Monday
I hear the news … *Chaim (*name changed for privacy) M. (Chana's nephew) is injured. Chana and I decide that at least one parent should stay home at all times, and that I would be the better choice to go to the hospital. I had in mind that I was just going to pay a call. I had no idea when I left just how important my “visit” would be.
10 AM Shlomi (my 18 y.o. son) and I set out for Tel HaShomer hospital. Up the road, I pick up some older residents to give them a ride to the mall. After all, very few buses are running (as no Arabs are allowed into the Jewish communities - by command of the army) and at times like this we all need to help each other out. The old lady tells us about the eve of the Six-Day War. The dark humor joke of pre-war Israel was: “last one out of Ben Gurion airport… don't forget to turn out the light.” Am Yirsrael has known dark and foreboding times and we will make it out of this crisis as well.
At the mall I load up with six new passengers to Jerusalem. These are clearly low-income older generation people who do not have cars and are reliant on public transportation. Today, that is me.
Shlomi and I make it to the hospital. Our first stop is the Army coordination office. They assist me right away. No chaos and no line. Next to me there is a frustrated young woman who is complaining that she can’t find out where Chaim ‘T’ is. The army people explain this is policy, as she is not family… she says something about a lone soldier, and I ask her if she is looking for Chaim 'M.' and who he might be to her. Turns out, Chaim was evacuated to the Beer Sheva Soroka Hospital. The surgeons there saved his life and stitched him up but then felt that he should be sent to Tel Hashomer for nerve surgery in his arm. The surgeon, Avi, himself an oleh (new immigrant), understood that there was no family in Israel for Chaim. His parents live in the USA and his adoptive-family parents happened to be in Florida that week. (And neither would be answering phones on the two-day Chag, Shabbat-Sunday). The surgeon called his own niece, a 25-year-old Israeli living in Tel Aviv, and ‘recruited’ her. His instructions were that she should be the friendly face that Chaim saw when he woke up from sedation.
After a short while, together we found his ward, but we missed seeing Chaim by just 10 minutes, as they had just taken him to surgery. I was told by the nurse that he was not alone as there was some other women who had just come by with flowers… but she didn’t know who they were.
In the meantime, I had a long conversation with his buddy in the bed next to him. They were both in the same battle and both had similar injuries – arm wounds and internal damage. (I'm not quite ready to share the story of their battle).
As Shlomi and I sit in the waiting room, I am constantly in touch with Chaim's parents, and with Hadassah (his adoptive mom). Every 30 minutes, I identify someone else who apparently is there for Chaim! At one point, most people in the room were there for him.
Maya, the surgeon's niece, tenaciously fulfilled her mission, even though in the meantime she was called up for real miluim (as she is a riflery instructor…). Maya offers her now-vacant Tel Aviv apartment (as she is going to the war) to Chaim as a recuperating place near the hospital. I remind myself that Maya and Chaim have never met... alongside of her is Chaim’s friend’s dad Uzi, the mom of another friend (who was also wounded and recovering at home), the mom’s friend, the parents of another of Chaim’s friends (from Gush Etzion and from the army), and the grandfather of another friend (who came to bring him a new phone, as his was left in the battlefield)!
It is a clear reminder that in Israel, there really is no such thing as a 'lone' soldier!
The day just went from one incredible story to the next.
Wounded people are in, and out, of the operating rooms. I overhear stories of incredible bravery... and tragedy.
A group of boys come in to sing and cheer us up. They are followed by another musician, and another. People join in the singing and our spirits are strengthened.
At one point we were introduced to Shoof. He is Chaim’s commanding officer who was on leave that Shabbat and who happens to live in a kibbutz attacked by the Hamas. Shoof himself fought a heroic battle against the terrorists, and he too was wounded.
There were many decisions that had to be made that day in the hospital. There were so many well-intentioned people but Chaim was in a fragile state. As the only family there, I assume command of the situation. I consult with many, and in the end, make all the decisions. I only hope they are the best ones possible in the situation.
Once up in the room, I asked everyone to give me a few minutes just with me. I closed the curtain and immediately we are crying in each other's arms. A wounded soldier often has an overwhelming sense of guilt of a mission that wasn’t accomplished. Of personal failure. There are some things that soldiers can only relate to other soldiers. I remind him of some of the conversations we had before he went in. Of some of the basic lines that define what it is to be a soldier and what is expected. I had told him that the army is all unpredictable. He might end up as an elite combat soldier, but he could also end up at a desk job. The bottom line. If an army is to win, every soldier has to do his very best with the tools he has in any given situation. And that is exactly what he did. Under extreme fire, and in terrible pain, he helped to save the lives of his buddies, and the lives of many other civilians.
We regain composure and he is surrounded with the love of all his well-wishers.
Shlomi and I were kept well nourished by the unending supply of home-cooked and freshly prepared food that was all around us. So many good people. The line the donate blood was out the door.
The body count was past 900.
Tuesday
As the previous mornings, so too this morning. I wake up with a feeling that I had a nightmare, but now I'm awake and it is over. If only...
The day is filled with errands and phone calls. There is much chaos to take care of.
My thoughts also are filled with concerns for my three boys. Yedidya - who is stationed in the Shomron (central Israel - West Bank), Yonatan - who is on the Lebanese border, and my new son, my future son-in-law, Akiva L. - who is stationed on the Gaza border.
I feel frustrated. Where the hell is MY tank? Why can't I fight alongside my boys??
I keep trying to reach Shmulik (one of my old army buddies who is in charge of battalion logistics) and see if there is a need for me to draft and work alongside him. But with the draft percentages at %150, there is no need and I would likely be more of a hindrance than a help.
The death toll is past 1200.
The numbers are staggering. In six days of war in 1967, Israel lost fewer people than in this attack. And that was against the combined might of multiple Arab armies. And what if Iran joins? Thinking about it makes my stomach churn.
I'm sitting at the computer, and I happen to turn on the news just as Biden makes his first address. I watch the most powerful man in the world deliver a speech that the world hasn't heard the likes of in more than 75 years. My Dad was able to quote full Churchillian speeches, and he would do so with great imitation. One of my favorites was "...we will fight on the beaches... we will never surrender!" Dad was Biden's age when he died, and I see the resemblance.
My chest constricts and the tears flow. I hold my son close to me. I know this is going to be a long war, but I also know that we are not alone.
I hug my daughter and we sob together.
We both agree. It seems as if this wasn't Joe Biden's voice. It was as though the president was a mouthpiece for Ruach HaKodesh (the Holy voice of God).
His words, defiance, and conviction had the power of the prophets.
He said the words we wanted to hear: "You are not alone." And agreed that our response should be "...swift, decisive and overwhelming."
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