The Masada Complex

by Avraham Azrieli

  “They seem happy in the Diaspora.” Masada gestured at the crowded synagogue. “And you, Rabbi Joshua Frank, claim to long for Zion, but here you are, in Arizona.”

  The blow was delivered, and he exhaled, touching his face as if she had actually slapped him. “That’s below the belt.”

  From his seat next to his father, Raul looked up at her, his young eyes accusatory.

  Al Zonshine leaped to his feet. “You deserve it, Rabbi!”

  Rabbi Josh lifted his hand to calm Al.

  “She’s pissing on you! She’s pissing on all of us!” Al’s face was purple, and he yelled, “She’s pissing on Israel! She’s pissing on the Ark! She’s pissing on the Torah!” He caught his breath and shouted, “And she’s pissing me off!”

  Rabbi Josh sighed.

  Masada watched Al step forward, shoving his hand in the pocket of his jacket, further contorting the ill-fitting garment, which creased and stretched with an odd, green sheen.

  Suddenly it came to her: Green polyester!

  Al Zonshine?

  While the rabbi descended the steps to deal with Al, Masada realized the connection: Vietnam! And the hand in the video clip-hairy and meaty, with thick, stubby fingers-was Al’s hand! Sheen must have driven from the professor’s house to meet Al, gave him the bribe money, and Al went to meet Mahoney to close the deal. Did Al own a white van? She would follow him after the service to find out.

  “You must,” Al yelled at Rabbi Josh, “excommunicate this bitch!”

  The rabbi stood in front of him in the area separating the dais from the crescents of seats. “We’re in the house of God on Sabbath Eve-a time of peace and spiritual reflection.”

  “Bewitched you, didn’t she? Banish her from our temple!”

  Rabbi Josh shook his head. “This is a place of inclusion.”

  “Then you are a traitor too!” Al Zonshine lifted the prayer book, threw it at the rabbi’s chest, and ran up the aisle to the exit.

  Everyone was frozen in shock, except Professor Silver, who got up and followed Al.

  Masada flexed her leg. Poor Levy, always trying to help, do the right thing. She rose from her seat to follow him, to tell him that Al worked for the Israelis, but paused. She would wait. Better the old man didn’t know.

  Professor Silver exited the sanctuary and chased after his inept accomplice. Al had already turned on the engine when Silver pulled open the passenger door and climbed into the van.

  “Shooting there is wrong!” Al panted, pressing his chest. “The Ark! I’ll go to hell!”

  “Take a deep breath.” Silver fiddled with the climate control knobs to increase the flow of cold air. “You’re doing fine.”

  Al grabbed a stained rag and wiped his forehead. “Can’t do it.”

  Silver forced his voice to stay even. “There’s nothing to fear.

  We are doing God’s work.”

  “What if I hit the Ark?”

  Screw the Ark, Silver thought. “Didn’t you read this week’s Torah chapter? An eye for an eye. That’s our Lord’s command.”

  Al clutched his chest. “Ahhh!”

  Silver opened the glove compartment and found the bottle of pills. “Here, take one.”

  Hands shaking, Al placed a pill under his tongue and sat back, eyes closed. Beads of sweat covered his face.

  Silver prayed silently. I beseech you, Allah. Don’t take him yet. A few more minutes, and you can burn his soul in eternity.

  Al’s breathing slowed down.

  “Would you rather die of a meaningless heart attack? Or do you want a hero’s end?”

  “Hero.” Al wiped his face again.

  “Show me the gun.”

  His paws were too big for his own pockets, and he struggled to extract the weapon.

  “Cock it.”

  He did.

  “Keep it in your hand, down by your leg, and walk right up to the dais. Understood?”

  “An eye for any eye!”

  “That’s the spirit! Don’t look at anyone. Focus on Masada. When you reach the edge of the dais, aim at her chest and pull the trigger. “Then you end it, like Mahoney.”

  “I’m a soldier!”

  “Soldier of Judah! Our people will tell your story to their children for generations!”

  “Judah’s Fist!” Al closed his eyes. “Give me a minute alone.”

  “One minute, soldier!” Professor Silver left the van and returned to the building. The foyer was lined with glass displays of Jewish trinkets. He stopped at the open door to the sanctuary and watched.

  Rabbi Josh was back on the dais, seated next to Masada, who noticed Silver at the door and smiled at him.

  “I have to respond to what was said before the interruption.” The rabbi put his hand on his son’s red head. “Why do I live comfortably in America while preaching aliyah? Because of this.” He leaned over and kissed the top of his son’s head. The boy twisted his freckled face in displeasure, making people laugh.

  Silver glanced at the white van outside. He had to shift his gaze slightly, as the blotch hid the van. It was parked under a street lamp, Al still at the wheel.

  “I owe it to my late wife,” the rabbi continued, “to raise our son in safety, not where people brave terror attacks, where rockets rain down without warning, where the Arabs’ hate of our people still burns hot. I must give our son a secure, happy childhood. I cannot put him in harm’s way.”

  “I’m not afraid,” Raul said, earning a round of applause.

  The rabbi laughed. “When you’re eighteen, you can make aliyah of your own volition, and I’ll join you.”

  “So,” Masada said, “you’ll make aliyah when the kid goes to college.”

  Silver shook his head in amazement. At least she was going out with a bang.

  “I am ashamed,” Rabbi Josh said, “that I put my son before my religious duty. I fear for him. That’s the downside of being a parent. You’re always afraid.”

  “But if you believe in God,” Masada argued, “Arizona or Israel are the same. Isn’t Raul’s safety in God’s hands, Rabbi?”

  Silver held his breath in awe. What a waste, to have to kill such a brilliant woman. She had the rabbi prostrated on the cutting board, sliced up like a green cucumber.

  Rabbi Josh raised his hands. “I can only aspire to Abraham’s faith, as he tied his son to the altar. One day I will settle in the Land of Israel and defend our Jewish state with my own life.”

  Back at the van, Silver could see the interior lights come on as Al had opened the door.

  “Your life?” Masada stood, facing him. “That’s a psychological condition: The Masada Complex.” She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. “Rolef’s Political Dictionary of the State of Israel gives a definition of this term: Masada Complex is the conviction that it’s preferable to fight to the end than to surrender and acquiesce to the loss of independent statehood.”

  The rabbi spread his arms. “Guilty as charged.”

  “The Masada Complex,” Masada said, “is the cause of death for thousands of Jews in Israel. It’s the reason otherwise sane men talk about sacrificing their lives. The Masada Complex is Israel’s national mental illness.”

  “Americans sacrifice their lives for their country.” The rabbi pointed to the Ark, flanked by the U.S. and Israeli flags. “Are they also mentally ill?”

  She faced the congregation. “The U.S. army is strictly voluntary. Most Americans wouldn’t agree to serve, let along die for it. Americans pursue individual success, self-fulfillment, and acquisition of personal wealth. This country exists for the people’s safety and happiness, and it’s secured within its natural borders, free of viable enemies. But Israel is stuck in perpetual existential danger since its establishment because it is but a futile attempt to implant a western democracy in a region whose soil will never support it. Israelis will continue to die unnecessarily because of an illusion, a dream of an independent Jewish state living in peace with its neighbors. But that dream can never become a re
ality. It’s unfair, a tragedy, a historic injustice, but it’s true.”

  As much as he agreed with Masada, Professor Silver was shocked by the relentlessness of her attack on the rabbi. He glanced at the van, shifting his head slightly to move the blotch aside, and was relieved to see Al approach the temple. In a moment, Masada and Al would die-a murder-suicide that no one would question, with a victim and a killer conveniently available to eliminate any search for a culprit.

  Al approached in a stiff walk, his right hand glued to his side.

  “And until they realize it,” she said, “Israelis will continue to suffer from the Masada Complex!”

  “And I think,” Rabbi Josh declared, “that you are afflicted with the Masada Complex.”

  They faced each other, similarly tall yet so different-Masada thin and erect, black hair flowing down to her shoulders, the rabbi muscled and tanned, softened by his golden ponytail.

  “You think I suffer from a Masada complex?” Masada laughed. “That would take a bunch of Talmudic hoops.”

  “Try it for size,” the rabbi said. “Exchange independent statehood with human rights, or whatever else you’re crusading for, and you fit the definition.”

  Silver tore himself from the captivating scene on the stage to watch Al, who passed by him without a word and entered the sanctuary.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Masada said.

  Rabbi Josh quoted from memory: “The conviction that it is preferable to fight to the end than to surrender and acquiesce to the loss of a scoop. Immigrants’ rights? Freedom of speech? Government corruption?” He looked up from the paper. “You’ve sacrificed everything for your work. You have no husband, no children, no love-no life, really.”

  Silver watched Al advance down the aisle toward the dais.

  “But I don’t,” Masada said, “prefer to die for these it.”

  “But you are willing to sacrifice yourself.”

  Al reached the foot of the dais and raised his arm, pointing the gun at Masada.

  Hilda Zonshine screamed, and the rabbi turned and saw Al’s gun.

  “So shall all thy enemies!” Al coughed, struggling to complete the sentence.

  Rabbi Josh threw himself across the dais to shield Masada. At the same time, Hilda Zonshine rolled off her seat in the front row and launched her stocky frame at her husband, yelling, “Alfred!” She collided with him just when a shot exploded.

  The entire congregation erupted in shouting and screaming. A stampede headed for the doors. Silver stepped aside just in time to avoid being trampled.

  When the flow of Jews dwindled to a whimpering trickle, Silver stepped to the door, only to be knocked down by a man running out. It was Al, who tried to say something but could not make his mouth work.

  Silver pointed to the gun. “Remember Mahoney!”

  Al turned and ran.

  Through the sudden quietness, Silver heard a man shouting. It took him a moment to recognize the rabbi’s voice.

  He pulled himself up and entered the sanctuary.

  “Help,” Rabbi Josh cried, “somebody help!” He was kneeling on the stage, his back to the hall.

  Coming down the aisle, Silver saw the boy’s legs on the dais. Stepping closer, he saw blood pooling under the crouching rabbi, who looked up and wailed, “No! Please God! Not my son!Not Raul!”

  A chair was toppled over, a large hole in the backrest. Blood had sprayed across the two national flags flanking the Ark of the Torah.

  Silver mounted the dais and circled the rabbi.

  The entry hole was small, as if a finger had poked into the boy’s chest. But Silver knew the exit hole in the back was bigger than a finger, bigger than a fist, or a basketball. He had chosen the bullets exactly for that effect.

  The rabbi’s cries turned to sobbing as he cradled his dead boy. “Raul. My baby. Please don’t! Raul!”

  An memory came to Silver of his own torment, laying over the edge of a bleak precipice, wailing for his son, his heart tearing apart with the realization that Faddah was gone forever.

  A siren sounded in the distance.

  The room started spinning. Silver tried to reach a chair, but his legs folded under him. The wood planks of the dais rose and collided with the side of his head. Darkness descended.

  Saturday, August 9

  Incessant knocking woke up Elizabeth. The clock by her bedside read 12:06 a.m. Someone was at the door to her apartment, and the first thought that came to her mind was the professor’s immigration file. She had been exposed!

  Getting out of bed, she tried to think. How had they found out? What mistake had she made that raised a red flag?

  The knocking continued. She had to open the door before the neighbors woke up. But what would she say? Let me call my lawyer. But I am a lawyer!

  Elizabeth found her slippers and went to the door.

  Professor Silver stumbled inside.

  She leaned on the wall, weak with relief. “What happened to you?”

  “Hell happened to me.” He went to the kitchen and dropped into a chair.

  Elizabeth gave him a glass of water. It occurred to her that he was putting on an act to regain her sympathy. “Do you know what time it is?”

  He took her hand and kissed it. “Ya aini, tfaddal!”

  Elizabeth paused. My dear, please? The confident manipulator had turned into a frightened old man, begging for kindness. “For your sake, I hope you’re not playing games with me.” She refilled his glass and sat down. “What happened?”

  He glanced at the door as if expecting someone to burst in and gripped his trembling hands together. “It’s a long story, but I had to use a stupid Jew as a conduit to bribe the senator, whom he know from Vietnam. That same idiot had just tried to shoot the Israeli writer in a fit of jealousy, but instead hit a little boy.”

  “How badly?”

  “Killed him.”

  Elizabeth pressed a hand to her mouth.

  “The rabbi’s son. Five years old. Terrible!” Professor Silver put on his eyeglasses. “If they arrest him, he’ll sing like a bird, and the whole story will come out. Can you imagine the backlash? The Jews will shed crocodile tears about how they were victimized again by the Arabs, that we were liars and cheaters, that we peddled fantasy, that our national saga-the Palestinian narrative we’d recited for half a century-was a fable!” He stood up, pounding her kitchen table. “And we’re so close to ending American support for Israel!”

  “Our people have survived worse.”

  “It’s over. I might as well shoot myself and save our brothers the trouble.”

  “Pull yourself together.” Elizabeth knew that this man’s fate was tied to hers. If the professor was arrested and unmasked, his immigration file would be examined. Her forgeries might hold after years in the archive, but an immediate investigation would reveal the fresh paint on her creation. And then? Dismissal, criminal indictment, trial, and jail. Elizabeth grabbed her purse. “Come, Abu Faddah, let’s find your crazy Jew.”

  Marti Lefkowitz blew his nose into a handkerchief embroidered with yellow flowers. “I grieve for Al too,” the florist said to Masada. “He’s ill, mentally speaking.”

  She watched the police investigators mark up the dais.

  “The real Al wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Lefkowitz insisted, his chins shaking. “He’s gone meshugge. Now, look at this!”

  Masada was numb. When Mahoney shot himself, she had deflected any guilt by focusing her mind on his crookedness of a money-grabbing politician. But now, less than a week later, another bleeding body rested before her, and Masada could muster no strength to deflect the darkest remorse. Raul’s death was her doing, as if her own finger had pulled the trigger. She had missed all the clues pointing to Al. If not for her incompetence, Raul would be alive.

  “I’m also worried about Levy,” Lefkowitz kept talking, “fainting like this, then refusing medical attention and running off. At our age one cannot be too careful. I told him, but he left anyway.”

  Two
officers lifted the small body bag onto a stretcher.

  Rabbi Josh walked behind the stretcher as it was wheeled toward the door, where the officers paused to pull open both doors. He began to cry again, calling his son’s name.

  Masada fought her tears with self-recrimination. She had lost her focus, allowed feelings to get in the way of her work. Raul’s freckled face came to her, smiling. Why are you crying?

  Outside, cameras flashed at them like lightning strikes. She helped the florist’s weeping wife into their car. Marty Lefkowitz said, “Come stay with us until they catch him.” She shook her head, unable to speak.

  Professor Silver directed Elizabeth to his house, and they parked down the street to wait for Al. She asked, “What car does he drive?”

  “A white van.” Silver glanced over his shoulder.

  They waited. A few cars came and left, but not Al’s van.

  “There’s another possibility,” Silver said.

  “What?”

  “He could be heading to her house.”

  “The Israeli writer?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “To make another attempt on the same night? Is he that stupid?”

  Despite the situation, Silver laughed. “Elzirah, ya aini, you don’t understand! Allah gave me the stupidest Jew in history!”

  Masada entered her house, which still smelled of the fire. She turned on all the lights. Guilt and anger boiled inside her. She had failed to make the connection, to predict Al’s next crime. Was she failing again? What if Al came here to finish the job? She wasn’t worried about her own safety; she worried about failing to catch him. He could tell her who had really been behind Mahoney’s bribe!

  Masada carried a tall stepladder back to her bedroom. She brought over a ten-gallon paint container, which she had bought the day before, planning to spend Saturday painting her scorched walls. The bedroom door was solid oak, eight feet tall, attached to the door frame with three brass hinges. She closed the door, but not completely, leaving a narrow opening, and climbed the ladder, pulling up the paint container rung by rung. She balanced it evenly on top of the door, the side of the container leaning against the wall above the door frame. She slowly let go.