Dear friends, a true story
By Marty Friedlander

Marty here. I have a true story to tell you that is one for the books. I will not embellish or interpret, although there is plenty of room for that, enough for a lifetime or two. Just the facts:

N.B. - This might not be too appropriate for the faint-hearted!

On Tuesday I was working at the Ha'aretz office downtown. Left around 12:00 on foot and headed to Mea She'arim, where I rendezvoused with Rena and my in-laws. Went into my favorite tefillin shop (Gershon Henoch Cohen) with my father-in-law, where he bought a new pair of tefillin, a talit and a few mezuzas. Back out to the car, Rena driving. At the end of Mea Shearim Street she made the right at Nevi'im, went up the street and made the left toward the Russian Compound. I got out at the corner of Helena Hamalka (a long block beyond where I wanted to get out, which is Havatzelet). It was a litttle after 1:00. I straightaway decided to go for a felafel at Moti's on Hanevi'im, 100 meters away. I headed back and within 15 seconds after leaving the family I heard the bomb go off. Big boom, but not overpowering. I turned and saw the smoke coming out of the falafel place. No other sounds at all.

First thing I did was call Rena to say that I was okay, that it was a bomb, and that I was going back there. I then trotted over. There were two cops in front, fanning out to the sides to stop traffic. There was an arm lying by the door. No one was there, no one else was going in. I sort of loitered around in front for about ten seconds, partly hoping that a medical team would arrive and relieve me of my burden, but there was no one else. I am a medic, and have trained all my life for this kind of episode. Finally I realized it had to be me. In the meantime, I think someone must have come out from the back room of the falafel place and said that there was only one patzua (casualty). I went in and saw him lying on the floor, his head toward the door, in front of the counter where the customers usually stand. He had no legs. I leaned down and looked at him for a second or two. His eyes were wide open, focused on me. At first I wasn't sure if it was a man or woman; he was wearing a dark, flowery kind of shirt. But I put my hand on his chest to help check for breathing, and realized it was a man. He was breathing. That took care of A and B (airway and breathing). Then comes C - circulation. I ran outside and called out for a belt. A cop pulled his belt off and gave it to me - by now there were more people outside. I went back in and took a better look and realized there was absolutely nothing that I could apply the chosem orakim (arterial torniquet) to. He had no legs left. It was pointless to apply the het"ayin to his arm (at the elbow) when he was clearly bleeding out through much larger arteries. There was nothing more I could do. I said to him - "tinshom amok" - breathe deep. His eyes were still focused. I decided to help out with his breathing, and give mouth to mouth. I closed his nostrils with two fingers and gave one breath, which - exactly like you do in training on Resusci-Annie the doll - didn't work because I neglected to move the chin up and open up the airway. I corrected the position and started mouth to mouth. Just like the book says - with five seconds from one to the next. I noticed he had this little button-sized beard under his chin. After seven or eight breaths, maybe 45 seconds into the whole thing, I looked up. His eyes were now rolled up to the top of his head, and I could only see the whites of his eyes. I saw someone standing in the doorway watching the whole thing. He was nodding his head from side to side. He looked for some reason very authoritative to me. Maybe it was the fact that he wasn't jumping up and down, not panicked at all. Like he's seen these sort of things before. I don't know what it was, but I stopped the CPR. Rationally I knew my patzua was not going to make it, and that my little artifical respiration was not even needed. After all, he was breathing on his own. I got up and walked outside. I assume that he died a few seconds later.

By this time, there were lots of police. I noticed Mickey Levy, the police commander for Jerusalem. He had a megaphone and was shouting out - open up the road toward Har Hatzofim (Hadassah Mt. Scopus). He said something about ambulances, I walked over and told him ambulance, in the singular. I hadn't seen any other wounded. I was shunted across the street by the police, who were fanning out to look for more bombs. I was behind a barrier leading to a private driveway where some cars were parked, and a demolitions guy was talking to some fellow who identified his car, and said that his colleagues at work could come down and identify their cars. The cop wrote something with a wax pencil on the windshield.

An Ethiopian guy of about 20 ran up and pleaded with a cop to let him go in. He said his brother worked with Moti. I asked him what his brother looked like. He said that he looks like an Ethiopian (!) I assured him that his brother was okay, that there was only one patzua and that he was definitely not Ethiopian.

It was around now that I finally realized that my patzua was the terrorist. One of the people around me must have said something, and then it dawned on me. I got a couple of phone calls. One from my mother, who was with my father at Bikur Holim Hospital, a few blocks away. She wanted to know if I was okay. She also asked if I knew where my sister Janis was. I assured her that Janis was okay. (by process of elimination!)

I got another call from my friend Amy, at work. I told her what had happened.

I think at this point I nearly threw up. I realized that I had to get the police to test this guy for diseases. So about five minutes after leaving the felafel place, I went down through this alley and through a building on Havatzelet and went back to my office, a couple of minutes away. First thing I did was scrub my hands (I had noticed some blood on my thumb) and face with soap. And again, soaping up my lips, inside and out. People at work sat me down and gave me water to drink. I was still calm. In fact, the entire time I had remained very calm and rational. My entire life as a medic (23 years) I've always wondered how I would react when this sort of thing would happen. Would I freak? Would I fold? And today I did everything I was supposed to do.

I called Rena, told her exactly what I'd done. I then called the police, because I wanted them to do tests on the terrorist to see if he had anything I needed to worry about. I got the number of the chief medical officer at national police headquarters and spoke to someone there. A few minutes later a guy named Zvika called me back. He was the chief medic for the Jerusalem district. He said he would get the ball rolling. From what he said, I realized for certain that my patzua was the terrorist and that he was dead. I asked him what else I should be doing, and he suggested getting immunizations for Hepatitis A and B, and tetanus.

I was pretty calm. I emailed myself some unfinished work so I could work on it later at home, but by now I was slowing down, and sending a simple email took over five minutes. I then walked over to Bikur Holim, visited with my parents (my father was being released that day, and I had planned to drive them home). My father had been suggesting that my mother walk over to the good boreka place on Haneviim, which is two doors away from the falafel place, when the bomb blew. I told them what had happened to me.

I then walked over to where I'd parked the car, near Ethiopia Street, drove to Kupat Holim, saw a doctor, asked for the vaccines, went down to the pharmacy to buy them, back up to the nurses room to get them injected. It was now 3:00, two hours after the whole thing began. I asked one of the nurses to check my BP and pulse. Blood pressure was high - 135 over 95, I usually run 110 over 75. I was actually pleased to see that this was affecting me.

That's it. I drove home. Rena hugged me - but did not kiss me on the lips. I talked a lot.

Zvika had informed the guys on the investigation about me, and a detective called and set up an appointment for Wednesday morning for me to give my testimony. I went and spoke to an Udi, who'd been there since 5 am. I am not a big fan of cops, but these guys are amazing. They work so hard.

Oh, and Zvika called me back on Tuesday afternoon. The AIDS test was negative. This time, Rena did kiss me when I got home from work.

Since all this happened, I have been reviewing the whole thing over and over. It's got so many elements to it - the fact that we probably drove right past the terrorist on Haneviim; that I was 30 seconds away from walking in to the shop for a felafel; that I never had to make the call on whether to treat a terrorist bomber because I never realized that's what he was; that I was carrying a gun, and would have shot him dead if I'd known what he was about to do, but 20 seconds later was trying to save the life of a human being; that I may have given my enemy a few extra seconds of life in which to suffer; that he died hearing a Jew telling him to breathe deeply, and trying to save his life. There's a lot to digest.

But its 6:22 am, and I am going to the 6:30 minyan over on Haportzim, where I plan to bench hagomel, and will also bring a bottle of Scotch to make a l'chaim.

Just another day in the life of,

Marty Friedlander

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Marty's story arrived as an email to Ariga, among others, and was published on Friday, August 9, 2002 in Ha'aretz-IHT's weekend edition. It appears here with his permission.

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