seemed that kids were more understanding than grown-ups. When I told a friend, "I don't like chocolate," he would respond, "That's all right, I don't like spinach.” But if I would say that to a grown-up the immediate reaction would be:” What? Nonsense! Everybody likes sugar. I've never heard of such a stupid thing." And then more questions: "Not even ice-cream?" or "What about chocolate fudge? Not even that? I don’t believe you." And so on.
Grown-ups were quite upset about my aversion to sweets. Their biggest concern was that it might become a trend. Meaning that more and more children might develop a dislike to sweets, and the best weapon that they had ever had against children, would be rendered useless, "No ice-cream after supper if you don't eat your cauliflower". The poor child would eat the entire cauliflower just because he liked ice cream. With me it never worked. Nobody ever made me eat food I didn't like with a promise of an ice- cream. Grown-ups never understood. All they could do was comment, "What a stubborn boy!"
.
"Hoch Kaffe" was a daily routine, at my friend, Meir Besserkopff’s house. If you are only interested in the meaning of the expression Hoch Kaffe you should skip reading now and go directly to the last paragraph. However, if you really want to understand the full essence of the words then just be patient.
My friend Meir was born in Israel, to parents, who had been born in Germany and left for Jerusalem in 1934 following the rise of Hitler, It was during High School that I met Meir, and we very quickly became good friends. We went to the same sports club together, we studied music at the same music school, and a lot of our school homework was done together, mostly at his house.
Meir lived together with his younger brother and parents in a huge apartment of twenty fives rooms. In fact, this apartment was a full "slice" of a big house - an entire floor. On the other floors of the same building there were at least five apartments in the equivalent space. To make it easy to find your way in this large labyrinth each room was given a specific name, - the morning room, the coffee room, the laundry, the mud room, the cold room, the stone house and so on.
Each of the rooms was heavily furnished with cumbersome dark walnut furniture. Each piece of furniture looked so massive that it seemed as if they had been built on location before the house. It was impossible to imagine that they could ever have fit through the door-frames.
Meir's father was a professor of history at the Hebrew university. His mother ran the ‘estate,’ together with three hired hands; a maid, a cook, and a secretary. They too resided in the apartment and were on immediate standby 24/7.
Reflecting back on it today I am sure that Meir never had an egg salad sandwich or humus in pitta bread. Whenever Meir expressed a desire for a snack (through the right channels of course), he would get (only if it was not too close to a scheduled meal), a huge silver tray full of small things, they called "canapé’s". These were coin size, round slices of bread, each piled up with goodies such as smoked fish, various cheeses, all kinds of processed meats, decorated with fancy vegetables, black and green olives, tiny pieces of red, green and yellow peppers, tomatoes, lemon, capers and more. Each one of those microscopic club sandwiches looked like a flower. They were all arranged together on a big silver tray in the formation of a giant flower. A work of art, that would cause a guilty conscience to the person eating the ‘installation’. It was the only food that Meir was allowed to eat with his bare hands, and only in the morning room.
Nobody in Meir’s house spoke unless spoken to first by a higher authority. I glimpsed Meir’s father a few times but never heard his voice. He probably had nothing to say and had no need to enforce his authority as everything went so smoothly in this well lubricated flawless household.
My friend Meir had a split personality, he used to joke with me about the strict rules and codes in his house when he was out with me, but complied with the discipline to perfection when he was home with his parents and servants. Meir used to joke about his communication with his father. "When I want to talk to my father" he said:"1. I write a draft. 2. I take it to my mom for approval. 3. Once approved, the secretary types it and puts it in an envelope. 4. The maid takes the note to my father. 5. My father consults his calendar and sets a date for next October, and so on".
Once, while studying for an exam together, Meir and I were unaware of the time until all of a sudden there was a knock on the door.
Meir jumped, as if he had been bitten by a snake. It was obvious that Meir had missed an important duty.
"Its Hoch Kaffe, Master Besserkopff," said the maid, in German, from behind the door.”
What is Hoch Kaffe?" I asked Meir, "We are just having coffee," Meir replied, and rushed me into the guest bathroom. He pointed at two small towels with my name on a piece of paper next to them. He introduced me to a secret button on the wall, by which the toilet was flushed. He left the room saying, "You may wash your hands now".
This sentence came to me as a big surprise, what could it mean - I may wash my hands.
For a few seconds I was sure something very bad had happened to Meir. First, the jump at the maid's knock, then this stupid hand-washing directive, it could only mean trouble.
All of a sudden it came to me as clear as day, in this household nobody was supposed to know what you are planing to do in the bathroom, it is a private matter between you and your body. It is inconceivable even to imagine what one could be doing there. Thus, the Besserkopffs used a code, "wash your hands" so that nobody would ever guess what you really did in there.
Meir was waiting for me after I had finished "washing my hands" and escorted me to the coffee room. Everyone was already seated as we walked in, except for the maid, who was standing on alert wearing a fresh apron and a clean cape.
Meir's father stood, with a very angry face, watching the big pendulum clock that showed one and a half-minutes past five O'clock. I was not sure but it seemed as if everybody was waiting just for us - the father, the mother, an uncle, I had never met, and Meir’s eleven year old brother .
The table in front of me was loaded. There were two plates stacked one on top of the other, a cup and a saucer - all matching Rosenthal china. A spoon, a teaspoon and an oddly shaped fork- all solid silver were neatly arranged next to the china. Straight away I spotted what I thought were cookies, but the Besserkopffs later explained that they were "petit-fours". On a serving table next to the coffee pitcher there were two different cakes, one moist or creamy usually eaten with a spoon, and the other dry, eaten with the odd shaped fork.
At that moment Meir's mom signaled to the ‘alerted’ maid who immediately started pouring the coffee and passing it down the chain of command, starting with the father and finishing with Meir's brother.
I was watching the perfectly executed drill when I was surprised by the maid who sneaked up behind me and inquired, "Master Gonen what kind of cake do you prefer?
She caught me unprepared. It was the first time, and I think also the last that anyone had ever called me Master Gonen. I, however, was not planning to eat any cake. I took a moment to recuperate and then responded, "Thank you, I do not eat cakes." The maid's words to me were the first words spoken in the coffee room, and after my answer was emitted the silence turned into a deep silence. The air stopped moving, and I am sure that even the cakes took it as a personal insult.
"I am sorry madam, nothing is wrong with the cakes. I merely do not eat anything sweet." I said, answering the question that Meir's mother had not yet even asked. Though questions quickly followed:
"Not even a chocolate?"
“Not even a chocolate madam," was my answer.
"But you must eat sugar," she said “it's good for your health."
I knew for sure, that this coffee party was not going to be my cup of tea, and the worst had yet to come.
It was the time now for the ceremony of sweetening the coffee. On the table over the snow white starched linen table cloth rested two lidded jars full of sugar cubes. As I watched the people around the table I wondered how was it possible to make a simple coffee drink so complicated.
Each one in turn (according to hierarchy) removed the lid from the sugar jar and held it in their left hand, then with their right hand they picked up the specially provided silver tongs.
Now, to pick up a sugar cube is a skill of competence, experience and long training. One should figure out beforehand, which one of the cubes should be picked up. It must be the one cube that once removed will not disturb the peaceful rest of the other cubes, or cause them to move, or make noise or tragically damage any of them ‘God forbid’.
Now the tongs had to grip the cube at the very end because it was absolutely forbidden to wet the tongs whilst dropping the sugar into the coffee. OOPS, did I say dropping? Pardon my language, dropping is an obscene word I think ‘launching’ would be a more appropriate word or perhaps ‘inserting’. This is an operation which definitely requires fine motor skills, which are probably not yet developed in a person under the age of twelve. Meir's brother was not allowed to sweeten the coffee himself, hence the maid had to do it.
There should be no splash while the cube is inserted, and absolutely no waves, not to mention any noise. And this is not all, after the sugar is in, there must be a certain pause. One must give time for the sugar cube to break before commencing to stir. If enough time is not given, the sugar cube might clink once or twice on the side of the Rosenthal, an inconceivable offence. On the other hand, if you do not take any chances and you give it a little extra time, you will immediately observe a few raised eyebrows, as you are slowing down the others, and the coffee might get cold.
Now to the stirring itself, yet another pre-calculated motion: The spoon was held between the thumb and the index finger in a vertical position with the rest of the fingers spread apart and kept as far away as possible from the coffee. The next and final maneuver is the stirring action: three or four consecutive turns. At no phase of this stage should the spoon touch any part of the cup.
You should try doing the next performance in sequence: Firstly, lift a full cup of coffee and put it back on the saucer without making any noise. Secondly, try to drink the coffee with closed tight lips, without releasing any sipping sound. Lastly, try to eat a cake and talk with the same closed mouth. If you manage to do it right, you will be qualified to have coffee with the Besserkopffs.
As you have probably guessed, there was nothing for me in drinking sweetened coffee, there was really no reason for me to worry about the delicate skill and precise procedure of launching sugar in my coffee, or stirring without a rustle. I felt confident in my prowess. However, I was not aware that Meir's family used the coffee procedure as criteria for assessing the level of manners a person had. In fact, they wanted to compare me to Meir. To get positive reinforcement that he was reared better.
The moment they acknowledged that I did not use the tongs and the spoon they felt they had lost strategic ground. I felt the growing tension but did not contemplate for even one second starting to use sugar for the sake of the Besserkopffs.
The first to speak was Meir's mother who said: "You may put sugar in your coffee!" As she was addressing me I had to answer. "Thank you madam, I think I'll have my coffee without sugar". This statement rendered everyone speechless. To me it felt like the quiet gathering of the clouds before the storm. I felt sorry for Meir who didn't know what to do and may have had some regrets for having invited me.
Suddenly, the uncle dared to talk to nobody in particular. Although it was none of his business, and he was not in charge of my education, he felt his input may be important. So he spoke into the air. (The term transmitting blind’ is very descriptive.) “Sugar is a very important element of nutrition. Pilots take chocolate as an immediate source of energy before going into combat." As the uncle had not spoken directly to me, I did not feel I needed to respond.
Although I was ready for almost anything I was suddenly taken by surprise. I could not imagine that the master of all masters, the closest mortal to the creator - Mr. Besserkopff would be interested in my coffee drinking but he was. Mr. Besserkopff picked up a fork and clinked on his cup of coffee to draw everybody's attention and started to talk. I was very surprised to hear his voice as I had never heard it before, it sounded as if the voice did not belong to anybody and was coming from outer space. He spoke for some time before I started to listen to what he was talking about.
Our ancestors were gatherers. They collected grains and their body's had to work hard to separate the roughage from the carbohydrates. Their body had to work once again to break the carbohydrates into sugar, which is the only form of energy the human body can use. This is a very inefficient process which causes a negative balance of energy. It doesn’t leave much energy to make the body grow. Today, thanks to an Englishman in Brazil who invented the process of sugar distillation we now have the purest form of energy ever found. The very same man even used pure sugar as a medicine to cure his sick wife. Today the body does not waste energy processing the sugar, so we are taller, stronger, and we live longer.
I was half listening and half thinking “I’ve got to get out of this place, but how?” I could not just get up and walk I had to do something for Meir who I had never seen looking so down before.
Mr. Besserkopff was not finished; he kept talking about Meir and how healthy, and tall he was. He emphasized the fact that Meir was never sick with any children’s diseases. Meir looked miserable, and I was becoming more and more uncomfortable. I tried very hard to come up with an exit plan for Meir and myself.
It came to me like a divine light, like a board to a drowning sailor. I stood up and said, "I am sorry but I have to wash my hands". These were the best winning words I had ever used. It was like sticking the dagger into the bull's heart, the final knockout. I was on their ground and I had used their very own weapon, for a blow under the belt. I knew very well that nobody would question what exactly I needed to do, or what had made my hands dirty. I also knew that Meir would come after me, but I did not want to take any chances so I rushed to the bathroom and locked myself in. Twenty minutes later I came out very quietly to find Meir peeping through his door, with the maid on standby to destroy all the evidence and to disinfect the bathroom. Meir smuggled me safely out of the house.

Epilogue
"Hoch Kaffe" stands for the coffee people in Germany drink at five o'clock, at the "high part” of the day. The Englishman who discovered how to distil the sugar was a real person. He was sure he had found the ultimate pure food. What Meir's father forgot to tell me though, was that the very same Englishman killed his wife by feeding her only sugar for three months. Meir himself, brought back to life, some children’s’ illnesses that had already long been forgotten. He was sick for three years, virtually non-stop, during his army service. He contracted all of the children’s diseases he had been deprived of as a child. They came along with all of the possible textbook complications.
Unfortunately, I never had Hoch Kaffe again. I was banned from the house of the civilized people.
The End

The late David Shapiro

2009-04-04T23:37:00.000-07:00

The late David Shapiro

Hagai Cohen

.

.
One afternoon, in the middle of May, when I was a tenth-grader, I was on my way to play ball. As I turned right, at the end of the block, I ran into Yankel, our local billboard-man, doing his job pasting a poster. I froze, no citizen, ever dared to get within ten feet of Yankel or his equipment, and for good reason.

Clumsy Yankel pasted his posters vigorously and as a result, many droplets of glue scattered on innocent passersby. In addition, he stuttered, and while stuttering, he spattered tiny fragments of his last meal over a large radius.

He always wore the same glue-reinforced, skunk-repellant, ripened, moldy overalls, which could make a great scarecrow without necessitating stuffing.

I was distraught to be that close to Yankel. My first instinct was to run away, as fast as I could, instead I looked up at him and said “Hi, Yankel! What happened to your bicycle?”

Yankel was never without his bicycle. He was always seen pushing it along loaded with two big buckets, one with water and one with paste, a brush on a long stick, and of course the rolls of posters.

“My bicycle is bbbbb..broken” he stammered out a shower of saliva “and the pppp..posters are urgent.”
“What is so urgent about the posters?” I asked.
“I do not know," said Yankel. "I cannot read.”
Out of pure curiosity, I turned to read the poster. In archaic language, it proclaimed:
Important Notice
“The coffin of the righteous Rabbi David Shapiro has arrived. The funeral will come to pass on Wednesday at three o’clock in the afternoon.”
The poster requested the people of the congregation to pay their respects to the prominent scholar, the honorable, virtuous man who had been buried for many years in Europe and was finally being brought to eternal rest in the Holy Land.

Coincidentally, David Shapiro was also the name of my very-much-alive high school principle, whom I hated. I would have done anything to drive him berserk.
Within moments an idea had formed in my vengeful mind. I was sure that the posters would have just the right affect on our volatile principle!
I offered Yankel my help, which he accepted happily, and instantaneously became his apprentice.

My job was to carry the posters and walk behind the master from one billboard to the next. Yankle gave me ‘on the job training’. He placed his face inches from mine and started talking.

Unfortunately, the time that it took him to finish a sentence was enough to spray me with a substantial quantity of his natural fluids. If that were not enough, my biggest worry was to be seen by my friends - a situation sure to end my social life forever. Much was at stake. I walked behind Yankel, a great sacrifice on my part, in order to steal some posters. The thought of Mr. Shapiro's wrath made the risk worth the sacrifice.

Each time Yankel was busy smearing his glue, I folded a poster and stashed it inside my shirt. After I had managed to secrete seven posters, I excused myself and rushed home.

I took a shower to get read of Yankel's leftovers, and dropped my clothes into the laundry hamper. Then I appropriated my Mom’s entire stock of starch, and made a bucket of nice smooth glue. Before darkness set, the posters were up on the school’s stonewalls.

Next morning, I was the first person to “discover” the posters. I stood in front of the school gates examining my handiwork and was both impressed and proud. The posters were well spaced and perfectly aligned with the school gate frames.

When the staff and students began to arrive, I was happy to see the impact of my deed upon them. What they saw was the name David Shapiro and the black frame. Nobody took the trouble to read it thoroughly. In no time at all, the news that the principle had passed away was all over the school.

Groups of crying students were to be seen everywhere, and many stunned people were too shocked to talk.

Later, when they saw David Shapiro, heavily sweating, red-faced, red-necked, and redheaded, wandering about alive, they screamed with fear. The principle David Shapiro, to my great satisfaction, looked extremely unhappy.

“A criminal act, carried out by delinquent children," was his pronouncement. "The people responsible will be caught and thrown out of our school.”

No classes were held that day. The teachers were told to run discussion sessions about the “criminal act,” one rotten apple in a barrel and so on. My English teacher suggested to the class it was more a practical joke than a criminal act, When the Principle heard of it, he almost crucified another Jew, in our very own schoolyard.

Initially, I was very pleased but as time passed, I became increasingly annoyed. Not from a guilty conscience, God forbid, only that I could not get the credit I deserved. I had given five hundred students the best show in town and could not even brag about it. The credit for the greatest practical joke of my life was given to virtual juvenile delinquents and imaginary hoodlums.

Ruth, a girl in my class, the smartest person I had ever met, had a unique ability. She was always a hundred miles and six months ahead of any other, including the teachers. She was some kind of psychic. She could predict what anybody would say, even before he or she opened their mouths. To her, I was transparent.

When she was about, I used my tongue fluently to camouflage my thoughts, with little success. I liked her, and was one of the few who did. Most of the boys and girls in my class were jealous and afraid of her.

I was very careful during the entire day to avoid any eye contact with Ruth. With only one short look into my eyes, she knew more than I wanted to reveal. It is not that I did not trust her, - she could be discreet, - but I was afraid of her blackmailing potential, and I did not want to play into her hands.

I had a very strong feeling that the leaders of the community would not leave righteous David Shapiro, alone. And again will call the congregation for the unveiling of the tombstone. Soon, I figured, there would be a new poster to alert the people.

There was nothing in the world I wanted more than that poster. It was not an easy job. My evening ritual was to visit Moishe’s printing shop, from where Yankel had obtained the posters. Well, not exactly the shop, but Moishe’s back yard and his dumpster in particular. When a new typeset is arranged on the printing press, the first ten printouts have poor impressions until the ink smears evenly on the rollers. Usually, these are discarded. I wanted very much to find them.

My daily sessions in the garbage bins continued for three weeks. Finally, I had what I was looking for, in my hands:

“The unveiling of the tombstone of the righteous David Shapiro…”
From the ten first prints, six were good enough for my purpose and, that same evening, they were proudly displayed on top of the remains of the old posters.

The next morning, the principle Mr. David Shapiro was ready for violence. The color of his face was somewhere in between purple and blue and his general posture was of a rabid, hydrophobic creature. This time Mr. David Shapiro meant business. He hired an investigating team: a psychologist, a criminologist, and a retired detective. With the active help of Mr. David Shapiro the profile of the alleged criminal was drawn, the P.T.A was informed and the interrogation began.

The desire of Mr. Shapiro to make it look like a colossal crime, influenced the ‘profile’. The person matching this profile could only be someone, with a mile long criminal record, who would have to be serving a life sentence for a triple murder. No one I know could match that profile, I felt secure.

The investigating team was very efficient and very soon found Moishe the printer. Moishe was brought to school to identify his posters. “Yes they are mine,” said Moishe “But they were taken from the garbage” and than added “anybody could do it, talk to Yankel maybe he knows something.” They called Yankel, they sent a taxi to bring him to school, but the cabbie did not let him in the cab. He came with an escort on a bus. Yankel was puzzled, he had difficulties understanding the purpose of the interrogation. When he tried to talk he could not finish a single tangible sentence. Yankel was pathetic.

The investigating team aghast, and disappointed with Yankel’s performance and looks, decided to stop perusing the printer’s angle, to my great relief. . If the investigators only tried to cross match students' addresses with Moishe’s neighborhood they would easily find me. Only ten students of our school lived in my neighborhood.

My source of information was the school janitor. This friendly man, who was constantly bullied by Shapiro, liked me because I hated Shapiro

By the fourth day, it was my turn to face the music. It was already known that the team was tired and the interrogation had become a fiasco.

I was standing by the door waiting to be called in, when I heard my teacher briefing the team: “His father is in hospital; his mother is pregnant, he is working in the evenings to support his family, and doing OK in school, definitely not our person”. My interrogation lasted less than thirty seconds and not a single question was asked about the posters.

During the days of the investigation, Ruth was aggressively campaigning, against the principle and the interrogating crew.
“This is pure discrimination” she protested, “Why isn’t the team interrogating girls?” She complained, “How come the girls are automatically not suspects?” To anyone listening to Ruth's arguments, it was obvious that she was genuinely angry. Although she was fighting sincerely for her ideas, Ruth attracted only laughs. Nobody took her seriously. Part of me wanted to support her, not because I believed in her cause, but as way to create more chaos. The other part told me to stay away and to be more careful.

Unfortunately, for the principle, the investigation ended a few weeks before the end of the year, without any results, The coffin incident was slowly forgotten. We the students were anxiously waiting for the last day of school, for the graduation ceremony, for the report cards, for the parties, and for the summer vacation.

On the morning of the last day of school, an unfortunate event spoiled the last day tradition. Shapiro cancelled the entire last day events and sent us home. Shapiro’s anger was attributed to the huge graffiti in black paint displayed on the white stones, which said:
Now that Shapiro’s remains are interred here, when can we expect the resurrection?

For me personally, this was extremely annoying, I wanted to kill that idiot, scoundrel son-of-a-bitch, who took a free ride on my idea. Suddenly it struck me like lightening, only one person could pull a stunt like this, I was sure it’s her, Ruth, the bitch. I was furious.

Without thinking twice I ran upstairs, three stairs at a time. I stopped short of Ruth and looked directly into her eyes with an arrogant smirk on my face. It was my triumph, she was caught, and she knew it.

Ruth did not waste any time. Apathetically, she looked back at me for one second, and then walked away without saying a word. The look in her eyes said it all. She had caught me too. Damn, how stupid of me.

As she contemptuously walked away, I felt dizzy and almost lost my balance. Against all odds, at that instant, I fell in love with her. Sadly, it was a waste of a great emotion. She was unreachable. The wall between us, which I had built with my arrogance, was there to stay. Our mutual secret respect and admiration could not eradicate the profound mutual intimidation and the balanced exchange of nuclear deterrent..
The end

Femina Horibillis

2009-01-30T08:39:00.000-08:00

Hagai Cohen

Mrs. Ruth Timmons 1996.

Mrs. Ruth Timmons, the museum curator, conducted the grand opening ceremony of the children’s museum. Thirty years earlier, she and I had worked for the same airline. I introduced myself, shook her hand, and expressed my admiration and appreciation. My name did not seem to stir any memories for her, so I said, “Do you remember me Mrs. Timmons?”

“No,” she said. “Am I supposed to know you?”

“We had a common friend.”

“And who might that be?”

“Last I know, she was called Angie,” I said.

The woman became as white as if she had taken a chlorine bath.

“I'm sorry,” she stammered, "I don’t recall any person of that name. You… you must be mistaken. And, what did you say your name was, sir? Sorry, I was preoccupied, I did not pay attention. I…I…”

“Look, Ruth,” I said, “I’m not the enemy.” To refresh her memory, I said, “We had dinner together when you told me about Robbie’s boat.”
“I was afraid it was you,” she said. “Please wait for me at the bar. I’ll join you in a few moments. I Just hear the sound of her name and I need a drink.”

While I waited, I reviewed the last thirty years since that dinner Ruth and I had had together.

Amos 1967

Angie was with my friend Amos when I met her for the first time, shortly after Amos divorced his wife of five years. They lived in a rented apartment.

I had not seen much of Amos during the years he was married. His crabby wife did not like me. As I had no idea Amos was divorced, I was surprised to find his note inviting me for dinner. “To introduce you to my girlfriend and to ask you a favor,” said the note. The favor was to prepare him and three more friends for a government 'air transport rating' test, necessary to qualify as an airline pilot, to which I agreed.

The dinner was excellent and the company exceptional. I was especially impressed with Angie; a surprisingly pleasant and well-composed person: twenty-three years old, intelligent, even-tempered, with the face of an innocent child and a smile capable of melting a stone. She was educated, an excellent cook and most important, loved Amos. Angie impressed me also with her unique bone structure and posture: straight, like a ballet dancer, without any rigidity. Her graceful movements radiated nobility. She was full of energy and charm.

“We are planning to marry as soon as our house is ready,” Angie confided. With coffee, Angie showed me the floor plan of the house they were building. “This room is for Amos’ three years old son, when he comes to visit. I already have lots of toys for him,” she said. Looking at her, I thought Amos is extremely lucky. He deserves a woman like Angie after the miserable years with his ex-wife.

We needed a few days to prepare for the course so we started intensive study four times a week at his apartment. A nice surprise awaited me as I walked in for our first session. As Angie was a cabin attendant, she always returned from her flights with colorful products: pink smoked fish from Scotland, white bratwurst from Switzerland, green wine from Portugal, black fish-eggs from Iran, purple berries, blue cheese, red salami and more. Angie set the colorful collection of products on the buffet table and left.

Angie also brought trappings for the house; kitchen gadgets, various appliances, works of art or pieces of furniture. She had good taste and decorated the apartment with a comfortable blend of modern and old. She seemed dedicated to making a pleasant home. An impressive oil painting appeared on the wall. I congratulated her on her choice. At another time, an ugly Pekinese pup yapped at me as I entered. “With a pedigree from Noah’s ark,” they bragged.

None of this interfered with our studies and Amos and friends passed the exam. Angie and Amos were so delighted they decided to throw a party for the group. The charming people and the lovely atmosphere made me propose a toast: “I am lucky to have met this handsome, loving couple,” I pronounced. “Amos deserves this affectionate, sweet and very classy lady. Theirs is a match truly made in heaven. May heaven keep them prosperous and happy. Good luck to you both. Enjoy your life together, and be happy forever."

Angie’s eyes filled with tears when she warmly hugged and kissed me Numerous times, wiping her tears with several tissues, she said, “Thank you, thank you, Yacov.”

Captain Avery Bonnelle 1968.

One evening, a few months later, I was sitting in the lobby of the Royal Monceau in Paris, waiting for a crew member who might want to join me for dinner. I was stationed in Paris for a month on a special teaching assignment. I observed Captain Avery Bonnelle walking towards me. Captain Bonnelle was famous in our company. He was a short man but laden with self-importance. Captain Avery Bonnelle demanded to be addressed with his title. Some said with acid humor, his wife was the only one allowed to call him Avery, and that “only on weekends.” Captain Avery Bonnelle was way above my league in his wardrobe, women, restaurants, cars, and friends. I could not afford even the shoes he was wearing. If he invited me to dine with him, I would need a home equity loan to pay for my share of the meal. Looking very elegant, he walked toward me so I stood up to greet him. I searched for an excuse to decline his expected invitation. To my relief, I learned he was waiting for a date.

When his dinner companion approached, you can imagine my surprise to see none other then Angie. She looked very handsome in an elegant and most becoming evening gown. She had just emerged from the beauty parlor. Her hair was done perfectly in a new style, and she exuded an expensive and alluring fragrance. A double strand pearl necklace adorned her neck. They glittered even in the lobby’s dim lighting. She was absolutely gorgeous, but also strange and distant, a different person from the one I had met with Amos. Even her word selection was different. I lost the use of my tongue and just looked upon her open-mouthed. Angie did not seem the least bit upset or embarrassed by my presence. “Ah, Mister Golan,” she said, “what brings you to Paris?” Had she forgotten my first name? I began to stutter a reply but she looked at me with an air of superiority as if to say, “Don’t bother, nobody cares.” Her posture, her expression and her body language, all expressed contempt. She muted me.

“We don’t want to be late for Maxim’s, do we?” she said to Bonnelle. She took his arm and yanked him away from me. I watched them walk to the hotel exit. With her three inch high heels, Angie was seven inches taller than Captain Avery Bonnelle. Bonnelle walked in a strange manner. Hard to tell if it was a swagger or a kind of tip-toeing. He stretched his neck in a desperate attempt to look taller.

The fact she went to dine with Captain Avery Bonnelle did not bother me. I had seen similar things in my experience. What was troubling was the alarming change in her character. And how did Amos fit in? Had she left him or was she simply unfaithful?

Captain Bonnelle and his crew left the next morning. A new crew came in – and the daily round began. I forgot about Angie and Bonnelle.

Robbie 1969

Two weeks later, still in Paris, I was on my way to the usual meeting place in the lobby when I spotted Captain Robert Taylor sitting at the bar. He called me over to join him for a drink. Captain Taylor, unlike Captain Bonnelle, insisted on being called Robbie. He was different in other ways too. He was kind and friendly. He was ever ready to help, respected all, and was a natural gentleman. He was two drinks ahead and ready for his third when I sat next to him.

“Am I glad I met you,” he said. “I need help with the auto-pilot I installed on my yacht. It doesn't maintain the course. I think it needs adjustment but I don't know how to do it.”

Robbie built the yacht in his back yard and had launched it a year earlier. It was a 60-foot Catamaran. Numerous times during its construction, Robbie asked for my help, which I gave happily. The boat was always the main topic of our conversations. “Come for a beer one day and help me with the rigging,” said Robbie.

“Sure,” I answered.

Robbie was known also for heavy drinking. “He knows how to drink" or "He can hold a drink better than anybody else,” was the admiring consensus. To me it did not seem a great virtue. I had more respect for people who knew how not to drink. But Robbie was Robbie, and I liked him anyway. I told him once that, in his previous life, he must have been a pirate who had died young of scurvy. “You’re making up for the lost drinking years and the lime you put in your vodka is a subconscious desire to prevent scurvy.”

Robbie was a playboy, handsome and sensual. “He has a long line of women waiting to park their shoes under his bed,” a knowledgeable woman once told me. The line was long but sometimes it got thick, and the number of shoes parked under Robbie’s bed was not two but four, six and even eight, unless one shoe was drowned in the punch bowl.

Robbie was also a good storyteller and one of his stories became relevant to the current events. He started with his typical opening.

“The other day I took a woman to Roger les Grenouilles, a restaurant in the Quartier Latin, renowned for its frog legs and its erotic atmosphere. They sure crippled many frogs for us. We emptied a few carafes, joined a sing-along with the guests, and had a great time. My companion decided she needed better exposure so she climbed onto the table, removed her shirt and proceeded to twist topless to the music. I thought it would be a good idea to join her, so I removed my shirt and joined her on the table. The owners, far from objecting, encouraged this behavior. While gyrating, I picked up a carafe to drink. Unfortunately, the carafe was empty. Still holding the empty carafe, I went for my belt, as it was too tight. The owner got the wrong impression and, in less than two seconds, some waitresses took my lady friend and me down. They led us directly to the bar where they served us ‘just un petit verre, pour la route,’ meaning this cognac is on the house and you’d better be on your way immediately. We drank the cognac, and, very drunk, got into a cab.

“At the hotel, the first room we fell into was mine. I cannot remember what happened during the night, but when I awoke the next morning, I was lying on my side at the edge of the bed with an unbelievable hangover. Through bleary eyes, I saw a naked woman’s rump within easy reach, legs and all, but I could see no torso. For the first time in my life, I was scared. ‘So this is what they do to sinners,’ I said to myself for I was sure I had arrived in hell. ‘They cut us into two halves, and let each wander in space desperately searching for the other.’ I was on the verge of tears. ‘I guess I deserve it,’ I thought.

“I tried to get out of bed, but I could not move. I was now only the top of Robbie, the upper part of what used to be me. I was petrified for what seemed like an eternity, until the top half of the lady came up from over the side of the bed with some clothes in her hands and stood up. I began to laugh hysterically from the sheer relief of this discovery. The lady was certain I had lost my mind.”

Robbie’s story generated much comment. We wanted to know who the lady was, but Robbie was discrete, and never told. We took to calling the nameless woman “The Hangover Lady.”

While Robbie and I chatted over our drinks, a woman approached the bar. She looked somewhere between a bimbo and a whore. She had a bandana holding her hair, a knotted shirt lifting her breasts and cut-off jeans. She looked sexy, and provocative. Knowing Robbie, I was not surprised to see this cheap looking woman approach him. When she got closer, I was astonished to recognize Angie. I was about to say: “Well, Angie, do you plan to make some money at Place Pigalle, to cover the expenses at ‘chez Maxims?’ You must be deep in debt after that last supper.” But I did not have the courage. I leaned towards Robbie and whispered in his ear: “The Hangover Lady?”

Robbie, who had already done with his third drink, winked at me and said:“Affirmative.”

Angie not only looked different, she also assumed a completely new personality and, once again, a different style of speech. She said little but what she said was vulgar and unpleasant.

Robbie excused himself and went off with Angie. I remained at the bar, confused. I was preoccupied with thoughts about Angie the entire evening and for the last few days of my stay in Paris. Who are you Angie? The housewife, Mrs. Amos? Classy Baroness Bonnelle? Or Robbie's bimbo?

Back at home, a few weeks later, my eyes caught a headline in a lurid tabloid, which I bought for relaxation: “THE CAPTAIN, THE HOSTESS, THE TRAINEE PILOT AND THE DOG.” It related the story of a certain famous married Captain (no name) having an affair with a female cabin attendant (no name). The cabin attendant lives with a trainee pilot whom she plans to marry. They are building a house together. The married Captain, having difficulties seeing the hostess, buys her a Pekinese. While the trainee pilot walks the dog, the Captain sneaks in for a 'quickie.' Unidentified sources said the captain got a bargain at Georgio Armani fashion house where he bought a fancy designer evening gown for his playmate and a suit for himself. He bought her a pearl necklace at Stern’s and an oil painting at Sotheby.

I was impressed with the reporter’s research. During the sixties, every airline captain was a celebrity, especially Avery Bonnelle who was a journalist himself and made sure the jet era people would not be forgotten. It was a weird sensation to participate in the story as an outsider. I knew the people, I had seen the dress and the suit, admired the necklace and the painting, and even stroked the ugly dog. I had a strong urge to find out more about it. The person to talk to was Ruth, a cabin attendant who was both friendly with me, and a confidante of Angie.

Ruth 1968.

I kept the magazine handy in my flight bag until Ruth was assigned to my flight. She read the article twice and finally she said: “She'll be OK with Amos as long as more details are not exposed. ”

“What details?” I asked.

“I am sorry I can’t talk about it”

“Is it about Robbie?” I blurted. It was a fast draw, a bull’s eye.

“What do you know about Robbie?” She asked, frightened.

“A dinner with a nice bottle of wine and an exchange of information - treat on me,” I said.

She accepted reluctantly.

“Ok,” I said to her after the wine, “what's missing in the story?”

She took a long breath. “You know Robbie has a boat?” she started.

“Yes I know.”

“Do you have any idea what goes on aboard the boat?"

“If I know Robbie, it is an unending party,” I said.

“Yes,” she agreed. “But it's unique.”

“What do you mean?"

“Sex.”

“Sounds like Robbie.”

“No, you don't understand. It's not Robbie, it's Angie.”

“What do you mean, Robbie’s boat, and Robbie doesn't know?"

“He doesn't know. Robbie lets Angie use the parked boat when he's away on flights. She runs sex parties.”

“So what’s wrong with that?

“Orgies.”

“Yes, I heard rumors about it too.”

“She films the action.”

“Maybe she wants to improve her technique,” I suggested.

“You dumb-head,” she almost screamed. “She makes porno movies.” People in the restaurant were looking at us.

I couldn't believe my ears. “I don’t understand. Are you suggesting Angie makes porno movies as a business?”

“I'm not suggesting.”

“Please explain.”

“Angie uses professional photographers and editors and then sells copies.”

“And who are the participants in the show?"

“None are professionals. She lures people like a siren and uses their weaknesses.”

“Do they know they are being filmed?"
“Yes. They wear masks and wigs, and makeup too hides a lot, but they have no idea about the commercial part of it.”

“Isn’t she afraid someone will spill the beans?"

“Angie keeps still photos of each one of the participants with the incriminating action at the background. Angie calls it ‘insurance.’ She is the brain, the director and the producer."

“Does she participate?”

“Sometimes, to break the ice and to encourage nervy people. It looks good on the screen when people move from being scared into giving a zesty performance.”

“Who pays for the booze, the food, and the rest of the expenses?”

“Angie - she runs the show.”

“Is she doing drugs?”

“No, no drugs; she doesn't even allow smoking.”

“How do you know so many details? Have you participated in the filming?”

“No, no, definitely not! I was invited once, just to look. That’s how Angie recruits new participants. First, it's just for fun. Then it’s the still photo with the action in the background. But I did not allow even that and, because I'm friendly with her, she did not press me too hard.”
“Do you know of any people who wanted out and she wouldn’t let them?”

“If there were any, I don't know about them. I think they could leave whenever they wanted. Her insurance was to keep them quiet, not to force them to participate.”

This story was heavy stuff. Ruth was nervous and troubled. “I'm afraid of Angie,” she said.

“Why?” I said.

“I'm engaged,” she said, “to a man who is one of the nominees for president of PASCAL INSTITUTION. Angie can jeopardize my marriage and ruin my fiancé's career. I have to play her game forever.”

Ruth had finally got rid of her excess baggage and left me holding it.

“What do you plan to do?” she asked. “Will you tell Robbie?”

“I think Robbie should know she is conducting illegal activities on his boat. I don't know how to tell him. I don't want to expose you as the informer and drag you into conflict with Angie. I’ll find a way,” I said, “and I am most sorry for Amos.”

Our appetite lost, we ate little and silently after that. It was not a pleasant evening.

Several events took place in the course of the coming weeks after the publication of the article in the newspaper. The house Amos and Angie were building was abandoned and the contractor was fired. Robbie found out about Angie’s activities on his boat but not through me. He moved his boat to a remote marina and told everybody it needed repairs. He was afraid a snoopy reporter would get to him. I believe he never sailed it again. I never got to fix his autopilot.

Captain Avery Bonnelle apparently stopped spending on Angie and with money to spare, his wife was seen driving a new red Mustang convertible.

Angie kept a low profile, took a long vacation and eventually resigned and was not seen in public any more.

Joe Bar-Shalit 1968

A group of new pilot recruits joined our company. It comprised young men from Argentina, Peru, Tunisia, England, America, and other countries. The pilot with the most impressive credentials in the group was the American, Joe Bar-Shalit. He was charismatic and spoke a perfect sophisticated English. He presented letters of recommendation from several chief pilots of well-known airlines. His logbook showed he had flown 5000 hours. He seemed eminently suitable for our airline.

“How come,” I asked him, “a clean-cut American boy with a Boston accent has such a Hebrew name?”

“Well,” said Joe, “my family is an old Spanish Jewish family, and we have kept this name since my ancestors left Spain at the time of the inquisition.”

“My family is also from Spain,” I said. “Maybe one day we can compare records, if you have any.”

“Sure, why not, we’ll do it after I finish my training.”
Joe Bar-Shalit did not do well in his training. He had difficulties handling the plane. His performance was not up to his credentials. In addition, although he passed ground school with high marks, his knowledge of aircraft systems was minimal. But Joe Bar-Shalit was a favorite of our chief pilot.

“This guy with his low pitch voice and his perfect professional language will teach the boys some basics,” said the chief pilot to me one day. “I want you to help me with Joe Bar-Shalit. He's a good man but overwhelmed by our big planes. He needs coaching. I want you to find out what his problem is, and try to help him.”

I wasn’t happy with the way I had ‘volunteered.’ I did not know how to help him or what his problem was. I paid him a visit. As I entered Joe’s living room, right in front of me, I saw the painting Bonnelle gave Angie hanging on the wall. “Joe,” I blurted, “is Angie your girl?"

“How do you know?” There was a hint of alarm in his voice.

“Well, I think I heard it from someone,” I prevaricated.

"Who told you? Who else knows about it?” Joe was very disturbed.

I felt as if I stepped on a mound of manure. Something was so wrong, it was weird. “Relax Joe, nobody told me. I just recognized the painting. I saw it when she bought it.”

“Look,” said Joe “it’s a delicate matter. We don’t want anybody to know about it. Publicity will not help her or me. She doesn't work for the company anymore and Bonnelle is one of my checkers.”

“Don't worry, Joe. Nobody will hear it from me.”

I was assigned to fly with Joe and his instructor and for two months, we flew together. During that time, we sat many long hours in hotel rooms and in restaurants, discussing his performance but his progress was slight. Unfortunately for Joe and despite our efforts, he did not make it and was fired after six months.

While in training, Joe behaved bizarrely every time we arrived in New York. After we parked at the gate, Joe would apologize he had to catch a train or make some other excuse, and there in the cockpit, change from his uniform into a suit - each time a different suit and each time a different hat. I did not see him again after he was fired nor did I ever see him with Angie. A year later, I had forgotten them. In the fast lane of airline life, new stories and new characters come marching in day-by-day.

Chuck 1969

One afternoon, I opened the door of my New York hotel room to a knock. Of the three men standing there, I knew one. He was Chuck, our New York chief security officer. The two others showed badges and said: “FBI. May we come in?”

“Sure," I said. “Come in.”

“We would like to ask you a few questions,” said one of them. “Do you know a man by the name of John Clark?”

“No. I don't.”

“We have reason to believe you do.”
“I'm sorry, I wish I could help you, but I really don't know anybody called John Clark.”

“You have been seen talking to him."

“Look gentlemen,” I said, a bit annoyed. “I talk to a lot of people I don't know. Maybe your man is one of them.”

One FBI man whispered to the other. He nodded, pulled an envelope from his vest pocket and showed me a photograph.

“Yes,” I said, “this is me and the guy is Joe Bar Shalit.” I was in uniform and Joe in plain clothes, dark glasses and hat covering his face.

“Repeat the name please.”

“Joe Bar Shalit.”

The man took a notebook out of his pocket. “How do you spell that?”
I told him.

“What can you tell us about him?”

I told them what I knew and when I mentioned he was a trainee pilot, our security officer turned white. He had had no idea. The FBI was looking for Joe, and found me because of my airline uniform. I was beginning to understand why Joe always changed on the airplane. Every one entering America is photographed. The FBI man pulled out another photo and asked: “Do you know who this is?”

It was Angie. She wore a business suit and held an attaché case. She was now a curly blonde and her hair framed her face very attractively, hiding most of it. I was beginning to feel insecure; the FBI was looking for Joe and Angie. I had no idea why, but if they found out I knew Angie, I’d be dragged deeper into the case. “No,” I said, “I have no idea who she is.”

“Well,” said the FBI man, “thank you so much for your help. We appreciate it. If you see any one of them, please give us a call.”

“What's the lady's name, in case I run into them?"

“Her name is Mariana Harper and she's from Memphis.”
Mariana Harper, my foot! I said to myself. How many more surprises do you carry in your bag, Angie?

Chuck, our security officer, stayed on after the FBI left. “Come,” said he, “I’ll buy you coffee and you'll fill me in.”

I gave Chuck a hard time for not checking out Joe Bar-Shalit earlier. “His name was suspicious enough to instigate a thorough check” I said.

Chuck told me Joe was a con man. “About two years ago he pretended he wanted to buy an airplane from a Texas Ranger. He took off for a ‘few circuits to check it out’ and flew the plane to Mexico, where he sold it and disappeared with $250000. Recently, Mariana appeared in Memphis at the same time as John Clark and the F.B.I. thinks they are together. Mariana is the only survivor of the Harper’s, a rich Memphis family. She went up north and nobody heard from her for years. She reappeared six months ago and hired a lawyer who filed a claim on the Harper’s inheritance. Before the case went to court, she sold the property to the lawyer handling the case for twenty five percent of its value. The deal seemed legitimate, but the FBI became suspicious when the money trail disappeared to a numbered account somewhere. The FBI thinks Clark is after her money. They are sure she is being used. They are desperate to warn her.” Now I began to doubt whether the blonde in the photograph was Angie. I decided not to tell Chuck a thing.

During the coming months, I met Chuck several times. At our last meeting, Chuck told me Joe-John had been caught but the woman Mariana, had disappeared into thin air.

Mrs. Ruth Timmons - 1975

Some years later, I got lucky. Ruth was a passenger on my flight. “Have you heard anything from Angie?” I asked, as if enquiring of an old friend.
“Did you know about her last boyfriend?" she asked.

"Yes," I said. “Joe Bar-Shalit.” Ruth looked much surprised and confused. “How do you know about it? It was a secret they kept from everybody and were careful not to be seen together.”

“Why?”

“Angie did not give me any reason at the time. Only, after he was arrested, she told me Joe was a criminal wanted by the FBI. He was using her and got her into trouble. For some reason they kept two separate apartments. When they came to get him, she was on the street. She saw the commotion and managed to escape. She drove to Mexico, then flew to Canada, returned to the States and finally bought a ticket to Australia.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“You know, luck is always on her side,” she continued.

“Do I hear a trace of jealousy in your voice, Ruth?” I said.

“No,” she replied, “but whatever she wanted she got.”

“OK, tell me what makes her so lucky?”

Angie told me Joe left her broke; she said she bought the ticket to Australia with her last penny. But, as I said, she was lucky. On the long flight, the Pan Am First Officer fell in love with her; it was love at first sight. They got married five days later. He was stationed in Sydney for a year. After returning to the States, they bought a house in Seattle on Lake Washington and she gave birth to a girl.

“Are they still together?”

“Divorced; but he left her the house.”

“Look” I said to her, “this is an unbelievable story. With the FBI on her tail, how could she get in and out of the USA so many times without being caught?”

“You don't know anything about Angie do you?”

“What don’t I know?”

“Angie was never her name; it was only the name she chose to use.”
So she's not Angie and she's not Mariana, I was thinking, and probably she has many more names. Who the hell are you, Angie, or whatever your name is?

“Angie was one of identical twins. Liz was the other,” continued Ruth. They grew up without parents. Since they were very young, they discovered the power they possessed as twins. It started as small practical jokes and very quickly became ‘unethical’ to say the least. When they started to date, they swapped the boyfriends. At one time, they switched in the middle of dinner date and the lad could not believe the amount of food his date could eat. They pretended to be erratic and inconsistent so they could switch in the middle and continue with a new topic. Both of them were excellent actresses. They could assume any personality and pretend to be any character they chose.

One man, who dated one when they were nineteen, they tortured by switching while making love and exhausted him completely. They cruelly and viciously played with his emotions until he lost his mind. He wrote a suicide note planning to kill himself next to his girlfriend with a nail gun. He had tampered with the gun’s safety features to make sure it would work, but before he managed to shoot himself, the gun went off. The nail penetrated the girl’s forehead, between the eyes and killed her. The court decided the suicide note was a cover up for pre-meditated murder.

Was It Liz? Or was it Angie? Nobody knows as the remaining sister changed identities. The sisters used different family names before hand, to make their malicious game more affective. The one who called herself Angie ended up with two passports and two identification cards, which she used at will. With the death of her sister, she became amoral, dishonest, mean, and vicious. Although she claimed Bar-Shalit used her, I am sure she was using him. She found in him a partner but definitely outsmarted him. She used Amos, Captain Avery Bonnelle, Robbie, and probably many others as well.

Mrs. Ruth Timmons 1996

“Don’t mention Angie again,” was the first thing Mrs. Timmons said when she joined me at the bar. “I do not want to have anything to do with her. Her name gives me the creeps. Last time I heard from her was three years ago. She didn't tell me from where she was telephoning and I didn’t ask. She changed places without leaving a forwarding address. Every time I heard her voice, I thought it was a ransom call”

“What is she doing with her life?” I asked.

“Nothing. She takes care of her daughter.”

“Why is she on the run?”

“Joe was released from prison at 1983. Since then, he has been looking for her.”

“Why?”

“I believe,” said Ruth, carefully selecting the right words, “I believe, there is an unsettled financial dispute between them.”

“You mean she screwed him on the Memphis deal?”

“Yes, she took the stolen money and ran, but how do you know about Memphis?”

“Never mind.”
After a long pause, she said, “I don’t believe I am telling you this.”

“Telling me what?”

“About Angie.”

“Angie? Angie who? Never heard of any Angie,” I said and we both laughed.

-------------------------------------------------

Update

Amos married and is still with his wife, raising four children.

Captain Avery Bonnelle was not involved with any more scandals and is now in retirement. The vintage mustang was bought by an old car collector, only now it is white, not red.

One gusty, blustery, stormy night Robbie’s boat banged several times against the jetty. The damage was irreparable. Robbie collected the insurance, resigned, and lived on a boat in Spain for ten years. He died at the age of seventy-five. At his funeral, thirty-six years after the glorious Angie era, we recalled “the hangover lady” story and chuckled.

Joe Bar Shalit spent five years in a federal penitentiary during which he had to use his given name.

Ruth, the prominent lady, is today married to the president of a world-renowned research institution. She claims she never knew any person by the name of Angie.

Angie, if she ever existed, disappeared off the face of the earth.

The End

I am the expert

2008-12-29T07:06:00.000-08:00

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

Fast draw

2008-12-12T09:31:00.000-08:00

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

Only the truth

2008-11-20T08:29:00.000-08:00

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

Mr Rosenkranz

2008-10-28T06:53:00.000-07:00

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."

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.

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.

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.

“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.”

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:

“How did you do it young man?”
“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

Sara Lee

2008-09-29T08:55:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-06T05:22:00.000-07:00

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

Miss Lynn The English tutor.

2008-08-23T02:28:00.000-07:00

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.

Marie-Madeleine

2008-07-17T08:43:00.000-07:00

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.

Hotel Arabela

2008-07-04T00:20:00.000-07:00

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

Bush Pilot

2008-06-19T02:30:00.000-07:00

Bush pilot

Hagai Cohen

“You're all set” said Major Adams, endorsing our flight licenses. “You are qualified to fly the Cessna 172.”

All four of us were airline pilots posted in Nairobi at the peek of our flying careers. With only one flight a week, we had a lot of spare time on our hands.

Major Adams, with his handlebar mustache, pipe, and major's baton, was a relic. Thirty years earlier, he had been an instructor at the R.A.F. flying-school in Nairobi, Kenya. Since then he had never left Kenya nor updated his flying skills. The Kenya board of transportation, in their ignorance, had authorized him to issue pilot’s licenses. He also rented out airplanes.

We wanted to visit the Ngorongoro crater in Tanzania. A small plane was the only way to get there. As we did not trust Major Adams or any of his pilots and because we needed a local, license to fly ourselves, all four of us took the fifteen minutes check ride and Major Adams stamped our licenses.

We landed at seven A.M the next morning on a strip next to the crater. We moored the plane, checked into the lodge, and, after breakfast, hit the road in a Land Rover. After a three and a half hour bumpy ride to the crater highlands of northern Tanzania, we arrived to a very impressive and dramatic part of the world.

The caldera was the most exciting we had ever seen, we had to descend a rocky track that dropped 2000 feet in two miles. Ngorngoro is famous for its highest density of lions but we did not see any.

To add to our bad luck the fan belt snapped in the territory of a heavyset rhino. While I was changing the fan belt, an angry rhino huffed and puffed at us, so we drove the Land Rover behind a tree surrounded by dense bushes, where I finished the job in relative safety.

We finished installing the fan belt at 3:00 P.M. At 5 P.M., the local predators get hungry. The thought of becoming a part of the Nature’s food chain was not at all appealing. The trip was a waste of time.

Back at the lodge, after a shower and a pint our disappointment dissipated. We found ourselves coordinating our stories for the people back home. The rhino turned into a herd of rhinos and fixing the fan belt became “overhauling the engine under the watchful eyes of a hungry lioness.” While thus engaged, a strange, burly character walked in.

“Abed,” said the man, brusque and loud, to the bartender, “a pint to the Captain's table.”
“Right away, Captain Smokey, sir,” said the bartender.

Captain Smokey wore green flight overalls with the words BUSH SAFARI printed on its back. A revolver was strapped to his right boot and a commando knife to his left. All kinds of equipment hung from his belt: a homing radio, a signaling mirror, a bulky marine Morse semaphore, night flares, a smoke flare, a whistle, two flashlights, and more ‘unidentified objects.'

“Who is this character?” asked Mike.
“A very lucky guy,” said Kim. “He'll never get hemorrhoids.”
The three of us looked at our friend, puzzled.
“A perfect ass-hole,” he explained.
“Where could he have come from?” mused Mussik.
“Who the hell is he trying to impress?” said Jack (that is me) rhetorically.

The eyes of the few people in the lounge at that time were on the Captain. As his beer arrived, the Captain instructed Abed: “Set the table for four. My guests will dine with me.”

He must have been in his mid-twenties, cocky, over-confident, and obviously in love with himself. Soon a party of three walked into the lounge, a man, his wife, and their teenage daughter.
“Sorry we’re late,” said the man to Captain Smokey as they approached his table.

The Captain dismissed the remark and said: “Oh, don’t worry. I do not waste my time, even when I relax with a beer. I am planning tomorrow’s flight.”

We smiled at each other and listened in on their conversation. The family was on safari as a graduation present to the girl we were told.

“Tell me, Captain," said the girl, "how did you become a pilot?” She stared at the Captain with lustrous eyes.
“You don't just become a pilot, you have to be born one," he pronounced loudly. "You have to be the right stuff from your first breath, gifted by God.” The Captain wanted everybody to heed his immortal words. We could not believe what we were hearing.

“Is it dangerous? I mean to fly a plane?" asked the girl.
“Danger is my middle name, my dear,” said the braggart.
“Where did you learn to fly?”

“I learned from the best and most famous pilot in all of East Africa - Major Adams,” he said, with a proud lift of his head.

This was too much! The name of Major Adams brought an impish smile to my face I had been with that rusty relic, in his own plane. If I had to give him a check ride, he wouldhave been grounded.

“Excuse me, please,” I said to the boys, “duty calls.”
I rose and walked toward the Captain’s table.

“Excuse me please, Captain, sir," said I. "I could not help overhearing your conversation. It is fascinating, your being a pilot, so glamorous, so romantic. All my life I wanted to meet a real pilot face to face.”

“Oh, my dear man, please join us. You have come to the right place.”
I pulled up a chair and sat down. “I'm Jack,” I said.
“Captain Smokey." He held out his hand. "Pleased to meet you.”
“Tell me, Captain Smokey, how does one know he's the right stuff?"

“Well, my dear friend, if you don’t know the answer to that, you are certainly no pilot."
I held a straight face; it was hard as I was having an attack of gastro-giggleeitis.

“How does it feel to fly? Is it exciting? Is it thrilling? Do you feel ‘high’ when you fly?”

“Exactly the right words, my dear friend; despite your accent, I see you have good command of the English language.”
“Thank you, Captain Smokey,” I said humbly.

"It is just as you say, exciting and thrilling. There is no such sensation on earth, and I am of the privileged few to experience it."
“How do you find your way in the bush?”
“I know the bush like the palm of my hand. I don't trust all those damn instruments; nobody knows how to read them anyway.”
I am what they call a natural pilot I can feel the speed and the altitude day and night, it’s in my bones”.

At that moment, I heard Kim’s voice behind me saying in Hebrew: “I'll hire Captain Smokey to take my mother-in-law for an excursion, and I'd better do it quickly, before it’s too late.”
My three friends pulled up their chairs, giving Captain Smokey a large group of admiring listeners.

“How high can you fly Captain Smokey?”
“Well, let’s see, last week I flew over Kilimanjaro. Oh no, sir, I never ever fly over of the volcano crater. The natives call the mountain “the breathing mountain” and, once in a while, unprovoked, the mountain sucks in everything that flies over it.”

(The Cessna he was flying cannot fly above 10,000’. The plane carries no oxygen, the Kilimanjaro towers to a height of 19,000’.)
My friends and I exchanged glances but kept tight control over our amusement.

I composed my next question carefully, looking into the Captain’s eyes with great admiration. “Have you ever flown through the sound barrier?”
“Of course, many times.”
“How does it feel?”

“It’s a great sensation. You fly the airplane, and leave your noise behind. The sound arrives later usually after the landing.
“Do you always wait for the sound to arrive after landing?”
"Of course I do, it is a part of the N.O.P."
“What is N.O.P?” I asked.
“Normal operating procedure.”
“Thank you, Captain Smokey, I would never have known.”
“Did it ever happen that your sound got lost and did not arrive?”
“God forbid! It's a bad sign if your sound gets lost.”
“Can you talk while flying above the speed of sound?”
“No you can not.”

Captain Smokey's discourse was now self-sustaining and he continued to educate us.
“Did you know heavy planes have difficulty going down?
“No I did not know but I think I understand what you are saying.”
I said. “I lived next to a quarry and the big trucks carrying heavy boulders, always traveled down very slowly, with great difficulty, while the unloaded trucks sped down easily.”

The Captain looked at me and said arrogantly “You can never understand. It was a waste of time talking to you.” He then turned to the young woman seeking more of her admiration.

I was sorry at the abrupt end to my conversation with Captain Smokey. I had several more questions for him; I wanted to ask particularly about the worthless equipment strapped to his belt. Especially about the bulky marine Morse semaphore, now found only in museums and obsolete since the First World War.

We returned to our table where we merrily discussed Captain Smokey, who had definitely salvaged our trip.

We were in our plane, about to take off next morning, when we saw the Captain taxiing to the airstrip.

“Bush safari 09 - transmitting blind - rolling Ngorongoro strip, destination Nairobi, climbing flight level 80.”
That was the Captain informing other planes in his location. There was no control tower on the airstrip.

“Bush Safari 09 - Adams 07 - Hold position, hold position,” I radioed the Captain.

“Adams 07 - Bush Safari 09 –holding position what seems to be the problem?”

“Bush Safari 09 - Adams 07 - I have just received a cable from Nairobi control. Are you ready to copy?”

“Affirmative Adams 07 - ready to copy, go ahead.”
“Break, break. Kilimanjaro active since 5:00 GMT this morning. Break - flock of vultures sucked into mountain at 06:00 GMT - break. All birds known to be wearing oxygen masks. Break. Use caution. Break.”

“Who's this speaking? “ The Captain sounded annoyed.
“It's Jack, Captain Smokey. Last night we had drinks together."

“FUCK YOU, YOU SON OF A BITCH!” Now, the Captain sounded furious.

“Watch your language, Captain,” I said. “You have ladies onboard."
I heard something akin to a growl. I continued: "We are fifteen minutes behind you, Captain, but we’ll meet you on the ground in Nairobi, while you wait for your noise to arrive.”

I wish I could have seen Captain Smokey’s face. Unfortunately, I had to imagine his rage from the way he handled the take-off.
I never did meet the Captain again but, on every visit to Nairobi, I inquired after him. He seemed to be doing well and had become a famous and recommended bush pilot. Unfortunately, the glorious career of Captain Smokey came to an abrupt, but not unexpected end a year later.

A television film crew of three, with all its equipment, boarded Bush Safari 09 in Nairobi. The Captain did not weigh the cargo. Nairobi is 5,500 feet high. The takeoff distance is significantly longer as the engine power is low. Captain Smokey crashed at the end of the runway when he tried to lift the Cessna below the required speed.
Kim’s mother in-law is safe - for now.

*****************************************

Approved

2008-06-12T04:23:00.001-07:00

Approved
Hagai Cohen
3 June 2003

“Today, I am twenty one, Daddy, not your little girl any more. It’s time you told me what happened on your first date with Mom. Neither you nor Mom is willing to talk about it and Grandma gets amnesia when I ask her. I have had enough evasiveness. I am not leaving this room until you talk.”

“Listen darling, if I tell you without your Mom’s consent, I’m a dead man.”
“You tell me, Dad, and I’ll deal with Mom.”
“Ok, but if you ever use this story against us, I won’t know you.”
“Deal! I love you, Dad.”

“Well" I started, "it was fall in New York. The fall colors were beautiful that year and the weather-man promised wormer temperatures. Your Mom invited me to spend the weekend at her ‘country house’ (this very house), to hike around and look at the fall colors.

Linn and I had had a long-term work relationship. We had known each other for two years and until then our relationship had been formal.
As I had nothing better to do, I accepted the invitation.

The drive up to the house was a pleasant one. With every mile northward, the fall colors became more radiant and luminous.
It was also the first time we discussed personal topics. The questions and answers revealed we had many common interests. Our taste and preferences in food and wine were similar. I also discovered that your Mom was a romantic. It was somewhat surprising, very different from the buttoned up image she projected at the office. I was especially impressed with her great sense of humor and her sweet impish smile.

Before setting out on our hike, we sprayed ourselves with insect repellent. We hiked through the woods, across farmer Baker’s meadow to the stream and the lake. We leaned over the side of a narrow ridge, trout nets in our hand. It was really fun to hold each other from falling into the water, While trying to fish. Our catch was three nice size rainbow trout.

Only after we had bagged the fish, Linn told me all she could cook was meat loaf, and had no idea what to do with trout. This pleased me, as many women in my experience; find it romantic to have men cook for them. It was my turn to impress Linn.

On our return to the country-house, I steamed the trout with fresh ginger, chopped scallions, and soy sauce. While the fish was steaming, I cut the vegetables for the salad and in less than fifteen minutes, dinner was on the table. A bottle of Chardonnay was uncorked to enhance the taste of the fish and Linn was in high spirits.
After the repast, she suggested we return to the meadow and lie down on the flat rock to watch the stars.
The full moon turned the meadow and the forest into a romantic setting.
While we were spreading a blanket on the rock, our faces touched inadvertently and before we knew it, our passions were kindled. After a few exploratory kisses, we stripped rapidly, scattering our clothes all over the rock. The exposure of our bodies to the caressing breeze, the moonlight, the warm rock and an overdose of hormones made our lovemaking highly intense, and very promising.
After the delicious lovemaking, we lay on our backs to watch the stars.
I was still enjoying the residual pleasure of our act, when a loud noise startled us.
We jumped to our feet to see a three thousand pound bull with a horn span of four feet, huffing and puffing through his huge nostrils while digging his hoofs into the turf threateningly.
We did not know that while we were feasting on the fish, Farmer Backer had rounded up his herd and brought it to the new pasture.
I had good eye-to-eye contact with the beast but my severe look did not make an impact on him. ‘I am not really after your harem,’ I said in panic. The determined bull was not impressed.

He was twenty yards from us, when he charged. I hoped the rock itself would discourage him but he jumped right on it like a springbok.
His stomping felt like an earthquake. Linn screamed. I pushed her and we jumped to the side.
Were you scared Dad?
“Correct, we were horrified, petrified, terrified, and etcetera.
The granite rock was too slippery for the massive bull. He skidded and fell over on the other side.
While the bull was recovering himself, Linn cried: “Let’s get the hell out of here.” She collected the clothes we’d thrown off hastily half an hour earlier. She used my jeans as a laundry bag and stuffed in shoes and all.
The fall made the bull more determined. He turned all his anger towards Linn who had made my pants look like competitive horns. I used the blanket to divert his attention and every time he missed us, we inched towards the log fence. We finally made it to safety.
Retrospectively, I think we did a great job escaping the vicious bull, but at that moment, all I thought about were my words to the bull: ‘I am not after your harem.’ I think Linn took it as an insult.
‘It wasn’t that funny’ she said, and fell into silence. Not a word was said and the tension was unbearable, we forgot we were still naked.
Suddenly Linn put on a sweet smile and said: “You know Jack, we were lucky….”
“You bet,” I said, thinking it’s a miracle we had escaped the bullfight unharmed.
“We were very lucky Jack,” she said again, “we did not step on a single ‘meadow muffin’.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Cow pat, if you must know.”
This silly remark was what relieved the tension. It started a nervous laughter that very soon became hysterical.
After controlling myself a little, I continued in the same vein. I knelt down, put my hand on Linn’s hips and said: “Thank you, my dear Madam, for letting me protect you. Bare handed, bare footed and bare assed.
I bravely fought the killer bull to save your life. Not every day Madame, does an opportunity like this present itself to a man.
I’ll kill anything for you Madame, a bull, a tiger and even a water bug, if necessary.
You, lady, have retrieved my lost dignity. I’ll be your slave forever. Thank you, thank you, and thank you!”
Linn picked up a branch, rested it on my shoulder and said:

”With the authority vested in me from heaven, I dub thee Sir Jack, Knight of the BULLSHIT and lord of the MEADOW MUFFIN. Arise Sir Knight and kiss your queen.”
“Yes, my dear.”

The naked knight and his equally nude queen walked joyfully back hand-in-hand along the pathway strewn with fallen leaves. While walking on the path, carrying their garments under their arms, they knew, they had fallen in love.

Our moment of euphoria did not last long. As we approached the back yard, a car turned into the driveway and caught us in its headlights. We were so startled we stood stock-still.
It stopped five yard from us. Unexpected and unannounced, Linn’s mother, Grandma Ruth stepped out of the car. It was extremely embarrassing.
“Are you crazy or what?” she screamed at us. “What do you think you’re doing walking about like this in the woods?”
“Mom!”
”There are lime disease ticks, spot fever ticks, poison ivy and you might even catch a cold.”
“Mom, please! Would you believe me if I told you we were chased by a bull and barely survived?
“I’ll believe anything about you, my dear girl, but I am sure the bull had nothing to do with the way you look right now.”
We started to laugh at Grandma Ruth’s great humor. The embarrassment and discomfort disappeared.
Linn said through her laughter: “Mother… this is… my friend…. Sir Jack, the savior.”
I dropped the blanket from under my arm, stepped forward in all my nudity, and offered my hand.
“Please to meet you Mrs. Kaplan.”
Your Grandma took my hand, looked me over from top to bottom and said: “Nice physique, Jack.”
“Thank you Mrs. Kaplan.”
Without letting my hand go, she continued. “Listen to me you two weirdoes, run into the house and take a shower, TOGETHER! Check each other for ticks, THOROUGHLY! Or I’ll come in and do it myself.”
That evening, while Grandma Ruth enjoyed the last trout, I received the stamp of approval.”

“Will you walk to that rock with me, Daddy? Please, please, oh, please!”
“Why not? I haven’t been there for years and it will be nice if you find the socks I lost that night.”

The End

The circle

2008-05-06T06:58:00.000-07:00

In memory of my friend Menachem, Who did not live to see Israel's sixtieth anniversary.

In the summer of 1948, Jerusalem was under siege. The streets were fairly empty as every venture out of the house was risky because of the constant shelling. People had to queue for rationed water from cisterns. The Arabs had sabotaged all the water pumping stations along the road to Jerusalem. Also there was also no fresh food supply. No convoys could break through the ambushes and the blockades.
Each person was allowed two slices of bread per day. The only source of protein was the dried beans most people kept at home along with rice and pasta. As there was almost no cooking oil and no kerosene for the stoves; we learned to cook on wood fires outdoors.

When the shelling became very heavy, we would take cover in the closest bomb shelter. My father was busy with the defense forces, while my mother took care of the food supply, mainly queuing for rationed food. She made a shelter kit for me, containing some food, a canteen of water and a book. My job was to cook and to take care of my younger brother.

“I’ll be away for two minutes,” said my Mom and added humorously: “Don’t forget to stir the soup every fifteen minutes.”

One morning, while I was at the outdoor stove, I heard the familiar sound of a shell being shot. As usual, I removed the pot from the fire, took my brother’s hand, lifted my backpack and crossed the street to our bomb shelter.

The bombs fell closer. More and more panic-stricken people rushed in. A Hassidic lad about three years older than I, came and sat next to me. There were many seats around but he chose to sit by my side. I did not pay much attention to him and had no particular desire to talk.

I sat quietly and about to get my book out of my backpack, when suddenly, the Hassid turned to me and said: “My name is Menachem. I noticed you and your brother were the first in the shelter. How did you know it was coming?”

“It’s very simple,” I said. “The cannon is located at Nabi Samuel and always shoots in the same pattern. They start to shoot east of us, then turn the gun westward and shoot in sequence. Ours is the sixth shell, the seventh is aimed farther west of us, and the eighth one is ours again, as they backtrack. After they shoot thirty shells, they let the gun cool for exactly half an hour and then re-start.

“Are you telling me you know when to hide and how much time you have to spend in the shelter?” asked Menachem.
“Yes, but I am referring only to this gun. There are others as well.”
“You have to teach me,” said Menachem.

I was very pleased he wanted to know as most of the adults to whom I tried to explain the sequence, regarded me as a highly confused ten years old child. They were shocked someone so small and so stupid (in their opinion) should be left in charge of an even smaller sibling. “What kind of parents will leave two children unattended at time like this” they whispered to one another.

I had some precocious knowledge of the subject as my father drew the civil defense maps and charts on which the types of guns and their locations were clearly marked. My mother was the only adult who trusted my observations and her food-gathering schedule was planned according to my intelligence reports.

“Ok,” I said to Menachem, “I’ll teach you. My name is Yakov.”
“There are two kinds of shells,” I said, the canon shells, If you know the direction it is coming from, a tall building can give you very good protection. You can identify the shell by the sound:. The shot, the whistle and the explosion. If the whistle and the explosion come together and very loud, check if you’re dead. The mortar shells are more dangerous as they are come down in straight lines. They fall inside courtyards, narrow alleys and so on. The only warning you get is the sound when the shell is fired. A continuous dull rumbling follows this sound. If you hear it, run immediately for shelter as you have a very short time.”

I could tell Menachem was impressed. We practiced the various sounds and made a chart to predict the next bomb with great accuracy. It was very pleasant to have someone with whom to speak. Most of the children in the shelter were huddled around their parents and were always scared.

Menachem and I both looked forward to getting together. Unfortunately, we could meet in no other place but the shelter. I would become the laughing stock of my friends in the neighborhood if I were seen with him. If he were seen with me, he would be grounded forever! We had to rely on the goodwill of the Arabs to spend time together.

As days passed, I discovered Menachem was interested in subjects like geography and science. I did my best to share some of my knowledge. I showed him my schoolbooks and he started even to read a Jules Verne book but only in the shelter, of course.

Once, after spending a whole night in the shelter, Menachem decided not to go home. He told me nobody at home would queue for food and there was not enough for his younger brothers and sister. “They’ll have more to eat if I do not go home” he said.

We had enough food at home. My father with an experience of two big wars, had bought spaghetti, rice, dried beans and canned food in commercial quantities. I suggested to Menachem he eat with us. Menachem refused at first, as our food was not kosher enough for him. After some debate, we found a solution: Menachem would get his own pot and I would cook his food separately.

With the new cooking arrangement, Menachem spent more time with me and felt more and more comfortable. One day, he even dared to enter my home and was fascinated with the objects he saw. For him, it was like a visit to another planet. He saw my father’s paints and paintings, the drafting table, the survey equipment, the blueprint frame and more. He was very interested and wanted to learn everything at once. He stopped suddenly by the piano and said, “What’s this?”

“A piano,” I said. “Let me show you.” I was not surprised he didn’t know what a piano was, he didn’t know anything. I sat down and played the opening bars from “To Alice” by Beethoven. I played for a minute, stopped and looked up at Menachem. He was mesmerized. Without a word, he took my place on the bench and tried out the notes with his ears cocked as though listening carefully. Slowly he advanced and played two more notes. His discordant chords transformed slowly into music. Not so clear at first, but soon, with hesitation, the opening bars of “to Alice” emerged from one hand, later joined with chords from the other hand. He made very few mistakes.

As I heard Menachem play, I got goose bumps. It was eerie. What was going on? How could a person, who never saw a piano in his life did not know even what a piano was, start playing like this? He had watched me for just one minute and then played as well as I did after two years of learning.

From that day on, Menachem’s first love was the piano; we spent most of our time together sitting at the instrument. I was sure Menachem would make little progress without a real teacher. I tried very hard to convince him to join me at one of my piano lessons, but he refused. Despite his limited knowledge Menachem started composing. He did not want to spoil his ecstasy with theory or learning to read notes.

Menachem’s honeymoon with the piano lasted only two months. One afternoon after a heavy shelling, we returned to the house to find the piano had been blown away. Menachem was sad and depressed. He was convinced it was an act of God to stop him from playing music. When I reminded him King David played the harp and it was definitely not against God’s wish to play musical instruments, his answer was: “You don't understand. David’s harp was sacred”.

I could not and would not debate this stand.

A few weeks later, when the bombing stopped and the road to Jerusalem was opened, Menachem stopped coming. I only saw Menachem one more time, when he told me he wanted to become a rabbi.

Five years went by before I saw him again.
One afternoon, as I left school at the end of the classes and walked home with my friends, I saw Menachem walking towards me. He did not stop. We made eye contact and he gave a tiny head gesture, indicating his desire to talk. I excused myself from my friends and followed him. We spoke as though we had seen each other only yesterday.

He told me he had done very well in his studies and he was almost a qualified rabbi.
We filled the five years gap with information about ourselves. Menachem, after some hesitation, asked me: “Did you buy a new piano?”

“No,” I answered, “but if you want to play, I have some friends who will definitely let you play.”

“No,” he said, “I want a package deal: you and the piano. I miss music very much - not just playing - I miss listening. I wish I could learn some theory, some musical terms, things I feel about music but don’t know.”

“How can I help?”

He ignored my interruption.

“Every Saturday, after the Morning Prayer, I take a walk in a secular neighborhood. I sit on a bench, listening to the Saturday morning chamber music program from someone’s radio. I feel the music all around me, penetrating my skin and getting into my bones.”

I really felt sorry for him.

“Do you want to get together some time, maybe we’ll listen to music?” I said.
“Yes, I’ll write to you. Goodbye now.” He said and walked away quickly.

“Why did Menachem go through all the trouble to find me?” I thought. My school was quite far from his home. I could not believe he did it just to find out if I had a piano? Why didn’t he just stop and talk? Why the hiding, the mystery? Perhaps he needed some other kind of help? Perhaps the piano was an excuse? I did not have the answers.

I waited for him to show up again. But Menachem did not contact me.

Four years after that meeting, I returned to the old neighborhood to take out a girl I was dating. Down the street, Menachem spotted me. This time he approached me with a big smile, “Hello!”

While I was pleased to see him, I was a little angry too. “Look Menachem,” I said, “I’m in a hurry. I have a date with a girl who lives around here and I’m late.”

“Do I know her?” asked Menachem,

“Since when are you interested in secular women?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I owe you an explanation.”

After a pause he added: “Listen carefully to what I have to say. I’ll say it only once. Nobody has heard it before and I’ll never repeat it.

Four years ago, I loved a girl who was not a Hassid. I did not know how to approach her or how to talk to her. I was afraid she would make fun of me. My thoughts drove me crazy.”

“Was that the reason you wanted to talk to me back then?” I interrupted.

“Yes. I had the fantasy I would come to play your piano and you would invite the girl. I wanted her to see me in a different light.”

“Menachem, let me tell you, rabbi or not, you are the biggest shmock ever born! If you had only spoken to me at the time, I would have arranged it without a piano,” I said. “Who is the lady?”

“You know her very well, but I am married now. I have a son two years old and my wife is pregnant again. I married through a matchmaker and have learned to love my wife.”

“Good for you!” I said.

“I want you to come tomorrow to my nephew’s Brith. Please, come as my guest.”

I was intrigued. It was the first time he was ready to admit friendship with someone outside his community. “I’ll be delighted to come,” I said. “Will you introduce me to Mrs. Rabbi?”

“I’ll show you where to look,” promised Menachem, “but you’ll do it discreetly,” he added with a warning look.

“OK,” I said. “Settled!”

I was excited as it was my first and only participation in a Hassidic ‘Simcha.’
I arrived early and watched the Hassidic orchestra getting ready. Menachem was the producer and the organizer.

The orchestra set their amplifiers and speakers and tried their instruments. The saxophone player, tried the instrument. To my surprise, he played the opening bars of Schubert’s ‘Ave Maria. “He could not be a Hassid.” I was thinking.

The Brith was a happy affair; the orchestra played well and the music was appropriate. Menachem sang the Hassidic songs with the orchestra. He improvised beautifully. I realized I had been invited to hear Menachem sing. With him on the mike, the audience became ecstatic. They jumped and danced as if they were on drugs.
At the intermission, when Menachem went for quick Vodka, he stopped by me and whispered: “The fourth on the second row.” It was of course Mrs. Rabbi in the women’s section. I glanced over at her but she looked exactly like the other women.

At the end of the evening, I asked Menachem: “Do you always hire the same orchestra?”
“Yes. I like them, the audience likes them, and, most important, they let me sing with them,” said Menachem.

“I like the way you sing, Menachem. As I said to you many years ago, you need a professional teacher. You are a real musician.” Without waiting for his answer, I continued: “Do you really believe Hassidic outfits make the orchestra kosher?”

“How did you know they are not Hassidic?” asked Menachem. “Nobody knows it, and you did not even get close to them.”

I told Menachem about the Ave Maria and was very surprised to hear Menachem say: “music is just music and they’ll never find it in a million years.” It was the first time I heard Menachem refer to his community as ‘they’. It left me somewhat concerned.

During the following years, we met often. I was surprised to find he was not happy and drank a lot.
At one time Menachem told me as follows: “the Hassidic community is very supportive if you follow the herd. Me, I feel imprisoned sometimes; I wish I had been more courageous a few years ago followed my heart and my music.”

In his community, Menachem established his position as a teacher and a scholar. He founded a small school and became famous and wealthy before he was forty.

Menachem confessed one day “it was only because of our relationship that I was able to get into a rich Hassidic community abroad.

“How come?” I asked.

The parents of my students want them to cope with the real world. I could offer them the service because of you. I learned from you to have no fear of the outside world and I pass it on to them.”

We met once or twice a month but I never met anyone of his family. We always met on a Thursday and always at his initiative. I had his phone number but never used it. He would call me and we met always at Omry’s pub where Rabbi Menachem felt comfortable.

It was so odd to see a Hassid in a pub, people asked me if Menachem is a real Hassid or an under-cover something. Most of his students had cars, he picked different one each time to be his driver. (Real world experience). Sometimes he brought Shuki, another Hassidic friend. Shuki was a mortician who never learned to cope with death. He came to the pub to drown his agony.

About six weeks before the gulf war Menachem called me. “I do not have transportation; I need to talk to you.”

I felt the urgency in his voice. “After Omry’s, I need a lift to Jerusalem.”

Of course, I did not question his need to talk, and drove to Bney Brak to pick him up. We drove to Omry’s and sat at our regular table.

“I want you to do me two favors,” he said after we got our beers.” I need you to find a certain young woman for me.” He talked very fast and I did not like the way he said it.

“And what will happen to this young woman after I find her?” I asked.

“No, you don’t understand. You don’t have to tell anybody where she is, not even me.”

“Okay, Menachem,” I said, “Start from the beginning.”

“This girl is my niece,” said Menachem. “She ran away from home and is in hiding. The community, including my brother, her father, is anxious to find her. Some want to punish her and some just want to bring her back. She is determined to be a musician, and my brother won’t let her. It would disgrace our family, so my brother believes.”

Menachem took a long drink of his beer.

“She is very talented. With the help of my fake Hassidic orchestra, I managed to get her a guitar. The problem was that she had no a place to keep the guitar or to practice.

She was terrified her father would find the instrument and break it. So, she took it and disappeared. She changed her name. I know she takes guitar lessons and she has no money. I want you to find her and discover a way to give her money on monthly basis, without leaving a trail to me. You have to help me Yakov; she’ll never make it without my help.”

“This is heavy stuff,” I said to Menachem, “and what might your second request be?”

“I want you to buy me a CD with vocal jazz music and I want you to arrange for me to sing with a real jazz band, just once.”

The second request came to me as a big surprise; it did not fit into the place or the time, but it was easy for me to do. Two years earlier I founded a chamber music orchestra and had all the necessary contacts.

I drove Menachem to his home in Jerusalem; we did not talk during the trip. As Menachem got out of the car, I said to him: “Okay, Menachem, I’ll do it for you.”

There are not too many classic guitar teachers it was easy to find Menachem’s niece. I asked her to meet me and my musical director and we gave her an audition. Menachem was right.She was good.

I took her aside and told her about my relationship with her uncle, about the piano, his fake Hassidic orchestra, his love of music and his desire to sing with a jazz band, and about the allowance he planned to give her. “He does not want another frustrated musician in the family,” I explained. “He feels you did what he would like to have done but never had the courage,” she had tears in her eyes.

A jazz bandleader whom I knew personally, promised to let Rabbi Menachem sing with them. “The only problem is, we usually play in a church,” he said.

I told Menachem about the church and, to my surprise, he said: “A church is only a building. I am not planning to attend services. I simply have to do it.”

I gave Menachem a CD of the music they played and a date was set. Menachem’s singing was immature but he improvised like a professional, it was thrilling and very exiting. At the end of the session, the bandleader took me aside and said: “Your man is a musical genius but I cannot use him. He hasn’t any basic musical education and I cannot explain to him what I would require of him.”

“That’s all right,” I said. “He wanted no more than this opportunity.”

I took Menachem to Omry’s pub for a beer. We were about to sit down with the beers when the sirens went off. It was on the first night of the Scuds We put on our gas masks, took our drinks and went down to the ‘sealed room.’ We had four and a half minutes before a Scud Missile fell somewhere in Israel.

We consumed our beers slowly and quietly. I could not stop thinking about the other shelter forty-four years earlier. I had no idea it was to be our last beer together.

Two months later, Shuki called me and said: “I need a drink, and I need to see you. I am alone. Will you join me at Omry’s?”

It was not unusual for Shuki to want to have a drink it was peculiar he came alone. Of course I agreed.

We sat silently drinking and I waited for Shuki to speak. He did not say much but drank a lot. After his fourth Scotch, he excused himself, went out to his car and brought in a black plastic garbage bag. He handed it to me and said:

“Menachem had a stroke a month ago. It was his second. The first was very mild, about two months ago. He is now partially paralyzed and in a bad shape. He does not want to see you, or anyone else. He asks you to do him one last favor. He said you would know what to do with this bag.”

The bag had a knot on top and was heavy.

“Did he say anything else? Can I call him?”

“No.” said Shuki.

I decided to keep the bag closed until I got home.

In my garage, I untied the knot and discovered within a shoebox, full of small packages of ten thousand of dollars all in large bills.

I gave the shoebox to Menachem’s niece.

Shortly after, she left for Spain to continue her musical education.
---------------------------

interstate motel

2008-04-17T10:17:00.000-07:00

THE INTERSTATE MOTEL

Bill and I were driving the company’s Town-Car towards Albany NY from our main office in Fort Lee NJ. Despite the adverse weather conditions - the high winds, the poor visibility and the soaking wet road - we were in good humor. We had been invited to the board meeting at the Hilton as honorary guests to speak about our sales strategy.

Bill and I, Vice Presidents of Sales and Marketing, had succeeded in the last year in doubling the production and increasing sales revenue by 40%, a significant achievement after five years of stagnant business. Our success was primarily due to our teamwork, an obscene word in the world of individuals out for themselves.

We did not like the corporate atmosphere, nor did we like our colleagues, but we did our job well.
We made many enemies. They called us scornfully ‘the team’, or ‘the couple’. The other Vice Presidents were jealous and hated us. The C.E.O., Fredric Hamilton Cornelius Junior the Third, came under a lot of pressure to break up our alliance and reduce our power and influence. The rumors were the Board would vote to promote us to a position abroad, thus keeping us away from headquarters. We did not know whether to be joyful or upset, but we were pleased with the fat Christmas bonus promised us. We did not think about the future. Our immediate goal was to succeed in our presentation. We planned to show our successes were not an accident; we had no thoughts of being nice to our fellow vice presidents. But first we had to get to the Hilton.
After an hour of slow driving, we hit a traffic tie-up. The radio informed us that a multi-car accident on the New York state throughway had jammed it completely. We inched forward covering about a mile in two hours until we reached an exit which we took. We cruised along an endless street with many motels, all advertising 'No Vacancies.' The last motel on the street, just before the re-entry to the highway, and across the street from a state police station, had a single vacancy.

It was a typical interstate motel with its musty smell, flimsy plastic cups, and two squares of soap the size and thickness of an “After Eight” chocolate wafer. The towels were transparent, and slightly larger than a washrag.

“If anyone hears about this it’s the end of our career,” said Bill.
“We won't use the company credit card. We'll pay in cash,” said I.
“Agreed,” said he.

We slept well. The next morning at 07:45, we were ready to move. We had on our fancy, dark, one-thousand-dollar suits. We looked out of place in this crummy motel. We could only joke about our misfortune.

“We did not meet the Members of the Board,” I said “did not share a drink with them, and had to settle for a Big Mack for dinner,” I said it a bit loud Bill was in the bathroom finishing adjusting his tie.

As we were talking, our next-door neighbor started banging on the wall and screaming: “Stop that noise and be quiet you schmuks. ” He continued with more words of which I was not sure I knew the spelling.

“This man is calling us names,” said Bill.
“He must be crazy,” I said.
“We have to teach him a lesson,” said Bill. “No one, who stays in a dump like this may talk to me without permission.”
“Maybe we should give him a flat tire,” I said in an undertone.
“A very good idea, but unfortunately, illegal.”
“It’s almost eight. The people who spent the night must already be gone. This is not a Club Med resort. He should be in a strait-jacket.”
We were about to retaliate with advice to the man to go multiply with his mother when we heard him getting into the shower.

“Let’s play a little game,” I said. “The showers, ours and his, have a common wall and that gives me an idea.”
Bill looked at me expectantly.
“On my command,” I said to Bill, “you open the cold water tap to the maximum. When the idiot adjusts the water to a comfortable temperature, then I'll signal you to close the tap and open the hot. While you do it with the sink taps, I will do it with the shower. We'll have to put our ears on the wall, as the noise of the running water will prevent us from hearing his shouts when he freezes. We’ll repeat the cycle as many times as we please, or as long as he stays in the shower.”
After the second crescendo of yells, the man started abusing the world. The noise more than disturbed our peaceful stay in the motel, so we informed the person behind the wall, at the top of our lungs and accompanied with vigorous bangs on the wall, that we were not amused. “Watch your language, idiot. This is a respectable motel.”

We stopped banging when we heard the man screaming on the phone. The man’s debate with the hotel manager was about the shower. He yelled at the manager for five minutes non-stop before hanging up.

It was the right time for Bill to telephone the manager: “Look sir," he said in an offended tone, "it’s none of my business, but I think the man in room 16 has gone berserk. He is yelling and screaming and I believe he is breaking the furniture.”

Since our college days, we had not had so much fun.
Two and a half minutes later, we heard the siren from across the street. We took our bags and started to move towards our car.

Two officers came out of the patrol car both with their hands on their holsters. One moved close to the door, while the other called through a megaphone: “You, in room 16, come out with your hands up.”

A bare-footed man, bold, about sixty years old, came out wearing a white tee shirt barely covering his belly and blue striped underpants revealing thin white legs.
He held his hand up and trembled violently. The scene was grotesque.
“Place your hands on the wall and spread your legs wide.”

While the man turned slowly to the wall, he looked at us. with that short but very meaningful look we realizes, We were staring incredulously into the wigless face of Fredric Hamilton Cornelius Junior the Third, Chairman of the Board and active C.E.O. Bill and I felt like garden slugs sprinkled with salt, slowly shrinking and disappearing into a puddle of ooze.
The officer prepared to frisk Cornelius Jr. Without turning to us, he said brusquely: “You, with the fancy suits, get in your car and buzz off.”

The other officer went into the room with the owner of the motel and returned very quickly.
“Do you want to press charges?” asked the officer.

“No, no, nothing happened, no charges,” said the motel owner.
Cornelius Jr. was now escorted into the room. We started the engine and drove away. The air smelled of ‘disaster’. Our future seemed very murky.

At the entrance to the conference room, Cornelius’ secretary approached us and said: “Mr. Cornelius had to attend an unexpected affair and will be late. The Board meeting has been rescheduled. You will not be giving your presentation. The banquet is now only for Board members and their spouses and a few members of the press. Your names have been removed from the list.”

We were not surprised!
“Let’s go home before they confiscate our car,” I said to Bill.
“Do you think he knows we did the water trick?"
“Absolutely.”
“So in two weeks at the end of the year party, everybody will get an envelope. Ours will be with pink slips.”
“You can bet on it.”

“Let's resign first thing in the morning. It will stop any activity against us. We’ll tell him we decided, after a lot of thinking, to found our own consulting company. We will tell him what a pleasure it was working for him.” .…
The next morning we stepped into Cornelius office with our letters in hand. Cornelius opened them and read them expressionless.

“Next time you practice ‘teamwork’, make sure to document it with a photo,” said Cornelius.
We looked at each other baffled by what he meant. “You see,” he continued with his sphinx-like expression, had you shown me a photo of me in my striped under pants, imagine how you could have persuaded me to keep you here forever.”

Nice ride

2008-03-22T08:39:00.000-07:00

Nice Ride
Hagai Cohen

Captain Isaac, First officer Sam and I flew a night cargo flight from Chicago to Amsterdam. It was 7:00 am when we arrived and we were tired. Our station manager met us at the foot of the steps as we disembarked.

"You are booked at the Okura hotel" he told us.
"It is the new crew hotel which had its grand opening last night. It belongs to a Japanese chain. It is the tallest building in Amsterdam. All the rooms have a view of the city".
He was shooting all the information he could remember.
"The rest is on your crew-briefing sheet".

“Who cares now how fancy the hotel is?” I was thinking, All I wanted is to get to bed as soon as possible.
Fifteen minutes later, we were at the hotel.
The station manager was right: The hotel building looked very impressive; the lobby was magnificent but our minds were on the beds.

There was a special check-in counter for crew members. Japan airline crew was ahead at the counter. They were done with the checking in, but they all remained clustered together like children on a school trip waiting for instructions.

When we were done with checking in we started walking towards the elevator. Three Japanese women who left the group were also walking towards the same elevator.

“This is odd”, said Sam
“looks as if the ladies waited for us to press the buttons before they started moving.”
The women walked with tiny steps, as their dresses were long and tight.
“With those dresses” said Isaac
“They could make maximum one mile per hour.”
“How can they move fast enough and get five hundred passengers to the slides, in case of evacuation”? I asked.
“Don’t you know?” said Isaac, “It is all in their cabin safety manual, they get undressed in an emergency.”

One of the women wore a colorful silk dress with an odd looking parcel attached to the back. This lady exuded dignity and authority in her deportment. We let the ladies get into the elevator ahead of us.

All crew members of Japan Airlines have mandatory behavior codes even when not on duty. They are not allowed to use bellboys but have to carry their own suitcases which take up a lot of space in the elevator, so only three people were allowed to ride in one elevator. Well, six of us crowded in the hotel elevator, three Japanese ladies with three identical suitcases, three identical matching pocket books, and the three of us with our flight bags. We pressed the relevant buttons; the door of the elevator closed and we started the ascent towards our final destination; the beds.

Two seconds after the initial movement, the elevator came to an abrupt standstill. The bright light went off and so did the fan. A tiny emergency light came on. Isaac, our captain, was the first to recover from the surprise. He picked up the elevator emergency phone, while saying to us,
"Let’s hope it is not a fire and only an electrical problem. A fire through an elevator shaft could be very incinerating."

The operator was polite:
"I’ll call engineering and get back to you,” she said.

She called us shortly to tell us that engineering had called the elevator Company, and that the emergency crew had been summoned.
"They are fifteen minutes away." She assured us.
The assistant manager broke into the conversation:
"You will be out in five minutes”.

We did have some difficulty with the operator’s fifteen minutes and the assistant manger’s five. Of course we expressed our disrespect to the Japanese management, as Isaac explained about the light and the shrinking of the time was Einstein theory, and we are probably witnessing it now.
Isaac was known throughout the airline for his sense of humour and his ability to give long explanations about nothing. Isaac’s remarks did not change the fact that we were stuck between the second and the third floor, and that inside the box, the temperature and the humidity were rising rapidly.

“It is going to take a while, definitely more than fifteen minutes” I said.
Sam the first officer was a cheerful person that never panicked. He was the right person to be trapped with in a defective elevator. Sam however had one small problem, he was a pathological gambler. Sam would bet on anything.

Even the stalled elevator could not cure Sam’s bad habit.
"I bet you my bottle of vodka that we’ll be out of here in ten minutes" said Sam.
"My bottle of scotch against your vodka". I said in response.

Ten minutes later, as a good gambler who always pays his debts, Sam opened his bag and handed me the bottle of vodka. Of course I had to check the merchandise so I opened the seal and sniffed at it. It did not have any smell, a little sip and again it did not have any taste. Another good sign. I must say it had the smoothness that only good vodka can have and Sam knew his vodkas.
"Let me buy you a drink," I said to Sam and handed him the bottle. Sam took a gulp.
“What about my commission as a witness and the time keeper." said Isaac taking the bottle from Sam.

Of course we had to have a good excuse for drinking at eight o’clock in the morning; we were simply evaluating of the quality of the vodka. We assessed it for smoothness, dryness and the after taste; we found it benevolent, but impish. We checked how fast one becomes thirsty after a gulp of vodka; we studied "the rate of absorption" and more. Already we were a few rounds up when I remembered that we were not alone in the elevator. The three Japanese girls stood behind the suitcases without saying a word and inscrutable.

As a polite gesture, I raised the bottle and moved towards direction of the lady with the colorful silk dress and the backpack. She was ready for it. She raised her index finger and said, in a high musical voice
"NO, NO Japanese lady no drink".
I passed the bottle to Isaac, looked at her, and raised my finger the way she did and said, with a good imitation of her vice: "NO, NO Jewish gentleman no tell". We were already “high” and with good mood. My stupid little joke was the trigger that made us laugh, almost to tears, the Japanese girls remained expressionless.

The joke, unfortunately, caught Isaac at a bad moment. He was guzzling the vodka and as he heard my comment. He choked and laughed simultaneously and splattered vodka through his nostrils.

It took a split second for the Japanese lady, the one with the pillow, to place herself behind Isaac. She put her arms around his stomach and gave him the Heimlich maneuver. It seemed to work in Isaac’s case quite well. Isaac stopped choking and stopped laughing. Isaac was gasping for air. With the help of some more Vodka, Isaac recovered.

This incident caused the Japanese ladies to loosen a little. Now they seemed to be suffering from ‘internal giggelitis’ a known Japanese syndrome. I raised my index finger as before and said
"NO! NO! Japanese ladies no laugh.” It was the snowball that started the avalanche. The ladies began to laugh and this laughter was most certainly against regulations.

All of a sudden a small hand gesture from the backpack lady and the laughter stopped. She summoned the girls to the corner of the elevator and conducted a brief conference. I had no idea why they were whispering, we would not have understood single word, even if they had used a megaphone.

The conference was over; the three ladies opened their suitcases and got out some clothes. The backpack lady approached us and said:

"Jewish gentlemen turn now, Jewish gentlemen no look". By now this form of speech had become a joke between us, the ladies spoke relatively good English and this was their way to break the ice. Five minutes later she said:
“Jewish Gentlemen now look". We could hardly wait, and what we saw were three ladies in shorts and T-shirts. My immediate comment was:

"Japanese lady can now run fast, Jewish gentleman no catch." Then asked:
"Japanese lady now drink?" We offered the bottle and they didn’t refuse. Starting with the backpack lady, they all took a drink. The suitcases were now flat on the floor, forming an L shape and we sat down on them with a measure of comfort. The only problem was the heat. We learned from the rescue team, that they could not free us unless the elevator is at the top floor.

"There has been a complete failure of the electronic system.
“We are afraid to connect the power". They told us. “Without the power”, the electrician explained we have to crank the elevator manually. It will take a while”.

"I bet you my bottle of scotch” I said to Sam
“ we are out of here before we finish the vodka and I am willing to take an IOU,"
“You are going to lose,” said Sam
“I will get your scotch and it will remain closed. I do not drink scotch without ice.”
"Is that so!" exclaimed Isaac
"That can be fixed."

He picked up the phone.
"Get me the general manager.” He said to the operator.
The man was immediately on line.
"Look sir!" said Isaac.
"We are sweating we are thirsty and we are hungry. Get a long rope, attach a bucket to the rope make sure it is attached to the end of the rope. Put ice and soda inside the bucket and pass it to us through the hatch in the ceiling. In another bucket send some baguettes and cheeses.”
It definitely made the proper impression. The buckets appeared like magic. But it was difficult to get the bucket into the hatch with a nine-floor-long rope. The bucket people started to swing the heavy bucket, the bucket banged against the shaft walls while missing the hatch.

Isaac found it amusing He cried OL’e and clapped his hands every time the bucket missed the hatch. Soon we joined in the Japanese girls too and we all gave encouragement to the bucket-crew.

Finely when I felt that I’d had enough of it, I stood a suitcase against the wall I climbed on it while Sam supported me from the back. Thus with my hands through the hatch I managed to grab the bucket and direct it downwards. The bucket was now in, but it had collected a lot of grease that transferred itself to my hands. The only way to clean my hands was to rub them on the new floor rug. With my dirty hands extended I looked around for approval. They looked at me silently.

“what the heck"! I said "This is not dirt, its elevator lubricant” and cleaned my hands on the rug. The second bucket with the baguette and the fine selection of French chesses came in easy.
As the level of the spirit in the bottle dropped, our spirits rose. We were having a lot of fun. We taught the girls some Hebrew songs and we learned Japanese songs. They made us practice and practice; they were intolerable to mistakes. We learned one Japanese song fairly well.

“The sextet con alto spirito” could be heard all over the elevator shaft. We learned from the ladies that the women in Japan are not allowed to drink in public; a special Jell-O made out of beer was invented so they could eat the beer with a spoon. We covered many topics. We also got to discuss Japanese ladies bathrooms. We discovered that in women’s toilets in Japan there is a button that makes the flushing noise without really flushing; to cover for inadvertent noises.

The hatch in the ceiling gave us some relief from the heat but not much. It was Isaac again that gave cause for laughter. "This box is probably the "mixed sauna" that they advertise in the hotel brochure." He said.

The rescue team worked hard. Two people were cranking us up very slowly. An hour and fifty minutes had passed since the initial movement of the elevator. our salvation was near. They talked to us non-stop but we gave them less and less attention. As we got more and more drunk, we no longer gave a damn about the rescue team or anything else.

Five minutes later, the door opened and we were blinded by the very bright light.

The general manager came to greet the survivors in person. What he saw left him stop short. Six people on the elevator floor, among empty liqueur bottles, a pile of jackets, shirts, ties, a messy carpet with baguette crumbs all over it and of course buckets with the leftovers of the emergency supplies. The general manager apologized but we gestured him to go. He did not seem to understand so Sam had to spell it out, "Go away, and just leave us”.

The general manger instead of leaving us alone, whispered something in the ear of the house detective, who whispered in the ears of some more security people.
The able bodied gorillas went into action and dragged us out, They held me under my arms and pulled me backwards on my heels which plowed the carpet, with my hands I held the sleeves of the gorillas and My finger prints left a very good impression on their shirts. Behind me Isaac was dragged out in the same manner. Behind Isaac the general manager walked in precession.

All of a sudden Isaac managed to get on his feet walking backwards while still being dragged. He eyed the general manager and with a heavy intoxicated tongue said: "Japanese general manager, HARAKIRI now! You party crasher!”

He remained inscrutable.

The end

2008-03-12T14:32:00.000-07:00

Fancy cars
By Hagai Cohen

Mao Tse Tung said once that even a trip of a thousands miles starts with one step. Well maybe it is true but, in modern aviation, this proverb should be paraphrased: Even a trip of one mile starts with a thousand steps.

There are many people involved in the process of making an airplane fly, and although I have forty years of flying experience, an airplane in flight to me is still a miracle. There are so many reasons why an airplane should not fly that, every time it does, I am surprised.

We were assigned to fly a Boeing cargo 747 from London to Amsterdam. The average flight time is about 40 minutes. Yet, for the crew it is a full five hours work.

A short flight by itself is always a challenge to a competent crew. The takeoff and the departure procedures overlap the approach and landing in a very hectic manner. Multiple tasks are performed simultaneously the crew proficiency should be of the highest.

Upon arriving at our operations Office in London, we were handed the flight papers. The cargo consisted of only three pallets weighing togather about six and a half tons. “There is more cargo waiting for you in Amsterdam for delivery to New-York and Los-Angeles,” they told us.

Checking cargo before a flight is extremely important and is usually done very thoroughly. On a flight as light as this one, we pay even more attention, as the cargo could shift in flight which could cause a dangerous lack of control
Our cargo consisted of three fancy vintage sports cars on the way to an old car show and auction in Los-Angeles. The cars were Masseratti 1947, 1948, and 1949 models. The cargo papers said that each car was insured for 1.2 million U.S. Dollars. The cars looked as if a comics’ book illustrator designed them: two-seater convertibles. The seats were about seven inches from the road and the total height of the car was the height of a bathtub. The thing looked more like a hovercraft than a car. The engine took up the front half of the car. The seat and the fuel tank took up the rear half.

We all got into the driver seat ‘just to feel the sensation’ and realized you do not get into this car, you just put it on. With the deep bucket seat, it was impossible to see the road - not to mention the difficulty of getting out of the car.
The age of the cars engendered a lot of nostalgia. If only we had had a car like this when we were younger, it would have made a big change in our social status.
“With such a sexy car, even Quasimodo or Linda Trip could find a date” I said.

We were in a good mood when we climbed into our cockpit to prepare for the departure.
The cargo was so light, the takeoff run did not last more than twenty seconds. We made the usual five thousand feet per minute at an angle of 17 degrees. A piece of cake! We all relaxed.

As we put our plane into that steep climb, I smelled a faint scent. I was not sure what it was. It made me feel good. It reminded me of a perfume of some kind. The scent brought back old memories of my days as a young man in the airforce and reminded me of the old propeller airplanes and piston engines. "The old good times, when sex was safe and flying was dangerous."

The smell was getting stronger and becoming unpleasant.

“Gee,” I said, “this is a Gasoline smell - the ‘aromatic’ fuel that was used for piston engine aircraft. The purple gasoline. 115/135 octane, highly leaded for turbo supercharged engines. The cars, it must be the cars. Post war, high performance engines. They must be using aviation fuel.”

The first officer went to check the main cabin. As he opened the door at the top of the stairs, a blast of the gasoline fumes hit him. He almost lost his balance and instantly became nauseous. He closed the door and went to his oxygen mask. “Oxygen mask and regulators” he cried. We put on our masks and discussed the situation through the interphone on the masks.

The empty, pressurized hull was now full of the combustible mixture. It felt like being inside the combustion chamber of an engine, waiting for the spark plug to set it off. Anything could do it. A synthetic T-shirt, a plastic garbage bag, electrical relays, switches, light bulbs or flying into clouds. A tiny spark could blow us into pieces and with the help of gravity send us to the bottom of the North Sea.

My assessment was that, when we made our sharp-angled climb, the fuel leaked through the filling neck of the cars which was very low.

Instinctively, we wanted to declare an emergency and to land immediately, but on second thoughts, it was decided to climb to an altitude where a flame could not be sustained and the volatile fumes could be ventilated.

We all agreed it was better to stay high, delay our landing and land with a ventilated hull.

We continued our climb at a very shallow angle to 23000’ in which a flame cannot ignite, depressurized the airplane and stayed on oxygen.
Half an hour later, I went down to the cabin to assess the situation. This time I took the portable oxygen bottle and was very happy to discover that only a slight smell was left and all the gasoline had evaporated. We decided then to come out of the holding pattern and to commence our approach.

Of course, we landed safely but very angry. We made sure that no crew took the cars until the investigation. Someone whose responsibility was to drain the fuel before loading the cars did not do his job. Then there was someone responsible for disconnecting the car batteries, someone responsible to supervise and so on. The result of the investigation was typical. It was found that twenty people were involved and no one was guilty.

The mechanic said he came to drain the fuel but the gauges showed zero. He did not know the battery was already disconnected. The electrician said that he can identify a negative electron from a positive one but he does not know the difference between water and gasoline. The conclusion at the end of the investigation was that it was the crew’s responsibility to ensure that the work was done.

I felt during the investigation that many were trying to cover their negligence. I did not feel comfortable with that and decided to make an investigation of my own.

In an old-cars’ catalog, I found a car that uses the same kind of fuel. I wrote down all the details and called the auction company in Los-Angeles.

“I have this 1948 Alfa Romeo convertible with turbo supercharged six liter engine in mint condition and I want you to run an auction for me,” I said to the manager.

“Look, sir, I am ready to do it for you, but I want you to know that the market is very low here in California. You cannot drive a car like that around. The fuel is not legal and the highway patrol has this portable emission test probe. If they catch any car with high leaded fuel, the fine is hundreds of dollars.”

“Can you get me enough fuel to show the car around?” I asked.
“No sir, we are unable to do it for you. You must bring the car with enough fuel to show it around. Also you will have to pay for the insurance while the car is with us and for any tickets the police hand out.”

I notified the ‘flight safety officer’ of my findings and he had conducted his own investigation. The person who was paid to smuggle the illegal fuel on board was never found.

Like a wise person, I learned from experience. Since that incident, whenever I fly fancy old cars to Los-Angeles, I do not sit in the cockpit. I sit next to the black box and hold it tight just in case my aircraft ‘disappears from the radar screen.’ I will make sure to tell them that, this time, it was not ‘pilot’s error.’ And since the black box is what they will be looking for, I can be sure they will find me too!

Flight is a calculated risk: some people do the calculations, others take the risk!

The end

Introduction

2008-03-03T11:18:00.000-08:00

To all my friends

I have no desire to publish my stories through an official publishing house.
My intention is to share my stories with friends and family.
All my stories are work of fiction. but the events really happened to my characters.
I welcome comments, criticism is very helpful in finding the road I need to take.
If you feel an urge to correct my English don't hesitate to do so. I promise to improve.

Hagai

Fishing season
Hagai Cohen

When our cargo plane touched down at Keflavik airport, it brought to an end two hours of strenuous and tense drama. Half an hour earlier, the three of us were prepared for a swim in the ocean. Luckily, the rate of the fuel leak, which was discovered in mid-Atlantic, slowed down as we approached the airport. After landing, the remaining fuel was enough for ten minutes more of flight.
We were busy discussing our incident to see the reception committee on the ground.
About fifty women from a nearby village came to greet us
They had heard about the emergency on the local radio, followed our progress report, and came to see “flesh and bone heroes”.
“What's going on here?” asked the first officer, as he stepped down the stairs. “Are there no men on this island?"
“Welcome to the land of the Amazons," declared the engineer.
“Wrong,” I said. “Amazons were single breasted women. These women look normal to me except they are all blonde.”
The women applaused as we stepped down the stairs towards their waiting cars.
The convoy escorting the three ‘survivors’ was at least 30 cars long. We were driven to an inn in a small village near the airport.
During the trip, our woman driver explained the mystery. “It's the herring season and all the men are out at sea.”
Before going to our rooms, I said to my crew: “In half an hour - at the bar! I am buying. We deserve it.”
I was the first down and discovered that the women had not left, and were occupying all the tables. I probably looked confused as three women approached. The first one offered her hand, held my hand in both of hers and said, “I am Inga”.
“I'm Jack,” I replied.
“Yack?” She said.
‘You know what, Inga, call me Yakov.”
“Yakov is an Icelandic name,” laughed Inga. The women laughed with her. The second woman repeated the handshake ceremony and said, “I am Solveig.”
“I am Yakov”.
When the third woman took my hand in hers and said, "I am Elvira”, I was sure I was participating in a comedy routine. Only later, I learned the people of Iceland do not talk unless they hold your hand, when they do it with both hands, they in fact asking permission to talk.
As there were no tables available, the generous women asked me to join them. I am always a gentleman so I signaled the proprietor and than asked the ladies: “Will you join me for a drink?”
There was an embarrassing silence.
Inga, the only one who knew some English, explained. “We do not drink alcohol during the fishing season. Only when the men come back at the end of March, we celebrate with drinks.” After a pause she whispered, “Between us, I am dying for a little Aquavit”.
Inga told me about life in the isolated community; where there are no locks on the doors, or any police or law enforcement people. The two official women at the airport wore the hats of Customs officers, immigration officers, airport authorities, and British Petroleum sales representatives. I was informed the total population of the island was only 180,000 people.
Solveig and Elvira who could not speak a word of English, only smiled and whispered, as if I could understand it if they shouted.
I could see that the women were conspiring to separate us. My two other friends were getting the same treatment.
During the meal of the Hangikjöt a local traditional smoked mutton, Inga told me that the telephone book in Iceland goes by first names. She brought me the book and explained: “My full name is Inga Gunnardoiter meaning the daughter of Gunnar and because there are many Gunnars who have daughters, my profession, Postmistress, is written after my name. And if the information is not enough, we add our grandfather's name.” I was still digesting this unusual information when Inga asked, “Who are your people?”
I was surprised by the question and was about to regale her with tales about the time ‘Israel was in Egypt land’ and the story of ‘Let my people go’, etc, when I suddenly understood what she meant. Who are your people means what is your family name. She told me that the women of Iceland do not change their names when they marry and, in most cases, they never get married, they just move in together.
This interesting conversation came to an abrupt end when loud dance music broke out over the speakers.
“You should invite my friends for a dance,” said Inga.
“A man has to do what a man has to do.” I said but really did not want to dance with any of them. They were young and blond, but very unattractive to my taste.
I danced once with Solveig and once with Elvira and when I turned to Inga, I knew by the looks of the women, I had done something wrong.
“It is an insult if you do not dance two dances with each girl, it is impolite and unacceptable behavior”, said Inga.
I apologized immediately and said, “Let’s start from the beginning”.
During the run of the next six dances, I felt I would not make it to the end of the evening. I was exhausted, but happy as I had fulfilled my dancing obligation. I was ready to retire when Inga said to me: “We have decided, the one you pick for the next dance will join you in your room”.
“Forget it, Inga. I am too tired”
“I have an idea how to refresh you and make it easy for you to decide”.
She spoke to Solveig and Elvira (the village plumber) and, before I understood any of it, I was given my coat and escorted/dragged to Elvira’s minivan. We drove for half an hour on a bumpy road to a geothermal pond that smelled like rotten eggs.
“The sulfur bath will wake you up,” said Inga.
Before I could figure out what that was, the three women stripped naked and moved slowly into the pond.
“Come on in and join us. It's fun," said Inga.”
I was getting cold the temperature was five below and I was dead tired.
“Ok.” I said. "What the heck!”
Very quickly, I undressed and almost froze to death. I moved quickly but stopped as my feet touched the water. The temperature was unbelievably hot. My feet burned while my body froze. It was a preview of what Hell might be like. Slowly, I made it into the water, but could not stand the heat so I ran out and dressed quickly. I was cold, cranky, stinking of sulfur, but, at least, as I was told, immune to psoriasis.
About twenty minutes later the three women had enough bathing and started to walk out. The women’s hot, wet skin exposed to the cold air formed a thick layer of dense fog around their bodies. Were they three ghosts marching out of hell or three angels from off a cloud?” I could no make up my mind.
I realized that avoiding these determined naked women would be tough. I did not want any of them. Not only were they unattractive, the very white skin of these blond Nords was now very red, and the idea of going to bed with a lobster wearing sulfur perfume was not at all appealing. I was silent on the way back, preoccupied with the mess I was in.
I do not know how it happened, but Inga decided she was the chosen one, probably by default because, she was the only one who could talk..
“I’ll get rid of the sulfur and join you shortly,” she said.
I knew I was doomed and I knew that whatever happened, she would be disappointed. After a strenuous emergency, nine consecutive dances, and a hot sulfur bath, Inga would be making love to a cadaver. She would enjoy it only if she were a necrophiliac.
I went to my room, took a quick shower, redressed and lay down on the bed, just to rest my eyes. In less than ten seconds, I was sound asleep.
In the morning, I knew she had come to visit. My shoes were off and she had tucked me in.
Right after breakfast, I went to the post office across the street to apologize to the Postmistress. There were no customers waiting but she ignored me completely; not a look, not a gesture, not a word nothing. She must be very angry, I thought.
I left to check about the status of my plane.
“The part will be flown-in this afternoon. You’ll be ready to fly some time during the night,” I was told.
I took the opportunity to visit some of the local attractions and later that evening, I decided to have dinner in my room. The last thing I wanted was to go through the selection board again.
To my surprise, the food was brought to my room by my three loyal beauties, Inga, Solveig, and Elvira. I learned a new lesson; Icelanders may drop in any time, unannounced.
“What was your thing ignoring me?” I asked Inga
“In Iceland we do not mix work with social life.”
“What? Not even an eye contact?” I protested
“No, we respect work.”
I did not pursue it; I was amazed how much one can learn in a day. Well, I thought, three are less dangerous than one. I must keep them together and find a way out.
An idea flashed through my mind:”Look”, I said, “it is a tough decision to pick one of you. You are equally attractive”, (that was the truth, so help me!) I paused to let Inga translate. “I suggest a competition”, I continued. “I will be honored to spend my time with the winner.”
I saw surprise on their faces.
I went into my bag took out a bottle of Liqueur and said, “The woman who can hold liquor better, wins.”
My idea delighted them. Immediately, Elvira left the room to fetch the glasses. Returning, she bolted the door and poured the liqueur.
The women held up their glasses awaiting my signal: “Let the best woman win,” I said, and the competition began.
I had of course a valid excuse for not joining the party. I had a plane to catch.
By the second drink, they were very happy. We lost Elvira between the fifth and the sixth. She lay comatose on the floor. “Shall we put her on the bed?” I asked.
“No” said Inga. “Leave her on the floor. We will need the bed.”
Solveig and Inga were neck-to-neck during the sixth and the seventh.
Solveig left the race before the eighth’s round. I caught her before she fell and lay her down next to Elvira.
Inga attempted to pour her eighth glass but spilled most of it. She drank what remained in one gulp, threw the glass, and cried: "I won, I won, I wo……..n," and collapsed in my arms.
I aligned her parallel to the other bodies, put a blanket over them, and went to bed.
At two o’clock in the morning, the phone rang. “This is your wakeup call Sir; your pickup will be in 30 minutes”.
I put on my uniform, packed, and closed my bag with the incriminating evidence concealed within.
I left a note in Inga’s pocket, apologizing for everything.
A mental note to me said:
“While it is an offence for the women of Iceland to drink during the herring season, ‘fishing’ for men is unquestionably permitted!!”

The end