Not Six Million By Freddy S. Zalta

Not Six Million Written By Freddy S. Zalta for Image Magazine 2000 When people speak about the Holocaust the number “Six million” comes up and people pause. Sometimes they pause because they are in awe of the number; sometimes they pause because they just cannot imagine six million people being extinguished for no other reason but hatred. Sometimes they pause because the number has been repeated so many times that it doesn’t even faze them anymore but they feel that a pause is necessary. We have all seen the footage of the atrocities carried out by the Germans; we have seen the footage of the emaciated Jews looking into the camera; we have all seen the footage of the piles of bodies; men, women and children. The stench of death will never be forgotten and the blood is on the hands of every leader of every country that knew about the atrocities yet decided to turn away. Six million souls? No, not six million souls. The souls of the six million live on forever; it is the souls of the murderers that have been obliterated or are still burning in judgment somewhere. Six million Jews? No, not six million Jews. Each one of those six million would have contributed much more to this world then just taking up space. The cure for cancer could be in the ashes of Auschwitz. The cure for war could be in the ashes of Bergen-Belsen. The percentage of the six million who had yet to have children or marry could have led to another 20 million Jews by 1960; in turn another 40 million by 1980 and another 60 million by 2000. Six million? No not six million. Think of the music that could have been composed. Think of the stories that could have been written. Think of the art that could have been created. Think of the millions of lonely souls searching for love…The millions who have lived a life full of sadness and emptiness that one of those “six million” could have filled with their love, their caring and their warmth. Think of death and you cannot fathom the lives these unborn souls would have lived. Think about life and the right to choose to live or die and you can’t help but remember the choices that the unborn will never have. Think about the amount of the six million who had yet to fall in love; who had yet to see a beach; who had yet to watch a baby being born…the millions more who will never even get the chance. The ashes of the camps are filled with dreams that will never be dreamed; cures that will never cure; love that will never again love or be loved; children crying out for mommy or daddy… Six million is just a number. The Germans did more then kill Six million Jews they destroyed a world that could have been, should have been brighter, healthier and full of love and peace. Six million? No. An infinite amount of people will be paying the price of the death of the living and the death of the unborn for an infinite amount of time. The generation of the survivors is aging and in a short while there will be no more witnesses. That is why we must teach our children over and over again the importance of never to forget. The importance of the words…Never again.

Disclaimer

All written by Freddy Zalta "The events depicted in these chapters are fictitious. Any similarity to any person, company or entity living or dead, in business or out, is merely coincidental. (C) 2008-2009 F-Train Publications Brooklyn, NY ISBN-2126-546718

CPA and Just Another Day

Below are the first 5 chapters of my next book. It has not been edited and is very raw so be very understanding...to be continued.

Chapter 1 - Ride to NYC

On a beach somewhere…its hot but there is a soft caressing breeze blowing and I can sense the feeling of relaxation seeping within me. The water is a clear aqua blue and the sky is azure. White powdery sand covers my toes…I can feel someone touching me and suddenly I feel a numbing pain in my balls. A loud announcement screams, “The news watch never stops, you give us 22 minutes we’ll give you the world. Good morning its, 14 degrees outside and cloudy on this January 18th I am Judy Deangelos.” I hit the clock…my daughter laughs. She is on top of me and her foot has inadvertently (?) kicked me in my groin. My wife rolls over and says, “Good morning.” I roll over and smile, in pain, “but it was such a nice dream…” Under the shower the water pressure suddenly drops. Shampoo in my hair begins to drip unto my face and then my eyes. I spend the remainder of my shower trying to wash myself under a dripping spray. As soon as I go to shut the water, the pressure returns, too late, I shut it. I put on my clothes and my pants are tighter then usual. “Honey I think my pants shrunk.” I say. “I don’t think it’s the pants that have changed.” She says with a smile. “I haven’t gained weight in one week. These pants fit me perfectly last week and then you had to clean them.” “They were dirty, you want to wear dirty clothes?” I lose the argument and just wear them unbuckled with a sweater covering the belt area so no one can see. I walk downstairs and make myself a cup of instant coffee. It tastes, well, like instant coffee; instant gratification without the actual gratification. But its ok, its caffeine and its Monday morning, so it’ll do. I have come to lower my standards on this and lots of others things I once seemed to hold to higher ones. Music, movies, books and coffee; some examples of too many expectations that have fallen short and less then have they risen to the occasion. I once believed that life was supposed to be seized; you know “carpe diem” and all that. Yeh, well, I have come to realize that’s a bunch of bullshit spoken by poor artists who didn’t have to raise a family and pay for a mortgage that was refinanced 3 times just to make ends meet. Fucking assholes; infecting us with all that “make the most of your day” crap. Yeh seize ‘this’ buddy. I walk towards the elevated platform on Avenue P and McDonald Avenue to take the F train into Manhattan. I live in Brooklyn, have lived in Brooklyn my entire life. Its in my blood and I will probably die here and be buried somewhere in this Boro Capital of the world. I wait on the platform and see the familiar faces; the Russian girl who thinks she is hotter then she actually is, the Asian girl who is hotter then she thinks she is, the religious Jew who carries a big book in his hand, the Talmud and then the Giant man who scares the crap out of me. He is well over 6 feet tall, really heavy set with over sized features on his head. Bit mouth, giant ears and big nose. He can pass for a modern day Frankenstein, in any case he scares the shit out of me. He lives in my area because I often see him walking alone and one time I saw him walking alone in the dark. I didn’t know what it was walking towards me, looked like a walking tree, but as he got closer I realized who it was, the giant from the F train. The train rolls in and we all walk onto the cars and scramble for a seat. Its usually not a problem since we are one of the first stops from Brooklyn to the city. I sit down and look around. Once again, I see the usual suspects sitting in their usual spots. Young girl mouthing prayers very quickly while the woman next to her applies make-up to her face, as if it’s going to make a difference. Its funny thing about makeup, sometimes I see a beautiful girl walk on looking all fresh and then she sits down and puts on make up that makes her look older and less pretty then nature intended. I don’t know, I am just happy I aint no chick, I don’t know if I could be so obsessed with my appearance just to impress others. I am sitting on the first seat next to the door and there is an Asian woman and her little son sitting next to me, one seat apart. She is speaking extremely loud to him and I have no idea what she is saying but she seems quite pissed off. She keeps speaking like a fucking siren in the middle of the night screaming and blaring. I say Asian because I have no idea if she is Korean, Japanese, Chinese or whatever. I am a Jewish Man from Brooklyn and I have no idea how to differentiate. That might sound racist, but I mean it in a non-racist way. What does piss me off about them is their loud voice. They can be sitting inches apart and they scream to each other as if they are a block apart. What's up with that? 18th Avenue and the Hasidic Jews walk onto the train, seats are scarce and people are beginning to be stuck standing for the duration. I open up my paper and read about the same old news. Bailouts, unemployment, Obama’s change is basically the same old story and the only change is the color of the skin which is the only reason he was elected in the first place. People all talk about how its such an amazing accomplishment that we have elected a black president and I guess to some extent I agree, but I feel the opposite is true. People want to convince themselves that they are better the generation before then so they vote for someone who, despite all the reasons not to vote for him, lack of experience, past affiliates, etc. vote for him because of his charisma and his call for change. I am hoping he turns out to make a difference simply because this country needs serious help. So I will stand behind him and hope for changes for the better. We go underground and hit Church Avenue; a large man walks in and decides to sit between the Asian lady and me. It takes a couple of seconds but the smell begins to make its way towards me. I stand up and walk towards the other side of the car. I cant believe I got screwed like that but, what am I gonna do? We hit Jay Street and a mass exodus occurs, I run and find myself a seat next to the chick who was praying before. She is listening to her ipod now and oblivious. No problem at least she smells nice. She looks at me and nods her head as if she is disgusted with me. “What?” I asked. “You just sat on a some yogurt or something.” She says. I put my hand on my butt and notice its wet now and all I can say is I hope its water and not yogurt. Black pants and yogurt don’t go well together and we have a meeting today with the boss and some board members. There have been rumors of lay-offs and cut backs, we already did not get any bonus this past New Year and its no secret that the company gambled 7 million dollars on a product that was at its peak and was now in decline. So this meeting was called to discuss the future of the company and its employees. The train stops in between East Broadway and Delancy Street, no announcement until 5 minutes into it. “Ladies and Gentleman we are being held here because of a stalled train on Delancy Street, we hope to be moving shortly.” Ten minutes pass by and the smell from my former neighbor across the car starts to make its way towards us. I stand up to walk towards the other side and the train jumps. We get to Delancy and throngs run onto the train.

The Thing About Dreams

It’s late September; last day of September actually. The summer is still hanging around, although the wind has been trying its best to push it away. The summer was something this year. Blue skies, trips to the beach, baseball, no homework, and cuts and bruises all around. When I was younger, summer meant no school and the sounds of baseball on my transistor radio. Each spring I would eagerly count down to the first week in April for opening day and the start of a six-month journey where dreams are encouraged and the daylight lasts straight into the evening. I remember playing softball in the schoolyard down the block from our home. We would begin early in the morning and defend our field until the sun just couldn't stay up any longer. We would play and we would become our heroes; I would be Tom Seaver pitching and then I would be Dave Kingman hitting. The dreams I held tightly in my heart were encouraged by the success I had between the lines; I was a fast runner and I would plow my way around from home plate to home plate. Bruises, scrapes and cuts leading to scars on my body. The journey around the bases was exciting as I dared each player to try and catch me; the dream of success encouraged. I didn't always get the hit and strike out the hitter; in fact I was not the best player on the field. But I had more fun then anyone else. How can you go wrong when you are living your dreams? The summer evenings were always hot. Air conditioners were not the norm back then and the windows would be wide open all night. I would keep my transistor radio underneath my pillow and listen to the sounds of baseball being played somewhere. Dreams encouraged; dreams being celebrated as the summer months peaked. I remember the summer of 1977: blackouts, heat, killer on the loose, dirty streets and death that seemed to follow us wherever we turned. Charlie Chaplin, Groucho Marx, Elvis Presley and so many others. The daughter of the owners of the diner across the street on Kings Highway, killed by the media's ‘Son of Sam.’ Of course there were also the dreams that died that year for me; the dream that loyalty meant something. On June 15th 1977, the Mets traded my heroes Tom Seaver and Dave Kingman and just like that, all in one night, they were gone. Loyalty seemed nowhere to be found on or off the field. The summer went slowly that year and I waited for it to end. Dreams seemed to be turning into nightmares and I felt out of control. The thing about dreams is that they are rarely encouraged; they are looked upon as if they’re a curse and when something goes wrong we’re told to wake up and deal with reality. The thing about dreams that brings feelings of unease is the way they are discarded, forgotten and replaced—just like Seaver and Kingman. The summer is finishing now and I can tell you that I've had my share of ‘dreams’ gone wrong. Dreams of loyalty, support and courage. It’s not how the dream ends; it’s how much heart and soul you put into it to make it the best journey possible. The baseball season ended for me this September. With the Mets losing, all the success of the months before had been negated. The heart and soul of the team was lost somewhere in the dog days of August. Now the cool winds will blow more consistent, the chatter on the streets will grow faint and days will last only for several hours at a time. The comfort of the daily games are gone and the sounds of the ball hitting the bat muted. Life is too short to let go of all your dreams; our dreams can be part of our reality. In dreams there are no failures; the only failures are the dreams no one dares to take a chance on. There’s no such thing as failure, because without failure, who are we? I’d rather speak with a man with scars than one with a clear complexion. Who are we if we have not yet fallen on our face and stood up to try once again and again and again? I have my scars. Most people are sympathetic; I equate my scars with trophies—inspiration to stand up again, walk onto the field, hit the ball and run around the bases. Although these days I am much slower, I know that I will find my way back home via the base paths. Each base is its own goal and reward— integrity, respect, love and responsibility. That responsibility in knowing I am not the only one on the field and that there are others who are running ahead and behind me. It is my responsibility to clear the way for them to find their way back home. _________________ Freddy S. Zalta lives in Brooklyn, living the impossible dreams

July 10th 2007

Hot summer day; 4th of July passed; love conquers all...it does. Money is unimportant when you have a lot of it. Money is important. Health and Happiness go hand in hand...God bless you. I didnt sneeze... No i meant...ok. Keep your chin up and keep on passing those open windows. you dont have to entertain to be loved but you can love to entertain. Do unto others as you'd like done to you...the rest is all commentary. Good night, Irene. (who is Irene?) Dont stop dreaming...ever!

In Memory of Ezra Abraham

Jacobo Hassan

This past week we lost someone who lived and loved to the fullest. Newly married and so in love he died knowing he saved his wife from his own fate. His body has been found, but his soul and smile is everlasting. Tsunami is a word that will never be forgotten. In memory of Jacobo Hassan, please do a good deed today!!! Give charity, visit a sick person, respect your parents a little bit more then usual, kiss your kids and spend some time with them without the TV on and with your cell phone shut off. Smile to a stranger and hold the door open for the person behind you. Give your seat to someone because they seem to need it more then you. Cook a meal for a family that really could use one... Get involved! We all have the ability to change this world; let us change it for the better. Get involved with a local group that helps the poor, the unemployed, the sick and the lonely. Dedicate ten hours a year towards doing this in memory of all those who died too soon. Make up with your friends and your family; stop hating...start understanding. We are all individuals with our own individual faults...forgive each other...life is too short. To everyone who have stopped talking to each other because of money...start talking and stop arguing. it doesn't matter who each of you think was wrong or right; in the end it doesn't matter. In memory of my cousin who died living...let us all do our part to make this world a better place. Thank you, Freddy S. Zalta
fzalta@gmail.com

Superman

One night in the early 80's I was walking with my friends on the upper west side of Manhattan when I suddenly saw a familiar face walking quickly and carrying the Sunday New York Times. I double took the way you do when you think you saw someone you know and then I noticed it was someone I knew. Although, much to my naive teenage feelings of owning the world, the person I saw didnt know who the hell I was and I think I actually scared him. "Hey, thats Superman." I blurted out to my friends loud enough for him to hear. "And your a jerk." Scowled the man of steel. At first I was in shock; he looked more like Clark Kent then Superman; then I was angry; who is he to call me a jerk! then, a couple of hours later, I understood. Here was a man walking with a newspaper on a saturday night; clearly trying to disappear into the New York City life where no one bothers you if your famous, (they ussually just smile or nod) and here I was speaking loudly and annoucing his presence. Throughout the years I have told the story of how Superman saw right through me and called me a jerk. he was right; I was a jerk. many years later I heard the bulletin on 1010 WINS in New York. Superman was hurt in a horse accident and was not expected to survive. Later it was reported he would survive but would be a quadripolegic. It was unbelievable; superman...unable to be super...it was a quick reminder to all of us, "jerks" of just how vulnerable we all are. But Christopher Reeve was a bigger and better man then Superman. Superman did his good deeds and then turned away and hid behind glasses and a nerdy haircut. Christopher Reeve was quickly surrounded by friends...friends who took it upon themselves to be there for him. Not just when he was super, but when he was the best of all his characters...Human Being. His wife is every mans dream of a wife; there for you through thick and thin; holding you when you cant stop shaking and giving you the will to live when all you want to do is die. Superman had nothing on Christopher Reeve. Christopher Reeve swore that he would walk again. Christopher Reeve swore that he would stay in shape and breath on his own. He did. Imagine, a star the magnitude of Mr. Reeve, totally unable to move; going to capital hill; using a tube to help him breath and then speaking in a voice louder then Pavarotti's; "I represent nearly 400,000 spinal cord-injured Americans and millions more around the world who now have a legitimate reason to believe that the day will come when they will rise out of these wheelchairs. Scientists are successfully exploring one of the last great mysteries of medicine, the frontier of inner space, the diseases of the brain and the central nervous system." His voice was stronger then a speeding bullet, stronger then a racing train...today when we are all in a postion where we feel weakened and unable to even take our next step...we will look up into the sky and not see a bird, a plane or superman...we will see a man standing up from his chair and walking home.

Another preview "That Old 66 Chevy"

That Old 66 Chevy

Preview from "Collection of Words" by Freddy S. Zalta

There is no beauty that is equal to the beauty of a woman. The smile that can heal you; the sun glistening off of her as she throws her hair back; the heart she surrenders to you…her lips… one night as you wander the house unable to sleep; thinking about the morning and what it will bring you...more bills, less money... you hear a cry coming from upstairs. You walk quickly and you come to you baby’s room. You look down into the crib and she smiles…you smile and you return to your bed; you lay awake and you listen to the rain falling outside and you smile. Your wife turns towards you and smiles; you lay there hypnotized by the turn of her lips and the light that emanates from her mouth… You smile…you sleep. All is Ok. When She Smiles. The earliest memory I have is of being a child of around 5 or 6 years old. I was running around our apartment and I fell and got hurt. I began to cry and cry, my brothers tried to console me by promising me lots of things that I liked at the time. My sister promised me a yodel. Nothing worked; nothing stopped me from crying, until I saw her smile. My mother came into the room and smiled at me, hugged me and suddenly everything was all right. When she smiles, my wounds suddenly heal. When I was ten years old my parents sent me to summer camp. At first I was nervous because I did not know anyone who was going to that camp. On the first day, I swear I remember this as if it were yesterday; I saw her smile. Danielle was her name and she was my first love. She was standing with her group and she was laughing and talking. She had dark blonde hair, a crooked smile and soft brown eyes. From that day on I was inspired to come to camp everyday. I never did work up the nerve to speak to her, although I did offer her a piece of gum once, which she took and quickly walked away. But I still remember her smile, some twenty years later. I was fourteen years old and she loved Bob Dylan. Brown hair, brown eyes and dark skin. I carried her books home from school more then once and I loved to watch her smile. Sixteen years old and many smiles later, I found myself on stage in front of a crowd. So many people staring right at me, but I can only see one pair of eyes. I was scared up there at first until I saw her smiling that smile. Sometimes even now, when I’m on stage in real life, I see her smile and I’m at ease. There have been a lot of tears fallen from my face and I’ve tasted her tear drops as well; but there comes a time when even a smile cant stop the pain and that’s when you know that its time to move on. They say the sun always comes out after the rain and that the long winter will always come to an end. Just like a lonely man finds a new friend to help him smile. One night while walking along the river searching for some answers and a reason to smile. I caught a glimpse of a shooting star and I knew it was time to live again. Phone calls and long dinners lead to a lifetime of smiles and a woman I can call my best friend. When I saw her smile, my heart began to beat again. One night, after the type of day at work where you question everything, I walked into my daughter’s room. I stood above her as she slept in her crib. I put my finger in her hand and I saw her smile… And the answers I’d been searching for came to me in the shape of a smile.