Chutzpah & High Heels Page 8

  The Man Pulling the Levers

  After a few months of ulpan, out of the blue, my counselor from my volunteer program calls.

  “I just remembered that Nachman Shai, the current director of United Jewish Communities (UJC) in Israel, which is connected to Otzma, was the former IDF spokesperson. I’ve already talked to his secretary and he’s expecting your call to set up an appointment,” he says.

  My old counselor goes on to explains that Nachman Shai is an Israeli legend. He was the IDF spokesperson during the First Gulf War and is nicknamed “The Calmer.” It’s not by mistake that this sounds like the name of a superhero. When Scud missiles were being fired into the middle of Tel Aviv from Iraq, he was responsible for calming down an entire country, a nation full of Jewish mothers and grandmothers. As any married Jewish man knows, calming down one Jewish wife is hard enough, and Nachman Shai did it for an entire nation of Jewish mothers. Now if that doesn’t qualify as a superhero skill, I don’t know what does.

  Now, walking through the florescent-lit hallways of the UJC building in the middle of downtown Jerusalem, I feel like I’m following the yellow brick road—minus the tacky, red-sequin slippers of course. This is my door to my Jewish destiny. This is my opportunity to prove wrong all the Israelis who doubted me joining the IDF Spokesperson Unit.

  Their voices continually haunt me: “You’re how old? Twenty-two? Oh, no! You’re way too old to join the IDF!” or “There’s no way you will get into the IDF Spokesperson Unit. You’ll end up wasting two years as a secretary.”

  The echo of these voices makes me think that stubbornness is more useful than Zionism in Israel.

  When I find Mr. Shai’s office, his secretary tells me to take a seat. As I wait outside the office, I feel like I’m waiting for the wizard to grant my wish.

  This man holds all of my dreams in his hands.

  In my head, I review all the new vocabulary, questions, and answers that my ulpan teacher gave me to help prepare me for this meeting. I look down at my clothes, hoping that I picked the right outfit to wear. I was so nervous about what to wear since attire is very tricky in Israel. Men wear torn jeans to work, a wedding, or a bar, while women will look like over-priced call girls in all the same locations. Nobody wears a suit—anywhere—except the ultra-Orthodox, and they, of course, are the only ones who don’t participate in the workforce.

  With a smile, Mr. Shai calls me into his office.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” he humbly asks.

  Sitting down with Mr. Shai is not nearly as intimidating as I expected.

  “How can I help you?” He asks, genuinely interested.

  Since I’m speaking in Hebrew and not English, I nervously tell him an abbreviated version of my personal story. Being especially careful to use the correct word for volunteer, I tell him about my experience in Israel and my dreams for the future. “I volunteered on Otzma. I have a marketing and journalism background. I just made aliyah by myself, without any family. I’m in ulpan now. I want to use my skills to help the army and serve in the IDF Spokesperson Unit.”

  With English as my mother tongue and my journalism degree, I’d change the world’s perception of Israel. I’d show the world that Israeli soldiers aren’t vicious killing machines, but eighteen-year-old boys and girls who handle a lot of responsibility with the utmost maturity. I’d change the narrative.

  “I love you. We need more people like you. I want to help,” he responds from the bottom of his heart, and not because he works at an aliyah organization.

  “I’ll organize a meeting between you and the deputy spokesperson of the IDF Spokesperson Unit. Expect a call from her within the next few days,” he says.

  Using all my effort to not jump over his desk and hug him, I calmly thank him.

  While I walk out of his office and skip down the yellow hallway, I quickly call Orli to tell her the good news.

  “I knew you could do it, Jessica!” Orli says and tells her mom. I hear her mom get excited at the mention of Nachman Shay and then yell to me, “Look at you. Just running into the fire!”

  “You are celebrating Rosh Hashanah with my family, right?” Orli tells me, more than asks me.

  Happy to have a place to call home for the holiday, I say, “Of course.”

  Pretty in Pink

  With sweat dripping down my face, neck, chest, and back, I wonder if there is a term for “swass” in Hebrew. I’m going to make a terrible first impression. I don’t want to disappoint Nachman Shai in my first interview with an IDF officer. It’s been a month since I met with him and now I’ve been walking up and down this busy and crowded Tel Aviv street for the past thirty minutes, trying to find the IDF Spokesperson offices.

  Soldiers pass me from every direction. I longingly stare at their uniforms, too embarrassed of my ulpan-level Hebrew to ask for help. Close to giving up on my dream, I collapse on some steps leading up to a dilapidated building and think back to a week ago when the secretary of the deputy of the IDF Spokesperson Unit called me to schedule an appointment. I was surprised to hear from the army before my thirtieth birthday since everybody told me that army bureaucracy moves slower than the building of the light rail in Jerusalem2.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the sun glimmering off of a small sign that says “IDF Spokesperson Offices.” I look up at the building again and can’t believe, that from this shack, communication decisions are made about the most publicized army in the world.

  I jump to my feet.

  Five minutes later, I’m sitting with the deputy IDF spokeswoman and another officer. Intimidated by the ranks on their shoulders, I quickly rattle through my resume: “I was the marketing VP for a fundraiser. I interned in the media relations department for a major US company. I answered media relations inquiries. I wrote key messages for . . .”

  Interrupting me, she says something in Hebrew to the officer next to her, but it’s too fast for me to understand. As they nod their heads and smile, I picture myself being interviewed by CNN, FOX, and BBC, changing the world’s opinion of the IDF.

  She turns to me and says in slow Hebrew, “We’ll try to make this work. Expect a call from the drafting office. Call me the day you are drafted so I can pull you into the unit. I make no promises.”

  Not paying attention to the last sentence, I repeatedly thank her on my way out.

  I walk back down the same street, but this time I feel a few inches taller. I head to the mall that is conveniently and oddly located next to the army base. After walking through a metal detector and getting my bag checked for bombs and weapons by the armed security guard outside the mall, I walk inside.

  In the food court, there is a group of officers sipping on coffee and joking around. I walk past a store and see a girl in her army uniform trying on a pair of red platform shoes. In another store, a girl pulls a yellow sweater over her army shirt. I love how they look in their uniforms. I hope the uniform will look as good on me.

  I walk into a store that has a cute pink, lace dress in the window. I haven’t bought anything for myself since I moved to Israel. I don’t have the money. I’m saving all of my Nefesh B’Nefesh aliyah scholarship money for when I join the army so I can afford to feed myself.

  Unable to resist, I try on the dress. It fits perfectly. Standing in front of the mirror, I feel like I deserve to treat myself for all my recent accomplishments.

  Walking out of the store, wearing the pink dress surrounded by a sea of army green, I feel like I’m on my way to becoming Israeli. Just like after a good first date, I wonder how long it will be before I hear from the army.

  Aaloo

  I look down at my phone for the tenth time in the last thirty minutes.

  Ever since I had my meeting with the IDF spokesperson deputy a few weeks ago, I leave my phone on my desk while at ulpan so that I won’t miss a call from the army. So far a month has passed and I’ve heard nothing. It’s starting to feel like the army is an ex-boyfriend I can’t get over.

  Sud
denly my desk vibrates. I look at my phone. It’s flashing with a blocked number.

  I run out of the classroom.

  “Aaloo?” I say, trying to answer the phone like an Israeli, but sounding more like a lame pirate.

  “Are you Jessica Sara Fishman, daughter of Eliezer?”

  Who is Eliezer? Confused, I flash back to my bat mitzvah when I was called to the Torah. My rabbi had called me up using my Hebrew name and my father’s Hebrew name—Eliezer.

  “Are you Jessica Sara Fishman, daughter of Eliezer?” the prepubescent voice on the other end of the blocked number asks again.

  “Yeah. I guess that is me.”

  The guy must think that I’m a complete idiot.

  “On Sunday, at 8:00 A.M. you need to come to the IDF drafting office for testing and interviews.”

  “I’m supposed to be going to the IDF Spokesperson Unit. But I can’t come in at that time. I have ulpan.”

  Uninterested in my dreams or problems, he repeats the time and hangs up.

  I don’t have anywhere to address my complaints since I can’t just look up the IDF in the yellow pages.

  The next Sunday, I spend the entire day in interviews, IQ tests, background screenings, Hebrew tests, and giving my medical and socioeconomic history to the army. The tester explains to me that if I get drafted into the army, I’ll be a lone soldier since I don’t have any family here. He says that as a lone soldier, I’ll have some benefits, like instead of being paid $100 a month like all the other soldiers risking their lives, I’ll be paid $1000, plus I’ll get days off to do errands, and vacation time to visit my parents.

  After the tests and interviews are over, I get on a bus to Merkaz Hamagshamim. As I sit down, I think about how painful that was and hope the worst part of my army experience is now over. However I have a feeling it’s just begun. When I had mentioned that I was supposed to be drafted into the spokesperson unit, one of the officers stared back at me blankly and said, “You really don’t get how the army works.”

  The bus stops and an ultra-Orthodox man gets on the bus. He looks for an open seat that is not next to a woman. Even though there is an open seat next to me, he turns to the guy across the row and asks him to get up so that he can sit in his spot.

  “No! Sit there! That seat is open, next to that girl,” the guy says, pointing to me.

  Great! Thanks, I think sarcastically.

  The ultra-Orthodox man makes a face and goes to stand at the front of the bus. Even though I didn’t want to sit by him, I’m still slightly offended that he refused to sit by me.

  The guy turns to me and says in Hebrew, “I can’t stand them. Thinking that they can tell everyone what to do.”

  “You know what drives me crazy? The fact that they dress like it’s the middle of winter when it’s boiling hot outside. How do they think that makes them more religious?” I say, excited to have a real Hebrew conversation. “Abraham, Noah, and Moses definitely didn’t wear that garb in the desert.”

  “Oh, that penguin suit! I like it. It makes me happy to know they are suffering,” he says, laughing.

  “But who is suffering more? Them in their sweaty, unwashed clothes or the people who smell them?” I ask half-jokingly while trying out my Hebrew.

  Trying to make myself feel better after being rejected as his seat neighbor, I remind myself that I won’t be seeing any of them during my army service since they believe they protect the country by studying Torah and don’t serve in the IDF. Looking at the ultra-Orthodox man with disdain, I smile, knowing that unlike me, he has never even visited the IDF drafting office. I think to myself, I’m more Jewish than he will ever be.

  Phone Call 3

  Another blocked phone call. It must be the army.

  I quickly answer. I’m probably the only person in all of Israel not screening calls from the army.

  “We want to draft you in two weeks.”

  I nearly drop my phone from excitement, but quickly realize that I won’t be ready for the army in fourteen days. “Oh, no! That won’t work. I’m still in ulpan.”

  I open up my calendar and start picking out dates.

  “What do you think you are scheduling here? A date with some guy?” the officer on the other end of the phone yells and laughs at the same time. “This is the army! You have the date in two weeks or in November. You’re lucky you’re even getting a choice!”

  Two weeks later, as I’m checking my mailbox at Merkaz Hamagshamim, I see an official army envelope.

  I open it. It is my draft date and just like the Ten Commandments, now that it’s written, it’s set in stone.

  I want to frame it.

  I jump with anticipation.

  I look at the date more closely. It is in less than a month, the day after I finish ulpan.

  * * *

  1 . El Al is Israel’s flag carrier airline. It is known to have the tightest and best security. After September 11, 2001, El Al was the first airliner to resume flights to the US. Its security starts with an intense screening process before the ticket counter, includes air marshals on board every flight, and equips every plane with a missile defense system, which was implemented after an Israeli charter jet came under attack following takeoff in Kenya.

  2 . The light rail in Jerusalem, which is only 8.6 miles long, took nearly nine years to be constructed. The construction faced many problems and the inauguration was delayed four times.

  4

  disOrientation

  BZZZZZZZZZZZ! BZZZZZZZZZZZ! BZZZZZZZZZZZ!

  The snooze button in Hebrew is called a nudnik, which also means an annoying person. I push the annoying person three separate times. The sun has yet to rise. On the fourth buzz, I get up and look in the mirror. With dark circles under my eyes, I look like I’ve already been to boot camp. Today is the final test in ulpan, but I won’t be going to class. I have a far more significant Hebrew test.

  Yesterday was the first night of Hanukkah. I celebrated the victory of the Maccabees with Orli’s family. We lit the candles and ate fried food. That is the summary of every Jewish holiday: they tried to kill us, we won, let’s eat.

  In Orli’s tiny childhood bedroom, we talked all night. She explained what I should and should not expect in the army. Before I went to sleep, I made my first journal entry. I filled the first two pages with words of idealism, passion, and optimism that could have rivaled Chaim Bialik’s Zionistic poetry.

  This is the last morning I’ll wake up as just an Israeli citizen. In a few hours, I’ll be an Israeli soldier. Not knowing what the day has in store for me, I throw on some clothes and gather my things into an oversized backpack. I’ve packed enough stuff for the next three weeks, since I don’t know when I’ll be returning.

  Last week, one of the Israeli girls from the Merkaz Hamagshamim who had been in the army took me “army shopping.” We went to a place right on the border of Meah Sharim, the ultra-Orthodox neighborhood, to get some gear, which is ironic, considering that the ultra-Orthodox don’t join the army.

  When we were shopping, it hit me that instead of prom shopping, this is the shopping that Israeli seniors do. And shopping for the army was not as fun as prom shopping. Instead of buying heels, I bought ugly black Reebok tennis shoes; instead of a lacy bra, I bought ugly long-sleeve olive-green, black, and white shirts, and white tank tops to put under my uniform; instead of a necklace, I bought a cover for my dog tag; and instead of a cute little clutch purse, I inherited a backpack that I could fit into. The actual prom dress—my army uniform—will only be issued on my draft date. Not that I can say that my prom dress was very flattering. I’m hoping my army uniform will look better.

  Now at Orli’s house, she and I quickly eat a nutritious piece of processed cake and a cup of nes coffee. (Nes is a popular type of instant coffee in Israel. Nes also means miracle in Hebrew.) Just in case I don’t have any real miracles today to get into the spokesperson unit, I figure I should at least drink one. Ready to leave, I struggle to put on my backpack. If I fall over with it
, I’ll look like a turtle that is stuck on its back with arms and legs flailing. I wonder if there will be a baggage weight limit on the army bus.

  After a long bus ride, we get to Bakum, the IDF’s drafting and processing office. We walk into a huge outdoor courtyard. Everything is concrete: the walls, the ground, the buildings. Orli and I are greeted by a sea of young girls and their families. They’re all taking pictures as if it is prom night, but without the updos. Their faces are filled with excitement. But with anxiety showing in their eyes, it is obvious that this will be the first time they are leaving their parents’ homes. I, on the other hand, left my childhood home six years ago. They are all eighteen years old and are being drafted into the army. I, on the other hand, am twenty-three and volunteered to be here.

  With no family by my side, I cling to Orli. I thought I’d be more excited for this day, but for some reason I’m terrified. I’m suddenly wishing that I could wake up in the tornado-torn Midwest in the safety of my parents’ homes. It has taken me a year and a half of fighting, begging, pleading, and making the right connections to get to this point, and now I’m scared that it won’t be what I’ve been expecting or that I will fail.

  Orli and I barely talk. Neither of us is a morning person and I’m too nervous to form complete sentences in Hebrew.

  It’s cold in the courtyard. The sun doesn’t seem to shine here.

  It’s nothing like when my parents dropped me off at college. The sun was shining brightly. There was pride mixed with sadness in their eyes. My dad’s advice to me as a freshman, “work hard and party hard,” probably won’t apply here. I don’t have fraternity parties to look forward to. Instead I’ll have kitchen duty, target practice, and military drills.

  After anxiously waiting outside in the cold for hours, which Orli tells me is the norm in the army, Orli says, “It’s your turn. There’s your name. Let’s go, I’ll take you to the bus.”