Posted by: Sk | February 22, 2009

Chapters 23 & 24

Capítulo 23: Cross examination

Such a surprise. To be led to the office and have in front not less, not more than my dear friend Doris Wilheim. I don’t know whether the surprise was visible on my face, and it is true that happened what usually happens to me in these peculiar situations: as my characters, who are usually quite funny, inspire me some humourful mood, I can’t, then, when I see them, take them excessively seriously, at least for some seconds, until I remember where I’m. I just said ‘hello’.

Sask was sitting beside against the wall, while Wilheim had taken her usual place behind the table, to the right of the computer. I had thus to turn my head to the left, because it was Sask who was asking questions.

Sask: Do you know her?

I: Yes. I saw her at King David in 2003. She was working at the jewelry Stein.

Sask: Did you talk to her?

I: Yes. She used to come to sit down in the hall to smoke a cigarette because there were little clients. It was winter and the Irak war was to start.

Sask: What did she tell you?

I: Not much. That the Stein family was living in Brazil. That she was reading a book. That she had a son who had gone on a world tour, and she was going to pick him up in Tel Aviv and make a party. That she talked to her cat. That she was living in a kibbutz near to Bethlehem. That her husband was from Yougoslavia  and dealing with business. That she came from Switzerland and had arrived when she was about 20 to visite some relatives and had gone to know her hsband and married. That she was afraid because of the bomb attacks. That she was 50 (then). That she had worked in some other jewelry before. That the owner had come to the jewelry and she had left it because she was shouting around.

Sask: Were there other people around?

I: Not when I was talking to her. In the jewelry there was an older woman I used to call the pinguin,I never talked to. And a younger woman, quite fat, I never talked to, either. Around June, I’d say, another blond German looking woman arrived, who was always with Wilheim. Apparently the one I called ‘the pinguin’ was on holidays. Wilheim stopped coming to the hall or talking to me when I accused her of two or three things.

Sask: Why?

I:It’s a little bit complicated. I was writing a novel.

Sask: Did anyone know?

I: In the village I was in, they knew. Iota Ioupa, I usually told about the progress of it. And when I came here, I didn’t tell anyone, just the border control while leaving in Tel Aviv.

Sask: So?

I: Some events I was thinking about in my novel and people, seem to show excessive coincidence with people and circumstances here. I have to admit I was quite shocked. As the novel was dealing with end of the world situations, spies and mafia bosses and the whole hollywood stuff, I got afraid that coincidences may go farer than expected. I did not want to believe it, but there were some possibilities. This is why was sitting all the time at the same place, just having a look at what was going on.

Sask: And what does it have to do with Wilheim?

I: Not with her. With the one she called ‘the owner’. According to my ‘novel’ she was very dangerous, a kind of passive psychopath. Psychopaths don’t deal with reality like the rest of people. They perceive the interior realm, the psychic world. I was invading her territory, obviously. (If it was so. – I was dealing with reality as if it could be true some things may be somehow related to my constructions.) This may put Wilheim in danger. As she seemed to be quite bored and spent quite a long time in the hall, I thought the ‘x’ may agress her in order to reduce my potential ‘allies’. I made some investigations, because I was really troubled. Kesdi told me that the hotel belonged to some Federman brothers. One had two daughters. One of these daughters got divorced while I was there. According to him, nobody was living in the hotel and only the Embassador of the USA had a permanent room. I didn’t solve my problem. On the one hand, a ‘x’ seemed to be the passive psychopath. On the other, Wilheim said that she was the ‘owner’. On the other, Kesdi said there was no one there. It’s all I could gather as information. But just in case, I made Wilheim furious with my accusations and she never came back. That’s two days after the event with the ‘owner’.

Sask: She says, you said you were Russian.

I: No. I didn’t say I was Russian. I said to a Georgian boy, my mother was Russian. He was about 14, with a group that had arrived end February or early March, with his grandfather. There were many people in the hall that day and I sat down in some other place, just in front of the boy. Wilheim came to smoke a cigarette and sat down to my right. She seemed to be listening to the conversation. As far as I remember, the interaction was as if the boy was saying ‘even if I’m Georgian – officially – I’m Russian, and I don’t care about what others say’. And I said ‘my mother is Russian, too’, to say ‘I have more or less the same kind of problem’ – I was answering to some feeling which would have been too long to explain to the boy. I just used this shortcut. But I know, it was not accidental. It was that, I could have said it differently. I knew though that Wilheim was listening and it was of my interest for her to think I was Russian.

Sask: Why?

I: Because there was the suitcase affair. The suitcase affair was a logical construction I had made up in Greece and whose fundamental logical patterns are described in ‘Manual of a soldier’. To say: when you write you can’t say everything, because it’s too long and boring. Thus, you construct the logical devices, let us say, the fundamental interactions that give life to the characters. According to those, the character is going to do something or the other: He drinks coffee or likes heavy metal, or whatever. You will choose the characteristics that are relevant for another to seize the essence or fundamental logic without too many explanations. This is what I was working at, then. It was not a story, like a story, but constructions. I came here to verify some things. See the ambiance, the place I wanted everything to happen in, that was King David, because it is heavy and impressive in order to create the rest. And happens the most astonishing thing that has ever happened to me. My novel had a succession in time, where the logical problems were solved some way. I told myself, that if there was a possible link, I had to leave reality suspended from the possibility of fitting into the logical construction in order to avoid whatever. The suitcase affair was an escape of documents of Israel towards Russia. In the novel, the problem (to avoid this to happen) is solved through a substitution of personality playing with the different national ways of understanding reality. I was thus the Russian.

Sask: Did anything confirm your suspicions?

I: Pues, sí. I mean, in my way of understanding. It was confirmed through very little signs whose order I could not establish then. A little after having said I’m Russian, a man called Rafael sat beside me. He was often there. He was there when important people arrived like ministers or the kind. I thought, although I didn’t ask, that he was attached to the army. See the kind of official representant who has to be there whenever a foreign personality arrives. Because of the way he was holding his body. He said that he had learned Spanish in Argentina and he spoke French, too. He asked me how many languages I spoke and where I came from. I said from Greece, and he asked the name of the village and wrote it down. And this, too, confirmed that he was dealing with matters of security, because a manager of the hotel would have never done so. One day, the second I was talking to him, he had a suitcase with him and all of a sudden he stood up and said: “There is bomb attack alarm.” And left leaving the suitcase just beside me. I was very surprised. Qué raro. I mean, my oncle belongs to the army and I don’t know him very well nor have I talked much to him, but they have a way of moving, of doing, of saying, that implies a certain number of things you can do and others not. And not able to evaluate I know I thought “Is not fitting to pattern. Tilt.” He came back after a while and said it was just a car crash and then his daughter arrived, she was about 15 or 16, as far as I would have said, then, and she looked as if angry that he was there. And they spoke some words and they left together, with the suitcase – there was something like a sign of hers, saying don’t forget that, and he made some movement and took the suitcase – and even if I did not understand a word, there was something in the whole situation that was classified as ‘bizarre’ in my registration office. A few days later, Natasha arrived. Who I called Natasha. She was Russian because she was speaking Russian, language I don’t understand, but which I recognize. She arrived accompanied by a nun and a young man an afternoon, late. She would leave the day after but staid a certain time in the morning just in front of me with the other people. Exactly there were I had been talking with the Georgian. And she made a gesture with her hands, saying: ‘tora’ (She lifted hands as if she had been waiting for something that did not happen and as if asking herself, what to do now.) Without this gesture, I would have never established any relationship, because my Natasha spy was an imaginary character, who on top, was a not a spy. It was her father who had been and she had just copied gestures and behaviours and deduced the logics out of it and had become a spy without office. In my story. Perhaps she was there for personal reasons but it was too heavy a cover. I know the orthodox church quite well, and their monks, they are forbidden to stay in 5 stars hotels. You see, Russian monks in Wadi Kelt were allowed to take a shower once a weak with cold water. They’re forbidden to be taken picture from, they are forbidden of any acceptation of luxury, let us say. What was she doing there? Common for some catholics it was ’strange’ for an orthodox. This is why I finished by suspecting that there was a clearer link between my ‘novel’ and reality than I could have ever expected. For me it’s no proof, it’s an evidence, a subjective one, which for me, obliges to the consideration of how this link was ever possible.

Sask: Do you have any kind of explanation?

I: Yes. Much later I finished by putting all the pieces together. I was given some chemistry in Istanbul, during some stay at a psychiatric hospital. My normal consciousness disappeared. Even the physical perception. After, much after, while trying to get a clue out of everything, I concluded that there are different patterns of understanding. More superficial, deeper, even deeper. The deeper they are, the less they are conscious usually, but the more they are fundamental. What has Natasha to do with a Russian? Something. These deeper patterns deal with this ‘common’, on local basis, on national basis, on basis of humankind. I can say, luckily, I had delt with fundamental logical patterns myself. I was more or less specialized in ‘logics’ a branch of philosophy. I mean more or less because it was inside of the common courses, but you could choose among a certain number and I had: epistemology, philosophy of science, logics and mathematics as chosen subjects. I was dealing with the problem of some mistake in symbolic logic while leaving Paris. When the chemistry started to affect my neurons, the conscious ‘I’ started to go back and back to more fundamental layers. And as these were worked out to some extent, I did not get mad. Reality looks very much more synthetic from that point of view: you see mythological characters as determining principles in the ordering of reality. You are dealing with that, and only. You can’t synthesize awareness of immediate reality, or just as some sign disturbing some inner balance.. I hadn’t memory from the past as social reality. I did nenver forget facts as such, but the were not embedded anywhere. There were no social values. There was no cloud of behaviour, as I used to call it. I mean, you go somewhere and just from the esthetical impression, colours, ordering of furniture, etc. you know you have to behave somehow. Here you are formal, there you misbehave, here you tell jokes, there it is more familiar. All this wasn’t. I could not even analyze what was happening immediately, it was an event in ‘a’, and I kept very good memory, but linked to nothing. I saved myself saying I was writing a novel, because it really looks like that, and it was my purpose from the very begining when I had left Paris. I discovered after that these fundamental patterns communicate among them in psychic realms. It is said that neurons functions something like electromagnetique units. Electromagnetique units are transmissors. I think that neurons act not only this way inside of the brain but cover some area, like telephone antennes. As my consciousness was very much relegated to deeper, more fundamental areas of the nervous system, let us say, it was ordering ’signals’ that were arriving this way. Inside of these patterns there are balances and there were signals, ‘problems’ that were disturbing this balance. I was working at the logical solution of something I didn’t know if to identify as ‘intuition’, ’source of inspiration’, ‘psychic perception’. When I arrived to Jerusalem, I was obliged to consider the third hypothesis as only valid and this had implications. What I had ordered there were not little jokes and the problem was that I tended to put some sauce and ketchup into the whole in order to make it mor interesting, so that I didn’t know factually anymore what was what inside of the whole. I’ve needed five years, to have some more or less clear idea.

Sask: You said to her that you were a Russian spy.

I: Not to her. To a woman who had come from England. She had some private school, I think in Bristol, but I may be wrong. She ws dealing with stones that were half precious (submitted to taxation) in England and with another name, were not considered as such in Israel. She used this ambiguity in names in order to avoid taxes. And she made me laugh very much. She looked anxious, as she was smoking one cigarette after the other, but somehow she inspired some humourful mood in me, and when she asked, what I was doing, I said (very seriously) “I’m working for the KGB (which does not exist anymore, but I didn’t say) and am trying to get some agreement in order to make some international collaboration concerning a certain type of crimes.” It was a joke. I even told her some false nickname and told her, she would forget, I don’t know if she did, but I did. Or perhaps not a joke, perhaps I was just giving in to some general thought I was perceiving. In any case, she told me she knew someone who could interest me in the United States. A nephew. And I got afraid, because she was saying she knew someone, really, in probably, some Information Agency. And that was to drive the joke a little bit too far. I didn’t ask for his name, just in case.

Sask: You haven’t worked for any Information Service.

I: No. To say. Perhaps yes, but I was never hired and never paid. Which is to say that I have never had any direct link to any such people. As far as I know. I mean, nobody has come to talk to me with a visit card saying ‘Im this or that’ and talked to me. There were people I could have identified as working for some agency, or police, in Turkey, for example. Soemone arrived and started asking questions about religion and the kind, and he seemed to belong to some police controlling eventually some given accusation of proselytism. He was very kind. ANd I’m usually very kind to these people, but without further involvement.

Sask: What do you mean, indirectly?

I: Something strange happened while we we’re crossing Serbia. It was the times of the Sarajevo war. Our plan was to go through Rumania, because of this fact. We had already been told in Germany that Rumania was dangerous. We were almost at the border and had to slightly drift to the east to get to the Rumanian border. Some ‘agent’ of Hungaria approached us one night. Asked many questions. And said: “Better don’t go through Rumania. It’s dangerous.” “Dangerous?” “The gold traffic goes that way.” “But Serbia is in war.” I said. “Serbia is not dangerous.” He said. I had not taken seriously the advice of the German (I always suspect some intentionality behind) but this. I thought about it a whole night, and the tones of the man were very serious. I decided to follow his advice. We phoned to France to say we were changing plans. We crossed the border and had no problem for a long while. In fact people were quite polite. It was tense and cold but I thought it was normal. At one week from the border to Bulgaria we were walking in the mountains in order to avoid the main road. It was October, cold, rainy. Something had happened just before. It was stupid but it attracted my attention. We had all walking sticks we were picking wherever we could find them I had one that was slightly broken already but I didn’t want to loose it. That day, Oriol said his was broken, if I could lend him mine. I did, but saying, don’t break it, it’s already weak. After a while he came to say that it was broken. I was angry. It’s stupid, perhaps, but you have even less things you may attach some value to when you’re walking than in this prison. I was even furious. And felt somehow depressed. We arrive to a lost village that day. It was Saturday. It was raining. We were given shelter in some house under construction, without windows. It was cold. I laid down, the afternoon, and thought for a second or two, to give up. It would be the  only time all over. I stood up with some dark gray thoughts in my mind and saw there was a beautiful straight stick on the wall. It looked like a miracle. I felt some peaceful happiness and thought ‘this one, will arrive to Jerusalem’. We didn’t walk on Sundays. On Monday, we left. Through the mountains. Arriving up a hill, two soldiers with weapons arrived running behind us. They were shouting, we stood still. They said to leave the bags on the ground. We just knew a few words in serbian, but among them ‘Ima problima?’ (Is there a problem?) And the soldier said: “Ima.” (There is.) And it was very serious. We were said to empty our bags and not to move. I remember I was trying to gain time. And then I said to my brother: “Dame un carnet.” (Give me a booklet) We were writing down every day and date of the places we were going through, and usually stamped by churches or halltowns, or signed by private people, who wrote many things on it. We were being accused of spy work, I deduced. “We’re no spies.” I said. “We’re walking to Jersualem.” And I shew him the booklet. There were many things that had been written down by serbian priests and many stamps. He went through them, slowly. He asked: “Why are you in the mountain?” “Because the main road is difficult to walk in.” (Answering to what I ment to understand.) I said: “Sarajevo is this way. (Ponting to the west.) We’re going to the bulgarian border. To the east.” He said: “Go. Don’t leave the main road.” We wouldn’t leave the main road. There were about 100 km to the borders. I remember very well. Three days. I remember was seeing the trucks on the road and think “They’ll be at the border in some hours. And we will have to wait three days.” It seemed horribly long. Almost eternal. I made some link between my depression the day before and the event with the soldiers. The fright after. They had been told to shoot us. I knew that. I went through my mother’s lessons once and again. It’s strange, but they had some military service for women in Franco’s times. They were not soldiers, but were taught about medecine and knitting and these things. And laws. And military law. She used to talk about these things, and there was some fascination in her when she talked about them. I knew you can’t leave main roads if the state is in war alarm. It was not in war. But in war alarm. Inside of my Spnaish mind, this ment, they would have been right if they had shot us. This is why days became so long after.

Time passed. We arrived to Jerusalem. With the serbian stick. We left them in te Holy Sepulchre. But this was because a bulgarian priest had said that pilgrims were messengers and that things were given to them as material representation of some wish, that had to be left there in order to be listened to by upper spheres of heavens.  We had lots of handkerchiefs (women) and socks (men) that had been given to us by bulgarian, and the sticks, we left there for all the wishes that had neither handkerchiefs nor socks. We went back to Istanbul. My patterns of understanding change.

It was 1995. I knew I had to go to Serbia. At once, immediately, at whatever cost. I had to take my booklet with me and leave it somewhere. Impossible mission. Stay in Serbia, forbidden. I went to Skopje. The people there knew Serbian very well. I search for references. I go back to Thessaloniki, to the Serbian Embassy. I have to go to Bulgaria, I say, and I want to meet some people in Velika Plana. You can’t. They say. I say: “Look. I have to clear up something. I leave my passport here, now. I will be back in one day or two.” I came back after two days. The woman said “You can stay in Velika Plana 48 hours.” They gave me the visa. I took the train and arrived to Velika Plana, a place we ahd been in before and where there were some people speaking English or French. They were linked to the church. I draw attention on myself, with excessively blunt and stupid questions concerning political activity. 6 hours later, I had a few Milosevic agents running behind me. I left. I crossed the bulgarian border in a train. A paid some monstruous sum in order to get the bulgarian visa at the border. The agents were behind me. I stopped at Sofia in order to take a train for a village nearby, I knew people from, too. I was crossing from one rail to the other, and asked this and was said that, or I didn’t understand, as my attention was somewhere else. I phone. I forget my booklet at the phone cell. When I came back 5 minutes later it wasn’t there any more. The agents had disappeared. I took the train for Turkey, arrived without a cent because I had spent everything at the bulgarian border, asked for some money from people I knew, staid at a hotel a night, and arrived in Greece the day after.

I had followed some path of thought. I had saved my life, then. But (I roamed) if you could still be shot for such reason there, you may be shot for not following orders, too. I figured out the soldier would have said “They shew my a booklet” for only excuse, and this, even to my understanding, didn’t look very sound. I had to manage to take the booklet to Serbia, somehow, somewhere, where it would arrive to the hands of people who may be in knwoledge of this affair. Only agents. I thus ‘accuse myself’ of intervention in foreign affairs and am sure, really sure, the booklet will land there where it has to land. I knew the soldiers would never be shot. I knew it because it had worked. But I didn’t consider the possibility this may have other consequences. Like being followed by serbian, somehow, from distance, just in case.

Today I know it. And this means a lot. I was following the Kosovo war through television. In Greece they transmitted hours on the subject. I was making comments, I got angry, I was satisfied with some thing or the other. Now, thinking back on it, I can reconstruct the following. Something happened. If I were Milosevic, something like a miracle. Something strange, coincidental, that proves that people who are mainatining some innocence are saying the truth. It strikes his mind, and something changes. The possibility of exception is torn out of the depth of memory. He just integrates such a fact into his ways of doing. And appears clearly that there is something ‘true’ about it, and this truth makes appear clearly that you can’t make use of arbitrary violence in the army. I think he shoots Arkan, himself. It becomes obvious in some slightly changed patterns of reality that that is an absurd. The Kosovo war does nothing but proof this fact. He keeps himself inside of these ‘lines’. There is peace in ranks. You see everything. You understand where an agression may come from. You look frightful to the enemy. In my logic, he looses the control on Kosovo, though not the property, because of one ‘mistake’. Someone leads refugees or fleeing people to a place where there had been a military camp, which had been moved after the passing of the planes of recognition. ‘Error’ I say, ‘Mistake’. If I was followed by serbian agents or by greek, alerted by the serbian, I was in personal conversation with people who were very near to the main poles of power.

In fact I stated after, that this peculiar event with the booklet had created some ‘precedent’. Some logic, some reference to a feeling, something. I knew that Milosevic ws concerned because Arkan was shot. And I knew that if you think in some spheres you interact with same people moving inside of the same logic. From a psychic point of view, I was, I can say now,  strategist of Milosevic army, for accidental reasons and completely unaware of the fact, on the other hand.

It was subjective and though it had some impact. And this is of importance, I think, I mean, to consider such fact were it subjectively, because you start moving in some natural environment of thought which is the one of higher ranks of an army. And this leaves spillovers.

Sask: Were you in knowledge of security matters in Israel.

I: No. But that was the problem. In our ‘conversations’ let us say, we were studying strategies of war and defense, of information and other. It was very funny. Like a theoretical game. I was making the concepts of the different armies out of splitter information I had gathered during my travels. I mean, you walk through a country and you know that Milosvic is not going to shoot a soldier if the proof he’s saying the truth appears this way and only. The army has a logic. The logic has a concept. If you are ‘A’ (Serbia) and you think you have ‘B’ (Greece) as enemy, how do you win a war? Who are whose allies? How are they going to interact? What are your allies? What are your means? It was funny because we introduced the psycholoical factor. The fata morgana. The lie. The pretension. The miracle, the accident, the coincidence, the psychological impact, mass media. We had thus won almost all wars. And there I asked: “And do you know how to avoid a war?”

And there was a war coming up between India and Pakistan. Can you avoid a war? Can you – he may have asked. This is not that difficult, I said, it’s enough to write a letter. But go now and solve the Middle Orients. I never told him, but I knew there was a whole in defense in Israel. Theoretically. When I arrived there, I had to state it was there. But do I care, you may say.

Sask: Why did you.

I: Because you were the general strategist of most armies. I mean at the end, it was becoming boring because armies were very weak, mainly due to personal reasons. We had to reinforce the armies. You were known, somehow, I think, and thus we put you into the different armies in order to see how much intelligence we would need in order to defeat embettered armies. It had been very amusing. And it seemed as if your life was in danger. This is why. Such an adversary you take care not to loose too early. And this ment to take into consideration all the other facts. And that was troubling and difficult. I don’t like intervening in other people’s affairs, but sometimes you have to believe you’re obliged by angels to do something. And this taking care not to intervene anyhow. You may always say, it was an accident if I was taken for a Russian. It didn’t deplease me, to say the truth.

Here, she told me to leave. And I left.

I don’t know what it may all be meaning and in fact, I think the worse is still to come. This is why I rapidly escaped into my imaginations, which, I have to be honest, do help me in order to structure my thoughts. And the presence of Doris Wilheim, who, in my former constructions, belonged to the Mossad, was a good starting point for the evolution of my virtual plans. It’s true that it is not easy to figure out how Sask may find communication points with Mossad, as cats and dogs do sometimes play together, I’d never see these doing the same. Thus, I had to deeply go into what I may figure out be Sask’s weaknesses in order to find some completely aleatory contact point, which to say the truth, found some roots in the situation in the morning. Why not. It’s true that I had forgotten the ‘russian’ detail but it is possible that Doris Wilheim may at those times have told someone about my possible attachment to forlorn organizations. Which explains some accusations of spywork. In fact she’s very clever, reason why I still expect the worse. It’s true, I thought after lunch – which is as miserable as usual – that inside of my justifications it is the weakest, which may point at the fact that I’m hiding away something. Which means that she has really made the effort to thoroughly go through all my texts and inspirations. That’s what I said, you sometimes do not tell the truth even to yourself, and to be honest, I had simply forgotten this dark aspect of the past or had not considered the information may have been given further, which up to a certain extent, is more or less the same. But that is what I said at the begining, too. Will not something you are reading leave some marks somewhere, and these marks determine some behaviour and this, give me further hints of what the depth of the character is? Or of the environment. It is somewhat like walking in the darkness, my situation. On knife’s edges. And every slightest hint of what is considered of importance in the whereabouts is of highest importance to me. Seen from that point of view, I may conclude that: Mossad is called by the army something like the ‘psychologists’. That my yesterday’s texts are understood by Sask as ‘psychological’. That consequently she will deduce without problem that psychological texts are of the realm of the psychologists and in this the army has advantages on the politocal side, that it hardly ever steps out of its own fields. Doris Wilheim is there and should be a compelling proof in evidence for me to admit that I’ve been working for some Russian Agency. It doesn’t matter if she isn’t at the end, she’s there even if Mossad. She will thus give some parts of yesterday’s texts to Wilheim, not those concerning the escaped documents but those concerning Ines de la Fressange. Wilheim will say, that she doesn’t understand anything about logic and Sask will say that it is psychology. If Sask says it is psychology, Wilheim will understand that she has to study the psychology of someone. As Mossad has profited of the whole in order to try getting more information about the mysterious event, Wilheim will give in to the delivery of a few hours work to some obscure uniformed entity. She thus plunges for some hours into the detailed investigation of the life of Ines de la Fressange, who, by the way, is some known name to her. It’s not that she’s studying the affair in depth, it is that at the same time she’s trying to get some information out of Sask. Sask understands that she’ll have to sell more information if she wants to get something out of Wilheim. In fact, she’s stuck. “It’s a theoretical exercise,” she says, “You know, to get the location of a subject out of some data. I’m worse in psychology,” she ads, deviating the eyes towards some undetermined point, as if it were the most horrible thing someone may ever admit. “And what is the data?” Wilheim asks, suddenly curious. “A subject has sent these letters to Greece. (And shows them from some careful distance) There are three names. The subject who may have have written them is the one who has written this text. Some one has a page somewhere, and you have to find the one through this data.” “The page exists?” “Yes. It has been opened by one of us. I know which it is, but I can’t explain the logical steps to take in order to find it.” Silence. “I first thought to find someone called Alkistis. There is some other text around refered to a singer called Alkistis Protopsaltis. Perhaps it is her?” “A singer? Famous?” “Quite, I’d say, at least around there.” “I don’t think it probable. She wouldn’t have the time. And web pages? If she pays someone and it is known, she’ll have lost her career. These people think like that. Even if she’d want to. No, I wouldn’t say so.” Silence. “A web page maker in random social situation, I’d say. Look. There is another name here. Maxime  Catroux. Let’s see what we may find about her like that and then we’ll see if we need more information.” Working for an edition house, seems to have quarelled with your subject, little daughter of a general. She notes. Hmm. “What is the name of your subject?” “Sonja Kasten.” “Nationality?” “German (she says) born in Spain.” “German, born in Spain. – Perhaps there is someone else having said something about her.” Search. “She has pages.” “Yes. But she’s here. It can’t be her. I mean, it looks as if someone was using some codes in order to use one of her pages. This one.” And points at the page saying ‘manishma’ and other things. “This is hebrew. Does she speak hebrew?” “No.” “Someone here?” “Who knows.” “What is the page about?” “Some bullshit someone thought intelligent to put on the page.” “This is her father?” And points at some result saying “Arne Kasten”. “Yes. I’ve put him under observation.” “Anything through him?” “Not yet. Can you get a telephone number?”  “He is translating texts. Here for some ‘Fundación Jorge Juan.’ Perhaps we get his personal phone this way?” “We can try.”

In english. Phone conversation: “Yes, hello. I’m searching for a translator called Arne Kasten.” “Un momento.” (Long moment – you can hear it: ‘hay alguien que hable inglés por aqui’. After a while.) “Yes.” “I’m searching for a translator called Arne Kasten. I have lost his phone number and need some work to be done. Accidentally I saw in internet he had been working for you and told myself perhaps you have his personal number.” “Un momento.” – Minutes. – Ten minutes later. “Yes, here it is. (A phone number.)” “Here we are. A phone number. Do we call now?” (It’s obvious that Sask is a little bit jealous and this satisfies Wilheim enormously, although it is possible Sask is just doing as if.) “Do it,” Sask says and lights a cigarette, which is usually forbidden. Wilheim leans back. “I need some plan. A web page maker in the whereabouts? If we ask too bluntly, it will cut short all information. What do you know about the subject?” “Hmm. German school of Madrid, University Sorbonne Paris, pilgrimage to Jerusalem, Psychiatric Hospital in Istanbul as volonteer, 10 years in Greece in undetermined situation. Leaves for Spain, France, Ecuador, where we re supposed to have picked her up. ” “Acquaintance from school?” “Knows some. Little contact. Some in Barcelona some in Germany. Nothing to do with web pages.” “University?” “No contact except some older teacher.” “Pilgrimage?” “I don’t know.” “Let’s see then,” Wilheim continues, “How do you say pilgrimage in Spanish or French?” “I don’t know.” “Must be some translator around here in internet.” Search. “There is nothing. Let’s try this in Spain.” Phones. “Yes, hello. Arne Kasten?” “Yes.” “Sorry, I have been said your daughter has been on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. We’re making some sociological investigation and would like to get in contact with her.” “My daughter is not here at this moment.” “Perhaps you have the names of the other members of the expedition and some address?” “There was my son Jorge and his wife Clotilde. A doctor from Zaragoza. Ah, and Oriol. Oriol Vilaseca.” “These are all?” “No. There were more, but I can’t remember.” “Do you know if I can get in contact with one of them?” “Here the address of my son and his wife in France. The doctor I don’t know. Oriol. Oriol … In Barcelona. I don’t know his address.” “Barcelona is good. Do you know what his actual activity is?” “He’s working for his father, some notaire, I think.” “Thank you.” “Well,” Wilheim says to Sask, “an address and  a name. I suppose you know the brother has nothing to do with webpages, nor the wife, other brothers and sisters. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here. I’d try the Vilaseca link.”

Hmm. Look at that. Search: “oriol vilaseca sonja kasten” “Interesting. Can you print it.”

Printed document

February 9, 2008 at 4:59 pm

On

 

I’ve just found that, I’m a very efficien google-searcher!

Grégory Leurent
Nació en:
Angers (Francia), en 1968

En 1992:
Estudiaba Filosofía en la Sorbonne

En la actualidad:
Vive en Angers, donde trabaja como profesor de filosofía en un colegio privado.
Está casado y tiene 2 hijos.

there is also something about you on it
http://yuruyerek.org/membres.htm

February 9, 2008 at 5:05 pm

On

 

seemingly Gregory Leurent is a dangerous person whom you shouldn’t trust!!!

“The page you mention is a page made by Oriol Vilaseca, one of the companions on the path down to Jerusalem, where we walked to from Paris in 1992/3. It’s not yet finished, and I don’t think it ever will. (Oriol has always been very lazy). It was supposed to contain the diaries we kept ‘religiously’ from the very day we left.”

“The page is not there anymore. But it was. Someone is hiding away something. Perhaps the pictures. Here we are: http://yuruyerek.org/ There are some pictures. It appeared even in some newspaper, apparently.” “In any case, the guy makes webpages.” Sask says. “Any Address? Keep the mention in the newspaper.”

 

“He seems to play chess. There must be some playing centre there. Let’s go at once. We’ll find him from there.” “No warning?” “Not here. Security matters.” “He’ll be surprised.” Wilheim says, slowly. “It’s a guy of us. We just have to find him and see whether we can get him out of the country without notice. There must be three or four in the same appartment with more or less the same name. But we have a picture.” “Let’s go.” “Me, too?” “If you want. I’ll have to mention anyhow.” “Well, you pay?” “Why not.” They leave that very day.

Structure of strategy, I’ll have to deal with after.

Texts left in the computer

www.onathinaonassis.wordpress.com

Chapter 24: Scissors cut paper

Quel bordel, mon dieu. Tora. (Now, in Greek.) I’ve to really sit down now and get out of my imaginations at once, before it is too late. Didn’t I say so. There are strange links between fantasy and reality. Which will not that much surprise me, but Sask must be shocked, the poor. Wasn’t it a way to explain what happened in Jerusalem in 2003? Them I was alone, now, there’s someone else sharing my destiny. Which will not help her to solve the situation, and she in charge. You see the problem, when you go too far into people’s private life, you’ll finish up by being accused of having built up a proof, an artificial, wicked one. At the end, I will be the only one to believe in you, even if it is none of my convenience. Because if it is not you, it is me. As it is not me, it must be you. It can’t be you, thus, there is something strange that has happened.

I saw Oriol Vilaseca in the court today. There he was, my imaginary character with some link to reality, looking as if it were still easy to get out of some security prison. It’s true that everything was upside down, today, I mean, there is usually some order, some inner logic to what happens, and today, I didn’t know whether I was a gourou, a terrorist, a lieutnant general myself, anything, and thus for all the others. The guard looked like General Patton, Sask appeared like a counter spy and even Oriol looked more as if he were going to a party than if staying in a security prison. What do you do? Which grasshalm do you grasp? – How poetical. But you usually become, in those situations.

I went down to the court, not that much because I really wanted, but because I felt it was to be done like that, I mean, it’s not that he’s accidentally there and yes, I was writing some story yesterday linked to him and on top of that, I know him. I said: “Hola. Qué tal? Qué haces aqui?” And he somewhat stared at me and claimed out:”Sonja.” “Sí, Sonja. Qué pasa.” (Yes, Sonja, what happens?) “Pues mira, me han traido aqui diciéndome que íbamos a una fiesta, y en cuanto hemos llegado, me han esposado y me han metido aqui.” (Well, look, they brought me here saying we were going to a party en when we arrived they have put me handcuffs and brought me here.) “Y te lo has creido?” (And you believed it?) “Qué tonto, no.” (How silly.) “Anxiety in voice : “Sabes algo?” (Do you know anything?) “Yo que sé. Puede ser cualquier cosa. Yo tampoco sé muy bien por qué me han metido aqui.” (I don’t know. It can be anything. I don’t know myself very well why I’m here.) “Te juro que no entiendo como piensa esta gente. A mi me tuvieron un mes esperando y luego parecía que me acusaban de espionaje.” (I swear I don’t know how these people think. They had me one month waiting and then they accused me of spywork.” “Joder.” (Really.) “Bueno, me voy y me cuentas más tarde.” (Well, I’m leaving now. You tell me later.)

Joder. Such a story, now. And the problem is, they’ ll have elements. His brother was involved in some ‘movement’ when he was younger and has a police record. On top of it, he studied hebrew at University, although he never finished his studies. He makes web pages. This means, there is a webpage somewhere. It’s for sure, now. Follow the thoughts. It means there may have been some falafel demonstration, too. Otherwise they wouldn’t have acted so quickly and decisively. This means, my papers are somewhere. And this, that they have left prison. And I’m writing novels, such a fun.

Buuf. Buuf. I mean, it’s easy to say their is some ‘fuite’ in the lieutnant general’s office. I wouldn’ blame her, because it does not seem to be her type. I mean, yes. I think she may build up a false proof. Certainly. The kind, she is subjectively convinced of the fact that someone is guilty. Build up a false proof and this is appalling evidence for the subject, who will confess. In fact, a false proof is a psychological device which, confronted to the reality of the accused may cause the finding of real proofs. But here. What for? I mean, yes, but not that way. It’s too involving for her. Imagine you have a page in ineternet which is pretending someone has left documents out of prison. It affects her. And you may have built up a similar proof without involvement, somehow. I mean, if my texts were of different nature, ok. You put the page in internet and then say: look, here your papers here your page, and there you are. And the one sits down and says, yes to everything, even to a false birth date, if of need. There are two things that would stop her from such a thing: first, she knows it is difficult to trap me with such evidence, she has tested before and I have avoided the trap with relative intelligence by just leaning on facts. I would say (she may think): And how did the papers get out of here? On top, even if it is a test page, there are people looking at it. And this implies that it may cause movements and what: are you going to say that you have provoked the falafel demonstration yourself in order to trap a prisoner? Tss. It’s to go too far.

No. No. No. Something happens. The most suspicious of all, to my own eyes, am myself. It’s just to follow the novel. How. I have translations that are sent in by my father. These translations are from German into Spanish. To say. If they revise something, they will be revising the German text. And probably just at the begining. It is all the same and it’s expensive to translate the whole stuff. I’ve sent a letter to my father saying (the first from Halil) saying: “Ask from Oriol Vilaseca a page. Not from me, from you. I’ll send you texts under the translations (same font/same style/ same paragraphe). Each is a header text for some chapters I will send you through cd, that go just under the header. Open a page called. www.paramana.wordpress.com Don’t talk about it. If anything happens, say, you don’t know anything.” I’ve sent the cd. My father hasn’t the address of Oriol, but my brother has in France. It’s not difficult to get it. He phones, (because he’s careful) once to Oriol and tells him: he’s sending the documents through the post. If he is very careful, he uses the same envelop Halil has sent and just changes the address somehow. Although this is dangerous, because the first address could be read. Or, better, he copies Halil writing at the back, and address and stamps. It will take too much time. He certainly won’t go that far. He thinks, not me. He gives the envelops to some friend, for example, David Butler, and tells him to do him the favour and send them to Barcelona. Or not. Because David does not do that kind of thing. The woman who is cleaning up the appartment. He’s not seen in the post office. She will not be remarked. The envelops arrive and Oriol makes the page. He thinks it is just a job. He puts the information in internet without too many questions and is trapped. How wicked, if I have thought such thing. But it is possible. I can’t but consider the possibility he will be trapped. He may end up in prison, because they’re going to search him and accuse him of whatever it is. I would have to have reasons. It’s true that we have quarrelled. He changed my pages from a valencian server to a dutch one and when I wanted to activate them, they didn’t work anymore. But, is this reason enough? It doesn’t matter if I may think it possible myself. I mean, it’s true that you can suspect something out of little details. Much fatter than just a change of server. I may suspect it is not normal someone is making webpages without registration – not only because he doesn’t pay taxes and doesn’t make the effort to justify – to say, there’s something behind, something hidden. Perhaps a paedophilia mafia. Or real links to terroristic groupments in Palestina. It’s not impossible. I know that the very fact of having gone down to Jerusalem, then, was understood in very wicked ways and perhaps just because some people were jealous. It may have provoked the wanting to distroy the possible generation of some new religious feeling, which was understood as dangerous, then, in France, by progressively involving people into random activity. To say: There you have it, the holy. I may have had some intuition of that, perhaps deriving wrongly, because some documents that were not mine appeared in my web pages’ dashboard. You take Ipswitch to send the information to internet, for example. It has a series of documents: some are in your computer, some are in internet. One day, while going through the pages, I saw there were more in internet than in my computer and the only one to have the password was Oriol. What happens if the codes to the dashboard are given to the one or the other. What if you download some information again somewhere else? It may be his way of thinking, although I didn’t control. I just asked for the management of the page. He changed servers against my explicite advice. And went to some Dutch server, Sync, I don’t like specially. There is something dubious about the whole. May I have kept this in my unconscious in order to drive attention on something? Kind “I don’t know anything. He may?”

A little bit complicated as way of thinking, I’d say. But possible. On top, it puts my own life in danger. Not that I would be shot finally, but it is going to disturb my plans. She is going to get angry, whatever happens, and I have to take care of my own life, which is not that easy, either.

But. Let us say. Sask is out. I’m out myself. If Oriol has done everything all alone by himself, not only he’s a real bastard, but how did he do it? I mean, he has to get my texts and then the information out of prison. Such long fingers? A stupid accident? But why then blame me of all? Does he keep reasons, I don’t know? Is he deviating attention from something and he knows about my situation and has thought that in this, I will be blamed myself for everything? Panic? But if it were so, which is not impossible: he sees my name in internet and asks my father where I’m. He says, (to him he would,) I’m in prison. A brilliant idea is born. Ok. But the texts? I mean if they were different than mine, he may have made them up. But they are the same. Thus, they have to have left prison, somehow. The cd, ok. My father has it, he gices a copy to David Butler because he likes the contents. David leaves it to his friend Cesar and he forgets it in a Café, perhaps someone is the whereabouts and gets some appointment with the one or the other and steals the cd. Cesar is a little bit careless, does not remember where he has left it and forgets about the whole. Yes. But my father hasn’t the diary in prison. It is texts that have been written before, that have nothing to do with prison. How does the diary arrive in Oriol’s hands?

You must know that it exists. You must know where it is. You must know to get it out. Let’s think about this possibility, now. I’m here. My texts are in my flash. They have been ‘copied’ by Sask. But she’s not the only one to have had possible access. A guard. Elma. Maya. That’s what we have.

Wait a minute. And if Oriol hasn’t made the page? I mean he is here. You see how compelling it is. He is here, it is him. This is how we run into the most absurd hypothesis. They have thought, it is him, but is it? There may be reasons to think so, can they prove it? It’s difficult to prove. It’s a wordpress program. He’ll say he works with Frontpage. He doesn’t have the password of that page. He doesn’t know anything about me, since months even years. He didn’t even know I was in prison. Logically, he says: It’s not me, the page will stop producing documents.

It can’t be Elma, it can’t be Maya, they’ve left a long time ago, and if the page had stopped then, it must have caused the deduction of who it was. Because if Maya had made the page, she wouldn’t have fresh documents now. And this would create a rupture in style, even if she pretends she’s still there. And this is visible. I mean, not that I think they would think this way, but it leaves proofs some other way. Kind, the texts don’t fit with mine after exactly the day Maya’s left. If it were to take things this way, it must come from the lieutnant general’s office. A guard? Impossible. They have no access to the computer which has an entry password. They have internet because they use both memories of the hard disk, certainly, if not three. They keep some documents in one which is blocked for outer access and they use some other user with limited acces to another memory. Certainly. I would say. I mean, they’re not stupid, these people.

But there is something. The flash. She must use is. And I know she has been through all my texts, which are quite a lot. Certainly not here. She must take some copy home. Home is always dangerous. But what, to think someone has access to some personal computer or may be stealing the information day after day? That’s very near. And very careless. Once it may happen, but ten times? 15 times? That’s very much. I don’t know, where this path may lead to. There may be a hole somewhere. Of course it may be the strategy I had made up in my former stories. A closed circuit. But the possibility of having a closed circuit involves someone from the whereabouts. I know. You have a few computers at home. They are like that these people. they don’t share anything, only the circuits. Closed circuits need cable connection. She would have realized. But not her daughter or son, or whatever, a cousin. For internet (they’re grippy) they’re not going to use different connections, certainly. (I wouldn’t do either, by the way.) In order to have the same internet connection you need a closed circuit. If there is a fourth computer connected to this circuit, the other will not realize. A cable more or less. There is one for the printer, one for the scanner, one for the photo machine and etc. Soem cables ’she tends to think’ are there only to bother you. It’s obvious.

Of course those people have no private internet connection. It will certainly depend on the army. Yes. But not some acquaintance. A Oriol gibi, as I used to say (like Oriol, in turkish). A friend of one of the children. they take care with the acquaintances of officers, less with their children. Someone pretends to know a lot about computers in the whereabouts, some accidental acquaintance, it seems. He goes there for a visit. Pretends to install something. How does he get the cable out? You don’t need it anymore. You need some parallel internet connection, to say: the codes of the internet connection in order to use the same in another computer. You get into computer A, which is in closed circuit with computer B. If you enter A, you will have access to B.

AFter a while, the guy disappears. But this means, means. You need the following circumstance: a family member in one computer, with internet. At the same time the lieutnant general in the second, with internet. Probably the division of memories does not exist here. She never takes information out of the office. But this, this is literature, psychologically. What the importance. It is already 6 months some obscure agency is following more or less boring movements. No connections to pornographic sites, no wild love letters, no confidential information, nothing that may be used. And all of a sudden, this information arrives in some office, somewhere. How can it be used? After so many months, something. But. What. May it be useful. It is a government, because the amount of information needed in order to use such a thing against ‘x’ is too high even for most developped mafia. You need to know: who the subject is, that ‘x’ is at the head of some prison, that the subject has weak exploitable points or contacts. That some of these are susceptible of giving in to some invitation.

Germany. No doubt. It’s obvious. They have a strategy consisting in accusing Israel of attempt against human rights in questions concerning Palestina. They use random organizations like ‘Medecins sans frontiere’ or ‘other’ in order to foment rumours concerning illegal behaviour in those environments. This is why they are interested in the lieutnant general. This is why they make up the whole. But I’m not a palestinian. The better. German citizen put into prison without reason and submitted to psychological torture. Perfect. They are not going to publish the information themselves. My father is contacted and the page put in functioning through Oriol. Why my father. Because if something goes wrong, they’ll blame him. Affective reasons. No government involvement. Clean hands.

It looks sound. It explains everything. The letters arrive finally through some ‘x’ to Oriol’s hands, who does not know anything about the whole, but is publishing periodically articles in internet. No direct link, no involvement. I would believe this. But it’s just an hypothesis. I mean, you need to verify and I haven’t the means.

Don’t exaggerate. Say I was in love with someone in Israel and made everything up, even compelling proofs accusing Germany in order to get a passport for free in Israel that may not have the implications of having to get married. That’s too tortuous. I mean, there are limits to imagination, somehow. Although, why not. It’s vanity to think so. But which power. Which extraordinary conjunction of circumstances.

Not that it is not impossible, I have to admit, even a posteriori. Look. Go through the German psychic type analysis. It finishes by implying that they confuse in reversion (consequence before cause) the private with the public. Logically they’re going to use the private channel. Israeli have some fusion of structures that leaves some hole somewhere, but they don’t revert. For them, the cause comes first and then the consequence. There you have the hole. The difference in vision arising from some ’same’ (confusion of the private and the public) and some difference (different causality patterns) allows the infiltration of a private aspect that is not considered because it doesn’t fit in given patterns of understanding. The German structure allows the use of coincidences and circumstantial elements: the kind, to use some accidentally found ‘text’ as if it were part of a plan. What Sask would never do. It’s possible to think such a posteriori. Confronted to some elements. But a priori is very difficult in these circumstances. I’m in prison, and the pressure is quite high. Perhaps some unconscious conclusions do go on working, incidentally, accidentally and the situation is such, just because it is a logical consequence of ways of thinking, I just run into. I want to say that you study whatever inside of your own patterns of understanding. Mine include the possibility such a thing may happen. I can just test it. Not to get out. To get free. As a slight, far and remote possibility. Kind, do you  a favour and it grants for the rest. But the possibilities such a thing may happen are so little, that you can not consider it consciously. I would say. I mean, I didn’t think about it, it’s an evidence.

Let us presume it is like that. I wouldn’t profit of it, it’s not my character. I have to transform some subjective ’evidence’ into a more generally accepted context.

________________________________________________________

That was in the morning and ever since a lot of things have happened. My status has changed. For a while, at least, but you should profit of all circumstances. Sask informed me very politely of the fact, she was going to use the upper document in a cross examination with Oriol Vilaseca. In fact, she hold this for ‘my version’ and although it had really looked this morning as if I would be taken by the neck to the evidence of a webpage and a confrontation with Oriol, it finally didn’t happen. She asked me to sign the paper and wrote something on it. Then I was asked whether I wouldn’t mind to assist to Oriol’s cross examination. To listen. I mean. I said, why not and was taken out of the door – the first time since I’ve arrived here – and along some corridor and some steps down, there, I guess, where you receive visits, because Maya did always disappear this way when someone was coming, and where I suspect the isolation cells are, although I’m not sure. There are two rooms and they are cut one from the other through a wall and a window. And the window does not allow seeing from the other side, but does from mine. You can hear what they say through some microphones.

You always go somewhere with some hypothesis in your head. If you’re guilty, you always think how to use what there is to your advantage. In this case, the hypothesis is you alibi. You always have to think both ways because if you are innocent, and you may believe it (which is not necessarily the case – I mean there are really stupid one’s who make of the buying of a packet of cigarettes the belief they are heroically contributing to some revolutionary movement, until they’re caught. The psychological boasting will become an irreversible proof to his own eyes, and he will even be making up things and mislead some investigation.), this does not imply that others are convinced of what you are convinced. In my case, I state, the difference in logic does imply that what I do may compellingly appear as proof of guilt to others, and this, you always have to consider. If you’re guilty, you have to adjust your sayings to the possibility they may appear as proving innocence to other people’s eyes. Whatever they think, whatever they may blame me for, I have a hypothesis. My hypothesis is my alibi to their eyes. Whatever Oriol says, I have some ‘excuse’. The possibility it could be otherwise. Because, even if there is no closed circuit in Sask’s house, even if the papers have been sent by myself to my father (and thus you conclude without proofs that necessarily I must have done it myself), I may allege that I was ’seduced’ by my father in order to give him information which I thought he wanted just for personal reasons. And this information has been misused with or against his will in order to make a public scandal. Whatever he says, it does not affect me. Only if there are papers that do link me to my father and inside of which there is a clear reference to the making of the page, I could be involved. If I had done it myself, I would have changed the writing enough so as not to show a clear ressemblance. If it though did, “I’d say that Halil stole some of my texts and that he asked for the address of my father later and this is why the letters do ressemble to mine.” To say. I feel innocent however you turn things and however compelling you may want make proofs appear.

Does Oriol? I don’t believe so. He may feel guilty because of whatever. And he looks guilty. His attention is narrowed by this very fact. I have been here for over a month. In these places you start thinking about the chocolate you stole away from your mother when you were 8 years old. It’s like that. Very rapidly, the chocolate and some real crime acquire the same value. Aware of the fact that you have stolen a chocolate, you may hide away this and confess some criminal activity, very quickly. Whenever he is going to read my ‘version’ his perspective is going to be determined by this very fact. Does he think I’ll sell him? Does he think I’m innocent? Does he get rid of his own fault by accusing me without knowing? Does he mean I’m going to help him through some ‘instructions’?

Let us see. He admits: he comes from Barcelona, he comes from a notaire family, he knows me through someone called Emmanuel Castro, who he had a music group with, through a common friend called Marc, who went to the same school than Emmanuel. Emmanuel wanted to walk down to Jerusalem. Oriol was informed and wanted, too. (There was a stop here.) After some deliberations, he came with us although he had to stop his studies. He was the youngest of all. He knows me for the six months the journey lasts, stays then with us three months in Israel and leaves for Barcelona. He will visit us in Istanbul at least once. Then, he’ll come to Greece almost every year for years. The last time he comes is in 2001, for very short, not even a day. At the same time, he finishes school, goes some years to university studying ancient languages, in any case hebrew, and stops after. he works at his father office and makes web pages by the way.

What does he omit? That he saw me in Barcelona in 2005 and told me how to make webpages with Frontpage. Why? Because he forgets? No. Because then he’s already in some dirt.

Sigamos. He says: That he recieved a phone call from my father and then, some documents. That he accepted because he had some financial problems and that he doesn’t speak English well enough to evaluate the contents. He just copies and pastes.

(He’s very silly.) There you have your 5 years, for publication of to national security related documents. – Poor guy. Following his thoughts: I have committed the crime in Spain, I should be judged in Spain. I say the truth, it does not involve me. (I’m hearing it. – Your crime is a confession in Israel.) 5 years. The lieutnant general says. It was obvious. And he says “but I’ve done nothing here.” “You say you have done it, and that’s enough, here.” He’s a little bit paler now.

Bad situation. But that situates everything somehow. My father is involved. I knew it. Another poor guy. Misused all his life by this Bundesrepublik. Well. I’ve to think about it because I have another problem. Sask looks highly confused, and this because she has been through my text yesterday and it is revealing things that have happened, really, somehow, even if somewhat differently. It’s obvious. Oriol is here and I couldn’t know. Let us study this mysterious character again, because the worse thing to happen now, is that she lands in a psychiatric hospital. Such a long time studying this psychology to get the way out and she may disappear now. – That’s completely out of question.

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