Under different circumstances the six of us—Irit, Nomi,
Yifat, Tali, Gitit, and me—would be unlikely friends, but our pet was a social
adhesive. We’d sit on the floor in our room, evening falling outside the wide
open door, the dog running from one girl to another, grabbed for a quick
squeeze here and there, giving off screechy baby barks when she got overwhelmed
with attention and glee. We didn’t know where she spent her nights, or wandered off during the day while we
were caged in the stuffy classroom, being taught even stuffier subjects by Hadas
and Dorit, our two instructors who made me think of Laurel and Hardy, only
plump Hadas was far shorter than willowy Dorit.
In
spite of their status, our instructors also feared Discipline Officer Shemesh,
who grew hungrier for reprimanding and fining outlaws when his hunts went
unsuccessful. No wonder he wanted the base’s dogs and pigeons destroyed; the
animals would have doubtless received a lesser sentence if they were within his
jurisdiction.
He’d
have them line up in threes across the marching yard, un-shoed paws and bony
feet against cement, standing at stiff attention. “No shifting feathers, no
twitching whiskers,” he’d snap, his eyebrows linked into a dark frown. “Tails
and wings neatly tucked under—bird mites and dog fleas form your own line!—now everyone
turn to the right, and: Left- Right-Left, Left- Right-Left, Left …”
Alas,
many would soon stray in the wrong direction, the lines would entangle, (not
all creatures know their right from their left), the poor bird-mites, too tiny
for their own good, would be trampled by the yawning Great Dane mix, three startled
pigeons would flap their wings when the brown mongrel would crash into them,
the oblivious fleas would bound onward regardless, and puppy—confused by the
cries and complaints rising from all direction—would be unable to restrain her
wagging tail and screeching yelps.
She’d
keep screwing up—morning drills, and other Rules and Regulations—and with the
rapidly accumulating violations, she’d end up in military jail. She’d befriend
everyone, even the guards would be enchanted by her irresistible personality,
but being restricted to a small cell she’d rebel, I’m certain of that. Decline
the food, wouldn’t even march to the dining hall with the rest of the
prisoners. And would most likely refuse to learn the structure of the Israeli
Air Force. After all, becoming a squadron operations-room sergeant was not her career choice.
“Won’t
you do your shoes?” her cellmate would ask, brush in hand.
“Not
today,” she’d reply. “The rule is, shoe
polishing tomorrow and yesterday, but never today.” And she’d rebury her
head in her book while the other inmates would keep fussing with that pongy black polishing-paste—purchased with their measly
military wage—shining shoes they’d never be caught wearing in civilian life.
On
the way to the drill plaza, an island of concrete slabs set in the middle of
the sand, stood a lone fire hydrant, dribbling from the mouth. A few water
drops smeared on the Goldas gave the same fantastic impression as hours of
shining. Officer Shemesh was fooled by the effect each time. His hawkish eyes
failed to detect her sham polish amid the shimmers.
But
by the time theses clumsies—named after Golda Meir’s favourite orthopaedic footwear
back in the day—would dry and regain their usual drabness, they’d be in deep
sleep under my bunk until the following day, and my relived feet luxuriated in
sandals as I was yawing in class, half listening to Hadas reiterating the types
of Air Force squadrons: combat, choppers, and transportation. “In a descending
order of prestige,” she added laughingly.
Not
that it mattered much, but I wondered where I’d end up at the end of this
two-month course; I was eager to bid everyone goodbye, and move on.
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