Angela und Helmuth

These are Angela (48) and Helmuth Kleingräber (52) from Groß-Bremerhaven sharing an apparently quiet and dreamy moment at the Starbucks in the departure lounge at Heathrow. They flew in from Kuala-Lumpur and are waiting for their flight to Bremen. I said quiet and dreamy moment, but that's not so: they just dead tired and that is why they stopped fighting ... read on to see what this is all about. Helmuth is a teacher and volunteer to teach teachers to teach, he travels on his off-time for "Teachers Across Borders" since way back in 2000 when it was launched. As very publicly the awards and citations grew and his fame increased, so also surged hushed rumours and whispers of young women and girls who dealt with teacher-H. Management considered suspending him risking to send the rumour mill into overdrive and more questions to be asked. Eventually, after many a quiet word with embarrassed "victims", it was decided to keep teacher-H, but keep him on a short leash called Angela who was to accompany teacher-H on all his future assignments. A slap on the wrist, you think ... true, but the slap was on uncontrollably wandering, fidgeting, touchy hands! A whitewash, you believe ... true, but a scandal would have damaged the reputation of this venerable NGO cutting or limiting its funding and stopping it from doing so much good ... A true, oh so Catholic, compromise. Ask yourself: what would you have done? And don't say "castrate the bastard", share your opinion in the comment section if you wish ...

Selda, Yana, Saya and Lava

I met these four lovely ladies on the 19th of October 2009 at the Great Umayyad Mosque of Damascus, in Syria. They are, from left to right, Selda - soft and quiet, Yana, her daughter - happy and chatty, Saya, older sister to Selda and aunt to Yana - distant and dignified, and Lava, younger sister to Selda and equally aunt to Yana - friendly but sad. We had a great time although my very poor Arabic wasn't much better than Yana's rudimentary English and the conversation consisted mostly of pointing to things, rolling our eyes, smiling a lot and nodding enthusiastically. The most frequently used word was "Canada", we said it 18 times followed by "Jameel" (Arabic for beautiful) which was said twelve times linked to Damascus, Syria and the Mosque itself. Today, nine years later to the day, I wonder desolately what became of my lovely, soft, quiet, happy, chatty, distant, dignified and friendly but sad Syrian friends ... Sadly, we know what happened to Syria, Damascus and the Mosque, it is all over the news, as Dylan would say it is "Only a Pawn in their Game".

Daniela Mortoni

This is Daniela Mortoni (32) from Padova, as I met her on the marble steps of Santa Maria della Salute. We walked a minute to the Dogana da Mar at the tip of Dorsoduro, her favourite thinking spot, and sat looking out onto the Bacino. Daniela told me her story. She is five eleven (1,80 m) and weighs 120 pounds (54 kg) of which she proudly says zero grams fat. She works out six times a week: three days Yoga and three days Judo. The reason she only agreed to the picture you see here for her blog entry will become clear if you read on. Daniela graduated from the University of Bologna and did quite well a few years as a consultant until about four month ago when she applied for a job at RetSoca, a local Internet Start-up specializing in retail support and famous for being profitable from day one. Her interview with Paolo Taglianini, founder and CEO, went so well that he offered on the spot a generous package with signing bonus, car allowance and profit sharing. He said "Welcome to be part of a very select and unique group: people who do exactly as I want." She started the next day as Chief Statistical Analyst and proved of great value to the company. The evening before we met, Daniela was working late on a report for "Esselunga SpA", one of their major clients, when Paolo walked into her office with a bottle of Pinot Grigio and two glasses in his hands and a grin on his face "Congratulations for concluding your probation, let's drink to that". After a few sips, Paolo got up from his chair and walked around Daniela's desk coming up behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders. He bent down and whispered in her ear "Remember the very select and unique group of people and what they do?" while sliding his hand down her blouse. Daniela froze for half a sec but then instinct and muscle memory took over: she threw up both her arms hands griping Paolo's back of the neck, lowered her right shoulder and pulled forward while pushing herself up: a perfect Morote Seoinage from sitting. Paolo crashed on her desk in front of her destroying the company's laptop and two perfectly chilled glasses of wine. Daniela walked to the door past the miserable bastard lying there whizzing blood on his breath and made two calls from the receptionist's phone: 113 for the police and 118 for an ambulance. She spent the night being interrogated by a bullying and very aggressive detective who, at dawn, told to go home but advised her that she will be charged with aggravated assault and cautioned not to leave the city. Daniela walked directly to the railway station and took the first train to Venice to go and sit on the Dogana da Mar steps looking out onto the Bacino. I took her hand and told her that everything will be alright.

Gisella Czitrom

This is Gsella (Gizi) Czitrom (23) from Sieghartskirchen, Austria, a village about 35 km West of Vienna as I met her on the Nr. 2 tram, getting off at Weihburggasse. We went for coffee at the Leibsteinsky on Schubertring and she told me her story (both shocking and stupefying as it was). Her grandfather, Karl Linzer, was found on the church steps by the cleaning lady who came to unlock on January 28th 1961, just before six AM. He was naked, severely hypothermic with no knowledge of who he was and how he got there.  Dr Kerbl examined him, he was perfectly healthy, no signs of external trauma but under total amnesia. All attempts to joggle his memory failed. Father Czonka decided to call the stranger Karl (St. Karl was on January 28th in the Catholic calendar) last-name Linzer (the address of the church is Linzerstrasse 2). Karl was fluent in German, Catalan, Celtic, Bulgarian and Italian, he was a hard worker with talents to fix anything mechanical, would never eat meat and had a beautiful tenor voice. After  Karl lived about six months in the church basement, he started dating Margit Czitrom, the young woman who found him, a refugee from Hungary's 1956 anti-communist revolt. They got married later the same year and took the family name of Czitrom living in the little cottage belonging to the church for a while until they obtained a small house with a garden from the community. That is where their son Alexander was born, he was to become Gizi's father. A couple of months before I met Gizi, in the morning of January 28th, Karl went to sit on the church steps where he was found all those years back; it was a yearly exercise originally recommended by Dr Kerbl, long since retired. Suddenly, his face lost all expression, his eyes glazed over and he said "rózsabimbó". He never uttered another word since that time; he just sits, he just stares, he just eats, he just sleeps.

Sasha and Shura

These are Alexandra (Sasha) and Alexandra (Shura) Zhukow, I met them at the dry-cleaner on Nevsky, close to the Mayakovskaya Metro Station they own and operate. They were also the most formidable and successful cellist mother-daughter team in recent Russian music history. Sasha started playing the cello at age six and developed into an exceptional musician ... so when her daughter Shura turned six she taught her too. Everybody knew what a great success Sasha was: that she was in the Menshnikov Quartet and played first-cello in the "Leningrad Philharmonic" and that she was given the use of the "1748 Count Berezin Domenico Montagnana" cello and that the great Shishkin composed a cello suite for her. What nobody knew is what price Sasha was demanded to pay ... the how/when and with whom remained her horrible secret for a long, long time. Shura, at eighteen, won the prestigious Shishkin Annual Best New Cellist (prize that Sasha won herself at her time) and enrolled in the Conservatory. The work was hard, the hours were long, but Shura was doing fabulously. One evening, about two years and a half ago, Shura came home very happy and excited and told her mom that Gherghidanov named her third-cello in the orchestra for the North-American tour and will record the Glinka CD for Sony Music, she will make serious money. The next evening she was to go and see Gherghidanov at his house to discuss details. 

It came as a huge surprise to everybody when the next day Sasha retired from all musical activities, sold "Count Berezin" for 850,000 Euros and bought the dry-cleaner. Shura was devastated but after a night-long and tear-filled discussion with her mom decided to join her in the new business so she never has to tell her own daughter how she too (me too) made her career.

Sasha and Shura now sometimes busk playing cello duos for fun on cheap Chinese cellos from Amazon.  

Tanya Berevina

This is Tatiana Ivanovna Bervina, a young, very talented but badly struggling writer whom I met in the St. Petersburg subway (they call it Metro). She got on at Vladimirskaya station, closest to the "Elite Supermarket" at 20 Lomosova Street where she works as a cashier, to go home (getting off at Pionerskaya) but had to change lines at Spasskaya. Tanya was tired of being a cashier, tired of sending her short stories to magazines and publishers, tired of never hearing back from them but she was never tired of writing; she told me that writing is like brushing your teeth: you must do it every day no matter how tired you are!

She shared a story, and as she spoke, the look on face gradually confirmed the identity of the main character:
An aspiring young poetess, after reading a few poems at the monthly literary forum housed by the Secondary School #311, on Belgradskaya Street, was approached by a tall handsome young guy who showered her with compliments and praise. He turned out to be Vasiliy Vsevolod, one of the assistant editors at Nasha Literatura who offered his enthusiastic help and unlimited support. She was so happy, practically beside herself, giggling uncontrollably. They left together at about nine-thirty when Vasiliy asked if she would tell him more of her body of work at a nearby pub. They talked about their heroes, she: Akhmatova, he Brodsky, both: Yesenin. It was getting late and he called a cab. When the taxi arrived Vasiliy, gave the driver his address, put his arm around her shoulders and tried to steer her into the car. She pulled back and kicked him viciously in the shin under the sudden realization that he was interested in her body, not body of work. Three things came to a sudden stop: a pleasant evening, the hope of quitting "Elite Supermarket" soon and any hope of ever publishing at Nasha Literatura.
When Tanya finished her story her eyes were even more tired. I looked at her and said in my best Vysotsky imitation: "Dasvidaniya Tanya"

Mr. Schiller

This is F. Schiller (28), whom I never met at "Milano Centrale" on Friday, August 10th, 2018 at 5:45 AM. F. was born and raised in Weimar where, from an early age, he showed a propensity for screwing up and getting into troubles of ever-increasing severity. He quit school at fifteen and hang out downtown mostly up to no good. That made him a frequent visitor of that nice, tall, white-washed Jugendstil building at 13 Markt, the central police station. Some of these interviews continued in front of a judge and were followed by stays in various Juvenile detention centres (where he was a waste of rehabilitation effort). By the age of 21, he'd already spent three years "inside" - mostly for theft and never for anything violent. F. was after-all very nice and gentle who abhorred brutality, who talked and joked with you, bought you a drink and then rob you. Weimar, Germany gradually became less than his favourite place on Earth and he drifted slowly Southward where Italy waited for him with open arms: better weather, many careless tourists with expensive cameras, fat wallets and heavy backpacks and most importantly a totally incompetent and inefficient police of lazy dudes, not always very bright. So, coming back to the fateful 45th minute of the fifth hour of the tenth day of the eighth month of the 2018th year when F. slipped away with my backpack, inside the laptop, the tablet, the camera and sundry items. And that is how I met Andrea Improta (did not give me his rank) at the police station the quintessential Italian policeman fitting the description advanced above. Andrea spent a vast portion of our quality time trying to convince me that I can file a police report when I get back to Toronto ... he even showed me how slow his computer was saying that it will take hours and I'll miss my train.  He was right, in fact, I missed the next TWO trains but boarded the third train with a copy of the "Attestazione Della Ricezione Di Denuncia"| that he produced in slow and careful, hit and miss, two finger-search-helicopter style typing interrupted occasionally by colleagues who would open the door grin and say something to Andrea (must've something been funny because the staff-room would immediately erupt in hollers and laughter) ...
Somewhere close by, F. was wondering if the laptop and tablet are password-protected (they were).