Table of Contents

For anyone unfamiliar with blogs, the layout is one track for each month, with the most recent postings on top of the monthly track.

1. Nuremberg Tour - book length - entered March 6 to 21, 2006
Part One is now complete. Part Two is being prepared; the blog could be inactive for several months. The narrator is first plunged into a mega scandal; then into a lottery style army draft.

2. Seema - short story - entered February 6 to 8, 2006
The narrator struggles, forever in the shadow of others.

3. Vydia - short story - January 23 to 25, 2006
Arrival of an Afghan refugee family throws the life of a schoolgirl into chaos.

4. Baseball - novella length - January 3 to 11, 2006
The life of a baseball player hangs in the balance; is saved. The price? A lot higher than most would care to pay.

5. Romance Novella - December 12 to 16, 2005
Just imagine the two individuals least likely to ever grace the pages of a Harlequin.

6. Field Commission - book - October 11 to November 15, 2005
A poor white and her Afghan friend experience misadventures during a tour of duty in Germany; then a week of total war.

7. Lucky - novella - July 2 to 6, 2005
Time Corps adventures of a Guyanese and her Afghan friend.

8. First Mission - short story - June 20 to 23, 2005
A navigation error leads to being stranded in Time; it then goes downhill from there.

9. Futuristic Infantry - book - May 26 to June 18, 2005
Major Zohra Zamani is an infantry battalion commander 500 years in the future. Join her for three Ulster tours. Between tours, experience her difficult way of life.

10. Alien - book - January 8 to 24, 2005
A space Alien is exiled to Earth, taking over the body of an Afghan-Canadian woman in a state of clinically dead. The two sides of the personality, Afghan and Alien, duke it out for dominance.

11. Green Lake - novella - December 2 to 11, 2004
An Afghan-American US Air Force officer 1,000 years in the future leads a derring-do mission.

12. Time Corps - book - October 27 to November 22, 2004
A woman of today is thrust 10,000 years into the future, joins a shadowy organization.

13. Romance - short story - October 13 to 16, 2004
Double romance, set aboard a space ship.

14. Jamila - novella - October 1 to 9, 2004
A total outcast decides to end it all. Two surprise visitors, one Afghan, change that.

15. Dark Chronicles of Nooria - book - August 30 to September 29, 2004
A ten year old girl is plunged into a chilling nightmare, a surreal Dantesque horror.

16. Iris - short story - August 26 to 28, 2004
An Irishwoman joins a contingent of Afghans.

17. Farzana - novella - August 11 to 25, 2004
A ten year old white Canadian girl freezes to death in a savage blizzard, gets a second chance at life as an Afghan.

18. Soap (Opera) - book - July 26 to August 10, 2004
An assortment of eccentric foreigners joins an Afghan contingent.

19. Vignettes - short short stories - mostly published July 25, 2004 and prior - mostly under 1,500 words.

Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Certain historical events did occur, similar to descriptions here, but not with the characters named herein.
Profanity - stars **** used
Violence - the minimal amount which is needed to support the story line
Sex - adult relationships alluded to, some pickup activity, no scenes of direct sex
This blog is neither for nor against any political organization, religion or ethnic group. The goal is cultural, entertainment, while keeping stories suitable for children.

Nuremberg Tour 25

When Friday comes, a huge honor is bestowed upon me. I'm the only trainee invited to join the NCO's for the Friday beer. Ok, so I only had one, like most of them and yes, it was low alcohol. But it was fun conversation, now unmistakable that most of them view me as a fellow career soldier. All except Farzana. When it's your own friend, maybe she doesn't see the flaws, the problems that led to it.
As we break up, Naomi grins, "next year in Nuremberg." I know what she means, a takeoff on "next year in Jerusalem" and we both laugh.
My weekend feels flat, I find myself missing my friends. Amazing how much I've become attached to them in just a week.
I could go to JCC, read the papers, but I'm afraid of the reaction. So instead I go to the university library, to chip away on my project.
I'm already starting to see connections. Lot of the survivor characters had good tech skills, be easy to fit them into postwar Israeli civil and military life.
I choose a likely bombing raid. I'll invent a crew for one particular USAF B17 raiding the ball and roller bearing plant at Schweinfurt on October 14, 1943. Give the readers a lively air battle prior to the bomb breaching the camp perimeter.
I stand, stretch, look out onto the university architecture dating to Antiquity.
And then I see Tasma walking, book in hand. She grins, "hello there 'romantic rival."
I laugh.
"Gotta check this book out, then we'll do coffee. Ah I see you're getting material for your bomber."
"Yes, I made a resolution. As of the point I take over, it'll be positive, heroic from there on. That includes my camp survivors and the B17 crew."
We settle in at the lounge. Easy smile, "you look different, more confident, more can do. Army life ok so far?"
I relate my first week of basic.
I leave the hard question til right near the end, don't want to spoil the fun part of the conversation. Then, "tell me Tasma, do you really think things are ah well past redemption? That no matter what I do in the book, it won't work?"
She stares out the window a moment, then in a sad tone, "friend you got off mega easy, I mean being a Jew. If you were Afghan, likely you'd be dead by now."
I gasp.
"You know for a fact, they'll never forgive and never forget your supposed role in his death."
I nod.
"Stay in the army and don't come back. It'll work out best, you'll see."
It isn't rational, but I actually feel optimistic. That I suppose would be the influence of Sarge.

(So ends Part One. Part Two is now being prepared; the blog could be inactive for several months.)

Nuremberg Tour 24

As Sarge and I walk in companionable silence, I find myself wondering how many lives she has saved. She's a complicated but decent person. I find myself glad I'm with her and with Farzana. Things look good, not as good as before Ariel's death; but the best since then.
But, I protest to myself, this career soldier thing is not inevitable. I have two options. Visit Savitri back in Rose Hall, Guyana, set up a used book store; or take up the IDF on their radar offer.
But each escape comes with a price. Guyana, though it has some advantages, is poor. So would I be, with a low volume business like that. Israel, the price is violence to the edge of insanity and perhaps beyond.
Just a minute. So I can choose poverty; insanity through boredom (here); or insanity through violence. What sort of life is that?
I find myself actually pondering suicide. I discard various ideas as too painful or too messy.
"You ok?" Sarge asks.
Way too quick, I reply, "oh yes."
She wraps an arm around me, "see, it's starting already."
Does she have ESP? Scary or what? I don't reply.
"Get to work on that novel. Focus on something useful and it helps drive away the demon."
It hits me, "you're speaking from experience?"
"How in hell do you think I make so much money writing porn? Just never stop, I mean, except to try out new kink."
We both laugh. Somehow I feel better, finding a kindred soul.
Cheerfully I remark, "that crowd sounds like they're dying."
Wicked smile, "good, they're starting to hate me, some of them. Once they gather that energy together in one place, just maybe I can convince them to do something with it."
She raises her voice, "let's get those asses in gear. We don't wanna spend all day covering four miles."
The level of muttering goes up. Is this what awaits me, being a Sgt? Oy!
She turns back to me, "ulterior motive in that. Ever hear of endorphins?"
"No."
"The feel good drug in your system. A brisk walk brings it out; S&M brings it out more."
"I would guess, some of them hafta lose forty pounds before much of that happens."
"Oh sure, but Rome wasn't built in a day."
"So lemme guess Sarge, you're trying to get the daily walk into part of their routine. So, along the Czech border, they don't just sit. Go to the store daily for that beer or candy or such."
"Wow, you catch on quick, be Sgt in no time."
"Tell me, what you gonna do when you retire?"
Blush, "you have found the gaping hole in my theory of life."
I order an eight inch pizza for lunch. Farzana looks at it, "enjoy it while you can."
"Meaning?"
"You still got the metabolism of forty hours a week active. Do endless guard duty along the border and you'll come home like a whale, if you eat like that."
"Point taken, next time a half pizza."
"So you and Sarge are becoming good friends?"
"Oh yes."
"You be careful."
"How so?"
"All that tedious Cheerful Charlene routine, get you believing the army is worth the powder to blow it to hell. Don't wanna end up a career soldier."
And now, I'm confused, don't reply.
"I mean look around. Would any sane person choose this?"
"Of course not."
"Good, just do the tour, then get lost."
And now it registers. She talks so because she doesn't have a clue about Jewish culture. I just nod and smile. Some things can't be explained; you either know or don't.
At the range Sarge is using me as an example. "Now Anne and Sarah already knew. Rachel had never picked up a rifle before, yet she does ok. Why? Because she just obeys orders, doesn't clown around. Watch her positioning and breathing, copy it."
Various rude remarks.
Wicked smile, "did I ever tell you what happens if you don't qualify? Redo basic. Can you imagine anything more boring than that?"
Various comments that they'll try harder.
"You see, just in case Ivan is suffering from temporary insanity, induced by too much vodka, you hafta be ready."
Once people start trying, scores go up.

Nuremberg Tour 23

I press Sarge for details on how her writing career got started. She just grins, in high school, she had been part of the kink crowd. When it came time to write, it just literally poured off her fingertips into the word processor.
"Naomi told me, just as a joke, if I need a porn scene, I should get your advice."
"Skip sex totally. You're writing on the late 1940's. Oral, S&M, all the various perversions hadn't been invented yet. Or more accurately, only the odd person did. So, if you portray those forties characters honestly, means the sex scenes will be deathly boring. Better to leave sex out, people will just think you're a prude."
"They would be right."
She laughs, "don't admit to being a prude, claim your goal is to market to adults and young adults."
"Hmm."
"But seriously, after this one book, you better loosen up and fast. Unless you show a specific goal like aiming for school libraries, any book without sex is doomed."
"Just a minute," I protest, "you're referring to contemporary fiction. Historical is different. If I portray Guyana of the Forbes Burnham epoch, it too was very prudish. I would have to be honest to the historical period."
She ponders a moment, "you're right. I can't imagine East Indians of centuries ago in an S&M orgy. Can't even imagine modern day ones doing it."
"Even Guyana nowadays is very prudish, compared to Canada."
"Then don't set any of your books in modern day Israel. From what I've heard, kiddo, they are into Kink with a capital K."
"Why?"
"Sex is a reflection of overall society. Guyana, sleepy, peaceful, so is sex. Canada, faster pace, more stress, produces more kink. Israel, kinda stress there, leads to ultrakink to unwind."
"Oh, so then all those S&M people are the more freaked-out ones?"
She laughs, "I'd be broke if I tried writing in Guyana. But I've tapped into the Canadian and American markets. If people weren't nuts nowadays, I'd be outa business."
"Sarge, what about the career army set? Are they nuts too?"
Laughs, "non-whites like Farzana, most are people who simply struck out in the job market. Overall 3/4 of non-whites are sane, sensible people. Whites, every last one, is nuts."
"Are you including yourself in that number?"
Laughs heartily, "of course, one day I'll tell you the real story."
"Be honest now Sarge, have I crossed over any lines? Become a career soldier?"
Blush, "I ah well ah that is to say"
"Yes or no Sarge?"
"Yes. But you're still an ok person. Take what Naomi tells you with a grain of salt. She doesn't lie, but tends to be overly pessimistic. Meaning you can trust her statements of fact, but opinions are often unreliable."
I stare off into the distance a moment, then "Sarge, how many real Jews are career soldiers?"
Sad tone, "used to be just one, now there are two."
I grin, "I'm guessing there are no rabbis as chaplains."
"Nope, but chaplains are trained to be non-denominational. So, go to a priest or minister, makes no difference."
"What do chaplains mostly do?"
"Keep people alive. Tell them not to kill themselves, not to drink themselves to death."
I nod.
"See it's a culture of defeat. Some people find a way to achieve something or other. It keeps them sane, away from booze or drugs. Anyone who doesn't generate some outside mileage tends to fall into the pit. So now, do you truly understand how important it is to write? It's your life at stake here. Even if you don't make much royalties, far better a book a year than a month a year in rehab."
I gasp.
"See, now you're one of us, know our secrets."

Nuremberg Tour 22

I tell Naomi, "so then that implies we are exact same as they. They play out the charade to keep their big and troublesome ally pacified; so do we."
Naomi pulls me aside, "shut up, you just committed a cardinal sin."
"But isn't it obvious?"
She sighs, "my friend, good thing no officers were around," leans closer, now in a whisper, "looking for bodies you see, officer draft, eight years. Any officer heard you talk you'd be writing exams. Meaning kiss goodbye to that comfortable civvy way of life."
"Ok, so what are the limits of free speech?"
"Ask anything you like about individual units or events. No global statements that show you understand the big picture."
"Ok."
"And If you ever do decide, for whatever insane reason, to join our happy little crowd of misfits and outcasts, stay an enlisted. I as a M/Cpl make more than a Lt. Sarge makes more than a Captain. Lot less paper too. So, we on the same wavelength?"
"Yes Naomi, thanks for your kind help."
"You see Rachel, it's like this crowd never grew up. Some are here for racial reasons, harder to get a decent job. Others, various personality disorders, they're largely unemployable in the outside world. One is here instead of prison."
I gasp.
"Now imagine a week of summer camp as a kid, a nice change, but nice to get back to real life. Here, it's like summer camp never ends, even when snow flies."
"Thank you."
"Hey don't mention it. Rumor has it we Jews all stick together."
"Hasn't been my experience."
"Nor mine kid. But think of this. I'm a real Canadian Jew, you an Israeli. Outside the walls, I'd be sneering at you. In here, we're equal, friends. So the army does have merit to it."
"How exactly does a real Jew end up here? I mean, if it's not prying."
"Kid, I trust you enough to tell you the story. It's just well, it's so long and complicated, take days in the telling. No time now. We'll talk out in the field."
It hits me, "why exactly would you put that sorta effort into me?"
She sighs, "kid, you can do your best with the book. Might even convince younger Jews or non-Jewish Canadians. No matter what, Ariel's fans won't be happy."
It starts to dawn, where she's headed.
"What fraction of that customer base at the linen rental is Jewish?"
"About a quarter."
"They have lotsa friends. Every single right wing fundamentalist Christian business owner will happily join the boycott. That superintendent of yours, lying, jollying you along, you won't be allowed to come back."
I start to sweat.
"At some point, you will realize you've crossed over a line. You have become one of us, a career soldier. Now maybe Jews don't stick together, but career soldiers do. Any help, any advice, just ask."
"So you mean, I'm one of you already?"
"Come on kid, grow up. Farzana named you as L/Cpl in her group."
"I didn't know that."
"You will soon enough."
During the bus ride home, I come face to face with the contradiction. Sarge is predicting possible success; Naomi, almost inevitable failure. So, who is right? Both, in a sense.
Sarge is cheering people up, helping them to get through the tour with dignity. She very much wants you to believe. See if you don't believe, for sure it won't happen. If you do believe, it might or might not happen. Suppose the publisher refused, choked on my ending. Decided to go with the novella only, and say it only sold 2,000 copies. What would Sarge say? "It's a start, go from there, try the Guyana story. You still did lots better than being bored and uptight during the tour. And now, at least you have author name recognition."
Naomi would say no matter what, it was hopeless, I would never redeem my perceived guilt.
And then I decide. I prefer to see the glass half full, Sarge style.
Yes, I'll do the book, what happens, happens.
If Jews hate me, not a serious problem. My sense of identity is not Jewish, but Guyanese.
Next morning, I run into Naomi just before start time. Gentle smile, "you've changed, different look in your eye. You know, don't you?"
"Yes."
"And you are still writing the book?"
I pull a face, "it's either that or write porn. I understand Sarge has the market cornered there; I'd never compete."
She roars with laughter, then playfully punches my arm, "now that, little one, is greatness. You can look the demon straight in the eye and still laugh about it. I like you, now I know why Farzana likes you as a friend."
As I turn to leave, she cheerfully calls out, "you want any porn scenes in that story, go to Sarge for advice."
We both laugh.
I sit next to Sarah. She smiles, "I believe in always having a Plan B. So, what would you do if that publisher waffles, refuses to go with the project?"
"Hadn't given it any thought, he seemed most sincere about salvaging the last of Ariel's books."
"Yes but time often changes plans. What would you do?"
"I'm guessing no other Jewish publisher would touch it, tainted. As for non-Jews, even less likely. Only way out, maybe try a publisher in Israel."
"Tell you what, if it happens, let's stick together. See there's a zillion mystery writers. Hard to get a break for a first time author. But suppose they got something for free. My say 250 page mystery and your say 100+ page novella, all for the one price. A promotional gimmick."
"Yes! Far better to have a fraction of some money, than 100% of nothing."
"Our work does fit neatly together. Both Jewish themes. Any Jewish publisher would at least think about a 2 for 1 special for his customers. Best of all, just the novella, means none of Ariel's text. It becomes any other book deal, yes or no, without the dark shadow."
"All right, we'll do that. But still, I may make some money and you too, but it doesn't really"
She sighs, "come on, the Ancients had a saying, 'nothing succeeds like success."
"You lost me."
"Any form of success is good. If some Gentiles read it, that is success. If only young secular Jews read it, that is success. Don't write for the crotchety old fans; write for younger ones."
I feel inspired, hearing nice things like that.
Sarge breezes in, "good news for y'all. Change of rules on tuition. Previously they only funded high school. Now, they won't cover full fees for university correspondence or accounting designation, but they will contribute $200 towards. That being said, it might alter some of your plans. Think on it. Today's topic, I will explain how the pay system works. Byzantine. Please please nobody shoot the messenger."
Everyone laughs.
After the lecture, it's our daily walk. Once again the crowd pokes along. Once again, Sarge and I have a pleasant conversation. She's cheerful, optimistic and I find I like that. Far rather listen to her than lotsa others.

Nuremberg Tour 21

The group pokes along at turtle pace, huffing and puffing, complaining. Sarge and I, way ahead, have a friendly conversation. She's curious about my book, I don't want to give away any suspense. Still, it's easy to lay out the first 200 pages, no secrets there.
Her face clouds, "surely people are insane, to write or even read such. Tell me now, really weren't his girlfriend?"
I blush hotly.
"Got it, at first you'd hoped, then saw how totally self-absorbed he was."
"Bingo."
"And hopefully, you won't write another such."
I lay out my idea of a Guyana story.
"You might have something there. So much of news or history is doom and gloom, focusing on the bad. Think of schools, they'd love to get books like that in their curriculum. Who knows? Ten years from now, the army stint may seem like a stroke of good fortune. Lots of time to write, compared to your civvy life."
"Sarge, what do you do on tour to pass time?"
Wicked smile, "I write porn."
I gasp.
"Any idea how much royalties? I own a BMW and SUV."
I gasp again.
"Got a stock portfolio worth about ten years of salary. When I retire, it'll be someplace warm."
"I would advise against Israel."
Laugh, "I like you, dry sense of humor. Now be honest, are you really ok with being in Farzana's group?"
"Oh yes, we're good friends."
"Well that puts my mind at ease. I had imagined trouble, guess that's just a stereotype. If it ain't prying, how did you two meet?"
"She insulted me in a coffee house and one thing led to another."
Chokes with laughter.
"Sarge, what does she do on tour to pass time?"
"Writes political satire, under a pen name of course. Hugely hated by lotsa people."
"You mean, including Afghans?"
"I mean mostly Afghans. She rarely goes after white targets. Field is just too glutted, everyone writing on them."
"I would assume she doesn't own a BMW and SUV."
Howl of laughter, "kid, you really break me up. Gonna be fun, on tour with you."
Lunchtime Sarge and I pass through the food line together, join the NCO crowd. I get warm greetings. Somehow or other, I've achieved a measure of acceptance. Curious, thought the army was clannish.
I end up sitting between Farzana and Sarge, take in the humorous stories. Next table over, I hear the griping and whining. Then it registers. They like me because I simply shrug, accept fate, don't complain.
I turn to Sarge, "lemme guess, same crowd will be whining about something or other for the whole next year."
Sad look, "little one, some people can be helped, just by pointing them towards achievement. Others can be sorta shamed into achieving on tour. Yet others will hate every minute, but never do anything. Such is human nature."
Sarge rises, "this afternoon we start at the rifle range in the basement. Anyone had any target practise? I don't mean arcade, but real rifles."
Two hands go up, Anne and Sarah.
"You Anne, tell people what it was?"
"Raised on a farm in Saskatchewan, Sarge. Brother taught me how to plink gophers with a .22 caliber."
"Ever done shotgun or big bore rifle?"
"No Sarge."
"Rest of you will be glad to know we start with .22's. First three weeks, to get you used to position, breathing, sighting and so. Once you get expertise, we move you along to where there is kick."
Looks of relief.
"And you Sarah?"
"Between high school and university, parents insisted I spend a year on a kibbutz, Sarge. We learned .303 caliber."
"Be more specific."
"The authorities won't let those kibbutzes have modern assault rifles, leads to too many problems. The kibbutzes homemake .303 jungle carbines. This model was originally used by British and Canadian forces during the Pacific campaigns of World War Two."
"Shot in chamber and ten in magazine?"
"That's the one Sarge."
"Well now, it's your lucky day. That's exactly what we use. Budget constraints plus the authorities are afraid modern assault rifles would make armories vulnerable to burglary."
Howls of laughter.
"Be honest now Sarah. Did they homemake Sten submachine guns from that same epoch?"
Sarah blushes.
"Ah ha, am I right or what? Ever fire one?"
"No Sarge."
"Why not?"
"We were told the Sten was so jerry built it was almost as risky to fire one as to be fired upon, Sarge."
Loud howls of laughter.
Sarge grimaces, "it's funny girls, but also true. So, those were squirrelled away, as a last resort? Dry fire practise only?"
"Yes Sarge."
"Ok, let's get serious, lotsa fear in some faces. Undoubtedly thinking back to old movies. It ain't that way, it's a lousy way to teach. We aim for a quiet, relaxed, helpful tone. There's five firing positions, an NCO on each. Think of them as a coach, a friendly advisor, as opposed to a boss."
I arrive to find Naomi and Farzana among the NCO's. Naturally I head towards Farzana.
She smiles easily, "no, doesn't work that way. They're afraid I would be unable to criticize a friend, go get Naomi."
Naomi gives me a kind look, "scared to death huh?"
I nod.
"Take a deep breath."
After a bit of hold, "now let it all out."
"Now another deep breath."
"Now let only half out."
After a bit of hold, she tells me to resume normal breathing, "so, how do you feel?"
"Much better, steady, relaxed, ready to do it."
"Good, now that same drill before each and every shot. Just relax, I'm here every minute."
It works, I score 73 on 10 shots. It's an amazing score for a rookie. Lotsa people only hit the target paper with two or three shots, some with none.
Sarah gets 98 and Anne 100. I see them lock eyes, know a rivalry is forming up.
"That's not fair," Sarah asserts, "I've never done .22. Just you wait til we hit .303."
Naomi slides in, wraps an arm around each, "that does not work, get upset, you don't do well. Here, we don't compete with each other, but with ourselves. Always aim for your personal best."
Easy smile, Anne says quietly, "98 is amazing for someone who's never done .22," puts her hand out and Sarah shakes.
"Good," Naomi says, "use that energy to help your friends here. We got people so scared to death, they didn't hit the paper once."
Uneasily Sarah replies, "ah Naomi, isn't it dangerous to give us obsolete .303's? Ivan the Bear would have up to date assault rifles?"
Naomi laughs, "by now, Lt should have convinced you that it's unlikely Ivan will come calling. Add to that fact it ain't real Ivan."
"What??"
"Real Ivan, the Russian Bear, is needed where things are hot. These here are your bear cubs, innocent little East Europeans."
"But still, they'd have"
"They don't. Moscow doesn't trust them, afraid anything modern would fall into rebel hands. They have .22's."
"You're joking??"
"Nope, entire Polish, Czech and Hungarian western borders have nothing bigger than .22. No heavy rifles or machineguns or mortars or RPG's or artillery or armored cars. Their transport is as bad as ours, one jeep allotted per platoon. Same fuel problems as us."
Sarah presses, "so the entire Western Front is a fraud for them?"
"It's how they keep Moscow happy. You are better armed. Lose not even one minute of sleep on the thought that some poor little Czech would like to invade."
I jump in, "but that says Moscow trusts the Canadian Army more than their own allies."
"Move to the head of the class, could not have said it better myself."
"How could they see the world so?"
Naomi sighs, "imagine the Canadian Army were men, they'd make homebrew, do some shooting for fun. Anything and everything could happen. But the entire Canadian contingent, all the way from the Baltic Sea to the Austria-Hungary border is women."
It starts to dawn.
Naomi continues, "last time shots were exchanged between NATO and neo Warsaw Pact forces along that border was 110 years ago."
Everyone gasps.
"Look up your history, that was when the Supreme Court ruled it was not unconstitutional to have an all-female draft. Prior to that, half and half."
"And by logical extension," I say, "it isn't Ivan, but Ivana on the other side."
Everyone laughs.
Naomi grins, "you do have a way with words, might be a writer yet. You are correct. Now, do you see, no one over there wishes to start any shooting?"

Nuremberg Tour 20

Lt says, "ok, rest of the afternoon, no one leaves this room except to go to the washroom or coffee urn. I'll take attendance at 4:00 so no one sneak out. Talk on anything you like, what you heard this afternoon, politics, hobbies, travel. Main purpose is just to get you used to each other. We have to break you up into small groups, so we want a good fit."
The only other Jew in the place, Sarah jumps on me instantly, "I was thinking of going to Israel, to dodge the Canadian draft. Then I realized, cure is worse than the disease."
Her tone sounds funny, so I laugh.
Then she makes the plunge, "all the older relatives, just death on you. Younger set, wonder what the hoohaw is all about."
Drily, "I take that to mean you don't blame me for the death."
Laugh, "of course not, so what you gonna do with the story line?"
"Ever hear of suspense? If I tell you, you tell one person and so on, there is no suspense left when it's published."
Knowing look, "come on, what do you take me for? I know the only way out is to move the story to late 1940s Israel."
I nod, "intend to make them heroic, larger than life."
"Good, might even buy it myself. During university I did an internship at a publishing house. Now here is a good angle of attack. First, for Ariel's hard core fans, the full length book. Two thirds of it is what they're used to, should sell well. There is a way to tap into the non-Jewish and secular younger Jewish market with a novella. Just guess."
"Novella starts with the survivors already aboard ship, bound for Israel. It includes everything, word for word, that appears in the full book after that point."
"Very good, so if that publisher is asleep at the switch, you suggest the novella. Is it true, you passed the radar exam?"
"Oh yes."
"Then you're gonna be bored to death on this tour, darn good thing you have the novella to do."
"Yourself, any ideas?"
"A murder mystery."
I laugh, "well, you'll do lots better than I. Just go stand in a bookstore for an hour, see twenty mysteries sold for every historical novel."
Sly look, "you could too. There is no legal obligation, just because your name was mentioned in the suicide note."
I groan softly, "Sarah, standing over this thing is a giant flashing neon sign, guess what it says."
She sighs, "that you can forget any peace or social acceptance until it's been dealt with."
"You see, Ariel was a decent guy, even though a bit egotistical. I feel I have a duty to him, to those kind colleagues of his, and even to the fans. By the way, where do you plan on setting your mystery?"
Wicked smile, "Israel of course, Canada is so deathly boring it's hard to generate energy. Be on a kibbutz."
"Meaning you ah?"
"Bingo, parents insisted I spend a year between high school and university."
"And you still don't want to go back? I'm lost here, you just said Canada is boring."
"Boring is nice. Far better to sip coffee in a coffee house and debate literature than to dodge RPG's (rocket propelled grenades)."
"You might be on to something, univeral appeal. Your book could connect with young or old, religious or secular, Israeli or Canadian Jew. Who knows, maybe a printing run in Israel."
"I like you, let's stick together when the split comes."
"I'm already spoken for, Farzana, one of the NCO's. So, if you can't deal with an Afghan well"
"Advice taken, I'll stay with a white person. How'd you meet her?"
"She insulted me in a coffee house and one thing led to another."
Howl of laughter, "you're gonna be fun on tour. So, friends even though not in the same group?"
I nod.
Next morning Sarge rises, "by now everyone understands just how important their duties are to Canada as a whole. Now let's talk about ourselves. Whatever you people had for civvy jobs, you have no concept of how much downtime there will be. Centuries ago, there was a saying, the devil finds work for idle hands. It is absolutely true. We have ways of keeping you out of serious troubles. Forget any illegal drugs. Booze, you can almost forget. All the stores in that border zone cooperate with our ration program. You get one coupon a day, good for buying a beer. Which leaves lotsa time to fill," looks at me, "we have a celebrity among us. I am told you have inherited a manuscript, have something of an obligation to complete it."
"Yes Sarge."
"Don't Yes Sarge me, give the girls the story."
"A famous author-professor recently suicided. He was not, as much of the media claimed, either my boyfriend or fiance. We were coffee friends only, mostly talked of literature. And unless I choose to finish this, I can look forward to the Jewish community hating me for the rest of my life."
Sarge grins, "don't stop now, what are your plans?"
"It's about 200 pages now, needs another 100 to 150. I have succeeded in borrowing 24 books from the university library and about an equal number from Prof friends of his."
"Good, now resta you listen up. We want people to come back happy, with some achievement. We don't want you returning bored and homicidal. Any one else with definite plans?"
Sarah say, "yes Sarge, plan to write a murder mystery."
Sarge laughs wickedly, "I see you have a good bit more economic sense than Rachel."
Roars of laughter.
"Anyone else with definite plans?"
None.
"Ok, idea time. We've had people get a full year of academic credit at the university level or on accounting designation courses. Others learned languages, with books and cassettes. Hands up all of you who had really crappy jobs."
About half.
"If you choose to play along, you can become a journeyman cook. Theory courses while out in the field. Sign up for one additional army year and get your practical. Auto mechanics, same mechanism, just more time, take you two additional army years. Anyone who can pass the Officer Entry Exam can take correspondence courses. If you need to upgrade to complete high school, it costs nothing in fees or books, we pay all. For now, we drop the topic, everyone start to think on it. There is no escape from the tour, but there is a chance to make it pay off. And now what you're all dying to know, the Phys Ed program."
Loud groans.
"I can only assume you've watched old movies, it ain't that bad now. See we only get you six weeks, enough to get you basically fit but still unathletic. Week One and Two, you'll walk four miles a day. Week Three and Four, six miles. Week Five and Six, eight miles."
Loud groans.
"So, let's get those asses in gear."
Loud complaining.
"Save your breath, lotta you look like you'll need it."

Nuremberg Tour 19

An earnest Lieutenant, with eyes too bright, rises, "ok class, time to understand how generals think. We used to keep this secret but ran into too many morale problems." Points to me, "a celebrity of sorts in our midst. So tell the class your opinion of the draft."
"Completely unfair, Lt, what century was Canada last in a war? Surely, with these salaries, they should get sufficient volunteers."
"Very good, I like plain speakers, dislike BS. Resta you, hands up all who agree."
Every hand.
Thin smile, "our little friend here is obviously a person who stayed awake during high school economics. Supply and demand, pay enough, they will come. But they don't. You see, there is one giant gaping hole in our friend's theory, social standing. Being here is considered akin to being in a leprosy colony in Bangladesh or a Dalit (untouchable) sweeping roads in India. Ok, Rachel, answer this. Suppose you were offered double your civvy salary to join for a five year hitch. Would you take it? Would you spend more than one minute even pondering it?"
"No to both Lt."
"I rest my case. You see, this happens to be a free democracy. Oh I know, some of you will say sort of free and partly democratic, no argument from me on that. But look around the world, we are perceived by our allies as shirkers. What happens when we can't meet that NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organization) troop commitment? Economic sanctions, diplomatic pressure. And so, since no one else does the job, we pass the torch to you. That's the price you pay for living in a sort of democracy. And since we aren't as wise as Solomon, cannot possibly devise a totally fair draft, we made it a lottery. No one here can blame some bureaucrat in Ottawa for selecting her. Blame God, the gods, fate, luck, karma, kismet or anything else you choose to blame. But you will tour with us, even if you complain every minute of every day."
People shift uneasily.
Icy smile, "now as promised, the General eye view. Our biggest allies tend to vote in cowboys more often than liberals. Their right of course, but it has the unfortunate side effect of dragging them into too many international adventures. As always, it's easier to engage than disengage. Not surprisingly, they waste a lot of military labor on places which are now essentially obsolete to them. And yet, even though their finances are in worse shape than ours, even though their military is mathematically overextended, the voters want more. Always one more place." Pause for effect, "now imagine we fail to meet our NATO commitment. We may well BE that next place. Imagine that, being the 51st state, a real draft, not a pretend one like ours."
Shudders.
"Very good, you people learn fast. Now across the pond, the soccer hooligans are enthusiastic supporters of this very view. They too have a real draft, they too go on real adventures. They too would be quite ticked if we opted to lapse into total isolationism. Given everything, it takes a lot of diplomatic skill for the Canadian government to avoid all of this. Would you agree with me, Rachel?"
"An hour ago Lt, no. Now I do."
"Good, now let us see the Kremlin view. The border with Finland is not a problem. Non-aggression pact, total Finnish neutrality, horrendous terrain to fight upon.
"Estonia, Latvia, Lithunia are a big cost. No actual armed rebellion, but sufficient strikes and demonstrations, they swallow up large neoSoviet garrisons.
"Belarus is an asset, loyal, no need to garrison, large contributor to numbers of service personnel.
"Ukraine is an enormous white elephant, huge garrison needed to keep a lid on tension.
"Poland, Czech Republic, Slovakia, Hungary, Romania and Bulgaria all offer peace, but at a price. Almost total home rule, only thing they need to contribute is small troop numbers on the western border, to watch us.
"Yugoslav countries and Albania, big cost, all that ethnic tension.
"Georgia, Armenia and Azerbaijan also cost.
"Soviet Central Asia is totally at peace with the masters in Moscow, but the cost is gargantuan. Immense aid needed to bring Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan up to Russian living standards. They also consume manpower, watching the China border and interdicting drug flows originating in Pakistan, Afghanistan and Iran.
"So as you can see, Ivan the Bear has a lot more problems than you do. Ivan is perfectly willing to live and let live, provided we allow him to."

Nuremberg Tour 18

My hand shakes as I tear open the thick DND envelope. Somehow it had seemed so far off, so unlikely until now. Canada has been at peace for centuries now, never once dragged along on adventures with our more aggressive neighbor. Why on earth would they even need a draft?
Basic training will be six weeks, held at the local armory. You continue to live at home, use the transit pass enclosed.
Monday to Friday 9:00 to 12:00 and 1:00 to 4:00 we will be at the armory in civvy clothes. At this stage they provide footwear only.
We are to show Monday in clothing suitable for an hour of walking outside. The rest either didn't read or didn't bother, I'm the only one in proper outdoor clothes.
Seeing it's hopeless, Sgt delivers a stern warning, tomorrow, you will be outside, no matter what you show up in.
She spends all morning fussing over footwear, getting everybody fitted with hiking boots.
The armory cafeteria sells lunch at just the cost of food content, is partly a training op for cooks and kitchen staff.
Being multicultural myself I buy poutine, that wonderful Quebec mix of French fries, gravy and melted cheese. It's awesome stuff, but not for the sedentary. The cholesterol level would kill a horse, so office workers should eat it very seldom. But myself, between linen rental and lotsa walking am the most fit looking of the trainees.
I've just paid for this and French roast coffee, when I hear Farzana call out, "Rachel, over here."
I join a table of NCO's. Proudly Farzana says, "this here is Rachel, she'll be my sidekick for the Nuremberg tour."
Everyone's eyes are on me, appraising. She introduces and I know I'll be lucky to remember half the names. One obvious looking Jew turns out to be named Naomi. One never knows, after the recent scandal, how she might feel.
Everyone's eyes shift to Naomi, waiting for her to speak. Matter of fact tone, "by now, you've all read or heard about it. She's not to blame for the death. He was an egomaniac and no, not her boyfriend or fiance. And when the world no longer recognized his 'great genius', he chose to leave."
Heidi, a typical German looker, asks tentatively, "so it's true, they sort of stuck you with finishing the book?"
I blush hotly, "one could say partly the shame factor, partly social pressure, mostly just seeing a way to turn the book into a happy ending."
Warm smile, "good, he wasn't doing anyone, German or Jewish, any favors with those endless books. And yes, you are going to have lotsa free time over there. See Ivan the Bear is shy, never once shows up to party."
Everyone roars with laughter and that is it. The scrutiny is over and social conversation starts. Farzana has been on three tours. The rest, two, three or four, so it's educational for me.

Nuremberg Tour 17

The Globe and Mail story is 3/4 of a page. Almost all is positive, his many achievements. At the end, one sentence stating it is likely a suicide, note not mentioned.
National Post praises him even louder, ends with a statement it could be accidental, as in mixing his prescription meds with booze.
Canadian Jewish News also takes the high road.
Our local Jewish paper comes out swinging, prints the note verbatim. Still, to be fair, it is a slow news week.
Pretty much every local Jewish paper in Canada prints, in whole or in part.
The editorials are fierce, no question they are primarily blaming me. You see the other woman was only an Afghan, could not be expected to understand how important an icon he was to Canadian Jewish culture. I, on the other hand, am a total disgrace.
Within days, I'm receiving 500 letters a day: unkind, angry or ranting. Thankfully, I have an unlisted phone number.
Just when I think things can't get worse, they do. Department of National Defence informs me I am to appear for a medical, following the lottery selection of my name.
These worthies class me in sparkling good health, way better than Canadians of my age. Likely reason, you eat real food in Guyana, as opposed to chemicals.
Once they discover I know some German, they are ecstatic. For sure, I will be on the next German tour of duty.
Mr Fraser the plant superintendent summons me, "I ah suppose this depends on how long people keep grudges. Every Jewish customer has signed the petition. If you stay here, they take their business elsewhere. Unfortunately, they have lots of friends, half our customers are on the list."
I nod.
"For now, we can dodge the issue, you're away in the army. But that draft only lasts a year. The critical question is how likely are they to hold a grudge that long?"
"Sir, knowing Jews, they will."
"Have you considered career army?"
"Sir! that is well ah"
"All right then, we'll wait and see. If worst comes to worst, you won't be unemployed. I have lots of contacts, can find you something."
"Thank you sir."
"May I give some personal advice Rachel?"
"Certainly sir."
"Don't run from them, that rarely works. Take that manuscript through to whatever story you choose and jam it down their throats. You'll have lots of free time in the army to do just that."
"You really think so sir?"
Chuckle, "take that Solzenhitzen soundalike, kick those characters' butts into late 1940s Israel. Then sky is the limit for achievement."
I start to laugh, "exactly the story line I was considering. Sir, may I ask, have you read one of his books?"
Wicked smile, "of course, I'm sure you can do lots better."
The Muslim reporter phones, asks to meet me in a coffee house. Relaxed smile, "so, everyone and his dog is trashing you. Not one has thought to ask the logical question."
"And that is?"
"In the suicide note, a duty was left to you. What do you plan to do about the manuscript?"
And so, I lay it out. I will take up the duty. Whatever free time I have in the army may or may not be enough. Don't expect results for at least a year.
As it turns out, Globe and Mail, National Post and Canadian Jewish News all reprint his story with permission. It's so upbeat, such a nice writeup, it silences the mouthy weeklies into shame.
The editorial in Canadian Jewish News said it best. The book is 2/3 done; therefore, 2/3 his text. Give her a chance, see what happens. Guaranteed you'll get more surprises than if Ariel had finished it.
Ariel's publisher is delirious when he hears what I plan for ending. "You know, for years I've tried to convince him to do an upbeat conclusion like that."
I gasp.
"He was running out of gas, less sales with each new book. Sooner or later, every literary well runs dry."
Tasma proves herself a huge help, prevails upon the department head to intervene on my behalf with the university library. I am authorized to borrow 24 reference books to take during my army year.
Kind soul that she is, she even helps with the computer search, to select.
I'm touched when the department holds a get together. Various profs personally loan me books.
It's obvious what most think, they liked Ariel. They'd like his book to see the light of day.

Nuremberg Tour 16

Ms B, who happens to be Jewish, pours another coffee, sits back, "ok now, let's talk about your friends and relatives one by one. Best if you can anticipate problems as opposed to just being surprised."
"My own mother and father will be heart broken, their favorite author. Even before this, things were not good with them."
"As in?"
"Bad as it gets, he's not my real father."
She smiles brightly, "that makes it easier. He can then transfer a lot of the guilt and shame onto the other man. Is the other man likely to surface in this? Meaning here in Canada?"
"As I understand it, there are even more fans in Israel than in Canada. But, since he happens to be defence minister, I imagine with current events such as they are, he gets little recreational reading."
She laughs wickedly, "now that just qualified as understatement of the year. I would imagine he is reading Intel reports twelve hours a day. Look at the bright side, he is unlikely to cause you any problems."
I sigh, "mother will definitely blame me."
"With any luck, she'll dilute the guilt a bit, spread some onto the other woman. Have you ah actually met her?"
"Oh yes, she's a nice person. We've talked some, share common writing goals."
"Will she take this death hard?"
"Unlikely, they had already broken up."
"Is this likely to cause problems at work?"
I gasp, "never even thought of that. All the employees are Gentiles; but a quarter of the customer base is Jewish."
"Now the $64 question, that the fans will be asking. Just how far are you willing to go with this half finished manuscript?"
"Zero, it was a horrendous period. My literary goals are in more pleasant times and places."
"Still, he wrote on the dark side. Could you not turn it around, show heroic events, survivors achieving things?"
"Only one possibility of that. Suppose the story was in a place where you could logically move it from Europe to Israel. That I could do."
"So, you could release a statement that you'll examine the manuscript, see if it's workable."
"For that, someone like a reporter has to ask. Otherwise sounds too huffy and egotistical."
Laugh, "ok, let's assume the Jewish rags royally trash you, but don't come out and ask the direct question about the manuscript. There is a way out, guess it."
"I could give the scoop to that kind Muslim reporter."
"Very good, it's going to be great working with you. With the right touch, you could end up famous and rich."
"I won't quit my day job just yet."
"I've seen the manuscript, say 200 pages. If it is workable, you could say add 100 or 150."
Two days later, I'm in shock. Every one of Ariel's characters is so deep in the soup, only an act of God would do it. No matter what I tried, it would be phony.
Ms B protests, "why not an act of God? All just happen to be in the same camp. An American bomber, victim of a nav error, drops inaccurately and blows a hole in the camp perimeter."
I laugh, "maybe you should write it."
"Come on, admit it, that isn't even an act of God, but an everyday occurrence in the chaos of war. Industrial smoke, haze, German jamming of their radar beacons, it could happen."
"All right, I agree it could."
"So, it's doable in the literary sense. Is it doable in the emotional sense?"
"I believe I could. As of the point I take over, things start to improve for them."
"If you pull this out of the fire, his fans will worship you."

Nuremberg Tour 15

The phone rings, "this is Lt Peterson, city police. Could we come visit for a bit?"
By this, I deduce I am not guilty of anything. Since when do the police need permission?
I find myself instantly liking her, she has a kind look, "I'm Lt Peterson, this is Ms B, one of our psychologists in Victim Services Unit."
"Could I put on tea? Or prefer coffee?"
They choose coffee.
Lt hands me a letter, eight pages, I recognize the handwriting, Ariel's. "Please read this, then we'll talk."
It's a long diatribe, blaming Globe and Mail, National Post, Canadian Jewish News, every local Jewish rag in Canada, a half dozen book reviewers by name, his publisher, six other Profs, the other woman, and especially me.
We collectively are guilty for his complete failure to refind the muse, me most of all. As his "fiancee" (oh no, here we go again), I am guilty of sidetracking him. In fact I am so guilty, he has bequeathed his unfinished novel to me. With his death, it now becomes my duty to finish it.
Lt smiles gently, "before we talk, we do have some very sophisticated tests to use at site. So, we are positive it's a genuine suicide, as opposed to someone with a gun staging it. I'd like your reaction."
"Ma'am, with all due respect, there is an out and out error of fact in there. I am not, and never was his fiancee."
Laugh, "oh, I figured as much. The local Jewish rag ended up with egg all over their face after the Muslim one published the story of your quote."
"That's a relief."
"So, what was the nature of the relationship then?"
"If this is your way of asking about sex, there was none. He has never seen the inside of my apartment and vice versa. We'd meet in coffee houses once a fortnight and talk mostly of literature."
"And yet, he does blame you for being the distraction?"
"Ma'am, I believe the statement is I slowed him down sufficiently that he then fell prey to - gasp - sex with the other woman."
We all laugh.
She sighs, "you my friend are in for a lot of trouble. He has sent a copy of this nonsense to Globe and Mail, National Post, every Jewish paper in Canada. Some will publish; others won't."
I groan, "so, what do I do?"
"No one in mainstream, that is non-Jewish Canada would believe a letter like that. Unfortunately, ah Ms B."
Ms B smiles kindly, "Rachel, we are talking hero worshippers here. Any and all logic goes clean out the window. Guilt by insinuation. They'll hate mostly you for taking their hero away."
"Oh no."
Lt resumes, "just between us, there is one service I could provide. If the heat gets too much and you choose to legally change your name, I could give a letter. You'd still have to pay the fees, but you'd be exempt from publishing it in the Official Gazette."
"What about other stuff?"
"Once you have the legal name change document in hand, then health card, drivers license and income tax are routine. Here's my card. Ms B will stay and talk personally. It has been my experience that when this happens in a minority, it's invariably worse than when it happens with mainstream people."
"Thank you for your help, I may need to take you up on your kind offer."

Nuremberg Tour 14

The local Muslim paper one ups the Jewish one. The reporter asks to meet me in a coffee house. He's a friendly guy, lays it out, knows for a fact I'm not the fiancee. Would I care to confirm or deny?
"Not really."
"You must feel at least a little resentment over the Jewish paper story. Tell you what, no big scoop, no big statement, just a statement of fact that you are not."
I'm weakening.
"You're in a situation where you just can't win. What happens if he doesn't complete the book on time?"
It starts to dawn.
"Every Jew from Victoria to St Johns will blame you personally."
"Very well, you may quote me. At no time was I romantically involved. It was a coffee friendship, mostly discussing literature."
"I see, so then the distraction would not be you, but the other woman?"
I laugh, "no comment."
Wicked smile, "seeing her, a guy'd hafta be made of stone to resist."
"And as you can see, I'm not in that league."
"No offence was intended. It's just I couldn't imagine him writing so much as a paragraph with her around."
"It's ok, I didn't take offence, knew what you meant."
We both laugh.
"You know, you don't look Jewish."
"Makes us even, you don't look Muslim."
"Do you suppose I could get a photo?"
"No."
His eyes narrow, then I see the jolt, "I understand. Remarkable resemblance, stunning. I interviewed him when he was here in Canada. He's actually a decent guy, I mean if you consider his position."
I blush fiercely.
"It's ok, I understand, don't want to embarrass your parents."
"Thank you."
Gentle smile, "take my advice and stay here in Canada. If you ever went there, things could be hot." As he rises to leave, "totally off the record, is it true you aced the radar exam?"
"How would you hear that?"
"Don't stereotype me, I have a Jewish girlfriend, Jewish poker buddies."
My face registers shock.
"I'm a westerner, so is she, we're individuals, not members of a tribe."
"I like to think of myself as westernized, but obviously I'm a way behind you."
He grins, "and off the record, read any of Ariel's books?"
"Oh yes, one."
"And you intend to leave it at one?"
"Oh yes."
"He really does need to get a grip. Older Jews keep buying, but I wouldn't dare say what my poker buddies say of his books, not suitable language for mixed company."
"That bad huh?"
"A charitable way to put it, he's probably already collected about 9/10 of his lifetime royalties."
"I've often wondered about that. There are limits to how many times an author can go back to the same well."
"Totally off the record, do you feel the Solzenhitzen comparison was valid?"
I blush hotly, "sad to say, but yes."
He was as good as his word. Printed merely the statement I gave him.
For Ariel it just keeps on getting worse. He's arrested for drunk driving. The breath test law in Canada is .08, his reading is .19.
Same media reaction, Globe and Mail, National Post and Canadian Jewish News don't print.
Local Jewish rags do. Our local one has a strongly worded editorial. When is our hero author going to quit drinking, fighting and carousing? When will he return to literature? When on earth will we the fans ever see that long overdue book?
Once again I'm at the uni library. I run into Tasma, this time it's a remarkably relaxed conversation. I discuss my writing project; her, the thesis. The world may view us as romantic rivals, but we're heading towards friendship.
The court judgment is unusual. Ariel gets twenty hours community service at the Muslim Community Center; Tasma's bro, the same at JCC.
As the three months grinds ever closer, I wait with anxiety, like many Jews. No, I don't plan on reading it, but it would be nice to see him get back on track. It's not like he needs the money; but his self-esteem is on the line here.

Nuremberg Tour 13

Once again I'm at JCC. Naomi sits, flashes an absolutely wicked smile, "sooo, I always underestimate you."
"In what fashion?"
"In what fashion?" she mimics my Guyanese accent, "don't gimme that. You put the run on the Princess of Sex. Now, since you aren't big enough to beat her up, means you had some neat trick."
"Naomi, look at me. Do you really think someone like me can compete with her?"
"You mean ah?"
"I quote 'he's a tedious windbag, in and out of bed, I'm giving him back to you."
"Well, we know she's right."
"Want my guess Naomi? He's too ashamed to ever call me for coffee again. And I'm too old-fashioned for that."
"I could ah"
"No, not right, he picks up the phone on his own or not at all. He'd only resent you."
"Yeah, guess you're right."
Eager to change the subject, "you seem to be doing remarkably well in class."
Proud smile, "not just class, bought a cassette set, practise at home."
"I see, so you are a little serious?"
She leans forward, lowers her voice, "I have had it, right out to the living end, with the smug, smart ass, partonizing attitude of Canadian Jews towards us the Israelis. Besides my degree would cut a lot more ice there than here."
"Aren't you afraid of violence?"
"No, I've just been doing some calculations. Now take traffic ..."
I groan inwardly, three guesses where she got those math odds. She was never mathematical before.
The news is shocking, Jewish publishers rarely go so far, prefer peaceful solutions. That same manuscript that was overdue when I first ran into Ariel at JCC is now 1 1/2 years overdue.
The publisher demands finish of manuscript in three months or return of advance, is suing in civil court.
Curiously, neither Globe and Mail nor National Post deem it newsworthy. The flagship of Canadian Jewish media, the Canadian Jewish News, also forgoes.
All the local Jewish rags play it up. Not meaning to sound uncharitable, but most are struggling for economic survival and there really is not enough hard Jewish news to fill up the pages.
The next bombshell is even more bizarre. Tasma's brother and Ariel are charged with disturbing the peace.
Seems brother had decided Ariel was guilty of toying with her affections and breaking her heart. So, he went to the university, picked a fight with Ariel in a public lounge area.
As it turns out, police refuse to lay assault charges. It was clearly a fight by consent and neither was injured seriously.
The local Muslim paper makes it a headline story, complete with a huge photo of the smiling, and slightly bruised face, of brother.
Once again, Globe and Mail, National Post and Canadian Jewish News decline to print.
Once again, the local Jewish rags have a field day. In our city, journalism is inaccurate. See the Muslim paper did not mention my name nor involvement. The Jewish paper incorrectly states me to be the fiancee. Though they never phoned me for a quote, they claim to have "inside sources" who state I was heart broken over discovering he cheated on me.
I realize I could sue, but why bother? Mr S, their managing director, has a reputation as a sharp lawyer, when he isn't newspapering. If it came to court, he'd dream up some justification. My mother would have "guessed" I was heart broken or a classmate at JCC would have said I was looking "down."
At this point the history department decides Ariel needs a rest, hire a sessional to finish the semester. He can go into seclusion and finish his novel.

Nuremberg Tour 12

I need more information for my book project, so I'm at the Humanities and Social Sciences Library. As my eyes tire, I go for coffee. I'm sitting peacefully over vanilla hazelnut, when uninvited an Afghan girl sits at my table, "well now, I do recognize you, Rachel, I'm Tasma."
I nod.
"Don't be doom and gloom, in fact I'm giving you your boyfriend back."
"Just like that?"
"There is a price, he's an absolute horndog now. So, if you aren't ready for morning noon and night, he won't want you back."
I blush fiercely.
"I hit a nerve didn't I? Never before, right?"
I nod.
"Not to worry, trained him on mutual oral."
I should hate her, but somehow I don't.
"Look, I'm not a bad person. Don't think for one minute I hit on him, was him hitting on me."
I gasp, but believe her.
"Truth is, little one, he is a tedious windbag, in and out of bed. Take some woman to woman advice. Run for your life. Find someone warm, get respect, love. Don't hang around, expect the stone to grow a heart." By now, she's crying. After a moment, "thought it was love, wasn't. My brother was really obnoxious to me, for going out with a Jew. So I invented some ridiculous story to chase bro away. Don't go back to him."
I take her hand, feel the electric current between us. This is genuine, how she sees the world. Farzana had it wrong.
She wipes her eyes, "that moron can sit at his desk, typing into his laptop and demand that I blow him. How's that for cold blooded?"
And so, I tell her of the coffee dates, how it went. She's totally unsurprised, "now, go find a nice warm Jewish boy."
"But I'm not really Jewish."
"Know something? I'm not really Afghan either. World doesn't accept that. You have it lucky, just change your name and presto, you are a German."
Drily, "I'm not sure that is an improvement."
"Then be Dutch or Danish or Czech. Any story will work as long as it's several generations in the past. Let's see now, was five generations ago, the neoCommies tore down my old hometown, built a mega base. No, I don't know any of the language."
"Maybe I should, thank you for the advice."
"Is it true you passed the radar exam?"
"Oh yes."
"Talent like that, you could do anything in life, don't waste your life on morons."
Farzana questions me in considerable detail on this encounter, finally accepts my interpretation is valid. "You hafta remember, I'm a bit disconnected from Afghan doings in town, hear things third or fourth hand. But thinking back to high school, yes she was a decent person, not a slut. And yes that is exactly the story you'd dream up to pacify bro. And yes, bro would be so proud of your doings, he'd brag about it."
"I thought Jews were bothersome, Afghans are worse."
"You have options I don't. You can declare yourself to be any other white person." Her eyes narrow, "I got it. I've done three German tours of duty along the Czech border. The whole west of there is German-looking. Better to be Czech than German, as people think."
"I ah"
"Look, I won't look up anything secret, just mil archives available to the public. I know one really good cover story. There is this town, just vanished, torn down to build a base."
I feel my neck and shoulder go stiff. Eerie or what? Still, it's worth a look, "thank you for being a friend."

Nuremberg Tour 11

Next morning at work I'm summoned to the office of the plant superintendent Mr Fraser. As always, he greets me cordially. Once I'm settled, with coffee, he drops the bombshell, "so far this is just between you and me. I will be off medically for a month."
"You need not worry about me sir, I will happily cooperate with whomever you choose."
"I'm asking you."
"Me? Surely Mr Sanderson or Ms Ahenakew or Mr Gilbert?"
"No. All are way too crusty, cause no end of problems. You have the smoothest, most peaceful department in the plant."
"Sir, surely all three would then come gunning for me."
Chuckle, "there is a reason they fight so much when one of them is left in charge. The others are afraid of drastic changes, a shift in the balance of power. I will announce to each privately that you have no authority to make any changes, will be doing day to day admin work only. They may be unhappy, but at least no one will feel threatened."
"Do you think it would work sir?"
"I wouldn't ask if I didn't believe it workable. So, month's budget laid out in advance, no changes without first phoning me? Think you could handle that?"
"Give it a try sir."
All three are bigtime sniffy at first. Soon they see I have no agenda, no plot, am doing day to day schedule coordination only. The antagonism vanishes.
Still, I am hugely relieved to see Mr Fraser return.
Mother phones, informing me I have a duty to convince father not to go to Israel.
"Ma, listen, if I were King Canute commanding the tide not to come in, I would have the same odds of success as convincing him on anything.
She laughs, but agrees with my pragmatic response. Then, "you never tell me anything. One rumor says you passed the officer exam; another, radar. Yet another, you and Ariel are engaged. Which is true?"
"Ma, passing an exam does not mean you will go for sure. And no, we are not engaged."
"Why on earth not? Surely he's a good catch?"
"Ma, I would not want just fame and money. Surely a little respect, maybe even - gasp - equality."
"You've been hanging out with those westerners too long. Are you and that Arab bimbo having a lesbian fling?"
"She's not Arab, not a bimbo and we're not having a fling. Just friends, a lot in common."
"But Rachel honey, why not Jewish friends? Or at very least Christian whites? Why her?"
"Why not? Is she any less of a person?"
"Rumor has it she's bigtime bad news, two brothers are over with Hamas right now."
"Ma, she is an individual, has no ability to compel her brothers what to do or not to do."
"At some point, you ceased being a Jew, became a Nazi. I'm ashamed of you," slams the receiver.
Oy! And now I'm a Nazi? She is so mixed up, probably from reading too many of Ariel's books, sees Nazis behind every haystack.
To get her out of my mind, I think of my book. Should I throw in a token Jewish family? Not on your life. Child(ren) would fit famously with the Guyanese kids, but parents would be as big a misfit as my own. Still, if I needed extra comic relief. Hmm.
I'm killing time at JCC til course time. A name jumps out of Haaretz page, as if in bold print. One of those killed in the shootout with Israeli border police. Philosophically I note I now only have one of Farzana's brothers to worry about.
Naomi sits, "you feeling ok??"
"Touch of indigestion is all."
"That idiot has collected over two million dollars in royalties. He could retire tomorrow. Yet what does the moron do? Mope about being a failure."
"Just because Gentiles didn't like his book? He still has his Jewish reader base from before."
"But he feels it's over. Lost the muse, never get it back."
"Every artist feels so from time to time," I pass her the paper, "now, you give him that story. Think he could run with that?"
Her eyes widen, "wow, I could write a book off that." Wicked smile, "in fact, that's what I'll say. Got one month to get off that ass, stop feeling sorry for yourself and produce. If not, story belongs to me."
A few days later, Ariel on the phone, cheerful tone, "I really want to thank you for the story lead. Naomi said it came from you."
"She means well, wants you to be happy and successful."
"I know. Look, I've had time to think. I was really obnoxious to you. Here I have a PhD and a dozen books. What right to sit in judgment if you choose a lighter story line?"
"Thank you."
"Do you suppose we could do coffee?"
"Yes, that would be nice."
He sounds cheerful as he bubbles on about his story lead (not Farzana's bro of course). What research he'll do, characters and setting.
As we leave the coffee house I am relaxed. Seems he's getting on track. Ironic, before we were worried about him being too on track.
I soon discover his good cheer came from more than just a lead.
Farzana pulls a face, "the rat is cheating on you."
I gasp, "you're joking?"
She lowers her voice, looks me straight in the eye, "one of the sessionals in history is an Afghan girl I knew from high school. He and she ..."
"Oh come on, someone is feeding you a garbage rumor. He is so old style Jewish, he'd never, that is he'd ..."
Sympathetic look, "and now that the tirade is over, you believe me."
I take a napkin, dab at my eyes.
Gentle smile, "I can assure you, it's a lot more than just sex. To her, the sex would be meaningless. She is so hot, so stacked, she could have any guy she choooses."
"So why him?"
"Her purpose, what she brags to the Afghan community, is to keep him so totally occupied in bed that he ceases writing."
And now, I'm laughing.
Eyebrow raises, "you actually find that funny?"
"We-ell, it's not like he and I were well ah. So, that means he is up for grabs. And quite frankly, it's all for the best."
Serious look, "and now you have lost me, little one. For the best?"
"His sister Naomi and I were bigtime worried about him, edge of suicidal. Look, I'd rather see him alive and happy, even if it means with someone else."
"You really are a generous soul, not many like you."
"And when she tires of it or finds a hotter guy, he'll write again. Though of course, after her, he'll view me as a colossal bore." I can't help it, I'm crying.
I'm at JCC. Naomi sits, "you haven't shot her yet?"
Drily, "I prefer non-violent solutions."
"Come on, you know what men are like. Once that thing gets hard, their IQ shrinks in half. Anyone can tell what that bimbo is up to."
"What?"
"Don't be such a moron! Sex morning noon and night to keep him from writing. Obvious!"
"You really think so?"
"Yes!!"
"Naomi I'm not worried about that. If he wants sex, let him get it. Far better than worrying about him being suicidal. I'm so totally out of his league, he and I would never work out anyhow. At least, he and she have similar academic interests."
"Yeah, you're right. He does need a break from all that heavy writing." Pause, "there is a way to get him back."
"How?"
"I'll spread the rumor you started proceedings to return to Israel, now that you passed the exam and have learned some Hebrew. Put pressure on him, force him to decide."
"That is dishonest."
"You just are not paying attention. Most of life is dishonest. Come on now."
"No, I'd rather lose than win dishonestly. If he ever found out after, he'd go right homicidal."
Sigh, "yeah, guess you are right. Could be ten years later, some accident happening, and he discovers. Wiser doing things your way."

Nuremberg Tour 10

Due to the vagaries of the evening bus schedule, I arrive at JCC almost thirty minutes before course time. I settle in with Haaretz Daily, read about the Histadruth being raked over the coals. Why? Perceived racism. Workplaces with mostly white Jews allegedly get better union representation that workplaces with mostly Oriental Jews. I sigh, don't really wish to be a part of all that.
My mind wanders to Ariel. I really should dump him. Why? What if we were married? How on earth does one do research day after day showing how bad Germans are, then return to an Aryan-looking spouse? At some point, you lose control, rationality, for even a minute, commit homicide.
Ariel's sister Naomi sits, cheerful tone, "so how's class going?".
"I so lack any talent."
This seems to please her, "so you are very modernized?"
"Not really, the two aren't linked mostly. One can be, like me, language inept, yet Guyana style of old-fashioned."
"So you and Ariel are still an item for coffee?"
"An item, no; coffee, yes."
She sighs, "I know exactly what you mean. So caught up in his little world, he doesn't even really live in this century. If you were more modern, I was even thinking of asking you to well dress up nice and maybe wake him up. But I guess that's out."
I nod.
"Any suggestions Rachel, what to do about him?"
"Naomi, he desperately needs to switch topics, at least some. There are far more edifying periods available to study."
"I hear you, the Black Plagues would be an improvement."
We both laugh.
"Father says the way to slow him a bit is vacation, plans on buying a package deal for his birthday present."
"Not to Israel, I hope."
She laughs, "I agree, would only make it worse. Dad thinks maybe Mexico, you know relaxed manana atmosphere."
"I wish your family all the best in it."
"Huge contradiction, we just don't understand. Rest of us, so completely modern, western, secular; him, so old style Jewish."
I nod.
"Rumor is true? You aced the radar exam?"
"It's true."
"That is one savage meat-grinder, brutal assault on one's math and sci abilities. Did you know only two in a thousand pass?"
"News to me."
"You have a duty. Anyone with talent like that, should not waste it ..."
I'm saved by the bell, class time.
After class, I must wait a bit for the bus. I pick up Haaretz again. Several pages later, guess who's smiling face? Half page write up on his literary career. Promise of the delights to come in his in-process book.
I groan inwardly. Any chance of him slowing down has just vanished down the toilet. Fame does that to a person. You become ever more driven in whatever narrow specialty. Once you are famous, becomes almost impossible to find a balanced life.
I show the article to Naomi. She groans, loudly, "my God, now it's like a runaway locomotive."
Canada has two national dailies. Globe and Mail is vaguely left, vaguely pro-Palestinian, but without any real energy to either. National Post draws harder lines. Nothing vague about their right of center stance or their almost rabid pro-Israeli editorial line.
Two days later, with Haaretz permission, National Post reprints, complete with their heartfelt apology to readers for hitherto missing a rising young Israeli celebrity.
Globe and Mail one ups them. They reprint with permission, but comment it is in response to reader feedback, seeking balanced reporting. They promise to allow the same page space to each side.
The immediate effect is a tidal wave of demand for Ariel's books. Hitherto, he was only known to Canadian Jewish sub-culture, Canadian Israeli sub-sub-culture. Now he belongs to mainstream Canada. Everyone with literacy level of high school and higher, (except for Muslims), just has to get their hands on one of his books.
As for coffee, he simply doesn't have time for penny ante little people like me anymore. Off on a book tour, weekends only, around his academic schedule.
Within three months, the bubble has burst. He is passe, a has been. There is a reason Jews have been tolerating his pedantic run on sentences. They read for content, story line, not style.
Non-Jews, well they are a little more demanding. They have the sheer effrontery to actually expect to be - gasp - entertained as well as educated with a historical novel. Nobody non-Jewish ever buys a second book.
He is even compared, in uncharitable book reviews, to the style of Solzenhitzen's Gulag Archipelago. To any of you gentle readers who may have chosen to forgo that experience, I will give my opinion. Solzenhitzen would have done a bang up public relations job had he kept it to say 200 pages. But he indulged in overkill, as so many Russians do. His book first shocks, then annoys, then merely numbs and bores you to death. Yes, even horror eventually becomes boring. It's like crossing the Gobi Desert during the hot season. I doubt if one non-Russian in a hundred has made the full journey.
I have, I've been all the way through Gulag Archipelago and through one of Ariel's. And oh yes, it is a perfectly valid comparison. As far as the non-Jewish world is concerned, Ariel is toast.
He invites me for coffee, looks hugely different. Gone is that driven energy. I know in my heart of hearts that Farzana is right. One day, he will end it.
I can even tell you why. He may be rich, he is certainly famous, but he views himself and his cause as a failure.
I actually get a chance to speak, tell of my desire to write on Guyana and why.
I am really mega hurt by his reaction: too light and airy fairy, not scholarly enough, too chick lit, too simplistic, totally unworthy ...
Blinded by tears, I exit the coffee house, vowing never to see that roach again.
By next morning my virulent hatred of him has been transformed. Now I know the true importance of my project. He alienated people by talking down to them. I plan on being friendly, informal, invite you along for a Guyanese story filled with basically lovable and humorous people. I'll forgo any arch-villains or heavy duty plot. Just a fun look at a society that works remarkably well.
Only way you can get the outside world to listen. Take his approach, it's like the minister who ends up preaching to the choir.
The university library proves a treasure trove, as do internet archives of the Guyana Chronicle newspaper and Guyana government. I am actually in the luxury position of so much information, I'll have to discard some. Far better than the opposite of not enough and desperately scratching.
Farzana looks at me amused, "so little one, dreamed up a pen name yet?"
"Why bother?"
"Grow up kid, act your age and admit you're a Jew. Do I hafta spell it out in oversimplistic terms? Are you that naive? Jews write on Jewish topics, get published by Jewish publishers. What Gentile would publish a Jewish story? What Jew would publish a Gentile story?"
"OK."
"Look, pick a name, check the web to see you aren't unknowingly using a famous person's name. People aren't being anti-Semitic. It's just there is a huge glut of books struggling for the buyer's attention. I read a magazine article on the book trade. You have 1.8 seconds to grab people's attention with the cover illustration or they don't read the summary."
I groan inwardly, but know she's right.
"Take that floral green dress and a wide straw hat. Perfect for the photo. Let's call up something."
A moment later, we both stare in morbid fascination. The defence minister looks a way too much like me.
"Belay the idea of a photo. If the publisher insists, keep it as small and obscure as possible."
I nod.
"I have two brothers who would happily track you to the ends of the earth, kill you."
I gasp.
"That's how close it hits to home. But not to worry, both are over there, engaged in the struggle."
"Amazing how much contrast in siblings!" I assert.
"Don't get me started little one. I could tell you stories would curl your hair. Best just drop it."

Nuremberg Tour 9

Guyana can trace a long peaceful history back to the Forbes Burnham era, a true dictatorship, but benign. Real democracy arrived with his death in 1985. For several years after, there was a crime wave and election tensions. Since then, it's been peaceful all the way.
Canada can trace its tradition to the legendary Pierre Trudeau. He turned it from a branch plant into its own identity.
Both Canada and Guyana share the ability to absorb newcomers in undemanding fashion. Unlike some other cultures, you don't have to amputate your previous identity to join in.
Canada is perfectly at ease with the concept that you can be Canadian, Guyanese and Israeli, all at the same time.
As for Guyanese, they are even more laid back and tolerant. They don't feel as if they have to change your religion, your politics or any of your philosophical opinions. But the paradox is that they do. Since you are so relaxed and unthreatened, you examine their opinions at leisure and end up adopting a lot of them.
As I read various books, examine my own thinking, I estimate I am 65% Guyanese, 25% Canadian and 10% Israeli.
I laugh with the sheer irony when I see people like my father portrayed in books. He was so uptight, so completely against Guyanese culture. Yet even he adopted a number of the Guyanese attitudes.
So that is how it works, I muse. Undemanding places absorb you slowly. Uptight places cause you to cling hard to past identity.
I decide I will, as a tribute to Forbes Burnham, set a historical novel in his era in Guyana. I start the slow process of sifting archives. There is a wealth of information. With time and patience, I have everything I need.
I finish explaining all this about Ariel to Farzana. She leans back in her chair, blows a smoke ring, "and you my friend are nuts. So caught up in all that good girl upbringing in Guyana. So much of that East Indian prudishness in you. Just have not adjusted to Canadian ways."
"How so?"
"It's a modern age, don't be so bloody old-fashioned. Next time, wear something ravishing and drag him into the sack."
"He ah"
"Nonsense, the woman is entitled to make the first move."
"I'd prefer not to. If it flops, lose the friendship."
She groans, rolls her eyes.
This inflames me, "you were born in Canada, right?"
"Yes."
"Lived in Canada all your life, right?"
"Yes."
"Only been out of Canada on short vacations and German tours, right?"
"Yes."
"Only been to Afghanistan once, three weeks when you were a teenager, right?"
"Yes."
"Your parents mostly socialized with whites and East Indians, tended to avoid other Afghans, right?"
"Yes."
"You yourself very much do the same thing, right?"
"Yes."
"This horrendous nightmare you carry around, it has nothing to do with you the person, you weren't within thousands of miles. It's relatives, right?"
"Yes."
"Then you my friend are so thoroughly westernized you have zero concept of sub-culture."
She raises her hands in mock protest.
"The Canadian Jew is bad enough as being sexist. Most white Canadians would consider them very old-fashioned, right?"
"Ye-es."
"Well I have news for you, the Israeli is further behind on that road. So don't you, as a complete and utter westerner, have the arrogance to tell me, an Israeli, how to deal with a fellow Israeli."
She looks at me quizzically, then bursts into laughter.
This annoys me, "and what is so funny?"
"You are undoubtedly right. It's just, well, I've never had the experience of a German-looking white call herself minority and me mainstream. It does get to be pretty twisted logic."
I nod, start to see her humor.
"That being said, little one, run for your life."
"How so?"
"My friend, you are into optimism, prefer writing on the more benign and pleasant times and places, right?"
I'm starting to catch on, I nod.
"Ariel walks too much on the dark side. Anyone who obsesses over much on that epoch goes insane, often suicides. I refer to scholars like Primo Levy. Just too much contradiction. I would bet you $100 that within five years, Ariel is dead, by his own hand."
I gasp.
"You know it is true. So, keep him at a distance. Sex if you like, but avoid emotional involvement."
We cheerfully exit the coffee house. Our argument is now a thing of the past. Guess that means we have a good level of friendship."

Nuremberg Tour 8

Two weeks later, the other shoe drops. Letter from the chief in charge of the radar tech training program. I am informed certain inaccuracies have been conveyed to me. The MP officer had exceeded his authority; having none over their program.
A review of my high school marks and aptitude testing has been done. I am reinstated as an acceptable person for the radar program. Though of course there is not a draft obligation, as long as I am resident outside of Israel.
Helpful, you bet. States that if travel costs are what is holding me back, I should cease to worry. The program has sent a Journal Voucher to the Israeli Embassy in Ottawa, authorizing funds for an air ticket.
The Col phones, "well now, got the latest letter?"
"Nathan, I've lost track. By now, who knows what is the latest word on anything?"
"You didn't hear? Dad's cancer is in remission, back on duty. Can you imagine some MP Lt with enough nerve to cross him?"
I chuckle.
"So when are you leaving?"
"Nathan, I'm not really Jewish."
He sighs, "you really must get a grip. Do some serious reading instead of always just having knee jerk prejudiced reactions to everything. You will discover there is a huge crowd of secular Jews, people for whom religion is minor, some even non-existent. If you haven't caught on yet, it's a culture more so than a religion."
"I see."
"Take your time reading; there is no expiry date on the JV."
Farzana reads the radar chief's letter, sighs, "you do see the problem?"
I nod.
"Your dad has gone a mile out on a limb for you. Don't leave him hanging."
I groan.
"Your math and physics marks, no question you'll pass. Gets dad off the hook."
Nathan is ecstatic hearing I will sit the exam. Next weekend, I am invigilated at JCC.
Days later, a proud phone call from Nathan, "dad will be so proud of you."
During all this time the clanking Israeli juggernaut and I were duking it out, life still goes on.
I still have coffee with Ariel on a regular basis and no, I don't get to do much talking.
At first, it's all just an anthropologist's eye view of his life. At some point, I cross over a line. He ignites a passion in me and I don't mean physical.
He's a history prof, writes historical novels for sale. I'm bitten by the bug, drawn in by his obvious enthusiasm. I realize he doesn't really live in the here and now, but in history.
The gentle reader groans, not another Jew obsessed with Jewish history. Actually not, I find Jewish history tedious.
What interests me is Canadian and Guyanese history.
You gasp. You laugh. You protest, "but they don't have history."
Bingo, hit the nail on the head. Both have been at peace internationally and at home for centuries now.
Both are a contradiction in terms. Complete mishmash of cultures, yet peaceful life. Most of the world has taken the opposite track.
I find myself curious, wishing to understand the mechanism. What makes both so spectacularly successful in this one arena, yet failures in many other aspects of governance?

Nuremberg Tour 7

About a month after my visit to that coffee house, I'm cleaning my purse, realize I didn't get around to using the courtesy card. So I resolve to go to the public library, check imported newspapers.
I get a real surprise, the same cashier is actually friendly. No sooner have I sat, than she comes, tells me it's her break, asks to join me. "Amazing, read the book on India. So that's how it really works. When you feel unthreatened, you opt for outside friends."
I nod, "grew up in Guyana, but the totally East Indian part. Far better friendships than with fellow Jews here in Canada."
"I hear you, bigtime. I'm Afghan, exactly so. Lotta things you can't say with fellow Afghans, conversation gets stilted. Always preferred whites or East Indians."
And so it is, Farzana start down the tentative road to friendship. The second time we meet for coffee, I discover what she does in real life, M/Cpl (Master Corporal) in the army. That job was only a bit of moonlighting.
And now we have lots in common. She's done three tours of duty in Germany; and I've read lots.
I find myself looking forward to meeting her as opposed to the stagnant relationship with Ariel.
As our friendship deepens, I am completely honest. Tell her of my upbringing, discovering who my real father is and my struggles with the Israeli bureaucracy.
She stubs out her cigarette, stares into my eyes, "better pass that no further."
I nod.
"Now there's lotta people in the world who would simply accept your rationale that you aren't really a Jew. But I could name a dozen who'd track you to the very end of the earth, kill you, simply who your father is."
I protest, "I'm not responsible for his actions."
"I know, I'm westernized, the concept of the individual has been around the western world for centuries. But still there's lotsa people in Canada who don't buy it, think everyone is member of a tribe or clan."
I nod.
"We are talking a guy with a lotta blood on those hands. Still, your secret is safe with me. Now, wanna know who I really am?"
I nod.
"We-ell, see ..."
I thought I was in deep, I'm penny ante compared to her. "How exactly does one live with that?"
Shrug, "if they kill me, they do. If not, they don't."
"And how does one face Comrade Ivan across the wire?"
"One rather hopes he'll come a callin, but he never does."
"So the Canadian Army is a bore?"
Laugh, "my friend, do yourself a favor. If you ever do get a draft notice, which is highly unlikely because it's lottery, grab the first plane to Israel and take them up on that kind offer."
In due course, I'm saved by an unrelated investigation.
The Military Police in Israel are building a file on certain erratic behaviors. Among these, sending wierd and/or threatening emails to various figures, from IDF soldiers.
Top of the list, is the late Sam M, with 350 such sent over a two week period to anyone who is anyone in Israeli society.
During that period he was prescribed a strong cold medication, which forbids alcohol. Yet according to his platoon Sgt and men, he never ceased drinking.
The authorities note that the sworn statement was made during this period. They are prepared to accept it as inaccurate if I provide testimony. A notarized statement done at the JCC will suffice.
So I lay it out. Friend of an acquaintance, we met at the funeral of a famous community person, the date easy to look up. Went for either five or six coffees, approximate dates given.
There were two reasons I backed off. He was gung ho for going to Israel and right now. I percieved him to be the physically abusive type.
At no time did he propose. After the five or six coffees, I did not break off per se as we were not an item per se. I was merely unavailable/unwell, until he got the message and ceased to ask.
My answer is that evidence is now sufficient that I should not assume his draft obligation.
Then things get huffy. I am accused of influence peddling, of using powerful people to get a better posting.
This makes me a thoroughly despicable character, a disgrace to all true Israelis. It also cancels my radar tech posting.
Hard to believe, but the huffiness elevates one notch more. I am informed if I wish such a job, I must earn it honestly, through the exam process.
I show the letter to Farzana. She reads it, then bursts out laughing.
After hiccups fade, "wouldn't you just love to be a fly on the wall when that MP went a callin on the former defence minister?"
Drily, "I'm sure the physical resemblance did not escape the eagle eye."
I'm prepared to let the matter drop. Just name an adult who has not had at least one Kafkesque encounter with rampant bureaucracy. I'm the winner; let bygones be bygones.

Nuremberg Tour 6

Two days later, an official airmail letter arrives from Israel. Checking the postmark, it was mailed before my meeting with the officers. I am informed in longwinded bureaucratese that the record shows me to be former fiancee of the late Sam M. As such, I have acquired his draft obligation. I am ordered to get in touch with the Israeli Embassy in Ottawa ASAP.
I send the Col an email, bemoaning bureaucracy.
His reply is well less than helpful. Sam had a right to name whomever as fiancee. Since he's now dead, it is impossible to check with him, possibly it's true. He goes on to advise it could be unwise to vacation there, as there could be a warrant out for my arrest.
As I reread this nonsense, I spot the tongue in cheek, brother pushing sister's buttons.
So I send the other mil a similar email.
This worthy is most helpful. He will sort it out for me, I need not fear. However, I do have the option to simply allow the record to stand. I then become, ipso facto, a Lieutenant in the Paras. May as well go for prestige, he asserts. He will amend the record after I reply.
If Israel itself is dangerous, then any rational person would agree that being Lt in Paras increases one's level of mathematical risk. I reply, telling him to correct the record.
I hear nothing for a week, just assume everything is ok.
My hand shakes as I read his reply. Further investigation shows Sam M made this statement under oath, therefore it is unalterable. They have no legal authority over me here in Canada, but advise against travel there.
A week later, a further email. It appears someone higher up has intervened on my behalf. Three guesses who.
While my draft obligation cannot be cancelled, it being carved in stone, it can be altered. As of now, I am accepted for training in the radar tech program.
That's a little more livable, but still. I reply.
The final answer comes. The obligation is not immediate, can be deferred up to one year. But only if I enrol in a Hebrew course at JCC. Must send proof of registration to the Israeli Embassy, blah blah.
Upon finding it only costs $50, I opt to take it anyway. You never know.
And so it is, the Israeli Embassy and myself live in a state of peace, as long as I attend course every week.
Ariel settles into a pattern of inviting me for coffee once a fortnight.
Nothing changes, he is so full of himself I simply never get a chance to speak.
Still, he is a nice guy, I like him a lot. His stories are always interesting, often funny, an insight into his world.
I just wish he would lighten up a little. So I keep going, hoping for the best.

Nuremberg Tour 5

Sheepish smile, the coffee house manager says, "I feel bad about what happened. Here's a courtesy swipe card, loaded with $5."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"I told her Jews were a religion, not a race. Everything from Ethiopian to Yemeni to your look."
"How'd she take that?"
"Surprised. I even mentioned a book I read in university, Jews of India."
"Ah you are referring to the exception to the rule."
Grin, "it is considered a universal theme that Jews are very clannish, prefer to associate only with themselves. To disprove universality, one must only show a contrary example."
"I've read of that too."
"Imagine, they actually prefer having friends who are Hindu, Muslim or Parsi. More free conversation, less taboo to trip over."
I nod.
"But that harks back to history. Over two millenia in India without trouble, does tend to dissolve one's paranoia. Elsewhere, history has not been so benign."
"So I've read."
"I must come across as a total idiot. Telling you this and from your accent, you've been there."
"Not India, Guyana, but the East Indian part."
"You got the same reaction?"
"I did not really know I was a Jew until I arrived in Canada. In Guyana, I was just another white person."
"Anyhow, nice talking, got to get to work."
I return to my thoughts. I am quite prepared to discount at source the paranoia of the two mils. At the very least, it is simply their psy conditioning. At worst, it's deliberate propaganda to raise immigration levels.
But my own father? Greed is his middle name. I cannot imagine him leaving that fat profitable business, unless he knows something I don't.
At home, I search Google for hits on all anti-Semitic incidents in Canada in the last ten years. I am totally unsurprised to discover it's just spray paint and a sum total of three broken windows.
So, the $64 question. Why is father afraid? Calling him is out of the question, we have not spoken in several years.
Call mother? I doubt if the KGB could get a straight answer out of her on anything.
So I do the next best thing, drop in at the JCC, Jewish Community Center.
As I read in Haaretz Daily, I eavesdrop. The usual: cars, computers, vacations, flu, stock market. No one says a word about Israel.
There is a sign hanging that is now obsolete. Last evening, the second officer was there doing a public speech.
Curious, I ask the secretary, "didn't know that was on. Much attendance?"
"The usual, dozen senior citizens, wanting to stretch those pensions."
Bingo. Father is possibly ill, looking at retirement. Good medical care, all free, money go further. So he doesn't fear neoNazis running amok.
The officer did not necessarily lie to me. Maybe he just does not know. Father was always very economical with the truth.
I look at my watch. JCC is a ways out, after all, 98% of visitors own vehicles. I got 25 minutes to kill til next bus.
I'm immersed in a story on the Histadruth position on minimum wage law, when I'm interrupted.
"Hello there, recognize me?"
It's Ariel, a former friend of my former "fiancee".
I grin, "haven't seen you in a bit."
"Busy. Publish or perish world. Dog eat dog competition at the university. My publisher is brutalizing me because my manuscript is overdue."
"That's what you get for taking an advance."
He laughs, "come on, let's get real coffee, not this ersatz swill. I'm buying."
"I got a bus sked to meet."
"No problem, happy to drop you off."
I do not get in a word edgewise. Academic politics, troubles with other Profs, trying to refind the muse on his latest book.
Still, he is a nice guy, so when he suggests coffee again, I readily agree.
He drops me in front of my building, waits til I'm safely in.
As he drives away the thought strikes. Nothing at all on his health, parents, siblings, vacations, any recreational reading. Does he actually exist outside of the uni and his publisher? Hard to say.