Chutzpah & High Heels Page 11

  Everyone starts firing, but my gun gets stuck. I raise up my arm, since I am not allowed to talk, turn, or move any other body part.

  “Hadal!” the officer yells.

  What does mustard have to do with shooting? I wonder.

  Everyone stops shooting and stares at me. I feel like a complete foreigner.

  While the commander fixes my gun, I quietly wonder to myself, Doesn’t hadal mean mustard?

  After my gun is fixed, we begin shooting again. I shoot ten rounds.

  Then we each go down to check out our targets. I would have done better playing darts drunk. But I’m not worried; I won’t need shooting skills in the spokesperson unit.

  By the end of the day, we have two more shooting sessions and my aim improves. The third and last session is after night falls, so we can learn how to shoot in the dark. Each time we shoot in a different position: once on our stomach, once on a bended knee, and once in the tramp position, which is not sexist; it is the word for hitchhiker in Hebrew.

  Now in the darkness, we are all working on cleaning up the shooting range. We are putting all of the equipment back into the trucks, collecting the garbage, and getting things in order. Somehow, I and another girl end up being the last soldiers at the range.

  As I’m sitting on the cold concrete, waiting for a ride back, it pops into my mind: hardal, not hadal, is mustard!

  The next morning, I’m allowed to sleep in an extra fifteen minutes for staying an extra two hours at the shooting range. It doesn’t seem proportionate, but if someone would have offered me a million dollars or an additional quarter hour of sleep, I’d have chosen the latter. The other soldier who was with me told me that the extra sleep was a chupar. She explained to me that chupar means a reward—for both dogs and soldiers.

  As everyone gets up for roll call, I pull my sleeping bag over my head so I can continue sleeping in the tent. Five minutes later, when everyone is in the chet formation outside, I hear the commander instructing them how to make their beds for that day. Everyone runs into the tent and noisily begins making their beds. Realizing that I won’t be able to get any more sleep with this commotion, I drag myself out of bed. As everyone runs back outside to get the next set of commands, I pull off my pajamas.

  “You have thirty-five seconds to roll up the sides of your tents for inspection,” yells the commander, like he does daily.

  As I’m standing with my underwear in my hands, I hear my bunkmates marching towards me like a herd of elephants. I quickly put them on, right before all the walls of the tent are rolled up like window blinds. Furious that I almost gave the entire base a strip show, I put on my shoes without bothering to lace them up and march over to my commander as if I think I’m in charge.

  “What are you doing? I’m still getting dressed! Is there no communication between any of you? How did you not know that I was given an extra fifteen minutes of sleep? What is wrong with this army? How does this army function during real operations?” I scream in my heavy American accent and broken Hebrew. It certainly doesn’t have the right effect with my toddler-level vocabulary.

  He stares at me, probably trying not to laugh at what sounds like the temper tantrum of a three-year-old.

  Once I stop yelling, he calmly asks me as if he knows he was won, “Where is your gun?”

  The cardinal rule: Always have your gun with you.

  I freeze. My face turns white. I realize that I left it on my cot.

  Without saying anything, I turn around with my head hung low. Defeated, I go back to the tent.

  Bathroom Break

  At 6:00 A.M. I’m jolted from my sleep. Afraid I overslept, I look around. Instead of seeing darkness, a leaking tent, and a dozen other girls hidden in their sleeping bags, I see the four walls of my bedroom.

  I lay back down. My bed, which once felt hard, now seems like a bed in the Hilton’s presidential suite. My head is resting on a real pillow and not a hard chunk of metal.

  Yesterday we received leave for the weekend for the first time since boot camp started. I have to be back on the base tomorrow morning. I’m not quite sure what to do with an entire day. It has been so long since I’ve had more than fifteen minutes to myself.

  I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep, but I can’t. My body is used to getting up at sunrise.

  What should I do now? I didn’t have time to go grocery shopping. I have no food in the house. Unlike all the other girls at boot camp, I don’t have a family or a fridge full of food to go home to. Everybody else in Merkaz Hamagashamim is still sleeping.

  As I’m thinking of what I’m going to eat and how I’m going to fill my day, my bowels begin to move for the first time since I started boot camp. I run to the bathroom.

  Sitting on the toilet, I think back to yesterday when we were getting ready for our first weekend by getting safety instructions, cleaning and organizing our tents, and being briefed on how to securely store our guns off base. I was so excited to have the weekend off. Now, I kind of miss being around everyone. I feel so alone and lonely here. I don’t really know the girls that I’m in boot camp with. I barely even talk to them, so I shouldn’t miss them. But, somehow I got used to always having them around. It feels strange to be alone with only my thoughts . . . and my gun.

  I flush the toilet and get back into bed. I have nothing else to do. I don’t have to clean my weapon, clean the bathroom, endlessly shovel dirt from one pile to another like some Sisyphean task, make a thousand chocolate-spread sandwiches out of starched white bread (I’m still not sure what food group that fits into), hide under my bed on the cold, dirty, concrete floor for some drill, or get into a chet formation.

  My bowels begin to move again. I’m making up for a week’s worth of constipation. I have a feeling that my butt is going to be chafed by the end of the day.

  It is 8:00 A.M. Still no one is going to be up. They all went out last night. I decide sleeping will be more fun, even though I slept during the entire bus ride. I never used to be able to sleep on buses. Learning to sleep anywhere is the best skill I’ve gotten from my army service so far.

  9:00. I can’t wait any longer. I text a few people in Merkaz Hamagshamim to see if they are up.

  9:10. Still no response from anyone.

  9:12. I run to the bathroom again. It is nice having toilet seats. I wonder if this is how Tom Hank’s character in Cast Away felt after returning to civilization.

  10:47. I get a text message: I’m up. Do you want to come over and watch movies? I’ll make you an omelet.

  10:50. I’m already curled up in Uri’s apartment, waiting for breakfast.

  11:13. I’m in the bathroom, again.

  12:33. I get a text message from Ester: Do you want me to make you lunch? I want to hear all about boot camp.

  12:47. I’m eating a scrumptious breakfast with Ester and five other people from Merkaz Hamagshamim.

  Looking around, I realize these people really have become my family. We may be the rejects of society. We may be the foster kids that no one wants to take in. But we have one another. In the short time that I have lived here, we have shared birthdays, weddings, births, anniversaries, and break-ups. We cheer each other forward and when we get depressed we offer one another a shoulder to cry on.

  14:22. I’m in the bathroom again.

  15:54. I’m in the bathroom again.

  17:37. I’m in the bathroom again.

  I can’t believe that the day is almost over. I have spent most of my weekend in the bathroom.

  * * *

  I can’t be late. I can’t be late. I can’t be late. I can’t be late. I can’t be late.

  I woke up extra early this morning to make sure that I would not be late getting back to base. On the bus, I fell asleep and set an alarm so that I wouldn’t miss my stop. Now the bus has been sitting in traffic for over a half an hour. Everybody on the bus is antsy and frustrated.

  People start getting off the bus to see what the problem is, all of them thinking that they would be a
ble to solve whatever problem there may be, or at the very least yell about it.

  Up ahead we see a police barricade in front of a gas station.

  “What is going on?” yells one of the passengers to someone closer to the scene.

  “Chefetz chashod,” the guy yells back.

  A suspicious object has been found and we are waiting for the bomb squad.

  One of the passengers turns to me and says, “Well, at least you can protect us until the police arrive.”

  Forgetting that I am in uniform and have a gun, I give him a bewildered look.

  I look down and see my uniform and my gun. Wow! I think to myself. He has no idea I’m American. He thinks I’m a normal Israeli soldier. I decide to only smile and nod my head, knowing that the second I open my mouth, I will be outed.

  Luckily, he also doesn’t know that if I were to shoot in the direction of the gas station with my aim, there is a greater likelihood that I—and not a terrorist—would set the whole place on fire.

  More Doodies

  With the same food, people, and schedule, I feel trapped in the movie Groundhog Day. Every day is the same. Every night the rain pours down as if it is the flood of Noah’s Ark. Every morning we wake up to a wet tent and cold air. Every meal is soggy. Every hour we have to get our guns checked for bullets in the chamber. Every few hours we have to get in the chet formation. We don’t have anything to look forward to. We will have one more day at the shooting range, but it isn’t as exciting as the first time. We are used to our guns. We are used to asking permission.

  The days are filled with pointless duties, as if they are keeping us busy until boot camp ends.

  Every night I have guard duty. At 3:00 A.M. I put my uniform over my pajamas—so that I’ll stay warm and so that I can get back into bed more quickly when I’m done. I aimlessly walk back and forth in front of the rows of tents, guarding the sleeping girls from a threat that does not seem relevant, even though I know it is. We’re in the middle of a desert. There is nothing around us. I can’t imagine a terrorist coming to this camp and killing us. We are so irrelevant to the conflict. We’re so far from anything that I can see all the stars in the sky. There isn’t even a noise to be heard for miles.

  All these eighteen-year-old girls who I hear nightly on the phone crying to their parents about being homesick shouldn’t be a part of the war on terror. Besides, Palestinian terrorists seem more interested in blowing up nightclubs and civilians than soldiers.

  I see my breath. I feel like a zombie. This is nothing like Jewish summer camp where middle-of-the-night bathroom protocol was, “Go in twos, wear your shoes, and be good Jews.”

  My guard duty is fifteen minutes long, but I’m so tired and bored, it feels like two hours. Most Israelis start smoking in the army due to boredom, unlike in the US where it was thanks to child advertising. My boredom and the cold make me think about taking up that habit too.

  I’m shivering. I can’t aim a gun at a terrorist with my hands shaking. I put on my gloves. I’m not supposed to be wearing them since they are gray. I got yelled at this morning for wearing them. Soldiers are only allowed to wear black gloves. But as a lone soldier, I don’t have money to buy another pair. These are the only gloves I have.

  Another soldier comes out to take over the guard duty. My shift is over. I crawl back into bed. It feels like it was all a dream.

  When Nature Calls

  We have less than a week of boot camp left, but I don’t know if I’m going to make it. The yelling is getting to me. The pointlessness of everything is wearing me down. My body is tired from not sleeping. My head hurts from translating everything. I want to talk to my parents, but the timing never works out. I haven’t seen or talked to Orli or anyone at Merkaz Hamagshamim since my leave.

  Everyone else talks to their parents, their friends, and their boyfriends nightly. When we get back from dinner, I look at my phone and see no missed calls. I truly feel like a chaylet bodadah, a lone soldier.

  It doesn’t seem as if it can get any worse.

  * * *

  I have ten minutes of free time now. Every second is precious. I run to the bathroom but find it blocked by four girls who spent the past hour cleaning it.

  I’ve had to pee for the past two hours. I tried to go in the mess hall, but it was closed. I thought I would have time after breakfast, but we had to go straight to a class. In class, I couldn’t concentrate on what the lecturer was saying because I was focused on not peeing my pants. Since my accent sticks out like an Arab at a TSA check, I was too self-conscious to ask to be excused.

  “No! You can’t go in!” says a girl young enough that I could babysit her. “We are waiting to show the company commander what a good job we did cleaning.” It is clear that they have not had time to accomplish much in their short lives if they want credit for cleaning a bathroom.

  “But I have to go to the bathroom and this is a bathroom,” I try to convince her in my broken Hebrew. It sucks that she has the upper hand in an argument that I could easily win in my native language. She is blocking the entrance with her hands on each side of the doorframe. She is acting like she is expecting some plunger insignia medal of honor.

  I don’t have time for talking. I’m about to pee on myself. I duck under her arms.

  She runs in front of me and blocks the stalls.

  “If you don’t let me use the toilet, I’ll pee in the shower.”

  Testing me, she does not budge.

  I walk to the shower drain and pull down my pants. (Oh admit it! You’ve peed in the shower. You know you’ve done it. Don’t deny it. Everybody does it.)

  She, along with a crowd of fifteen girls, stares at me wide-eyed. The girl runs out of the bathroom in tears. I pull up my pants and walk to the toilet. With everyone looking at me, I got stage fright.

  Five minutes later I walk out of the bathroom building, buttoning my pants in satisfaction, and am greeted by an angry commander. The girl, even though she had instigated, ran and tattled on me, just like the girl from my aliyah flight.

  I don’t know why, but with the commander staring at me and the absurdity of the situation, I burst into tears.

  Later that night I finally reach my family. It is the first time since I started boot camp. Wearing only my army pants and a long-sleeve white shirt, I’m sitting on the steps of the bathroom. My gun, as usual, is strapped around my back. My shoes are untied. As I’m talking to them, my gun starts to feel lighter on my shoulder and I begin to regain my energy. So much has happened in the past few weeks, I don’t know where to start.

  “Why aren’t you in full uniform?” a commander yells.

  Pretending I don’t understand Hebrew, I ignore her. I need to talk to my parents.

  “Why aren’t you in full uniform?”

  I stare at her and then return to my conversation.

  “Why aren’t you in uniform!” she demands. This time it is no longer a question.

  I’m not going to let this commander who is younger than my little sister ruin my first conversation with my parents.

  “I’m talking to my parents from abroad and it’s costing a lot of money. Do you mind?” Then, for sympathy purposes, I throw in that I’m a lone soldier. Needing to be a tough officer, she stares at me, but then her Israeli side feels sorry for me and she simply walks away. Relieved, I burst out crying the second she turns around.

  “What happened? Are you okay? What were you saying?” my parents ask simultaneously. Even though they are thousands of miles away and have no idea what I’m going through, I’m glad to have my parents on the other line to comfort me. I don’t have to pretend to be someone else or hide who I am. They will always accept me and love me.

  Senior Slide

  We are nameless, faceless soldiers standing in perfect rows of ten. The lines seem to stretch as far as the eyes can see to both horizons.

  The head officer of the base is standing facing us. There are hundreds of civilians in bleachers behind him. I don’t know even
one of them.

  We have been standing in these rows for the past two hours. We also stood in these same rows this morning for two hours when the officer of the base held a dress rehearsal and walked among us, looking at each one of us to make sure that our uniforms met army code.

  Today is our graduation ceremony. Tomorrow we leave boot camp and will be told in which unit we will serve. I’m still worried that I could spend the next two years of my life being a secretary in uniform and serving coffee and pastries to an overweight officer.

  My row begins to run toward our platoon commander, a red-headed girl who was always particularly tough on us.

  She smiles at me and hands me a book—the Tanakh, the Hebrew Bible—on which I swear to protect and defend Israel with my life. Then she whispers in my ear, “I’m really proud of you, Jessica. It takes great courage to move to Israel all by yourself and join the IDF. If you ever need anything, let me know.”

  I smile at her. I run back to my spot in line and wait for everyone else to be individually sworn in to the IDF.

  Like a high school graduation, at the end, we throw our berets up in the air and everyone rushes off to see, hug, and take pictures with their families. I wander around the picnics that families have brought for their soldiers. I figure that I will sit in my tent until all the commotion is over. I begin walking through the crowd. People are setting up meals on picnic tables. Families are sitting on blankets. Moms are passing out plates of food. Dads are hugging their daughters and sons. Little kids are jumping on their older siblings, who are now soldiers. Everyone looks so happy.

  As I head to my tent, I hear somebody with an American accent yell my name. I turn around and see Ester and five other people, including a newborn baby, from Merkaz Hamagshamim. I hadn’t invited anyone. Having tried to toughen up and prevent any disappointment, I preferred to not invite them versus asking them to come and then them not arriving.

  I feel the first smile appear on my face since I began boot camp. I run to them with open arms. Each of them hugs me in congratulations. Looking at their smiling faces, I’m sad that my real family can’t be here. I know they would be so proud of me, but I feel blessed to have these friends here. They hand me treats and anxiously, almost jealously, ask me all about my boot camp experience. Only one of them has served; the rest of them are all immigrants and won’t ever be in the army.