Ellis Shuman's Blog, page 7

I Run Tel Aviv Night Run 10 Kilometers in 59:26!

Tel Aviv Night Run 10 kilometers - I finished with an amazing time of 59:26 - a record run for me in a competition. This was 57th place out of 295 in my age category - but in that category, I was running against young men aged 60. Very hot in Tel Aviv! I enjoyed myself and am very satisfied with my result!

End of the Avocado Season

The past few months I have been volunteering once a week (when I can) - helping Israeli farmers in the south after their workers fled the country last October. Four times I picked avocados in an orchard near Ashkelon but this past visit was the last time. 50 workers from Sri Lanka were set to come to work in that orchard. I enjoyed picking avocados - and the avocado ice cream that came as a tasty result of my efforts!

Review of 'West Jerusalem Noir' – short stories

Noirfiction can be defined as crime fiction with dark themes, often featuring 'adisturbing mixture of sex and violence'. The stories of West Jerusalem Noir(Akashic Books, November 2023) are somewhat tamer; their protagonists areconfronted with the dark complexities of living in a city filled with national,religious, and socioeconomic tension.

WestJerusalem Noir of the Akashic Noir Series is published simultaneouslywith East Jerusalem Noir, a companion collection that tells of the unfulfilledhopes and dreams of Jerusalem's Arab residents, their lives vastly differentfrom those living in the western half of the city.

In WestJerusalem Noir, the story 'You Can't See the Occupation from Here'by Ilana Bernstein takes place on the Israeli side of the city. The protagonistworks in a secret lab on Hebrew University's Mount Scopus campus, where she'sfilling in for a translator on maternity leave. Working in the lab 'involvesquite a few sacrifices,' she thinks. 'Those who come in here don't leave soquickly'. A Palestinian woman, complete with a 'floral pink and cerulean hijab'is reportedly the CEO of the company. But what about national security? theprotagonist wonders. Nothing is as it seems.

Inthe story 'Arson,' by Ilan Rubin Fields, police investigate whether someone setfire to the trees flanking the gardens of Peace Park, near Jerusalem's FrenchHill neighborhood. In possibly the best story in the anthology,'Chrysanthemums' by Asaf Schurr, a father takes it upon himself to cover up hisdaughter Michal's crime. "You didn't kill anyone, you hear me?" headmonishes her. "I'll take care of everything, understood?"

Theheroine of 'Murder at Sam Spiegel' by Liat Elkayam wakes up in a small room inthe famed film and television school to find a student filmmaker 'on a swivelchair, his head hanging backward at a completely inhuman angle … a long riverof blood snaking from his stomach'. This launches the protagonist intodetective mode, but the investigation is more than she can handle.

InElkayam's story, an entry ramp to the Jerusalem Cinematheque is sprayed withgraffiti declaring 'Jerusalem – a city held together with masking tape'.The stories of the collection are taped together by their Jerusalem setting. Whilesome readers may find the book disjointed, with unsatisfactory plots andendings, many of the stories are memorable and will leave much to think about.

Thecollection's editor, Maayan Eitan, says they take place in a 'concrete,contemporary, and complicated Jerusalem'. She is correct in stating that the 15stories included in West Jerusalem Noir 'could not have taken placeanywhere else'. Indeed, readers will have a 'chance to visit Jerusalem likethey've never seen it before'.

Originally posted on The Times of Israel.

I Run the Jerusalem Marathon 10K and Finish in 18th Place in My Age Category

Perfect weather for a run through the streets of Jerusalem and the alleywaysof the Old City. I last ran the Jerusalem Marathon's 10K race in 2019 and I wasexcited to do it again. The course is challenging, with a number of steepinclines, but I finished with a time of 1 hour and 6 minutes. This ranked me in18th place out of 87 men in the 65-69 age category.

Amazingly, this was the exact same result as I had in the 2019 race, whenI was in a younger age category. Overall, I finished the 10K in 3596th placeout of 9,044 racers. I am very happy with my result!

Related articles:

The Tel Aviv Marathon was yesterday. I ran my 10 kilometer race today!

Tel Aviv Marathon Man: I Run the 10 Kilometer Race
Jerusalem Is Much Harder to Run than Tel Aviv

My Short Story "Boxes" Published in 'Door Is A Jar' Literary Magazine

I'm proud to announcethat my short story "Boxes" was published yesterday in the Spring2004 edition of Door Is A Jar Literary Magazine.

Door Is A Jar LiteraryMagazine is a quarterly print and digital publication of poetry, short fiction,nonfiction, drama, artwork and book reviews. Issue 30, Spring 2004, of themagazine is now live.

The new issue featuresthe creative works of 44 contributors from all around the world.

Door Is A Jar LiteraryMagazine can be found on the newsstand in Barnes & Noble, Books-A-Million,and independent bookstores nationwide.

Copies of the magazinecan be ordered directly from the website.

"The Carpet Salesman" - short story

Business in the carpet department was slow; infact, it was non-existent. Ziv sat behind his desk from the moment the storeopened in the morning until it closed for the night, and looked out at the furnituredisplays with little to distract him.

Occasionally, shoppers walked into Ziv’ssection of the floor and admired the classic handmade Persian carpets bearingcertificates of authenticity, or the multi-colored Boho-chic area rugs withtheir handwoven geometric designs hanging from ceiling-high racks, but few expressedreal interest. For long hours, Ziv remained motionless and undisturbed. Hisshift passed slowly, and he had to prevent himself from yawning and staypresentable at all times.

“It’s minimum wage, but you’ll earnsubstantial commissions,” the store manager had promised Ziv on his first dayof work, three months earlier. “Our carpets are of the highest quality andsales will be good.”

But there were no sales. Ziv knew that theimported carpets were over-priced and apparently the customers were aware ofthis as well. Of all the departments in the store, Ziv’s was the leastsuccessful, yet Management insisted it was to be manned full time. As long asZiv was available for shoppers, whenever they had questions to ask, and as longas Ziv didn’t complain, he would keep his job, and for this he was grateful.

When he finished work, Ziv boarded the bus forthe journey to his small apartment in a quiet Ramat Gan neighborhood. Heclimbed three flights of stairs and unlocked his door. Immediately Charlie, hisginger-colored cat, rubbed against his legs, purring in eager anticipation ofleftovers from the night before. Ziv couldn’t afford canned or packaged catfood, but Charlie didn’t seem to mind. Before feeding him, Ziv picked up theanimal with affection, but Charlie had a mean streak and scratched Ziv’s cheek,drawing blood.

As Ziv stared into a mirror, holding a tissueto the wound, he wondered where his life had gone off track. He had grown up ina middle-class neighborhood with caring parents and three older siblings, buthe had lost touch with them after his army service. They refused to support himwhen repeated failures in mathematics studies caused him to drop out of university.“Get a hold on yourself,” his father said to him the last time Ziv had visitedhome. “We love you, but it’s time for you to start your own life,” his mothersaid.

He hadn’t seen them since.

 

* * *

 

Ziv enjoyed his morning cup of espresso. Hesat back contentedly and watched the first shoppers arrive, but none of themstrolled toward the carpet department. They were more attracted by thediscounted sofas and lounge chairs. On the far side of the store, someone wasdiscussing a double bed with Ziv’s manager. The only thing Ziv could think ofwas how warm the coffee made him feel.

Sometimes Ziv was joined at the coffee machineby Esti, the dining room salesperson. Esti was much older than him. She proudlyshowed off pictures of her grandchildren whenever there was a significantlifetime event to celebrate. Ziv preferred to drink his espresso in reflectivesilence, but Esti took it upon herself to break him out of his quiet nature.

“Do you have a girlfriend, Ziv? You’recertainly a handsome fellow.”

He shook his head, but that wasn’t enough tostop her questions.

“Do you travel much? Mordechai, my latehusband, zichrono le-bracha, would take me all over Europe. Paris,Rome—you name it! Ziv, you should travel. What are you doing here anyway,working in this store? Carpets? Is that what you want to do with your life?What about high-tech? Maybe you could work there!”

Ziv rarely answered her, and when he did, itwas with short Yes-No responses. He knew Esti had only the best of intentions,but a meaningful conversation with her was not possible. It wasn’t that he wassimply not talkative, but rather unable to express what lay hidden deep insidehim. He couldn’t, and he wouldn’t. No, he wasn’t capable of discussing any ofthat with Esti, or with anyone else.

But he did speak to Charlie each evening. Althoughhe hesitated to pick up the cat, fearful of another swipe of its claws, heleaned down to pet it, to rub its fur over and over.

“That’s a good boy, Charlie. Are you allright, sitting here in the apartment all day waiting for me to come home? Youknow I’ll feed you, take care of you. And you know what, Charlie? You take careof me as well! We’re a good team, Charlie. You and me against the world.”

After feeding his pet, Ziv sat down on thesofa that he got secondhand for a bargain price and turned on the television.It was the nightly newscast. Listening to the news was something he abhorred.He preferred the reality shows, the ones where contestants competed to see whowas the best singer, the best dancer, or the one who could survive the mostdifficult physical challenges. Ziv would never dream of participating in suchcontests, but watching the shows gave him a sense of comfort.

He was about to change channels and preparehimself an omelet when the screen was filled with a breaking news report. Therehad been clashes near Nablus—Israeli security forces in a gunfight withsuspected Palestinian terrorists. Although not all the details of the battlecould yet be released for publication, the serious grin of the newscastersuggested there had been Israeli casualties.

Ziv’s head spun. The sound of gunfire, thesmell of fired weapons, the whizz of bullets overhead. His commander shoutingorders, a medic calling for help. “Get down!” “Take cover!” One soldierraised his rifle and fired, and a terrorist fell from a rooftop. A grenade.Smoke. And then, Ziv stepped back as an Israeli soldier dropped to the ground.Right next to him.

“Move!” his commander shouted at him. “Ziv, move already!”

Ziv froze in place, eyes wide. He turned to hiscommander, but Boaz had advanced into a forward position, commanding the unit totake cover, to fire back at the terrorists. He should follow Boaz’s orders, heknew, but he couldn’t move. He looked at his comrade lying on the ground, atthe medic already attending to his injuries. The blast of explosions, the burstsof gunfire. The relentless ringing in his ears. Ziv glanced at the horrificscene unfolding around him and lifted his arms to his helmeted head, as if hecould drown it all out.

The news continued with reports of a politicalspat between government coalition partners, and an item about rising inflation,but Ziv remained seated, thoughts of preparing his dinner long forgotten. Noteven Charlie’s jumping into his lap could calm him, could chase away painfulmemories from the past.

 

* * *

 

“Good morning!” Esti’s warm greeting at thecoffee machine startled him, brought him back to the mundane reality of hisdaily routine. “You look like you didn’t sleep enough. What time do you go tobed, Ziv? I always eat an early dinner and get to bed by nine, nine-thirtylatest. Nothing like that saying—early to bed, early to rise. You should stayin shape, get more exercise, by the way.”

Ziv nodded at her, but didn’t say a word. Heraised his espresso in farewell and went back to his section of the floor. Thecarpet department. His safe haven.

How can you differentiate between an authentichandmade rug and one that is mass-produced? Look at the reverse side. On amachine-made rug you can see white netting. That is where the threads areknotted. Woolen threads, sometimes synthetic fiber. You can barely see therug's pattern through this netting. And machine-made rugs are very stiff.

Handmade rugs are denser and more delicate.And softer. The two sides look very similar. It is easy to see the rug'spattern, even when viewed from the underside. To have real value, a rug's knotsmust be hand-tied. It is easy to see the difference in quality, and that is whyhandloomed carpets are more expensive.

Ziv knew this speech by heart; he was ready todeliver it. He would turn over the rugs stacked near his desk, revealing thereverse sides one by one. He would present the array of carpets hanging fromthe ceiling, sliding them aside as each one came into view. Distinct patterns,different colors. Geometric designs, free-style forms. Widths of one-and-a-halfmeters and more. Lengths as long as three meters. Bigger carpets could beordered on demand.

But Ziv rarely gave his practiced speechbecause few customers ventured his way. The carpet department remained empty,quiet, and that was just the way Ziv liked it.

 

* * *

 

“Charlie, what have you been up to?” Ziv askedwhen he returned home after another of his uneventful shifts. “I have leftovertuna for you tonight! A real feast! I can hear you purring already.”

He knew he should avoid the nightly newscast, asit only upset him, but he picked up the remote control anyway. He shouldn’tlisten to the news, but he couldn’t help himself. The commercials ended, andthe broadcast began.

“Two terrorists were killed in a gunfirebattle earlier this evening outside Nablus,” the broadcaster reported. “NoIsraeli troops were injured in the incident. Let’s go to our militarycorrespondent in the field for further details.”

The newscast continued, but Ziv could nolonger heard the broadcaster’s voice, nor could he focus on the televised scenesof the Palestinian village where the gun battle had taken place. His ears rang,but it was with the sounds of a previous battle. The gunfire, the bulletswhizzing past his head, the moans of his injured comrade. “Ziv, move already!”Boaz shouted, but Ziv was incapable of following his commander’s orders. Thesmoke. The commotion. The confusion. He couldn’t move.

 

* * *

 

“There're rumors there are going to belayoffs,” Esti whispered to him at the coffee machine. “Store profits are down.People aren’t buying furniture like they used to.”

Ziv sipped his coffee, only half listening tohis coworker’s words.

“I heard our manager is going to have a talkwith each of us,” Esti continued. “He’ll be discussing sales in each section.If sales are not good, who knows? I can’t afford to lose this job, not at myage! You, Ziv, are still young. You’ll have no problem finding somewhere elseto work. Well, have a good day!” she said, before walking off to the tables andchairs in her department.

Look for a new job? No, that was more than hecould handle. It was true there were no carpet sales, but it was not his fault.He was trying his best to win over shoppers, but he couldn’t force them to buycarpets!

What would he do if he lost his job? He had noother skills, no college education to rely on. His parents wouldn’t help him,he knew. How would he pay his bills? How would he afford to keep his apartment?What would he do about Charlie? The ginger-colored feline had nobody else.

Ziv sat down behind his desk and rested hishead in his hands. Carpets—that was what he knew, and in reality, he hardlyknew anything at all about them. What was he capable of doing in life if hecouldn’t even sell the carpets in the store?

“We’re interested in an Oriental rug.Something stylish, but not overbearing.”

Ziv looked up. That voice—it sounded veryfamiliar. A man and a woman stood nearby, scrolling through the carpets hangingfrom the ceiling. They touched the fabrics, dismissing each one in turn before movingon to the next.

“What do you think?” the woman asked.

“I’m not sure. It wouldn’t match our furniture,”the man replied.

Again, the voice he remembered. Ziv stood up,but his knees nearly buckled when he recognized the shopper. Boaz! Hiscommander from the army!

“Ziv, move already!”

Words from his past. Memories of whattranspired in that gun battle were what haunted his dreams, what made him tossback and forth through endless nightmares. Recollections of Boaz ordering himto face the terrorists and their guns, to engage in a battle that could takehis life, toward gunfire that had already felled one of Ziv’s fellow soldiers.A battle that raged on, in his mind, even now.

In the store, Ziv froze in place, just as hehad frozen in fierce combat. Just as he remained frozen between the terrors ofhis army days and his insecurities as a civilian. His feet were rooted to thefloor, almost as if they had been embedded in concrete. He ducked his head, asif bullets were whizzing past. He reached for his gun, but of course, he hadtaken the weapon off his shoulders long before. His eyes searched frantically forsigns of an enemy hiding behind the camouflaged bedroom sets. Or possibly, takingcover in the forest of dining room chairs at the front of the store.

“Excuse me,” the woman called out impatiently.“Can we get some help over here?”

“Of course,” Ziv replied, snapping toattention. “What exactly are you looking for?”

“A carpet for our living room,” Boaz explained,his hand on his wife’s arm. He looked straight at Ziv but showed no signs ofrecognition. “Two meters by three meters. Where are these carpets importedfrom?”

It was difficult for Ziv to put aside the painBoaz had caused him, the terror he had felt at every command Boaz had issued. Zivforced himself to concentrate on his role as a salesman. He knew these carpets,he told himself, almost better than he knew anything else. Bravely, he answeredthe couple’s questions. And then, at their request, he unbuckled one carpetfrom the rack and rolled it out on the floor so that they could get thesensation of walking on it. And finally, Ziv informed them of the price.

“Okay, we’ll take it,” Boaz announced, lookingat his wife for confirmation.

“Take it?” Ziv replied.

“Yes, we’ll buy it.”

 

“Good. Okay. Let’s sit down at my desk and Iwill…”

Ziv prepared the paperwork and ran Boaz’scredit card through the terminal. He gave the couple their receipt and went totie up the carpet and wrap it in protective plastic.

“Thank you,” the woman said.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” Boaz asked ashe lifted the carpet roll to his shoulder. “No, I guess not,” he said when Zivdidn’t respond.

As they walked away, Ziv remained standingnext to his desk, trapped in final thoughts about the incursion into thevillage. He remembered Boaz’s last words to him on the battlefield. As themedics evacuated the injured soldier under gunfire, Boaz put his hand on Ziv’sshoulder, holding him back not as a commander, but almost as a friend.

“It’s going to be alright, soldier,” Boaz had said. “Now, let’s get the hellout of here.”

Ziv stared at the couple leaving the store,but then his eyes wandered to the dining room sets. Esti stood next to a largewooden table, smiling proudly at Ziv. She clapped her hands, applauding thecarpet sale, his first since coming to work at the store. Ziv nodded his headat her and then saw his manager speaking to a woman near the entrance. Themanager looked over at Ziv and made a thumbs-up gesture, acknowledging Ziv’ssale.

Ziv smiled as he stood next to his array ofcolorful carpets. Maybe it was going to be alright after all.

 

# # #

Originally published on Flora Fiction.

Introducing Max

Whenthe cat died, we said that would be the last of our pets. Forty years of cats,and now it was time to start living. No responsibilities, no worries when outof the house, when traveling. Yet my heart called out for more. A dog.

Inthe past few months, my children sent me WhatsApp notices of puppies up foradoption. My granddaughters nudged me over and over – "When are yougetting a dog? "Soon," I promised them. "Soon," I promisedmyself.

"We'llget a dog when the house renovations are finished," Jodie said to me. Threemonths behind schedule, but at last the majority of the work has beencompleted. It's time for a dog.

It's time for a dog

Ijoined a number of Facebook groups. Dogs for Adoption. Dog Lovers – For AdoptionOnly! Adopting Dogs Limited. Posts of available dogs were frequent, but, noneof them were suitable. Jodie and I had made a few decisions. No puppies—we wouldn'tbe able to handle the training. We wouldn't pay for a dog. No pedigreed dogs.No dogs from shelter that could be suffering from traumas in their past. And,possibly most importantly for Jodie, the dog should not be a barker. In short,we wanted to adopt a dog from a family.

Thefirst dog we interviewed for the position was a big, black, beautiful dog withwhite spots—Panda—who belonged to the brother of the person in charge of NeveIlan's youth activities. Panda lived nearby. Panda was very friendly, jumping tolick your face when you first met him. But Panda was strong. Very strong. Whenwe took him on a quick introductory walk, Jodie immediately realized she wouldn'tbe able to handle him.

How is Max with children?

Ifound a listing for Max on Yad2, the popular site where people sell, buy, give away,and search for everything from apartments for sale or rent, cars, furniture,and apparently, animals.

Icalled the phone listed with Max and a young male voice answered the phone. Iasked a number of questions. "Does the dog bark?" "How is thedog with strangers?" "How is the dog with other dogs?""With cats?" "How is the dog with children?"

"He'svery good with children," the person said. "I'm a child."

"Howold are you?" I asked.

"Fifteen."

Thatwasn't what I meant when I asked about children. Would the dog get along withmy granddaughters? Would he be a good match for my four-year-old granddaughter?

Maxwas born and spent his puppyhood in Karnei Shomron. From there, two teenageboys traveled on a bus for 90 minutes with Max to their yeshiva in Jerusalem.The yeshiva informed the boys that they had 2 days to get rid of the dog. Theboys were rushed to give Max away.

Weplanned to go to Jerusalem to meet Max on Friday morning at 11:00, with nocommitment to take him. But then, the meeting with Panda was set up, so Iinformed the boys that we were considering other options, that we wouldn't becoming into Jerusalem after all. A few minutes later I received an SMS."So, are you coming to Jerusalem?"

Whenthe possibility of adopting Panda didn't work out, I sent another message tothe boys asking them if we could still come. They happily agreed.

We immediately feel in love with him

Wemet Max in one of the boy's homes in the Bayit Vegan neighborhood. It was areligious household—their table was already set for Shabbat dinner at ten inthe morning. Max was a little hesitant about approaching us, but he seemed like afriendly, healthy dog. We took him for an introductory walk and Jodie confirmedthat she was strong enough to handle Max's strength. So, we took Max home withus.

To saythat our family, especially our granddaughters, were excited about meeting Max,was the understatement of the year. They immediately fell in love with him, asdid I. As did Jodie.

Maxis beautiful. Friendly. He gets along with children. He likes other dogs (but notall male dogs like him). He has a healthy appetite. He is healthy, vaccinated,and has an identifying microchip embedded under his skin. He likes to takewalks. He will soon be neutered. And, he also has a mind of his own.

"Max!" we call out. He races on.

Fridaynight dinner. Our entire family is enjoying our meal in Merav's new apartmentabove ours. Max stands to the side, sniffing at the good smells coming from thetable. "No table scraps for you! Sit, Max!" And he obeys. Mostly.

Thefront door is left open a few seconds more than it should, and Max dashes out. Hebounds down the steep steps and into the street. He runs into unknownterritory. Maybe he's heading for his Jerusalem yeshiva? Or for his previoushome in Karnei Shomron?

Werace after him. Erez and I run up the street behind Max. He's fast! And, it'sstarting to rain. Max dashes into a garden. And the rain picks up. It's darkand we don't see Max. It's suddenly a downpour, and we are soaked to the core.We reach the street and follow Max into a four-inch-deep puddle."Max!" we call out. He races on.

Atlast, Max turns into a fenced garden and I am able to slip on his leash. Wehead back to the house, where the entire family is waiting.

Maxis back. Max is with his new family. Max is wonderful. Max is now part of ourlives. And, we'll make sure to keep the front door closed for now.

(Twodays after this story was written, Max escaped again. We really need to keepthe door closed!)

 

# ##

Review of 'Bulgaria, the Jews, and the Holocaust' by Dr. Nadège Ragaru

Thefacts appear to be clear-cut. Despite Bulgaria's alliance with Germany duringWorld War Two, its 48,000 Jewish citizens were not deported to the Nazi deathcamps. That said, 11,343 Jews from the Bulgarian-controlled territories ofMacedonia, Serbia, and Thrace were 'cruelly loaded on trains bound forTreblinka, where they were murdered.' In the aftermath of these two parallel Holocauststorylines, many questions have been raised. Who rescued the Jews of Bulgaria? And,who is responsible for the deaths of the Jews from Bulgarian territories? Theanswers are not as simple as they may seem, and in fact, can be quitecontroversial.

Thesequestions and more are raised in Bulgaria, the Jews, and the Holocaust:On the Origins of a Heroic Narrative by Nadège Ragaru, translated by VictoriaBaena and David A. Rich (University of Rochester Press, October 2023). Originallypublished in French in 2020, this book is an exhaustive archival investigation intohow the survival of Bulgarian Jewry emerged as the primary narrative ofBulgaria's Holocaust years, while the deportations and deaths of Macedonian,Serbian, and Greek Jews were blamed solely on Nazi Germany.

Asrecently as January 2023, 80 years after those deportations and murders, theBulgarian Ministry of Culture issued a statement praising 'the significant roleof the Bulgarian state, its institutions, the Bulgarian Orthodox Church, andthe Bulgarian people for this unprecedented act in Europe in one of the darkestyears of our continent, when the Bulgarian people and state demonstratedtolerance, empathy, but also will and courage to save their Jewish fellowcitizens.'

Yes,the Bulgarian Orthodox Church, many brave politicians, and the Bulgarian peoplein general can claim credit for saving Bulgarian Jews, but, as the authorpoints out, the Bulgarian state and its institutions were directly responsiblefor policing the occupied territories, for rounding up the Jews living there,and for sending them to their deaths in the concentration camps.

Toprove this argument, the author presents an eclectic mix of rarely consideredevidence. She first explores the Bulgarian People's Courts, set up followingthe war's end to prosecute representatives of the pro-Nazi governing elite responsiblefor anti-Jewish persecutions. Then the author turns to the Cold War partnershipof Bulgaria and East Germany within the framework of a film coproduction.

Theauthor next considers just 'a few minutes of documentary footage that containsthe only recorded images of Jewish deportation from the occupied territories.'These images play into the story promoted by the Bulgarian socialist regime inthe 1960s and 1970s, which glorified the rescue of the Bulgarian Jews. Thefollowing chapter focuses on the 1990s and the changing memory of the Holocaustin the post-Communist period. In a chapter devoted to the years between 2000and 2010, the author explores the 'Jews' engagement in memory politics, andtheir contribution to greater awareness of how timely a discussion ofBulgaria's co-responsibility in Jewish persecution in the 'new' and 'old'kingdoms may be.'

Thisis not easy reading, and to be clear, this is not a history of Bulgaria duringWorld War Two. Bulgaria, the Jews, and the Holocaust uniquely presentsthe Jewish wartime experience with a consideration of the political, legal,historical, artistic and memorial aspects from the changing decades of post-warBulgaria. Ultimately, as noted by the publisher, the author 'restores Jewishvoices to the story of their own wartime suffering'.

Thebook, exhaustive in depth and scope, annotated with sources in multiplelanguages showing the meticulousness of the author's research, will appealprimarily to historians interested in the varied archival materials presentedon its pages.

Dr.Nadège Ragaru is a Research Professor at the Centres d'étudesinternationales (CERI), in Paris, France.

Bulgaria,the Jews, and the Holocaust: On the Origins of a Heroic Narrative isavailable in Open access.

Originally posted on The Times of Israel.

"Pomelos" - short story

The war had been raging for 40 days when Eli reportedto the orchards. Seven in the morning and he was the first one. The only one.Was he in the right place? Was he in his right mind to have driven an hour anda half from his relatively safe home in Tel Aviv to this remote orchard in the relativelyunsafe south? All was quiet at this hour—no rockets, artillery, or jetsoverhead—but everything could change without a moment’s notice, and he was abit nervous.

“It’s completely safe there,” he had reassured Batyathe previous night when he announced his intention to volunteer at the kibbutz.“There have been no rocket alerts or incidents in that area.”

“Still, you’ll be very close to Gaza,” she replied, aworried look on her face. “You should go to some farm near Netanya instead.”

“I’m going where I’m most needed,” he insisted.

And that was that. He woke up before his alarm rang,put on the hiking boots he hadn’t worn since his hiking trip in the Bulgarianmountains ten years earlier. He took two pitot out of the freezer and madecheese sandwiches for his lunch. After packing a bottle of mineral water in hisbag, he was ready to go.

“I should be back in the early afternoon,” he whisperedto Batya as he kissed her on the forehead.

“As long as you come back in one piece,” she repliedwithout opening her eyes.

They needed him; he told himself repeatedly as he drovesouth. Thai and Nepalese workers had fled from the country in the aftermath of thathorrific Saturday the previous month. Who would work in the fields? Who wouldpick the crops? Volunteers, that’s who! And he had stepped up to the plate. Hewas sixty-five years old, but damn if he couldn’t help save Israeliagriculture.

Read the rest of the story on Esoterica.

Review of 'Malign Intent' by Robert Craven

GardaInspector P.J. Crowe returns in Malign Intent by Robert Craven (December2023), a sequel to the crime thriller A Kind of Drowning. As in theprevious book, Crowe's career is in tatters, his position in the forceuncertain. At the beginning of one shift, he is called to investigate when abody, dressed in outdoor gear, is found swaying from a tree at the edge of aforest.

"Youare to close it off as a suicide," his boss, Chief SuperintendentO'Suilleabháin, instructs him. "Official, like."

"Suicide,not proven," Crowe replies. For him, 'not proven meant doubt. Doubtimplied a crime… He didn't like it, but Crowe had a murder on his hands.' Ofthis, only he is convinced, so he sets out himself to solve the crime.

IsCrowe up for the mission? His superiors believe he is 'still recovering from anadjustment reaction linked to the circumstances in which he finds himself.' Hisviolent assault and battery escapades in a previous case are well known, leadinghim to avoid social media and its toxic trolling, but Crowe insists he is"calmer now… less extreme."

"Idid what any good cop would do," Crowe reassures a fellow inspector. Solvingthis murder case is, for him, 'a solid piece of real police work… For the firsttime in nearly two years, Crowe felt the surge of intent. A reminder to him asto why he became a policeman. To protect the public.'

Malign Intent will appeal to readers who appreciate police procedural crime fiction.Capturing one's attention is the thriller's setting in rural Ireland. Ireland,with its rutted moonscapes and coastal fogs, and the vanilla and black thunderheadsrolling inwards from the sea.

ForCrowe, 'every crime has a window of opportunity; a golden few minutes, hours,and days before threads of evidence start to wither and go cold or disperse aslife continues on without the dead.'. The long days of Ireland's Atlanticautumnal rains are coming, and the clock is ticking for Crowe to solve thecrime. We are partner to his investigation, assured that no matter what itsresult, we anticipate meeting Crowe again in his future cases.

Robert Craven is an award-winning Irish author of thrilling fiction. His novel, EaglesHunt Wolves was the winner of the 2021 Firebird Book Award for bestAction/Adventure. His other novels include the Eva series (Get Lenin, Zinnman,A Finger of Night, Hollow Point, and Eagles Hunt Wolves);the Steampunk novel The Mandarin Cipher; and the crime thriller AKind of Drowning. His short stories have been published in threeanthologies and he is also a regular reviewer of CDs for the Independent IrishReview Ireland.