Splash! It hit her on the front of her raincoat, and she stared at it in wonder as it slowly dripped to the ground, leaving a huge stain on the front of the beige fabric.

“Dirty Nell, stinks like hell!” A skinny red-haired boy about her age stood grinning. Two smaller boys, white-haired twins, standing behind him also taunting her, hoping she’d pick up a rock, a stick – anything – to give them an excuse to really hurt her. Nellie had no idea why they were so mean. She knew them from school. The twins, Pim and Sim, were already in fourth grade while she was still struggling in third. And the other lad, Kees or Cees, went to a different school. But she’d never talked to them. Nellie just stared at the bullies, flustered, blinking, wondering why they yelled this ugly stuff. She turned and walked with long, stiff strides across the muddy, freshly ploughed field to the orchard.

The boys followed her close behind, mocking, yelling insults. “You were born dumb, go suck your thumb!” They urged her to run, but she strode unhurriedly toward the cast-iron gate, knowing they wouldn’t follow her inside. Not after what happened to one of the other village boys last fall. He’d gone to steal some apples, climbed over the barbed wire fence, slipped, and fell on the iron spikes of the gate, impaling his leg. Uncle Henk found him next morning, hanging from the gate like a rag; he had bled to death. So many awful things had happened last fall and the following winter: many people in the city starved or froze to death after the Germans stole the food and fuel, and she recalled people eating tulip bulbs and cats in desperation. “Roof rabbits” they called them; she hadn’t understood – not really – until her lovely white cat Mimi disappeared and some time later the neighbours wore new white mittens. “Rabbit skins,” they said, snickering, but she knew better. She’d cried for days.

“Nellie the nit! Full of shit!” The boys were standing some ten yards bak, keeping a respectful distance away, afraid Uncle Henk might be hiding in the gloomy orchard.

She sighed, took a key from a pocket in her black skirt and opened the gate. Just as she entered, a heavy, stone-laden sod hit her in the back and she stumbled and fell. “Bull’s eye!” the boys cheered.

Clambering to her feet, she wiped off the dirt and carefully locked the gate behind her, just as Uncle Henk had taught her. She didn’t look at her tormentors, who were still throwing things, but walked slowly between the rows of scruffy cherry and apple trees. Most of the young trees hadn’t survived the long mean winter, despite all the care Uncle Henk had taken to wrap them in burlap and straw. Rows of skeletons stood trembling sadly in the light spring breeze. Nellie stopped, observing the damage. The grass had grown at least a foot, and everywhere poison ivy, brambles and weeds had shot up among the fallen dead branches. But the older trees hadn’t suffered too badly. Nellie smiled when she saw that a few had even started to sprout. Those at the centre of the orchard were especially lovely, their many leaflets already peeking out from their buds.

It started to rain a little and Nellie pulled up the collar of her coat; she felt mud sliding down her neck. Shivering, she went deeper into the orchard. The rain was making small noises, drumming gently on the branches, rustling the leaves and the grass. Nellie walked up to one of the oldest and largest apple trees and pressed her body against its gnarled trunk, embracing it, feeling its power.

“I love you,” she murmured. “I’m so sorry for your dead children.” She began to hum a song that Rinus, her clever brother who played the oboe in the city’s symphony orchestra, had taught her, but she couldn’t remember the words and paused, listening instead to the song of the wind and the rain.

Far away a dog barked. Max! She peered through the trees but couldn’t yet see him. Max sounded quite angry and barked another warning, much closer now. Then she heard Uncle Henk cursing and swearing.

She pushed herself away from the tree and walked to the chicken wire fence. The three boys were running in their socks, clutching their wooden shoes. Max was in hot pursuit but stopped when the kids jumped a wide ditch; one of the twins missed and fell back into the water. The red-haired boy reached out and pulled his smaller friend out of the muck. The kid’s wooden shoes drifted away as he crawled up the muddy bank, crying.

Uncle Henk slapped his thighs and laughed. Nellie couldn’t understand what was so funny. Then Henk whistled and Max came running back, barking and tail wagging, also happy about the boy’s misfortune, laughing too.Her uncle walked to the gate, pushing his sturdy bike. The wooden tires clattered on the wet cobblestones.

“Hide,” she whispered, and ran with an awkward looping gait back to her tree. She stood stock-still, not breathing.

The gate flung open with a rusty squeak, giving her a funny, creepy feeling all the way down to her tailbone. She heard the sharp panting of the dog as he strained at the chain; she felt a strange mixture of fright and joy. Would they catch her?Max gave a sharp bark and almost yanked the chain from Uncle Henk’s hand; the dog choked and coughed as her uncle roughly pulled him back. “Whoah, Max. Easy boy. Easy!” Max whimpered and pulled on the chain again, more gently now, and Uncle Henk dropped his bike and followed him.

“Whooeee!” Nellie jumped from behind the tree.

Her uncle leaped back, feigning fright. “Dammit Nellie! Don’t do that. Might give your old unk a heart attack.”

Max jumped up and put his muddy paws on her shoulders, licking her face, but Uncle Henk was not amused. “What you doin, here, girl? And how come you’re so damn filthy?”

“No filth. It’s manure,” she said, blinking, confused by his anger.

He towered over his tow-headed, mentally retarded shrimp of a niece and, as he looked into her strange green eyes, his anger melted. A smile eased his big red face. “Yeah, bullshit, that’s what that is. Anyway, what are you up to, pipsqueak?”

Nellie blushed, she didn’t like it when he swore. Had he been drinking again? She wondered, though she didn’t smell booze. “Oh…uhm…Just looking,” she muttered.

“At what?”

“I…” She shrugged and made a sweeping hand gesture, “at all this here…”

Max barked sharply and moved about nervously. Far away a heavy continuous rumble could be heard.

“Thunderstorm?” Nellie asked.

Uncle Henk cocked his ears. “Nah. Cannon fire. The Canucks are only fifty clicks away.”

Nellie looked blankly at him. “Who?”

“The Canucks. Uhh… Canadians,” he added, seeing the look of confusion on her face.

“Canadians,” she repeated. She liked the sound of the word although it meant nothing to her. But so many things meant nothing to her. That’s why she would have to go to a special school, though not this year. Maybe next – the school had been closed after two teachers were dragged away by the Germans. People whispered they were members of the resistance. Nellie wasn’t sure what that was – resistance, against what? who? In any case, nobody knew what happened to those two.

The dog was very restless: yapping and yelping and dragging Uncle Henk towards the gate. Nellie followed slowly, wondering what the strange growling hum was. It grew louder and louder, and suddenly an awful, screeching whine raged overhead.

“Duck!” Uncle Henk yelled as he dove headlong into the grass.

Nellie stood paralyzed, gaping at two strange-looking planes that came streaking toward her, almost touching the treetops. They were gone in seconds, and she wondered if she was having a nightmare, but her ears hurt and she covered them with both hands.

“Farking Jesus! Boy that was close,” Uncle Henk scrambled to his feet.

“Canucks?” Nellie asked.

“Nah. Must be Yankee fighters. Mustangs.”

“Mustangs? Like horses?”

Uncle Henk didn’t reply but ran to the fence. Nellie joined him and together they watched as the planes streaked low across the fields to the forest and hills a few kilometres away.

“Jesus-Judas!” Uncle Henk shook his head. “That wood’s full of Krauts!”

They heard a sudden, sharp burst of heavy machine guns, then the slow, deep booming ack-ack of a German anti-aircraft gun. The fighters swerved, climbed and looped, avoiding the burst of flak. Then they came back.

Nellie watched, mesmerized, grabbing her uncle’s sleeve for support. From beneath the tiny fragile-looking wings, orange sparks bloomed and sputtered like firecrackers. And the sounds! Ugly and scary. It hurt and hurt. She stuffed her fingers in her ears as deep as she could.

A long, yellow flame shot from one of the planes, followed by a dirty grey plume of smoke.

“Bleeding Christ!” Uncle Henk was trembling. Before Nellie could ask what happened, the fighter keeled over, made one desperate effort to climb, and then tumbled like a sick autumn leaf to the ground. From the cockpit a tiny stick figure enveloped in flame cartwheeled to the earth.

Uncle Henk made a funny, choking noise, and Nellie turned to look at him. His face was pale.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He cleared his throat and spat. “Come on. Let’s go home before the Yanks start bombing this place.” He grabbed her roughly by the arm, jerking her away from the fence; then he whistled sharply, and Max came back, cowering, tail between his legs, shaking.

Uncle Henk picked up his bike and tied the dog to it. “Move it, pipsqueak.” His large hand tousled Nellie’s hair kindly, and he gave her a push on the back. “Walk as fast as you can.”

Nellie tried to keep pace with him as he strode towards the gate, pushing his bike with one hand. When they reached the cobblestone road, he lifted her roughly and put her onto the bike’s center bar. Then he ran a few steps and jumped in the saddle. He nearly slipped on the greasy road, and the iron bands of his clogs scraped the stones, screeching like furies, shooting sparks, but he regained his balance and his powerful legs kicked and wheeled the heavy bike forwards.

Nellie felt his big chest heaving against her head; she felt his heart pounding and his breath in her hair. It worried her. She tried not to think of it and instead watching the racing clouds and trees and the puddles on the road. She tried to catch the rain in her open mouth but the wind kept chasing the drops away. She closed her eyes, enjoying the weird dizziness as she tried to guess where she was. When she finally looked up, they were already close to the farm. The large green house lay hidden in a clump of tall poplars surrounded by fields and meadows stretching to the horizon.

As soon as they entered the driveway, Aunt Hermien came running from the house.

“Did you see that plane crash? she yelled. “Thank God you’re back safe, Hendrik.” She kissed him furtively as he came to a halt. “Oh, hello, girl,” she gave Nellie a quick nod, but did not look at her directly. “Listen, Hendrik, we must go to the  city. All the neighbours have already left. The fighting will start pretty soon around here, I betcha.”

“The city?” Uncle Henk grumbled. “Where are we gonna stay for Chris’ sakes?”

“With her brother, right girl?” Aunt Hermien gave Nellie a hard look, almost threatening. Nellie blushed and nodded quickly. She saw that Aunt Hermien was very nervous, beads of sweat glistened on her nose. Nellie tried to count the drops but Auntie moved too fast. She pulled her husband’s arm.

“Come on, Hendrik. Get the horse! We still can make it before curfew.”

“Okay, okay,” Uncle Henk shrugged. “You go ahead and make some tea and sandwiches.”

“Tea? What tea?” Auntie’s voice was an octave higher. “What are you talking about? We ran out of tea weeks ago. All we’ve left is some lousy ersatz coffee.”

Uncle Henk untied the dog and handed him over to Nellie. “Well, whatever. Get the kid some grub before we hit the road, woman. Otherwise Rinus will think you’re tryin’ to starve her.”

Aunt Hermien shot Nellie a worried glance and ran after her husband as he walked to the stable.

Nellie stood in the pouring rain, listening to Auntie’s high-pitched voice as she argued with her husband. She tried to put Max into his doghouse but the chain got all tangled up. “Sorry, Maxie. Can’t do. Clumsy me,” she whispered.

Max barked and licked her hands. The chain came undone and she swiftly put Max in his cozy house.

Uncle Henk strode out of the stable, followed by a grim-looking Aunt Hermien. “Okay, Pipsqueak,” he grumbled. “You go inside by the fire.” Then he turned to his jittery wife and patted her big behind. “And you, calm down, before I spank you.”

Aunt Hermien giggled and squirmed just out of reach. Blushing like a beet, Nellie fled into the house.

The road along the canal was a sheet of glistening water as the rain drummed an odd beat on the asphalt. It sounded like whispered promises. Nellie cocked her ears, trying hard to understand, but the rain kept its secrets. She listened to the harsher sounds of the mare’s hooves and the squealing of the cart’s wheels as they rode to town. Sometimes the wind sent a message through the tall poplars and the telephone poles, sighing and whistling in yet another code. Nellie wondered if people would try to talk on the phone now. Rinus had said the phone lines had been cut by the Germans, and the lines were deader than dodoes. Nellie never knew what he meant by that. What were dodoes?

“Birds that are very much dead, indeed,” Rinus had said.

“Extinct means even deader than our Mom and Dad?” she’d asked.

“Yes, even deader than they.”

Nellie shivered despite the warm blanket and she snuggled deeper into the cart’s interior. Thinking about her parents, killed in a car crash when she was only three years old, always hurt like crazy; she had taught herself to stop those thoughts in their tracks. Easy: just like stopping a sneeze by pushing your finger on your upper lip. Shifting her thoughts she stared hard at Bontje, the mare. She felt sorry for her and poor Max, trotting sadly behind the wagon. Bontje shook her mane, as if she knew Nellie was thinking about her, and sent a shower of droplets flying; then she slowed down to better hear Nellie’s thoughts.

“Come on, old nag. Git goin,” Uncle Henk yelled.

“Use the whip,” Aunt Hermien said. “We gotta be there before curfew.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll make it easy,” Uncle Henk replied, but he grabbed the whip and tapped the mare lightly on her brown buttocks.

Nellie winced.The wind grew stronger, breaking up the low clouds and showing patches of blue sky and thin streaks of sunlight. Nellie watched in fascination as the lovely rays shot out from the dark sky, painting the fields and meadows golden. The wind and the rain blew odd, indigo shadows across the choppy wavelets of the canal with a deep humming and roaring.

Bontje raised her head and whinnied, laying her ears back flat on her neck. Nellie crawled to the front of the cart; she stood and peeked at the patch of sky between her Uncle and Aunt’s shoulders. The shimmering, ever-changing light played tricks on her and she couldn’t see much. Nellie squinted, shading her eyes. She saw a long gray snake move along the road coming from the opposite direction. “Look, motorcars,” she said.

“Oh Lord… Krauts!” Aunt Hermien groaned. “Quick, Hendrik, hide the food.”

Uncle Henk turned to Nellie. “Okay, pipsqueak. You heard your aunt.”

Nellie grabbed the food basket and nearly dropped it. It was much heavier than she expected.

“Dammit, be careful,” Uncle Henk snarled. “Here, gimme that blanket. Quick.” Before Nellie could react, he reached back with one hand and yanked the blanket off Nellie’s shoulders and flung it over the basket.

Aunt Hermien wrung her hands. “Hope they won’t find it.”

Uncle Henk shrugged. “Don’t worry, love. I think they got more important things on their minds than a bunch of local yokels.”

The German convoy was now just fifty meters or so away. Nellie stared in fascination at the strange cars. In front were two sidecar-motorbikes; inside helmeted riders and passengers hunched over and bundled up against the cold rain. They were followed by a small black sedan flying the swastika flag, and behind it a column of open trucks full of dripping soldiers. Nellie counted ten vehicles, but more were coming around the bend and she lost track.

The convoy moved fast, rumbling and clattering, throwing up pieces of dirty asphalt from the broken road. Nellie hid under the blanket, clutching the basket, just peeking through a tiny opening as the Germans approached. Max hid too; she heard him whimpering underneath the wagon.

At the tail end of the convoy were two ambulances: large red crosses clearly visible from afar. When the Germans reached them, the sedan stopped and an officer stuck his head from the window, beckoning them to halt. Uncle Henk pulled the reigns, but the mare refused to stand still, pawing the road, jerking the cart to and fro. Uncle Henk cursed and again yanked hard at the reigns.

The officer clambered out and grabbed Bontje’s halter, rubbing her nose, saying crazy-sounding words to her. To Nellie’s surprise it worked, for Bontje calmed down. Nellie thought the officer looked gorgeous in his shiny boots and peaked cap. But she gazed fearfully at the pistol on his hip; he must’ve read her mind for he gave her a mean cold stare, and she withdrew her head like a turtle.

“Where from you?” The officer asked in broken Dutch.

Uncle Henk jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Thataway.”

“You see plane shoot down?”

“Huh? Plane? What plane?” Henk said, straight-faced.

The officer frowned and his jaw muscles strained. “Scheisse Hollander,” he said through clenched teeth, then hit the mare hard on the flank. Bontje bolted and ran.

Nellie tumbled backwards into the car. The soldiers just stared at her – too tired to crack a joke – not even whistling at Aunt Hermien. They looked so young, just kids; helmets wobbling on their skinny, dirty necks.

The convoy moved on, grinding and shaking the ground. Nellie stared hard at the ambulances as they passed by; she thought she heard groaning and whimpering but it could have been the wind.

A high, whining roar sent Bontje into a frenzied gallop, flanks oozing yellow foam. Aunt Hermien screamed, then started to pray aloud.

From a sunny patch of sky a formation of fighter planes dove onto the convoy, machine guns ablaze, strafing. Soldiers dove, jumped, fell into the canal and on the road, bleeding, screaming, dying – others crawled beneath the trucks, raising their rifles, shooting back.

Nellie watched in terror as one of the ambulances smashed into a truck, careened into the canal and sank. The sedan caught fire and crashed into a tree. She saw the officer crawling out on hands and knees; he’d lost his cap and his face and hands were red. He groped around blindly, then, clambering to his feet, he pulled his pistol and started shooting at the murderous sky.

The planes came back; roaring, diving, flying just meters above the road, shooting, maiming, killing.

Uncle Henk looked back, his face a deadly pallor. The whip lashed the mare’s back raw.

“Run, goddammit! Run!”

Aunt Hermien’s voice shook as she prayed, “O Lord, don’t kill us Please, have mercy on our souls. Don’t kill us Lord!”

And then, as mysterious as the light streaming from the sky, Nellie was calm. The bullets tore the road to shreds she watched the parallel rows of death-spewing fiery fountains run closer and closer. Then they were upon them, ripping though the cart.

It was over in seconds; she watched in a daze as the wagon spun around and overturned. She saw herself flying through the air and crashing onto the road. She looked at her uncle and aunt as they lay awkwardly in a pool of blood beside the kicking, screaming horse; she saw Max’s crushed boy beneath the cart, and she stared in wonder as her coat slowly turned red. She felt no pain, only fatigue. She lay on the road, gazing up at the scarlet sky. It was clear now. It would be a lovely sunset.

The frame was broken, so his long body slumped to one side, making him look like he’d slip off at any second. He rested his head on his hand, and his clear blue eyes blinked sleepily as he watched the sun set over Blind Bay. He coughed and wheezed a few times and said, “I think this winter will be my last, Leni.”

I looked up at him from my bucket of dishes soaked in seawater and asked, “Why do you say that, Mr. Picken?”

“I’m old now,” he said. “I’ve lived a good life, you know. I lived some of the best years this country had to offer. I was only 15 when I left home to travel Canada in search of gainful employment. One of my first jobs was selling an aphrodisiac made of ground up elk horns. I made a decent living at it too!” He looked over at me. “Your generation, well…” He smiled at me, concealing his pity with a wink. “I don’t know what’s going to be left for my grandkids, your generation will be ok, but your children’s children?”

I waited for a pause to speak. Having heard this story many times before, I asked, “How do you know this is your last winter, John? You can’t just wake up and ask for a heart attack.”

“Oh yes I can!” he declared with pure determination. “All I have to do is slip into the sea, I’ll get hypothermia instantly and shed this mortal coil. It happened before, in Great Bear Lake; within ten minutes I was paralyzed and if I hadn’t had the strength of a young buck to drag myself out, I would have been dead.”

I smiled and continued to wash the salty dishes. “You’d think you’d get used to the water after being a sailor for so long?” I asked, suspicious of his lark, a word he taught me.

“I’ve always been terrified of water,” he said. “I don’t know how to swim and I don’t care to learn.”

I laughed and said, “I wonder how you survived to be this old, John?”

He replied, “Good reflexes, good balance, no fear, and a hell of a lot of good luck!”

“Well, I don’t want you to go.” I pouted.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said. “I won’t be gone for good. I think I’d like to become a dolphin, travel the seven seas… although, with what they’re putting in the water these days, it’s not even safe for a dolphin.” He paused and said, “I’ve seen a lot in my time.”

Mr. Picken leaned back in his chair and looked to be lost in his thoughts. I reveled in the strangeness of our companionship, a young woman and an old man on a desolate island. I had met Mr. Picken when I was 19, hitchhiking down the coast to Vancouver. I used to get onto the ferry and ask everyone I saw if they had room for me. I saw John from behind, sitting by himself reading the paper. I approached him and said, “Hi. Would you happen to be traveling to the next ferry?”

“Yes ma’am!” he replied, “I’m guessing you want a ride? People ask me for rides all the time. I think it’s because they think I look like Santa Claus.” He chuckled.

Once I told him that I was just returning from India, he said that if I ever needed work, I should call him. He was looking for a hardy girl that could handle rustic living, and could work for him on his oyster farm on Nelson Island. He told me, “I prefer to hire women because the guys always want to play with my toys!” He was referring to his vast collection of power tools that were scattered across his 10-acre property, most notably ‘Lola,’ his KX41 Kubota Excavator, which, in the 6 years I’ve known him, he’s only let me use once!

I could hear the waves splashing against the rocks under the house. I listened for the seagulls fighting over the slime left from my oyster trays, creatures you could never imagine were hatched on the West Coast. John came out of his dreams.

“I had fun alright,” said Mr. Picken. “No regrets whatsoever, it’s your generation I pity. We had a free-for-all! Lots of good jobs, a clean environment… Yes, I lived at the right time.”

A flicker of sadness flashed across his face, as it always did when he talked about the end of his winters. I always wished that the sadness was for me, that he was thinking about how he would miss me, my cooking, my ever-listening ears, the years that I had dedicated to him and his island. After each expedition into the world, I always returned to the calm and quiet of his sea shanty. When I returned from my last adventure abroad, after a particularly nasty bout of dysentery, he took me in and fed me. I plotted out gardens, some of which I had been plotting for years, some half-planted, and all the beds that would not grow on the rocky shores of Nelson Island. I painted and rebuilt, in some cases for the third time, the tiny cabins speckling his property, all infested with squirrel nests and mould. He had built the cabins for his three children when they hit puberty. “I don’t mind rock and roll,” he would say, “but there was no way I was living with those rug rats once they started growing facial hair!”

I would dive naked into the bay at every sunset and imagine that all my fears and desolation were stripped away. I would then return to the house for supper and the endless stories that Mr. Picken gave me, again and again, as if they were being recited for memorization so that I might pass them on. But our bond was not created by catching up on each others’ lives, or the looking back, it was about surviving from day to day, and I think we both understood that it was a gift. His sadness was not for me, but the sadness that comes with the life and thoughts of death of Mr. Picken, death that would bring an end to the meaningfulness of his memories, of his life.

“John,” I asked, “how are you going to get hypothermia when we have all these oysters to split? And with summer approaching fast, that water’s getting warm…”

“Oh, I guess I’ll have to wait until next winter,” he replied.

“So this isn’t your last winter, it’s your second-to-last winter?” I smirked, licking the salty plates just for the joy of knowing they were washed in the sea. Mr. Picken stood up and walked to the sliding glass door overlooking the bay.

“Well maybe it’s cold enough,” he said with crossed arms. He pushed his black felt hat back and thought it over.

“You’re sure as hell not offing yourself while I’m around,” I blurted. He turned and smiled at me.

“Well perhaps I’ll fire you!” I looked down and started drying the plates, as impossible as it was. “You know dear,” he said, “I would have the makings of a great hermit, if I didn’t love women so much!”

“I’m sure you would, John, I’m sure you would.”

He raised his arms as if to remember something. “Let’s have a glass of sherry.”

I brought over two plastic glasses three-quarters full of sherry and sat beside the old man.

“To summer,” I said, raising my glass.

“You’re the devil’s mistress,” he said.

The two sisters never agreed upon anything. Erika and Eva were five years apart, the oldest daughters of the Mezoi family. They looked after their younger sister, Janka, barely a young woman of twelve years old, an impressionable child. Their parents were hiding from the Russian Army’s interrogation squad in Budapest, and the women had not known their location for months. The bitter Soviet-German fighting of the Second World War left Budapest in ruins. The population of Hungary didn’t know who the real enemy was, the German Gestapo or the Russian Communist Army.

The Mezoi’s story was not unlike others of its time and place; in their very apartment building nearly every family was missing a father, many were missing both parents. For example, the Erdolyis, a family with four young boys who lived in an apartment at the back of the courtyard, had to get by on their mother’s meager mending wages after their father went off to fight .They were a sweet, loving family and had been favored by Mrs. Mezoi. In the earlier years of the war the sisters would invite them for supper. Now there was barely enough to feed themselves and their young sister Janka.

Erika was an exuberant young woman in her late twenties, with golden hair. Before the war, she was waiting to marry a well-to-do Jewish lawyer. She had many suitors, as she was a beautiful petite daughter of a prominent family. Eva on the other hand, at twenty, was fragile as porcelain. Her dress showed signs of age, her thick, black hair was piled up in front as if she had too many curls to let loose across her pallid face. She appeared nervous and spoke too quickly, perhaps because she had too much to say and nobody to listen.

The kitchen smelled of wood fire this afternoon. Faded blouses from the wash were hanging over the stove on a string. The three women were cooking as they listened to the transistor radio, which was playing popular gypsy music.

“It is laundry day!” shouted Erika. “Janka, you must hang up the sheets to dry in the attic.”

Janka was playing in the dining room adjoining the kitchen, She listened to her sister and picked up the laundry basket near Erika’s feet. She walked with the heavy laundry basket up the narrow stairs leading to the attic of the five-story apartment. She wore her aunt’s hand-me-down dress and her long black hair was woven into two braids.

The attic, which was used by all the tenants in the building for hanging laundry, was a wall-to-wall maze of criss-crossing ropes extending a square city block. The many quiet sheets hanging in the attic were particularly eerie that day. The rising warmth from wood stoves below mixed with cool air of leaking roof tiles and gave the white fabrics fantastic shapes as they moved from side to side. With each undulation Janka imagined someone or something hiding behind them. Planks were laid down in front of her, put there as a path across the supports of the dusty floor. They balanced only one foot above the ceiling of the apartments below. With each step they wobbled, making Janka almost lose her balance Walking with her burdensome basket became harder as she made the journey around the three corners of the apartment. “You make sure to go to the end of the attic that is ours,” Erika had said, “the Mezoi family section.” Janka had a habit of shortcuts, and resented her sisters’ motherly directives, but on this day intended to do things properly.

In the apartment below, the sisters were preparing supper. Erika was quietly sitting at the kitchen table peeling potatoes, which were a major staple food in war-torn Budapest. Her thoughts were of the Jewish lawyer she loved, afraid for his safety from being rounded up into ghettos by Hungarian Nazis and taken to the labour camps. A plucked chicken was hanging upside down, with its legs tied to the leg of the kitchen table, bleeding into a bowl.

“Eva, if you refuse to help me, I cannot predict what will happen with the supper,” Erika said.

“Well, Erika, this is a fine mess you are in, but as you know I have more to do than peel potatoes tonight!” Eva replied.

Worn thin by the toil and hard work of their days, the sisters found it more and more difficult to be civil with one another in their daily routine. There was no one left to be pleasant for, no parties to host, no suitors parading around the courtyard deciding which girl they liked best, the bold and beautiful Erika or the shy and stoic Eva, and yet, they completed their tasks as if their mother was watching over them, making sure the apartment was always in order.

“You were so lucky, Eva, to see the gypsy woman selling chickens on the street. The poor woman really needed the money! It will be a feast for us tonight!” Erika said.

“Where is Janka? Isn’t she taking too long up there in the attic?”

There was no electricity in the attic, so all work had to be done during daylight hours. In the fading sun of the evening, Janka’s body threw shadows on the sheets ahead, The laundry basket in Janka’s arms became heavier and heavier as she walked, and the planks below her weighed down between the supports. Laundry day happened on a rare occasion, due to the lack of clean water and soap. It always came too soon in Janka’s mind. Her sisters had many chores in the house, and when they weren’t working inside, they were finding food for their diminished family. Janka was assigned to the more simple tasks, like stringing laundry and collecting root vegetables from the cellar for soup on Sunday. Janka turned around to the last stretch of the attic in the darkening sky of the December evening when she noticed a sheet hanging heavily in the distance, unlike the others, not moving.

The sisters were nearing the final preparations of their supper.

“I’ve been thinking about poor Mrs. Erdolyi,” Erika said sadly as she cut the chicken to fry in their little remaining cooking oil.

“Yes,” said Eva, biting her lip. “What about her?”

“How this woman suffers,” continued Erika. “For example, Mrs. Erdolyi, her husband is a freedom fighter, he is away all the time. She alone has to keep the children with food and clothing in these cold days of winter.” Erika recalled how they had tried to find shoes for the family after the air raids, so they could go out and play in the courtyard.

Eva spoke with a quiet voice. “Something has happened to her, Erika.”

She stood up quickly from the kitchen table, trying to find something to busy her trembling hands. She continued. “Mrs. Erdolyi disappeared.”

“How do you know?” said Erika defensively.

“The neighbour told me.” Eva stuttered from fear of her sister not believing her. “Only the old lady in the apartment next to them knew she was missing.”

Janka put her laundry basket down and hesitantly approached the strangely-hanging bed sheet. She thought to run down and ask Erika to help her. She thought to herself, “What would Erika say? Perhaps she will scorn me for not doing my job.” There was no time to waste in the darkening attic. With a burst of courage, Janka held her breath and ran towards the bed sheet, then stopped in terror and screamed.

The sisters heard nothing but their own rising voices.

“What do you know? Tell me, Eva!” Erika shouted with her strong piercing voice. “I must know what happened to the poor woman!” Erika looked flustered. “I must go to help the children.”

Eva was alerted by the strong voice of her sister and hurriedly pushed her hair back and replied with as much control as she could summon. “The neighbour told me that in October the German soldiers came looking for strong women to work in the army kitchens. They took her to peel potatoes, you know, to cook. The solders told the children she would be back in a week, that’s what the solders told to the children.”

Eva lowered her head and silence fell upon the two sisters. Everyone knew they used women for slave labour, torture, and acts of rape.

“Where is she now?” asked Erika.

Eva, with her hands still twisted in her apron, replied, “She came back three nights ago and no one has seen her since.”

Erika was trying to hide her distress. She didn’t like to be emotional over other people’s troubles, not in war times. She feared grief one day might consume her.

“I am going to see what Janka is doing, in the attic,” she said and walked out of the second floor apartment.”

In the narrow corridor leading to the staircase of the attic, Erika saw several women running, Someone had been alerted to screaming and they were hurrying up to the attic with flashlights to see what had happened.

Erika ran with them, stumbling across the planks to the end of the attic. Erika pushed ahead to see that Janka was kneeling beside a hanging bed sheet, which was covered in blood. Janka was unfolding another bloody sheet lying on the planks beside her.

“Stop!” screamed Erika, “Let the women handle it, Janka!” She grabbed her stunned baby sister and pulled her back across the long-expanse of the attic to the door. Janka could not remove her eyes from the women huddled in a circle until they were lost in the distance. The women unfolded the sheet and, to their horror, found an aborted fetus inside the heavy, dark folds.

When the women passed each other in the halls, they did not discuss or mention it amongst each other. In times of war, to whom are you to complain? Like all other untold horrors, it was forgotten and nobody asked questions of each other. But the sisters knew deep down in their hearts what happened to Mrs. Erdolyi, and that night they packed up some fried chicken and potatoes and took it down to the family in the back of the courtyard. The ailing Mrs. Erdolyi, who had come back from the labor camp sick and desperate to find food for her children, accepted their gift with a quiet, sheepish gratitude, and ask that they all stay together that night and share the meal.

Janka was never told what contents lay in the sheets; her sisters wanted to protect her from knowing. She had imagined many scenarios until her memories and dreams became inventions, criss-crossing with each other in the web of time blending together with all the blood and secrets she had grown up with during the war, until one day, they were as thin as the white sheets in the apartment attic.

Image courtesy of  Cholmondelly.

To make sense of it all, we enlisted the help of Christopher Neale. Born to a Jewish mother and an Anglican father, Chris grew up with a strong interest in religion. In line with this passion, he returned to school in is late forties, earning a bachelor’s degree in both literature and theology. Currently, he is pursuing his master’s degree in theology through distance education at the University of Wales, England.

In this piece for Lester’s Army, he discusses numerous aspects that concern the original Gospel According to Matthew and analyzes the rewritten version found in The Handwritten Bible. For those feeling extra Divine, the end of the article features a description of the mysterious “Q.” His words are as follows.

Introduction

The document offered for analysis has been meticulously copied from the 1769 edition of the 1611 Authorized Version of the King James Bible. The material before me consisted of seven photocopied pages of a calligraphic document titled “The Gospel According To St. Matthew.” A careful count of the handwritten document revealed that the average page holds 200-220 words.

To prevent any confusion, I will refer to the calligraphist of this document as the copyist. I will refer to the writer of the Gospel as the author, and will use “Matthew” and “The Gospel of Matthew” interchangeably. Without any knowledge of the copyist, I acknowledge that any judgment I offer of his education, rationale, motive, or theology is purely speculative.

Matthew is a narrative about Jesus written in a style that can be best referred to as Greco-Roman biography; a collection of stories that portray Jesus as a powerful, living person. In addition, Matthew appears to be aiming towards a community that was becoming more and more Gentile, but which had strong Jewish roots. The majority view of scholars holds that most of the material particular to Matthew is probably drawn from Palestinian traditions directly. Thus Antioch, Syria may be a likely place where it was written, as the ancient city was noted for both its strong Jewish influence and it’s centrality to Christian life in the Levant.

The Authorship of Matthew

The discussion of who wrote Matthew can be traced far back in to history. In 130 CE, for example, a bishop named Papias from Hierapolis claimed that there was a Semitic original from which the canonical Matthew was translated into Greek. Origins aside, the majority of scholars date the Matthew we know of today to the period 70-100 CE. Alternatively, a significant number of conservative scholars argue for a pre-70 CE dating.

While this is possible, there are weighty arguments against a pre-70 CE dating. For instance, Matthew refers to the destruction of Jerusalem by Roman armies. By virtually all accounts, this took place in 70 CE. Thus, a pre-70 CE dating is unlikely. The controversies with the Pharisees mentioned in Matthew, and the condemnation of the free use of the title “Rabbi” also fits well into the atmosphere of the early rabbinic period, which occurred after 70 CE.

As for who actually wrote Matthew, the debate is far ranging and contentious. Some scholars, in contradiction to Papias, contend that Matthew was composed originally in Greek. But dismissing the various other speculative suggestions, I will instead focus on whether the author of Matthew was Jewish or not. There are at least two strong indicators that provide evidence that the author was Jewish. At the very least, he was exceptionally well versed in Judaic teachings.

First, the author insists throughout the narratives that Jesus continued to adhere to traditional forms of Jewish piety. Secondly, the author went out of his way to affirm that Jesus did not annul the ancient Law of Moses. He argued instead that Jesus fulfilled the Law. More importantly, he insists that all of Jesus’ followers, both Jews and Gentiles, must do so as well. The question becomes then, would non-Jews be this interested in seeing Jesus as a thoroughly Jewish teacher intent on keeping the Law? Probably not, which allows current scholarship to conclude the author was a Jew or Jewish-Christian (common at the time).

The author is clearly very concerned with proving that Jesus is the successor to the House of Israel discussed in the Old Testament (OT). He extensively reasserts that Christ fulfills the old Covenant, and details many forms of Jewish observance. Furthermore, the author uses various Jewish literary techniques. The detailed geneaology of Jesus, for example, is representative of a Jewish form of numerology referred to as gematria.

Still, the author at times virulently attacks the Jewish leaders of his day. The problem for the author of Matthew is never the Jews or the Jewish religion per se; it is the Jewish authorities. The best way to explain the author’s extensive criticism of the Jewish authorities is to say that his own community continued to experience opposition from non-Christian Jews. This was especially true of influential scribes and rabbis of the local synagogue, who criticized Christians for abandoning Moses and the Law.

The Copyist

The copyist, for his/her part, is intent on omitting many parts of Matthew which deal with disputed historical details. Instead, the copyist describes Jesus’ narrative from a faith and spirituality angle. The lengthy genealogy of Jesus, mentioned above, is given a simple, condensed recap. Additionally, the copyist gives the actual Jesus birth narrative a short shrift, even excluding the verse with implicit reference to Mary’s virginity. The copyist also completely eliminates all of the narratives surrounding the Wise men and their discussions with King Herod. Lastly, the copyist leaves out any reference to Nazareth. This last omission is not surprising given that there are historicity issues surrounding the (lack of) existence of the town.

All the above exclusions form a pattern. It is reasonable to suggest that the copyist wanted to leave out any questionable material that would take away from the essentials of Jesus’ story. By emphasizing Jesus and his essence, as opposed to uncertain or superfluous detail, the copyist leaves the reader with the pertinent and important subtext. The copyist also demonstrates his concern for including the moral aspects of Jesus’ teachings. The core of these is found in the Beatitudes address. Known as the masterpiece of Jesus’ morality, the copyist recognized that the address is full of the sublimest moral teachings of all time. Its contents have impacted humanities moral evolution, and the ideologies of some of the greatest reformers in human history, such as Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther King. It challenges us to reject modern cultural values, like power-seeking, celebrity, and material success.

The “Q” Source

Q refers to a hypothetical literary source used by the authors of Matthew and the Gospel According to Luke. By comparing passages in the two texts, biblical scholars came to the conclusion that a sizeable portion of the material in both Gospels came from the same original. Nonetheless, the theorized Q is a document for which no known copy exists. It comes from the German word quelle, meaning “source.” The basic presupposition is that Q was produced in a single community by an individual having heard sayings and parables attributed to Jesus. Despite the best scholarly efforts to reconstruct the community in which Q was written (most likely it was in Palestine or Syria), there is no direct access to it. Still, it remains a persuasive and accepted working hypothesis. And in the material presented for examination, there are at least 10-12 identifiable verses that can be considered to derive from the potential Q source.

This partial autobiography was submitted by Wally and Doris Johnson of Parksville, B.C. It is the unpublished journal of Wally’s mother, Irma ‘Nana’ Johnson (born Irmgard Helma Vieweger), who began writing a collection of personal memoirs in her later years. Sadly she passed before her entire life history had been recorded. What remains are stories, anecdotes and outlines of the early years of Irma’s life from growing up in Leipzig, Germany, living in and traveling through South Africa before moving to Alberta. We present to you clippings of various passages from these unfinished tales. First published in Issue 3 – The Shelter Issue of Lester’s Army Magazine.

OCTOBER 1981

My Dear Children:

So often when I have told you long-winded stories about events which took place long ago you have said, “why don’t you write it down?” You used to say the same to your father who had so many interesting adventures to talk about. Now that I am 76 I realize that if I don’t do now what I have put off for year after year, time will run out on me too. When I noticed recently that the West Vancouver Recreation Centre offered an autobiography workshop I made up my mind to procrastinate no longer.

CIRCA 1925

Our first home was at Faust, Alberta on the south shore of Lesser Slave Lake. At last Art and I were together in the small house Art had bought from Ben Publicover. We never had a deed to this property; along the waterfront where we lived nobody did. As far as I know, Art just handed Ben $200, they shook hands on the deal and the place was ours.

Maybe it wasn’t that much of a house but after the instability of the past few months we were completely happy with it. Ben had left some furniture; a solid oak table with four leaves to extend it, the chairs that went with it, a double bed and a wood burning cook stove. Art had brought in his bachelor belongings; bedding, a few pots and pans, dishes and cutlery – enough to get along with for the time being.

The cabin was built of rough lumber and lined inside with beaver board, which was a thick wood fibre and provided good insulation. It measured about twenty by thirty feet and was partitioned squarely across the middle. The front half served as living, dining and kitchen space. The back was divided into two bedrooms, on ewith a door to the back of the lot. A screened porch across the front completed our mansion. The yard was fenced, enclosing approximately a half acre.

Our home needed a lot of fixing up. To buy the materials we considered essential, a quick trip to Edmonton was necessary. For the floors the popular ‘battleship linoleum” in a soft shade of grey was attractive, easy to care for and very durable. We painted the ceilings and walls just off-white, considering the place too small to have large areas of colour. But I chose crisp white curtains for the living area windows with bright multicolored”brush-stroke” print for the lower part and shelf appear on the upper ones where dishes, etc were stacked. Auntie Fell had given me a tea set of pretty bone china; she remembered that I had always used my own china cup when I stayed with her.

Art and I had a great time doing all this. He said we were nest building. He had never had a real home since childhood and was happy after “kicking around from pillar to post.” I laugh about it now. We had no running water nor electricity. Our biffy was the usual outhouse. It never occurred to us that we lacked anything; in the small towns and the farms everyone lived this way.

SPRING 1935

Commercial fishing in Lesser Slave Lake was a losing game by now. Our savings were almost depleted. Too proud to accept the government “relief” which was prevalent during the depression, Art looked for more secure means of earning a living for his growing family. It was at this opportune time that we found out that the Consolidated Mining and Smelting Co (CM&S) was planning to open a gold mine on the north shore of Lake Athabaska.

Anton and Drucie Stavdal, with small son, Billy, were living in Waterways which is the “jumping off place” for traffic to the Far North. Anton was working for the CM&S and recommended Art, who was to fly in to the new camp with the CM&S pilot Bill Jewitt as soon as the project got underway.

We regretted leaving our friends and our home, but with a sense of new adventure we said “Goldfields or bust!” We sold our house for $100, the solid oak dining suite for $7.50 and that beautiful wicker baby carriage for $5. We could take only bare necessities to our new home. We packed up a double bed mattress and spring, folding cots for the boys, Kenny’s crib, my sewing machine, bedding and dishes. A sturdy box held my father’s books and pictures and a few treasures I could not bear to part with. In Edmonton we bought a 9′ x 12′ tent and a small stove.

The train that was to take us north was the “Albert and Great Waterways” nicknamed “Adam and God Wandering” or the “Muskeg Express.” There were many tales told of its misadventures. The trip seemed endless. Somewhere along the way the boys caught whooping cough. They were not terribly sick but the “Whoop” was unmistakable. Drucie met the train at Waterways. The first thing I said to her was “Keep Billy away from the boys. They have whooping cough. ” She was not unduly concerned, but ARt and I set up our tent and stove in the Stavdal’s yard and I tried to keep the boys apart. Many of the childhood diseases were not controlled as they are today. I took good care of my sick children, but there were no antibiotics, so I tried to keep this contagious disease from spreading by using the weapons of the day – the best possible cleanliness, isolation, disinfectants and the good old wash boiler.

Anton had already gone to the new camp and Art followed a few days after we arrived in Waterways. Drucie and I were to wait for the first available boat. Waiting was not really tedious. The boys were soon well again and the spring weather was lovely. Most of the time we spent outdoors roaming the new countryside. Sometimes Eddie Machon, who had come from Faust with us to seek work in the North, looked after the boys for me while Drucie and I visited friends. Another unfinished tale.

Everybody Dance! 4603 
Main Street.
Small group lessons $13.50/hour. Dance parties $6.50. Private lessons $75/hour.

My first attempt at ballroom dancing was 
at Everybody Dance! on Main St. I arrived at the studio via the back entrance and was let into a small waiting room with a leather seat. A well dressed middle aged couple sat changing their shoes so I whipped off my Vans and put on my cleaned brogues. Six more people arrived and congregated on the dance floor, lining up men versus women.

I was beginning to think that I could get away with just observing when the instructor Elaine Carson shouted across to me “Are you Alicia? Come and join in” so I did. I took my place at the end of the women’s line opposite a small, lean senior man. As Elaine proceeded to describe the foxtrot step, my gentleman partner took me into the dance position and showed me the moves. He must have known I was a complete novice.

Everyone was very patient with me and other newcomers, I never felt that I was doing it all wrong and they insisted that everyone starts off clumsy. We practised the dance over with different partners; this variety allows you to dance with each of the leaders (males) who each offered their own tips and advice. Even if you attend without a partner, you’ll always have someone to dance with. Elaine sidled around the room giving compliments and suggestions for improvement.  I picked up a few tips about good posture that are useful outside of the dance hall.

After the one hour lesson there was a party until midnight. More regulars arrived from other classes. The lights were dimmed and a disco ball lit up the room. I sat at a table on the sideline, planning to spend the night talking to students about their experiences but kept being pulled up to dance. This was a laugh as I didn’t know most of the dances but even though I dance with the grace of a teenage boy, no one made me feel awkward. I even learned a few new moves from experienced dancers. Some of the men I danced with were in their 70s, but they had the same elegance and fluidity of the younger guys. They asked me to dance so politely and thanked me at the end. I felt like I had drifted back in time to when dance halls were regular social haunts.
The people I talked to during the party made the class quite special. There was a range of ages from 17 to 81 and I was informed that a mix of all generations attend the classes regularly.  I was surprised how old some people were; they were such an active bunch. A Serbian lady and her husband (who met through tango lessons!) showed me their specialty — the Argentinean tango. The kicks involved were impressive, I can’t bend like that even at 40 years their junior.

Then there was an 81 year old Scottish man, I could have chatted to him all night — and I nearly did. He has been attending for just over a year and decided to start when he lost his wife. His friends told him to start doing something fun and liked the idea of dancing. Now he is hooked and makes time in his busy schedule to attend regularly.

There were some young faces too; Elaine’s two assistants were very lovely 18 year olds. They had been dancing for roughly two years and executed the moves beautifully. I also got a chance to chat with owner and instructor Elaine who performed at the 2010 Olympic Winter Games (as well as over 500 other performances). She used to suffer from back problems until she took up dancing and claims that the regular exercise improved her posture and strengthened her back muscles to the point of alleviating the pain. She stressed how good ballroom dancing is for seniors because initially the movements are as easy as walking and you gradually build up the cardio and stretches.  “Keeping moving is the key to being healthy”. 
I’d highly recommend Everybody Dance! for anyone wanting to learn the ballroom moves, meet new people or have a fun night planned once a week to keep fit and healthy. The first class (and party) is free too so there’s nothing to lose.

Mr. Dance Astorino’s Hall 1739 Venables. $10 entrance fee

Both weekly Sunday and Tuesday classes are attended mostly by seniors. The owners are also seniors – Michael is 67 and Elsie is 80. They have owned Mr Dance for 20 years

I attended the Sunday ballroom dancing class. The studio was easy to find as it was directly opposite the bus stop. Inside there was a foyer area to hang coats and pay your  $10 entrance fee.

There was a communication breakdown between the person I had contacted about reviewing the studio and the lady on the door — she questioned my motives, saying, “If your story is true then you may go in, if not then I will have to find you for the money.” I said I could sit at the side if that was preferable and she agreed. I wasn’t invited to dance so I set up with my notebook in one of the chairs lining the room. Astorino Hall is a wood-panelled ballroom (though one wall has been substitute for tiles) with eight chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Everybody congregated in the middle of the dance floor then separated into two groups of men and women.

The instructor stood in the middle of the crowd with a headset and directed the groups through the steps for the slow waltz. She was paired with a male partner (I was informed that this was her husband) and demonstrated the dance in full. The leader steps, then the follower’s moves. I began scrawling notes. When I looked up, a snaking line of people were dancing towards me, holding their arms out in support of an invisible partner. After a few practises by themselves, people paired up with a real partner and danced to the instructor chanting “one-two-three-four.”

What I found strange was that “left over” women didn’t pair up with each other with one adopting the lead role — they just danced the steps alone or sat down. For this reason I would recommend taking a partner. After a few corrections for timing and repeating the steps, the music finally came on and people danced more naturally.

I spoke to one of the helpers who was a senior lady and she said that the crowd was usually 40+ with the occasional youth attending for a couple of lessons before moving to another dance hall with more youths. I’d recommend attending if you have a partner and want to learn how to dance in a traditional way.

Like at Everybody Dance! there was a dance party afterwards, but I didn’t stay for that. As I made my exit a senior man stopped me at the door to ask why I was there as I “look like a student” We started talking about how Ballroom dancing has died out in youth culture compared to 50 years ago and he said that girls nowadays should get into dancing because “they certainly can’t cook or clean.”

Vancouver Academy of Ballroom Dance 1125 Howe Street, Suite 280.  Four-class series for $45. Drop-in $13/class

The studio shares its space with the Rhodes Wellness College (you buzz that number from outside) but has its own room with a polished floor and sound system. I peeked in, confused by the dual use area, and one of the two students inside shouted “Hi! Come and sit down”. I took a seat nearby and listened in on their conversation about practising steps. Presently instructor Dale Neale danced into the room, flicked on the sound system and started shaking down to Beyoncé. I wrote down the words “relaxed but energetic.”

I had accidentally arrived at the fourth^h class out of four sessions on the West Coast swing. Despite this, I was still encouraged to dance. Dale told me to sign the cross and wing it. There were four students at this class and they all danced very naturally and free. It was hard to believe it was a beginner’s class. The steps were too complex for me to pick up that late in the game, so I eventually gave up and sat out. From my spectator point of view I could see how the class was maintained.  Even though it was the fourth class, they initially talked through the steps. Then everyone paired up to practice. I noticed that people were always smiling, even when the moves went wrong it was still fun. As the class progressed and everyone relaxed into it, Dale skirted the edges of the dance floor and observed. He helped by dancing with one of the pair, guiding the other through how the dance should flow, step by step. He was very patient and if someone didn’t get how it should be done, he would adjust his way of describing.  “You could always do this … but that’s a bit ‘80s,”
 he would say.

Moves learned included the Sugar Push, The Whip and triple step. The music was more modern than you would expect (Duffy’s Mercy was the main beat). An advantage of pop music is that most people are familiar with the rhythm so it’s easy to pick up the moves. Everyone was slightly flushed but they didn’tlook tired. At the end of the session the lights were dimmed and bluesy music was turned on. The students practised the moves in full swing. When the class was over, Dale took one student’s email address to send her the steps to practise at home. 
None of the students at this lesson were seniors, but the next session — the Ballroom Mixer — saw the arrival of one senior gentleman. He was a man of few words but did mention that the class was less full than usual and that he had been to four lessons so far and really enjoyed it. Once he had changed his shoes he was soon swaying to the music. The ballroom mixer teaches five traditional ballroom dances over ten weeks and is very popular.

As the mixer began I spoke to the owner who said that their aim was to put the joy back into dance. They’re trying to make dancing fun and to introduce American ballroom to Vancouver. The studio is relatively new (less than a year at the current location) but the instructors are very talented. Dale is three-times Canadian ballroom champion and coaches students to become dance teachers themselves. I was told that each class builds on the previous and steps are groomed to perfection. The dance evolves into a full swinging collection of steps.  They also host a “Ballroom Bliss session” one Friday a month. This promises entertainment with professional dance shows and a free beginner lesson to dance the night away.  Put on your dancing shoes and head over.

Visit Alicia Wooding at her blog,http://insideoutsidevancouver.blogspot.com/.

The Mahabharat and the Ramayana are the two major Sanskrit texts of ancient India.  The Mahabharat is an epic poem containing 100,000 verses discussing duty, purpose, pleasure, and liberation. The Ramayana focuses on Rama and Sita, a married couple who face infidelity, kidnapping, and war on a cosmic level.

Bollywood since the silent film era has alluded to aspects of the Mahabharat and Ramayana to highlight the struggle of good against evil. The two epics were performed at the theatre and in Ram-Lila plays, or street plays, but with the advent of cinema the epics were translated to screen. The Talkies era of 1920s Bollywood established the star system, and religious movies were swept aside by the tidal wave of song and dance movies,  relegated to B movie status .

Faith in mainstream Bollywood however, was not lost, as the stories of the heroes and heroins of the Mahabharat and Ramayana found their way into contemporary movies. The hero in a Bollywood movie adopts traits of the many Hindu gods and characters in mythology. He is expected to rescue his heroine from a big bad villain, while crooning a song to please her ears.

The golden age of Bollywood, the 1950s, challenged these idealized versions of heroes by turning them into a vagabond in Raj Kapoor’s Aawara (The Tramp) or a seedy blackmailer of Dev Anand in Jaal (Trap), who were now grey and full of ennui.

With the Indo-China wars in the ‘60s, Bollywood once again became a route for escapism churning out more and more storylines from the Mahabharat and the Ramayana. This brought a spate of female oriented weepy dramas that had an a do-gooder hero, reflective of the gods,  marry a pregnant heroine to save her honour.

During the Emergency rule by the Indira Gandhi government in the 70s people were angry, and the hero, reflecting the political tension at the time,  was now a tall, dark and Byronic Amitabh Bachan, the first hero to be all the gods and kick some ass too! Bachan played a  vengeful police officer who obsessed over finding his parents killer in his breakout movie Zanjeer (Symbol). The movie gave Bachan his angry-young man persona and birthed the term “dishoom dishoom:” the sound of Bachan’s beating up villains!

The heroine has endured some shape shifting in her time as well. Bollywood has idealized the heroine as a sacrificing Sita of the Ramayana, and the powerful Draupadi of the Mahabharat. Since the beginning of Indian cinema, a heroine has the voice of a nightingale, has sacrificed her love for her family, is a wonderful mother and wife, and encourages the hero to embrace his piousness.

The ‘20s and ‘30s was an experimental time for the heroine, she could go to work, wear trousers, and kiss her hero torridly. A milestone for the growth of the heroine was Hunterwali (Hunter Woman) where the Anglo-Indian heroine, Fearless Nadia, performed daring stunts on top a train and wore trousers and cracked a whip!

This reemerged in the 1950s.  The heroine could be a cabaret dancer with a heart of gold like Geeta Bali in Baazi (Game) or a strong fearless woman of the untouchable caste like Nutan in Sujata.

The 1960s became the Gilded Age for the heroine, as she was forced to sacrifice her love of the hero to marry her parent’s choice, and the only intimacy was a cutaway shot of bees and flowers! The return to religious allusions brought many female-orientated movies based on the stories of Ramayana, and other wronged female gods like Shakuntala. Faith in the ‘60s was a point of reforming; a bad cabaret vamp that  soon dresses in saris and sings devotional songs to successfuly win his love.

One such movie is Jab Jab Phool Khile (When a Flower Blossoms) where the glamorous well dressed heroine goes on holiday to Kashmir; she unexpectedly falls for a simpleton boatman. She tries to reform him to her cosmopolitan ways by teaching him to do the twist and wear suits, but he rejects the lifestyle and leaves. She then sings a devotional, lovesick song and transforms from haughty cosmopolitan to dutiful wife to win him. Movies like these only lasted until the 1970s, where the vigilante hero took the focus.

As Indira Gandhi’s Emergency rule disenchanted moviegoers, the hero who fights the law came to the forefront, and the heroine was now relegated to singing songs because the hero who was too angry to sing and dance. The rise of the multi-starrers made the girls into trophy heroines there to pacify the hero’s obsession with justice. Violence and sex were the fervour of the day, and heroines were wearing skimpier outfits to titillate feverish villains, only too ready to kidnap them Ramayana style.

Heroines also turned into vamps, who swigged alcohol with the hero’s and were sexualized by the camera.  Zeenat Aman, the path breaking revisionist heroine was relaxed about her sexuality and advocated free love. Her roles varied from junkies, to gold diggers, from a career woman, to an adulterous wife. Other heroines too, squeezed into to tighter clothes and adopted Aman’s vivacity. Here were heroines that would not cave too easily to religion and be reformed by a hero, as now the hero was a vigilante who blamed the gods for his suffering like Bachan’s famous character Vijay in Deewaar (Wall).

Though the violent blockbusters raged on at the cinemas, the underground religious movies still had a place. And surprisingly a religious epic Jai Santoshi Maa (Hail the Goddess of Satisfaction) was one of the biggest money-spinners of 1975. The movie was a tacky devotional film about a woman, who prays to Santoshi Maa, to get her husband to love and respect her.

Faith in Bollywood has gradually lessened with filmmakers experimenting with taboo themes, but at the heart,  the conventional hero and heroine remain intertwined with the gods and mortals from the Mahabharat and Ramayana.

Zoroastrianism

Judgement followed by heaven or hell. Hell is temporary until final purgation and return to Ahura Mazda.The word Paradise comes from the Zoroastrian image of heaven as a beautiful walled garden. To earn the right to enter this heaven you must be a righteous soul.  When you die the god Mithra awaits at you at the Bridge of the Separator to balance out the good and bad deeds done in your lifetime. If you are score well, you will be escorted across the bridge by a beautiful maiden who is the embodiment of all your good on earth. You are taken to the House of Song to await the Last Day when everyone will be purified and live in a new world absent of evil. If, however, evil outweighs good then an ugly, naked hag drags you from the bridge into hell where you are tormented by your own evil deeds. Fortunately, there is a way out. According to Zoroastrianism, everyone is eventually purified and can join the righteous in paradise.

Islam

Muslims believe that when you die you begin a period of rest that stretches until the day of resurrection. On this day Allah judges everyone according to how they lived their life. If your days were full of good deeds and following the rules of Quran then you can enter the Eden known as Jannah. This heaven is a garden where your wishes are fulfilled and there is no negative emotion. Everyone wears decadent apparel, lazes about on gem studded couches and dines from exquisite banquets. The scenery is said to include mountains of musk, fountains scented with ginger, rivers of milk and honey, fruits of all seasons as well as camels of dazzling whiteness. There are various levels of heaven, the highest being Firdaus (Paradise) where prophets, martyrs and the like end up. Here there are palaces made of gold and you can see God.

However, if your sins outweigh your good deeds your afterlife will be spent in the hell called Jahannam. Here a wall of fire encloses the wicked and showers them with scalding water. They also wear garments of fire and are slashed with iron rods. Again there are different levels of hell including one, Zamhareer, any icy hell where you are subject to unbearable cold and blizzards. The worst level of hell is al-Hawiyah made for hypocrites: those who say they believe in Allah but denounce God in their hearts.

Hinduism

For Hindus, the afterlife is being reborn into the world with a life that reflects your previous life-a samaric process. For example if you were generous in a past life you might be rich in this one. This cycle of reliving is a result of karma and you can only escape through spiritual rituals. Liberation is called moksha and is the the closest thing Hinduism has to heaven-becoming one, losing your identity like a drop in the sea. The Hindu equivalent of hell is simple continuing the cycle of rebirth on Earth.

Buddhism

The Buddha taught that desire causes suffering and keeps us in the cycle of death and rebirth. There are six realms you can be born into; one is the human world while the others are like temporary heavens and hells. The worst is Naraka-gati (endless suffering), and the most pleasant is Deva-gati (realm of the gods). You die in each and are reborn in one of the six again. It is only through Nirvana-enlightenment-that we can escape the cycle of rebirth.

Baha’i

Unlike Western religions, both heaven and hell in the Baha’i faith are symbolic. The living world is likened to the womb but for spiritual rather than physical development. The afterlife is hierarchical, ranked by the good deeds committed in this lifetime. Progression through the ranks is possible but not entirely through conscious effort; the prayer and good deeds done on your behalf on Earth can also help. Closeness to God is heaven and remoteness from God is hell.

Aztec

Aztec religion offers a number of destinations after life, where you end up doesn’t depend on how you lived your life- rather how you died.. The main destination is the neutral underworld “Mictlan” which has nine levels. It takes four years to reach the ninth level, through this journey one must cross a deep river, pass conjoined mountains, fields of icy wind, wild beasts and other miserable fates. When you reach the ninth level you rest.  The dead were buried with objects to help them on their journey through the afterlife such as a statue of a dog to guide the person and a jade heart to replace their own if it got eaten along the way. Women who died during childbirth went straight to the Western paradise to accompany the setting sun. Warriors who died during battle and human sacrifices earned the right to go straight to the Eastern paradise to accompany the rising sun. If a baby died it’s soul went to the 13th level of heaven where the Gods lived.

Taoism

In Taoism death is neither feared nor anticipated, it is seen as merely a transformation from being to non-being — from yang to yin.

Jehovah’s Witnesses

For 144,000 chosen witnesses, they will get the chance to rule in heaven with God. The rest of the witnesses will live in a redesigned Eden on Earth for eternity without sickness, old age or unhappiness. Non believers will be annihilated at the Armageddon. The don’t believe in hell or celebrating birthdays.

Rastafarian

Some Rastas will experience “everliving” (physical immortality). Heaven is a return to Eden, which is in Africa.

Beloved Teovo,

After all these years I can finally say it, “I love you.” The first time we met, such a long time ago, you stood by my side, brown hair, blue eyes, big smile—and then we danced. Oh, how we danced! What happiness!

Your brown corduroy jacket, so soft against my skin. Even in our friendly, sometimes noisy group, I felt a warm togetherness with you. I do not remember the food, only you and I dancing, dancing.

Next day, we walked on the grassy slopes of the Citadel, hand in hand, talking, laughing and looking into one another’s eyes.  Midsummer flowers, daisies and blue bells beneath our feet. Then by boat we went, sun’s rays glittering on the water, shimmering sky and shimmer in your eyes. People, as in a dream, waved to us from the shore.

That unforgettable camping trip, sausages roasting, lots of smoke, lots of laughter, and sweet songs around the camp fire. Too soon we were ordered into our tents, boys in one, girls in another. So young and so in love, but in those years, so obedient.

One more evening, one more dance, but now for the last time. In the morning you gave me red roses and said goodbye. I waved to you from the ship. Was the light shimmering? Was the sun dancing on the water? I didn’t notice through my tears, I saw only you.

Next time we all met, it was to celebrate your wedding to another, and I had never said, “I love you.”

Swee Futrell

Published in March, 1995 in Monarch Newsletter – Kerrisdale Seniors’ Centre.

Lester’s Army received a love letter in the mail from 86-year-old Swee Futrell. Intrigued, I called her to find out more.  She offered to meet with me to talk about her faith in love and the story behind her Valentine That Never Was.

Swee  began by giving me a guided tour of her apartment, taking me through her Matisse-inspired bedroom with a letter-writing desk and poster of Zorro on the wall.  As she prepared the Earl Grey, I looked through her bustling bookcase. Behind souvenirs and stuffed animals were a myriad of books from Swedish fairly tales to classic novels.  Swee pulled out one book – Love Letters: An Anthology of Passion and told me it gave her the inspiration to write her own. We sat at her dining room table, me next to a lava lamp, Swee sitting below a Chinese paper umbrella pinned to the wall. She gave me the “Mexican Plate” for my tea and biscuits. Clearing her throat and pouring the tea, she told me of her love of storytelling. She tells me it is easiest to write about things she is passionate about and this story of the Valentine That Never Was has stayed with her for 60 years.

The story begins in Sweden when Swee was in her early 20’s. She was part of a hiking group that had arranged an exchange with another group in Finland. Four girls travelled over to Helsinki to go hiking with the other group. It was at this meeting that Swee met Teovo, the object of her affections. The attraction was quite natural, she explained, it just clicked at once, he took her hand and they walked together. This was 1947,  two years after World War II had ended and Finland was suffering badly as a result. Nevertheless, the hosts arranged camping, dinners and dancing at hotels. Swee described herself as playful and fun-loving so it is easy to picture her dancing the night away with new-found friends. Though everyone in the group attended the events, Swee and Teovo spent most of the time in each other’s company. At the end of the exchange they returned to their respective countries, the romance over in person but lasting in memory.

Shortly after the trip, Swee moved to London, England, to become an au pair.  It was only through correspondence with a mutual friend that she found out that Teovo was due to get married.  Swee used the opportunity to catch up with old friends so flew over for the wedding. She hardly remembers any details from the night, just that she tried to keep up appearances but secretly felt awful. Swee never told anybody that she was upset about Teovo getting married and friends didn’t really know about their romance. Though the two lived countries apart they stayed in touch via letter, phone calls and a genuine interest in one another’s life. There was never talk of a relationship and I was curious about why they never ended up together. Swee told me:

“I can only guess it was because I didn’t consider it anything serious. I wasn’t interested in more than having fun. That’s why I was surprised that he was getting married. We never talked about marriage or children or anything.  Things could have gone differently if we had been more serious, if we would have visited one another. But I just took off and went to work in London as an au pair. When you are young you are nonchalant, you don’t appreciate things. I thought I would meet plenty of guys and have fun. It’s not until after that you start reflecting and looking at things in a different way and think that it could have been a possibility. Hindsight is so easy.”

In 1954, a decade after the trip to Finland, Swee and a friend decided to hitchhike across Europe. When they reached Spain her friend got homesick and returned to Sweden but Swee decided to persevere as she wanted to see Cordoba. It was there that she met an Englishman on holiday and fell in love. They dated and visited one another in their home countries for a while until 1956 when Swee moved to England to marry him. After living in Nottingham for ten years and raising two children, they moved to Vancouver for her husband’s job (as a university lecturer).  Swee remained creative through crocheting and exhibiting her work with other artists. Writing was always a big part of her life. Living away from home from such a young age meant that her letter writing was a frequent practice  and a  finely tuned skill.  She also loved creative writing and storytelling so she attended workshops to keep her passion alive.

In the mid 70s Swee and her husband divorced after twenty-one years of marriage. Some years later she found a writing class that inspired her to think back on her life. Her thoughts returned to Teovo and she wrote the valentine letter to express her feelings. The intention was to send the note to Teovo when his wife died, but sadly, he was the first to go.

“I was surprised when he died because my whole plan in writing this was that his wife would die and then I would send the letter. And then he goes and dies! My whole intention was that he would get it one day, or someday, or somehow.”

Despite the unromantic twist to her tale, Swee remains optimistic about romance. Even though times have changed since her youth she insists that love, excitement and heartache are still the same now.

“Nothing has changed in that respect. People change very slowly. We don’t really remember the sad things and we don’t become cynical. You think “oh I’m never going to do that again” and then you find yourself doing exactly that the next minute. We don’t give up.”

I now sport a simple but shiny silver band around my ring finger that is a token of hope in a city where falling in love is less than easy. I met my husband at work, like my grandmother who met my blue-eyed Ukrainian grandfather in a pudding factory: a safe and effective way to meet a mate. I’ve dated, I’ve flirted and I’ve had many a one-night stand in other places around the world. But only once in the six years that I lived single in Vancouver had I gone on a date and pursued romance with a stranger.

It began one day during that wonderful time of year in Vancouver when the rain clears for more than two days at a time and full pink cherry blossoms are revealed all over the city. I was on the patio of one of my favourite restaurants on Commercial Drive when I spotted him. He was gloomy, handsome, a little sickly looking and definitely between a hangover and being drunk again.

I told my girlfriend that I thought he was ridiculously attractive. She didn’t agree with my observation and challenged me (in her usual direct manner) to ask him on a date.

“What?” I said to distract her from my increasingly hot cheeks.

“Ask him out!” She goaded. “Go on, why not?”

I slouched further into my plastic chair. She was in one of those contagiously daring moods. Half a beer in her and not yet aware of the wild potentiality of spring afternoons on sunny patios. She turned to face the man who was sitting with friends at the other end of the patio.

“My friend wants to ask you out!” She yelled. I put my head in my hands. She didn’t buckle. She didn’t laugh. It was the perfect play. An alternate title for this piece could be “How to be a Coward and Pick Up Men Using Your Friends.”

He said, “Oh, yeah.” Raising an eyebrow.

He wrote something on a piece of paper, walked over to our table and handed it to my smirking friend while he looked me in the eye. Then he turned and walked into the restaurant to pay his bill. He was nonchalant and it made him so much more desirable. My friend read the paper and smirked with satisfaction, handing it to me.

It read “Andy” and a number. He walked back out to where his friends were waiting and didn’t look at me again. They however did, smiling and checking me out as they left.

He’s incredible! I thought. When I called the number the next day I got his voicemail and laid it all out. I explained that I was slightly embarrassed by my juvenile pickup, but I was still interested to meet him. If he wanted, he could call and I would show him a good time. He called me back that day and his voice alarmed me. I didn’t expect to hear from him. He asked where we should meet and I gave him the central location of Grandview Park on Commercial Drive.

Walking to the park that evening, I got the feeling someone was following me. When I arrived at the cenotaph in the middle of the park, I sensed someone was close behind me and I turned abruptly. The sunken-eyed man standing but a nose hair away announced he was Andy. The interaction was slightly weird and I liked that.

I had a bottle of wine and told him that we should drink it in the park. He said that was a good idea. We talked about dating in Vancouver and he explained that he got asked out a surprising amount, as he didn’t think he was that good-looking. I liked the self-deprecation.

We drank and talked in the park all night — told our life stories. I bummed half his cigarettes and chain-smoked them. He told me he was on the rebound from a relationship he thought was “it” and I gave him plenty of ear and empathy. I was falling in love. He was great. Smart. Had an interesting, meaningful career. He was weird, but not mentally ill like several of my ex-boyfriends.

I walked him home and he invited me up. I looked at him with my kindest eyes and said, “No, I think I’ll pass.” He hugged me and told me I was wonderful. Special. And he was right.  But he didn’t call again.

I became what one might call obsessed. My best friend Kali served at a restaurant on the Drive and she served him breakfast regularly. She kept me up on all the gossip of his life by eavesdropping and told me at great length all the details about his best friend, for whom I believe she had her own secret obsession.

A week later I was out at a bar, scanning for Andy, attached still, wishing he would appear. When I spotted his best friend, Kali confirmed his identity.  I asked her if she would dare me to get his attention. She said no, but I did it anyway. I slammed my back into him, pretending I was drunk.

He turned around and said, “Sorry, man, I didn’t see you.”

“No worries! Next time I bump into you, you can punch me in the face,”  I said, with a little more anger than I intended and kind of spit in his face a little.

He looked at me strangely and went back to his pool game.

Later that night, as I got more bizarre and inebriated, I walked up to him, kissed him on the mouth and called him by his name, telling him that I knew he was a good man and that he should be proud.

He stood there dumbfounded, looking even more disturbed than before. His thoughts might have sounded something like, “Why is Andy’s date harassing me? Maybe I should stay near the bouncer; yeah that’s a good idea.”

That night I wrote a love letter to Andy on my old Underwood portable typewriter, a machine made for lovers. It was the letter to end my dating career and punctuate the fate of my love life. While I live in a city that is cold and wet, where alcohol is expensive and hard to get, and no matter how pretty or smart you are, you need guts to meet a man, I  found the deepest most satisfying love that I could ask for. I sealed the letter in a red envelope and typed his name ever so carefully on the outside and never sent it. It read as follows:

To the man I don’t know,

I met you recently. I won’t say where because I don’t want to reveal my identity. I listened to you talk, some of it I heard. I smiled at you. Not at your intelligence, but at your dark child face. It was tonight that I realized I want you. I was lying in bed, my mind astray and your face passed by several times before I realized I was thinking about you — really thinking about you, wondering if in the short moments I’ve seen you I might know you already.

You’ve been lost somewhere in the length of my life and I am remembering my future with you. If love is not in the future, then I am doomed. So now you’re present in the fabric of my sheets. This letter is my chance to release you  from your fictional self and show me who you really are. Or am I coming on too strong? I meant to say am I there with you in your cheap apartment somewhere in this cold-hearted city too?

For fun. A secret.