The year was 1963, and I was serving in the Israeli air force. I worked as a programmer on that famous huge Philco computer that filled a whole floor. One day we heard that the army Independence Day parade would be in Haifa. My grandmother lived in Haifa, so I immediately ran to my commander and said that I would like to march in the parade.
Instead of filling index cards with computer commands, I spent my days practicing proper marching, stopping, and turning. Because I was an officer, I was responsible for 50 young women. On Independence Day we traveled on trucks to Haifa and marched in a long parade through the main city streets.
My grandmother was sitting on a balcony viewing the parade. She knew that I would be there, and she invited several friends to applaud my group. I even dared to look up for a moment, and I saw her. At the end of the day, we met for dinner. I was out of the uniform. She was in tears. She hugged me and said,
“Ayana, it was one of the best days of my life. To see you as an Israeli soldier is the most amazing fantasy come true.”
I was happy. Those tears were wonderful tears. They were not her usual tears when she remembered her family slain in the Holocaust. I had a handkerchief ready—the one embroidered by her—and dried her eyes. She kept sobbing and continued, “It was the best gift you could give me. No need for a birthday gift this year. Not even Hanukkah!” “Same here,” I said. “Your tears were my gift for all this year’s occasions.”
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