9

Is it any wonder the person who invented pushups
hasn’t come forward to claim their invention?

It’s just me and Ronit walking away from everyone else. I follow my instructor to an open area, beyond the barracks. To my surprise, Avi and Sergeant B-S are waiting for us. Avi is standing at attention.

“Stand next to Avi,” Ronit orders.

I have to get Avi out of trouble. I’m the one who lives in the gray areas of life, not Avi, so he shouldn’t be reprimanded.

“We’re very disappointed in both of you,” Ronit says.

“It was my fault,” I admit to our superiors. “I begged him to talk to me in priv—”

The sergeant, with a very pissed-off look on his face (which has just gone a dark shade of red resembling a very red grape), cuts me off in a stern loud voice. “Do not speak until spoken to!”

“But he—”

“Die !” (I learned back in January that die means “stop, enough!” in Hebrew … because when Avi told my dog to “die” when it was sniffing his crotch, I thought he was being rude, but he was just giving a command.)

I cover my mouth with my hands to stop myself from accidentally opening my lips and getting myself or Avi into more trouble.

Sergeant B-S steps between Avi and me. He gives Avi an order in Hebrew, then says, “Gefen, Kadima!” Then the sergeant turns to me. “Your job is to watch him. Come,” he says, placing me a few feet in front of my boyfriend so I’m facing him.

“Watch him?” I question.

“Yes. Just stand and watch.”

I know if I protest it’s going to give him another reason to yell at me.

Avi, the ever-obedient soldier, gets on the gravel ground and does a pushup, then stands and our eyes meet. He repeats the pushup/standing exercise a few more times, and each time he stands our eyes meet. We can’t talk, so our eye contact is the only way to communicate with each other.

Avi’s straight, direct eye contact with me is telling me that he’s okay … he’s strong and he’s fine.

I’m feeling worse than guilty. I wonder when he’ll get to stop.

Avi is still going strong after five minutes, even though his back must be bruised from the rifle strapped to him. His palms are probably raw and bleeding from the gravel, too, but he doesn’t give any sign he’s in pain.

I hate watching this. The day has started to cool off, but I’m sweating again. Every time he goes down for another pushup, I wince. When he comes up, I want to tell him I’m sorry and won’t lure him away again. After ten minutes, I swallow back tears and give Sergeant B-S a pleading look. He’s got his arms folded in front of him, and doesn’t show any sign of planning to let Avi stop any time soon.

I know when Avi is in pain, even though by looking at him you couldn’t tell. I know it because he stops looking directly at me when he stands between those pushups. He’s looking forward, but not at me … he’s looking through me. He’s in “the zone” and is a robot now. It’s a miracle he hasn’t thrown up his dinner. I sure feel like throwing up mine.

My stomach twists. I can’t deal with the fact that I’m just standing here doing nothing. I can’t follow the order just to watch Avi. I know Avi won’t stop until the sergeant says to, even if he’s in pain.

I get it. Break down the soldier until they understand rules are not to be broken. Ever. Or else. Avi and I cannot go away in private even if we’re dating. He knew this, but I lured him to break the rules and he did.

In the army there are no gray areas. I was wrong to ask him to break the rules, and Avi is paying the price for listening to me.

The next time he stands, I mimic him like a mirror and get on the ground to do a pushup with him. I try and do a manly pushup without putting my knees on the ground, even though my arms have the strength of a spaghetti
noodle.

Silently I pray to God to give me strength.

When Avi and I both stand, this time he looks right at me and is not in “the zone” anymore. He shakes his head just the slightest bit, telling me to stop mimicking him. But I won’t. I did the crime; it’s not fair that he’s the only one doing the time. The sergeant wanted to make me feel guilty. It worked.

I am back on the ground again, doing another pushup. Little pebbles get stuck to my sweaty palms, and it makes me cringe imagining what Avi’s palms must feel like. But I don’t stop.

“Die!” Sergeant B-S says.

For a second, I think he’s giving an order for both of us to die on the spot … maybe he’ll just take his gun and shoot us both. A harsh punishment for disobeying orders, but this is the army so maybe anything goes.

But then I remember it means “stop.” Avi and I immediately stand at ease.

“I told you watch him. You’re not good with following directions,” the sergeant tells me.

I don’t know if I’m supposed to answer or not, so I stay silent.

“Gefen tells me you and him are, uh, together. Is this the truth?”

My eyes stay on Avi when I say, “Yes, sir.”

“This is a problem. On this base, between parachute training and Counter Terror School, Sayeret Tzefa trainees are assigned as instructors for the American volunteers. Special Ops soldiers must obey rules or they get reassigned. Eighty percent of Sayeret Tzefa trainees flunk training. Gefen might get reassigned as a driver if he doesn’t obey the rules. And Gefen would rather die than be a driver. Nachon, Gefen?”

Avi stands tall and says, “Ken, Ha’mefa’ked!”

“I understand,” I say. “It won’t happen again.”

“I don’t care what you do off base or when Gefen is out of uniform. On my base, he’s my soldier. Amy, you are a civilian trainee, don’t forget that. Israeli soldiers are not to go off in private with civilian trainees of the opposite sex. Understand?”

“Ken, sir,” I say, using the Hebrew word for “yes.” It’s one of the few Hebrew words that I actually know how to use correctly.

“You’re both dismissed,” he says. “Zooz.”

Avi does an immediate about-face and jogs away as if he hasn’t just pushed his body to the limit. I want to run after him and apologize. I itch to examine his palms and take away whatever pain and cuts and bruises he’s endured because of me.

I’m mentally drained and want this day to end. Sergeant B-S disappears while Ronit and I walk to the barracks. When we get inside, I notice that everyone has two sets of military olive green uniforms lying on their bunk, matching floppy hats, and a canteen with a strap. Liron is passing out towels.

“Shower time,” Ronit informs me. “Each of you has seven minutes to shower.”

I stand next to my bunk and receive my towel. Quickly collecting my papaya-scented bath gel, my poofy sponge, my shampoo, conditioner, and other essentials, I follow everyone to the showers.

Thank goodness the showers are next to, not in, the same room as the stinky bathrooms. There are six curtained stalls on either side. When it’s our turn, I take the one next to Jessica.

The cement floor of the shower stall doesn’t look blatantly dirty, but it’s old and cracked. I can just imagine the amount of bacteria lurking on it, ready to attack bare skin and cause a foot fungus. Thank goodness for my shower shoes.

Foot fungus is not an option.

I hang my toiletries and PJs on the only hook in the stall. Getting undressed is not easy to do while you’re wearing shower shoes. I balance on one foot as I slip out of my dirty shorts, but unfortunately my ballet skills aren’t translating to shower balance.

Like a movie in slow motion, my naked body slips on the cement.

I make a huge noise that comes out as “Whoooaaa!” but it really sounds like that big ape-looking guy from Star Wars that Mitch made me watch when we dated. He made me come over to his house one Saturday and watch all six episodes. That’s over twelve hours of movies in one day, if you include the deleted scenes. Once, in the middle of making out during Episode 5, Mitch asked if I wanted to see his Wookie. I sat up and slapped him. I mean, we’d only been going out for a few weeks and the thought of his “thingie” being a short, hairy thing grossed me out.

Mitch said later, after putting ice on his cheek to reduce the swelling from the hand-shaped red mark of my slap, that he only wanted to show me his set of Wookie figurines. As if.

“You okay?” I hear Jessica’s voice echo in the other stall.

Okay, so now that I slipped/fell, I’m on all fours on the floor. I guarantee that no matter how fast I get up, the five-second rule doesn’t count. I’ve for sure got things that grow in petri dishes on my hands, knees, and butt.

I turn the water on, refusing to be bacteria-ridden for even one more second. I’m ready to wash off the dirt and dust and bacteria and stress from my first day as an IDF trainee.

I stick my hand in the water to test the temperature. It’s cold.

I turn the crank in the opposite direction, then test again.

It’s still cold.

Maybe it needs time to warm up. So I wait a minute, then test again.

Still cold.

Now I’m starting to shiver, because I’m naked and the temperature has definitely dropped at least twenty degrees from this afternoon.

“Three more minutes!” Ronit yells from the door.

I pull the curtain aside and stick my head out. “Ronit, I think there’s something wrong with my shower. There’s no hot water.”

“There’s no hot water in mine either,” Jessica cries out from her stall. “Brrr!”

“None of us have hot water,” one of the girls from New York says as she gathers up her stuff and exits the shower. Seriously, she took an entire shower in less than four minutes … how clean can she be?

Ronit chuckles and says with a big smile, “Welcome to the IDF! You have two minutes left!”

With that warning, I quickly dip into the cold water. Wet and freezing, I quickly lather my hair with shampoo and squirt liquid soap on my poofy sponge. My teeth chatter as I soap myself and quickly plunge under the sprinkling showerhead.

As I’m rinsing, Ronit yells out, “One minute!”

I have to admit, my bottles of shampoo and liquid soap are scattered at my feet. I’m not thinking about bacteria anymore. I’m thinking about my hair conditioner, and how crappy my hair is going to look if I don’t put it on. On top of that, I think I just bit my tongue because of my chattering teeth.

Halfway through squirting conditioner on my hair, I hear Ronit give us a “thirty seconds!” warning.

Oh, crap.

I don’t even have my conditioner spread, and already I have to rinse it off. Does Ronit know how much Aveda minty-smelling conditioner costs? Not that she would care, but still.

“Amy, come on,” Jessica whispers to me. “You have, like, ten seconds. Are you done?”

I pull my dirty clothes off the hook to get to my PJs from behind them. Unfortunately, my PJs fall onto the wet ground because the hook is too small. Taking a deep breath and pulling on my yellow polka-dot pajama bottoms (now wet in spots) and matching yellow top, I grab everything and run out.

“Tomorrow you’ll have to do ten pushups for each minute you’re late,” Ronit informs me.

While we walk back to our barracks, Jessica blows hot air on her hands. “I’m freezing.”

My teeth are still chattering as I look down at my thin nightshirt. “I think I’m going to be permanently nippy.” I can’t help but notice, again, that I have the biggest boobs out of our entire unit by far. I got my blue eyes from my Israeli grandmother, my black curly hair from my father, and my huge saggy boobs from my mom. Okay, so they’re not as saggy as my mom’s are … she’s pregnant.

Did I mention that soon I’m not going to be an only child anymore? Yep, my mom and stepdad Marc “with a c” decided to have a baby. So now I’m going to have a brother or sister young enough to be my kid.

Back in the barracks, I open my suitcase and slip a University of Illinois sweatshirt over my wet, shivering head. Then I open my makeup case and do my nightly routine: take residue makeup off, put toner and moisturizer on, then spritz refresher spray for that extra misty-sparkle to make my skin look radiant (I know I sound like a commercial, but I did model once and my mom is in the advertising business).

After flat-ironing my hair, I pull out my favorite pillow from home. It’s completely encased in a hot pink silk pillowcase. I set it on my bed. One of the New York girls, Victoria (aka Vic), is on my top bunk. Vic climbs up and the springs squeak as her weight presses down on the thin mattress.

I look up at the exposed springs. I hadn’t noticed them before, but now I see why Jessica (who shall now be deemed the “manipulative traitor”) wanted to switch bunks with me. The small springs keeping the mattress (and Vic) from falling on my face are attached with an S-type looking metal thingy. The problem is that almost every other spring is broken, missing, or super worn-out.

I’m not the claustrophobic type normally, but watching the mattress sink lower every time Vic moves makes me nervous.

I mean, seriously, what if Vic overstresses the one spring that’s keeping all the rest from snapping off. It’s like the game Jenga or that ice-breaking game. One wrong move and it’s all over—SPLAT!

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jess waving to get my attention. I narrow my eyes at my best friend. She puts her hand to her heart and mouths the word sorry, although she looks more amused than sorry. I think sometimes her brother Ben, aka the demon from hell (even though I’m Jewish and don’t believe there’s a hell), has rubbed off on her. One of his regular stunts is tossing chunks of challah bread across the Shabbat table with the purpose of getting one stuck in my cleavage. When he’s successful, he grins and offers to take it out.

“Lights out in four minutes!” Ronit calls.

I wave to Miranda, who’s on the bottom bunk two away from mine, across the aisle. I pull up my painfully thin blanket and try to get comfortable. It’s not easy to relax with stretched-out springs squeaking overhead every time my bunkmate moves. I should watch all the food that goes into Vic’s mouth during the next ten days. I can’t risk her gaining weight while we’re here, that’s for sure … my life may depend on it.

Seriously, if the springs do give out in the middle of the night and she falls on me, will I suffocate and die? And if I do, will anyone care? Maybe I should sleep on my side, so if the springs collapse and the mattress and Vic fall on me, I might still have a little air pocket and live.

I’m definitely feeling sorry for myself tonight, but then I think of the Israeli soldiers who have to sleep on a bottom bunk staring up at missing and broken springs every night for years. I’m only here for a little over a week.

When Ronit flips off the lights, I turn on my side (partially because I like sleeping on my side) and think about Avi lying in his bunk.

Is he in pain from the pushups?

Is he lying on the top bunk, or bottom?

Is he thinking about me as much as I’m thinking about him?

When Avi stayed at my house back in January, he never wore a shirt to bed. I loved staring at his abs and biceps. I would kiss him good night and he’d flash me one of his rare smiles as he pulled me close (of course this was when my dad wasn’t hawking us and ordering me back to my room).

I don’t have my cell phone with me to listen to his old voicemail messages. He left them when we broke up during his visit and he was as desperate as I was to get back together. I know those messages by heart, and repeat them in my head …

Did I tell you your eyes remind me of blown glass? I can see your soul through those eyes, Amy. They get darker when you’re trying to be sexy and they shine when you smile. And when you think you’re in trouble you blink double the amount that you usually do. And when you’re sad, the corners of your eyes turn down. I miss your eyes.

I want to say something to you. Not because I want you to say it back, either. (insert deep breath here) I … I love you. It’s not that kind of conditional love … it’s the kind that’ll be around forever. Even if you don’t call. Even if you like Nathan or any other guy. We can be friends. We can be more. Just … call me back.

Did I mention when I first met you I was so attracted to you it scared me? Me, scared. I still am when I’m around you, because now I want you in my life forever. How long is forever, Amy?”

I wish his arms were around me right now, assuring me that this is just another bump in the road of our rocky but passionate relationship.

I fall asleep, thinking of the day when Avi will hold me all night long without parental (or military) interference.