Chapter 20

"I shall never be ashamed of citing a bad author if the line is good."
-Seneca

A discussion came up last night around a dinner table that groaned under the weight of a Thanksgiving feast. My mom mentioned that she hated books that jumped back and forth between people and places, other people said they liked that. I suggested it was easier for the author to build dramatic tension and move diverse parts of a story along at the same time that way.

Yet at the same time, often I can't stand that sort of story either, which is odd, since that's what I've ended up writing here. Instead of a constant, smooth narrative, it leaps between several different characters and even locations to nudge them along a bit. The time is even odd, Cezar and Anika are a day or so ahead of the other characters, which means I'll have some catchup to do.

Still, it is a useful tool for what I'm trying to do, the "disaster movie" approach to storytelling where you introduce multiple characters and then bring them together in some ghastly event that tests men's souls. Hopefully its working here, because it is such an integral part of the story I can't discard the device.

Cezar looked into Aniela's dark eyes, the pupils so large in the dark there was almost no color showing. He could see her full lips and soft skin clearly in the darkness. Aniela could barely see a glint on Cezar's eyes and his vague form. If you tell her and she doesn't like it, the beast snarled within him, you know what you'll have to do. Cezar closed his eyes and, feeling unworthy and blasphemous, uttered a little prayer. Then he told his story.

"Before there were cars in Romania, before the new century, life was simpler there. A new king, Carol I of Sigmaringen was installed by the government, and the new country of Romania seemed destined for growth and prosperity to match the other European countries to the west. Yet it still was a troubled place. Troubled by old hostilities, old traditions, old fears.

"I was young, in my teens when I met an old man who lived near my village of Brejoi in the mountains. He had a hut in the forest, away from the village, I only found him by hunting in a valley the others avoided. I didn't catch any deer that day but I found someone who became a friend."

Cezar's eyes looked into the distance, into the past through Aniela's eyes.

"He was a strange man, he did not look so terribly old, but he seemed ancient, like he was as old as the mountains. He taught me about the forest, about the history of the area, he taught me the stars and the winds. I knew much about life in the mountains, but he taught me more than I thought possible. For years I visited him, although the villagers thought it odd. He gave me a cloak of wolf's skin that would mask my smell from the animals, help me blend in. It became my favorite clothing, I always wore it to visit him and to hunt.

"A sorcerer he was called, a warlock. Dangerous, Satanic. He never seemed it to me, only a wise old man who knew much and was a friend. He knew much of medicines that even the midwives were unaware of, what herbs would heal and harm and perhaps that was why they called him warlock. At least that was what I thought. The priest would often talk with me, warning me away from the old man, telling me he was wicked, that I should stay home. That he would corrupt my soul.

"Yet for years, it was an ... an academic topic. Something to mutter about and warn a young man over, but nothing of terrible concern in the timeless repetition of seasons in a small mountain village. They thought me odd and perhaps bewitched, but still were friendly enough as I was the best hunter by this point and brought food in even the coldest of winters."

Aniela lay still listening. Cezar couldn't have been more than thirty, yet he was talking of a king dead for decades now. Of times before either of them could have been born. She felt slightly sick inside, was he a madman?

"Then the drought struck. It was dry one winter," Cezar continued, "with little snow. The spring had almost no rain, the creeks dried up. The wells dried up. The game moved to lower ground, the crops would not grow. Children began to die. The town began to look for reasons, they turned to the priest for guidance. A judgment from God, he declared, for the people's turning away. Too rarely did they come to mass, too little did they teach the children, too often were they clinging to the old superstitions. Return to God, he said, perhaps He may show mercy.

"The people didn't care for that answer. They liked the old ways, they didn't care for teaching of God, they preferred to sleep on Sunday mornings. It must be something else. So they looked for another reason, and they saw me. Cezar, he is practicing deviltry with the old man of the mountain! He is with the sorcerer, in league with the Devil! The priest tried to tell them that Satan was no match for God, that they needed faith and prayers, but the people preferred torches and billhooks. I came home with a hind after a hunt of many days, and found angry, accusing eyes.

"They seized me, burned the deer for having been captured with witchcraft, for who could have caught game in this drought? How could I be so good at hunting? I must have bewitched the animals, used dark magic to find them. Maybe if I died, there would be rain."

Cezar could still see the mob in the village square, his former friends angry and filled with hate. He could see in their eyes the accusations, hear their bitter cries. It was your fault it all went wrong, they cried. Even father.

He was silent a while, remembering, and catching a small scent of fear and revulsion from Aniela. It was too late to turn back now.

"The seized me, and the priest alone would defend me. Father Andreu, my only friend left in the village. He thought me wrong, he thought me probably lost, but he also thought me one of his sheep. He argued with the crowd, called them to be merciful, appealed to the Word. They rejected him until my father finally argued that the priest was right - we should not cut off the fruit of witchcraft, but the heart of it. Kill the sorcerer and the boy might be saved.

"All eyes turned on me. Everyone I knew in the world other than the old man was there, eager to kill me, perhaps burn me alive. They all had hate and fear in their hollowed, hungry eyes. They would kill me, I knew it. I recognized the look in their eyes I'd seen in the eyes of predators. They saw me no longer as a fellow man, no longer as a villager. They saw me as the enemy, as the source of their suffering. Better that I die than others.

"I feared them, formerly the ones I loved and laughed with. A girl there, Camelia, she was my first, fumbling love in a meadow of flowers just last summer. She looked at me with hate and accusation along with the rest. They would kill me, and I could not escape. They would hang me at the very least, burn me almost certainly. I would find no mercy from them. I wanted to live.

"I formed a plan, I could lead them to the old man and they would exile me, far away from their village, never to return. All I had to do was keep the old man from using his magics. Take him by surprise and he could not turn the foul forces of evil against them, they argued. Do this and you may live. My plan was to lead them into the forest I knew so well and use my skills to escape. Once away, their best hunters would be hard pressed to find me, if they even tried.

"So we set out into the mountains, but the biggest men of the village held me. One on each arm, one behind me. They had dogs with them, and the dogs snapped and snarled at me, sensing their master's hate. I looked for a way out, I tried to think of a way to escape. I feigned thirst, and was ignored - they all were thirsty. I pointed out game that was not there, and they said there would be meat for everyone once they were done. They were pitiless, relentless. We reached the valley of the old man, and after a superstitious pause, forged on. The priest stayed behind, he would not join this procession. What became of him I know not, whether he remained in the village and tried to win them away from their anger and fear or if he left them to their damnation, I never learned.

Aniela's heart beat hard in her breast, as she listened. Despite herself she felt the tension, the anxiety. This was too close to home, the betrayal of loved ones, the sudden brutal sense of violence. Every day she lived in fear of having those she knew turn on her, on being captured.

Cezar's voice was sad now, thick with emotion. "I was sent ahead, the men of the village armed with their hunting weapons pointed at me. Betray them and be cut down, they warned me, and their eyes said we hope you do. How they could have turned so completely on me I still cannot understand. Fear makes us do horrible, evil things, is the only answer I can think of. I was strange, they were desperate.

"Alone I approached the old man's hut and he welcomed me in as always. He saw my anxiety, yet thought it was because of the drought. He began to teach me how to find water, showing me a barrel of clear spring water he had. Then the shout came from outside: 'in the name of God you shall burn, warlock! Try not your wicked sorcery upon us!"' Torches were hurled onto the thatched roof, against the wooden walls. I fled out the door and shots tore into the wood, perhaps aimed at me, perhaps to keep the old man from following.

"The old man... I can hear his voice still." Cezar's voice was ragged now, "he called me Judas. He called me betrayer, and in his voice I could hear the same confusion and hurt that I felt at the villagers: what did I do to you? How could you turn on me so?

"I ran to join the villagers, hoping they would forgive me, that they would take me back, and it would all be like it was. In my heart I knew it was not so, I would always remind them of this day, of when they went mad. As I ran, though, I heard the old man, speaking in a voice I'd never heard from him. It was clear and strong like a slamming coffin lid, thundering over the wind and the flames and the villagers voices, over the gunshots.

"'Betrayer!' he cried, "'Cursed shall you be! Forever more, you shall wear the wolf's hide! You took gifts from me and repaid me with death! You shall never die, and always long for it!!'

The voice seemed to echo off the valley's walls and into my soul. I felt as if ice had formed around my guts, chilled through in terror. Something black and horrible clawed its way into my soul. The villagers began to scream, backing away from me. They scrambled to reload their guns as they stared at me. I could feel what they could see: the wolf skin was moving on my back, crawling upon me, digging into me. It sank into my flesh and I could feel every awful moment, making me scream in terror. The wolf's pelt was gone, it became a part of me, and that day I felt... I felt the beast, within my soul."

And I shall never leave you it purred within Cezar.

"The villagers forgot the old man, forgot the fire in the valley, forgot their hunger and began to chase me. I felt their bullets hit my flesh, I heard their cries and calls of death. Nothing stopped me, nothing slowed me. I ran, and ran and ran. I kept running that day, that night, for days, without stopping. I ran until I reached a river and swam across it. The horror on my back was still there, behind me. I ran until I realized I could not escape it again, ever. It was not on me any more, it was in my back. I wandered for days, until the moon was full.

"That was when the terror truly began."

SHOW BOMBS

"If the TV variety format weren't already dead, the ghastly ego trip of NBC's Thanksgiving-eve turkey Rosie Live would surely have killed it."
-TV Guide

Rosie O'Donnell, the lunatic truther leftist, had a variety show on last night. Don't feel bad if you missed it or didn't know; most people missed it. It was tied for the lowest ratings of the day, it bombed. Not only do variety shows almost always fail, but who thought a Rosie O'Donnell spectacular was a great idea? Who has ever said "you know what I need? More Rosie O'Donnell, that's what would make my day."

That it failed is no shock. That the guy who greenlighted the show still has a job, that's a bit hard to fathom.

I can only guess that the execs at NBC thought "well, Obama is president elect now, everything has changed! Rosie is hot!" If they thought at all.

WHEN BLACK FRIDAY COMES

This is why sane people (primarily men) stay home the day after Thanksgiving:

A Wal-Mart worker died after being trampled when hundreds of shoppers smashed through the doors of a Long Island store Friday morning, police and witnesses said.

The 34-year-old worker, employed as an overnight stock clerk, tried to hold back the unruly crowds just after the Valley Stream store opened at 5 a.m.

Witnesses said the surging throngs of shoppers knocked the man down. He fell and was stepped on. As he gasped for air, shoppers ran over and around him.

Well, that and the fact that we're overstuffed and drowsy still.

And no, no obligatory "where's my recession dude?" quote; most people already know the economy isn't as tough as they're being told, yet at least.

QUICK AND DIRTY?

“Speaker Nancy Pelosi said on Wednesday that she expected a quick resolution to a wide-ranging House investigation into ethical questions surrounding Representative Charles B. Rangel, the powerful Democrat from New York.”

Yes, Nancy, we all do too. What we don't expect is justice, ethics, and accountability.

Surprise us, break the Democratic Party mold.

OVERPAID

“Jimmy Connors plays two tennis matches and winds up with $850,000, and Muhammad Ali fights one bout and winds up with five million bucks. Me, I play one-hundred and ninety games, and I'm overpaid!”
-Johnny Bench

There is a lot of commentary about CEOs and bonus packages and caps and restrictions and such. As I've noted in the past I think any company that pays a CEO hundreds of millions of dollars for one year's work is idiotic and self destructive (as they're beginning to learn) but any call for laws or government action to cut this kind of compensation package is doomed not just to failure but even worse excesses, in a different way. It's like trying to grab a fist full of water, you can get some, but the rest goes a different direction: there's always a loophole. And really, the more government becomes involved in almost any aspect of life, the worse it gets.

Yet CEOs really aren't the most overpaid people in the world. That crown goes to another group of people, those who offer almost no benefit to society, have no impact on history, and have little skill or talent to show for their amazing paychecks.

For example, the highest paid model in the world? Giselle Bunchen, beautiful German model who made $41 million last year alone. This isn't for a few years work at a megacorporation, this is every year like clockwork. This article of the highest paid models on earth gives a glimpse of this sort of life.

Johnny Depp made $72 million dollars in his last year of work, for standing around and reading other peoples' words. Previously it was Will Farrell who was the highest paid actor, but Will Smith actually made more: $80 million a year. Of course, his last eight movies have made more than $100 million dollars each. Of actresses, Reese Witherspoon makes considerably less, around $20 million a movie.

Rock bands make big money too, the band U2 made $110 million in 2006, the Rolling Stones $90 million, but then they have to split that money between band members, too. Being a rock star doesn't pay as well as these other jobs; at least not in monetary compensation.

That's not the most, though. Tiger Woods, between tournament victories endorsement deals, and public appearances made $115 million last year. He plays golf for a living. Michael Jordan, now retired from basketball over a decade and basically unknown to young people other than Hanes ads, makes tens of millions a year.

Then there are public "servants." Case in point, one Helen Jones-Kelley who after ordering the private records of Joe the Plumber examined without cause and in defiance of the law (because he hurt then-Senator Obama's election chances) was suspended without pay for a month. Usually being fired is the response to abusing public trust and violating the contract you sign when you take office, but a month without pay was considered a terrible blow. Why? The Journal-News explains:

Gov. Ted Strickland suspended Director Helen Jones-Kelley of the Job and Family Services Department for one month without pay after a state Inspector General's report found Jones-Kelley improperly authorized searches of state databases and used her state e-mail account for political fundraising.
...
Based on her annual salary of $141,980, the suspension will cost Jones-Kelley, 57, of Clayton, $11,831.

She makes almost $142,000 a year for running a government department for a state that complains annually about not having enough revenue. Apparently there's good money in being a government bureaucrat, who knew? Most of us would call that "overpaid" and the lack of greater punishment for abuse of a private citizen for political purposes "unjust."

Quote of the Day

"Any event, once it has occurred, can be made to appear inevitable by a competent historian."
-Lee Simonson

GIVE THANKS!

I don't suppose there is one holiday in America as commonly celebrated as Thanksgiving. Christmas has become a time of contention with Hanukkah and Kwanzaa competing for attention and multiculturalists pushing for the mention of Christmas to be excised in favor of generic "holidays." The 4th of July is not celebrated so much as an excuse to blow things up and have a picnic. Easter is almost exclusively Christian, other than egg hunts for children.

But thanksgiving is very American and shared by all. It doesn't matter what political bent or ethnic background you have, even the people who decry the evils of Pilgrims and moan the oppressed Native Americans, even the vegetarians have their soy turkey served for the day. It is an unusual event that brings all Americans together. We call it turkey day and complain about how fat we get, we feel bad for the NFL football Lions who are particularly awful this year, we eat too much and get sleepy, then blame the turkey. But we almost all do it.

It is probably tradition and the chance to have a huge meal more than anything. The core of the holiday has been mostly lost, but the idea of getting together and having a huge, tasty meal as a special occasion still appeals. Roast turkey, cranberry sauce, fresh bread, stuffing, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie, yams, and so on, the menu is strikingly similar in almost every house. Sometimes the stuffing is made from cornbread, sometimes they mix in some ethnic dishes, but it is a pretty consistent array of foods.

What isn't consistent is an understanding of thanks giving. As I've said before, you can't give thanks without having someone to thank. The entire concept of thanking by definition requires an object of that thanks, a source that was benevolent and thus deserves acknowledgment. The season has bizarrely become a pattern of vapid, empty thanks to no one as if that has any meaning whatsoever. Just be thankful!

And look around you. As poor as you might be, as awful as your life may very well have turned out - at least at the moment - as rough as the economy might be shaping up to be, you have things to be thankful for, and someone to be thankful to. It might not seem so, but as is often the case, it is a matter of contrasts and relativity that tells the tale.

When the Pilgrims landed on the soil of what would become Massachusetts, they had big dreams and big ideas, and the certainty that they were right and through righteousness they could not fail. They met with the local tribes and were on friendly terms, they set up their little colony, and shared everything equally. Whoever would work in the fields did so, whoever would mill the grain did so, and all was shared in communal love like they believed the early Christians did in Jerusalem.

By winter, they had not stocked up enough food and were unready for the cold. Most of the colony died. They were so helpless and pathetic, so unready for this new life after the comforts and benefits of civilized England that the local tribes helped them out. They showed the Pilgrims fertilizing techniques, the local foods that could be eaten, the best way to fish the local waters, how to make warmer homes and goods to survive.

When June of the next year came around, a proclamation was announced because the survivors now could face another winter, they would be ready this time. Their dearly hoped for dream of a colony in the New World with freedom to worship and live as they chose would come true. The proclamation was stark but full of faith:

The Holy God having by a long and Continual Series of his Afflictive dispensations in and by the present Warr with the Heathen Natives of this land, written and brought to pass bitter things against his own Covenant people in this wilderness, yet so that we evidently discern that in the midst of his judgments he hath remembered mercy, having remembered his Footstool in the day of his sore displeasure against us for our sins, with many singular Intimations of his Fatherly Compassion, and regard; reserving many of our Towns from Desolation Threatened, and attempted by the Enemy, and giving us especially of late with many of our Confederates many signal Advantages against them, without such Disadvantage to ourselves as formerly we have been sensible of, if it be the Lord's mercy that we are not consumed, It certainly bespeaks our positive Thankfulness, when our Enemies are in any measure disappointed or destroyed; and fearing the Lord should take notice under so many Intimations of his returning mercy, we should be found an Insensible people, as not standing before Him with Thanksgiving, as well as lading him with our Complaints in the time of pressing Afflictions:

The Council has thought meet to appoint and set apart the 29th day of this instant June, as a day of Solemn Thanksgiving and praise to God for such his Goodness and Favour, many Particulars of which mercy might be Instanced, but we doubt not those who are sensible of God's Afflictions, have been as diligent to espy him returning to us; and that the Lord may behold us as a People offering Praise and thereby glorifying Him; the Council doth commend it to the Respective Ministers, Elders and people of this Jurisdiction; Solemnly and seriously to keep the same Beseeching that being persuaded by the mercies of God we may all, even this whole people offer up our bodies and souls as a living and acceptable Service unto God by Jesus Christ.

They were giving thanks to God because through their trials they had survived. They were giving thanks because they had food, they had shelter, and they had the beginnings of a dream they could pass on to their children. Even as they mourned they gave thanks for what they had, realizing they deserved nothing and earned nothing. They gave thanks for the help the local tribes had given them, they gave thanks for the bounty of the land they lived in.

They had reason to give thanks, although they had less than the poorest person you know. They had no car, no television, no cell phone, they had no running water, no heating blanket, no heaters, no electricity. They had no police, no firemen, no hospitals. They had no mail, no roads, no grocery stores. They barely had enough to survive, but they knew that what little they had was a gift and they'd see how much less they could have had.

They gave thanks, and in our worst hours and saddest moments, we still have cause and reason to give thanks.

Oh, and for those of you for whom this is just another Thursday? You have things to give thanks for as well. This is not an American holiday, although it has such basic roots in US culture. It is a holiday everyone ought to have: a time to set aside with family and give thanks for all that we have and could have and hope for. It doesn't matter where you live or what culture you are in.

Give thanks - and think about who you give thanks to.

Chapter 19

"Being an author is having angels whisper in your ear - and devils, too."
-Graycie Harmon

I can't stand Christian books.

I suppose that requires some explanation; there are books by Christians I like, and books that are expressly Christian which I read and enjoy. What I mean is the kind of book that is a poorly disguised evangelical tract, an excuse for rosy-cheeked upstanding citizens to quote scripture to each other and give the four spiritual laws in long essay form with the cheap tatters of a story around it to make it seem like fiction.

The kind of story where the only person who does wrong is someone who swears once or a Christian who sins one time then has to seek redemption. The sort of story where, fearing the disapproval of their typical reader, the writer avoids situations and behavior that might be shocking to a very secluded and prudish old woman.

A proper Christian book, particularly fiction, will closely resemble great old books in the past that were stories of redemption and triumph over evil, but were filled with hardship, flawed sinners, and believable situations and characters. The kind that might not even mention God or the Bible, yet were plainly written from a Christian worldview. The Lord of the Rings is such a book: not a "Christian" book, but a book by a Christian that carries that stamp. Not a book written specifically to be Christian, but a book written to be a fine work of art by a Christian.

Such books have characters doing things they shouldn't, for bad reasons, because we do that every day. Such books would show the sin and need of salvation that Christianity is all about - in a form that is God-glorifying and edifying to readers, through a plausible and believable story. That's the kind of book I want to write.

Awakening suddenly, Aniela looked around her. The candle had guttered out some time in the night and no light peeked around the heavy dark hanging over her window. She could not see her clock but the time of night felt like very early morning, the hours of regret when she would sometimes wake up and look at her life, wondering why and how she could have done it all so wrong, a depression that only ended with sleep and a new dawn.

Aniela looked over beside her at Cezar's strong form in the small bed, heavy and warm beside her. He had almost none of the covers on him and she felt a small thrill at his form exposed beside her, barely visible in the heavy, cold darkness, until she reached his face and saw his eyes. The thrill slid into foolish guilt at peeking at him.

"I could smell something in your room that didn't seem to fit," he said without moving. "A sort of mechanical scent, like a typewriter or an adding machine."

Aniela lay silent, brain still somewhat in a half-sleeping state and unsure.

"So while you slept I looked around a bit, trying to find out what it was. It was not easy to find, but I did find it, an unusual device, something no Polish girl should have hidden away in the back of a cabinet, behind her toiletries and dusty, unused cosmetics. I thought perhaps you didn't know it was there, but it wasn't dusty and everything around it was. And it was too new, too modern a machine to have been hidden away in some secret compartment for years.

It smelled slightly of you as well: you didn't just know it was there, you used it. Who are you talking to with this strange machine?"

Aniela stared with wide eyes at Cezar. She tried to be outraged at him snooping around the room, she tried to be tender thinking of his concern, but all she felt was fear. All she could hear was the sound of Uncle Rys' voice, how genuinely frightened and anxious he was.

"You must not seek this man, you must listen to me. You must stay away from him."
"This man is dangerous, he is unspeakably dangerous, you must not see him again."

Cezar looked at her a long time, he could sense her fear, she was almost trembling like a leaf. "You must answer me, Aniela. I must trust you or I cannot see you again." The beast snarled inside him oh we'll make sure of that.

Still Aniela did not speak. She knew the longer she said nothing, the less believable a lie would be - indeed the less believable anything she said would be. What would he do? How would he react?

"I ... you cannot tell anyone, please Cezar, you have to promise." She waited for the promise yet Cezar was silent in the darkness. Finally she plunged on. "It--it is the British, they contacted me before the invasion. They wanted information on the Germans, on the invasion."

Cezar's hostility faded to a distant, patient look, and Aniela rolled onto her back, feeling a weight of secrecy lifted from her shoulders by sharing it with another.

"Alexander... my husband, he was part of a group that worked with the British academic societies, and he sometimes helped them move materials through Poland that had come from Germany, I never asked how it all started. I wasn't even supposed to know, but how could he hide it from his wife? When Aleš died a man spoke to me at the library, then again in a little cafe, asking if I could work with my husband, help with his work for liberty.

"He spoke of freedom and civilization, of the growing darkness and the need for all of us to fight against the Nazis. All I knew was it was good enough for Aleš and the Germans were threatening my home, that they had killed him. They gave me a contact, a place to drop letters off that I wrote and a place to look when they wanted to talk to me, but they never needed me until after Aleš was killed. Then the scarf was hung on the lightpost and I met with a man in the basement of an apartment building. He gave me a little book and told me to memorize it, to learn it, and they would be delivering something.

"I learned that book, it was what kept me sane as the bombs fell and the guns fired and I sat alone in a room full of strangers, screaming at God for taking away my Aleš. I learned the book so that I could quote the entire thing - my memory has always been good with that kind of thing. I suppose that's why they chose me. I learned the book and burned it, gone forever except in my mind."

Aniela rolled back to face Cezar, trying to see his expression in the darkness.

"When I moved in with my uncle and aunt here, along with my other supplies a passerby, a man I'd never seen before helped me carry my furniture to my room, and with it was this cabinet, carefully made, in the back the machine. They have a name for it, but I just call it the machine, I turn it on for short moments to recieve messages and send them. I don't know if I'm any help at all, but I know that it feels like I'm doing something to fight back."

Aniela looked in Cezar's eyes a long time, hoping he would understand, that she could trust him, looking for some sign she had not made a ghastly mistake. Cezar lay there a while looking annoyed, then his eyes closed and he began to chuckle, a deep rumble that forced a nervous smile from her as well.

"Well. Every man has enough ego to think that, at least some moments, he is irresistable, that he is so virile and handsome that a woman cannot resist his advances. So.

"Well humility is, they say, a virtue. You bedded me for information to send to your British friends, still, I am in bed with a beautiful, exciting woman, how much can I complain? You wish to know something, ask."

Aniela shared a giggle with him and blushed. "It wasn't just for information."

He acknowledged the compliment with a raised eyebrow and a grunt, tipping his head slightly.

"You are not angry with me?" Aniela asked with more than a little concern in her voice.

"Well, not so much I could not be convinced to forget it, but first, your questions."

Aniela nodded. Now that she had an opportunity, she wasn't sure what to ask. What did they want to know? What did she want to know?

"Cezar, my ... I call him my Uncle, he said you were marime, could... could you tell me? What happened?" Aniela's voice became quieter and softer as she spoke, as if she was asking a lion to show her how hard it can bite.

Cezar backed his head away a moment to look at her again, with a new respect. Beautiful, yes, but clever. How much had she learned? He had hinted to her about his nature and she did not react, was it because she already knew?

"Hm. Well perhaps the best way to answer is to say that it is the same reason I am alive today."

"You were in ..." she whispered, as if Germans might be listening "one of the camps, you escaped."

He nodded. "They tried to gas me. They killed dozens of people around me, mostly Rom, a few Jews. They all died. I lived, because gas cannot harm me.

"Smelled awful though."

Aniela just stared at him, hearing Rys' warnings in her head again: he is unspeakably dangerous.

"When they opened the door, I left."

They lay in bed, facing each other in the darkness, the cold air causing Aniela to snuggle into the covers a bit more. Then she opened them up, a gust of the chill washing over her and threw them over Cezar as well.

"Aren't you cold?" She asked as she moved close against him.

"No, Aniela."

"Well as furry as you are I'm not surprised."

Aniela kissed him then backed up a bit and watched him, waiting for him to speak. He has something to say, something awful and yet I just don't care, she thought.

It was Cezar's turn to roll on his back. He stared at the ceiling. Never before had he spoken to anyone about his curse, especially not some lithe bitch like this one. He swore silently at himself. This one is no bitch to mount, show her respect, Cezar thought angrily. She spread her legs just like the others the beast growled within him. Cezar shook his head, trying to shake loose the angry thoughts.

"Aniela, I'm not like any man you have met."

She giggled "I know."

"No, you don't."

The flat finality of his voice stopped her smile and the chill of Rys' words caught at her again. It was getting harder to push that voice back. How had he "smelled" her machine? How did he know she was Roma?

"I knew where you lived because I followed you. I followed your scent, out of sight. I can smell you now, you are a little afraid. You should be.

"Aniela, I have been cursed, something horrible lies within me. Sometimes it gets out, and when it gets out, blood and screams and death are unleashed."

Aniela started to speak and he touched her face.

"I don't mean metaphorically, angel. I am not cursed in some philosophical way, like a man with bad luck. I mean cursed. Long ago, too long now, I betrayed someone and paid a horrible price that I carry with me still."

Aniela felt very small and very vulnerable in her little bed, like a mouse lying next to a lion.

"Let me tell you my story," Cezar said.

Quote of the Day

"The Pilgrims made seven times more graves than huts. No Americans have been more impoverished than these who, nevertheless, set aside a day of thanksgiving."
-H.U. Westermayer

Chapter 18

"The process of writing has something infinite about it. Even though it is interrupted each night, it is one single notation."
-Elias Canetti

I've had a lot of fun naming characters in this story. The first group of names in the initial chapter were just a handful of German and other nearby names - Arie is dutch. As time went I've needed to come up with Polish and Romanian names as well as Gypsy names. Aniela, for example, is a Polish name which means "angel" and I think it is a very pretty name for a girl. Stompf, however, is just a fiction. I came up with it just on a whim, inspired by a classic Monty Python bit.

It was the hilarious Piranha brothers sketch which mocked organized crime and poked fun at the police department, and included an interview with a shady small time crook that went like this:

Criminologist
It is easy for us to judge Dinsdale Piranha too harshly. After all he only did what many of us simply dream of doing...
[tic...controls himself]
I'm sorry. After all a murderer is only an extroverted suicide. Dinsdale was a looney, but he was a happy looney. Lucky bastard.

Presenter
Most of the strange tales concern Dinsdale, but what about Doug? One man who met him was Luigi Vercotti.

[Cut to tatty office with desk and phone. Vercotti at desk.]

Vercotti
Well, I had been running a successful escort agency - high class, no really, high class girls - we didn't have any of that. That was right out. And I decided.
[phone rings on desk]
Excuse me
[he answers it]
Hello......no, not now...... shtoom... shtoom.... right...... yes, we'll have the watch ready for you at midnight....... the watch.....the Chinese watch.... yes, right-oh, bye-bye mother
[he replaces reciever]

The audio of his warnings to the person on the phone sounds like "shtompf" to me, and that's where the name came from. What does it mean? Who knows, but it sounds sort of German and at the same time like a boot crushing the ground with ruthless authority, so the SS Major gets this name.

Hardly dignified, but hey, it's just fiction and if I poke a little fun at a Nazi I can hardly think that's unacceptable.

Aniela stared at the form of Cezar, the flickering candle barely lighting him across the room. He seemed larger than before, a massive presence in the dark corner in rough spun clothes back by where she hung her coat and scarf. She shrank against the wall holding her blouse, arms crossed over her bra with an overwhelming sense of vulnerability and that naughty feeling of having been caught like a child with her hand in the cookie jar.

Cezar's eyes glinted in the candlelight, a black wetness against the shadows of his bearded face. He looked so serious, but not worried or eager. She might scream, or she might run, or she might rush to his arms, none of it seemed to concern him. He didn't seem bored, he merely seemed confidently ready for what came. As if it didn't matter one way or another because he would handle it all easily. Aniela felt her heart pounding through her chest, telling herself it was fear, and knowing it was more.

"You shouldn't be here!" she whispered at him, frozen against the wall.

"I shouldn't be anywhere."

"What are you doing in my room? How did you get in? What do you want?"

"Please, calm yourself, Aniela. I am here only because I wish to speak to you, in a place you were not so filled with fear. When I saw you at the market I knew I had to know you better, to spend time with you. But you seemed as if merely speaking to you would bring the hordes of hell upon you so I let you go.

"But you never left my mind, Aniela. I have been thinking of you."

Aniela swallowed hard, a mad thought flicking through her mind that he knew of her thoughts of him over the last day. Then she became angry, forgetting herself, she put her hands on her hips, blouse in one fist.

"You spoke Rom you fool, in public, what were you thinking? How did you know I would understand?"

Cezar moved one step away from the wall and smiled, his eyes becoming softer and kinder, with little crinkles at the edges that Aniela noted and cataloged in her memory without thinking.

"I could sense you were one of my people, and who else could have such beauty and fire within them? The world can hate us, but our love, our sense of family cannot be broken by their hate. No one would bother you with me there, Aniela. I would keep you safe." Within Cezar, the beast snarled like you did Marisol? and Cezar winced slightly and hung his head. "Yet... you are right, it was rash. I should not have done so. But would you have spoken to me otherwise? There is so little time to meet someone in these times, I... forgive me Aniela. I did not mean to frighten you."

Aniela rebelled a moment he thinks of me as a mouse yet she remembered the stark terror and helpless feeling in the market line and shuddered, missing Cezar's moment of sadness with thoughts of her own fears.

"It was foolish, and rash. You know the slightest hint is enough for any of us to disappear. Never do so again!"

Cezar smiled, was she even aware she implied they'd speak in public again? Aniela caught herself then became angry again.

"Ooh you know what I mean! Why must you be so frustrating?"

"I could have waited a bit longer before moving, if I was so unconcerned with your dignity," Cezar said with eyes crinkled at the edges again.

"I saw you before you spoke!"

"Because I let you see me, angel."

"You have no right to call me that! My name to you is Mrs Wisniewski!" Aniela said with fierce pride, louder than before.

"Ah, Mrs Wisniewski, where is your husband? I saw no ring upon your lovely hand." Cezar sounded disapointed.

"He..." Aniela stopped. Should I lie? He would only find out, she thought; He might go away, a deeper voice whispered. "He died in '39, our home was bombed while I was away."

Aniela hung her head, the empty pain in her heart still there, as a loud echo of the staggering agony it first was. He would always be there, a ghost that could not fill the gap of his absense, just enough to remind her and haunt her with his love and memories. It had been years yet it would not go away. Poor Aleš, the poetic soul crushed under tons of stone and wood by German hate.

"I am sorry for your loss."

The two stood as they were, Aniela looking at Cezar's eyes in the flickering candle light, Cezar looking at Aniela's yet taking in everything. In the darkness he could see the whole room as if lit by moonlight, darkness was never all that dark for him. Aniela was not wearing her rough coat and clothes, save the plain skirt. Her bare feet made her look younger but her face was worn by care and sadness beyond her age. He looked at her wavy black hair, her large dark eyes, her full lips, and dragged his eyes down her body. Aniela felt his gaze and her arms twitched slightly as she reflexively almost covered herself again, then stopped. She did not care what he saw, and she was wearing more than she did at the beach. Only, it felt more restrictive now.

Cezar crossed the room with single minded purpose, and Aniela met him with the same purpose burning in her.

*On the subject of names, Aleš is a Polish name, short for Alexander (the full name of Anika's dead husband). I'm not exactly sure how it is pronounced but I think it is something like AHL-yesh. I had a bear of a time finding how to type that little special "s" with the mark over the top. I ended up going to a Polish alphabet site and doing a cut and paste.

BLACKLISTED

"The bottom line is if he contributed money to a hateful campaign against black people, or against Jewish people, or any other minority group, there would be much less excusing of him."

As Hollywood becomes more openly leftist, there has developed an effective blacklist. Nothing so official as an actual list of banned movie workers or an office that handles the topic. It just ends up being the way things work by tacit agreement, as Andrew Breitbart noted:

The environment is not so much unfavorable to the Grand Old Party as it is utterly totalitarian. There's simply no lifestyle choice that receives a worse response at dinner parties.

Convicted murderer? Has anyone optioned the rights to your story?

Avowed Marxist? Viva la revolucion!

Scientologist? Do you take Visa or Mastercard?

Syphilitic drug abuser? Let's talk!

Conservative? You should go.

Only proclaiming one's self a practicing Christian is met with greater disdain - making Christian Republicans the gold standard in Hollywood pariah status.

In the wake of the public support and passage of Proposition 8 in California, the situation has gotten worse. According to Rachel Abramowitz and Tina Daunt at the Los Angeles Times:

Should there be boycotts, blacklists, firings or de facto shunning of those who supported Proposition 8?

That's the issue consuming many in liberal Hollywood who fought to defeat the initiative banning same-sex marriage and are now reeling with recrimination and dismay. Meanwhile, activists continue to comb donor lists and employ the Internet to expose those who donated money to support the ban.

Already out is Scott Eckern, director of the nonprofit California Musical Theatre in Sacramento, who resigned after a flurry of complaints from prominent theater artists, including "Hairspray" composer Marc Shaiman, when word of his contribution to the Yes on 8 campaign surfaced.

Other targets include Film Independent, the nonprofit arts organization that puts on both the Los Angeles Film Festival and the Spirit Awards; the Cinemark theater chain; and the Sundance Film Festival.

There is some debate, however. Some are concerned about issues of religious freedom, tolerance, and free speech. Others merely see it as a civil rights issue: gays should get whatever they want or they are being abused by the man. For them, the point is clear, it is a case of cruel tyranny by the people. You wouldn't stand by if someone passed a law saying blacks couldn't marry whites, would you? It is plain and unmistakable bigotry and hatred to them.

To the others, they see it a bit more complicated. While they disagree with the decision, they also respect the people's right to have their say, and further they understand need to respect religion and tolerate differences of opinion. Religious issues are important, even if they are disagreed with, they argue.

What's missing, of course, is the first question that never gets asked: is what the homosexual activists seek proper and reasonable to begin with? There never is an attempt to convince and persuade, only to intimidate, to force by judicial fiat, and to insist upon with insults and personal attacks.

For at the basis here is an argument that says "I have the right to marry the exact person I wish, and you must not merely allow it, but support it." Naturally, no one has this right, even if you falsely presume a right to marriage in the first place. I cannot marry exactly whom I wish, I have to work within certain restrictions.

• I cannot marry another man.
• I cannot marry a kitchen table.
• I cannot marry someone who is already married.
• I cannot marry someone who does not wish to marry me.
• I cannot marry a close relative.
• I cannot marry more than one person.
• I cannot marry someone who is deceased.
• I cannot marry someone who is too young.

The fact is, all of us have the same restrictions on whom we may and may not marry. The argument cannot be between marrying whomever you want or not. The argument merely has to be whether a given existing restriction is reasonable, proper, and just. Yet that argument is never made, it always sloughs off into side issues and personal attacks and cries of bigotry and discrimination (as if no one discriminates when they marry), and illogical nonsense.

Because at heart, the homosexual activist really isn't all that interested in marriage its self. Sure, they would like the option, but that's merely a side benefit, like getting a nice stereo when you buy a new car. What they want is the legal powers granted more easily by marriage, and more importantly the financial benefits - insurance, etc. And over all that is the need to impose upon society not merely tolerance of homosexuality, but legal and cultural sanction and support. To ease the guilt and discomfort that they mistakenly believe is imposed from society and not coming from within. I feel bad and its your fault. If only people wouldn't be so mean I'd feel fine about all this.

And in today's culture, nobody wants to stop an ask if maybe, just maybe they feel bad because they're supposed to.

Meanwhile the protesters ignore the majority black and Hispanic groups that supported and helped Proposition 8 pass, ignore the Muslim groups who donated and worked for it, and target... Mormons.

FOLLOWING ICELAND

"They don't have our trust and they are no longer legitimate."

This is elsewhere on the internet, but I wanted to post it here to give it the most exposure I can. Email this around if you want as well, better that more people hear about this. That's where I got it; an email from my brother, although it's from Barry Ritholtz' The Big Picture blog originally:

If we add in the Citi bailout, the total cost now exceeds $4.6165 trillion dollars. People have a hard time conceptualizing very large numbers, so let's give this some context. The current Credit Crisis bailout is now the largest outlay In American history.

Jim Bianco of Bianco Research crunched the inflation adjusted numbers. The bailout has cost more than all of these big budget government expenditures – combined:

• Marshall Plan: Cost: $12.7 billion, Inflation Adjusted Cost: $115.3 billion
• Louisiana Purchase: Cost: $15 million, Inflation Adjusted Cost: $217 billion
• Race to the Moon: Cost: $36.4 billion, Inflation Adjusted Cost: $237 billion
• S&L Crisis: Cost: $153 billion, Inflation Adjusted Cost: $256 billion
• Korean War: Cost: $54 billion, Inflation Adjusted Cost: $454 billion
• The New Deal: Cost: $32 billion (Est), Inflation Adjusted Cost: $500 billion (Est)
• Invasion of Iraq: Cost: $551b, Inflation Adjusted Cost: $597 billion
• Vietnam War: Cost: $111 billion, Inflation Adjusted Cost: $698 billion
• NASA: Cost: $416.7 billion, Inflation Adjusted Cost: $851.2 billion

TOTAL: $3.92 trillion

People complained about the expense of the Iraq invasion and war, people have pointed to the vast cost - particularly when adjusted for inflation - of endeavors such as the Marshall plan to rebuild war-ravaged Europe after WW2. People have complained about the expense of the New Deal and other costs. But all of these combined with more besides do not add up to as much of an expense as all of these bailouts.

Need that to be brought down a little closer to home, a smaller number? How about more than $24,000 per person in America - man, woman, child, of all ages, everywhere, every single person. That's how much they're costing you. If it wasn't for the price of gas dropping in half, we'd already be in a horrific recession or worse.

What, exactly, does the dollar become worth when the government just invents some to throw at big business? What is the point of bankruptcy laws if you can just ignore good business sense, careful use of resources, and wise financial policy because you know the government will just make it all okay with magical bailout money which didn't exist a few years ago?

I know of no one who likes these bailouts except congressmen who get kickbacks from these businesses in the form of campaign contributions, and the overpaid CEOs who cratered these companies to begin with. Oh, and the unions. That's who is being helped out with auto bailouts: the unions whose contracts destroyed the companies to begin with. This is an effort to, temporarily at least, let the unions keep going. When the companies they disease and destroy like a virus die, they die as well: no jobs no auto union if the automakers collapse.

You can bet that whoever took over the auto making in the US wouldn't sign the same godawful, suicidal contracts. This is a deliberate attempt to prevent these companies from suffering the consequences of their poor judgement and actions, and the unions from the same.

What should our response be? Well, along with trying to find a job when the dollar drops to a fraction of its present worth, other than trying to find a way to feed our families and find clothing and houses, we should utterly gut the present government. It is abundantly plain that nobody in office is worthy of retaining their job. None of them. We need to take Iceland's approach:

Thousands of Icelanders have demonstrated in Reykjavik to demand the resignation of Prime Minister Geir Haarde and Central Bank governor David Oddsson, for failing to stop the country's financial meltdown.
It was the latest in a series of protests in the capital since October's banking collapse crippled the island's economy. At least five people were injured and Hordur Torfason, a well-known singer in Iceland and the main organiser of the protests, said the protests would continue until the government stepped down.

As crowds gathered in the drizzle before the Althing, the Icelandic parliament, on Saturday, Mr Torfason said: "They don't have our trust and they are no longer legitimate."

The value of the Icelandic krona has been cut in half since January.

Thousands of people have vowed to keep protesting every day until the government resigns. We need to step up and make that happen here, and combine that with a complete overturn of every single politician in Washington, doing so until they start to listen again. The federal government has demonstrated its self to be wholly unworthy of power, unwise with its money, and undeserving of office - in both parties - and they are absolutely taking the wrong path in this financially troubled time with your money.

All those calls for fiscal responsibility, all those demands for cutting spending, all the concern over debt and overspending have suddenly vanished. We as a people have lost control over our government and it is time that was reversed. Small wonder gun ownership has skyrocketed.

Need more reason? Comprehensive Immigration Reform (amnesty) is coming back, despite incredibly loud, wide spread and party-boundary ignoring opposition by the public. Courtesy Senator McCain and the Democrats.

Seriously what, exactly does congress have to do before people get rid of them all? They are not really to blame, when it comes down to it. When we are in a democracy, we are to blame for our government. You and I. When it comes time to vote, will you yank that lever for the same bum as last time, again? Will you keep sending the scum who does this to power over and over?

What will it take?

And who among us will step up, finally, to take their place? When will reasonable, decent citizens run for office once more, gifted folks who set aside their regular life temporarily to serve the people? Who will show the leadership to set this ship on course before it hits that iceberg?

Quote of the Day

“I think the media performed flawlessly during the two year election cycle. They managed the story, shielded their candidate, attacked the opposition, sat on damaging stories, and in short did everything a good state run media should do during an election cycle.”
-Rich Hailey

Chapter 17

"Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass."
-Anton Chekhov

As my brother has rightly pointed out, a lot of these chapters are rather short as chapters go. In fact, several could be combined into a larger chapter, thus bringing the count down significantly. Partly this is deliberate; I write until I need a break and stop. Partly it is out of inexperience, and editing would fix a lot of that. The last chapter I wrote was lacking quite a few details that were I feeling better at the time I probably would have included. Where are the other soldiers that Major Stompf brought with him? What is the countryside like? What is going on with the weather? Why not more description of the men, the horses, the reaction of the soldiers?

That is the kind of thing that rewrites and editors would add in, and rightly so. Yet the gist of the chapter is in place, even if it is a fragment of a chapter, and so I plod on. After all, this is about getting content down more than the highest quality; I'm plenty good at procrastinating and delaying because things aren't quite right, I hardly need more practice at that.

Herr Professor Doctor Konrad Stoffel was frustrated. It had been a day since he heard about the prisoner's escape, and while the information had been carefully collected and regularly updated with efficiency and an attention to detail, his plane trip to Krakow had not been. Delay after delay prevented his travel for hours, and each step was the more frustrating for Dr Stoffel knew that sufficient backing by a party official or the willingness to pay larger bribes would have sped things up. Dr Stoffel was a man of few morals, but bribes and deliberate obfuscation in the name of corruption was something he was a purist about. It was not to be tolerated, and it enraged him that the men surrounding the Fuhrer kept him so busy and distracted he was not able to address this problem directly. Clearly it had to be the case, the beloved Fuhrer would not allow such corruption otherwise, and obviously he had to be aware of it.

Just as he was about to board a dubious looking plane bound for Krakow, an official car pulled up with an impressive escort of cold and miserable looking soldiers on motorcycles. Dr Stoffel restrained his rage with great effort, it would be typical that after all this, some party official decided he'd take the last seat on this plane instead. Then he realized that a party official would have a much better plane ride than this looked to offer. When the door was opened and Rudolph Hess stepped out, Dr Stoffel's anger slid into cold fear.

Hess personally directed Dr Stoffel into an office, ejecting all of the airport workers. Rubbing his hands together for warmth, Hess looked very unhappy at the surroundings. Clutter filled the little office, pictures of scantily clad women on the walls, stacks of forms and paperwork were on the desks, a bottle of cheap Schnapps empty in the trashcan and cigarette butts overflowed ashtrays. The split leather on the best seat revealed the horse hair stuffing from inside, pushed out like a burst baked potato. Hess brushed off the seat and leaned back in it, gesturing for Dr Stoffel to sit.

"Sit please, herr Doctor, we must speak and there is little time."

Dr Stoffel sat down with a mixture of confusion and relief. What on earth could pull such a powerful and important man to such a place, to talk to him? Did Helga talk? No, he wouldn't ever see Hess then, he'd see a draft notice for the Russian campaign, or a soldiers' rifle butt in his face and a firing squad.

"I have been informed of some inquiries you have been making regarding a Polish prisoner," Hes waved his hand in dismissal "no, do not be alarmed, you have been loyal and working hard for the Reich. This is not a reprimand, nor am I upset at Helga for mentioning the case at the party. As it turns out this is an opportunity, a chance for greatness for the Reich."

Dr Stoffel nodded, glad that Hess believed Helga and he were simply chance friends at a party rather than regular lovers behind his back. He felt it was best to let Hess continue speaking and talk when he was directed to, like back in school.

"Your inquiries have been very enlightening and organized, suggesting an organized, scientific mind. I looked into your dossier and found that you are a brilliant and dedicated scientist, your paper on genetic anomalies in epileptics was very well received, it was partly what formed the Reich's policy regarding these madmen."

Dr Stoffel nodded again. Madmen was a bit inaccurate, but far be it from him to correct the second most powerful man in the government; in all Europe, for that matter.

"It seems you are taking a bit of a different approach toward the stories out of Auschwitz, please explain."

Time to talk, thought Dr Stoffel, keep it short and to the point.

"Herr Hess, I am flattered and delighted in your interest in this project, I was not sure I had enough information to take this to an official capacity, but your question proves that I need not have worried so."

It was Hess' turn to nod, we know everything his gaze seemed to say. Not quite, Stoffel thought, and plunged in swiftly, as if afraid of interruption.

"In my previous examinations of genetic anomalies and mutations I have read about studies in the past of various very strange atavistic throwbacks, men who have become more bestial, even monsterous. There was a case recently in Dusseldorf of a criminal who drank the blood of his fellow man to survive, as his body was unable to generate certain required chemicals. The lack of this was seen in short order while in prison, causing his gums to recede and exaggerate his canine teeth, his eyes and skin to react violently to sunlight, all classic characteristics of Nosferatu, or the vampire of Stoker's novels, and many legends."

Dr Stoffel slid a cigarette case out while he spoke and lit one, offering Hess his last cigarette. Hess shook his head, but did not seem bored or annoyed, yet.

"Some older records, particularly those seized from the southeastern European states, have some indication of a different sort of mutation, causing increased hair growth, growth of fingernails, teeth, and ears. The kind of mutation that would be portrayed in decadent American cinema as a wolf-man, perhaps. Yet there was some hint of something more."

Dr Stoffel hesitated here. This was where it all could fall apart, the precipice that divided between an awful plunge into mockery and disregard or glory and achievement. He took a deep breath.

"There were some studies done that suggested cases where the mutations were more extreme, more radical. That hinted at someone who could seem ordinary - aside from some hints in their physiognamy - but in times of stress or certain periods in their life change into a more bestial form, a monster. Such mutations would result in greater strength and agility, an unbelievable level of healing and resistance to harm. This sort of creature was called lycanthrope in the ages past, the were-wolf." Dr Stoffel stood and began to pace as he spoke, waving his cigarette in the stale air of the small office as he gestured. "I have been watching for decades for such information, fascinated with the possibilities. Could such a thing exist, was such radical change possible, so rapidly? What could it mean for science? Could these healing properties be as great as they were said to be? Modern science scoffs at the old stories, the tales of monsters and witches and magic, yet the clever scientist knows that in these tales are the seeds of reality - the witches brew brings us pennicilin, the vampire is a diseased man drinking blood to survive. What secrets of the jungle and the supersitious past are we abandoning while we seek modern science and reason? What strange things might evolution have developed over the millennia, hidden from sight by rarity and fear?

"The French philosophers scoff at such ideas, yet Nietzsche wrote of monsters and of reality beyond that which we can reason and discover. We Germans know better of the world, that beyond the veil of science there is much more that must be known and studied. Our Fuhrer himself leads the way with archaeological studies of the past, bringing artifacts and information to the capital to learn - not from superstitious fear or religious nonsense, but the need to know not simply the scientific, but the whole world. For how can we master the planet without knowing? How can we consider ourselves men of reason and understanding without learning that which defies reason and science?"

Dr Stoffel stopped, realizing he was rambling and likely to annoy Herr Hess. He glanced briefly at Hess but saw no immediate signs of frustration or annoyance, rather a sort of fascination and interest. Dr Stoffel hurried on, wanting to capitalize on this moment.

"The old stories were written in ignorance we no longer suffer from, the burdens of religion and superstition, and with proper discipline and effort, we can peel back the layers of myth and lies and reveal the reality - more than reveal, exploit it! What could be accomplished with a man who can shrug off bullets and heal grievous injury in hours, not weeks? What sort of front line soldiers would berserkers in wolf form be, when guided by German genius and tactical briliance? In short, Herr Hess: what sort of gain would the Reich receive from the capture, study, and duplication of such a creature for our benefit? How much more swiftly would the needs of the Reich be met with a soldier of this sort?

"And so I began to dig into this story - just a hint of some wolf monster in a work camp - hoping slightly that I might have finally found what I've wondered about all this time. And the more I studied the more I realized it must be what I seek.

"I was hoping only to get to the scene of these incidents, to study, to gather evidence, and to hope to see the creature. What great things could be accomplished, if only I could gain access to this creature, alive?"

Hess sat and thought, his head tilted slightly. What he thought was hidden in his features, but his eyes showed respect for the doctor's ideas. In the end, the rational case of the doctor appealed to him far more than the superstitious nonsense of the strange Romanian. Finally he spoke.

"What indeed?" Put a German on the case and something useful could be done.

"You see, Herr Doctor, I came personally because of a request you sent trying to procure a flight to Krakow. I was intrigued by the report, and by the paperwork you requested, it appeared you were interested in something that was a concern of mine as well.

"The creature is being hunted by a Romanian specialist, as you say, the high command has seen fit to send a Romanian to track him down, but they wish this man destroyed. Yet the more I thought about this case, the more I realized that this would be an opportunity squandered. How did he accomplish what he did? What let him survive the liquidation process? How did he escape? These are questions that we must answer, and killing the prisoner would not do so.

"I wish him captured, studied, and his powers understood, his strength harnessed for our righteous cause. Destroyed he is of little use. Alive, he may be of service to the Reich, even if he does not wish it. Yet, even one such as I am limited as to what I may accomplish openly. I cannot give you orders that contradict what the Fuhrer has commanded, yet I may help you reach the Romanian and work with him, provide you with troops and passes, with paperwork that lets you move. This is between us, you understand..."

Hess trailed off and Dr Stoffel nodded understanding very well. If something went wrong Hess would be completely separate and Konrad Stoffel would be all alone.

"Yet I will do what I can behind the scenes, as it were, to assist you in your efforts. Go now, the plane is waiting for you. When you arrive in Krakow you will be met by my men. Find the Romanian, and the rest is up to you. I will not tolerate failure, Herr Doctor, but I will greatly reward success. You are an Aryan, there is no limit to what you may accomplish. Make your country proud."

Dr Stoffel nodded nervously. What did I get myself into?

INDIGNITY

"A judge's right to free speech is subject to limitation by the Canons of Judicial Conduct"

There was a time when you could rely on the leadership of a country, those in power, to display dignity and behave in a respectable manner. That the conduct of those in political power would be a model of decorum and that politeness and manners were the hallmark of someone the higher in the ranks of government they achieved because of the dignity and import of the office they held.

Some time in the early 1990s, that was lost. Whether it began with Bill Clinton on MTV (?) talking about his underwear or with Vice President Cheney telling a pesky and annoying colleague to "f**k off" on camera, or President elect Obama flipping off his opponents in a manner typical of a grade school child, something was lost. The leaders, the ones who should be the most mature and dignified among us are besmirching their office with childish, undignified behavior. The eternal frat boy attitude of modern pop culture is leaking into the highest offices and leaving the country poorer for it.

It was this solemnity that made Monty Python's portrayal of judges as ludicrous, effeminate queers, and so on work: it was a shocking disconnect with comfortable reality, it was contrasting with the known and the understood that built the humor.

Case in point: Justice Richard B. Sander of the Washington Supreme Court, one of the highest judicial appointments in the country, let alone the world. An office of such gravity and importance that strict careful procedure is to be followed and specific ritual is followed each working day, a position of power that can change the entire legal landscape of the country with a decision, has a man who did this in a speech by US Attorney General Mukasey:

There was a weird moment last night even before the attorney general collapsed.

A man at a table near ours stood up, early in the speech, and shouted, "Tyrant! You are a tyrant!"

Who was this man? Well it appears to have been Justice Sander, who got up and left part way through the speech:

On Friday's episode of Fox News Channel's "The O'Reilly Factor," Wendy Long of the Judicial Confirmation Network identified the heckler as Justice Richard B. Sanders of the Washington state Supreme Court. We emailed Sanders last night asking if he was the heckler. We have not received a response.

We were seated close enough to the heckler to note that he was at Table 50--Sanders' assigned table, according to the dinner program. Although we did not recognize the heckler, we observed that he had white hair and a mustache, as does Sanders in the photo on his personal Web site and in this Cato Institute video. Of the five men assigned to sit at Table 50, we are acquainted with, and would have recognized, three.

When asked if he was the one who did the heckling, Justice Sanders responded that he did not believe Mukasey heard the shouting and that he left before the Attorney General collapsed. Which obviously is not any sort of denial. And he's far from the only judge to act in such an undignified manner.

It is not terribly surprising to see this kind of behavior, however. In modern culture of America, being rude, selfish, self-focused, narcissistic, and obnoxious is not condemned, it is often praised as showing initiative, passion, and being a rebel spirit who questions authority. Solemnity, dignity, honor, and maturity is mocked as lifeless, humorless, and pompous, if not hypocritical. Learning is mocked as pointless and useless in life, and intellectual pursuits are considered a waste of time if not stupidly self-indulgent and unlikely to lead to comfort, pleasure, happiness, and health which is considered the proper goal of all humanity.

Meanwhile another story popped up that is related, in which it is found that public servents know even less than the general public - which is a woefully low level already - about American civics. According to the Intercollegiate Studies Institute:

US elected officials scored abysmally on a test measuring their civic knowledge, with an average grade of just 44 percent, the group that organized the exam said Thursday.

Ordinary citizens did not fare much better, scoring just 49 percent correct on the 33 exam questions compiled by the Intercollegiate Studies Institute (ISI).

"It is disturbing enough that the general public failed ISI's civic literacy test, but when you consider the even more dismal scores of elected officials, you have to be concerned," said Josiah Bunting, chairman of the National Civic Literacy Board at ISI.

Some of the failed questions included the function of the electoral college, who were the combatants in WW2, and who has the power to declare war. These are simple enough questions that anyone who has passed the citizenship test would easily know, but people in government seem unaware of.

And for many of them, the reason is quite simple: they aren't in government to serve the people, honor its history, and uphold the constitution. They are there to make the world a better place. They may not know who declares war, but they know who is the oppressor. They might be hazy on American Civics, history and constitution, but they're well versed on political correctness, multiculturalism, and relativism. Who cares about these tests, the deeper truth is what matters - defined by the latest leftist dogma.

Schools certainly aren't helping anyone learn about the former, but they are certainly pushing and indoctrinating the latter. Lenin's primary idea of education (where the term and concept "political correctness" originated) was to form ideal citizens for the socialist state, to politically and culturally shape students rather than educate them so that they could form their own conclusions. The school system of America has embraced this concept with every arm they had and a few they borrowed, and the results are not surprising.

This level of ignorance contributes to a degredation of dignity and maturity in office. If you know little about what the country is about, its history, and the civics of a nation, then your respect for the office will necessarily be degraded. If your primary goal is to achieve some utopian dream of political power rather than serve the people with respect and honor for the past and the nation its self, then you will tend to treat the job and people with disrespect as well. Combine that with a popular culture that celebrates irresponsibility, indignity, frovolity, and a lack of maturity, and we have our present situation - one that is almost certain to get worse before it gets better.

RANGEL WATCH

"We don't windsurf in Harlem."
-Charles Rangel

How much scandal, corruption, lawbreaking, and hypocrisy can a Democratic Party politician get away with and keep his job? So far we've seen someone blatantly guilty of taking bribes get cushy committee appointments (William "freezer cash" Jefferson), someone repeatedly guilty of sexually harassing their underage male pages get reelected (Congressman Stubbs), and someone famously guilty of hiring hookers avoid prosecution entirely (Governor Spitzer), and in the first two cases keep their job. B

Both Jefferson and Spitzer are amazing cases, since the guys who bribed Jefferson and the madam who supplied Spitzer with high-cost hookers were convicted of their crimes. Bribe a politician, see jail time. Be the politician who was bribed? Still free and working. Get hookers for a politician, see jail time. Be the politician who got the hookers? No trial, walk free.

So let's watch Charles Rangel, Democrat representative from New York. After all, Speaker Pelosi (D-CA) said "elect us, hold us accountable, and make a judgment and then go from there." So how accountable will Rangel be? Let's count the ways he should be held to account:

-Harlem Rep. Charles Rangel took a "homestead" tax break on a Washington, DC, house for years while simultaneously occupying multiple rent-stabilized apartments in New York City, possibly violating laws and regulations in both cases.

-As The Post reported yesterday, the Harlem congressman - who chairs the powerful House Ways and Means Committee - took a "homestead" property-tax deduction on a house he owned in Washington, DC, until 2000.

Problem is the deduction only applies to a home that is an individual's "principal place of residence" - and the law explicitly bars members of Congress from taking the break.

-Congressional records and interviews show that Mr. Rangel was instrumental in preserving a lucrative tax loophole that benefited an oil-drilling company last year, while at the same time its chief executive was pledging $1 million to the project, the Charles B. Rangel School of Public Service at C.C.N.Y.

Basically Representative Rangel is guilty of multiple counts of tax law violations, congressional law, corruption, and assorted ethics violations. Will there be any consequence? Time will tell, but it is clear that the reporting on this was restrained until the election was over. Now that the election cycle is over for 2 years, well its okay to report bad things about Democrats.

*More on congressional corruption from WATN:
Most Ethical Congress ever?
Diane Feinstein conflict of interest
Law and the Democrats
Mahoney gets some on the side
The Friends of Angelo

Quote of the Day

“California is now a valuable touchstone to the country, a warning of what not to do. Rarely has a single generation inherited so much natural wealth and bounty from the investment and hard work of those more noble now resting in our cemeteries—and squandered that gift within a generation.”
-Victor Davis Hanson

Chapter 16

"Our passions shape our books; repose writes them in the intervals."
-Proust

I'm not feeling so hot today. That's not unusual, the days I feel good I count less often than full moons, but some days its worse than others. I knew this would happen sooner or later, and yet I've made a commitment to write. The point of this month's experiment is to get something down on paper, so to speak, regardless of the content or quality, to get a book written each working day of the month. So the quality might suffer, but it gets done anyway and I can rest later.

When Laura Hillenbrand wrote the book Seabiscuit she became so debilitated she ended up writing it in bed, and finally just took months to recover once it was done. History is replete with writers who wrote themselves to death - or more commonly drank themselves to death while writing. People who just kept going regardless of the cost because their art and their work demanded it. Because what they had to say burned in them so fiercely they could not ignore it. I have to admit that I'm not that driven, it is probably the dividing line between some talent and real genius, between the writer and the artist. I fall comfortably short of that line.

So if this part is weaker or shorter than it ought to be, at least you have a reason if not a proper excuse.

Following the trail of the monster became more difficult as the creature's passions faded and the dominance of the beast in Cezar Alexandru lessened. Yet at the same time, Vladimir Czerny found it easier to find the spiritual residue of its passage because the path he took was uncluttered by other people. Czerny was loathe to explain his work and his learning to anyone because it was obscure, arcane, and usually met with no small level of skepticism. There were so many fakers and charlatans in spiritualism that he couldn't blame the skeptics, but it was frustrating to be a proper professional in a field strewn with liars.

Yet when Major Stompf and he left the forest, the tall German SS officer had a different attitude toward Vladimir Czerny, one of at least begrudging respect and the camaraderie of two men who have faced the unknown and walked away. It was a few miles of riding over the melting snow before either man spoke, and Stompf sounded almost apologetic in tone.

"You... are able to see the passage of this creature, somehow?"

Czerny's face was unchanged but the pale ice in his eyes softened somewhat. It had cost the Major a great deal to speak publicly about the events and admit that perhaps the Romanian was not a madman or a fool. It was as if a god had admitted that maybe the mortal was not entirely wrong, at least. Czerny nodded, relaxing part of his concentration, but still sounding distracted.

"In a sense, yes. I do not see with my eyes, but with my mind."

They rode on along a trail that led through small clumps of trees and fields, across the land toward Krakow. Major Stompf looked at his map and compass and confirmed it: almost a straight line to the city.

"And this ... this sense, you can trace the creature, even in the city?"

Czerny took a deep breath and sighed. The truth was usually the best policy, yet with the SS, saying what they do not want to hear rarely ended well. Still, for the moment he was protected by the German high command and ought to be safe while he was useful.

"It is more difficult with more people in the area. I... this may be boring or unwelcome, do you wish me to explain?"

Stompf hesitated, then nodded, unwilling to actually say the word out loud.

"Then I shall make it as brief as I may. Each of us as we pass through the world leave... traces, shall we say, of our passage. It is like the scent a hound follows, but is instead a residue of our passions, our emotions, our spiritual state. It is as if you leave a piece of your soul behind like a cloud of dust that follows on a dry plain."

Czerny slid his eyes sideways to see the Major's reaction so far. Stompf was impassive, watching ahead. At least he wasn't visibly amused or repelled, thought Czerny.

"The more violent or extreme these spiritual conditions, these disturbances of the soul, the more 'dust' is left behind in the air, so to speak, yes?"

Stompf nodded, this made sense, even if it was absurd fancy; it was consistent and understandable.

"So when a monster of this sort passes through an area, it leaves a cosiderable 'dust cloud' and is easy to track. However, the more it calms down, the less the cloud is visible. And in a city, there is a lot of dust being kicked up by everyone who passes by. A spurned lover, a thief fleeing the police, a man angry at his children, and so on. It can become difficult, even impossible to keep track."

Stompf nodded again.

"Such a creature has, has two natures, a duality of soul. There is the man, who can be of any sort, but often is what would be called wicked by the more religious. And there is the beast, a monster within them that struggles to be let free, a horror that slowly over time consumes the man and becomes his all, kept back only by an incredible battle of wills. While the beast is dominant, the trace he leaves is distinct and very obvious. While the man is dominant, the trace becomes more ordinary, not as distinct." Czerny paused as the concentrated to keep the path ahead clear in his mind. "He is calming, becoming more the man, and thus the path is more difficult to follow. It is possible he even knows this and hopes the city will cover him."

Vladimir Czerny made a grim face, for the first time displaying emotion and humanity. "There is... a way to find the path, to follow it even though it becomes muddled or lost, but it is... not a manner I enjoy using. I hope that it will not become necessary."

Major Stompf looked over at the little Romanian with imperial loftiness. "You will use whatever means you must to obey the Fuhrer's orders."

Czerny nodded. "Yes, I will do whatever I must to find and destroy this beast. Perhaps you seek vengeance or to stop a rebel threat. You do not know the horror that it might unleash upon the land, upon all of us. It must be stopped, though the cost may be very high. There are," he looked straight at Major Stompf with a severe gaze, "things which man is best to leave alone."

Stompf rode in silence as they approached the outskirts of Krakow. There are things that lesser men ought not anger in this world as well, he thought. Perhaps this one will soon need a reminder.

Novel

THE GREAT CULTURAL DIVIDE

"As God is my witness, I thought turkeys could fly"
-Arthur Carlson**, WKRP in Cincinnati

I have grown up in the country at the fringes of a large town most of my life. I never really lived in rural areas, nor did I live in cities, I was in a twilight blend of rural and urban, with the benefits of both. For the best of my youth I grew up on a 50 acre farm just outside the city limits in a lush forested area of unbelievable beauty. I have some feel of the rural life as well as the city, and that's what gives me such a sad head shake when I watch what's happening lately.

I've written several times about the cultural divide in America and around the world. Most people put it in terms of politics or religion, but the fact is, the real divide is between rural and urban. If you want to know a country's real culture, get out of the city and see how people live in the rural areas. That is the culture of the country. Urban areas share 90% of the same culture regardless of the country they belong to. Paris and London and Tokyo and Moscow, New York City and Sao Palo, wherever you go, the urban culture is largely shared in a way that these countries do not in rural areas.

Few incidents recently could illustrate this as well as the shocked, horrified, and sarcastic articles about Governor Palin's recent press conference. While there always is a layer of "we must destroy her" in the legacy reporting of the governor, the reason for their need to destroy her is revealed in how they react. Here are a few headlines:

TURKEYS DIE AS GOVERNOR PALIN TAKES QUESTIONS FROM MEDIA

GOV. SARAH KEEPS TALKING WHILE TURKEYS GET SLAUGHTERED BEHIND HER

GOV. PALIN APPARENTLY OBLIVIOUS TO TURKEY CARNAGE OVER HER SHOULDER

Oh, the turkanity! What happened? She talked to reporters while on camera with a turkey packing plant behind her. They actually were killing the birds! The horror! It was unimaginable, that someone could kill those birds with such callous disregard! Fifty years ago, they showed birds being beheaded on national television in specials for children about the annual US Thanksgiving celebration. Today a turkey being fed into a machine by a belt is too horrific to consider. Oblivious, she was, lacking the proper look of moral outrage and horror. Or even worse, she thought it was completely appropriate and reasonable.

This divide is so bizarre to rural people, to hunters, to farmers, to people who actually know where their food comes from. For the urbanized metrosexual, meat comes in neat bloodless plastic packages or cans, there's no connection to a living bird. They rarely see any living animals other than pets and pigeons, let alone consider how they might be edible. The fact that pigeons were introduced to cities as a food source is unthinkable to them. The idea that an animal must be killed, plucked, and hacked apart to be ready for them to eat is simply blotted out from their mind.

This divide explains why part of the country cannot even imagine how a hard left politician with radical ties to terrorists and America-haters who openly stated he wants to raise taxes and quotes Marx on economic policy could possibly have been elected. Meanwhile, the other part of the country is shocked and dismayed that anyone could possibly support a President who actually says he prays and reads the Bible (can you believe, in this day and age?) or a ballot measure that defines marriage as one man and one woman.

There was a very popular (and insightful, for the most part) book in the early 90s entitled Men are From Mars, Women are From Venus that tried to explain the battle of the sexes and the confusion in relationships with the fact that we're basically different. That we think differently - even radically so - and the only way to reach out to one another is to learn these differences and make allowances for it.

There's a real need for a similar book regarding urban and rural peoples. It is as if two separate species live side by side, externally similar, but alien to one another. The language is similar sounding, but when one says words like patriotism, dissent, and country, they mean something entirely different than the other. This cultural disparity has grown and accelerated in the last decade or so to the point where it is almost unbridgeable.

THE WHORE OF BABYLON
It is this divide that explains the horror and hatred of Governor Palin. She's an accomplished, well-spoken, and professional woman who has achieved greatness and epitomizes that which the feminist movement stated they wanted and fought for. I remember the movie Fargo in which the main character Marge Gunderson was a homespun folksy type who was also very capable, wise, and patient, a woman who was great at her job and independent while having a great, loving relationship with her husband. The feminists and urbanites loved her, she was fun and wise and great and they considered her a terrific character.

Yet when the real thing comes along, they treat her with contempt, even hatred. They lie openly about her, spread horrific slanderous rumors, demonize and mock her. They treat her like the worst evil on earth, anathema, an object of profanity and bitter spite. They act like she's a moron, a freak, a hayseed. Why?

Because Governor Plain is the rural voice, because she's a threat to the urbanized view of life. Because she connects so well with so many people in a powerful way. Because she lives the antithesis of their lives: in the country, hunting, fishing, camping, she is in the country and doesn't just enjoy it, she's not ashamed of it. She's proud of her life and how she lives. The divide of cultures couldn't be more plainly and obviously stated, she personifies that split and is hated for it.

Because she reaches so many people, is such an effective speaker, and is a rural conservative, she's too effective, too potent. She might shift the country against the urbanites who at present control not just entertainment and popular culture, but the news media and now government. The loss of that means a loss of what the urban culture holds dear, wants to achieve, and believes in. President Bush was bad enough, he was far too much of the ruralite, but at least he was not all that conservative. Governor Palin is too much, by far.

INTRAPARTY
The strange thing is, you can see this divide evident inside parties. There are Democrats who are rural as well as urban - the urban wing simply controls the party right now. Most of the new young congressmen who were elected in 2006 were rural Democrats, "blue dogs" who were largely conservative socially and fiscally and ran on that platform. As time goes on the divide and the disagreements will become more clear and noticable.

Meanwhile, in the Republican party, the same fight is going on, in a more open and strident manner. The Wall Street Journal and other urbanite Republicans are calling for the rubes to be silenced or removed from the party. Shut up about social issues, they cost the election, they cry (without logic or factual basis). There are cries for the party to be moved to the center socially, to focus on fiscal issues and quiet about abortion, immigration, and God. Some are sarcastic, bitter, and angry about it - some of them showing the identical hatred and fear of Governor Palin as on the left.

Because this isn't a party split, or a political split. How this will develop and who will win in the short and long term we'll see. I'll just offer that urban ideology is not helping them much in practical terms; just take a good look at any big city some time and tell me that philosophy is a winner.

*For more thoughts on how this works out practically; how the divide affects American culture, read Victor Davis Hanson's recent column of 10 Random Politically Incorrect Thoughts.

**Edited to correct the attribution, thanks to Mitch in the comments.