My father’s injury transformed his life drastically, and his miraculous rehabilitation formed his philosophy of life and his future. In 1952, he was elected Chairman of the Israel Disabled War Veterans Organization. One of my childhood memories is walking with my father on the main street of Tel Aviv and being stopped time and again by people—strangers to me—who profusely thanked my father for things he did for them. They were veterans and he was fighting for their rights, for their dignity, and for their recognition.
After serving the veterans, he decided to lead and build a sports center for disabled children. He became a major advocate for rehabilitation through sports, applying many of the methodologies that had helped him with his own rehabilitation. Thousands of disabled kids have gone to the Israel Sport Center for the Disabled and it has helped them gain confidence, pride, and success. My father was, and still is, a hero for many of them.
In 1962, my father published his first book. Its Hebrew title translates into English as Days of Lead. He once told me that he wrote the book in order to be able to forget. The memories were simultaneously very painful and very important, and the book served as a tool for bringing relief. The book was a major success and an astounding best seller, and praise came pouring in. My father, with barely a high school diploma, had created a masterpiece.
Recently, as my father approached his ninetieth birthday, I asked him if I could translate the book and publish it for the first time in English. This was one of his dreams that had faded into the background over the years because of his busy schedule. This dream is now a reality and it has become one of the best birthday gifts for this wonderful and special occasion. The publishing of the book also coincides with Israel’s seventieth anniversary, an event that would never have happened without the spirit and bravery of my father and his fellow soldiers.
Chapter 1
The Hill
Wearily I lifted the field glasses to my eyes. They had once been Ilan’s. In front of me stretched emaciated slopes that quivered hazily when I first looked at them, and then settled down and stopped moving. My eyes wandered over the few scraggy clumps of trees scattered over the area, whose shadows made pits of blackness on the rocky ground.
For a moment I blinked my eyes. Between the faded green trees I made out little figures moving back and forth. I took a long, hard look. There was no doubt: enemy soldiers. Groups of them rushing around busily, as if time was short and they were hurrying to carry out their orders. Now I could make out a few lorries standing near them. The soldiers gathered around the lorries and began working frantically. I could even make out the cannons hidden behind the fences. But I was already tired, dead tired.
The words of the company commander hammered against my temples: “Hold the hill—at all costs.” That’s what he had said before we set out. That’s the order we were given. But we didn’t have much more left to pay. We were nine when it all started, and now there were only five of us left. Two of them lay dead next to me, their heads smashed into messy pulps of flesh and bones by a machine gun. The commander said something else: “Until reinforcements arrive.” But I wasn’t sure they’d make it, and was beginning to doubt they were even on their way. When the order had been given, I hadn’t realized all its implications. Now I completely understood it. But I was so bone-tired I couldn’t even complain. Perhaps reinforcements were really on the way. That’s what the company commander told us would happen, after all . . .
The enemy soldiers had stopped rushing about. Soon the shelling would start. I felt it wouldn’t be long. A bright tongue of flame glittered through the trees. That was it. I knew the time had come. White smoke hung there like a light cloud, and a shrill whistle cut through the air. A heavy explosion shook its anger loose somewhere on the slope of the hill. Heavy smoke climbed into the sky. It was a marking bomb. The real shelling began after a few trial shots. The explosions began to follow one another. Their thunder rocked and shook the layer of stones on the hill, like an earthquake that wanted to pound every bit of stone into gravel.
At first I could still make out the exploding shells. A dirty gray whirlpool of dust and rocks rose into the air, and fell back to the ground like a hail of debris from a detonation. The more frequent the explosions became, the less I was able to see. The smoke and dust rolling over the rocks mingled into a heavy cloud that hung over the entrenchment and covered the face of the sun. But by this time I wasn’t paying any attention to what was happening outside my own limited sphere of interest. I lay on the ground, curled up like a hedgehog, pressing desperately as close to the earth as I could. I would have liked to have been swallowed up in it, to be swallowed by it. I clasped the palms of my hands over the nape of my neck and pressed my arms over my ears in a vain attempt to shut out the thunder of the shells.
The guns continued to slam away at a crazy pace. Cold sweat started trickling over my face. At first it was only my forehead that glistened with sweat, but soon my whole body was washed by the sticky wetness. Streams of it, mixed with dust and smoke, trickled into my eyes, stinging them mercilessly. Every time the thunder of the shots rolled over the shuddering rocks, I shut my eyes. My body shrank into a tight, twisted knot, and my head banged against the ground. When I opened my eyes again, it was like waking up from a nightmare. Everything spun around me, around and around until my head reeled.
This had been going on for hours already. My whole body ached from the sudden contortions. Weakness took hold of me. My stomach lurched and the gorge rose. I felt like vomiting . . . I must have been stunned by the cannon fire and couldn’t feel my face. My lips were paralyzed; I bit them but felt nothing, and couldn’t feel my throat either. I put out my hand hesitantly and patted my neck. It was smooth and wet. My fingers dabbled in a warm, soft liquid. I passed my hands in front of my eyes, agitated. My fingers were smeared with a mixture of blood and soot. A piece of shrapnel from a shell must have hit me in the neck. But I felt no pain. I just kept on getting weaker and weaker, my strength flowing away.
I heard a muffled sound, a cry, like that of a frightened baby. It was so choked, so far off, so faint. The cries grew louder, came closer, until I could hear them quite clearly. Only a desperately wounded man screams like that, and this hopeless howling roused me from my dazed state. Slowly I turned my head toward the voice. But I could hardly see anything. Everything was covered by thick mist and acrid smoke. I screwed up my eyes and peered into the mist, putting my whole body into the effort of seeing. The dense mist lifted a little, and through its veil, which opened slightly before closing again, curled a heavy cloud of smoke that climbed over the stone outpost on my left. The wounded man’s cries grew louder. Who could it be? I wondered with growing terror. A chill of fear passed through my body, a chill that deadened the senses.
A black shadow passed in front of the mist. I strained my eyes. Through the rising smoke the figure of a man lurched, running and rocking from side to side, as if he were drunk. At first all I saw was a black shadow. But when the shape came closer I could see someone waving his hands as if he wanted to tell me something, to give me a signal. I couldn’t see the ends of his legs. They were covered by the mist that spread over the ground. He seemed to be floating and hovering on the waves of a sooty smoke. His cries didn’t grow fainter, but became louder, and his movements became more frantic. Now I could see that he was banging himself on the head, hitting himself and shouting. Another minute and he’d reach me. Only ten strides between us. The sound of the explosions deafened me, but I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Suddenly he changed the direction of his walk. He stumbled, swayed in the opposite direction—toward enemy lines.
“Stop!” a hoarse cry burst from my throat. “Stop!” He went on. My voice was lost in the thunder of the guns. I struggled to my feet and ran after him. “Stop!” I went on shouting. “Stop!”
I caught up with him. Now I could put my hand out and catch him. A mighty burst rocked me. I threw myself on him and pulled him down to the ground with me. I bent over his head. His face was wreathed in smoke. It was Gershon! But he looked