Chapter 4
My ankle was bright red from the ice pack sitting on it. I prayed to God that I hadn’t sprained it.
“Wow, you jumped right into the deep water,” my father said to me in a short phone conversation. I mumbled something that sounded like a “yes,” despite feeling like I had jumped into a pool without water.
I took so many hits those four days that I started to believe I had been brought to the course to be everyone else’s punching bag. The concept was for me to also hit my opponents; I just failed to do so. “Every day you get through here is a small triumph,” Arik said on the way back to the trainees accommodation, which used to be a lush tourist center in the 1980s.
“One more small triumph and I’ll be disabled for life,” I replied. He laughed, but I didn’t. There was little consolation in the fact that the pain in my ankle caused me to forget the pain from the punch that I took to my eye the day before. When I asked the man in the kitchen for another ice pack, he answered in a Russian accent, “Another punch in the head?”
“Yup, whatever . . .” I said.
They were serving goose in citrus sauce in the dining room today but no one had eaten. The food they served in The Academy was unbelievably good − like a gourmet restaurant, at least by Afula’s standards. There were a number of meat dishes, each one amazing. Some would start the meal with an entree, either salad or soup. Others, like me, who don’t have any patience, went straight for the main course. Oh, and then there’s Arik Goldstein. The huge South African would fill three plates every day at lunch: one with half a kilo of carbs, another with a pile of salad, and a third with pieces of salmon.
“A piece of salmon like that costs 90 shekels in a restaurant,” Leroy once said to him when he saw his plate with five pieces of salmon piled on top of each other like in a fishing net. Arik slammed his tray, plates and all, down onto the table so hard that I almost heard the fish sigh. When he sat down, the entire table shook and everyone at the table held their plates and waited for him to clumsily take his seat.
Four hours later, I sat there in the Krav Maga hall and felt like crying. Everyone else in the course knew how to fight like boxers and to use a gun like they just came out of an action film. All I did was pray that my daily injuries would not knock me completely off my feet.
“Let’s practice our jab-cross,” someone said from above me. I had to turn my neck all the way around to see who it was. It was Leroy Cohen from Herzliya. The son of a bitch knew how to fight like a professional boxer. I knew from the start that I needed to try to keep away from him. His last three opponents ended up on the mat after he kicked them with a professional low kick. They were on the mat before they even knew what hit them.
“Who is Jab Cross?” I asked, and Leroy laughed.
Besides me, Leroy was the only one in the course who had completed a year at university and was taking this course between semesters. The others came straight from the army, or just before they started their university studies. There also was Luvaton, who was the oldest.
“Jab-cross does sound more like the name of a cowboy,” Leroy said understandingly. He explained that “jab and cross” is the professional terminology for the two punches we learned that day. For three hours we practiced punching the air, left and then right, over and over.
I was very motivated during the first Krav Maga session. I swear I was. I stood facing the punching bag and after punching it three times, I felt like if I tried one more punch, my fist would fall off. I would have no choice but to learn how to wipe my ass with my left hand.
“Why is punching so complicated? Isn’t it an instinct we’re born with?” I asked Leroy.
“It’s all in the technique.” Even though he grew up in Herzliya, he spoke slowly, like someone from the countryside. When he wasn’t fighting, his sense of time was slower than that of most people. “It’s like . . . drawing.” His gaze floated around as if he were connecting imaginary dots. “Some people are born good at drawing, and others can improve their technique by practicing.”
“Some people will still suck no matter how many lessons they take,” I said, sharing my opinion of my drawing skills.
“That’s true,” Leroy said hesitantly, “but I don’t think that’s the case here. Let’s go over to the punching bag.” He got up and headed towards the punching bag area without waiting for me. It gave me a sick feeling just thinking about it. I had already been practicing for eight hours and in another eight hours a new day would begin, with the same schedule.
“Are you coming?” Leroy asked when he got to the fighting ring, with ropes and a red mat.
I entered the ring after him. His fists were raised, protecting his head as if the punching bag were about to attack him. Even without throwing any punches, it was obvious that the guy knew what he was doing.
He turned towards me and said, “Look,” before turning back to the bag. He stared at the punching bag like it was his worst enemy. His big green eyes that were so pleasant and soft just a moment ago turned mean. He detached himself from the world and began to meditate, creating a world where it was only him and the bag, and only one of them was going to survive. Maybe this was his method of going from being Leroy with the childish smile to a vicious warrior within seconds.
His first punch propelled the punching bag back. Leroy remained grounded like a huge olive tree. The veins on his bare feet were throbbing as he planted them firmly on the ground. The eyebrows that usually hovered above his long eyelashes came together and his usually indifferent gaze turned into one of a hungry wild animal. His shoulders swayed back and forth and his bare fists sunk into the punching bag, which suffered from his terrible blows. He looked like he was moving in slow motion and then, just like that, his expression went back to a smile.
“Jab,” he said slowly, as his left fist hit the bag, and “cross,” as he followed it up with his right fist. “Later this week we’ll probably learn a hook punch,” Leroy said as he punched the bag in a circular movement. “There’s also the uppercut,” he added as he slowly punched up from below.
But for me it was like taking an advanced class in trigonometry. “You know what? I think I’ll settle for jab and his friend,” I told him.
Leroy took a step back and shook his arms to relax his muscles. I asked him where he learned to fight like that. It turns out that when I had been partying and playing guitar in the schoolyard, Leroy Cohen from Herzliya trained at Thai boxing every day. At age 17 he was the silver medalist in the Israeli championship. Just so we are clear on this, when I was 17, I was taken off stage at a young talent show because in the middle of the song I pretended that my pants fell off.
“Notice the way you move your pelvis. In a punch you measure the strike with weight.” Leroy moved his hand like he was weighing a bag in the marketplace. “A punch from someone our size, with no background in martial arts, generates about 50 or 60 lbs. of force. But a person who knows how to throw a punch and trains, can easily have generate 550 lbs. of force in his punch.” I didn’t quite understand how a person who weighs 180 lbs. could have a force of 550 in a punch. Leroy said it had to do with physics. Something to do with mass times speed, but he didn’t quite remember.
“Let’s forget about that and focus on technique so your punches will become deadly.”
We stood there in the ring for about 40 minutes. I hit the bag again and again. Every time Leroy demonstrated, it looked so easy, but when I tried to do the same, it felt like trying to move a mountain. After an hour, we left the poor punching bags alone. As we left The Academy heading towards our hotel, two men with glasses and important-looking leather bags came out. They babbled, using all kinds of abbreviations. I heard them say “Jonod Al-Takhrir” twice. It was clear that they didn’t agree about anything and were trying to convince each other of whatever it was they were talking about. They rushed out, walking much faster than Leroy and me as we dragged our feet through t
he parking lot.
“What is this Jonod stuff they’re talking about?” I asked him. He removed the bottle of water that he was sucking on, and it made a loud sound. It was a gray Adidas sports bottle – and It was just like him to have a water bottle like those of professional athletes and not like the wrinkled old water bottle with a torn label that I had been carrying around for two weeks.
“It’s a filthy new infrastructure of terrorists from Gaza that infiltrated into the West Bank, bringing their experience and know-how in intelligence and combat. Real sons of bitches,” he replied, demonstrating how much more he knew than me.
“How do you know so much? We just got here two weeks ago!” I yelled at him.
“I have an advantage,” he said, taking another sip from his bottle. “My brother was a handler here. He’s on study leave but he told me a few things before I came.”
“What exactly is a handler?” I asked him.
“Don’t ask that question again.” he answered, smiling. “The handler is your whole world for the next few years. He’s the guy who operates the agents whose missions you need to secure.”
“Why don’t they tell us these things in the recruitment stages?” I asked.
“Why should they? There’s a long line for this job. Did you ask questions? No. Nobody asks questions because everyone wants to work for the ISA.”
It was the only time since the beginning of the training that I felt part of “everyone.”
“Was Eitan a security guard?” I asked the fighting guru.
“Yes. He was injured by a bomb thrown at a handler he secured. Since then he’s been a trainer at The Academy.”
We continued to walk silently to the bus. Just before boarding, Leroy said, “Listen, you know what’s going on these days in the country. Jonod Al-Tahrir and such. It’s not going to be easy, you know.”
I pursed my lips and hopped on the bus.
The terrorist infrastructure seemed irrelevant to me at the moment. The threat of another day of training in this place was much more terrifying. It was a good thing I had Leroy to help me. I still felt like a loser, but at least the best fighter in the course was on my side. For some reason this made me feel better. I wanted to thank him for his help, but instead I said, “Okay, man. Good night.” We did a fist bump, and I went to my room.
The entire floor was silent. I showered for an hour, enjoying every second of the privacy it afforded. The soap suds washed off the tiny shards of lead that were on my arms from the shooting training. When I finally came out of the shower, I saw that Donna had called me.
I called her back. The dampness that accompanied me since the punching bag training in The Academy was finally replaced by a pleasant warm breeze.
My mother would get angry at me when I went outside after showering. “You’re going to catch a cold,” she would say. I put on my hood so that I indeed wouldn’t catch a cold. Just as I was about to hang up, Donna answered the phone with a long, warm “Hi.”
I could hear that she was smiling.
We talked for an hour and a half, which I only noticed after hanging up. As we talked, I walked across the grass, trying my best to avoid the sprinklers. I could tell from her voice that Donna was lying in bed. I could smell her hair, still wet from the shower. Two weeks and one day had passed, and the unease of the beginning of a relationship was gone, but only from Donna’s side.
She was much smarter than me. The topics she brought up were always new to me, and she reminded me of Libby with her opinionated attitude. Unlike Libby, however, not every other word was sarcastic. Our night-time conversation continued until midnight, when we both sighed deeply, and it reminded me of her warm breath at the corner of Azza and Ben Maimon.
“I talked too much,” she said.
“Not at all,” I answered quickly. “I’m interested in hearing what you have to say.”
She remained silent for a few seconds and then let out a soft “Thank you” that I could hardly hear.
“I’m going to sleep,” I said, just as she was saying, “Go to sleep.”
I had to be up in six hours. I said, “Good night,” and she replied with a long, pleasant “Ciao.” How I wished I were in my bed instead of in this staff hotel room. I tried to recall her scent, whether it was pleasant and seductive, or strong and stimulating. I imagined her thick curls beside me, resting on bare shoulders and barely hiding her breast. I smiled and fell asleep.
Chapter 5
“Evron, come in,” Eitan said. The door to his office was ever so slightly ajar, but he saw me through the narrow slit between the door and the door frame. I went from the pleasant warm sun outside to the even more pleasant air-conditioned room. The only dialogue I had had with Eitan up until now was the “friendly” introduction to the course.
“We have to improve.” he said, getting straight to the point.
We? I wondered. He also needs to improve?
“You don’t have to say anything. I can see you’re upset,” Eitan said, as he leaned back and crossed his legs on the desk.
“Everyone else here was an officer or in an elite unit,” I said carefully, my lip still tender from the punch I had taken the day before. “Why did you accept me? I’m just a medic from Nahal, so of course I’m going to be at a lower level than the others.”
Eitan blew out his cheek and nodded lightly.
“Sometimes more things are taken into account,” he said.
“Like what?” I asked him.
“Character, achievements. Perhaps significant military service,” he said. “For that, there is the human resources department. I do my job − I get the people with the potential and transform them into fighters.”
It’s not because of my character, I thought to myself. I have no special achievements either. Maybe this is the battle of Hafar al-Batin? A slim chance. I didn’t tell them anything about it.
“Do you want to be a fighter?” he asked me. I sucked my lip that tasted of blood. I didn’t have time to think of an answer as he continued, “What would you do if you were me? Do you think it’s a pleasure to see you getting beaten up all day? Did I bring you here to be a punching bag?”
“Do what you want,” I told him. Dismissal sounded to me much less painful than another day of this torture.
“I want you to be an ISA fighter. Do you want to be a fighter?” he asked.
“I guess the burden of proof is on me.”
“I guess you’re right,” he said.
Chapter 6
This week – for the first time – we had a shooting session in the rain. I was hoping that the rain would let up over the weekend because Donna and I had planned to get together, and even on a sunny day the entertainment opportunities in the Holy City are limited.
I hadn’t had a third date for a while, but I remembered it was supposed to be a little bit more festive than the first and second. She arrived wearing the uniform of the sushi restaurant where she works. I bought two sambusak pastries and two drinks: carrot juice for her, and iced coffee for me.
“Are you crazy? That has 12 teaspoons of sugar in it,” she said, looking at my iced coffee.
“I get enough exercise for me not to care,” I replied, but she wasn’t listening. She had just noticed the bruise around my left eye.
“What happened to you?” she said, and held my head in her hands, checking me from every possible angle.
“I saw something rotten.”
“That’s not funny,” she said firmly. “You have to fight less . . . I don’t know, less aggressively?”
“Arrrr, wrong answer!” I called out. “This happened because I didn’t fight aggressively enough.”
She gave me that look.
I chose sambusak with Bulgarian cheese. Donna wanted the pizza-flavored one. We ate in silence, listening to the city noise.
“Stop it!” she said, takin
g my iced coffee from me. The noise I was making sipping the empty cup, trying to get some more out, was ridiculous.
“Who is this King George who’s got such a big street named after him?” I asked.
“George the Fifth,” she said. “The Prince of Wales. He was the first king from the House of Windsor.” To her this was common knowledge. She gave me a shy smile as I turned towards her. “How do you know all this crap?” I asked, pointing at the sign as if it were to blame. “I don’t know. I like stories about the royal family.” She chewed quietly for a few seconds and then added, “Besides, it has to do with our country’s history. He was the King of Britain at the start of the previous century, and during his rule Britain issued the Balfour Declaration for the Jews.”
“No shit,” I said, having nothing smarter to say. “So that’s why the street next to us is called Balfour Street. You see? I also know things.”
“Nice one!” She was amazed as I devoured a third of the Sambusk in one bite. I love this starting point when she thinks I’m a complete idiot. That way there are no expectations.
On the way back to the Rehavia neighborhood, it began to rain on our heads. Donna reached for my hair and pleasantly rubbed the raindrops.
“Do they approve of such haircuts there, in this Department of Defense or whatever it is? You look like you just came back from backpacking in India.”
“Apparently,” I said, trying to think if there was another trainee in the course with untrimmed hair, but couldn’t recall any.
“It’s too early.” She said when we reached where Azza and Ben Maimon divided. Maybe Roni Rosenthal wouldn’t understand the hint, but I actually did.
“Want to come up for coffee?” I asked. She smiled.
“Tea? Maybe fresh tap water?”
“Actually,” she shut her eyes, “I have to pee, and you’re just making it worse. Let’s go up,” she said, and pulled me with excessive confidence to continue down the street. I pulled her back.
“It’s right here,” I told her, and took her to the building across the street.
Fracture Point Page 3
