Sentence The Fivehundredandeightyfirst
 

"I thank you, Mr Cohen, for your boon support and services in my darkest hour of need," said Mr MacDonald, imbuing his words with such a puissant air of drama that surprised the urbane solicitor, as the two men walked from Cohen's car, which had brought them from The Gorbals Police Station, and headed down towards The Kelvin and The Clansman; but before Cohen could make any retort, they were inside and the recently persecuted tailor was greeted with a roar of support which filled the

bar and included the solicitor as the instrument of Justice; "this whole thing which has enveloped me," said the tailor, "feels like a riddle, wrapped in an enigma, inside a mystery, but perhaps there is a key, no?" and as Cohen, declining a drink, for he had his own family waiting for him in Bearsden, turned to leave, a sudden thought stayed him and he moved close to MacDonald and, leaning very close, whispered: "Heil Hitler!" and reflexively, MacDonald's heels clicked, his right arm shot upward and forward and he barked out the response: "HEIL HITLER!" at which there was a 

momentary silence in the room followed by gales of laughter from everyone who assumed the salute was addressed to the functionaries in the Maryhill Cop Shop! and that was the moment when Bernie

Cohen's whole appearance changed: gone was the floppy hair, the boyish smoothness of his face, the look of a charmed angel about him – oh he still retained his poise, his elegance, his taste, but he was aged before his time and his doctor and the various specialists who were consulted, were unanimous in their diagnosis of a form of stroke, which did not affect his intellect nor his speech, neither his face nor his mobility, but he himself, when asked by friends used the word his mother had given when she saw him for the first time after that fateful day: "my son, he has had a Shock, such a Shock, I only ever saw this before in one place, and that was in Auschwitz!"