Volunteer in honor of his daughter's memory
FIVE MONTHS OF RESERVE DUTY
IN MEMORY OF HIS MURDERED DAUGHTER
Kochava Polonsky z"l was murdered in the hit-and-run attack at the Ezor Junction some eighteen months ago. She was due to be released from the army five months later. Her father, Eli (Eliya) Polonsky, decided to complete what his daughter could not, and, at age 50, he volunteered to do military reserve duty. Over the last four months, he has served three times, 35 days in all, and at the beginning of September, he will go out for another 24 days. At the ceremony awarding certificates of merit to reserve-duty volunteers two weeks ago, the audience stood and applauded as Polonsky went up on stage.
By Chen Kotes-Bar, Ma’ariv, 16.8.2002
Among those receiving certificates of merit for volunteering to do reserve duty, at a ceremony held two weeks ago, was Eli (Eliya) Polonsky, whose soldier daughter, Kochava z"l, was killed in the hit-and-run terror attack at the Ezor Junction, some eighteen months ago. She had five months left to serve till her release from the army, and her father decided to complete what she couldn’t. At age 50, she volunteered to served in the military reserves, and over the last four months he has served three times, 35 days in all, all of them in the territories. Outgoing O.C. Central Command, Brigadier General Yitzhak Eitan, awarded Pvt. Eli Polonsky the rank of Private First Class. The audience in the hall stood up and applauded. Polonsky himself wiped away a tear.
"I thought about Kochava," he says. "She had five months left to serve; it was so important to her, but she never got the chance to finish her service. Therefore, I’m doing the time for her. There are those who perpetuate their children’s memory by erecting a monument, by giving money. I am perpetuating my daughter’s memory by serving in the reserves. It’s what she would’ve wanted me to do. People think I’m contributing something to the army, but it’s just the opposite – the army has contributed something to me. Reserve duty has saved me. This is where I became rehabilitated, where I began living again, laughing again, where I was reborn. I see the soldiers and imagine Kochava among them. I didn’t leave the house for over a year after the catastrophe. Now, thanks to my reserve service, I can breathe again."
Have you visited Kochava’s grave in uniform?
"After joining the reserves, I went to her grave in the Ashkelon cemetery. Yes, in uniform. In the first row, there are five graves of soldiers, all killed on the same day, in the same terrorist attack. I stood in front of her grave and saluted. I said to her: ‘Sgt. Kochava, your father.’ I know she is content with what I’m doing. That I didn’t fall flat on my face, but got up and am trying to make a contribution to Israel. I think she’d be very proud of me."
"We called her Kochava, God’s Star"
Eli Polonsky was born in Kishinev. In 1978 he immigrated to Israel with his then wife and their eldest son, and settled in Ashkelon. Kochava (Kochi) was born here. The couple have another child, a 16-year-old boy.
"In the FSU, they told my wife she couldn’t have any more children," he recounts. "We came here; she underwent tests and treatments, and we had a girl. We decided to call her Kochava, God’s Star."
Ten years ago, when Kochava was 11, her parents divorced, but lived near one another. "Of the three children, I was closest to Kochava," says Eli. "A father mustn’t say such a thing, but I do. I’m not ashamed. She was my sunshine, my future. She was a good, serious girl, who dreamed of completing her army service and then studying computers. I was so close to her. I admired her."
Kochava’s induction into the army did not go smoothly. The doctors discovered a birth defect in her heart, and the army did not want to take her. But she insisted. "She was a Zionistically-oriented girl; she had ideals," says Eli. "Since she was a little girl, she saw me going off to reserve duty. It was clear to her that she had to join the army. She cried, pleaded, went to the doctors, until they eventually agreed to take her. She was unwilling to give in at all."
When the decision was made to take her into the army, she asked for combat duty at a closed base, far from home. But because of her medical problems, she was assigned to a provisions base in Tsrifin and went home every day. "I would talk to her by phone at least once a day," recalls Eli. "Every conversation I would tell her: ‘Kochava, take care of yourself. Take care of yourself, because I worry about you.’ I was afraid that something would happen to her, but I thought in terms of a road accident. I never thought she’d be killed in a terror attack."
On February 14th, some eighteen months ago, Kochava Polonsky left her mother’s home in Ashkelon. She took a bus from the city’s central bus station to the Ezor Junction, where she was supposed to take another bus to her base in Tsrifin. As she was walking toward the Tsrifin bus stop, a bus driven by a terrorist jumped the curb and struck her from behind. She was killed instantly.
"I was sitting at home at the time," says Eli, reconstructing the scene. "The day before, I had decided to quit my job. I don’t know why. I had a bad feeling. I had been working as a maintenance man when I suddenly felt I couldn’t take it any longer. It was as if I had known that something bad was about to happen. I turned on the television and heard them announcing a terror attack at the Ezor Junction. I knew that that was where Kochava took the bus to Tsrifin; I knew her route.
"I picked up the telephone and started dialing her cellular phone. She didn’t answer. I kept ringing her – there was no answer. Nothing. I understood that that’s that – my daughter is dead. I went downstairs to the grocery store and told the vendor: ‘Give me a bottle of vodka.’ I stood in the street and started to drink. He said to me: ‘Eli, you’re drinking? In the middle of the morning? What’s gotten into you?’ I told him: ‘You don’t understand. My daughter just died. It’s my daughter. She died in the attack at Ezor.’ He asked, ‘Were you notified?’ I said, ‘I don’t have to be notified. I feel it.’
"Afterwards, Kochava’s mother called me. She saw Kochava’s purse on TV, in the photographs of the corpses. She said, ‘Eli, do you know?’ I answered, ‘I knew the second it happened.’"
Later, representatives from the City Officer came to deliver the terrible news. Eli preferred to spend the initial seven-day mourning period in the apartment he shares with his present wife, Polina. Kochava’s mother spent the shiva in her home, with their two other children.
"I was practically alone for a full week," he recalls. "I felt detached, up in the air. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I didn’t even remember my own name. I sat with my wife and we were practically alone. Only when the Chief of Staff and the President came to pay a condolence call did I say to them: ‘Give me people so I can have a minyan (prayer service) for my daughter. That’s the only thing I want.’ When Eli Yishai (Head of the Shas Party) heard that, he came himself and arranged a minyan for Kochava. I said to him: ‘I’m voting for Shas in the next elections.’"
"I tried to cry, but nothing came out"
Eli Polonsky finds it difficult to speak. Even his Hebrew is not fluent. An egg-size pendant, bearing Kochava’s picture, hangs from his neck and he keeps rolling it in his palms.
After his daughter’s death, says Polonsky, he suffered a breakdown. He didn’t work or eat, he didn’t speak or leave his house. He didn’t stop mourning his dead daughter, but he was unable to shed a tear. Only deafening shouts came out of his throat, much to the chagrin of the tenants in his building.
"My life was over," he says, describing what he experienced at the time. "For almost fourteen months I didn’t step out of the house. I would get up in the morning, open the refrigerator, take out a bottle of alcohol and start drinking. I would drink a little and go to sleep. I would sleep for hours, to escape. I didn’t want to cope with reality. I was afraid to get up and see Kochava’s picture in front of me, and to know that she was dead, that she was not coming back."
Near his Polonsky’s home, a new café was being built during this period. "Somebody told me that Arab laborers were working at the site," he recouts. "Those were, more or less, the only times I left the apartment. I would go there and ambush them. I would wait. Once, I took a knife and waited for an Arab to come by. I wanted to kill Arabs, to avenge Kochava’s death. To inflict pain on them just as they had done to my daughter. Luckily, the neighbors stopped me. They said to me, ‘Cry, Eli, it’ll help you get the anger out.’
"I tried to cry, but nothing came out. My whole body was in pain. I felt that I had to get back at the Arabs, that I had to avenge Kochava’s death, that I couldn’t let them win. My wife had already taken me to a doctor; she was concerned. You couldn’t talk to me. I was examined, but told that I was all right. It was the sorrow that was doing me in.
Have you seen the terrorist who killed Kochava?
"No. I wasn’t at the court hearing, either. Even though I wanted to, I wasn’t invited. No-one was. I wanted to see him. Just see; not do anything to him. They tell me he’s married and has children. I don’t understand it. There was a time when I thought of going and meeting him in prison. They told me it was impossible. Then I thought of even doing something horrible, for which they’d put me in jail and then maybe I could see him. I could look at him, look into his eyes, and ask him: ‘Why; what happened?’
"I have no explanation for why he did it. We gave him food and a source of income, and he killed my little girl, who had never done anything to him. So I want to ask why; I want to understand. It’s funny: he’s in prison in Ashkelon. We’re neighbors. Sometimes, I sit at home thinking about it: he’s in Ashkelon and so am I. It’s only Kochava who isn’t."
"Don’t tell anyone, but I’m a father who’s lost a child;"
About four months ago, Eli Polonsky was sitting in front of the TV during one of those days he used to spend sleeping, drinking and staring. Being interviewed on the news was Colonel Betsalel Treiber, who was speaking about a volunteer reserve program .
"They gave a telephone number to call, and I immediately rang up," he recalls. "I understood that this would save me, rehabilitate me, that this was how I could complete what Kochava could not. At long last, I felt I had a goal, a future, something to live for. I wasn’t born in Israel, but I never had any other home but Israel. Where I came from, I was persecuted because I was Jewish. There were one thousand of us living together in the FSU, and we all shared one bathroom. There was an open sewer, poverty, mice. Who even cared about me? Here I was wrapped in love. As soon as I arrived, I was given an apartment, a job. All these years, I’ve been grateful to the State of Israel. Israel did everything to help me. After the tragedy, I sat at home for months, but never once did I think "Why did I come here?’ I was so happy to finally get to do something. I said, ‘Somewhere else, in another country, I’d be standing out on the street begging.’ I experienced a tragedy; I paid a price: I’ve given my daughter to the State, but the State hasn’t forgotten me. The State will help me to complete my daughter’s military service. My Kochava will finish the army."
On April 14th, Polonsky volunteered for his first reserve duty. The following two tours of duty were in June and July. He is presently living from one call up to the next. It’s the air he breathes; it’s what relaxes him.
"Six and a half years after being released from reserve duty because of my age," he says, " I find myself in the field once again. At first, I was afraid they’d find out that I was a father who had lost a child, and would therefore perhaps not want to take me. I remember later, after I was accepted, I met another bereaved parent, from the helicopter disaster. We met in the shower. He had a chain like mine, with a pendant and a picture of his son. I asked him what’s that and he said, ‘Do me a favor, don’t tell anyone. I’m a bereaved father, I don’t want anyone to know.’ I told him, ‘We’re both in the same boat. I, too, am a bereaved father. I, too, am a volunteer.’ In the end, my commander found out, but by then I had been in the reserves enough time, that it was clear that I would remain there."
Polonsky, together with two other volunteers, was stationed at Har Gilo. He was actually assigned a regular paratrooper brigade. The three times he volunteered, he served with the same soldiers, from the same brigade. All of his duty has been in the Bethlehem area. "We were told that we could stay at Har Gilo, or go to Rachel’s Tomb," he says. "We said, ‘We didn’t come to sit around in a recreational facility; we came to make a contribution.’ This was in the midst of the Protective Shield Operation and we asked to be in the most difficult location there was. We were sent to Rachel’s Tomb."
What did you do?
"Everything. Anything I could do to help the troops. I came, I saw tired, exhausted soldiers. I would make them all coffee, clean their dining room. I’d relieve a soldier on guard duty so he would go have a drink or use the toilet. I’d mop floors. They would get up in the morning and go out on maneuvers, without eating anything. I knew they wouldn’t be eating anything for seven or eight hours. So, I would stand and make them sandwiches and give one to each of them before they went out. When I was there, I didn’t go on home leave even once. Why did I volunteer, to go on leaves? If I go on leave, it’s at somebody else’s expense. I came to help out, not to be coddled."
The connection with the regular soldiers isn’t limited only to reserve duty. It’s practically a daily connection: Eli calls them, takes an interest in what they’re doing. "They’re like my children," he says. "After all, they are Kochava’s age. I see them and my heart goes out to them. I see them go home with a smile on their face, and come back just a little sad. So I boost their spirits. I tell them jokes. We talk about everything – about life, about love."
About Kochava, too?
"Not much."
Do they ask you?
"Yes, they do. They want to know whether I have a need for revenge, for instance. I explain to them that I don’t any more. I did before I started volunteering. Now, it’s in the past. I don’t want to kill Arabs randomly, God forbid. I stand in Bethlehem and see women and children, and I take pity on them. Revenge has given way to compassion. I still want to kill terrorists, but not innocent people. I learned in the reserves: I am not an animal; I am not like the terrorist who killed my daughter. Soldiers seek out terrorists with loaded weapons. I do not. I take no risks. Killing is so easy, I know; they killed my daughter, after all. But I don’t want to make a mistake. I won’t kill anyone at random."
On September 1st, Eli Polonsky is supposed to go out for another 24 days of reserve duty. The army is having a problem finding volunteers for the holidays. They were, therefore, happy that Eli was ready to go on duty for such a long period of time. "I only pray that I’ll be allowed to complete Kochava’s five months," he says. "I owe it to my little girl."