The late David Shapiro
Hagai Cohen
.
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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
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
Femina Horibillis
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
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
Monday, December 29, 2008
I am the expert
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
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
Friday, December 12, 2008
Fast draw
Fast draw
Hagai Cohen
Dressed in my El Al airline-pilot uniform and ready to go, I moved towards the door. It was an unusually hot morning in Amsterdam and, at that time, the Hilton did not have air- conditioning. The windows were open but the air was still.
I heard the screams of police sirens from various directions simultaneously. It was strange to experience such massive police activity especially as you never find a police officer when you need one.
I crossed to the window where, I could not see much. I could only hear more sirens. It did not bother me much, so I left my room and walked to the elevator. I pressed the lobby button and started descending. As the elevator zoomed past the third floor, I heard shots.
The massive police activity along with the gunshots could mean but one thing - terror activity. “My crew,” I thought, ”is the target.” As an Israeli airline, we had been a marked target for a long time.
My immediate reaction was to look for the 'close door' button of the elevator. I wanted to stop the doors from opening. But the 'close door' button doesn’t keep the elevator doors closed; it merely gives a polite person the chance to show kindness to his fellow riders when in a hurry.
As soon as the elevator reached the ground floor, the doors opened. There was I with the doors wide open and furiously pushing on the ‘close door’ button. On the lobby floor, I could see a young man lying in a pool of blood. He was our air marshal, agent Katz.
I leaped out of the elevator and rushed to his side. He had been shot in his thigh. Judging by the amount of blood spurting from the wound, it appeared to be serious. I took off my tie and tied it tight just above the wound. The blood flow slowed down but despite this, Katz kept slipping in and out of consciousness.
“Hold on,” I yelled in his ear, “I've stopped the bleeding. You will soon be in a hospital.” I looked up and saw only police officers rushing about in the lobby.
During one of his conscious states, I asked, “What happened?” He answered, “I do not know,” and continued haltingly, “Three men with drawn guns.” Pause. “Each carrying a bag. Rushed into the lobby.” Pause. “Looked Mediterranean.” Pause. “I pulled my gun and they all shot at me.” Pause. “I shot back.” Pause. “I hit one of them.” Pause. “My gun is only a .22 so it hardly grazed him.” Pause. “He shot back with a nine millimeter Browning.” Pause. “It knocked me off balance.” Pause. “Please hide my gun.” Pause. “It’s illegal in Holland.” Pause. “It’s loaded and cocked.” Pause. “Be careful.”
With all the spectators milling around us it was not easy to hide the gun. “Move aside," I shouted. "Give the emergency crew a clear way.” In the seconds that everybody turned to look for the alleged emergency crew I dragged the gun close under my hat, and stowed it in my belt.
It took the paramedics about five minutes to arrive and another five minutes to get the now unconscious Katz to the emergency room.
I was left in the lobby with blood all over me. As my hat lay in a pool of blood, I decided to leave it there, on the floor. My tie was on agent Katz’s leg. Despite the heat, I buttoned my jacket with my bloody hands just to conceal the gun. Agent Katz was taken off the 'critical list' the very same day.
The excitement in the lobby was because no one seemed to know who the gunmen were or what brought them to visit the Hilton. The police, who had entered the lobby only seconds after the shooting began, collared two of the three gunmen and started their interrogation right away. It became apparent that the police knew more than they were willing to reveal.
“Attention ladies and gentlemen, attention ladies and gentlemen,” announced a voice on the speakers. “All guests are requested to remain in their rooms, lock their doors and wait for a police escort to the lobby. Do not open the door until you check the viewer. Make sure you see a uniformed officer before opening the door.”
This message was repeated several times in many languages. In the lobby, the police arranged furniture barriers in front of the elevators. Behind each barrier stood an officer with a drawn gun.
Frightened people kept pouring into the lobby, many of them dressed in pajamas. Still suspecting more terror, as the third gunman mentioned by Katz had not been detained and he could be a suicide bomber, I advised the crew to stay out of sight and not huddle together. I myself started walking around mingling and talking with the guests, hoping I might spot the man in the lobby.
Some hotel employees placed a circle of chairs around agent Katz blood and put a large tablecloth over it. Most of the people came into the lobby after it happened and I, in my blood stained uniform and several police officers with drawn guns were the only evidence of the horror of several minutes earlier.
Talking to the people was an interesting experience. They were more than willing to talk to the bloodstained hero who had just arrived from the front. They all expressed a desire to hear my story. I met many fascinating people who related many hotel suspense stories of their own. A newly wed young couple with eyes puffy from lack of sleep complained, “They pulled us out of bed and we haven’t slept for twenty-four hours."
A fat woman of about forty emerged from the elevator with a sixteen-year-old boy on her arm. They both moved rapidly to a corner of the lobby. The boy, blushing constantly, looked confused and started to stutter when I spoke to him. I stopped short of asking him if she was a good teacher. I thought the woman was pathetic. Had it been a forty-year-old man with a girl of sixteen, I would have thought him a pervert.
A slant-eyed couple parted from each other after a brief whispered conversation, the man showed the police officer his identity card and was the allowed to leave the hotel. Later, I was told by one of the police officers that he was the First Secretary at the Korean embassy. His lady friend explained after her friend was long gone, “I am the Korean ambassador’s wife. I came to Amsterdam for the shopping.”
A young sexy looking woman, sitting alone in a nightgown, with a man's jacket over her shoulders, told me, “I am here for a convention.” A quick glance round the lobby and I spotted the man with matching trousers who completely ignored her.
At some point I decided to go to the bathroom to unload the gun but unfortunately the police permitted no one into the bathroom without an escort. I could of course have locked myself in a booth but I could not risk the gun's offloading sound being heard by the officer. We were under curfew. No one was allowed in or out of the hotel. The hotel management offered coffee and croissants and all of us kept speculating while we enjoyed the refreshments.
Upon my demands, the police commissioner released a few snippets of information. “The three gunmen were not terrorists, they were bank robbers,” he said. “In the bags they carried their loot. They had to settle for very little money as the lock on the safe was broken and refused to open. They were also unlucky with their escape vehicle. It broke down in front of the Hilton." He explained how the police came so quickly. "The information about the robbery was transmitted immediately over the police radio. Six hundred police officers in their cars had been heading for the Ajax stadium for a fun day when they were notified of the robbery at the bank. So six hundred police officers started chasing the robbers. They are around the hotel at this very moment looking for the missing felon. He must still be on the Hilton premises.”
Three hours after the beginning of the ordeal, the PA address system came on again. “Ladies and gentleman this is the Commissioner of Police speaking. We are happy to inform you we have got our man. You are now free to go. Thank you very much for your cooperation." During the announcement we saw two huge Dutch officers escorting a handcuffed medium-sized man through the hotel lobby to the police car outside. The man was well groomed, with a fine suit and shiny shoes. He looked like my next-door neighbor and no one could possibly think he was the bank robber.
Moments later, our crew was rushed to the airport with a police escort. They knew we had been involved in the shooting, but they did all they could to get us out of the country fast. Once inside the cockpit, I unloaded the gun and put on a fresh set of clothes.
I was subpoenaed twice to the court as a witness. I learned there that when the last bank robber realized he was surrounded, he went into several rooms and helped himself to a new outfit, dropped his gun and old clothes into the laundry chute and so became a new and respectable looking man.
He went directly to the hairdresser, where he was given the full treatment. While shaving his client's mustache, buffing his nails and dying his hair, the Italian Mario, like typical hairdressers, chatted with his client. The robber told Mario he was from Sardinia although he was really from Corsica. Mario knew by the man's accent and his selection of words, (many French words had crept into the Italian spoken in Corsica) that the man was lying. The suspicious Mario informed the police.
During the trial, while listening to the proceedings, I felt really sorry for the unfortunate bank robbers. I decided future bank robbers must have better training. I wrote these quick reference notes for them.
1. Pick a bank where the safe works properly and opens on time. If not you will have to settle for small change.
2. Choose a day police officers are working and not on vacation.
3. The escape vehicle should be a late model, thus less susceptible to breakdown.
4. If you must use an old car make sure it breaks down in a side street and not in front of the Hilton.
5. If you have to run into the Hilton with drawn guns make sure there are no armed guests in the lobby.
6. If you claim to be from Sardinia, do not speak with a Corsican accent.
7. If unable to comply with all of the above, consider a career change.
The End
Hagai Cohen
Dressed in my El Al airline-pilot uniform and ready to go, I moved towards the door. It was an unusually hot morning in Amsterdam and, at that time, the Hilton did not have air- conditioning. The windows were open but the air was still.
I heard the screams of police sirens from various directions simultaneously. It was strange to experience such massive police activity especially as you never find a police officer when you need one.
I crossed to the window where, I could not see much. I could only hear more sirens. It did not bother me much, so I left my room and walked to the elevator. I pressed the lobby button and started descending. As the elevator zoomed past the third floor, I heard shots.
The massive police activity along with the gunshots could mean but one thing - terror activity. “My crew,” I thought, ”is the target.” As an Israeli airline, we had been a marked target for a long time.
My immediate reaction was to look for the 'close door' button of the elevator. I wanted to stop the doors from opening. But the 'close door' button doesn’t keep the elevator doors closed; it merely gives a polite person the chance to show kindness to his fellow riders when in a hurry.
As soon as the elevator reached the ground floor, the doors opened. There was I with the doors wide open and furiously pushing on the ‘close door’ button. On the lobby floor, I could see a young man lying in a pool of blood. He was our air marshal, agent Katz.
I leaped out of the elevator and rushed to his side. He had been shot in his thigh. Judging by the amount of blood spurting from the wound, it appeared to be serious. I took off my tie and tied it tight just above the wound. The blood flow slowed down but despite this, Katz kept slipping in and out of consciousness.
“Hold on,” I yelled in his ear, “I've stopped the bleeding. You will soon be in a hospital.” I looked up and saw only police officers rushing about in the lobby.
During one of his conscious states, I asked, “What happened?” He answered, “I do not know,” and continued haltingly, “Three men with drawn guns.” Pause. “Each carrying a bag. Rushed into the lobby.” Pause. “Looked Mediterranean.” Pause. “I pulled my gun and they all shot at me.” Pause. “I shot back.” Pause. “I hit one of them.” Pause. “My gun is only a .22 so it hardly grazed him.” Pause. “He shot back with a nine millimeter Browning.” Pause. “It knocked me off balance.” Pause. “Please hide my gun.” Pause. “It’s illegal in Holland.” Pause. “It’s loaded and cocked.” Pause. “Be careful.”
With all the spectators milling around us it was not easy to hide the gun. “Move aside," I shouted. "Give the emergency crew a clear way.” In the seconds that everybody turned to look for the alleged emergency crew I dragged the gun close under my hat, and stowed it in my belt.
It took the paramedics about five minutes to arrive and another five minutes to get the now unconscious Katz to the emergency room.
I was left in the lobby with blood all over me. As my hat lay in a pool of blood, I decided to leave it there, on the floor. My tie was on agent Katz’s leg. Despite the heat, I buttoned my jacket with my bloody hands just to conceal the gun. Agent Katz was taken off the 'critical list' the very same day.
The excitement in the lobby was because no one seemed to know who the gunmen were or what brought them to visit the Hilton. The police, who had entered the lobby only seconds after the shooting began, collared two of the three gunmen and started their interrogation right away. It became apparent that the police knew more than they were willing to reveal.
“Attention ladies and gentlemen, attention ladies and gentlemen,” announced a voice on the speakers. “All guests are requested to remain in their rooms, lock their doors and wait for a police escort to the lobby. Do not open the door until you check the viewer. Make sure you see a uniformed officer before opening the door.”
This message was repeated several times in many languages. In the lobby, the police arranged furniture barriers in front of the elevators. Behind each barrier stood an officer with a drawn gun.
Frightened people kept pouring into the lobby, many of them dressed in pajamas. Still suspecting more terror, as the third gunman mentioned by Katz had not been detained and he could be a suicide bomber, I advised the crew to stay out of sight and not huddle together. I myself started walking around mingling and talking with the guests, hoping I might spot the man in the lobby.
Some hotel employees placed a circle of chairs around agent Katz blood and put a large tablecloth over it. Most of the people came into the lobby after it happened and I, in my blood stained uniform and several police officers with drawn guns were the only evidence of the horror of several minutes earlier.
Talking to the people was an interesting experience. They were more than willing to talk to the bloodstained hero who had just arrived from the front. They all expressed a desire to hear my story. I met many fascinating people who related many hotel suspense stories of their own. A newly wed young couple with eyes puffy from lack of sleep complained, “They pulled us out of bed and we haven’t slept for twenty-four hours."
A fat woman of about forty emerged from the elevator with a sixteen-year-old boy on her arm. They both moved rapidly to a corner of the lobby. The boy, blushing constantly, looked confused and started to stutter when I spoke to him. I stopped short of asking him if she was a good teacher. I thought the woman was pathetic. Had it been a forty-year-old man with a girl of sixteen, I would have thought him a pervert.
A slant-eyed couple parted from each other after a brief whispered conversation, the man showed the police officer his identity card and was the allowed to leave the hotel. Later, I was told by one of the police officers that he was the First Secretary at the Korean embassy. His lady friend explained after her friend was long gone, “I am the Korean ambassador’s wife. I came to Amsterdam for the shopping.”
A young sexy looking woman, sitting alone in a nightgown, with a man's jacket over her shoulders, told me, “I am here for a convention.” A quick glance round the lobby and I spotted the man with matching trousers who completely ignored her.
At some point I decided to go to the bathroom to unload the gun but unfortunately the police permitted no one into the bathroom without an escort. I could of course have locked myself in a booth but I could not risk the gun's offloading sound being heard by the officer. We were under curfew. No one was allowed in or out of the hotel. The hotel management offered coffee and croissants and all of us kept speculating while we enjoyed the refreshments.
Upon my demands, the police commissioner released a few snippets of information. “The three gunmen were not terrorists, they were bank robbers,” he said. “In the bags they carried their loot. They had to settle for very little money as the lock on the safe was broken and refused to open. They were also unlucky with their escape vehicle. It broke down in front of the Hilton." He explained how the police came so quickly. "The information about the robbery was transmitted immediately over the police radio. Six hundred police officers in their cars had been heading for the Ajax stadium for a fun day when they were notified of the robbery at the bank. So six hundred police officers started chasing the robbers. They are around the hotel at this very moment looking for the missing felon. He must still be on the Hilton premises.”
Three hours after the beginning of the ordeal, the PA address system came on again. “Ladies and gentleman this is the Commissioner of Police speaking. We are happy to inform you we have got our man. You are now free to go. Thank you very much for your cooperation." During the announcement we saw two huge Dutch officers escorting a handcuffed medium-sized man through the hotel lobby to the police car outside. The man was well groomed, with a fine suit and shiny shoes. He looked like my next-door neighbor and no one could possibly think he was the bank robber.
Moments later, our crew was rushed to the airport with a police escort. They knew we had been involved in the shooting, but they did all they could to get us out of the country fast. Once inside the cockpit, I unloaded the gun and put on a fresh set of clothes.
I was subpoenaed twice to the court as a witness. I learned there that when the last bank robber realized he was surrounded, he went into several rooms and helped himself to a new outfit, dropped his gun and old clothes into the laundry chute and so became a new and respectable looking man.
He went directly to the hairdresser, where he was given the full treatment. While shaving his client's mustache, buffing his nails and dying his hair, the Italian Mario, like typical hairdressers, chatted with his client. The robber told Mario he was from Sardinia although he was really from Corsica. Mario knew by the man's accent and his selection of words, (many French words had crept into the Italian spoken in Corsica) that the man was lying. The suspicious Mario informed the police.
During the trial, while listening to the proceedings, I felt really sorry for the unfortunate bank robbers. I decided future bank robbers must have better training. I wrote these quick reference notes for them.
1. Pick a bank where the safe works properly and opens on time. If not you will have to settle for small change.
2. Choose a day police officers are working and not on vacation.
3. The escape vehicle should be a late model, thus less susceptible to breakdown.
4. If you must use an old car make sure it breaks down in a side street and not in front of the Hilton.
5. If you have to run into the Hilton with drawn guns make sure there are no armed guests in the lobby.
6. If you claim to be from Sardinia, do not speak with a Corsican accent.
7. If unable to comply with all of the above, consider a career change.
The End
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Only the truth
NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH
Hagai Cohen
If I have learned anything from life, I have learned it is better to tell the truth to one’s spouse rather than let them hear it from rumors. The citizens of the world still remember how a small incident between Monika and Bill was blown out of proportion by the media. The world trend now is to come clean so I decided to follow the trend and like the others, to confess about my affairs and, if necessary, even to apologize sincerely.
The first incident I chose was a mild one, just to assess my wife’s reaction. My friends advised me not to do it. Some told me to see a lawyer first. However, I was determined: “I have to do it” I said.
The right time came, while dining at home, one evening.
"I got a letter", I said, “From a Mrs. Rinna Kunz. It was mailed from Remagen, a small town on the Rhine River in Germany. At first, I did not know who she was, but after reading a little, I realized Mrs. Kunz was Rinna Golan, a girl I had met sixteen years earlier at a Naval Academy dance. Yes, I know it sounds strange. I myself was very surprised.”
I went on to tell my wife the whole story of how the letter had informed me that Rinna, Frau Kunz, was living in Germany and that she planned to come for a visit, and she wanted to meet me. I had no wish to meet her.
"The letter took me back to a time long ago when we students were only boys with lots of muscles, a good tan and supercharged with hormones. Despite all this, sadly there was not a female in sight. However, about five miles away from our base was an all-girl’s boarding school. Likewise, the girls had no boys to impress. With frustration and hormones on the rise I took the liberty of writing a letter to the school, suggesting a dance party. The girls agreed with enthusiasm.
On the assigned day, we all wore nametags and reported to the school gym.
The nametags proved a success, as they created an opening for easy-going communication. Quickly, the party warmed up. At a certain point, the ‘queen’ of the class suggested a kissing competition. Her idea met with little opposition and soon a bottle was spun to make the match. On my turn, the bottle pointed at Rinna Golan.
Rinna’s dress was radically different from the other girls. It was a long floor length dress, with full-length sleeves, which completely covered her arms. Only the skin of her face and hands was exposed. As I approached her, she paled, she appeared to be about to faint. I took her trembling hand, with a quick motion leaned over, and whispered in her ear: ‘Come, there will be no kissing.’ I turned to the others and said: ‘Look, we are not kissing in front of you without first practicing,’ and despite the boos, I walked her out of the room.
Once outside, after drinking some water, Rinna explained to me that although she was not a religious girl she could not stand the idea of being kissed. She hated it when men even looked at her, and she became anxious at the thought of being touched by a man. Rinna was a pretty girl and despite the 16th century clothes, it was obvious she had a perfect body. Frankly, I did not understand her attitude. I did not comment about it then, but felt it might be interesting to chat about it. I suggested we go to the movies the following week. She agreed. We met on three occasions and she always came completely swathed. I did not consider touching her, apart from a mere handshake.
Two months after the party Rinna graduated and I did not see her again. In fact, I never even thought about her. When I received her letter sixteen years later, it took me time to place her, and when I did, I had no desire to meet her and sent her an apology note. Rinna sent a second letter, she said she was sorry we could not get together and gave me her phone number, ‘in case I happened to be in the neighborhood.’ Events, however, have their own dynamics. A few months later, I was on a business trip to Germany. Because of a local two-day holiday, I could not do any work, so, to fill in the time, I called Rinna
.
I’ll try to be accurate now with the sequence of events" I told my wife.
"Rinna answered my call and spoke quickly:
‘I am glad you telephoned. Please come and visit us tomorrow. The 10:30AM train from Bon arrives here at noon. We will pick you up at the station. Please pretend you are my Brother Joel’s friend. Do not speak Hebrew in front of my husband. See you tomorrow. I have to go now.'
It was all very strange. She showed neither excitement nor delight. Why did I have to pretend to be Joel’s friend? Why did she ask me not to speak Hebrew?
The next morning, after an hour and a half train ride, I arrived at Remagen station. Mrs. and Mr. Kunz came in a big car driven by Mrs. Kunz. I must confess that Rinna had become a very attractive and classy lady. Mr. Kunz on the other hand, looked like a beerstube dweller. He was thick necked, red cheeked, barrel bellied and smelled like a brewery. (I later learned he had already downed two bottles of Mosel.)
During the twenty-minute ride home, I was quizzed about Joel, his children and his new truck. I answered appropriately, yet Rinna was so formal and cool I regretted coming.
At a certain point during the drive Mr. Kunz turned to me and said:
'Vat kind of music you like Mr. Shamir? I am a musician, you know.' I imagined his taste in music would match the beerstube image, so I said patronizingly: 'I like classical music Mr. Kunz. Old German classical music.' 'Vell, vell, Herr Shamir, you haf come to zhe right place.'
Upon arrival to the Kunz house, which looked like a small castle, I was shown into a salon decorated like a baroque foyer, furnished with three large pianos. To my surprise, Mr. Kunz uncorked two bottles of semi-dry Mosel wine, filled two glasses and said: 'Come Mr. Shamir, let me play for you the Moonlight Zonata on a piano vich is a replica of the piano Beethoven composed on.' With that, he waddled over to the piano, sat down, opened the lid, placed his stubby fingers on the keys, and closed his eyes in concentration. To my absolute amazement and delight, Mr. Kunz revealed himself to be a fine musician. His playing was expressive and gentle while both romantic and passionate.
The first bottle of Mosel was emptied before the end of the sonata. The second Mosel was consumed during Mozart’s Piano Zonata K 330, which he played on the baby-grand Steinway. During the hour and a half of extremely enjoyable music, I had one glass of wine while Mr. Kunz emptied both bottles. At the end of the Rondo alla Turca (the ‘Turkish March’), Mrs. Kunz called us to the dining room. The food she had prepared for lunch was exceptionally good: a succulent fillet mignon au poivre vert, a superb Caesar Salad, an Idaho potato, baked to perfection, with sour cream and chives. To enhance the taste of the excellent steaks, Mr Kunz uncorked two bottles of Bordeaux. Mrs. Kunz had one refill, as did I, while Mr. Kunz, once again, polished off both bottles.
During the repast, I questioned Mr. Kunz about his music. I learned that he was both a composer and conductor of contemporary music, and that he also conducted the church chorus on a voluntary basis. It turned out that he was quite famous throughout the Rhine, Saar and Mosel valleys.
I began to like Mr. Kunz. I admired his music and was enthralled by his wine consumption. However, his wife, Rinna, showed no interest in either of us and did not participate in the conversation at all. Towards the end of the meal, she brought a tray of cheeses with fresh Kummel bread. Mr. Kunz flushed down the Munster the Roquefort and the Camembert with the last drops of the red wine. He then excused himself and abruptly plunged into the soft seat of a nearby armchair and, in less than ten seconds, was snoring loudly.
Ten seconds were all that Mrs. Kunz needed to get rid of her apron and, with a swift movement, like a tigress grabbing her kill; she took my arm and said insistently:
'We have three hours!'
'For What?' I whispered.
'We have an unfinished business or have you forgotten?'
'What about him?' I stammered.
'Don’t worry,' she assured me, while pushing me out of the door. 'Go to the guest bathroom, take off your clothes and leave them there. Put on the robe I have left for you and come back here. If he moves, you sneak back to the bathroom, lock the door and come out dressed.' Was she nuts?
I felt trapped. I was in the claws of a bird of prey... my mind went blank. I walked to the bathroom under her spell, and did as ordered. When I came out, she dragged me down to the carpeted floor behind her husband’s armchair.
She was prepared, wearing nothing under her dress but her exquisite body.
The truth? All I wanted was to get it over and done with and disappear from the vortex I’d found myself in. However, I was incapable of doing anything other than following the orders of the ‘assailant’ who had vanquished my resistance.
It was the quickest quickie I had ever experienced. The overdose of adrenaline in my circulation, revved up my heartbeat to an impressive level, which remained high for two weeks. Although in my opinion, it was a lousy act, for her it was the summit of excitement and pleasure. No, I am not taking any the credit for Rinna’s orgasm, as I am well aware that it was the proximity to the sleeping hubby that took her to such a climax.
Some time later, after regaining my senses, I wondered how anyone, who had once dressed like an Amish woman and had been afraid of touching my hand had become the sexual predator. I never did discover what had caused Rinna’s transformation, but I was able to define two new theorems, which I wrote down on my way home.
One. The level of adrenaline in the blood during lovemaking is in inverse ratio to the distance from a sleeping husband. Meaning: The closer you are to the sleeping husband the higher your heartbeat.
Two. The duration of the act in seconds is in inverse ratio to the distance from the sleeping husband. Meaning: with the husband around, you go through the act like an express train through a rural station.
Mr. Kunz woke up exactly three hours after he had fallen asleep. He discovered Rinna and I sitting at opposite ends of the couch, chatting in English and drinking coffee.
“Hello Mr. Shamir, you are still here? Vhy don’t ve go for a vew beers. I know a place vhere zey make ze beer on ze premizez”.
I couldn’t bear the thought of spending any more time with this bizarre couple so I proffered a silly excuse and made a dash for it. On the train, I felt like a prisoner of war returning home. One thing troubled me though, and I don’t think I shall ever have the answer. Did her brother, Joel know how many friends he has?”
My wife listened without interrupting with an expression of contempt. When I finished my story, she sat quietly, but I could see the fury bulding up in her eyes. Suddenly she forcefully threw her napkin on the table and said with a tongue full of venom: “You are a pervert. You definitely need help. Your wild, sick imagination qualifies you for the nut house. I do not believe a single word of all this crap. Tell your stupid stories to people who don’t know you and spare me please.”
I had expected some kind of reaction but certainly not this. After all the preparation and effort I had put into telling the truth, my ever-loving wife did not believe a word. As God is my witness, I was ready to tell her all my stories and clear my conscience. As God is my witness ALL my stories.
The End
Note published on my blog
Hagai Cohen
If I have learned anything from life, I have learned it is better to tell the truth to one’s spouse rather than let them hear it from rumors. The citizens of the world still remember how a small incident between Monika and Bill was blown out of proportion by the media. The world trend now is to come clean so I decided to follow the trend and like the others, to confess about my affairs and, if necessary, even to apologize sincerely.
The first incident I chose was a mild one, just to assess my wife’s reaction. My friends advised me not to do it. Some told me to see a lawyer first. However, I was determined: “I have to do it” I said.
The right time came, while dining at home, one evening.
"I got a letter", I said, “From a Mrs. Rinna Kunz. It was mailed from Remagen, a small town on the Rhine River in Germany. At first, I did not know who she was, but after reading a little, I realized Mrs. Kunz was Rinna Golan, a girl I had met sixteen years earlier at a Naval Academy dance. Yes, I know it sounds strange. I myself was very surprised.”
I went on to tell my wife the whole story of how the letter had informed me that Rinna, Frau Kunz, was living in Germany and that she planned to come for a visit, and she wanted to meet me. I had no wish to meet her.
"The letter took me back to a time long ago when we students were only boys with lots of muscles, a good tan and supercharged with hormones. Despite all this, sadly there was not a female in sight. However, about five miles away from our base was an all-girl’s boarding school. Likewise, the girls had no boys to impress. With frustration and hormones on the rise I took the liberty of writing a letter to the school, suggesting a dance party. The girls agreed with enthusiasm.
On the assigned day, we all wore nametags and reported to the school gym.
The nametags proved a success, as they created an opening for easy-going communication. Quickly, the party warmed up. At a certain point, the ‘queen’ of the class suggested a kissing competition. Her idea met with little opposition and soon a bottle was spun to make the match. On my turn, the bottle pointed at Rinna Golan.
Rinna’s dress was radically different from the other girls. It was a long floor length dress, with full-length sleeves, which completely covered her arms. Only the skin of her face and hands was exposed. As I approached her, she paled, she appeared to be about to faint. I took her trembling hand, with a quick motion leaned over, and whispered in her ear: ‘Come, there will be no kissing.’ I turned to the others and said: ‘Look, we are not kissing in front of you without first practicing,’ and despite the boos, I walked her out of the room.
Once outside, after drinking some water, Rinna explained to me that although she was not a religious girl she could not stand the idea of being kissed. She hated it when men even looked at her, and she became anxious at the thought of being touched by a man. Rinna was a pretty girl and despite the 16th century clothes, it was obvious she had a perfect body. Frankly, I did not understand her attitude. I did not comment about it then, but felt it might be interesting to chat about it. I suggested we go to the movies the following week. She agreed. We met on three occasions and she always came completely swathed. I did not consider touching her, apart from a mere handshake.
Two months after the party Rinna graduated and I did not see her again. In fact, I never even thought about her. When I received her letter sixteen years later, it took me time to place her, and when I did, I had no desire to meet her and sent her an apology note. Rinna sent a second letter, she said she was sorry we could not get together and gave me her phone number, ‘in case I happened to be in the neighborhood.’ Events, however, have their own dynamics. A few months later, I was on a business trip to Germany. Because of a local two-day holiday, I could not do any work, so, to fill in the time, I called Rinna
.
I’ll try to be accurate now with the sequence of events" I told my wife.
"Rinna answered my call and spoke quickly:
‘I am glad you telephoned. Please come and visit us tomorrow. The 10:30AM train from Bon arrives here at noon. We will pick you up at the station. Please pretend you are my Brother Joel’s friend. Do not speak Hebrew in front of my husband. See you tomorrow. I have to go now.'
It was all very strange. She showed neither excitement nor delight. Why did I have to pretend to be Joel’s friend? Why did she ask me not to speak Hebrew?
The next morning, after an hour and a half train ride, I arrived at Remagen station. Mrs. and Mr. Kunz came in a big car driven by Mrs. Kunz. I must confess that Rinna had become a very attractive and classy lady. Mr. Kunz on the other hand, looked like a beerstube dweller. He was thick necked, red cheeked, barrel bellied and smelled like a brewery. (I later learned he had already downed two bottles of Mosel.)
During the twenty-minute ride home, I was quizzed about Joel, his children and his new truck. I answered appropriately, yet Rinna was so formal and cool I regretted coming.
At a certain point during the drive Mr. Kunz turned to me and said:
'Vat kind of music you like Mr. Shamir? I am a musician, you know.' I imagined his taste in music would match the beerstube image, so I said patronizingly: 'I like classical music Mr. Kunz. Old German classical music.' 'Vell, vell, Herr Shamir, you haf come to zhe right place.'
Upon arrival to the Kunz house, which looked like a small castle, I was shown into a salon decorated like a baroque foyer, furnished with three large pianos. To my surprise, Mr. Kunz uncorked two bottles of semi-dry Mosel wine, filled two glasses and said: 'Come Mr. Shamir, let me play for you the Moonlight Zonata on a piano vich is a replica of the piano Beethoven composed on.' With that, he waddled over to the piano, sat down, opened the lid, placed his stubby fingers on the keys, and closed his eyes in concentration. To my absolute amazement and delight, Mr. Kunz revealed himself to be a fine musician. His playing was expressive and gentle while both romantic and passionate.
The first bottle of Mosel was emptied before the end of the sonata. The second Mosel was consumed during Mozart’s Piano Zonata K 330, which he played on the baby-grand Steinway. During the hour and a half of extremely enjoyable music, I had one glass of wine while Mr. Kunz emptied both bottles. At the end of the Rondo alla Turca (the ‘Turkish March’), Mrs. Kunz called us to the dining room. The food she had prepared for lunch was exceptionally good: a succulent fillet mignon au poivre vert, a superb Caesar Salad, an Idaho potato, baked to perfection, with sour cream and chives. To enhance the taste of the excellent steaks, Mr Kunz uncorked two bottles of Bordeaux. Mrs. Kunz had one refill, as did I, while Mr. Kunz, once again, polished off both bottles.
During the repast, I questioned Mr. Kunz about his music. I learned that he was both a composer and conductor of contemporary music, and that he also conducted the church chorus on a voluntary basis. It turned out that he was quite famous throughout the Rhine, Saar and Mosel valleys.
I began to like Mr. Kunz. I admired his music and was enthralled by his wine consumption. However, his wife, Rinna, showed no interest in either of us and did not participate in the conversation at all. Towards the end of the meal, she brought a tray of cheeses with fresh Kummel bread. Mr. Kunz flushed down the Munster the Roquefort and the Camembert with the last drops of the red wine. He then excused himself and abruptly plunged into the soft seat of a nearby armchair and, in less than ten seconds, was snoring loudly.
Ten seconds were all that Mrs. Kunz needed to get rid of her apron and, with a swift movement, like a tigress grabbing her kill; she took my arm and said insistently:
'We have three hours!'
'For What?' I whispered.
'We have an unfinished business or have you forgotten?'
'What about him?' I stammered.
'Don’t worry,' she assured me, while pushing me out of the door. 'Go to the guest bathroom, take off your clothes and leave them there. Put on the robe I have left for you and come back here. If he moves, you sneak back to the bathroom, lock the door and come out dressed.' Was she nuts?
I felt trapped. I was in the claws of a bird of prey... my mind went blank. I walked to the bathroom under her spell, and did as ordered. When I came out, she dragged me down to the carpeted floor behind her husband’s armchair.
She was prepared, wearing nothing under her dress but her exquisite body.
The truth? All I wanted was to get it over and done with and disappear from the vortex I’d found myself in. However, I was incapable of doing anything other than following the orders of the ‘assailant’ who had vanquished my resistance.
It was the quickest quickie I had ever experienced. The overdose of adrenaline in my circulation, revved up my heartbeat to an impressive level, which remained high for two weeks. Although in my opinion, it was a lousy act, for her it was the summit of excitement and pleasure. No, I am not taking any the credit for Rinna’s orgasm, as I am well aware that it was the proximity to the sleeping hubby that took her to such a climax.
Some time later, after regaining my senses, I wondered how anyone, who had once dressed like an Amish woman and had been afraid of touching my hand had become the sexual predator. I never did discover what had caused Rinna’s transformation, but I was able to define two new theorems, which I wrote down on my way home.
One. The level of adrenaline in the blood during lovemaking is in inverse ratio to the distance from a sleeping husband. Meaning: The closer you are to the sleeping husband the higher your heartbeat.
Two. The duration of the act in seconds is in inverse ratio to the distance from the sleeping husband. Meaning: with the husband around, you go through the act like an express train through a rural station.
Mr. Kunz woke up exactly three hours after he had fallen asleep. He discovered Rinna and I sitting at opposite ends of the couch, chatting in English and drinking coffee.
“Hello Mr. Shamir, you are still here? Vhy don’t ve go for a vew beers. I know a place vhere zey make ze beer on ze premizez”.
I couldn’t bear the thought of spending any more time with this bizarre couple so I proffered a silly excuse and made a dash for it. On the train, I felt like a prisoner of war returning home. One thing troubled me though, and I don’t think I shall ever have the answer. Did her brother, Joel know how many friends he has?”
My wife listened without interrupting with an expression of contempt. When I finished my story, she sat quietly, but I could see the fury bulding up in her eyes. Suddenly she forcefully threw her napkin on the table and said with a tongue full of venom: “You are a pervert. You definitely need help. Your wild, sick imagination qualifies you for the nut house. I do not believe a single word of all this crap. Tell your stupid stories to people who don’t know you and spare me please.”
I had expected some kind of reaction but certainly not this. After all the preparation and effort I had put into telling the truth, my ever-loving wife did not believe a word. As God is my witness, I was ready to tell her all my stories and clear my conscience. As God is my witness ALL my stories.
The End
Note published on my blog
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Mr Rosenkranz
Mr. Rosenkrantz
Hagai Cohen
I was sitting in the school auditorium listening to the speeches but not attentive. It was at the start of my tenth grade, and I was angry.
I was assigned to Mr. Rosenkrantz's craft class despite my request to be exempted. The assignment paper said:
“The objective of the craft lessons is to teach students the skill of handling hand tools, an essential link between the past and the future industrial and technological world. The students will learn to read charts and plans, and implement the knowledge by making useful household objects. The projects are: a cutting board and a hot plate”.
The planned objects, the same as last year's, were made of two identical pieces of wood of which only one of them, when finished would end up with handles. To waste two hours every week for whole year sanding stupid pieces of precut wood was my idea of an utter waste of time.
My father was frequently sick and our family had little income. I needed the time for tending the small chicken farm I founded. Its maintenance required the use of tools and I became quite skillful. I could do without Rosenkrantz boards.
I did not like Mr. Rosenkrantz. His spineless personality permitted the principal, Mr. David Shapiro, to insult him in public. Shapiro made him do odd jobs for the school, like fixing garden tools, electrical outlets, leaky faucet and replacing door locks. The principal enslaved him and although Rosenkrantz did not like it, he did not protest.
For most of the teachers, the use of tools was beneath them and they thought of Rosenkrantz as Homo-Habilis, far inferior to the Homo-Sapiens they were.
They too used him even though they loathed Rosenkrantz and constantly insulted him.
So, I had no respect for Mr. Rosenkrantz, and hated the idea of being in his class. "I must find a way out," I thought.
The audience listening to Mr. Shapiro's speech comprised of the students, the teachers, the members of the P.T.A., two representatives of the Board of Education and the Board of Trustees.
Mr. Shapiro told his listeners he was the best principal on earth and counted his achievements one by one. Suddenly I heard Mr. Shapiro say:
“Our school is a pioneer." It made my mind jump to attention. "Pioneer in implementing the idea of equal opportunities for girls," he continued. "The girls of our school are invited to join the boy’s craft and make our school the first to try this avant-guard idea and set an example for the rest of the schools in the country.”
Nobody expected Mr David Shapiro to put what he said into practice. His words were solely for the ears of the Board of Education and the P.T.A. The boys and girls used the same room for craft lessons. The entire school schedule was carved around the craft room. It was impossible to move girls into boys craft without rescheduling the entire school program.
Suddenly I saw a light; How about equal opportunities for boys, Mr. Shapiro?
First thing the next morning I handed an official request to the principal’s secretary to transfer me to the girl’s craft lessons. In my letter I reminded Mr. David Shapiro of the speech he gave in front of five hundred people. My letter was, of course, copied to the P.T.A, the Board of Education, the Teacher’s Committee and the Board of Trusties.
For a few days nothing happened and I was worried it hadn’t worked, until my English teacher, who was known for his profound dislike of Shapiro, hinted to me "there are some strong undertows." With his typical ironic smile, he whispered, "The principal almost blew a gasket when he saw your letter." Without encouraging me openly, he said: “I will support your request at the teacher's board meeting."
I blue-printed Shapiro's letter using my father frame and sent copies to the Teacher’s Committee, to the Board of Education, to the P.T.A and the Board of Trusties. A few days later, I got this reply.
Ms Shamir interviewed the girls separately and conducted a group discussion session. As a result a good and favorable report came out. Ms Shamir was very impressed with the results and even expressed a desire to be involved in the experiment. “I am planning to write a paper about equal opportunities in high schools,” she promised anyone who was willing to listen.
I was invited by Ms Bloom to join a craft class with the girls “unofficially of course. ” The girls were delighted to have me and solicited Ms Bloom to favor the idea.
I learned later, Mr. Rosenkrantz was summoned and was assigned to fix the shade; also, a letter was typed to my father preparing him to pay for the damages.
Only after coming out of the principal office, I realized I was late for my scheduled appointment with Mr. Rosenkrantz about the girl's craft.
“What?” shouted Mr. Rosenkrantz. “Do you mean to say you touched the shade without my permission?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I am sorry for not asking permission, but I was the one who broke it and now it’s fixed, and already on the window.”
“You are something,” he murmured and started for the principal’s office to brag and collect the credit. I walked very fast by his side and asked: “Shall we reschedule our meeting sir?”
Mr. Rosenkrantz froze, looked into my eyes and said: “My entire instincts and my gut feeling tell me to keep you next to me, but I'll let you go to the girls”.
I have learned the language girls speak, the way girls think, and of course the skills of sewing, knitting and cooking. I used my skills to impress my first girlfriend with a sweater I knitted for her birthday.
Ms Shamir, the school psychologist (who was really no more than a collector of gossips and an official spy) kept interrogating me, the girls, and even the teacher, Ms Bloom, in order to report to the principal.
Hagai Cohen
I was sitting in the school auditorium listening to the speeches but not attentive. It was at the start of my tenth grade, and I was angry.
I was assigned to Mr. Rosenkrantz's craft class despite my request to be exempted. The assignment paper said:
“The objective of the craft lessons is to teach students the skill of handling hand tools, an essential link between the past and the future industrial and technological world. The students will learn to read charts and plans, and implement the knowledge by making useful household objects. The projects are: a cutting board and a hot plate”.
The planned objects, the same as last year's, were made of two identical pieces of wood of which only one of them, when finished would end up with handles. To waste two hours every week for whole year sanding stupid pieces of precut wood was my idea of an utter waste of time.
My father was frequently sick and our family had little income. I needed the time for tending the small chicken farm I founded. Its maintenance required the use of tools and I became quite skillful. I could do without Rosenkrantz boards.
I did not like Mr. Rosenkrantz. His spineless personality permitted the principal, Mr. David Shapiro, to insult him in public. Shapiro made him do odd jobs for the school, like fixing garden tools, electrical outlets, leaky faucet and replacing door locks. The principal enslaved him and although Rosenkrantz did not like it, he did not protest.
For most of the teachers, the use of tools was beneath them and they thought of Rosenkrantz as Homo-Habilis, far inferior to the Homo-Sapiens they were.
They too used him even though they loathed Rosenkrantz and constantly insulted him.
So, I had no respect for Mr. Rosenkrantz, and hated the idea of being in his class. "I must find a way out," I thought.
The audience listening to Mr. Shapiro's speech comprised of the students, the teachers, the members of the P.T.A., two representatives of the Board of Education and the Board of Trustees.
Mr. Shapiro told his listeners he was the best principal on earth and counted his achievements one by one. Suddenly I heard Mr. Shapiro say:
“Our school is a pioneer." It made my mind jump to attention. "Pioneer in implementing the idea of equal opportunities for girls," he continued. "The girls of our school are invited to join the boy’s craft and make our school the first to try this avant-guard idea and set an example for the rest of the schools in the country.”
Nobody expected Mr David Shapiro to put what he said into practice. His words were solely for the ears of the Board of Education and the P.T.A. The boys and girls used the same room for craft lessons. The entire school schedule was carved around the craft room. It was impossible to move girls into boys craft without rescheduling the entire school program.
Suddenly I saw a light; How about equal opportunities for boys, Mr. Shapiro?
First thing the next morning I handed an official request to the principal’s secretary to transfer me to the girl’s craft lessons. In my letter I reminded Mr. David Shapiro of the speech he gave in front of five hundred people. My letter was, of course, copied to the P.T.A, the Board of Education, the Teacher’s Committee and the Board of Trusties.
For a few days nothing happened and I was worried it hadn’t worked, until my English teacher, who was known for his profound dislike of Shapiro, hinted to me "there are some strong undertows." With his typical ironic smile, he whispered, "The principal almost blew a gasket when he saw your letter." Without encouraging me openly, he said: “I will support your request at the teacher's board meeting."
It took Mr. David Shapiro a few days before he managed to compose a letter which he addressed to my father.
Dear Mr. Zemel
This is to inform you, that your son Yakov has filed a request to join the Girls craft classes of our school.
I do suspect sir, that this request was instigated by radical elements in our school and was not done with your consent.
The goal of our school is to prepare young men and women for their future role in life. Our curriculum and our programs are devised to comply with the fast growing, highly demanding Technological environment. We have a long list of successful graduates who can attest we are marching on the right track.
We cannot allow, sir, any person to leave our school without completing the specified program, which was planed by our experts and approved by the Board of Education.
I do believe, sir, a high school diploma for a boy with grades in knitting and embroidery will look very peculiar and will jeopardize your son’s chances of being admitted to higher education.
Please sir, explain to your son the social implications of his unintelligent request.
Faithfully yours
David Shapiro Principal.
The high school for Excellence in education
Patronage of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem.
My father never saw this letter. Before it arrived, he was hospitalized for kidney malfunction and my mother decided not to show it to him. “We do not want to upset your father,” she said. “It is not good for his health.” She added, “You should handle your own mess." I am not sure my mother was happy about it, but I think she was proud of me.
Dear Mr. Zemel
This is to inform you, that your son Yakov has filed a request to join the Girls craft classes of our school.
I do suspect sir, that this request was instigated by radical elements in our school and was not done with your consent.
The goal of our school is to prepare young men and women for their future role in life. Our curriculum and our programs are devised to comply with the fast growing, highly demanding Technological environment. We have a long list of successful graduates who can attest we are marching on the right track.
We cannot allow, sir, any person to leave our school without completing the specified program, which was planed by our experts and approved by the Board of Education.
I do believe, sir, a high school diploma for a boy with grades in knitting and embroidery will look very peculiar and will jeopardize your son’s chances of being admitted to higher education.
Please sir, explain to your son the social implications of his unintelligent request.
Faithfully yours
David Shapiro Principal.
The high school for Excellence in education
Patronage of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem.
My father never saw this letter. Before it arrived, he was hospitalized for kidney malfunction and my mother decided not to show it to him. “We do not want to upset your father,” she said. “It is not good for his health.” She added, “You should handle your own mess." I am not sure my mother was happy about it, but I think she was proud of me.
I blue-printed Shapiro's letter using my father frame and sent copies to the Teacher’s Committee, to the Board of Education, to the P.T.A and the Board of Trusties. A few days later, I got this reply.
To: Yakov Zemel.
From: David Shapiro.
Reference: Your request to join the girl’s craft classes.
Your request was discussed yesterday by the school committee of education in an unscheduled session dedicated solely to your request.
The board resolution was to grant your request subject to the flowing conditions.
a. You will have to show proficiency to an acceptable level in the boy’s craft and Mr. Rosenkrantz will do the evaluation.
b. Ms Shamir, the school psychologist will evaluate and submit a report about the effect of your presence on the girls’ behavior and performance in class.
c. Ms Blum the girls’ craft teacher will evaluate your ability to perform feminine tasks.
d. If you are found suitable, your gym lessons will be with a different class….
Item b. seemed O.K but a. and c. looked more like a conspiracy to torpedo my request. What does it mean “feminine tasks?” It was the time now to campaign for votes. I talked to each girl separately, showed them the letters and convinced them to support my request. The girls promised to help and most of them were in great favor of the idea.
From: David Shapiro.
Reference: Your request to join the girl’s craft classes.
Your request was discussed yesterday by the school committee of education in an unscheduled session dedicated solely to your request.
The board resolution was to grant your request subject to the flowing conditions.
a. You will have to show proficiency to an acceptable level in the boy’s craft and Mr. Rosenkrantz will do the evaluation.
b. Ms Shamir, the school psychologist will evaluate and submit a report about the effect of your presence on the girls’ behavior and performance in class.
c. Ms Blum the girls’ craft teacher will evaluate your ability to perform feminine tasks.
d. If you are found suitable, your gym lessons will be with a different class….
Item b. seemed O.K but a. and c. looked more like a conspiracy to torpedo my request. What does it mean “feminine tasks?” It was the time now to campaign for votes. I talked to each girl separately, showed them the letters and convinced them to support my request. The girls promised to help and most of them were in great favor of the idea.
Ms Shamir interviewed the girls separately and conducted a group discussion session. As a result a good and favorable report came out. Ms Shamir was very impressed with the results and even expressed a desire to be involved in the experiment. “I am planning to write a paper about equal opportunities in high schools,” she promised anyone who was willing to listen.
I was invited by Ms Bloom to join a craft class with the girls “unofficially of course. ” The girls were delighted to have me and solicited Ms Bloom to favor the idea.
During the class, the girls were making a pillow. I presented a few ideas on how to finish the pillow and gave my ideas generously. Ms Bloom was impressed. The second obstacle was behind me.
It was Mr. Rosenkrantz who gave me the biggest worry. He did know me; I had no idea what the principal had told him. I did not know what to do and what way to go. I scheduled a meeting with Mr. Rosenkrantz and decided to play it by ear.
To operate a window shade, the simple kind, you pull the string and you unroll it to the desired height. A small pull and a gentle release and the shade rolls to the up position. Every American baby I was told is born with the skill of rolling the window shade up or down. That was not the case in Israel during the early fifties.
The first time my friends and I learned about the wonders of the window shades, was when someone donated a set to our classroom. Ours was the only classroom in school with shades, designated as a “projection room.”
The morning the shades were installed, Mr David Shapiro was in the classroom to warn every student never to touch the shade or else,he personally would chop the subject into instant fish food, be it boy or girl.
The moment Mr. David Shapiro left the classroom, I went directly to the window shade and demonstrated to my astounded classmates, the secret principles of rolling a window shade. Very soon my classmates knew window shades do not bite.
Another boy in my class felt brave enough to try out the shade. Unfortunately, my friend did very well with the down pull but was unsuccessful with the release technique. The shade was fully down when the bell rang, and the teacher was about to walk into the classroom.
As a good scout I was out to rescue my friend. I tried to pull it up. When I touched the string, I found the shade didn’t want to move. My pull detached the shade from the wooden stick. The shade was over me when the teacher walked in.
It was not long before the principal had me in his private chambers screaming. It was really loud and he was not even careful with his word selection.
I learned later, Mr. Rosenkrantz was summoned and was assigned to fix the shade; also, a letter was typed to my father preparing him to pay for the damages.
Only after coming out of the principal office, I realized I was late for my scheduled appointment with Mr. Rosenkrantz about the girl's craft.
Mr. Rosenkrantz's answer to my knock on door was sharp. As I walked in, I saw the very irritated Mr. Rosenkrantz fiddling with the shade. Knowing how inept he was, I was certain my father would be presented with a bill.
A quick look at Mr. Rosenkrantz and the shade told me he had stapled the shade to the stick and was now, to my surprise, trying to wind the spring with a pair of pliers.
“What do you want?” said Mr. Rosenkrantz.
“What do you want?” said Mr. Rosenkrantz.
“I have an appointment with you sir, about the girl's craft.” .
“So it’s you,” he said. (It occurred to me then Mr. Rosenkrantz did not know it was I who broke the shade) Then in a tone of complaint, he said, “Why are you doing this to me? Why the hell do you need the girls craft? During my entire career as a teacher, I never heard such a stupid request. Wait for me here while I get some coffee and we will talk.”
“So it’s you,” he said. (It occurred to me then Mr. Rosenkrantz did not know it was I who broke the shade) Then in a tone of complaint, he said, “Why are you doing this to me? Why the hell do you need the girls craft? During my entire career as a teacher, I never heard such a stupid request. Wait for me here while I get some coffee and we will talk.”
As Mr. Rosenkrantz left the room, I took command of the shade. I rolled it up very quickly, ran with it to my classroom, installed the shade on its fittings, checked it, and ran back to the teachers room. There was Mr. Rosenkrantz stirring his cup and I said: "Mr. Rosenkrantz the shade is fixed, sir.”
“What?” shouted Mr. Rosenkrantz. “Do you mean to say you touched the shade without my permission?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I am sorry for not asking permission, but I was the one who broke it and now it’s fixed, and already on the window.”
“I must see it,” said Mr. Rosenkrantz and walked very quickly to my classroom.
He went directly to the shade and tried it at least twenty times After the satisfactory inspection, Mr. Rosenkrantz turned to me and said:
He went directly to the shade and tried it at least twenty times After the satisfactory inspection, Mr. Rosenkrantz turned to me and said:
“How did you do it young man?”
“Well sir” I said, “one must have very dexterous hands to do it sir.”
“Well sir” I said, “one must have very dexterous hands to do it sir.”
“You are something,” he murmured and started for the principal’s office to brag and collect the credit. I walked very fast by his side and asked: “Shall we reschedule our meeting sir?”
Mr. Rosenkrantz froze, looked into my eyes and said: “My entire instincts and my gut feeling tell me to keep you next to me, but I'll let you go to the girls”.
Mr. David Shapiro came later to the classroom and said the following: “I am happy to inform you Mr. Rosenkrantz managed to fix the shade broken by Yakov Zemel. We, the teachers, the Board of Trusties and the students of our world-renowned school, should be grateful that Mr. Rosenkrantz is with us. This worthy, dependable teacher sets an example of devotion and dedication.”
It was very nice to be with the girls. Soon enough, they forgot I was the opposite gender. I was asked to help arrange 'accidental' meetings. I managed to teach the girls to distinguish between brains and muscles. But I did not succeed in teaching the boys the difference between breasts and brains. I improved communication between the boys and the girls and became the speaker for both groups.
I have learned the language girls speak, the way girls think, and of course the skills of sewing, knitting and cooking. I used my skills to impress my first girlfriend with a sweater I knitted for her birthday.
Ms Shamir, the school psychologist (who was really no more than a collector of gossips and an official spy) kept interrogating me, the girls, and even the teacher, Ms Bloom, in order to report to the principal.
One of the questions she kept asking me was why was I so anxious to be in the girl’s craft. I never gave her any answer, but I had two good reasons:
1. I liked being with the girls;
2. Had it been even a suffering to be with the girls, I would still have done it, just to annoy Mr. David Shapiro.
The end
1. I liked being with the girls;
2. Had it been even a suffering to be with the girls, I would still have done it, just to annoy Mr. David Shapiro.
The end
Monday, September 29, 2008
Sara Lee
Sara Lee
One afternoon in Tel-Aviv, as I was walking, preoccupied to a troublesome meeting I had to attend, a man opposite me stopped suddenly and then moved on directly towards me. I was so startled that I halted.
The man was a Hassid, dressed all black, with a wide hat. His beard seemed too huge for his small body and looked as if it had never been trimmed.
“Jacob?” He said. I did not answer. “You are Jacob Kaplan, aren’t you?” He asked again…
.
“Who wants to know?” I asked. I had no idea who the man was.
“I am Simon, don’t you remember me? We used to work together.”
“Simon? Simon who?” I eyed him suspiciously.
“Simon Dagan,” he said. “I was a purser with El-Al. We flew together.”
“Simon! what are you doing in this disguise?”
The last time I had seen Simon was in the lobby of a Paris hotel about seven years earlier when, one evening, the El Al crew was deliberating in which restaurant to eat. Simon had called me aside and said he wanted to talk. He looked very sick, could hardly walk and was breathing heavily. I asked him if he needed a doctor or if he wanted me to take him to hospital. All he wanted was to sit and talk.
I remember taking Simon to a nearby café. As he was about to sit, he doubled over with a sharp pain in his chest and almost fainted.
He was very white and begged me to take him back to his room. However, he did not want me to remain with him so I left but called the company doctor. Our flight left the next morning with a replacement purser. I had not seen him since.
“Seven years ago,” I said to Simon. “We went to a restaurant to talk; you did not say a word, went into hospital and disappeared without leaving a trace”.
“Yes. Thanks for your help that night”.
“OK, Simon. I am going to buy you a kosher cup of coffee and you are going to fill me in with the details. This time you are not getting away.”
I was more than curious to learn the reason for Simon’s metamorphosis. I called my secretary and told her to postpone the appointment.
“I’ll never forget that day as long as I live,” said Simon as we walked to a sidewalk café.
We ordered our coffees and Simon started speaking very slowly: “The day you last saw me in Paris was in fact my last day with the airline. If you remember, we had all arrived at the hotel at about noon.
As I was unpacking in my room, there was a knock. I opened the door to a tall, and I mean very tall woman, holding a small travelling iron in her hand. I stared at her, open mouthed I had never been so close to anyone six feet nine inches tall. For all her size, she was nicely proportioned, with a pretty face.
“Howdy neighbour,” said the woman with a thick accent from the deep south of the United States. “Can you help me plug in the iron? I don’t know if the voltage is correct or if the plug will fit into the socket.”
She led me to her room and, as a good Boy Scout; I connected the appliance with an adapter plug I always carried, so the young lady could iron. She thanked me and offered to buy me a drink after she had ironed her dress.
It amused me to see her with such a tiny iron for such a big dress. ‘She’ll never finish the job.’ I was thinking. She looked like a girl holding a Barbie doll iron. I left her and went back to finish unpacking.
An hour later, she again knocked at my door. She was now wearing a leather mini skirt exposing endless legs. I stared impressed. I could not relate to her as a woman. She seemed more like an impressive statue than anything real.
“I am done neighbour,” she said. “Here is your adapter. Thank you so much. Please come back and have a drink.” I hesitated. “Come on, come on. Let’s do it!” She was very assertive.
As I was following her to her room, I was thinking whether God made this woman on purpose or He’d just made a mistake.
“I’m Sara Lee, from Mobile Alabama. I’m on a group tour,” she said as we entered.
The room service waiter had already set up a folding table with white tablecloth over it. There was a bottle of Jack Daniels, a bucket of ice and a plate of crackers, cheeses and other goodies.
Sara-Lee filled two glasses, to the brim, one with ice, which she handed to me, and the other neat with raw amber whisky. We toasted each other. She, to my astonishment, downed the contents of her glass in one gulp.
“I usually don’t drink so early in the day,” said Sara-Lee, “but this is my first time in Paris and I need to celebrate.”
Sara-Lee and I were sitting together on the couch and I could watch her closely. I was especially taken with her shoes that were the size of canoes and I wondered where in hell she found shoes, or clothes for that matter, to fit her.
Then I looked at her head. Each single strand of her blond hair was thick and, all together; she looked though she wore a gold threaded wig. Her hands were smooth but firm and very strong.
As her whisky went down, she became increasingly talkative. I understood only half of what she was saying, because of her heavy accent and because of the rising level of whisky diluting my own blood.
She kept filling my glass whenever I was not watching, and then checked to see that I drank it. We were talking and laughing about this and that.
I knew when to laugh only because she would start to giggle at her own jokes and then slap my thigh with tremendous force.
Suddenly she grabbed my hand and drew me close to her on the couch. Her arm was across my shoulders. My head disappeared somewhere between her hips and her breasts. It was a grotesque scene.
She continued drinking from her bottomless glass until, at some point; she picked me up and deposited me on her lap. “Come on big boy, let me see how you kiss,” said Sara-Lee.
I felt like a puppy and was a little hesitant so she took the initiative. Her colossal tongue was soon filling my mouth. I was completely unprepared for her next move when she picked me up again, carried me over to the bed and tossed me on it. I did not resist. I could not, and I had no desire to resist.
She lifted my legs and pulled off my pants. She might have been a mother changing her baby. In no time at all, I was quite naked and so was she.
“Come on big man, let’s see what you can do to a horny girl,” she said and rolled me on top of her. She held my thighs tight within her enormous legs, like a giant nutcracker. Her hands pull my head into her breasts.
With my face embedded, all my breathing channels were completely blocked. I tried very hard to break her hold and breathe, but it was no use, she was too strong for me.
She seemed to enjoy my wiggling and my struggles to stay alive which, to her, were a delightful sexual performance. She gave some encouraging cries: “Yoo-hoo big stud, so far you are the best lay I’ve ever had.”
I was fading fast, I was dizzy from lack of air and was about to faint. Suddenly, I felt a huge, wonderful explosion in my head, accompanied by a very bright light. A tremendous wave of euphoria washed over me, as though a drug had been injected into my veins.
I passed out. I remember hearing voices. I saw a quick review of my life and even spoke to my dead mother.
I don’t know how long I was out but I woke with an unbelievable pain in my chest. Sara- Lee was over me slapping my cheeks and looking petrified, while her enormous breasts danced before my eyes.
I knew I had had a near death experience and I thanked God He had brought me back. I saw it as a very clear signal - a rebirth, a second chance to make something of my life. I felt I had no choice. I had to obey the call and dedicate my entire life to serving the Creator.
“What are you telling me Simon?” I was not sure whether I was more shocked than amused. “Are you really saying screwing Sara Lee was a religious experience?”
“No, no. You don’t understand,” he insisted. “Even my rabbi told me it was a divine happening and that only a few people are so honoured” He explained that Sara Lee was merely God’s messenger. “She was an angel sent to put me on the right track, to show me the way, to point me in the right direction.
I could not believe my ears.
“Tell me Simon, what happened to the wife you used to brag about, whose photo you carried in your wallet?” My wife, I am sorry to say, did not want to become observant so I divorced her. I am married to another woman now”.
We fell silent for a while as I puzzled over it. “Why were you hospitalised that evening?”
“It was all from God. God’s way of making a point,” said Simon. “God made Sara Lee strong enough to break my rib. It was all from God”.
I blinked to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. I wondered whether to comment or to keep my mouth shut. After some time I said: “Let me tell you what I think Simon what you experienced was an orgasm, a unique one all right, but just an orgasm, nothing more.
It is a recognized phenomenon called ‘Erotic Asphyxiation.’ Sexual enthusiasts make love with plastic bags over their heads to experience it.
You can count yourself lucky, Simon but for reasons other than you think. Your miraculous return to life or second chance as you call it was because Sara Lee got her orgasm in time to release you from her grip.”
Simon sat motionless, staring at me. “You know what, Simon,” I continued, “your rabbi was right, I do believe Sara Lee was indeed an angel.” Simon’s look became quizzical. “Only an angle can give an orgasm to a mortal and, with that single orgasm, turn him into a full-fledged nut case.”
Simon rose and looked down upon me with contempt and disgust.
He turned and without a goodbye, walked away fast.
I have seen neither hide nor hair of him since.
The End
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