The Masada Complex

by Avraham Azrieli

  Masada?

  She stepped onto the small landing at the top of the staircase. Her gaze dropped, she saw him, and her lips mouthed, Levy?

  Rabbi Josh filled his chest with Israel’s air and recited from memory, “And God shall bring them to the domain of His Holiness.He shall drive off the gentiles. And settle Israel in their tents.”

  There was great joy around him, fellow Jewish men and women singing, their voices strong, defiant of America and its shifting political winds. Masada’s expose had been a blessing in disguise. The wave of anti-Semitic attacks was causing thousands of American Jews to move to Israel. Rabbi Josh sighed. If only he had not waited, foolishly believing his son was safer in Arizona than in the land of his ancestors.

  The first two buses departed for the terminal, and new ones arrived to pick up more passengers. He searched the faces around him. “Levy?” The rabbi stood on his toes. “Levy Silver!” He picked up the tied-up wood sections of the dais and approached the police officers leaning against their vehicle. “Did you see a little man in a black beret?”

  One of them pointed, and the rabbi saw Silver sitting on the ground. He walked over and kneeled by the professor. “What’s wrong?”

  A shadow fell over them. A familiar voice demanded, “What are you doing here?”

  Rabbi Josh looked up, stunned. “Were you on our plane?”

  Masada ignored him, her green eyes burning in her pale face as she leaned over the professor. “You lied to me!”

  The rabbi felt drawn to her like a compass arm forced by a magnet. But he remembered Silver’s story, how she had lured Al Zonshine. Come, big guy.

  Masada pointed a finger in Professor Silver’s face. “You promised to hire a lawyer-the best lawyer in Phoenix! Where is he?”

  “Yes. I know.” Silver opened his arms helplessly. “But I thought you’d be free. The judge said they must release you in the morning, right?”

  “Answer me!” She shook Levy’s shoulder.

  “Leave him alone,” Rabbi Josh said. “Can’t you see he’s not feeling well?”

  “Do you know what you’ve done?” She thrust her bruised wrists in the professor’s face. “I’m back in this hellhole because of you!”

  “But I didn’t know,” Silver pleaded. “I thought you’d be released.”

  “You promised a lawyer, and I get this?” Masada kicked the ground, her face twisting in pain. “Damn you!”

  Unable to restrain himself, Rabbi Josh shouted, “Enough! Enough! Enough!”

  Masada’s ears rang from the shouting. She had never heard Rabbi Josh raise his voice, let alone shout at her. After twelve hours of seething, being stuck in the rear of the packed plane, with her hopes for a lawyer dashed, she could no longer contain her rage. Without a second thought, she raised her hand and slapped the rabbi across the face.

  “Oy,” Silver said.

  She stepped back, shocked at what she’d done.

  The rabbi touched his cheek. “Haven’t you sinned enough already?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Pray for forgiveness,” he said. “That’s why God brought you here, to his holy land.”

  “It’s not me who should repent,” Masada said. “You’re not fooling me Agent Frank!”

  He continued to look at her with innocent eyes. “Yes, I also have to repent. I do repent. Every moment that I’m awake. But you, after all you’ve done, have you no remorse at all?”

  “Kinderlakh, please!” Levy Silver reached up, and they helped him to his feet. “Joshua, Masada, I beg you like I would beg my own children. This isn’t a place for fighting.” He closed his eyes and recited, “Go, depart from your birthplace, from your father’s home, and travel to the land that I will show you.”

  “Give me a break,” Masada said. “Enough with the quotes!”

  Silver looked up at her. “Didn’t I plead with you to stay in Phoenix and show them how my girl fights back? Didn’t I tell you to ignore the self-interested TV reporter? I assumed you’d be at your house by now. I was going to phone you as soon as we landed to discuss the lawyer. We have to make a choice and move forward!”

  Masada tried to read his eyes through the thick glasses. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re going to Israel?”

  “I didn’t want you to worry. I have an appointment at Hadassah.”

  “You’re going to the hospital?” Masada felt the blood drain from her face. There it was again-her bad luck infecting the people she loved. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “A minor problem.” He gestured at a hydraulic crane, raising a platform to meet the plane cargo hold. “Let us pay our respects.”

  What are you afraid of? Elizabeth tried to calm her nerves. She looked away from the uniformed Israelis, using her hate like a lever to lift her spirit. The body search in Newark had shaken her to the core. How dare they? She had already drafted a scathing complaint to Continental Airlines about this blatant ethnic profiling in clear violation of U.S. civil rights laws.

  She saw the rabbi look up as the coffin descended from the plane. He wore a skullcap, his light-brown ponytail held with a rubber band. Elizabeth circled the group to get a better look at him. His strong, handsome face was struck by grief. Professor Silver, standing next to him, looked much more like a Jewish rabbi than this athletic hunk.

  An airport hand in orange coveralls pried open the coffin. The rabbi kneeled, resting his elbows on the lid, and spoke quietly, saying words no one could hear.

  The coffin was closed, and the rabbi stepped back, wiping his eyes.

  A small book appeared in Silver’s hand. He opened it and recited, “My voice, to the Lord I shall call; to God, my plea shall reach; and he will hear me; on the day of my agony, Master, my hand is extended to you, my soul seeks comfort.”

  The rabbi stood next to him, swaying back and forth, his lips repeating the words.

  “I shall remember the Lord,” the professor chanted, “my sighs, I shall not cease, my breath is faint.”

  Elizabeth was impressed with his proficiency in the Jews’ scriptures. Had she not conversed with him in Arabic about his daring plans, she would never doubt he was a Jew. As if to test her ability to suspend disbelief, Silver raised his bespectacled face at the sky and pled, “Forever will you neglect us, Lord?” He paused, taking a deep breath. “When, Father, will you be pleased again with your children?”

  Thinking of her own father, Elizabeth felt her pocket, which held the folded page of her scribbled notes for the acceptance speech on Wednesday. It had taken many years, but in a few days her father would finally be pleased with her again. She had redeemed herself.

  A black station wagon backed up to the platform and two bearded Jews loaded the coffin. They shook hands with the handsome rabbi. Elizabeth came closer to listen. “Five o’clock at Sanhedriah Cemetery,” one of them said. “The taxi driver will know where it is. Don’t be late. We have to finish before the Sabbath begins at sunset.”

  The rabbi handed them an odd-shaped package, which they placed in the car next to the coffin.

  “Be gentle with our boy,” Professor Silver said. “His name is Raul. Five years old.”

  Elizabeth was amazed with his composure, so different from the panicked old man who had appeared at her apartment in the middle of the night after his sidekick had killed the boy.

  “Raul?” One of the bearded man examined the bundle of papers in his hand. “Does he have a Hebrew name?”

  “Yes,” the rabbi said, “his Hebrew name is Israel.”

  Elizabeth heard a groan and saw Masada turn and rush to the waiting bus.

  Raul. Israel. Srulie. Masada clung to a pole in the front of the bus. There were seats in the back, too far for her to reach without collapsing. Raul. Srulie.

  Other passengers boarded the bus. Rabbi Josh and Professor Silver sat in the back. The flight crew clustered in the middle. The bus moved with a jolt, the doors remaining open for a few more seconds, circulating the heat. She held on to the pole.


  Raul. Israel. Srulie.

  “This place is a sauna.” McPherson wiped her forehead, combing back moist hair. “I can see why you didn’t want to return.”

  Masada showed her back to the lawyer. A trickle ran down the inside of her thigh. She hoped it was only sweat. She had revealed to no one what Al had done. She couldn’t, or it would hit the news and no one would ever look at her without imagining that animal on top of her.

  The bus sped up, bumping along on the concrete road, passing huge hangars and parked jetliners. A recorded female voice gave instructions in several languages about passport and visa inspections, as well as customs declarations. The message concluded with, “Shalom, and enjoy your stay in Israel.”

  “Some joy,” Masada muttered, holding on as the bus turned around a plaza and lined up with a glass-and-stone building. She took a deep breath and stepped off the bus. A large clock on the face of the building indicated it was 1:47 p.m. Israel time. She shouldered her bag and pulled out her travel papers. She had to snap out of it, stop wallowing in self pity. Otherwise she would never recover all she had lost over this disastrous short period. She forced her mind to focus on planning. First, find a connection between Colonel Ness and Rabbi Josh and link them to Judah’s Fist. Second, unearth a copy of the document that had cancelled her conviction back in 1983, so she could recover her U.S. citizenship. Third, find out if the Arab who had killed Srulie was still alive and, if so, track him down and shove Srulie’s bone into the murderer’s eye-this time, all the way in!

  Professor Silver lingered on the stone stairs leading up to the terminal. The sign above the entrance read Ben Gurion International Airport. Elizabeth lingered while the passengers entered the terminal.

  “Why did you bring her here?” He kept his back to the glass doors. “You failed me!”

  “A court is not a restaurant. You don’t order from a menu. No other country agreed to take her. What about my award ceremony?”

  He wanted to lie about an unexpected cancellation, but feared she would lose her temper and cause their exposure. “Do not leave your hotel until I contact. Remember, both our lives are at stake!”

  “You’re exaggerating.” She chuckled. “No one will touch a senior American official.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” He climbed the steps, and the glass doors opened before him.

  Hundreds of passengers queued up at the passport-control counters. Masada joined a line. The cavernous hall, lit by countless fluorescent bulbs, was tiled in cream marble and decorated with huge pictures-a tractor plowing a field, a hiker mounting the crest of a hill, folk dancers circling a campfire, shoppers in a bustling market, and a tank trailing a dusty wake. The opposite wall was lined with dozens of flags representing the nations that recognized Israel. Masada flexed her right leg. At last, her scraped kneecap had begun to heal. Or was she too numb to feel the pain?

  Another group entered the hall with yellow shirts and naive clatter. Masada could not understand. Didn’t they realize Israel was about to lose American support? Didn’t they realize every inch of this country was within range of Arab missiles and rockets? Many stood in line with kids or babies bundled up in blankets. She wanted to yell at them, What are you doing?

  As she reached the passport counter, Elizabeth McPherson appeared at her side. Masada placed her travel papers on the counter.

  The attendant, a young woman in a pressed uniform, turned to her computer. “Born in Israel?”

  “Yes.”

  The woman typed some more. “Can I see your Israeli passport?”

  “I flushed it down the toilet many years ago.”

  A flitting smile crossed the young woman’s face. “Welcome home, Miss El-Tal.” She stamped a form and handed it to Masada with a diminutive Israeli flag glued to a long drinking straw. “Please go to the right for processing.”

  “Hold on!” The lawyer unfolded a sheet of paper. “I am Elizabeth McPherson, Chief Legal Counsel, Southwest Region.”

  “Yes?”

  “Someone must sign a receipt before I release her from custody.”

  The Israeli attendant landed her stamp on the receipt. “Here you go.”

  “Don’t let her in,” Masada said. “She’s a Palestinian.”

  “Welcome to Israel.” The attendant stamped Elizabeth’s passport. “Have a safe visit, Miss McPherson.” As the lawyer passed through, the attendant winked at Masada.

  While she searched for a place to dump the little flag, Masada’s way was blocked by two elderly women holding bouquets of flowers. They pulled her toward a large door marked: Olim Hadashim. She declined the flowers and explained she was not a new immigrant. “Doesn’t matter,” one of them chirped, “after so long abroad you’re considered a newcomer.”

  Masada paused before the double doors. The plaque above read: The Masada Lounge.

  “Look!” Professor Silver approached, waving his tiny flag with one hand, holding Rabbi Josh’s sleeve with the other. “What a perfect name!”

  “Right,” Masada said. “Perfect name for a training center: How to hole up on a mountaintop and commit mass suicide.”

  “That’s what you want!” Rabbi Josh pointed at her with his little flag. “As Isaiah said, Your haters and destroyers shall come from within you. The blood on your hands isn’t dry yet, and you mock out ancestors?”

  “Kinderlakh!” Professor Silver put his arms around them. “Let’s not spoil this occasion with petty squabbling. It’s not every day that three passionate Jews from Arizona make aliyah together, right?”

  “Miss McPherson?” A young man in a crew cut and a sleeveless khaki jacket approached her with an outstretched hand. “I’m from the U.S. Consulate. Name’s Bob. Bob Emises.”

  They shook hands, and he took her bags. She followed him through the crowd to the curb outside, where a black Chevy Tahoe waited. The driver, who looked like Bob’s football teammate, opened the door for her.

  The vehicle left the airport, following the signs for Jerusalem. The AC was blowing hard, and soon Elizabeth, whose shirt was wet with sweat, was shivering. The driver glanced back and adjusted the vents.

  “Thank you.” She put a hand on her belly. There was a purpose to her visit, a future to prepare for and celebrate.

  “We booked a room for you at the Kings Hotel,” Bob said. “It’s central and safe.” He reached back and handed her a business card. “Call me if you need anything.”

  The wide highway was choked with late-model cars. The rolling hills sprouted clusters of homes with red roofs and whitewashed industrial buildings. Elizabeth filled with anger. The Jews were pests, multiplying and consuming the stolen land.

  “Beautiful country,” Bob commented, “isn’t it?”

  She noticed mustard-yellow graffiti on a concrete embankment: AID + U.S. = AIDS

  On the way to Jerusalem, Professor Silver sat between the two sulking Jews in the middle row of an absorption ministry van. Masada fanned herself with a magazine. The rabbi murmured verses from Psalms. Each of them had received a new immigrant package, including identification papers, a sum of Israeli money, health-care insurance card, and a voucher for an extended stay at the Ramban Hostel in Jerusalem.

  As they approached the Judean Mountains, the slopes were blanketed with new homes, many of them on small plots half dug into the hillside, exposing the white limestone. “Just like God’s covenant with Abraham,” the rabbi said. “I will turn you into a great nation, bless you aplenty.”

  Silver picked up the quote: “And multiply your seed like the stars in the sky and the sand on the shore, and your seed shall inherit your enemy’s gates.”

  Masada elbowed him. “Don’t you have something from Rabbi Hillel?”

  “Of course,” Silver boasted, “being with my dear friends, seeing our beautiful homeland flourish, I finally understand what Hillel meant. Who is wealthy? A man who’s satisfied with his lot. Right?”

  “Wrong,” Rabbi Josh said. “Rabbi Ben Zomah said it, not Hillel.”

  Sil
ver noticed Masada exchange a glance with the rabbi, an acknowledgment of jest that was broken off immediately. He reminded himself to fuel their acrimony and suspicions. He asked Masada, “Have you called your family already? Or friends?”

  She was quiet for a moment. “My parents and little brother are dead. I don’t have friends here.”

  He patted her shoulder. She had never told him what had happened to her family or why she had left Israel with such bitterness, and he hoped she would elaborate now. But Masada looked out the window in silence.

  The van stopped at the entrance to Hadassah Hospital. Silver stepped out with his bag. Masada offered to go in with him, but he declined, explaining that it was only a checkup ahead of Sunday’s procedure. He gestured at Rabbi Josh, who sat in the van with the open book of Psalms. “He intimated to me that you shouldn’t attend the funeral.” Seeing the hurt on her face, he added, “Maybe it’s better this way.”

  She got back in the van, and he waved good-bye.

  He found the Michener Eye Center on the eighth floor. Dr. Asaf was a small man with quick manners. He tested Silver’s eye with various optical instruments. “Professor,” he announced, “we are good to go.”

  Silver smelled coffee. He wished the sun had set already. “What should I expect on Sunday?”

  Dr. Asaf held his hand in front of Silver’s face. “Within your field of vision, the palm of my hand is eclipsed, correct?”

  “Yes. It’s like a hole in my vision that looks like a black ball with hairy edges.”

  “Surrounded by a whitish glow?”

  “The blotch,” Silver said. “That’s what I call it.”

  The Israeli doctor opened a wooden box and took out a model eye in a transparent socket. “The muscles and nerves controlling your directional and focus functions are fine, and so is the connection to the brain. In fact, for a single eye that has carried the load for so long, it’s in remarkably good shape. Nothing is wrong with your eye, except this little area right here,” he pointed, “in the rear, where the macula is degenerating.”