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.