by Izzy Ezagui
To renew a license, the instructions explain, a suspended driver needs to retake the written test. Damn. Once the crack staff at the DMV spot my disability, they'll require me to get a special license, which will allow me to drive only retrofitted cars. Renting a car will become impossible. What a tiresome inconvenience this missing arm is turning out to be.
I drive back to Ian's to lick my wounds. I'm reading a fantastic book about the raid on Entebbe. I'm reading every book I can get my hand on about military operations, especially those that required extreme chutzpah. Operation Entebbe will go down in history as one of the boldest hostage-rescue missions of all time. In 1976, armed terrorists hijacked an Air France flight from Tel Aviv and forced the pilots to fly the plane to the backwater capital of Uganda. Idi Amin—the dictator du jour—personally welcomed the terrorists, threw them a party, and gave them an airport building to house nearly one hundred Jewish hostages, whom they threatened repeatedly with death for more than a week. A courageous French pilot had remained as well, not willing to leave his passengers behind. As a result, the entire French flight crew bravely followed the pilot's lead, bringing the number of hostages to 106.
IDF officials, with the help of Mossad intelligence, decided to send a team of one hundred elite commandos to the rescue in six aircraft, including two Boeing 707s, and a huge C-130, all loaded with armored personnel carriers. Armed resistance from the Ugandan Army and Air Force was a guarantee. We're talking a big-budget Hollywood-film kind of mission. Definition of “badass.” It happened in the dead of night. They called it Operation Thunderbolt.
Part of the audacious plan depended on the team airlifting a replica of Idi Amin's favored black Mercedes along to the mission, followed by facsimiles of the Land Rovers common to his convoy. The idea was to fool the Ugandan guards into thinking their very scary president had decided to stop by for a surprise visit/inspection. That particular part of the plan didn't quite work—one of the airport sentries knew Amin had recently junked the black Mercedes in favor of a white one. They say nothing about military operations is ever black-and-white—but this intelligence failure literally was. Take that, Katya! In any case, the Israelis managed to save all but three of the hostages, killed all the terrorists and a number of Ugandan soldiers, and even destroyed a fleet of MiGs on the tarmac.
Well, this gives me a capital idea. Even a half dose of fentanyl can addle a good mind, mind you, and I'm still suffering Phantom's embrace at its tightest. But it seems like a great idea at the time. Be bold or be beaten, baby.
What I need is the equivalent replica Mercedes for this particular situation. Surely the folks at the Florida DMV would be nowhere near as wary of such a Trojan Horse in their midst as Idi Amin's loyal soldiers. I'm going to figure this out.
“Mercedes, Mercedes, I need a Mercedes,” I continually mumble under my breath for the next two days. Then I see it—it's so ridiculously obvious. I imagine a shiny new arm on display inside a red metal box, its front made of glass. Its label reads, “Break glass in case you need to fool the DMV into thinking you have two arms.”
After digging my suitcase out of Ian's guestroom closet, I find my curled-up prosthetic gathering dust inside. I've worn it only a few times. I toss the cosmetic appendage onto the bed to inspect it further.
It looks nothing like a real arm. That's why I stopped wearing it. The material doesn't even resemble skin, but…Mossad was banking on expectation only. You know, you're expecting the Mercedes you see pulling up in a convoy to contain your boss—so any minor abnormalities go unnoticed. Yes, the shape of the prosthetic does match my remaining arm, insofar as it's generally arm-shaped. Generally. I dive back into the closet to find the only long-sleeved shirt I brought with me between searing Israel and boiling South Florida—a worn, grey sweater.
An hour later, I'm convinced I've created the impression that my normal human arm is resting casually within the confines of the sweater's front pocket. The test is a forty-five-minute drive away. I arrive back at the DMV sopping with sweat, jauntily attired.
An hour later, I leave the building two pounds lighter. Five pounds, if you count the fake arm I toss into the back seat, never to wear again. Having committed a new version of armed robbery, I leave with my shiny, new license.
ANKLE BRACELET
It's winter 2010. I'm back in Brooklyn, where I've come to help my father get ready for trial. Back in the decrepit “bachelor pad” on President Street. We have nothing. Just two old mattresses resting side by side, and an old, beat-up fridge.
The trial lasts roughly a month. I don't miss a minute of it. I wake up early every morning to gulp down raw eggs and take the Number 4 train to a gym—New York Sports Club—off Union Square in Manhattan. I use this commute to read books about military strategy, leadership, and operations. I read The Art of War, How to Lose a War, the US Army / Marine Corps Counterinsurgency Field Manual—anything I can get my hand on at the Strand (“18 Miles of Books”). These, for the mind.
And for the body, I work out seven days a week to prepare for my return to military life. My first day at the gym, I meet a trainer named Matt, a buff Puerto Rican in his early twenties, and a US Marine sniper reservist. When I tell him what I'm training for, he insists on training me for free.
“Here in the US military,” he tells me, “an injury like yours is a career-ender.”
I tell him it's a career-ender in Israel, too.
Matt's a great motivation. “Izzy, you and I are both gonna make general. I'm telling you.”
“Yeah, and we'll coordinate joint anti-terror operations. First order of business: A drunk rave in the jungle for all our grunts.”
“First, do ten more reps, tough guy.”
I shower, re-dress, and head to court in downtown Brooklyn to make it just in time for proceedings to begin. The Theodore Roosevelt United States Courthouse on Cadman Plaza East is an imposing glass-and-steel structure. Presently, it entertains twelve people—unlucky thirteen if you count the judge—who hold in their hands the fate of my family.
Prosecutors are calling my father's case the biggest local subprime mortgage fraud on record. They say he “pocketed” millions, but, in fact, he went bankrupt, lost everything he'd tried to build for decades. He ran out of money and couldn't keep the lopsided rig running.
The government will always find something if they look hard enough. And, when members of the local community started to make a ruckus, look hard is just what the government did. But his intentions were always magnanimous. He wanted to help people.
My mother articulated this, far better than I ever could, in a letter she wrote to the judge in the case, Judge Frederic Block. I've excerpted it here:
It is amazing that a young man without skills or schooling was able to accomplish what he did by sheer will and determination.
The [Lubavitcher] Rebbe [Menachem Schneerson, leader of the Chassidic community, whom many considered the Messiah] had a lifelong struggle with his followers to keep them in Crown Heights. In the 1950s Crown Heights was an upscale and safe community with a diverse population living together peacefully. In the 1960s all that changed. Crown Heights became a bastion of crime. The once-beautiful neighborhood was burnt down and abandoned, becoming a haven for crack houses and criminal activity. The Rebbe pleaded with the people that New York, home to the UN, with its diversity of cultures, was an inspiration to other cities and to the world at large. Everyone had their eye on the Big Apple, and therefore the [Chassidic] people had a responsibility to stay put and set an example in order to send out a message that running was not the answer. Being personally affected by the Holocaust…[The Rebbe] knew what the implications of running were, and he was very firm on this issue. Nonetheless, most people fled, leaving him and about two hundred families behind. Although safety has always been a concern, at The Rebbe's insistence, the community was slowly built up and eventually flourished again.
On August 20th, 1991, we were living in California the night our daughter Jasmine was born.
When we called Eliyahu's family in Crown Heights to relay the good news, we were informed of the pandemonium that was taking place. The Rebbe's motorcade had mistakenly hit and killed a little African American boy, and riots ensued. A young Jewish man was killed in retaliation, and all hell broke loose. People feared for their lives. Homes were broken into, stores were looted, and cars were set on fire. Talk of abandoning the neighborhood resurfaced, and was rampant. My husband told me, then and there, that as soon as I could travel, we were moving back. This was his calling. His fear for all the people in the neighborhood propelled him to take action.
Being that Eliyahu was not a born Chassid, he had a different perspective from those…born into the organization and living in the neighborhood. [E]veryone was stuck in a “fight or flight” mentality. Eliyahu had a key to a middle ground option. Time was of the essence, since it was necessary to start building while The Rebbe was still alive and able to instruct his people…about never running away from one's neighborhood. One of his main concerns was that the rich would head for the suburbs (which was the trend at the time), and the poor would be left behind in dire circumstances. Rather, he insisted on working things through, and striving to bring about peace and unity.
…[H]ad the people run away, it would've had citywide implications. Billions could have been lost to banks and the private sector. Neighboring communities would find themselves threatened, and running as well—history repeating itself. It was dubbed by the former Mayor, Koch, and the media to be the first anti-Semitic “pogrom” on American soil, and an indication of further unrest to come…[such as] the Rodney King case that sparked the [LA] Riots in 1992 that so polarized the country.
Touched deeply by the birth of our daughter, Eliyahu felt it was no coincidence these incidents concurred. Although it is counterintuitive to jump into the fire, The Lubavitcher Rebbe had ingrained into my husband that a little bit of light dispels a lot of darkness…. If not I, then who? And if not now, then when? We moved back, which was a message of encouragement to others as it was intended to be. People approached Eliyahu in utter disbelief upon our return, since they couldn't get out fast enough. Eliyahu's mission was to restore a sense of hope and security to the neighborhood. After the riots, during a terrible recession, nobody in their right mind dared to build under the circumstances.
The people asked Eliyahu to write to The Rebbe, sure that he would be advised not to build. In his letter, Eliyahu clearly indicated the risks involved, and the reasons so many cautioned him that it was not a good time to take on this endeavor. The Rebbe immediately responded in the affirmative.
Please notice in The Rebbe's response underlined [in the enclosed correspondence] the word “bracha” (“blessing”) numerous times…[he also] gave my husband an order to “build now!” This was…unusual…because The Rebbe never gave orders, he made suggestions. This indicated the urgency to take immediate action in order to stop the situation from further deterioration.
Armed with The Rebbe's blessing and an honest reputation, Eliyahu restored peace. He expanded the borders at a tremendous financial risk to himself, by relieving the pressure that was causing much of the conflict. With an eye to the future, he built a building next to Lefferts Park, a project that caught [future] Mayor Giuliani's attention…. [Giuliani] was assessing the conditions on the front lines in order to devise a plan and start making much needed reforms. Encouraged by Eliyahu's efforts, [the mayor] eventually followed through with his own plan to redo city parks to give people quality of life, and an opportunity to peacefully mingle with each other.
…Today the area is safe and thriving. Even with the collapse of the real estate market, these units are retaining their value. The government brought witnesses on the stand to prove that Eliyahu was defrauding the banks by inflating the prices on the units, but this is what really happened. He provided affordable housing to over one hundred families, and was a constant source of encouragement, as he advised countless others to fight their fears, and move ahead.
People watched my husband struggle for years before the next developer got the confidence to build. Hundreds of units sprung up after that, followed by schools, temples, and community centers. None of this could have taken place if the people in the neighborhood had not joined hands in a group effort….
I would like to mention that Eliyahu was on his own, working thirteen to fourteen hours a day to survive since the age of fourteen. He did repairs and odd jobs, something that came naturally to him. Before going into construction, he opened up a small wood shop in his apartment. He expanded years later into a storefront with his older brother, and eventually they opened up a factory…. Some time later Eliyahu started doing home renovations. He slowly built up his reputation as being honest and hardworking. People knew they could trust him with their money….
[But] two and a half years ago, [my husband's business stalled]. Our dire circumstances forced us to move to Israel. We simply did not have the financial means to stay in the States. Thanks to the assistance that Israel provides for newcomers who become citizens, we had a chance of survival. After ten years of carrying all of the mortgages, being pressured with lawsuits and threats, and having his reputation dragged into the mud—Eliyahu collapsed….
[He] flew back to the States, broke and forlorn, to dispel the myth that we had run away to Israel. Knowing his own innocence, he did not foresee the possibility of being arrested…. He was not provided with any documents for over a year while he was under house arrest waiting patiently for the government to finish their investigation, knowing his name would be cleared and he would be set free. I still believe that justice will prevail….
On January 8th, 2009, my son was injured in the Gaza War, fighting for the state of Israel and global democracy. A frontline foot soldier in Operation Cast Lead, he was hit by a rocket and his arm was traumatically amputated on impact. We were left in a state of shock and pain, beyond what any words could possibly express. The [US] government allowed my husband ten days to fly in and be with our son, although [the prosecutors] remarked he should not be let out of the country because he would never return.
If anyone had any doubts that my husband would take this opportunity to evade the law and avoid facing his responsibilities, or to give up the fight to prove his innocence, they were wrong…. [H]e flew back as was required by the law. Before my husband's arrival, for days my son refused to move, overwhelmed by shock and pain. Within ten minutes of being beside his father, everyone cheered as he rose from his bed, infused with the strength he needed, just by being in his father's presence. [My son] has had several operations, and a yearlong struggle to come off the morphine that dulled the phantom pain in his arm. By sheer will and determination he got himself back into shape, [to rejoin] the Israel Defense Forces. Although this is unusual, despite the odds, he has a need to finish what he started, and to be a source of encouragement to the soldiers. Although they tried to persuade him otherwise, he will shortly re-enter a combat unit, thereby losing any and all benefits due to him for his injury. I guess the old adage is true. An apple does not fall far from the tree….
I am very proud of both of my soldiers. Even though my life would be more peaceful if my men were not such high achievers…. Although we have lost our home, our name, [our credit,] our stability, and our peace of mind—no one can take away what we have given, nor destroy our spirits.
As the trial progresses, each day I grow more confident that the jury is seeing how noble my father really is. How, even if he didn't do everything by the book, he did what he did to help people. Not for his own gain. His lawyers cart out boxes and boxes of evidence of his tzedakah, hundreds of checks to good causes and individuals in need. They say they've never seen anything like it.
As the month-long trial comes to a close, and we're waiting for jury deliberations, I use some of my scant savings to purchase a small keg of Heineken so that my dad and I can celebrate the justice of his inevitable win. I am certain he will be exonerated. Some goon will come and
unlatch the ankle bracelet. We'll get our family back, our house, our good name. And we'll all be reunited in Jerusalem.
HEAVY-HANDED
February 2010. While the jury's out, I'm lying on my mattress on the floor, and suddenly I see a mortar diving through clouds and heading straight for me. But I can't move. It strikes me dead-on, a brutal and terrifying concussion. My father's watching the news just a few feet away. I'm completely awake but totally paralyzed. I can't even signal to him that I'm in distress. It's all I can do to keep breathing.
Israeli veterans enjoy one of the world's lowest rates of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder—about 1 percent of all IDF soldiers post-service. In comparison, in America, an average of twenty-two veterans commit suicide every day, and up to 15 percent are diagnosable with PTSD—that's a rate of almost 1,500 times greater prevalence. What accounts for this huge difference? Probably the best explanation I've heard is that it has to do with mandatory service. If everybody has to join up, then once you go home, you know that almost everybody understands what you've been through. You don't feel so isolated once you return to the unstructured world in which you're not constantly at war.
But very little is as isolating as being on trial. Even more so is watching your Spider-Man, your loyal, gentle father, facing a firing squad. I've never felt so helpless in my life—not even when I lay bleeding out, waiting for the world to go dark. Members of the Orthodox community in Brooklyn, people who knew very well how my father had helped them and the community, turned on him like jackals. The things they were saying about my father online, behind a curtain of anonymity, were vicious and cruel. They compared him with Bernie Madoff. They wished his entire family would suffer and go hungry—these brave keyboard warriors. They accused him. They cursed him. Called him a pig. Prosecutors were asking for him to get twenty-five years.