A few years ago, one of my children was chosen to stand at the Memorial Day ceremony at his school and read in an emotional voice a few words about the IDF fallen - Staff Sgt. Moshe (Moshiko) Doino, z"l, a cute young man from our neighborhood who was killed in Operation Protective Edge.
After seeing how much the child invests in rehearsals, I had to attend the ceremony. I stood there in the back, wearing sunglasses that tried to hide all sorts of things that got in my eye. Next to me stood the principal, and they must have entered her eye as well. At the end of the ceremony, I turned to her, I didn't know why, and asked if she had any idea how many of the school's students came from bereaved families. And she immediately replied: "Nobody."
"No one?! The whole school?"
She nodded.
"Do you get it?" I told her. "After all, in every class there were something like two orphans."
And so, suddenly, it became clear to me what is the most indelible personal memory I have of the Yom Kippur War. Well, the school hallway. Every time the principal or deputy left the principal's room and walked down the school hallway, and I remember it as vividly as possible, all of us, students from A to H, would panic.
Could it be that he is going to tell one of the children again that his father will never come back? And who will it be this time? After all, it always started with leaving that room, and walking the measured, thoughtful, damn walk down the hall. That corridor was decorated throughout, with educational ornaments, phrases of wisdom alongside displays from the natural world, "Don't judge your friend until you get to his place," bees and sunflowers, none of which had the power to comfort a little boy they had just informed.
There are people whose Yom Kippur War broke out in the Golan Heights. For some, the war broke out at the Hermon outpost. Others will tell you that the campaign began in the south, along the line of strongholds on the Egyptian border.
• • •
As far as I'm concerned, the Yom Kippur War began at the Merom Israel synagogue in Bat Yam. That Yom Kippur was the first day of my life when I decided to fast, even though I still had about three years until my Bar Mitzvah. Like many things that happened at the time, this fast was mostly a small game of male ego. I mean, childish. A purely internal matter.
My mother, who didn't like my decision to fast, made me a sandwich, which to this day I don't know what was inside, and wrapped it in what was then called "fragment paper." I didn't sink my teeth into it, but to be honest, between the sandwich and the prayer cycle, I have no doubt what my gaze was focused on.
It happened just as a hunger crisis struck me. Suddenly, two people entered the synagogue without a prayer shawl. They approached the cantor, and he immediately fell silent. I remember how they stood in front of us as if they were just beginning to give a sermon on the meaning of the holy day. But no. They simply read out pairs of words, which I later realized were recruitment slogans. Every time they repeated a password, something creaked. Bench moved slightly. Guys got up and shuffled out, not saying goodbye to anyone.
There was something about their movement, like they felt the need to apologize for leaving at this point. I also remember sounds coming from the women's section, sounds that I had trouble deciphering and that accompanied these guys, that I didn't know why or where they were going. God of war.
• • •
Weird, but I remember the insult on Dad's face. The full list of passwords was read and read again, and Dad was not recruited. Something went wrong here, no doubt, and it was written on its face in any language you choose. How can this be? the proud paratrooper, who fought Mitla and the retaliatory operations; that in regular service he would return home during vacations to Mea Shearim with his beret and wings and was received with admiration (yes, there were such days) by the members of the yeshiva; The fighter who coolly and under fire dismantled thousands of mines in the War of Attrition, and who fought in the Six Days. And here he is sitting in synagogue at noon, waiting for his slogan – and nothing. Nothing.
Some time before the war, he and the other elderly paratroopers over the age of 35 were informed that they were switching to naval engineering. Even then he was sure it was a hoax. Paratroopers never get old, paratroopers don't go into engineering, and no one will stamp them on black shoes!
I sat next to him on the bench, which read "The Levy Family," and watched him look in disbelief at the young men who heard the slogan and immediately got up and removed the prayer shawl. Someone forgot to recruit him. I don't think I understood then what I was seeing in his face. Not sure I understand today.
It wasn't until night, when my brothers and I were already going to bed, that the car that picked up my father came toward the Suez Canal. Justice has been done. It wasn't until six months later that we met him again. This time he was much more proud of his new role. After all, he participated in the construction of a successful bridge over the Suez Canal. And I think it took all of us a while to learn that, with all due respect to bold actions with a knife between your teeth, the real changes are brought about by those who build the bridge.
• • •
I was a child during the Yom Kippur War. My friends and I haven't been to the battlefields, we haven't seen the smoke and fire, and we haven't heard the sounds of explosions and shooting, but like all my contemporaries, I have vivid childhood memories of this war, which probably changed us forever.
Until that war, Independence Day was a day of balconies. In preparation for the holiday, we would decorate the balcony, a bit like on Sukkot, and a large part of it we would spend on the balcony expecting to see something from the Air Force flyover. I think there were also competitions around the question of the most ornate balcony on the block.
Apart from flags, we used to fill the barricade with pictures of the generals of the General Staff. In those days, snout-tailed children like me knew how to recite the list of IDF champions by heart, as if it were the ensemble of a beloved soccer team. Some of the champions also had a kind of personal nickname packaged in parentheses and added a mysterious aura to them. Moshe Dayan, needless to say, did not need a nickname at all. He had an eyepatch.
When the Yom Kippur War ended, even before the Agranat Commission, this custom disappeared and the admiration of the commanders disappeared. It's not like we had a neighborhood discussion about it and decisions were made. Not at all. But somehow it was clear. On the following Independence Day, no more pictures of senior commanders were hung on the balcony railing.
We continued to appreciate them, some of them also drew admiration, but it was clear that in this war the higher echelons were responsible for the failures, while those who brought victory after the surprise blow were the reservists - simple and curly citizens who heard the slogan and came. And for all these we had no room on the small balcony.
shishabat@israelhayom.co.il
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