Moral Dilemma

Heather Cochrane
242 Green Ave,
Penticton, B.C.
V2A 3W1

February 19^th, 2012

John Smith
Mayor
City Hall, 568 Main Street
Penticton, B.C.

Dear Mayor Smith,

            The information that you possess about Gunter Grass does not make me happy, and it must be quite overwhelming and a tiring burden for you to carry.  But I also feel it is quite the important matter and I am extremely glad you have taken the time to not only share this information with me, but also to ask for my opinion.

And I do have quite the opinion to share with you!  But, just to clarify a few things up first, I do not, in any way, support what the Nazis did during World War Two!  But, on that note, I feel it is important to look at not only Gunter Grass individually, but also at all the Nazi soldiers as a whole who served under Hitler’s command.

Most of the men commanding Nazi troops and the running of concentration camps were very young, and our own Gunter Grass was a mere nineteen-years-old when he became the commander of a Polish concentration camp in 1939.  It is inexcusable what the Nazis did, but to blame Gunter – who was barely more than a boy at the time – and to punish him now for crimes he committed sixty-seven years ago is also abominable.

Young German children were raised – and in a way, brainwashed – at the time and influenced by their families and their whole communities to believe that Jewish people were below them and that they were worthless.  These children and young adults didn’t know any better, as that was what they were taught and forced to think.  They didn’t know that, in other places, societies didn’t operate the same as their own.  It was unknown to them that there could even be another way of life, one where everyone was accepted, no matter their religion or ancestry.

Gunter, like many of the Nazis, was merely taking orders from the higher ranking officials during WWII.  He believed he was fighting for the betterment of his country, as that was what he learned through his childhood and young adulthood to do.  He was a young man, not yet out of his teenage years by today’s standards, who probably feared for his life if he disobeyed the Nazis.

Although I don’t condone what he did and what the Nazis did, since the war, Gunter has been a good man to our small community.  He was one of the best mayors for the thirty-six years which he served, and his donations to local charities and struggling families is admirable.  He’s given back to society, and maybe being a model citizen for nearly sixty-seven years is his way to try to make up for his sins that he committed during the six years of WWII.

I cannot believe that I am about to ask you to do this, Mayor Smith, but I feel that we should not expose Gunter’s secrets to the rest of our community and I am asking you to continue keeping this secret.

Although the deaths of millions is a black eye on Germany’s – and the world’s – history, the execution of Gunter at this late stage in his life would be a black eye on our own community.  Gunter is mere years away from death, and, maybe if his secret had been found out when he was middle aged, it has now been nearly seven decades since he committed those horrendous war crimes.  It is time to move along and prosecute current war criminals, not those who have lived out noble lives and tried to make up for their past sins.

And so, I feel that we should not reveal Gunter’s secrets, and, instead, let him live out his remaining years continuing to try to redeem himself.

Thank you, Mayor Smith, for your consideration in this matter concerning Gunter Grass and taking the time to reflect on my opinion.

            Sincerely,


            Heather Cochrane

Live and Learn

Slim and George sat down at the bar.  Slim put a hand on George’s shoulder and stated, “Like I said, George, sometimes a guy’s gotta.”

“He was dumber than a bag of hammers; he di’n’t know any better!” George whined, ignoring Slim.

“I know, man, life just ain’t fair,” Slim said, patting his companion on the back.

“I told Lennie not to say anything to Curley’s wife.  I told ’im, yes, that I told ’im, not to have anything to do with Curley or his wife.  I says to ’im to be as quiet as a mouse when either of them are around, but sometimes it’s like talking to a brick wall. He just don’t understand sometimes and his dumbness will get the better of him and he just can’t help himself!  It ain’t his fault, Slim!  I say, it just ain’t his fault!”

Slim’s hand fell to the counter as George took a long swig from his bottle, then rested his forehead on his hand.  Slim sat still without moving a muscle, just contemplating their situation.

“He was just scared out of his wits, is all.  He di’n’t mean any harm.  He likes to feel pretty things, soft things.” George sighed, rubbing his hands across his face.

Candy sidled up, settling down on a stool beside them at the bar.

“Now I ain’t gonna beat around the bush here, but that girl had it coming for her, always givin’ them young boys the eye an’ all.  She might’ve been a sight for sore eyes, but she was as slippery as an eel, ya hear me?” Candy told them.  “Now, George, you might feel like the whole world is against you, but trust me, sooner or later you’ll realize that every dog has his day, and, unfortunately, Lennie’s end just came sooner than others.”

“He di’n’t have a mean bone in his body, that Lennie di’n’t,” said Slim.  “But sometimes it’s only a matter of time before those without a care in the world finally fall prey to those who’re full of piss and vinegar.”

But George wasn’t listening to Slim and Candy, instead he muttered to himself under his breath, “He ain’t bright, but he’s a God damn good worker.  He ain’t bright, no, not bright at all.  He’s a God damn good worker though.  God damn good worker.  Told his Aunt Clara I’d look after ’im. But now look what he’s gone an’ done.  Gone and got ’imself into trouble and I had to pull the trigger.  God damn good worker he was.”

The Midday Battle...aka Lunch!

At precisely nine minutes before one o'clock, the shrill blast of the bell wrenches me from the stupor to which I've fallen prey in the past seventy-seven minutes. I wrestle my mind away from the captivating world which my daydreams have plunged me into, and back into the repulsive class which is now, thankfully, coming to an end for another day. Only ninety-nine days left of school until classes are officially over! I round up my books in record time, like a rancher with his cattle, and dash out the door. I navigate around the grade nines, who have the infuriating habit of blocking the hallways as they stop to talk about who said this, or who did that, in massive clusters, and consequentially angering the elder - and more important - grade twelve students. Darting through the cafeteria, which is packed with students like sardines in a can, I find myself standing at the rear of a vast line-up.  The grade twelve students should be allowed to bypass the line altogether, just like the teachers do, but, unfortunately, that is not reality.  Oh, the injustice of being in grade twelve but not receiving any special privileges that the grade tens or elevens don't also receive is unfathomable! The line moves dreadfully slow, and I shuffle forward, mimicking a penguin. The students ahead of me grab their food off the counter and scurry towards the register to pay, rushing along as if they haven't eaten in weeks! I eye the last of the French fries, and, just as I extend my hand to seize the golden, deep-fried, deliciously salty potato sticks, another hand reaches out to snatch the dish of fries! My dish of fries! I glare towards the student, ready to give them a piece of my mind about cutting in line, when I notice the fancy rings adorning her fingers; not the type of jewellery a high school student would wear. I look farther up and take in the khaki pants, the flowery shirt, and then the array of expensive necklaces. Finally, I glance up at the fry-stealer's face. A voice chirps in my mind, reminding me of my dear friends: Charlie, Billy and Wanda. I recoil away from the woman, letting her take the French fries. I accept my fate that I won't be eating today at lunch, for I do wish to pass Mrs. Fry-stealer's class and not get on her bad side. My hands drop to my sides in defeat, and I watch her stride over to the door, carrying her French fries triumphantly.  For a moment my mind wanders to what I would change at this school in regards to the grade twelves, and my heart longs to be given that chance.  My stomach growls noisily, reminding me of its emptiness. If only it hadn't been Mrs. Sutherland reaching for those fries...

Moi!

Heather Cochrane, commonly referred to as the fiery redhead – although she despises anyone who says she has red hair or calls her ginger – is often seen as a quiet, slightly shy young lady by those who aren’t close to her. But to her tight group of friends, she is outgoing and hyper, rarely without a smile or a laugh spilling from her lips. She is an animal-lover, a sports enthusiast, and can quote the majority of the Lord of the Rings movies. Although she wishes for world peace, she is not willing to give peas a chance. Like a tiger on the hunt, Heather longs for solitary atmospheres whilst she writes her most creative pieces. She is an eagle kept in confinement, just waiting and yearning for the day when she is set free to stretch her wings and continue on to study at UBC Vancouver and then travel around the world. Heather’s friends joke about her being related to polar bears or resembling a marshmallow, but, even though she laughs along, she knows the truth: she’s a vampire! Oh, just kidding! The truth is her paleness comes from her Scottish, Irish and Ukrainian heritage; three places Heather would love to travel when she gets older. She especially dreams of arriving in Ireland to chase down the infamous Leprechaun and find his pot of gold…or his Lucky Charms!