Uri Full of Light

by Holly Sortland

  CHANA AWOKE TO THE sound of Uri's keys in the door. She quickly sat up and turned on the lamp.

  Before her stood her husband, forlorn and exhausted. He was out of uniform, filthy, and sweaty. His beautiful hair was disheveled, and his face covered in dirt.

  "Uri, are you okay?" Chana asked him tenderly. "I was so worried. It was on the news. I tried calling you so many times today."

  He remained quiet as he sat down on the couch beside her. Chana didn’t press him. Without speaking, he walked to the balcony and lit a cigarette. When he came inside, he felt a pang of guilt as he saw his wife’s distress.

  "I'm fine,” he finally said. “I am a little numb. I had so much adrenaline, but now I'm starting to crash."

  "What happened? What did you have to do?" Chana asked him.

  "You know I can't tell you that, Chana," he snapped at her, immediately regretting it.

  They sat in silence for a while longer, letting the reality of the last 48 hours sink in.

  "Uri?"

  "Yes, Chana?"

  "I went to the mikveh two days ago."

  Without saying a word, Uri pulled Chana into him and kissed her fiercely. His hair smelled like burnt rubber, but she didn’t care.

  Uri let the stress and the ugliness of the past two days melt off him. Chana was his refuge from the pain in the world. Entangled in a flurry of exhaustion and emotion, Chana climbed on top of him.

  "Let me do the work, Uri," she whispered in his ear.

  He didn't argue. He closed his eyes and succumbed to the physical and emotional gratification Chana gifted him; her sweet fragrance a relief from the stench of the carnage of the last 24 hours. As he opened his eyes, her body glowed as the sun began to rise, the light seeping through the curtains behind her. He lifted his head and kissed her gently.

  "Chana, I have never loved anyone as much as I love you. Sometimes I think you're too good to be true," he whispered.

  He continued to caress her body and whispered to her in Hebrew. She kissed him long and hard and laid her head on his chest.

  "Thank you," he whispered to her.

  "No, Uri, never thank me. Making love to you is heaven. It's our heaven on Earth."

  He kissed her again, rolled her onto her back, and gently laid next to her. "Let's go back to heaven," he said.

  SIX WEEKS LATER, A booby-trapped car exploded in Jerusalem near a busy market, killing two people and injuring more than a dozen. Fear began to grow among the Israeli people.

  Not taking any chances, Uri insisted that Chana avoid crowded places and public transportation.

  "Can we afford another car?" she asked him one day as they cuddled on the couch.

  "Actually, yes. I just received a stipend increase," he said proudly.

  "Seriously?" Chana's excitement was contagious. "What will you buy me?" she teased him.

  "I was thinking a Ford Pinto," he teased back.

  "Nope," Chana shook her head. "We need something with good safety reviews and it definitely has to be a four door. I'm not messing with a car seat and a two door when our baby comes in June. . . how about a Mercedes?"

  "A Mercedes is definitely out of our price range, " he began, before stopping himself. "Wait, back up. What did you just say?"

  "I said I wanted a Mercedes," she grinned at him mischievously.

  "Before that! Chana. . .are you pregnant?"

  She grinned at him. "Due June 21st!"

  "We're having a baby?"

  "Yes, and we can make all the love we want for the next eight months."

  Uri put his hand on her stomach. "I can't believe it! Abba and Imma are going to freak out. This will be the first grandchild in the family!"

  "For my parents, too," Chana said. "I just pray my dad can see her."

  "We'll stay positive, Chana," he said, taking her hand and placing it over his on her belly.

  "It's going to be a girl. I had a dream about her. She was beautiful," Chana said.

  Uri grinned. "Of course, she's going to be beautiful. Look at her mother."

  "We made a baby, Uri Geller!" Chana kissed him on the cheek. "I almost thought it wouldn't happen...you know, because of what happened in high school."

  "Chana Geller, you are a righteous woman. HaShem has blessed us. Don't you dare doubt this gift."

  Chana nodded; tears of happiness flowed down her cheeks.

  Uri closed his eyes and said the Shehecheyanu blessing:

  “Blessed are You, HaShem our God, Sovereign of all, who has kept us alive, sustained us, and brought us to this season."

  He opened his eyes, looked at Chana and laughed. "I'm going to be an Abba!"

  Chana looked at Uri with such deep love, he wondered if she had some sort of premonition.

  "Our daughter is going to be so blessed to have you," she said.

  Uri kissed his wife and pulled her into him. Bleary with happiness, they fell into an afternoon slumber.

  32

  Afflicted with severe morning sickness, Chana missed the next two weeks of school and was unable to begin her internship at Augustana Victoria Hospital. Settled into her University schedule, Chana was offered an internship as a caseworker at the hospital in East Jerusalem. Known for treating Palestinian cancer patients—particularly—children, Chana’s job was to connect families with resources and assistance programs. Having a heart for caring for the vulnerable, she was anxious to get her feet wet and work with families in need and frustrated with the burden of her constant nausea.

  While Uri didn’t dare tell Chana, he was relieved that she was homebound, especially since the situation in East Jerusalem—where the hospital was located—was growing more unstable.

  She was able to access her assignments on the computer, but Uri could tell she was growing stir crazy. An extrovert like Chana was not meant to be alone in a house all day.

  Given their situation, Uri asked his commanders if he could be placed in operations in East Jerusalem, allowing him to be closer to home. His commanders obliged, but Uri was not prepared for the destabilization and the infiltration of terror groups in the east part of the city.

  Only weeks before, shortly after Sharon’s visit to the Temple Mount, thousands of Palestinians seized temporary control of East Jerusalem and parts of the Old City.

  One dramatic and violent day, the Ya’mas unit used tactics to lead the Palestinians to hundreds of Israeli policemen. Uri had a gift for hitting his mark and was assigned to a sniper team in the Jewish Quarter, but because of the billowing smoke from burning tires in the eastern part of the city, the view was skewed. Unable to contribute to the operation, Uri was disappointed.

  He waited for a mission where he could be part of the boots on the ground, but he was cognizant of the fact that he would likely be called up for sniper duties again.

  East Jerusalem became an important crossing point for Hamas and other terrorist groups. Residents of East Jerusalem held Israeli documentation and could do business throughout Jerusalem proper and the State of Israel, including renting vehicles and apartments to be used in covert operations.

  Uri was assigned to Silwan, a neighborhood in East Jerusalem. A Hamas terror group operated within the walls of this otherwise quiet area. The cell group claimed responsibility for several suicide bombings in the late 1990’s and beyond, as well as other hideous attacks in Israeli neighborhoods.

  The cell leader of the group, a man in his early thirties named Omar Basara, trusted no one and lived so cautiously that even Israeli’s most elite intelligence groups struggled to collect information on his whereabouts. While they were able to infiltrate the cell and arrest higher ranked leaders, collecting information through interrogations, Basara was always on the move, and always one step ahead of Israeli forces.

  The operation dragged on until one day one of the “speakers" in the Ya’mas unit was given a tip from an asset. The “speakers” were the Ya’mas members who were most fluent in Arabic language and culture, and able to easily assimilate to Palestinian life.r />
  There was information that Basara was being moved from a safehouse outside of East Jerusalem back into Silwan. Once again, Uri was called to sniper duty.

  Soon Uri found himself perched on a rooftop with an SR-25 next to his spotter, a Bedouin named Lieutenant Akbar. Both Akbar and Uri viewed picture after picture of Basara, including him wearing hats and other clothing and disguises. They viewed videos of Basara walking so they could memorize his gait.

  Two other sniper teams were positioned in different areas, and the instructions were that if Basara came in range, they were to shoot to kill. Hours passed and Uri used his scope to memorize every detail in the area, from the number of windows in the buildings to the cracks on storefront doors. Regular pedestrians filled the streets, and it was known that if Basara was going to be moved, it would be on a busy street to complicate any efforts to eliminate him.

  Weary from the task of keeping precise observation, Uri suddenly noticed something out of the ordinary. Out of the dozens of pedestrians, Uri spotted one in particular—a kid—likely no older than twelve or thirteen, loitering on the block. Uri zoomed his scope in to get a clear look at his face. He was an attractive young man, his hair cut neatly, and he wore a Nike shirt and a pair of blue jeans. Uri’s scope was so powerful, he could make out a small scar under the kid’s lower lip.

  Uri motioned to Akbar. “What’s up with that kid?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he’s waiting to meet up with someone?” he guessed.

  “Or maybe he’s a paid lookout,” Uri said, as he radioed to other units.

  “Anyone have information on the kid in the Nike shirt, over?”

  Static filled the air before another unit answered. “Negative, he’s not registering on our list, over.”

  Fifteen minutes passed, and Uri was feeling the strain of staying in sniper position. He knew Akbar was too. Akbar wasn’t a talker and he never complained, something that Uri appreciated in a partner.

  Suddenly, a caravan of SUVs rolled up the street, and parked side by side, blocking Uri and Akbar’s view of the storefronts.

  Akbar radioed the other sniper units. “Our view is blocked. We are unable to engage. Are you able to engage, over?”

  “Negative,” a voice came over the radio. “The target is surrounded, over.”

  That’s when the speaker team on the ground made their move.

  A horn honked repeatedly. A Ya’mas speaker disguised as an old man in a beat-up car angrily waved his arm out his car window and swore in Arabic.

  Akbar and Uri remained in position.

  Unaffected by the decoy, the group of SUVs remained in place. The speaker tried again. He honked three more times and leaned further out of the car.

  “I am an old man! Move your fancy trucks that are blocking the road. My wife needs her medicine!” he yelled in Arabic, followed by more honking.

  Akbar and Uri watched as two drivers returned to the SUVs.

  “Wind position?” Uri asked. Akbar checked the anemometer.

  “Southwest, 4 KPH.” Uri made a slight calibration on his rifle.

  Two of the SUVs moved forward and parallel parked, leaving only one vehicle as a potential block to their target. The Ya’mas speaker drove past and yelled obscenities through his passenger window.

  Adrenaline rushed through Uri’s body as only the boy in the Nike shirt and two men stood by the storefront. One man wore a blue baseball cap. Uri and Akbar identified him as Omar Basara. He remained partially protected by the SUV.

  Akbar seamlessly moved a few inches to his left and used his scope to zoom in on Basara from a different angle.

  He gave Uri the signal to move. Like a stealth cat, Uri silently moved to his left until Akbar signaled him to stop.

  “Target in sight, over,” Akbar radioed to the team.

  Uri had a clear shot. The boy in the Nike shirt stood in front of Basara, who appeared to be handing him something. His head was lowered as he was engaged in conversation with the kid.

  “Target engaged,” Uri said.

  “Target engaged,” Akbar repeated

  “Can I get another reading on the wind speed?”

  “No change,” Akbar answered.

  "Take the shot," the commander ordered over the radio.

  “Take the shot,” Akbar repeated.

  A quarter of a mile away from the target, Uri hesitated for what seemed like minutes but was only milliseconds.

  “Take the damn shot!” Akbar said again.

  Uri pulled the trigger. Akbar watched through his scope as the bullet left the barrel at 1700 miles per hour toward its target. Faster than the speed of sound, the bullet hit Basara before the noise of the fire. It was an instant kill.

  “Target down. Repeat, target down,” Akbar announced into the radio.

  As the two lieutenants quickly picked up their equipment, Uri heard faint shouting in the distance. Looking through his scope one last time, he saw the boy in the Nike shirt crouched over Basara, wailing.

  “Geller, we have to move!” Akbar reminded him with urgency.

  Meanwhile the speakers and other reconnaissance teams moved in to arrest the other cell members in the SUVs. While the assassination of Basara was essential, there was still a lot of work to do in cleaning up the notorious Hamas cell.

  Uri and Akbar climbed down the rooftop and hopped in the vehicle that was waiting for him.

  “Nice job, Geller!” Akbar congratulated him. Uri had never seen him so animated.

  Still high on adrenaline, Uri’s mind tried to block out an unavoidable fact—Uri Geller was a killer.

  33

  Uri returned to his unit as a hero—taking out the top commander in one of Hamas’ most dangerous cells. “Akbar gets half the credit,” Uri reminded his fellow soldiers. The spotters often had the most difficult job, but the snipers received most of the credit.

  It was Friday, the sun lowering in the afternoon sky. After more comradery, Uri left his base to return home. It was Shabbat. I killed someone on Shabbat, he thought to himself as he drove. He knew Basara was responsible for the death of hundreds of innocent Israelis, and that Uri had probably saved hundreds of more lives by taking Basara out. But Uri needed to come to terms that he killed someone. He lit a cigarette as he sat in the Friday afternoon traffic. He wished he could tell Chana. He wished he could tell his rabbi. But this was a secret that Uri would keep with him forever.

  When he arrived home, Uri found the Shabbat candles lit and challah bread on the table. But Chana was nowhere in sight. Her cell phone was on the counter.

  “Chana?” he called for her before realizing that the terrace door was open. Chana sat in the outdoor lounge chair with a blanket wrapped around her. He immediately could tell that she had been crying.

  “Chana what is it?” He feared the worst—that something happened to the baby.

  “It’s my dad,” she said.

  “Oh, my love, I am so sorry. When did it happen?”

  “It hasn’t happened yet. It will in the morning.”

  Uri was confused. He assumed that Chana’s father was dead or near death.

  “What is happening tomorrow, Chana?”

  “His lung transplant. They found a match. He’s getting a new heart and new lungs!”

  Uri was dumbstruck. “I can’t believe it,” he sputtered. “This is amazing!”

  He sat beside her and took her hands.

  “We need to pray,” Chana said.

  The two prayed together:

  “Blessed are you, HaShem, our God, King of the Universe, the Good and the Doer of good.”

  Later that night, as Uri tried to sleep, he held Chana close to him and thought about the randomness of life. The paths people choose. He thought about Omar Basara, a life Uri ended simply by pulling a trigger. He thought about the boy in the Nike shirt wailing over his father. And he thought about the stranger whose lungs and heart would be transplanted into Michael Hagen. What kind of life had he or she lived? Certainly, their loved ones were
wailing, too.

  He put his hand on Chana’s belly and thought about the new life growing within her. Life that the two of them created together. He drifted off to sleep thanking the Lord. Baruch HaShem.

  URI AWOKE HOURS LATER to the sun seeping through the curtains and the sound of Chana retching.

  He felt horrible for her; even the simple act of brushing her teeth caused her to vomit. But Chana assured Uri that this was a good thing. More vomiting meant more hormones and more hormones meant a stronger pregnancy.

  He heard her flush the toilet, wash her hands, and gargle with mouthwash. She came out of the bathroom, surprised to see that Uri was awake.

  "Sorry if my puking woke you," she said, climbing back under the covers. Uri put his arm around her and kissed her head.

  "I hate seeing you so miserable,” he said. "Are you sure you don't want to try the pills that the doctor gave you?"

  "Absolutely not," said Chana. "They make me feel like a zombie. Besides, it's starting to get better. Really."

  She looked at the clock. "It is almost 9:00pm in Denver. The surgery should be starting soon."

  Chana's mother explained that Mike Hagen would be flown to Denver to the National Jewish Hospital where the transplant would take place. They would do last-minute tests and blood work to ensure that Mike was able to endure the procedure, and then they would begin. The transplant surgery was expected to last between six to eight hours.

  "Hopefully, they will be done by the time Shabbat ends so I can call Leah for an update." She looked up at the ceiling. Uri could sense her restlessness.

  He pulled her closer to him and started to sing "Eshet Chayil" to her.

  "Oh no!" She pulled away from him, starting to giggle like a schoolgirl.

  "What. . . Should I sing it louder?" he asked, trying not to laugh along with her as he sang. He knew he sounded terrible and took full advantage of it. He pulled her back close to him.

  "Shh." Chana put her finger over his mouth. "The neighbors will think someone is suffering."