The next morning I woke up in a daze, for a moment wondering where I was and what had happened, still confused. My thoughts went back to the night before. I cursed myself. I was cursed. I've let happiness slip through my fingers. My life is ruined. I'll never love anyone, ever. I'd only known Regan about an hour, perhaps less. The time I'd spent with her was fleeting, but eternal – as if I'd known her all my life. We belong together, soulmates, tied by destiny. I'm incomplete without her.
​

Casablanca is probably my favourite film, although I also have many other movies that I watch whenever the opportunity arises. The Great Dictator, written, directed and starring Charlie Chaplin, who in my opinion is the most brilliant star to come out of Hollywood, although of course he was born in London, England. West Side Story and Chicago are two of my favourite musicals. But Casablanca is a Love Story and no matter how soppy some Love Stories are, I often find my eyes tearing up. The initial release of the film was timed to coincide with the American invasion of North Africa (Operation Torch) the subsequent public release coincided with the meeting between Roosevelt and Churchill in Casablanca in January 1943.
I suppose I’m a romantic at heart because when I write, many of my stories contain a Love element. My eclectic anthology consists of twenty-four short stories which I titled Just for Fun, available on Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble and other retailers, there are at least eight Love Stories.
Casablanca is unique film of its time and reflects the history of the day. The film is the ideal of self-sacrifice. The original script was an unproduced play, Everybody Comes to Rick’s by Murray Burnett and Joan Alison, both Jewish, who were married at the time they wrote the play. The number of Jews and refugees from the Nazis fits neatly into the film’s plot.
Burnett had travelled to Vienna in 1938 to help his Jewish family escape the Nazis. He then travelled to the Mediterranean Coast of France where he frequented a bar with a black jazz pianist. He never actually went to Casablanca.
Hall Wallis (Aaron Blum Wolowicz) a film producer bought the rights for the film. The film was directed by Michael Curtiz (Manó Kaminer) who was born in Budapest, then in the Austro-Hungarian Empire.
The screenplay was written by the Epstein brothers, Julius and Philip and Howard Koch.
The iconic song of the movie ‘As Time Goes By’ was written in 1931 by Herman Hupfeld who was of non-Jewish German descent.
The other music was composed by Max Steiner also born in Vienna, but who left before the First World War. 
Arthur “Dooley” Wilson born in Texas, who plays ‘Sam’ was not a pianist, but a singer and a drummer. The music was dubbed and played off screen by pianist Elliot Carpenter.
The main characters are Rick Blaine, played by Humphrey Bogart, Ilsa Lund, played by Ingrid Bergman and Victor Laszlo played by Paul Henreid whose father had been born Jewish and converted to Roman Catholicism.
Only three of the credited actors were American born, Bogart, Wilson and Joy Page who played the Bulgarian refugee.
Konrad Weidt was a non-Jewish German, strongly anti-Nazi whose third wife was Jewish. He played Major Strasser in the film.
Many of the minor actors and extras in the night club scenes were themselves Jewish refugees from Europe. During what came to be known as the ‘duel of the anthems’ between Major Strasser and Viktor Laszlo many of the actors and extras cried as they realized the reality of their own status as exiles.
One of the main myths of the film is that Ilsa (Bergman) says ‘play it again Sam’ which is the name of the 1972 Woody Allen film. What she actually says is, “Play it once, Sam, for old times' sake." After he feigns ignorance, she responds, "Play it, Sam. Play 'As Time Goes By'." 
My new novella, Regan – a Love Story will soon be available to pre-order from Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble, Kobo and iBooks. Only $ 0.99
My dear friend and well-known South African artist Shirley Israel is in the final process of painting the cover illustration.

 
 

The cover illustration is taking shape. My friend and well-known South African artist ​Shirley Israel is working hard to give me a great cover. I didn't realize how much hard work it would be to get it right. We have been emailing back and forth for about two months now. 
I'll soon have a great cover to match my great little novella, 'Regan - a Love Story'.
As soon as the cover illustration is done the book will be available to pre-order on Amazon. 

Yesterday I finished editing the manuscript of Regan - a Love Story. I'm now giving the manuscript to my friends, Esther, Helen, Marallyn, Miriam and David at my writing group for them to have a final read to spot any mistakes, typos etc., and perhaps make some last minute suggestions regarding dialogue. I owe much to my friends at the writing group. who have given me support and encouragement over the last few years. 
At the same time I have sent the manuscript to my friend of many years and  well-known South African artist, Shirley Israel, who agreed to design the cover of Regan - a Love Story.
The novella, Regan - a Love Story is available to pre-order from Barnes & Noble, iBooks and Kobo. You can also get a notification from Smashwords when the book is published and then order it directly from Smashwords. 
                                   Details below, just a click away
 ​
Smashwords (http://bit.ly/2yuIQDH)
will be available to buy and read for only $0.99 on 14th February 2018.
           Go to my profile page  http://bit.ly/2grjjVo and click 'subscribe to author page'

available to pre-order from Apple 
(​http://apple.co/2yvGJj2)
Barnes & Noble (http://bit.ly/2yv6fVi)
Kobo (http://bit.ly/2yv9lIT)

So click on your favourite retailer and pre-order now. 

Subtitle: a Jewish Love Story
At heart I’m a great romantic. I love Love. Being in Love is the greatest feeling, especially when it’s reciprocated. Yes, one can be in Love even when the Love is not returned by the target of one’s cupid’s arrows.
Remember the way the girls screamed at the Beatles? That was Love or at least a kind of Love. Whenever I see the old footage of the day The Beatles American Invasion began, I am taken back to Love – my Love for Regan. Pan Am flight 101, a Boeing 707, left London Airport early on the morning of 7 February 1964, bound for New York City.
Watch the crazy, noisy, first interview with the Beatles that Friday in New York: http://bit.ly/2zOC1u5
 Read what Cynthia Lennon, John’s first Love and first wife remembered: http://bit.ly/2zNwKTC
The Beatles and their debut single, Love Me Do, always reminds me of Regan – it was playing when she walked into my life.
Read ‘Regan – a Love Story’, will be available from Smashwords and selected retailers, including Amazon from 4th February 2018.
The cover will be designed by Shirley Israel the well-known South African artist and good friend.  
See my website www.henrytobias.com for details.
 

To be published on 4th February 2018, Regan - a Love Story. Buy and read for only $0.99. Go to my profile page on Smashwords and click 'subscribe to author's page' and you will be notified as soon as Regan - a Love Story is available to order. Or go to the cover page of this website and pre-order from Barnes & Noble or iTunes (books) or Kobo - just a click away from one of the best reads in 2018 or any year. 
The cover of my book Regan - a Love Story is being designed by the well-known South African artist, Shirley Israel. 

Today I made it possible to pre-order 'Regan - a Love Story' from Smashwords and all e-book retailers associated with Smashwords.
Order today for only $0.99.
A great read, a real life story, relevant to today's world. This could happen to anyone. Romance. 
The book will be available on Sunday 4th February 2018. 
Order now to get the book the minute it becomes available.
Pre-order 'Regan - a Love Story, send me a copy of the pre-order receipt and I'll send you FREE my first book an eclectic anthology of short stories, 'Just for Fun'. Normal price $3.99  
My email appears on the comments page.

I have recently finished writing the final chapter of my new novella 'Regan' - a love story.

It will be submitted to my friends and fellow writers at the next bi-weekly meeting of our writing group.

I will then send the story off to my dear friend and well-known South African artist Shirley Israel, who has kindly offered to design the book cover.

Initially, I will publish the novella as an e-book on Smashwords and of course on Amazon.


The inspiration for the book came from several women I have known.

The love element of 'Regan' is a tribute to my love for my beautiful wife of almost 47 years, Jill, to whom I dedicate the book and thank for her patience and love. 


I have been privileged to meet and become friends with 'Rachel' who overcame her abusive childhood and confused early adulthood to become a wife and mother and an inspiration to many like myself who have suffered from depression. It is to her that I owe my decision to take up writing.

It is the enjoyment I get from writing which is important, not the very difficult to achieve financial reward. It was Annie Lennox, of the Eurythmics, I think, who said that she did not take up music for the money but because she loved music. Her success is indisputable.     


Of course my thanks goes to David, Esther, Marallyn, Helen and Miriam who help me correct and improve my writing. I hope you, the readers of my blog, will read 'Regan' and enjoy it. Comments and feedback are welcome on my blog.

​

These last few months have been a roller-coaster, which surprise! surprise! is a fairly recent phrase having only been coined in the nineteen sixties.
The reason for the upheaval in my life started when surprise! surprise! our daughter divorced her husband. They had rented a very spacious apartment shortly before the divorce but surprise! surprise! living on one salary she could not afford the upkeep of this very comfortable apartment. The options were for her and her then two year-old daughter to live in a smaller apartment. The difference in rent would not have been much less, leaving them to live in the basement of someone else's home. There are many of these 'residential units' in our town, but none are really suitable for human habitation, although most are occupied, mainly by those who have no choice.
As a concerned parent and more concerned grandparent my wife suggested that we renovate our house and construct it in such a manner that we would have two units to ensure privacy, while having a shared kitchen and dining area.
The municipality has given a general permission to add another storey onto our two-storey home. This would ensure the privacy we needed. The engineer we tried to contact was on holiday, so a work colleague of our daughter recommended an architect who promptly came to consult with us bringing an assistant who surprise! surprise! also worked for the vacationing engineer. More about the assistant later. The engineer eventually returned and we took him on to draw up the plans. Surprise! surprise! our initial plan was denied as it did not meet the criterion and had to be revised. When the revised plans for a third storey had been approved, some six months after our original submission, surprise ! surprise! the architect advised us not to build the proposed plan as there would not be enough room to 'swing the proverbial cat'. The engineer, when I had asked him, had told me that the space would be 'almost as big' as our original plan and not to worry as 'I was in good hands'; his. That was really a surprise – being told by an Israeli that 'everything will be OK.' This obviously was not true, so it was fortuitous that we had a second opinion from the architect. It also became clear that the engineer, besides not being a man of his word, was the rudest person I have worked with in my thirty-seven years in Israel, and that is saying something. His assistant had learned well from his employer and he was not only rude and lazy, and never listened to my concerns.
Surprise! surprise! it was literally back to the drawing board adding two rooms, one above the other, laterally onto our house, enlarging the existing space. Our lounge was to become our bedroom with an on-suite bathroom. This was providential as my wife and I would be on one floor, with no steps to climb, while my daughter and granddaughter would be upstairs. We are not yet that old, but surprise! surprise! we are not likely to get any younger and not having to climb stairs will be helpful.
In August we finally were able to tell the builder to start the work.
This renovation had been our main focus for about eighteen months, but other problems big and small continued to be ubiquitous. One of my main problems for a while had been an enlarged prostate gland, surprise! surprise! While I knew from blood tests that it was unlikely to be cancerous, it caused me to wake me at regular intervals throughout the night to pee; a real nuisance.
I consulted a urologist, who prescribed me a variety of drugs. Surprise! surprise! there were side-effects. One drug made my eyes red and itchy, another caused me to have rhinitis, a runny nose, while a third caused me to nearly faint after just one dose. Finally I was put on Cialis, a drug also used for erectile dysfunction, useful for a man of my age, but which has also been found to be helpful for BPH – benign prostate hyperplasia – or an enlarged prostate. After about two weeks I began to feel the beneficial effects, but surprise! surprise! I had terrible dyspepsia – heartburn to the layman. Heartburn in a man of my age is accompanied by the fear of heart problems, so my dear wife, whose father had died of heart failure, as had my own father, persuaded me to consult a cardiologist. To keep the peace at home I did as ordered, surprise! surprise! 
At my first consultation the cardiologist took some notes and told me to come back in six months. On the revisit just a few weeks ago he referred me to the cardiac institute of my medical aid society to do a stress test and an echocardiogram, which is a type of ultrasound.
The stress test showed no signs of any problems but surprise! surprise! the echocardiogram showed a problem with the left ventricle of my heart. I consulted with the cardiologist once again and surprise! surprise! he referred me for a SPECT or imagining-scan – the last word in medical technology. One institute was unable to do the test for at least three months. To say I was a bit worried was an understatement as the cardiologist had surprise! surprise! already mentioned that I might need cardiac catheterization – scraping the plaque off the walls of my coronary arteries. I was able to arrange to do the scan at one of the local hospitals only two weeks later, but I was preparing for the worst. Although my late mother died before her eightieth birthday, she has two sisters, one who is one hundred and two years old and the other ninety two. We always joke that if I inherited my mother's genes, I'm going to live forever, but now this didn't seem likely. I was racked with fear and disappointment that I wouldn't live to see my five-year-old granddaughter reach her teen years. As she is surprise! surprise! the apple of my eye, I found this very depressing.
Having moved back into our renovated home just a few weeks ago, I could not help with the mass of reorganising which surprise! surprise! is necessary, putting the onus on my wife. I was really worried that I may strain my already diseased heart and took extended rests.
The day came for the imaging scan, a two stage procedure starting on the afternoon of the first day and returning the next morning for a comparison scan. Both stages involve the injection of radioactive material. Fortunately I was not turned into Spiderman or a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. I would have settled for the 'teenage' and perhaps the 'ninja' but not the 'mutant turtle' transformation. The first scan is done after a stress test to see the working of the heart after exercise and the comparison is done after a normal night's rest. The imager used is called Hawkeye, which those of you who follow sports like tennis will know is used to see if the ball was 'in' or 'out' of the lines.
When the results came back two days later surprise! surprise! it showed that there seems to be nothing wrong with my seventy-year-old heart. As the cardiologist is not available for consultation for another three weeks, I am going to ask my family doctor to confirm that I have not misread the results. Surprise! surprise! I am now feeling better, although I do get tired and short of breath at times, but perhaps that is due to my age, a lack of exercise and a smidgen of self-pampering, not to mention a penchant for avoiding the hard labour necessary for reorganizing our renewed home and keeping it tidy.
Update: I returned a while ago from consulting my family doctor. Surprise! surprise! he confirmed that there is nothing wrong with my heart, but he advised me to keep my appointment with the cardiologist. His explanation that the echo cardiogram works in a different manner to the SPECT scan and is much less reliable was clear.
Being taken off the critical list has cheered me up no end, but now I can't plead ill-health when my wife ropes me in for housework. Everything, even good health has a downside. Surprise! surprise, I just kidding. It's good to have my health officially restored.
THE END (of the story, not of me)
 

I was born London, England and raised Johannesburg, South Africa. I immigrated to Israel in July 1979 at age 33 with my wife and two children, my third child was born in Israel. The stories in my book Just for Fun are a mix of imagination triggered by places I’ve been – like hospitals or workplaces and stories or articles in magazines and newspapers which have grabbed my attention. There is also a selection of essays – true life experiences. In those years new arrivals to Israel were taken into an absorption centre – to try to ameliorate the shock of living in an unfamiliar environment. We went to Karmiel, a growing town in the Lower Galilee. The story Culture Shock which appears on my website tells of the day my then two and a half-year-old daughter fell of a chair. We had only been in the country about two weeks, didn’t speak Hebrew and had to deal with an unknown bureaucratic medical system.
My story telling started early – before I could even read. The first time I remember telling a story was when looking at a picture in a book called How to Be an Alien which is apparently still in print.

Looking in this book at a picture of a man standing at a bus stop in England flagging down a bus, I would make up stories which made my parents, may they rest in peace, laugh – they were obviously biased in my favour. My parents were English born, but obviously had great affiliation with the Jewish refugees arriving from Europe prior to WWII.
After WWII we lived in South Africa, arriving there in 1947. In the 1950s we had both a nanny, for myself and my sister, who also did the cooking, as well as what we called a house-girl, who did the housework. It was a symbiotic relationship. The black women needed work and the white families found life easier with servants. Most servants were well treated, but obviously there was abuse.
But my first official venture into writing, other than schoolwork, if Dr Alzheimer allows me to remember correctly, was a ‘Letter to the Editor’. I had just watched the film ‘Oliver’, the musical based on Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist. There is a scene in the movie where the young boys who live with Fagin beg on the streets of London and try to pick pockets, hence the song ‘you’ve gotta pick a pocket or two’. I was 21 in 1968 when the film was released and very impressionable, as all twenty-one-year-olds should be. Saturday night was movie or film night in Johannesburg and the little black children, piccaninnies, stood outside the theatres begging from the affluent white movie-goers. I’m talking about the Apartheid years in South Africa, in which I was raised and didn’t know anything else. Most Jews in South Africa were liberal, with a small L, favouring the betterment of the lot of the black majority. But the Jews, as always, were in the unenviable position of being desirable as whites, but being Jews in a country with a ruling party, The National Party, which had antisemitic elements – to say the least. The National Party had twenty-five years previously been hostile to Britain and by extension supporters of Hitler and the Nazis. John Vorster, the Prime Minister in 1968 been interned during the Second World War as a Nazi sympathizer. To be fair it may have been more anti-British sentiment than pro-Nazi fervour, but the shadow of antisemitism cast a long wide shadow in South Africa.
It is nearly eight years ago now that I saw the advert in the local Jerusalem paper for a writing group. I thought that sounds like fun, how hard can it be to write a short story. Well, I soon found out. It’s not at all easy, but it is fun, if of course you don’t take yourself too seriously and you don’t give up your day job. I was actually semi-retired at the time working in three old aged homes or to be Politically Correct – retirement communities – for a few hours a week.
The group which meets every two weeks in the flat (an apartment for those of you who only speak American) of one of our number, has changed members over the last eight years with many comings and goings. We take our writing very seriously, but I look forward to our meetings, which are always great fun. The seriousness with which we take our writing is only matched by the humour with which we discuss our work. Our passion is such that raised voices are often heard – I don’t know what the neighbours think.      
 
The idea for the lead story Just for Fun came to me when my wife and I would sit in the reception area of the 4th floor of Shaare Tzedek hospital, in Jerusalem, waiting for our regular three monthly, then six monthly, then yearly appointment, with her oncologist. I hope none of you have had or will have the pleasure of such hospital visits. To entertain the customers a television had been put up on the wall. I don’t remember it ever working and wondered whether anyone would miss it if it went missing.
The next story Friday the 13th was of course inspired by the date which was in close proximity to our scheduled meeting. I’d heard many Friday the 13th stories, one of which was the following. There were two South African brothers who both played cricket for their country. If you don’t know what cricket is, it is the more civilized form of baseball. Anyway one of the brothers was apparently jinxed by this ominous date. Although I read about this many, many years ago, for some reason this story stuck in my mind – in the department of useless information lobe. However this useless information gave me food for thought and I wrote this humorous little story. My humour, I must explain is basically British as I was raised in a home by London born parents. I love nothing better than to watch British TV sitcoms like, ‘Allo ‘Allo, Dads Army, Faulty Towers, Are You Being Served? Porridge, Only Fools and Horse and The Vicar of Dibley. Pre-1974 in the days when we only had radio in South Africa, it was The Goon Show, The Glums, Around the Horn and others I can’t remember.
All’s Fair in Love and War and Bedpans and Bandages is based on my experience working as a nurse in the Johannesburg General Hospital. It was 1964/5 and war was raging in the former Belgian Congo. A British ex-soldier formed a mercenary force to help one of the sides in this civil war. Many young South African men enlisted with the promise of high financial return. Two of them ended up on our ward and from their experiences I extrapolated my story. Bedpans and Bandages, later in the book is autobiographical and I write about the other patients and some of the learning experiences, both about life and hospitals.
Happy Marriage Study: To Obey or Not to Obey was suggested by an article I read online about an experiment which was to take place at the University of Auckland in New Zealand trying to explore the elements for a happy marriage. If they had asked me, I would have told them ‘always have the last word – YES DEAR’.  I’ve hyperlinked the article – not as marriage counselling, but to show how I took the truth and manipulated it for fun.
Black Heart and Purple Hearts came to me when, as a pharmacist, I joined the company that made the famous or infamous Purple Hearts, an amphetamine tablet which as the name suggests was heart-shaped. These drugs had been illegal for some time, but my new boss, also a pharmacist, suffered from narcolepsy – he would nod off in the middle of a sentence – was using them for his condition. He told me to dispose of about 500 of these tablets. Even at the time, I wondered how much money I could make on the black market in Johannesburg. I let my imagine run away with me and wrote the story.
Left High and Not So Dry is based on an acquaintance who had badly fluctuating moods, which I thought may be symptoms of a manic-depressive. Once again imagination took over from reality.
London is a story based on our ‘honeymoon’, a stay in London in 1972, a year after our marriage.
Rejected! Dejected! Never! Is as the titled suggests, triggered by a rejection letter from a magazine. These letters are so trite and similar in formula from publication to publication. It was probably Gutenberg, foreseeing himself being overwhelmed by requests from authors begging to be published, who wrote the first rejection letter. 
Rilla, Camilla and Toni were the IT girls at my high school. Three very attractive young ladies they hung together. The story has nothing to do with them, but I had recently read an article online about art forgery and the title gave the story a certain rhythm of fun which I tried to capture.
 
The Man in The Plastic Mask (a sequel) is a personal story, exaggerated for fun. A few years ago I woke up in the middle of the night choking – a very scary feeling. Being a pharmacist I know a little about disease and conditions. I realized I had sleep apnoea which literally means I was breathless.  I made an appointment to see the E.N.T doctor. I thought he’d give me some drops or spray and that would be the end of it. But as you know when you start with doctors, you never seem to finish, that’s why I always go to my G.P. first. Only if he thinks it necessary will I start the run around of specialists. I was sent to the sleep clinic on the other side of Jerusalem – a real schlep. To cut a long story short, after many weeks, I ended up with a machine called a CPAP – Continuous Positive Air Pressure which pushes air into ones nose and down ones throat. I decided to get a laugh out of an initially very frightening situation, so I wrote the story. Why did a call it a sequel? Well, you’ve heard of The Man in The Iron Mask?
There Was a Crooked Man is the story of another person I actually knew who was always looking for an angle and trying to make an easy buck, as the Americans would say. A man of no conscience he made a lot of money and got out of South Africa by the skin of his teeth – a very unpleasant person.
Julia, Moses and Olga are together a trilogy of true stories fictionalized. Julia was a maid who worked for us. As I explained above almost everyone had a maid. Except for the fact that they didn’t live in our house but had separate quarters, they were part of the family and shared in family occasions such as barmitzvahs, weddings and funerals.
Moses worked for my father for many, many years. When I was a small boy he called me Henry, but when I became an adult he called me boss Henry like he called my father boss. I realize how strange it must sound to those of you who are not familiar with South Africa and to Americans it sounds like slavery, but it was a normal employer/employee relationship, no different from the black/latino maid in America or the charlady in Britain.
Olga is a story about a girl who all the male university students dated – a girl who was more to be pitied than taken advantage of – but we were too young to understand this.
 
Abigail’s Notebook was written about my beautiful granddaughter, Abigail. She was only two or three months old when I was standing in front of the copy of Rudyard Kipling’s poem IF. This was given to me by my late father when I was a boy and has sentimental value. From there the ideas just came, helped by various stimuli referred to in the story. 
 
Ambushed I conceived when I took an editing course at the teachers training college in Jerusalem. Quite a few of us were of a certain age and believing that one can fall in love at any age, I wrote the story.
Miriam the Washerwoman was inspired by some translations I did for JewishGen. (I have only linked one of several translations which I’ve done). Many of the villages our ancestors lived in were close by a river and fire was a constant hazard.
 This leads me to the story A Jew Goes Forth, the true story of how at the age of eighteen I ventured from a ‘Jewish’ environment into the world of goyim.
Limehill was a camp to which blacks were resettled under the Apartheid regime. You can read about Limehill on the internet.
Reflections came to mind when I looked at myself in the mirror and remembered the wonderful lifelike sculpture of Gustav Vigeland which are placed all around the Frogner Park in Oslo. We in Israel may have negative connotations when we hear the word OSLO, but on the two occasions I was in Oslo in 1972 and 1990, peace accords and road maps were still in the future.
Renovations speaks for itself. This story tells of the endurance needed when renovating one’s home.
Snow is of the few but memorable – some very memorable – times when snow has had an impact on my life.
Reminiscences of Christmas is again a look at how I as a Jew, view this most Christian of all Holy Days.
The cover of my book was taken from Canva (www.canva.com) and I did the formatting of the book myself with the help of Smashwords and other programmes.

I've had this site for a few years now. Initially it was a free site, but then I decided about two years ago to buy a domain name. www.henrytobias.com
I get about 150 unique visitors every week, not bad I think, for the effort I put in. I don't have time to blog daily, weekly or even monthly, because I'm writing a novel which I hope to publish during 2016. Actually I'm writing two novels, one about the Kindertransport, who were mainly, but not all Jewish children from about three years old to seventeen who were sent to England from Germany, Austria and Czechoslovakia from November 1938 (Kristallnact) http://www.historyplace.com/worldwar2/timeline/knacht.htm
until the day Britain declared war at the beginning of September 1939.
The other novel, or 'dirty book' as a friend of mine terms it, started off as a short story which I hoped to sell to Playboy, Penthouse or some other 'men's' magazine and make a few quick bob (or if you're American, a quick buck or two) as I believe they pay quite well for sexy stories. I've been writing this sexy story for several years on and off, more off than on, but the friend, referred to above, who is a fellow writer and whose opinion I respect, said that she thought it was some of my best writing. Taking her opinion into account. I've decided to try and get a move-on with this book. E.L. James has sold 110 million copies of 50 Shades of Gray so perhaps erotica is in fashion and I'll sell a few copies myself, I've read bits and pieces of E.L. James' book and it's OK but nothing special.
So I'm writing for as many hours as I can sit on my bum, which varies from day to day.
I have great fun writing as I can let my imagination run away with me, no matter the subject. If any of my readers out there want to read a sample of my work and give me an opinion please contact me via the contact form on the site.
I want to tell you about the friends I have made through the Internet. A few weeks ago, I was contacted by a gentleman from India, a director/producer of short films which he enters in festivals around the world. He has read the stories on this site and wants me to write a story which he will use as a script for a short film.This is a great challenge and I'm hoping I do it justice.
Another contact read the story Cricket on this site. He wrote about his youth watching cricket in various grounds around his home town in Northern England. The names of the cricket grounds he mentioned are familiar to any fan of the game. When I was ten years old my cousin took me to the 'Home of Cricket' - Lord's, in London. He was member of the Marylebone Cricket Club which was founded in 1787, and is recognised as the sole authority on the Laws of Cricket since its foundation. It moved to its current home at Lord’s in 1814. I may have been too young to appreciate the visit, but it still stands out as a memory of great importance in my life.
In the last year I was reunited with a very good friend with whom I had lost contact. I immigrated to Israel in 1979 and she remained in Johannesburg. We now correspond regularly.
So the Internet has and continues to serve me well, helping me make friends around the world as well as renewing old very dear acquaintances.

I live in Israel, not far from the town of Bethlehem, the traditional birthplace of Jesus whose disciples were to bring a new religion – Christianity – to the world. The Emperor Constantine stopped the persecution of Christians and accepted Christianity, which then gradually spread around the Roman Empire and then to the four corners of the world. In some parts of the Western World, like Scandinavia, Christianity only made inroads after 1000 C.E. and took many years to take hold.
When the persecution of the Christians ended, the persecution of the Jews began – because the followers of the new religion saw the Jews as not accepting their Messiah.
In the 7th century Islam was born and the Muslims too believed themselves to be the followers of the only true religion making both Judaism and Christianity redundant. Throughout the centuries both Jews and Christians were dhimmi or non-citizens in Muslim-ruled lands. This is the main reason that the Muslims don’t accept Israel – it is a non-Muslim state on land which was once the Caliphate of Mohammed.
This argument continues to this day with ISIS or Islamic State as well as other groups such as al Qaeda claiming that only they follow the true religion. Many Christians, whether Catholic or Protestant, believe that redemption can only come to followers of Jesus Christ. Among Jews some, such as the ultra-orthodox, also believe that only they follow the true Jewish faith.
I’m a proud, but not a very observant Jew. I prefer the tradition to the rigid practice laid down. I don’t wear a kippa or pray three times a day and I rarely find myself inside a synagogue. This however does not mean that I don’t believe that there is a God. But He is not my God, He is the God of everyone; Jews, Christians, Muslims and the followers of all religions as well as the followers of no religion. I don’t believe He judges us on whether we pray to Him three times a day, five times a day or never. If He truly exists He does not need our supplications, as He is omnipresent, omnipotent and omniscience. I believe that if one is a mensch – a person of integrity and honour – that is all that is needed. Rabbi Hillel, the famous Talmudic scholar, told his followers to, 'Love Your Neighbour as Yourself.'
So while I have lived in a majority Christian country, South Africa, and in The Land of Israel where the majority is Jewish, I don’t hold with the superiority of any one religion over another.
My story Reminiscences of Christmas begins…
I lived my formative years in South Africa, but being Jewish, Christmas only hovered in the background. I knew the basic story of the festival and the traditions which its observance entailed. Christmas was a public holiday, businesses were closed and I didn’t go to school. The festival was very important to both the religiously conservative whites, as well as for blacks, most of whom followed the Christian faith…
This is one of the twenty-four stories and essays which appear in my eclectic anthology Just for Fun, available as an e-book for only $3.99 from your favourite e-book retailer and in print for only $7.99 from CreateSpace.
 
 

Be aware, be afraid, be careful, today is Friday the 13th of November. Anything can happen. Anything may happen. If you’ve got nothing important to do today, maybe you should stay in bed, pull up the covers and hide!
 
                                        Friday the 13th
I know you won’t agree. You’ll say I’m talking rubbish, nonsense—old wives tales. But Friday the 13th is bad luck. How do I know? Experience, that’s how! I was born prematurely on September 13th, 1946—a Friday – and apparently the midwife had to give me a really good slap on the bum before I yelled. I spent three months in the incubator.
That was my introduction to Friday 13th. On July 13th 1951, another bloody Friday, I was nearly five years old when my baby sister was born—poor kid. She didn’t get a much better start than I did. I was ignored by my mother and father who spent day and night, or as much time as they were allowed, at the hospital, looking after my sister. I was palmed off onto various relatives, as my parents were too exhausted to pay any attention to me. I didn’t sleep for months and started wetting my bed again.
August 13th 1965, another bloody Friday, I was to take my driving test. I tried to get the day changed. I begged the examiner, “Please, please any other day, not Friday, it’s the 13th; something bad will happen, I know it.”
“Nonsense,” he answered. “Bunkum! Don’t be a bloody fool.”
“OK, on your head be it.”
He just laughed—his last laugh. We stopped to get a Coke on the way back from the testing circuit. He was driving, I of course still didn’t have my licence—and he opened the door without looking. Without an arm, leg or neck to find a pulse, the paramedics pronounced him dead on the spot. I warned him, he wouldn’t believe I was bad luck. I didn’t get my licence either, although the examiner told me I’d passed. He put the test-sheet in his pocket when he got out the car; it was scraped off the road with the examiner.
Next, I’m about to get married; my fiancée arranges the wedding for June 13th 1969, another Friday.
“Don’t worry, “she says,” giving me a very sexy kiss, “I know how you feel about Friday 13th, but I promise you, your luck will change.”
“No,” I replied; “You don’t understand! I have nothing but bad luck on Friday 13th, no matter what I do. I usually spend the day in bed.”
“Don’t worry about that,” she replied with a naughty smile; “You’ll definitely get to spend the day in bed. I’ll make sure of that. I don’t want you to be anywhere else.”
Coming down the church steps, I tripped on my new bride’s long wedding gown. It was ripped right off and she was standing there in nothing but her bra and panties. But that wasn’t the worst; I fell down the stairs and broke both my ankles and crushed my right knee. I spent the day in bed all right—a hospital bed. Our honeymoon was delayed for six weeks.
The bad start to the marriage continued. After two short years we couldn’t stand each other any more. We agreed to an amicable divorce. The decree nisi was granted on August 13th 1971, a Friday.
“I told you that Friday 13th isn’t my lucky day,” I said to her, on the phone, when it came through.
“Well for you it may be bad luck, but it’s good luck for me. I’m pleased our marriage is over. We weren’t really compatible. You’re very sweet, but you’re a bit crazy.”
“I don’t want to say ‘I told you so’, but we shouldn’t have got married on Friday 13th. That’s what ruined the marriage.”
 
I have since met a very lovely girl. No, she doesn’t mind me calling her ‘a girl’. She says that she’s happy and proud to be my ‘girl’. I now feel very lucky. I never do anything ever on a Friday 13th. She lets me spend the day in bed. Alone!
 
 

Thank goodness it is not every month that we have FRIDAY THE 13TH! Many, many people think that FRIDAY THE 13TH is unlucky. I KNOW IT IS UNLUCKY! How do I know it is unlucky? Read all about how unlucky FRIDAY THE 13TH is, this FRIDAY THE 13TH, when I publish the short story, FRIDAY THE 13TH from my eclectic anthology of short stories and essays Just for Fun, available from your favourite e-book retailer and in print, for those of you who like the touch and smell of books, from CreateSpace. 

Dear blog reader, it has been some weeks since my last blog. Too much to do, too little time, but on the other hand I’m not complaining about being busy. The alternative to being too busy is being idle and being idle at my age, they say, will possibly lead to meeting the infamous Dr Alzheimer, a psychiatrist, one of the earliest members of this speciality, who I’m sure was a great guy, but I don’t want to make his acquaintance.
Talking of doctors leads me to think of hospitals, the subject of the first of the stories in my eclectic anthology Just For Fun, which begins in a hospital, where Sam and Mary, who have been married for many years are waiting for Mary’s oncologist who keeps an eye on her recovery from breast cancer.
The idea for this story came when my wife and I visited Shaare Tzedek Hospital in Jerusalem three or more times a year for her cancer specialist to review her progress. Thank God after about 12 years these visits are behind us and my wife is well.
For all these years we sat in the large waiting room which served various different out-patient clinics, orthopaedic, ophthalmic and others. On the wall above the reception desk was a large television, which as far as I can remember for the entire 12 years we sat and waited, was never switched on. Looking around I also noticed a copy machine in a far corner. No one ever seemed to use that either. Being a writer and a keen observer of people, I like nothing more to sit in our local shopping mall or in a hotel lobby when we are on holiday, and to paraphrase the song ‘Sitting in the Lobby Watching All The People Go By’.
So being bored waiting for our turn to see the doctor I let my imagination run away with me and I invented Sam the thief with a heart of gold, loosely fashioned on the role played by Ronnie Barker in the British sitcom ‘Porridge’. If you the reader are an American, or from another country not influenced by British humour, I recommend that you look up this very funny TV programme on You Tube. It is well worth the effort and the time. Laughter according to The Reader’s Digest is the best medicine and this will heal all your ailments.
I of course needed to make the story more universal, so having been raised by a father with a typical English sense of humour, I gave it a British twist.  I think it’s a good laugh and if you’d like to read it, you can do so on the sample of my book at Smashwords http://bit.ly/1LUbbR8 or at Amazon http://amzn.to/1LCp3BJ.
My book will also soon be available in print, which I believe is coming back into fashion, soon on CreateSpace. I too like nothing more than the feel and smell of a book in my hands. If you enjoy this little story and decide to buy the book, which is only $3.99, please give me a favourable review at your e-book retailer of choice. 

 

In August 2011, I was hospitalized with serious sight-threatening complications following cataract surgery. On admission to the ward, a young Arab doctor, his name showed on his I.D., explained that he needed to examine my eyes once again before the upcoming surgery. I was nauseous and vomiting, had hardly kept down any food during the previous week, a side effect of the high optical pressure, and so weak that my wife pushed me around in a wheelchair.

To say the least, I was feeling very sorry for myself, and didn’t want to be poked in the eye again. The ophthalmic surgeon, who was to do the operation, had, I thought, done all the groundwork the day before and any more probing was adding insult to injury.

A nurse was trying to calm me down. Very uncharacteristically I said to the nurse, “I feel shit.” I don’t usually use bad language. She agreed that I was within my rights to feel sick, but another examination was necessary before the operation, an hour or two later. Both the doctor and the nurse were very reassuring. At the behest of my very loving, but worried wife, I stopped acting like a five-year old and let the doctor do his work. I apologized to him profusely, and was angry at my own behavior. 

A bed had been allocated, but had not yet been disinfected. The young woman, who was in the process of cleaning, told me that she would be done in a short while. My wife and I waited patiently, and soon I lay on the very uncomfortable hospital bed.

I was aware of my surroundings, but not interested. My initial operation had been distressful, even painful, having been given minimum local anesthetic as no complications had been expected. My apprehension at the thought of another traumatic experience had me close to panic. I told the surgeon how I felt, and he assured me that he would be gentle. I soon found myself lying on a reclining chair, similar to that used by a dentist.

The area around my eye was prepared and then contrary to the doctor’s promise, I saw this syringe and needle bearing down on my forehead, looking like an intercontinental ballistic missile and reason was replaced by fear. The pain seared my skull, as the anesthetic was injected. Hysteria overcame me as I writhed and complained. The doctor lost his cool, but only for a moment, and said, “I can’t do my job if you don’t keep still.” Sense prevailed, the anodyne took affect and my head was thankfully numb.

Lying in bed, feeling much happier after the operation, which was a success, I was better able to take in my surroundings. I was in a quiet corner bed. My neighbour to my right, who had earlier been talking to visiting family in Arabic, kindly enquired after my health. Another patient was outside on the enclosed balcony, almost a private room attended by his wife. Both wore head coverings typical of the Druse. Most of the patients had visitors at one time or another. Israeli hospitals are like train stations, people coming and going all the time. We all respected each other’s privacy. The mix of ethnic origin, Jews and Arabs, was about even. From the cleaning staff to doctors, all work side by side in harmony. Hospitals in Israel operate equally without regard to creed. Palestinian doctors attend courses given in Israeli hospitals, and live on Israeli kibbutzim during their studies. Jerusalem’s Hadassah Medical Center in Ein Karem, is one of Israel’s largest hospitals with the most modern equipment and research facilities and the primary teaching facility of the Hebrew University Medical School.  Again, I realized how lucky we are in Israel to have one of the most highly rated medical services in the world. In 2005, Hadassah was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize in acknowledgment of its equal treatment of all patients, regardless of ethnic and religious differences, and efforts to build bridges to peace.

 

This got me thinking once again that harmony could prevail in our region in spite of the racial, cultural and religious mix. “Israel Apartheid Week” an orgy of hate, misinformation and disinformation, staged annually, on many college campuses across the USA and the world since early 2005, has caused Israel to be branded an “Apartheid State”.

            The use of this derogatory term was chosen to denounce to the separation barrier Israel was forced to build to keep terrorists from killing Jews. My anger rose as I thought of Jimmy Carter, who as an ex-U.S. president, influences public opinion, and his book, Palestine: Peace Not Apartheid, 2006. He is, I’m sure, aware of this power, but should wield it with wisdom, not by using deceptive slogans. I will be charitable, and give him the benefit of the doubt, that some Madison Avenue type suggested the title as it has a smooth sound and glides easily off the tongue. Many Israelis, from both the Left and Right, did not want the barrier. Nevertheless, it has been a singular success in saving lives.

          

I grew up in South Africa during the years of minority rule and feel myself more than qualified to understand living in an “apartheid” society. I was never happy to live under this unjust system and left with my family in 1979. In South Africa, Whites had all facilities - suburbs, hospitals, schools, restaurants, hotels, public toilets, buses, – apart from, hence the word “apartheid”, those of non-Whites. This included Blacks, people of mixed race known locally as Coloreds, and Asians, descendents of laborers imported from the British Raj to work the sugar plantations in the mid-19th century who were later followed by Indian traders. A small number of shops still had signs over the doorway, “Native shop”, that is, for Africans only. Park benches were of course, marked “Whites Only”.

Apropos of India, independence brought about the transfer of millions of Muslims and Hindus between the emerging states of Pakistan and India, without a murmur from human rights activists and little help from the United Nations. The situation was still unresolved as late as 2007. India also took the state of Hyderabad by force, although their ruler had been given the choice of sovereignty, that is, independence, joining neither India nor Pakistan. The world reacted without comment.

The Palestinians, having rejected Partition, are the only group to have their own refugee organization, UNRWA, still being used by them as a crutch after nearly sixty-four years.

 Non-Jewish Israelis, Muslims and Christian alike, are able to pursue their lives and follow their own beliefs. The universities are bustling with Arab students in all faculties, including medical schools, where few places are available to the many who apply. In the army, Druse and Bedouin Arab men serve generation after generation with pride and distinction. Arabs serve in the diplomatic corps, and also in the judiciary.

These facts are constantly ignored by those who wish to pillory Israel. Not even those icons of the media; the BBC, The Times of London and The New York Times give Israel a fair deal. Other papers, The Independent, The Guardian in England and many in America are positively hostile.

Entertainment personalities, the likes of Annie Lennox, Peter Gabriel, Elvis Costello, Ken Loach and Roger Waters show a unique bias when it comes to the Jewish state. Miss Lennox appeared before the television cameras, berating Israel for defending itself against Hamas. Where is she when thousands are being slaughtered in Syria and basic human rights are denied in Iran? Her silence is deafening! Has she suddenly developed a dislike for the spotlight?

 

Apparently, some lawyer in the U.S. State Department believes that the 1948 cease-fire lines are for some unknown reason sacrosanct. All land beyond this line in which Israelis live is “occupied”, whereas previously it had only been disputed. Politician after politician, both those who pretend to care about Israel such as Tony Blair, as well as those who openly wish our destruction, mostly Muslims, have decided that Israelis living beyond the pre-1967 borders are doing so illegally and against international law.

              Many brilliant legal minds, including the late Eugene Rostow, a former Dean of the Yale Law School and Under Secretary for Politcal Affairs in Lyndon B. Johnson's administration, disagree with this premise. But because they are pro-Israel their opinions are dismissed. Even Ban Ki-moon, who should by the nature of his august office in the U.N., remain neutral, has adopted this fallacious position.

 

When a ‘right-wing’ party heads an Israeli coalition government, Israel’s detractors accuse the prime minister of not wanting to make peace, and when the leaders are from the ‘left-wing’, not enough concessions are being made to the Palestinians.

Israel accepted Partition in 1947. After defending herself in the Six Day War negotiations were offered, but to no avail. Menahem Begin made peace with Egypt and Yitzhak Rabin with Jordan. The Israeli army withdrew from Southern Lebanon, in spite of the lack of Lebanese sovereignty. Ariel Sharon, once the despised ultra-hawk, gave Gaza, with all its infrastructure, over to the ‘moderate’ Palestinians in spite of the daily missile attacks. It was immediately lost to the radicals.

Until the Arabs concede “the right of return”, an adjustment of Israel’s fragile borders, especially at the narrowest point in the center of the country, the retaining of large settlement blocs, recognition as a Jewish State and the right to live in our historical homeland, Israel cannot afford to make a meaningless peace.

It is true that hospitals are an island of tranquility where politics and religion are left at the door. Perhaps we can build on this and hope that a day without conflict will dawn in our region, sooner rather than later.

 

It’s been a few weeks now since I wrote my last blog because things have been a bit hectic, which also caused me to fall behind in writing my next book, provisionally titled Honour Thy Father and Thy Mother, about the Kindertransport and the ensuing Holocaust.

My beautiful granddaughter Abigail, who inspired one of my favourite stories in my anthology of short stories Just for Fun http://bit.ly/1IDRJta was hospitalized once again with low blood glucose and still the doctors, including two professors, can’t accurately diagnose the problem. Unfortunately they find the case ‘interesting’. One place you don’t want to be ‘interesting’ is in a hospital. Even her paediatrician at the health fund described her condition as ‘rare’. 
So I spent a whole day with my daughter at the hospital. My wife and I then accompanied Abigail and her mother to talk to the professors on two consecutive mornings, hoping they can tell us what they think may be the problem – because we know they are not certain and need to carry out another series of tests, some which they are repeating and others which have not been done before. 
At least they’ve decided to do these tests one at a time, so as not to put Abigail through too much mental and physical anguish. One test apparently will take five days with a monitor and a sensor being inserted under her skin. I’m hoping this test will not be necessary, as it is so difficult to see her being stuck with needles and not understanding why – although she is a brave little girl and hardly ever cries. They’ve given us a glucometer and instructions to follow should the event re-occur. They have also written us a letter, giving us direct access to the emergency room without referral from another doctor. This will save time, especially if such a relapse occurs on a Saturday, when the emergency medical services are staffed by young, inexperienced doctors. I know all doctors have to see rare cases to learn, but let them see them in a hospital.

For now, I’m pleased to say, Abigail appears to be well and is happy attending her new kindergarten, but we are constantly alert for any signs of trouble. 

        

For those of you who have been following my blog, whether on my website at www.henrytobias.com or at Google + http://bit.ly/1GM615j , you will know that I recently published my first book, an eclectic anthology of short stories and essays ‘Just for Fun’.

I published it first on Smashwords, and set the price at $3.99 for the e-book. Wanting a print edition I published at CreateSpace, which will be available within the next few weeks – I’m just waiting for my friends at my writing group, to whom I owe so much, to read the proof copy and see how many mistakes they can find. 

I have been looking at my stats and if I was dependent on sales of my book to feed my family, we would all have starved or be begging on the streets of Jerusalem by now – which rumour has it yields quite a good living – not that I’m contemplating putting the rumour to the test. First of all I haven’t got the patience to sit on the pavement all day dressed in rags and then at this time of year, it’s too hot, with temperature reaching 40° C.

I’ve sold SIX e-books, TWO on Smashwords and FOUR on Amazon, but I’ve had 72 sample downloads at Smashwords –Amazon don’t have a sample downloads counter, but as I suggested it in my enquiry they may add such a feature.  Now I know that sounds like very bad percentages of sales to samples, but this is my first book and it takes time—so the more experienced, successful authors tell us.  

However I’m getting away from the purpose of my current blog or rant if you like.

Promoting my book is to say the least, challenging! I’m tweeting, blogging and Google plussing or as www.dictionary.com tells me there is no such word, maybe it should be Google +ing. I read sites promising to teach me how to ‘sell books by the truckload’ how to become a bestselling author in six weeks, six months or while I sleep. Once one gets past the hook sentences and wild promises, all better sites will have a disclaimer – ‘we can’t promise anything’. Then there are the webinars, which promise to turn you into an expert writer, author, blogger, indie publisher, just listen to the free webinar, which tells you nothing, but promises that if you are willing to pay $300, $500 or some ridiculous amount, you’ll soon be sipping mai-tais or whatever your poison is – mine is Coke served ice-cold, on a Caribbean or Greek island – not that I’d go to Greece at present – I may not be able to withdraw money to buy anything to eat, never mind to drink. Anyway mai-tais are rum based – according to Wikipedia – so Greece is the wrong setting.

Now any author who writes to become another J.K. Rowling or E.L. James, to name just two phenomenally successful writers, is living in la la land – and I don’t mean L.A. – that’s another place altogether – although the same number of actors find their dreams there, as successful authors – very, very few.

I read about seo – promising plain English (I don’t know where he learned plain English?),       analytics – both Google and universal, keywords, ten steps to market your books, five steps to get readers, seventeen steps to get admitted to a mental hospital. It’s driving me bonkers, crazy, insane! Besides, all the e-book and print book retailers have myriad books, priced from zero to plenty dollars on how to tweet, Facebook, google+ etc. etc. etc. your way to billionare-dom.   

I’m totally confused. The only advice that makes any sense is ‘marketing your book is a marathon, not a sprint.’

So I think I’ll stay with that last thought, sit down, take a deep breath and go for the long haul – as I said – it’s the only thing that makes sense.