by Izzy Ezagui
We're so close to home. Funny how the word home is so elastic. I want nothing more right now, nothing more than a scratchy blanket and a creaky cot. My kingdom for a pillow.
Amir is indicating again with his chin behind us. When did it get so light? The soldiers back there, grimly slogging, with calcified expressions and filthy fatigues, look like I imagine battle-hardened veterans do. The kind who've taken part in a hundred maneuvers, who've been “in the shit,” as the Americans used to say in Vietnam. But we're neither hardened nor veterans of real combat. Not even Fuks. This hike marks the return from our first real operation. I feel, if not proud, then maybe just a bit impressed by us. Got to be careful with that pride stuff.
But we've earned some badge of honor, haven't we? No, that feeling—even that tiny bit of self-congratulatory hubris—that's how life gets you, my father would warn. And my career in the military is about to fall pretty damn far. I might not have been personally responsible for any heroics on that border some hours before, but I could boast that at least I still had all my limbs intact. You tend to take this sort of thing for granted until the bloody evidence in front of you makes it clear the taking-things-for-granted phase of your life has passed.
There's base. The guard swings the gates open wordlessly. Once again, something just doesn't feel right. I can't put any of my ten fingers on it, but I know whatever I sensed stalking me earlier has breached the gates before us. It's CALLING. From INSIDE the camp. Some…phantom. It's with us even now.
I look furtively from side to side. I can see some of my fellow soldiers slowing down rather than speeding up. We're all but asleep on our feet. I think seriously about just stopping, curling up right here on the ground, just a dozen meters from the tent flap. Just for a few minutes of shut-eye. It would be worth it. But you don't fall down or suck your thumb when Fuks is coming up the rear, looking like he's got orders. So we all file through the front gate toward the parade ground, which is a fancy way of describing what is basically a bunch of whitewashed pebbles in the only space not crammed with tents and gear.
That's when we see it. Outside the Command Center. The old-timers, the tried-and-true warriors. All of them are weeping. “They got Rosner,” Fuks says matter-of-factly. “The captain's dead.”
LOOK MA, NO HANDS!
I've been lying to my mother. And this isn't a “who-had-their-little-grubby-hand-in-the-cookie-jar” level lie. This is the Big Kahuna. From the moment I kissed her good-bye, and every time we've spoken over the phone since I left home, I perpetuated this falsehood. At first, I didn't even want to reveal that I was near the front. I told her repeatedly that the army relegated my unit to washing dishes up north, by the border of Lebanon. “Yeah, it's real quiet up here. No worries. No, nowhere near Gaza. God, no. Gaza? Please, Mom.”
I didn't say it glibly. I just didn't want her to worry. I justified my abject lying as my way of protecting her. Like a mother needs protection. She gives birth to you, she watches you grow. She lets you go. And you think you need to protect her. In East of Eden, Steinbeck writes that “perhaps it takes courage to raise children.” Perhaps? I sold my mother far short, as so many young men do, often until they're parents themselves—or something happens and they get to see their mother's true colors.
I know she already has suspicions. A mother knows. Unavoidable circumstances have almost gotten me caught. Like that time a week ago when, as my mother and I were on the phone (she was insisting we go shopping for new jeans when I got home), a mortar fell close enough to shake the earth below my boots. “What—Izzy, what was that?”
“Nothing,” I told her, trying to sound casual as I sprinted for the bomb shelter, my balls retracting up behind my pancreas. I could never tell her it was a mortar.
“Izzy.”
“It's just artillery training somewhere near here. Happens all the time. Nothing to worry about, Ma. That's our side.”
Don't worry.
But suddenly the worry comes knocking loud and clear. Captain Rosner's unit was ambushed in Gaza. Heavy machine-gun fire. Rocket-propelled grenades. Captain Rosner, deceased. Shrapnel from an RPG cut right through him, his radioman reported.
Captain Rosner, married only a few months earlier. Many of the officers and the enlisted men know his wife.
We just got back. Now we're going in. Gaza. Welcome to the Suck.
Fuks makes no bones about it. “Fucking mongrels…”
We who've just trekked all the way from the brink are going back—and over the line this time. We're going to do everything in our power to bring the captain home. We've all missed the last three meals, and yet I have to force myself to breathe slowly in order not to hurl. I'm regretting all that candy now. Good thing I skipped the green ones.
The whole thing instantly becomes extremely real. This is not a game of Warcraft or Halo. Rosner can't click “new game” and materialize with a dazzle of cool graphics and a jaunty keyboard refrain. Somebody we knew. And liked. And took for granted. Is now dead. Not going home. Someone whom other someones loved—just like all of us.
We're given just a few minutes. Not really enough time for sleep, and there's no room for illusions anymore.
Am I a good person? Am I somehow invincible, just because my intentions seem righteous? Because I'm a nice guy who helps old ladies cross the street?
Is this really NOT A WAR? Then why the hell are people dying on us? Should my mother be worried? Should I call her? Should I tell her the truth?
No—I have to call Jonny.
Thank God for Lieutenant Fuks. He addresses us all within minutes, finding us sullenly spread out in our tent. None of us will have any time to focus on those “existential quandaries” occasioned by war/“not war.” Sleep-deprived, bedraggled, and now deeply shaken, our little detachment of greenhorns who have only peeped over that Rubicon are now going in deep. Fuks nods solemnly for a good thirty seconds, looking at each of us in turn. It's exactly what we need. And then he speaks.
GIVE THAT MAN A HAND
“We're it, guys. We're the only force available.” His head reflects the dim fluorescent bulb swaying casually above. The light of truth. “It's gotta be us, and it should be us.”
As far as I've ever been able to tell, Fuks is fearless. He's the kind of hulk you absolutely want next to you when the sky starts caving and shrapnel hails down. He isn't one to waste time crying. He doesn't even pause to let the news sink in. “Our mission is to reinforce the distressed unit—our guys are still out there—and to bring back Rosner's body, to bring him back home where he belongs. Prep your gear. We're out in twenty.”
I fight a tide composed of rising bile. I see some of my friends (not Amir) doing the same. Sometimes you get what you wish for, I remember some famous author saying, so you must be careful what you wish for.
Once dismissed, I run for the latrine to unload my pre-battle nerves. And to call Jonny. Sitting there, I weigh the pros and cons of making the call. Despite the severe proscriptions against revealing movements, my need to talk overwhelms the requirement to keep my mouth shut. Jonny is a fellow foreign volunteer, though far more experienced than I am. The Canadian mentored me throughout my basic training, warned me what to expect, gave me endless tips and tidbits. I hesitate a moment, the phone cradled in both hands, thumbs hovering over the CALL button. I finally press it. Jonny answers right away. He's stationed at a border somewhere within the territories. “Dude, glad you called. But—where are you?”
“Yeah, sorry about the background noise. I'm surrounded by dudes taking dumps.”
“Where?”
“Uh, the bathroom.”
“Dude…”
“Some base near the big, bad border. Ein HaShlosha. But we're getting ready to go in. So, yeah. We're going in, Jonny. Look, if anything happens, please just—”
“What are you talking about?”
“I'm talking about Gaza. And I want you tell my family I—”
“Jeez. Izzy. You'll be back. You'll be fine…”
“Really? Because I'm guessing that's what one of our captains thought last night. Anything can happen, Jonny. Even though of course it's—”
“Right—not a war. Don't worry. I'll tell them.”
Just then, I hear the voice of Fuks echoing deeply from a few stalls down. “Izzy,” he says, “get off the damn phone.”
Jonny hears. “Go. Call me when it's over.”
Fuks and I flush simultaneously, and he stares me down as we exit the latrine. His cold blue eyes communicate he's none too pleased. But I don't appear to be in any trouble.
As I limp back to the tent, I feel steeled by Jonny's confidence. Between his optimistic voice resounding in one ear, and Fuks's steady and commanding one in the other, I'm almost looking forward to seeing a little action. Almost. And what a relief to know that Fuks is human. That he needs to drop the kids off at the pool once in a while, too.
Outside the Command Center—a ramshackle trailer crammed with aging communications gear—I spot two soldiers I've never seen before stacking white packets into the back of a Humvee: It takes me a second to figure out what they are. The eyes of one of the soldiers, a corporal, confirms it for me when they meet mine: Body bags. “They aren't meant for you, Izzy,” I think. “Just keep on walking. Nobody else is dying here today.”
In a deranged way, the only article of military gear more disconcerting than a body bag might be “bulletproof” armor. Obviously, you don't ever want to wind up zipped in a polyethylene bag. But once you're tucked in there, you're pretty much not worried about dodging bullets anymore. The bliss of the abyss. Whereas with the latter accessory, you're admitting to yourself and the enemy that you're a big, soft, 6´1˝ target. My heart hammers against the heavy ceramic armor as I don my vest, helmet, and pack. In a few minutes our small force is once again standing by the front gate. We're going to (not-) war at last. I have to take another dump.
Judging by the body language and the nervous chatter of the soldiers around me, our feelings about this upcoming mission run the gamut. Some, like Amir, seem entirely unconcerned, Fuks-like, no Fuks to give. And others appear to be pissing themselves, at least figuratively. My frame of mind, I find, rests somewhere semi-comfortably between.
Fuks strides up to the platoon with his usual unruffled swagger. “Too hot to go in,” he tells us. “Take off your gear. Hit the racks. Await further instructions. You can bet I won't be shy. Oh, and no more goddamn phone calls.” This, delivered directly at me.
I hear myself sigh as we slink back to our tents yet again. Tension pollutes the air like a stack of triggered smoke grenades. Nothing's worse than the wait.
Lior, “Rabbi,” Second Platoon's unofficial spiritual leader, calls after those of us still in earshot. He follows us into the barracks, holding down his yarmulke. “Anyone want to put on tefillin?”
Surprisingly, everyone agrees, if only to keep busy. And maybe to hedge our bets.
“It couldn't hurt,” he says, as if to convince the reluctant. Tefillin are the set of small black leather boxes containing scrolls of handwritten parchment inscribed with meaningful verses from the Torah. Observant Jews wear them—one on the forehead and one on the arm—with a leather strap entwined in a specific configuration, every weekday morning when they pray. Lior files through the ranks, helping each of us wrap the straps with the Holy Scripture tucked inside. First, the arm. “Arms before arms,” I think to myself.
He speaks the words when some of us forget, and with the prayer concluded, I plop on my cot like a sack of Florida oranges. My God—I almost just went into Gaza with a rifle and a pounding heart, without ever telling my own mother. Without even considering the consequences of my “little white lie.” I pull out my phone again, this time to look up the news. Sure enough, I see Roi Rosner's picture. The captain is smiling at seven million Israeli viewers, smiling from his nearby grave. Except he's not in his grave yet. He's still there, where the flies can pester him. We'll go get him. We will return him home. Will my mother recognize my unit's colors? See the insignia on his beret or shoulder? She's glued to the news back home, and pretty observant about that sort of thing: That's where I get it from. So…to tell or not to tell? I'll have to decide very soon, because I know in my bones they'll call us up, call us back, before we get time to sleep. Can I risk the wrath of Fuks? Dude Fuks you up.
I'm just so tired. As I switch my mind off, I notice the deep trenches the leather straps of the tefillin have dug into my arm—a familiar pattern of valleys and canyons, the straps being wound three times around the middle finger, then around the hand to form the shape of the Hebrew letter shin ().
I don't know it yet, but this will be the last morning I'll ever wrap the phylacteries—or anything—using my dominant arm. God and Hamas have other, rather pressing, plans for that appendage. How does that saying go again? Right: Man plans, and God…flings down flaming, metal deuces on him from the heavens. That must be an expression.
It's not because I fall asleep that I don't hear that mortar dropping directly on my tent. Qassam artillery, Katyusha rockets, BM-21 “Grad” missiles, and any number of homemade ballistic pipe bombs would all trigger the alarms. But the brass “forgot” to inform us that military-grade mortars wouldn't. Oops.
The sky falls.
The lady robot voice sleeps.
“The arm…”
“It's there,” says Blue. “Right on the stretcher, right next to you.”
There's a mole in our midst.
“Please. Pleeeease don't call her!” Standing over me, she crosses her arms on her ample bosom. “I'm seriously begging.”
But there's no reasoning with Mrs. Gelb, my principal. There's no reasoning with any authority at any Orthodox middle school, anywhere. It's 1999. Outside, the South Florida sun is shining, and here I am, again, sitting in the stiff wooden chair of the principal's office, in the gloom cast by her filing cabinets full of demerits, records of misdeeds, and medieval torture devices, child-sized. “OK, how about I promise I'll never do it again. Never. Just please don't call Ma.”
“No? Why not?” Such a serious stare.
Why not? Glassy-eyed, I gaze at my bright-red Air Jordans gliding beneath me like pendulums. Let me count the ways. Because I couldn't help myself, but I really want to help myself. Because I want the other kids, my teachers, even you, Mrs. Gelb, to like me. To smile when you see me. To tousle my hair like a normal kid you trust and respect. Because it feels like I'm on my Schwinn flying down a killer hill and my chain's snapped and my handlebars are wobbly. How do I stop my self when it's the bike I'm riding that's out of control?
Because I'm Fart Boy. At the Jewish Community Center's basketball camp last summer, back when I was still secular, all us kids were sitting together, bunched up, listening to Coach Sherman blather on about de-fense. I farted. I mean audibly. My butt released it with all the exhilaration of a pair of lungs attached to an adult male who just won the Lotto. I kept my eyes shut for a good ten seconds, sitting there cross-legged, with a hundred other boys and girls, hoping against all hope that it was just a bad dream, that no one had noticed my bum whooping for joy.
When I poked my head out of my shell, I saw the kids, and how they'd all escaped my orbit en masse. It was like Moses parting the Red Sea. I was alone in the center of a circle, untouchable, a three-foot perimeter between my closest counterpart and me. They called me Fart Boy. I mean seconds later. I had a feeling it would stick.
I had a couple of options. I could cry for mommy. Not cool. Defend myself? How could I? Everyone on the court that day would bring my fart home with them—it would continue to ring in their ears as they tossed in bed that night. On the spot, I decided on a third option: I owned it. “Yeah. I'm Fart Boy. I am ‘The Boy of Many Farts.’” This miraculously defanged them. It “deflated” their taunts. Whatever they would throw my way, I owned it. No fun bullying the kid if he's practically stuffing himself in his own locker.
That day in camp, post fart, Coach Sherman arranged for water-sports in the b
ig field outside. Slip 'N Slides covered everything, and I went tearing down the lawn in my bathing suit, announcing that, “Yeeees, I'm the kid who blew a crater through the ball court!”
Before long, kids were high-fiving me, cheering me on. “Go, Fart Boy, go!”
I learned a valuable lesson in self-defense that day, about the preemptive strike, even if that meant lauding my own leak.
But those were not Orthodox kids. I was starting to learn that my methods didn't work so well among Orthodox kids.
Of course, I can't tell Gelb any of this. She's actually smirking. She's looking as mean and pissed off as ever. She crosses her arms over her triangle boobs behind that ungodly, huge, wooden desk whose cheap laminate finish has all but peeled away. Like the souls of all past miscreants who've felt her wrath.
Maybe I should go for broke and spill the whole spiel. “The me inside me is not the me you see,” or something along those lines. Is there any possible way to explain this? Would she—or anyone—believe me? She has picked up the receiver and tucked it ominously between her giraffe neck and sharp shoulder. She doesn't dial yet. There's still hope. Maybe I could turn out to be the hero of my own story, instead of always the bad guy, “my own worst enemy,” as I have heard her and every one of my teachers say before, so many times I can see it coming. I try again, “All right, how about—?”
“What? Izzy—how about what? How about I let the inmates run the asylum? How about every eleven-year-old at my school just lives by his own rules? Let's act like zoo baboons! Let's not flush the toilets! Let's mouth off to everybody and their brother. Let's make a joke of everything—ha ha, I'm Jerry Seinfeld. Is that your proposal?”
How about it?
Beneath my Air Jordans, a sea of dull grey tiles seems to undulate like a pit of snakes. I try desperately not to sniffle, but the urge overcomes me. What is that smell? The nervous sweat of a hundred former victims, tearstained paneling, and fear? No. That's the smell of disappointment. It's not the office, but a noxious cloud that began condensing around me the moment they started trying to transform me into a proper little Jew.