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.


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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.