My worst day – apart from a nonchalant phone call from an M.I.T. doctor in 2001 telling me casually I had prostate cancer – was October 7, 1973.

At 2 a.m., a Volkswagen honked its horn outside my home in Ramat Hasharon. I grabbed my duffel bag and headed off to join my army unit. On the way, I saw terrible car crashes as reservists desperately raced to join their units, while some genius decided to turn off all the traffic lights (fearing air attack).

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