Marie-Madeleine

MARIE-MADELEINE
HAGAI COHEN



I bumped into her in the corridor at Orly airport as she was running through a door.
I was close enough to observe her face, her makeup was almost invisible, she was wearing an expensive fragrance, and she looked quite attractive. We both worked for the same airline.
“Oops! I am sorry,” we said together and laughed.
“I haven't seen you before,” I said.
“New here, only three months, but leaving soon to become cabin attendant with Pan Am”.
“How nice” I said, “I’ll bump into you somewhere in the world.” We smiled again and walked away.
I had taken about ten steps when I heard her voice behind me.
“Hey, why not in Paris? Paris is a part of the world too.”
I smiled and said “touché”, waved goodbye and left.
Two weeks later, while disembarking, I saw her at the foot of the steps. “Hello Arki,” she said
Before I had a chance to say a word, she held my arms and gave me three cheek-to-cheek kisses. Her fingers felt as if she was pulling me towards her, but her arms did not move and kept a distance.
I was surprised of course; I did not know why I earned the kisses.
“And you are?” I asked.
“Marie-Madeleine” was the answer, “I am glad I met you Arki, I am sorry, cannot talk to you now; I’ll speak to you later”, she said and left.
It was unusual. A young woman whom I didn’t know was waiting for me. She had no business being there, she addressed me with my nickname, disregarded, basic manners and ignored the airline hierarchy.
Two hours later, when I was ready for a nap, the phone rang.
“Hi, it’s me,” the voice said, “Marie-Madeleine. I have finished my shift and I want to see you, if I may?”
“This woman is on a fast track, it doesn’t make sense.” I mumbled to myself.
“Where are you?”
“Here in the lobby; I decided to stop on my way home, may I come up? Please”, she said in a sweet voice.
“She is too attractive to be ignored” I was thinking “let see what she wants”.
“Come on up” I said.
I jumped into my pants and while buttoning my shirt, she knocked on the door.
I was thunderstruck; the contrast between the airport Marie-Madeleine and this one was inconceivable. I would not have recognized her if I had passed her on the street. She assumed an alarming sexy posture, her hair was spread over her shoulders, she wore a mini skirt and the two upper buttons of her blouse were open. She looked provocative and contemptible. The change in her was frightening, I felt insecure.
“What the hell‘s going on?” I said to myself regretting inviting her up.
She looked determined as she moved in.
I backed up, to move away from her. The room felt congested.
“What do you want?”
“What do you mean?” She was taken aback.
“What do you want?” I repeated.
“Come on Arki, you are not a child, you know what I want.”
“No, I don’t”, I said. “I am not a child, but I am not Apollo either.”
“Look Ricco,” she said, “I was smitten… Love at first sight,...Can’t stop thinking about you.”
She sounded false; she called me Ricco and did not realize her mistake. I did not correct her.
“I have everything a person wants. I have houses in Geneva and Cannes. I have anything money can buy. What I cannot buy is love, true love. I never had a real partner with whom I could share my life. I fell in love with you the moment I saw you. You are the man for me. Please give us a chance.”
Why do I need to know about her money? Even the word ‘love’ sounded phony. It felt as if a con man were trying to sell me the London Bridge or a ticket to the moon. Nothing in her entire speech sounded sincere
“Let me show you what a woman in love can do to her lover,” she continued while unbuttoning her blouse.
Her provocative body language became increasingly difficult to handle, like being caught in an under-tow pulling me helplessly into a vortex. I did not know what to do or say. “This ‘siren’ with her sweet voice is luring you into the deep briny sea,” a voice was whispering inside my head. I was dizzy and about to surrender. “Don’t give up,” I heard the voice again, “get rid of this sea nymph”.
“Please go away,” I said weakly.
She did not move. Her arrogant smile made me angry.
She felt my vulnerability. “Please Arki, one little kiss for the road”. It felt like an extra kick after the knockout. I almost lost my temper.
I was about to push her out, but stopped short of doing it realizing it was a bad proposition to touch her one way or another.
I grabbed her pocketbook from the desk, opened the door, and threw it into the corridor. It was unusually heavy and she moved swiftly after it. I locked the door against her. I felt an immediate relief but could not get her out of my mind.
What did she want?
-------
Three months later, the purser Ricco was on my crew. I wondered if it were he, she had mistaken me for. I stopped him and said: “Hi Ricco, Marie-Madeleine, sent her regards.”
Instantly Ricco became white as if he had taken a chlorine bath.
“What’s wrong Ricco?”
“I don’t know any Marie-Madeleine.”
“You must be kidding, how do you think I found you?” I bluffed.
Ricco reluctantly said: “Not now, later”.
Later was at the poolside in the Rome Holiday-Inn. Mellowed by a drink, Ricco started to talk.
“I met her a few days after she was employed. She initiated what seemed to be a harmless affair. I had a great time with her; she took me to exclusive out-of-my-league places and always paid, and in cash. Her pocketbook was always loaded.
One day my wife planned a family visit to Paris. I asked Marie-Madeleine not to call me during my wife’s visit. She had a different idea.
She was at the foot of the steps when we arrived and said, ”hi Ricco, welcome to Paris, let me help your wife through customs and immigration.”
She was courteous and formal.
“We’ll pass through the VIP lane and we’ll wait for you on the arrival ramp”.
I was rendered speechless; I wanted to bury myself alive.
Twenty minutes later, Marie-Madeleine became my wife’s best friend. To her offer to dine together, my wife happily agreed. Marie Madeleine took us to a Michelin guide recommended restaurant, asked the sommelier to serve a rare wine, and insisted on paying. Besides my small problem, it was a lovely evening.
While drinking the coffee, Marie-Madeleine said to me, “may I ask you a favor? I owe some money to a friend in New York, could you please help me and take it to him?”.
“Of course he’ll do it” said my wife on my behalf. I was committed.
The man in New York, was the type you do not want to meet in a dark alley. He was suspicious, unpleasant and abusive. I became very concerned about Marie-Madeleine’s taste in friends. Before he left, he gave me a small parcel, “stockings”, he said, “make sure she gets it.”
Back in Paris, I called Marie-Madeleine. To my surprise, she said: “I am busy tonight, and as you leave tomorrow, I want you please to mail it to my P.O.B.”
I did not like it.
“I can walk and give it to your door attendant,” I said’.
She insisted I mail it.
I was furious, not only was I humiliated as a messenger boy, she also did not want the door attendant to see me. It occurred to me for the first time, I was never invited to her home. I was livid, I mailed the parcel and decided not to run any more errands. She called later in the evening and informed me she was on her way to see me.
Her behavior was very patronizing and humiliating. I told her my decision not to make any more deliveries.
She was quiet, and pretended to be insulted and angry. Then, with a venomous tone, she said, ”Oh yes! You will do me favors; you don’t want your loving jealous wife to know about our little secret, do you? In addition, I will keep the cover of the parcel you have mailed, with your name on it. This will ensure your cooperation.
“What was in that parcel?”
“Legitimate stockings if you want to know, to check you out, later it will be the “real thing” the white Colombian stuff.”
I was about to faint.
“A sprinkle of that certain white powder, and your stockings box becomes exhibit A.’ she said smiling.
It was obvious; every step of our so-called love affair was a line she gave to hook me.
“I never touch the stuff” she continued, "what I do is cutting off the coupons while suckers like you are doing the smuggling. I am a generous person and you will be paid well but if you’ll betray me, I’ll easily prove that you are the pusher and I am the victim.” She knew what she was talking. Marie Madeleine had a law degree from the Sorbonne her mother was a magistrate (investigating judge) and her father was a rich contractor highly involved in politics. The entire Paris police department was under her spell.
“I was in deep shit” continued Ricco “and didn’t see my way out.
I asked crew assignment to schedule me on one-day flights.”
“My Mom is sick” I wrote in my request, and did not fly to Paris.”
“And? Did you get rid of her?” I asked
“Hell no, when Marie-Madeleine realized, I am not coming to Paris, she called my wife and asked if she may come for a two weeks visit. “I am in between jobs, and it’s a good time to take a vacation,” she said over the phone. “Of course you can stay with us” my wife said, “we have an extra room”.
Marie-Madeleine arrived at my house. She was friendly and full of smiles. She did not discuss ‘business’, her silence was very alarming.
One morning when my wife was in the shower, she came to my bedroom wearing a silk nightgown and said, “Come-on, we have enough time for a ‘quickie.’” I was shocked and speechless. “Trust me” she encouraged me, “with your wife so close, you’ll feel as high as doing drugs” she said.
“You can not imagine how furious I was. I wanted to strangle her. I was also afraid of what she might do if I refuse her. At that moment I knew, I’ll never manage to get her off my life, unless, I confess to my wife and report about the drugs, bearing the consequences. I tried to stall her, to gain some time, luckily, the phone rang and saved my life.
I got courageous the next day and spoke to the vice president of security. My plan was to talk to my wife only after Marie-Madeleine’s departure.
The V.p of security thanked me for talking, removed me officially from any Paris flights, and promised to investigate.
Before her departure, she said to me with a tone of a threat, “I will see you in Paris soon, won’t I?”
“Sure” I said.
The ‘narks’ came to my house three hours after her takeoff, with a search warrant and armed guards. They combed the house with a toothbrush. Bust open pillows, squeezed out toothpaste, cut open upholstery, and opened canned food. They took us to the station, interrogated us separately for two hours. Later, they made me repeat my deposition in front of my wife. It was too humiliating. There was nothing more to hide.
My wife felt more betrayed by Marie-Madeleine than by me. To my surprise, she was on my side and supportive. They released us a few hours later. I learned later Marie Madeleine was detained by the police at the airport. They found nothing on her. She was released after the French ambassador called the foreign office.
The damage to our house was so immense we had to move to my in-laws. Now three months after the search, we are in the process of restoring our house and salvaging our marriage.
-------
Sometime after our chat, Ricco took a leave of absence. I was very careful not to mention Ricco or Marie-Madeleine’s name.
Only two and a half years later, Ricco’s name was back on the crew list. A few weeks after his return, on one of his flights to Paris, Ricco was seriously injured. A hit-and-run car knocked him down.
Ricco spent six months in hospitals with multiple fractures and repeated operations.
When Ricco was back at home, I paid him a visit.
He was still on crutches, but in a good mood.
After a few words of courtesy, the obvious question came up:
“Was your accident related to Marie-Madeleine?”
“I don’t think so,” said Ricco. "It was not my scheduled flight. I replaced a sick purser, it happened in a neighborhood I never been to and the car came from around the corner. It could not have been coordinated. The connection was suggested, but never pursued. The magistrate investigating it dropped the case for “lack of public interest.”
“How is Marie-Madeleine?”
“You’ll be pleased to know, she is in jail, serving four years. Unfortunately she is about to be released.
The Interpol, the Mossad, and the French intelligence. did a great job bypassing the Paris police department. They found enough evidence to indict her. The trial was in Chamonix far away from Paris. I was not called to testify, but they kept me informed.”
“So if it wasn’t you, who testified against her”?
“Well, many people did”.
“Many people?”
“Yes, scores of them”
“How come?”
“They found about twenty couriers, full fledged suckers like me and sexually blackmailed. They were granted immunity, and happily incriminated her.
The defense lawyer described Marie-Madeleine as a ‘warm loving and caring person, a volunteer at old people homes, a member of prestigious clubs, in which she collects money for the old and lonely people’. He brought some letters in which she was described as an angel.
The prosecution, on the other hand, proved, that while visiting the old people she ‘borrowed’ their social security cards and used them to rent post office boxes.
She used the boxes for the exchange. Her messengers placed the money envelopes from outside of the box and picked up the merchandise in another. She only touched the money.
Every second weekend she drove to Geneva to stash away the loot into a Swiss bank.
The investigators found some of her clients, co members of exclusive clubs, rich cocaine users, who paid dearly for her services.
When the supply exceeded the demand, the extra drugs were distributed by pimps in Place Pigalle.
Some marked bills were found in her possession, while trying to cross the border to Switzerland. She was charged for smuggling money out of France and pushing cocaine. She was indicted, sentenced, and jailed.
After a long pause, Ricco asked, “tell me Arki, what was your involvement with Marie-Madeleine?”
Ricco sat attentive and was very amused by my story.
“As you see Ricco” I ended, “she tried to lure me into her trap, out of negligence, she used the wrong bait
She could easily fool me, by letting me think I seduced her, and then eat me up for breakfast.
After a long pause, I heard Ricco mumbling, “You’re a Lucky dog,” he said, while dispensing more scotch into my glass.


Word count 2600.

Hotel Arabela

Hotel Arabela
Hagai Cohen
4 July 2008

“God will save your soul; the checklist will save your ass.”
This slogan with various language variations is one of the first things a trainee pilot learns.
Some of us aviators take this slogan very seriously and turn it into a way of life. Some of my best friends use a checklist to handle their entire lives.
Well, I am not one of them. In the cockpit, yes, but I have to confess I do not read a checklist before going into a bathroom or taking a shower.

Stationed in Frankfurt to operate a flight the following day, I arrived late at night and very tired. It was my first time in the fancy Arabela hotel. My room was neat but dark and unpleasant. The sign on the door read ‘700 DM per night, no doubt a high-end hotel. ’ I lay down on the bed wearing my uniform, “just to rest for a few seconds” and woke up the next morning at six forty five.

I slept very well. It is a well-known phenomenon that a uniform is more soporific than a sleeping pill. The moment you put it on you feel sleepy. I woke up fresh and rested, but definitely needed a shower.

I could not help being impressed when I walked into the bathroom. All the bathroom fittings were gold plated and shining. A huge mirror hung over the bathroom sink, Neither the German nor the FBI forensic laboratories would find any incriminating evidence in this bathroom, I thought. The bathtub was so white, it was hard to look at.
The showerhead at the end of a hose was clipped to the wall above the tub.

As a seasoned traveler, I already knew that most architects, who specialized in designing bathrooms, never take a shower in those they design. Judging by the results, I believe, many of them never have taken a shower at all. The architect, who designed the bathroom in the Arabela, was no different. To adjust the water temperature before getting into the shower one had to lean over to the shower fittings and place oneself in the “line of fire” when the water began to flow.

Being familiar with the subject, my first action was to remove the showerhead from the wall and lay it on the bottom of the tub. That was a big mistake. The moment I turned on the tap, the hose and its head came to life; the water pressure turned the sprinkler into a V2 rocket. It jumped around like a wild young mustang, when the rope encircled his neck for the first time.

The by-product of this vigorous wiggling about was water spray all over the bathroom. I took cover. First, I did not want to get wet. However, the more serious consideration was the fear of being struck by the uncontrolled wild agitations of the hose. Of course, nobody but I was to blame. I should have remembered: German showers are notoriously dangerous.
.
After a few evasive maneuvers, I managed to grab the hose, restrain it and decommission it completely.

I gave up on the shower and decided to try the bathtub. “This should work,” I said to myself while turning on the lower water tap. Unfortunately, the spout was short of the tub, the water very forcefully bounced of the rim of the bathtub, spraying like a garden sprinkler all over the place. The result left me officially wet with water all over the bathroom floor.
Eventually, after removing my garments I got into the bathtub.

As I placed my foot on the bottom of the tub, I found the rounded curved bottom was not made to fit flat feet like mine. The tub floor was very slippery and dangerous. Very carefully, I directed the water to the showerhead and was very spare with my movements. No vigorous scrubbing, no fast movements. Thorough cleansing was impossible. To minimize my exposure time to danger I finished very quickly. Slowly I shut the water off and stepped out of the tub. I was very proud to be in one piece on the wet floor.

Had I read a checklist before taking a shower, I would have found there was only one tiny washrag in the bathroom - not a single towel. Nothing. Conveniently and probably for cases like this, a telephone was installed on the bathroom wall. Wet of course, but who cares in time of crisis. To my surprise the telephone worked. I called the front desk. I explained to the woman my awkward situation.
“Look ma’am” I said, “I am naked and wet and I cannot find a towel to dry myself.”
“Do you want some extra towel sir?”
The woman did not listen to what I was saying.
“No ma’am I need a towel, not extra towels.”
“Sir, the maid will be on your floor at eight o’clock and she will give you some extra towels.”
“You do not seem to understand; it is now seven o’clock and I am wet. I cannot wait until eight. I must have a towel now. Do you understand what I was just saying?” I was angry and I raised my voice.
“I am sorry, sir. I will put you on to my supervisor.”

The phone was silent for a very long time. Finally, a man’s voice said to me, “I was informed you yelled at the lady on the reception desk. She told me you claim to have no towels in your room. This is inconceivable, sir. I have just checked the housekeeping record. Your room was made up before you checked in and was checked by a housekeeping inspector. Are you sure you looked thoroughly, sir?”

“Look, sir, I did my best with the meager light bulbs you give your guests and, no, sir, I did not use a flashlight to search for the towels. Nor, sir, did I look under the bed.” I took a breath and continued: “Listen, sir, our conversation is at a dead end and you too do not seem to understand. Why don’t you put a higher authority on the line? The assistant manager maybe?”
“I am sorry, he is not in and I have to page him for the call.” I noted he did not address me as ‘sir’ this time.
“Ok then page him and tell him he can call me from any phone. He does not have to return to his office to call.”

Fifteen minutes later the assistant manager was on the line.
“You wanted to speak with me, Mr. Shamir.”
“Yes. Twenty minutes ago, I called for a towel. Instead of getting it I was told your records show towels were placed in my room. For the record
there is not a single towel in my room. And with my bad luck, I found it out only after I came out of the shower.”

“Yes I understand, sir, and I am very sorry for the inconvenience, but it is very early and the chambermaids are not yet at work. Only one house cleaner is on duty at this time and she is busy. It might take a while.”
“Look sir” I said quite out of patience, “don’t worry about the towels. I am already dry, I used the bed cover to dry myself and now I am using it to dry the floor. Thank you.” I slammed the phone down.

Exactly forty minutes after my first complaint, I got my towels.
I was quite upset all morning; I did not leave my room and had no breakfast. At one o’clock that afternoon, I hung the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign outside my door and went out for lunch.

At two o’clock, I retuned to pack for my flight. I noticed my entire wardrobe, including my dirty laundry were all neatly folded. This was odd. I did not do it. No one in this world ever saw me folding dirty laundry. My first impulse was not to touch my suitcase. My security sense told me to look for a “device” that may have been planted in it. Checking my suitcase before a flight was already second nature. Very carefully, I visually inspected the contents of my suitcase.

“The wine,” I said to myself, “I have two bottles of wine in my bag and if any one would try to plant a bomb, replacing sealed bottles would be the best way.”

Again, very carefully, I removed a few things to uncover the bottles. I looked at the bottles. The bottles were mine and so were their packaging. The bottles were at the side of the suitcase and quite heavy. As I moved some objects around in the suitcase, the suitcase became unbalanced. Very gently, it started to tilt over. I was not too fast to catch it, the suitcase fell down and the contents were all over the floor. With all my things scattered, the picture became very clear.

“I get it now,” I said to myself. “The bastards sent security to check if I had packed towels in my bag. The wine must have turned the suitcase over. They had to collect my things and put them back into my bag. A chambermaid was called in to fold my clothes and she, not knowing how it looked before, put it back with my dirty laundry folded as new.”

I was furious. If they want to play hardball, I am ready. I grabbed the telephone.
“I want to speak to the general manager,” I said to the operator.
“He asked not to be disturbed. He’s in a meeting. Can I help you, sir?”
“Oh, sure. You can tell him please, when his meeting is over, somebody visited my room while I was out and tampered with my things. Please express my concern to him about the security aspect of it. You may tell him, when his meeting is over, of course, that according to my orders, I have to inform our security officer about any intrusions into my room. I must also call the bomb squad if I suspect an explosive device was planted in my suitcase.” I knew, from previous experience, the bomb squad checks the room and the hotel thoroughly. “I understand Ma’am,” I continued, speaking very fast, “the general manger cannot be disturbed so I am going to make my calls without informing him. You will notify him about it after the meeting is over of course. Oh, and don’t worry, Madam, his meeting will be over the moment the police evacuates the hotel.”


I hung up the phone without waiting for her response. Less than a minute later, the general manager was on the phone.

“What seems to be the problem Mr. Shamir?
“Well, sir, it is very simple. While I was out to lunch, somebody came into my room and went through my suitcase. I shall not touch my case unless the bomb squad inspects it and I am just about to call them. There are in my opinion two possibilities sir. One, a terrorist may have planted a bomb in my bag. Two, one of your people, for reasons known only to them, illegally searched my suitcase. This too, sir, is a matter for the police. As a respect to you sir, and to your hotel, I will wait five minutes before making my calls. You have this time sir, to find out the answer, whether it was one of your people or not. If your answer, sir will be vague or negative, I will call my security people. They will call the police and the bomb squad. They will probably evacuate the hotel, with all the usual consequences to your five stars hotel and your seven hundred Deutsche Marks per night guests.”

”Thank you, Mr. Shamir for the five minutes, I will return to you immediately, Mr. Shamir. Please wait for my call.” The general manager sounded very disturbed and that was all to the good.

Very apologetic and sleekly he came back a few minutes later.
“Look, Mr. Shamir, it was the chambermaid. She came to make your room and accidentally knocked the suitcase down.”

“Oh, I see, sir. Let me understand this clearly. Are you saying, the chambermaid who came to make my room ignored the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on my door, knocked down my suitcase, and then folded up my laundry?

“Yes, yes, Mr. Shamir, that is exactly what happened.”
“Then why didn’t she finish making my room? I would like to have a word with her. Is she still working for you?”

“I-, I-, I-, I don’t know sir, but I can find out.” The general manager could not steady his tongue. “I will speak to housekeeping right away and they will send some one…”

“Sir, when you do speak to your people, ask them if they found the missing towels in my bag.” My words lingered in the silence like a vapor trail. After a few moments I asked, “Are you okay, Mr. General Manager?”

The only response was a click as the receiver was returned to its cradle.

German manners, and German efficiency aren't they a bit over-rated.?

The end

Bush Pilot

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?” asked 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

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

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

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

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's 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 a maximum of 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 service 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 pocketbooks, 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 manager’s five. Of course, we expressed our disrespect to the Japanese management, as Isaac explained about the light and the shrinking of time was Einstein's theory, and we are probably witnessing it now.
Isaac was known throughout the airline for his sense of humor 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 within 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, like 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 timekeeper," 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 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 the 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 voice: "NO, NO Jewish gentleman no tell". We were already “high” and in 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 ‘

Acute Gastro  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 a 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 on 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 online.
"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 greases 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 cheeses 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.

“Il Sestetto Di 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. It was revealed that in women’s toilets in Japan there is a button that makes the flushing noise without real 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 to stop open-mouthed. 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 manager 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 backward on my heels which plowed the carpet, with my hands I held the sleeves of the gorillas and My fingerprints 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 backward while still being dragged. He eyed the general manager and with a heavily intoxicated tongue said: "Japanese general manager, HARAKIRI NOW! You party crasher!”

He remained inscrutable.

the end