Epstein Secrets

the fruit groves of Kibbutz Ha’on, near the Sea of Galilee. I then headed for Givataim in north Tel Aviv, to a place I knew well. It was the home of Menachem Digli. He had been Avraham Arnan’s deputy in the sayeret when I left for my stint in officers’ school. Before I returned to the unit, he had a motorcycle a

ttacked. But when the Syrians ordered the Golanis to drop their weapons, one of them did, and the Company A men followed suit. They were all taken to Damascus, held in solitary confinement, beaten and tortured. o/7 HOUSE_OVERSIGHT_011528 One of the captured Golani soldiers was a 19-year-old named Uri Ilan

d to find an answer for all these threats. Uzi Yairi’s term as Sayeret Matkal commander had by now ended, but his successor was someone I knew well. Menachem Digli was the officer on whom I’d bestowed my stolen Syrian Mercedes at the end of the war. His leg was now recovered from the motorcycle accident, and I r

le undeniably risky, seemed to me to have every chance of success. It was to abduct a number of Syrians from an officers’ club on the western edge of Damascus. We would land in transport helicopters a few miles away and unload a pair of armored cars captured in 1967. But Raful’s view prevailed. I could not

the fruit groves of Kibbutz Ha' on, near the Sea of Galilee. I then headed for Givataim in north Tel Aviv, to a place I knew well. It was the home of Menachem Digli. He had been Avraham Arnan's deputy in the sayeret when I left for my stint in officers' school. Before I returned to the unit, he had a motorcycle a

ttacked. But when the Syrians ordered the Golanis to drop their weapons, one of them did, and the Company A men followed suit. They were all taken to Damascus, held in solitary confinement, beaten and tortured. o/7 HOUSE_OVERSIGHT_027905 One of the captured Golani soldiers was a 19-year-old named Uri Ilan

ed to find an answer for all these threats. Uzi Yairi's term as Sayeret Matkal commander had by now ended, but his successor was someone I knew well. Menachem Digli was the officer on whom I'd bestowed my stolen Syrian Mercedes at the end of the war. His leg was now recovered from the motorcycle accident, and I r

le undeniably risky, seemed to me to have every chance of success. It was to abduct a number of Syrians from an officers' club on the western edge of Damascus. We would land in transport helicopters a few miles away and unload a pair of armored cars captured in 1967. But Raful's view prevailed. I could not