Features
Former Winnipegger Zev Cohen publishes book of short stories: “Twilight in Saigon”
Former Winnipegger Zev Cohen, who now lives part of the year in Israel and part of the year in Calgary, has just published a book of short stories titled “Twilight in Saigon”. The book is available for purchase on Amazon. Here is how the book is described on Amazon: This eclectic collection of stories crosses genre lines – war, crime, romance, espionage, science fiction, fantasy –
as it moves in time from World War II through the present and into the distant future. Its common thread is humanity and love in the face of adversity.
A journalist finds love and misfortune in the upheaval of the Vietnam war.
Working for the West, a spy is saved from the hands of the KGB.
A straight-laced British accountant finds the love of his life and evil in Hong Kong.
Immigrants grapple with despair, love, and the vicissitudes of life in new surroundings.
Politics, love and tragedy in the life of a president.
Stationed on a distant world, a Terran ambassador adapts to an alien culture as love overcomes sentient diversity.
A loyal android fights for his cruel leader.
Teenage romance during the Six Day War.
A day in a dog’s life.
…and much more
We present here one of the stories from the book, titled “Gulfs and Pleasures”:
I DO NOT RECOMMEND HAVING SEX WHILE WEARING A GAS MASK. BEYOND the empirical fact that it prevents kissing from being part of the act, it’s difficult to breathe during the strenuous effort. Within a couple of seconds, the mask fogs up, and you can’t see a thing. Moreover, the waves of giggling break your concentration. Try imagining what a naked woman and a naked man look like while wearing gas masks. You’d have to agree with me that it looks funny if not grotesque. But when there’s no choice, you do what you must do and enjoy it, if only in a limited way.
I called Orna’s cell phone as soon as the siren went off in the middle of the night. She picked up after the first ring.
“Are you alright? Is he at home?”
“No. Two hours ago, he was called up and ran off to join the guys and play war. I don’t believe that he’ll be back today. Who knows how long it will last? It’s scary, and we didn’t even prepare an airtight room. He insists that there’s no chance that it will hit us of all people. Anyway, what does he care? He’s sitting in the underground bunker ogling the girl soldiers. Nothing will happen to him.”
Orna was one of the regular participants in my first-year course on the history of European art since the Renaissance that I ran in the large lecture hall of the Gillman building. She used to sit in the front row with the other “stenographers.” Those were the co-eds who conscientiously scribbled down every word that came out of my mouth, including flat jokes and burps. She was older than them, mature and sure of her intelligence amid those Barbie dolls. As opposed to them, she would, from time to time, fire a challenging comment that proved she was listening carefully and under- standing. To my shame, or not, I wasn’t attracted to her brains, although they did arouse my curiosity. As I droned along, lecturing on autopilot, my look wandered from her hazel-green eyes to the swell of her breasts and her shapely legs. What could I do? Even a professor is a human being, isn’t he? On a depressing winter’s day, between perusal of desolate seminar papers on the play of light and shadow in Venetian painting and suicidal thoughts, I ran into her in the cafeteria. The usually hectic and packed room was unusually quiet. We were alone, not counting Sonia behind the counter. Perhaps the atmosphere of impending doom chased the regular café denizens away.
I’ll jump forward because there’s not much to say about the develop- ment of our relationship. We didn’t go for in-depth discussions about art, politics, or interpersonal relations. There was no sophisticated seduction or so-called love at first sight. We were two lonely people with their eyes open, who found something in each other that had been missing up to that specific moment. We went for it. For me, her presence filled a void that was characteristic of my life here since returning from New York and a string of what Erica Jong called “zipless fucks.” She never revealed what she found in me. I doubted that it was about my less than god-like physique. I didn’t ask for fear of bursting the bubble. I didn’t want to find out that I was just a reasonable alternative to Amnon, her here again, gone again husband. And the sex was great.
“Amnon will always be Amnon,” I replied with a tinge of baseless hypocrisy. “With or without Iraqi ground to ground missiles, he’ll always look out for number one. Anyway, you always know how to take care of yourself.”
I couldn’t help adding a bit of pretentious and hollow male know it all superiority, and I said, “But he’s right about one thing. The chance that a missile will land on top of you, in Ramat Gan of all places, is tiny.”
“Yes, definitely, Mr. Professor of art history and great international expert on ballistic missiles,” she shot back, taking me down a few notches. “Do you suggest that I drink a glass of water and calm down? In a minute, you’re going to replace Nachman Shai.”
I tried another tack.
“I can be over at your place in a few minutes to set up an airtight room. I’ve been hoarding plastic sheeting obsessively for months, and I’m sure there’s a technical drawing by Da Vinci that could guide me through it.” She giggled. It worked. She could have guessed that my building skills were negligible, but there was nothing like a bit of self-deprecating humor to bring her around and hide the truth. She accepted my generous offer, and I was on my way before she put down the virtual receiver.
The streets were abandoned at that early hour. The oily puddles left by the rain reflected the brake lights of the few cars on the road. On the radio, there was an endless stream of talking and talking. Nobody could say what was happening. Were we hearing distant explosions or just echoing thunder? Should we put on our masks or take them off? It all just went by me. My thoughts focused on expectations of Orna – hot caresses, electrifying touches, sweet breath, erect nipples, wet, wet, wet.
Here’s another suggestion for my male friends. Don’t come to your lovers tight as a spring, heart beating rapidly with passion and sweaty palms. And it doesn’t matter if it’s the first day of war or any other circumstance. You’ll come, in every meaning of the word, and it’ll be over in seconds. Much too quickly.
We were getting ready for another round when the second siren went off. Being good citizens, we put on our masks and checked the limits of human sexual capabilities under the threat of chemical attack. Between bursts of muffled laughter and the pungent smell of rubber, we got a passing grade for the efforts invested.
The cell phone rang, and Orna answered. “It’s him,” her lips expressed silently. Amnon.
“Yes, I understand. I’ll think about it. I’m not sure that it’s a good idea. She must already be hysterical, and she’ll make me crazy too. That’s the situation. Yeah, it’s disgusting, but I got them out of the attic, and if they tell us to, I’ll put on the mask. Be careful. Call me when you can. Kiss, kiss. Bye.”
She looked pale. “It looks as though it’s serious this time,” she explained after the short conversation with her loving and concerned husband. “His unit is moving, and for the next few days, he’s not coming home and won’t be available on the phone.”
“Where is he going? Somewhere around here?” I wasn’t asking because of some sudden fear for Amnon’s safety. I just wanted to weigh the chances that he might show up by surprise and see what the civilians were doing in the rear…at his home.
“He said that it’s secret and he can’t talk about it. He wants me to move in with his mother in Jerusalem until things calm down. You heard what I told him. It’s out of the question.”
Amnon’s secret location was troubling. My plan to get comfortable in Orna’s bed for the next few days has a whiff of danger about it now. Suddenly he calls. Suddenly he’s worried about her and wants to send her to Jerusalem. What is he scheming? He might even show up unannounced to see if she was okay.
There wasn’t much time to consider the options, as the undulating howl of a siren broke the silence. This time we could distinctly hear the distant boom that followed it. The minute that the all-clear sounded, we were in the car on our way to Eilat. We even sang “Heading South to Eilat” loudly on a childish high at 4 a.m. On the Arava highway, we joined a slowly crawling jam of vehicles. It appeared that others, lots of them, came up with Orna’s brilliant idea to get out of the bull’s eye and as far outside of the missiles’ range as possible.
Orna wanted us to move into a holiday apartment in the southern town owned by her former schoolmate, best friend, and current neighbor, Rachel. Thanks to her outstanding bodily dimensions, Rachel had taken up a modeling career that frequently brought her to Paris, London, and New York. She changed her name to Tiffany and, when traveling, left the keys to her apartment and the Eilat hideaway with Orna. She often invited her and Amnon to use the Eilat domicile. I tried to convince Orna to come to a hotel with me to survive the war in bed with room service.
Near Beer Ora, Amnon called again. He heard as we did that a missile had hit Ramat Gan, destroying his and my low probability theory.
“Calm down. I’m still at home, and nothing happened on our street,” she told him. “There was a giant explosion, pretty close by, and the walls shook, but nothing more than that.” The lies slipped off her tongue smoothly. What else could she say?
“I might go to your mother’s later. In the meantime, if you can’t reach me on the phone, it’s because I’m down in the shelter. I don’t trust that plastic sheeting that we don’t have anyway.”
After saying goodbye with kisses, she reported no chance that he would make it home in the coming days. He must make do with the underwear he took with him. I breathed easier.
In Eilat, we dragged from hotel to hotel, the bed and room service plan falling to pieces. The same scene played out everywhere. Lobbies had turned into battlefields between separate Jewish combatants. Israel war-time solidarity gave way to exchanges of curses, pushing and shoving, and an awakening of Sephardi-Ashkenazi infighting. Never did hotel managers discover so many long-lost close friends from school and the army, relatives on the side of granny from Afula, and various other people with exclusive rights. Everyone was squeezing up against the reception desks trying to get hold of even the smallest partially furnished closet. It was a nightmare. In one of the luxury properties, the security guards were unsuccessfully attempting to take apart an outpost of suitcases and sleeping bags established by two families with a hive full of nervous brats.
Again, it’s Amnon on the phone. Orna shouldn’t try to reach him at his unit. He won’t be available due to radio silence and communications security. That’s fine, I thought. The walls have ears.
We dredged up Orna’s original plan. In a few minutes, we found the holiday apartment building. It was a nondescript structure with balconies overlooking a dilapidated neighborhood minimarket. The elevator was out of service, so we climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. On each landing, we stopped for a couple of moments of hurried necking, expecting what was coming. Hands were sent out to intimate parts, lips locked, tongues writhed. As Orna tried to fish the keys out of her bag while loosening my belt, I was busily unbuttoning her blouse to get at her bra.
The door opened, and we fell into the apartment. A pleasantly cold gust of air from the air conditioner welcomed us in. Someday had left it on since the last visit. We couldn’t wait for the bed. Clothes were rapidly removed and thrown aside, and the plush carpet hosted our vigorous sexual duet.
Eventually, things calmed down, and we could hear muffled, unidenti- fiable voices coming from somewhere else in the apartment: mumbling, quiet moaning, a cadence of creaking. We got up to check the noises that seemed to be coming from behind the closed but flimsy door of the bedroom. Just in case, I picked up a thick rolling pin in the kitchen. I pushed the door open, and no terrorist jumped me. Only Orna’s somewhat hysterical laughter penetrated my consciousness. Amnon pulled back from between Tiffany/Rachel’s legs spread wide as though bitten by a snake and stared at us incredulously.
Features
Brain drain affecting Israel could lead to severe economic difficulties
By BERNIE BELLAN (Oct. 27, 2026) As of the time of writing, the future shape of Israel’s Knesset was clear as mud. I always remember one of the most important lessons I learned as a Political Studies student, which is the structure-function relationship of any country’s political system, in which the structure of a country’s system of government determined how stable that country’s government was likely to be.
Are we lucky to be living in a parliamentary democracy – with a first past the post system of government, where it is not that complicated to cobble together a majority government – even if it means sometimes aligning with rival parties to form that majority?
After watching the spiral into authoritarianism now taking place in the U.S. under their fragmented democratic system where an unscrupulous president can appropriate almost unlimited power – unchecked by the toadies on the Supreme Court or members of Congress, I would say we’re so much luckier to be living within a parliamentary system of government.
But, when it comes to total disarray – no one can beat Israel’s system of government, where it is near impossible to put together a stable government unless – following the pattern of so many other formerly democratic countries, an authoritarian leader manages to assert himself and neutralize so many of that country’s democratic institutions – which is what we have seen happening under Netanyahu’s leadership.
I ask all these questions after having read an article on the Times of Israel website back in August, but whose relevance has become only more prominent as a result of Israel’s continual slide into disarray.
We in the West can pretend that Israel, for all its problems, is still a democracy, and that no matter what may be happening there, its citizens still want to live there.
But, after reading the TOI article, which was titled “Emigration of doctors, engineers, other highly educated Israelis hits record high,” one might be forgiven for thinking that Israel’s best and brightest are hurrying to leave their country.
Here are some figures from that story: A “Tel Aviv University report released earlier this week showed a record-setting trend of emigration from Israel continued in 2025, with nearly 50,000 Israelis leaving the country for the third year in a row.”
The article also noted that “High-earning Israelis working in tech and healthcare are emigrating in sharply rising numbers, almost doubling over five years, a new study by the Israel Tax Authority has found.
“The research by the Israel Tax Authority’s Planning and Economics Division, which examined incomes of Israeli emigrants over the past decade, found the rate at which affluent Israelis left the country increased sharply in 2023 and 2024 to record highs, and was almost double what it was until 2019.”
Although I posited that Israel’s political instability is a major reason for the exodus so so many high-income earners, the authors of the study say that it is not altogether clear what is behind the departure of so many talented Israelis: “The authors of the study stated that it was difficult to determine whether this shift in the makeup of emigrants stemmed from major changes that occurred in society and the labor market following the COVID-19 pandemic, or whether it was a reaction to the political upheaval over the judicial overhaul and security events that started with the October 7 onslaught and war in Gaza that have been shaking Israel since 2023.”
One might well ask whether a significant number of other Israelis would also leave the country, were they in an economic position to do so? After all, for many years, here in Manitoba we saw a large influx of Israelis, almost entirely coming from the middle class, who were drawn to come here by a combination of factors, including the GrowWinnipeg initiative – which made it attractive for young Israeli families to look to Winnipeg as a potential landing point, also the Provincial Nominee Program, which offered immigrants opportunities to find employment in areas where Manitoba was short of particular types of workers.
But, what of those high income Israelis to which the TOI article refers? Anecdotally, we have read and heard accounts of highly educated Israelis moving here (and Myron Love has often profiled some of those individuals), but if 150,000 Israelis have left the country, one wonders where they have all gone?
Here are the favourite destinations for Israelis looking to move somewhere else (in order): the U.S. Canada, United Kingdom, Cyprus, Portugal, Spain, Greece, Malta, Germany, Australia, and New Zealand.
Many of those countries have tightened their immigration rules, however, as the backlash in Western countries against immigrants from poorer countries has also led to an overall decrease in the number of immigrants allowed in from other Western countries, including Israel.
Still, for individuals with particular talents – or with very high incomes, finding a country to which they can move does not present the same problems as it would for people of lesser means.
Let me end this with this cautionary note from the TOI article: “For a country where the top 20% of income earners are paying 92% of all income tax revenue, the change in the mix of Israelis leaving the country represents a significant strategic risk to state revenues and growth in the economy.”
And, with so many countries now seeing Israel as a pariah state, with all the attendant economic consequences that portends, it is hard to be optimistic about Israel’s future.
Features
Coincidence or not: Two books launched the same night – by my brother and by my niece
By GERRY POSNER Recently, on October 8, to be exact, an odd timing coincidence occurred in my family that struck me as highly unlikely. Two books were launched on the very same night in Toronto, at two separate locations. What was unusual for me was that one book was by my brother, Michael Posner and the other book was written by my niece, Elana Shira Segal. The topics, unsurprisingly, were not connected to each other. But you could not have planned that timing any worse than it turned out to be.
Michael Posner’s book, This Jewish Moment, an oral history of the Diaspora after October 7, 2023 had various people giving their opinions on a set of questions Michael posed to them as he interviewed them following the October 7, 2023 massacre. The interviews were conducted by Zoom. Each person interviewed was aware of the fact that the interview was recorded and that the interview might be used in a book. Each person’s name and age is given along with a brief description of who that person is. Some of the interviews were with people well known in Manitoba circles.The oral history technique is not new to Michael as he used it in the Leonard Cohen trilogies he created not that long ago and before that in his book on Mordecai Richler.
Michael interviewed over one hundred Jews in Canada and the United States. The thrust of the book was to explore how the events of October 7 affected the interviewees, how it changed (or didn’t change) their interpersonal relationships; altered, if at all, their spiritual lives; their trust in Jewish institutions and indeed, their perceptions about their own safety. It includes their thoughts about what lies ahead and even the idea of leaving North America. Without giving too much away, I can say that the opinions canvassed in the book do reflect a definite shift for many of the interviewees from their previous thoughts on these topics. If you read Michael’s book, you will not come away singing cheery songs. For many people, the future is bleak.
At the book launch held at the Beth Tikvah Synagogue in Toronto in front of about sixty people, there were several former Winnipeggers in attendance, including: Paul Shuckett, Bernie and Sheila Rubenstein, Aubrey Caplan and Philipa Glazerman, the former Susan Silverman, Gary Diamond, my son Ari Posner, and even a current resident of Winnipeg, Dolly Cohen, who came to visit her cousin Philipa.
Michael’s book, published by Sutherland Press, is in hardcover and ebook. It can be purchased at Indigo, and through Amazon.
Elana’s book is in an entirely different genre than her Uncle Michael’s book. Even the Darkness Has Stars is the title of her book -also her very first book. It is a work of fiction based on her career as a social worker and therapist for over 30 years in Toronto. The book explores the life of a teenage girl dealing not only with the usual teenage angst, but other issues as well. It is a book that will resonate with teenagers, and indeed parents of teenagers. It is a story of resilience and is an honest reflection of the very real problems facing many teens and ways to address their problems. I would suggest that the themes in the book are very relevant to teenagers today, especially girls. I think it is also fair to say that many parents of teenage children will identify with the difficulties faced by the chief protagonist in the book. Even counsellors and trained therapists will recognize the issues raised in this book. Schools and libraries would benefit from the book.
At her book launch, Elana outdrew her Uncle Michael as she had over one hundred people there. The conflict of the two books presented several of us in the family with an issue as to which event to attend. While my son Ari came to his uncle’s launch, his wife Tamar Kagan went to Ari’s first cousin Elana’s debut book launch. Even my wife and I split our allegiances.
Elana’s book can be ordered through Amazon or Barnes and Noble in the USA.
Now, if the oddity of the two books in the family being released at the same time was not enough, in November, another family member has a book coming out. This book is by my nephew Sam Posner’s wife, Erin Rothstein. Her book, called Watch Me is a guide to unlocking creative power. Erin is a visual artist, whose original paintings and limited edition prints have made her a name in the world of art already. She has a large following due to the success of her art. Her book deals with the ways to find your inner creativity and the ideas that spring to life when a person unlocks that creativity and gives him or herself permission to think bigger. If the book lives up to the art Erin creates, she will have a best seller. Erin’s book will be launched in four cities: Toronto, Montreal, New York and Los Angeles. It will be available at Indigo, Barnes and Noble, and through Amazon in hardcover, paperback, e-book and audiobook.
To the readers of this article, get out there and support the Posner family.
Features
The late Dr. Maurice Shnider had a fascinating life – from serving in WWII to meeting famous celebrities who passed through Winnipeg
By MARTIN ZEILIG I first visited Dr. Maurice Shnider at his home in Winnipeg’s River Heights neighbourhood to talk about war.
His house reflected the life of a successful physician. It was spacious and comfortable without being ostentatious. Family photographs occupied shelves and tables. Sunlight spilled into the kitchen where we sat drinking coffee.
By then he was an elderly man, friendly, thoughtful, and possessed of that rare quality found in some people who have lived through extraordinary times. He never seemed impressed by his own experiences.
He had been born in Sheho, Saskatchewan, in 1923 and grew up in Inglis, Manitoba.
Then came the war.
As a young man he served with the Royal Canadian Air Force before being seconded to the Royal Air Force. Flying aboard Catalina flying boats in the Bay of Bengal, he participated in missions searching for downed Allied aircrew and earned the Distinguished Flying Cross.
Those were the stories I had come to hear and later wrote about for the Jewish Post & News.
Stories of long flights over open water.
Stories of rescue.
Stories of courage.
Yet as the interview continued, another chapter of his life emerged.
After the war he returned to Canada, attended medical school at the University of Manitoba, and eventually built a successful family practice in Winnipeg. His patients often became his friends. He took pride in caring for generations of families and became known as a gifted and dedicated physician.
For a period of years, he also served as the physician responsible for checking vaccination records and health documentation for international travellers passing through Winnipeg International Airport.
It was then that his eyes brightened.
The war stories were important.
The airport stories were fun.
“You’d be surprised who came through Winnipeg,” he said.
The coffee was fresh. Outside, a warm prairie breeze shifted the trees beyond the kitchen window.
Then he smiled.
“Even the Beatles.”
The name immediately caught my attention.
“The Beatles?”
He laughed.
“The whole city went crazy.”
It was August 18, 1964.
The Beatles were on their way to begin their first major North American tour and Winnipeg was merely a refuelling stop. They weren’t playing a concert. They weren’t staying overnight.
They were simply passing through.
Yet somehow word spread.
Radio stations reported it. Teenagers rushed to the airport. Parents drove excited daughters across the city. Traffic clogged nearby roads. The terminal filled with screaming fans hoping to catch a glimpse of the four young Englishmen who seemed to have conquered the world overnight.
Maurice happened to be the airport doctor assigned to examine the passengers’ health records.
What should have been a routine day suddenly became anything but.
Almost fifty years later, what remained vivid in his memory was not the famous faces but the sound.
The noise.
The shrieking.
The excitement.
For a brief moment Winnipeg became the centre of the universe for thousands of young Canadians.
Then the aircraft door opened.
John, Paul, George, and Ringo appeared.
They waved.
The crowd erupted.
A few photographs were taken.
A few words were exchanged.
And then, scarcely more than twenty minutes after they had arrived, they were gone.
Winnipeg returned to being Winnipeg.
Maurice chuckled at the memory.
“John Lennon was cheeky.”
I asked what he meant.
He considered the question.
“Always had a smart answer.”
He smiled again.
“Not rude. Just cheeky.”
The passage of decades had done nothing to diminish his amusement.
For a few moments we sat quietly.
Then another memory surfaced.
“Steve McQueen was one of the nicest.”
That surprised me.
Maurice encountered the actor in the airport restaurant.
McQueen was seated alone.
No entourage.
No photographers.
No one making a fuss.
Just a man eating lunch between flights.
Maurice rarely approached famous people.
But there was a reason that day.
One of his children was facing serious medical challenges and was a devoted Steve McQueen fan. Movies offered an escape from hospitals, treatments, and uncertainty.
So Maurice walked over to the actor’s table.
He introduced himself and explained the situation.
McQueen listened carefully.
Then he asked for the family’s address.
That was all.
No promises. No performance. No grand gesture.
Simply an address.
Several weeks later a package arrived at the Shnider home.
Inside was an autographed Steve McQueen poster.
Maurice’s expression softened as he recalled it.
The poster itself wasn’t what mattered.
What mattered was seeing the joy it brought.
Even years later, that was the part of the story he remembered most clearly.
“He was a very humble man,” Maurice said.
“Very soft-spoken.”
The kitchen fell silent.
For a moment the famous actor disappeared entirely from the story.
What remained was a father’s gratitude.
Then Maurice laughed again.
“Vanessa Redgrave.”
Another unexpected visitor.
She was travelling through Winnipeg on her way to Los Angeles when it was discovered that she lacked the proper vaccination documentation required for international travel.
In those days such requirements were taken seriously.
The problem needed solving.
So Maurice solved it.
He drove her downtown to his office.
One of the world’s most celebrated actresses riding through Winnipeg in a doctor’s car.
No limousine.
No security detail.
No red carpet.
Just traffic lights, city streets, and ordinary conversation.
There he administered the required vaccination and drove her back to the airport in time for her flight.
He told the story as though it were perfectly routine.
Perhaps for him it was.
I remember thinking that this was what made his stories so wonderful.
To everyone else they sounded extraordinary.
To Maurice they were simply things that had happened during a long and interesting life.
As our conversation drew to a close, he looked down into his coffee cup and reflected on the famous people who had crossed his path.
The Beatles.
Steve McQueen.
Vanessa Redgrave.
Different personalities.
Different kinds of fame.
Yet in the end they all became the same thing.
Travellers.
People worried about schedules.
People missing paperwork.
People trying to catch flights.
People trying to get somewhere.
The old airport had been a great equalizer. For a few moments, between arrival and departure, fame gave way to ordinary life.
And Maurice Shnider occupied a unique place in that world.
He wasn’t a celebrity.
He wasn’t an observer standing outside the story.
He was part of it.
A prairie boy who became a decorated wartime airman, flew rescue missions over distant seas, returned home to study medicine, built a respected family practice in Winnipeg, and devoted his life to helping others.
Some of the people he met happened to be famous.
Most were not.
To Maurice, it made little difference.
He especially enjoyed the company of pilots, storytellers, musicians, and adventurers. He remained fascinated by the Second World War, by history, and above all by people. Fame interested him far less than character.
He remembered the famous ones not because they were celebrities, but because, for a few brief moments, they revealed themselves to be something far more interesting.
Simply human.
When Dr. Maurice Shnider died in 2013 at the age of ninety, Winnipeg lost not only a distinguished physician and decorated veteran, but also a man who never lost his curiosity about the world or his affection for the people who passed through it.
Some departures are quickly forgotten.
Others leave a lasting mark.
That was how I remember him.
And that is how he deserves to be remembered.
