There is nothing like Jaffa prison at night

It's really unpleasant to remember, not even as an experience.

1963. Several months ago I was released from the army. Those months were ages ago, but the story is not in the repertoire of any honest citizen. That's why it's worth reading. As a release gift from the armor band, Shaul Bieber, the father of the band, gave a release gift. A room that will serve me and my friend Maggie when we come to the big city. Spend time, listen to music, rest your head in our small room and with daylight return home to Haifa.

On a clear day we decided that we weren't making enough use of our rooms as we had hoped and decided to come get our things. surprise! Someone ripped off our lock and replaced it with a new lock. It is important to note a simple lock for an interior room. A special vehicle we prepared for the purpose of transferring our belongings is waiting downstairs. The liaison officer whose office is across the street tells us that Amir from the band did it. Amir, an actor less accepted by the members of the band and being the veteran, was appointed commander of the band with the release of most of the veterans. The first action he did was to remove our lock and hang a new lock. We broke the lock, informed the liaison officer about it, loaded our things and drove home to Haifa.

Two weeks passed in the normal routine of life. One day I arrived at my parents' house at noon. My mother opened the door pale as lime. Whispering to me that a policeman is waiting for me in the room. A plainclothes police officer introduces himself and the reason for his arrival. Complaint regarding a break-in and theft of objects from a room in the building of the Armored Band. I tried to clarify the chain of events, but the nice policeman stopped me and explained to me that he is not the judge and his job is to search the house and bring us to the detention cell at the police station in Jaffa. The policeman apologized and opened several cupboard doors as if searching, and recorded that he found nothing. Although my mother did not pass out, she was very close to it. The charge of theft is a military blanket and a twelve-page bolt-action rifle instruction manual in the Romanian language.

The Israel Police handled every complaint, big or small, with the same attention and dedication. The policeman asked me to take personal belongings and accompany him to the house of my friend Maggie, who was an accomplice in the crime with me. Thus, I traveled by bus with a police escort to Maggi. The story of the 'searches' came back to Maggie who also packed some personal belongings and the three of us were on the stuttering train to Tel Aviv. The trip allowed us to clarify the problem, but the police officer kindly explained that only a judge could release us, so we remained imprisoned until we were brought before a judge.

Even though apparently this is a false accusation and we even have the option, the policeman suggested, to sue Amir for removing the lock from our room door and locking it with a new one. He added sin to crime and filed a complaint against us for a burglary that did not exist. I told Maggie that if I met Amir on the street, the policeman would most likely have to come back and look for me, this time on an assault charge and this time on a just charge. The rage is so great that it is hard to calm down.

We arrived at the police station in Jaffa. We removed belts and shoelaces, for those who had them, lest we try to commit suicide in the detention cell. Now comes the most humiliating moment. taking fingerprints. The fingers that have recently played a musical instrument are dipped in a special black ink and our fingerprints are brought to the police database. Anger and hatred for Amir are increasing. It's already night and we are escorted respectfully to the detention cell.

Detention cell in Jaffa prison. A small, musty cell with six iron bunk beds. dense, black and smelly. Everything I've read in books, and everything I've seen in movies looks like the Hilton Hotel compared to reality. In the corner of the cell is a hole in the floor, and a water faucet. This is the urinal or urinal that is open to all eyes and everyone who uses it is like a soloist on a stage at a concert recital. The floor of the cell and the walls are concrete in a black shade from the dirt that has stuck to it over the years. The partner of the dirt was the smell. They usually go together and therefore the room has an unbearable unique smell that cannot be described.

Our cell neighbors who are still able to speak, welcome us and in return asked for a cigarette and another one in the ear afterwards. The faces I saw in the cell under the cover of darkness which was not complete, could have played central roles in the films of Fellini or Tarantino. Because of most of them, viewing was forbidden for children up to the age of twenty-seven so that they would not get scared at night. A drugged creature lay by the front door. It's strange that I happen to have a door to it. It's an iron monster that a few kilograms of explosives will barely scratch the paint that should have been on it.

Our cigarette stock was used by our neighbors as a smoking and playing booth. The game was to burn cigarettes in the ears of the creature near the door, and when he did not respond properly they exposed his testicles and burned them there as well. The burns managed to move his drugged body a little and he just shifted uncomfortably and tried to mumble a few words. You could almost think he was enjoying the game.

In the upper part of the cell there is a small, latticed hatch and two things penetrate through it into the cell. Both bring up memories and tears in my eyes. The moonlight that gives us a sense of direction and the sounds of music heard clearly. Carso's trumpet with the orchestra, one of whose members, Asher Kimchi, later became a very close friend. The music didn't add much to our mood and despair is gnawing away at every good part of our soul. Maggie and I sat on the 'bed' and were afraid to fall asleep.

After it seemed that all the occupants of the cell had collapsed onto the musty surface, we tried to turn a blind eye and then... four policemen brought a rampaging detainee and tried to put him in the cell. He goes on a rampage, the police beat him with their batons and tiny drops of blood splatter everywhere. Shouting and screaming. The detainee's refusal to follow the policemen's orders increases the violence and everything in front of our eyes. The four policemen were unable to squeeze the rampaging man through the open door until he was taken away in a pool of blood, probably for treatment, and peace returned to the place.

The dawn begins to rise, a nap here and there does not satisfy the needs of sleep, but the excitement blurs the tiredness and time crawls slowly. I pondered between myself, asking myself what the distance is between playing, learning and practicing music in peace and quiet and such a smelly hole that I didn't know nor did I imagine its existence at all. The blink of an eye is the distance. Who knows how many areas we bury our heads in the sand and don't know that under our noses there are such terrible places. The anger, resentment and hatred towards Amir is increasing moment by moment. The desire to meet him in order to take revenge is replaced by a prayer that I will not see his face, that I will not have to sit in such a place for a much longer time.

About breakfast I skip my stories because no one will believe what I write anyway. The types that were concentrated in the smelly room are not, apparently, creatures, but hybrid creatures of a demon and their bone mass. I will save the description for my imaginary stories. One plate and one spoon for several diners and that's the nice part. The explanation is that the place is not a Histadrut pension. The ingredients from which the food was prepared and its nutritional value will be told another time.

After breakfast there is the march in the paddock. Everyone walks one by one. From extracting bones like this, from the release of nerves that comes instead of hitting the wall. The paddock is small and everyone chooses a route and walks from end to end. One track remains free. No one dares to approach and no one dares to cross it. On this track walks Baal Atliz, an ice giant of great weight divided between his neck and ankles, dragging his right leg and his knee locked. old injury Two bodyguards from the detainees follow him and try to maintain the walking pace. Don't rush too much and of course don't be late. This scary man claims his innocence and many, maybe everyone in the corral agreed with him. I also agreed and would even sign a petition for his immediate release.

One bright morning, three income tax inspectors arrive at his butcher's shop and most brazenly ask to look at the books. It's a very annoying thing, so it's no wonder he pulled out a submachine gun from behind the counter and shot one of them dead. He is now in custody awaiting trial to prove his innocence. A little statistical test will prove that there is not a single detainee in the corral who will think that the shooting was unnecessary and the butcher is to blame. I remember his name well and starting at my age I was interested in butchers, especially when I am a vegetarian I have neither desire nor desire. Those who are curious should call.

It happened that the members who fill the pen are all innocent, including me, and are here on a false charge. Go tell them we're allegedly accused of stealing a military instruction booklet and a nearly new seven-hole military blanket.

Time crawls until we are finally called for transportation. A car for transporting dangerous detainees with an armed policeman with a loaded weapon and an escort and seven police motorcycles at the head of the convoy. We were led in handcuffs after honoring the court. Waiting and waiting, every minute seems like an hour. The judge looked at the case, heard the story and severely reprimanded the police for their excessive devotion to this case without exercising discretion and especially for wasting his precious time.

We didn't wait for someone to try to apologize to us, we didn't go back to the corral to say goodbye to our cellmates. We just rushed home to Haifa. I washed my body with dozens of liters of water and alcohol-gel and diligently prayed to the Creator of the world that he would meet me with Amir.

A few months passed, the story began to be forgotten. On a clear day, I walk to Tomi on Herzl Street in Haifa near Beit HaKaron. Suddenly the God of Vengeance draws my attention to a suspicious figure across the road none other than Amir himself. The one who caught my attention seemed to be expecting to see what I was up to and maybe even interested in seeing a little fight. My grandmother was on my heels and like a superhero I tried to save my life quickly. I walked away from the crime scene before there was a crime. Maybe I disappointed the one who brought us together and expected to see something interesting.

Quite a few years have passed since this story, I haven't seen Amir anymore and in my humble opinion if the God of Vengeance gets interested in a small battle and brings us together, disappointment awaits him. Maybe a gift in the form of a 'Toblerone' pack for the experience he gave us. Those who are looking for such an experience today must crush a Man-Duh skull and maybe they can win it.