Disarmed

by Izzy Ezagui

  Rabbi clears his throat behind me. I let him slip past into the tent. Phantom follows, nudging me inside. Phantom whistles, impressed with the cache. Then Rabbi whistles. “We should not be in here with such gear.” He exits the tent and limps toward the bomb shelter where the excruciating tourniquet once held what remained of my blood inside my body.

  When I don't follow, Rabbi stops, turns, and smiles. “After you,” he says.

  One step, two steps, three steps forward. My fear's in there. Fear I didn't realize I've been clutching all this time. Yes, it was Lior's idea to come here. And for my benefit. Bastard.

  But I take a deep breath, hold it, and enter the concrete bunker. Immediately, my knees wobble beneath me. Without conscious intent, my body has lowered itself to the ground. Now I'm kneeling on the very spot where Chen the medic toiled to keep my insides inside me. The spot where Fuks, blood on his cheeks like some cannibal, shredded my fatigues with his teeth.

  I start muttering under my breath. Then growing louder, I recite much of the dialogue that occurred on this ground that day. Things I haven't thought about since. Things buried deep in my psyche. The words pour out of me like someone's pressed a button on a tape recording. Rabbi steps outside as I vent. He knows I left more than my arm here. He knows we had to come back. For me to pick up my self. By the time the words taper and cease, and the images fade to grey, I feel a complete sense of peace. Just like when the syringe pushes sedative into the bloodstream. Rabbi Lior's cure. Too bad neither of these last forever. I stumble weakly outside. “We're done here, Lior. We can go.”

  BROTHERS IN ARMS

  One week later. April 2009. The night is messy with color and pain. I would have preferred to sink into the abyss of misery and morphine. But I look out through a gauzy yellow haze. The doctor's upped my pain meds of late, telling me that phantom pain often gets worse before—if ever—it gets better. They've added meds tough enough to tranquilize a baby rhino. Nevertheless, Phantom's in full force tonight, flaring out his fiery fingers all over my left side, suffocating me with his very existence. I have to get the hell out of this bed.

  Somehow I summon the will to crawl out from under the sweat-soaked sheets. Benny's not in bed, and I stumble out of the musty room to look for him. I wind up in the lobby, boisterous to the point of nearly disorderly, with Israeli citizens doing their willing duty to raise the spirits of the half-dead. The recent operation in Gaza has flipped the sign on most hospital beds from “vacant” to “ocupado.” It's packed. I shamble aimlessly through the colorful crowd, through their cookies and flowers, offers of affection. I walk arm-in-arm with Phantom, his terrible tendrils wrapping barbs of thorn into my missing arm. His touch is a mixture of frostbite and dagger that makes it impossible to enjoy the laughter here, or the lone acoustic guitar some guy is playing while the throng slowly sways.

  Someone hands me a flower with yellow petals. When I look up, I see her. This woman smiles so much it makes me uncomfortable. “That's my husband, David, on the guitar,” she says. “He comes here every week to play for you guys.” How long have we been talking?

  “He's good,” I tell her. “Soothing.” And he is, now that I really listen. All around me, mouths are moving, but I can't distinguish the words they're saying. I'm starting to get very, very sick of this stoned feeling.

  “I'm Shachar,” the woman says. “Hey, where do you stay on weekends? Do you go home?”

  Everything around me morphs into a Dalí painting. The clocks are melting. The floors are tipping precipitously like the CAREN platform, so I compensate by climbing. Shachar's smile becomes a monstrous lemon wedge. I pretend I'm OK. “No,” I say. “I stay here.”

  “Alone?”

  “Alone.” The truth is an anchor, a real thing in this surreal space.

  Even if I wanted to, I can't form the words to tell Shachar why. Beyond not wanting to cause them any pain in the midst of my father's plight, I absolutely do not want my family to pity me. They're living less than an hour away, at the Wolfson Towers in Jerusalem. I could easily get there by bus. But I don't want my mother or sisters to see me struggling to feed myself, to dress myself, to be myself again. Truth is, I'm ashamed to go home. “I'm—I let everybody down.”

  “Nonsense,” says Shachar. “From now on, you're going to stay at our home on weekends.”

  “Sure,” I say, figuring I'll never see this woman again. She points with her chin to her husband. “Know how we met? David was nineteen and serving in Givati, wore a purple beret. He couldn't play guitar yet, but he was already a combat officer who led troops into battle. I was the secretary on base, which meant I was in charge of our only working phone. We met when he asked me if he could call home. It's good to be the gatekeeper.”

  Somehow I wind up back in bed. Phantom's shooting spitballs at the wall. Benny's struggling in our en suite bathroom, and a nurse is knocking on the door. “Can I give you a hand?”

  And here I thought you and I had something special…

  Eventually, I'm going to have to wean myself off all these drugs.

  That Friday, the rehab empties out, as usual. I have the place to myself, which is fine by me. I'm planning to spend the weekend watching old reruns. I'm on season four of How I Met Your Mother when a smiling woman bursts into my room. “Ready to go?” she asks.

  “Huh—?” Oh, right. It's Shachar from the other night. I try to fight her off, but she literally drags me to her car by my shirt. It's a daylight abduction, and I hunch, stumble, mope until she has me belted fast beside her. On the way to their house, she tells me all about her son, Ido.

  “I've got three boys,” she says. Her hands grip the wheel at 10 and 2, but she watches me instead of the road. “Ido's in the middle, thirteen years old. You're going to be using his room. This was all his idea.”

  I wonder whether I, as a typical teenager, would have ever in a million years spontaneously volunteered to bunk with my sisters in order to free up my bed for a random wounded vet. I highly doubt it. My only personal space? For a complete stranger? Ido moved in with his little brother across the hall in order to accommodate me.

  What starts as one weekend turns into several, evolves into longer and longer stays. In late April, I insist on pulling out my own stiches—thick, painful-to-remove staples—as the nurse videos with my phone. I'm so sure I'm going to make it back to combat that I'm already working on my reputation as the crazy Hollywood drill sergeant. And, suddenly, I'm living full-time in Ido's room. For four months. While I work on getting more comfortable going home. Not once does Ido complain. He's proud of his contribution, and rightly so. His heart, I come to understand, has a tendency to beat for more than just one body. It beats for me now. Just like his father, David's, when it commanded a platoon of thirty young men a lot like me a decade and a half ago.

  I do spend Passover in April with General Galant while he visits the troops on the Gaza border north of Ein HaShlosha. Soon after, he starts inviting me to his house on weekends, where he throws lavish barbeques for all his family and friends. I feel like a little bit of each. It's become increasingly clear I've found my advocate. Someone who can put a purple beret on my head.

  June 2009

  Yoav,

  First off, I would like to thank you for the interest you have shown [for] my wellbeing from the moment that we met. There's no doubt in my mind that you care deeply about the soldiers you command. Even if for whatever reason they are of no further use to the cause we serve.

  You may correct me if I'm wrong when I say that in my case one of the reasons you took interest in me is because you saw the potential in my specific situation, and my will to use that potential to its maximum.

  …[A]fter the injury, all I was worried about was getting back to my unit and completing my mission. In hindsight it's pretty obvious to me I won't be making it back to the shetach krav [field of combat]. I will however do everything in my power to get as close to kravi [combat] as possible.

  Every-time I tell someone of my pla
ns to return to combat the first thing they ask me is, “Haven't you done enough?”

  This question only strengthens my resolve…my hope is that when civilians and soldiers alike see that an American boy who volunteered to join the infantry got hurt and returned again even stronger…they will be inspired to do a little more…

  My goal is to motivate those around me, and if that means sitting on Bach Givati or Bahad Echad [Givati's training base or the officer course training base] for the duration of my service, training other soldiers to enter combat, I would be honored to do so.

  I don't see the harm in placing me in combat training. I am willing to be tested rigorously on anything you have a hard time believing I can accomplish. If it be the bochan maslul [combat obstacle course] or loading, aiming, and shooting an M16, I am up for the test, and I without a doubt will find a way to pass it.

  At the end of the day I am here to serve, and if you see fit to put me somewhere non-combat, I will respect your decision, knowing you did everything in your power to put me in the best place for me as well as the army.

  I hope our friendship will continue to grow only stronger.

  Thank you for everything,

  Izzy Ezagui

  I plan to hand the letter to General Galant when I see him today. He's invited me to join him for another visit to the disabled vets still in rehab after the traumas they sustained in Cast Lead. I spot him with his entourage of military personnel waiting outside the rehab center at Sheba, my former residence, now that I live in David and Shachar's home. Seeing him, whether alone or in public, always makes me queasy.

  But he gives me a big smile and a warm handshake, which quickly sedates the feud going on between all my organs. The disabled vets unlucky enough to still be in rehab this long all have serious-enough injuries to require daily PT and/or treatments, preventing them from being able to live at home. Benny is one of those guys. The entourage, with me included, goes straight to the trauma ward, home to all the soldiers hurt badly enough that they won't ever again lead a normal life. It's weird to be on this side of the general's visit. I'm making progress. Then we head into the CAREN suite. All the bigwigs are much impressed by the ultramodern technology. The engineer who runs the whole operation tells Yoav how the system works, and how much progress the various patients are making. I'm smiling. “Who's got the high score?” Yoav asks her. Good question!

  The technician turns to face me. “Want to tell him?”

  “It's me,” I say.

  After the visits, I ask Yoav if he has a moment to talk about my mission. He tells me to wait a moment while he calls over another high-ranking officer. The three of us sit down in a conference room. Yoav introduces me to the officer, Dr. Ishy Icholov, one of his direct reports. “Ishy's the head medical officer of Southern Command. I wouldn't make a decision like this without his counsel. I want you to tell Ishy what it is you wish to do.”

  I smile at this Ishy. He doesn't smile back. “Sir, my goal is to return to combat. I can see myself as a commander, training other soldiers for combat. But really, I think I can—”

  “Ridiculous,” says Ishy, cutting me off. He swivels to face the general. “Imagine the poor colonel or major who'd have to take responsibility for a one-armed soldier.” He swivels back toward me. “Don't you see, son? You'd be a danger to yourself—and the soldiers around you.”

  “But, I've already—”

  “For example, how would you show a soldier how to load a rifle if you can't do it on your own?”

  “Well. Off the top of my head,” I say, “I could use another soldier to model the maneuver. I would have him hold the rifle and I would explain exactly where his hands need to be, what actions he needs to do, and the correct stance he needs to do it in. I would…”

  Yoav is slowly nodding, but his expression reveals nothing. It's clear this “Dr. Notgudenuff,” though, isn't even hearing me. “I mean, I can see you passing officer training, passionate boy like you,” says the doctor. “Then maybe you run an intelligence unit or something like that. But combat? I'm afraid you'll never make it back. In fact…” He again faces his superior. “If this is attempted through Southern Command, I'll make sure the notion is quashed.”

  I shoot the general a look, which says, “A desk jockey? I'll go insane.” This time, the general's eyes tell me this isn't over yet; there might be other options. I hope I'm not reading him wrong. That this meeting is simply Yoav's way of putting out feelers. Just because the doctor says “no way, it's impossible,” doesn't mean the general has to agree with him. If the guy running Southern Command wants something to happen, it's not like some underling can really “quash” that initiative, no matter how open the dialogue is in the culture of the IDF. Right? But as for gauging just how on board the doctor will be with this mission, I think we've pretty much got our answer. The question is: How persuasive was he?

  I thank Dr. Notgudenuff for his time and consideration, blah blah blah, and the three of us stand up to leave. Then Dr. NGE says, smiling for once, “You'll make a fine intelligence officer, Izzy.”

  “Right, sir.”

  As we get to the door, I slip Yoav the letter I wrote yesterday. I don't know what I'm expecting, but would it be too much to ask that he open it up and read it right there in front of me? Maybe the orchestra—conducted by John Williams—then swells? And when it reaches a crescendo, maybe he says, “You got it, kid. Screw that small-minded doctor douche. See you in the field.”

  Sure enough—he does open the envelope and take out the letter. He's reading it right on the spot, just as I had hoped. So awkward. But nothing approaching so melodramatic a reply comes my way in the ward today. He smiles, nods, folds up my dream, places it in his shirt pocket. And walks off.

  Weeks go by. I'm starting to lose hope. Then, Galant invites me on an extensive tour of the southern front, along with a large group of the Who's Who in Israeli politics and armed forces. On a bus near the Gaza border, in the middle of the afternoon, this older guy walks down the aisle toward me and says, “Hey, you're a hero, kid.”

  A little melodramatic, no?

  “Excuse me?”

  “Are you Izzy Ezagui?”

  “Yeah, but I'm no hero, sir.”

  “Bah,” he says. Then huffs. “As you like it.” He limps back to his seat. I've met plenty of heroes. What's the old man know of that?

  I go to look out the window and see that the corporal sitting beside me has his mouth open. “What?” I ask him.

  “Do you know who that was? That's Zvika Greengold…The Zvika. You know, leader of the Zvika Tank Force in the Yom Kippur War? He ought to know a hero when he sees one.”

  KEEPING MY NOSE CLEAN

  July 2009. I don't feel like a hero. I feel more like an addict. The strongest of the many meds I'm on is called Duragesic. That's a fentanyl transdermal patch, at the highest available dose, which releases 100 mcg per hour. I've been on this patch for six months already. Just to give you an idea, fentanyl is about ninety times stronger than morphine. In fact, they prescribe it only after you've been on morphine or oral opioids (like OxyContin) long enough for them to cease doing the trick. I'm doing all three.

  One night in Ido's bedroom, I have an epiphany. The phantom pain is never going to abate. So I'll either have to stay on these mega-drugs forever, or learn to live with my new life partner. And only one of these options will allow me to return to combat. I decide right there that I'm going to have to re-enlist along with Phantom, both of us drug-free.

  While living with the Dans, David and Shachar's family, I'm still supposed to go back to Sheba twice a week for rehab. On one of those visits, I approach Dr. Zivner with a direct request to help me lower my dose incrementally. “You're kidding yourself if you think you can quit the opioids with your level of pain.”

  Believe it, Izzy. You're totally my bitch.

  “Izzy, we've got guys from five wars ago still on fentanyl. Not to mention withdrawal's not some walk in the park. There's no good reason to add that
kind of stress and suffering to your plate right now.” It's clear I can't do this under their guidance. No problem. I'll manage my own extraction from the world of opiates.

  I start by cutting the patches in half. That shouldn't be too tough, right?

  What can I say about withdrawal that won't sound cliché? You've seen movies depicting heroin withdrawal? You know, guy shaking, sweating, screaming at so many horned demons? Vomiting nonstop on his pajamas. Writhing around and trying to make deals with the devil for just one more hit? Well—morphine, fentanyl, and heroin all derive from the same opium poppy. For six thousand years it's been a universal analgesic. And for just as long, we humans have gone through hell when we've tried to kick it.

  The Dans are, unsurprisingly, concerned. Shachar is horrified at what I'm going through. I keep waking them up at night with random screams, and I'm unable to keep anything down. She calls the hospital to ask what the hell they're thinking by weaning me off these drugs so suddenly. They ask her what the hell she's talking about. She asks me what the hell I'm thinking, going against the doctors’ orders. All the while, Phantom, having used my intestines to string his piano, performs an opera with my body.

  PULL MY FINGER

  Shachar wants me gone, and it's hard to blame her. She's probably worried I'm going to die in Ido's room. She's probably right. Very few things get me out of bed anymore. One of them is an “invitation” from Dr. Notgudenuff. Seems the gatekeeper has not forgotten me. Without telling me why, he says he wants me to visit his base a couple months after our first meeting. I take the three-hour bus on pins and needles. Maybe he's changed his mind?

  Nope. He's brought me out to reiterate that his gate is locked: “I hope you've got this nonsense about combat out of your head. You cannot pull it off.”

  The look on my face tells him everything he needs to know about my attitude toward his obstructionism. “Let me guess,” he says, “You heard about Yakir Segev, so you think you can do it, too.”