Next Project

The blog will appear inactive for several months, as an involved story is being prepared. Set in Jerusalem of the future, it starts on a rundown housing Development of Haredi (ultra-orthodox) people. Amidst a backdrop of total poverty, in a place where time essentially stands still, the people are disconnected from current events. After all, what does it really matter what the Palestinians or secular Israelis choose to do, when you are draft exempt?
The men's main function is fulltime study, which supplies their draft exemption. For the women, the exemption comes from being married at age 18. Largely forbidden to study, they act as the support for the men doing so.
But nearby events, the mega riot in Ramallah, has repercussions on a number of the Development families. For one person, Sarah, the narrator, the fallout assumes gargantuan proportions. Her quiet little world of working in the Development library vanishes forever and she is flung into the modern world.

Table of Contents

For ease of finding, please scroll down a bit on the right side and click on "March 2006". It was last item published in March, therefore is on top.

Nuremberg Tour 37

A month before end of tour, the mail brings two items.
Army Personnel Services informs me my application for permanent membership has been approved. As of the time I arrive back in Canada, I will be promoted to M/Cpl and begin unit preparations for another Nuremberg tour.
The salary - almost twice what I made at the linen rental. There is now no question of returning to civvy life. Here I've found real friends, Army and the Germans of this forgotten little corner. Sense of belonging, never felt that before.
The publisher's envelope contains several items. From my hometown Jewish weekly, a clipping. It is a strident call to arms. Every businessman who signed the original boycott petition presented to the linen rental will be contacted again. It is time to make absolutely certain my employer understands how serious my sins are and how serious the petitioners are.
You see, up til now, I've only been guilty of the removal of their hero author. I've now even one upped myself in despicability. I've succeeded in cheekily insulting every Jew in Canada and every fan in Israel. I won't give the rest of the article, it goes downhill from there.
To this, the publisher stapled a short note. Please do not be harsh in your judgment of anyone other than the writer of the article. The social pressure will be so intense everyone will have to sign again or face ostracism.
My jaw drops as I see the quarterly statement of royalties, surely there must be a mistake. I calculate, then recheck, it's correct.
To this statement, the publisher stapled a letter. Thousands of e mails have arrived, demanding to know when my next book will be released and on which topic. He adds his personal read of the market is 1948 events would be the best choice. He implores me to give some vague public statement of intent, as a reply to these fans.
I stare out the window, ponder a bit. It would be the height of insanity to announce to the world my next novel will be on Guyana, that can wait.
I write a draft reply. At this time, negotiations are ongoing with my publisher as to sequel. We are considering a range of topics, mostly focusing on 1948, but not entirely. Please be patient as I have my military duties to attend to as well.
But first I'll talk with Farzana. I pick a time she and I are alone over coffee. With an overly casual look, I hand her the royalty statement.
She gasps, loudly, "holy sh**, Sarge has you beat but not by a lot."
"Really?"
"Sure, seen her quarterly statement. Money like that, you could easily forget the Army, write full time. My guess, you'd live to regret it. See then, the fans feel they own your soul. If you don't produce on time, every single year, they'll be in an uproar. Awful position to be in, simply because the muse comes and goes."
"I see, whereas If I stay in the Army, I could just say writing has been slowed a bit by my duties. They'd be more forgiving, less impatient."
"Not only that little one, but gives you more credibility. A career soldier writing mil fiction gives it a lot more authentic tone than does a civvy."
I stare out the window a moment. "Right, my mind is made up."
I'll send the reply when Indira and Sarge next show.

Nuremberg Tour 36

I'm itching with curiousity, wanting to find out what is in the envelope from the publisher. However, it is considered good manners not to read your mail til after Sarge and Indira have gone. They hang around a couple hours, eat lunch, chat and of course jokes. Sarge has a talent, knows thousands of jokes. Whenever the conversation lags, she livens it up, gets everyone laughing.
As I see them climb into the jeep, I rip it open. Book reviews, photocopies sent.
Globe and Mail proclaims Ariel's part to be every bit as good as always. My part glorifies militant murderous Zionism, taking a sadistic delight in the slaughter of innocent Palestinians. (Sorry to disappoint, but history does record lead was flying in both directions.)
National Post claims Ariel's writing is even better than usual. Mine, while militarily correct and plausible, misses the mark. By using battlespeak, I ran the risk of talking down to educated, sophisticated, intellectual readers.
Canadian Jewish News notes that is is quintessentially Jewish to accurately portray history. Their research has discovered I am even more faithful to the historical record than are most Jewish writers of fiction. That is laudable, however, by using language meant for Grade 5 education and IQ of 85, I have just insulted every Jew everywhere who enjoys Ariel's work.
The local Jewish weeklies - OY! - it goes downhill from there.
The note from the publisher is cheerful and cheeky. Britain's News of the World weekly sells millions of copies, yet no one ever admits to reading it, socially. It's a mystery who these buyers are, that keep it afloat. He suspects the same mechanism will happen here. It will be a sinful delight that you do, but don't admit to your neighbors. There is a website, catering to Ariel's fans, where postings can be made. This will be the true measure of how the book is perceived.
So far, not much is posted, as the book is just out. But of 25 comments, 24 loved my battle scenes, felt it raised Jewish morale to see heroic actions portayed in fiction and so forth.
The publisher will keep me informed.
I shrug, time will tell. I've become very fatalistic of late, goes with being a professional soldier.

Nuremberg Tour 35

It takes a lotta stuff to fill up my time. Now most consider the three hour guard shift every calendar day to be a colossal bore. Not me, it's when I do my literary thinking. Prior to going on shift, I'll take a quick look at the exact spot on the Jerusalem map and a list of my characters on that location. I then have lotsa time to ponder what to write about that micro-situation. Immediately after duty, I sit and write what I have prepared. Consequently my novel moves forward at breakneck speed.
I help both Mary and Yvette some. Both are doing upgrading, compliments of the Army budget. Mary needs a bit more help, as she's lower in level.
Then there is the news translation.
I've now been absorbed into Frau Weber's social group, join them for cards one evening a week and coffee often. They too come to visit at the guard post. All know at least some English, from years of encountering Canadian soldiers. They're hugely welcome here. If it weren't for them and for Sarge and Indira, we'd know for sure the world has forgotten us. I always notice how much more cheerful everyone seems after they visit.
Then there is washing clothes by hand in the sinks. No the Army just can't afford washers. This causes a lotta grumbling.
Then Farzana insists that I always join her when she's doing paperwork. She won't actually come right out and admit that she knows I'm know stuck being a lifer. However, her behavior says she knows, is too polite to say.
I send my novel off to the publisher after being at Dietersdorf three months, with a good deal of trepidation. I need not have worried. A month later, I get back a glowing response. Dialogue is good crisp battlespeak, exactly as it should be. Narration has quote the flavor of conversation of a professional soldier. Good so far. He'll correct a few minor grammatical errors, but publish verbatim otherwise.
As people start going away for the five day absence, morale picks up. Lotta bragging about what happened and good natured ribbing.
I'm left wondering myself. Since I don't have a boyfriend to bring over here, and since I don't drink to excess, what will I do?
The problem soon solves itself. Frau Althaus, one of the card set, announces she will be going to Nuremberg for five days, leaving on a Monday morning, returning Friday afternoon on the school bus. See, her daughter owns a small bookstore in Nuremberg. So small she cannot afford any hired help. When she wants to go away for a bit, she'd prefer not to either close the store or hire a temp for a week, as there is the possibility of theft.
The daughter's husband is a Federal bureaucrat and now and then they wish to get away a bit. Frau Althaus stays in their apartment and works in the bookstore.
I ask if she'd like to have company, help in the store.
Let me tell you, it was one wonderful trip. The daughter generously stocked the fridge, so we had food we often don't see in Dietersdorf. Customers were wildly enthusiastic to discover that the shop help was actually a Canadian soldier on leave, so I always had friendly conversations. Cable TV. Wednesday afternoon closing, so we went for a nice walk to see the sights.
The group had laughed at me when I told them before the trip, what I was doing. After I described the week, they weren't laughing anymore, realized it was a good use of time.

Nuremberg Tour 34

My daily walk to the store to buy Bild plus whatever other purchase has some side benefits. See, now I'm the only one who can keep these people up to date with news. I read them funny or interesting or earth shaking stories. Just so, we watch German news on TV and I give them the commentary.
Several of the people here are into causing problems, arguing with Farzana. In theory, they could come after me too, but nobody does. Everyone seems to like me for my news contribution.
Another benefit is that it allows me to do my share of conversation. So what? Well, given what a total flop and failure my own life has been, it's nicer to talk news than to have to tell them anything about me.
I soon see where things are headed with Frau Weber, the storekeep. It's obvious she views me as her substitute granddaughter. It's a long day, lot more time just waiting around or cleaning than dealing with customers. So, we usually talk anywhere from fifteen minutes to thirty.
As our friendship deepens, I find myself being totally honest with her. Upbringing, discovering the real father, the scandal with Ariel. She's rather upset that people are still writing on such themes. However, she's quite pleased when I tell her how I plan to finish the book. See I actually have a very detailed map of Jerusalem done in 1948. I know everything like street names, which slope in which direction, where battles were fought. I plan on setting all of my characters into the Siege of Jerusalem, covering all of the time until the clandestine road ended up relieving the siege. I won't use real names of combatants of course (where this is known), I'll use character names. Everything else, I plan to be as faithful as possible to the actual historical records.
For her part she tells me much of the history of this region. Everything is so totally down that people feel not even German anymore. It's like the Federal Government has abandoned them. Any medical procedure more complicated than first aid means going to Nuremberg. It's difficult to do as there is no bus service and almost no one can afford vehicles here.
It's a dying area, only the business and social life with the Canadian soldiers keeps it semi alive. No question she's not exagerating. Absolutely everyone I meet here, almost all elderly, are very pleasant and cheerful. Yes, they can all read the name tag, but no one seems to notice or care. It's as if Jewish is irrelevent to these people, no different than being right or left handed, just one more trait.
Indira and Sarge come to visit with the jeep on average twice a week. No fixed day or time schedule. One could suspect that they're checking to make sure we haven't defected en masse to the neoCommies. More likely they're checking we haven't gone stir crazy and killed off each other. They bring mail and perishable food items. (Our non perishable foods arrive by truck once a month, to no fixed schedule.)
It's easy to see what Sarge is up to. Simply never allows Indira to wander alone, is always there with her. Whenever Indira looks like she's about to catch foot-in-mouth disease again, Sarge always manages to head it off at the pass.
Since Indira never gets the chance to ruffle any feathers, she's actually well liked. She is after all a friendly and kind person.

Nuremberg Tour 33

"Right," Farzana says, "duty sked. Now take 24 hours, divides into neat 3 hour stint each. Now SOP is that the notch from midnight to 3:00 am and 3:00 am to 6:00 am are given to M/Cpl and L/Cpl. I'll do the first, Rachel takes three to six. Reason, no there ain't likely to be an invasion, think lotto odds on that. But any trouble, say smugglers or illegal immigrants across the line, more likely to show on those shifts. Resta you talk it out. Remember, it ain't carved in stone. I'll happily accept any swap, permanent or temporary, as long as both agree."
It doesn't prove hard for them to parcel it out, according to who prefers what hours.
"Now," Farzana continues, "far as beer, you know the story. Every store and bar east of Nuremberg itself is on our ration program. It's that or the German liquor authority harrasses them. So, forget about hitching rides to the next town. Won't work. Leave, there ain't none, not for the one year deployment. But there is a way to get away for five days to Nuremberg, to drink or get laid. See, Lt can authorize one absence of five days for each of you. But the time, you hafta pay back to whoever worked for you. Now, if boyfriend is willing to spring for airfare, he can come to Nuremberg. You get the pass. Anything over five days or over one absence, gotta be authorized by the CO. Meaning forget it. So, there being no civvy bus service, works like this. Early Monday morning, school buses pick up the few high school kids, haul them to Nuremberg for the week. Friday afternoon, bring them back. You ain't allowed to give them money, but it is considered polite to give two packs of cigs for going and two for coming back. Now, ain't much, but better than nothing."
I look around, see the looks. No one argues. Looks like all agree that something is better than nothing. Process of adjustment I guess.

Nuremberg Tour 32

Well, I think, least the paint job is good. Perhaps it won't be so bad after all.
We disembark, unload just the gear which was carry on. Our main gear, in the hold of the plane, will arrive in a couple days.
Farzana unlocks the front door. Cheerful smile, "not bad compared to some of the guard posts. This here used to be a six room elementary school. Abandoned by the German government several decades ago. Reason, the economy tanked, most families with children departed. Now it's all done by bussing. The toilets, in there, they're original, but in good shape. First two rooms near the door, one is the combined office/storage room. See, not too bad. Now over here, lot better shape, done up as kitchen/dining room, with that row of shower cabinets along that wall."
I'm reading people's faces. Mary, from Lilac Valley Indian Reserve, looks impressed. Probably better than back home. Yvette, a Francophone who originated from a small poor farm on the Gaspe Peninsula, also looks happy. Me too, I've read enough history to know we're doing pretty good, considering this is the front line. Compare this to what World War One soldiers encountered in the trenches, or those brave American lads struggling on Guadalcanal. This is Cadillac.
Farzana continues, "now the other four classrooms, you roommate, two per room. See, it's huge, immense, your own space is like a lot of bachelor pads back home. Now, Rachel and I, we've already agreed to room together. Rest of you, take some time, decide. Remember, it ain't carved in stone. Long as all parties agree, I'll accept any and all changes."
That part isn't hard; the girls pair up into mutual friendships.
Once the gear is in, we brew coffee in the kitchen. And then it starts. It's easy to see where the line is drawn: myself, Mary, Yvette and Farzana are quite content, find nothing to complain about.
The others start in and vigorously. Why is there no internet? They'd prefer high speed of course, but dial up would be barely adequate. Why no satellite dish? The ancient TV in the corner will pick up only nearby German and Czech transmissions.
Why no phones? Why just one com device (with Farzana) for the group?
As it goes on and on, it's a harbinger of the future. So this is what await me when I become a M/Cpl next tour. No power to do anything, but hear all the complaints.
As it winds down a bit, Farzana shrugs, "you will recall this is a Canadian operation, lives within rather stringent Federal budget guidelines. And does quite well, I'd say. Now, who here would actually prefer to be a US soldier in Sudan? Maybe New Guinea is more your cuppa tea? Anyone for Angola or Chad or Yemen or maybe Bosnia grabs you?"
Some actually have the decency to blush, just a little.

Nuremberg Tour 31

Our entire unit will cover ten kilometers of front line, from Eslarn in the north to Stadlern in the south. Our group, headed by Farzana, will be at a small post east of Dietersdorf, a small village just two klicks from the border.
As we roll through forest and small impoverished villages, it is exactly as our briefing indicated. No industry at all. Almost no young people. The few elementary children are bussed away every day; high school kids live in residence Monday to Friday in Nuremberg.
The mainstay is retirement, of the low budget variety. You can buy or rent dirt cheap. Still, it is not for the faint of health, as German government health facilities are almost totally lacking.
Our driver, German, cheerfully offers to wait while we check out the Dietersdorf general store. It's the size of a living room in a Canadian one bedroom apartment.
The only publication for sale is Bild, the tabloid aimed at the working class, another indicator economics are not good here.
Most people choose two or three varieties of German cigarettes to try, as they have heard they are better than Canadian; plus candy.
I select Bild, German gumdrop candies and a jar of the wonderful Darbo wild raspberry jam, things I've encountered in the import store in Canada.
The lady running the store is probably seventy, but strong and healthy looking. She recognizes Farzana from the last tour and they exchange pleasantries. She's quite polite and friendly with all the soldiers.
When it comes my turn, I really get the royal treatment. Looking back, it's easy to see why. I'm the only one buying the newspaper, so presumably I can read it. Add in my choice of purchases shows some knowledge of product and my German looks.
She gushes, "you look so much like my granddaughter, doing computer graphics work in Berlin. She's a bit bigger, mind you." Her eye falls on my name tag and her friendly comments do not cease, nor does her face register any distaste.
After several minutes of conversation, she has restored some of my faith in the world and I ask her at what time Bild arrives each day.

Nuremberg Tour 30

I pass a pleasant night in the plane. The seat reclines by two notches, allowing me ample room to stretch out, sleep comfortably. I'm one of the very few, most are too tall and/or too hefty to position properly.
Consequently, the unit arrives in Germany tired, in a foul mood. We're driven, in a fleet of buses normally used for school kids, to a grassy park. In ancient times, this was the moat, around the castle in Nuremberg.
There's a barbecue for us. Your choice of either beef or pork smokie sausage, in a Kaiser bun and either coffee or non-alcoholic cold drink.
The servers are jovial and I see the unit mood improve. Nobody ahead of me in line gets any hassle from them. Farzana, immediately in front of me, chooses beef and nary an eyebrow is raised.
When I choose beef, the server looks at me in a nasty manner, commences a tirade in German, about how I should act like a real German and opt for pork. The others join in.
Sheepishly, I take the proferred beef smokie, spread mustard.
Immediately behind me, Heidi encounters the same reaction. She snorts, delivers a vigourous reply. Surely they cannot expect, with the number of centuries people of the Diaspora have been gone, that they will keep all the Old Country ways.
They look shy and sheepish, apologize to her.
As she joins me at the condiment rack, she grins, points to the shoulder bag which obscures my name tag. With a gentle grin, "well, least it wasn't anti-Semitic, they couldn't see this. Merely your failure to live up to their expectations as a real German."
Somehow I feel relieved.

Nuremberg Tour 29

I choose poutine for lunch, on the theory it might be a while before I see it again.
Then finally, the buses pull out. I see Sarge and Indira sitting together, in deep conversation. From the looks on Indira's face, she is not liking much of what she hears.
I end up sitting with Heidi. She shows me what computer games she plays on the handheld, then is absorbed in doing so.
I focus on various conversations one by one.
Most of these girls left boyfriends behind ( some husbands). From the sound of it, many are worried about what will happen.
The hard core drinkers talk about things like being afraid of the DTs, once they are on the one beer a day limit.
The gamblers talk of missing the fun and excitment.
Nobody has much good to say of the luggage search that took place this morning. Several dozen had large stashes of pot taken away. Kept in safe keeping for them for when they are discharged.
And then I realize, I'm about the only draftee who actually enjoys setting out. Behind me I leave nothing but ruination, scorched earth: the scandal, lotta people who hate me, no job to go back to.
I chuckle as I recall a song I hear periodically on the retro radio show. To change the wording just a bit, with apologies to the author for this poetic license: that dusty old diesel is singing my song, thank God and Greyhound I'm gone.
And then I sort of zone out, tired of all the conversations. I imagine something happening over there. Either Ivan or us brews home brew, starts some shooting. Before the officers can bring it under control, it escalates, spreads across hundreds of miles of front lines.
And then, it ain't just us and the Czechs anymore. Real Ivan and Real Uncle Sam show, complete with tanks, armored cars, attack helicopters.
And then I imagine that famous scene from Star Wars 86. You know the one, Dantesque, apocolyptic. Huge columns of thick black smoke, plumes of flames shooting hundreds of feet into the air. I imagine myself in it. Why not? Isn't dying better than ending up in some nursing home where the staff are rude and the dessert portions too small?
Gradually, I realize someone has wrapped an arm around me. Slowly, reluctantly, I drag myself back into the here and now.
It's Heidi. She speaks quietly, we'll certainly never be heard with all the noise around us. "You ok, Rachel?"
Way too quick, "oh yes."
"So, lemme guess, you were ah hoping something happens over there."
"How'd you know?"
"Not hard to figger. The look on your face. It seems a little strange when someone hums Battle Hymn of the Republic, then switches to the theme song of Star Wars 86."
I blush fiercely.
Kind tone, "look kid, just promise me two things."
"What?"
"First, don't be the one who fires that first shot. Second, if someone near you does, tackle them fast. See if Ivan hears one shot only, he'll think it's just a deer getting shot in the forest. More than one, you never know how Ivan might react."
"Ok, I promise that."
Gentle tone, "kid, I feel the same way myself. Bring it on. If it happens, good. But just don't start it."
"I see, so sitting next to me was no accident? Sarge sent you?"
"Nope, decided myself. But you know, read enough history and you'll find out you almost always get cheated. It's the sort like these (waves her hand) that end up wiped out. People who are afraid to die. Those who would welcome it, it rarely comes. They finish wars, alive, unscratched and with a half dozen decorations. Fate is perverse, you see."
I sigh.
"But if it does happen, well enjoy."

Nuremberg Tour 28

I'm one of the very few non-smokers in our unit. There are cultural reasons for that, growing up in Guyana. There, a man is more or less expected to confine himself to a ten-pack per week and the tolerance for women is zero. In fact, it was outside Toronto Airport that I first saw women smoking; and was shocked.
Among Canadian men, the portion is one quarter being light smokers (25 or less per week); 3/4 non-smokers. A heavy smoker who was actually raised in Canada is a rarity; though some first generation male immigrants indulge.
Among Canadian women, the portion is 1/4 heavy, 3/4 light and almost no total abstainers, except for foreign raised women. Among Canadian Native women, the portions are reversed: 3/4 heavy and 1/4 light.
Mary, from the Lilac Valley Indian Reserve, approaches me. She definitely gives off an aura of stale tobacco. "Lance, do me a favor."
"I've told you before, it's first name, like everyone else, call me Rachel."
"Ok Lance, I mean Rachel. Look, I better send a couple letters before we go. Write for me please."
"Ok."
The first letter is rather sedate, almost boring, going to her mother. The second, rather steamy, going to her boyfriend. By the time I've finished writing this, I'm blushing a little more than I would like.
"Why do you ask me to write stuff like this? Surely, one of the others?"
"Rachel, there's a reason I'd never dare ask anyone else. You see, everyone else would laugh at me, you don't, you just blush."
"Go on."
"No, it's true. All have far more knowledge of kink than me, just laugh at stuff like this. You don't. But you watch, once I hang around them enough, I'll learn lots more too."
I groan inwardly. Still, as a L/Cpl or M/Cpl, it's sort of your duty to help out with things like this. I find myself wondering why the Army doesn't exempt from draft those below a certain education level. Still, in a way, that would be the camel's nose in the tent. Once you make your first exception to the lottery principle, soon there will more. History provides a good example when it gets out of hand. During the Viet Nam epoch, the draft was largely unfair to Blacks. Here, well whoever you are, your odds are equal. So, though the draft may be a pain in the butt, at least it's an equal, non-discriminatory pain in the butt.

Nuremberg Tour 27

As Sarge brings rationality to the combatants, everyone stands around taking in the show. Purely by chance, Sarah and I are the ones nearest to the front door.
A tap on my shoulder causes me to halfway turn. As my eyes focus on the Lt insignia and not the face, a Guyanese accent addresses me, "sorry to interupt. Could you direct me to the CO's office please?"
I focus on the face. It's Indira, from school days in Rose Hall. As I recall, I haven't seen her since age twelve, when her family emigrated to Canada.
"Recognize me?" I ask cheerfully.
She reaches out, takes off my beret, looks, then gasps, "it's you." Then her glance catches the name tag "Goldberg". She positively gushes, "you don't have your hair Guyanese length anymore. Other than that, you haven't changed a bit."
And now suddenly I feel embarrassed for her. She's like that, all friendly and nice, but no concept of how often she verbally shoots herself in the foot. I mean come on, how cruel can you get? For one woman (well built herself) to tell another she hasn't changed since age twelve is pretty bad. Still, I don't get offended, I know how she is.
"I really gotta rush now, where is the CO's office?"
I point, "up that staircase, second door on the left. Can't miss it, it's labelled."
As she leaves Sarah says, "who else other than our new replacement?"
"That would be my guess."
"I was watching your face when that happened. You were pretty hurt, but managed not to show it. How old were you exactly when she saw you last?"
My voice is a little huskier than I'd like, "twelve."
"So that b**** was calling you a twelve year old girl. Why that is ..."
"Chill, she's not like that. Not cruel, just talks without thinking, gets into trouble."
"Considering how antsy all these draftees are here, she's gonna hafta enrol in Tact 101 courses pronto or end up in big trouble over there."
"Chill, all the time she patrols around, post to post, she's in the company of Sarge. Sarge will keep her sensible."
"I sure hope so. We already got enough people problems as it is."
I groan inwardly. I don't dislike Indira at all, in fact I actually like her. It's just, well, we could have met under better circumstances.

Nuremberg Tour 26

Our family moved to Canada when I was fifteen. Father experimented with newspapers. He soon discontinued the Globe and Mail, as they were, quote, "a bunch of leftwing pinko pseudo-intellectual Commie fags."
He liked National Post for two reasons: pro-Israeli editorial stance and extensive stock market coverage, being a market player himself.
For the local daily he had nothing but contempt. Little news of any import, it served one purpose only in his view: a guide to modern consumerism. As in reviews of movies, cars, endless computer games and upgrades, travel, fashion, condos, houses, renovations.
He raked in the bucks, it was Mother's job to read all that nonsense in the local daily and spend them.
I choose not to condemn any paper. If they survive over time, it's proof positive they are connecting with their reader base. It's just, well, they sure don't connect with me. Catch the news for free by clicking on CBC website. I'm not a card-carrying suit, participating in rampant consumerism, so pretty much the whole paper is irrelevent to me.
What I do read is the free commuter daily, Monday to Friday, tabloid size, 24 pages, most of it ads. Least it isn't as tedious as the suit's paper. It's a way to pass some time on the bus to the Armory in the mornings.
My hand shakes as I see the headline, and large photo. It's the eyes-too-bright Lt who lectured us on geopolitics. She's a reservist, scheduled to be on the tour.
She won't be going, being held without bail. An accountant for a medium size firm, an audit turned up the fact she embezzled $800,000 over three years. It's all vanished, into the slots of VLT's (video lottery terminals) in bars.
I shrug. She was a nutcase anyhow. Whoever is replacement is bound to be better.
The Armory is pandemonium this morning. We're to depart at 1:00 pm, lotta last minute jobs to do. There is no mil airport in our city. The civvy one doesn't have a runway big enough to handle our cargo plane, which dwarves the Antonov of old.
Charter buses will haul us to a nearby base and we'll spend the night in the air over the pond.
Soon, there's nothing left to do in our group, Farzana and I having checked everything. So I end up in conversation with Sarah, Heidi's L/Cpl.
"Ah I'm a little curious. Wouldn't it have been better if you were in Naomi's group? After all, Heidi is a German."
Sarah snorts with derision, "how old-fashioned can you get? You were hanging out with that author a way too much."
I blush.
"Get with the modern age. Labels are largely a thing of the past. I'd never wanna be with a smart ass like Naomi. Give a Jew a position of power and they go berserk on you."
"They do?"
"Sure they do. Besides, Heidi and are into the same computer games, became good friends. I don't give a rat's ass she's German."
"Then you mean, Anne is gonna have problems, being Naomi's L/Cpl?"
For answer, Sarah pokes my arm, points. Anne and Naomi are standing nose to nose, in heated argument.
Sarah chuckles, "see, told you." We both laugh.
Heidi, walking near by, points and then sighs, "I better talk with her, again. Average tour she goes through three or four L/Cpls. Nobody wants to stay with her, move to different groups."
Heidi continues walking away.
"So Sarah," I ask, "that fiance of yours must be heart broken?"
"Unlikely, he's not a real fiance."
"No?"
"You really are outa things, so old-fashioned. You have seen him, didn't you catch wise he's gay?"
I gasp.
"Each help each other. By pretending to be fiances, gets his parents off his back and mine too."
"Sooner or later, you run outa time with lies like that."
"Not likely Sherlock. Reason we can't get married yet is - gasp - he hasn't finished his accounting designation courses yet."
"I see, and the pace he's going, he'll be forty when that happens?"
She laughs wickedly, "you're not so hopeless after all."
"Isn't it simpler if you're like me and my parents? Keep it hostile, don't hafta invent lies."
"Ever read any Elie Wiesel?"
"Nope, I avoid that stuff."
"According to him, lies are for the living, truth for the dead."
"Oh."
"Look Rachel, do I hafta spell it out in kindergarten terms for you? There's a reason you were stuck with that boyfriend among the living dead. You just plain don't know, and won't make the effort to learn, what sorts of lies Canadians tell each other."
"And you do?"
"For Chrissake you idiot, do you think I get boyfriends like yours? No, my real BF is Tony, one hot hot Italian, who just happens to be a trainer with the pro hockey team. I can't show him to the parents or they'd go postal."
"I see, so you and this phony Jewish fiance, it's a mutual exchange of coverage. Since you both benefit, it stays stable over time."
She smiles proudly, like a prof whose dull student aced the exam. "There, see, you do catch on after all. Besides, he doesn't hafta lie forever. I mean, once he inherits the family business ..."
I groan inwardly. Often I wonder about people. Why do they bother with the craziness they do? But then it starts to dawn, "ah you mean Tony knows about, accepts this phony Jewish fiance you have?"
Laughs, "and why would he not? He has one of those too. Nice Italian girl, Catholic, to parade in front of both sets of parents on religious holidays. She's in no hurry to get married, being a closet lesbian."
Despite myself, I laugh.
Sarah playfully punches my arm, "see, already the Army is broadening your horizons."
Our attention is diverted as Sarge moves in to break up the duel between Naomi and Anne. Something tells me this is gonna be one long tour, glacier pace of time passing. Oy!!