by Roni Eliav
He sat there silently for a couple of minutes, before suddenly getting up and leaving the room without saying a word. Neta picked up the file he’d dropped to the floor, which read: “Ibrahim Nasser, jack of clubs, directed several cells responsible for carrying out suicide bombings in Israel, including the Tel-Aviv central bus station, a children’s bus in Jerusalem, and an armed attack in the settlement of Tapuach.” The file went on to list family members and potential hideouts around Nablus. Neta didn’t understand what had stirred Erez so. Despite her curiosity, she didn’t ask.
The camp was first built by the British, then turned over to the Jordanians before falling into Israeli hands following the Six Day War in 1967. Many of its structures stood empty, and some were old and dilapidated. The office they’d been assigned was housed in an old building that had already been renovated once, but now consisted only of the three offices which stood at their disposal. Erez settled into one of the empty rooms. He put an army cot in the corner, and lay a sleeping bag over the mattress. He dragged a metal cupboard in from one of the other rooms, to keep his clothes in. A single chair and a desk completed the room’s sparse furnishing. There were showers and restrooms down the hall from the office.
Erez got up every morning at 6 AM and went for a jog around the base, followed by a fitness session including chin-ups, pushups, parallel bars, and sit-ups. He then took a shower and went to get breakfast in the mess hall. By 8 AM he was in his office, planning the day ahead. He would then call his driver and go on long drives to scour the sector. When he got back around noon, he went down to the range and practiced shooting for an hour. Chaim the driver told Neta that Erez was conducting combat drills and that his marksmanship was unbelievable.
“Not only does he hit the target every time, it’s almost always perfect headshots. Except for when he tells me he’s aiming for the legs. He lets me shoot, as well. He says I’m his bodyguard in the field,” the driver proudly said.
Later during the day, Erez would settle into his office and conduct a work meeting with Neta, go over materials he’d gathered from the intelligence officer, set up and coordinate meetings, and see to his daily tasks.
He made sure to grab dinner every evening, especially on days when he’d skipped lunch, which were quite frequent. He then retired to his room to rest and read books. At 8 PM, he would go on another jog and fitness session, get back, shower, and work into the small hours of the night.
He gathered information, planned operations, changed plans, and issued orders. But he mostly worked on his strange pet project: he had hung a large aerial map in the office, and gradually covered it with things like observation post findings, cellphone triangulations, paths and tracks, and other bits and pieces of information he extracted from the growing dossier of raw data he was gathering. Cryptic colored markings grew like vines; circles, arches, and arrows appeared, followed by seemingly arbitrary dates; he jotted down and scribbled out equations on the edges of the map, made corrections, and added letters and symbols Neta vaguely recalled from advanced algebra class.
She tried to sound him out about it occasionally, but all she got were vague answers riddled with statistical calculations. His conduct continued to be professional, even courteous at times— but never personal. Sometimes she wasn’t sure if he even remembered her name. He definitely didn’t remember the intelligence officer’s name.
Finally, he added a table to the map. In the first column were terrorists’ names, represented by their corresponding card signs and numbers; the second column listed locations by their coordinates; the third column consisted of dates, several per row; and in the final column were percentages, ranging from 70 to 90.
He asked Neta to set up a meeting with the division commander. She told him she was having a hard time setting up such meetings. He got up, grabbed a couple of files, and made his way to the brigade commander’s office. He returned two hours later, and told Neta she wouldn’t be having any more problems setting up meetings.
Two days later, Erez left the base wearing a combat vest and carrying a weapon. As he was heading out, Neta asked him where he was going, but he just mumbled inaudibly under his breath. The next morning, he wasn’t in the office or in his room. Chaim the driver reported that he hadn’t seen him jogging that morning. By lunchtime, Neta was growing increasingly concerned. She decided to report the matter, but didn’t know to whom. That evening, she saw the brigade commander at dinner, and rushed over to him before he left the mess hall. She asked if she could speak with him; he was a little surprised, but entertained her request like a man speaking with a pretty woman, rather than as a commander and his subordinate.
“Erez is gone,” she said plainly.
The brigade commander furrowed his brow and asked: “What do you mean, gone? Went home? Didn’t come into the office?”
“Put on a combat vest, grabbed a weapon, got on a jeep, and left last night,” she replied.
The bridge commander became white as a ghost.
“How do you reach him?” he asked. She looked at him in confusion, and he became irritated.
“When he goes out, doesn’t he leave his coordinates with command post?”
“I sometimes do it for him. Honestly, I don’t think he knows command post’s number.”
“Where does he usually go?”
“I’m not sure, to the villages around the base, maybe.”
“Alone?” he asked in disbelief.
“With his driver, I think,” she hesitated.
“Tell me, do you not know about his mental state?” He raised his voice. “Do you not know that he just suffered a severe trauma? Why did you wait until now to say something?!” he exploded.
The brigade commander called over some of his officers and issued some orders. Officers began scattering and running around. The PA system called for certain soldiers and officers to take up their posts.
Neta felt there was nothing more she could do and returned to the office. She sat there unnerved, unsure what exactly the brigade commander meant, but certain there was something dark lurking in Erez. What kind of trauma did he suffer? What did the brigade commander mean? she thought to herself.
At 10 PM, she heard a vehicle pull up. She rushed to the window, and saw Erez coming up the stairs, dirty and gloomy, clutching his rifle in his hand. He entered the office and slumped down heavily in his chair.
“Everyone’s looking for you. I went to the brigade commander and he blew his top.”
Erez stared at the map in silence.
“Did you update the table?” he asked.
“Just what you showed me. I still don’t get how it works,” she replied.
“Get me the briefing.”
He went over the documents and instructed her to mark some things down, then stood back and looked at the big picture. “Well, it doesn’t really change much,” he muttered.
Erez took a piece of paper and started jotting down complex equations. Neta had realized by then that those were probability equations. He went up to the table and updated some of the markings.
“Is there anything to eat around here?” he asked, hunched over the map.
“Just tuna and bread,” she replied. She went out and came back with two cans of tuna and a loaf of bread.
“Water,” he said without looking up from his calculations.
Neta was enchanted by his levels of concentration.
“Erez… the brigade commander said something about a recent trauma… What happened?”
“My kids were killed in a suicide bombing,” he said, his face still buried in his calculations.
Neta stared at him, flabbergasted, struggling to believe what she’d just heard, but slowly feeling like things were starting to make sense.
“And the person who directed this attack… The jack of clubs?”
“Ibrahim Nasser, yes,” he answered.
Neta looked at the table. The nearest date for Ibrahim Nasser was three days away, and the number by his name was 72%— relatively low. The next date was the following day, marked as 84%. As she was examining the table, Erez got up, grabbed a black marker and crossed out the queen of hearts.
“Why’d you do that?”
“He’s dead,” Erez answered laconically. He grabbed the two cans of tuna and bread, his bottle of water, a map, and a copy of the table, and stuffed them into his bag.
“Wait, where are you going?” she asked.
“If anyone asks, I wasn’t here. And if Eitan is looking for me, tell him to call off the search. I’ll be back later,” he said.
“Erez, don’t go,” she said and stood in his path. She suddenly realized she was dressed in nothing but shorts and a tank top. Erez looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time.
Neta hugged him. He stood there motionless, passively letting her hug him. He then raised his arms and embraced her tightly. When she let go, he turned around and left. A couple of minutes later, she heard his car pulling away.
She stayed there in the office, unsure if she should let command post or the brigade commander know Erez was gone again. She decided to delay the call, to give him time to get away. The following morning, she went to see the brigade commander. His secretary refused to let her in, but when Neta informed her she had information about Erez, she was told to go straight in.
The bridge commander listened in silence as Neta repeated Erez’s message, and silently stared at her at length.
“Tell me, isn’t your last name Schiller?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, “why do you ask?”
“You know I was a soldier in Erez’s team, right?”
“No, actually, I didn’t know that. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Is your mother named Liat?” he prodded on.
“Y-yes, how did you know that?” she asked, taken aback.
“Did you ever tell your mother who you work for?”
“I did, and she actually asked me a lot of questions I didn’t know how to answer.”
Eitan sat there motionless for another moment, then picked up the phone and called off the search.
“What’s the connection between Erez and my mother?” Neta asked.
“They had a long affair, years ago,” the brigade commander replied.
Neta’s jaw dropped.
“A-am I his daughter?” she asked in trepidation.
“No, no, it wasn’t that many years ago. You were about four years old then, I think.”
The phone on Eitan’s desk rang. Someone on the other side reported something.
Eitan hung up the call and asked Neta: “What exactly did Erez say he was doing?”
“He didn’t say. Why? What happened?”
“One of our most-wanted terrorists was killed last night.”
“The queen of hearts…” It dawned on her. “He crossed him off the list!”
“What list?”
“The statistical list Erez keeps in our office,” she replied.
Eitan got up, and without saying another word the two of them headed over to Erez and Neta’s office. He stood in front of the map and examined it closely.
“That son of a bitch, he’s actually doing it. He’s trying out his theory!”
Eitan called in some officers who copied the contents of the map. Before they left, he instructed Neta to let him know immediately if Erez contacted her again.
“I’m not going to help you hunt him down,” she said.
“We’re not going to hunt him down. We’re going to keep him safe.”
Chapter 11
CROSSING A RAGING STREAM: END OF QUALIFICATION COURSE
Every course, even the toughest, comes to an end eventually. In the unit, you don’t get anything for free: soldiers “buy” their qualification with a final exercise that incorporates all of the incredible abilities they have accumulated.
Winter, late 1970s. My team neared the end of its qualification course, with only the final exercise remaining. I wasn’t bothered by the stormy weather. On the contrary: I thought it would be a good test, confident that the training they had undergone already would allow them to take on the challenge without too much trouble.
The soldiers spent the weekend going over the axes of advance and resting up. I took a jeep and went to scout the area. I reached the Be’er Sheva river, a dry stream bed in the southern Negev Desert. That was where the soldiers would be walking during the exercise, crossing the Be’er Sheva river from north to south at several points. It was a week-long solo exercise.
The usually-dry river was flowing vigorously after the rains that had fallen throughout that week. I parked the jeep, took off my shoes, pants, and shirt, and tried to cross the stream. I was thigh-deep in water, but managed to cross to the other bank and back with relative ease. As I made my way back to the jeep wearing nothing but my underwear and a rifle slung over my shoulder, a vehicle with four soldiers arrived—Military Police. Apparently, they came to check what this weirdo was up to. I growled at them; it was enough to scare them off.
The exercise started off with solo navigation around the Patish river. The soldiers were each dropped off at a point in the middle of a sector without knowing where they were, and started making their way towards the designated finish line. It was pouring buckets that day. The soldiers had to carry out an assignment in a nearby base, and then cross the stream and head south.
At the entrance to the base, I met the squad commander of the other team, and he told me that he was going to play it safe and get the soldiers across in a car. We had a couple of hours until the soldiers were due to arrive. I drove over to the stream and took my shoes off— they were soaked, anyway— and crossed the river again. To my surprise, crossing was even easier this time.
I sat waiting in the jeep at a mandatory point my soldiers had to report to before crossing the stream. The driver informed me he could get the soldiers across, no problem.
On the one hand, we cared about the safety of the soldiers. But on the other, these were elite commandos, super-soldiers, who would potentially be facing far more trying circumstances in operational duty. If I let them off the hook because of a little rain, what kind of message would I be sending? Things get a bit rough, so we give up? I knew that in one week’s time the team would be transferred to the operational company, and I wanted hardened soldiers. And besides, in all honesty— they’d already been through much worse.
By the time the first soldier arrived, I had made up my mind. He reported to me, and I sent him down to cross the stream. There were several different points where they could cross, and each soldier decided for himself. They reached the bank at different points: some teamed up and crossed together, other went alone. They were all heavily equipped, carrying their webbing, weapon, and backpack— all completely drenched. It turned out that the places I crossed were particularly shallow. Some of the soldiers, then, walked into a dangerous nightmare.
Yigal, who was rather short, found himself in the middle of the stream with the water up to his neck. He fought desperately until finally making it across. When he reached the opposite bank, he sat down shivering from the cold and strenuous effort, cursing me and everything that had led him to that moment. Adi lost his footing and was carried away downstream. He summoned every bit of willpower and experience he had and grabbed a stone, held on, and with tremendous effort managed to stand up and resist the flow. Inch by inch, he managed to get across to the other bank. Climbing over the slippery, muddy bank was a feat in itself, requiring him to crawl on all fours. Others made it over by securing each other. At one point, Amir fell and Jacob pulled him over to the bank.
I had no idea who’d made it across and how, since I only saw them much later, in the small hours of the night. I let out a heavy sigh of relief when the
last of them arrived: soaked, covered in mud, spent and exhausted, but ready to continue.
The other team made it easily and safely across in their ride. Years later, my team would poke fun at them, calling them “dissolvable sugar soldiers.” The other squad commander was upset with me for having made him look soft. The truth is that my soldiers and I were lucky no one got seriously hurt, or worse. But on the other hand, there is no way to instill grit and mental fortitude in combatants without putting them at real risk.
That story still comes up every time the team meets up. To this day, none of us can say with any confidence what the right thing to do might have been. Nevertheless, we are all glad to be on the side that dared and succeeded.
After crossing the stream, the team raced south along the dry stream bed of the Hed river. I remember charging across the terrain, surprised by the ease with which I was moving despite the weight of my equipment. They reached HaNegev Junction and found shelter to camouflage themselves in. I came in the morning to inspect them. They had done a pretty good job, I couldn’t find most of them. I climbed onto the back of the truck, tossed a mattress on the floor, and went to sleep.
Ten years later, I was called to reserve duty to oversee a similar exercise by another team of cadets. The squad commander had to go on operational duty, so they asked me to fill in for him. I always enjoyed being out in the field, so I readily agreed. During roll call before the exercise, I pointed out to one of the soldiers that his spade was protruding from his pack too much. He didn’t bother fixing it. By that time, the army had already updated its protocols, and I was accompanied by an ambulance and a doctor on reserve duty. Years later, that doctor became one of the best neurologists in the country.
The next day, as we were brewing a pot of coffee on a camping stove in the evening, we saw a flare go up. At the same time, a distress signal came in over the radio. I jumped into the jeep, and the doctor jumped into the ambulance; we rushed towards the spot where the flare had been shot from. When we reached the place, we found a soldier lying unconscious with all his equipment on. We stripped him of his gear and the doctor tried to stir him awake, but to no avail. Suddenly, I recalled the roll call. I checked the base of his skull, and found a contusion with slight bleeding. It was the spade. The doctor rushed him to the nearby hospital. We went back, and the exercise carried on. A while later, I learned how the story had ended: when he woke up a couple of days later, he didn’t remember anything and didn’t recognize anyone, not even his parents. It took two whole weeks before he regained his memory, and went on to become a leading soldier in his team.