Chapter 1 – Mark
 

John F. Kennedy International Airport, the Bell Telephone Company, and thirty cents conspired together in late October 1977 and forever changed my life. I was returning home. In my hand, I held the second unused half of a round-trip ticket between Tel Aviv and New York. Alongside the ticket, in the blue plastic folder supplied by my travel agent, were my two passports—American and Israeli. I was American by birth, as were my parents, and Israeli in that I had lived in Israel the past six and half years. 

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I waited for my flight. I shared the concourse with couples, families, and small groups of travelers. Every flight between New York and Tel Aviv seemed to carry at least a few Hasidic families. The fathers wore dark suits, long overcoats, and fur hats, as if they had come directly from a nineteenth-century Polish shtetl. The mothers wore long clean faded dresses, their hair covered by scarves. Hasidic children always seem boisterous, dressed in blue shorts and stained white buttoned shirts, all but the oldest spent their lives in hand-me-downs. Their heads were covered with brightly colored hand-crocheted yarmulkes. Their excited voices filled the terminal. 

I had made this flight a number of times in the past. My family had moved to Israel when I was eleven years old. I had been active in the Israeli scout movement and in June had graduated from an Israeli high school. My friends were Israelis. I was returning home. I felt alone, scared, and miserable. I looked through the large picture windows of the international terminal. A light rain was falling. The light was gray and muted. I watched the taxiing planes. 

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It had been one of the most difficult decisions of my life. In June of my senior year of high school, I had decided that I would not follow in the footsteps of my older brother. I would not emigrate from Israel; I would not be attending college in the United States. In one short week, I would be conscripted into the Israel Defense Forces. The Zionist ideas I had been exposed to in high school and the scout movement had taken root. It was my responsibility to serve the country that I had called home for the past years. I had benefited from the protection of the Israeli army during the Yom Kippur War. I had a debt to repay. With that decision to serve firmly made, I had left Israel for a last visit with friends and relatives in the United States. It had been a wonderful visit. My extended family loved me and had challenged my resolve. 

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The consequences of my decision were unknown. The best-case scenario was giving three years of my life; I could not fathom the worst case. I approached a bank of pay phones. I dialed a number that had been safely tucked away in the deep recesses of my memory since age four. It was the number of my best friend. His mother was my second mother. We had shared a quiet breakfast that morning. I would always have a home with her, she had promised; no questions asked. It was not too late to change my mind. I could stay in the United States, go to college, and dodge the draft. My parents would be supportive. My parents had never pressured me to serve; it was my decision. 

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I listened to the beeping sounds emanating from the phone’s receiver. I did not know what I would say. Was I calling to say goodbye, or was I calling to ask for refuge? Did I just want to hear a familiar voice to ease my loneliness? My throat and eyes were dry as I waited for the familiar ringing sound.

“Please deposit one dollar and twenty-five cents for the first three minutes.” The computerized voice was a poor imitation of a human operator. 

I dug my hands deep into the front pocket of my jeans. I came out with ninety-five cents. The voice repeated its request for one dollar and twenty-five cents. I would have been happy to speak for just two minutes but was not offered that option. I needed to hear my second mother’s voice. Computers do not reason with desperate eighteen-year-olds. As I sat there listening to the recording, I heard my flight being called for boarding. I slowly replaced the receiver. I swallowed my self-pity and shuffled toward the gate. Ninety-five cents were left on the small table in the telephone booth.

And people say there is no God. There is a god. Either there is a god, or I must accept the fact that I served three years in the Israeli army for the lack of thirty cents. 

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* * * * * * * * *

 

Induction day was the day I realized that I was not special, no matter what my mother said. There were hundreds of new recruits, and we were all processed along the same assembly line. We shuffled from station to station, more compliant than herded sheep. We were assigned serial numbers, imprinted on small yellow cards and committed to memory. Our pictures were taken. We coated our fingers in black ink and were fingerprinted. We were inoculated in both arms simultaneously and were expected to thank the medics. Our heads were sheared. We received an advance on our first month’s pay—the equivalent of ten American dollars. 

I was assigned to the blue company along with thirty other new recruits. We stood in the late afternoon sun with duffel bags at our feet, dressed in coarse dirty uniforms, our backs itching from our recent haircuts, our arms sore from too many needles, our feet adjusting to stiff army boots, and our fingers still black. 

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A soldier, with two white stripes on his shirtsleeves, approached. Someone in the group knew to yell, “Attention!” Most of us stood a bit straighter, hoping not to call attention to ourselves. The soldier, a corporal, I later learned, was our assigned commander for the day. We gathered our belongings and followed him to two large tents. As instructed, we locked our duffel bags to our assigned cots and lined up outside the tents. One person was volunteered by the corporal to stand guard over our possessions. The rest of us were led to the mess hall, where I experienced the worst meal of my eighteen years—runny eggs, thick cucumber slices with mud still caked on the thick green skin, and olives. I was lucky. Halfway through the meal, the corporal sent me back to spell the guard. I was saved from the second half of the meal. 

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Dinner was over. The blue company was again standing in formation outside of our tents. The corporal approached. “Attention,” someone called out. 

“Congratulations, you’ve survived your first day in the Israel Defense Forces. You only have one thousand and ninety-four days left to serve. You also have one thousand and ninety-four nights to serve. Tonight is your first night. You will all remain in the tents. At random intervals, I will come by and read roll call. Anyone not present will be considered AWOL. This is not a game. You are in the army. 

“I have prepared a guard roster. You will guard in full uniform—shirts tucked in and boots laced up. You will parade outside of the tents. No smoking and no eating while guarding. Seven minutes before the end of your shift, you will wake the next guard and then wait for him outside the tent.” He handed the roster to one of the guys in the front row. 

Thirty minutes later, the blue company was again in formation, standing in front of our tents. The corporal had returned. He called roll call. On dismissing us, he again warned that he would be nearby and would return to check on us. 

We were strangers thrust together, bound only by the misery and uncertainty of sharing our first night in the army. The evening passed slowly. We argued the pros and cons of volunteering for one unit over another. Those who had older siblings in the army were the experts. I envied their secondhand knowledge. The corporal never returned to check on us, but we were too scared and too green to leave the tents. 

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My sleep was filled with vivid dreams. I was anxious. It was my first time guarding in the army. What if I fell asleep while guarding? What if the soldier before me did not wake me up when it was my turn to guard? Would I be sent to jail? 

“Fall in! Everyone up and in formation! You have seven minutes. Move it!” someone was yelling. It was pitch dark in the tent. I stumbled into my uniform and boots. I joined the rest of the company and lined up outside. 

The corporal was pacing back and forth. “Your first night in the army and already you have fucked up. I came by here ten minutes ago, and there was no one guarding. You could have been slaughtered in your sleep. This is not a game. It’s time you guys wake up and realize that you are in the army. Whose name is on the roster? Who is derelict?”

Was it me? I knew I was on the roster. I thought I remembered guarding, but maybe I had been dreaming. I didn’t know the time. It was too dark to see my watch, and I was afraid to move. No one else was speaking or moving. I stepped forward. “Sir, I was the one who was supposed to have been guarding. I don’t know what happened. It will never happen again.” 

“Name? Serial number?”

I answered, surprised that I had already committed my serial number to memory. It just rolled off my tongue. My first night in the army and I had already fucked up. 

He glared at me. “You guarded two hours ago. I have the roster.” He waved it above his head. “You’ve got more guts than brains. You’re willing to take the blame for this sorry bunch of losers. The army admires that spirit. Perhaps you should volunteer for a combat unit. The paratroopers may suit you.”

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* * * * * * * * *

 

Come morning we were traded on the slave market. We packed our belongings in our duffel bags and followed the corporal to a large dirt field surrounded by a few dried eucalyptus trees. Attached to the fence posts and trees were signs with a single letter of the Hebrew alphabet. At one end of the field, there was a small dais constructed of old faded plastic milk crates. Our company was joined by additional companies. At eight in the morning, hundreds of soldiers were assembled on the field. I scanned the sea of faces. Not a familiar face. You can feel more alone in a large anonymous crowd than just about anywhere else. I had no idea what awaited me. 

A small group of soldiers with multiple stripes decorating their shirtsleeves appeared on the dais. They stood in a row behind one man—a sergeant major. He stood rigidly wearing a freshly pressed and over-starched uniform. His boots were polished to a mirror shine. 

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“Attention!” one of the multi-striped soldiers barked into the microphone.

The crackling static and the loud barking voice stopped us dead in our tracks. More by instinct than by knowledge or training, we stood absolutely still, our duffel bags dropping at our feet. 

The sergeant major approached the microphone. Revealing a nearly universal human compulsion, he gently blew into the microphone. The speakers crackled. “At ease.” He had a deep voice. Physically he resembled the caricature of a British career soldier. He was short in stature and had a bushy waxed handlebar mustache. His hair was gray, his face wrinkled and deeply tanned. He looked like he had been welcoming soldiers into the Israeli army since its inception. “You may sit on your duffel bags.” 

We sat down, hard and fast. 

“Welcome to the Israel Defense Forces. For the benefit of those who are on this field for the first time, you are about to undergo a ritual. A ritual referred to as the slave market. Each morning you are to gather here with your company. I will call each and every one of you by name and serial number and assign you a letter group. When called, you will pick up your duffel bag and walk to the designated marker at the periphery of this field. You will not talk. You will not say goodbye to your new friends. You will simply quietly and quickly move to the designated marker with your belongings. Some of the groups will be assigned to permanent units and dispatched to the appropriate base today. Others will undergo additional testing. Still others will be assigned to either work in the kitchen or do maintenance jobs around the base the rest of the day. Those not assigned to permanent units today will return here tomorrow. 

“Please hold your yellow cards on which your name and serial number are printed. Do not rely on memory. Take out your cards.” For the following three hours, the sergeant major called out names and serial numbers and assigned each soldier a group. We sat on the field, our yellow cards clutched in our hands waiting to be called. 

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The first time I was traded on the slave market, I was assigned to kitchen duty. The second, third, and fourth times ended with the same result. By day 5, I had lost all of my new friends. Everyone who had been drafted with me had already been assigned to a permanent unit and had shipped out. I was already considered an old-timer. On my fifth slave market day, the army made an incomprehensible mistake. 

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On my fifth day, I carried my duffel bag to the designated spot. Everyone was very excited. It seemed that everyone else had volunteered for the paratroopers. The Israeli paratroopers are strictly a volunteer unit. Only about one in four soldiers who volunteer is accepted. My group of thirty was led over to a remote part of the base. Five paratroopers, easily identified by their mud red boots, were waiting for us. One sergeant and four corporals were charged with testing our mettle. 

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I approached the sergeant. “Excuse me,” I started, mistakenly speaking like a polite civilian. “I believe there has been a mistake.”

The sergeant’s icy look froze the words as they formed in my mouth. I stood mute. 

“You are in the army, soldier.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “You are the lowest of the low. You will speak only when given permission to speak. Am I clear? You will be interviewed this afternoon, only after passing the physical test. Go and join your group.”

I turned. The rest of the group and the four corporals were staring at me, disbelief evident in their eyes. A few were sadly shaking their heads. I realized I had gotten off easy—only a reprimand, no physical torture. Red faced, I joined the group. 

We locked our duffel bags to a nearby chain-link fence. We waited not sure of what the day would bring. A few minutes later, a second group of thirty soldiers joined us. They too locked their duffel bags to the fence. Together we faced our common fate. 

“Fall into formation,” one of the corporals barked. Five days in the army had made me an expert at falling into and out of formation. We arranged ourselves in three neat rows. 

Two of the corporals pushed wheelbarrows filled with empty plastic canteens and stopped in front of the group. “Each of you will take two canteens and fill them at the spigots over there.” He pointed at two lone spigots, which were sticking up out of the dirt next to the fence. “Fill the canteens completely. You will then return and stand in formation.” He looked down at his watch. “Seven minutes. Move it.” 

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Sixty frantic soldiers converged on the two taps. There was no teamwork—just shoving, yelling, and cursing. Amazingly, there were no fights. Seven minutes later, we were again standing in formation. We each held two one-liter canteens filled to the brim with water. One liter of water weighs one kilogram. The plastic containers were wet and slippery. There was no comfortable way to hold them. Either they were slipping out of my grasp, or the sharp plastic ridges were cutting into the flesh of my hands. The corporals slowly walked around us. The sergeant started walking away from the group. 

“Right turn!” one of the corporals yelled. “Follow the sergeant. Stay in formation. Keep five meters between the first man and the sergeant at all times. Let’s move it.” 

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We turned and started to follow the sergeant. He was already fifteen meters ahead of us. We started to run, slowly closing the distance. As we drew closer, the sergeant increased his speed. 

“Five meters between the first man and the sergeant. He is not your friend and doesn’t want to become your friend!” one of the corporals yelled. We were running at a fairly fast pace. It was getting harder and more painful to keep hold of the canteens. I glanced at the corporal who was running to my left and slightly ahead of me. He was loaded with a full ammunition belt and a submachine gun. He was carrying thirty pounds of gear and was running effortlessly. My physical fitness was not in the same league. I was starting to doubt we were the same species. 

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Within five minutes, we were running faster than I had ever jogged before in my life. During my senior year of high school, I had spent many afternoons running on sandy roads through the orange groves of my hometown. Even so, I was poorly prepared for this run. We were not maintaining our organized formation, but the corporals did not seem to mind. Pain shot through my hands and up my arms. The canteens were dead weights. Three kilometers into the run and my feet were killing me. My new stiff army boots were destroying my feet. I could feel a rash starting to creep up my inner thighs. The acne covering my back was in full bloom. 

Five kilometers into the run, my eyes stung from sweat. I could not move sufficient dry desert air in and out of my lungs. My mouth and lungs burned as I labored to breathe. I could taste blood in my mouth. I lacked the strength to keep my head up. I found myself migrating closer and closer to the back of the pack. Again, I glanced over at the same corporal. He continued to glide effortlessly along with the group. He continued to breathe easily through his flaring nostrils. I looked down at my painful feet as they pounded the dirt. I shifted the canteens so that the plastic ridges would stop cutting into the raw part of my hand and could start destroying some intact flesh. 

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There was no end in sight. The sergeant showed no sign of slowing. I became one of the stragglers twenty meters behind the pack. At least I was not last; a few soldiers were spread out behind me. A few had given up and quit. They had abandoned the dream of becoming a paratrooper. I had never considered the paratroopers, but I was stubborn. I would not give up. I would pass the damn exam. And then, and only then, I would tell them to go fuck themselves. The thought sustained me. 

One of the corporals was suddenly at my side. “How is it going?”

I looked up and tried to conceal my pain. “Fine.”

“You’ll make it. Don’t give up.” He was off to harass another soldier. 

An eternity passed. Finally, the sergeant stopped. The group stopped. A minute later, I joined them. We stood in formation, gasping for breath, drenched in sweat. 

“Pair off,” one of the corporals said. “Each pair is to completely drain one canteen of water. You must never carry a partially filled canteen. The enemy may hear the sloshing water. Canteens are either completely filled or completely empty. You have two minutes.”

I could barely breathe. How was I going to drink? Somebody shoved a canteen at me. I dropped my own canteens, lifted the proffered canteen to my lips, and took a few swallows of water. I could feel the water trickle into my mouth, pass into my throat, and then pour through my esophagus into my stomach. I could feel the cold all the way down. We passed the canteen back and forth, never speaking. I could only take a few sips at a time. Any more than that would have caused me to throw up. The water was rejuvenating.

“Everyone drop for twenty,” one of the devils in a corporal’s uniform ordered.

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I was afraid I knew what that meant. As I looked around me, my worst fears were confirmed. Everyone was lying down on the ground doing push-ups. I joined them. I had trouble doing twenty push-ups under the best of conditions. I was destroyed by the run. The dirt caked in the blood and sweat that covered my hands. I completed my fifteenth push-up; everyone else was finished and preparing to start running again. I’d rather run than do push-ups. No one  seemed to be counting. I got up. And we were off running again. 

Three rest stops and two hours later, my canteens were empty, and we were finished running. We were back at our duffel bags. I had finished the run, not with style and a few minutes behind the pack. But I had finished. I tasted blood in my mouth. My feet were numb. The cuts on my hands stung. I sat on the ground and followed the corporals’ instructions as they led us through a series of stretches. My mind was blank. I was proud of myself. 

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One by one we were taken into a tent for interviews. Most interviews seemed to take about ten minutes. My interview lasted two minutes. 

I entered the tent and saluted. A second lieutenant and a sergeant were seated behind a table. They occupied the only chairs. The second lieutenant returned my salute. I remained standing at attention a few feet in front of them. 

“I hear you had a hard time with the run,” the sergeant said.

“Yes, sir.” What did he expect me to say?

“What happened to your hands?” the sergeant asked. 

“The plastic ridges on the canteens cut into them, sir.” I placed my hands behind my back. 

“Why didn’t you take different canteens?”

“I thought they were all the same.” I was surprised to learn otherwise. 

“You just about died on the run,” the officer interrupted. “And your hands are a bloody mess. I could see that behavior from someone who really wanted to be a paratrooper. But I was told that you didn’t volunteer for the paratroopers. Is that true? Why didn’t you just quit? You knew that was an option. We can make you start the test, but we cannot force you to finish.”

“I don’t quit. I finish what I start.” I had decided to tell them to go fuck themselves only after they had accepted me into the stupid paratroopers.

“Your file says that you are from Rehovot. Do you know Amir Ben-David?” the sergeant asked.

“Yes, sir, he was a classmate of mine all through high school.”

“He’s my brother. Welcome to the paratroopers. You will be in my company.”

“Thank you, sir.” Now was my chance. I took a deep breath.

“That is all, dismissed.” The sergeant pointed to the tent’s opening. 

I was speechless. I sat down outside with the other “volunteers.” I do not know why I did not speak out. I had just agreed to become a paratrooper. 

Basic training was hell. I owe my life to that sergeant. He made sure I was tortured fairly. I also owe my life to pneumonia.