“What’s the point in living like this, immobile and in constant pain? Why didn’t You just finish me off?”

By Yitzchak Landa, based on an interview with Cadet Boaz Abramoff, USAFA

You could say that military service was in my blood, but I never expected my blood to be in the service so soon.

I guess it’s good that I don’t remember anything from that day — or the day before, or several months that followed.

I don’t remember taking off or jumping out of the plane. I don’t remember the parachute failing, or spinning out of control, passing out, or striking the ground at the speed of a freight train.

I wasn’t in the plane where the pilots were frantically calling ambulances, and I wasn’t in the car with the nurse who saw me fall as she immediately pulled over, ran through the cactus fields, and saved my life.

I don’t remember being rushed to the hospital or into surgeries, my parents, friends, or rabbi visiting me during those early days, or the grim prognosis the doctors gave for my survival and even in the best case, for ever living a functional life again.

I just know that I’m here, I feel fine, and I owe that to Hashem’s great personal miracle and to so many special people. And I’m forever humbled by gratitude and a sense of mission. I’ve been through a lot, and I’m working on becoming a better person for it.

I

’d known since I was a kid that I would serve in the US Armed Forces, as did my grandfather and brothers. We were raised with profound gratitude to the United States for liberating my family during the Holocaust, and always nurtured an obligation to give back, even years later.

My father’s roots trace to Ukraine, as reflected in our family name: Abramoff. My paternal grandfather’s family fled their hometown of Berditchiv in the early 1900s, forced out by persistent anti-Jewish pogroms and Bolshevik violence. They settled in the Netherlands before World War II — my grandmother’s family was originally Dutch — and that’s where they were when Hitler’s marauders swept across Europe.

My grandfather and his siblings survived the war as children hiding in Dordrecht, Netherlands, while the vast majority of the local Jewish community was murdered. Toward the end of the war, Opa’s village was liberated by North American troops. As he watched the soldiers roll into town, bringing the promise of freedom and safety, he vowed to join them. Although they were Canadian, he was under the impression that the liberators were from the US. When he turned 18, he traveled to the United States, enlisted in the US Army, and served in the 101st Airborne Division during the Korean War. After completing his enlistment, he returned to the Netherlands. But burned by the war, Opa wanted nothing to do with Judaism or Jews afterward. He changed his name to Braamhof, a common Dutch last name, and married a non-Jewish woman.

My father was not born Jewish, but he sought out the religion and nation of his ancestors and became a ger at age 18. He married my mother, who was born Jewish of Dutch descent, and while still living in the Netherlands, changed his name back to reflect his Jewish lineage.

My parents lived in the Netherlands until 2003, when my father, an ophthalmologist, accepted a position at the University of Iowa. My mother, who is a child psychiatrist, was pregnant with me when we made the transatlantic voyage aboard the Queen Elizabeth II, fulfilling a lifelong dream to move to America.