Sorry for the delay, I just needed to type this part up (in the sun) :)
The purpose of torture is to break someone's will to keep their secrets.
"You are good at this. It isn't so bad, is it?"
"Well Amit, you've been on the receiving end, what do you think?" I asked calmly through clenched teeth as Amit Hadar methodically burned his way up my left forearm with a lighter.
"Just keep your eyes on the prize and you'll do fine." He said, or something to that effect. "Under certain circumstances the prize could be life or death, depending on how you are holding up. It could also be the lives of countless others. In the end though, it is the gratification of knowing that you have kept your secrets.
I bit my lip, unable to move my eyes from the burn mark.
"What are you getting today?" He asked curiously.
"A sheckel every minute. Ow." I said pitifully as one of the blisters burst open.
"That's a good deal."
"And Michael if giving me half of whatever he wins betting on me."
"What about your sister?"
"She's… away." She couldn't always be there to protect me. If any one of my control officers mentioned this particular type of training when she was around, she usually just insisted that she or Ari needed my help.
"I see." He mumbled knowingly. "How long are you planning?"
"I walked past Tahari the other day, their new shoes are out." I paused. "As long as I can.
Amit shook his head and barely cracked a smile. "You're turning into quite the Bond girl."
"I know." I said apathetically.
"You're ambitious. It's a good quality to have."
I let out a mangled gulp of pain as the red stripe of skin began to crack entirely. He moved to the other arm.
I didn't hold it against Amit, it was his job. He was just the guy who got the assignment. He was honest, and reluctant to give me any sort of mission.
My father, on the other hand, believed resisting torture was one of those valuble skills he believed I might need some day. But he never came to watch. He never saw the blood. He never saw me in pain. He never heard me singing "Hit Me Baby One More Time" at the top of my lungs, trying to ignore it.
Sometime before my mother died, whenever my father would return from a long trip he would pull me onto the couch and run his hands through my bushy brown hair. "He would sigh and say something like "There has been too much death." Or, "you will be safe, little one, someday we all will be," while I squirmed, desperate to return to my cartoons and crayons.
Had it always been his plan to groom me for Mossad? Or did something change his mind? I never really knew.
The memories that made my father seem human flooded my thoughts at those times when I was suffering alone. Sometimes those memories convinced me that he wasn't a bad person at heart.
Maybe I was wrong, and he was not as horrible as I had thought. Even if he did have the best intentions, it did not excuse some of the things he did. Some of the things he did were unforgivable.
Some of us thought of Mossad as our family, but we all died alone.
