A year after my first journey, I had changed in a way I didn´t like but couldn´t help. It was September again, and I had become so sick and tired of the olive attire. It wasn´t the hardships of life in the barracks - in fact, these hardships were softships really if compared to what military service meant in most other countries of the world. Even in places only 20 kilometers away. I was with a military intelligence unit, stationed a stone´s throw from the Iron Curtain, and there was no slouching about in the mud for us - that was for our pitied fellows in the Infantry battallions. Or for the guys serving in the East German Army. Since we watched, listened, located their units every day, we knew a lot about them. Their uncomfortable uniforms that would give them a rash after marching a couple of kilometers. On our end, I remember one NCO - StUffz Risse. What I remember about him is that over the years he had washed his uniform so many times that the olive colour had come off. Beneath it, his uniform was grey. The clearest Feldgrau you could have imagined. I still see myself standing on the parade ground and thinking: Funny. If you wash away the NATO color, just a little too much detergent, it´s the Wehrmacht colour. And it looks good. Real good.

That September, my colours had come off, too. I was desperate to get away. From my ridiculously low pay I bought a ticket to Tel Aviv. I snorkeled through the coral reefs off Eilat and saw the Lake Genezareth shimmering from atop the Galilee mountains. I marveled at beautiful girls taking off their uniforms at Jaffa beach and wearing shiny yellow bikinis underneath. On a warm Sabbath morning, i stood for hours by the roadside on the outskirts of a town called Safed trying to get a ride to the coast. But above anything, I discovered Jerusalem. This journey, this city, the tangible spirits, the beautiful people. I was saved then. This I will never forget.