Miri had told him the story of the last days in the fortress, back in the first century A.D. She talked of the huge dirt ramp built in the searing desert heat by Jewish slaves to provide a place for the Roman siege machines to batter the walls, of the shift in wind that drove the Roman fire into the wooden braces of the Jewish wall and signaled the collapse of their last defense against Rome. Miri’s voice grew subdued and husky with emotion as she told of the Jewish leader, Eleazar, and his impassioned plea to the defenders to cheat the Romans of their victory after three years of siege. If it was God’s will they perish, he demanded that they do so by their own hands.
Miri described those final moments when the men had embraced their wives and children and then, weeping, cut them down with the sword. The men had then drawn lots. Ten were chosen to kill the others who lay down next to the bodies of their families and bared their throats. Those ten next drew lots. One, whom fate chose, executed the other nine, set fire to the buildings, and then ran himself through.
Now as Miri and Brad sat on the bottom step of the flight of stairs hewn out of the walls of stone, Brad was keenly aware of the soft touch of her arm against his own.
“There were seven survivors,” she said, picking up the narrative without a break. “Two women and five children. They told the Romans what had happened. They had hidden in one of the cisterns—I like to think it was this one, where we are now—when the suicide pact was carried out.”
She looked around the giant cavern as though looking for traces of the seven. “Some scholars believe that two of the men didn’t have the courage to kill their families, or that the women fled here with their children to avoid death. But I believe Eleazar appointed them to survive so they could testify that the Jews would rather die than fall into Roman hands.”
She fell silent, and the gloom of the cavern seemed to permeate her mood as well as Brad’s. He started to speak, but just then six tourists started down the stairs into the cistern. Brad half expected Miri to leave, but she stood up and moved away from the stairs, smiling politely at the intruders, then waited quietly as they oohed and aahed and flashed their cameras. When they were gone she moved back to the stairs and sat down again. Brad joined her.
“Some people accuse us of having a Masada complex,” she said.
“What is that?”
“They say we view it as a national shrine. We bring all of our new military cadets up to the top of Masada to swear their oath of allegiance. They end it by saying, ‘Masada shall not fall again.’ It has become the motto, the cry of Israel.”
“Yes,” Brad said, “I’ve heard that.”
“The Western press says we have the same complex. We are so afraid of defeat that we would rather commit suicide as a nation than give in. They say Israel has a death wish, a suicide fixation.”
“Perhaps the Western press has never walked through Yad Vashem,” Brad answered quietly.
Miri gave him a long look. “It is hard for others to understand,” she finally said, choosing her words with great care, “but this land is part of me. It is a land with many difficulties and many challenges. Taxes are incredibly steep, the highest in the world, because one half of our budget goes for defense. Inflation is out of control. The Israeli pound was worth two dollars and eighty cents in 1948. Now it is worth twenty-three cents. Nearly every couple works two jobs to make ends meet. We call our children the ‘key children,’ because they wear their apartment keys around their necks since their parents are rarely there when they come home from school. We are a land of almost unbearable tension, a land of soldiers and war. Men and women are drafted in Israel, and all men stay in the reserves with three weeks of summer training until they are fifty. Childless women stay in the reserves till age thirty-four. There is hardly an apartment building without its war widow. We are a country of armed guards and barbed wire, of night patrols and terrorist attacks.”
Brad nodded, wanting her to know he understood, and yet not wanting to interrupt her.
“Some have come here, and they cannot stand living on the edge of the knife as we do. They go back home. I do not condemn them. Sometimes I long for peace, for relief, for rest. But if we fail here, now, if Israel falls again, then who will save my people when the next fuehrer comes to power?”
She stared at Brad almost defiantly, daring him to speak. Then gradually her face softened into a quiet smile. “That is the passionate speech of a guide who has forgotten her place. It will not cost you any extra.”
Brad smiled. “Do you know what I think?”
She shook her head.
“I think if you had been asked to be one of the two women survivors of Masada, you would have refused.”
To his surprise, she flared up at that. “Was life as a slave in Roman hands more sweet than death?” she said fiercely. “I think not.”
“Hey!” Brad said, taking her gently by the shoulders. “Put away your sword, Eleazar. I meant that not as an attack, but as a salute.”
And when he felt her stiffness slowly relax, he pulled her to him and gently kissed her. For a split second she started to resist, but then came willingly to him, her lips warm and responsive.
Miri pulled away and stared at him for a long moment. Then she put her arms around his neck and kissed him back, a soft, lingering kiss. Pulling away again, she shook her head, almost sadly. “This wasn’t supposed to be part of the guide service either,” she said, her voice very soft.
And then to his surprise, she stood up, turned, and ran swiftly up the stairs into the sunlight, leaving him to stare after her.
Twenty
They stood under the deep shadows of a poinciana tree, Miri close to him, her head against his shoulder. The chirp of an occasional cricket was the only sound louder than the slight rustling of leaves when the breeze stirred. The bright orange-red flowers of the tree, now barely visible in the light of the moon, poured their rich fragrance into the air around them.
She shivered slightly in the evening cool, and Brad put his arm around her shoulder. “Cold?”
“Not now.”
“Want to go in?”
“Not yet. It’s so lovely out here.”
“It’s been a lovely three days. I can see why Jesus loved the Galilee so much,” Brad said. “The whole area is beautiful. And the children have been delightful, Miri. I’m glad you needed some help with them.”
“So am I,” she murmured. “It’s been a wonderful time for me.”
“Miri?”
“Hmmmm?”
“Sometime we have to talk about some things.”
She nodded, reaching up to touch his hand on her shoulder. “I know.”
He was silent, torn with indecision. Three times he had decided to tell her about his decision to return to America. Three times he had turned away, unable to bring himself to say it because it committed him to a course he still fought against.
She looked up at him, then put her finger gently to his lips. “Not tonight. I know it is time we talk very honestly with each other. But not tonight, not now. Tomorrow we go back home, back to life and reality. Tomorrow is soon enough, okay?”
“Okay,” he agreed, pulling her around to face him. She looked up expectantly, but as he bent his head down to kiss her, Brad suddenly remembered Mordecai, the sixteen-year-old from Sarah Millstein’s kibbutz who had accompanied them on this outing as the other guard. Because it was located close to Lebanon, the kibbutz posted a nightly guard, and the young man had insisted he take his turn.
“What is the matter?” Miri asked as he pulled back.
“Mordecai.”
“Mordecai?”
“Yes, he’s on guard duty right behind us.”
Miri giggled. “Don’t you think he’s ever seen a man and woman kiss before?”
“Well, I know, but—”
Her own kiss cut off his words.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Miri said, still sensing his hesitancy. “He can’t see us that well here in the shadows.” She stood on
tiptoe and peered over his shoulder. “Besides, he’s not even there now.”
That surprised Brad. The young man had been standing under the yard light when he and Miri had strolled by. They had spoken to him briefly, and then stopped here under the tree. Brad turned around and studied the large parking area of the kibbutz.
“Maybe he went off duty,” Miri suggested.
“No,” Brad said, scanning the area with his eyes, aware of a sudden sense of foreboding. “He told me he was to stay on watch until midnight. He was very proud to be doing it, and very conscientious.”
Miri clutched at Brad’s arm, sensing his sudden concern. “Do you think something is wrong?”
“I don’t know,” he said, his voice barely audible. He pushed her gently aside and reached for the carbine he had leaned against the trunk of the tree. He had carried it almost religiously for the last three days.
Brad touched Miri’s arm. “He may have just walked over to talk with the other guard, or maybe he got embarrassed eavesdropping on us, and stepped around the corner of the building. Stay here. If I’m not back in five minutes, sound the alarm.”
She nodded, gave his hand a quick squeeze, and stepped back deeper into the shadows.
It took Brad just one minute to reach the spot where Mordecai had been standing. He moved in a crouch around the perimeter of the open area, using the shadows of bushes and vehicles as cover. Even if nothing was wrong, he didn’t want to startle a trigger-happy kid.
But Mordecai was never going to be startled again. Brad found him around the side of the building face down in the dirt, a large dark spot staining his T-shirt in the center of his back. Fear hit Brad like a wave of icy water. He stood motionless, knowing from experience that it was the initial burst of adrenalin racing through his system. Every sense in his body was straining to read the night.
A minute later he was back with Miri. “Mordecai is dead.” He went on quickly, ignoring the sharp intake of her breath. “The fence has been cut, so they’re somewhere inside the compound.”
“Oh no!” she cried. “The children!”
Brad lunged for her as she started to dart away and jerked her back. “Listen!” he said urgently. “They can’t have gotten far yet. We saw Mordecai just two or three minutes ago.” He raised his arm and pointed. “They’ll head for the dormitories, and if we try and warn the others, they’ll see us.”
He gripped her shoulders and noted that while her eyes were wide, they held no panic. “Keep to the cover of the bushes and buildings. Go to the back gate and get the other guards. Tell them to watch out for me. I’ll see if I can delay these guys. Be careful!”
Sprinting away across the grass, Brad heard her one desperate whisper, “You be careful.”
As he cut around the equipment shed, Brad’s mind raced. All the old instincts jumped into life, and his mind clicked with deadly cool precision. The prime question involved how many there were. Three to six, he guessed. There was no question about their target—the two long, low buildings that housed the occupants of the kibbutz. Terrorists sought psychological shock effect, and blowing up empty sheds and stables was hardly the most effective way to achieve that.
As Brad dropped quietly to his belly and slithered around the corner of the kibbutz dining room, he saw the first man. The dark figure was crouched down over a bundle of some kind, fiddling with the flap. His rifle lay on the ground alongside him.
The terrorist was scared or an amateur, or both, for he had chosen terrible field position. The dim light from one of the windows left him in clear silhouette. His back was turned to the one most likely source of attack, and he had set his rifle down. The critical question was whether someone else was covering for him. There was no time to wait and find out. Once that bundle was armed, Brad didn’t want to be handling it. He leaped to his feet and darted toward the huddled figure.
Whether it was Brad’s footsteps that caught the attention of the terrorist or the sudden blast of automatic rifle fire that exploded the silence of the night didn’t make a lot of difference. The young Arab spun around and grabbed for his rifle about two seconds too late. Brad hit him with a sweeping blow from the rifle butt as he flew by him and dropped into a tuck and roll, slamming up behind the cover of the main steps.
The second terrorist who had opened fire may have been scared, but he was definitely not an amateur. The bullets tracked Brad’s path with deadly accuracy, chipping cement off the stairs, then whining away in angry ricochets.
Suddenly the whole compound erupted. Automatic rifle fire opened up behind him, then more blasted away to his left. He suddenly felt sick. Had Miri stumbled into them? Shifting his weight, Brad prepared to make a dash for better cover, but he was directly under the light over the front step of the dormitory, and his assailant could obviously see every twitch he made. He frantically jerked himself into a tight ball behind the steps as a hail of bullets bracketed his position like a furious swarm of hornets.
Slowly he inched over onto his back, and with one blast from the carbine he took out the light above him. Again he hugged the earth as the deadly hail sought him out.
Suddenly the front door squeaked loudly.
“Stay back!” Brad shouted, but if the man understood English he paid no attention. The door exploded outward, and a dark figure hurtled over Brad, clearing the steps completely. It was utterly courageous and utterly suicidal. The man came out of his dive and got three steps into a darting run when the “hornets” found him, jerked him violently around twice, then cut his legs out from under him.
“Can you hear me inside?” Brad hissed, now painfully aware that the lights from the doorway left him as exposed as before. “This is Brad Kennison,” he tried again. “I’m with Miri Shadmi. Can you hear me?”
“Yes.” It was a guttural whisper, urgent and commanding. “Cover me! I’m coming out!”
“No!” Brad shot back, but he could have saved his breath. The man near the dining hall opened up again, and the bullets slamming through the open doorway provided a far more convincing command than Brad’s.
“Cut the lights!” Brad called softly, not daring to raise his head.
There was a short bark in Hebrew, and the lights went dark. But there was still sufficient light in the area to make lifting one’s head a very foolish move.
“How many are there?” the deep voice whispered.
“Two here. One is down. The other one has an automatic rifle over by the dining hall. Can you throw something out the side window to distract him?”
There was another unintelligible grunt, and a moment later a muffled scraping from the inside. Then, “Ready?”
“Ready!” Brad swung his carbine around and tensed his muscles.
The shattering crash of glass brought a vicious response from across the grass. Brad popped up, saw the muzzle flashes coming from a clump of bushes near the building, and snapped off four quick shots. He grunted in satisfaction as he dropped back down and heard a sharp cry of pain and brief thrashing in the bushes.
“I think it’s clear,” he called in through the door. “I’ll cover you.”
The Israeli kibbutzniks came tumbling out of the doorway like skydivers out of the belly of an airplane. A barrel-chested man with no shirt barked commands in Hebrew. Two men ran to their downed comrade while four more darted for the two downed terrorists. Brad had hit the second man in the upper thigh and high in the chest. He was bleeding badly, but he was still conscious. The Israeli had not been as lucky.
The owner of the guttural whisper nodded once to Brad; then, amenities over, his face hardened. “It sounds as though the others are down by the dairy barns. Let’s go!” Again the short, barked commands in Hebrew sent the men running, this time Brad with them.
It was short but vicious. Three other terrorists had fled to the animal sheds when their surprise had been cut short, and now they fought like cornered wildcats. But the Israelis had a fury of their own. When two of the three Arabs went down in a withering cross fire, the
third screamed wildly and tossed out his rifle.
The sudden quiet was almost as deafening as the previous bedlam. The big man jerked his head, and the terrified Arab was led away by three grim-faced farmers. “Come!” he said to Brad. “It sounds as if it is over. Let’s assess the damage.”
But the Israeli was wrong. As they came around the last dormitory building, they saw a large crowd milling around in a wide circle. Sarah Millstein turned and saw them, then burst into sobs. “Brad!” she cried. “He’s got Miri!”
With the large man clearing a path like an angry bull, Brad plunged into the crowd. Suddenly he understood why the milling group had formed such a large ring around the two central figures. A young Arab boy, eyes wild with terror, had Miri around the throat with one arm and was waving the encircling Israelis back with the other, which held a hand grenade clenched in white knuckles. The Arab, clearly not much older than Mordecai had been, was screaming at the crowd in hysterical Arabic.
Brad stared for a split second, his stomach a hard knot, then grabbed the big man’s shoulder. “What’s he saying?” he demanded.
A man next to them spoke up. “He’s saying he’ll let go of the pin on the grenade unless we stand back and let him out of here.”
“Okay,” Brad said, yanking on the big man’s arm. “Tell him we’ll do it. Tell the people to move back and let him go.”
The man thrust Brad’s hand away and shook his head. “We don’t allow hostages to be taken,” he said bluntly, turning away.
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