Argentina's Fritzl

Nineteen years. That's how long it took the authorities in Mendoza, Argentina to fully investigate the more than 20 anonymous reports of sexual abuse, committed by Armando Lucero, 67.

The victim: his daughter. Now 35, she was violated, beginning at age 8. Tormented, sometimes at gun point, she was not deprived of her liberty, unlike Elisabeth Fritzl of Amstetten, Austria. But she was psychologically controlled, even in the clinic, where she delivered her seven offspring, now ages 2, 6, 11, 12, 16, 17 and 19. After every delivery, she was discharged as a "single mother" with her new baby whose father was "unknown."

The unemployed Lucero maintained a front as a good citizen in his community. He would even go the children's school to pick them up. While on the homefront, he would threaten to take them away. As a result of this climate of terror, his daughter would do little all day except watch television. She slept in the kitchen on a mattress, where it is thought that many of the violations took place. Today, she has the developmental age of a 12 year old, according to her older brother, now 37.

His sister is one of six children born to Lucero's concubine, now 56, a local justice official who chose to remain silent for 27 years. That silence broke on May 8, when after delicate talks by authorities, the justice official and her abused daughter testified against Lucero.

Years earlier, other family members had reported the sexual abuse to authorities. But each time, when social workers would arrive at the family home, they were met at the front door by the justice official, who said "nothing was going on," and that "everything was normal," according to the victim's older brother. It was this older brother who met with two legislators in the presence of three local journalists, two months ago. Their discussions added weight to the enquiry that was already underway. It was ordered by Family Court after a teacher heard a suspicious comment from one of the children, fathered by Lucero.

A confirmation followed. On May 27, results matched Lucero's DNA with all seven of the children he had with his daughter.

In all, Lucero fathered 22 children: eight with his wife, six with his concubine and seven with his daughter. He now awaits trial on charges of "sexual abuse with carnal access, aggravated by an undetermined number of times." He could serve up to 50 years in jail. His concubine, the justice official, could also face charges. For now, she is cooperating as a witness.

One person is not surprised by the unfolding drama: the woman who married Lucero when she was 13 years old. Fruit of that union were eight offspring in 10 years. But unlike the justice official, Lucero's wife was alert. "When the children were getting older, he began to approach them in a manner I did not like," she said. "I did not like how he touched them. Also he was too violent with me."

Back in the mid-1960s, Lucero worked in the city's Hotel Plaza, "But he left that job and gave it to me, I think so that he could stay longer with the children," she said. "Then I threw him out of the house. He left, leaving me with eight children, alone. I always had the sensation that he abused some of them but I could not prove it. I lost his trail until one of his sons, who he had with his new partner, appeared not long ago."

That son believes his father is ill and unaware of the damage he has caused — even to other daughters. Now living in Spain and Buenos Aires, they "were also abused by him, but were able to escape," said the son.

Lucero, too, was able to escape. When neighbours suspected that something was not right, the Lucero family would simply move to another part of the city. Thus, Armando Lucero kept hiding his dark side. He even tried hiding on the day of his arrest, when he was handcuffed and hunched over with a jacket over his head. To a peppering of questions from the press, he answered, "Yes, yes, I repent...of course...I don't want to live any longer...forgive me, forgive me for everything."

The funny thing about psychopaths is that when they're cornered, without any other means of escape, they know. They know they've done wrong. They know they have bullied. They know they have damaged. But up to that point, they are masters of evasion.

One wonders then, how many other Josef Fritzl's and Armando Lucero's go undetected? How many others keep perpetrating abuse under the blind spot of an enabling partner?

Those questions are far too complex for Lucero's new neighbours: the inmates of the Mendoza penitentiary. During recess, when Armando Lucero was brought in and placed in solitary confinement, the prisoners furiously yelled, "Hand him over to us! Hand him over to us!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

With thanks to Clarín, Urgente24, La Voz, TL9, the BBC, Telegraph and Guanabee.

Crossing the Rubicon

Even if you drive a jalopy on the digital highway, you can still embrace an aspect of new media. The journey may be nerve-wracking, but keep in mind four guidelines. One, if you can dream it, it is likely possible. Two, there's more than one way to reach your destination. Three, you may need to test some bumpy freewares before you find the one that's best for you. Four, it's going to take time to sort things out.

Take this example. You've recorded a presentation and created a digital audio file — a feat in itself. Now you want to post it to the Web. What do you do?

Blogger, for one, only accepts image and/or video files, no stand-alone audio files. How are you going to get around this barrier? Simple. You combine audio with just one image to make a video file.

But, say, that mock video file is too large for Blogger, which has its limits. Whatcha gonna do? Well, you upload the heavyweight to an external site. That site, in turn, will generate a URL, which when posted and hyperlinked on Blogger, can be accessed by viewers. Voilà!

It is a circuitous solution, to be sure. And it's only partial. For next, you have to find a hassle-free software, plus an external site to make it all happen. The road can get bumpy.

At least, that was my experience. Exasperated, I was ready to throw in the towel, when all of a sudden, I received some help from a bedroom in Scandinavia. No, no. It was not Sven with his massage oils, you naughty reader. But rather, a boy presenting a how-to on his computer. As a videocam tracked the cursor on his monitor, "spikensbror" patiently showed us how to synch an image to a sound file, then upload the results. His presentation on YouTube made it look so easy. At last, I could solve my problem! I followed spikensbror's example, not before downloading the freeware Movie Maker for my Windows XP. In the process, I jumped another hurdle in the field of new media.

Care to have an overview of that hot field? How about making money from it? Dawn Boshcoff of BOSHmedia and president of the Professional Writers Association of Canada (Toronto chapter) discusses some good stuff here and here. And who do you think put together those photo-audio files of the presentation? Yep, the former jalopy driver that's me. There's no turning back now. I dumped the old clunker. Though the Maserati is a stretch — for now.

Waay before podcasting

Audio recordings have come a long way since my first exposure to this medium. Back in 1957, my dad tried to figure out how to operate the buttons and reels of a portable apparatus the size of two breadboxes. When he had mastered the basics, my Mom called us children to gather round. Then she asked each one of us, in turn, to speak into the microphone and tell a favourite story, or sing a song we had learned. I was eight, my brother was six, and my sister was three.

It was a time of innocence in Caracas. And not. For Venezuela was under the dictatorship of General Marcos Pérez Jiménez. Unbeknownst to us and most others, that iron-fisted rule was about to crumble.

After a military coup on January 23, 1958, Pérez Jiménez fled Caracas with an estimated $250 million, or one half the national treasury. You'd think everyone would be jubilant. Not quite. Some saw in P.J. the strong arm the country needed. And in fairness, he did more for economic growth, as well as for law and order, than did all the subsequent governing bodies. That was the good side.

After the ouster, the commander of the country's navy, Wolfgang Larrazábal, took charge in an interim government. No one knew what lay ahead. Immigrants were apprehensive. They had arrived in droves when a war-ravaged Europe could only offer chaos. With well-compensated sweat, the immigrants helped build massive projects that positioned the oil-dependent nation as the most modern in Latin America. At least for a few decades.

The majority of Venezuelans saw the flight of Peréz Jiménez as a cleansing. There had been too many years of brutish undercurrents from his police force, the dreaded National Security, dubbed Gestapo. With the change in government, hope that civic freedoms, including free speech, was restored. The widespread torture of political prisoners had ended.

As the drone of military planes over valley skies died down that afternoon, my dad wanted his sentiments known. He invited his brother-in-law to come over, even though my uncle Pedro Pablo Benedetti was more interested in business than politics. After a drink to celebrate the occasion, the two men set up the recorder for that moment in history. But only my dad took the mike. That he had an audience of one was a plus.

The audio recording remains to this day. In it, my dad revs up his political oratory to a feverish pitch, when all of a sudden, you hear two little words in the backround: "Ah pué." Translated loosely that would be, "Oh, brother." You'd think my uncle's phrase would help keep things in perspective. But oh no. Henrique Hedderich Arismendi had a visceral need to vent. He'd been victimized for too long by governments known more for the rule of thugs than the rule of law. Jailed, even, for voicing a youthful opinion on democracy. It was the dawn of a new age and he wanted that known. For posterity. Even if just for an audience of one.

Play it forward — credibly

Enough with the confusion! As a cautious adopter of new technology, I have a bunch of questions. Some get answered on the Web. Other questions get the red-carpet treatment. Meaning, they get posed to tech-savvy people I know and trust. As a result, the answers are generally accurate and normally realiable.

Can you say that about answers you find on hobby forums or social marketplaces, online? I can't. That's why I stay away — for now — from the likes of Facebook and Twitter. My reasons are simple. I like the personal. I prefer not being misinformed by those with shallow knowledge. And I believe that knowing the person, or being referred to a source you can trust, ensures better information. At worst, there are checks and balances. Call me old school.

Here's a for instance. Recently, I was frustrated. After offering a photographer-friend some post-processing on a large image, I realized I was missing a key component: how to transfer that file, back and forth, online. Sending the image of 12 megabytes by email was out of the question; it was too large. And using a file transfer protocol for uploading the file was impractical. Reason being, my FTP experience is limited, my friend didn't mention her familiarity with the protocol, and my website plan provides me with only so much space.

Was there some external storage we could each access upon registering? I searched for clues on forums related to photography. Nada. The professional ones didn't address the issue; the popular ones were full of wild goose chases from wannabes, wishing to sound well-informed. Nor was Google helpful when I inputted logical key words. Perhaps I wasn't logical enough.

Something had to be out there. But what? And where? I scratched my head some more, when ... Bing! The light bulb went off. Certain I'd get, not just any old answer, but the straight goods, I emailed a friend who teaches at RMIT University in Melbourne, Australia.

Ric Lombardo answered: "I haven't had much experience with it but a very clever IT student I met at the university union this morning, where I pick up my newspaper, told me that this [Megaupload] would be ideal for you. If you go into the site and click on the FAQ area you'll find the following information ..."

It was a timely response. With intellectual honesty, Lombardo disclosed the limits of his experience. He was able to source with precision a good answer. And he went beyond the call by pointing to FAQs related to my needs. That's quality information. No pretense. No bull. Just the goods. Right in my mailbox. Try getting that from anonymous posters on the web, hiding behind their avatars.

Consider, too: In less than 48 hours, the information from an Australian in Melbourne spanned 15 time zones, covered over 10,000 miles, and hit the nail on the head. That's a remarkable transformation in the sharing of knowledge. Yet, some things never change. Without credibility from the source, information is, and will always be, useless. The opposite is a win-win-win. For the provider, for the medium, and for the recipient — multiplied when played forward.

That's worth more to me than a 1000 'friends' on Facebook. Now go ahead. Burn me on the stake for heresy.

Allied forces

Normally, dim circumstances are just that: dim. But one had a silver lining.

It happened during rush-hour traffic in north Toronto on a rainy night, last November. A public transit bus entered the centre lane from the median and stopped on a diagonal ahead of me. Not before the bus had scraped the driver's side of my car then with full impact, crashed into my front-wheel well.

Before I knew it, a revolving light swirled too-brightly in my rear-view mirror. I recognized a tow-truck and wondered what it was doing there.

Hearing a 'tap-tap' to my left, I rolled down the window as freezing raindrops slid in.

"Are you OK?" asked the bus driver in rain gear.

I told him I thought so.

"You know, I have the right of way," he added buoyantly before returning to his bus, diagonally ahead. I was puzzled.

Hearing another tap-tap, I again rolled down the window.

"Are you OK?" asked the tow-truck driver.

"I think so," I replied.

Ahead, passengers stepped off the bus. None appeared visibly injured. They were being shepherded by the bus driver to the side of the road, where another city bus had stopped to take them further on their journey.

Two hours passed. No reporting police were in sight. By then, I realized I had a companion: my camera. I normally don't travel with one over short distances. But I did that night for a light assignment the following day.

The camera was a soother. Using the dashboard as support, I began to shoot with a slow shutter speed. How ironic, I thought. The ad on the back of the bus read: "Minimize road rage." Was there a connection? I continued to click objectively as though I were documenting something interesting, as though the incident had not happened to me.

I should have been more aggressive. I should have gotten out and used multiple points of view. But my door wouldn't budge, it was cold and rainy, and I was too rattled to function normally.

Another two hours passed. I slid across to the passenger door, got out, and informed the tow truck driver that I was going to the bathroom at a Tim Horton's coffee shop across the street.

Returning to the scene of the accident, I saw the reporting police. Four and a half hours after the incident. Two young women in police uniform were speaking to the bus driver and a supervisor-come-lately from the transit company. The foursome talked a good while. I sensed my goose was cooking.

Tap-tap. Again I rolled down the rain-streaked window.

"So what happened?" asked the policewoman with an attitude as brittle as her chewed-off French manicure.

"The bus barrelled down the median before it switched lanes and hit me," I replied.

"Oh, REAL-ly?" she asked in forced disbelief.

Could she not see the obvious positioning of the vehicles? My anxiety grew. Was I being used as a scapegoat for the transit company? My suspicion gained ground. At the end of her procedure, the policewoman charged me for careless driving.

"You're at fault," she said with gusto.

Staff members of my auto insurance company were more thorough. So was their associate who came by my home to take a sworn statement. But the real angel was the tow-truck driver. Glen Witney of GW Towing had not witnessed the accident. But arriving within five minutes, he recognized the meaning behind the position of the vehicles after impact. It was a reality the policewoman chose to overlook.

"My job doesn't end with the accident," Witney informed me. True to his word, he provided testimony to the auto insurer. It bolstered the photographs and drawing I had submitted to the Claims Adjustor.

It took four months to process the claim. In the end, the insurer informed me that I was "not responsible for the incident as per the Fault Determination Rule 10.4." * My deductible was refunded.

Why didn't the policewoman know the rules of the road?

The trial for my "careless driving" is set for November 2, 2009. As partial evidence, I will enlarge the photographs of the scene, grateful again to a staunch ally: my camera. Consider keeping one in your glove compartment. It could be your only bright prospect.



* Revised Regulations of Ontario 1990, Reg. 668

Barbie's back

Barbie's 50. And she's still turning heads. Even mine as I arrived at a neighbourhood park last Sunday. Above, four Barbie kites fluttered in the clear blue sky as tweens, below, tugged the lines.

Mattel introduced its teenage fashion model at the New York Toy Fair on March 9, 1959. Ever since, Barbie has continued to "inspire several generations of girls to dream, discover and explore a world without limits — all without ever leaving home."

Has Barbie done that much for girls? I decided it was time for a straw poll and some word associations.

"Perfect body, perfect hair and perfect face," says Toronto teenager Cindy Glorioso, when she remembers what Barbie meant to her. From the age of two until she was 10, Glorioso collected 30 Barbies and 20 outfits. Most of them were given away in recent years, except for three Collector Barbies that were gifts from an aunt. Her mother, Irene, who never played with Barbie, recognizes their investment potential.

Memories of the plastic doll are mixed for 50-something Alison Rowe from Ottawa. Growing up in Caracas, Venezuela, she wanted a Barbie because two of her grade-school friends, both Americans, had the "it" girl.

"I was so excited as I opened the long, narrow box," Rowe recalls. But her heart sank when she saw the "ugly" brunette with side-glancing eyes and a bee-hive hairdo. A Barbie clone.

It got worse. Young friends were setting up their Barbies, accessories and "gobs of outfits, including a queen-like costume and a wedding dress," Rowe recalls. Whereas, she arrived for the play date with a brown paper bag from the local supermarket. It held her one Barbie and two dresses — one of which she made herself in sewing class.

“Just pitiful,” Rowe remembers. It was impossible to keep up. For one, American imports were costly. For another, her mother did not encourage her to play with a voluptuous doll. As a result, Rowe's earlier fascination hit the dust. Did Barbie care? Not at all. At the house of more adoring fans, she simply drove off in a red convertible with her boyfriend, Ken, and her BFF - Best Friend Forever – Midge.

Barbie's 50th anniversary has inspired more than just girls "to dream." The occasion marks a publicity blitz that is sure to increase sales. Shareholders could use the relief from that result. In 2008, the company lost 58 per cent of net income from a four-year high of $600 million U.S. in 2007.

Will the company generate strong sales beyond 2009? The Barbie timeline would indicate 'yes!' Mattel has proven to be a formidable marketer of its flagship product, ably responding to trends, even ahead of time. Witness Miss Astronaut Barbie in 1965 and Barbie for President in 2000.

Nationally and internationally, there are many more markets for Barbie, even though she does not always appeal to the buyers. Some mothers view the doll as a hook, creating a need to buy even more products and accessories.

"It's a bottomless pit," says Rowe. "Even if I could have afforded it, I wouldn't have indulged my daughter. I view Barbie as a meat market — giving girls the wrong impression."

No matter what your opinions are on the world-famous doll, one thing is certain: Mattel can sure think outside the long, narrow box.

No broccoli ... yet!

I confess.

Long after posting, I may tweak one phrase or another before republishing. That makes me wonder: Is there a rule in blogdom that stipulates commitment to a post once published? If so, I plead the low-readership defence. Turns out, I have an audience of ten. One of those readers is me. And I'm not complaining.

I'm also the push-button publisher of this blog called Exploro. That's kinda like saying I can do what I want. Kinda like what George H.W. Bush, the father of W., did with broccoli. Remember the foot-in-the-mouth comments from Bush Senior? I liked this one the best:

"I do not like broccoli and I haven’t liked it since I was a little kid and my mother made me eat it. And I’m President of the United States and I’m not going to eat any more broccoli. Now look, this is the last statement I’m going to have on broccoli. There are truckloads of broccoli at this very minute descending on Washington. My family is divided. For the broccoli vote out there: Barbara loves broccoli. She has tried to make me eat it. She eats it all the time herself. So she can go out and meet the caravan of broccoli that’s coming in."

--George Herbert Walker Bush (March 22, 1990)

For bloggers who respect the rules of traditional publishing, who never change what they've posted after the fact, well! I take my hat off. But I can't commit myself to pushing that button just once. At least, not without the option of editing - after the fact.

My position could change. Forcibly.

I suspect if I ever join Facebook for viral marketing and hordes of unknown friends, this blog might become better known.

"Hey, whatcha doin', changing things on us?" might be the feedback from my new FF (Facebook Friend) in Mumbai, followed by a Greek chorus in related time zones. All the while, I would be fast asleep as other FFs around the world agreed, ganging up on me.

Shamed by the market, I'd have to tow a more traditional line. I'd have to commit to a post once published. I might even have to start eating broccoli for breakfast. Let's hope that day doesn't come anytime soon.

Vuongs v. St. Joe's

The Vuongs* have faced monumental challenges, before.

They've ploughed through mud up to their shoulders. And they've ducked the beams from search lights that scanned the dark shores of the Mekong Delta.

It was 1990. And crouched in the reeds was a dory, waiting to take the young couple to a small fishing boat, farther out. Both vessels would be overloaded. But not as badly as other boats that sunk from greater weight. Their passengers were so desperate to leave communist Vietnam, they gambled all. And they lost.

With Ho Chi Minh City, formerly Saigon, a receding memory, the small fishing boat chugged across the South China Sea. By day two, with adrenalin still flowing in their systems, the passengers were subsisting on the small packets of dried food they had been allowed to bring. Water was forbidden; it was too heavy. Dehydration was a short-term risk for those who wanted a better future. In freedom. Under the rule of law.

During their stay in a camp for displaced persons in Indonesia, the Vuongs received sponsorship from Canada. It was a welcomed relief. They arrived in London, Ontario during a blast of winter. But no matter. They knew they would make it. They felt safe, at last. Until they experienced a crushing blow the following year. Their first-born, Danny, sustained irreparable damage while in the birth canal. It resulted from simple negligence, attributed to an attending nurse at St. Joseph's Health Care in London.

Today, Danny Vuong is 17 years old. He is utterly unable to defend himself.

Chris Beckett of Ledroit Beckett in London has represented the Vuongs during the past eight years. He was building their case for the five-week trial that began in mid-January, 2009.

Deb Berlach of Stieber Berlach in Toronto, represented St. Joseph’s Health Care, which had hired the nurse whose actions were in question.

The Superior Courtroom at London’s Court of Justice is dominated by a large coat of arms, hanging high from the wood-panelled wall, behind the Judge’s seat. On the insignia, a golden lion and a white unicorn flank a blue shield. It is circled by a belt with the words "Honi soit qui mal y pense" (evil to him who evil thinks), and a gold buckle to remind us of the royal Order of the Garter. At the base, lie the words "Dieu et mon droit" (God and my Law). The coat of arms provides one of the only sources of colour, other than the sash that cuts a red diagonal from the judge's shoulder, and his badge of gold and red. All else is a sombre sea of black gowns and white collars and tabs, hovering over tables of paper-white documents, stacked in columns.

The Honourable Justice Wolfram Tausendfreund listened intently as the wheels of justice ground over the gnarled terrain of medical detail. To bolster each side of the case, Beckett and Berlach had plucked their expert witnesses among nurses, obstetricians and pediatric specialists. Each witness underwent examination before coming in the crosshairs of the opposing litigator. Through discovery, clarity was distilled from the complexities. It was a journey of significance.

Prior to his elegant closing statement, Justice Tausendfreund mentioned to counsel that he would read the legal submissions this summer. Suspecting his decision in the fall, I hope justice prevails. For Danny’s sake.


* Of Chinese heritage, the name Vuong is pronounced Wuang, but it has used Vietnamese spelling since the elders fled communism in China for Vietnam. Little did they realize that their adopted homeland would also topple, decades later.

Organ donation redux

Organ and tissue donation needs more publicity than my blogging efforts. So imagine my surprise when I came across a related ad in, of all places, the weathernetwork.com.

It goes like this. Ontario has instituted new rules on organ and tissue donation. If you marked "Yes" to the question of whether you wish to donate your tissue or organs, your answer will be stored in the database of the Ontario Health Insurance Plan (OHIP). And it will be forwarded, at an appropriate time, to the Trillium Gift of Life Network (TGLN), Ontario's provincial organ donation agency. If, on the other hand, you recorded "No" or "Undecided", neither of these answers will be disclosed to the TGLN.

These steps point to a greater organization in organ and tissue donation. They also remind us of how important it is to tell loved ones of our wishes. If we don't, those who advocate on our behalf can't convey the necessary information to health professionals at "the relevant time". Meaning, at or near the end of our life.

There may be no guarantee for interpreting our exact wishes at "the relevant time". We are evolving. By millimeters.

Operation Valkyrie

There's something odd about a movie critic who plays the public moralist without the tools of research. Likewise with the screenplay of Valkyrie, a movie that packs into two hours more action than attention to detail.

It's been over 63 years since the end of the Second World War on the European front. But that doesn't stop the less well read from labeling any German with a uniform as an evil Nazi. For them, Valkyrie is confusing.


I'd like to help these poor souls with a reality check. The Wehrmacht, or German armed forces, and the SS were two separate organizations with different philosophies and separate aims. The soldiers in the Wehrmacht were like any, in any army, anywhere. They were sworn to follow orders through an established chain of command, headed by Hitler in 1934 upon the death of Paul von Hindenburg. The SS, on the other hand, were a much newer organization. They were not officially part of the Wehrmacht, but rather, recruited to enforce Hitler's police state -- by whatever thuggish means. Both uniforms were different, the Wehrmacht's being free of the intimidating symbols preferred by the SS.

The lines of duty in both organizations intersected periodically during the War. And likely, there were Hitlerian zealots in the Wehrmacht, as there might have been the odd SS officer with a crisis of conscience. But generally, the perception - from my readings and from my 92 year old neighbour, once a lieutenant in the Polish army - was that the Wehrmacht did not inspire the fear and horror that did the SS. In fact, near the end of the War, the SS "exercised dominance over the Army to eliminate perceived threats to Hitler's power."

This attempt to clarify will not make a difference for the movie critic from Foxnews. Poor Roger Friedman so wants to see evil in all officers of the German army that he wonders if Bryan Singer's Valkyrie is the start of films based on Nazi apologia.


Film critic Manohla Dargis from the New York Times seems puzzled that "there are no discernibly nasty Nazis in 'Valkyrie'." For her, count Claus von Stauffenberg was an enigma of history. And she concludes that the conspirators against Hitler failed because, in the words of an earlier journalist, William L. Shirer, they were "terribly late." Evidently, neither Mr Shirer nor Ms Dargis is aware that there were multiple attempts on Hitler's life. In fact, had Ms Dargis dug a little further (a simple google on dissent + Third Reich would have done it), she would have found more scholarly research. In Popular Opinion and Political Dissent in the Third Reich, historian Ian Kershaw makes clear that there was nothing belated about the German reaction against Hitler. From 1938, 15 known attempts were carried out against the Führer's life. All failed.


Perhaps the film review that most coincided with my opinion was that of Kirk Honeycutt in the Hollywood Reporter. I, too, found the film too hurried for one of historical significance. As a result, viewers of Valkyrie have a slick tale that makes for exciting watching, but not for thoughful digestion.


Accompanying these observations are photos I took in April, 2008 when I visited the bombed ruins of Hitler's miltary headquarters in Poland. Wolfsschanze, also known as Wolf's Lair, or Wilczy Szaniec in Polish, lies deep in the Mazurian forests. It's about half an hour's bus ride east of the large town of Kętrzyn, or what used to be called Rastenburg when the region was part of East Prussia.


View Larger Map

It was here, on a hot July 20, 1944, that Colonel Claus von Stauffenberg detonated a bomb intended for Adolf Hitler. When it went off, von Stauffenberg fled to the nearby airstrip; the waiting airplane took him to Berlin. He was convinced that he had killed Hitler. But such was not the case. Inadvertently, the leg of an oak table came between the bomb and the Führer, merely disoriented him for awhile. As a result, almost ten more months would pass until the German Reich capitulated. And millions more civilians would be sacrificed, among them, Jews and non-Jews alike.


But getting back to the movie... I loved director Bryan Singer's use of film from the era that provided subdued tones. The palette was intriguing in this day and age of more saturated colours. What puzzled me was the choice of Tom Cruise in the lead. What were they thinking? Since when does body language that screams G.I. Joe evoke the spirit of an überaristocratic colonel from a bygone era?

Post datum

On the heels of my collision with a bus from the Toronto Transit Commission, comes the news that a bus driver broadsided an SUV, killing its driver.

Evidently, I was luckier than that SUV driver. I also wondered who was to blame for the accident. How fast was the TTC bus traveling? Are the police and bus company using drivers of smaller vehicles as a scapegoat? What is the safety record of the TTC - exactly?

My doubts have their reasons.

For one, barely any detail on the SUV driver surfaced in the press. For another, I found it surprising that a police sergeant would construct - for public consumption - an a priori possibility of error on the part of the SUV driver.

A spokesman for the TTC sent condolences to the victim's family and friends, before he said: "The TTC is one of safest transit systems in the world." He added, "With 1,700 buses on the streets every day, from time to time there are collisions... usually very minor, but not in this case."

I thought back to my collision with the TTC last month. Back to the arrival of a representative from the bus company to the scene of the accident. The rep parked in front of the bus until the police arrived. And when the police did arrive, they spoke first to both the bus driver and his company's representative. I, alone, was the more expendable party, reflecting a little-known dictum, "ageism and sexism are alive and well on the road."

Was that the reason the police entered the data from the transport company in second position on the accident report, saving my subsequent data for the first position, even before I gave my testimony? The first position indicates at fault, for insurance and other purposes. Never mind the euphemisms.

So I wondered, was the SUV driver, too, more expendable? It would seem that way. Counselling services were provided to the bus driver. But there was no mention of any offering to the family of the deceased.

Right of way?

It was a cold and rainy night. After medical appointments in Toronto, I headed north. But not before I went down my old avenue, where I lived for 12 years before moving away this past August.

Turning onto Yonge Street, I found the remnants of rush hour. With my left blinker on, I gingerly changed lanes. From first to second. The visibility was so poor, I even rolled down the window to check my blind spot, besides using rear and side-view mirrors. I went from second to third or centre lane. And with each move, I saw no obstruction. Nearly completing total entry into the centre lane ... BAM! I got sideswiped by a public transport bus coming in from the left-turn lane. It scraped across my driver's door, knocked off my side mirror, blew out my front tire, crunched the rim, and strongly dented the area above the wheel well.

I didn't know the extent of the damages. I blanked out the worst of them. That's why I was surprised to see, moments later, revolving lights in my rear view mirror. They hurt my eyes. And when I realized they were from a tow truck, parked behind me, I wondered, why do I need a tow truck. Its driver knocked at my window. I rolled it down as the man asked, "Are you all right?"

"I think so," I replied.

Then the bus driver in rain gear came up to my window. All I could think of was to say, "You were driving awfully fast." He replied: "I have the right of way."

I was puzzled as he walked away, back to his bus.

About an hour or so later, a very decent policeman knocked on my window to tell me that there had been many accidents that night, that it might take longer for the reporting police to arrive. He helped the bus driver shepherd the passengers off the bus. They walked across the street, where another bus took them to their destination.

A white TTC car arrived and parked in front of the bus. A short female in what appeared to be a uniform raincoat got out. She and the bus driver began talking. I wondered if she was there to bolster the bus driver's morale. Or defence.

About five hours had passed. I remembered I had my camera. And though I was too shaken to aggressively document, I took it out to capture the views from my front windshield, using the dashboard as a tripod. The exercise calmed me.

I tried to get out, but the driver's door was blocked from the force of impact. So I squeezing over the cup holders between the bucket seats, and opened the door on the passenger's side. Once out, I surveyed the scene of the accident, noticing that the bus still had a good chunk of its back end in the median lane. The bus driver had stopped on a diagonal in front of me, almost as though he were cutting me off.

I went up to the tow truck driver and asked what he thought. He confirmed my view, which gave me some relief that I was not at fault.

Another two hours went by. I crossed Yonge Street to go to the bathroom at a Tim Horton's coffee shop. By the time I returned, the reporting police had finally arrived - about five hours after the accident. A female cop was talking to the bus driver and the woman in a TTC uniform. Something told me I was being set up as a scapegoat.

My suspicions gained ground. The young female cop asked me briefly what happened as she handled my documents with remnants of a French manicure on half-bitten nails. When I mentioned that the bus barrelled down the median lane, she retorted, "Oh, really?" I was stunned by her attitude.

She returned to the cruiser. I approached its driver's window as she was writing my data in D1. Meaning, the first position for drivers on the police accident report.

That choice by the police is critical. For whomever is placed in first position on the accident report, will see a rise in their insurance premium. So much for the euphemism of "No fault".

How do I know this? I used to deal with regulatory issues surrounding financial institutions, among them, the Insurance Bureau of Canada. They're the overseers for property and casualty companies. And it was through Alex Kennedy, then the legal assessor at the IBC, that I came across this little-known nugget.

Most times, the position of drivers on an accident report, as designated by the police, is legitimate and according to the rules of the road. But sometimes the choice is questionable. Take the following case.

Around 1995, I was involved in a hit-and-run accident. A large truck was barreling down the median lane to avoid rush-hour traffic on a Friday afternoon. The driver didn't see me stationed in the median, patiently waiting for a good moment to enter the traffic stream. He hit me - hard - totalling the front of the car. Then sped away. I was stunned. Fortunately it was just after 5 p.m. on a summer day. As a result, angels were more visible. Three came up to my car window to offer me their business card. Each had jotted down the number of the licence plate of the truck that had taken off after impact. There are good people out there.

When the police officer arrived, he invited me into his car while he wrote up the accident report. Asking me for information, I produced it, along with the number of the license plate, as given to me by three witnesses. What happened next stunned me again. The officer was putting me in D1.

Angrily, I asked him why he was putting me in first position on the accident report. I also reminded him of the three witnesses who had given me the licence plate number of the truck driver who had sped off. The officer was annoyed. But I wouldn't budge. He called uncle; put me in the second position on the accident report.

As a result, my premiums were unaffected. The fault was with the independent truck driver.

Months later, the issue was settled in court. In the hallway, that same police officer came up to me, and told me: "Drive more carefully, next time."

Whoa. Did I cause him to lose a commission, perhaps? Inquiring minds would love to know.

But I digress. Getting back to the accident the night of November 24th, it seemed as though the officer who wrote up the report disregarded the positioning of bus to my impacted car. So I wondered: what was behind her decision to place me in first position? And why did she tell me, brutally: "You're at fault; you're in D1. Now, drive more carefully, next time"?

There was no time for answers — then — as the tow truck hoisted my car.


I can only hope the insurance company is fair in assessing fault. They have the photographic images, and they have the contact particulars for the tow truck driver — my only witness. In the meantime, I'm trying to get over the mental muddle I've been in.

Should problems persist, however, I'll consider legal assistance. It's unfortunate that one cannot rely on the police to properly interpret certain rights. After all, there are cops out there that protect the rights of some more than others.

In the meantime, I can only offer a simple moral: Don't drive without a camera in the glove compartment of your car. It might be your only witness. If you don't die first.

Then came winter

Summer had just begun. And with it, the realization that it was time. Time to walk the thought. Time to wrap up my 25 years in Toronto. For the next three months, I scouted for a new home. And on the brink of fall, I moved to the other London. The one between Toronto and Detroit. It was a decision I did not regret. Much.

About one eighth of the size of where I used to live, "Forest City" offers all the urban amenities. Yet its pace reflects the agricultural region that surrounds it. For that reason, some folks say London is nothing more than a town stuck in a cornfield. If so, bring on the corn, I say.

I welcome the peace of mind. And I welcome the more limited congestion and crime. That's why I easily picked up the slower rhythm, alternating between the grasshopper and the ant. Enjoying my new home, I also prepared it for winter. Except my timing was off. By the third week in November, a snow storm hit. Again. Dat dawned gwasshoppew.

"After all, we're in the snow belt," my neighbour explained. He was being kind. Kinder still when we struck up a quid pro quo. He would snowblow my driveway if I supplied the gas for the machine, and any repairs that might arise. An unbeatable win-win. And a lucky break. Somehow, I never considered winter as a major factor when I moved to London.

Now snowbound, I look for compensations, for I won't return to Toronto's milder winters. Not for me, the volume of brown slush clogging city drains after a light snowstorm. Not for me, its aggressive drivers and traffic wearing thin a monk's patience. Let me have gobs of the white stuff, instead. And with it, I'll take the change in scenery. Serene. And accessible. If you have a snowblower.

The snow belt has a peculiar charm. It rewards the prepared. But like all charms, there's an expiry date. Meaning, by February, Mexico may appeal a whole lot more. Until then, I'm looking for my skis — the ones for cross-country. Doing a winter sport is supposed to make the season more bearable. Vamos a ver. We'll see.

Fighting God

The road of life can be long. But not for everyone. Nor for a young member of my family.

Caracas-born Pierre Paul Pacannins B. died on September 29th at Children's Hospital in Boston. In his twelve and a half years, he fought the Great Battle. Over and over again. Enduring eleven heart surgeries from the age of seven months, Pierre displayed more bravery than do most adults in their lifetime. His resilience, I'm sure, came from the love and support from his family. They did everything possible to find him the best tools to help him along the way. Contributing, too, were the many friends he made in and out of school.

So wanting to keep his oar in the Sea of Life, Pierre followed doctor's orders to a ' T '. Measuring daily output? No problem. Eliminating salt? Fine. Restoring it in minute quantities? That, too. The only complaint his grandmother Anita Chapellín de Benedetti ever heard from him was while the family waited for a new heart.

Inspired by hope, Pierre drew a picture. In it, he compared his wished-for new heart with the old one. "Not worth a damn," he said, referring to the latter. His grandmother sanitized the comment.

Time was running short. The Sword of Damocles hung over the transplant list. When a heart finally became available, Pierre was one of two candidates. But in the end, the other boy - an American - received the much needed organ, instead.

Pierre died waiting. God won.

Heart transplants are complex surgeries. Including rejection issues, they can be problematic in adults. Multiply those risks in younger patients for an idea of the courage they and their families face. More so in a world where organs are so scarce.

It doesn't need to be this way. Organ and tissue donation, as well as their administrative programs, need improvement. The world over. But change has to start from the bottom up. That means you are the key agent. You can help.

Begin by informing yourself on transplants. Check out some myths or statistics surrounding organ and tissue donation.

Find out what registration procedures are available in your area. You might google how to be an organ donor in your region. Or, call your ministry or department of health to find out about guidelines.

Next, talk about the subject with your family members and community groups. If more people start discussing this unaccustomed subject, more humanitarian gestures will follow. And medical science will benefit, while offering those in need a second chance.

Think it won't matter? Mouse over some grateful recipients to get an idea of the good you can do. Inspired? Now walk the thought. Follow through. Register.

Here's how I did it in my region — Ontario, Canada.

Knowing that every 3 days, one inhabitant from my province dies waiting for an organ transplant, I thought I'd improve the odds. I signed a Gift of Life donor card. This form is a longer version of the one that accompanies a new or renewed driver's licence.

I checked the box indicating my consent to donate any needed organs or tissue. Because even if one of my organs isn't "worth a damn," surely there must be a cornea, maybe a piece of liver that'll help someone in need. They sure won't do me any good, where I'm going. Eventually.

Signing the card with a friend who witnessed, I tucked it in my wallet with my driver's licence. I also sent the tear-off duplicate to my sister.

But then I wondered, what if I don't have the card on me as I lay unconscious, approaching the end of my life, say, as a result of an accident?

I found a better way. I registered directly with my ministry of health. If you are over 16 years old and a resident of Ontario, here's how you can, too.

Click on the registration form. Complete it. Print it. Sign it. And know that your consent as an organ donor is voluntary, that it may be changed or withdrawn at any time.

You're almost there. Now email your next of kin to inform that person of your decision, and to ask if he or she would also sign, as required, the form you will send by mail.

My sister signed and mailed the form to the Ministry of Health in the pre-addressed, stamped envelope I provided. She's good that way. And she knows I'm willing to return the favour.

A few weeks later, I heard from the Ministry of Health. They informed me that they had assigned to my health records the word "Donor" and a code that reflected my choices. The plan worked! They also sent me stickers to apply to my old health card. If I had a newer card - one with a snazzy photo, I would have received a reissue, instead.

I felt better already. I had built a bridge for the one waiting on the brink of the other side. You can, too.

If you live outside Ontario, I challenge you to find out what you have to do in your area to register as an organ donor. And I challenge you some more to take the next step. To register. To walk the talk.

Hundreds whose lives dangle by the thinnest thread depend on your actions. They will thank you. As will medical science.

And Pierre.

Posting tribulations

Ric Lombardo of a long-ago Caracas, now of Melbourne, Australia, warned me earlier this year: "Once you start a blog, you must keep it up."

"Yeah, I know," I answered, flush with excitement over my embrace of this media. I was certain I could meet the challenge. After all, didn't I have some related experience? But editing a trade quarterly for a commercial taskmaster (Touche Ross) is not the same as documenting my experiences on a blog. I wondered: Would anyone be remotely interested in my personal views?

Choosing to avoid the thoughts of zero public acclaim, I decided this blog would best reflect my development as a photographer and a writer. It would be, by and large, a private and sporadic matter.

I know this decision will disappoint the legions of my fans. To them, I would say: I'm sorry.

You were right, Ric. But oh! What I would have missed had I stuck to a blogging timetable. This year has seen positive changes with satisfying payoffs. May they be greener in future.

Poland - Part 3: What Would the Victims Want?

Millions of victims from Nazi atrocities during the Second World War are still unacknowledged in Holocaust literature. Sure, there is documentation on the subject. But it is limited and to this day, the approximate numbers of non-Jewish victims, and their stories, continue to be skirted by the media at large.

I thought of those millions who met a grisly end during the Second World War, only to be forgotten by millions more. And I wondered, "What would these forgotten have wanted?" In fact, what would all eleven million victims want today?

Would they want us to represent their voices on a segregated basis, that is, by religion, culture, race, nationality, politics, or sex?

Or would they ask us to consider them collectively through no affiliation?

Would they want us to give prominence to some orientations, but give vague or general billing to others?

Or would they ask us that we honestly account for all affiliations by number - even if approximate - when broaching the Holocaust?

These are questions that I wondered about upon my return to Toronto. Remarkably a few days later, I came across some answers.

Lise and Maurice Spagat live down the street from me. They are an exemplary couple who have been married to one another for years, and have raised a family. They are also survivors of Nazi concentration camps in Poland.

I met Lise and Maurice last June, briefly enjoying their company while I photographed an event. And I remember mentioning to Lise that I would have to go to Poland. It was absurd not to after I had written four chapters of a story, set in that country during 1942.

Eleven months later, and after my first visit to Poland, I walked down my street and chanced upon Maurice. I informed him of what I'd seen during my travels and how disturbed I was by the Nazi concentration camps.

"Some, like the leader of Iran, don't believe that the camps existed, that the atrocities ever happened," he said.

"Then they should go there," I replied.

Asking me for more details, Maurice mentioned that Lise had been interned in Stutthof. Then he unbuttoned his shirt cuff, rolled it up, and turned his wrist to show the inside of his forearm. There, was a numbered tattoo; he had been in Auschwitz.

I told Maurice that I was troubled by my experiences at Auschwitz, not only because of the worst and most systematic cruelty I have ever seen represented. But also because of the religious conflicts I sensed in evidence today. "We have learned nothing," I added before asking him, "As a survivor, if you were chosen to speak on behalf of all those who did not make it, what do you think the victims of Nazi concentration camps would want, today?"

"The truth," he replied, adding, "And to know why it took so long for the West - Britain and the United States - to do something."

Maurice is still resentful of Poles, mentioning that they did nothing. And I pointed out that that is not altogether true; that there were many Poles who risked their lives at a time when the population was threatened with death for helping. I'd like to ask Maurice for his personal experiences in this regard. I'd also like to lend him a book I picked up on a similar topic.

London Has Been Informed: Reports by Auschwitz Escapees, edited by Henryk Swiebocki, Auschwitz-Birkenau State Museum (2002) mentions with proof the information relayed by the Polish Underground to the Polish Government-in-Exile in London. That information, in turn, was reported to the Governments of the Allied and Neutral Powers as early as May 1941. Unfortunately, early reports on the atrocities committed against Poles were not taken seriously. And subsequent reports on the exclusionary horrors being perpetrated on Jews were also treated in a cavalier manner by the West. That is, until 1943. Even then, it would take another year or so to finally dismantle the Nazi grip on the camps.

But back to the present...Maurice wants to see my photo essay, and while I prepare, I wonder whether my images can accurately convey all that I saw and all that I felt.

I also wonder if there is hope through dialogue. Dialogue to establish more intellectual honesty on all counts. Dialogue to gain more respect and accountability for all differences.

In the meantime, I welcome getting together again with the Spagats. I would also like to continue connecting with the many who extended their kindness to me during my visit to their countries.

Poland - Part 2: Perceived Conflicts

I traveled to Poland to learn more about its history, to document my impressions, and to gain some answers. But the more I saw and the more I learned, the more I questioned.

The bus stopped at the outskirts of the village of Sztutowo, 65 kilometres east of Gdansk, three kilometres from the Baltic Sea. Getting off, I walked down a cobbled stone road. At the end, were the main gates of the Stutthof Museum. They were closed. Through the railing, I saw an expanse of land, barbed wire fencing, observation towers of dark wood, and a sizeable building of brick. More would be revealed in the next few days.

Stutthof started out as a Zivilgefangenenlager, or detainee camp for civilians, among them, the Polish intelligentsia. Teachers, professors, students, political activists, and clergy were rounded up by the Nazis and their collaborators, after the invasion of Poland through the Free City of Danzig, on September 1, 1939.

By 1942, Stutthof had evolved to a concentration camp for the rapidly increasing number of prisoners, among them, Soviet POWs and Jews. In its almost six years of operations, the camp received prisoners from over 25 countries. They faced, for the most part, unbearable conditions. More than 85,000 prisoners were directly and indirectly exterminated, and as many as 110,000 were deported.

Stutthof rarely gets much notice in the history annals from the West. I wondered why. Certainly the exhibits, which are not that badly presented, could be improved. They could also benefit from fewer religious symbols.

More Catholic symbols and shrines are present at Stutthof than what I encountered at the larger museums of Majdanek, Auschwitz and Birkenau. Could the Nazis have made more concessions to the belief systems of their prisoners at Stutthof? Or were more Catholic priests and nuns killed at Stutthof than at any other concentration camp in Poland?

The questions remain unanaswered. I can understand the need for religious symbols in a country where Catholicism is such a dominant force. But as a researcher and an historian, I found the overtness of the religious symbols at Stutthof to be distracting, if not overdone. I also thought the shrines overshadow the memory of those who held other beliefs.

How could this issue of religious partiality be solved in a Museum that represents so many beliefs? Could a Roman Catholic chapel be added to the exhibits at Stutthof, so that all the symbols pertaining to this religion be housed in one place? That might allow the non-Catholic viewer to concentrate on the historical aspects of the camp, without being duly influenced by the symbols of another religion. And what about the belief systems of the non-Catholic prisoner at Stutthof? Would these beliefs be represented in equal proportion?

Ecumenism in its broadest sense can be sticky for a museum that wishes to have a global presence.

Ecumenism can also be expensive. Consider the brick smokestack of the Museum's crematorium. At its back end, not visible by the general public, a cross appears in the brickwork. Did the Nazis really concede that much to Christianity while incinerating bodies? I hardly think so. It is likely that a well-intentioned soul, included in the reconstruction design of the death trap, several blonde bricks among the redder ones. The effect is an unmistakable cross.

----------------------

I walked beyond the crematorium towards the north end of the camp, past the barrack with the shoe exhibit to an outlying field, designated for expansion before the Soviet forces pushed west, in the face of disintegrating Hitlerian fantasy.

There, in the outlying field of sandy soil and coarse grass, I made the most astonishing discovery. At my feet were pieces of leather, once belonging to shoes, boots, slippers, and belts. The find shook me, more so, when I found a metal, stamped button, belonging to a Nazi uniform. How did I know it belonged to a Nazi uniform? It was on account of an exhibit I'd seen, days earlier, at the Imperial War Museum in London. There, buttons on the uniforms of two ranks of SS officers, drew my attention. A week later, at the Majdanek State Museum, I confirmed that the button I had photographed in the field at Stutthof belonged to a lower SS officer.

Confirming why the leather pieces were strewn on the field of the Stutthof Museum, would take a lot longer.

------------------------------

Further south on a back country road, I came across an old church with some of its windows boarded up, others showing evidence of a charred interior. Was this the Lutheran church attended by the farmers and long-term neighbours of the 90-year old Polish Catholic who lives next door to me, today? The 'Evangelicals', as my neighbour would refer to these Poles of German extraction, were kind enough to take his family in. That is, when the Nazis ordered Poles to vacate their homes and lands. You see, ethnic Germans from further east were about to arrive. And these new immigrants, or Volksdeutsch, were taking hearty advantage of the Nazi policy for Lebensraum. As a result, they gained more room - land, homes, and businesses - at the expense of Catholic Poles and Jews, most of whom had nowhere else to go, many of whom suffered a dire fate.

After the war, when the Soviets took over Poland, the Volksdeutsch were ordered to leave, while those of German ancestry who had lived in Poland for generations, found life to be increasingly difficult. They, too, had to leave. Was the abandoned church a symbol of these later years?

Who caused the fire?

------------------------------

Further west on that country road, I found a sign with two crosses pointing to the Białuty Forest. It reads:

"Place of mass murders in the years 1941-45
12000 persons from the camp in Działdowo
including 58 priests and 1500 Jews".

I wondered, where was the Star of David for the 1500 Jewish victims?

Entering the forest, I found the memorial to these victims of Hitler's travesty, along with an oversized cross, an open-air chapel of Catholic symbology, plus small flags, including those representing the Vatican. The representation for non-Catholic believers was nowhere to be found.

------------------------------

On my return to Mława, where I was staying, I encountered a cemetery or Friedhof for German soldiers. A peaceful enclave of impressive design, the Friedhof displays tablets of granite about 2 metres high, each engraved with many names and vital statistics of soldiers killed during the Second World War. A large cross forms a focal point for the arranged tablets, while smaller crosses beyond symbolize those soldiers killed during the First World War.

The Friedhof was founded by the Wehrmacht, or German army, and built by Polish forced labour to bury and commemorate 1,300 German soldiers. Today, as a result of the efforts of the German Association of Carers of War Graves and the Polish Foundation Pamięć, the cemetery has been reconstructed to include the symbolic tombstones for about 12,000 soldiers, many corpses having been exhumed from other cemeteries.

Seeing so many German surnames on the tablets, I was curious. For I have 25 per cent German ancestry, and wondered if my surname was represented. The closest match was Felix Hedrich (1912-1944). And I remembered Rabbi Jacobson, a professor of Western Civilization who, in 1970, approached me after class to ask, "Are you Jewish?". It seems that members of his congregation shared my last name. I replied, "not to my knowledge." Later, my Dad mentioned that sometimes German names with one consonant are Jewish. With these long-ago conversations in mind, I wondered about Felix Hedrich. Was he Jewish? Certainly there were Jewish soldiers in the German army during the First World War, Anne Frank's father being one of these. And conceivably some of those Jewish soldiers might have been killed in Poland. So I wondered, why were there were no Stars of David at the Friedhof?

I sensed religious tension in other historical locations in Poland.

About 100 metres down from the main entrance to Birkenau - a horrifying extermination camp where Jews and Gypsies where particularly targeted as victims - stands a Carmelite convent with a very large cross, once used in an open-air Papal Mass. I couldn't help thinking that the oversized cross was somehow provocative. For I compared the convent's need to make its presence known to a more discrete retreat near Auschwitz I, the Centre for Dialogue and Prayer.

It was at the peaceful Centre for Dialogue and Prayer where I stayed for a few days, finding nowhere a need for overt advertising of its Catholicism. In fact, the Centre made every effort to embrace other faiths, as evidenced by Jewish religious literature at the front desk.

On its website, the Centre notes that the words 'dialogue' and 'prayer' may not be as appropriate as silence and the need to listen. For Auschwitz was a place where interpersonal relations were shattered by politics that sought to divide.

I wonder about silence in lieu of dialogue. Certainly silence is needed when reflecting on the testaments to the horrors of war, and when honouring the memory of millions of victims.

But don't we need more dialogue, rather than less, when discussing issues caused by subjective allegiances? Don't we more dialogue to ensure that religion be a private matter between a believer and his or her chosen system? Don't we need more dialogue to ensure that religious organizations be discrete in the way they conduct their business? Don't we need more dialogue to ensure that religious organizations educate their flock to be respectful of all faiths?

But how can dialogue be broached if there is so little trust, if the principal aim remains: that of gaining more converts by using emotional pitches that have long led to divisiveness, an 'us' versus 'them'?

Early one morning at the entrance to Birkenau, I witnessed a highly-charged emotional pitch being delivered to American youths. They were all wearing Israeli flags that fluttered in the wind. And one of their tour leaders was yelling through a loudspeaker that 'Birkenau was the only place designed to exterminate Jews'.

I thought, is this feverish pitch necessary by hallowed grounds?

Later in one of the barracks, I came across the same youths, listening to a second tour leader. His discourse seemed more reasonable as he proposed thoughts on moral choices of a universal nature. Yet the cumulative effect was weighing on a caped young woman who, outside the barrack, cried inconsolably to another. As the group left to continue their tour, I re-entered the barrack, finding on the walls, graffiti with names and years, such as 2004 and 2007, some with Stars of David. I do not imply that the group of youths I had come across that morning had engaged in this disrespect to the premises, and to the memories of so many more unfortunate than they. But the graffiti showed that there is a lack of supervision among some of the groups that pass through.

Later, I hired a private guide with a university degree in History, a normal qualification for museum guides throughout Europe. And near the end of the tour, I mentioned my concerns. Regarding the Carmelite convent, my guide mentioned that its presence was due to the canonization of Edith Stein who was born a Jew, converted to Catholicism in the early 1920's, became a Carmelite nun, and was killed by Nazis at Birkenau. I did not press on the issue of the large cross. Regarding the tour of Jewish youths, my guide lamented that these groups are not interested in hiring Museum guides, but rather, in bringing their own, and that the combination of horrific exhibits with the conveyed emotionalism causes many to have ongoing nightmares, as reported by their parents.

Because of the emotional turmoil and religious conflict that I saw or sensed, I came to the conclusion that the political use of religious symbols to convey the plight of millions is misguided. Likewise is the revisionism that occurs to present history to favour one side while omitting or rendering general and vague the reality of others.

I consider that concentration camps and their visitors should treat with the utmost respect the memories of ALL victims who suffered the worst indignities. And in so doing, we should deeply reflect on the nature and consequence of aggression and war, of conflict and intolerance. For if we fill our heads instead with partialities and conflict, how will we ever learn to reach out in peace?

Poland - Part 1: Looking for Answers

Issues from the Second World War have intrigued me these past few years. Blame it on my 90-year old Polish neighbour.

By the time the Second World War was declared, Roman Goralski had left his farm, near the border of East Prussia, to join the Polish armed forces. Within weeks, he and his fellow soldiers were captured by Soviets who, like the Nazis, were scheming to carve up Poland, according to the pact between Hitler and Stalin.

On the forced march to L'vov, prisoner-of-war Goralski scoped out a field of haystacks. He gambled and zig-zagged away from the troops, risking bullets fired in his direction. He figured the Soviets did not have the time and manpower to leave their custodial duties and mount a search. He was right.

More risks awaited Goralski, until he was able to get past the German-occupied sector of Warsaw to connect with his brother and obtain civilian clothes. Goralski returned to his farm, only to find that it had been appropriated by the Nazis and given, instead, to German colonists from Byelorussia. Had it not been for a neighbour, who offered the Goralski family a substitute home, the outcome of this story would have been very different.

In the ensuing years, the Nazis ordered Goralski to go to Westphalia, in Germany, where he became forced labour.

In his accounts of the time, Goralski inspired me to write a story for young adults, I set it in Poland, circa 1942. But by the fourth chapter, I was stumped. I realized that I couldn't continue writing about a country I'd never tasted. It was time to travel. This, in spite of my uncooperative health.

It took me nine months to plan an itinerary that would combine an historical review with my literary and photographic goals. I began in London, England, where I viewed the exhibits at the Imperial War museum, as well as the photographic archives of two Polish institutes.

I next flew to Gdansk, from where I travelled throughout the country, seeking eleven museums, a little-known, mass grave in a rural forest, designated cemeteries, and several houses of worship.

I would have preferred an extra 6 months to better learn the basics of a language I barely know; it would have made communications with a variety of Poles a richer experience. But I could no longer postpone my search for answers to some persistent questions, among them:

- What was it about Poland that made it so vulnerable to aggressors from the West (Germany) and aggressors from the East (Soviet Union)?

- Why, after 60-plus years, do most people not know about ALL the millions who were persecuted and annihilated by the Nazis?

- Why is the generic term 'Holocaust' associated with six million Jews, whose memories are honoured in exhibits, literature and film, while others - reportedly five million - are given general and vague billing, if they are mentioned at all?

Obtaining answers would not be easy. In a world beset by partialities and political agendas, I could only hope for a compass pointing to intellectual honesty.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

In London, I visited The Polish Institute and Sikorski Museum (PISM), the Polish Underground Study Trust (PUMST), and the Imperial War Museum (IWM-London).

PISM is the steward of artifacts and documentation from the Polish government-in-exile during the Second World War. That is, after the spring of 1940 when the Polish government fled Paris as the Nazis invaded France. With my interest in their photographic archives, from 1939 to the mid-forties, I buried my nose in PISM's basement one gorgeous Spring day.

Next, I reviewed the more extensive collection of photographs at PUMST, and spoke with its curator who confirmed what I had read and heard while I learned about nuances of which I was unaware.

In contrast, IWM-London offered only the slimmest of photographic archives on Poland; in fact, I found only one black and white image from 1942: that of Himmler visiting Stutthof, the first detainee camp for Polish political prisoners from what was then the Free City of Danzig. (Stutthof would become, as of 1942, a concentration camp for detainees of 25 nationalities who did not fit the desired profile of the Nazis.)

I chose to better spend my time visiting several exhibits at the IWM - the one in the lobby, focusing on the armaments of war, the one on intelligence and espionage, and the one on the Holocaust. They were all superbly presented.

Months earlier, I was referred to the Holocaust exhibition at IWM-London by a fellow writer, after I had voiced my concerns to our group over the partialities I was encountering on the reports of victims from the Second World War. I might as well have been talking to the wall. For the man who referred me to the Holocaust exhibition at IWM-London confirmed how entrenched are the partialities that have been promoted regarding the victims of the Second World War.

Allow me to explain.

Upon entering the Holocaust exhibition, we learn about the stories of Jewish victims and their families. One Jewish family after another is presented up close and personal through photographs and video commentaries from the survivors or their relatives. Only much further along in the exhibition is there a video commentary from one non-Jew: a Jehovah's Witness. And there is a vague and general reference to millions of non-Jews who, too, lost their lives due to Nazi viciousness. But outside the Jehovah's Witness, there is no personalization of non-Jews, no fullness of accounts for the millions of non-Jewish victims who, too, were exerminated, who too, failed to live up to the profile established by the Nazis.

My search for a balanced presentation on all the victims of the Holocaust – Jews and non-Jews, alike, was in vain. I didn't find it at the IWM-London as I didn't find it, online, at the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum.

Perhaps the exhibits at museums in what were earlier concentration camps, in Poland, would better account for the brutal losses of all parties during the Second World War. At the very least, I hoped to find information on the direct and indirect extermination by the Nazis of Polish citizens: its three million Polish Jews, and its three million non-Jewish Poles.

The Purple Soprano

No other car shouts, "Heyyyy, looka me!" like the Efijy. Painted in Soprano Purple, this is one curvaceous car, channeling an Australian model from 1953, the FJ Holden.

Made by a subsidiary of General Motors, the Efijy is not intended for production, but rather to showcase the creative talent available in-house. And what creative talent it is. Beyond the lush design, no expense was spared in the materials used.

According to scuttlebut at the Auto Show, the Efijy has a price tag of one million dollars. In four years, it should appreciate in value to four million, assuming no other car of its kind is made. So discounting the risks, an annual return on investment of one hundred percent for each of four years is not bad.

Any bidders?

Toys vs. Tools

Some folks have an addiction and a pocketbook for toys. Their motivation can come from numerous sources: fulfiling flights of fancy, or bolstering a need for prestige. Ultimately, though, toys promote a mirage.

Tools are another matter. They come with a patina of use. They signal the owner's commitment and dedication to a craft. They involve a sense of purpose, a sense of direction, and an understanding that to get to where is needed, takes time and practice. Or, ‘sweat equity’. That's what leads to knowledge and proficiency.

There are no short cuts. Nor can sweat equity occur in a vacuum, where there is no peer evaluation nor constructive criticism, or CC.

It takes willingness to learn from others with more experience. It takes patience to distill the information gleaned. It takes initiative to put the information into practice before owning each skill gained. And it takes maturity to value CC, so vital to the learning process.

Where a licensed trade is concerned, proficiency must be developed for use in the public arena - an unforgiving taskmaster. Any deviation holds risks with potentially grave consequences.

But where an unlicensed trade is involved, amateurs can often be found among the professionally trained. And this creates confusion in the marketplace. Witness photography, where some point-and-shooters hold onto the delusion they are photographers.

Fortunately, most amateurs recognize their deficiencies. While fewer can match the dedication of professionals to the honing of skills in a craft that fills them with passion. It is the latter small group who gain the respect of those who risk their reputation in the marketplace.

Problems arise when the dreamer who is unwilling to pay dues, wields toys in the marketplace without being able to fully meet challenges. It is this practice that can destroy credibility. Not just for the perpetrator, but for the group he or she tries to emulate. This is how reputations in an unlicensed trade are diminished. This is how footsteps from those who have paid their dues are demeaned.

Toy boxes hold no sweat equity.