The Masada Complex

by Avraham Azrieli

  “You, on the other hand.” She motioned at his purple jacket and matching tie. “What’s this style? Meticulously casual.”

  “You have a good eye.” He smoothed down his hair. “You must feel like you’re back in the army, with all the gunfire going on around you.”

  “And no money.”

  He cleared his throat. “Darling, I called corporate several times, but they’re slow.”

  “I need to fix my house and,” she patted the bed, “pay medical bills. I can’t do any work while starving.”

  “The fate of a freelancer.” Drexel clicked his tongue. “Feast or famine. I’m doing my best, but the next payment is not due until you submit a draft.”

  “Don’t be technical, especially with all your new subscriptions.” Her head began to throb. She rested back on the pillows.

  “Masada darling, I’m on your side, but perhaps you could take a mortgage on your house in the meantime. Nobody owns a house debt-free in this country.”

  “I don’t like debt.”

  He punched a number on his iPhone. “Campbell Chadwick wants to talk to you.”

  “Quite a night you had,” the lawyer said cheerfully, as if Masada had gone barhopping.

  “Just trying to stay alive.”

  “Dropping a bucket of concrete on an old veteran’s head?” Chadwick chuckled. “What can I say?”

  “It was paint, not concrete. And it dropped when he invaded my bedroom in the middle of the night.”

  “Police says you set a trap and lured him in through the window.”

  “He broke in.”

  “Without waking you up?” The lawyer sighed. “The jury isn’t going to buy it.”

  “Jury?” Masada raised her voice. “What jury?”

  “D.A. announced possible indictment against you for first-degree assault.”

  Masada couldn’t believe it. “Al Zonshine tried to shoot me at Temple Zion!”

  “He threatened you, that’s true, but according to his wife the gun discharged accidentally when she bumped into him. She says that you’ve seduced and manipulated him and caused him to dump his medication.”

  “That’s nonsense. I have a restraining order against him! And he broke into my house, beat my head in, abused me, and shot at me again!”

  “Technically,” Chadwick interrupted her, “he couldn’t break into an open house.”

  “Because he blew out my windows on his previous attempt to kill me!”

  “There’s no evidence he was behind the gas explosion. According to the D.A., the explosion seemed like an inside job. There was no evidence of break in. There is evidence, however, that after the shooting in the synagogue you declined an invitation to stay the night with friends. As your legal counsel, I strongly recommend that you do not dismiss the risk of a criminal indictment.”

  “You must be joking.”

  “Also,” the lawyer continued, “please refrain from discussing with anyone facts or allegations related in any way to the incident or the previous incident that resulted in manslaughter-the one in Israel.”

  “This is right out of Kafka,” Masada said.

  “We face grave legal risks, not only to you, but also to Jab Corporation and its respective publishing enterprises.”

  “Since when does the victim go on trial?”

  “Victim status is a subjective thing. You’re a beautiful, successful, famous, and-pardon me for saying-self-righteous writer, while an elderly veteran, whose history of mental illness was known to you, is fighting for his life. I suggest you pray for Mr. Zonshine’s full recovery, or we’ll be defending a wrongful death claim, as well.”

  When the sun went down and the Sabbath was over, Rabbi Josh forced himself out of Raul’s bed and drove to Temple Zion. He called the funeral home about transportation of the body. Finding a phone number on the Internet, he reached the burial society in Jerusalem, where it was already Sunday morning. The Israelis had a well-oiled process for accommodating dead Diaspora Jews. He paid for three plots, so that Linda’s remains could follow later. Going onto the Continental Airlines web site, he bought a one-way ticket for himself on a flight to Israel via New York. By e-mail he informed his colleagues around town of his imminent aliyah and asked them to fill in for him at Temple Zion until the congregation hired a new rabbi. Next he began to draft a letter to the members of his congregation.

  The office door opened and Professor Silver entered, mulling his black beret in his hands. “Oy vey, Rabbi,” he sniffled, “my heart is broken.”

  Rabbi Josh nodded. “The Lord gives, the Lord takes, may His name be blessed.”

  “Amen.” Silver put on his beret. “This brings back memories of my son, his memory be blessed. Oy, oy, oy!”

  “Your son?” The rabbi felt tears emerging from his eyes. “Levy, I didn’t even know you had a son.”

  “I never speak of him. Too painful.” Silver straightened his hunched posture. “But I made a decision. My place is in Israel. I decided to make aliyah immediately.”

  Rabbi Josh knew he should feel joy at this news, but he felt nothing. “You can join me. I’m flying on Thursday morning. Continental Airlines.”

  The professor sniffled. “I heard they’re adding flights because so many Jews suddenly want to move to Israel.”

  “What about your affairs here?”

  “I put myself in God’s hand. America is like Germany in the thirties. The goyim just needed an excuse, and their fists already rise to hit us. You said it in your sermon: Zionism is Judaism.”

  Rabbi Josh felt grateful to this frail man, who was following the last sermon his rabbi would ever deliver. He hugged him. “The Lord’s blessing shall accompany you on your travels and acclimation in the Promised Land.”

  “Rabbi, what about the funeral?”

  “In Jerusalem.” Rabbi Josh felt a stirring inside. God had taken a step, albeit small, to comfort him by sending this good friend to accompany him on the painful journey. He went with Silver to the door. “My son didn’t die for nothing, now that two Jews are making aliyah because of it.”

  Silver pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “Blessed be His name.”

  “Amen,” Rabbi Josh opened the door.

  “There’s a small thing, the Israeli immigration office requires a letter of reference.”

  “I’ve done it before. I have a form on my computer. I only need your parents’ names and place of birth.”

  “Jacob and Leah Silver. Both born in Rome.”

  “The city of Rome,” the rabbi said, “had Jewish inhabitants before it had the Vatican.”

  “I cherish lovely childhood memories.” Silver smiled.

  Closing the door behind the professor, Rabbi Josh imagined him as a young boy, walking the streets of Rome, holding his father’s hand, looking up to his father with love and admiration, just like Raul.

  The rabbi pressed his forehead against the door and broke down crying.

  Sunday, August 10

  “Why do they have to shackle him like an animal?” Hilda tugged on the handcuffs that bound Al to the bed rails. “They’re lucky he’s unconscious. He would have broken the bed. When I came this morning, it was so tight his hands turned blue.”

  “How terrible!” Silver was pleased to find Al out of the ICU, in a private room away from the nurses’ station.

  “It’s unnecessary,” Hilda whined. “He’s back on his psych medication.”

  “He is?” Alarmed, the professor examined Al’s peaceful face under the head bandage.

  “I called the chief nurse and gave it to her. This would never be allowed in my days.”

  “The old days are gone, dear.” Silver patted Hilda’s arm. “Has he been awake at all?”

  “They said he was joking with them earlier. I don’t believe it.”

  “I’ll keep a tight watch, then.” He handed her the straw hat. “Get some rest, dear.”

  “Rest? I should be so lucky!” She put on the hat and glanced at the mirror by
the bathroom door. “I’m going to see the lawyer.”

  “On a Sunday?” He held the door for her. “What’s the urgency?”

  “To sign the lawsuit. I want it filed first thing Monday morning. That woman will pay for what she’s done to my Alfred.” Hilda kissed Al’s forehead. “My poor baby.”

  “I’ll take good care of him,” Silver assured her.

  “You better watch the nurses. They’re no good.” Stepping into the hallway, she raised her voice. “I told them not to put him in the last room. It takes them an hour to get here!”

  As soon as the door closed, Al opened his eyes. “Doesn’t shut up, that woman.”

  “Look who’s up!” Silver hooked his thumbs in his suspenders. “How are we feeling this morning?”

  “Splitting headache.” Al shifted about in the bed. “Going out of my mind, Levy. Did I really shoot a gun in the synagogue?”

  “Aha.”

  “Did I really force Masada?” He made a strange noise through his nose, a meek version of his snorting.

  “It surely seemed like it.” Silver laughed.

  “Tell me it’s just a nightmare. Tell me I didn’t do these things!”

  “Your troubles are almost over, my dear friend.” Silver pulled on rubber gloves.

  “They’re pumping all kind of shit into me.” Al moved his head from side to side, twisting his face. A tube entered the side of his neck, just above the collar bone, feeding a drip into his bloodstream. “The key is in the drawer there.” He pointed his chin at a cabinet under the window. “Take those handcuffs off, will you?”

  “Don’t worry. They’ll come off soon.” Silver pulled a wide strip of tape and stuck it on Al’s mouth.

  Al moaned. “Wherr yeh doin?”

  “Silence is a sign of wisdom.” Silver took out a large syringe and ripped the plastic wrapper. “You’ll get lots of practice soon.”

  Staring at the syringe, Al groaned and fought to release his arms, shaking the bed rails.

  “Calm down, soldier. You’ll give yourself a heart attack.” Silver pulled on the piston to fill the syringe with air. “It won’t hurt, not too much.”

  Al’s body jerked from side to side, the handcuffs clinking against the bedrails. His eyes were wide, his groans becoming more urgent. The heart monitor on the side table beeped faster.

  “Stop and listen, Soldier of Judah!” Silver smiled at the halting impact of the phrase. He pulled the cap off the needle. “You are the most important member of Judah’s Fist, you know?”

  His face red, Al’s eyes shifted from Silver to the syringe.

  “In fact,” he stuck the point of the needle into the tube near its entry into Al’s neck, “you’re the only member of Judah’s Fist.”

  When comprehension hit Al, he started moaning again.

  “Be quiet.” Silver placed his thumb on the piston. “Or I’ll press it in.” When Al froze, the professor brought his face close to the Jew’s fearful, confused eyes. “Do you want to know how Masada found out about the bribe?”

  He actually nodded, which made Silver laugh.

  “I put a little camera in your van, got Mahoney on video, and gave it to Masada.”

  Al’s eyes jutted between the syringe and Silver’s face.

  “I’ll tell you another secret.”

  Al tried to scoot down in the bed, as if he could dislodge the tube from his neck, but the handcuffs stopped him.

  “I am Abu Faddah, a Palestinian.”

  Suddenly not moving, Al stared at him.

  “You, my ugly friend,” Silver pinched Al’s cheek, “you helped me destroy the friendship between Israel and America.”

  Al jolted wildly, his arms pulling on the handcuffs in short, fierce jabs that caused the bed to move away from the wall. The beeping on the monitor sped up.

  Silver pressed down the piston, emptying the air into the IV line. “Say hello to Allah for me.”

  A chain of elongated bubbles traveled down the transparent tube. Al’s eyes tried to follow the bubbles, which disappeared in his neck. His struggle turned into frenzied body twists, but a moment later he froze. His body arched over the bed, and his face turned dark crimson.

  The heart monitor stopped beeping, letting out a solid, continuous tone. Al’s body slumped, his eyes gaping at Silver.

  It took only seconds to tear off the tape from Al’s mouth, pull out the syringe, and go into the bathroom. He tossed the syringe into the wall-mounted box with the red crossbones and dumped the tape into the toilet bowl, followed by the rubber gloves. He unzipped his pants just when voices sounded in the room.

  He urinated, whistling the tune from Friday night’s service. When he heard the first defibrillator pop, he flushed the toilet and opened the door.

  A nurse clasped Al’s wrist. Another held the two contact plates above his exposed chest.

  “Pardon me, young ladies.” Silver tugged on his zipper. “My plumbing isn’t what it used to be.” He paused, feigning shock. “What’s wrong with Al?”

  Elizabeth could not stop caressing her belly in front of the tall mirror in her bedroom. She turned left, then right. How big was it going to get?

  “My fellow Palestinians,” she addressed her reflection, “family and friends. It is with humble pride that I stand before you today to accept this award.” She paused for the applause. “While my work must remain secret, our national future is for the whole world to admire. The Zionists will soon be brought to their knees, and all of Palestine shall be free.”

  She glanced at the photo of her father and the professor, which she had taped onto the corner of the mirror, and imagined Father smiling through moist eyes. “I thank Allah,” she continued, “for the opportunity to serve Palestine, to build a just and free society on our land.”

  Her eyes shut, Elizabeth imagined the tricolor flags flapping in the gentle breeze along the dusty main road of the camp. She listened to the cheering crowd, the band breaking into the Palestinian national anthem, her father’s hand resting on her shoulder.

  Masada listened as the doctor informed her that the MRI of her head showed no internal bleeding. The severe bruises left by Al Zonshine’s beating would heal, but there was still a risk of a clot travelling through her blood to her lungs or brain. They would keep her for observation for a few days.

  She managed to shower herself and hoped the trickle of vaginal bleeding would stop before it was noticed by the nurses. She couldn’t bear the thought of anyone knowing what had happened with Al. They would ask prodding questions, examine her private parts, and fill out reports that would make their circuitous way to the media. It was a risk she would not take.

  Professor Silver came to visit, bearing flowers and chocolate. He sat by her bed, held her hand, and told a funny story about a Jewish man who tried to learn how to water-ski while wearing his prayer shawl and yarmulke. After sharing a brick of chocolate, they discussed Al’s death. According to hospital gossip, his heart had given up. “Better that way,” Silver said, “Such a tortured soul.”

  “I haven’t been able to sleep,” Masada said. “My mind keeps racing through what happened.”

  He patted her hand. “I’ll ask them to give you something.”

  After consulting with the physician on call, the nurse gave Masada two sleeping pills.

  Silver closed the door, dimmed the lights, and adjusted her bed. “Now old Levy will watch over you. Good night, now.”

  For the first time since Al’s attack, Masada began to calm down. He made her feel like a little girl tucked in for the night by her daddy. She closed her eyes, and he kissed her forehead. “Sweet dreams, meidaleh.”

  Professor Silver waited until close to midnight. The hallway traffic had quieted, and Masada was snoring lightly. He stood over her and listened to the rhythm of her breathing. She was sound asleep.

  He cracked the door and peeked outside. All was quiet, the nurses’ TV throwing blue haze on the walls.

  Back at Masada’s side, he pulled out the second
syringe he had bought earlier, tore the wrapping, affixed the needle, and uncapped it.

  Unlike Al’s central line, which was thicker and fed drugs straight to his heart, Masada had a thin tube that traveled from the IV bag above the bed down to her arm. It would require a larger amount of air, which would have to travel all the way to her lungs and heart, in order to kill her. And because she didn’t have Al’s heart condition, her sudden death would be harder to explain. On the plus side, however, she was not attached to a heart monitor, so her death would likely remain unnoticed for hours, long after he would have departed through the stairway on the opposite end of the hallway.

  Holding up the syringe in the dim light, Silver pulled the piston all the way back, filling the syringe with air. The blotch forced him to tilt his head to see the point of the needle as he tried to stick it into the thin IV tube. He missed, stabbing his finger.

  “Ouch!” He sucked on his finger for a moment, trying to calm down.

  As he held the tube to try again, Masada stirred. He feared she would feel the bubbles travel through her blood vessels. Would she wake up with sudden pain? Would she open her eyes for the last time and see him standing over her with the incriminating syringe? Would she scream? Just in case, he prepared a strip of tape to stick over her mouth.

  But there was something in Masada’s face he had not seen before-a calmness that softened the contours of her mouth almost to the point of a smile. He bent closer and gently caressed her dark hair, clearing it from her bruised forehead. His hand lingered, and he watched her, enjoying the beauty endowed by her unusual state of peacefulness.

  Shaking his head, Silver ordered himself to concentrate. He held the IV tube between a finger and a thumb, staring at it from the corner of his eye, and carefully brought the point of the needle to the tube. He felt the needle touch the tube and pushed it in, relieved.

  His gaze was drawn back to Masada’s face. Framed by her dark hair, she seemed pale, angelic. He placed his thumb on the pump, ready to inject a syringe-full of air into her veins, and looked away from her face, up at the ceiling, where he aimed the blotch at the dimmed nightlight to remind himself that this woman’s life stood between him and a cure.