I
always wanted to share my life experiences with my children and grandchildren.
I felt that sharing these experiences
with them is important and,
by doing so,the memories will live long after me. I decided to finally
transcribe these stories when I turned 80 years old and hope that my descendants will find them
interesting.
Rather
than write a chronicle of my whole life,
I elected to choose memorable moments that stayed with me. Some were happy and
some were sad. I am proud of some and regret others. There are many other
experiences that I forgot about or chose not to share because they were too
private or may breach the privacy of others.
The
stories I share are about a life of struggle, successes, setbacks, ambition,
love, anger, hurt,luck,
misfortune, happiness, strength, perseverance, weakness, failures and
acceptance.
I
hope that the readers of these moments of my life will gain insight into who I am and who I was.
BRIEF CV
I
was born in 1941 to my parents Chaya and Bernard (Baruch) Brook in Afulla in British mandated Palestine (now Israel).
I grew up in Haifa.
I
studied at Chugim
Elementary School (1st
to 7th Grades); Geulla public school (8th
grade); and HaReali H’ivry High School(9th to 12th grades). I was drafted to the Israeli Army in 1959,
attended the Hebrew University Hadassah School of Medicine (MD in 1968), and
Tel Aviv University (M. Sc. in 1972).I
did an internship at
Beilinson Hospital Petch-Tiqva (1968), Pediatric Residency in Kaplan
Hospital in Rehovot (1969-1974),
and fellowship in adult and pediatric infectious
diseases at Wadsworth VA
Hospital and the University of California Los Angeles (1974-76). I was on the
staff of Children's Hospital National Medical Center, Washington, D.C, (1977-1980), and served in the U.S. Navy (1980-2006).
I
was married to Zahava Goldwasser (1966
– 1977) and am married to Joyce Reback (married in 1981).
MY FAMILY’S HISTORY
My
mother, Haya Wierzbicki, was born in Grojec, Poland on 7th May 1914. Her
parents were Ben Zion Wierzbicki and Fajga Gayer. They had 6 children (I know
some of the names; sister Luba and brothers Aharon and Israel or Srulik). Haya
was the oldest. Her father
had a small grocery store. Haya joined a Jewish youth movement (Habonim) and
immigrated to Palestine in 1936.
Her
brother, Aharon, was the only survivor of the
Holocaust. He served in the Polish army and became a war prisoner after the
Germans conquered Poland in 1939. He was not executedlike
other Jewish prisoners of war (because of his Polish name, the Germans did not know he was
Jewish) and was sent to work in a farm in Germany. He escaped and joined the
partisans and then the Polish army in exile to fight the Germans. After the war, he stayed in the Polish army as
an artillery officer. He
immigrated to Israel in 1956 with his wife Hana and two daughters (Aviva and Miriam) .
My
mother was a seamstress
and worked at home. She died in 1970 after being struck by a car when crossing
the street.
My
father, Baruch (Bernard)
Brock, was born in Frauenkirchen, Austria on Nov 12, 1907 to
Itzhak Brock and Flora Deutsh. He had five brothers and one sister (Blanka who married Herman Gerstler) . My
grandmother, one of my aunts and her daughter were killed by the Germans while
being transported to a concentration camp in Austria.
The
rest of my father’s family survived the Holocaust: my uncles Richard and Uri
came to Palestine in the 1930th following my father, my uncle Shomo
who left for England before the War got
remarried after his wife and daughter were killed by the Germans; my uncles Zigea
and Loyus and aunt Blanka and their families were caught by the British when
trying to come to Palestine and were detained in Maurtzius until Israel was
born. Zigea’s wife Lenka survived Auschwitz and joint him in Israel.
My
father played soccer at the local town’s team and later with Hacoach Vienna. He
came to Palestine on a student visa on September 1, 1933, on the ship Datzi. The British made an error in his
tourist visa and changed his last name to Brook.He played in the Hapoel Haifa soccer team and
the Jewish Palestinian soccer team in the 1930’s. He was a
soccer referee and a coach to the Hapoel Haifa youth team in the 1940’s. He met my mother in 1936.
My father worked as a welder at the Shemen factory in Haifa, Israel until his death in 1966 from a heart attack.
Haya on a ship to Palestine in 1936 (lower row 2nd from right)
My mother's parents Feiga and Ben-Zion Wierzbicki
My mother's birth certificate from Grojec
My father's parents: Flora and Itzhak Brock
Brock family children document from Fraunkirchen Austria
Bernard Brook is listed among the immigrants that arrived to Palestine on 1 September, 1933.
CHILDHOOD
My name
One of my earliest memories was my answer to the question:”
What is your name?”. I was about three
years old at that time and my answer was “Kakelea Boke”. This was how I was
able to recite “Itzchakellea Brock”.
Toys my father
made for me
Plastic
toys were not available in the 1940’s
and they were handmade from wood and metal.As a talented welder, my father used wood and metal to make toys for me.
He made them in his spare time at the welders’ shop at the Shemen factory where he worked. I developed an expectation to
receive toys from him and used to ask him each time he came from work, “What did you bring to me
today?” I got small toys from him at least once a
week and large ones on special occasions, such as my birthdays.
One
present that I especially liked was a three-part dog that rolled on wheels and
was made of wood and metal. I used to proudly pull the dog with a cord on Hertzel Street while other
kids watched me with jealousy.
He also made me toy cars, a car I could drive, ships, an airplane, blackboard,
riffle, Purim costume
(sword, dagger, Roman soldier helmet and armor), windmill and more. He made my
sister, Zipi, a full kitchen with an oven
and sink.After we got older, my parents
donated most of the toys to a
local kindergarten. His grandchildren were able to play with some of the toys
he made long after he was gone.
Using
his ingenuity, my father also made most of our furniture – tables,
chairs, shelves, beds, lamps, presents for our friends’ weddings and Bar
Mitzvahs (coffee tables, mirrors, chess playing desk, and more). This also
saved money for my parents who were always struggling to make ends meet.
My
father used his talents to build armored buses and military trucks that were
the only bullet proof vehicle (called “Sandwiches”) Israel had during the 1948
War of Independence. He used the same technique he used in making me the wheeled dog- thick wood
sandwiched between two sheets
of metal. http://www.tankarchives.ca/2017/08/israeli-sandwiches.html
I
tried to follow his lead and make some toys for my children using paper,
cardboard and wood. It feels
more genuine and creative to me to be able to come up with a toy myself rather than buy a
readymade one.
Itzhak playing with airplane 1942
Wheeled dog wooden made by Baruch Brook, 1944
Riffle 1946, dagger 1955; made by Baruch Brook.
Left: Itzhak and mother - Car and windmill made by Baruch, on roof
of Hachalutz St.# 61. 1946.
Right: Itzhak on on roof of HachalutzSt. # 61. All items made by Baruch Brook.
1946.
The red bag
I
spent a lot of time with my cousin Tzafra (she was the daughter of my father’s
brother Richard) her growing up I don’t have pictures of her except the one I
enclose. Our parents took us to have a picture together by a photographer. Tzafra
got a new red handbag I liked and I wanted to be in the picture with the new
bag. She refused to have a picture. I was furious at her and grabbed her red
purse and muttered “a bad girl“ and had the picture alone. Tzafra can be seen
in the back crying.
I
helped Tzafra pass the high school matriculation tests. She became the beauty
queen of Haifa and the second runner up to Miss Israel in 1962.
Itzhak holding the red bag and Tzafra crying in the back. 1943
I do not care
if bombs are falling
Haifa
was repeatedly bombed by the Italian air force during the Second World War,
starting in 1940. The bombers came from Lebanon and attempted to hit the port
and the oil refineries in Haifa’s bay. Because there was no shelter in our
building, whenever the sirens would sound, my mother took me to the main
entrance of the building, which was considered a safer place.
I
got used to the sound of the sirens, bombs and antiaircraft fire and became
quite irritated when I had to interrupt my activities to go downstairs.
I
was about two and a half years old when this event took place. One morning as I
was sitting on the bathroom’s toilet seat, the sirens sounded an alarm. I had
not yet finished my “activities” and was annoyed by this interruption and locked the bathroom door. When my
mother screamed at me demanding that I come out of the bathroom, I refused. My mother got
hysterical but I was oblivious to the turmoil and did not open the door until I
was done. By that time, the
alarm was over. I do not remember what punishment I had to endure following my
refusal to cooperate. My parents removed the key for the bathroom door and I
was no longer able to lock the door.
Italian Bombing of Haifa Bay during the Second World War
They are after
my gun
I
clearly remember an episode when British paratroopers (“Kalaniyot” in Hebrew) searched our
apartment in Haifa for hidden weapons during “Black Saturday” in 1946. This was
a day when the British
army and police imposed a curfew and systematically searched homes for Jewish
underground fighters and weapons. I was afraid that the soldiers would
confiscate the toy rifle my father had mademe.
There
was an eerie quite in our empty street and only British military vehicles were
travelling from time to time. Late in the afternoon, I heard the soldiers knock
on the doors of our neighbor’s apartments and eventually they made it to our
apartment on the third floor. There was the expected knock on our door and when
my parents opened it two tall-armed British paratroopers, wearing red berets stood
there and politely asked my parents if they could come inside. We obviously
could not refuse, but the soldiers were very polite and polite. I stood behind
my mother holding my toy gun, and before the soldiers could explain their
mission, I blurted angrily, “You can have it.” I felt anger and resentment at being at their mercy
and contemptuously handed them the toy gun. Although the British soldiers most
likely did not understand my Hebrew, they were visibly taken aback by a five
year old who did not want to be in trouble with the law. They politely refused
to take my proffered “weapon” and, after giving our apartment a brief search,
left empty-handed.
I
learned later that the search of the building yielded no firearms and only an antique
swords owned by a neighbor was confiscated by soldiers. The efforts made by the
British to confiscate weapons and the Jews attempts to conceal them taught me
their value. When I was drafted to the Israeli Army eleven years later, and given
my own gun, I knew I will not need to hand it over.
With my toy rifle,
1946
A jeep is blown
Growing up, we resided on the
Ha’ Chalutz street in Haifa which was one of the main traffic arteries in the
city. The years after the ending of the Second World War in 1945 and the
establishment of the state of Israel in 1948 were a period of intense struggle
between the British occupiers and the Jewish resistance underground groups
(Etzel, The Irgun, and Lechi),
who attacked British military and police targets. The British responded by
imposing a curfew, and
imprisoning and executing captured underground members. Members of the
resistance groups would hide to avoid capture. The youngest son of the widowed
Dr. Rappaport, a dentist
who lived in our building, belonged to Lechi and the British police frequently
raided her apartment attempting to capture him. He
evaded capture but tragically succumbed to leukemia in his 20th in
1947.
I
was 5 years old when a new commercial building was constructed across the
street. I loved to watch the excavation of the soil, the blowing of the rocks
and the cement pouring associated with construction. One afternoon as I was
watching the building across the street from the balcony of our apartment, a huge explosion
occurred in the street in front of our building and a British military jeep
flew up in the air. The impact of the explosion thrusted me backward towards
the wall of the balcony.
Apparently, the jeep was hit by a mine placed by the Jewish anti – British underground.
( https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jewish_Underground ) The two
British soldiers in the Jeep were wounded and a young Jewish boy who happened
to be there was killed. This was my first encounter with the violence of the
conflicts. Unfortunately, I had to get used to unexpected violence, as it
became a constant part of my life afterwards.
I
did not stop watching the construction after this incident.
HaChalutz st. # 61 where we lived. I stood on the middle balcony on
the 3rd floor
Where are the little people?
One of my favorite adventures as a child was to travel with
my father to Tel Aviv and stay with my mother’s first cousin’s family. I
enjoyed the bus ride from Haifa, the scenery along the road, and the adventures
I had in Tel Aviv.
My mother’s cousin, Moshe Gayer, his wife, Frida, and their
3 children, Chaya, Nili and Danny, lived on the third floor of an apartment
building on Ben Yehuda Street. The apartment was a block away from the beach
and next door to an open roof movie theater. I liked to go to the roof of the
apartment house and watch movies in the adjacent movie theater. Although I
could not understand the English spoken in the movies, it felt special to be
able to see the free movies.
The only unpleasant part of the trip was dealing with Moshe
Gayer. He was a mean looking person who never smiled and a strict
disciplinarian who was constantly shouting, punishing, and beating his
children. His demeanor, however, never
deterred Nili and me from getting into mischief. Nili was a year older than me
and as mischievous as me. Our favorite prank was to pour water on pedestrians
in the street below the apartment's porch.
One of the most memorable
adventures occurred when the Gayers purchased a radio. I had never seen a radio
before, as it was a rare commodity in Israel in 1947. Nili and I were puzzled
by the sound and large music box and wondered who was making them. We
suspected that there were small people living inside the radio.
We waited for an opportunity to find out the truth. When everyone was busy in another room, Nili
and I crawled behind the radio and started to remove its back cover.
Unfortunately, Moshe interrupted us in the middle of the exploration, yelling
and screaming with anger. Poor Nili was punished, being the older accomplice. We
did not repeat our attempt to discover the midgets whowere living inside the
radio.
My trips to Tel Aviv stopped in 1952 when the Gayers moved
to Toronto, Canada. I reconnected with Nili in 1979 and we reignited our
friendship. (see Close Friends Section).
From top to bottom: Nili, Itzhak,Chaya, and Danny. Tel Aviv 1947
Sugar cubes
My
parents liked to visit the Panorama Garden Coffee Shop on Mount Carmel on
Saturday afternoons. They met friends, drank coffee, ate cakes and danced to
the sound of a small band. It was the remnant of an elegant European custom that many immigrants preserved. The guests sat around round tables set on white
gravel stones, overlooking the beautiful Haifa Bay. As five years old, I had little interest in sitting
with the adults, and after I ate my tasty cake, I wandered around the garden
playing with other children and looking for mischief. My playmate one afternoon
was a little girl who had a red ribbon and wore a white dress. We watched as
the elegantly dressed waiters brought sugar cubes in small glass containers
along with the coffee cups and how the guests dropped them inside their
cups.
The handling of the sugar cubes immediately struck me as a perfect
prank. My companion and I collected white gravel stones, and waited or the orchestra
to start playing and for the guests to go to the dancing floor. We dropped a
stone or two into the coffee cups of the couples while they were dancing. It
took some time for the guests to realize what had happened. I could not understand
why everyone got angry with us. I thought it was funny. I was never taken back
to Panorama Coffee Garden. I missed the cakes.
Finally seeing
Israeli soldiers
Growing
up in Palestine, the only soldiers in uniforms I saw were British. I knew that there were also
Israeli fighting men but they were not to be seen as their existence was
unofficial and they were always avoiding the unfriendly pro-Arab British.
It
was late Saturday afternoon in the winter of 1948, a couple of months after the
United Nations divided Palestine into two states - a Jewish and a Palestine
one. Israel had not yet
been born, the British had not yet left, and the Arabs and Jews were fighting
for control of Haifa. My father and I were walking on Hertzel street hurrying
to return home before the 5 PM curfew that the British imposed on the city. A
convoy of British armored cars would drive through Hertzel Street every day, 15
minutes before the curfew came into effect to take their positions in Beit
HaTasiya (Industry Building) that stood on the border separating the Arab and Jewish sectors.
Suddenly, we saw two trucks speeding
through the street turning to Arlozorof Street that led toward Mount Carmel. There were about a dozen Arab prisoners wearing Kafia scarfs, who
were raising their hands in each truck and surrounded by a few Israeli soldiers holding Sten
sub-machine guns and wearing khaki wool hats. Apparently, the trucks were
rushing through the city prior to the curfew toward Beit Oren, a Kibbutz on top
of Mount Carmel.
I
was stunned and overwhelmed by the sight of Israeli soldiers. People were
cheering. What a surprising sight. I realized that we had our own army after 2,000 years of subjugation and
exile. When I put on the uniform of the Israeli Army 11 years later, I felt
deep pride in becoming one
of those I first saw in the winter of 1948.
Itzhak in the Golan Height after the 6 Day War in 1967
Israel
is born
The
autumn of 1947 was a memorable period for me even as a six year old. The
atmosphere in Haifa was very tense. There was an exchange of gunfire between
the Arab and Jewish sectors almost nightly and British soldiers drove through
town in armored vehicles. On the evening of November 29th, my parents were hovering over the radio, listening
attentively to an English language announcer who was speaking in a slow and
calculating voice. I could hear the sound echoing through the large auditorium.
My parents explained that they were listening to the counting of the votes at
the United Nations General Assembly session, which would determine if a state
would be created for the Jewish people in British Palestine.
I
felt the tension as my parents sat at the edge of their seats. Suddenly, they
burst with joy, and at the same moment, I heard joyful sounds from other
apartments in our building and all over
the street. The United Nations General Assembly voted 33 to 13, with 10
abstentions, in favor of adopting the Partition Plan of British Palestine. The
resolution established the creation of independent Jewish and Arab States at
the end of the British Mandate on May 15, 1948. Even as a six-year-old child,
I felt the enormity of that moment. We were going to have our own state after
almost 2,000 years!
Within
a short time, people ran to the streets to dance with happiness. My mother left
the house to join them. This was the last day of jubilation since the harsh
reality soon became evident that the implementation of the plan would demand a
bloody struggle. I woke up the next morning to the sounds of gunfire and
explosions. The Arabs rejected the United Nations resolution and started
attacking the Jewish sector of Haifa and all over Palestine. Israel’s two year
struggle and War for Independence started.
Celebration of the United Nations General Assembly vote in
Palestine November 29, 1947.
Reading newspapers
Uzi Brook. I was interested in the news since I was a young child. My parents got
me a subscription to a children’s weekly magazine called “Davar Le Yeladim”
(Davar’s newspaper for children) which had interesting stories, a section on
how to make toys or devices, and a page that summarized the weekly news. I used
to read with interest stories that were written by a young child called Uzi
Brook (not a relative of mine). I admired his talent and wanted to meet him,
but he lived in Tel Aviv. I finally met
Uzi during my written admission examination for Hebrew University’s Hadassah
School of Medicine. Each participant sat at his own desk and wore an
identification tag. When I turned around to see who was sitting behind me, I
saw a young man wearing the tag “Uzi Brook.” Before taking the exam, I briefly
introduced myself and told Uzi that I was a longtime admirer of his.
Apparently, the candidates were seated in the order of their last name and as
“Brooks,” we were next to each other. (Uzi was not admitted to the Hebrew University
Hadassah School of Medicine, and instead studied medicine in Italy.) We did not
meet again but I learned that he became a pediatrician. He was awarded a medal
for his bravery during the Yom Kippur War when he treated and evacuated wounded
Israeli soldiers near the bridge that the Israeli army built over the Suez
Canal. https://www.gvura.org/a4164-%D7%A1%D7%A8%D7%9F-%D7%93-%D7%A8-%D7%A2%D7%95%D7%96%D7%99-%D7%91%D7%A8%D7%95%D7%A7 During the war, we were again
very close to each other and were challenged with the utmost test of our lives.
What the young
ones asked. I followed the 1948 Israeli War of Independence by
reading the magazine and celebrating Israeli victories at the end of the War. I
read that the Israeli military captured most of the Sinai Peninsula in forty
days. This was puzzling to me because we studied in school that it took Moses forty
years to cross the Sinai desert and arrive in the land of Canan. When I asked
my parents, they did not have a good answer for me. However, they found the
question intriguing and submitted it to a section in the weekly magazine, Davar
Hashvua, where it was published in the section called “What the Young Ones Asked.”
This was my first publication at eight years old.
Hebrew or
German newspaper. I kept reading Davar Le Yeladim until I
was eleven years old. I saved and bounded all the weekly issues each year. My
father, on the other hand, bought the weekend edition of a German language
daily newspaper. The young country had numerous daily newspapers in many
languages to accommodate the influx of Jewish immigrants from all over the
world. Yet, there was government pressure to convince those who kept reading in
their mother tongue to switch to reading in Hebrew. I tried to convince him to
start reading a Hebrew newspaper so that I could also read it, but he resisted.
He did not read Hebrew well. To satisfy my interest and curiosity about the news,
I used to read all the weekly magazines and weekend newspapers at the home of family
friends who owned a newspaper store (See First Love Section).
Is the fish
ever going to jump back?
Getting
a fish for Friday's dinner was difficult during the early 1950’s’.It was a period of austerity and rationing in Israel. Like many Israelist, we did not
have a refrigerator in
those days and kept our food in an icebox. . My father
had to buy a block of ice every couple of days from a small kiosk until we received
a small refrigerator from my mother’s uncle in New York in 1951.My mother would buy a carp fish in
the middle of the week and keep
it in a large bucket of water in the bathroom until Friday when she would cook
it for Shabbat dinner.
As a
9 year old, I liked to play with the fish, touch it and float paper boats in
the bucket so that he would not be lonely. One afternoon while I was “playing”
with the fish, it
apparently got frightened and suddenly jumped up and plunged straight into the
toilet bowl and disappeared without a trace. I cried out for help from my
mother but it was too late. The fish was gone. We had no fish for dinner that
Friday. I was scared to sit on the toilet for months afterward, afraid that the
fish would come back and poke me.
“The Big
Secret”
My
earliest experience with sexuality was when I was about 5 years old, when I was
chased by little Carmella who wanted to kiss me on the lips. Carmella Guttmann’s parents had a pharmacy in our
building(61 Hachalutz Street) and went to the same
kindergarten as I did. We used
to play with me in the backyard of
our building. She was a short and chubby girl and had a
sweet smile. She must have
liked me since she ran after me, but I felt no
attraction to her and the whole idea seemed strange. I would run away from her as fast
as I could.
Three
years later, we moved to
Yalag Street number 2, where I befriended Miriam, who was two years older than me. Miriam’s family was
Hassidic and they were dressed accordingly – her father wore a large brimmed hat
and a long black coat, and had a thick
beard and long curls (peyot) on
each side of his face. Miriam had two brothers.One
brother was about eleven years old and the other was my age. Both brothers had long curls
on each side of their faces. I used to harass her older brother whenever he
passed the door of our apartment and get into fights with him. Even
though he was taller than me,
he did not defend himself until one day when I started to lose all of our fights. I resorted to carrying a small
wooden hammer in my belt and used it to hit him on his head when the fight was
not going well for me. My mother confiscated my hammer and punished me after
Miriam’s parents told her what happened.
This
did not interfere with my friendship with Miriam. One day, when she saw me biking, she
joined me on the bike’s seat, sitting in front of me. After riding together for several
minutes, she turned around
smiling and asked “What is this thing that sticks me in the butt?” I realized
that I had an erection because she was rubbing against me. I had no idea why it
happened. My face got hot and red and I was very embarrassed. I assume that
growing up with two
brothers made her aware of the male’s anatomy.
Itzhak and his bike, 1946
Growing
up, I was first told that
storks bring babies to their parents. My mother read me children's books that described
how tall white storks carry babies wrapped in a white cloth and land near the expecting parents.
When I asked more probing questions after realizing that women develop large
bellies before they
deliver babies, my mother changed the explanation and told me that women need
to take certain pills to become pregnant. I believed her until I found a book
that she hid in the closet. The book was a guide for women on
how to take care of themselves during pregnancy and how to care for
newborns and babies. It also explained how babies are created and had figures
that illustrated it. I was amazed and shocked by the revelation. I had never
understood before why boys
and girls are different even though I knew we were not anatomically the same.
I
gathered all the children in our building (four boys and two girls) and told them that I have a great secret to
share with them. We huddled in the apartment building staircase.When it was quiet and safe, I asked everyone to swear that they would not reveal
to anyone what I was going to tell them. After they swore to keep the secret, I
shared the knowledge I gained from reading the book. They were in disbelief
because they were also told by their parents that storks
bring babies to the world. After showing them the book and the pictures and
trying hard to convince everyone,
they finally believed me. We felt very important afterwards knowing the secret
that we thought no one else knew.
We decided to call the revelation “The Big Secret” so
that we could refer to it in public without revealing its meaning. This lasted
about a year until our biology teacher in school revealed our big secret to
everyone in our class
.
Above: Itzhak in the first day of kindergarten. Below: Itzhak
(middle) (Left Shraga). 1946.
Above: Carmella riding itzhak (2nd from left). Below: Itzhak
& Danny (2nd & 3rd upper row, form lef)t. Hanuka
1946
Meeting
President Ben Zvi
I
was eleven years old and a fifth grade student at Chugim Elementary School on Pevsner Street in Haifa, when a special
event took place in our city. The second president of Israel, Itzhak Ben-Zvi, came for a visit to Haifa.
Everything was new and exciting in our young country. Our teachers took us to
Haifa’s main street, Hertzel Street,
to welcome the president. We were very excited and waved Israeli flags in his
honor as his motorcade passed. We heard that the president was going to be
hosted by Haifa’s mayor, Abba Hushi, at his residence on Jerysalem Street,
which was very close to our school.
Surprisingly, I did not feel uncomfortable
or nervous and handed Ben-Zvi the blank pieces of paper for his signature. The
president’s photographer documented this event. I waited patiently and
respectfully until Ben-Zvi finished scribbling his autographs and went back to
my waiting classmates who cheered me as I emerged from the building. They were
very happy to get the coveted autographs.
My
parents were able to obtain a copy of my picture with the president taken at
the mayor’s apartment. I lost my copy of the president's
autograph.
Left: President Itzhak Ben Zvi and Itzhak Brook. 1952
Right: Itzhak in 4th grade at Chugim Elementary School, 1952
No chicken
today
In
the early 1950’s, Israel
experienced a long period of food shortage on items like eggs, meat, and apples. This occurred because of the rapid influx of
Holocaust survivors and Jews who
escaped Arab countries because of persecution. The country’s farmers were unable to produce enough
food for everyone and Israel did not have enough foreign funds to purchase food
elsewhere. The Ministry of Interior rationed many food
items and gave each
citizen rationing coupon books and prevented
food sale through the black market.
Many
individuals devised complicated schemes to overcome the rationing by relying on individuals who had access to food items. My
parents were able to get eggs from my uncle Loyous who bred chicken in chicken
coops in his backyard in Kiryat Shmuel. However, obtaining a chicken to eat was
very difficult.
One
day in the summer of 1950,
my father did not go to work and invited me to come with him to visit our
friend, Tuvia Hoffnung, who lived in Afula, a town about 30 miles east of
Haifa. Tuvia and my mother came to Palestine from Grojec, a small town in
Poland. Tuvia managed the local branch of Tnuva, a food manufacturing and
marketing company. I was very glad to join my father, because I liked to visit
Tuvia’s family, who wasa very warm and welcoming host
and always served tasty food.
We
took the Egged bus from the bus station in front of our house and within an
hour and a half we reached Afula. As always, the visit was enjoyable and I had
Lebbeniya (a form of yogurt) and ice cream. After several hours, we bid goodbye
and headed to the bus station to return home. I noticed that my father was
carrying a small package wrapped with newspaper and tied by a rope under his
armpit. When I inquired what was in the package, I was very excited to learn
that Tuvia had given us a slaughtered chicken.
After
getting onto the bus, my
father placed the package in the luggage compartment above our heads. He then whispered into my ear
“If anyone asks whose package is it, do not respond.” I did not understand why we had to deny the chicken was ours, but what transpired later made
it clear.
As
the bus neared Haifa, it was stopped at the “Check Point” intersection by a
roadblock manned by inspectors from the Department of Interior. A couple of
uniformed inspectors got onto the bus and asked all of the passengers to show
them their bags. They inspected the spaces under the seats as well as the
luggage compartments. After they unwrapped our package and uncovered its
contents, they announced loudly that they request the owner of the package to
identify himself. My father and I did not respond, nor did any of the other
passengers. The inspectors realized
they would not find the
culprits and left the bus with their loot.
Apparently,
my father knew there was a chance we would not be able to get the chicken to
Haifa and was ready for what had eventually happened. My parents continued, as many other Israelis
did, to do whatever they could to circumvent the austerity measures and often
got food for their children through the black market.
My parents often offered me food that was allocated for the whole family.
We
did not have chicken that week. However, since that adventure, I have been finishing every
piece of chicken I ate.
Egged bus 1950’s
D’Artagnan to
the rescue
Being
a chubby kid invited bullying
and mocking from my classmatesat Chugim Elementary School. I was not popular and
my teachers tended to ignore me unless I caused mischief. I was often
summoned to the office of the principle, Ellen Katz, to be reprimanded. I caused mischief mainly to impress the girls in my class. In one occasion, I
threw a stone into a butcher store near our store because the owner chased the
girls away.
Everything changed
one day.I was in fourth
grade and because I was temporarily
exempted from sports because
I was recovering from glomerulonephritis; I stayed in class while my
classmates were engaged in a physical education lesson in the school’s yard. I
was bored and decided to create a chalk drawing on the classroom’s blackboard. I got the
idea to create the painting after watching a talented young boy who used to make
beautiful chalk drawings on the pavement of Hertzel Street and collect
donations. I drew an elaborate color drawing of D’Artagnan, one of Alexander Dumas’s four
musketeers, fencing his foe. I was fascinated by the musketeers at that time
and collected all of their adventures in comic books. I also used to fence with wood swords with my friends on my street and dress as a
musketeer during Purim
holidays.
Our
next class was an art one. The chalk drawing was still on the blackboard when
our art teacher Avraham Yaskil walked in. He was a respected artist himself and was admired by
everyone. He was stunned by the drawing and asked the class who had created it.
I raised my hand and the teacher praised my accomplishment explaining to the
class what was remarkable about it.
The
art teacher started to pay special attention to me and encouraged me to
continue to draw. He kept
showing my pictures to the rest of the class. My classmates’ demeanor toward me
started to change and the bullyingstopped. The
self-confidence I gained from this event encouragedme
to be assertive and achieve in other subjects.
I
continued to paint and studied art history in high school. I also kept fencing.
Unfortunately, fencing got me into trouble in Chugim School three years later
when I injured my classmate,
Shamai Speiser, in his
mouth while fencing with tree branches during a school break. His father, who was a dentist, demanded that my parents pay
for the penicillin shots Shamai had to receive after his injury. As this
mischief was the culmination of similar ones, my parents and I were summoned to
the school's principal(Yair Katz) office, who told us that I had
to leave the school at the end of the year. What happened afterwards is another
story.
I was not very interested in classical music when I was in
the fourth grade, even though several of my close friends
played musical instruments. Alex Warm and Zohar Manna were gifted pianists,
Michael Tenenbaum played the tuba, and my cousin, Tzafra, played the violin.
When my mother signed me up to attend a music educational program for children
at the Pevzner House auditorium I did not protest as many of my friends also
enrolled. The two hour program was attended by about a hundred children and took
place during ten consecutive weeks on Friday afternoons. I did not pay much
attention to the program and spent most of my time being mischievous. The main
thing I looked forward to was eating the tasty cookies during
intermission.
The last program was devoted to a musical quiz. The
organizers encouraged participants to volunteer to be among the ten competitors.
I do not remember why I volunteered my name, which was picked at the drawing to
be one of the competitors.
The quiz covered musical pieces. We
were asked to identify the composers, whether the piece was played at the right
speed and answer questions related to the history of music. Several of the
other competitors were musically gifted children and I was sure that I would
have no chance of winning against them, especially since I did not pay much
attention to the program. Fortunately, I got easy questions, and when I did not
know the answer, I guessed correctly most of the time. To my amazement, I won
third place.
I was handed a certificate documenting my achievement. The
prize was free admission to next year’s program. I came back to attend the
program again mostly for the free cookies but did not volunteer to participate
in the quiz again.
My
neighborhood
I
grew up in the Hadar Ha’ Carmel neighborhood in Haifa. Until 1949 we lived in a
small 2 bedroom apartment on Ha’ Chalutz
Street number 61 and after that in a two bedroom apartment on Yalag St. number
2. The apartments are very close to each other, as Yalag street is actually a
continuation of Ha’ Chalutz street.
My
parents kept our move a secret because they were afraid that newly arrived immigrants
would illegally occupy our newly built apartment. My father and I moved our belongings slowly
after dark for several weeks and eventually we moved our furniture on a truck.
My
childhood was mostly spent in my neighborhood, which had almost everything we
needed. This included the city’s main market (Shuk in Hebrew), fish store,
bakery, health clinic, first aid station, movie theatres, bakery, doughnut
stands, stamp collection store, library and more. Enclosed are several memories
of events that took place in and around these locations.
Going
to the Shuk was my favorite. It was a huge building with several
terraces that looked down into the main market place. It was a busy and noisy place with hundreds
of stalls and thousands of customers. The walls were covered with white tiles making
it look bright and clean. My mother would shop there for vegetables, fruit and
chicken. She taught me how to choose the best products by inspecting their
color and feel. Getting chickens when they were available was an ordeal. We had
to pick the live chicken from a cage, have it slaughtered by a rabbinical
ordained slaughterer (“Shochet”) and take it to a woman who plucked its
feathers off.
I
also liked to go to the fish store, and climb a step to watch the fish.
The salesmen knew us and were very friendly. They would scoop out a carp with a
net, grab the struggling fish with their leather gloves and club it on the head
with a short stick. They would then wrap it in a piece of an old newspaper and
place it on a weight, to ascertain its exact weight using several weights.
At
the intersection across from our building was a small bakery where we
would get fresh dark bread and a Challah for Shabbat. I liked to peek through the counter and watch
how the dough was pushed with a long stick into the firey oven and pulled out
when the bread was ready. When I was old enough to cross the street by myself
and buy bread for my mother, I could not resist chewing off the bread’s hard
corner before bringing it home. It always tasted warm and crispy.
I
always liked ice cream and visited the ice cream store near our
apartment almost daily every summer. I was enticed to eat more ice cream after
the store offered pictures of Israeli sports figures with each purchase. An
album was promised to those who could collect all of the 120 pictures. My
friends and I would swap pictures when we had two of the same pictures. I even
took away some of the small change my mother collected for the milkman to buy
ice cream. I eventually collected all the 120 pictures and got the coveted
album.
Once
I learned how to read I started to borrow books from the local library
which was a few blocks away. My subscription allowed me to borrow a book every
two days and I used it religiously especially during school vacations. I read
Karl May books about Indians and cowboys in the Wild West, Tarzan books and the
adventures of Chasamba by Igal Mosenson about a fictional group of children who
fought the British mandate. After reading Alex Dumas books about the Three Musketeers,
I made wooden swords and acted out their adventures with my neighborhood
friends (see “D’Artagnan to the Rescue” story). I also started reading and
collecting Classic comic books, illustrative picture books that captured the
essence of classical books authored by William Shakespeare, Alexander Dumas,
Greek mythology and more. Many of the pictures I painted were influenced by the
illustrations in these books.
I
started to collect stamps when I was about nine years old after visiting a
small stamp store on Hertzel Street. I collected sport stamps, stamps
from all the world and Israeli stamps. My parents got me a subscription to
First Day of Appearance Envelopes and a stamp with an attachment of any new
Israeli stamp. I used to spend my weekly allowance to buy sport stamps. My
father took me to see his Happoel Haifa’s team friend), Julius Klein (by than
retired, who was also the goalkeeper of the Israeli National team. Klein was an
avid stamps collector and explained to me how he collected, preserved, and organized
his stamps. I religiously followed his instructions. When I needed money to pay
for our new apartment in Rehovot in 1972 I went back to the small stamp store
to sell back some of my stamps. I still have my stamp collection.
One
of the favorite locations in our neighborhood was the communist party
offices on Hertzel Street. They posted the daily version of their newspaper
“People’s Voice” (Kol Ha’ Am in Hebrew) on the wall, which offered me a glance
onto world events. Even though I was aware of their political vision, this was
a quick and practical way to get up-to-date. That location also served to show
the public free short cartoons that were projected on Saturday evenings on the
walls of the building’s alley. When I was about five years old, I watched a
short cartoon that explained how the human body fights infection. It showed how
white blood cells armed with spears chase away bad looking bacteria inside the
blood vessels. I never forgot this simplistic and illustrative explanation of
how the body resists infection. This cartoon sparked my life long interest in
medicine and infectious diseases.
The
communistic party building also served as a voting site for the Israeli
Knesset. The election offered a great opportunity for me to earn money as a
youngster. I stood in front of the voting site and handed out cards of the
Progressive Party for the voters to drop in the ballot box. I choose that small
party because I felt that they would support my interests as a future
physician. One of the fringe benefits of handing out the cards were the tasty
buns, cookies and drinks they handed to us throughout the Election Day.
My
mother would often take me to visit a small deer called “Bambi” that was housed in a small
cage by the gate of a kindergarten near Benjamin Garden, a beautiful park a
couple of blocks away from our apartment. While I was distracted by the animal,
she fed me with mashed apples as did other mothers around us fed their children.
A
decade later, I returned to the building across from Bambi to see a dentist who
specialized in saving infected teeth. Because I had never been treated by a
dentist, it was not surprising that I had developed severe cavities in two of
my lower front teeth. My dental pain was so severe that I had to come back from
Youth Work Camp in Kibbutz Affikim in the Beth Shean Valley. The dentist’s
elaborate treatment followed by treatment in Hadassah Dental School when I
became a medical student, enabled me to retain these teeth until the age of 75.
On
the other side of Benjamin Garden was the Doctors House (Beit Ha’ Rofei
in Hebrew) where many physicians who emigrated from Germany before the Second
World War resided. In 1953 my father brought me to the Doctors House to see an
ophthalmologist at 10 pm after a piece of metal got stuck in the cornea of my
right eye. This happened when I was making a hammer in the youth working club where
I went once week. The ophthalmologist was an old man with trembling hands which
only stopped shaking when he started removing the foreign object from my eye. (I
still have a small scar in my left cornea.)
Close
to the Shuk was the city’s main first aid facility called Magen David. My first
visit there occurred when I was about ten years old after I sustained a large
burn when my mother dropped a pot of boiling water on my abdomen. It was during
one of her anger outbursts in response to something she did not like. I took a
first aid course there when I was about fifteen years old , my first
introduction to actual patient care.
The
building across from our apartment on Yalag Street number 2, was Pioneer Women
House (Bet Hachalutzut in Hebrew) an
apartment house for single women which also had a lecture hall. My mother’s
friend, who was a nurse, knew about my interest in medicine, and told me about
a series of weekly lectures that were given to nurses in Bet Hachalutzut. I listened
to many lectures and cherished the opportunity to learn about medicine from
distinguished speakers. I did not attract much attention until I attended a
lecture about women’s health by Professor W. Polishuk, the chairman of Obstetrical
and Gynecology (OBG) in Rothschild Hospital. Several of the members of the
audience asked the speaker to make me leave the lecture hall, as I seemed to be
too young to attend the presentation. I was about sixteen years old at that
time. When I realized that I might have
to leave, I approached the speaker and told him that I was very interested in
medicine and would love to listen to his talk. He asked me if I knew how to
operate a slide projector, and when I assured him that I did, he told everyone
that I was going to stay and help him show the slides. I met the Professor
again on the first day of the Six Day War in the basement of the OBG building
in Hadassah hospital in Jerusalem where I was doing my last rotation in medical
school. He had become the chairman of
that department a year earlier. We sat together as Jordanian bombs fell not far
away from us. I told him how we met before and how his support meant a lot to
me. He did not remember.
There
were several movie theaters in our neighborhood – Ora, Amphiteatron, and
more. I saw my first movie when I was about five years old. My parent’s friend
who babysat me for the afternoon, took me to Amphiteatron Theatre on Ha’
Cahlutz Street for an afternoon show. It was a Wild West flick where people
were shooting each other, arrows were flying and horses were galloping. This
was all new and very frightening for me. I ducked under the chair and screamed
until my babysitter reluctantly left the show. He never babysat me again. I did
not suffer irreversible trauma because of that experience and I grew to love
movies. My mother told me all about the movies she saw, and I used to read the
weekly magazine about movies called Kolnoa (Movie in Hebrew) which my mother
bought. When I got older my friends and I used to see biblical ( Samson and
Delila, David and Bat Sheba, David and Goliat),
historical and adventures movies.
The small movie theater across our apartment house on
Sokolov Street was converted to a billiard hall and my father would
occasionally play there with his friends. It also served as a public bomb
shelter where I took my sister when Haifa was bombed by the Egyptian frigate
Ibrahim El Awal during the 1956 Sinai Campaign.
My neighborhood
ADOLESCENCE
No trouble
throughout pregnancy
I
always resented being an only child. I wanted to have a sibling mostly because
I hated getting all of my
mother’s attention that restricted my freedom. One afternoon, when I was 11 years old, my
mother shared a secret with me. “I just came back from my doctor’s office and
was told that my pregnancy test is positive.” She also revealed that she had been pregnant twice
before but miscarried early in the pregnancies. She added “I have not yet
informed your father about this, and I am sharing this with you because I want
you to be a ‘Good Boy’ while I am pregnant so that I do not get upset and lose a baby again.” I was very
excited and promised to cooperate.
This
was a huge responsibility for an 11
year old. I was on “good behavior”
for the entire duration of my mother’s pregnancy. I did not cause any mischief
at school or challenge my mother on any issue. I helped her carry groceries,
cleaned the house and did everything I could not to upset her.
I
built toys for my new sibling. I was hoping to have a baby brother and made him
a small green wooden boat and painted his future name “Ben Zion” (after my
mother’s father) on the boat. It did not happen this way and seven months later
when I was at an overnight camp in Kiryat-Amal (a neighborhood 15 miles east of
Haifa), my unshaved father
appeared early one morning to inform me that my sister Zippora (Zipi) was born. We took
buses back to Haifa and then to Rambam hospital where I saw my baby sister through
a glass window in the newborn nursery. I was disappointed to see a tiny baby
with a red swollen face in
a little baby basket. I expected a smiling little sister with combed hair.
My
mother sharing with me the news of her pregnancy early made me feel responsible for my sister beyond the pregnancy
period. I took care of Zipi
- changed her diapers and
bathed and fed her. This
made it easier for me to take care of my own children. Unfortunately, my parents passed away when Zippy was
still young. My father died when she was 13 and my mother when she was 17. I have done my best to continue to care for her, her children and grandchildren throughout my life.
Zipi with my
mother and me. 1954
No more beating
My
Polish born mother had her own ideas on
how to discipline and punish me. One of her most severe punishments was to hit me with a leather
belt or mattress cleaner made of bamboo (“Praker” in Yiddish). The beating
was very painful. I was helpless as a small child and could not prevent it or
protect myself. Once I became older, she stopped using this form of punishment.
However, my sister, Zipi, who was 12 years younger than
me, was not spared this
punishment, even though she was rarely punished and got along much better with
our mother than I did.
I
was about 16 years old and taller than my mother when I saw her attempting to
hit Zipi with the bamboo stick. I forcefully grabbed the “Praker” from her
hands and broke it to pieces,
telling our mother that I would not let her beat my sister ever again. She
never did.
I
also protected my sister from being bullied by some of the older kids who lived in our building in Yalag Street no. 2 in Haifa. One Friday in 1962, when
I came home for the weekend from Jerusalem, I overheard her screaming for help
from our the backyard of our building.
I rushed outside to find that she was aggressively shoved to the corner by two boys who were
a few years older than her. I pushed the aggressive boys aside and literally
threw them away, warning
them that if they do this again,
I will be even more punitive. My sister was never bullied again by those
children who realized that Zipi had a big brother.
I
wish I had someone to protect me when I was a small kid.
Zipi and Itzhak, 1962
Quarter
I
was always a chubby child and had to endure relentless bullying by other kids
throughout my childhood. This led to many fights with other children because I
usually hit those who ridiculed me even when my chances of winning a fight was
slim. One time, a boy at my
school, Wilf, who was four years older than
me,slid an alive frog into the back of my shirt in front of
other children to tease me. Wilf eventually became my fencing instructor during
my first year at Hebrew
University in Jerusalem. Like
me, he sustained paralysis of the left side of
his face after a Vespa accident. (Unfortunately, his facialpalsy was permanent.)
My
chubbiness and the associated bullying
stopped when I
lost about 50 pounds through a
strict diet in 8th grade.
After being kicked out of Chugin Elementary School (see the Moving from Chugim
to H’Realii school story),
I spent a year in Geulla public school. We had a class about nutrition, which
included learning about calories and the composition of food. We also spent
time in the school’s cafeteria preparing and serving lunch to everyone in
school. This class taught
me the science behind every food item.
I realized for the first time in my life that I can control what I consume and
change the way I look. The driving force to lose weight was my wish to look
better and be attractive
to the other gender. Fortunately, I had the will and determination to do it.
I
started to consume less fat and carbohydrates and increase my intake of
proteins. I kept consulting the calories table in our school’s nutrition
textbook, making sure that I did
not exceed the desired daily amount of calories. I started to eat more vegetables, including carrots, and eventually developed
carotenemia, a condition where the skin turns yellowish from the high
concentration of the carrots’ pigment in my body. I started to lose weight and eventually became anemic. I
became gaunt looking and weak and even fainted one time when I stood up suddenly. I stopped getting taller most likely because I dieted when I was supposed to have my
growth spurt. In
retrospect, I wish I had been more careful and dieted under medical guidance
and supervision.
My dieting scared my mother and
she kept pressuring me to eat more,
but I did not listen.
There was a rebellious component to what I was doing– defying my mother and determining myself what I was
eating. When I entered 9thgrade at a new
school, the Ha’Realii, I met new children to whom I appeared as an ordinary looking person. I experienced
no bullying or nasty jokes. I continued to watch what I was consuming even
after I lost enough weight and kept doing it throughout my life. I was and
still am worried about becoming the chubby kid again.
I
was almost exempt from serving in the Israeli Army when I turned 18,since my weight was only two pounds higher than the minimum allowable weight for my
height. In medical school,
my classmates nicknamed
me “Quarter or Reva” because I was still very skinny and reminded them of the
serving of a quarter chicken. Eventually, I regained my previous weight over
the next ten years, but the gain was in muscle mass.
Itzhak 1956 (after diet)
Itzhak first right. Break in anatomy class, Medical School,
Jerusalem. 1963
Poems, assays and day dreaming
I started to write poems when I was about 11 years old. I composed
poems about daily life, happy and sad events that happened in Israel and abroad.
I also wrote about historical events that we studied in school and military
operations that the Israeli army conducted. I often read them to our class when
they were related to topics we studied. On one occasion, I wrote a long poem
that I read at the conclusion ceremony of our scouts’ summer work camp that in
Kibutz Alonim in 1956. I kept the poems in a special notebook and copied them
to a small notebook. Unfortunately, I lost
both of them when we moved to the USA.
When I grew older, I enjoyed writing long assays when tasked
by my teachers to discuss philosophical topics, books we studied or historical events.
I found that I was able to better express myself in English compared to Hebrew,
perhaps because it took me longer time and greater concentration to compose the
assays.
As a young adolescent, I often used to daydream before
falling asleep imagining adventures I would have. Most of them were about
rescuing girls I liked and friends from enemies. I would be the invincible superman
and the hero that saved them. My imagination would build a complicated story
that ended with victory.
Do
not sit on my table
I
disliked my 5th grade teacher in Chugim Elementary School. He moved me to a
desk on the front raw of the class so that he could better handle my
mischievousness. He also liked to sit on my desk during classes. I resented all
of this and decided to prevent it by pouring ink on the dark table, which would
stain his trousers. It worked and he no longer blocked my view.
Teachers
that shaped me
My
teachers in Ha’ Reali high school were excellent and left a lifelong mark on
me. These included Y. Adler, our English teacher who taught us to look for deeper
meanings in the texts; S. Bare - Chama, and our bible teacher who read us the
relevant bible chapter on our hikes through the country; and S. Ben - Cayim (Sumchus),
our Talmud teacher who taught us to respect different opinions.
Two
of my high school educators shaped me more than any other ones. These were my
physics teacher L. Green and my biology teacher Z. Zilberstein (Zilbi). Both were
very enthusiastic and devoted teachers who inspired their students and loved to
teach.
Green
was tall and skinny and spoke Hebrew in a heavy South African accent. Green
taught me how to understand the logic and basic simplicity in physical laws and
the order in the world around us. Excelling in physics came naturally for me
and I did it by understanding the basic rules in each topic. Green used to
conducted unannounced written tests every week or two, and read loud the
students’ scores from the highest to the lowest. My name was always on the top
of the list, getting the highest score. I liked it as it boosted my
self-confidence; however, I was afraid that this might create jealousy and
animosity towards me. He asked me to help him in writing a new physics laboratory
guide and I came to his home after school to work on it. He wrote it in English
and I translated it to Hebrew and drew some of the diagrams. He used to drive
me back to the bus station on his Lambretta scooter. I was flattered that he
chose me to help him out of all the students in my class.
Zilbi
was a warm, gentle and soft-spoken man. He loved nature and marveled by its
beauty. His childish enthusiasm was infectious and he instilled it in his
pupils. He conveyed to us the wonders of opening doors to the unknown and
making discoveries. He often took us to the forest behind our school and
encouraged us to identify the flowers and vegetation using a botanical
catalog. A memorable moment was when he gathered us around a square he drew
on the ground with a woodenstick and
told is that “You can spend your whole life studying everything in this square-
the microorganisms, vegetation and living things”.
Last
year of high school
My
last year of my high school was emotionally difficult for me. A few weeks after
school started, a four weeks long teachers’ strike broke out. During that time,
I went to the Technion Institute of Technology and set in on classes in biology,
chemistry and physics. These were the topics on which I would be tested when applying to medical school.
I
had mounting conflicts with my mother at that time and also felt burned out
from the years of intense studying. I stopped working hard for school which led
to me failing a test in physics for the first time. I was very embarrassed and
upset and stopped going to school. I returned to school several weeks later
after my mathematics teacher came to my home and spoke to me. He was a friendly
young man, which made it easier for me to explain to him what I was going
through.I resumed attending school and
did well throughout the rest of the academic year. My strict school tolerated
my absence and did not reprimand me for skipping school. At the graduation ceremony, I was
even awarded the prize of being the best student in sciences among the
graduating class.
The
conflicts I had with my mother did not subside and Dr Epstein, the therapist I
went to, recommended that I move out of my parents’ home. My parents rented a
room for me in our neighborhood and I stayed there throughout the time I
studied for the high school matriculation examinations.
LOVE
First Love
One
of my earliestmemories, if not the earliest
one, is when I was three years old. I sat on my highchair and my mother was trying to feed me
while I was building cars and towers from wood blocks. Pircha (flower in
Hebrew) Shidlover, the 7-year old daughter of my parents’ friend, was playing
with me and assisting my mother. Pircha'sparents owned a newspaper shop facing the main gate of the port of
Haifa. She liked to take care of
me and play with me.
I remember falling in love with her at this young age. As I was trying to
complete a tower, I laid out my life’s plan and told Pircha “When I grow up, I will first become an
architect and build a hospital and then I will become a physician and you will
be a nurse and we will work together in that hospital.”
As I
got older, and I was no
longer a cute baby, Pircha lost interest in me. I saw her when we were invited
for a Passover Seder at her parents’ home, but she did not pay much attention
to me. As a teenager, I used to go
to her parents’ home every
Friday to read the weekend's newspapers and magazines that her parents
brought from their newspaper shop. Pircha was already studying at Hebrew
University in Jerusalem and occasionally came home for the weekend. She used to
rest on the sofa dressed in a bathrobe and was covered by a wet towel after taking a shower.Her hair was dripping with water. It was a very sensual sight. We
barely spoke during the two hours it took me to read the newspapers and
magazines. Pircha got married to one of her university's classmates and eventually became a professor in agriculture at
Hebrew University. One of her areas of interest was helping African nations
improve their agricultural
productivity. Part of my childhood plan worked out as planned and I become a
physician, but the rest of it did not materialize.
Pircha and Itzhak. 1945
Why did you
leave?
I
was infatuated with Alita Almoznino since I first saw her in first grade at Chugim Elementary School.
She had short curly black hair and was the best student in my class. I did my
best to be seated near her at
school. I made it happen by being mischievous and disruptive until our teacher
realized that moving me to share a desk with her calmed me down. The first
teacher that realized this was my third grade teacher, Ada,
whose daughter, Yael, was also in our class. Alita never
paid much attention to me and hardly said a word to me, which left me with a broken
heart.
We
parted ways when I left the school and eventually moved to Ha’reali Haivrii
High School. In 11th grade,
I was selected by my school to compete for a special scholarship offered by the
Department of Education. There
was a daylong written
examination in a large hall in a public building. More than fifty students from
different high schools in Haifa took part in the examination. To my surprise, I
saw Alita there. I was less shy at that age, and sat next to her during the three hour test. I finished
the test half an hour before the scheduled time and waited for Alita to get up
and hand over her examination papers to the inspectors. I was determined not to
miss this opportunity to meet her.
We
started chatting and I summoned all of my courage and invited her to see an
afternoon movie atAtznom Theater across the street. Alita accepted the
invitation and I was elated to finally be with my dream girl, hoping to start a
relationship with her. During the movie’s intermission, Alita got up and told
me that she will return soon. When the intermission was over, she did not come back and I
watched the rest of the movie without her. I had no idea why she left and felt rejected
and hurt. This incident was a major blow to my budding male ego and haunted me
for years.
We
met again six years later during Israel’s Independence Day celebrations. My
friends would gather every year near the big clock tower on Hertzel Street, which was Haifa’s main street fordancing Israeli dances. I was already a student at the Hadassah Medical School
in Jerusalem and she was planning to study architecture at the Technion Institute of
Technology, following in the the
footsteps of her father. Alita had changed. She was no longer the cute little
girl with curly hair but a grown up woman. I invited her to see a play in
Haifa’s Municipal Theater when I would return to Haifa in a couple of weeks.
We met near the theater on Saturday
night two weeks later. She wore a brown Yemeni style dress that made her look
even skinnier than she was. We shared what happened to us in the past six
years. She told me that when she served in the Nachal Brigade in a kibbutz
near Gaza Strip,she and several of her army
girlfriends were captured and imprisoned for a few days by the Egyptian Army
when they worked in the fields of the kibbutz.
It
was a pleasant and enjoyable evening. To my surprise, I did not feel any attraction to or connection with Aliat. There
was no chemistry between us. I finally had a chance to establish a relationship
with my secret love but I no longer wanted it. I asked her if she remembered
going to a movie with me and why she left during the intermission but she said that she did
not remember.
I
escorted Alita back to her parents’ home on Panorama Street on Mount Carmel and as we parted,I promised to
call again. I never did. Ironically, this time I left at the end of the play.
We exchanged emails fifty years later after I got her address from one of my Chugim’s school
classmates. She married and became a successful architect in Jerusalem. I still
do not know why Alita left me during the intermission but the pain was gone.
Purim 1951 in 3rd grade. Alita is in the 3rd row, 3rd from the right. I am bowing in front of her
with a bandanna over my face,
holding a toy pistol and a sword.
Standing by the flagpole during
a school camping trip in 4th grade in 1952. Alita
first on right and Itzhak first on left.
A New Year card greeting from Alita 1962
The truth can
be painful
Izraela
and I had been dating for
over two years. Our relationship was solid but she was moody and unpredictable
which was exciting but difficult to deal with. This was the first serious
relationship for both of us. We met when I tutored her younger sisterYehudit in English and mathematics.
She graduated high school and was drafted into the Israeli army as all
non-religious girls were.
Because her late father was a senior police officer in Jerusalem, her mother
was able to arrange for her to serve in the office of the city’s military
officer where she worked as a social counselor.
I
was in my third year of medical school. I wasleaving
the physiology classroom and
entering the school’s inner yard when I saw Izraela waiting for me.
She was dressed in her military uniform, holding her leather bag that contained
folders of her social work cases.
This was the first time she came to see me at medical school even though she
worked only a few blocks away. She had
previously visited me at school when I was working as a research
assistant in microbiology during the summer but never during classes.
I had not seen Izraela for
several days because she went on a trip to Ein-Gedi and the Dead Sea with her colleagues. There was something
strange about her looks. She had an expression of regret and shame that did not
make sense to me. Izraela was always bluntly honest about her feelings and
actions. She asked me to sit down on a bench in the yard and told me that she
had been intimate with another man during her trip. It was one of the soldiers
in her unit.
I
was utterly devastated by her confession. It was a horrible blow that did not
make sense to me. It had immediate negative effects on my life and wellbeing. I
stopped attending classes and missed many laboratory sessions. I sustained a head concussion when I rode
my Vespa and had trouble concentrating and studying afterwards for several months. I failed
the Anatomy final exam,
which was the most
difficult test in medical school. Seeing how devastated I was, Izraela changed
her story and told me that nothing happened on the trip to the Dead Sea. I
wanted to believe her even though I had serious doubts about the truth of her new version of the story. I was, however,
able to brace myself, study hard and pass the anatomy test at the end of the
summer. Passing the test was a milestone. I knew I would be able to graduate medical school.
The
foundation of our relationship was
shattered by the initial revelation
of her cheating and it was the beginning of the end for us. I knew that I could not be with someone who
was not loyal and trustworthy.
Izraela’s
cousin, Elia Mendez, visited her family that
summer. Her uncle and aunt who lived in Amsterdam, who were Elia's parents’ friends, adopted Elia after
his parents were killed in the Holocaust. The final blow to our relationship
came when I walked into Izraela’s
room unannounced and found
her kissing Elia.
A
short time later, Izraela
told me that she was leaving the country and going to Holland unless we got married. I said no even though it was still
very difficult to see her leave. After moving to Amsterdam, Izraela and Elia got married.
I
met Izraela and Elia in Amsterdam two years later when my girlfriend, Zahava, and I traveled to Europe. We
had dinner at a fancy
restaurant near the central train station. She tried very hard to look happy.
She was studying social work and Elia was studying theoretical physics but eventually became a dentist. They had three
children (Dan, Yoni and Ofra) and eventually divorced after 15 years of
marriage. I met Izraela again after 18 years for lunch at the Schiphol Airport in
Amsterdam during a short layover.
She and her children eventually moved to Israel a few years later where she
worked as a social worker in the Jerusalem municipality. She married her high school
classmate, Uzi Ein-Dor. We
maintained our friendship and met several times when I visited Israel. She has
five grandchildren and became a stable and reliable individual and a good
friend. She is still very honest and direct.
Izraela and Itzhak at
the medical student annual party, 1963
Izraela, 1963
Izraela. 1963
Good advice I
cherish
I
met Edna during the third
year of medical school. She was studying nursing at Hadassah nursing school. I used to work at Hadassah hospital in
Jerusalem every weekday from 5 am to 8 am collecting urine and stool samples
and weighing the patients at
the Internal Medicine A
ward. I needed the money but also cherished the opportunity to have contact
with patients during my pre-clinical years.
Edna
was blond and tall and we became good friends. We oftenate breakfast together
with other nursing
students in the large hospital staff dining room. The nursing students frequently became romantically involved with medical
students.Some of them married several of
my classmates, but my relationship with
Edna was platonic. I even visited her and her family when they were vacationing
on the beach of Nahariya in the summer of 1963 (see picture below).
I
used to confide in Edna
about my relationship with Izraela. She was a good listener. When I wanted to share
some of the negative aspects of our relationship and complain, she immediately
stopped me and told me “Please do not spit into the well that you are drinking
from.”It was very good advice from a 20 year old
I
met Edna again in 1968 during my internship at Belinson Hospital in Petach-Tiqva during my
surgery rotation. Her father, who was the chief of criminal investigation at the Tel Aviv police, was
admitted for abdominal surgery. The anesthesia services at Beilinson Hospital at that time
were inadequate.Anesthetists would often have to take care of several
patients at the same time, which led to some mishaps. I assisted the surgeons
in Edna’s father's operation and made sure that the anesthetist did not leave the operating room.
I even alerted him about the patient’s poor ventilation when they failed to pay
attention to it. Edna had already married and worked as a nurse in a hospital
in Tel Aviv. Even though we have not met since then, I have never forgotten her good advice and try not
to spit into the wells I drink from.
Edna and Itzhak in Nahariya Israel in the summer of 1963
What would have
happened if she did not stand me up?
When
I studied medicine in Jerusalem, I often came to my hometown, Haifa, on weekends to see my family
and friends. On one of those visits in November, 1963,
after Izraela and I separated,
I met a blond girl that I liked. I asked her if we could meet again two weeks
later when I planned to be back in Haifa. We agreed to meet near the entrance of the Orion movie theater at 7
PM on Friday. To my disappointment, my date did not show up.After waiting for an hour, I realized that I had a free
evening without any plan.
I
went to visit my favorite aunt Yonka (mother of Zapra and Shimon), who lived close by. She was
bedridden for years because of rheumatic fever.We
always enjoyed each other’s company. After staying with my aunt for about an
hour, I walked to the Technion Student Club which had a dance party each Friday night
starting at 10 PM. I was a little early and the club was not yet open. I was
happy to see my neighbor, Shoshana Huberman, who was also studying in
Jerusalem, near the club's closed
door. She was there with her university dorm mate, Zahava Goldwasser.
Zahava
wore a green knitted wool dress and was very friendly and talkative. She was a
very charming and engaging person, which made it easy for me to communicate
with her. What also attracted me to her was that she presented herself as someone
who was a little lost and would like assistance and guidance. Over time, I
realized that she was actually a very competent and capable person. We had a
lively conversation, danced a little and decided to meet again in Jerusalem.
We
started dating and spent a lot of time together. Zahava was a very warm and
caring individual.Our steady relationship
generated stability that enabled me to concentrate on my studies. I did very well in medical
school. We dated for three years, shared an apartment for one year and traveled
to Europe together before getting married in 1966. We stayed married for eleven
years and had three children. It was a sad end to a love story.
I
wonder how my life would have evolved if the young blond girl, whose name I do
not recall, would have shown up
for our date.
Zahava and Itzhak,1967
The notes that
changed our lives
Zahava
and I had been living in
Los Angeles for almost two years in 1976 as I was doing my fellowship in
infectious disease at the Wadsworth Veterans Administration and University of
California in Los Angeles Hospitals. I was moonlighting in the pediatric
emergency room of Los Angeles County Hospital twice a week, doing the 4 PM to
midnight shift. I did it to earn extra money to pay for the psychotherapy
Zahava needed to treat the postpartum depression she
developed following the birth of our third child, Tammy.
Everyone
was asleep when I got to our small apartment on Barrington Avenue in West Los
Angeles. I had difficulty
going straight to bed after the long drive and saton
the living room sofa to relax. On the table was a pile of scribbled
notes. I glanced at them and realized they were Zahava's.They contained detailed descriptions of her past experiences, her current thoughts and issues
she was dealing with in therapy. I remembered that her psychiatrist, Dr. Friedman, suggested that she write down her thoughts and
feelings.
I
could not resist reading those notes mainly because Zahava’s behavior changed since
she emerged from the depression.
She became erratic, secretive and sometimes hostile. The contents of
the notes shook me to my core. I realized that our lifewas a
lie, and that Zahava had relationships with other men in Israel as well as in
Los Angeles. In retrospect, there were many clues that I chose to ignore
because I had absolute trust in her, and believed everything she said.
A
few days later, I learned that I could no longer believe everything Zahava said, even about unimportant
issues. I overheard her confide in
a friend over the phone about her day’s activities, which were different from
the version she told me.
This
was the beginning of the end of our marriage. I still refused to believe that
the contents of Zahava’s notes were
true until she finally admitted that theywere.
We tried to repair our marriage for the sake of our children but it could not
survive without basic trust.
I
wonder why Zahava left her notes on the table. Did she subconsciously want me
to find the truth?
You have been
served
I
moved to Washington, D.C. in the summer of 1977 after accepting a position as
an infectious diseases specialist at
the Children National Medical Center. Although my wife, Zahava, came to Washington before and
after I moved to look for a house, she refused to relocate and chose to stay with our children
in Los Angeles. The level of mutual mistrust was very high and our marriage was
gradually falling apart. Her refusal to move made it very difficult to salvage
the family. I tried to persuade Zahava to relocate to Washington by signing a
contract with her that guaranteed
her co ownership of the house I purchased in Kensington, Maryland. I had little
hope that we would stay married, but I hoped that I would be able to see our
children more often and take care of them if they livedin
the Greater Washington area. Unfortunately, Zahava still refused to
move to Washington.
I
used to travel to Los Angeles once a month to see the children. I would fly on
Thursday evening and leave on the red eye back to Washington, D.C.
on Sunday night. To subsidize the cost of the trip, I used to moonlight on Friday night in the emergency
room of Sara Memorial Hospital in Burbank. It was a strenuous trip as I had two
sleepless nights on the
four day trip. However, I missed the children and this was the only option I
had to see them.
The
trip I made in the middle of December 1977 was life changing. As I did before, I stayed with Zahava and the
children in our Brentwood apartment. I was woken up at eight o’clock on Sunday
morning by the sound of the doorbell. Zahava opened the door and shouted at me
“There is someone who wants to see you.” I wondered who would want to see me at that time on
a Sunday morning. I walked to the door half asleep and saw a well-dressed
middle aged man who
sternly asked me: “Are you Itzhak Brook?” After confirming my identity, he
handed me a large envelope and stated: “You have been served.” I was utterly surprised and
deeply shaken when I opened the envelope to find documents filed by Zahava in the West Los
Angeles Civil Courts asking to divorce me.
I
got no answer from her when I asked her why she did it. She simply suggested
that I get a lawyer. I felt ambushed, devastated, and betrayed and understood
what Samson felt when Delilah woke him up from sleep after cutting his hair
exclaiming, “Philistines upon you Samson!” All the hope that I had to try to
somehow save the marriage for the good of the children or at least live in the
same city evaporated at that moment.
Sometime
later Zahava explained to me that she resorted to this tactic because she realized that
we were heading for a divorce and she
wanted the process to take place in California, where the laws are
more favorable to women. I found a lawyer in Los Angeles and the divorce was granted
a year later after court mediation. My lawyer advised me that my chances of
getting joint custody of
our children were negligible because they were very young.
I
continued with my monthly trips to California throughout the years, and the
children came to visit me during their summer vacations and sometimes during
their winter and spring
school breaks. Six years later,
they asked to move to Washington and stay with me. Zahava agreed but requested
that I keep paying her child support and alimony. I was already remarried and
we had a one-year-old boy. The children stayed with us for almost a year before
returning to live with their mother in Los Angeles.
Dafna, Tammy, Danny and Itzhak in Washington DC. 1981, 1979
It was the
wrong radio station
I met“L” at Children’s National Medical Center in
Washington, D.C. when she was a first year resident and I was an
attending in infectious diseases. She was a unique human being - sensitive,
compassionate, observant, smart, and attractive. We befriended each other and
developed an emotional openness I had
rarely experienced before. We had long talks during lunchtime in the
hospital’s cafeteria and in my office. We slowly got closer and even took a day
trip to Shenandoah National Park.
Because
I was her superior at work, I was very careful not to change our friendship
into a romantic one. Things changed for me one day when I borrowed L’s car to
go to a medical appointment. I went to the hospital’s garage to get my car but
it did not start. I did not have time to investigate and I paged L asking her if I could use
her car. When I turned her car on, I was overwhelmed by the sound of the car
radio, which was on a
Christian radio station. It played Christian songs and preached Jesus’ glory. I
knew that L was Christian but did not realize that her belief was so strong
that she was listening to a Christian radio station when driving to work. At
that moment, I knew that we had no future together. I knew that I could not get
seriously involved with,
married to and have
children with a non-Jewish woman. It was a very difficult decision to make.
However, I respected and cared for L and felt that I could not ask her to
change her religious beliefs.
Apparently my Jewish identity is deeply rooted in me and I chose to give up a
unique relationship because of it.
I
slowly distanced myself from L. I regret not explaining to her why I chose to
do this. I hope I did not hurt her feelings. I left Children’s Hospital two
years later and did not see L again. Years later, I learned that she became a
staff member at Children’s Hospital, got married and became a mother.
Love atfirst sight
I
was set up on a blind date by Dr. Ellen Friedman with whom I worked at
Children’s Hospital in D.C. in the late spring of 1978.
Ellen was doing a fellowship in pediatric otolaryngology and we collaborated
studying tonsillitis in children. She came to my office one afternoon and asked
me if I would like to meet one of her girlfriends, named Joyce Reback. I agreed even though I
have never been on a blind date.
I
called Joyce and we set a time for me to take her out for dinner. At the
determined time, I came to her apartment on 35thStreet
in Georgetown. After ringing the bell to get access to the building, I walked
upstairs and knocked on the door of apartment #5. The door was opened by a
pretty young woman. She wore a light brown dress that was loosely fit to her
waist with a whitish ropelike belt. She had a warm, inviting and friendly smile. It was a captivating
moment and love at first
sight for me.
I
often reflect on that special moment in my life. There was something symbolic
in the action of opening the door.
I felt this could be the opening to a new life for me after experiencing pain
and disappointment the
past three years.
We
walked together to M Street
in Georgetown and had dinner at
a health food restaurant. We had a lovely evening. We spoke some Hebrew, which
Joyce had learned when
she spent a year in Israel in 1970-1971. She taught English at the high school at a moshav called
Kfar-Yehoshua. Amazingly, my aunt Sara was from that same cooperative agricultural
community. Joyce also knew my good friends, Debbie and Avi, from Los Angeles. Joyce insisted on splitting the
restaurant bill. I had never met a woman before who did this, a testament to
how independent she was. Over time, I realized that I was fortunate to have met
such a treasure. Joyce was
very smart, self-sufficient, independent, a good listener, truthful, honest,
ethical, and very sensitive. She
was able to read my thoughts and feelings after a while.
We
got married three years later
(1981), built a life together, had two children and have been married ever since. I was determined
to avoid the mistakes I made in past relationships that ended in pain and
sorrow. The secret to our lasting relationship is that my love for Joyce grows stronger with time and is
still growing. I feel fortunate to have met her when she opened the door for me
in the summer of 1978.
Joyce and Itzhak. 1979
Getting married August 2, 1981
Kaddish in
Dachau
I
knew Joyce for only a few months when she joined me for a short trip to Munich, Germany in the fall of 1978,
where I presented a study at
a medical convention. It was always difficult for me to visit Germany, and
especially Munich, the
birthplace of Nazism, where Israeli athletes were murdered and the first
concentration camp was erected.
I
did not know Joyce very well at that time. I was still learning about her beliefs and values. I could
feel that she shared my discomfort when we went to a local pub and were exposed
to drunken locals who were singing while consuming beer. I also felt her pain
and grief when we visited the Olympic village, the site of the attack against
Israeli athletes in 1972.
The
moment that gave me a
glimpse into Joyce’s Jewishness was when we visited the Dachau Concentration
Camp in Munich. It was the first time I visited a Nazi concentration and
extermination camp. It was a shocking experience to see the place where so many
Jews were murdered. We went downstairs into the memorial cellar that displayed
an urn full of ashes of the Jews who
were gassed and burned in the ovens. We both spontaneously started to recite
the Kaddish, the Jewish prayer to
commemorate the dead. At that moment, I realized that we share the same Jewish values and the same
pain and grief. Even though we were brought up in different countries, we had
the same Jewish foundations.
Joyce and Itzhak in the
Munich main square in 1978
CHILDREN
The test tube
Zahava
and I knew each other for about three months when she got pregnant. It was not
a planned pregnancy. We were not yet ready to become parents or commit to each
other. We barely knew each other, were in the middle of our studies at Hebrew
University and were working hard to make a living. Abortion was the logical
choice.
Abortion
was illegal in Israel at that time. Even getting a pregnancy test was difficult
and required a physician's order to have urine tested using the “frog test.” I knew a good gynecologist
in the Rechavia neighborhood in Jerusalem, who performed abortions. I took
Izraela to see him a couple of times when her period was late. Fortunately, Izraela got her period after
receiving an injection of hormones.
The
gynecologist’s office was in a quiet
building surrounded by tall pine trees. His elderly wife opened the door and
led us through a narrow corridor to a small office. The gynecologist was a
cordial gentleman in his
sixties, who spoke Hebrew with
a thick German accent. After examining Zahava, he confirmed that she was about seven weeks
pregnant. We told him that we wish to terminate the pregnancy and he scheduled
the procedure for three
days later.
The
procedure was performed by the gynecologist and his wife assisted him. It was a
very difficult experience for both Zahava and me. We understood the gravity and
the risks involved in electing to terminate the pregnancy.
Knowing that I was a medical
student, the gynecologist showed me a test tube with the aborted fetus after the abortion was completed.
The tiny fetus was surrounded by a round whitish, pinkish membrane with tiny
blood vessels around it. The sight was similar to what I have seen in medical
textbooks and in anatomy classes. Flasks with fetuses lined the shelves in
those classrooms. However, this was different. This was ours. The pain I felt
seeing the fetus in the test tube never left me. I am not opposed to abortions. However,
when it is your own potential child,
it feels different.
Zahava
and I had three children together. I still grieve for the one who was not born.
Dafna, Danny and Tammy in the Los Angeles Zoo. 1978
Becoming a
father
I
was in the delivery room when each of my five children were born. They were all special
moments of joy and exhilaration that were preceded by watching the painful
labor and delivery, feeling helpless in alleviating the pain their mothers had
to endure. It was exciting to see my children when they emerged into the world
and share that wonderful feeling with their mothers.
The
delivery of my first child Dafna in 1968 at Beilinson Medical Center in Petch - Tiqva, Israel
was a life-changing event for me. I was an intern at that hospital at that time. Holding her for the
first time, I realized that my life had changed completely. I knewthat
a small human being was
completely dependent on me. It was a feeling of overwhelming devotion and
responsibility for her. I experienced similar feelings towards all my children after
they were born, but feeling this for the first time was new for me.
My
rotating internship gave
me exposure to different medical and surgical specialties. I liked internal
medicine but realized that it sometimes
had negative and depressing effects on me. Many of my elderly patients
suffered from chronic diseases that
werehard to
cure. I found it especially difficult and frustrating to deal with elderly
women who kept complaining and nothing seemed to satisfy them. Many of them
seemed to exaggerate and dwell on their symptoms. They often preferred to extend their hospital stay.
Several patients whom I
befriended did not survive and succumbed to their illnesses while in my care in the
hospital. As a young physician, I had not yet learned to protect myself and it
was heartbreaking for me.
I specifically remember an
elderly patient who was
admitted because he suffered from a heart attack. As I got to know him better, he confided in me that he had authored several
children’s books for his
grandchildren. He gave me one of his books as a present after my daughter, Dafna, was born. A few days later,
he suffered from another heart attack while in the hospital. I managed to resuscitate him.
When he recovered, I noted that his thought processes and speech deteriorated,
most likely because he had suffered some brain damage. He gave me another one of his children’s books and
dedicated it again to Dafna. The
handwriting for the
book’s dedication was slurry and
irregular compared to the one in the first book. A few days later, he
succumbed to a third heart attack.
My
next rotation was in pediatrics. I found the atmosphere in the pediatric ward optimistic
and cheerful. We were able to help most children, as nature was behind us. The
parents wanted their children cured and discharged from the hospital and the
children wanted to go back home. I realized that I could connect with very
young children as I did with my own daughter. The birth of Dafna helped me
choose the specialty that best suited me.
Left: Dafna a minute after she was
born, April 30, 1968
Right: Itzhak holding 3 month old Dafna. 1968
Denial
It
was the spring of 1973 when my three year old son, Danny,
became very ill. I was a fourth year resident in pediatrics at Kaplan Hospital in Rehovot.
When I returned home at about 5 PM, I found Danny lying in bed complaining of
nausea and a headache.
Danny was an active and healthy child.Seeing
him sick was very concerning. I examined him and to my dismay, he had a stiff
neck, which is one of the main signs of meningitis. I could not accept the idea
that he needed to be taken to the hospital and undergo a lumbar puncture, which
was required to establish the diagnosis and determine the appropriate
treatment. I had performed this painful and uncomfortable test numerous times in children.I wanted to spare Danny of this experience.
Since
mumps was widespread in Danny’s kindergarten at that time, I wondered if he had
developed mumps meningitis. I took
a sample of his urine to the hospital‘s laboratory to see if it contained a
high level of an enzyme
secreted by the parotid glands, confirming mumps. I had to obtain the
laboratory director's authorization to bring a community test to the hospital’s
laboratory. The test showed normal levels of the enzyme and excluded mumps meningitis.
I
still did not want to accept that Danny would need a lumbar puncture. I asked
my next-door neighbor, Dr.
Yoram Glazer, who was a pediatric cardiologist at Kaplan Hospital to examine Danny.He confirmed the stiff neck and recommended taking
Danny to the hospital.
I
asked Dr. Yigal Barak, an attending physician in pediatrics, who was an
outstanding clinician and experienced in performing the puncture, to carry it out. He came to the hospital
and completed the dreaded lumbar puncture flawlessly, as I held my crying son.
The test confirmed the diagnosis of meningitis, but the etiology was unclear.
No bacteria were discovered although their presence could not be excluded. What
made the determination difficult was that Danny was receiving daily penicillin
to prevent respiratory infections because he had been suffering bouts of respiratory croup. The
possibility of him having what is called “partially treated meningitis“ could
not be excluded. He was hospitalized and treated with intravenous antibiotics. Fortunately, he got better
within a few days. Although it was fortuitous that I was able to diagnose
Danny’s infection at an early stage, this event taught me that it is unwise to
treat my own children. It is difficultto be objective and make the
right decisions when it involves
their health.
The
memory of how challenging
it was to determine if Danny had viral or bacterial meningitis haunted me. It
steered me to find a way to find a test that can differentiate viral from
bacterial meningitis during my fellowship in infectious diseases in the USA one year later. I studied 97
children with meningitis in Los Angeles County Hospital. Ifound that lactic acid concentration is elevated in
the spinal fluid of patients with bacterial as well as partially treated
bacterial meningitis, but not in viral meningitis. This led to the development
of a new rapid test that assisted in differentiating between viral and bacterial meningitis.
In further studies, I found this test to be also useful in joint and peritoneal
fluid infections. This test became an important tool in diagnosing these
infections for more than a decade until newer ones replaced it. However, the
test is still used today
in cases that are difficult to diagnose.
Danny and Itzhak 19713 years old Danny
Yellow Jacket
attack
In the fall of 1975, during the
second year of my fellowship in infectious diseases in Wadsworth, Veteran’s
Affairs Hospital in West Los Angeles, our family drove in our station wagon
from Los Angeles to San Francisco to attend the Interscience Conference for
Antimicrobial Agents and Chemotherapy. It was our first visit to this beautiful
city. I reserved a suite for five days on the top floor of the downtown YMCA
hotel. It was located close to the convention center and was relatively
inexpensive. Dr. Peter
Corodi, who was an infectious diseases fellow at the Wadsworth VA, his wife and
their two children also drove to San Francisco to attend the conference.
We
drove north on stunning
Route 1 along the California coastline and arrived in San Francisco around midnight. The suite on the 18th
floor of the YMCA hotel was spacious and well-furnished. It had striking views of the
city. I was wondering why we paid so little for such an amazing accommodation.
The mystery was solved within minutes when I realized that the walls of the suite were shared with the elevator shaft. We could hear the sounds of the elevator. The
elevator motor went on and
off throughout the night.These sounds worsened in the morning. It was a
nightmare. Peter and his family had the same experience.
We
packed up in the morning and left the hotel looking for another place to stay.
We found rooms in a motel on Lombard Street not far from the Golden Gate Bridge. We stayed there for the
remaining four days. Peter and I took a city bus every morning to the
convention center while our families toured the city.
After
the convention ended,
Peter and his family returned to Los Angeles. We drove to SequoiaNational Park for a couple of days. Our old
and used station wagon drove well but the engine was leaking substantial
amounts of motor oil. I improvised by capturing the leaked oil with an empty Coke can that I hung, supported by metal
wires, under the engine. I
repeatedly poured the oil
back into the engine.
National
Park was spectacular -
amazing tall ancient sequoia trees, lush vegetation, and breathtaking views. We
stayed in a wooden cabin. The
next morning, we walked
through the forest to see the hugeSequoia trees.
Six-month-old Tammy was soundly sleeping in her baby carriage when a few bees
started to encircle us. I
warned Danny and Dafna not to chase them away, so they would not be stung, but five year old Danny
was very scared. He started waving his hands and seven year old
Dafna started doing the same. This made things worse, and within seconds, hundreds
of bees swarmed in, attacking and stinging us. Zahava and I tried to protect
the children and chase the bees away but to no avail. Dafna and Danny screamed in pain and fear. The baby
carriage started to roll downhill when I took my hands off it to drive the bees
away. The only thing I could do was to grab the kids and run away as fast as I
could. The beautiful and serene day turned into a disaster.
Tammy
slept throughout the whole event.
She did not sustain a single sting. Dafna and Dannyeach had about 15-20 sting bites. I counted 21 on me.
I washed the children’s stung skin with soap and water. I gave each of them Benadryl
syrup to avoid an
allergic reaction. This also helped calm them down. Bee stings can be lethal
even without an allergic reaction when a person has been stung by numerous
bees. When I spent two
weeks in forensic medicine during medical school, I saw an adult who died after
being stung by over 500 bees.
We
went to the park’s forest ranger station to tell them what happened. They told us that the bees in
the park are actually Yellow Jackets
known to be aggressive and attack those who challenge them. After this horrific
experience, we decided to leave the park immediately and drove back to Los
Angeles. We recovered from the stings but did not forget what happened.
Dafna, Danny, Tammy, Zahava and Itzhak in Sequoia National Park. 1975
The needle was
very close
When
Joyce became pregnant in 1981 with our son, Yoni, she wanted to undergo amniocentesis. Even
though the procedure was recommended only for women older than 35 years old and she was a year shy of
that age, it seemed prudent to study Joyce’s amniotic fluid.
We
found an experienced obstetrician who was willing to perform the amniocentesis.
This was Dr. Fabio, the chairperson of the Department of Obstetricsat Columbia Hospital for Women
in Washington, D.C. I was very apprehensive
and worried because of the small risk of miscarriage and possible injury to the
fetus during the procedure.
The
test was scheduled for
the 18th week of the pregnancy. We came to the hospital early in the
morning and were taken to a brightly lit, large operating room where Dr. Fabio and a couple of nurses were waiting for
us. I was asked to put on surgical scrubs, a face mask and surgical cap so that I could stay with
Joyce through the procedure. Dr. Fabio placed an ultrasound probe over Joyce’s
abdomen and we saw on the monitor’s screen a tiny fetus moving slowly in the
uterus surrounded by amniotic fluid. It was an amazing sight. I had seen ultrasound pictures of
fetuses before, but this was the first time I saw my own child. We could see
the head, arms and legs of the tiny
18 week old person. I immediately felt very protective of the unborn
child. I wanted to ask the
obstetrician not to perform the test but kept silent. After numbing Joyce’s
skin and guided by the ultrasound,
Dr. Fabio inserted a long needle into Joyce’s uterus and drew a small amount of
amniotic fluid. The needle was close to the fetus but did not touch it. It was
very scary. I trusted the expertise of Dr. Fabio, who was proficient and careful throughout the
process. It was a successful amniocentesis. Joyce had no complications and the fetus had no
anomalies.
Yoni’s ultrasound Feb 2, 1982
When
Yoni was born 19 weeks later by Cesarean section. I was relieved that he had no needle trauma
scars. When Joyce became pregnant with our daughter, Sara,
two years later, Dr. Fabio performed the procedure again in the same
operating room. I was less anxious this time, knowing that we are in good and
experienced hands. I saw Sara floating in the amniotic fluid and the aspiration
needle looked less menacing this time. She too had no needle trauma scars after being born by Cesarean section.
Yoni is born. 1982
Sara is born 1985
Education
When
Dafna and Danny were born,
my mother immediately opened education saving accounts for them. After moving
to the U.S., I saved money for Dafna, Danny, and Tammy, in
dedicated education accounts that financed their college education. I did the
same for all of my grandchildren.
When
I started receiving monthly retirement payments in Israel, I divided the lump sum I
initially received among
Zipi’s (my sister’s) grandchildren. Their parents deposited the money into their higher education saving
accounts.
My
parents always cherished the importance of education. They sent me to private
schools, not to the free
public ones even
though it was difficult for them to pay tuition. As an adult, I understood the
value of education because what you know cannot be taken away from you. The value of
education was important for Jews who often lost their possessions and had to
migrate from their homes because of pogroms and other atrocities.
Grandchildren’s educational accounts
Science
projects and great ideas
At eleven years old, my oldest daughter,Dafna, had an original suggestion on how to remove a splinter stuck in her
finger. She suggested that we illuminate her finger with a small and powerful
lamp to identify the location of the splinter. It worked well, and I was able
to remove the splinter using a small needle. We published the information in a medical journal in the
section “How I do it” so that it could be used by others. (Brook, I., Brook,
D.:Transillumination and Removing
Foreign Bodies. Hospital Physician 15:41, 1979;Brook, I., Brook, D.: Removal of Foreign Bodies from Extremities.
Journal of Pediatric Surgery. 13:460, 1978).
Dafna's article about transillumination
Sara
and Yoni, who were
students at the Charles E. Smith Jewish
Day School in Rockville,
Maryland, were encouraged to conduct
science fair projects
during high school. I was very happy that they completed these projects because
it motivated them to explore the unknown and make scientific contributions.
Yoni conducted three science projects and Sara completed four.
Yoni
joined me on a five day trip to Amsterdam in 1992 where I participated in a medical conference. We
came up with an idea to perform a study for his science project about
the types of bacteria that present in the street canals of Amsterdam. In my
previous visits to the city, I found the canals dirty and I was concerned that
they may harbor potentially pathogenic bacteria.
Yoni and Itzhak in Madoradam in Hague Holland. 1992
We
brought bacterial culture media, sterile test tubes, a long rope and a metal
test tube holder on our trip so
that we could lower the test tubes and collect water from the canals. We
pre-selected eight bridges across the city’s canal system where we would
collect the samples. On our last day in Amsterdam, we left our hotel early in
the morning and headed to the selected locations where we lowered test tubes
into the murky canal water and collected the specimens. I was a little worried
that we would be questioned about our unusual activities, but happily we were
not bothered by anyone.
I guessed that our activities in the tolerant and permissive city did not
arouse any questioning. After we completed our task, we returned to the hotel where we plated the
water specimens on microbiological culture media.
Once
we returned to the U.S. I had my laboratory technicians identify the organisms
that grew in the specimens. As suspected, we found a heavy load of potentially pathogenic bacteria
in the water, which could potentially threaten the health of the local
residents. We published the study in a scientific journal (https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/8441356/)
hoping that it would encourage Amsterdam’s authorities to contain the risks
posed by these bacteria. Yoni’s project was well received and was selected by
his school to be presented at Montgomery County Science Fair.
Brook, J.Z., Brook, I.: Types of Bacteria in the Canals of
Amsterdam. Microbios 73: 59-50, 1993.
In
his next science project, a year later, Yoni studied the organisms found on the
handrails of the
escalators in the public metro transit system in Washington, D.C. Yoni was interested in finding out if the
handrails that are constantly being touched by the passengers serve as a transmitter
of potential pathogens. He swabbed the handrails in several metro stations and plated them in
culture media. Surprisingly,
the number of the organisms was very low and they were not dangerous. The
reassuring findings were reported in the Washington Post and were published in a
scientific journal.
In
the winter and summer of 1996, Yoni studied the microorganisms that can be
found in the RockCreek stream across seven sites as the stream
approaches the Potomac
River in Washington, D.C. (Brook, J.Z., Brook, I.:
Seasonal Changes in Bacteria Recovered from Urban stream, Washington DC.
Journal of Fresh Water Ecology.12:635-636, 1997). He found
a higher number of potential pathogens in the summer compared to in the winter. There was no
increase in their number, as we looked further downstream.
Brook, J.Z., Brook, I.: Seasonal Changes in Bacteria Recovered from
Urban stream, Washington DC. Journal of Fresh Water Ecology.12:635-636, 1997.
Sara
and I used to brainstorm
every year when choosing science projects. This brought
about some very original ideas.
Because
Sara was concerned about the safety of reusing soap bars, she elected to study
the soap bars that we used in our bathrooms. She found that there was a higher number of bacteria in wet and heavily
used soap bars than in infrequently used and dry ones,. The major bacteria isolated were
Staphylococcus and Enterobacteriaceae
spp., which are potential
pathogens.These findings were published
in Microbios in 1993.
The
study Sara did in 1994 had surprising results. She swabbed the surfaces of 15
public library books and compared them to 15 books from our house. Staphylococcus epidermidis,
which isgenerally a
benign bacterium, was recovered from four of the library books and three of our own books. The
number of organisms per page was only one to four. These findings illustrated
the safety of using library books, as they do not likely serve as a potential source of
transmission of virulent bacteria. The results were published in the Journal of
Clinical Epidemiology.
The
finding alleviated the concerns that many people had about the cleanliness of
public library books. The study elicited letters to the editor of the Journal
and we responded to them. (Brook, S.J., Brook, I.: Bacteria No! Fungus
Yes!Journal of Clinical
Epidemiology.48:1183-1184, 1995.)
Sara’s
third study was initiated by her in 1999 and was designed to find out if
mouthwash can become less effective after repeated use. She and her classmate, Elana Lowell, did the study in our
research laboratory at the
Armed Forces Radiology Research Institute during her summer school break.I obtained special security clearance for
them so they could work in the laboratory. They developed a new and innovative
technique to study this phenomenon. Sara and Elana imitated repeated exposure
of four of their own mouth bacteria to the mouthwash. They demonstrated that resistance to the
mouthwash emerges over time,
making it less effective. The study was published in Microecology and Therapy.
Brook, S., Lowell, E., Brook, I., Elliott, T.B.Development of Resistance to Mouthwash in
Oral Bacteria.Microecology and
Therapy.28:25-29, 1999.
The
country was concerned at
that time about the
mailing of envelopes containing
anthrax spores and our institute was involved in developing treatment
modalities for potential anthrax infections. We used the method Sara and Elana developed for studying whether repeated
use of antibiotics could lead anthrax bacterium to develop resistance against
them. We acknowledged Sara’s and Elana’s contribution to the project when we published
our own research. (Brook, I., Elliott, T.B., Pryor H. I., et al. In vitro
resistance of Bacillus anthracis Sterne to doxycycline, macrolides and
quinolones. Int J Antimicrob Agents.;18:559-62. 2001. https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/11738344/)
Sara and Elana in front of their poster on inducing resistance of
oral bacteria to mouthwash. 1999
Sara’s fourth study explored if money coins lose weight over time as they
brush against each other in people’s wallets and pockets. She collected about
200 nickels and arranged
them in groups of 15-20 according to their date of minting. She weighed the groups of coins using accurate precision
scales in our laboratory. Comparing the average weight of different age coins
showed that the coins gradually lose a few micro-grams of weight over time. It is a very interesting and intriguing finding.
Sara and a poster of her study on weight of nickels. 1999
I
hope these science
projects fostered our children’s curiosity and encouraged them to discover and
explore the unknown.
WORK
I finally got a
paying job or did I?
I
always wanted to work,
earn money and save it so that I could afford to study medicine. From the time I wasten years old , I repeatedly asked my father if he
could arrange for me to work at
his workplace during my
school vacations. My father worked as a welder in the Shemen factory located on the shore of Haifa’s bay. The factory manufactured oil, soap and their byproducts. Finally, at the age of 12, I was
given the opportunity to work for a single day in the factory. My father explained that the one-day job is an exceptional gesture, which
is not routinely granted to worker’s children. I was very excited to be able to
do it. On the designated day,
I got up with my father at 5 am, took a special handbag with the snack my
mother prepared for me, and walked with my father to the bus stop where we were
picked up by the factory’s bus.
The
bus was full with my father’s coworkers, who were happy to welcome us. It was a
cheerful and happy group. My father seemed to be in the center of the
conversation and everyone seemed to like his stories and laugh at his jokes. He
was a different person among his friends compared to how I knew him at home
where my mother was the dominating figure. In the factory, people smiled when
they encountered my father and he always had something funny to say to them.
I
changed into an old and worn set of clothes
I brought with me and stored it in my father's locker in the factory workers’
dressing room. I was given a worker’s card with my name printed on it that I
had to insert into a punching clock, which stamped the time my work day started. At precisely 7 am, the factory’s
siren sounded at the
start of the workday.
My
father took me to the welders’ storage and tools room where the manager tasked
me with rearranging the
boxes and tools on the shelves. To justify the trust that was placed in me, I did my best to perform a
good job. I proudly joined my father at noon for lunch at the worker’s
cafeteria. We stood together in the long buffet line to fill our plates with a spoon full
of meatballs and mashed
potatoes and an apple for dessert. It was a basic and simple meal, but tasted wonderful
considering the austerities and food shortages the country experienced at that
time.
After
the sirens sounded at the
end of the workday at 4 pm, I punched my work card again and joined my father
to shower in the workers’
dressing room. It was a noisy place where everyone was scraping off and washing away
the dirt they accumulated during the workday. There were loud discussions about
last Saturday's soccer games and what to expect for the upcoming weekend. My father, who had a strong
baritone voice, was
singing songs from Viennese operas
while showering. To scrub the skin,
we were provided with sharp,
yellow scrapes of laundry soap, created during the
soap’s production. It was a cheerful and happy place where everyone was pleased
to finish his or her workday and go home.
After
taking the assigned bus back to the city, I came home and shared my day’s
experiences with my mother. My father told her that my supervisor was very pleased with my
work. A couple of weeks later,
my father handed me a payment envelope similar to the one he got every month. It had my
salary of one lira and fifty six aguras (about a dollar and a half) and a slip
of paper that explained how my salary was calculated.
I
deposited the money I earned in a savings account my mother opened for me atthe Post Office Bank. I
went back to work at the
Shemen factory after I turned 16 years
old. I worked with my father as his assistant. I kept adding the money
I earned to the account. I kept the money as a safety cushion throughout my years of studies in
Jerusalem. Ironically, I never used it as I earned enough money working during
those years. Because of
the raging inflation in Israel during those years, the money lost most of its
value. I eventually deposited those funds into
the high school saving accounts for
Dafna and Danny. They never used those funds. My ex-wife, Zahava, withdrew the funds after our
divorce.
Several
years after my first day of work, my parents revealed that I was never
registered as a real worker in the factory on that day. The
whole thing was staged. My father asked his friends to arrange for me to work
in the storage room and provide me with a fake working card and a pay stub. The
money in the envelope was my parents’. I did not feel cheated or misled when I found out the
truth. I understood and appreciated that my parents enabled me to grow up
faster and experience the responsibility, joy and pride of earning my own
salary. It also showed me
a glimpse into a side of my father’s personalityof
which I had very little insight until that day in 1953.
Baruch (Bernard) working in Shemen factory building metal ducts.
1954
Working during
my medical school studies
I
worked many jobs throughout medical school. My jobes included tutoring high school students on
all school subjects, working
as a laboratory technician and research assistant in the medical school (see
below), working as an
orderly in the university hospital each morning from 5 to 8, collecting urine
and stool samples and weighing patients at the Department of Internal Medicine A;
working as a guard at night at the
Hebrew University campus,
and more (see below). I found work
through various sources that included Dr Saul Barkali, who was the principal of a high school in Jerusalem (his
sister was my high school nurse), and found me private tutoring opportunities;
professor Berenkopf and Dr. Steiner helped me find temporary work inlaboratories in the medical school; and I was
able to find work opportunities through the student union employment office. I
did not want to burden my parents.
I knew that it
would be hard for them to support me financially. I also knew that if I became dependent on them, my
mother might control me. It was a matter of pride for me to be self-sufficient.
My father once offered to
help me without telling my mother, but I declined. One of my proudest moments
was when I gave my
mother a substantial amount of money when my father was hospitalized because of
appendicitis and could not work extra hours.
A.Eichmann’s
Trial
In
1960, the major Holocaust perpetrator, Adolf Eichmann, was kidnapped in Argentina and brought to Israel to
stand trial. His trial was televised and broadcast internationally, intending to educate people about the crimes
committed against Jews. It was
not shown in Israel because Israel had no television station. The
trial was held from 11 April to 15 August 1961 at Beit Ha'am, a community theater temporarily reworked
to serve as a courtroom accommodating 750 spectators. The site also served as a
temporary jail for Eichmann and was surrounded by fences and heavily guarded by
police.
I was
able to get a work as a night watchman at the Beit Ha’am for several weeks
prior to the beginning of the trial (see below a referral note to start working). After that, I
used to drive my Vespa by Beit Ha’am
almost every night on my way
home from Izraela’s family’s
apartment. The public could get
tickets to attend the trial and I went to it twice. It was a moving experience
to see the person who orchestrated the murder of so many Jews, including my own family. It
felt good to know that justice would finally be served and Eichmann would pay for his crimes. Izraella
and I went to the trial together. The atmosphere in the large courtroom was
stark and solemn. On one occasion, we caught the attention of a guard who
instructed me not to put my arms around her as we sat on the visitors’ balcony.
The
kidnapping of Eichmann from Argentina influenced me in an unexpected way. Dr. Barkai, the high school principal who referred students
to me, asked me to tutor the two daughters of Arieh Levavi, the Israeli
ambassador to Argentina who was expelled from the country after Eichmann’s
kidnapping.
An internal
memo referring me to start working as a night watchman in Beit Ha’am.
With the youngest daughter of Arieh Levavi. 1961
B. Nakeb el
Yahood (“The pass of the Jews”)
During
the time I studied medicine I used to look for opportunities to earn money. A
helpful resource was the Hebrew University Student Union office in Givat Ram
Campus where I found work as a night guard at the university’s campus and other odd jobs. In the summer of 1963, I was
offered a working opportunity to serve as a medic for the youth of kibbutz Yagur, who were planning to take a 5
day hike in the Negev desert. I had
taken similar long hikes since I was 14 years old as part of the Gadna (pre
military training for high school students) as well as in the Tzophim (Scouts)
youth movement.
I
took a train from Jerusalem to Haifa and then a bus to the kibbutz. About seventy 16 year old teenagers led by
several adults participated in the trip. We boarded two trucks stocked with supplies that included food, water, sleeping bags, etc. and a few rifles for protection. The
trip was called “Craters hike” because we walked from Makhtesh (Crater) Rammon
to the “Big” Makhtesh and to the “Small” Makhtesh. The craters are 5-15 miles of geological formations and
resemble huge grinding bowls. We walked between 25 to 30 miles a day through
hills, sand dunes, canyons, dry rivers and ravines, and at night, we slept in
sleeping bags under the sky.
I
had few medical problems to take care of as the teenagers were in excellent physical shape. Most of
the members of the elite military units
in the Israeli military at that time were kibbutz teenagers. Even though they were a very cohesive
group as they grew up together, they welcomed me and I be friended several of them.
The
most challenging event occurred on the third day of our hike. We visited
Ein-Yarkam, which is a
seasonal spring in the upper part of the Hatira wadi, east of the “big”
Makhtesh. We kept walking until we reached a tall dry waterfall nicknamed
“Nakeb El Yahud” (Arabic for “The pass of the jews”). This name was given by
the local Bedouins in 1944 after a Jewish paramilitary (Palmach) platoon
escaped discovery by British soldiers by climbing the canyon cliff that was
considered impassable. Today,
it is called “Ma’ale Palmach” (Palmach Pass). The view in the canyon was
impressive.
Hatira
Wadi
Later in the afternoon, the skies
became cloudy and a heavy downpour of rain started falling. Rain is rare in the desert and poses
great danger to those who are in dry canyons. The water could suddenly rush through the
canyon and sweep everyone away. Our group’s instructors recognized the
impending danger and urged us to get out of the narrow canyon as soon as
possible. It was a difficult challenge, as we had to follow the Palmach
platoon’s foot wide steep path that was adjacent to the canyon's walls.
Fortunately, because it was completely dark, we could not see how high we were over the canyon,
but it was obvious that falling down would be disastrous. It was raining hard
and we got soaked with water. There was nothing to hold on to and the only way
to avoid losing balance was to face the canyon’s wall and move slowly to the
right while holding the hands of the people ahead and behind you. It took us three hours to
climb the mile long pass.
We
arrived exhausted to a mineral quarry located at the end of the pass. My boots
and clothing were soaking
wet and I was shivering, but I was glad that we avoided a disaster. One of the instructors handed me a
bottle of arak (a local alcoholic drink) and encouraged me to take a sip. It
tasted awful but helped me feel warm again. The arak made me slightly drowsy and I found it
a little difficult to coordinate my movements when I took care of teenagers who had minor cuts,
bruises and blisters. One of the teenagers
fell and most likely broke his arm. After I stabilized his arm with a piece of
wood, I sent him to the Shiba Hospital in Beer-Seva.
We
resumed our journey in the morning, and my clothes slowly dried in the Negev’s sun. On our last
day, while waiting for
the trucks to pick us up
from the Little Crater, we were encouraged to finish all the eggs we brought
with us. We organized a fried egg eating competition that I won after eating 24 fried eggs. I
could not eat or even look at eggs for a long time afterwards.
I
visited the kibbutz several weeks later to see the teenagers and collect my remuneration in the form of a check of 175
Israeli Liras (about $1,000).We rode horses for an afternoon in the fields
around the kibbutz.
Itzhak riding horse in kibbutz Yagur. 1963
C. Miss Israel
1964 pageant
The
oddest work I got from the Hebrew University Student Union office was to serve
as an escort to one of Israel’s beauty pageant participants. The event took
place at the Binyanay
Hauma theater and each of the 20 candidates was to be escorted to the stage by
a male companion. Since I did not have a suit or a tie, I borrowed them from my
father. The one-day assignment paid well (about 80 dollars) and I was tempted
to take part in the national event.
We
had a general rehearsal in the afternoon where we met the contestants, all
young beautiful women and the main event took place in the evening. The large
national theater was full when we walked onto the stage with the candidates and danced with
them to the sounds of the Jerusalem Symphony. Fortunately, I took dancing
lessons several months earlier
and did fine. There were no movie cameras as Israel had no television services
at that time, but there were plenty of photographers and pictures of the event that appeared in national
newspapers and magazines. The candidates kept changing their clothes, first appearing in
spring dresses, then bathing
suits, and finally, in evening gowns.
I do
not remember the name of the woman
I escorted, but she did not win the pageant. The winner was Ronit Rinat who was
also from Haifa and lived on Panorama Street. A song about her was popular in
Israel in the 1960’s:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SnHJCS-W5jA.
Ronit was elected as the second runner up in the Miss Universe pageant that year.
Ronit Rinat, Miss Israel. 1964
I cannot miss the vein
I
was on call during my 3rd year of pediatric residency at Kaplan Hospital in Rehovot,
when I was summoned to the emergency room at about midnight. A two month old Bedouin infant in severe dehydration
and respiratory distress was
waiting for me in the emergency room. He had been vomiting and had
loose stool for several days.
The
parents of the infant were dressed in the traditional black Bedouin cloth. The
mother’s face was covered with a brown veil and she was holding a lifeless
looking baby. There was a strong scent of burned wooden ashes in the air,emanating from the infant. Apparently, his parents
scattered ashes on his skin to treat his ailment. Bedouin parents were known to
bring their sick children late in their illness, usually in bad condition, because they
mistrusted modern
medicine. The baby was lethargic and floppy, did not cry or move, and was
breathing rapidly. He was in a serious life threatening condition, moments away from death. He
had extreme dehydration
and was acidic. The only
way to save him was to immediately infuse fluids and medications into his body.
I
had great difficultyseeing any vein in the infant’s body because of the severe
dehydration. I thought of calling the attending physician for help but it would have taken at least 30
minutes for him to arrive. Time was critical.
I
decided to act on my own. I had to find a reliable vein as quickly as possible
or the baby would not make it. I had four years of experience in starting
infusions in children,
but I never faced such a critical situation before.
Miraculously,
I located a tiny vein on
the infant’s scalp through which I started an infusion. I succeeded on the first trial.Fluids and medications started to flow into his
collapsed veins and began
to revive him. Within an hour, he started to respond to stimulation and slowly
came back to life.
It
was one of the most rewarding moments that I felt as a physician. I told myself
that if that would have been the only thing I would have accomplished after
years of study and training,it
was worth it. At that moment, I understood why Judaism believes that saving one
life is like saving the whole world.
Pediatric
residency
I
began my five years of pediatric
residency at Kaplan
Hospital in Rehovot, Israel, in 1969. Residency was demanding. I was on call
for 24 hours, covering
the two pediatric wards as well as the pediatric emergency room every 3-5 days. I was lucky to get an
hour or two of sleep. This was an excellent training opportunity. I had to face and deal with
numerous challenges on my own. I only called the attending when I could not
solve a problem, which became infrequent as I gained more experience. However,
I found it difficult to continue to work until 4 PM the next day as my ability
to function well and make adequate decisions deteriorated. When I complained, I was told that
this is how things are done and that I should not protest. It took several
decades for the medical establishment to realize that this is a dangerous
practice.Residents on call are now encouraged to leave after
their shift is over.
The
hospital had two departments of Pediatrics chaired by Professor Stanley Levine.
He maintained a distant and detached professional attitude towards his staff
and patients. Dr. Levine, who was South African, had an immunology laboratory
and was an outstanding teacher and a true gentleman. He allowed me to recover
at home for several months after my scooter accident that occurred 4 months
after I started my residency.
The
first day after I returned to work, Dr. Levine asked me to draw a blood sample
from a baby. Unfortunately, the sample was difficult to get; the tube dropped
and broke. Dr Levine did not scold me.He
understood that it happened because I struggled to grasp the test tube with my injured left hand. I
gained his confidence when I diagnosed ataxia-telangiectasia, a rare disease he
was interested in, in a child I saw in the emergency room.
Dr. Levine encouraged the
residents and attending physicians to present lectures to the staff and
students. The presentations by the attending, Dr.
Yigal Barak, were superb
and served as a model for me on how
to prepare and deliver lectures. He had a crisp and clear voice that made his
lectures memorable and intelligible. Dr. Barak used to present the news for the Voice of
Israel in Jerusalem when he was in medical school.
A
year into my residency,
it was decided that Dr.
Levine would continue to chair one of the two pediatric departments and Dr. Rivka Garti, a pediatrician who ran a department at another hospital, would take over the other
department where I was assigned.
Dr. Garti came to Israel from
Bulgaria and was an outstanding clinician. She was in her late 50s, a short and thin person, a
chain smoker. She never
smiled. She ruled the department with an iron hand, demanding perfection. She did not hesitate to
criticize those who did not meet
her standards. Her deputy,
Dr. Michel Cooper, a
South African, was a friendly and warm individual. He balanced Dr. Garti’s meanness to some extent. However, working
under her was very stressful and was a stark contrast to my experiences with
Dr. Levine.
Dr. Garti acted as a know-it-all and made her clinical decisions
in a dictatorial fashion,
discouraging suggestions or input. On most occasions, I had to accept her
decisions without questioning. Training under her taught me, however, the
importance of physical examination and thoroughness.
I
returned to Kaplan Hospital in 1981, eight years after finishing my residency
to give grand rounds in pediatrics. I had already concluded my fellowship training in the USA, was a
staff member at National Children Hospital in Washington, D.C., and had already established myself as a leader in the
field of anaerobic infections in children. After my lecture, Dr. Garti invited me to join her
in making rounds in her department.
She presented me with several
challenging patients with difficult to treat infections. She listened to my input and
opinions. When she had
different opinions, I was able to explain my views and support them by citing
relevant literature and past experience. I realized that
even Dr. Garti can be
wrong and wondered how many times during my training she had made wrong
decisions. It was refreshing to teach my own teacher.
Pediatric emergency room, Kaplan Hospital.
2018
Pediatric Department A, Kaplan Hospital.1972
How can I deal
with this?
I
was glad to start my infectious disease fellowship at Wasdsworth Veteran Administration Medical Center in
a program affiliated with the University of California in Los Angeles (UCLA). It was chaired by Dr. Sydney Finegold in 1974. Dr. Fingeold was a world-renowned
expert in anaerobic infections and many of the graduates of his training program became prominent
experts in the field. I met Dr.
Finegold and his wife in Israel at
a medical conference a
year earlier and liked them. Even though I was accepted to two other training
programs in the USA, I
chose the one at UCLA.
Arriving
in Los Angeles with my family was not easy. We had to find an apartment and schools for Dafna and Danny, buy
furniture, clothing, and a car, and make new friends.
Dr. Finegold invited me and the
other new fellow, Dr.
Peter Corrodi from Switzerland,
to lunch at a restaurant
in Westwood on the first day of our fellowship. We were joined by Dr. Richard Meyer whom I had not met before. He was three
years younger than me,
thin and tall, and behaved in an aloof and condescending manner. I asked Dr. Meyer if he was Jewish and
he begrudgingly
responded: “I am German!” When I asked him if he is
also beginning his fellowship, he seemed insulted and irritated and angrily
muttered “No! I am the new assistant chief for the department!” I learned later
that Dr. Meyer had recently finished his
training at
Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center in New York.
The
first month of my fellowship was very challenging. I was not familiar with the
medical and VA systems in the U.S., had difficultyunderstanding
the English spoken by many of the patients. As a pediatrician, I was unfamiliar with many of the
medical problems my adult patients had. I also started to feel physically sick – tired and out of
breath. I suspected that I might have contracted tuberculosis from one of my
sick patients. I performed a cutaneous skin test for tuberculosis on my arm,
which turned out to be
highly positive. I received a year of anti-tuberculosis treatment and had a
complete recovery.
To
add insult to injury,Dr. Meyer became my attending
after the previous doctor who was the attending physician for the infectious diseases service got sick
and died suddenly from an infected brain tumor. Dr. Meyer
was an outstanding clinician, very knowledgeable and an excellent teacher.
However, his method of teaching was old fashioned, where the professor knows everything and
looks down on his
students. He demanded absolute perfection when presenting patients to him. He was merciless and
insulting when the presentation did notmeet his standards. He was
unfriendly and behaved as if he
was superior to others. He had contempt towards the U.S. military and joked that
he hung his discharge certificate from the US Navy, where he served as a
researcher at the Naval Medical Research Institute (NMRI), over his toilet
seat.
He
constantly insulted and humiliated me in front of the other fellows and
students who usually did a better job than me in presenting cases. I did my best to please him
and conform to his standards,
but was never able to satisfy him. Working in this environment was stressful and depressing.
I was still recovering from my recent experiences in the Yom Kippur War that
took place less than a year earlier. I was hoping things would get better and
was embarrassed to speak with Dr.
Finegold about the mental abuse and torture I suffered under Dr. Meyer.
Finally, one morning after Dr. Meyer lashed out against me during rounds after I
presented a patient, I could not take the humiliation any longer. I stopped his
unrelenting criticism and told him in front of the rest of the medical team: “I am no longer going to make
rounds with you. You may be an excellent physician and a teacher, but you are a
failure as a human being. You have no decency or respect for others and teach in a
condescending way that constantly insults
and shames others.”
I
left rounds and walked into Dr.
Finegold’s office and shared what
happened and my experiences with Dr.
Meyer. Dr. Finegold
listened attentively and,
after speaking with Dr.
Meyer, decided I would no
longer make rounds with him. The following month the attending physician on our infectious diseases service was Dr. Ed Harding.to Dr. Ed Harding. Ed was a
pleasure to work with. He was Canadian and recently joined the department’s
faculty after finishing his fellowship there. He was friendly and easy to get along with. Hetaught by encouraging independent thinking and
innovation. He rarely criticized and when he did, it was in a friendly and
non-accusatory way. He would compliment
me when I deserved it and taught me without humiliating me. I gradually
regained my confidence and felt like a human being again.
I
never made rounds with Dr.
Meyer again. As was planned, I spent the second year of my fellowship away from
the VA hospital, taking care of children at UCLA, Harbor General Hospital and the University of
Southern California County Hospital. As a pediatrician, I found it easier to
take care of children and did well in those settings, seeing patients and conducting clinical
research.
Dr. Meyer left the VA hospital
several years later and became the head of infectious diseases at Mount Sinai
Medical Center in Los Angeles. He left it after several years and opened a private practice. He
became ill with multiple sclerosis in his late fifties and stopped practicing
medicine.
Left picture: Dr Sydney Finegold (right) and Itzhak Brook lecturing
in East Carolina University. 1984
Right picture: Wadsworth VA Medical Center, West Los Angeles. 1974
Eureka moments
Discovering
or observing something that was not known before is one of the most
exhilarating and gratifying moments in a scientist's life. I have always been interested in
pursuing a career that combines clinical medicine with research. I was
fortunate to perform basic and clinical research throughout my professional
life. I was involved in research at the Department of Agriculture at the Hebrew University in Rehovot, Israel; the Weizmann Institute of
Science in Rehovot Israel (for my Masters of Science degree from the University
of Tel Aviv); the University of California Los Angeles, and the University of
Southern California (during my fellowship training); Fairview State Hospital in
Irvine California; the National Children’s Hospital in Washington DC; the Naval
Medical Research Institute (NMRI); the Armed Forces Radiobiology Research
Institute in Bethesda, Maryland, and Georgetown University.
Almost
all research I performed
led to discoveries of new facts and information that we hoped would benefit
patients’ care and save lives. This
included exploring the causes of infections, finding which antimicrobials work
for various infectious diseases, why some treatments fail and more. Most of the
findings of my research were predictable that I set out to uncover. I chose the laboratory method and the animal models or
patient population. However, there were few occasions when I discovered
something that I was not expecting to uncover. These were a true moments of eureka. These were moments that opened avenues of research and
discovery.
The
first eureka moment was when I realized that I had an explanation for why penicillin fails to cure
streptococcal tonsillitis. Our study at the National Children’s Hospital in
Washington DC, from 1978
to 1979, examined 50
tonsils removed from children who failed penicillin treatment. It showed that over three quarters of them harbored
bacteria that could “shield”
streptococci from the antibiotic by producing an enzyme that destroys it. The
initial goal of the study was to identify
the bacteria inside the tonsils,
not why penicillin did not work. I wrote more about the implications of these
findings in the “My tonsils story“ chapter.
The
other Eureka moment was the discovery that Bacteroides
fragilis, which is an important anaerobic bacterium that lives in
the gut and can cause
serious infections, possesses long tiny fiber-like structures called “pili.” I was studying the
pathogenesis of abscesses in NMRI by inducing small abscesses in mice and
exploring the features that made the bacteria more virulent.
One
morning, as I walked by
our office, I saw a large
brown envelope in my mailbox. It contained electron microscopic pictures of
individual cells of the Bacteroides
fragilis from specimens I sent for study a week earlier. To my amazement,
each cell had numerous ahair-like appendage (Pili), which had never been observed in this organism. This
discovery led to a better
understanding of how Bacteroides
fragiliscan cause intra-abdominal and other types of
abscesses and how it changes from a normal member of the gut bacterial flora to
a dangerous pathogen.https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC257825/pdf/iai00038-0280.pdf
This
observation led us to make
more discoveries and develop a greater
understanding of howto prevent and treat infections caused by Bacteroides fragilis as
well as other anaerobic bacteria.
CDR Brook
studying abscesses in rabbits at NMRI. 1982Bacteroides fragilis
with pili
Baby lift
project
One
of the most extensive projects I was involved in from 1978 to 1992 was the
evaluation of the neurological sequelae sustained by Vietnamese orphans who survived the "baby
lift" operation airplane disaster. The aircraft disaster happened on the first flight
of Operation "Baby Lift,"
which departed from Saigon, on April 4, 1975. There were 149-orphaned children survivors on their way to
adoptive homes in the USA and Europe.
I
was invited by Dr.
Michael Cohen and Friends of All Children (FAC) https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Friends_for_All_Children) to join a
multidisciplinary team of pediatric experts as the lead pediatrician. FAC sued
Lockheed Aircraft Corp, the manufacturer of the United States Air Force C5-A
cargo plane that crashed,
and the US government,which was in charge of the
operation. The plane
crashed after its rear door broke open at an altitude of about 23,000 feet and exposed the
children to sub-atmospheric decompression, hypoxia, and deceleration. We
examined 135 surviving children between 1978 and 1985. All of them displayed
different degrees of neurological problems that included attention deficit, hyperactivity,
impulsiveness, learning
disabilities, speech and language pathology, epilepsy, and soft neurological
signs(https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/7923394/).I examined the US children at
National Children’s Hospital Medical Center in Washington DC, and the European
ones in Marseilles and Paris, in France. We concluded that the complex disaster
environment caused brain damage in
the children.
I
testified on behalf of the children in nine separate jury trials for individual
children held atthe Federal Superior Court in Washington DC, Judge
Louis Oberdorfer. The plaintiff’s lawyers were headed by Oren R. Lewis, Jr.The Williams and Conley law firm represented the
airplane manufacturer (https://casetext.com/case/friends-for-all-children-inc-v-lockheed-aircraft-corp-4).
The juries in all trials determined that Lockheed Martin and the US Government
were negligent and that they should pay for the treatment and rehabilitation of
the children. The
defendants fought each case in court but were forced to settle.It
was discovered that the defense
hid important documents that showed its negligent culpability and the Judge threatened that they would be held in contempt of court. The
settlement included the establishment
of a fund to provide for the children’s rehabilitation and well-being.
There
were several memorable moments during the long project:
The
first moment was during the first trial of Melissa Hope Marchetti, when I was cross-examined by
the defense lawyer. After I testified that lack of oxygen could cause brain
damage, he read me a paragraph from a scientific manuscript published in a
German medical magazine from the 1940s that showed that human beings could tolerate a lack of oxygen for an extended period of time. I
suspected that the study was done by Nazi physicians on human victims and that
it was unethical to
present such data in court. As
a Jew whose grandparents, uncle and aunts were murdered in the Holocaust, I was infuriated that the defense
used such information in court. I asked the lawyer to hand me the document
so that I can read it myself. I was astounded that my suspicions were correct.
I answered the lawyer: “Are you asking me to render my opinion based on human
experiments done by Nazi doctors who
drowned their subjects and tested their oxygen levels and ability to survive?” I could
see that the jury and
judge (who was Jewish) were shaken. The judge reprimanded the lawyer for using the material and the lawyer
lost his momentum when
cross-examining me. The jury orderedthat one million dollars
be paid to the child. https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/local/1981/02/11/viet-child-in-crash-awarded-400000/eab06a15-76ed-4054-bc0d-7171e560ded9/
The
other moment occurred in 1981 after I had joined the US Navy and worked at the
Naval Medical Research Institute in Bethesda, Maryland. I was still involved in
the ongoing trials and testifying on
behalf of the children against Lockheed and the US government. Captain
Richard Walker, the head of my department,
was aware of this and did not object to my continued involvement.
I
was in the middle of injecting antibiotics to mice in one of the cage rooms of
the facility’s animal housing building, when Dr. Walker walked in and asked me to step out and come
to his office to speak with a Navy Judge Advocate General's Corps (JAG) lawyer.
I was very surprised by the request and Dr. Walker's visit to the animal facility, as he had
never interrupted me in the middle of conducting an experiment. The lawyer told me that the Navy’s legal department became aware of my
activities on behalf of the FAC against the US government, and as a naval officer, I may not
be allowed to continue my
involvement. It was clear to me that this was an attempt to intimidate
me and remove me from the multidisciplinary team that evaluated the children.
Apparently, this was a ploy to weaken the plaintiff’s case because the defendants
were losing case after case in court.
I
explained to the JAG lawyer that I have been involved in this activity prior to
joining the Navy and because I examined all the children, it is my obligation
to continue to testify on their
behalf. I told him that I am going to ask for guidance from the FAC legal team.
After informing the FAC legal
team about what happened,
they immediately contacted Judge
Oberdorfer, who saw my experience as witness tampering and harshly reprimanded the defendant’s lawyers, including the Navy JAG. I
continued to be involved in the project until it was concluded eleven years
later. This incident eventually weakened the defendant’s legal standing as it showed how low
they were willing to stoop to avoid responsibility for what happened to the
children.
The
last moment occurred when I was involved in evaluating European children. We initially had children come to
Marseilles, France,
where we evaluated them. We stayed in a small house
by the shores of the Mediterranean for ten days in the summer of 1986 and
examined the children at a pediatrician’s office in the town. On the weekends, I drove our rental car with the other
physicians along the French Riviera through Cannes and Nice, all the way to Monaco. It was
strange to drive the new Citroen car in the French freeways at speeds I had never
experienced. It was a spectacular drive through beautiful towns and resort
areas. Driving through
the narrow cobblestones streets of Saint Tropes was challenging.
A
year later, we traveled to Paris for a couple of weeks during the summer to
examine additional children. We stayed at a small hotel in the Latin District near the
Sorbonne University. Summer days were long and I took long walks each day after
we concluded our work through the different parts of the city. During the last weekend, I
drove the other three members of our team in our rented station wagon to the
Loire Valley (also called Château Lenoir), which has beautiful palaces and views. We had
several adventures that day. After lunch, I miscalculated the width of a small
country dirt road and one of the car wheels slipped into a wet ditch. Everyone
had to join forces, lift the car, and place it back on the road. It was past 10
PM when we were back in Paris’s outskirts. I could not look at my map to
navigate my way because traffic was moving very swiftly. I followed the signs to the city's center, hoping to navigate back to
the hotel by instinct. Fortunately, because I had previously walked through
these areas, I was able to recognize some buildings and monuments, such as Napoleon’s’
tomb (Les Invalides), whichwas close to our hotel.
After
returning to the hotel, we took the small elevator to our rooms. Unfortunately,
the elevator got stuck between the floors. There was no phone or alarm button
to get help. We banged on the elevator’s doors and shouted to no avail. It was
getting hot and stuffy in the small elevator. Fortunately, I carried a small
pocketknife, which I
stuck between the closed doors and twisted it. I inserted my hand into the
small space that I created
and pushed the doors apart. We had to jump down to the second floor as the
elevator was stuck between the second and third floor. It was a relief to be
liberated after more than 15 minutes. It was a day full of adventures.
Itzhak in Paris. 1988
Ten to one
I
became the chairperson
of the Anti-Infective Advisory Committee of the Food and Drug Administration
(FDA) in 1985 after serving as a member of the committee for a year. We were
tasked with making recommendations to the FDA on whether to approve new anti-infective agents. On a
cold January day in 1987,
we assembled to review and ascertain if the first antiviral agent against human immunodeficiency virus
(HIV) merits approval. The world was ravaged by the deadly AIDS pandemic at
that time and there was no cure available. The Committee’s meeting was covered
by many reporters and news channels. It was clear that the results of the
deliberation would affect many lives.
We
reviewed the data presented by AZT’s manufacturer, Burroughs-Wellcome, to evaluate its safety and
efficacy. The information was submitted in record time with only one trial on
humans instead of the standard three and that trial was stopped after nineteen
weeks. I came to the meeting with an
open mind and was ready to recommend approval of AZT if the data would
demonstrate its efficacy and safety. However, after the
company presented its
data, it became clear that the study was flawed and the long-term effects were
completely unknown. The data presented was, in my opinion, insufficient and lacked substantial information about
efficacy in patients and
potential serious side effects. Several members of the committee expressed
their concerns and it was clear that the consensus was to delay the approval of
AZT until more safety data was
gathered. I suggested to Burroughs-Wellcome a compromise that they continue to
give the drug free to those in need and receive compensation from the federal government while
continuing the research. They declined.
At
about 4 p.m., the head of the FDA’s Center for Drugs and Biologics requested
permission to speak, which was extremely unusual. He told us, “If you approve
the drug, we can assure you that we will work with Burroughs-Wellcome and make
sure the drug is given to the right people.” It was like saying “please approve the drug.” Ten members of the panel
voted for approval of AZT
and I was the only dissenting
vote. As the chairperson, I had to announce the approval, explain it, and defend it in a news
conference and in several major media interviews, including PBS and CNN. I wrote an Editorial in JAMA
asking physicians to use AZT cautiously (https://jamanetwork.com/journals/jama/article-abstract/368218).One year later, after more
information became available,
the recommended dose of
AZT was substantially decreased,
helping reduce some of the drug’s serious side effects.
I
had no problem acting according to my conscience and logic and sticking to my opinion even though I was alone. Perhaps
this is because these were the values I was brought up with in high school and in my youth movement, where we were encouraged to
freely express and defend our opinions.Several years later,
I was vindicated for opposing the approval of AZT at that time by most opinion leaders and medical historians.
I
developed close relationships with several pharmaceutical companies throughout
my career. It served me well in spreading the results of my research and
providing me with extra income. This occurred during a period when there was no formal
awareness of conflicts of interest and pharmaceuticalcompanies had close connections with the
infectious diseases medical community and helped them in funding training
programs, research and education. I was fortunate that my research interests in
anaerobic and head and neck infections coincided with the development of new antimicrobial agents
for these infections. Drug companies routinely sought the assistance of
infectious diseases experts in performing the basic and clinical trials
required for approval of their agents by the FDA.
Immediately
after my fellowship with Dr.
Finegold, I obtained two grants to study the use
of Netilmicin and Carbenicillin in pneumonia and ear infections, which I performed at Fairview
State Hospital.
I collaborated with Upjohn
Company on studying tonsillitis as
well as ear and sinus infections. Their antimicrobial clindamycin was
one of the most effective agents in treating anaerobic infections. Similarly, I
collaborated with Merck Sharp and Dohme on CCefoxitin
and Imipenem, Bristol Myers
on Cefprozil, Rhône-Poulenc
on Spiramycin and Metronidazole, and
GlaxoSmithKline on Augmentin.
Working
with these manufacturers
allowed me to spread the knowledge
of how to recognize and treatanaerobic infections. I spoke at medical symposiums all over
North America and across the world; published review articles, books, original
research, educational materials; and filmed videos. I always constructed my
presentations to teach the attendees about the basic scientific theories,
present up-to-date research including my own, and limit any promotional
material to the minimum. I became one of the most popular medical educational
speakers in the country. I enjoyed interacting with the medical communities and
appreciated the
opportunity to travel all over the world. On some occasions, I was able to have one of my
children join me on these
trips and at the medical
conferences. I participated in several lecture tours and international
symposiums in South East Asia, Australia, India, Pakistan, Turkey and all Europe.
I
did all of my travel using my leave time from the Navy. My research for the
military was supported by the pharmaceutical industry only on one occasion in
2002 when I received a grant from Pfizer to study the use of clindamycin in treating anthrax.
Plaque
from the Philippines Pediatric Society for speaking at their annual convention 1985
How did I do it?
I always aspired to conduct clinical research.
I was finally able to do so during my infectious diseases fellowship in Los
Angeles. My fellowship included rotations in the University of California Los
Angeles (UCLA), University of Southern California (UCS), and Harbor Medical
Centers. Each of these locations offered unique opportunities for clinical
research. I submitted research proposals ahead of my arrival there so that I
could complete them during my rotation.
In this way, I was able to complete three studies in UCLA, two in UCS
and one at Harbor hospitals. My positions at Fairview State Hospital in Costa
Mesa, and Children’s National Medical Center in Washington DC also included managing
the anaerobic microbiology laboratory. This allowed me to teach the staff how
to collect adequate cultures (which is crucial for the recovery of anaerobic
bacteria) and publish the results. Once I joined the US Navy and worked in the
National Naval and Walter Reed Medical Centers, I collected data from their
microbiology laboratories and was able to use the analyzing techniques I used
before to come out with unique clinical data.
(See details in- “Denial”, “Difficult moments during my military
service”, and ”A year at Fairview State Hospital “).
I was determined to stay abreast in the current
advances in the medical field especially in areas of my interest. This required
reading old and new publications and medical textbooks and attending
educational lectures and conventions. I subscribed to several key medical
journals, religiously scanned a weekly publication that summarized recent
publications called “Current Contents”, and sent requests to receive reprints
from the publications I found interesting. I made copies of old publications in
the medical library and filed all these in dedicated folders stored in my
office. I eventually had thousands of reprints stored in eight large cabinets
in my office. I used them whenever I needed relevant references or clinical and
laboratory information. I often asked the medical library to search the medical
literature for publications related to topics I studied or needed for patient
care. This arduous task became easier once medical literature searches became
possible through the Internet using services as Pub Med. Unfortunately the
Internet only became widely available after I had already retired.
HEALTH
Prayer was the only option left
Medicine cannot cure all diseases and prayer is sometimes
the last resort one can turn to. This harsh reality first struck me when my
five year old sister, Zipi, contracted poliomyelitis in the summer of 1957.
Although a vaccine against polio became available several months earlier, she
was not eligible to receive it because it was given at that time only to
younger children.
Zipi was hospitalized at Rambam hospital in Haifa, and her
condition was deteriorating as the paralysis progressed to her face and legs.
We could not see her because she was in strict isolation. My father and I spoke
to the chairman of the department of pediatrics, Dr. Stanley Levine, who
accepted my application for pediatric
residency eleven years later. Dr. Levine explained that the paralysis was
caused by damage that the poliovirus inflicts on the nervous system and there
is no way to predict when the progression of the paralysis will stop. He told
us the sad reality that nothing can be done to cure the illness and the only
thing we can do is go to the synagogue and pray for Zipi’s recovery.
It was late Friday afternoon when we
came back home, and as Dr. Levine suggested, we went to our synagogue on
Saturday morning to pray. We made the Aliya L’Tora prayer (being called to read
a portion of the weekly Tora section) and asked God’s help to heal Zipi. I was
skeptical that this would make any difference.
We went to the hospital afterwards, and learned that the
progressing of the paralysis stopped and even started to recede. Zipi continued
to improve and was left with only minimal residual paralysis.
I encountered more instances in my personal and professional
life that confirmed the power of prayer.
My
tonsils story
I
suffered from recurrent ear infections since early childhood. I used to
experience severe ear pain accompanied by high fever and my mother took me to
Kupat Holim’s (the Jewish community’s only health insurance and medical
services organization in the 1940s)
otolaryngological clinic in HaChalutz street in Haifa,multiple times every winter. The sight of the
clinic’s waiting area was very scary. There were many patients sitting with long
needles protruding out of their nostrils
that drained fluid into silver basins. I understand now that they were
apparently having their sinuses drained. The otolaryngologist, Dr. Rupin, who was dressed in a white surgical gown and wore
a head mirror over his forehead, would ask my mother to hold me tight as he punctured
my eardrums and drained the pus in my ears. It was a painful and scary
experience that was done every winter until I was about 5 years old.
When
I got a little older, the ear infections were replaced with frequent
streptococcal tonsillitis. There were no antibiotics available at that time and
I was treated with heat compresses over my neck and hot cups (cupping therapy)
over my back. In 1946, my
parents were able to purchase Penicillin
on the black market from
the British Army. I resented the painful daily injections given to me by a
visiting nurse. I tried to shoot
her with my toy pistol that I got for Purim but it did not deter her.
A
few months later, my mother told me that they have a surprise for me. I wouldbe able to visit a baby
that was just born to our friend,
Emil Price, who owned a
jewelry and watch store on Hertzel Street. She told me that the newborn was
still in the hospital and they made special arrangements for me to visit him. I
was very excited to see the baby. I loved babies and always liked to play with
them. A day later, my mother took me early in the morning to see the baby. I
was so excited that I did not pay attention to the fact that I did not get
breakfast before leaving the house. We took a bus to Kupat Holim birthing and a minor surgical facility
close to the Baha’i Gardens on the slopes of Mount Carmel.
After
entering the building, we were led to a waiting area and a nurse asked me to
change into green scrubs. I was puzzled by the request but told myself that
this is probably because they do not want me to walk into the baby's room
wearing dirty garments. Into the waiting area walked a tall and husky (for a 5
years old) male nurse who took my hand and led me through a broad corridor. I
wondered why my mother was not accompanying me. I became suspicious that
something was not right
and tried to escape. However, the nurse grabbed me and forcefully carried me to
a room at the end of the corridor. The room's walls were covered with white
tiles and there were several masked and white gowned physicians and nurses
waiting for me. There was a shiny metal chair in the middle of the room and a large surgical lamp
hovered over it. A raised table near the chair had numerous glistering surgical
instruments, bandages and bottles. It was a frightening and intimidating place
and a trap! I fought as hard as I could, kicking and shouting, but to no avail. They tied me to the chair with
brown leather straps, placed a gauze soaked with ether on my face, and told me
to count to ten as I was breathing. I saw yellow stars and fell asleep.
I
woke up some time later in a large room filled with beds with other children
who also had surgery. My throat was very sore. My mother was sitting by my
feet. I was extremely angry with her but could not talk. I kicked her and
signed with my hands for her
to leave. At that moment,
I realized that I had been
duped and misled and
that my tonsils and adenoids were removed. I had no indication or suspicion
that my parents were lying to me
before this moment. My mother explained to me later that they were
afraid that I would develop a fever
and get sick if they told
me about the planned tonsillectomy. Apparently, this was a well-planned ambush.
My father did not go to work that day and was hiding behind the trees on the
other side of the road. The free ice cream I got afterwards was of little
consolation. I spent a night in the facility. Next to me was a girl who also
had tonsillectomy, whose mother was Jewish and her father was a British officer
serving in Palestine. The tonsillectomy worked and I no longer experienced
streptococcal throat infections. Unfortunately, I was still susceptible to this
bacteria and developed glomerulonephritis two years later.
This
traumatic experience at such an early age led me to mistrust my parents and
always wonder if they were telling me the truth. It also taught me to avoid
being ambushed and helpless as I was when I was forcefully placed on the
operating chair.
Thirty-two
years later, I revisited this issue, this time as an infectious diseases
specialist. I was not thinking about my personal experiences as a child when I
studied the microbiology of tonsils removed from children at the National
Children’s Medical Center in Washington, D.C.
It is possible, however, that my personal experiences subconsciously influenced
my research interests.
The
study revealed that streptococcus could survive Penicillin because other bacteria that reside in the tonsils
produce an enzyme (Beta-lacrtamase) that destroys the antibiotics. It took me
six years to illustrate this phenomenon in the test tube, animal models (mice) and finally in
patients. Ideveloped an alternative to a tonsillectomy by treating
patients with antibiotics that resist the enzyme that destroys Penicillin.This research led to a significant decrease in the number of tonsillectomies across the
world. The number of tonsillectomies in the USA fell from over 600,000 per year in the 1970sto about 200,000 in 2010. In other studies, I explored the microbiology
and treatment of ear infections that highlighted the importance of anaerobic
and antibiotic resistant bacteria that also contributed to better management of
these infections. I am grateful
that my work prevented many children from undergoing the procedures I had to
endure as a young child.
Itzhak (left) presenting a lecture on tonsillitis in the Bursa
Turkey for the Turkish Otolaryngological society meeting in 2005
Illustration explaining the phenomena of "protection" of
streptococcus from penicillin through the production of beta-lactamase
Salmonella
bacteria
Microbiology
has been my favorite
subject since adolescence. When I was required to prepare a “Yearly
Composition” during my last year at
HaReali H’ivry High School,
I initially started a study on the bacteria found in the seawater in Haifa’s
bay. A couple of months later,
I switched the topic to study Salmonella and Shigella bacteria in patients at Rambam Medical Center. I
spent every Sunday in the microbiology laboratories and learned from the chief
of laboratories, Dr. David Merzbach,
how to grow and identify these bacteria. After my sister contracted
poliomyelitis, I switched
the topic to study and write an essay
on Poliomyelitis (see my story about Letters that Made a Difference). These
experiences taught me how to grow and isolate microorganisms and eventually led
me to specialize in infectious diseases.
One
of the scariest and perhaps funniest events related to microbiology occurred
during the fourth year of my medical school studies. We studied microbiology by
listening to lectures and participating in laboratory classes where we
practiced growing and identifying bacteria. At the end of the course, we were
given a final laboratory test that required the identification of two
microorganisms. We had
to use a long pipet and suction out and transfer the unknown bacteria that was
suspended in a test tube. Each pipet had a cotton ball plug at its upper end
that prevented aspiration of the suspension into the mouth. I used too much
negative pressure suctioning the first sample, causing the bacterial suspension
to reach the cotton plug,
which detached, got into
my mouth, andcarried with it some of the
infected fluid.
My
laboratory partner Ellie Okon (who eventually became a pathologist at Haddash Hospital in
Jerusalem) and I were alarmed by the mishap and notified our laboratory
instructors right away. They immediately broke the code of the unknown sample
and to my alarm, I learned that the organism I aspirated into my mouth was a
dangerous bacteria called-Salmonella
typhi. This organism can infect the intestinal tract and blood, causing the dangerous
typhoid fever.
The
head of the laboratory escorted me right away to the internal medicine clinic
where I was prescribed chloramphenicol, which is an effective antimicrobial against this organism. I was
hoping that I would not develop an illness and that the drug would abort the
infection. I felt fine, but three days later, I developed a generalized non-itching rash
over my hands and trunk. When I informed my teachers about it, they were
concerned because typhoid fever can be accompanied by a rash. They rushed me to
the internal medicine and dermatology clinics where the verdict was that the
rash was not related to Salmonella typhi
and was of unknown cause.
The rash faded away after several days. Okon and I concluded the laboratory course without
being required to identify the unknown bacteria.
Itzhak and Elli Okon recreating the Salmonella accident. 1965
Getting
Brucellosis
Brucellosis
is a potentially serious infection caused by a bacteria that can be transmitted
by consuming unpasteurized milk products. I became infected by this organism in
1972. I started to
experience symptoms during the trip Zahava and I took in Europe. We were looking forward to the trip
because the previous year was emotionally difficult, as my mother had died.
I
started to experience fever, weakness, headache, night sweets, and muscle pain
during our stay in Stockholm, Sweden. I had no idea what was wrong with me. I tried to continue sightseeing and
exploring the sights of
the beautiful city despite feeling unwell. We continued our trip as planned,
took a train to Hamburg and then continued to Paris. My symptoms worsened in
Paris and we shortened our trip and flew back to Israel a couple of days early.
Because
I was still not feeling well, I saw a physician at Kaplan Hospital who ordered multiple diagnostic tests,
which revealed that I had high antibody levels of Brucellosis. All other tests were negative. I could
not understand how I became infected with this bacterium but after
consideration, I came up with two possible explanations.
The
first was that I might have acquired the bacteria when I drew blood samples
from sheep, a few days prior to the trip. I was engaged in research at the
Hebrew University School of Agriculture in Rehovot. I joined my medical school
classmate, Izy Hod, and Professor Kalman Perk, who were using electron
microscopy to study tumor causing viruses. The investigation used an
immunological method that required red cells from sheep. As part of my
residency, I spent a few hours every week examining infants at the well-baby
clinic (Tipat Chalav) at
kibbutz Givat Brenner near Rehovot. The kibbutz authorities allowed me to collect the blood
from their sheep, which might have exposed me to the organism. However, this
was unlikely as the sheep were vaccinated against Brucella and did not manifest
signs of infection.
The
more likely explanation was that I was infected a few days before arriving in
Stockholm when we traveled through Norway’s fjords. We had a buffet dinner made of
multiple selections of
delouse local cheese,
some of which might have been unpasteurized, at our hotel.
I
got better after taking
antibiotics for six weeks. My symptoms improved gradually and were gone within
a couple of months. When I returned to Sweden several years later, I avoided
the temptation to taste cheese.
Itzhak In Paris. 1972
The Power of a
Hug
Learning
that I had hypopharyngeal cancer in 2008 shook me to my core. As a physician, I
had access to my hospital’s laboratory results, so I took a shortcut. Rather
than wait for my surgeon to call me, I looked for my name in my hospital’s
pathology laboratory logbook.Following
my name, the logbook stated in no uncertain terms: “mildly differentiated
squamous cell carcinoma.”
I
could not believe my eyes. Is this possible? Can it be a mistake? In spite of
the hopeful questions that permeated my mind, I knew it was not a mistake:
Right here, in front of me, in black and white --my own death sentence. Suddenly, in that
instant, my whole world changed. I saw before me the inevitable end. To be
convinced that the diagnosis was real, I had to view the biopsy specimens under
the microscope myself. Strangely, I have always had a sense of invulnerability.
I was suddenly left with uncertainty about my prognosis and future.
I
was in a state of desperation and disbelief when I left the pathology
laboratory and walked into my internist’s office to break the news to him. He
slowly got out of his chair without uttering a word and gave me a big
supportive hug. It felt so good to know that he deeply cared for me beyond our
professional relationship. His embrace moved me and made me feel that I was
surrounded by caregivers who truly appreciated my pain and distress and who
shared my personal tragedy. It meant much more at that moment than a thousand
words of support or elaborate explanations. It was a spontaneous act of support
and concern at a moment of great distress as he conveyed his true feelings of
sympathy. It was the power of a caring human touch. I knew at that moment that
I was not alone in my future struggles and that he would be beside me all the
way.
I
had never been hugged by a medical caregiver nor have I given a hug to a
patient. I always believed in maintaining a professional distance between them
and me. Yet, at that
moment, I learned that there may be situations in practicing medicine where the power of a hug eclipses everything
else a caregiver can offer. A hug can take many forms. Even a simple pat on the
shoulder or a warm handshake conveys genuine care and concern.
Unfortunately,
I had to undergo a total laryngectomy to have my cancer removed. The period
after my surgery was physically and emotionally trying as I battled numerous
medical problems and also struggled to attain my ability to speak again. What
eased those difficult months was the knowledge that my otolaryngologist, Dr Castro’s, door
was always open to me and that he would act immediately to assist me in any way
he could. His dedication, emotional support, sincere care, and friendliness
helped me overcome many of the difficulties and problems I encountered. They were indispensable in my
road to recovery. I sometimes came to his office several times a week – often
just to talk with him and tell him how I was doing. I always felt welcomed and
he greeted me with a big smile and hugged me every time I left. This simple act
created a bond of intimacy between us and made me feel that I had a friend who
truly cared for me.
My
personal experiences changed my attitude toward my own patients. I am less
concerned now about maintaining a “professional distance“ or avoiding a caring
touch or hug when appropriate. My experience as a patient taught me that a
caring gesture could significantly deepen the healing relationship between a
patient and a physician. As a laryngectomee, I have found that speaking is
often difficult and challenging.
I am fortunate to have discovered the “power of a hug” that can convey
so much more than the spoken word.
I
was exposed to several events in my life that lead to my PTSD. Fortunately, my
PTSD is not severe and does not affect me in a significant way. I did not
realize that I had PTSD for many years and accepted its symptoms as my normal
way of thinking.
The
experiences that contributed to my PTSD include: my exposure to life
threatening experiences that began when living though bombardments of Haifa
during the 2ndWorld War; the
street battles in my neighborhood during Haifa in Israel’s War of Independence
in 1948; the bombardment of the city by the Egyptian frigate Ibrahim el Awal
during the 1956 Sinai Campaign; and my participation in the Six Day and the Yom
Kippur Wars. Other contributing events were repeated beating by my mother
through my childhood; a “playful” attack at night in 1957; the break-ins to my
homes in 1978 and 1989; the break-in to my hotel room in Los Angeles in 1979;
being mugged in Washington, D.C. in 1979; and the surgeries I had for throat
cancer in 2018.
Despite
these events, I was never deterred from taking physical risks and was
paradoxically eager to face danger. Those risk taking experiences includegetting into our neighbor’s apartment in Los
Angeles that was on fire and confronting thieves that broke into my house.
My
PTSD manifests itself by being hyper vigilant especially when walking at night;
becoming alert when hearing unfamiliar noises at home or sounds of a
helicopter; looking for potential ambush sites or mines when walking in
unfamiliar terrain; worrying about explosives in delivered packages; worrying
about car bombs when starting my car; watching the rear mirror of my car to
spot if I am followed; having immediate access to protective weapons (like s a
sharp object, knife, and gun), intolerance to the sound of gun fire, gun powder
smell, firework, and explosions; not tolerating the sight of severely wounded
animals or people (paradoxically I am not deterred from taking care of them);
and hating violence on television and movies.
After
I recognized that I suffer from PTSD in 2016, I sought help from the Veteran
Affairs psychiatry clinic in Washington DC. I attended 12 sessions with a
psychiatrist who used cognitive therapy that helped me better cope with PTSD. I
also attended group therapy at the VA for several months. I was taught to
analyze my reactions to threatening situations and determine if they make sense
or are realistic and justified. This helped me reduce the intensity of some of
my thoughts but did not eliminate them completely. I accept that I will have to
live with my PTSD and I am pleased that it is manageable and does not affect my
life in a significant way.
In the Golan Heights during the 6 Day War. 1967
MILITARY SERVICE
Fear and
heroism
It
was the 8th day of the 1973 Yom Kippur and my supply battalion was proceeding
on the narrow road called “Spider Road” (Tzir Akavish in Hebrew) leading
towards the Suez Canal. Our tank division was in the process of a counter
offensive against the Egyptians.
I was the supply battalion’s physician and had four medics and a van that was
used as an ambulance at
my disposal to care for the over 700
soldiers of our battalion. We were caught in a traffic jam that brought us to a
complete standstill. Suddenly, the situation became extremely dangerous as
artillery shells started falling very close -- about fifty meters north of the
road. I looked around and realized that the vehicle adjacent to our ambulance
was a gasoline semi-trailer tanker carrying tons of fuel. If that vehicle were to be hit, it would turn
into a fireball, spilling its contents all around and changing the desert into
an inferno of burning fuel. The resultant fire would engulf everything in a
radius of at least a hundred meters.
Remaining
in the ambulance was not safe. I immediately ordered my medics and driver to
get out and run away from the shells toward the hills south of the road. I
grabbed my Uzi and started running. Others were also running in the same
direction. I realized that the farther
I distanced myself from the fuel loaded semi-trailer, the greater my chances to
survive if the vehicle was hit.
This
was the first time in my life that I felt deep fear and was not sure that I
could survive. Running in the soft desert sand was not easy. My feet were sinking
in the sand and I made very little progress. My legs felt heavy and every step
I took required tremendous effort. I was running for my life, but had not gone
very far. After realizing that I was making little progress in the sand, out of
breath and resigned to the surrounding risks, I finally gave up and stopped
walking away from the road.
After
about ten minutes, the shelling stopped and we began returning to our vehicles.
The calm was temporary and the shelling resumed within a few minutes. Having returned
to the main road for only a few minutes, we sprinted back to the hills. Once
more, I could not get far because my legs sunk into the sand.
Suddenly,
help came from an unexpected source when a brave young lieutenant called on all
of us to return to our vehicles and drive away. He stood on the top of the
fuel-loaded semi-trailer only a hundred meters from the falling artillery
shells urging everyone to ignore the enemy fire, return to their vehicles, and
drive away. The sight of the lonely man disregarding enemy fire was so
astounding that others imitated him, overcoming their fear. Within a few
minutes, everyone obeyed the command and hesitantly returned to their vehicles
and drove away.
What
I have witnessed was a singular act of courage in which one person risked his
life in order to take command of a confusing and dangerous situation and save
the lives of many others. We owed our lives to the young officer for doing the
right thing at a perilous time. The dangerous situation created heroism.
Itzhak near the supply battalion's ambulance. 1972
Caring
for Captured and Wounded Enemy Soldiers
One
of the greatest challenges of a medical corps team member is to care for
captured and wounded enemy soldiers. The medical corps of the Israeli Defense
Forces (IDF) had always provided medical care for all injured soldiers even if
they were their adversaries. This is one of the core values of the IDF and is
also spelled out in the oath taken by all the physicians of the Israeli Medical
Corps. I served as an army medic during the 1967 Six Day War in the battle over
Jerusalem and as a battalion physician in the 1973 Yom Kippur War in the Sinai
Desert. In both wars I cared for many captured and wounded enemy prisoners.
The
Six Day War in 1967 broke out two weeks before the end of my last year at Hadassah
Medical School in Jerusalem. I had worked as a nurse in the emergency room of
the Hadassah University hospital for the prior two years and I was stationed at
that hospital when the war started. I also went out with the ambulances to
evacuate the wounded back to the hospital and cared for them during the ride.
During the first 72 hours we took care of over five hundred wounded soldiers
and civilians, among them many Jordanian and Egyptian prisoners of war. All the
wounded received the same care at the hospital, whether they were Jordanian,
Egyptian or Israeli. I cared for many enemy soldiers and struggled to save
their lives. For me, they were human beings in need of medical attention.
Watching my medical school teachers and the medical teams at Hadassah fight for
the lives of men who were fighting against us set an ethical standard for me
that I adhered to when I became a physician.
As a
battalion physician in the Yom Kippur War, I took care of several wounded
Egyptian soldiers, providing them with the same level of treatment that I gave
my own injured men. Even though I had
mixed feelings about treating the wounded enemy soldiers, I saw them first and
foremost as human beings in need of help. While my natural instincts and years
of medical training urged me to help any wounded warrior to the best of my
ability, I could not deny the feeling of animosity toward the enemy in the heat
of battle. I managed to overcome these misgivings, however, in the hopes that
our captured soldiers would be treated as well as we were treating the
Egyptians. Caring for these enemy prisoners of war humanized our adversary to
me, and I felt inner satisfaction that I could still honor the sanctity of the
human life, a value with which I had been raised.
In
particular, an experience with an injured Egyptian prisoner of war, a fighter
pilot whose plane was downed by an Israeli jet, changed my perspective and
humanized our adversaries to me. As I mended his broken leg and bandaged his
burns, he showed me a picture of his family as a sign of gratitude. In the
pictures were two young children, the same ages as my own two children. I
realized at that moment that he too wanted to see them again. Following this
encounter, it became emotionally easier for me to treat other wounded Egyptian
soldiers.
Many
of these wounded soldiers were visibly scared to death when I approached them.
I could see the fear in their eyes, as if they expected that I would harm them.
I wondered if their fear was based on knowing what they would have done to me should
I have been a prisoner of war. I also assumed that years of anti-Israeli
propaganda depicted us as monsters. Most of these soldiers were tense and
apprehensive throughout the treatment and looked in disbelief as we worked to
care for their wounds. I was proud that I could overcome my anger and treat
these individuals as I would have wanted to be treated in a similar situation.
I knew that as a Jew and as a medical professional it was my duty to do so.
“Don’t be a
Pollard”
I
served in the US Navy for 27 years as a physician, during which time we
collaborated with the Israeli Medical Corps. My personal connection with
Israeli physicians and scientists, some of whom were medical school classmates,
opened many closed doors
for me and facilitated our partnerships.
A
few years after Jonathan Pollard, an intelligence analyst for the US government
was caught spying for the Israeli government, my commanding officer, James Burens, joined me at a
meeting with our Israeli counterparts. The meeting took place at the main
biological defense research facility in Israel in Nes-Tziona. The research
complex was surrounded by tall fenced walls and watchtowers. As we got out of
our car before entering the complex, James turned to me and whispered in my
ear, “I hope you remember who you are working for. Don’t be a Pollard!”
This
was a shocking and hurtful
experience for me. Instead of words of appreciation for making the meeting
possible, my loyalty was questioned.
I always believed that the collaboration would benefit both my homeland, Israel, and its ally, the United States,which I proudly served as an U.S. citizen and officer
of the U.S. Navy. Instead of being appreciated, I was suspected as a potential spy. It was at
that moment I realized that as both a Jew and a former Israeli, I was questioned for having dual
loyalty.
Several
months after our mutual visit to Israel I was relieved when I no longer had to work under James Burens. I
continued to visit Israel
to teach and perform research with the Israelis until my retirement from the US
Navy in 2006. I was eventually awarded the Meritorious Service Medal by the US
Navy for my work. The collaboration of the US military corps with their Israeli
counterparts continues.
Below: CDR Brook lecturing in Israel to the Israeli Medical Corps.
2005
Difficult moments
during my military service
I
experienced several challenging events during my 28 years of service in the US Navy. Each
caused me aggravation and stress until it was resolved.
The first event occurred in 1987 when I had
lunch at the McDonald’s
restaurant in the Naval Medical Center complex in Bethesda. It was a hot summer
day. Prior to entering
the restaurant, I bought
a six-pack of beer at the
local Navy Exchange shop. I drank a can of beer while eating my lunch and did
not think that I was doing anything unusual because beer could be consumed with
meals eaten at the Naval Officers
Club across the street. Just before getting up to leave, I saw Jim Conklin and
another officer who was
also serving with me in the Armed Forces Radiobiology Research Institute
(AFRRI). They were sitting across
from me having lunch. I greeted them on my way out and they both smiled at me.
A couple
of days later, to my great surprise, I was summoned to the Institute’s commanding
officer who informed me that I was sighted having an alcoholic beverage in a
restaurant that does not serve alcoholic drinks. I assumed that Jim Conklin was
the person who reported me. I was very surprised.My explanation
was that I had no idea
that I was doing anything wrong,
but that was not accepted. Unfortunately, Jim Conklin became the next
commanding officer of AFRRI several months later.Even
though we were previously friendly with each other, his leadership period was difficult for me. He remained in
this position for only a year because he alienated many members of the
institute’s staff and generated an atmosphere of tension and conflict.
The second incident took place in 1989.
While attending a scientific meeting in the Netherlands,
I received a call from Dr.
Jay Sanford, the Dean of the Uniformed
Services University (USUHS),
where I was an Adjunct Professor of Pediatrics and Surgery. He informed me that
he received a complaint from the Singapore Gynecological Society. He said my review article
entitled “Bacterial Synergy in the Management of Pelvic Inflammatory Disease
(PID)” that was published in their local hospital proceedings had also been published
in the Archives of Gynecology in Europe. After I returned to Washington, I met Dr. Sanford and explainedthat what happened was due to
a misunderstanding and
miscommunication. I participated in a workshop on pelvic inflammatory disease
in Singapore several months earlier and the organizers requested a summary of
my presentation. I gave them a typed copy of my review article on PID, not realizing that they were
going to publish it in their local proceedings. I submitted the review later to
a regular journal in Europe. Dr.
Sanford was unsatisfied and viewed
this as a double publication,
which is not permitted in academia. The event soured my relationship with USUHS, particularly with Val
Hemming, the chairperson of the department of Pediatrics.
The third
issue occurred in 1990 when I was contacted by the Institutional
Review Board (IRB) of the National Naval Medical Center (NNMC) in Bethesda. The Boardasked why I did not have their
approval for publishing several studies on the recovery of anaerobic bacteria
at NNMC. I told them that I had
contacted the IRB ten years earlier to inquire if I would need their approval
to publish the microbiology of anaerobic infections at NNMC and Walter Reed
Military Medical Center (WRMMC). I was told by Dr. K M Shakir, the chairman of the IRB at that time,
that since I was not going to specify any individual patients, an approval is not needed. It
took me over ten years of diligent
work to collect the laboratory results over twelve years and correlate the data with specific
infections, treatments,
and other available clinical features.
Apparently,
the rules became more stringent over time and IRB approval was now required. I
was advised to submit such a request retrospectively. I followed the
instructions but instead of approving my request, the IRB decided to
investigate wether what I had already done violated their rules. They referred
the matter to the chief of infectious diseases, Dr.
J D Malone, who was
appointed to serve as an “Investigating officer.” I was looking forward to resolving the matter quickly
but the investigation was postponed because the Gulf War broke out. It finally resumed a year
later. I presented my case to Dr.
Malone, whose
investigation confirmed that I had indeed received verbal approval from Dr. Shakir, the head of the IRB
in 1981, through his
secretary, to conduct the studies. I had also shown him the data I collected
and explained how patients’ information
was protected. The case was finally closed after almost two years of personal
frustration, anxiety and mental anguish. To add insult to injury, no one
apologized for hassling me and causing me mental suffering. A few months later,
I got a call from the head of the IRB, who had already retired from the Navy and took a
position at the National Institute of Health. He finally apologized for the way they handled my
case.
I
was upset and insulted
by the way I was treated and decided not to perform future clinical studies at
NNMC and WRNMC. I did not want them to get credit for my work. I applied and
promptly received a faculty appointment at Georgetown University School of
Medicine as an Adjunct Professor of Pediatrics. I obtained IRB approvals for
all my future clinical studies from Georgetown.I attended clinical rounds and taught students there for the
next therty years. I continued to conduct and publish scientific studies at
AFRRI as a Naval Officer and was appointed as their representative at the USUHS
IRB where I served from 2001 to 2005.
The fourth time I had a problem was in 1992.
I presented an educational poster on beta lactamase production in head and neck infections at
the Interscience Conference of Antimicrobial Agents and Chemotherapy (ICAAC) in
Anaheim, CA. The poster was prepared by Upjohn Pharmaceutical Company and
included a video presentation by me and educational handouts. This poster was
shown at several medical
and scientific meetings
across the United States. While standing in front of the poster, I was approached by a middle
- aged attendee who presented
himself as Col. Robert Redfield, who was the infectious diseases advisor to the
Surgeon General. He told me that the poster was listed as an Upjohn
presentation in the commercial section of ICAAC’s program, which is
inappropriate because as a military officer I should not present for a
pharmaceutical company. I explained to him the nature of the poster and that
giving this presentation
was approved by my commanding officer (CO). He told me that he was going to
inform my CO about it. I asked Redfield to wait to send a letter to my CO until I returned to
Washington because he was in the process of compiling my annual performance
report that would influences my upcoming potential promotion. Because my CO was
a capricious and unpredictable individual, I was afraid that he would react
before I found out why
my poster was featured under the Upjohn Company. Redfield refused and rejected
the request made by the
Head of Infectious Diseases at NNMC to wait.
As predicted, my
CO immediately nominated an “Investigating officer” and did not approve the
annual monetary bonus pay I was supposed
to receive as a physician. The investigating officer cleared me of wrongdoing after the ICAAC scientific committee
confirmed that they had erred in listing my poster under a pharmaceutical
company. My CO approved my annual bonus pay, but the damage was irreversible. My annual performance report,which did not contain the needed wording required for
promotion,had already been sent out.
Dr. Redfield was known to oppose
collaboration with pharmaceutical companies and had alienated people throughout his career about this issue. Several years later, Dr. Redfield notoriously
promoted a discarded HIV vaccine - even after he admitted that it was flawed.
He was investigated for his HIV vaccine research and "inappropriate"
connections with evangelical groups. His military colleagues stated that Dr. Redfield was either
egregiously sloppy with data or he
fabricated it, and raised questions about his trustworthiness. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_R._Redfield#Controversies
Dr. Redfield was appointed as head of the CDC by
president Trump and became infamous for his mishandling of the COVID-19
pandemic.
One of the publication on the recovery of anaerobes in military
hospitals
LIFE EVENTS
Living
in Jerusalem
During
my medical school studies, I lived in different locations in Jerusalem. I
looked for affordable places because I worked to support myself through those
years. This required renting rooms and finding lodging in student dormitories.
When
I first arrived in Jerusalem, I stayed for three days with my father’s cousin, the.
Deutsch family, who was very religious and lived near the ultra-orthodox
neighborhood of Mea Shaarim. They had five children crowded in to a small two bedroom
apartment. Staying with them was odd; as they spoke Yiddish, prayed three times
a day and expected me to join them and put on Tefillin every morning.Fortunately,
I found a reasonably priced dormitory near Straus Street called Beit Chana, which
was managed by the strict and unfriendly Mr Citon. I shared a small room with a senior medical
student who snored at night, making it hard for me to get a good night's sleep.
I tried to stop his snoring by shaking his bed but was not successful. The dorm
was conveniently located near the Berman bakery, where I bought old bread to
make sandwiches.
Fortunately,
a vacancy became available in the University’s student dormitories close to the
medical school. I shared a room with two senior medical students who became my
friends. The dorms were in the Musrara neighborhood across the street from the
border with Jordan. In my second year of studies, I rented a room in the Geula
neighborhood in the apartment of an old woman. I had to live there because I
did not get space in the coveted student dorms. The renter’s unfriendly
grandson, who was my medical school classmate, also lived in the apartment.
Because
I was unhappy with my situation, I kept looking for different accommodation. I
was lucky to learn that rooms were available in a building near the Jerusalem
train station (Derech Chevron St. #4), across from the walls of the old
city. The building used to be an eye
hospital built in the 17th century above a Templar Knight Crusaders foundations
that had been abandoned after the War of Independence. It was being managed by
the religious youth movement of Bnei Akiva, which had lodging for their
members. Fortunately, even though I was never a member of Bnai Akiva, their
records showed that I was, in fact on their roles. This was because my cousin
and I had the same name. He was born two years before me in Austria (during the
Second World War) and we were both unknowingly named after our grandfather.
Because
there was no room available for me, the building manager gave me a tiny space
that had been once used as a bathroom. The walls on one side had tiles and a
soapbox. I stayed in this room throughout my studies. I kept it throughout the
time that Zahava and I rented an apartment in Katamon and also when we lived in
a married student dorm in Kiryat Yovel. Because this was not an official room,
I was not charged rent for the first three years. I was asked to pay only ten dollarsmonth
after I insisted on paying rent.
Living
in a building managed by Bnei Akiva required me to wear a kippah and not drive
on Shabbat. It was challenging when my girlfriends visited me. I used to park
my Vespa in an alley near the train station during Shabbat and walk to it
whenever I drove on that day. I used to roll the Vespa into my room when I left
the city. The view from my window was stunning. I heard the chanting of the
Muazin (Muslim official of a mosque who summoned the faithful to pray five
times a day from a minaret) from the Old City. From my windows I could see the
slopes of the biblical Gay Ben Hinom rolling towards the Dead Sea. From the roof,
I could see the walls of the Old City. The next door room housed the Torah ark
from the 17th century synagogue of Vittorio Veneto, Italy. The ark was
eventually moved to the Israel Museum. The proximity of the dorm to the border
made it difficult for me to enter or leave when Jordanian soldiers fired into
the city. Luckily, it was an infrequent event. I was asked to vacate the room
after the Six Day War and the building was eventually converted into the exclusive
Mount Zion Hotel. By 2015, the hotel charged over $375.00/night for what was
used to be my room.
Itzhak in Derech Chevron St. #4, Jerusalem.1962
Chick
When
I worked in Professor Bernkopf’s virology laboratory, I inoculated trachoma
virus into fertilized chicken eggs. The laboratory also used young chicks for
research. I brought a newly hatched chick to Izraella. It became her pet. He followed her around, slept
in her bed and treated her like his mother. This drove Izraella’s mother crazy
because the chick made annoying sounds and soiled their apartment.
After
Izraella was drafted to the Israeli army, the chick disappeared. I suspect that
her mother made chicken soup.
I
cannot fry a live fish
I
completed the final oral graduation examinations for medical school in October
1967. My internship was scheduled to begin in December. Zahava and I decided to
take a weeklong vacation at a Youth Hostel near Kfar-Nachum beach by the Sea of
Galilee (Lake Kinneret). We took the Egged bus to Tveria (Tiberias) and then
transferred to the bus to Kiryat Shmonea. I did not drive the Vespa because
Zahava wes five months pregnant (with Dafna). The room in the hostel was basic
and sparsely furnished. For us, it was an improvement. On previous trips to lake Kinneret, we slept
in sleeping bags in an empty building in Kibbutz Degania A.
The
only other guests in the hotel were a group of about a dozen art students from
the University of Tel-Aviv, their drawing model and their teacher. They were
jolly and friendly and invited me to join their art sessions, including drawing
sketches of their nude model.
They
often caught small fish from the lake and fried them for dinner. I tried to
follow their lead and made an improvised fishing rod. I placed dry bread on the
improvised hook and, to my surprise; the hungry fish were fighting to bite it.
It took less than a minute before I caught a fish. I released the small fish
from the hook and watched him struggling for air to stay alive. This was too distressing
for me to see and, without much hesitation, I threw the fish back into the
Kineret. I could not kill a living creature that wanted so badly to live.
I
took a bus to Tiberias and bought a pound of small lake fish from the fish
market. We ate the fish for dinner after I fried them. It was easier to deal
with bought fish than killing one myself.
Darwin's
tubercle
I
was in my third year of medical school. I was busy dissecting our assigned cadaver in the
anatomy laboratory Professor Hass, who was one of our teacher tapped my shoulder. He asked me if I knew that my
left earlobe had a unique
feature called “Darwin's tubercle.”
The professor, who was
instructing a group of eight of us
as we surrounded the operating table, was an expert in anthropology and observed my unusual
earlobe.
I
was completely surprised by his remark, as I had not known that my earlobe is
unusual. He explained that Darwin's tubercle (or
auricular tubercle) is a congenital ear condition, which often presents as a
thickening on the outer rim of the ear at the junction of the upper and middle
thirds. This feature was first mentioned by Charles Darwin in the opening pages
of “The Descent of Man,”
and “Selection in Relation to Sex.”This notch is considered as evidence of the
retention, during the process of evolution, of genetically determined
structures indicating common ancestry among primates which have pointy ears. A
similar notch is found in some monkey species, such as the Macaque and Papio.
I
have looked for this feature in other people, including my children and grandchildren, but have not yet observed it
in any other person. I saw it,
however, in my primate relatives at
the zoo.
Itzhak's ear lobe showing Darwin's tubercle
Darwin's tubercle
in amacaque monkey
My BB gun was useful
It
was the summer of 1978 and my three children Dafna, Danny, and Tammy, were staying with me for the
summer. I was living in my house on Byforde road in Kensington, Maryland. Dafna was away that
night on an outing with
the Jewish Community Center camp.
It
was 2 am when I heard strange noises from the kitchen. I was not yet asleep
because I had been working until ten minutes earlier on a new manuscript about ear infections. After
hearing the noise, I had to quickly make up my mind on what to do about it. I decided to get up and find
out what was happening. I worried that it was a break-in and that I may have to confront an
intruder. I had a hunting knife in
my nightstand as well as a BB gun that I had recently purchased at a
garage sale for five dollars. I chose the gun that was a replica of a German
Mauser pistol. I knew that it was not an effective weapon, but I had no other
choice.
I
did not turn the lights on so that I could have the advantage of surprise. I walked quietly downstairs
to the kitchen. There was a full moon and I could clearly
see a shadow of a person through the kitchen door. He opened the screen door slightly and broke out a square in the glass
window. He inserted his
hand through the hole to
turn the knob and began pushing the door. I got angry at the blunt intrusion
and decided to act swiftly. I placed my right foot in front of the slightly opened door to prevent it
from opening completely and stuck the barrel of my pistol in the man’s belly
through the broken glass.
I
spoke quietly to not wake up my children: “if you move I will shoot you.” He complied and raised his
hands. I had to decide if I should let him in or let him go. Since my children
were still asleep, I instructed the intruder to step into the kitchen and sit across from me on the other side
of the round kitchen table. I wanted the table to serve as a buffer between us.
I also stayed as far away as I could because I did
not want the intruder to see that the caliber of my pistol was small and that it was only a BB gun. I
retreated to the other corner of the kitchen and turned on the kitchen light.
On
the other side of the table was a young man in his twenties. He asked me if he
could show me his driver’s license, but I told him to keep his hands raised. I
called 911 and told the Montgomery Police operator “I am holding a thief at gunpoint in my house.” They told me that they would be there within five
minutes and asked me to stay on the
phone.
A few minutes later, I heard
the police sirens and the sounds of a car parking in front of the house. There
was a firm knock on the
door. I instructed the man not to move and left the kitchen to open the front
door. A couple of police officers walked in and arrested the intruder, leading him away handcuffed.
When the police officers saw my gun, they told me to put it away and not to
show it to them. When I told him that it was merely a BB gun, they were astounded. My
children slept through the entire
incident. I only told them what had happened several years later when they got older.
After
a few days, I learned from
a neighbor that the intruder’s family used to live in the neighborhood and they
would appreciate it if I did
not press charges. I did not press charges. My only expense was the purchase of
a square of glass to repair the kitchen door. However, the memory of what
happened still haunts me.
I always get up and check the house when I hear unusual noises at night.
The
story about what occurred that night got some publicity and appeared in the
Washington Post. I was also interviewed by Fox
evening news.
This
experience made me realize that my reaction to danger is to confront and eliminate
the source of danger, if
possible. This is what I was trained to do growing up in Israel and when I
served in the Israeli Army. Recognizing
that I would be better off having a real weapon if danger arises, I purchased a
pistol. I keep it ready for use in a secure place within reach and practice
quickly unlocking it in case I need it. I used the gun 22 years later when
someone broke into our house in Washington, D.C.
After the house alarm went off, I went downstairs
with a drawn and loaded pistol, but the thief had escaped. My 16 year old daughter, Sara, followed me downstairs
despite my request that she stay in her room. Apparently, she also believed in
confronting danger. I called the police who came and checked for fingerprints
and other clues that would lead to capturing the thief, but they failed to find
the intruder.
I
experienced three incidents when I
was attacked at night. They were all scary and traumatic.
The first one occurred when
I was 16 years old and was away at
“working camp” with my youth movement, Hatzophim (Scouts),at
kibbutz Cheftzi - Ba in Izrael Valley. Since the age of fourteen we used to go to working camps for two to
three weeks each summer at
different kibbutzim.. We
were assigned various tasks,
which included harvesting fruits, picking cotton or working in the fields. This
was a great opportunity to bond with friends and learn about nature. The
tradition camp’s last night traditionaly a time for m mischief, which included stealing the flag from the
common residence building of the
younger children.
It
was about nine in the evening when I was walking in the dark on a narrow path
that led to the building
where we stayed. I was
suddenly attacked by several young
children. They emerged from the darkness, pulled me down to the
ground, and then disappeared. I was not hurt but was shaken and humiliated. I
ran to our building and told my friends what had happened. We all assumed that this was perpetrated by
the kibbutz kids in
retaliation to us stealing their flag. Gershon (Federmman) who was (and still
is) a good friend agreed, with
my urging, to retaliate
and punish the kibbutz
kids for attacking me. He and I put on our bathing suits, spread cooking oil on
our skin, grabbed a long
water hose and broke into the children’s
common residence building,
splashing water everywhere. Any attempt to grab us failed because our skin was
slippery. After got everyone soaking wet, we retreated, feeling satisfied that we had
the last word.
The other
unpleasant incident occurred during
one of my visits to Los Angeles in 1978. I flew to California for an interview
for a pediatric infectious diseases faculty position in Fresno. I came to Los
Angeles to see my children before traveling
to Fresno and stayed in a single floor motel on Wilshire Boulevard in western Los Angeles. I made sure that my
door was locked and the windows were secure. I woke up in the middle of the night by a noise in my
room. Even though I did not turn the light on, I could see a man standing by my bed.When I asked him what he was doing in my room, he told me to turn my head
away and not look in his
direction or he would shoot me. He immediately ran through a door that
connected my room to an adjacent room and disappeared. Apparently, the
perpetrator got into my room through the adjacent room where the windows were
not locked. I tried to chase the burglar but he was gone. I woke the motel’s
manager by knocking on his door.He shrugged his
shoulders in indifference and called the police, who were unhelpful.
The
only items that were missing were my wallet that held about $100, my driver’s
license, and credit cards
and a leather bag that had my wedding band and rental car contract. I was no longer wearing the wedding band and was keeping it in the bag.
Fortunately, I had insurance for such an emergency, and got an immediate
transfer of $200 through Western Union, and all my credit card companies were
notified. I got a temporary driver’s
license at the DMV in Los
Angeles the next day. The money I received helped me continue my trip to
Northern California. Surprisingly,
my leather bag was found
lying in the street without the money or credit cards. The person who found the bag called
Zahava’s home number which I listed as a local contact in the rental car contract that was still
in my bag.
I
sued the motel for negligence for not preventing the burglary by locking the
windows of the adjacent room. I
was compensated about $2,000 for
the damages and grief. However, the psychological trauma was never gone. Since
then I try not to stay on the ground level of hotels, double check the windows
and add my locking device to the hotel’s doors.
The third
incident
occurred in Washington, D.C. in the summer of 1979. Joyce and I went to see an
early evening movie at a theater on Wisconsin Avenue about a mile from our
house. Because I was unable to find a parking place near the theater, I dropped Joyce off near the
ticket office and drove away to find a parking place close by. I finally found
a parking space on a street parallel to Wisconsin Avenue. The street was quiet and
there were no houses on one side where it bordered an open field. As I got out
of the car, I saw a young black
teenager, approaching me from behind the car. He had a menacing look
on his face, which looked threatening. When I turned my head to the other
direction, I saw two other young men blocking my way. I knew right away that I was facing an assault and
immediately punched the first man. They all grabbed me and pushed me into the
parking spot of the
nearby house.While two of them were muffling my voice and holding me
down, one of them punched me with what
seemed to be brass knuckle. They took my wallet, which had three
dollars, my hospital beeper, and a $15 worth Timex hand watch, and ran away. I
was bleeding from my nose and face. A passing driver called the police, who came within minutes. I had
no idea who the muggers were. I thought
they might have been students from a nearby public high school. The police
officers drove me there and we went into a large basketball arena where young
students were practicing. I remember the looks of contempt the students gave me. I could not recognize
the offenders. I asked the policemen to take me to the movie theaterso I could inform Joyce what happened. I was taken to
Washington Hospital Center where X-rays
revealed that the lower portion of my
frontal bone, which
separates the maxillary sinus from the brain, was cracked.
Since there were no other symptoms, I was let go.
This
was a traumatic experience,
especially since I was taking care of similar youngsters at
Children’s Hospital all the time. I wondered afterwards if any of those I cared for would one day turn and
attack me. It took me a long time to get over the trauma. I learned the hard way
that parking my car on a quiet street might not be safe.
Helping a person in distress as a laryngectomee
As a physician I had responded to emergencies
on numerous occasions. These were aboard airplanes, and at the side of the road
after car accidents. I felt that it was my duty to help others and save lives
if needed. After I became a laryngectomee I realized that my ability to help
would be curtailed because I would no longer be able to provide mouth to mouth
resuscitation if needed. This is why I hesitated for a couple of seconds before
I rushed to help a woman who was choking.
This happened at a place where I would have not
expected - in the middle of a theater play. It occurred in 2011
while I was watching a play in theater J in Washington DC. In the second half
of the play I heard sounds of commotion in the back of the theater. Suddenly
someone yelled: “We need help! Is there a doctor?” The actors stopped the play
and one of them repeated the requested for help. I looked at the direction of
the commotion and saw a woman who was choking and struggling to breath. I hesitated
for a second because I worried that I could not do adequate cardio respiratory
resuscitation which included mouth to mouth ventilation. However, knowing that
the new American Heart association guidelines require only chest compressions
was reassuring because I knew that I could deliver this treatment if needed. I
also worried about my ability to communicate with the person in distress.
Fortunately, I was speaking through a hands free heat and moisture exchanger
(HME) placed on my stoma which allowed me to use both of my hands while
speaking, and I was using a waistband voice amplifier which allowed me to be
heard in the crowded theater.
No one else in the audience of almost 300
people responded to the call for help. I knew right away I had to act. I
quickly climbed the steps toward the woman in need and helped her regain her
breathing. Fortunately the problem was not serious and it took only a couple of
minutes before she recovered and we were all able to watch the end of the play.
I felt a sense of gratification after the
incident not only because I was able to help a person in need but also because
I realized that I can still do it as a laryngectomee. This was a healing
experience for me as I finally regained my self confidence to respond to emergencies
as I did before.
Ha' Gomel prayer
The
Jewish prayer ”Birkat Ha’ Gomel” is recited when someone survives a dangerous
situation or recovers from a serious illness or accident. My father first told
me that I should recite this prayer after I survived my first accident on my
Vespa scooter in 1962. Unfortunately, I had to say this prayer multiple times
throughout my life. Some of these times were after accidents or after facing
dangerous situations while driving.Other times were after surviving
wars and serious illnesses. A friend told me that I might have a lucky star to
have survived all these dangerous occurrences. I would like to believe this is
true. I also believe that I possess a strong survival instinct that helped me cope with some of
those situations. Below
are some of those occurrences.
A.The Vespa scooter
I
purchased a used 1956 Vespa scooter in 1962 when I was a medical school student
in Jerusalem. Before buying the Vespa I used to walk from one private high
school student to the other, making a circular route through Jerusalem. After earning
enough money tutoring students,
I was able to make the purchase which make everything easier for me. I could
not afford to purchase a
car.
Unfortunately,
I had several accidents while
riding the scooter. I lost consciousness on each of these accidents
and do not recall what led to the accident. All I know about what transpired is from the police
reports.
The first accident occurred on a weekday in
1962 at 4:30 a.m. when I drove to work at Hadassah Medical Center in Ein-Kerem. I was in the
second of six years of medical school and worked from 5 am to 8 a.m. collecting
urine and stool samples and weighing patients in the internal medicine
department A. The Vespa’s exhaust box broke and caused me to lose control of the scooter. I
had a mechanic fix the exhaust box a few days earlier and ignored his advice to get a new
one. I did not have a helmet, as it was not required then. In addition to a severe concussion, I
fractured my left clavicular bone and the left petrous bone of my skull. I was
hospitalized at Hadassah
hospital and three days later, I developed paralysis on the left side of my
face. My fencing instructor,
Wilf, whom I knew from Chugim
School in Haifa, had sustained a similar accident a year earlier and came to visit me at the hospital. Half of Wilf’s
face was permanently paralyzed as a result of his accident. He tried to cheer me up to no avail.
Professor Feimester, the chairperson of the department of otolaryngology,
recommended that we wait and see if the paralysis would disappear rather than operate. I rushed to the
bathroom every morning and grimaced
in front of the mirror to see if the paralysis was still there. Miraculously, after ten days, I observed slight movement on
the left side of my face. This was the beginning of a slow recovery.Most of the facial paralysis was gone within a few
weeks.
I
did not discard my Vespa after that accident because I relied on it to make a
living and maintain a social life. I took trips with it to the mountains around
Jerusalem and northern Israel. I even participated with my girlfriend at the
time, Izraela, in a scooter rally from Jerusalem to Tel Aviv, organized by an Israeli oil
company (Paz). It was a fun event
with over eighty participants. I got helmets for the first time. The rally
could have ended in a tragedy because, at the final stage of the trip, when we were on a steep descent from the mountains of
Jerusalem into the main highway, the Vesp’s rear brakes burned out and I could
not slow down. I could smell the burned brakes and tried my best to maintain
control of the speeding Vespa andavoidcrashing into other riders.
Miraculously, the last hundred
feet of the road turned
into an uphill stretch,
which slowed us down and prevented us from bursting onto the main Tel Aviv to
Jerusalem highway.
We
had to drop out of the rally.
I was able to fix the brakes and drive back to Jerusalem. I knew I had to
recite the Ha’ Gomel prayer.
My second accident riding the Vespa
occurred one year later.
I worked on weekends from 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. as a night guard at the Hebrew
University Givat - Ram Campus in Jerusalem. Because I was self-sufficient, I
needed to earn a living and pay for my medical tuition. I had several additional
jobs - tutoring high school students and working as an orderly at Hadassah Hospital. The last
thing I remember prior to the accident is that I was doing my guarding rounds on a cold wintery night. I woke
up in the neurosurgical Department in Hadassah and had no idea how I got there.
I was told that I was brought to the emergency room by a Magen David Adom
(Israel’s emergency services) ambulance after sustaining an accident while riding my Vespa.
Fortunately, I wore my helmet and had only a few scratches on my left foot and
arm. I had no recollection of what happened and learned that I drove myself on the Vespa
to the Magen David Adom treatment services building after getting injured.
In
retrospect, I suspect that I slipped on the icy road while driving back to sign
off from my guarding shift. I was
tired and confused for several weeks but slowly recovered. A Gommel
prayer was warranted again.
The last accident happened on Israel’s
Independence Day in 1969 when we were living in Rehovot, Israel. I was in my first year of pediatric
residency at Kaplan Hospital and about to complete a six weeks Reserve Medical
Officers course in the Israeli Army. I got a day off for the Independence Day
celebrations and drove my Vespa to buy theater tickets. I woke up two days later in Kaplan
Hospital’s orthopedic department. I was told that a taxicab made a U-turn and hit me when I was waiting
for a green light at the city’s main downtown intersection. I had no
recollection of what
happened for the prior 36 hours.
Apparently,
in addition to the concussion I sustained despite wearing a helmet, I broke
several bones in my left palm and needed
surgery to put them back together. I was fortunate that Dr. Isidor Kessler, the
only hand surgeon in Israel at that time, had started working at our hospital several months
earlier after concluding his training in the United States. Although he was not
on call, he came to perform the operation after my wife, Zahava, contacted him while he was at an Independence Day party
in Tel Aviv.
Dr.
Kessler had to perform two more operations on my third finger to restore my
ability to use my left hand.
I still have some scars and movement limitations in my hand. Dr. Kessler became
one of the icons of hand surgery and the procedure he used while repairing my
tendons bears his name (https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC4815901/).
( I had surgery on the index finger in same hand 53 years later by Dr Michael
Kessler (who is not related to Isidor Kessler), in Georgetown University
Hospital).
It
took me several months to recover from the concussion and hand injury. I needed
physical therapy and a lot of rest. I was able to conclude the last two weeks
of the Medical Officer’s course and get promoted to the rank of lieutenant a
year later, and was assigned to be a battalion physician.
I
sued the taxi driver’s
insurance company and received monetary
compensation that I used as down payment for our new apartment in Rehovot.
After
the accident, Zahava gave me a non-negotiable ultimatum to abandon the Vespa. I
got a driver’s license for a car and purchased a car
several months after recovering from my surgeries. I drove the Vespa one more
time to overcome any fear I may have had before finally selling it. I still
miss it.
Left: Itzhak on his Vespa student day parade in 1965. Right: In front of the Dome of the Rock on
Temple mount in Jerusalem .June, 1967
Riding a motorized moped scooter in Washington DC. 2021
B.A snowy day in Pennsylvania
I
was scheduled to give Grand Rounds at Hershey Medical Center in Pennsylvania in
the winter of 2002. It was a cold and icy, wintery day and heavy snow was forecasted. I never
missed a presentation in the past and did not want to give in to the weather. I
left early in the morning to make the 3 hour drive before more snow would
accumulate. To my dismay,
heavy snow started to fall after I passed Frederick, Maryland. I kept on driving until I finally
realized that it was becoming treacherous and difficult. I drove a small 1995
Toyota Corolla that had trouble plowing through the snow. I finally decided to
abort my trip and stopped to call the educational department of the Hershey
Medical Center to explain the situation. They understood and the lecture was going to be rescheduled for a later date.
My
goal was to make it safely back. I followed a plow truck that paved the way in
the snowy road, which made
it easier to reach the freeway between Harrisburg and Baltimore. I was hoping
that this main thoroughfare would be kept plowed and safer and easier to
navigate. This was indeed the case and initially I was able to proceed, driving
slowly and carefully.
Suddenly, the car started sliding from
side to side. I was
gliding to the left, unable to control the car. I
remembered reading that the way to control a sliding car is to do the opposite
of what one’s instinct would dictate - and turn the steering wheel towards the
sliding side. I did that and miraculously the Toyota stopped sliding and I
moved away from the railing. Just as the car moved to the right, a heavy
semitrailer zoomed through the lane I had just vacated. It was clear that if I had not gained control of the
car and moved it to the right, my small Toyota would have been
crushed by the speeding truck.Surprisingly, I kept my calm and composure
throughout the incident. The whole thing lasted several seconds but for me it
happened in slow motion. I immediately realized that I was lucky to have averted severe injury
or death. I kept driving to the first exit where I left the freeway and parked
the car for awhile to digest what had just happened and to allow my racing
heart to slow down. HaGomel prayer was certainly in place for what had just
happened or what had not happened. I made it safely back to Washington and
returned to Hershey in the spring to give my lecture.
Joyce and Sara in front of the 1995 Toyota, in 2003. The 1985 Volvo
can be seen in the back
C. Narrow
escapes in Utah
I narrowly escaped running into animals
three times in Utah. The first encounter was in the summer of 1977
when I was driving with Zahava from Yellowstone National Park to Salt Lake City
on Route 80. The sun had just set when I suddenly observed a pair of shiny eyes
ahead of me reflecting the car’s headlights. The shiny eyes did not move even
after I honked. I realized that I was about to hit a small animal because the
shining eyes were low and close to the ground. Even though I was not speeding,
I knew that I would not be able to stop the car in time. The other option was
to swerve the car to avoid hitting the animal. This was a dangerous move that
could cause the car to roll over so
I chose not to do it.
The only thing I could do was take my foot off the gas pedal and keep driving
straight. The animal was hit by the bottom of the car. Amazingly, I made all these considerations in a fraction of a second. I
felt bad that I hit the animal, which was probably a fox or raccoon, but I knew
that I made the right decision.
The
other encounter was in 2005 when Yoni, Danny and I traveled to Zion and Bryce
National Parks. We were driving back from Bryce to Las Vegas on the narrow and
curvy Route 20, which
leads to Interstate 15. It was getting dark when a large moose suddenly burst into the
road a few feet in front of the car. Fortunately, I instantly stopped the car and avoided colliding into the huge animal.
The
third incident happened when my wife, Joyce, our daughter, Sara,
and I traveled to Zion and Bryce National Parks in 2004. We rented a van in Las
Vegas and were joined by my daughter, Dafna,
and her boyfriend James, had come from Los Angeles. The
scenery was stunning and after spending a day in Bryce, we drove to our hotel
in St. George, Utah. It
was about 8 pm and Interstate 15 was not busy.
I
kept my speed below 65 miles/hour because I remembered my experiences with
animals in this region. There were also deer warning signs on the freeway. I
was having a lively conversation with Sara, who was sitting in the passenger's
seat when the car's headlights suddenly revealed a large deer staring at us
about sixty feet in front of the moving van. I fortunately avoided hitting deer in the
past by swiftly reacting to the situation and hoped I could do it again. Stopping
or swerving the large van was risky. I weighed my options and chose to slow the car down.Since
there were no cars behind
or in front of us, I slightly moved
the van to the left,
hoping to avoid colliding with
an animal. I was almost successful but the animal was hit by the right
edge of the bumper and ran to the side of the road. I kept driving for a while, monitoring the car’s
instruments to make sure that everything was functioning well. Unfortunately,
the engine's heat gauge started to creep upwards and we began to smell
evaporated radiator fluid. It was clear that the radiator was damaged and
leaking fluid.
I
left the freeway at the
first exit we passed and stopped by the side of the road. I saw that the left edge of the
front bumper and the parking light were damaged. Getting help was crucial but
my phone had no reception. Luckily, James’ cellphone had reception but we could not reach Budget
Rent A Car emergency services. I remembered that we had Triple A extended road services, which would allow us to tow the car back to
Las Vegas. After calling Triple A,
a state police officer stopped to
make sure that we were okay. An hour later, a tow truck
arrived. The driver dropped everyone except me off at our hotel in St. George and I continued with
him to Las Vegas to return the car.
The
drive to Las Vegas was
scary because the tow truck driver kept dozing off, causing the truck to veer to the side of the road.
He woke up whenever he heard the truck’s skidding sounds. I offered to drive
the truck myself but he declined. Miraculously, we arrived safely at 6 a.m to the rental company’s
offices. After filing
paperwork and reporting
the circumstances of the accident, I got a new van and drove back to St. George
to continue our trip to Zion National Park and Las Vegas.
Three
months later, while
driving from Roanoke,
Virginia, to Washington, D.C. on Interstate 81 after giving an evening lecture, a
deer jumped in front of my car. I avoided
hitting it because I drove only 50 miles/hour after seeing deer warning signs. I
learned my lesson and regained my confidence, as I was able to avoid another
mishap.
The
incident in Utah merited another Ha'Gomel prayer.
Above: The front of the damaged van. 2004
Below: Sara, Itzhak, Joyce, James
and Dafna. Zion National Park. 2004
D.Closecall in the Negev desert
I
like the archeological sites in Israel and try to see them whenever I visit the
country. On my visit to Israel in April 2018, I planned to visit several
archeological digs in the Negev desert south of Ber-Sheva. I was driving the
car alone because my daughter,
Sara, who joined me for the first part of my trip had already returned
to the United States, and my daughter,
Tammy, and granddaughter, Darly, who also joined me part of the trip,
were busy on that day. It was a beautiful sunny day, and driving was easy. I
left the main highway to Eilat to a side road leading to the archeological
remnants of Shivta, an ancient Nabatean and Byzantine city.
It
was a narrow two-way road with almost no traffic. Suddenly, I saw a cloud of dust about half a mile ahead of me, which was coming closer and
closer. As the dust cloud approached me, a speeding car emerged into my lane. I had to make an
immediate choice - stay in my lane or move away. The road had no shoulder and going into the sand to the
right was not a safe option. I instantly moved to the left lane, a fraction of a second before
the speeding car zoomed by
my right side. It happened so fast that I had no time to absorb or feel any
fear. Similar to several
years earlier on the snowy road in Pennsylvania, the event only lasted a few seconds but it
played in slow motion for me,
which allowed me to make the correct choice. I realized that my life was
spared. I wondered how
my family would have found out what happened to me if I were killed or
seriously injured. Friends told me afterwards that the roads in the Negev are
dangerous and that many fatal accidents occur on them. I was also told that some of the local
Bedouins drive recklessly. I never found out why the driver who almost killed
me was on the wrong side of the road. I kept driving and visited the beautiful
archeological sites in the area,
remembering to say Ha' Gomel again when I came back to the United States.
Above: Itzhak taking a selfie in Shivta, Israel, 2018
Below: Itzhak and Sara in Jordan Star National Park, 2018
E. Additional
events
I
shared only some of the events that merited the reciting of the Gomel prayer.
There were more experiences that led me to recite Ha' Gomel - when
I survived throat cancer; detected a blocked carotid artery in time; was not shot by an Israeli soldier during the Six Day War who mistook me for a Jordanian soldier because I carried a Jordanian Army helmet I found; and
survived a direct hit by a katyusha rocket fired by Egyptian troops during the
1973 Yom - Kippur War. I wrote more about the last two survival story in my book “In
the Sands of Sinai, a Physician Account of the Yom-Kippur War.”I know that I dodged many bullets in my life
and that eventually one would get me. However, as long as I can, I will keep
avoiding those bullets and recite HaGomel when appropriate.
Bias
My
first exposure to African Americans occurred when I started my fellowship in
infectious diseases at Wadsworth West Los Angeles Veterans Administration
Hospital. I could not understand most of what they said, felt uneasy around
them, and struggled to relate to them. What aggravated my discomfort was that I had previously been mugged by
African Americans. However, I now
realize that I was being racist. My feelings changed completely after
the mass immigration of Ethiopian Jews to Israel in the early 1990s . I regarded these black Jews
as equal to all other Jewish people. What also changed how I felt was the birth
of my first granddaughter, Darly, whose father is African American. I love her dearly.
Participating in group therapy
for veterans who suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) at the Veterans Administration Hospital in
Washington DC made me realize that their
feelings and the way they handle PTSD are no different from the way I do. I am
proud and relieved that I
was able to grow and challenge my
initial bias. I change my perspectives and am becoming color blind to race differences.
Darly and itzhak, New York City. 2007
It
is good to have a good friend in the police
I
carried a metal toolbox in my Vespa that was locked in a small luggage
container on the side of my scooter. The metal box was made by my father and I
used it when I needed to change a flat tire, clean the engine, or make repairs.
It was 1962 and Izraela and I went to see a movie in downtown Jerusalem. I was
shocked to find the locked luggage compartment broken and the toolbox gone when
we returned to the Vespa, which was parked on a side street.
I
was angry and felt violated. With my
frustration, I shared what happened with a police detective who lived in the
same Police Home Apartment building as Izraela’s family. He promised to help. I
had little hope that he would succeed because there was little likelihood that
the culprits would be found. To my amazement, he found the stolen toolbox
within two days. In addition to the box with all the tools, he brought more
tools that were confiscated from the thieves. He refused to tell me how he was
able to locate the stolen property so quickly, but hinted that he work closely
with criminals and even befriended them to gain their trust. He shared with me
that he often uses threats and intimidation to solve mysteries.
This
incident revealed to me that the police can solve even hopeless mysteries when
they try hard and that it is helpful to have connections and friends in the
police force.
Taking
pictures
I
started taking pictures when my girlfriend Izraela lent me her late father’s
Retina-2 camera. It was an amazing camera that had automatic as well as manual
options. By using it for several years, I learned how to consider the correct
lighting, depth and speed features that would generate the desired results. It
was a trial and error process. I also read photography guidebooks and asked for
advice from the friendly owners of a camera shop in Jerusalem where I developed my pictures.
I
was amazed by the new world that opened to me when I was able to document
events, capture sceneries forever, and find new angles to accentuate views and the
unique features of people. I regarded each picture as an artistic creation and
attempted to make it as attractive as possible. I also enjoyed composing scenes
where my subject blended in with their surroundings in the way they stood or
moved. I channeled my artistic abilities as a painter and an art student in
high school to a new field. Because film and printing were expensive, I always
tried to achieve the best results the first time. This forced me to plan every
picture by choosing the correct optical settings and scenery.
By
1967 I eventually learned how to develop film and print pictures myself. I used
the closet in our married couples’ student dormitory in Kiryat Yovel, Jerusalem
as a dark room. This enabled me to experiment with different printing
techniques and to create unique and different prints of my photographs.
I
returned the Retina-2 to Izraela when our relationship ended. Zahava’s parents
gave me an excellent automatic Cannon camera after we got married. I used it
mostly to take pictures of our children to capture their growth, as well as
happy events in their lives such as birthday parties and weekend trips. After
arriving in Los Angeles in 1974, I purchased a simple Kodak movie camera at a
garage sale. I only filmed a single five minute roll, which captured our
children playing and the trip we took to
northern California. I developed that roll and watched it only 45 years later.
The
third camera I got was a Cannon Rebel EOS. Over the years I also purchased
several movie cameras which that recorded on cassettes. My son Yoni was interested
in taking pictures and videos from an early age. My older children were also interesed
in taking pictures when they were young but I was reluctant to allow them to do
it because I was afraid they would break the camera. For some reason, I did not
deny Yoni the opportunity to take pictures and movies, although I was still
worried that he might break the cameras. In retrospect, I believe that at this
stage of my life I realized that allowing Yoni to pursue his passion was worth
taking the risk of him breaking a camera. I also tried to teach him the
principles of taking pictures and movies. He was a fast learner and hopefully
benefitted from my lessons.
Mount
Zion skyline, sunrise. 1963
Akko
fishermen port. 1964
SETBACKS TURNED AROUND
Moving from
Chugim to Ha’Reali Ha’ivrie
School
I
had several setbacks in my
life that could have derailed my education and my life’s objectives. I was able
to turn some of them around and convert them into positive turning points.
The first setback
occurred when I was 13 years old was a student at Chugim School in Haifa. A letter was sent to my
parents at the end of the school year informing them that I would not be able
to continue the next school year. This was becauseof
the pranks I had been involved
in, including wounding my
classmate (Shamai Shpiezer) when we were joy fencing with wooden sticks ( see D’Artagnan
to the rescue story). A similar letter arrived the previous year but I was given another chance after my
father met the principal
and explained that my mother was seven months pregnant and would be very upset
if she learned about my expulsion. The truth was my
mother knew about the letter, but used her condition as an excuse.
I
was upset about my
expulsion. I had been
studying at the Chugim
School since first grade and all of my friends were there. I was angry at the principal for expelling me and
felt that I did not deserve the
punishment. I made the decision
that I would not let this ruin my education. Chugim was an excellent private
school, but Hareali
H’aivrii School was better and considered the best school in the city, if not the country. My friendZohar Manna who was my idol, was a student at that school. (Zohar became
a professor of Mathematics and Computer Sciences at Stanford University and the Weizmann Institute of Sciences. He pioneered theoretical
computer science techniques.)
It was difficult to get
accepted to the Hareali H’aivrii School because it required passing challenging admission tests. I
had little time to study for the
tests because I had to prepare for my Bar Mitzvah ceremony in several weeks. I
took the written examination but did not pass.
Itzhak (standing) Nitza and Zohar Manna (1 & 2nd right), Mount
Carmel summit ( Muchraka). 1962
I
realized that even though I was a good student, there was a knowledge gap
between the Chugim and the Hareali H’aivrii Schools and that I needed to better prepare for the
admission test. I spent the following year studying at Geula public elementary
school, which was tuition free. This enabled my parents to send me, twice a week, to an
outstanding private tutor, Mr. Orr, who was the vice principal of a branch of the
Hareali H’aivrii Hareali School. Mr. Orr was a skinny, middle aged man who lived in an apartment on Hapoel street close to
Arlozorof street. and held his
teaching sessions in a tiny room. He was a disciplined tutor who taught me how
to study in an organized
way. He taught me English, mathematics and Hebrew grammar and pull on my left
ear when I made a mistake. He encouraged me to read English literature, even when I did not understand
all the words, and to constantly
practice the English words I was
learning.
I passed
the admission examination to Ha’Reali with distinctions one year later and was
admitted to advanced classes in mathematics and English. The first months in
the new school were challenging for me. I struggled to keep up with my class
but fortunately the studying techniques and habits I learned helped me succeed. I became the best student at school in science (Biology,
Physics, and Chemistry) and the only one of my class to be admitted to the
Hebrew University medical school on the first attempt. (Eventually 15 members
of the 49 students in my biology class became physicians or dentists all but
three studied abroad).
Above: Zipi and Itzhak in Haifa, 1958 Below: Graduation class at the H'realii School Haifa,
Israel
A year at
Fairview State Hospital
I finished my two year
infectious diseases fellowship at Wadsworth VA and UCLA in June of 1976. Since there were no
positions available in Israel in pediatric infectious diseases, I started
looking for positions in the United States. I faced great difficulties finding an academic position
in pediatric infectious diseases. I looked into a position at the Medical College of
Georgia in Augusta but Zahava was reluctant to relocate there. I also looked at a position at Loma Linda
Medical center in Greater Los Angeles, which did not materialize. Out of
necessity, I accepted a position at Fairview State Hospital in Fairview, California as a staff
physician in charge of the acute care wards and microbiology laboratories. It
was a hospital for intellectually
disabled and severely
disabled children who required intensive and long term care. It was challenging
work caring for children who could
not communicate and constantly developed severe respiratory
infections. After being trained at several of the best institutions in the
country, this position was a setback for me. I was discouraged, felt depressed,
and had little hope for an academic career.
I
shared my frustrations with one of my mentors, Dr. Gary Overturf from the Los Angeles County Medical
Center of the University of Southern California. He looked at me and quietly said
“Knowing you, I am certain that you will turn this work into an incredible
opportunity to do research and make meaningful contributions to our knowledge.”
Dr. Overturf was correct. I
joined the volunteer faculty of the University of Irvine School of Medicine as
an instructor and participated in the weekly rounds conducted by the pediatric infectious
diseases staff. This allowed me to stay
connected to academic medicine. The year I worked at Fairview Hospital turned
into one of the most productive ones in my career. I used all the skills I acquired during my training.
Determined to treat the disabled children in the same way I cared for normal children, I did my best
to treat their infections and save their lives. One of the head nurses complained to me that I was trying too hard to cure
their infections. I was stunned by this, and said that I know only one type of medicine and disabled children deserve the
best treatment. “This is not Nazi Germany where the disabled are gassed,” I told
her. None of the patients I care for died during my time at Fairview.
Unfortunately, I had to take two weeks off because I fractured my left hand while
ice-skating. Twochildrendied while being under the
care of the physician who substituted for me.
Being
in charge of the microbiology laboratory allowed me to develop techniques for recovery from anaerobic bacteria. I got specimens from patients
and my laboratory technician
that I trained and me identified anaerobic bacteria. My fellowship
mentor, Dr. Sydney
Finegold, and his chief
laboratory technician,
Dian Citron, allowing me to bring difficult to identify anaerobic organisms to
their laboratory. I received
two research grants from pharmaceutical companies to study the efficacy of new
antibiotics in the treatment of aspiration pneumonia and ear infections. I got approval to perform
trans-tracheal aspiration to children, which revealed, for the first time, the unique microbiology of
aspiration pneumonia, lung abscesses and empyema in children. I also studied
ear, skin and central nervous system infection. In total, I performed over 12
projects during that year and published 22 manuscripts. The studies I did
during that year became milestones in pediatric infectious diseases and
established me as a serious investigator.
At
the end of one year, I was offered and accepted a position in pediatric
infectious diseases at Children’s National Medical Center in Washington, D.C.
Itzhak in the microbiology laboratory (left) and the medical ward
at Fairview State Hospital(right). 1975
Becoming a
laryngectomee
I
had been practicing pediatrics and infectious diseases for over 40 years when, in 2008 at the age of 65, I was diagnosed with throat
cancer. Unfortunately, my larynx had to be removed to eradicate the cancer.
Becoming a laryngectomee was difficult and challenging. I had to learn to speak
again and cope with many medical, dental, psychological and social issues.
Day-to-day life became difficult. Things that I took for granted -- such as
speaking, eating, and breathing -- became arduous. Depression was one of the most challenging issues.
After
the removal of my larynx, I was overwhelmed by daily tasks and new realities. I
was mourning the many losses I experienced, which included my voice, my
well-being, and the need to accept many permanent deficits. I felt that I had
to make a choice between succumbing to the creeping depression or become
proactive and fight back. I chose the latter because I wanted to get better and
overcome my handicap. I also realized that my challenges would be with me for a long time.
The
driving force to resist depression was
my wish to set an example for my children and grandchildren that one should not
give up in the face of adversity. I did not want to leave them with the legacy that I had
given up or had not tried my best to get back on my feet.
I became
involved in activities I had liked before becoming a laryngectomee.Finding a purpose for my life was helpful. I returned
to the hospital to practice and teach. In the process of helping others, I was
also helping myself.
I
gradually returned to other routines. I started with simple challenging activities, such
as reading medical literature, reviewing articles, and simply walking. I was gradually able to ride a bike and hike. Even though the
quality of my voice was
not the same as before, one of my greatest comebacks was to teach and lecture
again with the help of a microphone. I lectured to laryngectomee support groups as well as head and
neck surgeons and other physicians about improving patient care and exhibiting
more empathy and compassion. I also lectured at synagogues, Jewish Community
Centers and Jewish day schools about my experiences as a battalion physician in
the 1973 Yom Kippur war. Each of these small steps made me feel better and
stronger.
I
started to attend the meetings of the local Laryngectomee Club. I cherished the
support and advice I received from other club members. I kept attending the
club even when my needs were no longer intense and did my best to help new
laryngectomees cope with their issues.
I
was fortunate to be assisted by a compassionate and skillful social worker.
Having a caring and competent physician and speech and language pathologist was helpful in maintaining my
sense of wellbeing.
I
found ways touse the setback in my life in
a positive way. I wrote “My Voice: A Physician's Personal Experience With
Throat Cancer” which captures three years of my life following the diagnosis of
throat cancer. I discuss
issues involving medical and surgical treatments and how to adjust adjusting to life
after surgery.
I
also created a blog and wrote “The Laryngectomee Guide” and the ”Laryngectomee
Guide for the COVID-19 Pandemic” to help
voiceless individuals slearn to peak again and deal with their medical, dental
and psychological issues as well as the Coronavirus.
My book and guidebook have been adopted by the American Academy of
Otolaryngology, and I periodically update the guide. "The Laryngectomee Guide" has
been translated from English to 23 languages and the ” Laryngectomee Guide for
the COVID-19 Pandemic ” has been
translated to 8 languages https://dribrook.blogspot.com/2018/08/the-laryngectomee-guide-is-available-in.html . Both are
available free and are being used throughout the world. I was invited to China
and Romania to personally introduce the translated Laryngectomee Guide at a
local (in China) and national conference (Romania).
Helping
others and making a difference helps me cope with my own handicap and overcome
the hardships I face. Turning
my personal adversity into
helping others enabled me to open a new and meaningful chapter in my life.
Right: Grand Rounds. Department of Medicine. “A Physician’s
personal experience as a head and neck cancer patient.” Rambam Medical Center,
Techniyon School of Medicine, Haifa, Israel. 2016
Above: Dr.
Brook in the first Annual International Ophthalmology and Otolaryngology Nursing Forum, Eye
& ENT Hospital of Fudan University. Keynote Presentation:“Laryngectomee care and life challenges of
laryngectomees”.Shanghai China. October
10, 2018.
Below: Dr.
Brook in the Congresul Național de Otorinolaringologie și Chirurgie
Cervico-Facială cu Participare Internațională. The National Romanian ENT, Head
and Neck Surgery Conference. “Caring for Laryngectomees” May 23, 2019, Craiova,
Romania.
eaking about my experiences in the Yom – Kippur War to the
Surgeon General and his staff in 2013
SOCCER STORIES
Rolling the
truck by the Jordan River
My
father was an avid soccer player. He started his career in his small town of
about 2,850 inhabitants near
Vienna, Austria called
Fraunkirchen, where he was the only Jew on the local soccer team. Hakoach Vienna, the Jewish
soccer team that had won the Austrian and European championships, recruited him
in 1928. He left Austria in 1933 as Nazism rose in the country and came to
Palestine on a tourist visa. He played leftwing on
the Ha' Poeal Haifa soccer club and the Jewish Palestinian National
team. He also played soccer on
his workplace team, the
Shemen Factory in
Haifa, where he worked as a welder.
My
mother and I used to join my father’s Ha' Poeal Haifa soccer team when they
traveled to play other teams on Saturdays. We traveled in a covered truck, and my mother and I used
to sit in the truck’s cabin, by the driver’s side, while the team members sat
in the back. I loved those trips and was fascinated by the road and scenery. I
watched the driver closely and wondered if I could handle the tuck by myself.
One
Saturday in 1946, the team
traveled to Afikim, a kibbutz south of lake Kineret (Sea of Galilei) by the
Jordan river, to play the
local soccer team. We first stopped by the lake where everyone soaked in the water. I refused to
leave the truck’s cabin because I was terrified of the water.No
enticement or threats helped my mother change my mind. When we got to the
kibbutz, the driver parked the truck on an incline overlooking the soccer field
and climbed to the roof of the cabin to watch the game. I finally had the truck
for myself. I sat in the
driver’s seat and navigated the steering wheel around, pretending to drive it on an
imaginary road. Unfortunately, the horn did not work. After a while, I tried
other features of the truck and accidentally
released the handbrake. The truck started to roll down the hill toward the soccer field. Everyone
started screaming and the players scattered away from the approaching vehicle.
I had no idea how to stop the truck. As a five year old, I could not even reach the floor when
sitting on the driver’s seat. Fortunately, the driver climbed down from the cabin’s roof
and pulled the handbrake
before the truck reached the field.
This
was the last time I was allowed to sit in the truck’s cabin.
.
Above: Hapoeal Haifa soccer team, 1937.
(Baruch 4th from the right).
Below: Baruch (right) and Stern (left) in 1946, Hapoel Haifa
The Sport Club
in Fraunkirchen Austria
I
used to visit my grandfather’s grave in Fraunkirchen whenever I visited Vienna
or Budapest. Despite
Austria’s anti-Semitic history, the Jewish graveyard was not desecrated during
the Second World War and was well kept.
grandfather's (Itzhak
Brook) grave in
Fraunkirchen Austria. 1993
During
my first visit to Fraunkirchen in 1966, I met several members of my father’s
local soccer club. I could feel how much they liked my father.They told me stories about him,like how he changed the time in the local church
tower clock by hitting its
handle with a soccer ball. One of them stated: “Bernard was the only Jew who
played soccer with us.”
When I took the bus back to Vienna,
several of my father’s friends waited for me at the bus station with gifts for
him and urged me to tell my father to visit them.
Tragically,
my father died a year later and was not able to go back and visit Fraunkirchen.
In
1993, my 11 year old sonYoni joined me in visiting
Fraunkirchen. I wanted Yoni to meet some of my father’s friends. I was advised that the best
place to find his friends
was the local Sport Club pub. The pub was located in a small one-floor building
across from the soccer field. When we walked into the pub, we found a few
locals who were enjoying afternoon drinks. They were eager to help us after I
explained to them the purpose of our visit, and showed them the picture I
brought of my father’s local team taken in 1931. They showed us several dozens
of team pictures that were hanging on the wall across the bar. I immediately
identified a larger version of the picture I brought with me and was amazed to
see the trophies my father’s team had won. We were told that the only member of
my father’s team who was still alive was 92 years old, and lived a short
distance from the pub. “Perhaps he remembers your father” they told me. A
couple of men volunteered to take us to see the surviving team member. We followed their car to a small one - story house a few blocks
away.
Inside
we met an old, wrinkled, and skinny man who was
sitting crouched over a white kitchen table. “Of course I remember Bernard,” he
mumbled. He got up slowly and searched the kitchen cabinets for a shoe box filled with pictures. He fumbled through the pictures with shaking hands and
took out a small version of the same picture that we had of the Fraunkirchen’s
soccer team in 1931. He
pointed to my father and then to himself. He was a tall handsome young man in
the picture. He then looked for more pictures in the shoe box and took out pictures
of himself and other team members in the German army Wehrmacht’s uniform. He
explained that some of the pictures were taken when they were fighting in
Russia. Apparently, five of my father’s 1931 team members were killed fighting
for Hitler. He told us that they had to join the Wehrmacht or they would have
been killed. To illustrate this,
he moved his fingers across his throat in a motion of slaughter.
It
was shocking to learn what my father’s team members did in the Second World
War. He was fortunate to leave Austria in time. Richard and Uri, two of my father’s brothers, joined him in Palestine and
his brother, Shomo, left for London in the 1930s escaping the Holocaust. His
sister, Blonka, and his brothers, Loyush and Ziga, and their families escaped
through Hungary, attempted
to make it to Palestine,
but were intercepted by the British and were detained in Mauritius (an island
east of Africa) until 1946. My grandmother, Feige, and Shomo’s wife and daughter
were murdered by the Germans. Ziga’s wife, Lenke,
was imprisoned in Auschwitz but miraculously survived.
I
revisited the sports club
in 2001. The name of the club had been changed and no longer hosted the local
team’s trophies or pictures. When I asked the owner about the 1931 team picture, he told me that they gave the pictures
away to locals who asked for them. “Let me look and see if I still have the
picture of your father’s team.”
He led me to the basement where a few team pictures were still hanging. I was
thrilled to find out that the 1931 team picture was not claimed. Apparently,
none of the members’ relatives wanted or knew about it. The owner took the picture
off the wall and handed it to me. “Take it. It’s yours.” I offered to pay him but he
declined. The picture now hangs
in my house.
Above: Sport Club coffee house Fraunkirchen, 1993.
Below: Fraunkirchen Soccer
team, 1931. Baruch seated first left
GERMANY
My
feelings about Germany are complex. On the one hand, I was exposed to the German language from early childhood, as my
father spoke German to his brothers and friends. On
the other hand, I am haunted by what the Germans did to my family and the Jewish people during the
Holocaust. As a small child growing
up in Palestine during the Second World War, I learned about Hitler
and the great evil perpetrated upon the
Jews by the Nazis and by ordinary Germans. I recall how my mother, whose family was unable to
escape Poland and was murdered in the Treblinka concentration camp (except for
her brother, Aron, who was drafted to the Polish
army), kept searching for her relatives on survivors’ lists published by the Jewish Agency.
When
my uncles tried to teach me German, I reacted with a temper tantrum, throwing myself on the ground, covering my ears and screaming, “I will not speak
Hitler’s language!”
Visiting
Germany always presented a psychological challenge for me. I visited the
country as a tourist and as a speaker many times,I
always felt a burden during my visits that was lifted when I left the country.
Enclosed are some of my experiences visiting Germany.
I
firstvisited Germany in 1965, when
Zahava and I hitchhiked from Amsterdam to Vienna through Germany. We were
picked up by a very friendly German salesperson who was in his fifties. We had
a lively conversation with him and he told us that he had been a fighter pilot
in the German Air force (Luftwaffe) during the Second World War. He confessed
that he was still haunted by his experiences during the war, and was critical
of the Nazis and the suffering they had inflicted on the world as well as
Germany. I wondered if he was sincere or just trying to be nice to us. He
invited us for lunch at a
restaurant in a lovely
mansion close to the freeway (autobahn). We had a typical German meal with
schnitzel and apple pie. While eating our dessert, we suddenly heard an outburst of gunshots coming
from the forest around the restaurant.
Apparently, there were some hunters close by. Our host was startled by every
sound of gunfire and his pleasant complexion changed to a distressed one. He
mumbled in German, “Have they not had enough shooting?” His spontaneous
reaction validated what he shared with us. At that moment, I realized that
there are also Germans who were traumatized by the War. It was my first
experience with post-traumatic stress disorder. I understood better what the
German pilot felt after I later experienced combat myself in the Six-Day and
Yom Kippur Wars.
In
1972, Zahava and I
visited Norway, Sweden, Hamburg and Paris. We booked an organized seven day bus
tour to the gorgeous Norway’s Fiords that started and ended at Oslo . We were joined by five Germans: a married couple in
their sixties and three men in their twenties. We learned that the older man had
served as an SS officer in occupied Norway during the Second World War and
wanted to visit the places where he had been. It was interesting to observe the
dynamics of the five Germans. The three young men treated the older one as their leader, almost like a “Fuehrer”. They laughed loudly at his
jokes, followed his
instructions and treated
him with great reverence. Listening to them speak German was difficult for me
and I tried to stay as far away from them as possible.
We
continued our trip to Stockholm and then to Hamburg, Germany,
where we planned to stay for three days. However, we only stayed for a single
night because I could not stand listening to the German language any longer.
In
1983, I was invited to
give a lecture on anaerobic infections in children at the Third Interktiologische
Kolloquim held at the Institute of Chemotherapy in Frankfurt, West Germany.
There were about 100 German physicians attending the symposium, including many from East
Germany. Several hours after landing in Frankfurt, I joined the cocktail reception
for the attendees. I felt uncomfortable walking into the reception room hearing
German from all sides. Everyone was neatly dressed and most had stiff, emotionless expressions on
their faces. Some of the attendees were in their late 70's and it occurred to me that
they might have served in the German Army during the Second World War. I felt
anger and hatred toward them. I wished I
could avenge the death
of my family ratherthan mingle with those people.
“What am I doing here?” I
kept asking myself. I regretted accepting the invitation to speak at the
symposium. I left the reception after a little while and went back to my hotel room.
When
the symposium started the next morning, I learned that all speakers, except me and aspeaker from England, were German. Every speaker’s
name was fully spelled out in
the program except mine. My name appeared in the program as “I. Brook“. I wondered if the organizers did not want to
spell out my first name because it
would reveal my Jewishness.
I
started my lecture by introducing myself, sharing my full name and background
as someone who was born and educated in Israel. Looking at the faces of the
attendees, it suddenly dawned on me that this was my revenge. Those who served
in the Wehrmacht or Gestapo and who might have participated in the massacre of
Jews were forced to listen to a Jew whom they did not kill. I wondered if some
of them realized that if they had
not killed so many of us,
there would be more like me who could teach them. I knew then that I made the
right choice by accepting the invitation to speak in Frankfurt.
I
visited Germany many other times
to deliver lectures in medical centers and symposiums on infectious diseases. I
always entered the country without my passport, but used my U.S.
Navy military identification and military orders instead. It was a symbolic act for me as
I felt that I was entering Germany, a NATO member, as part of an occupation
army.
In
1986, I flew to Frankfurt
and drove to Brussels
through the beautiful Rhine valley,
with many medieval castles. I took a detour to see Bonn, the capital of West Germany. It was
a bright sunny Sunday afternoon and many people were strolling through the
downtown area. An elderly man in his seventies stepped into the pedestrian
crosswalk in front of me. I stopped the car by pressing the clutch pedal with
my left foot, and the brake pedal with my right, and waited for him to cross
the road. While he walked in front of me, wild thoughts passed through my mind.
I had not slept during my red eye flight to Frankfurt and my mind was less
inhibited.
“What
did he do during the War? He is the right age to have been part of the Nazi
murder machine. Should I run him over by lifting my foot from the clutch pedal?”
I did not act on my thoughts and the man slowly crossed the road. I resumed my
drive to Brussels but
was haunted by what had transpired in my mind. It was a testament to my deep-seated anger toward
the Nazis and my wish for taking
revengeon the Holocaust.
A
single event illustrates my feeling toward Germany. In 1996, I took a long
Delta Airlines flight from Washington, D.C. to Singapore that had a two
hour layover in Frankfurt. The flight attendants encouraged passengers to get
off the plane and reboard
later. I chose to stay on
the airplane. When a flight attendant asked why I did not leave the plane like everyone else, I answered
that I was too tired and wanted to nap. The truth was that I did not want to
see uniformed German officials.
A
Polish physician who drove me from Szczecin, Poland to Berlin in 1994 captured
Germany’s essence for me. The scenery of the German countryside was
mesmerizing. When I expressed my wonder at how such a beautiful country could create a Hitler,
he quoted what his father who fought the Nazis, told him – “Germany is the only
country in the world that
created the best poets and the most savage murderers.”
Publication of the 1984 symposiumItzhak (left)Red Army memorial Berlin.1994
POLAND
My
mother told me many stories about growing up in Grojec, a small town about 25
miles south of Warsaw. Of the 12,000
town inhabitants, 6,000
were Jews. In 1941, the
Germans transported all the Grojec Jews to the Jewish Ghetto in Warsaw. They were all eventually
murdered at the Treblinka
extermination camp. My grandparents,
Ben-Zion Wierzbicki and Fajga Gayer,
and four of their children were among those slaughtered. My mother, Chaya, and her brother,Aaron,
survived the Holocaust because my mother immigrated to Palestine in 1936 and her brother served
in the Polish army and fought the Germans as a partisan after escaping German’s
captivity.
In
1991, I came to Poland
for the first time to lecture at
the University Hospital in Warsaw. I began my lecture at the University Hospital by sharing my family’s history
with the audience. I felt
a mixture of pain and pride standing on the podium of the university’s
auditorium. My ancestors had lived in Poland for centuries, contributed to its
society and absorbed many of its values and customs, yet they were burned to
ashes in German - made ovens in Poland.
I
was driven to the Treblinka extermination camp north of Warsaw on a road that paralleled the
train tracks which
transported Jews,
including my family, to
the camp. The tracks ran
through small towns and dense forests. The darkness of the forest and camp reflected my gloomy sadness. The only
remnant of the tragedy that took place were hundreds of scattered rocks that were engraved with the
names of the towns from where Jews were brought to be murdered and burned.
I
also visited Grojec,
which looked as if it did not change from 1941. It was a small rural town with mostly one story buildings.
There were no more Jews left in town and the large Jewish graveyard had been
desecrated by the Germans,
who tore off all the tombstones. To add insult to injury, the local Poles were digging
out soil from the unfenced graveyard and using it for construction. There were human bones
scattered all over. It was a shocking sight.
My
grandparents’ apartment was occupied by a family who refused to open the door for me when I went to see it. The tenants
were reluctant to speak
with me and the university professor who was my escort. I felt their alienation
and suspicion. I wanted to protest my outrage and stop the desecration of the
graveyard, but it was Sunday and the City Hall building was not open.
I
visited the Jewish Community Center in Warsaw to inform them about the
defilement of the Jewish graveyard. I was told by its director that there is
very little that we could
do to stop it. “There are thousands of Jewish graveyards in Poland in similar
condition and there are more urgent issues we have to deal with,” he told me. As a gesture of good will, he searched
their records and found the form my uncle Aharon filled out at the end of the Second
World War, documenting
his whereabouts during the war.
When
I shared my experiences with the Vice
Dean of Warsaw’s medical
school, she promised to assist me on my next visit to Grojec. I came back to
Warsaw a year later (1992) to lecture at the
National Institute of Hygiene. The Vice Dean
kept her promise and traveled with me to Grojec. We saw the town’s mayor and demanded that a fence
be placed around the Jewish graveyard to stop its desecration. The mayor told us that since there were
no funds to build a fence, I would have to raise 60,000
U.S. dollars to finance it. To
appease me, he arranged
for me to obtain a copy of my mother’s birth certificate and see the town’s birth records that described
her birth. Driving back to Warsaw,
the Vice Dean confided in me that she
is Jewish but did not share her Jewish heritage with others, as her husband was not Jewish.
I
tried to raise the money to build the fence, but could not locate many of the
town’s survivors. I returned to Grojec in 1993 after lecturing again at the National Institute of
Hygiene, Warsaw. To my great surprise, a newly built, primitive wooden fence surrounded the
Jewish graveyard. I do not know how this happened but I was relieved that the
desecration stopped.
I
returned to Poland in 1999 to lecture in Warsaw and Krakow. I visited the Auschwitz - Birkenau
concentration camps. It was a shocking experience to see the sites where so many Jews had been
murdered, but it was inspiring to see groups of Israeli high school students visiting the camps and carrying Israel flags. Their
presence symbolized that Hitler failed to exterminate us. My visit ended at 4
PM and I took a 90 minutes flight from Krakow to Venice, Italy, where I planned to stay for a
few days before
participating in an otolaryngological conference in Ghent-Bruz, Belgian. I was
dazed and still in a state of shock when I landed in Venice. I was oblivious to
the gorgeous sights of the beautiful city. The palaces, gondolas and canals
were a stark contrast to what I had experienced earlier that day. It took me
several days to recover emotionally and absorb the majesty of Venice.
Walking
along the canals of Venice and thinking about my experiences, I finally understood how the
Holocaust had affected my
life and why I was working so hard researching, publishing, lecturing and
caring for patients. I was trying to do the work that other members of my
family and other Jews could not do because they had been savagely murdered. It
was up to me to fill the gap.
Above: House my grandparents lived, Grojec,
Poland. 1991
Left: Itzhak in
Auschwitz, 1999
Above: Itzhak In Venice, 1999
Below: Itzhak in Warsaw. 1992
.
LOSING OUR PARENTS
Father
It
was the end of my fifth
year of medical school in the summer of 1966, three weeks before my scheduled
wedding to Zahava. I was in the middle
of morning rounds in the Department of Internal Medicine at Hadassah Medical
Center when the department’s secretary asked me to come to the nurse’s station.
There was a call waiting for me from my 13 year old sister, Zipi. I
immediately suspected that something bad happened because my parents did not
have a phone in their apartment and they had never called me before. Zipi was calm and composed
and told me that our father was gravely ill and had been admitted to Rambam
Hospital in Haifa. Zipi asked me to come home as soon as possible and would not
give me any more information. I understood later why Zipi did not tell me that
our father had already passed away, our mother had taught us to be careful when
delivering bad news.
I
left the ward right away and drove my Vespa to Haifa, about 150 kilometers away. It took me
about three hours to get to Rambam Hospital. I walked into the emergency room
to inquire about my father. As I walked into the emergency room, I saw my medical school
classmate, Yoram Kantor, who was moonlighting as a
nurse. (This was the same Yoram
who was doing a fellowship in Los Angeles and picked us up from the airport and helped us settle in the city in 1974.
He eventually became the medical director of Rambam Hospital.) We looked at the admissions
registry and I read the shocking statement that Baruch Brook was already dead
when he had been brought in at 06:20 am. Yoram embraced me and told me to stay strong
and go to my parents’ home to support my mother and sister.
I
could not believe that was true; and I wanted to see my father. He was only 59
years old.He worked as a welder and was a
strong and fit man who was a soccer player when he was young. However, he had
been a smoker and had recently experienced chest pain on his left side. I went to the
hospital’s morgue and asked to see my father. The religious attendant from
Chevrat Kaddisha told me that this was not possible because my father’s body had already
been prepared for burial and wrapped with Tachrichim (traditional burial
garments).
The
funeral took place later that day. As we left for the graveyard, it started to
rain. It rarely rains in Israel at the end of the summer. It felt like the skies were crying for
my father. When my father’s covered body was lowered into the open grave, the sobs of my sister and
mother tore the air. At that moment, I wished that my sister had been spared the painful
sight. Even though I was devastated, I did not cry. I felt that I needed to show
my emotions and not
express my pain. Men rarely cried in Israel. It took me several more years to
finally accept that it is okay
to cry.
After
the Shiva was over, I left my parents’ apartment to drive my Vespa that had been parked in the backyard for the week. I could not start it
because the gas tank was empty. I remembered that I had to use the spare gas
tank about thirty kilometers away from Haifa when I drove home from Jerusalem a
week earlier. Miraculously,
I was able to drive there
using the last drop of gas.
Our
wedding was not postponed. The Rabbi insisted that, according to Jewish
tradition, weddings are
not canceled; establishing a new family must proceed as planned. The wedding
ceremony was, however, scaled down.
It took place at
the Rabbi’s home and was attended by only family members and close friends. It was a
mixture of sadness and happiness.
I
still miss my father. We became closer in the years before he died. I kept
looking for him in crowds of people for many years. I wish I had had a chance to see him after he
died so that I could be convinced that he was actually gone. I wish he could
have seen me finally graduate from
medical school, enjoy his grandchildren, and visit the Western Wall in
Jerusalem that was liberated nine months after he died.
Baruch (Bernard) Brook in 1936.Itzhak and father in Shemen factory,
Haifa1965
Baruch's grave, Haifa.
Mother
My
sisterZipi was born with
a minimal deformity in her fifth toe on both feet. The orthopedic surgeons
recommended that she have them repaired after she finished growing. When she was 17, she was scheduled to undergo
correction of her toes at
Kaplan Hospital in Rehovot by Dr. Kessler. He was the best hand and foot orthopedic surgeon in
the country. I was doing my pediatric residency at that hospital and arranged
to be on call for 24 hours on the day of her surgery so that I would be
available to assist her and watch over her. After the surgery was successfully completed, my mother and I had lunch in the
hospital dining room. She then took a bus from Rehovot to Bnei-Brak where she
was staying with the Akiva Dressner’s family, who she knew from Grojec, her
hometown in Poland. My sister recovered well after the surgery and spent the
night in the orthopedic department.
In
the morning, I got a call from my sister, who told me that she heard an alarming announcement
on the 8 am radio news. It was broadcast that a woman named Chaya Baruch died
after being struck by a car on
the Geha - Highway near Bnei-Brak. I called the police right away and
learned the terrible news - our mother was the victim. It was a devastating and
unforeseen tragedy.
I reconstructed what happened after talking to
the police and the Tel-Hasshomer (Shibba Medical Center) emergency room, where our mother was taken
after she had been struck by a car. Our mother got off the bus and started to
cross Geha - Highway, a busy through way. Because there was no pedestrian bridge
across the highway, she started to cross the street which did not have traffic
lights. A Volkswagen bug hit her while she was walking across the pedestrian crossing.
The driver, helped by
several people who were at
the Paz gas station, picked her up and placed her in the car’s backseat and
drove her to Tel-Hashomer hospital emergency room, which is three kilometers away. Attempts to revive
her failed. Apparently, because she was unconscious and bleeding from her broken jaw, she could not
breathe well until she reached the
emergency room.
I
had to identify my mother at the Pathological Institute in Abu Kabir, where all
victims of trauma or unexplained death are taken. I had spent two weeks
rotating in that Institute during medical school and often watched family
members identify their
deceased relatives. An orderly would roll in a gurney with the deceased to the
small window and, when
the family was ready, open the window screens and uncover the victim’s face for
a few seconds. I was now on the other side of the window. It was a painful
view, seeing my mother’s pale face for the last time. At least I knew she was
dead. She was 56 years old.
The
police initially confiscated the driver’s license from the offending driver but later returned it. They did not even charge him
with a traffic violation, accepting his version of what happened. He claimed
that he had not exceeded the speed limit of 70 km/hour and moved to avoid our mother in the
crosswalk but she unexpectedly moved into his lane.
I tried
to find witnesses who would
tell me or testify about what had actually happened with the hope that the Volkswagen
driver would be found criminally negligent, but to no avail. I posted notices
in the gas station near the accident site and had notices printed in newspapers, searching for witnesses. I
even went to the gas
station for several days around the time the accident occurred to find
potential witnesses who might have returned to get fuel.
I
wrote a letter to the editor of the daily newspaper, Maariv inquiring why the Department of
Transportation had not built
a pedestrian bridge across this main throughway. The location where my mother
was killed was a known accident-prone site where several people were hit every year. After
several months, the government said
that a pedestrian bridge had
already been authorized, but the actual construction was postponed because the
Department’s resources were diverted to erect Israel’s defense line against
Egypt along the Suez Canal – the “Bar Lev line.” Two years later, the “Bar-Lev line” crumbled within 24 hours during the
Yom-Kippur War. Eventually, a bridge over Geha-throughway was built at the site
where my mother was killed. It happened eight years later, after several more
people were killed or maimed at that location. I call it “Mother’s Memorial
Bridge.”
My
sister and I lost both
parents within four years. It was a difficult time for Zipi but she was resilient. She
lived with Zahava’s parents and later with Tovia Hofnung’s family (our mother’s friends) in Tivon
so that she could go back to Ha’ Realli Ha’ Ivri High School. I became her
legal guardian until she turned 18 years old. When she turned 21, she married Dov Yankovitch, whom she met while studying to
become a laboratory technician in Tel Aviv,. Dovi lived across the street from
our mother’s “memorial bridge.”
Our mother Chaya (Wierzbika) Brook. 1934 Chaya
with Dafna. 1971
Chaya's grave,
Haifa Israel
LETTERS THAT MADE ADIFFERENCE
The Giveoni's
prize of excellence in science studies (Physics, Chemistry, and Biology) from the Haivri Hairi High School
in Haifa, Israel
This
was an unexpected honor
after working hard to excel at
a demanding high school despite a
challenging adolescence. The prize was given to me during my graduation ceremony, which attended my parents attended.
Invitation for an interview by Professor Bernkoff at the Hebrew
University School of Medicine
During
my 11th grade,
I wrote a manuscript about poliomyelitis. Eleventh grade students at my high
school were encouraged to work on a “yearly essay” of their choice. To complete the report, I read medical textbooks and
scientific articles and wrote a lengthy essay (over 200 typed pages) that included figures and
drawings. Because I did not know to type, I dictated the final version to a
professional typist my parents hired. I chose to write about poliomyelitis
because my sister, Zipi, had contracted the infection
earlier that year. Sabin's vaccine was in short supply in Israel and was
administered only to children older than 5 years old. Since Zipi was only four years old, she was ineligible to be vaccinated.
I
initially chose to investigate the sea water bacteria in Haifa’s bay at the sea
water laboratories in Haifa, but switched to study gastrointestinal pathogens at
Rambam Medical Center. After after my
sister became ill, I changed the topic to write about poliomyelitis.
Student essays
were evaluated and graded by professional evluators.Those with strong essayswere exempt from one of the six graduation exams given
by the state’s Department of Education. The evaluators for my essay on poliomyelitis were Professor Bernkopf and his
deputy, Dr. Becker, from the Hebrew University
School of Medicine.
I traveled to
Jerusalem by train for the interview that took place atHadassah Medical School building across the walls of
the old city. Professor Bernkopf and Dr. Becker questioned me for an hour and a half. It
seemed they liked my
study and were impressed by my
understanding of the topic. At the end of the interview, they asked me about my
future plans.
I told them I planned
to study medicine and apply to their medical school. This was the only medical
school in Israel at that time and admission was competitive. Between 350 to 500
individuals applied to the school annually and only 65 were admitted. The admission
process had several phases. To be considered, applicants had to score top
grades in high school and on the
state’s graduation exams.
Applicants had to take two written tests on scientific topics (i.e., physics, chemistry or
biology) and the 150 top scorers were interviewed by the school’s professors.
Professor Bernkopf told me to call him if I passed the written part
of the examination. I called him. I do not know if he influenced my selection,
but I felt good that I had a friend who was willing to help me.
I
kept in touch with Professors Bernkof and Dr. Becker throughout my years in medical school.They helped me find work in the medical school’s research laboratories during summers
and school breaks. Working as a technician was important to me because it
exposed me to laboratory techniques and research methods. I also needed to work
so that I could pay for my tuition and living expenses. I worked in Professor
Bernkopf’s and Dr.
Becker’s virology laboratories where I inoculated fertilized eggs with the
trachoma virus; Dr Lavi's Neurology Laboratories, where I operated on dogs and studied the connection
between the brain and stomach acids; the Bacteriology Laboratories of Professor
Zitri, where I studied
the production of the enzyme beta-lactamase by bacteria (a topic I eventually returned to fifteen years
later), and Professor Bergman’s Pharmacology Laboratories, where I synthesized chemicals
compounds.
A letter inviting me to come to an interview with Professor
Bernkopf.
A letter of
recommendation to the Hadassah Hebrew University School of Medicine from
Professor Yeshayahu Leibowitz
Admission
to Hadassah Hebrew University School of Medicine was competitive in the 1960s because it was the only
medical school in Israel at that time. After graduating high school, my cousin Rvika's husband, Meir, whose father was the publisher
of the Hebrew Encyclopedia,
got me a summer job in their editorial office in Jerusalem. My job was to compose missing entries for
the Jewish Encyclopedia. I wroteabout these topics by reading
about them in the Encyclopedia Britannica and other encyclopedias. The editor
in chief, Professor Yeshayahu Leibowitz, and his wife were pleased with my performance.
When
I was notified by the Hadassah School of Medicine that I had passed the written
examination and was invited for an interview, I asked Professor Leibowitz for a
letter of recommendation. The letter supported my acceptance. I am not sure if the letter
helped me get admitted, but because Professor Leibowitz was a revered and
respected member of the medical school’s faculty, it might have had an impact.
Professor Leibowitz taught my class biochemistry in our second year of medical school. Ironically, I
failed to pass the first oral examination in biochemistry given by him and his
assistant. I had not prepared hard enough, but I passed it on my second try.
Professor Leibowit’s letter of recommendation
Professor Leibowitz teaching biochemistry to my class in 1962
Scholarship
awards in medical school
I
received scholarships formy last years of studies, which covered most of my
medical school tuition. It signified
the change in my studying attitude after the third year of medical school. Initially I did not pay much
attention to studying and concentrated on my social life, dating Izraela and
working. The change happened after I met Zahava. I continued to work as a private tutor
and as a nurse at the
Hadassah Medical Center, but my life became stable and I had the energy and
stamina required for studying.
Scholarship awards in medical school
Medical thesis
prize
I
received an award from my medical school for the best MD thesis in medicine of
my class. The thesis was entitled “Calcification of the Epiphysis in Children
with Endocrinological Abnormalities”, I wrote it during my internship at
Beilinson Hospital’s Department of Endocrinology. Receiving the award was truly an honor for someone
who had to overcome many challenges during his student years. The award was
given during the graduation ceremony in 1969, held at the Hebrew University’s
auditorium after completion of our internships.
Although
my mother came for the ceremony, I wished that my father had been alive to attend it.
My thesis mentor,
Professor Zvi Laron, came
to the ceremony and enjoyed the applause
when he joined me on the podium. I thought that it was ironic to see him at the
ceremony because he hardly assisted me throughout the project and I was mostly
helped by Dr. Pertzelan, his nursing staff and my other mentor, Dr. Sharff the radiologist. I bought a record player
turntable with the award money.
Medical thesis prize
FRIENDS
Close
friends
Shaul
I
met Shaul Sharon when we both participated in group therapy in Hadassah
psychiatric clinic in 1964. He was six years older than me and grew up a few
blocks away from me in Haifa. He later became a member of Kibbutz Nachson. I
did not see him for several years until he brought his twin daughters to the
pediatric emergency room at Kaplan hospital with ear infections. We became very
close friends and I used to visit him and his wife Shoshana (Sosh) with my family
often. My children loved those visits. Shaul became the military governor of
the West Bank and took me on several trips there. He had a wonderful way of
connecting with people and was loved by everyone. Unfortunately, Shaul
developed lung cancer and died in 1994. I miss him dearly.
Zevi
We
rented an apartment in Petach Tiqva from Zev Raizman when I did my internship
at Belinson Hospital in 1969. We became close friends with him and his wife,
Ilana, a ballet dancer and teacher, until he died. He worked as an import
accountant for the Elite chocolate and coffee company. He smoked a lot. Ilana was
a warm and loving individual. I used to spend a lot of time with him whenever I
visited Israel. He was a warm and thoughtful person. I cherished the time I
spent with him. He died in 2005 from rupture of aortic aneurysm.
Zahava (2nd left), Zevi (middle), Itzhak 2nd right, Ilana (1st
right), and Zevi's children Petch Tiqva, Purim 1968.
Mexi
Mexi
Fruend was a cousin of Zahava. He was like a brother to me and remained my
close friend even after we divorced. I used to visit him, his wife, Ester, and
his three children (Nir, Dalit and Tomer) whenever I visited Israel. Mexi was a
successful architect and was involved in many projects. He was a medic in a
tank battalion (in my division) that suffered heavy losses during the Yom Kippur
War. He suffered from PTSD, affecting his life and work. Mexi passed away in
2021.
Siting: Chana Goldwasser, Adolf & Mili Freund, Chaya Brook,
Mexi, Zahava, Dali and Ester Freund, Standing: Zigi Goldwasser, Itzhak, Zipi,
Nir Freund. Passover. 1968
eft to right: Mexi, Ester, Zahava, and Itzhak. Massada, Israe.
1967
Nili
Nili
Gayer was my second cousin. (My mother and her father were cousins). She was a
year older than me and we had known each other since childhood. We used to
visit her home on Ben Yehuda Street in Tel Aviv. I liked those visits and
especially liked watching movies at the next door roofless movie theater. We
liked to play and often got into mischief. Her family moved to Toronto,
Canada in 1952 when she was 12 years old and we reconnected in 1979.Nili was thoughtful, analytical and
opinionated. She became a social worker and had three children (Howard, Rita and
Mark). Tragically, Nili died at the age of 74 from lung cancer.
Left to right Nili, Itzhak holding Dafna, and Lin. Rehovot. 1970
Sara
and Aralea
Sara
Dubzinsky and her husband, Aralea (Aryea), lived in Kfar Hess in Israel. Sara
was a close childhood friend of Zahava. I liked Aralea a lot and we used to
visit Kfar Hess every few weekends. I used to play with their daughter, Ephrat,
when she was young. Unfortunately, Aralea died in 1992. Sara became very
religious and eventually married a rabbi.
Left to right:
Sara, Itzhak, Zahav, and Aralea, Haifa. 1966
Tali
and Roy
Tali
and Roy were our neighbors in Rehovot and had two children who were of similar
ages to ours. Roy was a dentist and Tali a physical therapist. We were close
friends and I used to take care of their children when they became ill. Talia
and Roy later divorced. I had not kept in touch with Roy and saw Tali only once when
visiting Israel.
Erela
and Gideon
Erela
and Gideon Cinadder were our neighbors when we lived in Rehovot. I continue to
visit them when I am in Israel. Erela is a teacher and is a cousin of Ilana (the wife of Zevi), and Gideon is a physicist
atthe the Soreq Nuclear Research
Center. Gideon was doing a sabbatical in Chicago when we landed in the city on
our way to Los Angeles in June, 1974. We stayed with them for several days. My
first driving experience in the U.S. was with their Ford. They are warm and
caring individuals. I see them every time I visit Israel and we always take a
walk arround the Weitzman Institute and have coffee in their faculty’s
cafeteria.
Yoram
Yoram
Fleysi lived next door to the family of my girlfriend, Izraela, at the Police
Home apartment (Beit Hashotrim) in the Mekor Baruch neighborhood of Jerusalem.
His father was a senior officer in the Jerusalem Police. He was two years
younger than Izraela. We became good friends. Yoram was studying Political
Science and Philosophy at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem when the Six Day
War broke out. He was a lieutenant in the military reserve Jerusalem
Brigade.He served with his unit in
Ramat Rachel, opposite the monastery of Mar-Elias, which is on the way to
Bethlehem. On the second day of the battles (6/6/1967), he fell inside the
command bunker when it was hit by a shell along with some of his platoon
members.
I
met Yakov Steiner during my first year in medical school. He was doing his
master’s thesis in pharmacology and I used to see him in his laboratory. Older than
I he was thoughtful and wise and helped me navigate difficult choices when
living in Jerusalem. He used to read the daily news in Hungarian, which was his
native language, for the Voice of Israel services to the Diaspora. It was
interesting to visit him at the broadcast studios which were only a short
distance from my medical school. I eventually distanced myself from him after
he started to be critical and judgmental when I did not follow his advice. He
eventually became a teacher at our school.
Moshe
Shachar
I
meet Moshe in Jerusalem. We spent time together ridding motor bikes (he had a
Harley Davidson and I had the Vespa). His brother had a motorcycle garage near
Manila Street and he fixed my Vespa when it was broken. Moshe introduced me to the
social life of his teenager’s friends in Jerusalem and I met many girls through
him.
Moshe and Itzhak in the National Forest near Jerusalem, 1963
School
and Scout friends
Ilana
Ilana
Role was my classmate at the Reali HaIveri high school in the 9th grade. She became the chairperson of our student union and
the first one-day Young Person Mayor of Haifa in 12thgrade. She was awarded the best all-around
student prize at graduation, became an officer in the Israeli military and
obtained a PHD in sociology.
I
befriended Ilana after we graduated from high school. I visited her at her
parents’ apartment on Geula Street when I came for the weekend to Haifa from
Jerusalem. We used to listen to the classical music she liked and she would
play the piano for me. We also took long hikes at Mount Carmel with other
friends. Although I liked her very much, I was a little intimidated by her
“perfection” and formality.
We
eventually lost touch for almost 50 years until I received an email from her
husband inviting me to come to her 70th birthday. I could not make it but Joyce
and I visited them a few months later at their home in the Achuza neighborhood
in Haifa. We learned that she married Zvi Zeigler, who became a professor of
mathematics at the Technion Institute of Sciences. She had several children (one
of her daughters is a professor of mathematics as well, and her grandson was
studying medicine) and she is the Executive Director of the Israel Family
Planning Association. We have kept in touch since then.
Itzhak and Ilana, Peak of Carmel Mountain (Muchraka), 1962
Fayvush
Fayvush
(Uri Horowitz) was in the scouts and my high school class with me. We have been
friends since childhood. I helped him when one of his four children got sick.
Feivush is a water economics specialist. He worked at the national water
company of Israel (Mekorot) and was involved in the development of water supply
around the world. He stayed with us several times in Washington on his way to
the Caribbean islands for work. I often stay in his home in Hod Hasharon when
visiting Israel. He was the only friend that came to Yoni and Naomi’s wedding
in Jerusalem. Tragically, his wife Nurit died in 2010.
Fayvus and Itzhak, Apolonia National Park, Israel. 2017.
Gershon
Gershon
Federman has been my close friend since
we were together in the Chotzvim Scouts youth movement. I see him whenever I
visit Israel. He is an active advocate for co-existence and dialogue with Palestinians.
He and Alex More (Warm) constantly argue about this issue in our social media
group and via e-mails.
Alex
Alex
More (Warm) and I have known each other since infancy. We were born on the same
day and our Polish-speaking mothers met at a well-baby clinic (Tipat Chalav) in
Haifa. We were in kindergarten and elementary school together. Alex and I used
to play with and wrestle each other throughout childhood. He was much stronger
than I and always won when wrestling. He joined kibbutz Massada, south of the
Kinneret Lake, where his wife is from. He is a talented piano player, filmmaker
and writer. He served as a Shaliach (community delegate) for the Jewish agency
in the United Statesfor several years. We reconnected at our 70th birthday
reunion and I stay at his Kibbutz whenever I visit Israel.
Alex and Itzhak in Kochav Haruach Fortress, Beit Shean Valley,
Israel. 2018
Moni
Shlomo
Amikam (Moni) was my classmate in high school and medical school. He became a
cardiologist and practiced at Rambam Medical Center in Haifa. Moni took care of
my aunt Sara when she developed heart problems. He pioneered many of the
currently used diagnostic and invasive cardiological procedures in Israel.
Moni
is full of life and happiness, and a natural standup comedian who brings a
smile to everyone. I always look forward to seeing him, perhaps because he
reminds me of my father who had similar qualities.
Barry
Barry
Ferris studied with me in high school. He immigrated to Israel from the US at
the age of 16 and, of course spoke perfect English. He studied medicine in the
U.S. where he married Susan. He served as a physician in Vietnam and later
completed a residency in pediatrics in Chicago. He lived in a beautiful home in
Rosh Pina Israel for many years and kept traveled back and forth to the U.S. to
work in emergency rooms in the Midwest. He now lives in Durham, North Carolina.
Barry likes to fly and owned a small plane. Susan and Barry hike mountains
around the world. They are currently living is Durham, North Carolina.
Yaakov
Rabiner
We
befriended each other during the last year of high school. He was the only
student who had his own car because his mobility was impaired after suffering
from poliomyelitis. He was bitter and unhappy and had trouble making friends. I
rode in his car on many occasions even though he didn’t have a driver’s
license. On one of those occasions, he lost control of the car and it
overturned on the side of the road. I had to climb out and extract him from the
car. I was not hurt but my thumb was injured when the car’s door slammed on it.
This was the last time I rode with him. I have not kept in touch with him since
then.
Rachel
Rachel
Maayan studied with me in high school. She made me copies of the notes she took
during the classes I missed in 12th grade. We continue to be in touch since
then. Her husband, Moseh Maayan, became the director of the microbiology
laboratories at Meir Medical Center in Kfar Sabba. Rachel, who earned PhD in
biology, became the director of the clinical laboratories at the Beilnson
Medical Center. Moseh helped me get serum samples from patients with
Brucellosis, which informed our studies at the Naval Medical Research
Institute.
Avi
Avi
Sieon (Shmuskin) was my best friend in high school. We worked together as camp
counselors in Kiryat Shmonea during the summer of 1957. We were almost
kidnapped by Syrian soldiers after we walked between minefields near Tel Dan
and bathed in the Jordan River. Fortunately, we were rescued by border police
officers who happened to pass by. We also climbed from Kiryat Shmonea to
Kibbutz Manara. Avi became a dentist but chose to serve as a combat officer in
the Israeli Army. When we met again after 50 years, I found it difficult to
rekindle our friendship.
Chava
Chava Kleinman and I were in the same class at Chugim School. In seventh grade I broke her
glasses when I was playing midlevel knight duals with the geography map poles
with another student during the recess. I was afraid to tell my mother, so I paid Chava for the broken
glasses by saving the bus fare my mother gave me and instead walked home from
our school that was in Mount Carmel. Chava married our Scouts friend, Avinoam
Nir, and became a social worker. Avi became the Dean of the Faculty of Chemical
Engineering.
Illan
Ilan
Segal and I were in kindergarten and elementary school together. We reconnected
after 65 years through social media and have been in touch since then. He
played saxophone for Hagassash Haciver (an iconic Israeli comedy trio) and is a
talented storyteller. I got the idea for writing about moments in my life after
reading short stories of events in Ilan’s life. He is also a gifted painter and
a self-admitted proud past womanizer.
Shiya
Shiya
(Joshua) Lustman was my classmate in high school. He was born in Poland during
the Second World War and came to Israel as a child. He was a serious person and
rarely smiled. On one of our Gadna (pre military training program) trips, we
shared guarding duty on top of the tower of an abandoned British police
station in Mount Carmel. Our instructor tested our alertness at about 2am but
we forgot to ask him for the password. Our punishment was to have another
guarding duty the next night.
Shiya
successfully sued a Swiss bank for keeping his grandfather’s money from his
descendants after his grandfather was killed in the Holocaust ( https://www.chicagotribune.com/news/ct-xpm-1997-01-07-9701070272-story.html).He became a dental surgeon and professor at
the Hebrew University School of Dentistry in Jerusalem. We often see each other
when I visit Israel.
Avi and Shiya (2nd and 3rd from right), Chemistry laboratory, Reali
Haivri High School, Haifa, 1958
Yosi
Yosi
(Yoseff) Blankstein was my high school classmate. His father, who was a
surgeon, asked me to help his younger brother with his homework. He
also asked me to help Yossi without telling him that I was being paid. Yossi studied
medicine and became the chairperson in Obstetrics and Gynecology at Mount Sinai
Hospital in Chicago (https://www.rosalindfranklin.edu/academics/faculty/josef-blankstein/). His brother
became a Urologist at Rambam Hospital and operated on Zahava’s father in 1976.
Other
kindergarten and elementary school friends
Danny
was born exactly a year after me and we celebrated our birthdays together.
Tragically, he drowned while practicing to become a navy seal.
Shlomo
Margalit received the "Israel Defense Award" for contributing to the
development of the Iron Dome.
Levo
(Lavan) became the chief of constructions in the Department of Defense. He
supervised the construction of the Bar Lev line fortifications along the Suez
canal.
Aaron
Groner immigrated to the U.S. and lives in Las Vegas. I met Aaaron again when I
gave a lecture in Las Vegas in 2017.
Uzi
Mann became a professor of chemical engineering at Texas Tech University in
Lubbock, Texas. I visited him there on two occasions when I gave lectures
there.
Above: First grade 1947. Shalomo 3rd row, 3rd from left, Chava 2nd
row 1st left, Aaron 4th, Itzhak 1st left below teacher), Sitting row- Alex 2nd
from right, Lavan 4th.
Bdlow: 9th grade Hareli Hight School. Rachel and Ilana 3 rd and 4th
standing girls row. Rabiner first Right, Itzhak 5 th , Moshe Lev 3rd from right
boys row.
Above: Hachotzvim, Negev desert, 1958.
Beklow: Hachotzvim 70 birthday reunion, lake Kineret , Israel , 2011
Fayvus and Gershon firCV 8/1/2022
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